Welcome to CoD Indulgences! Where you can get sent to heaven ~
I put my CoD x reader smut here. 141, Konig, Los Vaqueros, anyone and everyone.
I write my default xreader as cisgender female, but if you want alt options I will do my best <3
Got a sexy blurb or HC you'd like to see? Fetish idea? Special fantasy? Something soft and precious, or hard and filthy? Send me asks!
my writing tagged under #an indulgence
various fanarts gifs and other images tagged under #an indulgence for the eyes
reblogs under #an indulgent reblog
#author has never played call of duty, so fair warning, your fav character may be written after some very fast Wikipedia delving
i will happily write dubcon, noncon, dubious morality, drugging, and other pearl clutching tropes. CWs are marked but if I miss one please either reply to the post or message me and I will add it! None of this is beta read so let me know any big typos or problems that I can fix.
KEEP MY FICS OFF YOUR AI BULLSHIT
~MASTERLIST BELOW~
TF141 x Reader
Dumb bet with the boys
Reader come marking
Somno gangbang
Mermen 141 x reader plus Part 2 here!
Body shots ask
Omegaverse heat drabble
GN!reader petplay
Stalking ask
Dildo!
You love sucking cock
No panties ask
Stripper!Reader gangbang ask now on Ao3!
Vibrator play part 1
Vibrator play part 2
Comeplay and Creampies
xReader Pegging ask
Free Use Gangbang
Cockwarming
Ghoap x Reader
Sub!Johnny sloppy seconds
Sleepy Sexy Morning
Soap x Reader
Come marking with Johnny
Horny Johnny gets punished
Sub!Soap chastity cage
Soap x Laswell x Reader
SoapGaz x reader overstim
Soap CNC
Brat v Brat mud wrestling ask
Public fucking
Sunburn (no smut)
Pregnancy kink
Pregnancy kink w baby trapping
Drinking with Simon's Girlfriend (hinted Soap x Reader only) (part 2)
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the concept of a lonely könig kidnapping reader and turning/breaking them into his perfect companion. hell yeah.
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8yTfqPr/
-🌟
König x afab!reader, noncon, kidnapping, forced oral, bondage, deprivation torture, forced peeing, vibrator, mindbreak vibes
link to the video here (implied kidnapping and vibrator fun)
König cradles your cheeks in his hands. Over the duct tape, your skin is shiny with tears, swollen, your eyes leaking new ones as quickly as he swipes them away.
"Oh, my love, don't worry," he says, and you blink dumbly up at him. You still haven't learned German yet, no matter how often he croons to you in his native language. "I'll be gentle."
You still cry out when he peels the tape away, your lips bruised and bloody. He's quick to kiss them, licking into your mouth, even when you cringe away. Poor thing, still unsure, still not understanding how much he loves you. If you can't understand his words then he'll have to show you with his body.
The duct tape on your wrists is older and fraying, and he cuts it off, taking the weak blows easily when you strike at him. You're dehydrated and hungry, too small and worn out to fight back, a mouse scratching at the floor with its tail in the trap. König only needs a minute to roll you over, twist your arms behind your back, push them high, and wraps a new length of tape around your wrists and neck, making a collar, solid grey that he longs to replace with something prettier.
As you cough, arching your back, he cuts the tape from your ankles and spreads them. Soft, soft, scratched and dirty skin under his fingers, up your calf, past your knees. You haven't been kind to yourself, scraping and wriggling around, and König delicately brushes the soft, sensitive little folds between your thighs. Your legs try to close, tightening around him, and his cock aches.
"Soon," he promises you, and bends to kiss you instead, licking up sweat and old piss, the stink of fear slowly fading away to warmth, to wetness, and the first time your pussy clenches around his tongue he comes untouched, moaning against your clit. You're gasping and pleading, still arched in the tape, your shoulders straining and belly tight, and König doesn't stop, pulls out his cock and uses his cum to slick his hand, stroking himself, slurping down what you give him. You taste delicious, thick and heavy on his tongue, even as your struggles fade.
You come again for him as he rolls your clit through his teeth, sucks at it like candy, and he feels the way your body shudders and gives up, gives in, lets him take care of you the way you deserve.
As a reward, he cuts the tape on your throat, leaving only your wrists still bound, and sits you upright. Your bottom lip splits as he gives you his cock, blood leaking onto his balls. Your eyes are so big and soft and beautiful, looking up at him, pleading.
You just need to accept that he's going to take care of you. He can help you, make you feel better, so long as you let him. He thinks you can handle it, flexible enough to accept the changes without breaking under them- he hopes you can.
