#hostage!reader

[gremlingottoosilly]

thanks for your thoughts on eepy wife! I really appreciate that

for another ask, how about kidnapper!König and spicy food? I think he can handle a bit of spice but fucking brags about it so much that his kidnapped wife really believes it. So for the first time cooking dinner for him, she makes a spicy dish and puts in so much hot sause and peppers that the whole plate is red.

I'm up for all the fluff and maybe something funny, too ><

This man has an atrociously AUSTRIAN taste, he calls paprika too spicy and yells at Horangi for bringing his own food to the mercenary function because he claims that the air is too spicy to breathe around him now. He can brag about eating whole chili peppers and drinking as much hot sauce as he wants but in reality, he will fold after you add too much black pepper to his meat or something. He wouldn't survive, because in kidnapper!scenario, he just wants to eat food made by you, you finally started to come around like a good girl, playing housewife for him!! He couldn't resist your cooking even if the food was anime-style horrible, with pixelated purple colours and little smoke skulls flying around the plate. He is eating it like it's something made by angels themselves - and then, after the first bite, he is coughing violently and almost thinks it was all a trick, you wanted to kill him, to poison him and run away... Then he looks at your face, that little expression of your, naivety and sheer desire to make your kidnapper happy - he knows you're broken enough to never actually try anything, he is just...not really able to put his money where his mouth is, so to speak. He doesn't know how to tell you that he can't handle spicy food, you tried to hard to cook for him, he isn't an ungrateful asshole who will just put you in your cage for trying to please him! God, he is struggling. You made the poor man cry - his enemies would consider hiring you as a special assassin just for him.

[yanderedrabbles]

Cheat on me please

How to safely rid yourself of a yandere

There's no easy way to get rid of him. He's too obsessive. Too controlling. Too bloody single minded.

You tried talking through it and he just scoffed and said you were being silly. That you were just too hormonal and would calm down in a few days.

You tried going no contact and he showed up at your door. Hammered at it until the neighbours called the cops and they dragged him away.

You tried being nice about it and all he did was grab your wrist so hard it bruised. His eyes like chips of stone when he said he didn't want to hear it.

You weren't breaking up with him. You had no reason to.

And the worst part? He was right. You don't have a reason.

On paper, he's the perfect man. Attentive. Generous. Handsome. He buys you gifts, he lavishes you with attention, he's funny and charming around your friends.

And he scares you.

Not because of anything he's done. (Perfect guy, remember?) But some instinct deep inside you tells you to be careful around him.

This one's a predator, he's got claws and fangs, he'll fill you with venom and never let go, some ancient part of you insists.

But try explaining that to him. He's so mindlessly logical. He's not going to leave you because of a silly gut feeling. Come on baby, what sort of shitty boyfriend would do that?

And that's why you're down to half thought out, borderline silly plans to get rid of him. Get your hot friend to sleep with him. Catch them in the act. Throw a tantrum and finally get to break up with him.

You can't try and excuse cheating. It's abhorrent. And his logical side will surely see that, right?

One little hitch though. He's actually loyal to a fault.

Part of you finds it hard to believe. Is he really turning down your absolute bombshell of a friend? The girl all your exes were just a bit in love with?

Maybe he's just being cautious. Maybe he isn't lonely and needy enough to risk it.

So you up the stakes. Decide to avoid fucking him as much as possible. And oh boy, does it drive him crazy. He gets irritable and needy and somehow even more horny the longer your dry spell lasts.

And you know that you almost have him. He's just a man, no matter how logical he pretends to be.

You pick a fight over nothing. Blow it all out of proportion and storm out to stay with your parents for a while.

Piss him off just enough that a revenge fuck seems like a great idea.

He ends up drinking at a shitty dive bar and oh what a coincidence, your gorgeous seductress friend just happens to turn up. The last text she sends you makes it seem like she's finally hooked him and you hurry over to her apartment, feeling just a little giddy. Your plan actually worked! You feel like a goddamn genius.

And sure enough, his car is parked at her front door.

For a second, you feel a little hurt. Yes, this is the outcome you wanted. Yes, you deliberately manipulated him to get to this point. But it still feels like betrayal.

When you make it to her door, it's oddly silent for a supposed drunken hookup. But you're too geared up to notice it.

She left her door unlocked like you agreed and you tiptoe inside, your heart going a mile a minute. Her bedroom door is cracked just a little and a shaft of light cuts through the dark of the hallway.

You swing the door open with a crash, getting to ready to cuss him out.

And you freeze.

There's no guilty couple leaping away from each other, no smell of sweat and cum, no illicit rendezvous.

Instead your friend is tied to a chair, her mouth taped shut with silvery duct tape and her mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks. Her eyes lock onto yours and she tries to scream something through the tape.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You turn slowly. Like putting it off will make the situation less horrible, less like a dissociative dream.

Your boyfriend looks ragged. His eyes are blood shot and his hair is an unruly mess.

But the worst part is the way he smiles at you. Paternal, almost. Like he's caught you doing something naughty but he's willing to overlook it.

"Come on baby, you didn't think I'd actually cheat on you, did ya?"

His voice is condescending, but under the surface you can hear a cold, terrifying anger.

You swallow. Those same instincts that warned you about him are screaming now.

"What the hell is going on?" You demand, trying to sound angry instead of just afraid.

He steps toward you and it takes everything in you to not step away. He picks up a piece of your hair and rubs it between his fingers. Proprietary, possessive.

"What's going on? You should know babe. You're the one who tried to set me up... As though that skank over there ever stood a chance."

He tsks. "I knew something was wrong the second you stopped sleeping with me."

He leans forward and whispers in your ear, his breath ghosting across your neck.

"I fuck you too good for you to give it up so easy."

You jerk away from him, your eyes burning like you're about to cry. How did this go so wrong?

"Are you insane? Untie her right now! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

He backhands you right across the face.

He's never hit you before and the shock is almost worse than the pain. You stumble, clutching your cheek. Your face feels numb at first and then a sharp, fiery pain blooms across your cheek.

He grabs your collar and shoves you toward the bed.

"Oh baby, you're lucky I love you." His bared teeth catch the light and he looks more wolf than man.

The edge of the mattress digs into your thighs and you fall backward. You're still reeling and he has you pinned under him before you can find the strength to scramble away.

"Thought about killing her, y'know. What kind of whore goes after her best friend's man? You deserve better than that."

His grip is unyielding. A part of you always knew he was strong, but until now you didn't realise how big the gap between you actually was. His knee is between your legs and he brings it up to press against your crotch.

"But then a light bulb must have went off. And I decided to see how things played out."

He laughs and there's nothing warm or welcoming in it at all.

"All I had to do was squeeze her throat a little and..." He grabs your throat and thightens his grip until you see stars. "And she was just fallin' all over herself to tell me about your little plan."

He let's go and pats your cheek with rough little smacks. "It was cute, baby. Really was. But fucking stupid."

He leans down and kisses you. His lips are rough and he bites your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang of it makes you gag.

Your instincts were right. He's dangerous and you never should have tempted this monstrous part of him.

He tastes like cheap whiskey and you struggle to pull away. Your chest heaves and no matter how you buck and twist under him, he still keeps you pinned.

When he pulls away, something in your expression must please him because he hums and tilts your chin up. "But it's okay baby. We'll work through this."

He reaches down and tugs at your belt. "And I know exactly where to start."

[purerae]

— DUPLEXITY;;

fem!reader x coworker!yanderes

— who knew attempting to bond with your co workers would lead to a fucked up love triangle?

prologue; quit your job! If dying was an option right now, Y/N would take it with a gleeful smile.

Sprinting through the woods, her ears ringing, she slams her grimy, broken hand against her head over and over. Her knees, bruised to a swollen pulp of purple, threaten to buckle beneath her. A deep, unprotected gash dressed painfully across her back, its edges rotting, every movement tearing at the poorly dressed wound.

Ignoring the piercing whine in her ears, her heart froze at the sound of shuffling drawing closer. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give out, but the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins kept her moving forward. An ear striking screech bursts from the girl’s throat, desperate to catch the attention of any passing drivers or hikers.

How could she be so foolish? It’s four in the morning, and she’s in the middle of nowhere, with two freaks relentlessly chasing her.

Her scream was a terrible mistake. It brought her no closer to freedom instead only closer to her pursuers. Their shouts echo behind her, filled with words she can’t—and doesn’t want to comprehend.

Pleas, threats, and bursts of anger escape from their mouths but the only thing that Y/N had her mind on was getting her brother and leaving this shithole. Y/N ran and ran, but to her dismay and an almost comical cruel sense of bad luck , Her vision was slammed with a wall ruined with graffiti that was now taunting her from her inescapable future. Her breathing slows as she stumbled back, desperately praying for anything that could save her. Surely they weren't close, she put in all this effort, they cannot be close! With trembling caution, she moved backward, her steps deliberate and silent. She avoided every brittle branch and insect littering the forest floor, straining to make as little noise as possible. Her back pressed into something soft yet unyielding, carrying the earthy scent of firewood mixed with the sharp tang of blood that she’ll always loathe.  Y/N’s breath hitched, frozen in her chest as the sound of heavy breathing enveloped her ears from just behind.

‘Fuck.'

“You can’t run from us. It’s two against one, cutie.”

Even with her back turned, she could picture his smug, shit-eating smirk. A chill ran down her spine as his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, trapping her. God, she wished she had a bat so she could beat him till he was a lifeless piece of flesh that she could point and laugh at. Too bad that would never be possible, even if she had a weapon to begin with. Deep down, Y/N knew there was no escaping this. But with every ounce of strength her battered body could summon, she let out the loudest scream she could muster; a semblance of hope in her body that somebody could save her. It tore through the cold night air before everything turned black. The last thing she heard was another man's footsteps approaching them, and two voices she made an oath to never hear, conversing. All she wanted was a fucking pay raise.

-

-

- Y/N buttoned her blouse with a giddy smile, rushing around her room in search of the shoes she’d bought just for this day. "I can't believe I got the job! I'm so excited, this still feels so surreal."  she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm as she grabbed her phone, waiting for her friend’s response. "Girl, I'm happy for you!” her friend shouted over the line, her voice barely cutting through the loud music and chatter in the background. “Just work hard, and you’ll be promoted to detective in no time! My little Sherlock Holmes~” Y/N scoffs out a laugh before she shakes her head at the chaos on the other end. Normally, she’d lecture her friend about hosting a party at seven in the morning, but today, she was too nervous and way too excited about her first day to care. "Ahaha, Yeah  I don't know about that... I'm still in shock that I got the job to be the assistant, let alone be the main thing. I just hope the person in charge of me is nice." The E/C-eyed girl replied looking at the ceiling , nervously biting her nails whilst walking back and forth in her room.

"Don't stress about it! I'm sure they'll be nice, babes. And you should ju-" Y/N’s friend was abruptly cut off by a guy shouting in the background, his voice carrying over the music: “Ayra! Get back to the party already!” "Hold on a sec Noel! Im talking to Y/N" she yells back with an obvious scowl on her face… Well, Y/N was almost positive that she displayed one based on the tone of her voice. "It's fine! You go do your shit, I gotta’ finish getting ready." "Okay Okay, message me after your shift ends. I wanna know everything~!" The bubbly girl says as she mimics a kiss sound. Despite Ayra not being able to see Y/N, she smiles with a soft gaze at the phone before hanging up. Staring into the mirror, she carefully assessed her outfit. A sleek black blouse layered over a white undershirt paired perfectly with a matching black pencil skirt. Light makeup enhanced her features, and her neatly styled hair framed her face just right. She smoothed her clothes with her hands, beaming widely as she twirled in front of the mirror. Y/N gathered all her essentials, carefully packing them into her bag before stepping out of her apartment. She locked the door with a quick twist of the key, then paused to double-check it twice…just to be sure; it was a habit she had done ever since she lived in her parents home. 

