Gloom Witch

Missed Hints (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)

Misunderstanding (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)

Mint & Stone (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader) ... coming soon

Rainy Reunion (Aragorn x Female Reader)

Burnt Bread (Éomer x Female Reader)

Gentle Dark (Haldir x Female Reader)

A Sudden Spark (Éomer x Female Reader)

We Won’t Be Missed (Legolas x Female Elf Reader)

An Unexpected Catch Masterlist (Boromir x Female Reader)

Circling Stardust Masterlist (CT-7567: Rex x OFC)

Taste Test (Boba Fett x Reader)

Untitled Din Djarin ... coming soon

Untitled Hunter (Bad Batch) ... coming soon

Dark Knowledge Masterlist (Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Reader)

Ink & Needle Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Dangerous Pursuit Masterlist (Captain John Price x Female Reader)

Imagines & What If Main Masterlists: Primary // Secondary

Devil Bone (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Flint (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader)

Locker Room: Part One // Part Two // Simon's POV (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Great Wyrm; Red Mountain (Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish

Revenge is a Glory Hole (Task Force 141 x Female Reader)

Second Act Masterlist (Task Force 141 Masked Metal Band AU)

A Brute, Brute Heart Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Dog with No Teeth Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

The Bloody Devils Masterlist (John Price x Female Reader)

Holly Springs Masterlist (Task Force 141 Hallmark AU)

Headcanon, AUs, Quick Writes Masterlist

Winter 2023 Collection Masterlist

Fluffuarry 2024 Masterlist (Star Wars Edition)

Spring 2024 Collection Masterlist

Summer 2024 Collection Masterlist

1k Follower Event Masterlist

3.5k Follower Spooky Bingo Masterlist

10k Follower Event Masterlist

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Kinktober 2025 Masterlist

Kinkmas 2024 Masterlist

John Price

“This for me?” John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. “And above the sheets?”

“No,” you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. “Don’t think about it. Not tonight.”

He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. “Have I done something?”

“No,” you repeat. “It’s hot. And you’re a furnace. You’ll get me sweaty.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. “Doesn’t have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.”

You twist, evading a kiss. “Stop poking me with your dick.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. That’s what they’re saying.

“I know,” you reply. “I hate it, too.”

The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still you’re sweating. Kyle’s arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.

Kyle reaches for his phone. “I’m ordering another fan.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Johnny,” you grumble, half-asleep.

His hand pauses on your bare hip. “Can’t touch you?”

“Too hot,” you mumble. “How are you not hot?”

The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. It’s the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.

Beside you, the bed shifts. “Not even a hand?”

“No.”

“What about a finger?”

“No.”

Johnny sits up onto his elbow. “A tit?” You open one eye and glare. “A quick squeeze?”

“Fine,” you mutter, relenting. “But only one tit. And only one squeeze.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Sleeping naked under the covers isn’t an option. It’s disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, you’ll cool off. You just can’t move. You can’t—

A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.

You bolt up, startled. “What the fuck, Simon? I’m trying to sleep.”

Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like he’s aiming for another. He shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.

Ash coats the inside of Johnny’s lungs.

His mouth tastes of it, teeth gritty, tongue dry and without moisture. It puffs out his nose and mouth with each exhalation, filtering through the holes in his helmet. The lands themselves are not ashen, the grass is still green, the animals come and go, but there are no humans here. Not anymore.

In the shadow of Red Mountain, the farms sit empty, the towns ransacked, the roads overgrown with weeds and broken stone. Ash falls from the sky, dissolving into the ground, absorbed and forgotten as if enchanted, sticking to nothing except his lungs and his tongue and the back of his throat.

In the shadow of Red Mountain, John MacTavish, knight to The King, journeys alone.

Those sent to Red Mountain never return. No trace of their bones, no hint of weapon or shield. Gone and vanished. Unknown in fate or fortune. This, too, may be his fate. There is no one else to go, no one left to face The Great Wyrm.

At the base of the mountain, where flat land meets rising slope, Johnny pauses, staring up into the sky. Historical records, the ones Johnny read by single candle flame in the church archives, say that Red Mountain has not erupted in over a thousand years. It says the belly is empty, devoid of molten fire. A great explosion of heat blocked out the sun long ago, set the lands into chill. It happened fast, the mountain’s heart hardening, the great fires within hollowing to a finite point of intense heat.

