#soap is unhinged

[kit-williams]

Where do babies come from?

You know I debated on answering this but decided fuck it.

Enjoy your bloodthirsters!

Soap just grinned his usual wolfish grin at his Bonnie. "Well lass when two mortals love each other very much..."

"Doesn't have to be love, Imvaassj." Ghost drawled out and chuckled as he waved him off.

"Right, when two mortals get down to it they fuck and boom a bairn is made."

"Right. Well honestly I'm kind of shocked you even know how babies are made." She laughed as he cocked his head.

"Course I know how they're made. I've made a few." Soap huffed and that got his Bonnie to look at him concerned.

"We've all made little ones, hen." Price says before tilting his head back and letting smoke roll out of his mouth.

"Aye why you think Alejandro and Rudy are so attentive to their hen?" Soap said with the biggest grin on his face as he bit his bottom lip like he was holding back a secret. "It's 'cause they're trying to knock her up bonnie."

He grabbed her before she could jump to her feet to warn the Inquisitor. With the amount of greater demons in one location... audio was spotty at best and it seemed that this moment would be conveniently lost.

"I aint done with ye. Now, if you want someone who is attentive I'd suggest going after a keeper or a changer... if you want a nest and the whole big display of wooing you and then leaving you... well that would be a slanneshi move. Really all depends on the demon's or prince's personality nothing really a blanket statement cept when you get with a bloodthirster or a demon prince of khorne we tend to do it with mortals with the full intent of knocking them up." He explains just sitting her down again as Ghost wanders over.

"My preferred partners are knights." Ghost drawls on.

"Aye but you have a nasty habit of tragic romances there Ghost."

He shrugs, "Not my fault I fall madly in love with my quarry. Though I am enjoying one of my Initiates company... a good little bird." He mutters as his brass eyes unfocused.

"Back on topic..." She says softly looking back at Soap. "So lets say you did knock me up." She leans back as Soap just practically vibrates before Ghost grabs the back of his neck.

"Heel. Try your best not to scare your bird." Is all Ghost says before he walks away after being happy with how much Soap calms down.

He swallows, his eyes glowing a little bit brighter, his chest puffed up a little more, she could practically see the outline of his horns around his head... she was confused was he preening? "But, when I do knock you up. You can expect a few things. Ahh if I was an unaligned demon you'd get something to what you humans would have called changlings or demigods depending on how strong they were. So not quite human but human enough. But given the amount of aether that would be going into you..." He taps his chin thinking.

"Well when König knocks up one of his darlings it's usually always another bloodthirster and also for him usually kills the mother."

Said bloodthirster huffed softly, "I'll make a demon prince one of these days. Just have to find... the right one so to speak." He said looking up from his book; a murder mystery.

"Aye but that's because he's a big boy and he tends to have big boys. But as for me I've made a few bloodthirsters, bloodletters, and a couple of blessed children. Al tends to make bloodthirsters as well but that's because of his rank. The old man's got one of his in yer Grey Knights."

Her head whipped over to Price, who just shrugged and barked, "I'm not that old. I'm at most a few centuries older than you. But yes one of my blessed brood is a grey knight. Not uncommon for what were once considered demigods to you mortals to be picked up by your space marines." He sighs softly, "Just I'm so disappointed that he went and joined them. Utilizes psyker powers too and everything."

"Geeze you sure don't sound too torn up." She states as Price barks out a laugh.

"No didn't really care for the mother with that one. But I'm certain my sweetheart and I can make a couple of happy little ones when she lets me." His chest rumbled.

"R-right... I think I've spent too long here." She gets up to her feet rather quickly but Soap grabs her.

"Och no. Yer goin' to gab to the Inquisitor." Soap growls as all of the bloodthirsters in the room look at her with that molten gaze. "They'll keep me away from you bonnie... keep us away from our hens... if they found out what we were after. Al and Rudy are so close to being a proud pair of papas... ye don't wanna take that from them do ye?"

"Imvaassj Pohn Oynhcat," She manages to hiss out watching his bindings glow but he fails to be contained and Soap just grins.

"Stay still for a wee moment bonnie. I was truthful with ye. Doesn't mean you have to remember it all."

"What."

Is all she manages to say before she grows slack jawed and eyes glazed as he pulls a glowing strand from the side of her head. Oh Johnny can't lie... none of the boys in the room could lie. They could be like fae of old and with hold the truth but not outright lie. Perhaps Johnny was a bit more of a fae then he let on as he pulled out bits from her memory to let it snap back like a rubber band.

