loser, college!könig⊠like actual loser who barely knows how to talk to girls. but god, youâre so cute and small compared to him. he can smell your sweet perfume and has definitely, surely noticed how little your skirt is as you sway on your feet next to him, looking up with those glossy eyes of yours.
âwhat do you want?â oh. heâs as much of a brute as he looks, youâve come to realize. straight to the point, a bit scary.
his eyes narrow while your mouth falls open but nothing comes out, your eyes are welling with tears and könig feels the need to roll his own while you blubber about how much help you need in the class you two share. youâre the only one that can help me; you sniffle pathetically, hoping it will persuade him into tutoring you in these trying times.
youâre seconds away from falling to your knees and pleading himâ luckily you donât have to because könig is holding out his phone, expecting you to add your number into his contacts. and of course you do while continuing to sniffle and babbling out thank youâs that he chooses to ignore.
âiâll text you and weâll figure it out,â he grumbles before leaving you where you stand in the hallway.
if only you knew that youâd end up bent over his desk a month later, curses falling from your lips with every thrust that shakes your entire frame and rattles his stupid PC monitors on his desk. your hands are planted on either side of his keyboard, trying your best not to accidentally slam your palms down on it in a cock-hungry haze.
youâre unsure of how he even managed to bully his way into your cunt in the first place. all you remember is that his head was under your skirt for at least an hour before you got this far, making you all messy with his spit as his fingers worked their magic inside your pretty cunt. âprettiest cunt iâve ever seen,â könig made sure to tell you, before flattening his tongue in your folds and forcing your hips to grind down.
fuuuck, königâ you whimper tearfully. but at the same time youâre pushing your bum back to meet his thrusts, savoring the feeling of your cheeks being pressed flush against his hips every time as your back arches perfectly. könig squeezes your waist beneath his giant hands, but they end up cupping your tits eventually, squishing and squeezing to make you tremble even more in his hold.
truthfully he doesnât know whatâs come over him. doesnât know where this sudden ability to pull orgasms out of such a cute dumb girl came from, especially with his limited but very valuable experience. however he does know that your cunt is heavenly and the way it squeezes him is better than any fleshlight heâs ever had, admittedly. enough to have him seeing white and throw his head back with a breathy groan every few seconds. he thinks he needs it every day.
youâll be lucky if he lets you leave his dorm after this.
àŒ*Â·Ë LUST FOR LIFE â task force 141 x reader
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, virgin reader, corruption kink, slight power imbalance, praise, degradation, light dom/sub, slight daddy kink, oral, vaginal sex, your father's a dick, very minor soapghost, aftercare
series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.
// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //
Stay in your room, your father had said. Don't bother us tonight, your father had said. They are dangerous men that do dangerous things, your father had said.
Yet, here you were, standing at the bottom step of the stairwell, hiding behind the wall adjoined to the living room, listening in to the men on the other side.
You were bored out of your brains. It was a Friday night, and like hell was your over-protective father going to let you go out or party. And the fact that he wouldn't even introduce you to his only friends? Or let you leave your fucking room?
It had left you pissed off to no end, so.
Here you were.
"Bloody close," you hear a voice grunt, deep and gravelly. It sends heat to your stomach immediately, and it's almost embarrassing.
You hear the sound of a hand slapping a shoulder, and the bark of a laugh. "Aye, still got the cash you're gonna owe me?" This voice has a -- Irish? Scottish, maybe? -- lilt to it, humour and kindness embedded into its layers.
"He'll find a way outta paying," a third voice chimes, laughter in its tone.
Someone else clears their throat. "You're all gonna get yourselves indebted to each other at this rate," a fourth voice says, sounding almost resigned.
"You all need to shut the fuck up before she sticks her nose down 'ere."
Your spine straightens, and fury simmers in your blood. Did he have to be such an asshole? Why was your father so... so anti your existence? Why was he so ashamed of you, yet so overbeating?
"She's not a kid anymore, you really oughtta to lay off," the man with the scottish accent says, slightly stern in his delivery.
"If you met her, you'd understand how fuckin' annoying she is. Always wants me to deal with her emotions, as if they're my fuckin' problem," your father replies venomously. Your stomach has dropped to your feet, you're sure of it.
There's a low whistle in response, and a silence settles behind the wall. An unsettling one, full of animosity. The fact that you can tell that from behind the wall says a lot.
"I'm gonna go out and get some drinks. Maybe some dinner. Needa get out of this fuckin' house for a bit," your father says with a grunt, sounding like he's gotten up from the couch. "Call if you lot need anythin' while I'm out."
A few grunts of agreement, and after a few seconds, the front door opens and slams shut.
You let out a small breath of tense relief, eyes fluttering shut as you deeply exhale. The immediate relief of having your father out of the house is immense.
"I feel bad for her," you hear the third man speak, voice quiet and low. "You hear how he speaks about her -- what's he like with her?"
"Gaz, whatever you're thinkin', drop it," the first speaker grits out, impatient and tight.
"He's right," the scottish one says with a huff, "Poor kid. She's legal and he isn't letting her out on a Friday night? 'Nd he fuckin' wonders why she's upset."
"He must have his... reasons," the fatherly voice of the fourth speaker says, although his tone says otherwise.
You swallow, slowly creeping off of the bottom step and onto the wooden floors. Front pressed to the wall, you move just the slightest bit, to allow yourself a small peak into the loungeroom.
There are four men, like you'd expected, and they're...
They're big. There's no other word that comes to mind, except for big. Tall, broad, packed with muscle. Military-grade men.
Your mouth is suddenly parched of any moisture, and your brain turns to putty.
Selfishly, stupidly, you spend another dangerous moment to admire the four. The couch curves, the four of them seated on it, facing the TV hung on the wall. They're backs are to you.
Or.
One second, they're all blissfully turned the other way, and in the next, one's head turns, and deep brown eyes meet yours.
Your eyes go wide, and you immediately dart for the stairs, heart in your throat.
Rushing up, trying to stay quiet but still hurrying, you make it to your room in record time. You shut the door behind you, chest tight and breaths harried as your back presses to the wood.
Stupid, stupid girl, you think.
They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.
That's what your father had said, wasn't it? So what were you thinking, risking a look? For what purpose?
Then, there's a knock on your door.
Your eyes go impossibly wide, and your lips purse together as you slowly move away from the door. With one breath, you train your face into a pleasant, kind smile as you slowly open the door, only allowing a bit of your room to be shown.
"You're his daughter, ain't ya?"
You have to crane your neck, eyes going up, and up, and up, until you meet the man's eyes.
The skull balaclava shouldn't cause your face to heat, or your breaths to quicken, but they do.
"I -- um, yes, I'm really sorry for eavesdropping," you mumble, eyes flitting to the floor and hand squeezing the door in an anxious gesture.
A hand grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet the man's chocolate eyes once more. They're imploring, impossibly so, and your thighs squeeze together against your better judgement.
"Come watch the game with us," he says, and although the sentence isn't a demand, it feels like one.
So, like the good girl you are, you nod, his grip loosening as you do.
You forget that you're in your tiniest sleep shorts and your thinnest tank top as you follow him down the stairs, his large hand resting on your lower back.
This was the most touch you'd ever felt from a man that wasn't in a familial way, and your nerve-endings feel like they've been electrocuted.
Whatever conversation that was happening silences as soon as the two of you walk into the lounge room, your hands squeezing each other painfully tight.
Your anxiety was warranted in this situation, wasn't it? Surely, it was okay to be scared of four men whom you'd never met.
Four sets of eyes are trained to your body, and there's a slight tremble in your hands as you sit in the spot balaclava had gestured towards.
It seats you in the middle of the four of them, and your heart beats impossibly faster as you settle into the leather, feeling so small in comparison to the men surrounding you.
It's a new, albeit not entirely terrible, feeling.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" The man furthest to your left asks, and when you meet his eyes, they're warm and kind. His lower face is mostly covered in a beard, and he's wearing a light brown hat.
You bite at your inner cheek, gaze flicking back to your thighs as you weakly say your name.
Their gazes burn your skin, like a living force, and your hands form nervous fists in your lap. The warm yellow light of the living room lamp creates a warm, safe ambience that doesn't exactly fit the emotions swirling inside of you.
You flinch only slightly when a warm hand moves to rest on your knee, the thumb rubbing comforting circles on it that ease your tight muscles slightly.
When you look to the owner of the hand, it's to see a warm grin and a faux mohawk.
"You're so tense, lass," he says, his mouth quirking into a knowing smirk. "We don't bite."
"Don't speak for all of us, Soap," the man sitting on your close left says with a charming grin, his eyes meeting yours when you turn to him. "I'll ask nicely, love, don't worry."
You nod, slowly, in some sort of trance. This entire situation doesn't feel entirely real, more like a figment of your deepest desires.
Ones you've never let yourself think about, except for the darkest of nights and the dirtiest of feelings.