From that heat came The Great Wyrm, the soul of Red Mountain, the thing that has stalked these lands for hundreds of years. It comes. It goes. The land is resettled. The wyrm arrives soon after, repeating the cycle.

Johnny coughs. Lifts his face plate. Spits black.

He drops the face plate and ascends, following the path that others carved before. His steel armor slowly grows heavy and hot. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. There are no bones or broken swords. No hint of life. Only red clay buried beneath layers of ash.

He turns, looking back the way he came. There is green grass, blue sky, and a solid line that separates it from the mountain. It’s a sharp cut, as if someone drew a knife tip over the land. Johnny never saw the change beneath his boots because he kept his head up, gaze fixed above the billowing behemoth.

There are stretches of time, moments when Johnny believes he hasn’t moved at all, or that he’s moved too far up too quickly. Dizzying. Strange. Each step weighted, sludgy, like he’s dragging himself along. Focus is on his feet, on moving each leg independently of the other, concentration on the intention to walk. It splits his focus, diverting all attention to the red clay and not the path before him.

Cool, fresh air hits him first, refreshing to point of deliverance. Johnny wobbles, nearly topples backward and down the mountain, only to correct at the last moment, throwing himself forward into the darkness. Hands outstretched, he falls on solid stone. Not a long fall, more of a trip, like when he first became a squire and couldn’t find his head even if it was shoved up his arse.

Tentatively, Johnny removes his helmet, and breathes in deep.

There is no burn. No cough. No itch. The grit on his teeth is gone, tongue no longer parched, the need for water evaporating. He feels like a new man, born again after a good rest.

And the air smells, like crushed eggs long rotten in the back of a chicken coop. Beneath the sulfur and stink, is a hint of sweetness like a mouthful of honey cake. Johnny sniffs as he walks forward, one hand on the pommel of his sword, alert and attentive. It wraps around him, lulls him forward, spins around him like chains, guiding him on and on and on.

Light appears, soft and low. There’s a glimmer. A flash of gold. Johnny steps around what he believes to be a wall, only for it to crumble beneath his fingers, a rampant torrent of cascading gold, gems, and jewelry. An abundance of wealth. They fan out, breaking open a gap, exposing the light to a heavy brightness.

Johnny throws up his arm to cover his eyes, crouching slightly. He keeps to the edges, walking between stacks of gold that ascend into darkness. That is all he sees at first. An intense light ahead and miles of treasure.

And then it shifts.

The top of a plain wood chair sticks out from one of the piles, followed by a broken wagon wheel, a charred beam, torn clothes, a child’s toy. More items appear, the gold receding, revealing belongings, woven baskets, scythes, an anvil. They ascend like the gold, creating piles of broken things, as if everything in the shadow of the mountain was caught in a large gale, and swept into the mouth.

“A visitor.”

The deep, rumbling purr startles Johnny, sending him stumbling away from the stained-glass window he was about to touch.

“Where are you, foul beast?” he calls out, but even he realizes how hollow he sounds. The threat is plucked out like a rose needle in skin.

“I’m right here.”

The voice is quiet this time. Right next to his ear. Johnny swivels, drawing his sword, and finding nothing.

Around him, the light dims, darkening the edges of his vision. The piles of broken things are not things at all but piles of gems, and then it melts, oozes, becoming wood and the lives of fallen people once more.

Past it all, there is a flicker, like a candle flame. And Johnny swears, swears that the flicker is not light at all, not a sparkle of gold, but eyes.

“No,” comes the voice again, directly behind him. The air is heavy with presence. “Here.”

Hesitation is weak. Hesitation will slit your throat.

Johnny swings.

Sword meets solid flesh, and bounces off. Johnny’s grip slips, the sword vibrating. It falls, clanging to the floor, and Johnny can only stare. Ears ringing like the vibrating sword, Johnny looks up, expecting a blow to the face, an arrow to the throat, or a slice across the stomach.

What he finds instead is a man.

Just a man, but not.

Naked and tall, broad shouldered, every limb thick with muscle. Power oozes from him, and that honey scent, it’s denser here, intoxicating as it is suffocating. A turn of the head reveals a glint of scales at the back of his neck.

“They sent one?” he scoffs. “They used to send armies.”

“You killed them all,” Johnny replies lamely. The Great Wyrm is a serpent of the sky, not flesh and blood. “This is a trick,” murmurs Johnny. “A trick.”