Stepping into the elevator, she pressed the button for the ground floor. Knowing the ride would take a while, she lived on the second-highest floor, after all, she pulled out her phone to check the time. It was 7:15 a.m. Perfect. With the bus journey to the department taking only 30 minutes, she was right on schedule (which was always a struggle for her.) A grin spread across her face as she opened her email app and tapped on the message from the 'Warrens Department.' Her heart fluttered nervously as she re-read the letter, scanning each line to ensure she hadn’t missed anything important. As she scrolled to the bottom, her brows furrowed. There, tucked away, was a link she hadn’t noticed before.

'Shit I must've missed this' She thought with worry before quickly clicking the link, silently thanking her instincts for prompting her to double-check the message. The link was a profile of the detective that she would be working with. Looking at the picture, she notices that he was a very conventionally attractive male. The formally dressed girl squints her eyes before assessing the man that her eyes laid upon.

Xavier Allette, it read. Twenty-five years old, with five years of experience as a detective.

‘Holy shit, he became a detective at 20? I was still in university then.’ Y/N’s thoughts wandered briefly as she reminisced about her own journey, a flicker of envy stirring as she compared herself to her boss.

Letting out a breath of relief that she didn't know she had; The assistant was expecting an old cruel man as her boss, but to her luck, it was someone of a similar age to her. And, as a bonus, he wasn’t bad to look at either.

Y/N knew better than to judge someone based on their appearance, but as her cheeks warmed, she couldn’t help but blush at the handsome face staring back at her from the screen. A straight pale face, with a clean-shaven look. His hair was a wavy deep black, tussled formally. Eyes sharp and matched with his extremely dark hair. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the absence of a glint or any sign of life in his pupils. ‘I’m overthinking it,’ she told herself. ‘He’s just posing for the picture’. It had to be her psychology degree kicking in, making her analyze every feature of his face like a subject in a case study. Xavier’s nose was strikingly defined, and his lips were full, holding a slightly warm tint that gave his serious expression a subtle softness. Though he was wearing a suit, anyone could tell the detective worked out as his jaw was sharp and his shoulders were broad. It was clear that he took good care of himself.

The only other information displayed on his profile was a list of the cases he had worked on and details about his educational background. 'Maketa Academy?!' That was the most prestigious high school that Y/N had ever heard of. You could either get in with a scholarship or a lot of money. Unfortunately for her, she had been neither crazy smart nor crazy rich, so attending a place like that had never been an option. Y/N couldn’t tell whether Xavier had gotten in through wealth or intellect, but either way, it was impressive. Her train of thought abruptly halted as the elevator chimed, signaling her arrival on the first floor.

Turning off her phone, She exits the building before walking a short distance to the bus so she could arrive at the destination where she was going to be working.

'Please be nice to me, Warrens Department.'

-

-

-

Y/N rushed out of the bus, the clock read 8:00 am. The bus kept on delaying because of the traffic that the driver faced. The 15 minutes that she was hoping she had left to spare, disappeared all because of not getting a driver's licence! Cursing at herself, she ran to the building that was two minutes away. She could get there in ten seconds, her stubbornness is saving her life today.

The girl stared in awe at the building for a second. It was massive and incredibly modern. A large sign labelled Warrens Department was placed right in the middle of the building. Shaking her head, she scans the key card that came into the mail a week ago and fixes any loose hairs before walking into the building.

8:01 am, Already a minute late, though not much of a difference, she didn't want to disappoint her boss on the first day. Power walking to the reception she sighs shyly before speaking up. "Hi!" Her voice cracks.

'Oh my god, first I'm late, now my voice cracks, I should just quit my job and leave this e-' "Hello! Who’re  you? I've never seen you before?" The ginger girl behind the desk questioned loudly. Her light southern accent peeked through. The red-haired was incredibly short, her face caked with pink-themed makeup matching her formal pink outfit. Y/N thought the receptionist was cute and seemed nice too! If she wasn't too busy stressing about being late, she'd love to be her friend. "I'm the detective's new assistant— Xaviers Allette's assistant." Y/N rambles, hands shaking with nerves.

"Y/N L/N?" The receptionist questioned with eyebrows raised, Y/N nods quickly and shows her key card to the lady. "I'm Abigail!" her smile drops, "Also, you should probably head over to his office quickly, Mr Allette hates tardiness.. a lot." It was now Y/N's turn for her face to drop, she mumbles a quick thank you before running off.She stops in her tracks as she realised her stupid mistake. "Hey Abigail, what's his room number?" Y/N spoke rushing back to the desk. Reaching halfway, the red-haired girl puts her hand out, ordering her to stop running back. "It's on the second floor, room 11, hurry!" She yells, shaking her hand. The late assistant puts a thumbs up as a way of saying thank you before completely ignoring the elevator and rushing up the stairs. Turning left she finds the room that is the lead detective. On the door, a silver plate is shown with�� 'Room 11' and 'Xavier Allette' engraved onto them in a fancy font.. It was clear that his room was the biggest on the floor.

Wiping the sweat off her hands and re-checking herself on the reflection of the plate, she checks the time. 

8:05 am.

Y/N knocks on her boss's door. The door opens automatically, she notices the man that was just on her screen almost an hour ago, sitting down with his eyes furrowed and lips pulled into a frown.  His eyes were fixated on his computer screen, fist propped against his chin. The assistant looks around while patiently waiting for him to say something.

20 seconds passed and all that she could hear were the sounds of him typing. the h/c hair-coloured girl clears her throat.

"Good morning, sir. My name is Y/N L/N, and Im p-"

"You're late." A deep, harsh voice cuts her off. 

A/N : New story :p !! i really like the plot for this one and will have a masterlist out for it soon!

[yawnderu]

CW: mentions of kidnapping and stolen body autonomy.

Find a way in, kill the enemy, retrieve the hostages, leave. A routine of sorts that gave his life some sense of purpose to avoid going insane for the past two decades. Simon liked to believe he got over what happened in his past... truly, he did; and yet Manuel Roba’s horrors seem to haunt him no matter where how many years pass.

“C’mere.” Simon’s voice held no hostility, he made sure of it, yet your stiff position never changed. Legs angled to the right, hands folded on your lap, and eyes looking forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze even if it’s been hours since your rescue. Garrick, Price and Johnny have already tried to get you to talk multiple times, all of them with different approaches. 

Garrick was friendly, trying his best to seem approachable, a bright smile on his lips that you didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at a wall no matter how much he tried to hold a conversation.

Price seemed fatherly, never once laying a hand on you even if it was itching to comfort you, and so he settled with telling you you’re safe now, how no one will ever get you again now that they're here. His words didn’t seem to do much, either. 

Johnny was… something else. His first attempt was a shitty pick up line, getting a reaction out of you for the first time— a nose scrunched up in disgust, but a reaction nonetheless.  

And Simon… Simon’s approach was different. The man was used to barking out orders and obeying them himself, not to deal with an unresponsive hostage. His behemoth frame was nestled next to you, putting a tray on the table and observing your reactions. From the way you swallowed thickly the moment the meal was presented to you, to the sound of your stomach growling. 

“Go on, then.” Your gaze follows his movements for the first time, the feeling of your stomach rumbling makes you more aware of your hunger, so many years being fed nothing but what was necessary to keep you alive by Manuel and his associates, so many years of being trained like a dog to obey to their very order. 

Simon can see the hesitation in your body language, too tense to allow yourself to dig in the way you wanted, yet no longer as stiff as before. There was a sense of relief at the fact that they didn’t seem to want to hurt you —unlike Roba—, yet years of non-stop brutal training can’t be erased within hours.

Roba’s training was engraved into your brain, and while the sense of security the SAS blokes gave you is something you’re thankful for, nothing guarantees they’re not working for him. You’ve seen other military men come and go throughout the years, always Roba’s friends, and always sharing the same disgusting, sadistic desires.

“Eat up.” The rest of the men watch the way you move, curiosity and amusement mixing at how strange your movements seem, almost robotic. Your forearms rest on the table, elbows away from the cheap wood as you attempt to hold your own cutlery— attempt, because it looks fully foreign to you, trying out different angles to make it work, and yet it's the first time in years you've been allowed to try and feed yourself.

Simon is the first one to catch on, having lived under Roba’s rules for long enough to know he enjoys taking people’s autonomy, to reduce them to nothing but a pathetic mess that depends on him. His gloved fingers are gentle as he takes the spoon from your hand, scooping up some food before holding it up to your lips. His full attention is on you, relief starting to make its way into his body as sees your rather soft lips wrap around the spoon, eating whatever he was feeding you. Lucky for you, this time it wasn’t an MRE… or beans on toast.

His gloved thumb wipes the corners of your lips every time you’re done chewing, and he’s quick to pick up more food from the plate, nothing but patience and kindness shown in his actions, so unlike the brooding soldier he's known to be.

“... two goldfish are in a tank…?” Johnny’s loud groan gets your attention for a second, yet you quickly glance back at Simon, curious eyes looking up at him, almost as if asking him to go on. 

“One turns to the other and says… ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle before he even finishes his joke, clearly trying his best not to laugh at just how awful it was. A small smile hides in the corners of your lips, and Simon takes that as a victory, ignoring the questioning looks he’s getting from his team, for now.

[arieswritez]

yandere mark nsfw alphabet😳😳 loved the idea

cw; DARK CONTENT! MDNI!!! rape, breeding/baby trapping, dacryphilia, asphyxiation, abusive 'relationships', edging, predator/prey dynamics, nipple play, kidnapping, food tampering, mentions of suicidal ideation, threats of violence, implied death, manipulation, victim blaming, branding, mentions of incapacitation.

about; nsfw alphabet ft. cray cray mark x gn! reader xx a/n; a couple of u asked for this so here it is :D not edited & straight off the dome so excuse any grammatical errors. will edit if necessary xx

A= Aftercare

'aftercare' with yandere mark is patronizing and condescending. a lot of shushing, wiping your tears, and asking why you're so upset. you asked for this with all your fucking cock teasing. it couldn't have been that bad, i mean, he did make you cum! why can't you just let good things happen to you? ;(

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

mark loves your eyes <3 it's the first thing he's noticed from you. how they seemed to gleam and widen while you gave him your undivided attention. he can't count the amounts of times he had to excuse himself and jack off in the bathroom: imagining how your eyes would water with his cock stuck down your throat. or the way your eyebrows would furrow while he jack hammered into you.

C= Cum

yan mark definitely likes marking you with his cum. he likes to see it dripping off your face, along your belly, your thighs, but most importantly, he loves it when he watches it drip out of you. whether you can get pregnant or not - and good luck if you can - there's just something primal about cumming inside of you. marking you in and out.

D= Dirty secret

he's a masochist just as much as he's a sadist. his little obsession with you caused him to get a tattoo of your name <3 right at his adonis belt 🥺 so everytime he's in too deep,, your hands desperately try to hold his hips back,, and your blunt nails dig into the curved lines of your name. it never fails to make his eyes roll into the back of his head 🫶🏽🤭

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

canon typical mark is (was) a blushy lil virgin but yan!mark has a tad bit more experience. he's attractive, he's funny, he knows how to play into the slightly awkward charm that got you to lower your defenses. so it's safe to say it isn't hard to find random hookups every now and then.

it's not all about his experience. he just knows what you like.

you may not know it, but he's. . done his research. and by that i mean, he's logged into your computer or your phone and looked through your browser history. he knows what kind of porn you like. and some of those things are borderline freaky. here you are, acting all innocent, like you wouldn't hurt a fly. or high and mighty like no one would ever dare snuff out your flame.

who would've known you were such a desperate slut?

but that's okay! because he's willing to do anything to satisfy you. . or humiliate you by making you cum. he feels it takes you down a peg, when he pins you down and makes you cum even though you don't want to. even though your mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to hold your climax back while he plays with your clit/cock.

unbeknownst to you, he's watched you masturbate. knows the right amount of pressure & speed that gets your toes curling. he knows you so well & he can't wait to learn more about you 💕

F= Favorite position

mark loves watching you squirm beneath him. most importantly, he loves taking you down. he might even make you think you can get away. the chase, the constant cat and mouse you'd subject him to used to be torture. your teasing, the occasional sliver of skin as you stretched, the way you'd lay your head on his lap as the two of you watched television, the way you'd grin when he blushed. . and the wrestling. god, the play wrestling.

he used to let you win. but now. . now this is real. there's real consequences. so he makes you think you can kick him off while you flail. maybe even lets you get up and run. your elbows are all scuffed during the struggle and he's given you a busted lip, but he lets you think you've won.

god knows he'll catch up eventually.

the games he'd play made you cocky. you thought you were stronger than him instead of considering that it was just him playing nice. so he loves to watch the look of defeat, of deception, anger, and disappointment towards yourself when it's revealed he could've had his way with you all along.

he loves to be on top.

but sometimes,

sometimes,

he likes it when you're on top. some things never change. and lets just say he didn't always let you win play wrestling just because he was trying to be a gentleman. but because he liked the way your weight felt on top of him as you grinned triumphantly, pinning his wrists down.

now, of course, things have changed. he can't let you have all the control. pity. but he forces you to ride him: his hand wrapped around your throat. he could really hurt you if he so much as wanted to. . something he hisses into your ear whenever your pace so much as falters. he makes you work for it. and it takes longer to make him cum when you ride him. fear makes you clumsy, makes your legs shake more, and you're sore and achy and tired, which makes it all the more fun.

so i think his fave is when he forces you to be on top :)

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

yan!mark teases you a lot. comments on how many times he's made you cum, pinches your nipples just to hear you squeal. he's only ever quiet and serious when he's in a bad mood.

