#dark cod

[pricesbug]

Sorry but forced pleasure is…top tier. Johnny holding you down with a bruising hold, his grabby hands kneading at the soft plush of your body. While Simon is perched between your wriggling legs holding a vibrator to you, all swollen and messy. They of course pay no mind to your pitiful begging and pleading. They ignored it when they swept you off your feet and brought you “home”, why would they humor you now?

[bunny-jpeg]

better than home (kidnapper!simon) - you had seen enough horror movies to know that being kidnapped meant being on the news, being butchered, and being a cold case. but simon wasn't like that. except for the bruises he left when he took you, his touch had gentle. kind in a way that someone would brush their cat.

you flinched under his touch, but he just simply shushed you. "not gonna break a thing on ya, angel." that was his name for you. angel. he said that it was like you were given to him fro heaven, "if i do, i give ya the right to put a knife between my ribs."

it was unnerving to say the least. in the tiny home you both shared, locks on the windows, you had never seen a front door that needed a key to unlock from the outside. you tried getting out, but simon was simply so much bigger and stronger, that he didn't need to hurt you herd you back into a safer place.

"don't need to think about much anymore. safer here." he said in his gruff voice. you didn't know what kind of life this man had lived, but with the hunting knife on the coffee table, the well-used rifle over the fireplace and the old army formals in his closet. you knew that there was a story.

it didn't sink in till the first week, but you didn't have to worry about anything. you moved through the house on your own, when you scurried into rooms simon sometimes didn't follow. it was like he was bird-watching. keeping a close eye and admiring you. except you weren't exactly a free bird, rather a delicate beauty in a shiny cage.

you were surprised that simon had your favourite snacks in the pantry, even the same brand of plant-based milk you enjoyed. it was like he knew everything about you, and yet he was a total mystery.

"scary world out there." simon said, kept his distance from you in the recliner while you were curled up in the couch. you had taken a liking to a black and white checkered flannel blanket. it reminded you of the one back home, that you wondered if he just broke in a took it. he eyed you, which made it hard to read one of your many books, "pretty things like you need to be protected... bad men out there." as if this massive mountain of a man wasn't one of those so-called bad men.

you were in no place to argue. you still felt like you were in a spring locked trap and one wrong move would have it clamped down on you. that this was just some sick game before simon buried your body in the field behind the house.

"when can i go home?" you asked, finding your voice.

"this is better than home."

"are you going to kill me?" you asked before you swallowed the lump in your throat.

he shook his head, "no, ma'am. never." sounded like wedding vows rather than an answer. your curiosity only grew with each day. when you finished the books he brought you, he simply put them back in a bag and returned them from where they came from and came back with new ones.

"saw them on the shelf at the library, thought a woman like you would like them." he gave a curt nod as he dropped the canvas bag by your little nest of blankets on the floor by the television. you hadn't been able to watch television yet. primarily busied with sleeping, books, puzzles and notebooks where you had been writing.

and while it started a journal in the event the police found you. it had become more about fictional stories. for your personal pleasure. you thought about being a writer as a child, but the grind of corporate work in your adulthood seemed to dash that dream.

"next time." you said, feeling a little bold, "can you get some science fiction books too...." it felt uneasy to make any demands. he was your captor.

"well then, angel. be good for me then." he said, smiled under that mask. you looked over and made a face at him. you scampered off back into your nest of books and puzzles. maybe he was right, this was better than home. <3

a/n: this is unwell, i hope you enjoyed it. thank you!!

[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.)

[diejager]

I can’t stop thinking about reader who’s a ballerina and 141 being absolutely obsessed with her, to the point they just have to have her.

Cw: DARKFIC, possessive tf141, ballerina!reader, obsessive behavious, tell me if I missed any.

It felt like something right out of a princess story, down to the T. They found you, a pretty, little thing in need of comfort and safety, frail and graceful on that stage. You twirled and threw your leg up, back arched so deeply that Soap had almost lost his mind. You looked so beautiful on the main stage, dancing under the bright, leading light that made you the main attraction of the theatre. You were made for the stage, for the light and the elegance of ballet, and the mask you hid under brightened your eyes, the glimmering gems accentuating the curve and fluffiness of your lashes.

They watched, eyes never straying from your body in the mass of dancers, easily finding you despite you mingling and switching places with others. You were just so perfect that it was hard to not find you. They had enjoyed the ballet show, all of it, from the dancing bodies to the melodic violins, cello and flute. Until men barged into the room, weapons pointed to the baroque ceiling and shot, firing dozens of rounds that fell down on a panicking crowd, pushing and fighting to get out of the room before they were gunned down by these men.

There was the reason they came to the show for. Where you were an unexpected and amazing distraction, the true attraction had finally arrived. Everyone had followed the plan, but Ghost had kept an eye on your fleeting figure, rushing behind the curtains and into the backstage, you were one of the few that managed to escape through the emergency exit at the back. With you safely secure by the second team they posted outside every exit, the four of them could concentrate on getting this plan executed.

Gaz had worked with traumatised crowds, instinctively finding you seated abord an ambulance, a thick blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Price and the others watched a small smile light up your face, cheeks slightly flushed from the adrenaline of the situation and a small laugh bubbling from you during your conversation with Gaz. He had always been the softest, the warmest and the most welcoming of them. Gaz was and will always be the easiest to approach, that’s why he dealt with crowds more often than them, and lucky them, Gaz had charmed your number into his phone.

He called every two days, forming a routine where you became used to his voice, creating a codependency between him and you. It helped that they missed you as much as you missed Gaz, your voice sounding out from Gaz’s phone with a light tone and airy laugh whenever he made a joke or a cheeky remark for them. Then he introduced you to another, incorporating Soap into your routine call and it couldn’t have gone any better. It was like gasoline to a dying fire, Soap’s cheek and golden retriever-like behaviour made you cackle and roll over in full-chested laughter.

For a while, it was only the three of you, hours spent on the phone talking and gossiping like Asian aunts, until Price and Ghost’s names (well, the mention of them) came up during. You shyly brought them up, your tone worried after Soap had told you about the rigged car, wondering about their injuries when they told you they had a few scrapes and burns. The two, who usually sat in the back of your calls, spoke up, Ghost’s dark growl and Price’s deeper rumble reassured you that they came out in better condition than the other side (you laughed and the four of them couldn’t help falling deeper in love).

You were always on their minds, if you weren’t on call, where they could hear you, feel you smile or bathe in your presence, and if they weren’t going to your ballet show, watching you twirl and dance and simply glow, they would be thinking of and about you. Your charming giggles. You sweet smiles. Your elegance. Your bright personality. Your snark. Everything about you made it hard to stop themselves from wanting more, and more and more. And soon enough, daily calls with you weren’t enough.

taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce   

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 3

Dark!Poly!141 x reader

Last | Next

Series Masterlist - Here

Warning: Descriptions of female anatomy, negative conceptions about anxiety/panic attacks, medical scenes, depictions of cuts/injuries, etc

Shit.

They had definitely heard that floorboard creak. The sound practically bounced off the walls in the almost silent cabin.

You heard the shuffling in the kitchen come to a stop. Before it had sounded like the group of men that had invaded your dwelling were rifling through the cupboard, searching for something. Now it seemed as if they were all unanimously holding their breath, waiting for another sound to pass through the cabin.