“A trick?” he says, feet silently circling Johnny.

“You’re—" Johnny shakes his head. “You’re—”

“The Great Wyrm?” His nostrils flare, all animal, shifting in Johnny’s direction as he does so. “I am. Expecting a beast?”

Johnny bends at the knees, the shock of the reveal receding. Duty rushes in, reaching out for a blade. Fingers centimeters away, Johnny is yanked by the throat. Human hands grow claws, latch in, keep him still. The Great Wyrm’s brown eyes reveal hypnotic-honey, a cerebral gnashing that loosens Johnny’s limbs.

“I have a name. I did. Once.” As The Great Wyrm speaks, black smoke drifts from his nostrils and mouth. Down his throat comes a warm, molten glow. “A ghost is what I am now.”

“Ghost,” replies Johnny, nearly slurred. “Suits you. Never caught. Slipping through the king’s fingers.” Each word is stuck, refusing to come out, escaping in clipped jolts of syllables. “Thought you’d be taller. Less skin. More scales.”

Ghost’s lips quirk slightly in amusement. Leaning in until their foreheads are nearly touching, Ghost inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Johnny’s stomach is weird, brain jumbled, limbs goo. Each inhalation and exhalation from Ghost worsens the fog until all Johnny can see and taste and touch and smell is Ghost.

“What—what are doing to me?”

Ghost’s eyelids snap open, widen, narrow to a primal possessiveness. “What do you smell?” His question filters into Johnny’s ears at a distance, muffled as if through rock. Ghost’s head dips, one claw on his otherwise human hand catching on Johnny’s bottom lip.

The flip is sudden, and Johnny groans.

Fog recedes, expanding outward, the crushing weight curling his back and tightening his balls. Arousal comes quickly, cock stiffening until it throbs to the point of pain. Ghost’s eyelids flutter in ecstasy, closing the distance, nuzzling the side of Johnny’s face. It only worsens the stimulation.

“What do you smell?” Ghost asks again.

Through gritted teeth, Johnny says, “Honey. Warm honey.”

Ghost’s clawed thumb draws downward to his chin, replaced by his lips. Johnny’s mouth opens involuntarily as a small shiver of awareness despairingly resists. The kiss is a blacksmith’s forge. All heat. Burning.

And Johnny feels no pain.

No burns. No blisters.

Nothing.

The sharp intensity snaps. Locks into place. No longer confined, Johnny senses everything, and another. Right there. Nestled in his brain as if it were his own. Johnny opens his mouth, to speak to scream to say anything. With the want of words comes images. Not his own. They unfurl within him, unpackaged by another hand.

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

It’s a steady war drum. Over. Over. Over. Over.

Ghost’s free hand cuts through Johnny’s armor, slices it like soft butter. Smooth and with no effort. Johnny’s head spins. All he knows is that one word and Ghost’s mouth. Of scaled flesh beneath his hands, of a heat that should be roasting him alive where he stands.

“I’ve been waiting,” growls Ghost, steering Johnny backward, commanding his movements. “Waiting for millennia.” The next growl isn’t human. It’s a rumble from deep within the earth. “Bound to this land.”

Ghost’s body brushes against the clothes Johnny wears beneath the armor. They catch fire, burn low, becoming ash that drifts off into the air. His skin remains untouched.

Another step.

Another.

Johnny is seized by the ankle but there is no strength in the weight. Within the haze, Johnny glances down, sees a familiar face.

“I know you,” he murmurs. Head swiveling, he finds another. Naked, male bodies all in various states of arousal and consciousness, some starting to writhe under The Great Wyrm’s immense heat. Knights. Men he knows. Men he watched leave and not return.

“They weren’t what I needed,” says Ghost. “They can’t carry my heat. My fires. My young.” Ghost’s hand wraps around Johnny’s cock. Precum drips from the tip. “They pleased me. But they’re not you.”

Johnny shakes his head but the images are constant. Through the connection, Johnny sees everything, Ghost’s whole history, the loneliness, the desire to escape, the fruitless search for his true mate. Desire weaves through the images like crawling vines.

His head falls back, lips parting with a moan. Ghost’s hands slowly descend and Johnny manages to bring his attention back, and down. Down to where Ghost kneels, his features shifted. The scales have multiplied, his irises narrowing and lengthening into cat-like slits. Horns adorn his head. Two are larger than the rest, thick at the base and rising into points. The rest are small, some still emerging from the skin.