H= Hair

mark's trimmed but not necessarily shaved.

you, on the other hand, have to be shaved. not because he finds it unattractive (if anything, it makes him feral. makes him feel like you're something meant to be conquered, something to be domesticated. controlled.)

hence his decision to have you shaved at all times. it's about control.

he forces you into the bath tub and watches as you shave, making sure you're all pretty for him. no, you don't get a say in the matter. you're his little doll. he'll do whatever he wants to you.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

mark is rough. depending on the situation, he may start off slower, softer, easing into you while his words are pure venom. he's grinding into you, making you hiccup, because this type of 'love making' should be reserved for couples. not whatever the two of you have got going on. but of course, he speeds up. roughing you up the more into it he gets.

he's rough regardless of who the object of his affection is, but he's definitely rougher if you're on the masculine side. yan!mark doesn't like to be challenged. he doesn't like talk back. he doesn't like you running around thinking you're big and bad. so he has to knock you down a peg. force you to understand he's stronger than you.

he chokes you out, squeezing your throat until your vision spots. he likes to watch your face change colors. and when your mouth opens, desperately trying to suck in air, he spits onto your tongue 💗

likes it when you - confident, and tough, walking like nothing can ever hurt you - beg him to let you go. beg him not to kill you.

because, sometimes, you fear he just might.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

he does! but when he gets you, there's really no need for that <3

when he hadn't kidnapped you, he'd masturbate all the time. it was the only way to relieve himself. like i rambled about before, he'd steal your underwear and cum into them, use them as tissues to wipe his abdomen clean.

secretly takes pictures of you - upskirts if you wear 'em,, or just candids. cums to your most mundane selfies.

if the two of you were close before he kidnapped you, debbie would send you all types of homemade treats. sweet or savory, whatever it was; you loved debbie's cooking. what you didn't know was that mark would add a little bit of his own . . twist to them. when you'd steal bites of his food, you always wondered why his tasted differently to yours.

and the way he'd stare at you as you ate, jesus.

you thought he just liked the way you'd wolf down whatever his mom cooked. turns out he just liked watching you eat his cum.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

BREEDING!!! whether you can get pregnant or not, he loves the idea of claiming you for a lifetime. of changing your life and forcing you to carry his child. watching you grow round and hormonal. he knows he'd have to keep you on a tight leash; lest you do something you'll regret in order to escape your fate. but it'll be worth it. because after nine months, you'll have another life to look after. you'll be on edge all the time, protecting a fragile, little life, because you can't trust mark to do it.

after all, if you're really bad, he can always get rid of it. start all over again. and you wouldn't want that, would you~?

dacryphilia.

there's nothing like watching you cry. when you'd confide in him about your troubles, when you'd cry on his shoulder, seek solace in his company for whatever reason, and cry. . it'd be really hard to hide his erection. the first time you let yourself cry in front of him was a day he'd never forget. he couldn't stop thinking about it since. wonders if you tear up when someone fucks you. (you do. you will)

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

mark doesn't care where he takes you as long as he's got you. it can be in public or not, just as long as he takes you to the secondary location he'll keep you prisoner in. if it's in the au where nolan & him team up, there will be a compound with all the rebels. you'd be at the top floor in a comfy little penthouse. a gilded cage overlooking the remains of your burned city.

i think he'll first want to fuck you in a place where there'll be no interruptions. if it isn't in the au where him & nolan conquer earth, he knows how to play his role. doesn't want to risk being found raping you. he'll most likely fuck you in a place you hold dear to your heart. your bedroom, could be an example.

because wherever that safe space may be, you won't be able to stand being there without thinking about him.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

he likes it when you act so sure of yourself. when someone's a bit cocky and bossy. it's nice to break you.

it is a whole lot easier when someone's shyer, though. wallflowers always blend into the background.

no one misses them when they go missing.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

there's almost nothing mark won't do to you, sorry ;( even if he doesn't like it. . even if you both don't like it. . he'll always find a way to humiliate you if you've been bad. so it's advised you be on your best behavior if you really don't want him to do some fucked up shit to you. & believe him: it hurts him more than it hurts you!!

all he's ever wanted was to own you.

you were meant for him.

so why fight?

you both know you're not getting out of this alive

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

mark doesn't always give head unless it's to put you in your place. just to show you that he can make you cum and theres nothing you can do about it.

but he makes you choke on him all the time. he's impatient, forcing your head down and hiking his hips up to meet your face. if you've pissed him off, he'll pinch your nose and hold you down. loves to feel your nails dig into the bulk of his thigh. sometimes, you'll make him bleed. he doesn't care.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

mark doesn’t last very long BUT he’s got a very short refractory period and can go for countless rounds. by the time you cum once, he’s already cum like three times and he’s ready for more. by then, he’s already fucked dumb. so your next orgasms will be forced out of you, roughed up and overstimulated as his cum leaks out of you, his cum acting as lube and making the slide intoxicatingly easy.

Q= Quickie

basically non-existent. he loves giving you his undivided attention. and he never stops after one round ;(

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

he loves trying new things with you. he's spent so much time fantasizing about you that he doesn't even know where to start the first time he gets his hands on you. he'll most likely force fuck you more than once in a day the first time he gets the chance to.

S= Stamina

(see pace <3)

T= Toys

loves using toys on you. if you’ve used them before him, he’ll force you to use them in front of him. it doesn’t take long before he takes control: grabbing them and fucking you with them. edging you. if you cum, then it’s only fair he cums, too, right? and you don’t really like that much ;( so best hold it in <3

U= Unfair (how do they tease? edge?)

mark loves to tease and edge you.

you say you hate him. you can't stand him touching you.

you bite and you snarl, kick and punch, yet when he has you pinned, edging you for hours on end. . you end up breaking. begging him to make you cum. of course, he coaches you through it. tells you he'll leave you alone once you cum, he promises. yet he drags it out for so long. hearing you ask to cum instead of asking him to stop is music to his ears.

except, mark is a liar. you shouldn't trust him.

he just ends up overstimulating you after you cum😒

V= Volume

lots of whispering and hissing, talks very quietly and carefully. you'd think he'd be loud. . but he's not. and despite the fact that he may say vile, disgusting things to you, he whispers them to you so nicely. . if he were saying anything else it'd be sweet. he's so patronizing ;( whimpers in your ear when he's close.

W= Wild card

really into pain.

since he's got his powers, it's not very often that he feels pain. sure, there are some fights with villains - while he's out playing the perfect hero in the mean time - that give him a few flashes of pain. but that's once a blue moon.

nothing compares to you.

you fight him like you're afraid he might kill you. and he might. but it's never his intention ;( he knows what kills and what doesn't (trust him) &, believe it or not, he doesn't want to lose you. but you fight him with such intensity he has to manhandle you more than he'd like.

your hits are surprisingly hard. you claw at him and punch and kick, and he's thought about breaking your legs more times than he can count - he still might if you catch him on a bad day - but then that'd leave you completely immobilized and that's really no fun. because he likes it when you make him bleed. he likes it when your hands slap against his face and when your nails try to claw his eyes out. he wears the bruises and the cuts you give him like badges of honor and he loves to bite his busted lip when he's close to cumming.

he loves it when you hurt him. and he loves it when he ends up winning, anyway.

X= X-ray (size)

5-6in & THICK. really pretty w/ plump balls. he cums SO much.

Y= Yearning (sex drive level)

he's got a HIGH sex drive.

you've teased him for so long he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of you. and there's nothing you can do to stop him. if the two of you weren't close - if the two of you weren't friends, etc. - there's nothing you can do to lay low. you'll catch his attention sooner or later and he'll weasel his way into your life before you even realize it. his intentions would appear pure at first. he'd be so caring, wondering if you're doing okay, and protective; who were you talking to? i don't think they're good for you~

and you listened. because it's mark you're talking about. but if you truly knew him, you'd realize his accusations were actually projections.

Z= Zzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

falls asleep fairly quickly after he's wrung himself dry. but that's only IF he's already taken you hostage. if he so happens to assault you while the two of you aren't where he'd like to keep you, he takes you there, first. coupled with his strange idea of aftercare, he is fairly affectionate. or as affectionate as you'd expect him to be, anyway. always with a hint of menace: he'd hold you tight against him, an arm around your waist and the other wrapped around your throat. making sure you don't so much as think about straying away from him 💗💗

[johnwickb1tsch]

the reason I asked...

(in reference to this poll X) is because I was having a little half-asleep brain rot about bittersweet AUs, like, what if...

reader managed to actually escape John, maybe after Dante attacked the house the first time? you waited for the paramedics to arrive to stabilize him, and then in all the chaos of the 911 response you slip out and steal the RangeRover. ( @sweetwolfcupcake has brilliantly pointed out that Reader would want to escape if for example, John betrayed her trust and followed thru on that spanking 😱😱 Like this version of John is more clinically unhinged)

you drive alllll the way across the country, as far as you can get from New York. surely you can disappear in a huge city like L.A.?

when you try to sell the Rover to a chop shop for cash it backfires on you. you find yourself a captive again. thinking you're a rich kid runaway, they plan to ransom you, but you won't tell them who you are.

lucky you, these bad dudes have been on Tom Ludlow's radar. he raids the shop and kills them alllllllllll. off the books of course. then he's left with the problem of what the hell to do with you?

you wake up at his house, in his bed. at first you're scared of course, but he talks you down, shows you his badge, and explains the tricky situation you're in. he framed the massacre as gang on gang violence. are you going to rat him out?

of course you're not, you're not stupid. you raise him one better when you tell him the situation you just escaped. no, beFORE the gangsters. yes, you really were being held captive [in luxury] by a retired Underworld hitman. no, you don't know if he survived, but if he did you know he'll be looking for you eventually.

Tom does you a solid and offers to get you a new identity. a fresh start. you're floored by his generosity. why would he do that for you? he says he's just trying to do some good in this world that's mostly bad. it's a losing war, but sometimes he wins a small battle, and it keeps him in the fight.

you're so grateful that while you wait for his guy to come through with your new papers, you clean up his messy bachelor pad of a house. you find old photos and lots of empty liquor bottles, and you reason he's either divorced, or a widower.

when he comes home to a clean house and the smell of real food cooking in the kitchen you kind of knock this unflappable man off his feet. he is touched by the gesture, and stunned by how much he likes it, and how much he missed it. maybe towards the end, his wife gave up on trying to have dinner on the table for him because he was never home when he said he would be.

you don't know it, but you've ignited a little fire in Tom, awakening something he thought was long dead. he doesn't act on it. he feels like a piece of shit for even thinking about it. you’re a good kid, and you've been through so much. but a part of him understands why a man who is damned to the darkness would covet a piece of your warmth and your light for himself.

he tells you that you can stay as long as you want. but you feel bad, invading his space. you need a job. a place of your own. to get out of his hair. so he helps you with that too. you find a job at a cute little coffee house in Santa Monica. hey, its what you know. you sublet a room from someone Tom seems to trust. when you move out you kiss Tom on the cheek in thank you. you have no idea how much it kills him to let you go.

you feel like you have a new lease on life. you like your job. you like the warm weather in L.A., and being so close to the beach. Tom still comes in to check on you now and then. This is where you meet a handsome young S.W.A.T. officer named Jack Traven. He comes in sometimes for a flat white and a bran muffin. his smile could stop a woman’s heart at twenty paces. maybe you do flirt with him a little, but you keep it light. then…he starts coming in every morning.