You're so soft and wet between your thighs still, hips rocking as you suck his cock, and König leans down to palm your breast. Sweet, perfect flesh, nipple hard when he twists it, your little wince so cute. He loves taking your mouth like this, loves the way you gag when he goes too far. Loves coming across your tongue with a low moan of pleasure, spurting it over your teeth, making you swallow- and a new strip of duct tape to seal it all in as you whimper, holding it tight to your skin the wet gulps of your throat around his cum prompting König to kiss your hair, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.
"Perfect, sweet little pet," he praises, and stands you up to wobble over the grate in the floor. You whine behind the tape, twisting in his grasp, but it's as ineffective as your fight earlier- the only sustenance he's given you for three days has been his cum, but he wants to establish a routine for when he gets you back to strength enough to take his cock- so he forces your legs apart, and strokes soothingly over your belly, spreads your folds and rubs at your clit with the heel of his hand pushing hard on your lower belly.
You moan and jerk, but you can't stand up well enough and finally sag against König's body, weeping, though he wishes you'd save the water. Your clit pulses under his fingers, and finally you clench and a weak spurt of piss comes out, splashing down into the grate. He doesn't want you to get a UTI.
Routine completed, he scoops you up, peppering you with kisses again. You're limp and dazed when he lays you down on the soft cot. No real bed yet, not until he knows you won't hurt yourself on it, or try to escape, so he leaves your wrists twisted in the tape and lays you on your front, propping your head on a pillow, your hips on another, and loops the duct tape across your ankles.
The vibrator is small, but you still clench around it, pussy soft and wet enough he can easily settle it against the swollen nerves inside your body, more tape sticking the remote to the back of your thigh, where you can't switch it off. It's a low setting, just enough to keep you on edge, to make your body desperate to come even as your biological needs grow sharper.
You whimper when he stands to leave, the pain and self loathing and naked loneliness in your eyes making his chest ache. König hates to leave you, to make you wait for his touch again, his attention, his company- but he learned through the military how mind-breaking loneliness can be, how much it can twist a person up, to be left on the outside. The way it can make a hardened man break down and beg for the touch of a hand, a comforting voice. A tongue on your clit and his cock in your mouth.
"I love you," he promises, and he's said this phrase enough he thinks you understand it. Or at least, your heart does, and he rubs his thumb over your thumping pulse, pressing into it briefly, steeling himself against your whining when he closes and locks the door of your little room.
Tomorrow, tomorrow he'll bring you a proper drink and a little food, and feed you with his own hand, let you lick his fingers and suck his cock with grateful eyes, lick the cum from your thighs and give you all the relief you need, and by the end of the week you'll be his, only his, his precious pet to train and adore and keep forever.
GhostGaz x fem!reader, threesome, soldier!reader, sub!simon, grinding, brief choking, brief facesitting/oral, teasing, outdoor sex
You shiver violently against the breeze. The safehouse- or what was left of it- huddles into the piles of snow and ash, half collapsed, the stink of charred wood and stone wafting in the air.
"But why stay here?" You bite out. "There's got to be better places to wait for evac."
Gaz shrugs. "Yeah, and the enemy'll be watching those, thinking they smoked us out. Hiding in plain sight will be better for tonight."
Ghost is already hunching through the doorway, quiet despite the heavy gear and boots. A true ghost, in a sense, appearing and vanishing in silence when he needs to. "Clear!" Floats out after him, and Gaz gestures for you to follow.
At least the inside is out of the wind. You'd taken the worst of the soaking, falling into the river as you, Gaz, and Ghost rushed across the crumbling bridge, and no one was tough against frostbite. Still, it's not like the one standing room had any heating, and there was no way you three could risk a fire in this situation.
Instead, Ghost was stripping off his wet outer gear and folding it into a pad in the corner furthest from the door and window, out of the way of the shattered glass, and Gaz was unfolding a sheet of foil- oh, emergency blanket. You had one of those. Your fingers plucked at the straps of your vest, belt, feeling sluggish and thick. The clunk when your pack finally slid off your shoulders made the men look up, Gaz's brow furrowed.
"Hey, here, let me help," he said, and began stripping your gear faster than you could. Your teeth clicked together on a shiver.
Stepping out of the dripping clothes made you so cold you hunched over, whining, an awful ache in your chest and your fingers and toes numb. Fuck, you're so cold, you'd take anything that could warm you up right now- which is why you don't protest when Gaz picks you up and bodily sets you bare-assed into Ghost's lap where he's sitting in the corner, blanket around his back, holding out his arms like silvery wings. He folds you into body, heat pouring off his chest through his thin shirt, and you whine and shudder.