“You’ll understand,” says Ghost.

Mouth opening, every inch of Johnny’s cock disappears into Ghost’s mouth.

Alejandro Vargas

Rudy swirls the tequila in his glass. “You’ll help?” He takes a sip, sucking his teeth at the descending burn. From allies to unlikely friends to wingmen, Task Force 141 are Rudy’s last resort.

“What about the rest of his men?” asks Price just as Ghost asks, “Is he always like this?”

Rudy answers Price first. “They’ve tried. All of us have.” He turns to Ghost. “Like what?”

Ghost crosses his arm, twisting around to glance at the group. “Sappy. White knight. Doesn’t deserve love because of the blood on his hands. That shite.”

Gaz snorts, beer bubbling around his mouth as he tries not to choke. “Fucking hell, Ghost. Projecting much?”

“Fuck you.”

“Only when he likes someone,” answers Rudy.

“How often is that?” asks Price.

Rudy shakes his head, downing the rest of his tequila. “Never.”

Johnny leans back in his chair, placing his hands on his belly, fingers joined as he stretches. “Aye. Man just needs a push.” He mimes bringing their heads to together. “A good kiss will do it.”

“Don’t let Simon do it,” chuckles Gaz, lightly slapping the side of Johnny’s arm with the back of his hand. “He’ll use too much force. Might bash their heads in.”

“Why you up my arse tonight?”

Gaz throws up his hands as Price clears his throat. “Behave. The both of you.”

“Think an outsider’s perspective might sway him,” says Rudy. “Make him stop denying his feelings.”

The five men turn in unison. Across the bar, Alejandro’s soft gaze is focused on you. Anyone with two working eyes can see how love-struck he is.

Johnny heaves a great sigh. “Well,” and he pushes up from the table, chest puffed in determination. “I’ll handle this.”

“No. No!”

Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra

Alejandro watches the disaster from behind his hands, two fingers spread in a narrow line, elbows on the table to prevent him from collapsing in embarrassment. Across the bar is Rudy, who cannot flirt to save his life.

“He needs work,” chuckles John Price, lightly tapping Alejandro’s shoulder in reassurance.

“Poor bastards’ trying his best,” muses Simon Riley. “Give him a chance.”

Kyle Garrick and Johnny MacTavish are to Alejandro’s left, silently observing the trainwreck. MacTavish’s face has gone red from holding in laughter, and Garrick is nearly under the table, drink still in hand as he bends in on himself, wheezing.

Alejandro is Rudy’s constant wingman, practically shoving anyone and everyone in Rudy’s face in the hopes that the man will latch on correctly and not into obliviousness. The only person Rudy has ever voiced his interest in is with him now, a bartender at the place they frequent near headquarters.

They’re in love, and it’s utterly oblivious to everyone but Rudy.

“They talk every time we come,” groans Alejandro, shifting his hands to his temples, rubbing out the stress. “Never picks up on it.”

From under the table, Kyle snorts, and then it shakes, glassware rattling.

“Hit your head down there?” wheezes Johnny, bending for a look. “Ow, you bastard,” but Johnny is smiling, playfully swatting at Kyle’s fist at it thrusts up from under the table.

“An outside perspective might help,” sighs Alejandro, dropping his hands to grab the bottle of tequila. “Hates listening to me. Keeps denying it.”

Price chugs the rest of his beer, tongue sliding over his teeth, inhaling through his nostrils. “Need to stop talking to him and talk to the bartender.”

Kyle’s head pops up from under the table. “Captain. What you up to?”

Price rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. “Bartender!” he calls out, gesturing.

Rudy turns, and then they start to walk over. “If he won’t listen, I’ll have a chat with the other one.”

“Price—”

Behind the tree line is a motorway, the distant roar of cars barely audible given the natural barrier. The sky is dark. No stars. Simon’s cigarette is the brightest thing on the lot beside the lone bulb affixed to the building in front of them. It’s above the faded wood door, unprotected from the weather. The bulb is slightly blackened, dampening the light.

“Think he’s trying to kill us?” asks Kyle, eyes narrowing as he observes the worn wood.

Simon exhales, smoke curling around his face as it dissipates into the air. “Price?”