He laughs, "What don't like the idea that Nurgle demons and demon princes just make the chunkiest babies." He says continuing a conversation that had no start. Watching her face grimace. "Like I was saying fussiest babies are from Slannesh, the curious ones are from Tzeentch..."

"And what about your lord?"

Soap just grinned at her, "We get the calmest little babies after all they should enjoy their innocence before their future is drenched in blood."

[tobeholyistobeempty]

obsessed with the idea of soap being the long term guy friend of yours that you swear you’d never hookup with because he’s just not your type and you really just don’t see him like that - until you suddenly go through a nasty breakup and find yourself under him being absolutely worshipped and overstimmed and fucking devoured from every possible angle. soap would happily play the long game and god would he ever play it well.

[cupidsworstcrime]

[...fauxcest (brother/sister) , (the illusion of) non/dubcon , catfishing as foreplay]

step brother!johnny x f!reader

smut , obviously

the words "inbred" & "incestuous" used in a kink sense but not in a literal way , consenting & non-blood-related adults being unhinged little freaks

AN: they were not raised together, despite somethings johnny says , thats just him being on some absolute FREAK shit

He tells himself it's harmless.

A fake account. A few messages. Maybe a picture or two. You’re a tease anyway—you always have been, even if you don’t mean to be. Walking around the house in those soft little shorts, brushing past him in the hallway with your sleepy voice and your stupid pet names. Johnny. J. Big bro.

You’re not his sister. Not really. Just a few years of living together and suddenly everyone thinks he’s supposed to be your guardian angel or some shit. Nah. Not when you look at him like that. Not when you curl your legs up on the sofa and sigh his name like it means something.

The first time you sent a picture—half-joking, half-daring—he had to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning. Almost came in his fucking joggers. And when he messaged back from his burner, pretending to be some online boyfriend of yours?

You didn’t hesitate.

He jerks off to you every night now. In the garage. In the shower. Face down in his mattress, biting the pillow, moaning into the sheets like some pathetic bastard. He can’t stop. Can’t look at you without imagining your cunt wrapped around his cock, your throat filled with his name.

You're so good for him. So eager. So trusting.

And so fucking stupid. God, you’re stupid, aren’t you? You think you’re safe in this house. That "Johnny" would never. That your step-brother's just some dumb soldier with a big mouth and a soft spot for you. You don’t see the way his hands shake when you bend over. You don’t see how he stalks your bedroom door some nights like a wolf.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

Because if you did—if you even guessed—you’d stop. And he’d go mad.

So he keeps the lie alive. Keeps messaging you while you sit in the same house. Asks for more. Coaxes it out with filth. Tells you what he wants to do and laughs when you send it like a gift.

Tonight you sent him a video. Slow fingers. Wet sounds. Whispering the name of someone you don’t even know. Someone who doesn’t exist.

And Johnny came in his hand so hard he nearly blacked out.

He’s in his bed now. Phone open. Staring at the freeze-frame of you spread open for him, lip caught in your teeth.

He types:

"Wish I could taste you. I’d ruin you for anyone else."

Sends it. Watches the little "Seen" icon appear.

Then you type back.

"I should invite you over next time J deploys... <3"

His blood freezes. Every molecule in his body goes silent.

He stares at the screen like it’s cursed. Like it’s bleeding. Like it just cracked open and called him out.

His cock twitches. Almost types: Just come to my room.

No. No no no no—he closes the app. Paces. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. You can’t know. You can’t. You’d hate him. You’d scream. You’d run.

Unless—

He sinks into the bed.

And starts getting hard all over again.

It starts with a dare.

“No bra today. Bet it’d make it easier to take pics for me, sweetheart.”

He’s already sweating when he types it. Heart thudding like a drum. He adds a little emoji to soften it—just in case. Just in case you hesitate. Just in case the guilt dares to wake up in him again.

But you don’t hesitate.

You send a photo from the kitchen. From his kitchen. Arm pressed across your chest, nipples barely covered, shirt so thin it’s basically see-through in the morning sun.

“Like this?”

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. Just fumbles his joggers down in the hallway, cock hard and aching, jerking himself raw while staring at the screen like it’s a shrine. Like you’re a shrine.

He tells himself he’s doing you a favor. Teaching you how to be sexy. Making you feel wanted. That someone should.

But he’s not that clean. Not that noble.

He’s a fucking freak, and he knows it.

So he keeps going.

“Tiny shorts. No panties. Need to know you're a good girl for me.”

“Sit on the couch like before, love. Snap a pic while someone’s around.”

“Touch yourself in the hallway. Just a little. Think about me.”