"Don't scare the girl," the man with the balaclava says, eyes narrowing on the two men beside you.
"Says the one with the fuckin' mask, ya weirdo," the scottish one says with a scoff of a chuckle. Your mouth pulls into a soft grin without you realising, and the hand on your knee tightens ever so slightly.
"I'm Price," the man who you've deemed the most sensible of the group says with a warm smile. His head gestures to each of the other three men respectively. "That's Gaz, Soap, and Ghost."
You can't say that you're all too familiar with the names, nor how...different they are, but you nod nonetheless, reserving the names in your memory.
"Father dearest never talked about us?" Gaz asks, eyebrows softly furrowing in question.
You shake your head, almost apologetic in the movement. "He doesn't like to tell me much, he's, ah... private."
There's a few returning grunts of understanding, and they settle your nerves just a little bit more. For men of their size, they were surprisingly good at keeping you feeling safe and comfortable.
"What're you doin' all alone on a Friday night? Pretty young thing like you, 'nd you're not at a club? A date?" Soap asks, and if you notice that he's moved just the slightest bit closer to you, you don't say a word.
You feel your face heat, and you murmur out your reply. "Never been to either," you admit, pulling at a thread in your sleep shorts with nervous jerks.
Ghost settles further into his chair, legs spread in an almost dominant way. "Surely you've at least had your first kiss?"
If you could get anymore embarrassed, you're sure you'll combust on the spot.
You softly shake your head.
"Aw, love, you're adorable," Gaz says, a hint of a smirk on his features. His dark eyes glimmer in the light, and you lick your bottom lip to wet it.
Price's arms rest on his knees, and his eyes seem trained on you, debating some sort of inner conflict, before they firm with some kind of resolution. "Y'know, we've been training rookies lately," he states, but with a knowing undertone that everyone in the room seems to pick up on except for you.
"That we have," Ghost says, his voice sending shivers down your spine as he nods in agreement with Price.
"How about we train you, bonnie?" Soap asks, his hand moving just the slightest bit higher on your thigh.
You swallow, mouth dry.
"Um. Like, train me... how?" You ask, although there's some part of your brain that knows all too well what area they're thinking of.
Gaz's hand moves to sit at the nape of your neck, stroking in soothing movements that leave your eyes half-closed and glassy. "How about I show you how to kiss, love?"
Your stomach hollows, and your chest rises and falls in heavy beats. Nervously looking around the room, you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod shortly.
Soap's hand tightens around your thigh, a barely hidden warning. "Words, baby, or you're goin' back to your room."
The threat instantly has words flying out of your mouth. "Yes. Please. Just... be gentle?"
All four men seem to huff a laugh at that, but Gaz nods, dimples showing as his smirk deepens. "I can do that."
He pulls you in, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips meet yours.
The feeling leaves you entirely dazed, your nervous system alighting with signals as your thoughts seem to pause, if only for a second. It's nothing like you'd expected, and butterflies erupt in your lower stomach.
He pulls away, not having breached your mouth, and you must look as out of it as you feel because he laughs.
"That good, love?" He asks, teasing and entirely prideful.
You nod, a bit too fast and enthusiastic, before his hand pulls away from your nape. The loss is mourned, briefly, before your attention pulls away from Gaz and instead to Soap.
"Gotta learn from all of us," is all he says, before his lips crush against your own. Where Gaz was tentative and soft, Soap is all energy and desperation.
His hand squeezes your thigh, and when it had moved from your knee to pushing against your tiny shorts, you haven't an idea.
You can't find it in yourself to care, with his relentless attack on your mouth, your lips, your mind.
When he pulls away, you realise it's because Ghost's moved to stand, and his hand is in a tight fist in Soap's hair, pulling his face away from yours.
"Actin' like a fuckin' mutt," Ghost mutters, tone laced with vitriol. It's degrading, and yet Soap doesn't seem phased in the slightest.
You're about to inquire about that when your attention's caught by Price, his knees spread and patting his thigh. "C'mere, sweetheart," he says, and like a dog on a leash, you do.
His unbelievably large hands grab your hips as he seats you in his lap, and with how he's got his legs spread, it forces you to sit over his groin.
It's a compromising position, and the heat that rushes to your core is an entirely unknown feeling.
He doesn't move his hands from your body as his eyes devour it, before they meet your gaze with a warmth to them that has you shivering.
"Show me what the boys have taught you, hm?" He says, and with shut eyes and a stiff movement, you press your lips to his.
He groans, pleased, his thumbs rubbing circles where your skin's been revealed by your tank top. No one's ever touched you there, not in this way, and it has your pussy wet.
When he pulls away, he licks at his lips, as if he's devouring your taste.
"You're so pretty, sweetheart, mm? No wonder your father's got you all locked up," he says, and the reminder of the source of your anger has you wanting to do entirely too reckless things.
Like kissing the four men he warned you about.
Like doing more, maybe.
...Maybe.
His hands force your hips down, and you let out a small whimper when your clit presses against his belt buckle, the action sending pleasure shooting up your spine.
He raises a brow, catching the change in expression and your small sound. "What's wrong, pretty?"
And then, he pulls you down again, deeper this time, and the movement has your breath hitching, core burning with need.
"Oh, you naughty little girl," he says, and the words have your mind turning into some sort of mouldable clay, entirely able to be controlled by whatever these men wanted to make of it. "So needy, ain't ya?"
Someone presses against you from behind, and a belt buckle presses against your lower back.
"My turn to feel those lips, innit?" Ghost says from behind, leaning down to whisper his next words next to your ear. "See what all the fuss 's about."
The idea that you're being passed around, like you're some kind of... of whore has you entirely speechless in the most positive of ways.
You feel filthy, and you love it.
Leaning your head back, you manage to make eye contact with the large man, before his lips press to yours, upside down.
He devours, all encompassing, his tongue slipping into yours without any hesitance. You're clumsy, unsure, but he makes up for it with experience and dominance. The entire act has you woozy, needy for more of them, more of their touch.
You don't expect for Price to start forcibly rotating your hips, forcing you to grind against his lap, but it forces a moan from your mouth, the sound getting devoured by Ghost's overpowering tongue.
"Who knew she'd be such a desperate slut?" Gaz asks, as if you're not there, as if you're just something to be observed. It causes another moan to leave your mouth, and Ghost detaches himself from you with a grunt of his own.
"Think she liked that," Soap says, amused and proud, in a strange sort of way. "Wanna be used, baby? Taken by men nearly twice your age?"
"Yes," you say, on a groan as Price's motions speed up, the pleasure so new and different and good.
Then, he stops, and a whine comes out of you before you can stop it.
Price makes a condescending noise in response. "Poor babygirl needs all the attention, hey? Needs her little pussy played with?"
"She looks like a goddamn mess, cap," Gaz says, his hand coming up to rest on your head. He gives comforting pats, not unlike one would with an obedient puppy.
Ghost's hands come around your waist, and before you even process what he's doing, he rips your sleep shorts in half, leaving you completely bare.
"Didn't think to wear panties, dumb girl?" Ghost asks with an appreciative groan, his large hand cupping your now exposed pussy.
With a whimper, you shake your head, your eyes squeezed shut at the embarrassment and nudity. No one had ever seen it before, and now, four of your father's friends were getting an eyeful.
"Lemme see if she's nice 'n wet for us," Soap murmurs, picking you up from Price's lap in a princess carry.
It doesn't even last two seconds before he's splaying you over the now empty couch, your hands pathetically covering your most private of areas.
"None of that, sweetheart," Price says with a 'tsk', grabbing both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them to the couch above your head, leaving you effectively defenceless to the men.
Soap's hand moves down your stomach, before he pauses for just a moment. "This okay, baby?"
You nod, because yes, this is most definitely okay.
Gaz gives you a stern look, so you quickly fix your mistake. "I -- yes, sir, it's okay."
There's a surrounding sound of approval, and Soap smirks from where he stands beside your hips. "Sir, aye? Like the sound of that."
With that, his finger slides down your pussy, and your eyes shut with a soft moan. His hands are rough, scarred, calloused from years of work on the field, and they're so much larger than your own.
"Think she likes it, sir," Ghost says, taunting Soap, whose eyes are completely transfixed on your glistening pussy.
"Not the only one," Price says with an approving murmur, his hand tightening around your wrists. The sense of powerlessness has you aching with desire.
Soap's finger continues to rub against your slit, not breaching your entrance, instead continuing to tease and amplify his touch. Your eyes are shut, too embarrassed to look at the mess you're likely causing on the fabric, and too nervous to see the expression on the men's faces.
"Do you play with your lil cunt often, princess?" Ghost says, voice darkened with lust.
Your face feels like it's burning, but you nod. "Sometimes. I -- ah," you break off with a moan as Soap's thumb presses against your swollen clit.
