#cw: noncon

[h34rtl4ss0]

She who wears the skin

Part 1/2 of Oneshot: researchers!141 are attempting to attach a camera on you to observe the life of seals, but you're a selkie

a/n: I was watching 'Animals With Cameras', I think by BBC, and there was a segment where the researchers attach a camera to a fur seal. I love love LOVE selkies and was like- oh em gee!; I made the border myself :3

2.7k words ദ്ദി •⩊• )

You resided with the thousands of fur seals on Kanowna Island (it's a real place), in peace. As a selkie, you originated from the rocky, unforgiving shores of the Scottish isles, but Australia was nice. You tried to figure out if there were other selkies among the community, but it seems you were yet alone again. It didn't really matter though. The hardest part for you was sleeping without shedding your coat.

You got into the habit of becoming too comfortable, too off guard once you've entered your slumber, sometimes waking up with feet and not fins. The other seals couldn't really tell from the way your coat engulfed your frame, appearing as a rather rugged seal.

You were also used to the occasional researchers that came to temporarily stay on this uninhabited island. Nature was the reigning monarch. You missed when the helicopter landed, too busy hunting underwater, but you heard the rustles of their tents upon the lush green land. You figured they were just checking up on the population, making sure there wasn't another case of rabies going around.

They took their time coming closer to the seals. You could hear them tinkering. You assumed their scientific equipment broke; maybe the experienced was teaching the fresh-out-of-school researchers.

It was a warm, sunny day against the cold, harsh winds. You were full from last week's catch and would rather sunbathe away. The researchers in the past never proven themselves to be a threat. They were always cautious, keeping their distance.

Some of the younger seals wanted to go up to the fields, play around in the sun. You decided to tag along, hoping to find a secluded area where you could stretch your legs. Your body starts to feel cramped once in a while if you took on your civil form for too long.

The grass was lush and soft, absorbing all the sun's rays. You and your herd rolled around, relaxing from the strain of hunting in the waters.

You didn't notice the researchers stealthily stalking up to your herd. The leader had prepared a rather large net, opting for a sneak attack approach. The other three followed, carrying an anesthesia tank, a camera, and their contingency plan.

It was sudden the way a large, bear-like man came running towards the younger seal. You were protective of your kind. You had rejected humanity long ago, and they proved your reasoning.

You rushed in front of the seal, snarling your teeth at the man as he trapped the net around you without hesitation or fear. You'd get out, is what you tell yourself. It was the only choice you had.

A man in a cap quickly put a breathing mask over your snout, and you tried to play sleep, but they weren't playing around. You could hear the other seals retreating back to the shores and rocks where the rest laid, and hoped they didn't come back to try and get you.

You were slipping under the anesthesia. A man with a weird haircut was stroking your head, obviously trying to soothe you. For some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to look them in the eyes. It was comforting to be treated so softly as you fell asleep.

The men got to work as your heart rate slowed and steadied. They removed the net and strapped you to a metal stretcher, five equipment straps securing you down. They started attaching the camera to your long back, which they had altered many times to ensure it wouldn't fall off. But their efforts were simply a waste.

As they were making sure the camera was secured, they noticed your fur becoming more limp, more flimsy. That's when they noticed your feet sticking out under from the fins of your coat, and human hair fluttering against the wind under the hood.

"Well fuck me, we got us a selkie." Soap muttered, lifting your hood to see your human face.

Gaz retreated the anesthesia, worried that the concentration for seals would be too much for a human. But did it matter? You were technically both.

"I thought they were just a myth." Ghost eyed Soap.

"I know just as much as you do." Soap shrugged.

But the three of them faced their leader.

Price stared down at your body, obviously very much covered by your large coat. Selkies were a myth for a reason. He noticed how your seal self threw itself to protect the others. He'd keep you a secret unless pushed otherwise.

"We'll bring her back to camp, make sure she's alright."

They undid your straps, and Soap was the first to try and carry you. But your coat wasn't on all the way, slipping and flashing him, which he slightly freaked out. He quickly pulled the coat back over, begging Gaz to help him. Gaz simply wrapped the strap like a belt around your waist to secure your coat. Ghost gingerly carried you, your head tucked to his chest as your legs hung over his thick arms.

Price observed the seals below the hill, but it seemed that they made no effort into coming back for you. Maybe they trusted researchers.

The men shared a single large tent, four sleeping bags laid about and only their rucksack for clothes and toiletries. Gaz put the sleeping bags together, attempting to create a cushioned surface for you to lay on. He also removed the strap around your waist, not wanting it to startle you once you woke up. No one brought a blanket, so Soap laid his hoodie over you.

It was awkward. They were just trying to provide research for a TV network, to let them know that their documentary in theory would be successful. They didn't expect to uncover a folklore.

"So what's the plan when she wakes up?" Gaz asked.

"Apologise." Soap quickly answered.

"I wasn't asking you." Gaz poked the side of his head for emphasis.

"We'll take it slow. Even in our tent, she'll feel trapped. We keep her freak out to a minimal. Try to ease the stress. She's human so that should be an advantage." Price ruled out, not leaving space for arguments.

"What if she turns back into a seal?" Ghost asked.

"Is she still human as a seal?" Gaz asked Soap.

"Fuck if I know."

"She still had conscience as a seal. She thought like a human. Stay alert and expect anything." Price ordered.

Soap and Ghost made a campfire outside the tent after the sun had set. Gaz stayed by your side to monitor your breathing, checking your eyes to make sure you were still responsive. Price went over his research, the plan, and all selkie tales.

There was a drop in the atmosphere when you turned, your face scrunching as Soap's hoodie dropped to your side, making a soft rustle.

Gaz held his breath, anticipating for you to wake up. Based off your reaction, you were in light sleep. He could wake you up. His eyes met Price, silently asking for permission. The final word was no. Price had to consider the possibility that you might be cranky if forced to wake up. He needed you as cooperative as possible.

But it didn't matter when Soap exclaimed about something and his booming voice carried over into the tent.

Your eyes darted open and Gaz noted how quickly your body became tense. Your eyes met with the side of the tent, and you knew you were human based on your vision. You jumped to your feet, facing the two men. But it wasn't like your coat had buttons and entirely concealed your body.

Your bare front side was facing them, and Gaz couldn't help but take a gander to see if your body had any semblance to a seal's, or if your body could switch entirely to human and to seal. Price locked his eyes onto your face, searching for ques of your next action.

"What've you done." you demanded, unaware but also not caring about the state of your display.

"We tranquilised you as part of our research. We didn't know you were a... selkie." it felt childish for Price to say the term out loud.

"So why'd you keep me here."

Price looked at Gaz for him to answer. You noticed the way his eyes were observing you, nearly dissecting every inch of you. You quickly hid yourself under your coat.

"We uh, wanted to make sure you were okay." Gaz nodded.

"Did you put any trackers in me?"

Price kinda wished he did do that. He was naturally curious.

"No, that'd be inhumane." Gaz slightly mused.

"You people track animals without second-thought."

"Well you aren't exactly an animal- right now." Gaz's brows raised.

You gave a dissatisfied look, nearly disgusted. You started heading towards the zipped flap of the tent, but Price caught your arm. You faced him, instinctively snarling at him. Your canines were sharp, teeth made for ripping.

"You're not going anywhere." he stated, sternly looking you down.

"I'm not some animal in captivity." you snapped, lips twitching to try and bite his hand.

"You're not. We need to check your vitals and we'll send you off." he lied. He didn't want to let his own superiors know of his catch. You were such a gem, such an oddity- and he was a selfish man at heart.

You understood his words and his reasoning, but you couldn't be fucked.

"I'm fine."

"It's not up for debate, love."

Your human movements were sluggish, muscles not even stretched in the last week. Price caught on with your action, and his large hand smacked your jaw away. He tackled your body to the ground, keeping your face upwards so you couldn't try to bite anywhere else.

You let out a high-pitched shriek which made Price go dizzy for a bit with how close your mouth was to his ears. You kicked and wrestled under him, but his body weight alone kept you in place.

"I'm gonna need you to behave and act civilised." he grit through his teeth.

"Let me go!" you screamed, teeth chomping the air.

Soap and Ghost unzipped the flap, seeing your out lash. Gaz was simply observing from his corner, taking notes. He knew Price got you handled.

"Shut 'er mouth." he told his boys, not caring who would do the job.

Ghost immediately came down, trying to get his hands on your jaw, but the way your teeth barred and tried to bite him, it became difficult.

"Should we tranquilise her?" Soap asked, eyes on the darts and gun.

"No." Gaz and Price answered at the same time.

"You need to start acting grateful that we haven't taken your coat yet." Price lowly said in your ear.

Your struggling lessened, your blood freezing in realisation of his words. You've heard the tales, knew a selkie who knew a selkie that was forced into marriage, forced to be a man's eye candy, to be their beauty.

Ghost managed to shut your mouth with his hand as your body came to a still.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You glared up at Ghost with such hatred even though he hadn't said that. How dare they all take part in such a horrendous act?

"We're just g'nna monitor your vitals, make sure you're alright, then let you go." Price stated, slowly taking his weight off of you.

Price nodded to Ghost to release your mouth, and you continued to lay on your stomach, still prepared to fight for your coat at all costs.

"You should sit." Gaz came over with his pouch, taking out a stethoscope.

You sat hugging your knees to your chest after he listened to your heart beat and breathing. It felt dehumanising to be in such a situation, and to be forced to be docile from a single threat.

"Wouldn't you want to monitor me as a seal?" you asked. It was your main form.

"Well you transformed into a human in the middle of anesthesia so... I dunno, you don't learn about Selkie biology in zoology." Gaz muttered, looking at Soap and Price for help.

"Think it'd be easier for us all to be human." Price answered.

"You men have a habit of keeping selkies as human out of selfishness." you snapped.

"Really? I've never really heard anything like that, just tales from long ago that are like folklore." Gaz responded, completely missing your tone.

"Maybe long ago, love, but not now." Price assured you, his words full of air.

"My granny would flip- like do a licheral back flip had she'd seen you." Soap said in awe, hand reaching to pet the back of your coat.

"Don't touch me." you snarled, feeling his hand but unable to see him.

"Sorry" he meekly apologised.

Ghost came up to Price, head nodding to the opening. Ghost's hand was on the zipper. A quiet transaction of sorts. You needed to know everything.

"Where are you going."

"Just having a conversation." Ghost replied.

"Have it here."

A long silence filled as you stared Ghost down yet again, neither of you prepared to back off.

"Well I want to know too." Soap chimed in.

Price looked at Ghost, but Ghost couldn't think of a way to lie his way out. He turned to talk to him.

"I was just wonderin about sleeping arrangements. She basically slept through the day while we stayed up."

Price listened, not even bothering to look at you.

"We'll take turns watching her."

"I'm right here. And I don't need to be watched because I'm not in captivity according to you." you shot at Price.

"Well you've proven you can't be trusted-"

"Because men can't be trusted!" you burst, your hands deathly gripping onto your coat. Gaz slightly distanced himself from you. He couldn't fight for shit. Price was the only person with any sort of military training. Ghost used to work at a zoo handling the dangerous creatures. Soap was an engineering major they picked up right after Gaz's graduation from receiving his masters in zoology.

"We've given you every reason to be trusted. This whole situation is just a misunderstanding. Have we hurt you?" Price's voice thundered with authority.

But authority was as intimidating as the weather to you, "No, but you refuse to let me go!"

He shook his head, practically laughing. Ghost side eyed him, unsure where this was going.

"A fucking animal that doesn't listen."

You know it'd take more than a second for you to take on your seal form, so you lunged for him in your human form. You bit into his neck, canines digging deep, growling as you do. Price yelped, basically holding you in the air as your teeth cleanly chomped through his skin.

Ghost tried to pry you off, but you were stubborn. Price was hollering all sorts of profanities while Soap watched the scene unfold. He had to memorise every detail to tell his great-grandchildren one day. But Gaz went straight for the darts. He pushed Ghost away and let the needle pierce a vein in your very own neck.