For another few moments you freeze. Hoping they think the sound was a byproduct of the old wooden cabin you all found yourself in, not you creeping down the staircase.

You heard shuffling again in the kitchen and assumed they resumed their searching. You take in a slow, deep breath. Trying to stay as calm as possible. You need to remember your training from Gunner and everything that you learnt before Miasma.

You let your diaphragm relax, lungs expanding and eyes focusing. You take a deep breath through your nose, allowing your head to clear and you to focus.

The front door is your target. All you need to do is get down the stairs, creep across the entry way and unlock it. From your place on the second floor, you can see over the banister that four sets of black boots sit on the mat by the front door. If you can make it down the stairs and slip on a pair of boots you should have some protection against the snow and stone outside. Maybe the men came in some sort of transport, you think.

A part of you knows you’re kidding yourself thinking you can slip out the front door undetected, but you have to try.

Moving in the balls of your feet you slip down the stairs. You stay in the middle of the steps, cushioning your feet on the red carpet running up the staircase. Once you reach the bottom, you press yourself against the wall. You take another silent breath.

You just need to make it to the door. Just a few quick steps and you’ll be there.

The words seem hollow now knowing that the four intruders are just next door to you in the kitchen. But you have to try.

You rush to the front door. With one hand you grab two boots, with the other you pull frantically at the door. As it opens and the light from outside pours in, a gloved skeleton hand slams it shut.

The Goliath’s body crowds your own as he pins you to the door. One gloved hand grips the back of your neck, making you seize up on the spot, the other trails down your hip.

You can’t help the shout that falls from your lips as your chance at escape is foiled, “No!”

Your arms are pinned behind your back soon after. The action pulling at your shoulders and reawakening one particular nasty gash on your side.

“That was bampot of you Bonnie, thinking you could sneak out under our noses.” The man with the Mohawk chides in his thick accent. He learns against the small fireplace in the main sitting room.

Now all the men are either sat or stood around you. Some with grim looks, others ticked off, all of them intimidating to you.

You sit in the middle of the sofa. Your hands are now tied together in front of you in white climbing rope. After your struggle with the skeleton man, there had been a flurry of action from the other men. A moment or two later after the Goliath has pinned your back to his front, their leader faced you with the rope in hand. You suspected it had come from one of their bags. The rope would blend in to the terrain here.

Sat in little apart from your oversized boxers and white T-shirt, you waited for their next move.

“We aren’t that bad love. You didn’t need to run off in nothing but your skivvies.” The pretty man tells you. He sits in one of the chairs off to the side, his brown eyes piercing yours. The longer he looks at you, the longer you think they might be hiding some flecks of green beneath.

“Being in your skivvies doesn’t matter if you’ve got a rendezvous point nearby,” Skeleton man spits. “You’ll tell us straight if there are more of you round here, right now.” He stands near the window, periodically looking out and checking for signs of life in the vast white.

The man in charge, sits with his ankle over his knee. Calmly, he raises his hand, “Easy Ghost, I’m sure the girl was just scared. Four big men breaking into the house, waking up to finding them looking at her.” His voice is soft, it almost pulls you in. Yet you detect a danger underneath it, like some kind of pitfall.

“Now, I seem to recall we needed to look at those injuries,” The man pulls a small first aid box from the side of chair he sits on, something you didn’t see before.

“I told you I’m fine.” You try arguing and move back on the sofa as an effort to make yourself smaller.

“It seems your story just doesn’t add up lass,” Mohawk starts “Were ye captive or are you a wee liar?”

“Be a good girl and let us take a look.” Pretty man tells you, looking ready to pounce at the first sign of you trying to escape again.

“It wouldn’t take much for us to force you, it’s better this way love.” The man in charge tells you.

A moment passes, tense. The air is charged with, something. You decide that even though you don’t want to bare anymore skin than needed to these men, doing it yourself is better than having them do it for you.

“Fine.” You spit. Words holding more attitude than any of your previous exchanges.

You slowly move your rope bound hands to the bottom of the oversized T-shirt. You pull it up to just below your breasts, baring some large bruises and the nasty gash that isn’t quite healing.

“See love, was that so hard?” The man in charge taunts. “Now all the way off.”

Your eyes bulge, “Absolutely not! I have nothing underneath.”

“And how good of you to think we would care.” Skelton man snarks.

“I am not taking my top off in front of you all. Just pass me the first aid kit and I’ll sort myself out.” You say indignantly.

“Well, it seems we’re at a bit of an impasse.” With a motion of hand from the man in charge, the skeleton man is stalking towards you.

You bolt from your chair only to be tackled by the pretty man. Rough hands are pulling up the white T-shirt, higher and higher. Finally, it’s over your head and on the floor. You let out a squeak and press yourself to the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the pretty man.

“Looks like ye got a friend, Gaz.” Mohawk laughs.

You keep your face down and cling tightly to the man, using his body to save your modesty.

“Well this won’t do, can’t clean her up like this Price.” The skeleton man grumbles.

Your grip on Gaz doesn't loosen as the men plan their next move. Your mind is running at a mile a minute and you feel your head getting gradually lighter as your breathing becomes quick and shallow. A panic attack? No, you were better than that, stronger than that. Gunner had told you so.

Amongst the arguing of the men around you, your mind wanders. Back when you were younger, much younger. When you were just a girl. A girl, who didn't fully understand how much her life would change. Your father had just been murdered in the house you had made into a temporary base as you ran from your mother country.

Armed men broke in, found your father and killed him. At seven you were unable to do anything to help. Only capable of sitting in the dark wardrobe and keeping quiet.

After a few hours, when you were sure the men had left, you crept out from the closet. In your hand you nursed a small teddy, still soft and gentle looking. On the floor you found your father.

Your mind blocked out a lot from the rest of that day. Small fragments of murky memory sometimes prevail through the darkness when you think hard enough. In the mirrors of your mind you see yourself curled up to his side, oblivious to the smell of the decaying body your father once owned. Later in the memories Gunner finds you, rips you away from him before burning the house that he lies in. He made you leave your teddy in the house that day, something about destroying evidence, something a child wouldn't understand.

When you sobbed and cried and yelled for it back he berated you. Told you to grow up. And that's what you did for the next 15 years.

"Look at what you've done to her boys, she's bleeding now", The man in charge tells the room as he lights up a cigar.

"She shouldn't struggle so much then Price", Skelton answers with snark.

"Can't have her bleeding all over the place Captain. We can at least try to clean her like this", The man you now know as Gaz rumbles lowly, trying not to frighten you anymore.

"You're too soft Gaz, could be a enemy spy for all we know and you're sat cuddling her like a kid". Skelton spits through his balaclava.

Gaz sighs, "The girls clearly frightened by us and stripping her down hasn't helped. The poor thing is panicking, look at her".

"Could just be an act". He spat in response.

"Give off Ghost, where's that kind and loving side to ya we all know?". The mohawk laughs as the Skeleton man, Ghost, gives him an incredulous look with his pale blue eyes.

"Enough of this. Ghost, Soap, go and clean up". The Captain orders them.

They both turn to Kyle who holds you and look like they want to make an argument to stay but after a few seconds decide against it.