"Be a good girl and answer when spoken to, love," Gaz says with a sound of disappointment that has you aching to amend your mistake.
"I'm sorry, sir, I, yes. Sometimes 'm just needing to, um, y'know..." You trail off, trying to preserve any amounts of dignity you had left. You were aware that masturbation was normal, but you'd never discussed it with a single soul, and talking about it felt like laying your soul bare.
Price's other hand moves to gently brush your hair from your face, the gesture so at odds with Soap's sensual movements.
You're about to say something, what, you aren't exactly sure, when Soap's finger roughly enters your soaked pussy. A loud whimper escapes your lips at the sudden intrusion, and the sheer size difference of his finger compared to your own.
"Aww, baby, it's alright," Soap coos, and it's so fucking condescending. It's cruel, almost, as if you're so dumb that you can't even form your own thoughts.
Which is, honestly, more true than you're willing to admit.
"'Atta girl," Ghost groans when your whimpers only increase with every thrust of Soap's finger.
Gaz's hand moves down to replace Soap's thumb on your clit, using the pads of his fingers to roughly circle around it. That sensation, mixed with Soap's intrusion, has your back arching slightly from the couch.
"Think she's close, Cap," Gaz says, conversationally, again treating you like you're not entirely capable of voicing your own feelings or thoughts.
"Mm, that right, sweetheart? Close already?" Price echoes, the hand not around your wrists going to squish your cheeks together, causing your lips to pucker. "What a pathetic girl, hm?"
Those words, those demeaning, humiliating words, only stoke the fire in your stomach, and your eyes burn with unshed tears as you shakily nod.
As soon as you do, however, Gaz pulls away, and Soap's finger leaves your pussy entirely. You groan, eyes opening slightly to see what could've possibly caused them to stop.
"You look so upset, baby," Soap laughs, and his smile is no longer the jovial one it had been mere minutes before -- no, it's been replaced with something much more predatory, something much more dangerous.
Dangerous men.
Ghost moves, then, moving your legs with much more care than you'd expected from the large man, before moving to kneel at the end of the couch where your legs had been. Hooking your knees over his shoulder, he effectively folds you in half.
"W-what are you doing?" You ask, almost frantic, utterly confused at your current state.
He leans down, hooking his balaclava over the tip of his nose, before there's searing wet heat at your core, causing you to throw your head back with a loud moan.
Gaz chuckles, "So dirty, love. Like having the big bad Ghost with his head between your legs, huh? Like having the attention of men with blood on their hands?"
Oh, and the confirmation -- the proper, hard proof, that they killed, that they truly were as dangerous as your father had said --
"Yes, fuck, please, oh my god," you ramble, almost incoherent with your words as you body trembles with the feeling of a mouth at your pussy. "Jesus, don't stop."
You can hear laughter around you, some words being passed between the men, but your focus is entirely on the tongue dipping into your folds, licking at your essence like a man starved. Like you're his only salvation.
Soap's hand is in Ghost's hair, a complete parallel to the kiss the two of you had shared, and he's pushing Ghost further against you, manhandling him like a toy for you to grind against, for you to take advantage of.
"I'm gonna, oh, please, I'm close," you cry out, eyes squeezed shut yet again as Ghost's ministrations only double in enthusiasm.
"Yeah, sweetheart? Gonna cum all over his face? Go on, ride it, there we go," Price eggs you on, his hand patting down your hair, massaging at your scalp as you lose yourself to the pleasure of it all.
You cum with a desperate keen, tears finally spilling down your cheeks as you ride out the high, embracing this moment for the beauty it is.
It doesn't hit you, not at first, the full extent of your actions.
Ghost pulls away after your whimpers turn into ones of overstimulation, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your twitching pussy, and then your inner knee as he carefully sets your legs back down on the couch.
"Such a good girl, aye?" Soap asks, rubbing at your tense calves with expert strokes and pressure. "Did so well for us, darlin'."
Your head feels like it's been filled with cotton, and your mouth is in a similar state as you nod dazedly.
You're not sure when, but at some point, Price gently moves you to lay your back against the cushion of the couch. "Need you to drink something for us, sweetheart, okay?"
Gods, this part? Them treating you like a princess, like you're something worthy of taking care of, it's almost as good as the orgasm they'd given you.
Gaz comes into view with a glass of water, and when he gently moves your chin to open your mouth, you let him pour it down your throat.
It feels almost like you're entirely too weak to do anything by yourself, like your ability to function has been completely removed by these men. It's intoxicating, the kind of feeling that could be as addictive as the most threatening of drugs.
The water slides down your throat, and it's as if it cools you from the inside out, your heartbeat slowly coming down from the quickened pace it was previously at.
Price picks you up, cradling your head to his chest as he sits down, the other three settling down on the couch as well. Gaz, sitting beside Price, moves your legs to sit over his lap, your feet in Soap's. Ghost sits to Soap's left, his eyes focused on you as you get comfortable, burrowing your head closer to Price.
If you could stay in this moment forever, you think that you'll be a very happy woman.
Closing your eyes, you drift into a space between sleep and awareness, and when they flutter open again, you realise that your previously exposed pussy and legs are now hidden by your sweatpants that had been laid on your bed, ready to be put away.
Price's hand is in your hair, softly playing with the strands. His hand encompasses your entire scalp, almost, and if you weren't completely exhausted, that fact alone would have you ready to get on your knees.
"What're we gonna do?" Gaz whispers, and you realise with a start that they must all think you're still dozing. "I mean, we seriously fucked this up."
"Not yet we haven't," Ghost interrupts, voice still gravelly and low, but with a hint of warmth. "This doesn't change anything."
"This changes everything!" Soap hisses back, incredulous, his hands stilling from where they were rubbing into your feet with practiced movements. Were they all trained masseuses, or something?
No. Trained killers, your mind unhelpfully supplies, and a chill runs down your spine.
Oh god. Oh god. What had you done? Seriously, what the actual fuck had you done? You just.
You just lost your virginity to four of your father's very lethal, very dangerous friends. Friends who are nearly twice your age, at that.
Oh. God.
"Laswell will be expecting correspondence by three," Price mutters in a voice akin to a whisper. "You boys know what we have to do."
What? What were they talking about? Who was Laswell? What did they have to do by three?
Your mind whirrs, like a hamster in a wheel, before the sound of keys jingling on the other side of your front door has your entire body freezing.
Oh god.
Oh. God.
"Shit," Gaz grumbles, and between one thought and the next, you've been bundled up into a warm chest, the movement fluid and shockingly quick. A hand at the base of skull softly pushes your head against a warm neck, and your legs hang over a muscled arm. "I'll take her upstairs. Be quiet and quick."
There's murmurs too quiet between the other three as you're taken up the stairs, two steps at a time, by the man whose fingers had been on your pussy, at most, only an hour ago.
You're aware that you've been taken to your room when the door clicks behind you, the familiar path to it engrained in your memory, even with your eyes closed and in someone else's arms.
The smell of vanilla and caramel is a comforting and familiar one, and you realise that you'd left your candle burning all night.
It's really the least of your worries, but that thought manages to snag at your conscious like an annoying fly.
"I'm so sorry, kid," Gaz whispers, gently laying you down underneath your bedsheets, before pulling them up and over your lazed form. "I'll try my best to talk some sense into 'em."
You're not sure what he could possible mean -- what the fuck was even happening, what your life was even becoming, but his words are nothing if not sincere.
His tone is almost... apologetic, in a way, and you reserve that thought for later. When you're not pretending to be awake, when you're still not slightly out of it from your first orgasm caused by someone else, when you're not in the middle of the worst moral conflict of your life.
Your window's slightly open, allowing a soft breeze to brush over your still slightly heated skin as Gaz presses a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing your hair back.
"Get off me!"
Your father. That's your father's voice, and it sounds panicked, angry -- not unusual, but still, the cause of it was nearly always you.
And those specific words, what --
"Y'know, Laswell found out somethin' pretty interestin' the other day," a voice that you recognise as Ghost's says, tone mocking interest.
Gaz moves away from you, before going to the window and looking out at whatever scene is happening down there. Somehow, he hasn't realised you're not asleep -- you'd kept your breathing pattern the same as it usually was when you're asleep, some youtube video you'd watched months ago finally coming in handy.
You can hear them all clear as day through the small opening of the window, and Gaz can too.
"Aye. Somethin' 'bout some info bein' leaked," Soap continues Ghost's train of thought, and you're so lost it's almost pathetic.
But, you continue to listen, desperate for any source of understanding for whatever the fuck was happening down there.
"You can't possibly think it was me!" Your father yells, his voice full of venom and rage. To have it not be directed at you is a rare moment, and you allow yourself a small breath of reprieve.
"We know it was you," Price says, before sighing loud enough for it to be heard from your room. "The way you spoke about that kid of yours was enough to cement the idea."