Gaz sets up a couple tripwires before he finishes stripping off his own gear, making a pile next to Ghost, and he folds himself into the big mans lap along with you. He grins at your confused look. "We did this before, got stuck out in the woods. Body heat, survival blanket, and a defensible corner. Though it was a hollow tree at the time. Here, lift your legs-"
You raise them up obediently, and Gaz tucks your feet against his side, between him and Ghost. The heat is painful, blood trickling through frozen veins, and he rubs you shoulder when you wince. "Sorry, love, I know it's awful. Keep breathing through it."
"Through what?" You ask, and then groan through your teeth when Ghost tucks you under his chin and Gaz starts working his hands up and down your arms and legs, squeezing, forcing the blood to move and heat. "Fuck! Fuck, ow-" Your toes curl, your belly tightens, and you bury your face into Ghost's chest, biting onto his chest to muffle yourself as that godawful prickling, pinching, slow creep of warmth starts to fill your limbs. Fuck you hate it. Worse than any bruise, any wound, this internal static against your nerves.
Gaz soothes you with soft words, hands pressing up against your knees and inside your thighs. He's steady and sure, calm, Ghost just humming against your hair and pulling the blanket around you tighter.
Eventually the slow prickling of your flesh, the exhaustion and cold, start to pull at you, and your eyelids sag. Gaz tucks your head down, warm breath on your ears. "Rest, soldier, we'll keep an eye on you," and between one blink and the next you're out.
-
You wake up to warmth and movement, the soft sounds of kissing in your ear, and you wriggle a little in Ghost's lap to find yourself warmed up, still naked, and the two men on either side of you making out shamelessly, Ghost hard against your thighs and Gaz across your back.
"This a couples only event?" You grumble, and get a soft chuckle and a wet kiss to your cheek. Permission granted, you shift around to straddle across Ghosts lap, chest pressed against his, tucking your face against his neck. Gaz goes back to kissing him, soft wet licks and sucks, as you nuzzle up against the skin bared between his collar and field balaclava, finding little spots to nip at. Under his jaw makes him gasp, and your cheek rubs against Gaz's as the men kiss.
For such an imposing man, Ghost is all gooey now, panting into Gaz's mouth when you get your hand up on his chest and seek out his nipple. It's perked up through the compression shirt, and you pluck at it, wishing you could get your mouth on it instead. Between your thighs, the bulge of his cock rubs up deliciously, Gaz's hands all over your hips, stroking down your stomach to flirt around your clit. You sigh in pleasure, warm to your toes, and the little bubble of heat sinks into your pussy like syrup, trading kisses back and forth, Gaz licking along the side of your throat as his hands come up to cup your breasts.
Ghost is big enough that he can keep you and Gaz together in his lap, arms still holding the survival blanket, and you take full advantage to grind across his cock, moaning as Gaz's fingers pinch at your nipples.
His hips buck up when your pussy drags over his cock, a little sticky spot forming under you, and you catch at his throat with your teeth, worrying it through the balaclava. He's fully dressed still, they both are, not willing to strip down more than necessary when you're so vulnerable- and you can't deny the fact that it makes you wetter, feeling all your bare skin between them, and you moan against Ghost's throat when Gaz unzips the man's jeans, pulling his cock out for him, the round head rubbing your clit.
You rock against it, kneeling up a little to get a better angle, and Gaz catches Ghost in a kiss that you can feel, a hot lush taking of his mouth that goes down his body and into the jerk of his cock under you, a sticky thread of precome clinging to your clit, and you pull Gaz's hand back to your breast when you start grinding harder. He pinches your nipple for you, his own cock springing out of his pants and slapping the small of your back, and you wriggle to try and grind back against him as well.
"Here, hold on," he urges, and his free hand grasps your hip, lifting you up. His cock pushes against your ass, down between your thighs, and you moan when he presses a finger against your hole.
"Go ahead," you tell him, and hold Ghost's jaw to suck on his tongue as Gaz works his cock into you, pushing on your lower back to make you arch, groaning into your ear. Pinned between them, you can feel Ghost's pulse pounding against your palm, Gaz mouthing at your shoulder, and the survival blanket shudders when he pulls his cock back and fucks it slowly into you, letting your pussy slick him up, and your clit is pressed against Ghost as he slumps down, his hips jerking as his cock is trapped between your pussy and his own stomach, his head falling back under your mouth.