You do it all.

And it breaks him.

Because sometimes you do it even before he asks. Wearing those little cotton things that ride up your ass, leaning over the counter like you don’t know he’s watching from the doorway, chest braless, thighs soft and spread on the leather cushions.

He can smell you on the sofa.

And the worst part? He swears you're getting bolder.

Once, you dropped your phone in front of him and bent down without thinking. He saw everything. No panties. Just skin and a little string of slick, catching the light. He nearly groaned out loud. Had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled.

You smiled at him after. Sweet. Innocent.

He had to go jerk off in the garage like a fucking feral animal, fist pounding against the wall after he came, panting your name like a curse.

He’s not sleeping anymore. Just watching. Wanting. Messaging you from the other side of the wall.

He dares you to go further. Pushes it. Tests you.

“Rub your thighs together at dinner.”

“Don’t close your door when you change.”

“Sit on John's bed when he's not home.”

He can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or playing along.

And part of him doesn’t want to know.

Because if you’re doing it for him—if you know it’s him, and you’re still teasing him like this—then that means you’re just as fucked up as he is.

And that?

That makes it so much worse.

So much better.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Dinner. Dishes. You laughing at something on your phone, his messages, the ones he sent to ruin you. The ones you think belong to some random guy you met online, the one you've been showing your tits to for weeks like it’s a normal thing.

But tonight?

Tonight you walk into the living room in those tiny shorts—the ones. The ones he told you to wear when you're "feeling needy." No bra. Hair messy. And no shame. None.

You bend over the couch, reaching for something on the floor. Phone in one hand. Face down. Casual. Oblivious.

And he sees it.

The curve of your back. The way the shorts ride up—completely split you open. You didn’t even pretend to wear underwear. Your cunt is right there. Soft, glistening. Inviting.

His throat goes dry. His cock’s already stiff in his jeans. Blood roars in his ears. He takes a step forward before he even thinks.

And then he sees it.

Your phone screen. Camera on. Recording.

You’re recording yourself—facedown on his couch, ass arched up, cunt peeking out beneath those shorts—and you’re doing it for him. For your “online boyfriend.”

For him.

As if your fucking step-brother cant fucking smell the sin leaking out of you.

"His" name leaves your lips, the one on that stupid fucking account, whispered low for the camera. "Hope you like the view..."

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he breaks.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Just the burn in his chest. The ache in his cock. The rage and the desire crashing together in a single molten scream behind his teeth.

Your body jerks as he grabs the phone from your hand, slamming it onto the coffee table. You whip your head around, eyes wide—but not scared. Never scared.

You’re smiling.

“Johnny,” you breathe, sweet as sin. “You finally gonna stop pretending?”

He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hips with both hands and pushes your back down, until your chest is pressed to the cushion and your ass is tipped up just the way he likes.

He palms your cheeks, spreads you open, and growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt glistening for him.

“Fuckin’ little minx,” he hisses, voice shredded. “You knew. You’ve known this whole time.”

You nod. Gasp. Wiggle your hips. “Wanted to see how long you’d last…”

He bites your shoulder. Not gently.

“You think this is a game?” he snarls into your skin. “You’ve been walking ‘round my house—my fuckin’ house—like this, for me? For my cock?”

You nod again. “Who else would I do it for?”

That’s when he loses it.

One hand pins your wrists to the small of your back. The other rips your shorts down, so fast the seams pop. You’re bare in seconds, cunt dripping, back arched, breath hitching.

And Johnny?

Johnny is feral.

“This what you wanted, baby?” he breathes, grinding his hard-on against your ass. “Wanted big brother to fuck the brat outta you?”

Your moan answers for you.

He kisses your spine like a man dying of thirst. Bites your hips. Tells you you’re his now—always were.

And as he finally pushes inside, sinking into you with a guttural moan, one thought tears through him louder than the rest:

She knew. She let me. And she still wants more.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, hilting inside you with a sharp snap of his hips, “tightest fuckin’ cunt I’ve ever had—‘course my little sis would be the one to ruin me.”

Your breath hitches. He feels it.

The way your walls flutter around him, all soft and soaked, like you like hearing it.

You do.

You do, don’t you?

“Ohh, you fuckin’ freak,” he grits, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back just enough to hear you pant. “You like it when I call you that? Like bein’ bent over the couch by your big brother?”

You moan something that might be “yes” or “more”—doesn’t matter. He’s gone.

“Actin’ all sweet ‘n innocent ‘round me. Callin’ me Johnny like you don’t spend every night spreadin’ your legs for me behind a screen. Like you don’t love this sick fuckin’ game.”