You let out a whimper, wincing, your bite diminishing with force. Price tossed you to the ground, but he didn't bother to hold his own neck to stop the bleeding first. Furiously, he grabbed your coat, shaking it vigorously to get you out, the motion further pushed the needle of the dart in. You were slow and uncoordinated, grabbing at the air trying to grab your coat. You tried to speak but your tongue was too soft, too fuzzy, too foreign.

Then he left the tent with your coat.

You dragged yourself to the tent's opening. Gaz prepared another dart but he figured one was enough. Ghost didn't bother to restrain you with how bad you were moving. He'd seen alligators move like that while still trying to go after him. You'd be out soon.

Your blurry eyes followed Price to something bright, something flickering.

Then he tossed your coat into the light.

An awful stench was carried by the winds, and you grimaced, trying to remember what that smelt meant.

Your mind was too far away.

And you gave up.

I honestly had no direction with this blurb but while I was watching the documentary, I couldn't get the idea out of my head :/ I now have an idea for the second part of this oneshot thanks to the five minute brain constipation I had in order to fart out a title. I hope it was okay; I know this is a bit rougher and mean :( But I can feel my future self cringing when rereading this in the far (most likely near) future lol

To my sweet, darling, sunshine readers, I love you ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ take care of yourself ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[softaestluv]

cw: dark content, kidnapping

Retired farmer! 141 who keep trying to catch the pretty deer that’s stealing all their fruit.

Price finds you tangled up in one of their nets, lips stained purple from their mulberry trees. You stare up at him with wide doe eyes, little frame shaking with fear.

John grips your chin through the net, petting his thumb over your soft skin. “Look what we ‘ave ‘ere.”

His voice is deep, mockingly tilting his head at you as he fake coos. “Poor fawn. Been tryna catch ya’ for weeks, ya’ know that?”

You shake your head, whimpering when he ties your wrists together.

“None of that, you’re lucky I found ya’ ‘n not Simon. He wouldn’ta been so nice.”

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

cw: debatable self-deprecation, kidnapping, noncon

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn��t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[koipepo]

Sinners/Nosferatu… you wanna draw Sammie in a pretty nightgown so bad.. this isn’t a tumblr ask this is actually your conscious and you’re having this idea organically 🌀🌀 is this working

🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴 omg... Dammit it worked!

Sammie in night gown will get visited by Remmick every night bc he's too irresistible. Even count Orlok isnt that desperate ahshjsj

It isnt the exact night gown that Ellen wears but i think this is cuter for Sammie

Remmick getting that sammusy deep whiff (and taste? 🙃)

[goaskangel]

drunk sex with your sexy co-worker nanami!

cw : drunk sex, dubcon, mentions of breeding, toxxxiicc, suicide mention

mmm, you want nanami so fucking badly. 

you thought this new, high-end job was going to be good for you, get you on the right track for the stability you’ve been craving. sugar daddies or plain suicide crossed your mind an awful lot but fortunately,(?) that wasn’t the case. 

so easily distracted, you should’ve seen it coming. when overworked yet diligent personified passed you during work hours. oh, fuck me running through your crowded head as you squeezed your skirted thighs. 

maybe it was a good thing because you certainly cleaned up your act. got to work on time so he wouldn’t think you were slacking, ironed your new work clothes so he wouldn’t frown at the wrinkles of your button-up, or god forbid scoff. you already got the job so now you just needed some recognition from an older man. that you work with. that’s never looked in your direction. 

but god, he’s such delectable eye candy. 

you’re hesitant to attend your company’s 10 year anniversary. at a bar of all places, guess the work really gets to everybody. but you’re a lightweight and would probably sit all alone, trying to make crappy small talk to the bartender. probably hot too, but you think about nanami.

you know he drinks—past all his clean habits of combed hair and tailored suits, his breath fails to conceal his habits the night before. 

coworkers constantly joke about it and you finally got the treat of looking through his pristine behavior with the thick whiskey lingering on his tongue. 

if you were worse, you would’ve leaned in, arms around his neck and sucked all the alcohol right off his mouth. 

but the best you can get right now is sitting across all your colleagues, sipping on a cocktail whilst they laugh and enjoy themselves.

until nanami’s sitting right before you, getting away from his work “buddies” to finally relax in what seems to be his happy place. you can’t help but stop drinking, your eyes glued right on how he fixes to untighten his tie a bit. thick and nice arms revealed when he scrunches his blue sleeves up. the golden hair of his forearm makes your mouth dry enough for you to start sipping again.

your dummy brain resorts to more, harder alcohol to ease the anxiety, or lust, in your body. the way he just unfolds on the velvet furniture is enough to make you throb dully. asking the server for another drink while sitting back, his meaty thighs perfectly molded by his khakis. 

poor you, all drunk for nothing. nothing but to stare at just how sexy he is. you could’ve made a move on his tipsy self now that you had the confidence. woozy confidence that could be ignored the monday after if it didn’t go right—but it’s too late. you might as well just call a friend to come and pick your-drunk-for-nothing-self. 

you wobble to the exit, holding onto any spiraling furniture or fixture you can get a hold of. at least you got a good look at him, was it worth the expensive drinks? is it worth the hangover tomorrow morning? whatever, you’re going. leaving and flopping onto bed with your slippery cunt and dull heart. 

“hey, hon. leaving so soon?” thick whiskey from a pristine mouth. sharp and tall, somehow you’re standing right beside nanami without seeing him even get up.

calling you hon, leaning against the burgundy painted walls and obviously tipsy. 

“mmh, don’t know, i guess i…jus’ got bored.” you clutch your purse and lean on the wall out of clumsiness. 

“bored, hmm? new and nobody’s bothered you, yet?” he chuckles and you swear it feels like you’ve taken another shot. “lucky girl.” 

he gets closer to you, “you weren’t going to drive all by yourself, yeah? here, how about you stay for a little longer and i promise you won’t be bored.” hefty fingers coming by your face to twirl your hair. he’s drunk, god knows how many cups it took but even then, he’s much more tolerant than you. you can’t object, and why would you? he’s the perfect man at not such a perfect time but when else would this happen? nodding with a dazed expression, he just leads you.

big arm guiding you with his palm on the small of your back. his heat and touch getting to you. you lean into it so hard that when he’s got you pushed up to the powder table of a single women’s bathroom, you don’t notice until he’s going back to lock the door. 

you sit in a small, little, glazed wooden space with a mirror behind you, crammed in slightly. a sudden throb to the side of your skull as he walks back up to you, the alcohol hitting back at you with waves of headaches causing you to moan and whine. 

“hey, hey–shh, nanami’s gonna make it all better, okay?” slurring his words slightly, possibly getting drunk off of you. pretty, new girl all to himself, finally. even if you are half gone, with your squinting, tired eyes and whines. 

he runs his hands all over you, drunk and lustful eyes watching every wince and twitch that your heightened body makes, throwing your head back when he thumbs at your clothed pussy, your skirt pushed up. slowly undressing you; your tits exposed with hastily unbuttoned buttons and a rip of the middle of your bra. your skirt pushed past your pelvis to tear your little panties off. contorting your smaller body to rest your limp legs up so he can have his way with you. 

“mmmpgh—augh, please. fuck, ohh!—” your back arching when he wiggles his hips to meet yours. nanami’s cock, much bigger than you ever imagined, burying inside of your little cunt. 

“just take it, baby. mhmm, let it happen.” he coos at you, a much bigger difference considering how he’s fucking himself into you throughly. your head spins at the impact, unable to even understand what’s going on around you but holy shit does it feel good. the way his cock is completely hugged by your pussy, throbbing around him while spilling arousal down your ass to the marbled floor. 

you feel an instant yet hidden orgasm come on when he tells you just how much he’s been waiting for this. for a time where he can take you out of nowhere, where you’re so pliable and perfect just for him. he knows you're a good girl, just for him. all for him. and maybe you’d be an even better girl for him by letting him come right inside you. deep enough where you couldn’t possibly finger his seed out even if you tried. maybe he could finally get you out of this boring job and take care of you for good! ^o^

[gloomwitchwrites]

Price & Cocktail Waitress Reader

crime au, dubcon/noncon, MDNI

(I need to get this out of my head before I explode)

Price, who owns a sleazy little nightclub as a home-base for meeting clients, has his eyes set on the newest hire. It starts as him requesting you to serve his table and then devolves into you only serving him. He's a good boy, though, making sure to keep his hands to himself. But when you happen to bend forward just a little too far, Price can no longer ignore the itch.

Bending you over his lap, Price hikes up your dress, and pushes your panties to the side. "Roll me a cigarette, love," he says as he brings his hand down on your ass.

With a rolling tray on the seat cushion, you start prepping his cigarette, and Price decides to have his fun.

It starts with one finger then a second, pumping steadily. It's pressure and friction until your hands shake and your thighs quiver. Price loves how slick you are, and that he has such power over you.

"No, dove," he lightly scolds as you bring the cigarette to your mouth to lick the seal.

Removing his fingers from you, Price offers them up, rubbing your arousal over the paper, securing it.

"That's better," he croons, placing the filtered end between his lips.

Shifting you in his lap, Price has you facing away from him, your hands planted on his knees, legs straddling his thighs. Reaching back, you offer him a light. Grasping your hips, he eases you down his length, greedily watching the way you take every inch, puffing until smoke fills his lungs.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[onlinedolly]

cw: incest, non con, alcoholism, mean awful leon per usual

alcoholic!dad leon who blames everything on his drinking. yelled at you? he’s so sorry angel, it’s the whiskey. grabbed your arm hard? it’s just the alcohol, it ain’t him, honest. and if he holds you down, face shoved into a pillow, as he works his cock into you? well he doesn’t really remember it to be honest, but let’s blame it on the bottle of bourbon he downs a night. he’d never take responsibility, never voice that he thinks his daughter is pretty in a way he shouldn’t. it’s just so much easier to pull you down on his cock and blame it on the copious amounts of alcohol. the few sober minutes from when he wakes up, to walking to the fridge to fuel his addiction, he’s patting you on the head asking if he ‘did anything bad last night?’ and you just shake your pretty little head with a sore cunt.

[maucira]

awfully petty

dandy x f!reader

cw: non-con, rough sex, size difference, unprotected sex, lots of tongue..

"Hey! I've got some goodies for sale~!"

"Spare a flower some tapes, will ya?"

"I've got some better items this time, I swear!"

The rainbow-petaled man's eye twitched in annoyance. Despite his countless efforts, always with a friendly demeanour, your group denied every offer. Dandy's seen them pick up tapes, collecting them throughout the toons' journey, so why won't they just buy something from his store? Poppy is on the brink of death yet she refuses to buy a bandage from his store.

Ah, that's right. You.

"Oh Poppy, you don't have to buy from him. We'll let you know once we've found a bandage, okay?" You said with a haughty tone to the blue toon. His brows furrowed subtly as he silently fumed. He hid his clenched fists behind his back as he watched you poorly attempt to hide the smirk that crept up on your face as you watched him lose his temper. Oh you little minx, why do you try to torment him so?

The group glanced over Dandy's items once more, his brain trying to grasp any sort of hope that lightly shone. "Don't make me angry." He spoke, irritation evident in his tone. His teeth grit together, surely they wouldn't refuse this time. He attempted to reassure himself in his mind, they wouldn't ignore him this time... Right?

Boxten's guilty smile said everything Dandy needed to know to immediately wipe all his hopeful thoughts away. "Uh... sorry, Dandy. Maybe next time?" He said in a softer tone. He took Poppy's hand and guided her away towards the large metal doors that led to their next round. Rodger and Goob were already facing the doors, the magnifying glass uninterested and the other messing around with his extended arms, but both waiting for the doors to open.

That only left one, the bitch who kept convincing the others to reject him. Your eyes turned up sharply, a patronising smile curling your lips. A barely audible snicker escaping you, just loud enough for the flower to hear. "Seems we're all good, Dandy." You said with a playful voice. He was sick of your annoying shenanigans, even before the tension that had formed between you two, you've always been like this. Always trying to piss him off, enjoying his reactions every time you'd get on his nerves.