Tom sees the two of you bantering and batting eyes one morning. you cannot know the way it feels like getting shanked between the ribs for him. of course he rolls his eyes with a smirk, putting up his usual front. “Don’t believe a word this guy says, sweetheart, he’s just a meathead from SWAT.” but deep down, Tom realizes he is jealous.

maybe you run into Jack at the bar down the street one night when you're feeling especially lonely. he’s celebrating a successful hostage release. no one died, not even the perp. he invites you to hang out with his friends and fellow officers. you lean on Jack’s [ridiculously muscled] arm, listening to the stories they tell with that devil-may-care bluster cops need to keep going to such a dangerous job day after day. it squeezes your heart, that he risks his life for people he doesn’t even know, because he truly cares. even if deep down you know its a bad idea, you end up going home with him that night. 

Jack continues to come see you at the coffee house. he tries to ask you out on a proper date. you can tell he wants you to be his girlfriend, he wants to treat you right. maybe Tom calls him a meathead, but there is not a cell of fuckboy in this man, bless him. he told you about how he just wants the simple things in life. a good woman. healthy kids. a little postage stamp of grass to mow. for a crazy three seconds you allow yourself to think about it. what would it be like, to be the one he comes home to? gentle kisses in the morning. date night trips to dinner and the movies. a little house. a dog. a picket fence. you could take your babies to the beach, and maybe nothing bad would ever happen… you know it’s not possible for you, and the unfairness of it churns as sharply in your belly as if you swallowed a bag full of glass. he's so sweet, so good, but there is a curse on you, and you're afraid something bad might happen to Jack if he gets involved with you.

what would John Wick do, if he found you living happily with another man? he’s still out there, somewhere. Tom checked for death certificates in New York [and how stupid are you, that a part of you is glad he's not dead?]. your only hope is to keep flying under the radar, living like a ghost. it kills you inside to tell him, “I wish I could. But there are things you don't know about me.”

he's not as surprised by this as you thought he might be. “I'm a cop, y/n. I kind of have a sense for when people are in trouble. you can talk to me.” what he doesn’t say is he has a sense for when people are hiding things. this boy has an incurable case of the White Knight Syndrome, and you can tell he's not going to give up easily. 

you really do try to keep him at arm’s length, but it’s humanly impossible to resist the impulse to flirt with that man. of course, Tom would come in on the day Jack saves you from falling backwards off a ladder–with a hand on your ass. they don’t even exchange words, but somehow the tension in the room between these two men is electric.  

a week or so later you're returning home at night when you find Tom Ludlow leaning on the wall outside your apartment. you can tell just by the way he's standing that he's a little drunk. “out late with Meathead?” he grumbles, his disheveled hair in his dark eyes. 

you stop a little ways from him. you can tell he's in a mood, but maybe underneath that, this man is a little fragile. you have a feeling you might be the only one who gets to see it. “What’s wrong, Tom?” he sighs, shuffles to you, rests his forehead against yours, and you let him. this man saved you when you had no one. this is the least you can do for him–and you have a soft spot for this cranky cop who bends the law to do the right thing.

but maybe you are a little surprised, when he draws back to look at you, those soulful puppy dog eyes fixing on your mouth a moment before he presses his lips to yours. you have to say you definitely don’t hate it, and you're breathless when he pulls away. “shit. y/n…i’m sorry.” “that’s ok.” you reach up to touch his cheek, and he leans into your hand like a needy puppy that doesn’t realize how big he is. you could taste the vodka on his tongue. you’d found the bottles before, of course, but in that short time you’d lived with him he didn’t really drink much. you wonder if he’s slipped backwards again. “where’s your car? I’m going to drive you home.” he grumbles something into the bend of your neck, but in the end he hands over his keys. 

driving in L.A. is a lot easier in a muscle car with a lightbar on the roof. people just magically get out of your way. you bundle Tom back into his home with an arm around his waist. as soon as you get through the front door you see his house is in disarray again, since you haven't been here. some men really do revert back to savages, without a woman to keep them accountable. struggling under his weight, you somehow manage to stumble/drag him to his bed, laying him down in the sheets that obviously haven’t been washed since the last time you laundered them. “I missed you, so much,” he groans, half passed out, as you unlace his boots. 

“Tom…” it truly breaks your heart, to see him living like this. the impulse to try to save him is as strong as it is misguided. but sometimes…people just need a little help, and that’s ok. He doesn’t ask you to, but you lay down in the bed beside him and wrap your arms around his solid trunk of a torso, moulding your body against his. you know there is something healing in just snuggling with another human being–and you’re lonely too.   “Are you sleeping with Meathead?” he slurs, on the edge of sleep.  “Why do you call him that?” you counter, trying to keep things light, and not answer direct questions about Jack. “You’re just as built as he is.” you squeeze his bicep appreciatively, winning a sound that suddenly reminds you of a lion in his den. he turns to you, a dark light in those brown eyes that makes your heart stop in your chest.  “Yeah?”  you have to try twice before you find your voice. “Yeah.” this time, maybe it’s you that cranes your neck for a kiss that curls your toes, and he can’t stop himself from rolling onto you with a moan, his solid weight pressing you down deliciously into the the bed. but then he makes himself stop again, resting his forehead against yours with a sigh. “You don’t owe me anything, babygirl.”  “I do,” you counter, “but that’s not what this is about.”  “What’s it about, then?”  “Well. I kind of like you.”  he snorts, that glitter in his eyes that drives you a little crazy inside. is it stupid, that you feel like he isn’t in as much danger as Jack? is he more lethal, or do you callously just feel deep down that he doesn’t have his whole life ahead of him, the way your pretty SWAT hunk does? you’re not really sure, but when Tom’s big hand dips into your jeans you’re not strong enough to say no. 

you’re there at the coffee house, the day the bus blows up on the street outside. The news crews swarm, interviewing anyone they can for a sound byte. you try to stay off the cameras, but it’s too late. there are too many before you’re allowed to go home, and you end up on the national news. 

hardly a week goes by, before you are at work again, some of the windows boarded up, still broken from the blast. you’ve got your back turned, putting the lid on a café mocha, double checking that it's tight when you sense someone is at the counter. “I’ll be right there,” you call over your shoulder. 

a quiet voice from your past sends a chill to the bottom of your soul. “I think I’m in the mood for something sweet.”  you jump, spilling the scalding hot mocha all over the counter. slowly you turn to find him, the way you’ve always feared you would, handsome as the devil himself in an all black suit. he doesn’t seem angry, but there is a glint of sharp steel in his black eyes that warns you not to try anything cute.  “John,” you whisper, your voice utterly failing you in the face of your doom. With panic in your eyes you look around at all the people in the shop. All the witnesses. “Please…don’t.”  “Come quietly, and I won’t.”  he sounds so reasonable. you know it’s just a facade. 

you’re so filled with fear that you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re not really in control of your own body, as you nod, wipe your hands, and make your way around the counter to him. he doesn’t grab you. he doesn’t even have to touch you. he just nods at the door, and you follow him out into the bright California sunlight. you know immediately which car is his, the midnight-black ‘69 Mustang parked in the alley on the side of the building. 

you’re ten paces from the muscle car when you hear another voice you know all too well behind you. “Freeze, motherfucker! Hands where I can see them!” 

No no no no please don’t not for me please God not for me...

the two of you turn slowly and your heart falls to see not only Tom Ludlow with his service pistol drawn, but Jack Traven as well... 

[lilibookverse]

Random Texts between Chaotic!JJ x gf!Reader 🌊⚡️

⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃

⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃🌊🌞⚡️💛🍃

Pairing : Chaotic!JJ x gf!Reader

JJ and you had always been close. Your relationship was a given, really, to anyone who knew you... What you had not taken in consideration was that, now, you were officially responsible for all the stupid ideas he could get himself into... 💛

✨ Until next time, my loves… Stay possessive. Stay golden. 💛🌟

[threepandas]

Bad End: Kept Safe

[Art by Miu_A]

You ever give someone advice, knowing full well they aren't going to take it? Even AFTER they have begged and pleaded and WHINED at you, for hours, for it? Even after they poured their heart and soul out to you? And you, a good friend, carefully and tactfully, tried your best to help? LIKE THEY ASKED?

Ever find yourself the designated "run too dramatically weep in the arms off" friend?

I have.

It is hell. I am in hell.

This is my punishment for all those hours I spent reading and playing Otome Isekai junk instead of, I don't know, solving world hunger or something. Because it HAS to be. I am clearly being punished. Repeatedly. By some sort of petty, petty, anime God.

Fuck you too, buddy.

A fresh round of highly dramatic Protagonist sobbing peirces the air. Dear lord, she has a set of lungs on her, does she? It's like an air siren. But more... upset toddler. It was bizarre. I'd LIKED her as a character. I HAD. Bright and cheerful, determined with a good heart. She'd been a bit naive, yes, but she'd grown. Love had changed her for the better.

But THIS?

This was some middle school "he threw away my secret note, that I didn't sign, so that means he HATES MEEEEE~" bullshit. It went on and on and ON! God, it'd been MONTHS! Years!

I made friends with the Protagonist when we were in The Royal Academy. The story's setting. It SHOULD have finished by graduation. SHOULD. HAVE. But DID it? No! This nonsense had spilled into the COURT! The general population! Actual political factions were starting to get involved!

All because my "friend" COULDN'T PICK A MAN.

And she didn't listen. I tried. God, how I TRIED! No matter HOW I phrased "just fucking TALK to them" it didn't get through her dense fucking skull. I tried taking a break. To calm down. She HUNTED ME DOWN with her little Harem of political trainwrecks!

That poor port city STILL has yet to recover from the chaos they unleashed.

I don't... God, I don't even LIKE her anymore. I've just been reduced to her HANDLER. Forced into girlish tea parties devoid of any taste, because no one ELSE will come. Followed by winces and pitying looks by every lady in all of polite society. The sacrifice to keep HER distracted, lest her gaurd dogs decide its a good idea to do something unhinged again.

It's exhausting.

I'm not even listening.

She seems to have worked through her usual cycle of "cry, mope, what about meeeee~, then I going to go be Plucky at them! Tee Hee~♡!". Good, good. You go have fun, you little train wreck. I'm going to go find an actual ADULT to hide behind.

I have my maids change me out of an outfit that, frankly? I am too old for. I am not sixteen. We are not GIRLS, for the heaven's sake. We are WOMEN. It was a cute outfit. I enjoyed wearing it, back when I was physically young enough that it was appropriate. But even THEN... that's the down side of the whole "isekai" thing.

You keep your mental age.

Everyone around you? INFANTS. Fresh faced babies. You are being flirted with by fourteen year olds and? It is DISGUSTING. They can never be anything more then "cute kids" to you. The characters you once thirsted over? Reduced to actual, living, breathing, pre-schoolers.

There's no going back after that. I'll NEVER unsee it. Can only continue to age, even as they simply... grow up. And then? When they started behaving like FOUR YEAR OLDS? Forget it! I'm beginning to share my parents fears I may die single.

At least I have a refuge. A place of SANITY and SENSE.

I grab the imported wine I had purchased. I'd noticed him drink it before on special occasions. Found a tea seller that was willing to also bring some back. Mother LOVED the tea and my friend was going to love the wine, I could just tell.