He thrusts hard—cruel and deep—and your whole body jerks. Couch cushions shift beneath you, muffling your whines. He keeps your wrists pinned behind your back, your ass tipped perfectly for him, so he can watch your hole suck him in again and again.

“You liked knowing I was watchin’, didn’t you?” he growls. “When you wore those fuckin’ shorts—no panties, tits bouncin’—you knew it was me. You wanted to tease big brother ‘til he lost his fuckin’ mind.”

He leans down, voice a snarl in your ear.

“Well, congrats, baby. You broke me.”

His free hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles just to hear the way you whimper. You clamp down around him like you’re gonna cum soon.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, half-lost in his own filth. “Take big brother’s cock. So proud of my little slut—makin’ me come in my hand every night. Leavin’ your scent on my fuckin’ pillows. I should’ve known you knew.”

Your legs start to shake.

“Oh, you gonna cum?” he taunts, hips slapping into your soaked thighs. “Gonna cum on your brother’s cock like a dirty little inbred whore?”

You sob out a yes.

He grabs your throat, pulls you up so your back arches, so he can whisper filth straight into your ear:

��Cum for me, little sis. Cream on big brother’s cock so I know you’re mine.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking and gasping, cunt pulsing around him like you were made for this.

And Johnny?

Johnny’s not far behind.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he growls as his hips slam forward, burying himself to the root, balls tight, cock twitching. “Fill you up right here on the fuckin’ couch—where anyone could walk in, where Mum used to make us sit for family photos—fuck—”

He groans low and ragged as he spills inside you, hot and filthy, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud.

After, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t let you up.

Just lays there over you, breathing hard, chest heaving against your back, cock still twitching inside.

“You��re never gettin’ away from me now,” he murmurs, voice thick with sweat and come and obsession. “Not after this.”

Not after you made big brother your personal ruin.

You're still face down on the couch, twitching under him, his cum leaking down your thighs.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

His fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move again—slow at first, then harder, meaner. His cock’s still thick, still buried deep inside you, and now it’s soaked in slick and his own mess.

And he leans in, whispering filth right into your ear.

“You ain’t even my real sister,” he mutters, kissing the side of your throat like it’s a confession, “but fuck if I don’t wanna pretend you are.”

Your breath catches.

“You like it when I say that, yeah?” His hips grind against your ass, cock hitting the deepest spots. “Like hearin’ your big brother call you a fuckin’ incestuous little whore?”

You moan. You hate that you moan.

But God, it ruins you.

“You’re not even blood,” he growls, voice shaking, “but I think about it all the fuckin’ time. Pretend you are. Pretend I watched you grow up, used to sneak into your room just to see what kinda panties my little sis wore—used to jerk off with your name in my mouth.”

You whimper under him, thighs trembling again.

“Dirty little thing,” he hisses, hand wrapping around your throat. “Would it be worse if you were mine? If we had the same mum and da? Same blood? Still wouldn’t stop me. I’d still fuck you just like this.”

He pulls back just to watch—watch the way your body stretches around him, how you drip for him. How you’d let him do anything.

“I’d still bend you over the couch. Still ruin you. Still fill your womb every night like it’s my fuckin’ right. Like you were born for me.”

His breath is hot against your back. His thrusts start to shudder—harder, deeper, sloppier.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re my little sister. Say you like it.”

Your voice is shaking, raw, almost crying—but not from pain.

“I’m your little sister, Johnny,” you whisper.

His hand tightens on your throat.

“Say you need your big brother’s cock.”

You sob it—needy, wrecked. “Need it—need my brother to fuck me—always have—”

That’s all it takes.

He cums again, burying himself so deep you swear you feel him in your gut. Hot, filthy, possessive. And he doesn’t pull out. He won’t.

Even if you’re not blood, even if it’s pretend—he’ll keep fucking you like you are. Keep whispering filth into your ears until you forget what’s real.

Because it’s his fantasy now.

And you’re never getting out of it.

[softh0neycomb]

Unhinged!reader freaking out the rest of TF141 by singing their version of a nursery rhyme whilst picking a weapon for interrogation of a suspect.

Eenie meanie my-ney mo

Catch a liar by their throat

If they hurt you, let them know

They could be the next John Doe

[bunnyreaper]

yes yes johnny talks to your cunt like she's separate to you but what about him talking to his cock like it's separate from him?

begging the poor guy to just stop getting hard around you for five minutes. blaming him when johnny can't stop himself from taking you over and over again. it's not his fault bonnie, he's begging his dick to stop doing his thinking for him too!!