"She's a fuckin' waste of space, and where do you get off on caring how I treat my kid? Has nothin' to do with the job!"
Those words hurt. Like an actual, physical wound, almost.
Gaz swears under his breath, and you can feel the tension ooze out of him like a wave. It's... oddly comforting.
There's the sound of a fist hitting a jaw, and it takes everything in you not to race to the window and look at what's going on yourself.
"Jesus fucking christ!" Your father hisses, and you put two and two together. One of the three men down there had punched him -- if you had to take a guess, it was Ghost.
"You've never been one of us, and you'll never be one of us. You sellin' us out was the last straw, mate," Soap snarls. You can hear him spit on the ground, before another sound of fists flying makes your heart race.
There's a moment of silence, until two things happen in the span of five seconds.
First, your father screams, "Please! Don't --"
And then...
A bullet.
The sound of a trigger being pulled.
The sound of a bullet ringing through the air.
The sound of a final breath.
Your eyes fly wide, and you immediately stumble out of bed.
Gaz's gaze meets yours, and there's nothing but apology in them. No guilt, just apology.
He doesn't stop you from looking out the window, where your father's body lays in the grass, blood leaking from the wound now sitting between his eyes.
And when you turn to him, he doesn't stop you as you land a punch to his jaw.
a/n. CROSS-POSTED TO AO3 ummm so did i PLAN for this to become an actual fic? no. not in the slightest. but i was writing the fingering bit and was like. what if her dad died? and there's an actual plot? so uhhh here we are! anyways hope yall enjoyedddd if u guys know me u know polyamory is my SHIT so there will very likely be more poly!tf141 x reader to come. ty for reading mwah mwah mwah
summary; heâs an idiot to think he can just break things off, skip town, and not explain why. So like any crazy bitch âsaneâ person would, you came to take him home!. ^^
Warnings; obsessive/crazy reader, breaking and entering, knife play, non-con/ basically rape, smut, drugging, kidnapping (pricenapping?), DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, use of y/n, your stronger than price only because of his injury lolz.
Ë Ë°âą*ââ· GLASS SHATTERING IS INITIALLY WHAT WOKE THE POOR MAN UP, Priceâs phone hot from all the messages and calls you sent him prior. He sat up, barely dressed and physically defenseless due to an old mission that caused him to retire early. (it messed him up BADDD yall đ)
Your feet drag and click on his wooden floors, crunching on the sliding door glass you had just shattered with a hammer. Tossing it to the side. âBabyyy!!~â you whine, staggering into his house. Who cares if you were a bit drunk? You just wanted your love to come back to you and youâre so lucky he never found that tracker you put in his Car. A knife in your other hand as you roam around the first floor of his lovely 2 story house, rudely entering the guest rooms and knocking things over.
âShit..â price grunts, quietly moving through the house and trying to find somewhere to hide or something in hopes of finally escaping you. Thatâs the whole reason he moved so far away from everyone after retirement. Because he had caught you in the act of killing his ex-coworker. He knew you loved him. You just loved him too much and took everything too hard- *creakkkk..* he paused, of course, you heard him walking around. If it were a normal situation heâd probably praise you for your good hearing, but his heart sank so deep when he heard you coming up the hall. His face formed into a grimace at the click of your boots on his hardwood floor
You round the corner, smiling ear to ear when you see him looking at you from the end of the hall. âPrice!â You gasp. rushing to him knocking him over, straddling his lap. âY/n- get off me!â He struggled, grabbing at your wrists and waist, trying to push you off. âH-hey! Stop struggling!â You grunt, your thighs tightened around his hips. Your hands instinctively grabbed his wrist, gripping them and breathing heavily. âGet off me riâ now y/n!â He sneered, and you wince. Why was he so mad? Isnât he happy? He used to call you his pretty baby so why is he so mad all of a sudden? Your stupid brain couldnât comprehend why he was so angry at you :(
âAww câmon baby!! Mâ missin' you so much!! And we finally reunited and you yell at me?!â your bottom lip starts to quiver, jutting out in a soft pout. âYouâre fuckinâ crazy! You break in mâhouse after I tried so fuckinâ hard to get away from you and youâre taking the innocent route?! Get tha fuck out of my house y/n!â He yelled at you, did he not understand? Did he not get that you did all this for him? Thatâs fine. Youâll just have to make him understand. Youâre barely thinking straight when you inject the sedative you pulled out of your bag into his thigh. Itâll be okay right? Heâll understand soon, right? Right?..
Your basement is cozy, to say the least. Due to parties, sleepovers, and just the need to make everything cozy in your house. The chair price is tied up with chains isnât so bad either would be better with no fucking chains. You sit in front of him, in his favorite sleeping gown waiting for him to wake up. Did you accidentally kill him? Was it too many sedatives? Was the viagra pill you slipped into his mouth too much
Snapped out of your head by a groan, you're happy heâs alive and youâre even more happy to see the tent in his pants. (You had to dress him before you dragged him over to your house because of the toll station on the highway. It wouldâve been a bit weird to see a woman with a technically naked sleeping man in her car right? ^^) God do viagra pills work wonders :)
âYou up baby?â You hum, smiling at his drugged-out expression. He canât even really bring himself to respond, itâs pathetic really, but you love it so so much.. ây-y/n.. fuck.. what d-did you do..â price tries to move, but heâs stopped by the chains that forced him to stay in the seat. âNothin' too bad.. Iâd never hurt you!â You pout.
He shouldâve known. He shouldâve known youâd leave him overstimulated and use him until he said heâd stay with you, gritting his teeth to hold back moans, he didnât want to love you. But how could he help it? He used to think heâd marry you before you slipped up and killed someone.
You whine and squirt all over his meaty length, legs shaking as he cums deep inside your fluttering pussy. Maybe when you have his baby he wonât leave you again ^^
All this talk of other people having pets is getting me thinking: what would Graves' pet be like? How would he deal with them? I love the southern man too much đ
-â„ïžâĄâ„ïžâĄâ„ïž
Hello hello đ€đ€đ€đ€đ€!! I have a confession: I do not like Graves one bit and Iâm sorry for that. That said, I let some Thoughts percolate overnight just for you. And while I donât think Iâll do tooooo much about him, Iâm happy to answer your ask!
I think Graves would love a Feisty Baby. Yeah sheâll bite and scratch and give as good as she gets when he disciplines her. Heâd also be so so smug after theyâve built a bond that heâs the only one sheâll behave for. She tolerates his Shadows, but theyâre always on thin fuckinâ ice with her. Babysitting her when sheâs away is a Team Effort and usually end in tears (not hers). Heâs also the only one sheâll be soft with and that just makes him melt.
(Oh and he dresses her up like a pet. Has a million pictures of her in outfits he found on Instagram or Pinterest)
summary: Terror fills you as you wonder what's next.. what is he going to do?
warnings: descriptions of like skin stuff (not too bad imo?? still warning), he lowkey a freak as in a sadist, screaming crying and general fear concepts, he dark but no super overall descriptions of it, nothin really happens sorry lol
w/c; 1k
Part 1, Part 2
Author's note: Midterms were ass, anyway here's part 3 hope it isn't a total flop. it's short but I hope to make part 4 soon the final part and a bit longer than this (hopefully).
The foul stench hung in the room.Â
It was a salty, iron-like pungent odor.Â
Much like sweat and blood.Â
But there was no blood here, it was all long dried.
You inhale a large breath of the warm air.Â
The oxygen hits your brain and--What the actual fuck--your head is reeling with the sudden reality.Â
You feel the tears start to drop and they fall steadily as the feeling of dread fills your senses.
The room. The skin. Him. The Scarecrow
Itâs almost like he can hear your thoughts, but itâs more likely heâs seen the same reaction you're countless times.Â
Heâs seen it on the poor souls that were unlucky enough to see the very room you were seeing now.Â
However, they were soon added to the collection in the room.
âDonât ya like it, darlinâ?â he asks mockingly.
He hasnât moved from his spot at the door. Instead heâs relishing in the moment.Â
Drinking up your reaction; every breath, every hitch in your throat, every cry, every tear that seeps from you.
But you stand rooted to your spot in the middle of the room. Too scared to move. Too scared to speak.
Finally words donât fail you, and something coherent is able to form out of your quivering lips, âWhatâs going onâŠâ a sob interrupts you, and stupidly you continue in order to ask, âwhat is this..â
The only response he gives you is an amused drag of his white teeth on his bottom lip before he gives you that same charming and alluring grin.
âScarecrow.. PleaseâŠâ you sobbed out.
Hot tears streamed down your face.Â
Almost seeming never ending; a beautiful river that showcases your fear and desperation.Â
He loved every second of it.Â
His grin never falters, you arenât even sure if he can feel any human feeling but if he could, youâre sure heâd feel something akin to a wild childish glee. His glowing eyes burning in the low light being proof of how much he was enjoying this.