Kyle turns to Simon, top lip curled in disgust. “Fucking look at this place, mate.”

Johnny sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Not up for getting ya’ dick wet?”

“Fuck off,” groans Kyle.

“Think he’s on to something, Johnny,” croons Simon. The behemoth of a man inhales the last of the cigarette, tossing the butt in the gravel, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his boot. “No windows. Weird lock. Metal walls. Fucking murder shed that is.”

“Think there’s a dead body in there?”

“Limbs hanging from chains?”

“Captain Price, the serial killer?” Kyle’s fist lands on Johnny’s shoulder. “Fuck me. That hurt.” Johnny lunges, the two men wrestling for a headlock.

Rolling his eyes, Simon kicks at Johnny’s shin. “Grow up. Fucking children.” Lighter in hand, Simon clicks it open. Shut. Open again. “Rather do this in the club?” He nods toward the secondary building, the larger one to the left. Muffled, pounding music oozes from the building, growing louder when the entrance door opens. “Where everyone can watch? You into that?”

“Piss off.”

Johnny throws up his hands. “No judgement, Kyle.”

“Price wants us to blow off some steam,” says Simon. “We’ve been pent up. Aggressive since the mission. He’s fucking right.” He side-eyes Johnny. “Also felt bad you almost died.”

Johnny sighs dreamily. “Loves me more than my own, Da.” Johnny throws his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Probably bought us one of the bonnie lassies in there. Or three.”

Simon growls low in his throat, eyes on the door. “I have the code.”

Kyle’s head tips back, gazing up into the starless sky. “Let’s have it off then.”

Johnny hollers, shaking Kyle like he’s a ragdoll before taking off to the murder sex shed.

“Out the way, Johnny,” scolds Simon, elbowing him.

Simon punches in the code, the red light flipping green. Twisting the knob, he shoves open the door, revealing darkness. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, to unwrap the present inside.

“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, stepping into the small room. Johnny and Kyle slide in on either side of him. The door shuts with an audible click. “Is that—”

“It is,” says Johnny, clearly surprised.

No bed or lounge decorates this room. No scantily clad women ready to offer themselves. There’s a hole in the wall. A cutout. Large enough for a human to crawl through. Breeding Hole is painted in glowing green neon above it. Two arrows curve inward to point at either side of the hole. The lettering oozes downward like fresh paint.

The hole is not unoccupied.

Johnny’s surprise turns to lecherous glee. “It’s a fucking glory hole.” He slowly strides forward, gaze sweeping over exposed skin and spread legs.

A woman, but only half, sticks out from the wall. You’re on your stomach, a black board with a red cushion supporting your weight, top end covered by a black curtain. Black stilettos, strappy with a razor-thin heel, is all you wear. The rest is exposed and open for them.

Beside the glory hole are two sets of ankle straps. One set is higher than the hole itself, allowing for legs to be locked open and wide. The second set are level with the support cushion. They can bend your knees, force them open, keep you restrained as they fuck you.

Price didn’t buy one or even three of the workers in the club for a quick fuck. A countdown on the wall denotes the remaining time.

Three hours.

Three fucking hours.

Price bought a session.

Graffiti covers the remaining three walls. Several television monitors play porn without sound. Overhead, music blares, a thudding rhythm that shakes the bones. Light comes from a few stray bulbs in the ceiling, each covered by a clear glass box in different colors. The set-up bathes the space in a kaleidoscope, heightening the pulsing intensity of the room.

Simon, Johnny, and Kyle circle you but don’t touch.

Glancing at a nearby rolling cart, Simon grabs a bottle of lube. “Look here,” he says, nodding his head.

It’s packed with silicon dildos of various shapes and sizes, anal plugs, vibrators, a variety of stimulation toys from a feather to a wooden paddle. There are extra bottles of lube, individually wrapped sanitation wipes to clean themselves, or you, off, and beside that are two rows of disposable cameras with extra film. A sticky note next to the cameras says “Use Me.”

“No condoms,” muses Simon, finding them absent after a second perusal.

“Says breeding,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t need condoms for that.”

“Think she’s clean?” asks Kyle.

Johnny turns on him. “First you think he’s trying to murder us and now you think he’s going to give us STDs?”

“Not intentionally,” mutters Kyle.

Simon snorts, placing the lube back on the cart. “Think Price is the type?”