You moan, clenching around Gaz, the sweet heat pouring through you as your pussy throbs. Ghost is gasping and moaning, his cock twitching, and you push up a bit on his chest, cold air snaking in and making your nipples tighten, so you can bounce back on Gaz's cock.
You set the pace, bare toes scraping the cold concrete and your fingers kneading at Ghost's chest, thumbing his nipples, and each clench of your pussy makes you gasp and moan. Your clit is rubbing wetly over Ghost's cock, the head of it catching at you, a fat round toy to grind on, as Gaz reaches past you to hold his hand against Ghost's bared throat, dark fingers pressing in against skin mottled with a pink flush.
"Fuck," Gaz breathes into your ear as Ghost arches, whimpering, "go on, baby, use us, whatever you need," and you moan and shiver through a hot pulse down your spine. Ghost is melting under you, the blanket barely held up now, cold air nothing now compared to the heat between your legs. Ghost whimpers and parts his lips, tongue peeking forward, and you grin at him and pinch your own nipple, denying him a taste, as Gaz starts fucking into you, unable to hold back entirely.
"Harder," you gasp, and he grunts and presses forward against your back, his belt smacking your ass. "Fuck me like you fuck him!"
Gaz laughs, and lets go of Ghost to haul you back by the hips. "Oh, you sure you can handle that?" He asks, and wraps a hand around your throat.
His cock fucks into you hard, harder, powerful slams into your pussy, and you moan and spread your thighs to keep your clit grinding on Ghost's cock. Gaz's hand is hot on your throat, and you gasp when he pushes down on your back, pulls back on your throat, and just- fucks you, grunting with it, making your body slide back and forth. Your pulse pounds in your temples. Under your, Ghost is moaning, his hands on your thighs to keep them open enough, your pussy leaking all over his cock, and you know he can feel the way Gaz is fucking you, the stroke of their cocks together and balls rubbing as Gaz bottoms out.
Gaz's fingers spasm around your throat, pinching off your breath- your lungs ache quickly, body burning through oxygen as you moan and clench, clit throbbing. It's hard and rough and so good, wet slaps of flesh and a thick, strong body under you, behind you, two hard cocks to play with and use for pleasure, and your belly tightens as dark spots start to float in your vision.
Then abruptly the hand on your throat is gone, Gaz instead shoving you forward, and you stumble up on your knees as Ghost slides down, hands still holding your thighs open, and Gaz gets his hand back over your mouth just in time to catch your shriek as he plunges back into your pussy, and Ghost's mouth seals over your clit with a hot suck.
Fuck, fuck, forget the blanket, frigid air snaps against your skin and your nipples go so tight they ache, your ass bounces back and forth, taking Gaz's cock and Ghost's tongue slipping up around your clit and down to wriggle against your hole, licking at the slick dripping down, and with a hot, sweet clench you grasp Gaz's wrist, dig your fingers into Ghost's mask to hold him still, and fuck yourself down onto their combined cock and tongue, thick and perfect in your pussy, and even as you shudder through orgasm Gaz muffles his own moan into your shoulder, cum spurting into your clenching pussy.
Ghost swallows all of it, licking and sucking at your pussy, moaning between your thighs as he laps back and forth over your twitching clit and Gaz's balls, the base of his cock. He's whining and moaning, little soft sounds as he clutches at your thighs and Gaz's hips, and when Gaz groans and pulls out, you clench in a sharp little ache around the fingers spreading you wide open, the better to lick all the cum from your hole.
When you shuffle back, Ghost is a wreck, his face flushed pink under the mask and his mouth and chin shiny. He's so hard, his cock leaking against his belly, and when you curl down between his thighs and suck just the head into your mouth he shoves his hand over his mouth, Gaz peeling away his fingers to take a kiss instead, and you swallow all the hot, thick cum he gives you, swirling your tongue around the head until he whines and pushes you off.
Gaz is grinning, his throat shiny with sweat, and you crawl up to lay over Ghost and cuddle against his chest as Gaz gets the blankets back together. Ghost's cock is thick and damp against your belly, and you lick at his lips, sharing the taste of his cum and getting some of your own.
"Hey," you realize, "why didn't you guys give me some of the dry clothes in your packs?"
Gaz laughs, Ghosts chest bouncing under you with an answering chuckle, low and soft as his hands cradle your back, hold you to him. "Not nearly as fun," he rumbles, and you tug his mask back down over his grin.
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Except… you don’t.
You don’t even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
That’s when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyes… shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like you’re some glitch in reality. He’s covered in other men’s blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and you’re looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You don’t look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
“Bloody hell,” he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. “Did’t expect a filthy lil’ thing like you t’cream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Or’ve you just got a thing for monsters?”