"Be that way." He snapped, with barely contained anger. He pulled the lever and descended back down to where he stored his goods. You raised a finger to your lips, curling it to cover the smile that grew on your face. You loved to tease him, seeing his cute angry face as he stared at you with disdain. You hoped this time something interesting would happen.

-

Since the moment you stepped foot out the door, an uneasy feeling had made its way into you, settling in your stomach with every movement you took. You'd never admit it, but you were being extremely cautious this round. A soft tune played, the song that would play every time Dandy's shop opened, Clair de Lune. You wondered why it was playing. Had Dandy done something? A chill crept up your spine, making you shudder as you turned the wheel to pour ichor into the glass tube. It wasn't very ideal for the machine to be located in a remote corner, with the only way of noticing any twisteds being looking behind you.

With every drip of the black substance, time seemed to still further. It was uncomfortable being in a space with no way of escaping. Peeking behind your shoulder every so often, you tried your hardest not to miss any skill checks. Being attacked now would be terrible, actually, being attacked in general would be.

A relieved sigh escaped you as you completed the machine. You looked down at your watch, which showcased how many machines had been finished. "Three out of five complete... I should go check around to see if any others aren't being done." You muttered. Just as you were about to turn around, loud footsteps rumbled from behind you. They were heavy, loud, and seemed to belong to something much larger than any normal toon. Perhaps a new twisteds. God, you hoped whatever was coming for you wouldn't be painful with its attack. You whipped around, you knew something was about to turn the corner, who it was, was the question.

Your breath hitched, there was no escape, but luckily you still had two hearts left, so it should be alright. Right? A grimace came onto your face. Your heart hammered in your chest, but nothing could've prepared you for the shock that had encased you the moment you saw the giant twisted that stood before you.

A large grin was on the beast's- no, Dandy's face. His eyes glowed a beautiful red, and his petals once soft and rounded, now sharp and pointed. Fangs protruded out of his excited smile. In your opinion, it almost looked like a sneer. The short and petite flower you had tried to piss off just less than an hour ago, is now a large beast that towered more than twice your size. Your eyes travelled further downward, eyeing his knife-like colourful claws that threatened to tear into you at any second. He was horrifying.

The previously unbothered look on your face changed quickly, your brows furrowing and a quivering, small smile on your lips. It was always risky the game you played at, and you wouldn't give up so easily. Your body shook immensely as you stepped back slowly. "D-Dandy...?" You spoke, in a shallow tone with only remnants of the cocky demeanour you carried yourself with. The toon in question didn't respond, staying quiet as he placed another claw forward. The corner of his mouth seemed to grow the more he observed the terrified reaction you gave off. His grin unsettled you. As much as you'd like to doubt he'd hurt you, many of your other twisted friends wouldn't hesitate to harm you.

He stepped closer and closer, creeping until you were pressed right against the completed machine, and he, inches away from your face. You felt his hot breaths on his face as he stared you dead in the eyes. You instinctively attempted to shut your eyes when the heat of his breath hit you in the face, but a low growl resounded from him, making you open them again. "Dandy... come on, you didn't take what I was saying back there seriously, did you? I was only teasing..."

You slowly raised a hand, almost as if trying to calm a wild animal, but you knew the only one you were trying to calm was yourself. You placed a hand on his much larger face that stared down at you with a terrifying look. "Dandy..." You muttered as you observed his appearance once more. The tapes wrapped around his animal-like body, covered in the same sticky tar that you had poured into numerous machines.

His rainbow claws tapped the floor before dragging over to where you were. The sudden change made you pull your hand off of his face and bring it to your chest. "Dan... Dandy what're you doing?" You questioned, the meek smile slowly slipping off of your face as he brought his claws closer and closer to you. A distorted, gravelly growl that almost sounded like a mocking chuckle bellowed out as he grasped your torso with his hand.

You let out a quiet gasp as you felt his large hand encase your body. He brought his face closer to yours before a large, pointed tongue slipped out of his face. Your mind raced wildly, 'He's not going to kill me,' you thought, 'he's going to fucking eat me.' Tears welled up in your eyes, shutting them the closer he slowly closed the distance. Expecting to feel teeth crush your skull open, tears slipped down your cheeks. The thought of the sensation of your nerves on fire as teeth punctured your head, your brain being chewed up like a piece of steak made you want to vomit.

Instead of the horror you expected, the tongue slid up your cheek, licking away the tears before moving further across and beginning to lick your quivering lips. You opened your cloudy eyes in confusion, gasping once you realised he was trying to enter your mouth. You quickly regret it as his large tongue invades your mouth, barely able to fit it all in. It moved around wildly, shoving itself down your throat until you were gagging and choking on it. His saliva dripped down your chin, his much larger mouth producing way more than the average toon should.

You tried to yell out his name but only struggled coughing came out of you as he refused to leave your mouth. Your lack of air made you gasp as you choked on his tongue, but the heaving made you swallow more of his drool. You hacked violently as a disgusted look came onto your face. The corners of Dandy's mouth grew into a sinister grin as he pointed his claw to the top of your dress before a loud tearing sound was heard.

He finally removed his tongue from your mouth just as you thought you were about to faint from the lack of oxygen, but realising it now, that would've been far more merciful than to feel this creature defile you. You were shivering, and you couldn't tell if it was from the cold air or fear. Dandy had left you only your panties, the bra you were wearing torn off along with the dress. You hurriedly tried to cover your chest, but Dandy let out a warning growl as you did so, making you hesitantly lower your arms by your side.

"So that's it? You're going to rape me just because I joked around a little? Even I thought you were better than that, Dandicus." You scoffed. Dandy didn't respond, it seemed only growls could be made. He tilted his head, curiously or mockingly? You couldn't tell. His eyes drifted down to the floor for a second, before glancing back at you. You followed where his eyes went, only to see a large, large, red dick throbbing between his legs. It would take an idiot to not know he was aroused. He panted a giggle-like sound at your widened eyes. There was no fucking way that thing would fit inside you. You wanted to make that very clear.

"Dandy- Dandy, no. I'll- I'll fuck you after this floor if that's what you want. There's no way that thing will fit inside me! Do you even know how huge you are right now?" You said, stumbling over your words. No matter what you said, nothing was making him show a sign of stopping. That disturbing grin never left his face. His claw reached forward and tore off the last shred of dignity you had left. You tried to cover your lower body with your hands but he reached forward and grabbed your arms. He slammed your head onto the ground with a loud thud. He pulled you forward, leaning over you until the tip of his dick prodded at your hole. He rubbed the mushroom tip against your pussy, whines of disagreement leaving your throat as you begged that he didn't do it.

A shocked cry of pain came out of you as he rammed into you. Your gummy walls tightened around him instinctively as he buried himself to the hilt in you. He held your arms with one claw and used the other to spread your legs open. You screamed as he began to rut into you like a feral dog. He had no remorse as he harshly pounded in and out of you. An outline of his large bulge in your stomach was prominent as his pace was relentless. You thrashed under him, screaming and crying as blood dripped out of your pussy.

His dick was becoming coated in your slick, making it easier for him to violate you like a ragdoll. He panted heavily next to your ear as pleasure soon accompanied the pain, no matter how much you hated it. You let out wails, a mixture of pain and pleasure as he hammered himself straight into your core. It felt like he was splitting you open. You began to subconsciously rock against his dick, your body arching at his roughness.

Your cunt throbbed, painful goodness coursing throughout your every vein as you ground back onto him. You didn't want this, not at all, but your body couldn't resist its pleasure. The thickness of his shaft sliding in and out of you rapidly made your head spin, you felt faint as he continued to rock into you like there was no tomorrow. You could feel his dick hitting your womb with every thrust, making you cry out in pain. You let out whimpers as you began to constrict around him.

That sinister giggle of his sang out as he could feel you tighten around him. Your loud moans and grunts of pain soon accompanied his deep panting. You screamed out his name as you felt the coil in your stomach tighten and release on his dick that never stopped for a moment. The pain became more as he overstimulated your poor cunt.

You could feel the heavy slaps of his balls against your ass as his thrusts became faster and faster before he loudly snarled next to your ear. His claws scraped the wooden floor behind your head, splintering it as he released into you.

Large amounts of cum spilled out from him, it felt as if he was unloading bucket loads into you. He didn't stop until your pussy was dripping his cum out of you, then squirted the rest out onto your stomach. Besides the shallow pants, he was silent. He tilted his head at you, mockingly this time. Tears were cascading down your cheeks, you weren't sure you were going to be able to stay awake until the others finished the machines. Dandy picked up your shredded clothes and tossed them on top of you, what a gentleman. He stalked off, not giving you a final glance and began to run to a finished machine.

You sat up pathetically against the machine, sniffling and sobbing before bringing your knees up to your chest. You knew you had to get out of there, but you didn't want the others to see you in such a vulnerable state. You used your torn panties to wipe the excess cum off of you, a lot of it gushing out of you. You cried for a long moment, before trying to salvage what you could of your clothes, only your dress being somewhat useable if you patched it up. You slipped it on, a gaping tear straight down the middle. You tried to stand, but your legs gave out underneath you. Tears wouldn't stop falling as you began to crawl to a shelf that had a sewing kit, maybe the creators felt pity for you and decided to help you a little. You messily stitched your dress back up, leaning against the bookshelf before continuing to sob into your knees.

Just by your luck, Poppy had peeked around the corner, a worried expression on her face as she hurriedly rushed over to you. "What happened to you!? Okay, okay... ah shit. Can you stand? Here, let me help." She rambled out before pulling your arm over her shoulder and supporting your waist with her other hand. "I don't know what the hell happened to you, but Rodger's on the last machine. I'm getting you out of here, pronto!" She exclaimed, rushing you in front of the elevator and standing with you behind a few boxes.

"Thank you... Thank you, Poppy..." You heaved out through your cries, before poorly attempting to cradle her. "Hey? It's all good, I'm always here for you, y'know?" She said confused, but a smile appeared on her face as you hugged her. A ding rang out through the area, interrupting your moment with Poppy as she gasped and ran to the elevator with you, huffs of annoyance escaping you as you were pulled inside.

You could hear the heavy footsteps of Dandy as everyone rushed into the elevator. Luckily, no one had died, thanks to you being raped probably. You heard Goob and Poppy cheer, a relieved smile appearing on Boxten's face. You observed everyone, and thinking of it, you'd go through that hell again if it meant keeping your friends safe. You leaned your head against Poppy's shoulder, cheerful chatter in the air.

A ding was heard, and confusion silenced the toons before everyone looked at the shop that was rising into the elevator. Dandy's eyes were on you, a happy grin on his face as he giggled.

"Let's not make that happen again, shall we?"

One thought was in your head.

'I'm going to kill that fucker.'

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

DARK!Ghost x fat fem reader

CWs: kidnapping, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink, animal play, threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism (Ghost is just fucking with you)

A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet; after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’.” 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither.” After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food, and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing, left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple; it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your total lack of survival instinct was staggering. It was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he could almost laugh.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you. It was endearing. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”

Simon's first concern was not damaging you too much. He was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck, and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. He could have groaned audibly at the squishy softness of your neck alone, his muscled arm practically stony in comparison. But he'll have time for that later. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory. Of course but he’s not actually applying enough pressure to choke you. You’re just forced to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led; he would simply tighten his hold and let you catch a wink. Pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel worktable, the metal stings even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the meat shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips and one rough yank, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but it's your turgid nipples where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle.

You were a bit of silly thing. It's good that he snapped up you before something bad happened to you. Might be a minute before you caught on, but he didn't mind waiting.

You're his perfect little prize. No doubt you'd win "Best of Fair"— that is, if Simon was willing to let someone else gawk at what's his. It was tempting. You'd look pretty in that blue ribbon.

He knows exactly where he'd stick it. The pin would sink riiiiiiight through the tender flesh of your nipple, easy as. He'd make it quick, but you'd squall all the same. His cock strained impatiently against his trousers at the visage. Your teary face, that shiny rosette hanging down proudly, bobbing slightly at your teat, forked ends kissing your belly as he made you "sit pretty" for the cameras.

...but no, you're just his.

Simon will keep you at home. Coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness from him.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what you need clothes for?” he scoffs. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want an answer. A dog doesn’t answer “Who's a good boy?” does he? 