Kyle inclines his head. “Maybe to his enemies.”

“Be real shite of him,” laughs Johnny. “After feeling bad for me and all.”

Stepping forward, Kyle traces the lines of your body, fingertips hovering millimeters away from skin. “Hand me the lube,” he demands of Simon, not looking at him. “And a plug,” he adds as Simon places the lube in Kyle’s offered palm.

Johnny claps his hands together, grinning madly. “Aye. That’s how it’s done.”

Gripping the plug in one hand and the lube in the other, Kyle squirts a generous amount. As he places his hand on your ass, you jerk as if surprised. Kyle gives you a generous, reassuring squeeze before sliding his hand between, easing you open wider until your pussy and anus are stretched and exposed. Both tense and flex, and Simon groans.

“Fucking gorgeous sight,” murmurs Simon, rubbing his hand over the front of his dark jeans.

Kyle aligns the plug, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. There is resistance but it pops in smoothly. Your thighs shiver followed by another jerk of your body. Kyle fills his hands with you, squeezing, some of the remaining lube transferring.

Squeezing both cheeks, he settles his clothed hips in front of your exposed pussy. “Perfect height,” he says, lightly thrusting. He backs up, gesturing. “Try.”

Johnny takes his place and then Simon. Height won’t be a problem. They’ll be able to fuck you with ease.

“Who’s starting?” asks Kyle.

When no one moves, Johnny aims for his belt buckle. “Aye. I fucking will.”

Johnny releases his semi-hard cock, easing his pants open and down enough to keep the zipper away from his dick. Fisting the base, he jerks himself, pressing the head of his cock to your clit, rubbing against it. A sharp smack echoes with the music as Johnny’s free hand comes down on your ass. A few more send your thighs twitching.

Kyle licks his lips, joining Johnny, occupying his hand with the other cheek. Simon lingers at the cart, picking up different toys and vibrators, clicking them on and messing with the settings.

Beads of precum bloom in Johnny’s slit. He paints your clit with them, smearing it around to act as lube. A few more beads and he playfully teases your pussy, easing the tip in and out, all while jerking himself to hardness.

“What about this one?” Simon holds up a small vibrator no larger than the palm of his hand. It’s on, shaking wildly, nearly jumping around from the speed setting.

Johnny smacks his dick against your pussy a few times and steps away as Simon approaches with the vibrator.

“Too much?” asks Simon, switching the speed down a level.

“Not enough,” replies Johnny, slowing his hand movements to strokes.

Simon ups the speed again, firmly shoving the vibrator against your clit. Your ass bucks into the air. Kyle lunges forward, placing pressure onto your lower back, forcing you back to the cushion. You writhe under Kyle’s hold, attempting to escape the sensation. Simon, with the continued pressure, swirls the vibrator.

Another jerk, and they all jump back.

“Fucking hell,” laughs Johnny. “Got ourselves a squirter.” Simon is already reaching for a wipe, patting down your skin to clear the excess. Johnny inserts two fingers into your pussy, pumping slowly. “She’s dripping.”

“Need us to hold her?” asks Simon

“Aye,” and Johnny nods at the cameras on the cart. “Want a picture of this slick cunt taking my cock.”

Simon chuckles, handing off a camera to Kyle as he readies his own. He holds it up, snapping a photo as Johnny’s cock disappears.

“Fuck,” groans Johnny. “Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.”

Simon snaps a few more photos and sets the camera aside. “We got her, Johnny.”

Together, Simon and Kyle grasp your legs, pulling you toward them and further onto Johnny’s cock. They move as one, adjusting the ankle straps, locking you in as Johnny rests his hands on your back, putting his weight behind it.

Hips sharply jerking, Johnny drives into you, only chasing his end. Lips parted, panting, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Simon and Kyle watch intently, their eyes lust-laced and eager, each of them stroking themselves to hardness as they wait their turn.

Johnny groans out his pleasure, grinding his hips against you as his balls tighten. Kyle already has the camera ready as Johnny slips out. Simon moves when Kyle does, spreading your pussy wide with his fingers. Kyle waits a beat, snapping a photo when Johnny’s cum appears.

“Not enough,” observers Simon. “Needs more.”

Kyle takes position. He doesn’t fuck as wild and hard as Johnny, but his strokes are deep and deliberate.