Price puts out his cigar and moves closer to Kyle and sits down with the first aid kit on a chair next to him.

"Now I can't promise this won't hurt like a bitch, but most of these look pretty deep love and if you don't want them infected, I'll need to wash 'em out. Okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer from you before he grabs a bottle of saline water, soaking a few cotton balls with the stuff.

"Hold her steady Kyle", two arms wrap around you, one at your neck and the other at your ass, effectively pulling you closer to the man and trapping you against his body.

It feels like acid being poured into your cuts and wounds. The feeling makes your vision go white and a hiss to escape from your gritted teeth.

"Easy girl. take it easy" You find the advice hard to listen to when the very man sets your skin alight with salty water and cotton.

He continues cleaning to the sound of your whimpers and moans of pain. When he attends to the deeper cuts you try to fight and wriggle away. It proves pointless for you, but the movement prompts a rush of blood to Kyle's cock, not that you notice in your haze of pain and continuous movements.

"Right, get her on her side" The captain commands. Kyle forces you to the side on his lap. He locks one arm around your breasts and grips around your arm at the other side. His second arm goes to securing your hips to his best he can.

"This ones deep. Might even need Ghost to come and do the stitches." The thought of the gruff man poking you with a needle in the name of medicine does not appeal to you in the slightest. That must have manifested on your face as it cases the Captain to laugh.

"Alright lovie, lets get it cleaned and wrapped and see what it's like tomorrow. You'll just have to be careful." He tells you as he gets back to work. Now wrapping certain parts of your torso in gauze where he deems it's needed.

"Maybe save your escape attempts for when you can bend to the side without needing a doctor afterwards." Kyle tells you.

You roll your eyes at the wall in front of you. A particularly rough swipe of the cotton ball causes you to yelp. You twist your head to the Captain who holds his hands up to apologise, but there's something underlying in his eyes, a glimmer of enjoyment. What a sadist, you think.

"Right move her so I can clean her front".

You found yourself moved again. This time with your back to Kyle. His arms lock around your breasts and hips. Your eyes meet the Captains. Once again his eyes assess you, your face, your body, your injuries. Reading you, observing you, trying to figure you out.

"They don't seem as bad on the front." He muses, the notion causing you to scoff at his nonchalance.

Again he cleans any cuts he finds with the cotton balls. Taking care to gentle pull and stretch any skin around your abdomen to best clean the wounds. That's what you tell yourself anyway as you try not to focus on his hungry gaze when he touches your skin.

He takes one of your legs in his large palm and holds it straight, looking for further injuries. Then he takes the next and does the same. He must not find anything worth a swipe with the cotton ball but his hands remain on your legs, slowly creeping up your thighs. Softly, he rubs circles in your thighs with his thumbs, watching your face as it contorts to confused to the slightest bit relaxed. Then he abruptly pulls back, grabbing the oversized T-shirt from the floor and helping Kyle to slip it over your head.

When you've sat down again the Ghost man appears at the door. The Captain turns to him and smiles.

"How do you feel about taking the night watch Ghost?"

The pale blue eyes behind the balaclava dart over to your form. Watching you as you squirm on the sofa.

"Would be my pleasure Captain."

[bi-writes]

thinking about being the new addition to tf141. you are an asset given to laswell by the CIA, a timid little thing but your aim is always on target, and you are quiet, tech savvy, and you do as you're told. (18+, dark)

just how lieutenant riley prefers. he dwarfs you. the first time you meet, your eyes nearly come out of your head from how wide they go. he's so large, and you feel so tiny compared to him, and even though he does nothing but a disinterested once over, it is obvious to the rest of the team that you might just be his favorite.

it's most obvious in the subtle touches. when you're getting ready to jump, ghost comes up from behind and tugs on your parachute, nearly topping you over making sure it's secure. when you're getting ready in the back of the humvee, he reaches over and buckles your thigh holster for you when he notices the strap is coming loose. you nearly choke when you feel his big hand between your thighs, and you stare up at him with wide eyes when his pinkie moves up the seam of your zipper when he tugs his hand away.

and then the way he's on your six is unlike anything else. like glue, chest pressed to your back, his gloved hand squeezing your waist as he moves you every which way he pleases because you're so small to him, so easy, and he growls under his breath when he touches the curve of your hips or the fat of your ass.

maybe you might enjoy it if he wasn't so fucking awkward about it. if he didn't stare at you without blinking. if he didn't adjust his cock in his jeans right in front of you. if he didn't grip you by the back of your head, tugging you any way he wanted as if scolding a kitten using the scruff of their neck.

you think the team would notice by now--that they would step in, tell ghost to back off, but they turn a blind eye. they tolerate this behavior, and you don't know if it's because ghost is so good at his job, they don't want to, or that they are so afraid of him, they refuse to say anything.

or maybe they approve. maybe it keeps ghost at bay. maybe it keeps a lion in his den. a spider in its nest. maybe indulging ghost in his fucked form of flirting and socialization is what keeps the foundations of this team right where it needs to be--and you realize, slowly, that maybe that is why you're here.

because ghost likes them soft, and they need to put a muzzle on their dog.

so when you feel him in the dark, slipping a gloved hand under the blanket that keeps you warm at night, he is pleasantly surprised to find you awake. and even more surprised to feel your hand slipping the soft lace of your panties right into his fucking pocket.

"they teach y'that 'n basic training? how ta give y'r knickers to y'r lieutenant, eh?"

"no," you whisper, and when you meet his eyes in the dark, he looks so hungry. he's untamed, no training, he's used to getting what he wants with no resistance. you turn over in bed, and you don't get to see the way he sucks on his teeth when you let your knees fall, revealing the pretty place between your thighs, soft and puffy and wet, just waiting for a good mutt to eat her up. "but i learned other things."

"tha' right?"

"yeah," you say softly, and you turn over onto your stomach, pushing back onto your knees right in front of him. he bends, leaning over until he's pushing his masked face right into the seam of your cunt, and you grip the sheets tight when he inhales deeply, a rumble following as both of his hands grip either side of your ass and spread you open for him. you're drooling, wetting the nylon fabric, and you gasp when you feel the wet, warm muscle of his tongue suck on your folds through the mask. it's lewd, and you're wetting the material so much it sticks to the strong lines of his face, but he continues, tilting his head to the side as he laps at the pretty slick that dampens your thighs.

"what'd y'learn then, swee'eart?"

not how to fuck your lieutenant. but...you did learn to keep them happy.

"h-how to be a good girl."

and you think you feel him smile.