You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store. He's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. And he’s—he's measuring you? Jotting things down. Snapping at you to "'old still" as he steadies the tape, making sure there's the right amount of snug tension to get a proper measurement. Just as you try to obey, he's manhandling you again, moving you this way and that, one position to the next. The tape tickles terribly.

As he lassos your wide upper thigh, the tape suddenly brushes against the lips of your pussy, making your heart stutter painfully. When he pulls back the tape, you're holding your breath. He just returns to the pad of paper. As you try and calm yourself, you think distantly that the stubby pencil looks puny in his giant fist as he adds to his chicken scratch.

You were sorely mistaken when you thought that you'd get even a brief reprieve. No, what's coming next is worse. You're completely helpless to fight him off, your punches and kicks might as well have been the frantic swats of a rabbit's soft paws, for all he reacted. Your wrists were lashed to your ankles behind your back, joints complaining at the unfamiliar stretch. Hogtied. By the end of it, you’re panting, trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape it. While the measuring tape may have tickled, the twine fucking bites.

Simon admires his work, says it looks good on you. He can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing, humiliating pinch. You struggle, of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. You still feel the warmth of his hand long after the swat. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand-stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of D-rings. It will be more comfortable for you, and more importantly, he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chafing. 

"I'll 'ave somethin' made from you too."

As he admires your skin, that's what he muses offhandedly. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. "Couldn’t find more supple, could you?" He hasn’t decided what you'll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. If he's careful, he's hoping he could get a jacket and a fine, sturdy pair of boots out of you. Every time he sits down to clean his boots, buff and polish them to a shine, he'll think of you.

Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That's the first time your consciousness flees from you. Seeing your face suddenly slacken, fat cheek smooshed against the table, is delightful.

Simon lays it on thick, praising how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you honestly can't blame him for any of this, really. Something about wagyu beef.

Oh, come off it, he's going to take good care of you while you're still bleating too, not just your hide, so why are you pitching a fit? You won't find meat living a softer life. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge, oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying; it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you; it’s never-ending. Brutish fingers always pressing, tips disappearing into your doughy plushness. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating, and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats; might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food. You don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful, and to no one’s surprise, it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop, of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye.” He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher,” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'."

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner from whatever position he's left you tied in at that particular moment. Just seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. That day, dinner is steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, and roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over, forced to eat off a dish on the floor without the use of your hands, knees aching, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise.

Still, if he’s in a mood, he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess” when he deliberately misses your mouth. 

The food was prepared, but this time the knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your periphery. Glinting.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased as you dutifully open for him without being told. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence. Until he wasn't

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was a sort of twisted mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the oversized knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side—

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m spoilin’ you rotten. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?” He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whether Simon lets you speak depends on his mood. Somedays you're gagged the whole day, besides feeding and watering. In that case it's usually a milder gag. Cloth or tape. If you give him a reason, run your mouth , you'll force Simon to remind you "what you are." His favorite is the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make are special. Little nonsense noises, almost like "you're tryin' to talk like a person would." Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day.”

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, dark eyes crinkling, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

[istjisung]

hiii, hope you’re having a great day 💕 ¿could i ask for stepbrother jaemin that wakes u up by eating you out if it’s alright? thank you so much 💞💞

—🐰

content warnings stepcest, noncon, oral sex, munch!jaemin, somnophilia, petnames (princess, baby), sex dreams, slightly rushed and abrupt ending

don’t like it? don’t read it!

you’re not sure when the dreams started, but oftentimes lately, you find yourself having sex dreams. the kind of sex dreams that, weirdly, are all surrounding jaemin. jaemin, your stepbrother. the kind, gentle, energetic, wholesome jaemin. the one who always treats you like royalty. calls you princess or baby. would never step out of line and do something as dirty as this, with you of all people. you feel disgusting and perverted and disgustingly perverted for even allowing your subconscious to go that far.

but something about these dreams feel too real, too…much to be just a product of your imagination.

you feel like if you focus hard enough, you can smell jaemin, the scent of his shampoo and cologne flooding your nose, feel his touch. more often than not, you wake up with panties so sticky and wet that you couldn’t believe it was just from leaking while you dreamt about your stepbrother. perhaps you had touched yourself in your sleep, or angled your hips a certain way in which you could grind them and soak your panties. somehow, though, you have a gut feeling that that’s not the case.

the dreams never went much further than some touching, a bit of fingering, or oral at the furthest. the image was fuzzy, but it felt real. again, too real to just be a figment of your imagination. you’d never confirmed your suspicions, though, until now.

you’re having one of those dreams again. this time, you were laying on your back, the blankets thrown off of your body and the cool air of the night was chilling your body. but you felt hot. your legs were spread, knees bent to angle your hips, and he was buried between your plush thighs. his soft hair tickled your skin as he dives deep into your pussy, tongue licking over the slit, collecting your juices before he closes his lips around your clit and suckles. you swore you could feel the shock waves of pleasure as he alternated between flattening his tongue against your whole pussy, and tightening the muscle to a point, flicking it over your clit or fucking it into your tight and wet hole.

rocking your hips, you feel the tip of his nose bumping against your hard and sensitive bud, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, causing you to begin to stir awake. you were sure once you wake up, the pleasure would go away, but the more you regain you consciousness, albeit fuzzy, the more you feel it. you can hear the wet noises of the slurping, saliva mixing with your messy arousal, and they keep getting louder.

you open your eyes one at a time, staring up at your ceiling. sleep still blurred your eyes, so you tried blinking it away. when you finally feel that you can see well enough, you start to look around the room. nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the fact that your door was cracked open when you thought you’d closed it before going to sleep. maybe you didn’t latch it, so the draft throughout the house pushed it open. but then you looked down.

and there he was. jaemin, your stepbrother, between your legs.

you can see him clearly through the small stream of light from the hallway light seeping through the cracks in your door. jaemin is laying on his stomach between your legs. his large hands have your thighs pushed apart, knees bent so he can have full access to your cunt. it feels like ten minutes have passed as you take in the sight before you realize that this shouldn’t be happening. this is wrong.

with a gasp, you try reaching heavy, tired hands down to push him away from your center. unfortunately, his lips were wrapped around your clit and the attempt at shoving him away only made him suck deliciously on the delicate bundle of nerves.

“jaemin,” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. “stop…you can’t do this. it’s wrong…”

jaemin looks up at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. he smirked as he pulled away. he breathes out a laugh. “you’re dreaming. go back to sleep, baby. nana will take such good care of you.”

[koipepo]

Part 3 (prev)

Sammie folded.

Next part gonna be nsfvv but i think i will put it in ao3/other site and put previews here, since this place can be stingy with what is allowed and what not

[venusandsaturnsrings]

you sighed heavily, zoning out on some of the elaborate wallpaper in front of you as your friend chattered on enthusiastically at your side.

last week, they had burst into your workplace with an expression so anxious you had thought something was seriously wrong. they went on to elaborate that famous director mr. reca was on penacony and having a surprise casting call and, as a member of the iris family, they just needed to go and audition but the idea of standing in front of such a well known face in the cinema world had them more panicked than they’d ever been before. whining endlessly about how they were so very nervous but couldn’t possibly miss such an opportunity, you easily picked up what exactly they wanted; you to go with them. sighing you offered your companionship partially as a good friend and partially to make the other workers stop glaring daggers, you finally chased them out the door as they promised to meet you at the studio on the weekend.

now in a long line of other actors and actresses hoping to finally get a breakthrough part, the number pinned hastily to your chest was starting to irritate you on top of not wanting to be here in the first place. agreeing so quickly was looking more like a mistake as you were realizing you had no experience or anything prepared and you’d soon be standing in front of a man who’d scrutinize your every move; a real nightmare in the dream.

it took a surprisingly short amount of time for your friend to be whisked away into the audition room with its heavy soundproof doors and you had to stand alone coming to terms with how much of a fool you’d look like. a brief thought of running flitted through your brain as you nervously tapped your foot but before any commitment to bolting could arise, you were ushered in.

the room was elegant but felt unbelievably sterile with the marble floors and delicate chandelier. behind a large wooden table stacked with folders, notes, and expensive looking pens was the man you dreaded explaining this predicament to. with piercing eyes and a predatory smile, mr. reca seemed unnervingly interested in what you’d go on to show him; nothing, unfortunately. you took your place in the centre of the room and awkwardly cleared your throat before dumping a word vomit of an apology and explanation filled with ‘i can’t act for shit,’ and ‘i’m sorry for wasting your time.’ he nodded with a low hum and seemed almost sympathetic as he tapped a finger against his lips while thinking.

“you’re here now and your… appearance… seemed perfectly suited to a personal project of mine i can’t seem to get out of my head,” his smile was unnerving in a way, “humour me and try out a couple poses at the least. such a role would come with magnificent compensation.” not the response you expected but you figured he was owed something for such a fumble. upon your agreement he had you shift into numerous positions that made your face flush with embarrassment but mr. reca seemed beyond pleased if his praise meant anything.

“magnificent. please, i’d love to have you star in a this minor film of mine. such a project will only take a few afternoons and i’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

it’s the next week when you’re at his home. he welcomes you with a neat suffocating hug and offers numerous snacks and drinks as a show of good will. it’s quite charming until he takes you to where he’s set up for the first scenes.

the room is dim, lit by ambient lighting only and silk ribbons drape across the room. in the middle is a bed covered in luxurious sheets and soft blankets with a table on each side holding a variety of lewd toys; your face is warm. mr. reca cheerfully points to every object explaining the purpose and how it’ll be used after fiddling with all the different locks on the door to successfully trap you in. suddenly you feel sweaty and your chest is tight as you shiver uncontrollably. his personal film was an adult film. he dangles the previously signed contract over your head with a promise to publicly humiliate you if you don’t, “strip and put on these pieces,” a lacy pair of panties and a bra that hides nothing. he’s throwing a pair of stockings at your chest as well before making some adjustments on his camera. with no choice, you change and pray that this will be over soon but the sinking feeling in your gut says otherwise when you see he’s undressing as well.

[snail-day]

I love your yandere fics so much!! You write them so well like how imagined them to be! Can i request a yandere!gojo with celebrity reader. Gojo is a smitten fanboy (he finally found his match a beauty that can be on par or surpass his looks) who then kidnaps reader and with somno and mindblowing smut (he is intimate and makes love, very sensual — but sometimes can be cruel when reader is not cooperative), very obsessive and possesive behavior, where reader eventually falls into a stockholm syndrome when she realizes he is the only one who can lover her like that.

Ah, anon, fanboy gojo is a horrifying gojo. I couldn't fit the somno in there my bad but I did let em get frisky. Yan!Gojo x Idol! Reader TW: Yandere Behaviors (Heavy in obsession & manipulation, stalking, trapping), Non Curse AU, Noncon / Dubcon, Stockholm Syndrome, Unbalanced power dynamic, Lifesize Doll, Gojo is just a fucking creep in this one. Reader has bad ending and is going through it. MDNI A/n: There's something absolutely horrifying about just anyone with too much money. Also, this one gave me an icky feeling, like really icky to the point where I had to go play some wii sports for some serotonin . So just fair warning on that everyone.

So this would definitely take place in a non-curse AU where the Gojo family reigns supreme over an empire of companies, including your idol agency. Satoru’s obsession with you began long before his parents handed him the keys to your career as a "gift" for his 21st birthday. By then, he already had an entire shrine dedicated to you—a collage of your debut album covers, grainy videos from your first audition, and meticulously preserved cut-outs of you in your signature frilly stage outfits.

He even went as far as purchasing your stockings and, disturbingly, a vial of your sweat from an online auction. Because when it came to you, no price was too steep, no boundary too sacred.

Satoru had been such a good boy, after all. He kept his record spotless, avoided any scandals, and played the part of the dutiful heir to perfection. So, for his birthday, the Gojo family rewarded him in the grandest way possible: a private concert (in their household theatre)  featuring none other than his favorite obsession.

Lucky you.

