My creativity junk drawer

John Price

Darting around the edge of the sofa, you slip on the hardwood, landing hard.

Large, strong hands grasp your upper arms, twisting back, pinning them together. Kicking out, you squirm like a worm on the floor, fighting with all your strength.

“You fucking bastard,” you growl. “Let me go.”

There is no true fear in you. It’s a game. A scene. John is only playing the role of escaped fugitive, and you, his helpless victim of a home invasion.

“Your pussy is mine,” he laughs into your ear.

A click of a switchblade. A tug. A tear.

“Claw my face. Bite. Mark me all you like, doll.” John’s cock slides over your ass, back and forth, sticky precum dripping onto your skin. “Want your hands free to fight back.”

Throwing your shoulders forward and back achieves nothing. What strength you possess is greatly outweighed by John’s. The man is solid rock, an unmovable mountain.

Pinned in a prone bone position, the head of his cock finds your pussy, dips into your warmth. It’s a tight fit with your legs closed. John’s dick feels bigger, overly large and too much to take.

“Be a good girl, now. Do as you’re told.”

John thrusts, bottoming out. At the same time, he releases his grip on you. You attempt to twist, to throw your fists, but John brushes off the blows, pounding into you without even a flinch. Nails come next, scraping over skin, leaving red marks across John’s arms and chest. He takes it all in stride, keeping you pinned where you are on the floor.

You’re all animal, grunting and growling, squirming without victory. Fighting, though faked. The prey and predator. Hunter and hunted. Your body slickens, giving John easier access to fuck into you.

Grasping your hair, John abruptly pulls out of you, twisting you onto your back. This position is easier to use nails and teeth, not that John seems to care that you’re leaving tiny marks behind. They’re scattered across his skin, some enflamed, others blooming with the faintest trace of blood.

John brings his arm down on your throat, keeping you in place, dangerously close to cutting off your air, yet withholding enough strength to prevent you from gasping. Settling between your legs, he spreads his knees, forcing your legs to remain wide. You cannot bring them in nor straighten. The broadness of his chest and shoulders prevent bending your knees back enough to form a fetal position. You’re utterly trapped and John is fucking you hard, no slowness in his movements.

With a growl, you form a fist, bringing it down on the side of John’s head. He groans with pleasure as much as pain. Rearing back, his cock slips from your pussy, ropes of cum shooting from the tip to land on your stomach and thighs.

“Fuck, that hurt.”

But no safeword.

Scrambling to your feet, you make a break for it. You only make it a few steps before John is on your again, pinning your arms behind your back, shoving you against the wall, forcing your knees wide, guiding his cock back in.

As his thrusts begin anew, you smile into your shoulder.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’ll chase.”

“You’ll chase?”

Kyle shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t tell me when. Or where. Just…go. I’ll find you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will. Love a good chase. Turns me on.”

You play that conversation repeatedly as you shower. You laughed about it then, even giggled as you packed your things and left a week later. Kyle has always been confident, always sure of himself, but you doubt he can track you like some bounty hunter.

Now, you’re a bit on edge, glancing at every face you pass and staring into dark corners, expecting Kyle to be there. You’re unable to pinpoint the exact moment you felt uneasy. Exchanging rental cars, using only cash, talking to as few people as possible, even leaving your cellphone at home.

A professional might brush those off as easy obstacles, but Kyle? No. You couldn’t imagine it when you were singing at the top of your lungs in the first rental car. Maybe the first isolated gas station did you in, only worsening when you stopped for the night. The hotel isn’t much except basic necessities, reasonable comfort, and endless hot water.

Twisting the shower knob, the blessed heat evaporates. Steam lingers in the air around you, the television softly filters in through the open bathroom door, the towel wrapped around your body is clean but scratchy, worse than what you have at home, but acceptable for how much you paid for the night.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you hum softly to yourself, using a second towel to dry your hair. The television is still on, but it’s darker than before. You come to a stop at the foot of the bed, frowning. All the lamps are turned off except the one on the table next to the bed. Even the glow from the television is muted, as if purposefully dimmed via the settings.

A sensation in the back of your head buzzes. Something old. Something primal. Ancient. A piece of genetic code that stayed with humans from the beginning. Someone is here. Someone is in this room with you.

Maybe it is Kyle. Maybe he was telling the truth. But it doesn’t make sense. Kyle is no professional. Military, yes, but able to track someone down with little to no information? Doubtful. This is all supposed to be a good laugh. You left, expecting to be gone no more than two days, returning with an accomplished grin and a “I told you so” attitude.

It only worsens the dread.

If someone is in this room, and it’s not Kyle, then who?

You take a step back, eyeing the corners of the room and the closed curtains, expecting a twisted figure to emerge from the shadows. Another step, the fear heightening, all the muscles in your body tight with tension, ready to flee.