Johnny smiles behind the disposable camera. “Hold that pose.” Kyle eases your leg up a bit, giving Johnny a clear view of how Kyle’s thick cock stretches your pussy.

The camera goes off and Kyle starts to fuck you again. When the creampie happens, they snap another cumshot photo.

“Not enough,” repeats Simon. “Not nearly enough.”

With three hours on the tab, they rotate, take pictures, make you squirt a few more times. Kyle removes the anal plug, going up a size, insert it while they turn you onto your back. Ankles are secured in new restraints, toes pointing toward the ceiling, legs stretched.

Simon hooks his arms around your legs, hands firmly gripping your thighs. He cares little for ceremony or niceness. Their mixed cum is smeared all over you pussy and ass, overflowing whenever one of them fucks your cunt.

Johnny aligns the camera perfectly, angling just so to capture the position without Simon’s head in the photo and the television monitor off to their left. It’s showing a gloryhole similar to this one.

“Turn her on her side,” instructs Kyle, indicating how with a flick of his finger. “Think that tight ass is ready.”

Unhooking your ankles from the restraints, the three of them turn you onto your left side. Simon eases you toward them a touch. Lifting your top leg, he plants it on his shoulder. He straddles your other leg, aligning his cock up with your pussy. Johnny spreads your ass cheeks for Kyle; the plug removed with a wet pop.

On the other side of the partition, you cry out around Price’s dick as not one but two cocks enter you. They fuck rough. Hard. Whoever they are. Not that you can ask. Not that you can say anything. All you can do is stare daggers at the man keeping your mouth occupied.

Price tuts as you choke on him. “What will your daddy think of you?”

Daddy won’t know about this at all.

You’re taking this but you’ll never speak about it. Whatever your adoptive father did to earn Price’s ire is unknown to you, and you don’t wish to know anyway. General Shepherd never brings work home, but you’re aware of his power, and that he likely has enemies everywhere.

When Price took you from your apartment in Washington D.C., you thought he’d kill you. Make you an example to your father.

“Apologies, love,” murmurs Price, using his thumb to wipe away smeared cum on the corner of your mouth. “But your father’s a bastard.”

There is cum in your hair, on your face, all over the cushion, spread over your breasts. You’re not allowed to swallow. Your mouth is a hole for Price to come in. Nothing more.

Price palms your breast, squeezing, teasing your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Glad my men are having fun.” Price eases the rest of his cock into your mouth until you gag. He retreats slightly, but only enough for your breathing to return to normal. “They deserve it. After what happened to them. What your father put them through.” He sighs. Shrugs. “Not that they know who they’re breeding.”

Unable to move, unable to speak, you only stare, narrowing your gaze to stinging venom. Price brushes it off like it’s nothing.

Insignificant.

Killing General Shepherd was Price’s gut reaction.

Soap shot in the head, bleeding out, barely clinging to life. They thought him dead. His recovery, as slow as it was, surprised them even more. If Johnny had been killed, if he hadn’t survived, General Shepherd would feel lead, too. Know death was coming for him.

The sole reason Price didn’t fill General Shepherd full of holes is because Johnny lives, and lives well. Price’s revenge requires a different taste, and before him, the spread is bountiful.

A few favors are all it took to put Price in Shepherd’s office at the Pentagon. Place is a fucking fortress but it’s just a building when people owe you. Shepherd will know it’s him. There’s no doubting that. But Price wants him to know.

Price leans against the front of the desk, lightly tapping the final nail against his palm. Around him are pictures. Took a while to develop them. Can’t walk into a store, hand over rolls of film full of cumshots, and ask for them to be developed. He had to do this quietly. Discreetly. Took a few months of planning, but it’s here, in front of him.

Each and every picture is from that night. The only face that appears in any of the photos are of yours. Boys were smart about how much of themselves they revealed. A few didn’t make it, but there were plenty in the end.

Price admires his work, at how the photos cover nearly every surface. Shepherd will walk in, and everywhere he looks, they’ll be a picture of his daughter taking cock.

But there’s one final piece.

Something he didn’t expect.

Something that happened just this morning.

You should have killed me. You should have fucking killed me!

You were angry, standing at Price’s doorstep. Don’t know how you fucking found him, but your Shepherd’s, and he likely taught you well.

Beating on his chest, screaming in Price’s face, you raged, and then you spit out the real truth, the reason you even went looking for him in the first place.