Cautiously poking my head out of the guest apartments i was staying in, I checked the hall. Left. Right. Left. Thank god. No Protagonist in sight, she hasn't come back yet. Better hurry though.

I walk fast and keep close to the wall. Ducking into alcoves at every new female voice. Passing servants, Nobles, and the occasional Knight either murmur what they know of Protagonist's last known location or politely pretend not to see me. For anyone else, this would be scandalous behavior. For ME? Well... everyone knew EXACTLY why I was being driven to such extremes.

I thankfully reached the governance wing unmolested. It was far quite and none of the pack of fools ever really set foot here. Not ever the ones who were SUPPOSED to be busy learning their future roles as leaders of this country. God, I could only hope the third prince somehow quietly pulls a coup.

Not that I'd SAY that.

The gaurds don't even bother to announce me, I'm here so often. Merely opening the door. I maintain my decorum none the less. JUST long enough for the doors to finally close and I am able to drop my social mask like whipping of my bra after a long day. Oh thank fuuuuuuck. FREEDOM!

A familiar chuckle, like incense smoke, wafts from the second floor of the office.

"Oh my~, so tired?" My friend muses, his voice that ever lilting purr. I hear him closing whatever heavy tome he's currently studying. "And so early in the DAY! Was it the little nuisance again? Surely she must have SOMETHING better to do?"

Gently putting the wine I'm gifting him on his desk, I then throw up my arms. You would THINK! Wouldn't you?! It's an old complaint. And frankly? I'm glad he still let's me vent about it. It HAS to get old. Yet? He let's me complain anyway.

I met the, roughly translated, "Keeper Of The Shield" at one of the Crown Prince's many ridiculous parties. I was dragged along as Protagonist's plus one. Because GOD FORBID she bring one of her suitors! That might lean towards CHOICE! Can't have THAT!

It was an overly dramatic, gaudy, slow motion trainwreck from beginning to end. I? Got very, VERY drunk. I knew I shouldn't. It was wildly inappropriate. But I was HORRIFIED. Hid near the balconies and drank to forget. Contemplating jumping.

Was likely the only one there my age NOT in ten layers of bows and fabric flowers. It was probably why Crevan decide to talk to me. That and the look of abject suffering. He informed that, sadly, the balconies were locked. But if I planned to maim my self to escape, he could probably boost me up enough to reach the upper windows.

I choked on my drink and guffawd like an idiot. It was SUPER flattering. Very pretty. And honestly? The best conversation I'd had in YEARS. He was droll. Witty. Snarky. In just as much hell as I was. We gleefully narrated the drama playing out before us in as cutting a manner as possible. Grown adults, government officals! Behaving like fucking CHILDREN.

Only after, did I learn I had been chatting with the equivalent of the minister of the Defense. THE commander of our nation's defensive forces. All of them. Knights, army, spies. All of it. And the poor man had been dragged from his desk to play party prop by a glorified teenager. I was horrified. Appalled. Fucking OUTRAGED to learn that it was just... normal!

This country was a nightmare! Otome games are HELL. Lacey, sparkly HELL!!!

But at least I had Crevan to keep me sane. He was always willing to listen. Advise when he could. We had HOPED that Protagonist would start maturing... I'd even mentioned it, but it just seemed like she back slid again and again! Trapping me. Isolating me! Ruining my chances to move ON and have a LIFE!

I don't know what went wrong! Is it me? Am I too hand holdy? It's starting to destabilize the country! Not that the royal family even seems to notice! God no, if it weren't for Crevan, the whole PLACE would have collapsed!

I flop down on my couch. Technically it's not "mine", but honestly? He's fooling no one. The man barely had ANY guest furniture before we became friends. It's totally my couch. (He even got a tea table for us, the softy.)

"Oh? A gift? How thoughtful, dear~" It's only months of friendship that keep from jumping these days. I should get that man a BELL. "Would you like some?"

I can't help but huff a laugh. He always looks to PLEASED when he gets the jump on someone. Startles them. A mischievous asshole, that one. Touchy, too. Forever cupping my cheek or earnestly taking my hand. Patting my head. Guiding me by the elbow or shoulder. He has so few friends... I am certain he is touch starved.

A thought occurs to him, as he pours two cups. A sly grin stretching across his face as he turns to offer me a cup. The wine's scent mixes, burning and delicate, with the ever present smells of incense and his favorite herbal cigarettes. Blurring the senses and relaxing. It's a pretty strong drink.

"You KNOW... it just occurs to me! Darling, if you want to avoid that pest? Why not spend the day HERE? I'd love to have you. " his voice becomes low and serious for a moment, almost catching me off gaurd, bouncing back before I can really think about it. "You could trash my shelves again! Camp out on my couches! It'll be like a little party~ Just you and me! Not a care in the world. You won't have to worry a single thing~"

He grins, glasses catching the light, toothy like the old scheming fox he is.

"I'll keep you nice and safe~"

[remmicks-bloodbag]

Are yall ready??

[gremlingottoosilly]

do you think hostage reader would get addicted to anal bc of könig.... like all she would think about all day is his cock calls deep in her little ass?

She is definitely traumatized enough to enjoy the comfort of sex with her captor. For her, she wasn't really rescued - she just pleases only one guy instead of being in danger from a group of terrorists. Konig is gentle with her, trying to get her to believe this is all consensual and she is fine, she is his little girlfriend! He is getting addicted to the feeling of your ass squeezing him( it's very hard to focus whenever you're around, and you are not helping!! Wearing booty shorts, ignoring bras, and trying to get him in your pants constantly because this is the only thing that calms you down now!! You're sleeping with a plug set firmly in your butt, you constantly grind your ass against his crotch because you need him!! You can't sleep without his cock, you're too silly and needy now( You just feel so empty without him, it genuinely crushes you( poor thing, he now has to implement toys in your sex life because sometimes he wants to slide his cock in your warm, tender pussy, but you whine about your ass feeling lonely( poor thing, you are playing with your ass as he slides in your folds, making a mess out of your pussy because you just need to be filled everywhere! Konig had to call for some assistance - Krueger and his fat cock constantly filling you up, taking this dumb hostage lady as she deserves to be filled!

[carlyraejepsans]

I KNOW YOU READ ORV YOU PIECE OF SHIT DOG!!!!!!!!!

[cupidsworstcrime]

toxic!johnny x f!reader

inspo - for you 🌸 hope it lives up to expectations

smut , some nondescriptive , some descriptive

please read responsibly

contains kidnapping/hostage holding , manipulation , dub/non con , emotional/verbal abuse , controlling behavior (including food + work out) , stockholm , pregnancy at the end (marked with a heart banner , feel free to end there)

Johnny wasn't the same after the bullet.

They said he died on the table for forty-seven seconds. No oxygen. No pulse. Then, a gasp. A miracle, they called it. But when he opened his eyes, Johnny wasn’t all there. Not the same “Soap” who cracked jokes between gunfire or who could recite Shakespeare while stitching a bullet wound shut.

There was a quietness to him now. A sharp, eerie stillness. And horrid mood swings that changed faster than the wind blew. Like something feral was pacing behind his smile.

You met him at a pub on a rain-soaked Thursday. You hadn’t meant to stay long — just one drink, maybe two. He’d clocked you from across the room. Piercing eyes. Buzzed hair. Scars you couldn't stop staring at. And he smiled like he knew you'd come to him eventually.

“Sit with me, pretty thing,” he said, voice soft with a Glaswegian lilt. You did.

You laughed too hard at his deadpan jokes. He liked that. Bought you drinks, then offered to walk you home, heavy jacket slung over your shoulders. The city lights blurred as the streetlamps flickered, and his hand was warm on your lower back.

You didn’t mean to take him home. You weren’t that kind of girl. But he looked so sad when you said goodbye at the door. So tired. So hollow. And you were soft. Soft enough to let him in.

You made tea. He walked around your flat like he owned it.

“Cute place,” he murmured, picking up a trinket from your bookshelf — then dropping it like it didn’t matter. “Suits you.”

You offered him the couch. He took your bed. You told him no. He laughed.

The sun cut through the half-closed blinds in thin, pale slats.

You woke up before him. His arm was draped heavy over your waist, like a lock. You stayed still for a while, heart pounding against your ribs, listening to his breathing — slow. Deep. Asleep, maybe. Hopefully.

You eased out from under his arm like you were defusing a bomb. Each breath shallow. You slid your feet onto the floor, quiet as you could, and tiptoed across the room. Your phone was still dead. You didn’t know where your charger had gone. You’d checked the kitchen last night and it wasn’t there either.

But your keys. Your keys were by the door. If you could just—

“Where you goin’, bonnie?”

His voice stopped you cold. Low. Rough. Still thick with sleep — but laced with something darker.

You turned slowly. He was already out of the bed, shirtless, scarred, eyes locked on you. One second later and he was on you.

You hit the floor with a sickening thud, breath punched from your lungs as your back slammed against the wood. His hand gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Why you tryin’ to leave, bon?” he murmured, mouth close to your cheek. You could smell his breath — warm, coppery, like he bit the inside of his mouth. “We were just gettin’ comfortable.”

“I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, squirming under him. “I was just—needed air—”

“Air?” His grin curled, but his eyes were dead. “You need air from me?”

He didn’t raise his voice. That made it worse. His calm was cold. Measured. A different kind of violence.

“You don’t need to run, sweetheart.” His grip loosened, just slightly, and he ran his thumb down your cheek. “Not from me. I’d never hurt you. Not unless you asked nice.”

You flinched. He noticed.

“Oh,” he cooed, tilting his head. “You’re scared of me now. Is that it?”

“I just—I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you whispered, shame burning hot under your skin. “It was one night.”

His smile faded. Slowly.

“One night,” he repeated. “Right. So I should’ve left. Let you wake up alone. Let some other bastard find you.”

He leaned in. His weight pressed into you. You could feel his pulse against yours.

“I saved you from that, didn’t I?” he whispered. “Took care of you. Fed you. Kept you warm.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. His hand slid down to your throat — not choking, but there. A promise.

“You’re not leavin’,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Neither am I. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Now,” he said softly, “you’re gonna be good, yeah? Be sweet for me.”

And like a fool, like a coward, you nodded.

You stopped keeping track of the days. Time blurred into Johnny’s voice. Into his hands.

He didn’t leave. Not once. Not even to go outside. He told you it wasn’t safe. That there were people out there who’d hurt you. That the city was filthy, full of men who’d take one look at you and ruin you.

"But you're mine," he said. "No one's gonna fuckin' touch you again."

You believed him. Eventually.

Your phone was gone. He said it was broken. Then said you dropped it. Then said he threw it out because it was rotting your brain. You didn’t ask again.

Your meals changed. He measured what you ate. No more snacks. No more sugar. He watched you chew like he was keeping score.

“You’ll thank me later,” he muttered one night, running a hand down your stomach as you lay curled in bed, hollowed out from the meal he called “clean.” “Gotta keep my pretty little thing tight, don’t I?”

He timed your workouts. Told you when to start, when to stop. You’d never cared much about exercise before. Now it was punishment. Now it was praise. When you did it right, he’d kiss your sweat-slicked cheek. When you didn’t, he’d stand behind you in silence, arms crossed, watching until you cried.

And you always cried.

Your clothes vanished. The oversized hoodie you loved — gone. That short skirt you wore to the pub the night you met — burned. Literally. In the sink.

“Slag’s uniform,” he said, eyes glazed as he watched it smolder. “Never wearin’ that again.”

He picked your clothes now. He liked lace and silk. Chokers. Slippers that made no noise when you walked. He said you looked like a doll — porcelain and breakable.

He liked that.

TV? He picked it. Music? He decided. If you tried to read, he’d take the book and toss it. “Don’t need words in your head. Just me.”

And then there was that part. The part you didn’t speak about.

He was soft with you — sometimes. Before. After. During. But sex wasn’t yours anymore. It wasn’t a choice. It was a ritual. A schedule.

When. Where. How.

Sometimes rough. Sometimes sickeningly sweet. Sometimes in the kitchen, bent over the counter before you’d even had coffee. Sometimes in the shower, where his hands held your wrists against the tile and whispered don’t fight, bonnie, just take it.