You’re still staring. Still heated. Ghost’s thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
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Imagine being price's kid that he hardly seemed interested in raising, right? [CHECK THE TAGS]
He liked the idea of having a sweet little kid to keep in his wallet and show off to his work buddies, but he wasn't so fond of actually having you around. Since you could remember you've been fighting for your dad's attention, begging for a "good job, kid." or at least you used to.
That whole dream died when he couldn't be arsed to show up after you landed in the hospital. You spent the last days in that house hardly speaking to your father, then moved out the second you could. You celebrate your 25th birthday alone, finding it difficult to make friends, but it's still more comfortable than any birthday in that house was.
And now you're here.
In a shitty bar, trying to feel anything close to something. It probably says something about you that all of your partners so far come from the kind of bars full of veterans and men old enough to be your dad.
Which, ironically, hadn't meant you expected to see him tonight.
Your dad, captain john price.
...you don't know what compels you to slide up next to him, but whatever plan you had is instantly destroyed when he rests a hand on your hip, mutters a deep "hey there, lovie. Wots a soft thing like you doing here?"
Holy shit.
...your own dad doesn't recognize you. He's looking at you without a hint of recognition, eyeing you up like he's assessing if you're worth the effort of flirting with.
You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. That's your dad, your literal fucking dad.
....john still has the same bedsheets he had when you moved out. His body bowed over yours, panting and groaning as he ruts into you. Fuck, it feels good. It feels wrong and horrible but this is the most your dad has looked at you in years.
"So good for me, love. Fuck– mgh– doing good–" you've never heard your dad say that before, and in your mind you store that memory and scrub the context around it clean.
Some sick part of you loves this, loves the attention and the praise and the usefulness. You can pretend he loves you when he kisses your lips and bites bruises into your neck.
You almost wish he wasn't wearing a condom when he groans, hips stuttering. Now this is what you've been waiting for.
You arch your back, clench down on him in a way that doesn't need to be faked, and moan out "fuck! Yes, dad! Dad!!"
For a moment price just grinds into it, believes it's some little fantasy for you. You can feel the exact moment it clicks, price pulling back to stare at your face.
The disgust at realizing what he did, the horror when he realizes how much he enjoyed it.
Let him try to ignore you now, you're not letting go.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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y’all really treat peoples posts like your dirty little secret side piece the way you’ll like it in private but never let it see the light of day on your blog by reblogging
Bare with me on this but it's been stuck in my mind. But kate laswell who's wife is into nothing but crocheting- I can't get the image out my head.
Figured id request this since its smt unique and might be smt new for you <3
Laswell shows up on base with a new scarf. It wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary- it's November- except Price notices it immediately because the scarf itself is so eye catching.
Brilliant shades of orange and red and yellow, textured little triangles that spike out around Laswell's neck, the whole thing a big soft pile peeking out of the throat of her coat like flames. He comments on it, and her whole face goes soft for a moment.
"My wife crocheted it," she says, "said I needed something cheerful with all the black and olive drab around here." She strokes the edges of a line of bright yellow-gold highlights.
It doesn't stop there- the next week, she has gloves to match, fingerless mitts with the same flame-colored yarn poking out of her coat sleeves. Price wonders about a hat, and gives himself a chuckle with the mental image of a similarly textured one- Laswell would look like a hedgehog that wandered into a campfire- but she shows up with something entirely new.
The hat is a thick toque, spirals of green and blue, and there's an actual goddamn pompom on top. Price stares, and Laswell blushes.
"...she likes bright colors," she says, and there's the matching gloves hanging out of her pocket.
A blanket appears on Laswell's office couch after Christmas, large squares stitched together, and Price steals it a couple times for a quick nap- it's sinfully soft. Laswell also has new decorations on her desk, some coasters in the shape of flowers, a tiny sprig of leaves and blossoms that Price peers at for a good while, just marveling at it, at the delicacy; there's a couple crocheted pillow covers that appear and are changed out according to some schedule Price doesn't know.
She even starts wearing sweaters, soft and comfortable looking things, open-front so she can pull them on over her military regs and tuck them away when needed.
Then, having apparently hit the limit with what Laswell would accept, the mysterious wife starts making things for Price.
A couple hats of his own, in sturdy blocked stripes of navy blue and gray, a scarf with zigzags in a shiny black yarn that he loves immediately. A blanket for his office, extra large to fit him, all shades of cream and yellow. On his birthday, he finds a sweater wrapped in pretty paper, a classic fisherman's cable in a softly shimmering green.