[trek-tracks]

"Sonic shower or water shower" discourse is so limited. This is the replicator-equipped Enterprise! Set that to "Caffeine Mist." Melted butter, gently cooled. Chocolate fountain and I'm the strawberry.

[hai-nae]

baby, i wanna touch you. i wanna feel you in my bones.

boy, i'm gonna love you, i'm gonna tear into your soul. OR, s'ok to be a little pathetic in the face of adoration.

[oshikiri-toru]

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Slasher Handler Part 11 - Slip Lead

Slasher Handler Masterlist

Read on AO3

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Implied stalking/surveillance, implied kidnapping, physical injury, deception/emotional manipulation, physical violence, injury with knife, genuinely not enough information, hidden weapons

Something about stabbing him, about meeting Price, has resulted in you being able to stray a bit farther from Simon’s orbit. You’re still on a rather short lead, there is a list of unspoken rules between the two of you as long as your arm. But you’re going out alone more. You don’t feel Simon’s eyes on you every moment he’s out of your sight. It’s weird.

But when it comes to Simon, it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So you start a routine of going to the cafe down the street twice a week or so to work and see other human beings. It’s surprisingly difficult, some days. More than once, you’ve felt too exposed and retreated back home. These days, you have more good days than bad. As long as people don’t talk to you too much, you’re fine.

So it’s a bit jarring when someone clears his throat while you’re wrangling spreadsheets.

The man is in a light jacket, tee shirt and jeans. Looks like he works out. Kind of a stupid haircut, but he’s at least committed to it. Very distinct looking, Simon’s voice says in your head, easy to track. Unlikely to cause problems.

Something about him makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

“D’ya mind?” he gestures to the chair across from you. At your skeptical look, he rushes to assure you, “ Jus’ fer mah coffee, ‘n t’read,” holding up a thick paperback. He gestures to the rest of the cafe. “Wouldnae bother you, but this’s the only open chair.”

The shop is unusually crowded. You frown up at him. “I’m really busy.”

“Willnae hear a peep from me,” he promises, setting down his coffee and pulling out the chair across from you. He turns the chair so he’s facing more of the room instead of the corner you’re in. And he opens his book.

You watch him for a minute, but he doesn’t look up. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something is wrong, but you do need to work. With a last wary glance at him, you settle your headphones over your ears - transparency on - and get back to organizing a data set that reminds you of a ball of duct tape.

It’s time for a break before you know it. Your companion, true to his word, hasn’t said a peep since he sat down, more than an hour ago. He barely looks up as you close your laptop before turning back to his book. He does look up when you flag down one of the servers.

“Lunch,” you say, inanely. To the server, you say, “Can I get the chicken sandwich today?”

“Chips ‘n a lemonade, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turn to your table mate. “And for you?”

“The same, ah guess?” He raises his eyebrows at you, like he expects you to give him permission or something. He looks back at the server. “Yeah, a chicken piece for me, as well. ‘Nd a juice?”

“Separate checks?”

“Aye, ta,” the guy says. When the server leaves, he blanches. “Hope you dinnae mind.”

You do mind, but it’s not like he can sit anywhere else right now. “It’s fine.”

He sets his book on the table, and your eyebrows shoot up. Whatever you thought he’d be reading, Jurassic Park wasn’t it. He grins. “Ah ken. It’s old, yeah? But it’s a damn sight better’n the movie.”

“Isn’t that how it goes,” you say, vaguely. 

But you’ve already fallen into his trap. He turns his chair to face you, crossing his arms and leaning into the table. His eyes are unnervingly blue - somehow even bluer than Simon’s - and bright with interest. “’M serious. It’s not just that a character yells in the movie and speaks softly in the book, aye? In fact, the movie made Dr. Sattler older, aye? Great choice, emphasize ‘er expertise.” 

Aging up a woman character? You’re reluctantly intrigued. “She was a less important character in the book?”

“Nae,” the man scoffs. “She’s probably the first o’em to realize how shite the whole thing is. Notices things. Stuff the other’s aren’t payin’ attention to because she’s the plant expert, an’ naebody pays attention to plants.”

You find yourself drawn in, in spite of yourself. Johnny, as he introduces himself, has obviously been waiting for a chance to talk about it, but he’s not pushy. He excitedly pulls a pen from his pocket to doodle along with his explanations. By the time your food has arrived, he’s convinced you to at least try the audiobook.

“I cannae pay attention stuff in mah ears,” he says with a grin as he starts to dig in. “But I hear good things, if you don’t ‘ave time to sit an’ read the text.”