And you did. You always did.

Because if you didn’t, he’d stop speaking. Stop touching. Stop looking. That silence was worse than bruises.

Worse than anything.

Because in the quiet, you remembered who you were before. And Johnny wouldn’t allow that.

“Forget her,” he’d whisper, hand over your mouth, sweat dripping from his brow as he drove into you with slow, punishing rhythm. “She’s gone, sweetheart. She’s fuckin’ gone. And now you’re mine.”

And maybe she was.

There was a knock at the door. Sharp. Familiar.

Your heart stuttered.

You hadn’t heard that knock in weeks.

You were wearing what Johnny picked out for you that morning — a white camisole and soft pink shorts, no bra. Hair down. Lip gloss he said made you look "fuckin’ edible." He was in the kitchen. Or maybe the hallway. You hadn’t seen him in the last few minutes, but you could feel him. Like static in your bones.

You opened the door just a crack.

“Hey,” your best friend whispered, breathless like she’d run the whole way. “Jesus. I’ve been calling—what the fuck, I’ve been texting—” She stopped, taking you in. The outfit. The gloss. The fake smile.

“You look… different.”

You tried to smile wider. “I’ve been busy.”

She frowned. “Busy? You disappeared. No replies. Your socials are dead. I thought you were—” Her voice cracked. “Can I come in?”

Before you could answer, you felt it. The warmth at your back. The solid weight of him.

Johnny’s arm slid around your waist from behind.

He leaned down, chin resting on your shoulder like he’d always belonged there.

“Hey there, love,” he said to her. Calm. Polite. Voice like silk over broken glass. “Nice of you to stop by.”

Your friend’s eyes widened. “Who’s—?”

“This is John,” you said too quickly. “He’s… staying with me.”

Your friend blinked. “Staying with—? Since when?”

You felt his fingers press slightly harder into your hip.

“Since the night we met,” he said for you.

You swallowed hard. “He’s good to me.”

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes darting to yours. “Seriously. Just blink or—”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too fast, too loud.

Johnny chuckled under his breath.

Your friend didn’t move. “Come with me. Just for coffee. Ten minutes. We’ll talk—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Johnny said, softly. Not a threat — not exactly. Just a fact.

You turned toward her, pulling the door in just a little. “I don’t want to go.”

“Babe—” she tried, voice small.

“I said I’m fine.”

And that was that.

You closed the door before she could respond. The latch clicked like a coffin sealing shut.

You stood there, breath shallow, hand still on the knob.

Behind you, Johnny pressed a kiss to your neck.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be loyal.”

You didn’t speak. You just stared at the door.

And you didn’t cry. Not yet. Not while he was still behind you.

You waited until he was in a good mood. After dinner. After he’d eaten, after he’d fucked you slow and whispered praise like a prayer in your ear.

You curled up beside him on the couch, head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His hand stroked absentmindedly through your hair. You felt small. Safe, almost. If you didn’t think too hard.

“Johnny?”

“Hm?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. He felt it — you knew he did. His hand stopped.

“I was thinking… maybe tomorrow, we could go outside.”

Silence.

“Just a walk,” you added quickly, too quickly. “Nothing big. Ten minutes, even. Just around the block. I miss the sun. The air. You could come too— I want you to come.”

Another beat. His hand slid out of your hair. Rested on your hip instead. Firm.

“You miss the sun?” he asked, voice flat.

You nodded, cautious. “I do. I just— I haven’t seen it in so long. I think it’d be good for me. And you could hold my hand the whole time. We don’t even have to talk to anyone—”

“You think I don’t give you enough?” he said, and there it was — the edge. Sharp as wire.

“No—God, no, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You’ve got food. Clothes. Warm bed. Me.” He sat up a little, pushing you off him like you were just in the way. “And you want to go outside? Risk some cunt lookin’ at you like you’re available? Like you’re not already mine?”

“Johnny, please—”

His hand gripped your face, thumb pressing hard into your cheek, not enough to bruise — but close. His eyes were blank. That same blank.

“You wanna be seen?” he asked quietly. “Is that it? You wanna show off what I fuckin’ own?”

“No,” you whispered, throat dry. “No. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” His grip tightened. “You’re still thinkin’ about it. I can see it.”

“I’m not. I swear. I won’t ask again.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then let you go.

“Damn right you won’t.”

You collapsed against the couch when he stood up, knees too shaky to follow. He disappeared into the kitchen, muttering to himself. You thought you heard the click of the drawer. The one with the knives.

The sun didn’t come up the next day. Not really. The blinds stayed shut. The lock on the door clicked twice that morning instead of once.

And you didn’t ask again.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

You were folding his shirts the way he liked — sleeves perfect, collars straight — and your fingers brushed the edge of the old British Army tee he wore to bed. You looked up at him, standing in the doorway, shirtless, scar gleaming faintly under the soft light of the living room lamp. Right above his temple. A brutal little crescent of pink, where the bullet hadn’t quite killed him.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked, before you could stop yourself. “The scar?”

He froze. Face blank.

The silence was immediate. Sharp.

You panicked.

“I didn’t mean— I just— I remember seeing it the first night and it worries me—”

“Worries you?” he repeated, voice flat. Cold. Like you’d said something dirty.

Your mouth opened. Closed. “Yes.”

He stepped toward you.

You took a step back. Instinct.

He grabbed your wrist, dragged you into the bedroom, the force of it like gravity shifting under your feet. You stumbled, tried to explain, but he didn’t want words.

“You don’t ask about that,” he snarled, throwing you down onto the bed. “You don’t talk about it. You don’t fucking look at it.”

“I didn’t mean—!”

He was already on you. Belt in hand. One hard crack across the back of your thigh. You yelped, fingers knotting in the sheets.

“You think I don’t see the way you stare?” Another hit. “You think you can fix me with your little slag eyes?”

You sobbed. Not from pain. Not entirely. From shame. Confusion.

One more blow. Then silence.

And then — his breathing changed. Slowed. Hitched.

He was still holding your leg down, hand shaking.

“…You said worried,” he whispered.

You blinked through tears. “W-what?”

He let go of the belt. It dropped to the floor like it burned him.

“You were… worried about me?”

You turned your head slowly. He wasn’t looking at you like before. Something broke in him — cracked open and leaking.

“I thought it was ugly,” he muttered, dazed, like he was talking to himself. “I thought it made me look wrong. Like a freak. But you were worried.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He sank down onto the bed beside you, hand hovering — not touching.

“Say it again.”

You hesitated.

“I was worried about you.”

His hand found your back, trembling.

“…Why?”

Because I used to think you were human. Because part of me still believes there’s something left inside you.

But you don’t say any of that.

“Because I care,” you whisper.

He exhales. Like it hurts.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

But he kisses your thigh where the belt left a mark anyway.

And you know he’s going to hurt you again. Maybe worse. But for a moment, he’s soft.

And that’s what terrifies you the most.

That night, he barely spoke.

Didn’t drag you by the wrist. Didn’t bark orders.

He just stared.

You were in bed, curled on your side, still sore from the belt. Still aching in ways you couldn’t name. Johnny stood at the edge of the room, shirtless, scar half-lit by the moon through the curtains.

You watched him, silent. Waiting.

When he moved, it was slow. Measured.

He climbed into bed behind you, peeled your shorts down like he was unwrapping something sacred. You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask, maybe to beg — but he was already there, already inside you, already moving.

No teasing. No commands.

Just fucking.

It was deep. Intentional. Not rushed — not this time. But not gentle, either. Like he was chasing something. Like he had to make you fall apart.

His hand slid between your legs, fingers practiced, determined. You moaned, body jolting, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. He whispered filth — what you’d look like dripping, what he wanted to hear when you came. Called you his good girl, his pet, his little doll with the sugar-slick cunt that only he gets to ruin.

You came once, breathless and clinging to the sheets.

He didn’t slow.

“Again,” he growled, sweat slicking his chest as he drove harder. “Gonna get three out of you. Maybe four. Maybe five if I hate myself enough tonight.”

You whimpered his name. He kissed the back of your neck like it hurt him to be soft.

The second orgasm tore through you fast, messy. You were already shaking when he pushed your legs apart again, dragging your hips up into his lap.

“I hurt you,” he murmured. “I always hurt you. All I fuckin’ do. And you still look at me like you care.”

You tried to reach for him — touch his face, his chest — but he caught your wrists and pinned them to the bed.

“I don’t get to finish,” he said, voice flat. “That’s the rule tonight.”

“Johnny—”

“You want me to cum?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “You want the freak with a hole in his head to cum with you like he’s normal?”

Your heart cracked.

You opened your mouth to answer — but then you were coming again. A third time. Harder. Raw.

He watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open.

And still — he didn’t let go. Didn’t let himself finish.

Even as his hips stuttered. Even as he bit down on your shoulder to keep from screaming.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you, breathing ragged.

Silent.

You reached for him. He let you, this time.

Let you hold him.

Let you whisper, “thank you...”

And he didn’t reply. But his hand found yours in the dark. Gripped it like a lifeline.

Like he was scared of floating too far.

You woke up to the sound of keys. Real ones. The front door.

Johnny stood above you with his jacket in one hand and your shoes in the other. The ones you hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Up,” he said.

You blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“You’re going outside.”

It took you a full five seconds to move. Then you scrambled to your feet, breath caught in your throat. He held out the shoes. You reached for them, but he didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm.

“You been good lately, haven’t you?” he murmured, eyes on yours. “Didn’t ask again. Didn’t whine. That’s what I like, pet.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I’ve been good.”

A smile tugged at his mouth — lazy, sharp. Dangerous.

“See? You get it now.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “You get rewarded when you don’t beg like a bitch.”

You flushed. Shamed. A little sick. A little proud. You didn’t know which part of you felt what anymore.

Outside, the world was louder than you remembered. Brighter. Wind scraped against your skin like it hated you for leaving.

Johnny never let go of your hand. His grip was bruising.

You walked two blocks. Past a bakery. A flower stall. People. People. They smiled as they passed. One man looked at you twice. Johnny squeezed your fingers so hard your knuckles cracked.

“Let’s head back, yeah?” he said through clenched teeth.

You didn’t argue. You nodded like it was your idea.

Back home, the silence slammed over you like a door. You kicked your shoes off neatly. Looked at him. Waited.

He stepped in close. Close enough to smell the leather of his jacket.

“Good girl,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face. “That’s how this works. You obey, you get a little taste of fresh air. A little sunlight.”

He cupped your chin.

“Next time,” he said, “if you really earn it… maybe I’ll let you sit outside alone. Wouldn’t that be sweet?”

Your eyes burned.

“Yes, Johnny.”

“Say thank you.”

“…Thank you, Johnny.”

He smiled.

Then he kissed you hard — bruising, breath-stealing — and you knew your reward was over. The leash pulled tight again.

And you were back where you belonged.

It was raining.

Not hard — just the kind of soft, constant drizzle that made the walls feel closer. Time slower. The flat smelled like garlic and onions and steam from the pot he stirred with methodical focus.

You watched him from the kitchen doorway, bare feet on cold tile. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

His scar was visible in the kitchen light, a pale seam above his ear where skin met ruin. You thought of that night again. The belt. The whispered you were worried. The way he hadn’t let himself come.

And something broke open in you.

Not out of fear. Not obedience.

Something smaller. Realer.

You stepped closer. Slow. Careful.

Wrapped your arms around him from behind.

Your cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, arms looping under his. A quiet hug. No words.

You felt him go still.

Utterly, completely still.

The spoon clinked against the edge of the pot and dropped. He didn’t pick it up.

“You okay?” you whispered against his spine.

Silence.

His hands were still at his sides.

“I wanted to,” you said softly. “That’s all. I just… wanted to feel you.”

Still nothing.

But then — slowly, like something ancient learning movement — he turned in your arms.

His eyes were unreadable. He looked down at you like you were speaking a language he hadn’t heard in years. One he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore.

“You…” he started, then stopped. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to fake that. I’m not fuckin’ stupid.”

“I’m not faking.”