"Why do I always end up with the creeps?" you muttered under your breath backstage, steeling yourself for what was to come. You’d been expecting a small, exclusive audience—maybe a handful of elite guests alongside the infamous Gojo Satoru. Instead, the venue was eerily empty, save for one man sitting dead center in the front row.

Of course, it was him.

Satoru lounged in his seat, his long legs spread comfortably and his unrelenting gaze fixed on the stage. Those icy blue eyes shimmered with a kind of deranged excitement.

Still, you plastered on your most radiant smile, the same one that had been drilled into you since your debut, and stepped onto the stage. "Satoru-kun!" you called sweetly, your voice dripping with feigned delight.

That simple acknowledgment sent him into a visible frenzy. He straightened immediately, his grin stretching impossibly wide, the edges almost unhinged. His hands clutched the armrests of his chair as if holding himself back from leaping onto the stage.

"Satoru-kun," you repeated, your tone syrupy enough to mask the bitterness in your throat. The way his eyes sparkled, as though you’d just handed him the universe, made your skin crawl.

Why did he have to smile like that? Why did it feel like this wasn’t just a concert, but some kind of trap?

You swallowed hard and launched into your first song, your voice steady even as your heart raced. Through it all, his gaze never wavered, and you could swear that he wasn’t just listening—he was memorizing every note, every movement, every glance in his direction.

The worst part? You could feel that manic, suffocating grin even with your eyes closed.

The final note faded, and you lowered the mic with a practiced flourish, painting on a dazzling smile despite the tight knot in your stomach. Applause didn’t erupt—just a slow, deliberate clap from the lone figure seated in the otherwise empty venue. Each measured beat sent an icy shiver down your spine.

"Bravo! Amazing, as always," Satoru called, his voice laced with the kind of excitement that made your skin crawl. His bright grin stretched wider, his icy blue eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prize.

Suppressing the urge to grimace, you clasped your hands in front of you and tilted your head, letting out a bubbly laugh. “Aww, Satoru-kun, you’re too sweet! You always know how to make a girl feel special!” Your voice was light, airy, laced with the charm your agency had drilled into you since day one.

His grin widened, if that was even possible, and he leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin in his palm. “Only because you are special, [Y/N]-chan.”

You swallowed back the bile creeping up your throat and gave a coy wave, bowing deeply. “Thank you so much! I’m so glad you enjoyed the show!”

The second you turned and stepped offstage, the smile dropped from your face like a mask sliding off. Your jaw clenched as you made your way backstage, your mind racing. What is wrong with this guy?

Inside the dressing room, you immediately set to work peeling off your stage outfit and shoving your things into your bag. The faint hum of the mirror bulbs was the only sound as you yanked off your heels, wincing at the ache in your feet. “Just a few more minutes,” you muttered to yourself, your tone dark and venomous, “and I’m out of here.”

A sharp knock at the door shattered the momentary quiet. Your heart sank. “Just a minute!” you chirped, forcing the syrupy sweetness back into your voice. But your hands trembled as you zipped up your bag. He wouldn’t come backstage, would he?

The door creaked open without waiting for a response, and your worst fears were realized.

Satoru stepped in as though he owned the place—which, you supposed, he technically did—and shut the door behind him with a soft click. The sound of the lock sliding into place sent a chill racing down your spine.

You plastered on another sunny smile, turning to face him. “Satoru-kun! What a surprise! Did you come to say goodbye?” Your voice was an octave higher than usual, chipper and fake as it could get, but he didn’t seem to notice. If anything, it only made his smile softer, more adoring.

“Goodbye?” he repeated, tilting his head as if the very idea was foreign to him. “Oh, no, [Y/N]-chan. The night’s just getting started. I thought we could spend some time together. Just the two of us.”

You laughed, the sound forced and overly bright. “Oh, Satoru-kun, you’re so funny! I’m sure you’re busy, though, and I wouldn’t want to keep you—”

He interrupted by stepping closer, and you instinctively took a step back, your spine hitting the edge of the dressing table. His eyes gleamed with something dangerous now, something far too intense.

“I made sure I wouldn’t be busy,” he said softly, his voice unnervingly calm. “This is a special night, after all.”

Your hands tightened around the strap of your bag, but your bubbly mask stayed firmly in place. “You’re so thoughtful, Satoru-kun! But really, I’m just so exhausted from performing—I don’t want to ruin your night by being a boring old workaholic!”

His smile faltered, just for a second. The glint in his eyes shifted to something colder.

“Ruining my night?” he echoed, his voice dropping a pitch. He stepped even closer, his long fingers brushing against the edge of your bag. “Oh, [Y/N]-chan, you could never ruin anything for me. You’re perfect. That’s why I waited so long for this.”

The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin. Still, you kept the mask on, even as your pulse thundered in your ears. “Satoru-kun, you’re such a charmer!” you said with a giggle, though the sound nearly cracked under the weight of your fear. “But really, I—”

“Enough.” His voice was soft but firm, and it froze you in place. The playful tone was gone, replaced by something sharper. His hands found your hips, firm but not painful—yet. “You don’t have to pretend with me, [Y/N]-chan. I know what you really need. What you deserve.”

For a split second, the mask cracked. Your smile faltered, your eyes betraying the panic clawing at your chest. But you quickly forced it back into place, stretching your lips into something resembling a cheerful grin. This wasn’t just any creep—this was the owner of your agency. The man who could ruin your career with a single word. Rejecting him wasn’t an option.

“Oh, Satoru-kun!” you said with a bright laugh that sounded hollow even to your own ears. “You’re too kind, really!”

His expression softened at your attempt, though the unsettling hunger in his eyes never wavered. “I want to show you something,” he murmured, his voice low and syrupy as he stepped closer.

Before you could react, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The sharp scent of his cologne—overly expensive and cloyingly strong—invaded your senses, making your head spin. You froze as you heard him inhale deeply, the sound sending an involuntary shudder down your spine.

“That’s it,” he sighed, as if your discomfort was the most intoxicating thing in the world.

You swallowed hard, suppressing the wave of revulsion rising in your chest. “Y-Yeah, sure. Anything you want,” you said, forcing another fake giggle. The bile was starting to creep up your throat, but you choked it back.

Satoru straightened, beaming like you’d just granted him his deepest wish. Without another word, he grabbed your hand and tugged you along, his grip firm but not painful. His long strides made it hard to keep up, and you stumbled slightly as he led you down a long, opulent hallway.

“This way,” he said brightly, his excitement bubbling over as he opened a door at the end of the hall. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to show you this.”

The room you stepped into wasn’t just a bedroom—it was a shrine.

Your face froze in a practiced smile, but your stomach churned violently. Every inch of the walls was covered with photos of you, from professional headshots to candid moments you didn’t even know had been captured. A glass case in the corner held memorabilia from your career: props from music videos, outfits you’d worn onstage, and even a pair of shoes you’d discarded years ago. The bed, an enormous thing with crisp white sheets, was adorned with pillows printed with your image.

And in the center of it all, on a pedestal near the window, was a life-sized figure. You.

Your knees nearly buckled at the sight. It was a doll replica, eerily accurate down to the smallest details. The same smile you forced onstage, the same sparkle in your eyes. But the longer you stared, the more disturbing it became.

“Oh, this isn’t even the best part!” Satoru chirped, oblivious—or perhaps delighting in—your horror. He dropped your hand and strode over to the pedestal, gesturing at the figure like a proud artist showing off their masterpiece. “It’s perfect, don’t you think? Just like the real thing.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling as you clutched your bag to your chest. “I-I don’t even know what to say, Satoru-kun,” you managed, your voice strained despite your best efforts to sound enthusiastic.

His gaze snapped to you, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his face. “Say you love it,” he demanded, his tone sharp enough to cut through the air.

“I love it,” you echoed immediately, the words leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You felt like you might vomit right there on the pristine floor.

Satoru’s grin returned, softening into something almost tender. “I knew you would,” he said, stepping closer until he was mere inches away. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch that made your skin crawl. “It’s because it’s all for you, [Y/N]-chan. All of it. Everything I do is for you.”

Your smile wavered as you nodded, the muscles in your face aching from the effort to keep it in place. Inside, you screamed.

He began to ramble, his voice drifting into an almost giddy monologue as he circled the room. “The doll is great, don’t get me wrong,” he said, gesturing at the figure with a flourish. “But it’s not you. It doesn’t feel like you.” His words trailed off into something quieter, almost wistful. “At least… not yet.”

You didn’t want to know what he meant by that, and you weren’t about to ask. Instead, you kept your fake smile plastered on and nodded along, praying he’d lose interest and let you leave.

“But…” He stopped mid-sentence, turning to face you with that same soft, disarming smile that would’ve melted hearts if it weren’t attached to someone so terrifying. He stepped closer, and you instinctively backed up, only to find the edge of the bed pressing into the backs of your knees.

“You can be the real thing for me, right?” he asked, his tone almost teasing, as if this were some innocent joke between friends. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, deceptively gentle as he guided you to sit down.

“Satoru-kun…” you began, your voice high and airy with forced politeness. “I-I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Oh, come on.” He crouched down to your level, his face just inches from yours now. The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t play dumb, [Y/N]-chan. I mean… heh…” His laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating, but the threat behind it was crystal clear. “Imagine if the media found out we did something together? Your career would be over, wouldn’t it?”

Your blood ran cold. The bile that had been simmering in your throat threatened to rise, but you swallowed it down, forcing another laugh. “Satoru-kun, you’re so funny! You know I’d never want to disappoint you, but—”

“You wouldn’t disappoint me.” His interruption was immediate, his voice firm but still unnervingly calm. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he was eager to solve. “You’d make me the happiest man in the world, [Y/N]-chan. That’s all I want.”

The weight of his hands on your shoulders grew heavier, and for the first time, the mask you wore faltered completely. You could feel the edges of your resolve cracking as panic clawed at your chest.

“I—I think I should go,” you stammered, your voice trembling now. “It’s been such a long night, and I’m so tired—”

“Shhh.” His finger pressed lightly against your lips, silencing you. “No need to rush. You’re home now. With me.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating, as he gently pushed you back onto the bed.

You felt caged, trapped beneath him as he leaned down and kissed you with a fervent passion that left no room for doubt. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that sent heat spiraling through your body, surprising you with how skilled he was. How is he this good? you wondered, a flicker of reluctant curiosity slipping into your thoughts. For someone with a room like this, you didn’t expect him to know his way around intimacy so well.

When his kisses trailed down your neck, you couldn’t suppress the small sounds that escaped your lips—tiny, breathy moans that only encouraged him. You hated how natural it felt, how easy it was to let yourself melt just a little under his touch.

His hands moved with practiced ease, unbuttoning your soft frilly blouse and sliding it down your arms. The fabric fell away without ceremony, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air. He unhooked your bra without even looking, his attention fixed on you as if you were the only thing in the universe.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone. “So beautiful. I can’t believe you’re real.” His voice was thick with awe, the kind of adoration that would have been flattering in another context. Here, it only added to the strange, heady mix of fear and something else stirring in your chest.

You didn’t stop him.

Instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, your mind a blur of conflicting emotions. Part of you screamed to push him away, to escape this madness before it consumed you. But another part—a quieter, insidious part—was starting to crave the way he made you feel. The way he looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

When he pulled out a condom, your breath hitched. He held it up with a playful smirk, his icy blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Can’t have my favorite girl off the stage because of a baby,” he teased, the words delivered so casually it made your head spin.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, your body caught between tension and reluctant desire. “S-Satoru-kun…” you murmured, your voice softer now, less forced. You weren’t sure what you were trying to say—if you were trying to stop him or if you were giving in.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t worry, [Y/N]-chan. I’ll take care of everything. Just trust me.”

And for some reason, at that moment, you did.

His actions surprised you. For all the unsettling obsession and the manic energy that seemed to define him, he was unexpectedly gentle. Every hitch of your breath, every flinch, had him pausing immediately, his hands soothing against your skin. He pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, your lips, your jawline, as if trying to reassure you, as if trying to prove that this was about more than just possession.