"âWhat's going onâ, hmm?" He echos your question, his tone was almost playful.Â
âOh, câmon, sugar. Ya donât really need me to spell it out for yaâ, right?â He chuckles out dripping with condescension.Â
His words make a loud cry escape from you.
A sob wracks through you as you slowly start to back up, the implication of his response makes your worst fears come true.Â
You bump into something and stumble backwards, your hand instinctively reaching out to keep you from falling, all without looking away from the scarecrow.Â
But upon touching the object, you rip your eyes away from him and to where your grip is.Â
Itâs a couch made of human skin.Â
You can see the details of someone, what was them, probably what was their hand stitched with another unidentifiable pieces of skin that probably wasnât theirs due to the different colors the patches were. Pieces of hair poked out from the inside. It was used for cushioning.
Shock makes your reaction delayed. But it doesnât take a second longer for your scream to erupt.Â
Tearing your hand and eyes from the couch, and back to the Scarecrow, you drop to the floor and crawl until your head and back harshly hit the wall.
You didnât even want to think about how the wallpaper was also the remnants of people sewn together.
The only thing that spills from your lips are cries and begs, âNo, no, no, no, no.. please.. donât do this..â
He still stands at the threshold drinking up your delightful screams, sobs, and begs. With a deep breath he finally starts to walk toward you.
Every thump of his worn boots on the floor makes your heart jump and await the worse.
The fear makes you want to look away from his yellow eyes, but you canât, and in return you see how his eyes never leave you.Â
He slowly stalks closer, his beautiful smile gleaming horrifically. The corners of his smile making boyish dimples show and his eyes crinkle prettily.Â
"What's the matter, doll?" His tone is the same sweet and southern honeyed voice he had first spoken to you with.Â
The same voice that made you believe he was safe, the same voice that made you believe he was going to help you, the same one that made you trust him.
Finally he stands before you.
He kneels down to your level, his head tilting as he watches your horrified fearful face.Â
You sit there paralyzed and you believe he's going to hurt you.Â
When his hand reaches out to you, you shut your eyes and flinch, waiting for the worse.Â
But instead, he wipes a tear away from your cheek.Â
His touch is gentle.Â
Still paralyzed with fear, your eyes open wide and though you feel fearful, you look at him.
âYou look beautiful with tears runninâ down your face.â He whispers just loud enough.
âSuch a pretty lilâ thinâ.'' His grin melts into a smile, it looks kind and sincere but the glint in his eyes warned you that there was still danger.
âPlease donât kill me..â you croaked out, âI thought you were going to help me.. please I didnât.. i..â you sobbed harder.
âIâm scared..â you mustered between sobs as his hand wiped the rest of your tears.
âYou should be,â he finally says and his warm breath fans on your face, âbut Iâm not gonna kill ya..â
âPretty lilâ thinâ like you dead would be such a waste to put in âere, plus ya arenât a pest like the rest of âem.â His hand moves from your cheek to your head, running it through your hair, his fingers tangling between the strands.
âNo⊠no, ya arenât like them pests..â he mutters as he looks you over.Â
You donât know what to say. You donât know what to do other than watch him with your terrified wide eyes.
His breathing seemed almost strained and he looked like he was restraining himself.
âNo, youâre mine, sweetheart.â he shakily breathed out.
Author note: also i have the ending done.. I just have to tie it in with this. (fun fact; I originally didn't plan to keep the darktwist, I had him as actually really sweet and very wizard of oz esque. but this dark scarecrow graves grew on me bec yes he spooky :')
taglist; @itsyellow (added them cus they asked to b tagged also ily)
that one badjhur audio of könig drives me wild and insane mmfhfhfhfh :( how his thrusts got harder and so much faster towards the end does something crazy to me!!!!!!!!!
and now i wanna write dadbod!könig because it's one of my favourite concepts eveerr :( (and toxic!dadbod!price too, stoner!könig, and perv!price...) i need requests for them!!! any, pleaseee đđ·
tf141 men reacting to their spoiled gf saying âwhy do you hate me?â when she isnât getting enough attention.
warnings -> 18+, f!reader, dom + sub dynamics, brat taming, allusions of impact play [spanking], petnames.
CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE
âexcuse me?â
johnâs eyebrows raise almost comically high. if it wasnât for the stern glare taking over his features, youâd be giggling by now. instead you stay standing in front of him, shuffling on your feet with the same big pout you murmured your dumb question through. you despise making him upset with youâ
at the same time, though⊠you feel those little sparks in your tummy when he pushes himself back from his desk and pats his lap. beckoning you to come sit on those strong thighs so he can sweet talk some sense to you. your feet canât move fast enough, shuffling in your soft socks against the carpet. the rough denim of his jeans rubs against your own uncovered thighs as you shuffle in his lap.
âdonât ya think youâre being a silly girl?â itâs a simple question, but one youâre not exactly prepared for nonetheless.
your eyes meet his and thereâs no way you can possibly shy away from his gaze. so you nod dumbly, and johnâs chest rumbles with an approving hum. a strong hand cradles the back of your head, coaxing you to relax against his chest so he can put an end to this bratty streak you have in you rearing itâs ugly head.
SIMON GHOST RILEY
âwhat the fuck are yâon about?â
âjust forget it, simon.â you bite back, turning on your heel to march away from him.
you hear his heavy sigh and itâs only a matter of seconds before the pair of big hands he has squeezes your waist, pulling you back into him until heâs able to growl right over the shell of your ear. you turn your head, tilting it upwards and meeting his fury filled eyes. it takes everything in you not to grin wildly and piss him off more than you already haveâ especially when you can practically feel the soreness his fingers will leave behind in your sides already.
âdumb pet,â he grits out, âcould never hate you, not even when you act like thisâŠâ
at those words, you press a gentle kiss to his masked lips. and you know for a fact heâs rolling his eyes, tired of your theatrical tendencies and outbursts, but that doesnât stop him from nudging your nose with his own. from pulling you closer and snorting out a breathy laugh.
âyouâre still gonna fuckinâ get it later, yâknow that right?â
JOHNNY SOAP MACTAVISH
âhow dare ye?â
you knowâ you just knowâ that youâve really fucked up this time. why would you say such a thing? why would you be such a nasty girl to the man who does everything for you? sure, he didnât have his eyes on you for a bitâ bless him, he just wanted to decompress after some training. and here you come, stomping over to him like a proper fusspot.
in a second, youâre tugged into his lap by your wrist. you clumsily fall on top of him but johnny is quick to readjust you, to make sure youâre getting a good look at his disappointed face.
âdo ye even know what youâre saying?â he speaks lowly, doesnât care how much your bottom lip wobbles under his harsh tone, âbecause i really donât think ye do.â
âjohnny, iâm sorryâ i reallyââ you attempt blubbering out. however he presses his thick index finger against your pout, shushing you in an instant.
âfucked up again, bonnie.â he tsks.
maybe heâs right. you donât know what youâre saying. you know better; you know what he likes to be called when you two find yourselves in situations just like this one, when you need to be put in your place. thatâs why you donât resist when he guides you to lay over his lap tummy downâŠ
KYLE GAZ GARRICK
âprincess, come onâŠâ
kyle begins, treading carefully around your huffing form. strong arms loop around you from behind, humming softly when you melt right into him despite your bratty demeanor. you can feel him smile against the side of your warm face, while his scent and warmth invades your senses, calming you down immediately.
âyou know thatâs the farthest from the truth,â he whispers, kissing your cheek with an obnoxious smooching sound tacked on to each one. it prompts you to giggle and kyle laughs right along with you when he sees how much your nose scrunches up with happiness.
âthereâs my sweet girl!â
he squeezes his arms around you, ignoring you when you shamefully apologize for being so ridiculous⊠because he knows deep down in his heart heâd let you get away with murder. so he shushes you with more kisses and murmurs about just how much he loves you, and plans on doing the same thing between your pretty thighs later on.
àŒ*Â·Ë NEW JOBS AND DEATH THREATS â cod x reader
CRAVE YOU â call of duty x reader CHAPTER ONE
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + alejandro vargas + rodolfo 'rudy' parra + könig + keegan p. russ
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, prison au, serial killer au, reverse harem, therapist/patient, medical inaccuracies, graphic violence, depictions of murder, everyone's unhinged, poly tf141, minor ships, threesomes, foursomes, gangbangs, this is not medical advice!!
series masterlist. read on ao3.
Life was hard. That was a fact.
Bills and groceries didnât pay for themselves. That was also a fact.
Adding these two factors together, the final product will be a high-risk job in one of the highest-risk places on Earth. Thatâs⊠not a fact.
And yet, here you are, standing at the visitor entrance of Las Almas Prison, sporting a disgruntled grimace and a new pair of black slacks that youâd splurged on. They, at least, made your ass look good, although that was truly the least of your worries.