A hand comes down on your mouth from behind. It’s a strong grip, silencing, forcing you backward until you hit something solid and warm. Instinct kicks in, arms extending to strike, only to be met with muscle and brute strength.

Large, muscular arms enclose around your body, holding your arms still, leaving no room to wrestle and wiggle.

“Stop moving.” The voice is slightly husky and labored, with a twinge of excitement. “Be still, bird.”

Masculine. British. Achingly familiar.

Kyle?

You say his name into the hand covering your mouth. The sound is flattened and the man’s grip quickens.

“No talking, either.”

It is Kyle. It has to be.

That thought comforts you yet the anxiety and fear linger. Still tense, you quiet your voice and body, waiting for him to give guidance.

His arms shift, followed by his hands. As you’re spun around to face him, the towel unfurls, dropping to the floor. You catch a glimpse of your assailant. Brown eyes. Strikingly familiar. The balaclava doesn’t need to be removed for you to know who wears it.

Kyle forces you to your knees. “Hands where I can see them. Right here.” He taps his thigh and you place your hands there, one on either side. “Be silent. And suck my cock.”

Your pussy clenches, excitement palpable. You do as your told, undoing the belt and opening up the front of his pants. When his cock emerges, you know for sure that it’s Kyle. It’s the shape, sure, but the smell, that heady, musky scent that you’d know anywhere.

Obediently, you open your mouth, and then your shoved onto his cock, taking every inch until you gag around him.

“Hands here,” he instructs again, and you grasp his thighs, holding on as he takes hold of your hair and begins fucking your throat.

Tears quickly come, eyes watering from the intensity of his thrusts and the way the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Kyle doesn’t wipe your tears away. You’re wet between your thighs, slickening by the second. To be used like this, hunted down and ambushed, be utterly powerless, is fucking exhilarating.

Relaxing your throat, you take deep inhalations through your nose, trying to focus on not choking. Your gaze drifts to the left. A black duffle bag rests on the ground. It’s open, revealing some of its contents.

Rope. Duct tape. Zipties.

Is he going to keep you hostage here? Fuck your brains out? Or will he take you to a second location, using all your holes until you’re coated in cum and overstimulated?

Either sounds amazing.

Kyle grunts above you, his fist tightening, muscles flexing under your hands. He brings you fulling down onto his cock, your lips pressing against his pelvis, forcing himself down down down as his cum shoots out of the tip, slides to your esophagus to gestate in your stomach.

He keeps himself in your mouth, unmoving. “Show me how wet you are.”

Dropping a hand from his thigh, you slide it between your legs, presenting the glossy digits.

“Face down,” he growls. “Ass up.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m not finished making you my wife.

Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.

The old woman. The strangely bitter tea. The festival. It’s all returning in little pieces, distance whisps that slip between your fingers.

We must welcome the pagans. We cannot make them Christians through brute force and violence.

There is fur beneath you, and damp earth. You’ve given in, submitted to the pagan with hardly a protest. Johnny is above you, over you, creating a cocoon. His arms are braced on either side of your head, elbows digging into the ground.

You’re protected. Warm. Legs spread to accommodate the way Johnny thrusts between your legs. You remember the tree. A rock. Even now, distantly, you hear the other festival goers in this forested maze. Mating. Coupling. Uncaring.

Johnny took you as a husband should, consummating that which hasn’t been ordained by God. Through the thick haze of pleasure, a small voice pecks at your attention like an irritated crow.

You can’t go back.

You’ll have to marry him.

Johnny hooks an arm under your thigh, opening you wider. His thrusts increase, hitting deeper. You’re incredibly slick between your thighs. Some of it is you, the rest is Johnny’s seed. The man has a determined look in his eye, as if he knows you’ll come to your senses eventually, that you may refuse him.

No. No. It’s too late. Far too late.

You will not be sent to a convent, or hastily married off to some unknown lord to cover up the pregnancy. Something tells you Johnny wouldn’t allow it anyway.

Your God saved you for me. My gods saved you for me.

This man intends to keep you.

Johnny’s mouth comes down on your neck, sucking. Your cunt clenches. A groan escapes you, all hesitation evaporated.

You reach for the long braid hanging over his shoulder. Grasping the end, you twist it around your fist, and pull hard. Johnny’s head is forced backward, followed by a whimper, and then you’re wet and warm all over again, his seed flooding your cunt.

“Little Christian,” chides Johnny. “What are you up to?”

Tugging on his braid again, you lift your head. Knowing what you’re asking for, Johnny closes the distance, your mouths meeting, exchanging breaths. You keep hold of his braid, unwavering. With a renewed intensity, Johnny pushes your legs up, never leaving your body. Relentless. It’s the only way to describe it.