Each movement was careful, each thrust deliberate, his pace slow and measured, as though he was determined not to hurt you. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice how his body seemed to move in perfect rhythm with yours, how his touch sent shivers coursing down your spine—not from fear, but from how good it felt. It felt almost too wrong for it to feel this good. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. “So much better than I ever imagined. So much better than… than her.”

You knew exactly what he meant by her—that unsettling doll that resembled you sitting in the room. But there was no malice in his tone, no frustration, only unbridled awe. “I knew you’d feel like this,” he continued, his words tumbling out in a breathless babble. “So warm, so soft… so real.”

His hands caressed your sides, trailing down to grip your hips with a reverence that made your chest tighten. “You don’t understand, [Y/N]-chan. I’ve waited for this. For you. I’ve dreamed of having you here, like this, for so long.” His lips found yours again, and this time, you kissed him back. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of obligation—or perhaps something else entirely, something you weren’t ready to confront.

“I’m so happy,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and steady against your skin. His hips ground against yours with a practiced ease that sent shivers through your body, small, involuntary moans slipping from your lips. You weren’t even sure anymore if they were fake.

His icy blue eyes softened, a vulnerability shining through that you hadn’t expected, a strange mix of desperation and adoration. “So happy you’re finally here with me. You belong here. With me.”

The words sent a wave of unease crashing over you, yet his touch—so deliberate, so intimate—made it harder to hold on to that feeling. His pace quickened, his rhythm building into something that pulled soft cries from your throat, cries you weren’t sure belonged to the person you thought you were.

And then it was over, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. You stared blankly at the ceiling, the tension in your body refusing to dissipate even as the room fell silent.

Silently thankful for that condom.

Satoru, however, seemed perfectly at ease. He snuggled into you with a satisfied sigh, his face pressed against your chest, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid you’d disappear. 

His white hair tickled your skin, and without thinking, your fingers found their way into it, absently threading through the soft strands. The motion felt automatic, like muscle memory from a life you weren’t supposed to be living. Your mind raced with conflicting thoughts, questions you didn’t have answers to. Yet, as he murmured something incoherent against your skin, his voice content and heavy with sleep, you found yourself continuing the motion, stroking his hair in a way that felt far too natural.

Because even if it’s love from some creep, maybe that’s the kind of love you crave.

The thought sat heavy in your chest, an unwelcome truth that made your stomach twist. You’d never had someone hold you like this, never had someone look at you the way he did—as if you were the entire world, as if you were the answer to every question he’d ever asked. It was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet…

It was something.

Your fingers paused in his hair for a moment, hovering as if they’d been burned by the thought. But then his arms tightened around you, his face nuzzling deeper into your chest, and a soft, contented sigh escaped his lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

Maybe you didn’t deserve something better. Maybe this was all there was.

So, you let him hold you. You let your fingers tangle in his hair again, let yourself relax just enough to make it through the moment. Because even if it was wrong, even if it wasn’t the love you’d dreamed of, at least it was real. At least it was something.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Kyle x f!reader

inspo - @partiallysame

smut under the cut

contains stalking & noncon , please read responsibly

Kyle had always prided himself on being different.

He wasn’t like Johnny, who’d shamelessly tell stories about following a girl down the street just to see where she lived. He wasn’t like Ghost, who stayed quiet when Soap bragged—quiet in that dangerous way that meant he’d done worse. Kyle always scoffed, rolled his eyes, told them they were creeps. Perverts. Told them off like he was above it.

And he was. He was.

Until you moved in across the street.

At first, it was innocent. You waved once, a polite little gesture from your window as you unpacked boxes. Wore sweats and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped up, not a trace of awareness in how that alone made his stomach twist.

Then the curtains never shut. The lights always stayed on.

And you were always… bare. A towel here. A tank top there. Panties that clung when you bent to grab something, nothing at all when you stepped out of your shower with the steam still clinging to your skin. You didn’t seem to care. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t even seem to know he could see. But oh—he could. Every. Bloody. Night.

He told himself it wasn’t the same. That he was a man with restraint. That he didn’t mean to look.

But his curtains stayed open. The light by the window always stayed on. The seat by the sill became a regular haunt. And when his hand slid under the waistband of his joggers, when he fisted himself to the sight of your skin gleaming in the glow of your bathroom mirror, he wasn’t like them.

He was quiet about it. Civilized. A gentleman.

Even when he came messily over his own fingers, groaning through his teeth, hips bucking into his palm like an animal—he wasn't like them.

Even when he got bolder. When he started painting by the window just to justify staring. When his sketches became bodies, became your body, the curve of your spine, the bounce of your breasts, the arch of your neck when you dried your hair. When the charcoal darkened at the thighs and hips, shaded in all the spots he shouldn't know—still, he wasn't like them.

He never followed you. Never said a word. Never took a picture.

Just watched. Just fantasized.

He was a good man.

Wasn’t he?

He told himself he wouldn’t.

Told himself that when the lights went on in your bedroom—just like every other night—he’d turn away. Draw his curtains. Stop being that man.

But then you stepped into frame, towel low, back damp from the shower. You stood at the mirror like always, unbothered. Free. Unknowing.

And his mind slipped.

His cock ached in his joggers. Hand twitching at his side. He was hard in seconds, just watching—again. Again. Again.

But this time… this time, he didn’t sit down. This time, he didn’t stroke himself in the dark, pretending he was better than the others.

This time he rose, chest heaving, jaw tight, guilt burning beneath his skin as he grabbed his jacket and slid open the window.

This wasn’t him. He didn’t do this.

The fire escape was cold against his hands. The night air slapped his skin like punishment—but it didn’t stop him. He moved quiet, catlike, every step up toward your floor whispering warnings he didn’t listen to. He was sweating by the time he reached your window. Not from the climb—but from the heat coiling in his stomach, the sick anticipation of being so close.

And your window was unlocked.

Of course it was.

Of course it fucking was.

He ducked in like a shadow. Silent. Careful. Predatory.

You were turned away, still at the mirror. Music low. Hair towel-damp. Skin bare from the waist up, shorts riding high on your thighs. Unaware that the man across the street—the gentleman, the good one—was in your room. Breathing hard. Eyes gone dark.

“Hey,” he rasped.

You turned. Confused. “Wha—?”

He was on you in seconds.

You gasped, but he covered your mouth—not hard, but enough to hush you. Enough to make your eyes go wide as he backed you up to the bed, voice low and trembling as his forehead pressed to yours.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried not to be like them.”

Your breath caught. “Who—what are you—”

“I watched you,” he said, almost like a confession, a prayer, a sin. “Every night. Every fucking night. I told myself it wasn’t wrong—told myself I was just lookin’—but I’m not good, am I?”

Your back hit the mattress. You trembled as he loomed over you, hand still warm on your cheek.

“You left your lights on,” he whispered, eyes drinking you in. “You let me see everythin'. You wanted someone to look. And now you’ve got me, love.”

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t ask.

Just kissed you—filthy, hungry, deep—like he was trying to swallow months of pent-up hunger. Tongue pushing past your lips, hands tugging your shorts down to your thighs like they offended him. He groaned when he felt you under his fingers, already slick, already ready.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “You walkin’ around naked with those fuckin’ curtains wide open—was it for me?”

You gasped, and he laughed—dark, sharp.

“Gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”

He didn't give you a chance to protest.

The kiss was filthy, hungry. He swallowed your gasp, hands pawing at your skin like he couldn't get enough—like he'd been starved for far too long. His fingers scraped down your sides, tugging at your shorts, and you didn’t even have time to think as he yanked them off fully, leaving you exposed. His breath was ragged against your mouth, and his hands never stopped moving—pulling, grabbing, needing.

Your pulse was a chaotic thrum as you tried to scramble back, but he was on you, pinning your hips to the bed, holding you there with an intensity that shook you to your core.

"You don't get to hide from me now," he rasped, voice low, almost a growl. "You showed me everythin', and now you’re mine."

You tried to speak, tried to say something—anything—but he was there, kissing you again, biting your lip, bruising your mouth with his. The friction of his body against yours sent a jolt straight to your core, making you wet, making you want it. You wanted it didn't you? Maybe your brain was just trying to protect you.

His hand snaked between your legs, rough and needy, making your breath catch. His fingers pushed into you, deep and fast, and it was too much—a sharp burn that made you gasp, but he didn’t stop. No, he only groaned, low and guttural, as he drove deeper, his mouth leaving your lips to trail down your neck.

"I’ve wanted this," he muttered against your skin, “Wanted you like this. Every goddamn night. But I’m not gonna be gentle anymore."

Before you could process it, he shifted, pulling you higher on the bed. He spread your legs wider, and you felt the heat of him against your thigh—hard, thick, like nothing you’d ever imagined.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice dark, rougher now. His eyes never left yours as he lined himself up, his breath ragged and uneven. "You wanted this too, didn’t you? Watching you... you made me lose control."

You tried to form a coherent thought, but all that came out was a strangled moan as he pushed into you, deep and relentless. The stretch was overwhelming, a burn that had your body jolting underneath him. He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t care—his pace was fast, brutal, driving into you with an intensity that knocked the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck, you're so fuckin' tight," Kyle grunted, thrusting harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He was wild, untamed, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he needed you more than he’d ever needed anything in his life.

You could barely keep up, each thrust pushing you further, deeper into the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you gasped for air. His hands were everywhere—gripping, pulling, pushing you to the edge of the mattress. Every inch of you was on fire, and the way he fucked you so ruthlessly made you want to cry. Scream. Fight him off. But you laid there, wet doe eyes staring up at him, tits bouncing, legs draped over his shoulders.

Kyle’s eyes were dark—obsessed, glazed with hunger as he leaned down to kiss you again, his pace never slowing, every thrust more desperate, more needy. He wasn’t holding back now, not with the way you were reacting, not with the way your body was responding to him. His name slipped from your lips in broken gasps, and it made him groan, pulling you closer, kissing you deeper.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice rough, filthy. "All of you. Every part of you. No going back." He groaned, like the squeeze of you was a painful bliss. "Ot'ta put a fuckin' babe in you... Make sure you can't fucking leave."

The way he spoke—the rawness of it—made you dizzy. It was too much, the way he was inside you, the way he had no mercy, no intention of slowing down. He was pushing you past the edge, and you couldn’t stop it.

And just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he cursed under his breath, his thrusts growing more erratic, the pressure building, and then—then—you were falling apart. Your whole body clenched around him as you came, hard, a shout ripped from your throat, your hands grasping at his back as your body shook under him. You clawed, long bloody lines, sobbing out a moan.

Kyle wasn’t far behind. A few more desperate thrusts and he slammed into you, groaning your name like a prayer as he came, deep and hot. You wondered how he knew it. He held you down against the mattress as his body shuddered, his breath ragged against your ear.

You were both panting, soaked in sweat, and the weight of what just happened hung heavy in the air. He pulled out of you slowly, both of you trembling from the intensity.

He didn’t move immediately, just leaned over you, still breathing hard, his hand brushing through your hair like you were something precious. The wildness was still in his eyes, but there was something softer now—a vulnerability you hadn’t seen before.

Kyle kissed you again, this time gentle, slow. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve asked... I just—fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You didn’t know what to say, your mind still reeling from everything that just happened, but his words stayed with you. This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't be here.

You pushed against him, hands pressing against his chest, trying to shove him off, your heart racing, panic flooding your system. The heat from his body was still pressing down on you, suffocating, and you hated the way it made you feel helpless.

“Get off me!” you yelled, voice shaky. You clawed at his chest, nails digging into his skin in desperation, the only defense you had left. His breath was ragged, but he didn’t budge—didn’t even flinch at your attempts to push him away.

Instead, he chuckled low, a wicked sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands moved faster than yours, grabbing your wrists with ease, pinning them down above your head.

“You’re a feisty one,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. He didn’t sound worried, didn’t sound apologetic. No, he sounded like he was enjoying this. His grin was all teeth, eyes dark with that dangerous hunger you knew all too well.

Before you could react, his lips were on you again, forcing another kiss, swallowing your protest with a roughness that made your body shudder—whether you liked it or not. You tried to twist away, but he was relentless, his weight pushing you into the mattress, his hands holding you in place.