Your voice was steady. Honest.

His hand came up. Hesitated. Then settled gently on the back of your head.

And for a second — one long, impossible second — he melted.

Let you hold him. Let you press your face into his chest. Let the kitchen and the rain and the outside world fade.

Then, just as fast, it shifted.

His grip on your hair tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who he was.

“You do this again without permission,” he said softly, “and I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.”

You nodded against his chest. “Okay.”

But he didn’t let go.

And he didn’t move away.

Not until the pasta burned.

She showed up at your door like a ghost from another life.

A knock. Firm, fast. The way she used to knock when she brought cheap wine and gossip. You froze, dish towel in hand, pulse skipping hard.

Johnny was in the living room.

He looked up from the couch, face unreadable. Then—slowly—he nodded.

“Answer it, pet.”

You opened the door.

There she was. Same eyes. Same concern. Same disbelief as she looked you over.

“…Hey,” she said. Soft. Suspicious.

You smiled too wide. “Hey. Sorry I haven’t called. Things’ve been… hectic.”

She glanced past you.

Johnny stood just inside the hallway now. Barefoot. Shirtless. His scar caught the light like a warning.

“Hi,” she said to him carefully.

He just nodded. Didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

You stepped aside. “Wanna come in?”

You weren’t sure which of you was more surprised when he didn’t say no.

She stepped in slowly, like the floor might bite her.

“Place looks clean,” she murmured, glancing around. “New decor?”

“Johnny’s idea,” you chirped. “He’s got… good taste.”

You could feel him watching you. Heat behind your spine. Like a wolf breathing down your neck.

She sat on the edge of the couch. “You’ve lost weight.”

You forced a giggle. “Been working out. Clean eating and stuff.”

Her eyes didn’t move from yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, really.”

Johnny moved to the arm of the couch, leaning against it casually—but his eyes were locked on you. Burning. Daring.

Your friend looked between the two of you. “You… sure?”

“I’ve never been better,” you said brightly. “Really.”

Johnny’s voice slid in like a knife.

“She’s thriving. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You looked at him.

Your mouth said, “Yes.”

Your eyes said, Please.

And your friend?

She saw it. Just a flicker. A tremor in your smile.

She stood. “Right. I should, um. Let you get back to it.”

You followed her to the door, heart pounding.

“Text me,” she said, too quiet.

“I will.”

“You promise?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

She glanced past you one more time—at Johnny, who hadn’t moved.

Who hadn’t blinked.

Then she stepped into the hallway.

And suddenly Johnny was there, closing the door behind her.

Locked it.

Turned to you slowly.

You were already backing up when he said, “Three minutes.”

You swallowed.

“I gave you three whole fuckin’ minutes to pretend.”

You frowned.

Not the kind of expression Johnny liked to see.

It wasn’t bratty. It wasn’t scared. It was confused.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you said quietly. “I meant it. I don’t know why she didn’t believe me.”

Johnny’s eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened — like your confusion was an insult. Like it made him angry that you couldn’t see what he saw.

“You think that makes it better?”

You opened your mouth.

He was already dragging you by the wrist.

Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You didn’t fight him — but your chest was tight, breath shaky, not from fear exactly, but from not understanding.

You didn’t want to leave.

So why did she look at you like you were a victim?

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

His hand was already in your hair, pushing you down onto the bed.

“You wanna act like you’re mine?” he growled, voice rough and ragged as he yanked your panties down. “Then you take it like mine. Don’t pout like some kicked puppy.”

You gasped when his fingers came down hard — not soft, not teasing, but mean.

A hard pinch to your clit that made you jerk, whimper.

“No—Johnny—!”

He didn’t stop.

He rolled the sensitive nub between two fingers, cruel and tight. “She looked at me like I fuckin’ chained you to the radiator,” he spat. “And you looked at her like you were confused. Like you missed her.”

“I didn’t—! I swear—!”

Another pinch. A twist. Your thighs shook.

“Then prove it. Say who you belong to.”

“You, Johnny—!”

“Say who's this is.”

He slapped your inner thigh. Another tug. You sobbed.

“Yours! It’s yours!”

He spread you open, spit on you, fingers coming down again — quick, sharp flicks to your clit that made your back arch and tears spring to your eyes. Over and over. Burning. Overloading.

“Too much—Johnny, please—!”

He didn’t stop.

“I need you,” you cried. “I love you—!”

That made him pause.

Just a second.

His hand still between your legs. Breathing hard.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear, voice like gravel and heat.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Say it while I break you.”

He slid two fingers inside you while the other hand tormented your clit again. Fast. Ruthless. Overstimulating. Your body jolting under him, every nerve on fire.

You were sobbing when you came — a raw, cracked sound that didn’t sound like a word.

And still, he didn’t let up.

“I said again.”

“I—I love you—!”

His lips pressed to your temple, soft and strange in contrast to the way he worked you over.

You’d never felt more owned.

More kept.

More honest.

You didn’t remember when the pain stopped.

Just the warmth.

The slow drag of a wet cloth between your legs, gentle. Careful. His touch finally light, reverent almost, as he cleaned you up.

Your breath came in tiny shivers. Brain fogged. Muscles loose. Eyes barely open.

You didn’t think you could move even if you wanted to.

Johnny sat beside you on the edge of the bed, tucking a blanket around your thighs. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-matted hair away from your face.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice like honey, like a balm. “Took it so well, didn’t you?”

Your lips parted. You leaned into the touch without thinking. Nodded slowly, cheek pressing into his palm.

“Mhm…”

He chuckled low in his chest. “All that crying. All that noise. But you needed it, didn’t you?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. “Needed you.”

His smile was soft. But his words weren’t.

“Needed me to remind you what a needy little thing you are. Can’t think without me, yeah?”

You nodded again, dreamily.

“Can’t keep yourself clean. Can’t cum right without bein’ slapped stupid. You like that, don’t you? Like bein’ put in your place.”

Something in you fluttered.

Not fear.

Not shame.

Something… warm.

You let out a tiny whimper and nuzzled closer. His hand stroked down your arm, your side, his palm settling on your hip.

“You’re precious like this,” he cooed. “All broken open. Mind quiet. Good for nothin’ but takin’ what I give you.”

You didn’t notice the words. Not really.

Just the tone.

You melted into it, clinging to every soft edge.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what, sweetheart?” he asked, all mock-surprise.

“For… for taking care of me.”

His smile grew — sharp and full of teeth.

“Always, pet. I’ll take real good care of you.”

And you believed him.

Even if your body ached.

Even if your heart did, too.

Because it was the first time he ever held you after.

And somehow, that made everything feel like love.

You woke before the alarm.

Eyes open, lashes heavy. The ache between your legs bloomed the second you shifted — sore, stretched, raw in places only he ever touched.

But you didn’t wince.

You smiled.

It wasn’t happiness. Not quite.

It was clarity.

You knew what to do.

You slipped from under the blankets quietly, careful not to wake him. Johnny’s arm twitched on the mattress beside you, his breath steady, deep. You paused for a second to look at him — the scar on his temple, the mess of his hair, the muscles beneath the sheet — then you padded barefoot to the kitchen.

He liked things clean.

Precise.

So you followed the recipe exactly.

One egg, over medium. Two slices of toast, not buttered — drizzled with olive oil. Tomatoes pan-seared in the same pan until blistered. A single slice of bacon. Never two. He didn’t like “greedy portions.”

You ate standing at the counter.

Half a piece of toast. No toppings. One tomato. Water, not juice. You didn’t need the same kind of food he did. You’d earned different things.

He made sure of that.

You had it all plated by the time you heard him rise.

The door creaked open behind you. His footsteps slow. Heavy.

You turned, plate already in hand.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

He blinked.

Took in the food. The spotless counters. You — wearing what he liked, the little pale robe he’d picked out and told you not to cover up.

He sat down without a word.

You placed the plate in front of him. Napkin. Cutlery. Perfect.

You didn’t sit.

You stood by the side of the table, hands clasped in front of you, watching him take his first bite.

His brow lifted, just a little.

“You remember the oil.”

“I remember everything.”

A beat.

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip. He chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Then he looked up at you.

“You always this obedient when you’re sore?”

You nodded once, eyes low.

“I want to be good.”

A pause.

“You’re getting there,” he murmured.

And for the first time, he offered something: a piece of tomato, speared on the edge of his fork, held out like a prize.

You leaned in. Took it from his hand.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Smiled.

It started that evening.

You were folding laundry, his shirts crisp and lined up in perfect little rows on the bed, when he came up behind you — wrapped an arm around your waist and spoke against your ear.

“Y’know, pet,” he murmured, “You’ve been so good, I think it’s time we make it official.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

By morning, your days had rules.

Rituals.

A quiet set of commandments written in Johnny’s voice, carved into your brain like a holy text.

Wake before six. You wore only what he picked the night before — laid out at the foot of the bed like a uniform. Something sheer. Something short. Something soft.

Breakfast made and served by six-thirty. He’d eat first. You only ate what he allowed after he was done — his leftovers, sometimes. A single egg. A bite of bacon. Your hunger became a test.

Clean the flat, every corner. But not robotically — lovingly. He wanted to see effort. Pride. Gratitude.

Midday check-in. If he wasn't at the flat, he expected a photo. A voice message. Something that proved you were home, obedient, still his.

Workout by four. The routine he picked. Push-ups. Squats. You counted out loud, breathy and strained. If you missed a rep, he’d make you start again. Shirtless. On video.

Dinner by six-thirty. The same care, the same portions. If he liked it, you got a kiss. If not, the plate went in the bin and you didn’t eat.

Kneel by eight. Naked. Waiting for him in the living room like clockwork. Quiet. Ready.

Every minute accounted for.

Every moment designed to mold you tighter to his shape.

You didn’t fight it.

You thrived under it.

It felt safe.

Structure. Purpose. Proof.

By the end of the week, you weren’t checking the rules anymore — they lived in your spine.

You’d say, “Did I do good, Johnny?”

And he’d smile.

Run his thumb along your jaw.

“You’re gettin’ perfect, pet.”

And that meant everything.

You didn’t expect a reward.

You never asked for them.

You just… wanted him to be proud.

So when Johnny came home and saw the floor scrubbed spotless, the candles lit just the way he liked, and you—kneeling by the bed in the soft lace slip he’d mentioned was his favorite once in passing—he stopped in the doorway and stared.

Eyes heavy. Breathing slow.

“Christ, pet.”

You looked up at him. Glowing.

“I just… wanted to show you,” you whispered. “That I’m yours.”

His expression shifted. Not a smile. Something darker. Deeper.

“You’ve been more than mine.”

He stepped closer.

“You’ve been perfect.”

You felt your heart flutter. Hips rocking instinctively where you knelt. “I want to be.”

He pulled you to your feet—no resistance—and pressed you to the bed, soft and slow, like you were made of glass.

Not like punishment.

Not like the cruel claiming he gave you when you disobeyed.

This was different.

He kissed you.

Really kissed you.

And when he pulled back, he whispered, “Think you’ve earned something special tonight.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Special?”

He tugged his belt loose. Dropped it beside the mattress. Pulled his boxers down with his pants—bare. Hard.

“No rubber.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs twitched.

He smirked when he saw the way your pupils blew wide.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

He ran his hand over your lower belly. Pressed down, just a little.

“You’re ready to carry me, yeah?”

Your breath stuttered.

You weren’t sure if he meant emotionally. Physically.

But the thought made your spine melt.

You nodded.

“Please.”

His hand cupped your face.

“Good girl.”

He pushed inside slow—and raw.

No barrier.

No filter.

Just skin to skin.

And it was different.

Hotter. Deeper. More final.

You gasped, gripping at his shoulders, your body already trembling around him.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s me. Givin’ you everything.”

You whimpered.

“I trust you,” you said again, tears pricking your lashes.

And he smiled.

But it wasn’t soft.

It was triumphant.

“Then take it all,” he growled. “Take every fuckin’ drop. You're gonna look so pretty stuffed full of me.”

You didn’t say no.

You couldn’t.

You only wrapped your legs around him tighter.