"Does she do nothing else but crochet?" He asks Laswell, who has another new hat. She only shrugs.
"She started during the pandemic, when she was stuck at home. She's only just gotten to feeling confident enough to make real gifts, though- I'll tell her you appreciate it."
It's nice, having soft comforts at hand, things he knows were made with care, someone spending hours bent over yarn and hook and spinning straw into gold.
He mentions it to Ghost, who asked about the blanket, and the next time they see Laswell the lieutenant pulls her aside and shows her something in his phone.
"Could she do something like this? I'll pay for the time and all," he asks quietly.
"...I'll ask her," she says, and Price forgets about it, until a month later when he pokes his head into Ghost's office for a question and finds the man wrapped in a massive, thick shawl, all black and gray, the hood of it so deep it looks like the grim reaper sitting behind a cheap army desk.
"What? I get cold," he defends, as Price grins, and he goes to ask Laswell about commissioning a pair of gloves for Ghost to match, with little skeleton fingers stitched into them.
Laswell has a new wall hanging, yarn and tufts of wool all twisted together into what Price realizes is a landscape, puffy clouds and little pops of color for flowers.
"That's not crochet," he says, he can recognize it now, and she sighs.
Heya! I wanna make something clear real quick!~
If you:
- Use AI to create 'art' or any kind
- Use AI to write fanfics or drabbles
- Use AI bots to chat with
- Use AI bots to get 'answers' or 'research'
- Use AI to assist with your job or anything else
- Use AI to write recipies
- Feed Artists/Authors work into AI
- Support AI in any way, shape or form
Then congrats! You aren't welcome on my blog!
I don't want you to interact with me and I don't want to interact with you!
You WILL be blocked.
Yippie!
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Gaz with a baby. Gaz holding a soft little potato in his hands, Gaz celebrating their first little curls popping up, Gaz rocking his child against his chest with firm little butt pats when they won't go the fuck to sleep. Gaz standing a toddler on his shoulders, tucking a ten-year-old into his lap when they insist they're too big now for a cuddle, his arm over a lanky teens shoulders at a football game, a proud smile on his face.
Gaz welcoming his child home with gray in his hair, laugh lines creasing his cheeks, the corners of his eyes behind his glasses.
Gaz standing in a hospital room, over a bassinet nearly the same as the one he'd stood over three decades ago. There's a little wrapped bundle in it, another soft, sweet potato of a baby, this one with a little name card propped up on the side- with Kyle John printed carefully out, that makes Kyle step away for a second with his hand over his eyes, the other gripping the side of that bassinet so tight his knuckles ache.
I’m screaming I need to be Graves’ tradwife who goes over his knee whenever I get too fussy or question him 😭 and bake sourdough and rear his children 😭 do you feel me???
Phillip Graves x fem!reader, spanking, punishment, rough sex, degradation kink, crying, pussy spanking, orgasm denial, little piss but not sexual, tradwife vibes but in a shitty way, sorry anon I didn't get the kids in this but you know he'd be an absent father anyway lol
The dishes scrape together when you dump them in the sink, and you don't even care about the ear-bleeding sound of ceramic and glass and silverware; you're alone in the kitchen, your husband sitting with his glass of booze in his stupid den, where he can relax and digest the food you cooked, the bread you baked, the clean home that you manage, and all without a fucking thank you, honey, that was delicious as always.
"Honey! C'mere a sec?"
Speak of the devil. You scowl down at the sink and wipe your hands on the pretty embroidered towel. You know you're stomping, but you can't help it, it grates on your every nerve when he acts like you're some servant.
You poke your head around the open door of the den. It's all his, Phillip's little oasis- dark wood and his books lined up, bottles of whiskey and bourbon in the sidebar, smooth leather couch and his TV for football on Sundays. There's even a fireplace, the gas flames burning merrily despite the fact that it's July and you have the AC cranked in the rest of the house to combat that Texas heat.
Phillip's got the lights dimmed, a glass of something in his hand. He smiles at you, pats the seat next to him, and you swallow a huff and settle down. His arm comes over your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and he's warm and sturdy, comforting, even through your bad mood. He is your husband after all, even when he's a pain in your ass.
He nuzzles against your head, smoothing his cheek up and down your hair like a cat. "Hey, you know I appreciate everything you've done here, yeah? Taking care of the house, of me, I know it's hard when I'm gone."