“Quit fighting me,” he said, his voice almost playful, a sharp contrast to the way he was pinning you down. “You know you like it, don’t try to pretend.”

Your mind screamed at you to push harder, to get him off you—but the more you struggled, the more he pressed into you, making you feel even smaller. It was maddening, infuriating. How could you be so helpless?

But even as your mind screamed, your body betrayed you, reacting against your will. His kiss deepened, his hands moving down to your sides, feeling your body—hot, trembling, fighting him even as he owned you. You hated that it felt good. Hated how his touch made the fire inside you flare again.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go that easy, did you?” Kyle growled, pulling away from the kiss just enough to look at you. His hands shifted, gripping your thighs, spreading your legs wide again. “You’re mine now, sweetheart. I’m not letting go. Not until I’m done.”

You tried to twist beneath him, desperate to get away, but he just smiled wider, the predatory gleam in his eyes brighter than ever.

“Flighty little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered, a low laugh vibrating through him as he settled against you again. “But I know what you want. I know exactly how to make you beg for it.”

immmmmmmmm sooooo normal about him i swear

[thecr0w]

Chapter One; Fear, Festering.

Ambivalence

chap. 1, ~4.9k words

dexter morgan/reader, in which reader accidentally witnesses her unwitting savior in the act

[tags/cw; see masterlist for full list. noncon, threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence and death, threats, mental health mentions, mentions of cannibalism, reader is in an established toxic relationship with a man (ew)]

chapter two

series masterlist

i’ve thought about this for SO long i want him so bad. at the time of posting this, i haven't slept in almost 12 hours. i apologize if it's not good :( i'll double check it later!

The air inside felt dry, stale and cold, a stark contrast with the hot and humid atmosphere outside the four walls of your workplace. A lousy, tiring part-time job only accepted from desperation. Miami was two-sided like that. A beautiful city, tropical and beaming with life, with a dark underbelly. It felt so weird not being out and enjoying it all. It was hard to, hard to focus on the positives when it felt so suffocating under the negatives. The shitty job, the lame apartment shared with your mediocre boyfriend. Life, this far, was boring. Like you were stuck in traffic with a nice view. Time went slow, rush hour speeding it only barely. By the time your shift ended, it felt like you had run a marathon. The walk home felt equally as draining, your clothes sticking to your damp skin like static-charged paper.

Your boyfriend sat on the front steps of your small apartment, cigarette dangling from his lips as he flicked his thumb across the small, bright screen in his hands. His smile faded, however, when he noticed you approaching. He threw his cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with a stomp.

“Hell have you been? Didn’t call me.”

Your stomach dropped, hands clenching nervously as he looked on.

“I forgot. I’m sorry.” You say, shifting your weight onto one leg.

He scoffed, sliding his phone into his pocket. He sat up, striding to you and pulling you into a loose hug.

“It’s a rough neighborhood out here,” he says, leading you up the stairs and into the house, “You should call me so I can make sure you’re not dead or dying.”

The night was just the same as always. Slow, boring, tiring. A shower, dinner, doomscrolling, then falling asleep in the mattress that never seemed to feel comfortable. An unsatisfying fuck every now and again. God, when had things gotten so dull? When had you allowed yourself to fall into such a miserable cycle? Despite the repetitiveness, it was, in a way, comfortable. It was comforting to know what would happen the next day, easy to prepare for and deal with. Something stable, something reliant.

Work was more of the same, a slow start, busy afternoon, and a slow night. The walk, however, was different. It was cold, a strong breeze blew through, swaying the trees lining the unkempt sidewalk. It passed through your hair, blowing strands in your eyes. With a ragged huff, you shoved your hands into your pockets and trudged onwards. The city was oddly quiet, save for a siren or a honking car every few minutes. Strange. The quietest you had ever had the city, in fact-

Footsteps.

The sound was faint, echoing off the row of houses to the left of you, and it ceased when you stopped to listen. You whipped your head around, chills running up your spine. It was silent, save for the barking of a dog heard in the distance. Nothing. Moths swarming the buzzing streetlight above, cars passing on the opposite road, but nothing to explain the footsteps. The phone felt cold in your hands as you pulled it from your pockets, your boyfriend's name lighting up the screen as you tapped the ‘call’ button. You sauntered forward slowly as the phone rang, and rang, and rang, until it eventually went to voicemail. Calling again now, you’re met with the same dialtone. Your breath quickened, as did your pace, as you walked at a steady speed towards your home.

“Call me next time, babe. I have to protect you, babe. Why didn’t you call first, and babe?”

You repeated his words in your mind and huffed, trying to push back the ever-present fear of paranoia. The wind blew again, stronger, stinging your eyes and immediately welling them with tears. In the silence, through the wind, you heard them again. The faint, pattering noise of someone treading lightly behind you. You shout, this time, snapping your head around again in a vain attempt to identify the owner of the footfall. Darkness, again. This time, you didn’t doubt yourself. You ran, hair blowing wildly as the air rushed past your ears. You ran, and you didn’t stop until you plowed right into your front door. The door swung open just as you thumped against it, tumbling you forward into the wobbly arms of your lover.

“Woah, the fuck? What happened?” He asks loudly, sounding more accusatory than concerned.

You panted, gripping onto his forearms as you looked at him.

“I- I don’t know, I don’t know, I heard footsteps- I got really scared! There was-”

“What are you saying? Nobody would try anything here.” He grunts, dropping your shoulders and slamming the door shut. “Just call me next time.” He adds, reaching for his pant’s zipper as he turns from you. Your stomach drops as you stare at his back, watching him slip past the kitchen archway.

“I did. I called twice, and you told me this was a ‘rough neighborhood’. So yeah, I was freaked out.” You rebuddled, careening towards the bedroom. You begin to peel off your work clothes, kicking your shoes off. He responds, unintelligibly, and you wouldn’t have cared to hear it anyway. The thought of leaving him occurred daily, something you felt an intense guilt for. It felt meaningless to continue being here, with him, but the same would be argued the other way around. What's the point in leaving? You would be doing the same things, just without someone to see every day. Still, you felt an attachment to him. Sure, he may be a dick, but he’s not a dick when he’s telling you he loves you. Not when he slings an arm around your waist at night in bed, not when he makes you laugh and tickles your sides when you’re lying in the bed you share. Your heart flutters when you think about it, but it dies when he slings open the door and stares harshly at you.

“Seriously? You’re just going to ignore me?” He spits, eyebrows furrowing.

“I didn’t hear you.” You pull one of his shirts down over your head.

He snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” There’s a damp spot on the hem of his shirt, you notice. He sees you glance at the spot, and covers it with his hand.

“Spilled soap.” He swallows and looks at the one you’re wearing. One of his favourite shirts, an oversized one he bought during a daytrip at the beach. “You look good in that.”

You hum in acknowledgement, sitting on the bed. “Thanks.” The amalgamation of feeling when you think about him is too much, and you fall back on the bed in exasperation. Your eyes sting when he flicks off the light.

“Night. ‘M gonna go eat dinner, love you.” The door makes a soft thump as he closes it, and the sting in your eyes subsides as a warm tear glides down your cheek and into the dip of your ear. Sleep took you quickly, so quickly that by the next morning you couldn’t remember falling asleep. Everything went by in a blur, thoughts of the implications from your boyfriend, the paranoia of being followed, the disbelief that he wouldn’t believe you. Through the next few days, the same thing happened. You’d walk home, from anywhere, and hear the disembodied footsteps behind. Never a body to match them with, and the only times they weren’t there were the two night your boyfriend picked you up from work. He understood, he said to you, he understood why you were afraid. What he couldn’t understand, however, is why someone would be following you of all people.

It was about a month after the initial incident when a man came into the store, narrow, unfeeling eyes locking with yours. He strided forward, towards the counter you attended, and smiled. He felt around at products on the shelves for a while, casting the odd glance to you every once in a while. It was weird, yes, but he seemed well-meaning enough. Maybe he thought you were pretty. The thought was enough to make you smile to yourself. It vanished, though, when you heard him stride toward you.

“Hello there.” He began, glancing at your nametag. He read your name slowly, and you swear you saw a shudder roll down his back. He looked normal, middle-aged and greying. Still, you doubted he meant any real harm. Maybe he was just a little awkward. You were awkward, too. He was tall, lanky in a way that made you think he was active. He started saying something about how he needed to find a specific park nearby, but you could barely focus on what he was saying as he reached a hand forward, fingertips brushing over your skin like sandpaper catching onto carpet. It sent a wave of unsettling panic through you, and you winced.

“Bayfront Park?” You repeated the words.

“Yes.” The confirmation sounded more like a hiss than an actual word.

“It’s just a few blocks down.” You pointed out the window, finger shaking slightly. He remained fixated on you, smile fading slightly, then spreading widely. His teeth were stained with age, and you quickly looked away. He felt wrong all of the sudden, like how it feels to see a warped picture of yourself. It's you, but different. Altered. It made you feel nauseous.

“I see,” He took a deep, shuddering breath before starting again. “You have pretty eyes, did you know that?” His voice felt like having eyes on the back of your head. The complement came from nowhere, causing your eyebrows to raise in surprise. You laughed nervously, looking away and accidentally locking eyes with the impatient woman behind him. He seemed to notice this too, and mumbled an apology to the woman before turning back to you.

“I’ll be seeing you. Thanks for your help.” He turns quickly, striding out the door and never once turning back. It left a sour taste in your mouth, resonating anxiety burning your throat.

What an odd, odd interaction. What kind of weirdo does that? The woman in line seemed to share the same sentiment, tilting her head to the side and letting her eyes speak before placing her items on the counter.

After closing, when the doors were finally locked and you were standing outside the dark establishment, your phone pinged with a half-assed apology text from your boyfriend.

‘Hey, I’m too tired to come out and get you. Walk a different route and I’ll watch your location. I love you!’

‘really?’

‘I worked today. I'm too tired to deal with this, man.’

The artificial light illuminated your face as you read it. Too tired? What kind of boyfriend is too tired to escort his partner home, at night no less, in a neighborhood he deems unsafe? You groan in frustration, shoving the phone back in your pockets and fumbling for your housekey. The metal felt cold as you pushed it between your knuckles, deciding to use it as some sort of lame defense. It barely made a difference in the way you felt, a mix of frustration, anxiety, and betrayal at the fact that he wouldn’t even drag himself out of bed to make sure you got home safe. You clutched it tight in your hand, staring between your normal route and an alley that cuts through the neighborhood. The only option seemed to be the alley, which would throw off the normality in case someone was waiting for you on the other path. You speed-walk to it, glancing over both your shoulders before entering the darkness. Normally, there would be people gathered around areas like this. There weren’t, although a part of you felt off at the fact. About halfway down the alley, just before it ended and opened up into a city-block, the familiar sound of thumping echoed through. The key suddenly felt hot in your knuckles. You whipped around, body turning entirely to face the cause of the sound, the cause of all the fear and paranoia you’ve felt these last weeks.

Your body felt cold, suddenly. There it was. There he was. The footsteps. He went rigid, foot raised as if he froze mid-step. No more disembodied footsteps, no more looking and seeing darkness, he was here now. You couldn’t breathe, air stuck in your lungs with a sharp, sudden inhale that cut its way down your windpipe. His foot lowered slowly, and you could barely make out the lanky figure imposing on you. It was him, it had to be, your stalker and the cause of it all. Realization hits you like a car hits a deer when you realize that nothing stands between you. The alley walls feel too close, and your lungs scream for air. A truck drives by, and you see his unfeeling face in the headlights light refraction. The weird man from work.