[konigsblog]

cw: stepcest, non-con, forced impregnation, somnophilia — dead dove: do not eat. 18+ 🔞

i hate waking up from a nap with a headache (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)...

instead, it got me thinking about stepbro-könig and somnophilia. i know for a fact, that könig's search history is full of stepcest porn and filthy pornos, those cliché porn videos where someone is stuck in a tight area, vulnerable and defenceless against everything, with titles relating to a perverted and corrupted step sibling.

könig feels gross and ashamed getting off to the thought of his stepsister in such provocative ways — he knows he should protect you and think of you in appropriate ways, but he can't stand watching you come home from a college party with hickeys all down your body, he needs you for himself...

but fuck, he's insatiable for you and can't help himself. his heavy, weeping dick begins to grow and throb and twitch whilst held firmly in his large hand, weeping fat globs of his hot semen, running down his calloused fingertips.

at some point, könig decides to take the next step, deciding to re-enact his disgusting desires, sinking deeper inside your swollen, glistening folds whilst you're sleeping silently, your peacefulness interrupted by your depraved, selfish stepbrother. könig's thrusts are slow and sloppy, fucking his meaty dick deeper into your dripping folds. he can hear the sounds of your quiet mewls and little moans, panting, heaving and squirming beneath him as he uses your body for his own pleasure and depravity.

i mean, it's almost expected that könig would probably record this to get off to. or maybe, you'd find yourself posted onto a porn website, completely unaware of his disgusting, dark fantasies and behaviour.

fuck, he will even contemplate knocking you up so that you don't really have a choice — so that people don't look at you perversely, like you're nothing but a plaything. you have no clue who impregnated you, or how this even happened, and you're distraught — you haven't had sex with anyone, or at least to your knowledge !!

oh, your poor, little thing... although, you begin to get suspicious when you realise your newborn, chubby baby looks scarily similar to your stepbrother, or how könig takes a fatherly approach to your baby, cradling him as if he was his own.

you feel sick to your stomach at the realisation. someone you thought would never put you in harm's way, someone who you thought would protect you for an eternity... :(

[gremlingottoosilly]

That Unwanted Animal [COD Fantasy AU] CursedKnight!Ghost x fem!Reader

Ghost was cursed ever since his king helped him get back to life from his grave. A stench of death, strong and inescapable, renders him unable to find a woman who will be willing to bed him. What will happen when he finally finds a perfect mate? CW and Tags: Dub-con, power imbalance, Medieval Fantasy AU, knight!Ghost, servant!Reader, sex work, brothels, dub-con kissing and touching, obsessive Ghost, dark Ghost, basically Ghost finds a girl and forces her to be his, Ghost is a half-dead resurrected knight, soft reader, submissive Reader.

AO3 Word Count: 2209

“I won’t go to him, he smells!”

“Drop the act, princess, not even half of our guests reek of anything more than their drinks and foul meat.” 

“You know how he smells, Katherine. You know what he is.” “What he is, is a client. Rich one. Do you wish to moan under the belly of another failing merchant? Or a peasant’s dick is more to your liking?” “I bring this place more than half of its earnings! I won’t bed a man who has barely got out of his grave and should be put back!” Ghost sighs, his head pressed against the wooden wall. For a brothel, this place has remarkably thin walls. For a brothel, girls out here have remarkably potent noses – and acquired tastes for anything that doesn’t taste like a man who was brought back to life with dead souls still clinging onto every inch of his very being. 

For a man of his regals – the blessed knight, the cursed knight, the kiss-your-enemies-goodnight, the spill-your-blood-he might, he has a particular choice in the brothel he tried to entertain himself with. Not like any willing woman would bed him without a sum of gold enough to feed a family for months – and not like he stood low enough to force himself on poor servants of his castle, bringing his dignity and family name down with each handmaiden he tried to grope while on meeting with the king. 

“Do you think he is really dead?” “Dead man wouldn’t need a cunt to drown himself in. He had to have something working.” “Maybe he likes to watch? Or to hurt.” “Maybe, we can’t afford to turn him down, princess. Drop your act before he is willing to burn us down for refusing him.” “Well, I heard he went through every brothel in town. Not a single soul bedded him!” “I heard he doesn’t even like girls. Has his royal knight by his side all day.” “He came alone.” “He will be coming alone for the rest of his life with a smell like this!” “Dark magic. King should have known to not trust the Empire and their lurkings.” “Having a blessed knight is good, no? We’re not at war.” “Cursed knight is good in your army, not your bed. But if you are so willing…”

He hears women – from the madam of this fine place, a woman of fine manners, exquisite figure, and the way of looking at him that almost convinces that she doesn’t want to press her fingers against her nose, blocking the smell of death that follows him ever since he became…that. He hears girls of not-so-fine manners, with fine bodies and perfect pretty faces, gentle hands that don’t know about the trials of war. He remembers the way they looked at him – the way they always looked at him. 

Scary, horrendous, dangerous. A skull mask and dark tendrils of smoke follow his body, the Grim Reaper himself embedded in his dark armor. No matter how many perfumes he uses, no matter how many washes per day he forces himself onto, nothing can hide the stench of death. He thought he’d be fine with it as long as his battle brothers were with him – as long as he was with them. 

Then he got lonely. 

Finding a lay in the brothel would be a scandal for a man of his status – but Simon Riley is no man. Not anymore, at least. 

“I bet he wears a mask because he is hideous.” “Maybe he is just wounded?” “What kind of wound would make him hide his face while not being hideous?” “Maybe, he just doesn’t want to show his face here.” “No use. By the dawn, all women in the capital will know about great lord Riley, refuced at every brothel.” “What if he kills us?” “What if he burns us?” “What if he…” “Let the servant bring him tea. Make her useful.” Before he could react – as if eavesdropping on a bunch of whores was something of a pleasant chore he was dealing with – a door to his room had opened. Girl, in much simpler clothes than the ones that courtesans were wearing. With a tea tray in her shaky hands, grabbing the poor thing like there was no tomorrow. Huh. Perhaps, with a mug like his as her client, there is no tomorrow for a poor girl. 

Ghost sits on the bed, large, muscular legs spread, his dick swaying with attention the longer he is looking at your face. He can’t be picky, not in his state as a not-dead not-man, but he has to admit that you’re pretty. Without all the mannerisms of a prostitute, you look like a poor deer stuck in the predator’s den. Your hands are shaking – but he looks at your face, having no shame in drinking up your expression like a vampire – and he didn’t once saw you wince at the smell. Hm. Must be potent tea you’re serving. 

— I didn’t ask for the tea. 

Rude, as always – he didn’t come here to be ridiculed by poor attempts at pleasing him without a girl under him, getting her pretty legs open for his cock. He didn’t intend to come here and listen to all of the workers laughing at him like he was a monster – yet, he can’t leave now, his wounded ego grows into something ugly. 

— Most of our clients prefer to drink this before the…act. It makes them more potent, as they say. 

His cock didn’t have any warm body to dump his semen in years. He doesn’t need tea to make him hard – he sees the glimpse of your skin under those simple robes of yours, and he can already feel it stir, standing up for attention. 

— You don’t sound too certain. Your client must not drink it then. 

— I…I am not a prostitute, sir. Merely a servant. 

He knows already – your makeup is too plain, your manners are off, your clothes are simple grey wool with not a dash of color. If you were his – as a prostitute, a wife, a lover – he would bring you something much brighter and skimpier. You’d look good in silks, he thinks. 

Not like you’d allow him to bring you home – not willingly, at least. 

— So I figured, love. You’re pretty enough to be one, that’s clear. 

“You’re pretty enough to be a prostitute” is a compliment that only sounds good in the head of a man who hasn’t talked sweetly to a woman in ages. His whole life, perhaps, exchanging the embrace of a lady with tight hugs of the war. 

— You’re flattering me, sir. 

— Bloody hell, woman. Not a flattery if that’s the truth. 

— If you say so. 