As you nod along, you look up and almost choke on your next swallow. Simon is outside, looking at you through the window with raised eyebrows above his usual black surgical mask. His eyes flick to give the man at your table an obvious once over. And then he turns away and walks out of sight.

“Ye alrigh’?” Johnnys’ eyebrows are up near his hairline when you look back at him. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, torn between staying seated and the urge to run after Simon. You can’t help but look at the window again, but he’s gone, there’s nothing for it. “Sorry, I thought… Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get the audiobook.”

When you get home, Simon is on the couch, the TV on with the volume low. He watches you, like he always does, as you take off your shoes and shuffle around to put away your things. When you finally join him on the couch, you find that he’s watching a nature documentary. A crocodile slides under the water with barely a ripple.

“He was only sitting with me because there wasn’t anywhere else,” you rush to say.

Simon turns to cock his head at you. “You get ‘is name?”

“John. Johnny,” you answer. “He told me about his book, but I left as soon as we were done eating.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. He lifts the arm closest to you, pulling you close as you settle into his side. “’S good to have friends, Precious.”

“He’s not a friend. Just some guy out to lunch like everyone else.” 

“You let him stay,” Simon points out. He squeezes you in a rough approximation of a one armed hug. “Been nervous around people, but you’re gettin’ better.”

This isn’t what you expected. You can’t help but side-eye him. “You’re… proud of me?”

Simon’s lips press gently against your forehead. “’S long as you pick better this time, I don’t mind you ‘aving friends. Can’t keep you all to myself forever. ‘Sides, you’ve marked me proper, ‘aven’t you? Got me as your little pet. Johnny’s not gonna be a problem.”

The little pink scar around his ribs is little more than a raised line. You slide your fingers under his shirt to pet at it. Among all of his scars, it’s one of the smallest. You’d cried the first time he’d let you see under the bandages.

“You’re not a pet,” you grumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re an alligator who won’t leave my house.”

“Your alligator, now,” Simon agrees. He focuses back on the television, seemingly done with the conversation.

You could leave it at that. But you turn to face him, instead. “You’re not mad?”

“Not unless ‘e ‘urts ya.” Simon presses his lips against your hair. “An’ I wouldn’t let that ‘appen.”

The following week, though, he stands over you with an exaggerated grimace at how crowded the place is. “Och, d’ya mind?”

Johnny is there the next time you go to the cafe. He waves from his table, but ducks back into his notebook without waving you over. So you work from your own table in peace. When you take a break for lunch, he’s gone. Two days later, it’s the same. It’s easier to concentrate, now that you’re less worried that he’ll take the conversation from the other day as an invitation. 

With a sigh, you clear some space for him. But just like last time, he keeps to himself, reading and occasionally jotting things down in his notebook. It’s not until just before lunch that he breaks the silence.

“D’y’ve a boyfriend then?” You can’t keep yourself from cringing fast enough, apparently, because he laughs. “Sorry, sorry, shouldnae asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumble.

“Aw,” he coos. “Don’ worry hen. You’re right bonnie. Ah’m sure they’ll come around, whoever they are.”

That would be sweet, if it wasn’t so painfully off base. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh, you’re right done wit’ me,” he laughs. “Ah ken’t I shoulda kept mah mouth shut. Ma always said runnin’ mah mouth would get me into trouble. I won’t bother ye again.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. But when it comes time to pay for lunch, he insists on paying. It grates on your nerves. A gift from a guy is never just generosity, you learned that long before Brandon. But you clench your jaw and pack your bag up a bit more roughly than usual and say your goodbyes.

“They didn’t have the brownies you wanted,” you announce as you return home from the grocer, two days later. “I think it was a limited edi…tion…”

You notice Simon watching through the window, but he’s there and gone before you can get a read on his expression.

There’s a smattering of blood on the entryway carpet.

You don’t drop the bag with the eggs, but only because your muscles are locked up. Did someone break into the apartment? Was Simon here when they did, or next door? Did they leave? Did he take them?

A sound makes you gasp before you bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood. And then again, a muffled groan, close, from the direction of your couch. 

It’s not Simon’s voice.

You gently set your bags down and reach behind the coats for the blackjack Simon insisted on leaving there for security. There’s a rustling. Another groan. You stoop low, trying to make yourself a smaller target, and creep around the edge of the couch.

When you see Johnny, bound and gagged, shirt covered in blood where he lies on the floor, your stomach drops so fast you feel dizzy.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whisper, dropping the jack with a thump. You crawl over to him, looking around frantically. Simon is nowhere to be seen. But he did this. He had to have done this. Right?