You run, dizzy and lightheaded from depriving yourself of air. It burned when you began panting, and you almost wet yourself when you heard his heavy footsteps gaining on you. You let out a noise, something between a yell and a whimper. The wind rushed past your ears, stinging your eyes and temporarily blinding you. The fear of being chased overtook all, and you could barely make out the silhouettes surrounding you in the narrow alley. The end seemed so far, and just when you were about to breach the darkness, you slipped. Tripped over something small and blurry, something you really didn’t care for identifying as you tumbled to the concrete below. Your chin smashed against the ground, teeth clattering. A loud ‘oomph’ and a groan pushed it’s way out of you, and couldn’t help but yell out a “NO!” as you turned to face him from the ground, bleary eyed and wild. At first, you didn’t know what you were looking at. You saw a blur of struggle, someone being thrown to the ground, a large figure pining the other to the ground. The one on top punched the one on the bottom, and then plunged what looked like a pen, maybe a stick into his neck. You jerked at the crack of the man’s skull hitting the ground. The figure raised its head, and you went numb at the sight of something wrapped around his head. His broad shoulders lifted and fell slowly, sweat beginning to darken the v- shaped neckline of what looked to be a henley. You kicked your legs, scooting yourself back rapidly and shooting up. He rose with you, and you watched as he lifted his hand to his face. Another car drove past, lighting the alley for a final time.

He pressed his finger to his lips, and you could see that he had wrapped his entire head with plastic wrap. Blood from his finger smeared over his mouth, and the sight caused a noise you’d never made before to squeeze out of your throat. Before he could move, you took off, legs wobbly and searing with pain from the brutal fall. A trail of something wet and hot glided from your face to your chest, but you didn’t stop to check. You didn’t stop until you reached your door, banging loudly on the painted metal. Sobs shook your shoulders, and you watched your neighbors porch lights turn off as you screamed your boyfriend’s name. You twisted and turned the knob, but to no avail. You pleaded, screamed for him to open the door, and searched your pockets shakily for your housekey.

Finally, the door swung inward, just as you realized that you couldn’t find your key. His face fell from angry, to shocked and confused, then to concern before settling into a mix of the two.

“What the hell?! What happened?! Are you okay?” He yells, snatching you inside the house roughly, pulling you into his chest. You collapse into him, crying loudly. When he finally pulled you off, you saw that you left a mix of blood, snot and tears over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice, however.

“What happened? Do I need to call the cops? What happened to your face?”

He shuts the door and pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you on the toilet and leaving briefly. He returns with a towel, a damp and crinkled one you assume was used for the dishes. You can’t understand what he says next, words jumbling together in blurry phrases. Your head hurts, your jaw feels like it’s been stepped on and your knees throb with a pain not felt since you learned how to ride a bike. He runs the wet towel over your chin, and it feels like an open blister. You hiss, a sob releasing from your lips. It’s blurry, after that. You remember begging for no police involvement, remembering how a simple finger to the lips felt like a threat, like a morbid promise. You feel too exhausted and sore, ready to sleep and forget it happened. To forget being chased, hunted. To forget the murder you witnessed.

The subsequent morning felt like a punishment for a crime in your past-life. Memories melded together, all rushing back too quickly to process. You hoped it was just a horrible, realistic dream. It felt like a dream, and you might have tricked yourself into believing it if it weren't for the smear of dried blood smudged across your pillow. Your hand flew to your chin, where you felt the beginning of a large, rough scab. When you finally crawled over your boyfriend’s sleeping form and into the bathroom, the mirror showed the giant scrape going from the middle of your chin to your collarbone.

You winced as you ran a finger over it, noticing the way an ugly purple and red bruise begins to bloom across the delicate skin of your throat. It was ugly, but nothing serious. You recalled how you tripped and fell violently to the ground, chin skidding across rough pavement. The scrape throbbed at the memory. Calling out of work felt somehow worse than everything else, and your boss’ mildly inconvenienced tone while wishing you a ‘get better’ barely consoled your shaky breathing. Almost immediately afterwards, you heard the familiar sound of the bed springs shifting emanating from the bedroom. Out of the doorway comes your boyfriend, sleep surrounding his dark-pitted eyes. He kisses you on the center of your forehead, breath hot and heavy against your skin. He allows you to slip past him, and follows you into the living room.

“I’m sorry about what happened. I should have been there, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He sounds surprisingly genuine. He looks into your eyes, and you feel like you should have never blamed him in the first place. He doesn’t consider the massive bruise on your neck when he hugs you, pressing into it with his shoulder as he pulls you tightly into him. He asks again for you to recall the events of the previous night, and questions if you’d consider going to the police. It goes like that into the night, him asking you to re-state your memories, not even considering the possibility that you don’t want to remember it. It would be easier to pretend it never happened than to deal with the lasting effects of such an event. When you were laying in bed together that night, he kissed you softly and allowed you to fall asleep against his chest. You decided then that you’d stay.

He dropped you off at work the next morning, and kissed your cheek when took his departure. You’d spent at least an hour beforehand attempting to cover the bruise with makeup, but your attempt was obviously not enough. You’d seen your coworker’s brow raise with surprise as you walked in, and you pretend not to notice. You explain it away as a bad fall, claiming to have tripped on your own shoelaces.

“I’m way too clumsy.” You’d said, laughing slightly. She didn’t believe you, but didn’t care enough to push it further. She waved goodbye as you clocked in, and you returned it with more fervor than you had meant to. It was incredibly slow that day, and normally you’d have plucked all your hair out from boredom. Today, you were happy it was slow. You didn’t have to deal with anyone, mainly regulars who knew what they wanted already, and took leave without much of anything else.

You found yourself in the same position a week later, and the incident in the alley felt more like a suppressed memory you weren't sure happened. You were crouched behind your counter, trying your best to scrape off an old sticker from the worn tile below. You cringed at the residue it left under your index fingernail, wiping it on your pants. The door chimed as it opened, and someone stepped in silently. You cleared your throat, knees popping as you stood up.

“Hey, welcome-”

The words died in your throat as you laid your eyes upon the man standing at the door. He said nothing, giving you a slight nod as he scanned his eyes over the store interior. You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling exposed. You couldn’t explain why he shook you so much, why he was so unsettling, or why you were so nervous. You brushed it off on the simple fact that he was an attractive man. His hands were buried casually in his khaki pants, messenger bag slung over his wide shoulders. His dark-red hair blew slightly under the air conditioner mantled to the wall, shiny with sweat. Thick biceps flexed under the bright-blue button up clinging to his skin, and there was a noticeable wet patch of sweat under his collar. He seemed to feel your eyes on him, because he turned his head and caught your eye. You looked down quickly, pretending to look at the informational pamphlet taped to the countertop. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, and your throat throbbed when you tried to swallow the feeling down. You busied yourself by trying to scrape and peel off the sticky residue on your fingers, not looking up even as another customer wandered in.

The tip of someone’s foot thumped on the counter, and you let out a hesitant breath as you raised your head to greet the man standing in front of you. His hands remained in his pockets, giving you the same curt nod he did when he entered.

You opened your mouth to speak, cleared your throat instead. His lips spread into a tight smile, and he looked over your face quickly, not saying anything. He felt.. familiar. Like you’d seen him before, like you’d spoken with him many times over. You blink up at him, lips parted slightly in thought as you try to recall any reason why you’d know him. It was his turn to clear his throat now, and it embarrassingly startled you.

“Hi.” He said simply, never once breaking eye contact.

“H-hi.” You stammered over your response, a feeling of unease spreading across your stomach.

“Could you help me find something? I’m looking for tape.” His voice is soft, raspy in a way that scratches a part of your brain.

You nod, looking from his imposing gaze to his stubbled jaw. You tripped slightly as you rounded the corner of the counter, cursing yourself quietly. He pretends not to notice. He follows you down the crafting aisle, and you point to the array of tapes lining the hooked stands. You turn to face him, and you’d never felt more uncomfortable to be in the presence of a customer. He stares at your face as if he was trying to memorize every detail, savoring every nervous tremble of your lip and twitch of your nose. You clap your hands together, and he doesn’t react to the noise.

“Got anything stronger? Little project I’m working on.” His voice sounds closer than he is.

“Like.. like duct tape?” You answer, looking away from him and pretending to fix something on the shelf.

“Yeah, like duct tape.” He repeats, smiling in a way that his teeth are visible. It makes you feel warm.

The aisle feels like it’s stretching on when you walk down it, and the man stays entirely silent as he practically glides behind you. A roll of duct tape catches your eye immediately, and you bend down to pick it up. When you stand back up, he’s right in front of you. You bump into his chest and gasp, tape falling out of your grip as you bring your hands to cover your mouth.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were behind me-”

He cuts you off with a hearty laugh, quickly snatching the tape from the floor as he pops up with a sudden energy. Like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly you’re a close friend he’s known for ages.

“Don’t sweat it, I have a habit of not paying attention to the things I do. Hey, I bumped into my coworker this morning and spilled coffee all over him.” He chortles, and tosses the roll of tape into the air like it’s a ball he’s playing catch with. It puts you at ease slightly, and you laugh with him. Still, his eyes see you in a way you’re not sure you want to be seen. He tells you some story of how the coworker almost choked him for it on the way to checkout, but you barely listen to what he’s saying. Instead, you think of the way he looked at you earlier. Present, but distant. Like a mask. He stops on the outside of the countertop, and you shoot him a quick smile while you scan the barcode on the tape.

“Whoa.” He muttered, and his hand suddenly shot forward to your neck. His brow falls as his fingertips trace the faded outline of the bruise and the scrape gently, and a small noise catches in your throat at the burning feeling. He notices, pulling his hand away. You can feel the invisible trail he left, the feeling resonating deeply.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just- I mean, I didn’t notice. What happened?”

He sounds concerned, genuinely, but it sounds uncanny. Too concerned for someone you’ve just met.

“Um..” You begin, quickly regaining your already crumbling composure. “..fell.” You muttered.

He clicks his tongue, cocking his head to the side, looking intently at the area before flickering his gaze to your face.

“I’m a detective. Or, well, Forensics, but a bruise like that is more consistent with serious trauma not caused by a little fall.”

Detective? Forensics? You stare at his hands as he talks.

His hands.

His hands.

Deep, foreboding dread opens a pit in your stomach. You know those hands. You know the pink-tinted fingernails and freckled flesh. The hands that belonged to the man killed the one who chased you, the one who lifted a finger to his lips. The ones you tried so hard to forget.

“Were you pushed?” His tone is different.

You shake your head.

“You know, you can tell me if you need help.” He leans in close. “I can help.” You can smell the aftershave on his skin.

You shake your head again, pushing the tape into his hands.

“My name is Dexter. What’s yours?”

You whisper your name, never once looking up from the tape, now clutched in his hands.

“You can tell me what happened. Do you remember?”

Your head shot up, nearly knocking into his. Remember?

He smiles at that, corners of his lips fliting up in a small smirk.

“Somebody went missing a week ago, last seen in the area. You know anything about that?”

Your eyes go wide, and you almost want to say yes.

“Did you see anything?”

It sounds like a threat. Like he’s asking a rhetorical question, one he knows the answer to and doesn’t want a response for. His voice is deep, resonating in your ears like a bassline in a song. You shake your head again, lips parted and breathing faltered. Your heart beats out of rhythm, and he leans in closer than before. His forehead almost brushes yours, and the proximity made you want to vomit. If it were any other circumstance, maybe you would’ve felt flattered. Seen, flustered. Presently, you felt like he wanted to peel the skin off your bones. Does a rabbit feel like this when it knows it's being hunted?

“Good.”

Your knees feet like gelatine. He pulls a crumbled piece of paper from a pocket on the outside of his messenger bag, grabbing your arm and placing it in your palm. His fingers meet around your forearm. The squeeze is gentle, but it leaves your skin feeling like it’s on fire. Goosebumps erupt up your arm, raising all the little hairs along the way. He doesn’t look at you when he places a neatly folded bill on the register, swiping the tape from the counter. You watch as he leaves, turning to face you one last time, bringing his hand up in an open-palmed wave as the doors swung open for him.

“Call me if you remember anything. It’s a special case, afterall.”

With that, the door chimes as it closes. You take a minute to breathe before you unfold the paper, and written in neat writing are a series of digits, with Dexter written neatly under them. You barely get to the trashcan before bile erupts from your stomach.

[draconic-lesbian]

Dragon who can talk telepathically and doesn’t use her mouth to speak is so fucking good. Feeling your face getting pushed into a pile of gold as she holds you down, her weight keeping you from being able to wiggle free as she whispers sweet, comforting words into your mind, but all the while snarling and growling in your ears with her physical mouth