You shift under his gaze like a rabbit in front of an apex predator. Ghost doesn’t want to force any woman to sleep with him – but he looks at the sway of your chest, at the softness of your hips, at the way you tug and scratch on the rough fabric of your skirt as you’re too nervous to look at him…

He must contain himself. 

— Why you work as a servant? 

— I…tried to be a prostitute, sir. Most clients here don’t like it when you’re not…

He slowly rocks his body closer to you, his head almost laying on your shoulder. He saw the way you looked at him as he leaned to you – you’re surprised, scared, but not disgusted. your nose didn’t twitch a single time, and he is sure that no tea would ever make you this blind to the stench of death lingering on your shoulder now. 

There must be something wrong with you – and he wants to save you like a rare treasure because of it. 

— Most clients here don’t like what, luv? 

— I…have damage, sir. 

So he figured. Just didn’t exactly know what you have. 

— What is it? 

— A…after a bad cold, my sense of smell…never returned. Not for the last three years. 

— You don’t smell anythin’? Must be bloody hard. 

— It is. But…I manage. As much as I can. 

He slowly drapes his hand over your shoulder – you wince at the touch. He thinks of the madam of your fine establishment. The woman didn’t seem the type to beat her girls, but you had such a shy, scared expression as he started to touch you, he can’t wait to burn this fucking place to the ground. Maybe spare a few of your friends if you’d ask him nicely. You won’t be working here again, ever – that much he can be sure of. 

— Doin’ a good job, love. 

— I hope so, sir. 

He drags his hand on your face, squeezing the soft skin of your cheek. You’re adorable – servants shouldn’t be so pretty, it makes him feel bad, it makes him sinful. He should try to hit on the girls who actually work here – not the poor soul that as sent here to bring him here, as a little lam sacrificed to a vicious god. 

— You don’t smell me, then? 

— I don’t smell anything, my lord. 

He chuckles, but your pained expression only makes him chuckle more. Poor thing, living in a place like this without a sense of smell – he can’t believe how you could survive without the smell of heavy incense and creams that all of the whores were using. He loves it when a pretty girl is making herself even prettier – makeup, all of those little elixirs they are putting on their faces, the flowery smells that make his rotting existence a bit easier. It never worked on him, on his disintegrating skin and stench that followed him everywhere – but then it dawned on him. 

You have such an adorable, shy smile and a small posture, playing with the edges of your clothes like a girl who is extremely embarrassed to be in a room with a man of his position. But women aren’t shy in his presence, not anymore – they are disgusted, horrified, they want to put their noses into little candy boxes and smell roses just to get rid of the smell. 

But you, adorable creature, aren’t disgusted. Hell, how he missed a pretty girl being so shy around him. 

Ghost kisses you before he can think of anything else. Before he could give you space to escape, to come to your senses and understand what kind of man he is. Broken, wounded, pushed to the cage, and locked with a key dangling from the side – god knows, Simon Riley isn’t a good man, never tried to be. Devil knows, he will drag you to the grave with him. 

Your lips are soft, untouched, you smell of cleaning supplies and sweet tea. Your hair smells like roses and dust, your hands are covered in little scabs – probably from the days spent cleaning and doing the hard work. He will make sure you will never have to work again, not with your hands, at least – he will kiss your callouses and nourish the skin into something delicate, fragile, to the smell of home he lost long ago. 

Your mouth tastes like heaven, and Ghost isn’t a man who deserves to push this angel further, isn’t a man who deserves to have a pretty girl moaning under him. He makes you cry, he terrifies you, he kisses you relentlessly and can feel the way your skin burns, tears streaming down your face. If he was a better man, he would oblige to your hands, pushing him away, your mouth is trying to cry for help. 

Simon Riley isn’t a good man, and he pushes you on your back, firms hands on your back, on your hips, touching, groping, feeling the skin of a somewhat willing woman. You’re scared, but you should know the kind of job girls here are doing – he didn’t pay all of this money for charity projects, after all. As much as he would pay even more gold just to take you away, to push your legs apart in a scenery much nicer than a room in a brothel. You deserve a real bed, a nice dress that he can rip away from you, 

All you get is his hands on your body, ripping your simple skirt apart because he can’t wait to get to the soft skin underneath. He looks at you, precious girl, as adorable as you are, and can’t resist kissing you, stealing breath from your skin. When he finally hears you moan, when his hand goes to grab the softness between your legs – moist, prepared, smelling of roses and arousal, of all things sweet and sinful – all of his sense of self-control shatters. 

He will take you on the floor of this room – over and over, claim you as his little maiden, his favorite girl, until he is sure his cursed, rotten seed has filled you to the brim. He will take you away, bringing as much money to your madam as he can manage, buying you all for himself – taking you as his prized possession for the new castle he was ordered to as a lord knight. 

Ghost will make you his, hells and heaven be damned. 

You cry, but he knows you’ll come around. And he can be very, very patient. 

[v1x3n]

⎯⎯ KONIG MASTERLIST...

━ fucking doll ◞ you act like a brat so he punishes you<3

━ stalker ◞ hes just a needy, pathetic little boy who has a crush on you!!

━ bad idea! ◞ based of the girl in red song 'bad idea!' - female!konig

━ nerd!konig ◞ your classmate is so awkward and pathetic this would be the only way he could loose his virginity!

[pricesbug]

Toxic Ex-Husband!Price Blurb

Summary: An extension of this. John is back home to take care of you, his sweet bird. He let you sow your wild oats. Let you let your hair down. But it was time for him to come home.

Content warning(s): exhusband!price is his own warning, toxic relationship, manipulation, abusive relationship, physical abuse, misogyny, power imbalance, only physical description of reader is they have hair price can pull, this is DARK and this is NOT a healthy relationship at all, you have been warned, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!1!1

A/N: Thinking about Price and his stupid little smile he does, you know the one. How condescending it is. Ugh I could fix him (he would hate me if he was real). Please pleASE PLEASE tell me your thoughts, I am literally dying to get feedback. Story under cut, ENJOY!!!

Your back and neck are tense as you shoulder the front door open. Grocery bags digging into your wrists, you’d be damned if you took more than one trip from the car. Toeing off your heels, toes cramping from the stiff material. Taking a deep breath and pausing in the foyer. Eyebrows knitting together as you exhale. Something is…different. The air. It feels imposing. Stifling. Checking your wrist, you sigh at the time. It was late, and your brain was more than likely just exhausted.

Padding into the kitchen and placing your grocery bags on the kitchen counter, you roll your neck around, groaning from the built-up tension. Once anything perishable is put away, you heave a deep sigh and shuffle into the living room.

Falling onto the plush couch, you let your head fall back and run your hands down your face. It had been a long week, work was overwhelming, accidentally becoming important at your corporate job was not in the cards originally, your mother was harassing you to sell your house, your car needed work, and the mechanic was trying to overcharge you. It would all be okay, though. You could do this. You could–

Something was off. Your eyebrows knitted together as you sat up on the couch. The house suddenly felt staggeringly large. And empty. Swallowing thickly, you reach for the lamp sitting on the small table by the couch. Gently tugging down the bronze chain. The wail that escapes you is guttural as the soft light finally illuminates the figure sitting on the loveseat in the corner. Before you have the chance to consider flight or fight, the figure leans forward, resting their elbows on their knees. The gun in their hands immediately became visible.