No. Your current list of worries looked something like this;
Getting Murdered
Getting Attacked
Vomiting Within The First Five Minutes Of Your New Job?
âŠYeah. Something like that.
The early morning sun is blinding where it sits, just off to the side of the giant concrete building that was the main offices and Visitor Centre. The fact that you were standing in front of what was only a small part of the overall prison grounds was⊠alarming.
You were well aware that this was the largest prison in your country, housing the most lethal and awful of criminals. Some youâd seen either on the news, or heard of in passing conversations.
This was the real deal. And, somehow, youâd managed to find yourself being hired to work here. You. Work with serial killers. The worst of the worst.
With the stress on your bank account, and the endless struggle that was trying to find a stable career in the current job market, you simply had no other choice but to accept the offer. It paid extremely well, had great benefits, and your safety was⊠fairly considered.
The amount of NDAs, liability clauses and agreements, however?
Not the best at calming your nerves, to say the least.
The biting chill of the winter wind has you wrapping your arms around yourself, leather bag slung over your shoulder as you finally step through the automatic sliding door.
Youâre not surprised to find that the chill only deepens inside the concrete walls of the building, with no heaters or air conditioning from what you can see. There is, however, bright white overhead lights that do nothing except aid the throbbing in the side of your head â probably due to the restless sleep youâd had the night before, anticipation and anxiety warring inside of your thoughts.
Thereâs an office in front of you as you step in, with only a few decades-old couches to your right, in front of a dingy TV thatâs turned off. Saving their budget for more important things, you suppose.
The walls are a pale, grimy yellow, with sparse photos hung about, framing newspaper articles that are surely from the last century, and black and white pictures of the prisonâs opening.
Itâs an unsettling place, that much youâve already gathered.
You havenât even actually been inside the prison, you remind yourself, your stomach churning where it now lays at your feet.
Without a second thought, you continue with hurried steps to the front desk, where scratched plastic encases the sole woman inside, sitting behind a monitor. Thereâs a circle of holes that allow for sound to pass through, but other than that, thereâs no way of entering from this room. With a quick study of your surroundings, you see a steel door to the left of where the desk sits, with a small square window covered in iron bars.
âŠJesus christ.
âCan I help you?â The woman drawls, sliding her glasses further up her nose. Her voice is nasally, and the words come out in a slow drawl as she looks you up and down, unimpressed.
You give her your best smile, although even you can tell that itâs an uneasy one. âYes! This is my first day, I think Iâm supposed to be meeting Kate Laswell?â You ask, nerves betraying your voice with unsteady breaths.
The woman snaps her gum.
You stand there.
She blows it again.
You continue to stand there.
Her gaze is bored and completely void of any thought, before she nods slowly. âLaswell⊠Iâll call her.â
Really, you couldnât be more shocked if you tried. What the fuck was happening? How could one lack so much⊠professionalism?
âHi, Kate. Yes, itâs Jenny. I have a new hire who apparently wants to see youâŠâ Her voice remains that unbearably slow, sloth-like delivery, before her eyes unhurriedly meet yours again. âWhatâs your nameâŠ?â
You give it to her, tone only the slightest bit impatient as you roll back on the heels of your feet. You can only hope that your black boots are appropriate; youâd figured that they were safe, closed-toe and still somewhat professional.
Time would tell. Jenny was giving you the impression that they were more than acceptable, because at least they got you to do your job in a timely manner.
Jenny says a few more words to who can only pray is Laswell on the other end of the phone, before she places it back in its holder.Â
âLaswell will be here anyâŠâ She pops her gum once more, and maybe, just maybe, you can understand the urge to murder. âMoment.â
You give her a tight, painful smile. âThank you, Jenny.â
She doesnât respond, and you decide to just stand back and wait. You certainly werenât complaining â any more conversation with her wouldâve ended with a severe lack of hair on your head.
A minute passes, before a buzz in the pocket of your slacks has your throat tightening.Â
Pulling out your phone, your next exhale comes out shaky as you read the text.
Charlie: get milk otw home used it all
No âgood luckâ. No⊠ounce of care for you, or the absolute stress that comes with a new job, let alone one like this.
When youâd told him about the offer, all heâd said was, âIt might make you worth something for a change.â Didnât even question, not for a minute, the risks that came with a job like this. He simply couldnât give less of a fuck.
âDoctor?â The sound of a door opening, and the kind, almost motherly tone of the voice has you shoving your phone into your pocket once more as you turn to the source of the sound.
Itâs a woman, her hair pulled back into a slick bun, one hand holding what seems to be a clipboard. Her other hand rests in the pocket of a white coat, not unlike one a scientist would be fashioning in a lab. Her smile is warm, the corner of her eyes crinkling as you direct a smile of your own her way.
âKate Laswell?â You ask, extending your hand for her to shake. Taking her hand out of her pocket, she accepts it gracefully, nodding her head.
âThe one and only,â she says, before gesturing to the steel door sheâd entered through. âNow, today weâll get you set up with a keycard, general rules, and Iâll have you meet two of your patients.â
You nod, following her as she swipes a card in a black reader, before the red light buzzes green, and she pulls the door open. Right behind her, you take an unstable deep breath as you take in the greyed, jagged walls, a complete contrast to the painted ones of the entrance room.
âWe really are so glad to welcome you to our team,â she continues, her black work shoes clicking against the smooth concrete flooring. She doesnât turn to you as she speaks, but her voice carries around the echoey hallway. âYouâll make a great addition. A necessary one, also. Weâve needed an innovative, young therapist for a while. Most of our⊠previous hires have held out-dated beliefs, and a lack of humanity for their clientele.â
That makes your brows furrow in confusion. âThatâs⊠odd,â you murmur, before pausing your steps as Laswell stops, swiping her keycard, before entering another room.
As you step into the newly revealed space, your eyes go wide as you take it in.Â
Itâs a wide, large space, with several floors. Metal staircases sit at either end of the vast space, allowing access to every floor. Guards sit at every level, some walking around the space where you and Laswell stand.
Itâs a lot, all at once. Youâd never even stepped foot into a prison â not before now.
âMost inmates are at the mess for breakfast,â Laswell supplies, turning to you with a neutral expression. She gestures for you to follow her back out of the space, and you do with hurried steps. âThe ones youâll be dealing with, however⊠they usually eat by themselves.â
You donât decide to push that statement, not now, as you continue to follow her down the hallway.
âYou wonât be seeing much of the prison,â she admits. âThereâs heavily guarded spaces on the top floor for your sessions, both for your protection and for the safety of our staff and other low-risk inmates.â
You nod, humming a sound of affirmation as the two of you start heading up the cleaner steps at the end of the hallway. The staff staircase, you suppose.
âToday, youâll be meeting two of our more⊠understanding ambers.â
You raise a brow. âAmbers? What does that mean?â
She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough to shoot you a knowing look. âAmbers are our highest-risk inmates. We house ten of them, and youâll be dealing with eight as per your contract.â
Your stomach falls. Youâd known, of course, that the risks were high when applying for this role. But⊠this was more than youâd imagined, in a way. Ambers. Huh.
Silence falls over the two of you as you make your way up the never-ending steps, no windows in sight. Itâs unnerving, in a creepy, strange way. When you finally reach the top, you try and hide how out of breath you are from that small exertion.
Fucking christ.
Laswell, for her part, looks completely fine in an effortless way. You canât eve find it in yourself to be envious. The feelingâs closer to admiration.
âHereâs the files on them both. Youâll be seeing Kyle Garrick first,â she hands you the clipboard sheâd been carrying, and you accept it with only a slight tremble. She doesnât comment on it, and you find yourself warming up to her already. âTheyâll be restrained, and there is heavy security, so you neednât worry about that side of things.â
âThank you, maâam,â you say earnestly, flipping through the files without reading much of anything, not yet.Â
She waves you off with a soft chuckle. âNone of that. Kateâs more than fine,â she insists, and you give her a bright smile in return. Maybe this job wouldnât be so bad â a boss like this was much better than a creepy middle-aged man any day of the week.
You donât realise youâve made it to a small room until she stops walking, scanning her keycard and pushing the door open, gesturing you in. âWhile you have your first two sessions, Iâll sort your keycard and the rest of the processes out. I wish you luck.â
With that, the door shuts behind you, and youâre alone in a small room.
It matches the rest of the hallways youâve seen â grey concrete walls, grey concrete floors. The only furniture, however, is one metal table drilled into the floor in the centre, one chair on either side.Â
âŠItâs depressing. Not at all like youâd prefer, not for a fucking therapy session, but then again, you hadnât met your clients yet.
Ambers. High-risk.
With a deep breath, you take a seat at the chair closest to you, finally reading through the top file on the clipboard.
Kyle âGazâ Garrick.Â
You skim over the height, weight, sex â immediately reading the comments made and his sentence.
Mass murderer. Motivated attacks.