Johnny twitches, groans again, eyelids fluttering open. When he sees you, his eyes go wide, and he frantically tries to sit up.

“No, don’t! I don’t know where you’re hurt,” you hiss. You reach around his head to untie the cloth that’s gagging him. “Oh my god-”

“We gotta get out’f here, bonnie,” he grunts, leaning into your hands as you help him upright. He spits blood on the floor. “No tellin’ when that mental bastard gets back.”

“Oh god,” you whisper again, touching the front of his shirt. It’s dark and sticky in a bloom across his chest. “Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?”

“Ah’m okay,” he grunts. “A bit banged up, but ah’ll live.”

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “There’s a lot of blood, Johnny.”

“S’nae all mine,” he answers. “C’mon, untie me, before Simon gets back.”

You’re shifting to reach behind him before your mind catches up. You can feel the blood drain from your face. “W-what? What did you say?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“No, you said his name, you called him - ”

“Simon? That’s what ye called him when you came home,” he hisses. 

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper, body stuttering between frozen and electrified. You never call Simon’s name where others can hear. “And - and I - you - you were unconscious.”

Shining blue eyes stare into yours from two inches away. Johnny’s bloody mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, he’s trained you up good, he has.”

You scream when he lunges forward, huge arms grabbing at you. 

His weight crushes the air out of your lungs when your back hits the ground. You twist under him, using the arm he hasn’t trapped to grab his hair and yank. He swears, and loosens his hold just enough that you’re able to free your other hand and jab him in the throat.

You expect the way that he chokes, but the hand he’s twisted in the back of your shirt stays locked tight. He coughs out a frenzied laugh as you twist. Your heart races as he prevents you from getting your knees up between your belly and his. But he doesn’t expect you to hammer the heel of your boot against the back of his knee, or how you use the leverage against his leg to roll away onto your belly. 

He doesn’t let go of you, but that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as you can reach under the edge of the couch. Johnny pounces, body curling around you without quite pinning you down. His fingers twist into your hair in an echo of how you wrenched at him. But he doesn’t stop your hand, grabbing the leg of the couch and then reaching under and up and-

“Try again, Bonnie,” Johnny chuckles into your ear when your hand meets nothing but cotton and wood.

Your heart doesn’t have time to stop. The grinding pain between your hip bone and the floor makes you pop up your pelvis and reach down. The tiny knife, Little K, jumps to your hand. It’s so easy to flick it open, you think you almost cut your own belly as you heave. Johnny rides you for a moment, then pops up onto his knees to let you roll freely.

You don’t have time to decide, gut or femoral, you just swing. Denim parts, pressure - 

Johnny yelps.

His weight is suddenly gone, and the arc of your arm slams the back of your hand and your elbow onto the carpet. It’s a shock, almost hard enough to make you drop the knife. You flick your eyes around, nearly blind with tunnel vision, and see Johnny standing over you. His jeans are slashed, outer thigh almost to crotch, but you can’t see blood, fuck.

He sways, oddly. Is your vision swimming? He doesn’t descend on you again, though, just laughs and wiggles. One of his feet isn’t on the ground, his injured leg is dangling, did you get him?

You imagine you can see Simon’s face, a little angry and a little amused. If you die here, Johnny will live to see his own intestines, you know it. Even if you survive, he won’t. Simon might gift you another skull. The thought almost has a laugh bubbling out of you. 

“You stupid motherfucker,” you hiss. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Simon’s voice startles you into action. You’re off your back and scrabbling backward in and instant as he manifests behind Johnny. Except, you realize, that Simon is holding Johnny up, one arm snaked under Johnny’s and hand around the back of his neck. That’s why Johnny looks off balance, it’s because he is, because Simon is here, he’s going to save you-

“Did real good, Precious,” Simon says with a grin. “Knew you’d get along.”

What? “What?”

Simon says something else, but you can barely hear him over your heart pounding in your ears. But you hear it when Johnny laughs. You see when Simon releases him with a ruffle to his mohawk and a shove toward the armchair. Before you know it, Simon’s scooped you into his arms and taken his usual seat on the couch. He pries the knife from your hand and snaps it closed. 

“Told you I was thinkin’ of gettin you a dog,” Simon rumbles, sitting you in his lap so your back is against his chest. Before you can protest that no, he never once mentioned a fucking dog, he continues, “This’n’s mostly ‘ousebroken, already. Soap needs a firm ‘and, but you c’n ‘andle him. 