“John!?”, you yell. Anger trampled over any fear you felt. Though that wouldn’t last long. “What– What the fuck are you doing here?”, you snap at him. Venom seeping from the corners of your mouth. Tainting the air.

Those little wrinkles by the corner of his eyes you used to adore so much begin to show as he smirks at you. Tilting his head slightly, he scrutinizes you. Not saying anything. Your heart hammers in your ribcage as you stare at him. He hadn’t changed much. Much to your chagrin, he was just as handsome as ever.

“John. You… you can’t be here.” Your divorce was amicable. He had given you the house and subsequently forfeited any rights he had to said house. So he had no right to just show up on a whim. “John-”, your eyes dropped the gun he held in his right hand. Its unsettling presence abruptly dawns on you. A smile rises on his face when he takes in your expression.

“I missed you, dove.”, he grumbles. His voice dripped with honey and control.

“John. I– I don’t know what this is, but you cannot be here.”, you state with finality. Eyes trained on the gun he held. Goosebumps raised on your skin despite the summer heat outside.

“Since when is a man not allowed in his own home? Hm?” he questions, brows knitting together in mock confusion. Opening your mouth to retort and immediately snapping it shut when he abruptly stands up. Nostrils flaring as your breath becomes heavy. “John–”, you pause, swallowing thickly when he steps toward you. Crouching down directly in front of you, knees popping from the years of wear and tear. His left hand resting on your knee, the pistol in his right hand resting on your thigh. Your breaths stagger from you as you stare down at it.

“Easy, dove.”, he hums, faux concern weaving through his tone. His left hand raises and cups your face, thumb caressing your cheek, before his hand drifts to the base of your neck, fingers softly threading into your hair. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart. It’s time for me to come home now, yeah? I’ve given you more than enough time, don’t you think? You’re gonna be a good–”, your tone is fierce as you spit your words out.

“Excuse me!? Im– you–”, you sputter out incredulously. “You–you really haven’t changed, have you, John? I won’t let you do this! This behavior is disgusting.”, you spit. This was the exact fucking reason you left him. He was imposing. Arrogant. Demanding. Borderline misogynistic at times.

You continue telling him off, not noticing how he tucked his pistol into the back of his jeans. Tutting softly as he shakes his head, his hand lowering from the nap of your neck as he slowly stood to his full height. He turned slightly, sighing and shaking his head. Which, in hindsight, should have been your final warning.

“ –and you have the audacity to act like I’m inconveniencing you!? Like I’m the one in the wrong here!? God, you are so–”, the back of his hand connects with your cheek with a bone-shattering strength. The tension that settled in the room made it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the blood dripping from your nose as you lay curled over on the couch. Your hands trembled as you cupped your face, and your entire body trembled as you stared down at the couch. Eyes blown wide with shock.

Still reeling from the strike, you wailed when John threaded his large hand through your hair, viciously yanking you up to your feet, his frame leaning down the rest of the way. He shushed you when you flinched away from the hand raised to cup your cheek. His thumb gently rests beneath your nose, softly wiping your blood away, though more begins to trickle down slowly. Much to your dismay he raised his thumb to hip lips, sucking your blood off his thumb. His hooded eyes never leave your blown-out, tear-filled ones.

“There she is. Nice and quiet.”, he mused, eyes twinkling in some sort of sick admiration. “Let’s try this again, pet. It’s time for your husband to come home. Right?” he asked, his head tilting slightly, waiting for an answer.

Your bottom lip wobbled, and you shook your head to the best of your ability, whining when he began to nod your head for you, your hands desperately clawing at the one that grasped your roots. “Look at you, dove. You need me. You need me here. To help you. I’m here now, dove.”.

[cameronsbabydoll]

blunt!simon!riley during your honeymoon

cw: dubiously consensual language / power imbalance, breeding kink / pregnancy kink, possessive + degrading language, obsession + ownership themes, implied somnophilia (waking you up with sex) marking, bruising, overstimulation, territorial behavior / isolation kink, objectification

a/n: divider by @bernardsbendystraws

he doesn’t take you to a beach. no cute sandals, no cocktails. he takes you to a cabin in the woods with no cell service and blackout curtains.

“honeymoon’s for makin’ sure it sticks.”

you don’t leave the bed for days.

you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt and your wedding ring. your thighs are sore. your voice is gone. you’re leaking everywhere, and he won’t stop pressing his palm to your belly like he’s checking.

“doesn’t feel full enough. think i need to try again.”

he eats you out in the kitchen. fucks you over the balcony railing. carries you from room to room like a doll. he lets you nap only so he can wake you up by slipping in slow and whispering:

“’s your honeymoon, sweetheart. you want me to take care of you, yeah?”

you lose track of how many times he finishes inside you.

and he keeps whispering that same promise into your ear, every time your belly tenses up or your breath catches or your thighs shake:

“gonna give you a belly, yeah? a bump. little ring on your finger and a fuckin’ baby in you. real wife now.”

[diejager]

OMG your kast post about Step-Dad Konig and Horangi was INSANE and i was wondering if you could do one with the reader getting Pregnant because of this and like Konig and Horangi decide that it's time for her to be taken into a new life with them far from everything and just breed her over and over till she's broken by Stockholm syndrome

(Yes i have issues no worries ^^)

Cw: DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, STEPCEST, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, age gap, implied kidnapping, tell me if I missed any.

The time they spent fucking you, ploughing you open with heir cocks in every hole and stuffing you with so many loads of cum that you leaked for days. They made sure to plug you up after tampering with your method of birth control, taking away any safety measures you had put up against them and to protect yourself from their cruelty and control. You, however, hadn’t expected them to be so determined to sabotage your birth control and have you tied to your bed, fucked until all you could think about was the girth of their cocks and cry out their names, back arching and toes curling.

It started slow, like any regular day with either of them when your mom wasn’t home. In the morning, König had you, splayed over his desk, tits pushed against the cold surface with one thigh over the edge while he bent you in two, ramming into you with so much force that the whole table shook. He growled and groaned, hissing out promises that he intended to uphold on his part, staining the walls of your womb with his dirty and thick cum, leaking around the heaviness of his girth and sticking to his mahogany desk. It goes on like that for a few more rounds, usually three or four after a break, his refractory period wasn’t what it used to be in his earlier days —in the prime of his life.

Horangi would come by around noon, he’d find you seated on the couch, dozing away after König was done with you, slipping between your legs and spread you open with his tongue. He’s eat you out for hours if he had the time, tongue dipping into your hole and swirling around your twitching nub, drunk on your mewls and wails. He groaned into you when your nails dug into his scalp, pulling at his black locks, thighs closing around his head and walls clenching his fingers. After pushing you over the edge a few times, he drilled into you, pounding you into the couch, smearing tears and drool onto the softness, ass propped up to take his long cock into your sweet, slick and swollen cunt, filling you with cum. He chuckled and sneered at you for wasting his precious load when it oozed out of your overfilled cunt, dripping down your thighs and dropping heavily on the black couch. It would’ve stained if they weren’t careful about keeping their activities a secret from your mother.