Your eyes go wide, almost comically so, as you bite at your lip, folding one leg over the other as you continue to read.Â
Of course, youâd prepared, been made aware that youâd be dealing with murderers. But having it in black and white, right in front of you, is a whole other thing entirely.Â
Apparently, they were motivated attacks. Targets being large CEOs, specifically those with reported claims of misuse of power, and those against green laws. Anti-environment types.
The motive is⊠youâre aware killing is bad. You hadnât spent years studying for a degree in Psychology to think otherwise. But it wasnât as simple as some made it out to be. Youâd done papers suggesting that certain motives implied healthier patterns, healthier outlets.
If you had to choose between him killing pregnant women, and CEOs with broken moral compasses?
It wouldnât take a genius to figure out your answer.
Youâre about to flip the page when thereâs a knock on the door on the other side of the room, before it opens.
Thereâs two guards that walk in, before a man in an olive green jumpsuit follows, hands cuffed tightly together in front of him, head down. Another guard from behind shoves him in, too rough for your liking. You sit up straighter, eyes assessing as you take in the man in the jumpsuit.
Heâs forced into the chair opposite you, before one of the guards grabs his cuffed wrists and chains them to a rig in the middle of the table. Youâre grateful for the precautions, but thereâs a part of you that feels guilty watching the manhandling of the seemingly calm man.
âHalf an hour,â the most brutish guard of them all grits out, beer belly spilling out over his belted jeans. He jostles the chain attaching his wrists to the table unnecessarily, and your eyes narrow.
He goes to leave, along with another guard, but one stands to stay in position inside, beside the door.
Your brows furrow, and you speak up before you can stop yourself. âSorry, sir, but my sessions will need confidentiality, as for the best results. Iâm sure that Iâll be safe with his restraints.â
The guard stares you down, seemingly mulling your words over, before shrugging and leaving the room, door shutting behind him.
âŠHuh. Alright.
You find your posture relaxing, just slightly, which is odd, considering youâre now only a metre or two away from a convicted murderer.
His gaze is trained to the table, left foot tapping incessantly against the concrete floor.
âItâs nice to meet you, Gaz,â you say with a soft tone and a gentle smile. You figure that his nickname is the best bet, not wanting to stir up any possible traumas with his given name during your first session with the man. âIâll be your new psychiatric evaluator.â
His eyes flick up, meeting yours, and he nods slowly, as if awaiting a punchline.Â
âIs it okay for me to call you Gaz?â You ask, tilting your head to the side and flipping to an empty page to take notes on. Youâd need to grab a notebook from home, you decide.
He relaxes, only the smallest of movements, and he nods. âGaz, yeah.â
Your smile widens at the small victory. Any step towards progress was a huge one, in your eyes. Youâd be facing a lot of them in the coming days.
âDo you have any advice for this place?â You push, trying to form a bond of trust with the dark-haired man. âIâm gonna be honest, youâre my first patient, and Iâve only met Laswell and⊠Jenny?â
His mouth quirks at that, a dimple showing to the left of his mouth as he looks back up at you. âJennyâs a character, ainât she?â
You laugh, a genuine one, and nod. âShe certainly is. Youâve met her?â
He shrugs, shoulders relaxing slightly. âFew times, yeah. She drives me up the fuckinâ wall.â His accent is only minimally apparent, but his voice is of a somewhat humorous tone.
Small victories.
âWell,â he exhales, settling into his chair a bit as he seems to ponder. âDo ya know who else youâre assigned to?â
Youâd been sure to thoroughly go over your contract, and you were allowed to disclose your other patients between your others. Theyâd find out within the day, anyways, so there was no point in being discreet.
âItâs only you and a⊠John Price? Today. Iâm sure Iâll find out the other six over the next few days,â you say, appreciating that heâs starting conversations. Itâs more than youâd allowed yourself to hope for.
Gazâs eyes light up, and even if you hadnât been incessant in watching him, itâd be an obvious shift in emotions. âPrice?â
You nod, quickly making a note on your clipboard, before folding your hands in your lap as you gesture for him to continue with a quick inclination of your head.
âHeâs the best. Manâs a legend,â he enthuses. âLove âim.â
Thereâs⊠a hidden truth to that statement, that you make a mental note to unpack during a later session. Your smile is a natural one as you say, âHeâs an amber, correct? Laswell told me Iâd been assigned eight out of ten ambers⊠youâre one of them, right?â
Gaz seems to fold into himself, and you kick yourself for going back to square one. He answers, however.
â...Yeah. Only Ghost ând Valeria are aggressive, though. Weâre just⊠misunderstood,â he murmurs, and in the back of your brain, you find yourself believing his words.
âThank you,â you smile, and he responds with a sharp one of his own. Maybe youâd covered more ground than youâd expected. âI think itâd been mentioned that I was only assigned men, due to the nature of the job, or something like that.â
Seeming to mull over your words, he starts to slowly nod. âSounds âbout right. As long as you donât get Graves, youâll be alright. The others are⊠fuckinâ weird, but theyâre good men. Mostly.â
Thatâs a lot of information at once, and quite frankly, it takes a moment for you to process.Â
ââGood menâ. What do you think it takes to be a good man?â You ask, curiosity laced into your tone. Getting to ask such questions of a convicted murderer, itâs a thrilling, exhilarating task.
His eyes donât shift as he replies. âGood men do the acts others are too scared to do. They see the evil in the world, and rid of it with their own bare hands. You can be an ethical murderer, Doc.â
Those words, theyâre â theyâre authentic, and conviction aches in their structure.Â
You swallow around a dry mouth.
âYou think youâre a good man?â You ask.
His smile would be seen as warm to any who werenât aware of his acts, but to you â itâs chilling. Haunting in a way youâve never experienced.
It remains as he answers.
âI think that Iâm a man who people wish they had the bravery to be.â
a/n. okay so im really nervous about posting this, cause ITS EIGHT FUKCING LOVE INTERESTS and also im a humanities girl not a science one!! sociology all the way not psych!! so forgive me for all the inaccuracies and legality issues please. im just a girl. hopefully u guys will like this one? i mean, obsessed serial killers cod is smth i need so here we are. all comments and feedback mean so muchhh ty ily mwah mwah mwah
taglist comment/msg to be added. [nothing to see here.]
Hello, nice to meet you or nice too see you again,
I hope you're having a nice day/night and if you aren't just know it's going to get better, okay?
Im here to remind you to go drink something, as well as eat something, whether it's a snack or a meal. Try to take your meds if you have any and might have forgotten to, and bathe if you haven't in awhile.
You've done well to get this far, you are so strong and I am incredibly proud of you! Look at how far you've come!
Have a nice day sweetheart/p ~đ°âšđ
Aw thank you so much!! đ€ ^^ (I responded a bit Late sorry) The same goes for you Person who Send this! =đȘ This made my day a lot better seeing this ^°^
I feel like soap would do so much to get one of you to blink. But the staring isn't playful, like you and ghost are looking at each other with such filth. Undressing each other, bedroom eyes.
You quirk your brow, smirk forming on your lips.
"C'mon Ghost, you gotta blink first. I bet your eyes are drying out"
He's as stiff as a rock; even the strongest wind couldn't knock him over if it tried. Almost looks as if he's dead and being propped.
And now imagine ghost staring while fucking you. Hand gently clasped around your neck, hard enough to choke, but not too hard to suffocate. The way you like.
If you close your eyes, he just smirks behind his mask, slowly chuckling.
summary: You learn a bit more about Mr. Scarecrow! There's something he wants to show you? What can that be?
warnings: horror aspects coming in later in the chapter >:), mention of blood, likely incorrect depictions/references to wrong periods because I forgot that light bulbs weren't invented until like 1879 (googled it), he kinda turns dark so big contrast to the first part loll
w/c - 2k
Part 1, Part 3
Author's note: its ass and its got a part 2 :)) also on ao3 under Phillip graves tag.
also I know this is not a Phillip graves gif, I just wanted something to fill in so I might change it later
Oh, God, what hell is this place? You canât help the horrified look that sits on your face, itâs paralyzing and a moment of vulnerability.Â
One that the scarecrow catches.
He stares at you, watching the realization finally sink into you, and he canât help the grin that stretches on his face as he watches your expression.
He sighs, clearly amused. âI donât just protect this âcornfieldâ. In all honesty, this land is strange compared to the one you know.â His tone was matter of factly, âIâm a guardian of sorts, one that is bound to serve it. Itâs more work than it sounds, but this job isnât really my choice, more of a burden and purpose, y'know.âÂ
âThis land.. Itâs dangerous.â He makes sure to face you directly as he says this, you can feel the intensity of his tone. âThere are things in the field that would do anything in its power to take advantage of your vulnerability. It also doesn't help that youâre their favorite meal: human.â He says the last part with an air of amusement; and though heâs looking at you, the way his straw hat is tilted, it hides a clear view of his eyes.Â
His response doesnât help your wariness.Â
The scarecrow seems to take note of this.Â
He then says, âBut Iâm not gonna let that happen.â
You nod and exhale a breath you didnât know you were holding. âWell thatâs reassuring.â You nervously chuckle. But itâs only slightly reassuring to your instincts that tell you that this field, this place, is more than dangerous.