Teeth and tongue. Sweat and spit. Moans and the buzzing of nearby insects.

Words are forgotten. It’s you and him, your bodies rocking together. There is no passiveness in you, only a craving, of wanting to burrow inside and stay there. This is all you can do, to unlock that part of yourself that’s always been knocked down.

Piety. Purity. Submissive.

Johnny doesn’t want any of it.

Above you, Johnny grunts, animalistic and wild. His thrusts are harder, faster, skin slapping against skin in sharp strikes. You pull harder on his braid. Your other hand claws at his back, sliding down to apply pressure.

To drive him deeper.

To not allow him to leave.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Warmth radiates from where Simon’s fingers connect with your skin. A slow caress, a ghost of a touch, an observance before the meal.

“Is it not done outside?”

Simon pauses, fingers resting at your collarbone. “The mate bond?” You nod, swallowing, nervous for what comes next. “You don’t have wolf blood.”

“That matters?”

Simon’s fingers dip to the hollow of your throat. “You’re human. Forming the mate bond in the light of the moon would kill you.”

You draw back, Simon’s fingers hovering in the air where you stood. “Does that make me less in your eyes?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s the natural order of things. As alpha, it’s my job to protect the pack. You’re part of it now.”

“You hardly know me.”

“And I hardly know you,” he counters. “But it’s what’s best. Bring peace to the region. Protect shifters and humans alike.”

With a shred of added confidence, you step into Simon’s space. His fingers return, becoming a hand that rests at the base of your throat. “I heard from women in the village that the mate bond is special. A melding of the souls.”

His thumb lightly presses. “Yes, but it’s not the fantasy they make it out to be.”

“How do you mean?”

His grip tightens, drawing you closer. Your hands rise of their own volition, adding counter-pressure to his chest. The man is a stone wall. “Mate bonds aren’t predetermined. No fated connection. They’re chosen. Rare.”

All a lie, then. Upon arriving, you believed that there might be hope yet, that this marriage, this contract, would yield a sliver of potential.

Your voice drops to a cracked whisper. “And us?”

“You’re mine, until death.” Simon’s grip softens, shifting to cradle your head. He tips it up, forcing you to look at him. “As alpha, the mate bond will secure my place. You’ll birth my pups, be my closest ally. A mate bond is required.”

Nothing about this is romantic, but what did you expect? Your father sold you off for the sake of peace, met with this man, and offered you as a compromise. He accepted, and now, you’re married, alone in his den, a roaring fire at your back, a bed of furs to your left where you’ll officially become his wife and belong to Simon forever.

As if reading your thoughts, Simon says, “I won’t hurt you. To raise a hand to a mate is a crime.”

“But you’re the alpha. The law is your word.”

Simon’s head dips, creating a cocoon of intimacy. “I’d slit my throat before I’d harm you.”

“Those are nice words.”

Simon’s lips hover just shy of yours, eyelids heavy. “Then I’ll show you.”

As Simon closes the distance, the heat of him engulfs your senses. He is everywhere, blocking out the room, leaving you with him and him alone. The first kiss is touching but deep, revealing intent. The purpose of this evening is to form the bond, for Simon to consummate the marriage, and fill you with his seed in the hopes it’ll take.

His hands remain where they are, his lips indulging in kisses, breathing quicken with each one. You’re not unmoved. Simon’s touch is liquid fire, the heat unfurling and spreading into your limbs. Boney. Melting. Between your thighs is a growing wetness you’ve only known when you’ve been alone.

Simon’s nostrils flare, eyes widening. He pulls back, leaving you gasping. “Submit to me,” he growls, the sound more animal than human. “I’ll do the rest.”

Before you’re able to answer, Simon grabs the neckline of your dress, ripping it clear down the middle. His nails are longer than before, his eyes glow with a swirling yellow mist, fusing with Simon’s brown irises.

You’re hoisted into the air, plopped down onto the furs, pinned as Simon spreads your legs wide, locking them in place. His mouth is on your cunt, licking wildly, animalistic groans and grunts crawling up his throat to vibrate against your sex.

The sensation is brand new, and you cry out, choking on a sob as surprise becomes intense pleasure. Fisting his hair, you pull, body bent and tense as the orgasm builds. The tug sends Simon into a frenzy. His nails graze over your skin, stinging as he tongues your clit. As the orgasm crests, becoming unbearable, Simon flips you over onto your stomach, draping himself over you, keeping you pinned and submissive.

All you’re able to do is fist the furs beneath you, to moan as he shoves his cock into you, thrusting roughly. It’s not painful, just intense, consuming. Mouth open, tongue lolling, you give in, cunt squelching with each intrusion.

Above you, Simon’s breathing takes on a panting nature. Sharp teeth graze your skin. Open wide. Enclose around your throat but don’t pierce. You refuse to look, knowing Simon will be more wolf than man.