Oh. Well, alright, now you maybe feel a little guilty. You squirm a bit, fixing the edge of your skirt where it's riding up from the leather seat. "No, honey, it's fine-"
He keeps speaking over you. "What I don't appreciate, however, is that goddamn attitude the second I walk through the door."
You freeze, skin prickling, and Philip sips his drink and sets it down with a soft clink onto the side table.
"I wasn't.... I, I didn't mean..." You say, and it doesn't matter at all what you might have tried to say, because your husband shoves you down across his lap and pins you with a broad hand between your shoulder blades, the other going right to your skirt, and tugs it up over your ass.
The first spank lands against your ass, hard and loud, and you shout and wriggle. Trying to push away with your arms only makes him pin your wrists against your lower back, and the second spank is even harder. His hands are big and feel bigger like this, iron-hard around your wrists and slamming into your flesh.
"You what? You weren't acting all queen of the castle at me, like the dirt on my boots isn't good enough for your precious floors?" Another spank, and another, across both cheeks, and your ass is burning. Your face is too, humiliation and upset churning in your belly, at being turned over his knee and paddled like a child. At his sheer fucking gall to try and punish you when he's the one stomping in, dropping boots and bags and who knows what else in a pile when you've tried so hard to make the place nice-
You howl when he spanks you right at the soft crease of ass and thigh, skin stinging, unprotected there by your panties. He always hits so hard, like you're a soldier, not his soft, pretty wife.
He cups your ass in his palm, grinding the pain in, and swings again, his hand still so tight on your wrists, pinning you over his spread thighs. "Come on, what was it? You didn't mean to get bitchy the second I finished eating, clearing the table like that? Dropping shit in the kitchen?" Smack, smack, smack. Phillip grunts, his arm slowing, and the next hit lingers, his fingers spreading to squeeze and grip your ass, pinch your thigh. He leans over, closer to your ear.
"I work hard," he breathes, soft and deadly, "getting my hands dirty, so you can stay home and have an easy life, and all I ask in return is a little fucking consideration when I get back. Instead I get you huffing, and bitching," another spank, "and glaring at me," another, and tears are dripping off your eyelashes as you wince and flinch, "when you don't work, you don't even have a fucking kid around to handle! So tell me, what's- fair- about- that!"
The blows come fast again, no time to breathe between them, and you sob against the cushion, your chest heaving against his thigh. Your legs kick but it's useless, you're pinned too tight, and when one of your legs slips off the cushion, knee sliding out, Phillip only changes the angle of his spanks so that the insides of your thighs take it instead, until you feel like you're glowing red with the heat and pain.
"I'm sorry!" You gasp, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, sorry sorry sorry!" Your husband doesn't stop, just keeps dealing blows down on your flesh, up and down your thighs and ass. You might as well not even have panties on for all the good it does you, and the scrape of elastic when he pulls them down makes you whimper. His palm rubs your ass, feels out the way your skin is swollen, little hot points of stinging pain scattered like freckles from his wedding ring.
He's breathing hard, but the sound is lost under your sobbing, your own jagged breaths as you whimper and cry and squirm, hyperaware of the throbbing flesh of your ass, the way it burns in your belly, your thighs trembling where they're splayed open.
Your husband clicks his tongue when you flinch hard at the touch of his finger slipping between your cheeks, following the cleft down. "Don't start again," he warns, when you cut off a gasp, his finger pressing until your pussy opens up for him, folds sticky and hot and utterly betraying you. Your clit throbs. "Or this'll be the next thing I spank."
He prods at you, not trying to get you off but playing in your slick, humming to himself when you whine, when your hips jerk. When he scrapes the edge of his fingernail over your clit you sob, trying to shut your thighs, but that's a mistake- he takes his hand back and gives you two more hard spanks, forceful enough you slide forward, ass coming up higher over his lap.
"What did I just fucking say!" He snaps, and you're too slow, sluggish with heat and the twisting, burning pleasure- his palm slaps down across your pussy, your clit, and you wail, thrashing so hard Phillip has to let go of your wrists and hold you with both arms, keeping you over his lap. Your pussy blazes with heat, with the burst of slick gushing from your hole, the tiny flinches of your ass and thighs making you shake.
Phillip sighs, and you feel his hand ghost over your head, petting you soothingly. "Now, alright, that was too much huh? I'm sorry, baby, don't cry," and you choke on your tears. He keeps petting you, letting his hand travel down your back, playing again with what you know are his own raised handprints on your ass. "Left on your own too much, that's what's wrong. Are you lonely, honey? Getting all stuck in your head about who runs this place?"