"Just remember: this place has its creatures, but it has me too." He pauses, then adds: "I've lived here ever since I was a kid, so I know every nook and cranny of the field. Ain't no pest that's gonna sneak past me."
You see something move further within the corn. Graves snaps his fingers, and the plants rustle to block a pathway. "If we head left, we'll bypass these critters."
âDid.. did you just control the field..?â You ask bewildered.Â
"Yes... The corn is a living, breathing organism. I can influence its growth and motion to an extent. The plants listen to my will." The scarecrow replies simply.
He pauses, and grabs your wrist to make you look at him. "Don't worry. The field is friendly to me--I grew up here, after all."
You look up at him, you finally get a look at eyes. They were blue but there was a yellow haze that slightly glowed further reminding you he was far from human. Whatever he was, he was terrifyingly beautiful, in the sense that you didnât know what he was. Perhaps he was just a true eldritch horror.Â
He pulls you along to walk after him.
No, he canât be that.. Those are monsters after all.. and heâs a guardian, not a monster! You reassure yourself.
As you think and walk, you are reminded of his presence by the yellow haze of his eyes glancing toward you. He lazily turns his head away from you.
You canât help but ask him, âHow.. old are you, Scarecrow..?â this curious whisper of yours makes his ears perk.
He takes a minute to respond, as if he was thinking.
âIâve been around for about⊠two-hundred and thirty years, or so.â He finally replies. âThankfully my age and good looks donât seem to go hand in hand,â he chuckles.Â
The scarecrow smiles, then adds: "I'm proud that I've kept this place safe for so long--doing my duty, serving my purpose."
You donât do much to mask your surprise.Â
âOh, thatâs.. a long time..â You muttered.
Both of you walk for a bit, before you decide to speak again.Â
âUh.. so is there ever an end to this field? Or where are we going?â You asked, it wasnât in an irritated tone but it sounded so.
He let out a short dry chuckle. âSort of.. the best you're getting for an exit or end here is the house.âÂ
Finally with a smooth swift gesture with his hand, the corn in front of the both of you opens up.
There then lies a large acre of land, one that wasnât infested with the corn. Though it was surrounded by the endless crop, in the middle sat a farmhouse.
It looked abandoned. A home that hadnât taken up well with time.
The white paint was peeling, the wood of the home looked rotten. One storm, and the house is reduced to nothing.
Yet, there the home stood.
As he walked towards it without a second thought, you were gagged.Â
Oh fuck, you distastefully think, but if he said itâs âa way outâ.. Guess I shouldnât judge..
âFollow me, this big olâ thing has too many hidden entrances and exits.. Iâll take you through the safest.â he gestured for you to follow him as he made his way to the back of the farmhouse.Â
You politely nod and follow him, trying to mask the faces you make at the house.Â
He turns around to face you, walking backwards as he proudly says, âThis beauty is the safest place to escape to in the fields.â
You smile at his pride, it's admirable and slightly adorable with that grin he has on.Â
Though, as you look at him, your eyes trail down to his left side. On his waist, his flannel shirt adorns a large red stain.
You grab him by the arm and make him stop walking. A worried face plastered on, you ask, âA-Are you bleeding? Oh God..!â
"Huh? Oh, this?" The scarecrow asks, looking down at the stain, he seems unconcerned by your discovery of blood on him. "It's nothing, just old blood. I've been hurt in these fields many times before, and I've made it out alive."
âBut this blood, it ainât mine, darlinâ,â he says with a sheepish grin. Almost like heâs trying to reassure you. But it seems to do the opposite, until you remember the encounter you two had earlier with that critter, as he calls them.
âOh..â you mumbled.Â
He gently pried your hand off of his arm, and started walking again. This time he directly leads you to the entrance he was talking about.
There are weeds, and junk, and rotten pieces of wood lying around. Then finally, there is a shitty little âdoorâ that looks more like someone tried to board a window up instead of a door.
He unhooks the latch and pries open the door.
A wave of dust and spiderwebs go flying, and inside there lies only darkness.Â
âCâmon, letâs head in.. thereâs something I wanna show ya..â he says excitedly.Â
You watch him duck and make his way in, and it doesnât take longer than three seconds for you to follow after him in fear of being left behind.
It seems it was a basement of sorts that you entered through. It was dark so it was hard to see, but his blue eyes held that yellow glow that seemed to be all he needed to see.
He walked up some stairs and unlocked a door, one that presumably led to the main level of the farmhouse.Â
âThis way!â he called over to you.
You followed him deeper into the farmhouse.
He was slightly more ahead of you, solely because you were simultaneously looking around at the inside of the farmhouse.
In the main level of the home, there was some light shining from the orange hued sun outside that came in from the boarded up windows.Â
The house smelled of wet wood and dust. Not surprising.Â
What was slightly surprising was the furniture and general state of the home. The furniture looked so old.. very 1790. If the home was well taken care of maybe the entire place would seem homely.
Instead it felt haunted.
Not innately sinister, but just abandoned. By the owners and time.
You finished looking and turned a corner to find him.Â
He stood at another staircase, holding his straw hat. Â
This one clearly led to the second story.Â
âAll done?â he asked with a grin as he set the hat on the railing of the staircase.
âGuess so..â You mumbled and grumbled. âI thought you were taking me out of this place, not deeper into it. This farmhouse is probably dead in the center of this place with all the endless cornfield surrounding it!âÂ
âIn time,â he quickly says, âright now itâs best that youâre here. The farmhouse,â he pouts his lips in a manner that makes it seem like heâs picking his words wisely, âhas its own set of.. securities.â
His eyes make it back to yours, and before you can answer he speaks again. âNow you ready for what I wanna show you?â he asked with a grin.Â
It was charming and alluring; his pearly fangs poking out and dimples on display.
It was enough to make any thoughts, defenses, and protests you had melt away.
You find yourself rolling your eyes and smiling back at him.Â
âAlright.. what do you want to show me?â you finally ask with a raised brow.
âJusâ.. follow me.. It ainât something I show to just anyone..â he says as he turns and starts to make his way up the stairs.
As you follow him up the stairs, he walks down a hallway, itâs not very well lit.Â
You see the shitty discolored floral wallpaper that was definitely put up later in the owners residency from 1790. Behind the wallpaper you see the cracked walls and rotten wood that somehow surpassed the weird time.
Even in the shitty lighting you make out pictures that are hung up on the wall.
They show a family, a big one.Â
One that probably lived in the house at some point and were the last known occupants before it turned into whatever it was now.
âWas this your family?â You ask him.Â
He only hums, and you take that as all the confirmation you were gonna get.
You tear your eyes away from the wall and see him standing at the last door of the hallway.
It was especially dark, and for some reason you felt your body start to feel like it wanted to run.Â
âCâmere, in here.â he says with that same charming grin, it makes you want to trust him even when your body is starting to vibrate with the urge to run.
He goes to open the door, and of course it creaks when it opens, itâs an old ass house.
And of course the inside is dark as shit, thereâs no electricity, the house is from the near 1800s.
âAfter you,â his charming southern accent rings like sweet honey, and you walk right into the room.
He of course follows right after you and shuts the door behind him.Â
The bit of light that shone from the hallway disappeared.
The sound of the door closing, the consumption of the room in darkness, and the click of the door being locked, cause you to turn around in the now dark to face the direction for which you think he is in.
The darkness doesnât last, with a snap of his finger candles are set and the room is illuminated in a dim light.
Finally you get a good look at the room.
Itâs small, and it smelled putrid.
You saw that the boarded up windows had curtains, but the material wasnât cloth.
âWhat is..â you trailed off as the slow realization creeped in.
It was skin.Â
Human skin.Â
Your head reeled, you turned and saw that the rest of the room was adorned in furniture that was also made up of patches and pieces of skin stitched together.Â
Your eyes wide, they searched desperately around the room but were only met with skin.
It covered every surface.Â
The floor, the walls, the furniture.Â
It was all human skin.
There were even a few faces stitched into the wall and ceiling, portraits that blended into the wall.Â
Confused teary eyes wildly looked around the room.
You whipped around to find the scarecrow. He stood right where he had been, leaning on the locked door, the same grin plastered on his face.
This time it did nothing to ease you. Instead it felt sinister, taunting.
Your trembling lips try to say something but your voice dies in your throat.
Finally that southern voice you had some to familiarize yourself with spoke, his tone sickeningly sweet and that yellow hue in his eyes burned like the candles that lit the room, âWhat ya think? Beautiful, right darlinâ?.â