As his thrusts quicken, you sense a pressure in your skull, expanding to the point of suffocation.

Submit. Submit. Submit.

You open yourself to the weight, accepting. It flattens, pushing outward, twisting around in your body until you hear another voice speaking inside your head that is not your own.

Breed. Mate. Mark.

With that voice comes emotions and sensations, a shifting perspective. There is you, and there is Simon. His arousal is your own, and yours his. You finish instantly, squeezing his cock. Simon’s wolf teeth tighten, breaking skin.

You wake to the sound of rain, soft as whispers against the roof.

Not the harsh, unforgiving kind that slams against windows and shouts across rooftops, but the gentle drizzle of the Highlands. It hums like a lullaby, steady and slow, mingling with the crackle of the fireplace and the distant bleating of sheep in the fields.

The room is dim, but warm. Amber firelight dances across the wooden walls, flickering in gentle waves as the logs shift and pop. The scent of burning pine and something sweeter—honey, maybe—lingers in the air.

You’re curled beneath a patchwork quilt, head nestled into the broad chest of John “Soap” MacTavish. He’s still half asleep, one arm slung low across your waist, the other tucked behind his head like a pillow. His dog tags are cool against your cheek, and every deep, slow breath he takes rumbles beneath your ear.

He smells like pine and the lingering sharpness of his shaving soap. There’s a tiny scar along his collarbone, the one you always trace without thinking. You do it now, fingertips brushing softly along the pale line, and he stirs.

“Keep doin’ that,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and that low Scottish accent. “Gonna think you’re tryna wake me up for a different kind of mornin’.”

You smile and press a kiss just under his jaw. “You wish, soldier.”

He chuckles, eyes still closed. “Always.”

The cottage is his — a tucked-away retreat that barely shows up on maps. Nestled between two hills with a field of golden heather behind it and a winding gravel path in front, it’s a place you’d only find if you already knew it was there. One floor, timber walls, stone fireplace, and a kitchen that smells like sugar and spice every time he touches it.

“Tea?” he asks, stretching like a cat as he peels himself away from you.

You nod, watching him pad barefoot across the wooden floor, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a black thermal shirt clinging to his back. He’s got messy bedhead, sticking up in wild angles like he just survived a hurricane. Still — or maybe because of that — he’s stunning.

The rain taps against the window above the sink as he moves around the kitchen. His movements are methodical, practiced. Kettle on. Two mugs ready. One spoon of honey for him. Two for you. A splash of oat milk. A grumble when the tea tin almost falls off the shelf.

You wrap the quilt around your shoulders and watch from the armchair, sinking into it like it’s hugging you back.

“I don’t know how you make it taste better,” you murmur, taking the mug he brings over.

He flops down beside you on the oversized chair, pulling you into his lap. “It’s the love I add when you’re not lookin’.”

“Oh, is that it?”

He nods solemnly. “Secret Scottish recipe. Been passed down for generations. Only works when you’re makin’ it for someone who’s too good for the likes of me.”

You roll your eyes, snort, and kiss him on the nose.

Later, you find yourselves out on the porch, wrapped in matching wool blankets, mugs now filled with something stronger than tea. The rain’s slowed to a fine mist, and the landscape looks like a postcard — soft green hills rolling into the horizon, clouds caught in their crests like cotton clinging to the earth.

Soap leans into the railing, shoulder brushing yours.

“Y’ever think about leavin’ it all behind?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling, not frowning either. Just looking out at the land like it might answer him.

“What, the military?”

He nods once.

You take a breath, your voice soft. “Do you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. A crow calls in the distance. The rain has left the trees slick and black, the bark glistening.

“I think about this,” he says finally. “Mornings like this. Wakin’ up with you. Tea. Fire. Nothin’ screamin’ in my ear except maybe you when I forget to do the dishes.”

You bump his side with your elbow. “Charming.”

“I mean it,” he says, turning to face you. His eyes are blue-gray like the storm clouds above, but soft — so soft — when they settle on you. “There’s a thousand places I’ve been that meant nothin’. But this…”

He takes your hand. Rough fingers, calloused and warm.

“This means somethin’.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “It means everything.”

By nightfall, the rain has passed and the sky splits open into a sea of stars.

You’re both back by the fire, Soap lying on the rug now, head in your lap. The radio plays something old and low, like a tune from a dream you only half remember.

“I’m gonna build a fence tomorrow,” he murmurs.

You run your fingers through his hair. “A fence?”

“Aye. Keep the sheep outta the tomatoes.”

“You don’t grow tomatoes.”

He grins up at you. “Not yet.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.”

You lean down and kiss him slowly, thoroughly, feeling his smile against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

And there, with the fire low and the stars above, the war and the world feel miles away.