The pregnancy test stares up at Price.

There are three possible fathers. All of them still ignorant about you and what Price did.

He’ll disown me. Did you know that? He’ll force me out of the family over this.

Price won’t put it past Shepherd to act so harshly, but you’re with him now. Left you asleep on his bed, curled up under the covers. He’ll have to tell the lads eventually, but not right now.

Darkness clings to the corners of the containment cell, banishing the light.

Behind the silver bars, the creature stirs. With each blink, you disappear and reappear, eyeshine the only indication you’re in there at all. Water drips from the wood ceiling, the salt from the sea building in the cracks.

The four men standing on the other side of the bars stare at you. You stare back.

“Is it alive?” asks Johnny MacTavish, the captain of Bessie, the ship shepherding them all to London from the Colonies.

“Bagged it myself,” replies Kyle Garrick, the bounty hunter Doctor Riley hired to capture you.

Doctor Riley’s companion, Father Price, crosses himself as the eyeshine shifts in the dark, lowering to the floor. A menacing hiss follows. Captain MacTavish startles, stepping backward as the other men remain immobile.

“Do not show fear, Captain,” says Father Price. “You’ll only provoke it.”

Captain MacTavish’s voice cracks. “Provoke it?”

Doctor Riley steps forward, his coat wet with sea spray. “No one’s attempted this before, Father.”

“They’re better off dead,” says Kyle, gaze narrowing as you begin to emerge from the dark. “Been eating their way through the Bay Colony. Working with the local tribes helped my men catch this one.” He nods at you, face grim. “Told us to just kill it. Said it’s feral. No life in it.”

“Thank God, you spared it to show the power of Jesus Christ,” praises Father Price.

The eyeshine disappears, the shape of you forming in the low light of the lanterns. You near the silver, lip curling, shifting backward, baring your fangs at the priest. Bones stick out in odd places, elongating like sharpened points, stretching flesh until the skin splits, revealing greying bone.

“What’s wrong with it?” murmurs Captain MacTavish.

“It’s not an it,” states Doctor Riley. “Has a cock. “

“Not what I fucking meant,” mumbles MacTavish.

“This vampire was once a human, Captain. Had hopes. Dreams,” continues Doctor Riley. “This one is different from the others. Only seen a few others in this state. Or worse.”

“Worse?” squawks MacTavish, gripping his cross necklace.

“This one was abandoned by its coven.” Doctor Riley bends forward, close enough to the bars that a swipe of your claws would separate his face from his skull. “My partner and I have been tracking similar situations across the continent. Lone villagers falling into pits. Ripped apart.”

“Bloody hell,” grumbles MacTavish, crossing himself.

Riley straightens his back just as you lash out. The silver catches your skin. Flesh sizzles and pops. You yelp, retreating into the dark.

“When a coven abandons one of their own, they toss them into a deep pit. Line the walls with sharpened silver. Cover it with thick wood. Dirt. Leaves. Depraved of light. Depraved of sustenance. They’re forced to feed on themselves. Becoming…this.”

Kyle shifts, his shoulders rubbing against the wood post he leans on. “Makes you wonder what this one did.”

Father Price exhales through his nostrils. “Perhaps with God, we can redeem the poor creature.”

“My bag, Father.” Price frowns, but complies, handing the leather tote to Doctor Riley. From it, Doctor Riley withdraws a scalpel, a siphon, and a funnel.

“Hold this, Captain” orders Riley. MacTavish hesitates a moment before gently taking the assembled siphon and funnel. “Feed it through the bars.”

Captain MacTavish eases the end of the siphon between the bars. From the dark, you crawl forward, gaze darting around like a trapped rabbit seeking an exit. Doctor Riley holds his wrist above the funnel. A quick slice of the scalpel and fresh blood drips. It descends. Your eyes widen, claws reaching for the open end of the siphon.

“In your mouth,” instructs Doctor Riley. “That’s it. Good.”

“I don’t like this,” murmurs Kyle.

“You cannot convert Satan’s creatures if they cannot speak,” replies Father Price. “The good doctor here believes we can revert the feral transformation. Bring the vampire back to a healthier state.”

Doctor Riley observes your every movement, how you stick the siphon in your mouth, dagger teeth gnawing as the blood journeys to your lips. Your gaze is locked on him, and he sees it then, the flicker of understanding.