In the afternoon, a few hours before your mom’s scheduled to come home, you’re pulled away from your work by your stepdad who called it a day, usually around 3pm. He trapped you in the kitchen, ravaging you on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist and his rough fingers wrapped around your neck, he rammed into you with such force that it punched the air out of your lung, leaving you gasping and incoherently moaning for him. He passed you to Horangi once he’s done, resting against the counter he just fucked you on to recover from his high. Horangi has you ride him, thighs burning from the strain and heat of grinding yourself against him and hips cramping from having to worked yourself up and down his hard cock, the leaky head of his shaft kissing your cervix while he devoured you, lips latched onto yours and drowning your cries with nipping teeth and an invading tongue.

It all lead to the day you found out you were with child, the tests in your hands a glaring evidence to their success and your mother’s reluctant acceptance —she was worried, scared and stuck in the blind to your situation and how it came to this. After the second month, there was a slight swell in your stomach, a soft bump with your growing child, Horangi pulled you to his car and drove to a clinic to have your child tested to see whether he or König was the father. Whatever the answer was, they had you move in next door, taking up the vacant side of Horangi’s bed. You protested about it, telling them how he had a guest room just across the hall, only to be shocked into silence when they showed you Horangi’s so-called guest room.

It was neither a guest room, nor an office, it was a nursery. The walls were painted in a neutral tone, a calming and comforting beige against white furniture, the soft, grey carpet and the few blue accents in the room. There were empty drawers and a box full of children’s toys shoved into a wall and it was left there until a baby grabbed at them, awaiting the chubby hands of their owner. It was already stocked full with the necessities of a baby, diapers, soft blankets, a security system of the whole room, a comfortable recliner and shelves full of small necessities to intertwine and care for a child.

Everything had been prepared in advance —premeditated. They’d planned it all from the start, their immediate obsession and need to touch you during the first week of him moving in then the intimate and feral interactions put upon you despite your reluctance. If you hadn’t been so dazed, mind blank of any thought, you would have heard them discuss your future. They wanted a little wife to breed and care for, the object of their obsession kept for their eyes alone in the kitchen and the bedroom. It scared you, your only solace was to hold the growing bump, wrapping your arms around yourself for protection from them and the house. You needed answers.

Your blood ran cold when you turned to look at your stepdad and his friend, their gleeful eyes, gleaming with excitement at the prospect of building a family —one to tie you down to them.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @notspiders @velvetsoulweaver @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 2

Poly!141 x reader

Summary: You wake to four strangers at the end of your bed.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes, mention of kidnap, mention of torture,

Note: Merry Christmas Everyone - I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 🎅🏻🎄

Masterlist -> Here

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn’t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

The sound of a creak breaks them from their thoughts.

[itgetsdarksometimes35]

Hunt You Down

Warnings: Non con, slight kidnapping, slight mention of cannibalism, mention of past abuse.

Word Count: 1,712

Pairings: Butcher!Simon Ghost Riley/Female Reader

Summary: Reader just wants a steak.

~ indicates a POV change

AN: My first COD work! Hope you enjoy, I'll be writing Konig's this week ;)

The butcher shop sat at the end of a grim road, the cobblestone permanently wet despite the weather. You were house sitting for a friend, and wanted to make them a nice meal when they returned from their travels. You knew the specific cut of steak she liked came from this butcher, and this butcher only. That’s how you found yourself walking into the lowly lit shop, a permanent whirring sound coming from the ceiling.

The man behind the counter was big. His long sleeve shirt was pulled to his triceps, showing off his muscular arms. The blood stained white apron around his body looked like it was screaming for help around his physique. You couldn’t imagine clothes shopping was easy for him.

The most peculiar part was the skull mask he wore. Eyes the only thing visible, staring you down as you walked closer at the meat selection. Nothing was labeled, the perfectly marbled meat was just neatly organized by shape in stacks. 

After a while of staring at the piles, hoping wrongly they’d tell you who they are, you resort to pointing.

“Could I get two of this one?” You smile at the man, his eyes finally leaving you to look at where your finger was leading. 

He pulls out a brown paper bag, thrusting it in the air to open it before grabbing two of the meat selections with his gloved hands and putting them into the bag. Hehands you the bag, a small thank you leaving your lips, and walks to the register silently telling you to follow. 

You pay and leave, making your way back to your friend’s apartment. As you do, you can’t help the feeling of someone watching you. But, turning, you see nobody there. You wipe your hands on your yellow sundress and keep walking, chastising yourself for your silly thoughts. Only an idiot would try to kidnap you in broad daylight.

~

Ghost wondered what a pretty thing like her was doing in this shitty part of town. He drank up the curves of her body and the way her breasts threatened to spill from the top of her bodice. But then her face, God he could cum just looking at it. And her soft voice, he wondered if she’d still sound that sweet while he pounded into her wet cunt, if she’d tell him thank you. He’d make her if she didn’t.

Ghost had watched her walk down the street through the double paned glass. He tried to control himself, he really did. But he just had to see her, and he doubted she’d be back. He was just going to look.

Until he saw the way her backside moved as she moved down the street. During Ghost’s time off from the line of duty, he thought he could suppress a lot of actions he was used to. Taking unsuspecting women, obsessing over them, worshipping the soft meat that clung to their bodies. Using them up until it was time to go, then just discarding them without a second thought, knowing there’d always be more. But when he was home, he was able to silence the voices.

But not now.

That’s why he followed her, grabbed the root of her hair just before she got the chance to turn the corner, slamming the side of her head into the brick. He picked up her limp body, carrying her to the back of the shop he owns. The bag of meat discarded where she’d last be seen.

~

Your head feels like it’s ready to pop like a balloon; the pain only being recognized as immense pressure. You’re sitting in a metal chair, hands bound behind you. You can’t remember what happened, you were walking back to your friend’s place and then darkness. Had you fallen? Where were you now? Why was it so dark? And cold?

You didn’t need to wonder much longer, as the butcher from before clicks on the singular lightbulb in the room. Hanging meat could be seen behind him, his breathing behind the mask evident with the frost that blew from it. 

“Where- what happened? Where am I?” Your questions tumbled over each other, fighting over who was more important to be asked.

“My shop.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

The man walks closer to you, pulling your face close to his masked one. “Need more meat for my shop.”

Your eyes widen, feeling yourself begin to hyperventilate. You start to cry as you think about your friends, your family, your life back home, all the things you never accomplished. You hoped someone would find your cat in time before he met the same fate as you. 

You’re so consumed with your thoughts you don’t realize the ropes holding your wrists together are being undone. You only come back to the present when you’re being led to a bare meat hook, your feet dig into the ground as a final protest. The man easily drags you through your defiance, pulling you to your tippy toes and easily tying your hands above your head onto the hook. 

He disappears behind you, before reappearing with a cleaver. Bile threatens to crawl its way up from your stomach, you swallow hard to keep it down. 

“Please don’t do this. Please, please please, just let me go.” Your voice falls on deaf ears as the butcher walks closer to you with the weapon. You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to see your death coming. You jump when you hear a dull thud, cautiously peeking to see what happened.

The cleaver was now lodged in the hanging meat beside you, the man coming to face your front. Even on your tippy toes, he’s still taller than you. He inspects you for a second before his hands reach up and rip your dress down the middle in jagged pieces. You yelp, embarrassment and fear pooling with your headache as you’re left in just your underwear and bra. The freezer happily bites at the newly exposed skin, leaving tiny bumps in the wake.