You sniffle, gasping, and when you nod helplessly you're rewarded with a thick finger slipping into your pussy, oh, rubbing so sweetly, tender after so many punishing blows of his hand- you melt over your husband's lap, moaning, and he chuckles at you like he might a dog that got into the clean laundry.
"Yeah, I know. You think you know what's best, but that's me, honey. I come home and I have expectations and those have to be met. Clean house. Smiling wife. Warm, wet cunt," and the single finger changes to three, forcing your pussy to stretch as new tears drip down your face.
"Phil!" You whine, "please! I'm sorry, I am- I'll be better!" He's plunging them into you, wet squelches and slick smearing around, and the hand on your back moves to grip your hair, drag your neck back so your face comes out of the cushions, nowhere to hide the desperation as you dig your nails into the leather. "Phillip, oh god, gonna, gonna- fucking cum-!"
He yanks your hair harder, frowns down at your open mouth, your wet eyes. "Keep that filth out of your mouth," he orders, and takes his fingers out to smack them against your pussy again, a hard wet slap that makes your knees buckle, your spine stiffen, as the orgasm you were on the edge of bursts apart into jagged fragments, the painful clenching of your pussy an empty, unsatisfying finish.
Phillip smirks down at you, and pats your ass, making you flinch, though the touch is gentle. "On your feet," he tells you, and you stagger up, gasping, skirt rucked up and panties tangling your ankles, only to be turned and bent over the arm of the couch. Your husband's belt buckle clinks behind you.
You moan at the press of his cock into your pussy, thick and hot, and he sighs in pleasure when he fits his hips to your ass, hands stroking the swollen, heated skin, slipping your skirt up further, shoving it past your waist. "That's my girl," he says, as your pussy clenches around him, "much better now. Come on, show me how much you missed me," and he draws out enough for you to bounce your ass back against him, whining as each slap of skin stings your bruised flesh, even as your poor pussy tries to cling to his cock, needing to come. Everything aches, your head from crying and your ass and thighs a solid hot burn, your arms from holding yourself up and pushing back, down to the sore, swollen pussy that's dripping onto your husband's cock, hungry, and when Phillip spanks you again, lighter this time, you moan and shudder in pleasure.
He laughs, does it again as your hips pick up speed, bouncing faster. "Fucking ridiculous. All that bullshit and you're soaking my dick like it's prom again. Come on, move that ass," and you gasp and squeeze around his cock, panting as you drive yourself back and forth over it, the sharp little pops of his palm and fingers on your ass only making you clench tighter, make stars sparkle in your eyes.
Your clit throbs but you don't dare pause and try to touch yourself, instead you grind desperately against Phillip's cock and balls, try to clench down, because you know you can come if you just push it a little harder, get that heat and pressure to wind up and snap and give you that satisfaction, to ease the ache and reward your efforts-
Your husband's hand slams down on your ass, as hard as before or worse, a bruising, ear-ringing CRACK that ripples out through your whole body- a second hit, a third, all together in the same spot that's now so painful you can't help but scream, the way you thrash, and the humiliating hot spurt of piss that bursts out of you, dripping down the side of the couch, and Phillip groans and digs his fingers into the throbbing, burning handprint on your skin and comes in you with a few sharp thrusts of his hips as you cry.
It hurts, you're wet and throbbing and limp over the couch, your pussy clenching around the cum leaking out and your thighs shaking in little unstoppable bursts, you're so close to coming and yet so far away it's painful, and your husband tucks himself back into his jeans and fixes his belt, stroking your skin, as if the scratch of his calluses don't make you flinch.
"See? Attitude gets you nowhere. Could have had a nice orgasm for that greedy cunt if you hadn't been acting up." He pats your hair, looking down at your wet, gasping, weeping face. "Now clean up that mess you made."
He leaves you there over the couch, the fire still crackling, his whiskey still sitting on the table, and when you hear the shower start running you lever upright and take it, throwing it back, the burn of alcohol minor next to the pain in your ass and thighs.
You can't bear to pull your skirt down, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the big grandfather clock's glass front- hair wild, sweating, tears smearing your makeup, bare-assed with bruises already blooming. Piss dripping down your legs.
Debauched. Disgusting. A sweet wife turned inside out with her pussy dripping on the floor.
You stroke your fingers down your belly, slip them over your clit, circle the hot wet flesh and with a moan, you cum into the empty glass in your hand, splattering the bottom with slick, catching your gushing hole on the rim.
When you finish cleaning your piss up, you sling the sodden skirt and shirt you had been wearing into the laundry basket, and refill Phillip's glass, carrying it up to him naked, and watch as he drinks it down with a smile.