Soap? What the fuck does soap have to do with anything? What kind of a name is…

"Oi!” Simon barks. “Off the furniture.”

Your stomach drops as you remember John Price, two months ago now. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.” Soap.

When your wide eyes swing to him,  Johnny’s face is split into a toothy grin. He tips his head back against the seat of the arm chair. One of his hands touches the blood blooming through his jeans and brings it up to his lips. He laves his tongue over his fingers. “Ah’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know you, Bonnie.”

A part of you wants to get up and slit his throat. The rest of you slumps back into Simon’s chest and bursts into tears.

[bubuslutty]

+18 mdi pls 🫵

knight!Soap who's tasked with watching over princess!reader, but in his free time he likes to train birds to steal her underwears when she goes skinny dipping when she thinks nobody knows what she's up to.

he doesn't have to follow her or anything, he stays in the castle grounds and make sure to see her when she gets back, trying to mask her frustrated and anxious feelings behind a polite smile, while Johnny is already thinking abt how he's going to add her underwear to his collection, giggle all on his own and daydream of stealing them by himself one day. maybe he'll jerk off to them in his fist that same night. maybe he'll cum all over them and make the bird drop (poor bird) them with her clothes when she goes out again. who knows.

[cod-dump]

Ghost: Sometimes I miss the solitude of the grave

Gaz: … and you said you don’t need therapy

Soap: I dare you to go say that in front of Price

[toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account]

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN MY NICHE FUCKING CHILDHOOD ULTRA HYPERFIXATION IS GETTING A FUCKING XMAS REUNION SPECIAL LIKE TEN FUCKING YEARS LATER???? I LITERALLY JUST GOT NOSTALGIC FOR IT ALL OVER AGAIN THIS WEEK THIS IS CRAZY

[valkyrss]

[tobeholyistobeempty]

i know i literally just posted a fic but yall i have an entire idea for another i just don’t know who to write it about

[bunnyreaper]

everyone looks at johnny and sees someone happy go lucky--a little clueless and a lot flirtatious.

none of them really know johnny at all, you included. at least that's how you feel when he tells you he's a virgin.

(cw: noncon)

you're in completely disbelief at first, considering how much he flirts and seems like a complete ladies' man. you'd gotten the confession out of him during a private game of truth or dare, and he'd been so blushy and embarrassed. but he explains that he's just been busy, raised with the fear of god put into him about sinning and pregnancy and infections. said he's only recently learned to move past those things, but he's waiting for someone he can trust.

the look he gives you seems so fucking meaningful, his eyes sparkling and pleading and tugging at your heart strings and your cunt. you'd often rejected johnny's advances under the assumption he's a player, but this changes everything.

before you can reconsider you find yourself diving right in to kiss him, clearly something he's done before as he's so fucking good at it (and you've teased him enough for the amount of women he's stuck his tongue down the throat of during dirty dancing sessions when you go out drinking)

his hands however, move more cautiously, guided by you. the entire time as you smirk wolfishly and show him how to touch a woman, how to grope your breasts and caress your waist. he seems to pick up every lesson eagerly and easily, though asking for permission before be moves on to the next thing.

he fingers you cautiously, blue eyes fixed upon you as he gauges your every reaction, adjusts his touch to match your moans and the feedback you give him. he mutters to himself in disbelief that he can make you moan so much already, can make you feel so good.

and then you tell him you're ready, and you watch him try to hide the nerves as he rolls on a condom and positions himself over your hole.

"you ready?" you ask, and he nods, slowly sinking in and almost whining at overwhelming sensation of it all.

your own eyes flutter shut as you adjust to johnny's size, and you take a moment to reflect on how big of a deal it is, that playboy johnny is giving his virginity to you.

and then you find yourself flipped over by strong hands, his cock even deeper in your cunt as he forces your head down into the pillow and ruts into you harshly.

"thought ya were smart, bonnie. but ya really fuckin' believed me?"

his hips move furiously, his thrusts unrelenting as his hand tugs at your hair, forcing you to look at him as he snarls above you and takes you.

"of course am not a virgin, but thanks for finally letting me fuck ya." his laugh is a mix of something sinister and shocked, like he can't quite believe himself that his plan worked.

he lays over you, his muscular body trapping you between him and the mattress as the tip of his cock taps at your cervix.

"now be a good girl, lie there, and lemme show yer what you've been missin'"

[hai-nae]

com for @sp00keh0urs details/visual story tellin undercut for those that care

watch, boot print scuff, 'i punched a wall and tried to hide it with a poster' cover up, and fidgeting hair twirlies