Two rough hands squeeze your tits, playing with the nipples through the thin material of your bra. You bite your lip to keep the sound of pleasure from escaping.

“Eyes on me,” the man demands. Your eyes meet his once more. The poor lighting made his brown eyes look nearly black, the depths looking deep enough for you to fall in.

“Please,” you beg one more time. 

Once again you’re ignored, your bra being torn from your body just like your dress. You take a sharp breath in through your teeth as the fabric burns against your skin as it’s being pulled taut. Your tits fall now free from the push up garment, nipples rock hard with both the cold and teasing. Your panties are next, joining the rest of your shredded clothing. 

The man’s hands freely explore your flesh now, switching from rough to feather light. He made his way from your chest, to your stomach, until finally the valley between your legs. Your attempt at squeezing them shut fizzled as his arm easily held one leg in his forearm so the other could continue its delving. 

Fingers met your pussy, spreading the lips to get your clit, already swollen from the nipple play. More pressure is applied and the speed is kicked up, the wet sounds not taking long to appear. You’re thinking about everything you can to distract you from the assault, but it’s hard to do when keeping perfect eye contact. You’re biting so hard on your tongue you can taste blood.

The build up begins to bubble in your tummy, causing your legs to shake and your core to pulse around nothing. You can almost see the smile behind the mask of your assailant. 

“It’s alright, cum for me, I’ve got you, Lovie.”

His thumb continues to work your clit as two fingers are slipped inside you, curling perfectly to hit the spot you never can find yourself. It only takes a few thrusts before you’re creaming all over his hand, screaming as your orgasm ripples through you. His fingers continue to get you through your high, your mind completely blank. You’re brought back only when your other leg is being lifted into his other arm.

You look at him through your eyelashes, still trying to follow directions of eye contact, when you notice hurried movements at his slack button. He’s able to get them open, shoving his pants and boxers to his ankles, revealing his cock. It’s thick and long, the tip an angry red and already leaking the salty substance. He wastes no time bringing it to your sensitive entrance. 

“Wait,” your pleas turns into a high pitched screech as he bottoms out completely inside you. His hips start thrusting fast, pulling you up and down his length chasing his release. The perfect curve of his member is hitting that spongy part inside you again, leaving your head to lull onto his chest, mouth open in silent moans. 

Your pussy is hugging him perfectly, lubricating every movement he makes, filling the freezer with beautiful sounds. It’s not long before you’re having your second orgasm, squeezing the man tighter. He grunts low, vibrating his chest, as he pumps faster. His hips sputter a bit as he gets closer and closer, begging for the high you’ve had. 

His balls are tightening as your slick drools down them, his spine prickling with the tell tale signs. He held you close to him, cock rammed all the way inside you, kissing your cervix, as he emptied himself into you. 

His breathing is quick as he tries to steady himself with you in his arms, grinding into you every few seconds to make sure you get every drop. Despite what you know is best, you begin to fall asleep, your head too fucked out to stay conscious. The man stops your plan, lightly but sternly tapping your cheek. Your eyes meet his once again. He removes his mask, killing any thoughts you had at being released. His short hair is brown, matching his eyes. Scars dot his face, a prominent one above his puffy pink lips. A little bit of blond peach fuzz dance along his hard jaw.

“Say thank you.”

[konigsblog]

Stepdad Graves who just can’t help himself around his step daughter.

continuing from this part...

cw: stepcest, cheating, forced impregnation, tampering with contraceptives, afab!gn!reader, dub-con, lactation, pervy-graves, age gap/difference (reader's age is unspecified, but i'd say aged mid-20s + graves is aged 40-50s)

dead dove: do not eat. mdni 18+ 🔞

after your stepfather had forcefully impregnated you, your boyfriend had broken up with you. of course, you eventually had to drop out of college to take care of yourself during pregnancy, as well as take care of your future baby. your stomach grew everyday, and along with that, your nipples began to weep milk, white droplets of your sweet milk running down your breasts, or seeping through the material of your shirt.

graves couldn't help himself at the sight of you. he just wanted to take care of his pregnant stepdaughter, to rub at your swollen, puffy and wet nipples whilst you wriggled and complained, still annoyed at him for doing what he'd done, trying to free yourself from his tightening grip.

there had been countless times where you'd be awoken to the pleasing and arousing sensation of your stepfather's tongue against your little clit, rubbing it in soothing circles whilst you arched your back, so exhausted yet so desperate for that release that tightened at your core.

of course, at some point, you had to break the news to your mother once home from a long work trip. you told her that you'd gotten pregnant by someone you didn't know, at a college party, drunk and intoxicated. she was pissed at you for making such an irresponsible decision, that you had no support from the father, but when you broke down at her reaction, she knew she couldn't be too harsh on you.

she was blind to your stepfather's disgusting and perverted behaviour. she didn't notice how his gaze would linger on your growing stomach and breasts for a little too long, or how she'd wake up with graves not in bed. she paid no attention to it all, and didn't even notice how your baby had some of your stepfather's features. those familiar and recognisable blue eyes.

after your pregnancy, graves was desperate to get you pregnant again, and again. although, you made sure not to get too drunk around him, instead making sure you'd use contraceptives, usually condoms. you were fucking up his plans! he had no other decision, but to instead tamper with the condoms, poking them with a small pin, in the hopes of getting you pregnant.

you should've expected it, really... :(

[juullllssss]

Selected

Concept

TW: Kidnapping, Violence

You didn't know how or when you got here, and as far as you could make out the other women didn't know either.

There were three other women with you. All of different ethnicities, different kinds of beauty. Somehow you had the feeling that they were specifically selected because of that. That would be the only logical conclusion, this must be some kind of trafficking ring. You can already feel Panic and Fear making its way through your body. Trying to move you hear the sound of chains. It seems like you are all chained to the wall in the back.

All of you had gone through every emotion imaginable and all stages of grief by the time the door to the windowless room opened. With heavy footsteps a man is walking in, piercing blue eyes and a mohawk. And even you have to admit that despite this ridiculous haircut, he is a really attractive man.

One of the women, can't keep it together when she sees the man. "What the Fuck, you motherfucker what do you want? You let us sit here for fucking hours? And what will happen now huh?" she continues with more questions and even more cursing. You can not even blame her. You would be the same, but something in your gut tells you to stay quiet. That this man does not appreciate being cursed at.

After the women has tired herself somewhat out, does the man step closer. Putting three food portions in front of yourself and the two women next to you. When he comes closer to you, you use the opportunity to get a closer look. He is adorned with muscles, a broad built and some scars at the side of his head. You assume he must work in a position that requires a lot of physical labor. For a short moment his eyes meet yours. You could swear to see a quick smile.

The next moment he gets up, muttering a "W' at a shame" while stepping closer to the now tired women. Grabbing her hair in one smooth action, slamming her down to the ground. The sound of a head meeting the stone ground fills the room for a moment. Between the whimpers of the other women and the painful groan of the pinned down women, the man opens the chain and starts dragging the women by her hair in the direction of the door. When the women starts screaming he turns around looking down at her. Clearly annoyed he lets her go. But just a moment later you see his fist connect with her face. The crunching sound makes you wince, a shiver making its way down your spine. The door opens and the man drags the, now unconscious, women up the stairs. With the closing door the room falls into darkness again.

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