Because if this was love—

You wanted to drown in it.

It started small.

You didn’t even realize it, at first.

Your usual breakfast—the half piece of toast, maybe an egg—made your stomach churn. The smell of bacon had you pressing a fist to your mouth and bolting to the sink.

Johnny caught you that morning, bent over, trembling.

He just rubbed your back, quiet. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t scold.

And for once—he let you eat more.

He didn’t say why.

Just served you bland rice and banana slices, set the plate on your lap, and said, “Eat up, pet. You need it.”

You blinked at him.

“You're… letting me?”

He knelt beside you, ran his hand over your belly like it was something his.

“Not letting you,” he murmured. “Telling you.”

The next few weeks passed in a haze of nausea, cravings, and fatigue.

Your thighs grew softer. Your face a little rounder.

You dropped the laundry once—dizzy—and he didn’t snap.

Didn’t punish you.

He just carried you to the bed, tucked you in, whispered, “That’s alright, bonnie. You’re doin’ so well.”

Then you missed your period.

Once.

Twice.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

Some part of you knew.

And you weren’t ready to know.

But he was.

Johnny came home with a bag from the pharmacy one evening, placed it on the bathroom counter like it was a gift.

“Go on,” he said, voice gentle, but not optional.

You stared at the box. Pregnant. Not pregnant.

Two lines.

One.

You touched the plastic with trembling fingers. “Johnny…”

“You’ve been feelin’ different, yeah?” he murmured, stepping behind you, his hand sliding over your stomach from behind. “Tired. Nauseous.”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck, slow and firm.

“S’not just you anymore, pet. You’re carryin’ me now.”

You let out a soft, broken sound.

“I—if I am, I—”

“You will be.” His voice went low. Serious. “Took you raw. Filled you up like you’re meant to be filled.”

You looked in the mirror.

His arms wrapped around your waist. His chin on your shoulder. His hands over your belly.

You didn’t see yourself anymore.

You just saw his.

[diz-eaze]

sorry if this is stupid, but what do you think would happen if reader pulled a hexenzirkel and became a deadbeat parent on Albedo and "their" kid?

referring to the parent trap post

anon i apologize if you haven't finished the 5.6 quest, but this will contain spoilers ! <3

; yandere, 5.6 spoilers.

before getting into the nitty gritty, with added context on how exactly synthetic humans are created, we know now that it isn't an easy feat. albedo was the only living synthetic human as his predecessors were discarded for being deemed a failure, and the official, second synthetic human created would be the now-turned-human durin.

it can't be said for certain if creating durin was also the same procedure that rhine did to create albedo. however, i do believe that since rhine is a much more skilled alchemist and has a penchant for creation prior to albedo (a la OG dragon durin), he was created in a different method. durin was turned into a synthetic human through various combinations - the remains of an immortal from mare jivari, the embryo that rhine herself uses for her creations, a soul contributed by simulanka durin, and the beating heart of the OG dragon durin. in order to gain access to these materials, meticulous planning needed to be done, and he had to pass through a trial conducted by the hexenzirkel witches... !

with all of that combined, in my head, human durin was in a way used as a prototype to ensure that his transmutation of life goes well with no complications happening along the way. so that his second attempt goes much smoother.

this line really stuck with me. there's two (2) living synthetic humans in the world now, and in my delusional mind, both albedo and human durin crave more synthetic human kin. this is where (y/n) and albedo's obsession with them is brought to the table <3 in albedo's second attempt, he goes through the painstaking process of gathering materials needed for the transmutation once again: the embryo by rhine, flesh from that immortal, and a strand of your hair. he's not quite at the level of his master yet, wherein he can grant life from thin air. instead, he needs a basis for your child's soul, which is a much-needed component for the creation. a sacrifice, if you will.

albedo doesn't kill if it's unwarranted; that's been established in the quest. he killed the primordial albedo because it acted against him first in an attempt to eliminate him. he's also morally gray, so when finding your synthetic child's soul vessel, he preys upon the vulnerable, orphans. those without a home. he promises a young child to grant them a home under one condition: that child will undergo a process of rebirth - they will don a new face, body, and name, but the soul will be the same. not that it matters, the child will forget their previous life once rebirthed in a much younger body, one of an infant.

he goes through so much, and puts in a lot of work (maybe even with the help of human durin at times) in the creation of your child. it's a labor of his love in itself. he's now created two successful synthetic humans, he's a great farmer. and he doubts he'll stop at just two.

this is family, too. him, you, durin, and the newest addition: a synthetic infant baby.

so when you up and go without a second thought, not even bothering to look back after he introduced you to your brand new, little family... attempting to abandon them, even... he's a bit peeved, he'll admit. perhaps he had been too lenient on you since you managed to have these lucrative ideas inside your head, so it's only right for him to correct it. he's not a violent person, far from it, in fact.

but conditioning does not happen when one only enforces positive behavior; a form of punishment is needed. and isolation sounds like an adequate one.

also alice's line about albedo being just like his mother,,,, oh. dilfbedo realness??? guys.

[imkumichan]

Listen.. Dark!Emperor Jing Yuan and hostage princess!Reader. He will treat you so good that you almost doesn't want to leave.

[themoderatespeaks]

"Israel's actions in Gaza are genocide and need to stop immediately."

"Hamas started this war. Return the damn hostages immediately."

....

Why is it so hard to say those two things at once?

[gaycragula]

Hello there

Please could i request a child male reader (around 9-12, maybe younger idk you can choose) x 141. Platonic obv. Reader is being held hostage for reasons and they have to go on a rescue mission. When reader is saved he’s scared of them all except ghost who he just clings onto LMAO

cheers mate 🙏

Lost and Found

Pairing: 141 x Child Male Reader (Platonic!!!!) Warning(s): Heavy implication of parent death, politician family, child reader, locked in a basement, he gets fed i promise, i have no idea how the military works, angst? Word Count: 2069 Masterlist

The walls were an ugly, cracks running along them, and you’re sure there was mold growing in one of the corners. The only light in the room was a small lightbulb in the center of the room that was rarely left on. The only door leading out of the room was locked from the outside. You’re not sure you exactly wanted to leave the room. Not with the heavy thumps of feet that stomped through the first floor of the home.

It was a nice summer day when it happened. You’d just finished a nice dinner with your parents when the sirens began to blare. The sound cut your ears and you covered your ears, trying to block out the noise. You were whisked out of your chair by your dad before  you could get up yourself.

Hushed words were shared between your parents as they rushed through the home to the basement. Your father’s grip was tight on you as he toted you down the stairs, your mother right on his heels. 

Dad set you down in a corner, trying to keep you out of direct sight of the stairs. He pressed a loving kiss to your forehead, your mother doing the same. 

“Be good and stay here,” your mom whispers, giving you a pained smile. Her lip quivered as she pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Mom and Dad love you. We always will.”

. Then, they left you, footsteps receding back up the stairs into the home. You heard the door shut and a silent darkness covered you. The silence only lasted for a moment. 

Something crashed upstairs and loud bangs made you cover your ears again. You curled further into the corner, trying to make yourself as small as possible. More crashing and something heavy hitting the ground sounded before it fell silent again. It was over… right?

The basement door slammed open and you gave a full body flinch. A flurry of steps rocketed down the stairs. Way too many to be just your parents. 

Five or six men came into your sightline. Each of them looked like they were armed to the teeth and it sent a jolt of fear through you. These men just ran through your house. Where your parents were. Where were your parents? 

They scoured the basement, flashlights leading their guns as they searched. For what? You weren’t quite sure but you hoped they would just look over you. The fear surging through your body was almost unbearable. It was hard to breathe, each breath fighting to force its way out silently. You tried to stay hidden for as long as possible but their flashlights soon exposed you.

They said something you couldn’t understand before moving on and returning upstairs when they finished. You heard the faint click of the lock to the basement and you were left in the basement by yourself again. You tried to fight the tears that began falling down your cheeks as you curled in on yourself. It wasn’t a very long fight and your face soon became wet with your tears. It hit you then that you’d probably never see your parents again.

It had been a week since it had happened. The men would leave food for you at the top of the stairs. You spent the majority of your days sitting under the light in the room, playing whatever you could find. Trying to distract your mind. You were suddenly happy your parents kept a chunk of toys down in the basement for storage.

Totes of toy cars that you pretended to race with, some toy dinosaurs you’d gotten years ago, left forgotten in the basement until now. There were planks of wood you’d dragged over that you drew on with some chalk your parents kept down there. The chalk worked well on the walls as well.

Drawings littered the small walls of the basement. Cars and dinosaurs littered the floor. Your house.. Your home, your family. Where did it all go?

You’ve tried to talk to the men on multiple occasions but they only either looked at you with disdain or spoke in a language you couldn’t understand. 

On the eighth day of the occupation, you heard those loud bangs and the shouts of men again. You started crying again, you didn’t even have a chance to try to stop it as you scrambled  back into a corner in the room again, hopefully out of sight. Out of mind.

It felt like ages before the house fell silent again. You heard the doorknob wiggle, muffled voices coming from the otherside. Light filtered into the basement as the door creaked open. “After you, Sergeant,” a gruff voice huffs, a hint of teasing to the tone.

A short laugh followed the words before steps were coming down the stairs again, flashlights dancing over the walls as they descended. “Ohhhh hell, look at this, LT,” a second voice whispers, a light lingering on the drawings on the wall. Silence fell again as the sound of more boots started down the stairs, flashlights whipping around the room before one fell on your form. 

—-----------------------

Clearing the home was easy. The bastards inside weren’t expecting an attack for a while. A home far outside any city line would surely work as a temporary base, right?

They thought so at least. So when the Scotsman barged through the door followed by six others, the occupants weren’t prepared. The firefight was short. The men inside scrambling to get to their weapons as fast as possible. 

It was Roach who’d noticed the door to the basement, calling over the rest of the team. “What d’ya thinks down there?” Soap chuckles as Ghost takes a hand at picking the lock. “More guys? Prisoners they been keepin’?”

“If I had to take a guess, probably prisoners. Family who lived here was big in the political field here. Probably kept them as hostages for ransom,” Price says, gesturing for two of the guys to stand guard at the front and back doors. 

The door clicked open and slowly swung open with a nasty creak. “After you, Sergeant,” Ghost huffs, nudging the Scotsman forward. Soap let out a short laugh before starting into the dimly lit basement. Ghost close behind him. Soap’s flashlight scanned the floors and walls. He noticed dinosaurs and cars littering the floor around the bottom of the stairs. He initially thought nothing of it. They knew a young kid lived here. 

He was almost to the bottom as his light scanned over a big drawing of a home and a family of three drawn in chalk. 

He felt his heart drop at the image. Soap was no master in chalk or anything, but the drawing looked pretty new. “Ohhh hell, look at this LT,” he says, nudging the other. Ghost went rigid for a second before gesturing back up the stairs for the other three to come down quickly. 

Flashlights scoured the basement, Soap wandering towards the darkest part of the basement. His light danced over the stone floor before the body of a little boy was illuminated.

“Over here,” Soap calls out, almost missing the way the kid jerked in response to his words. Soap handed Price his gun before crouching down next to the boy. Your eyes were locked onto him, tear stains evident on your cheeks and fear clouding your eyes. “We’re here to help ya,” Soap says, trying to offer his hand to you.

“Back off the kid, Soap,” Ghost mutters. “He’s scared shitless.”

Soap let out a quiet, barely audible sigh as he stood back up and stepped back to join the rest of his team. 

Your eyes shot from man to man. Your breath was heavy in your chest and you could hear yourself wheezing because of it. “Where are my parents?” You almost sobbed. Your voice was hoarse, throat tight as you waited for an answer.

The men felt their hearts drop at the pure pain in your voice. This kid, no older than 11 or 12 had his life turned upside down in a matter of fifteen minutes just a week ago. 

It was Ghost who made the first, well technically second, advance towards you, much to the surprise of the rest of the team. Just as surprising was the way you sat up to be face to face with him as he crouched down. 

He pulled a small picture out of pocket and handed it to you. It was a picture of your parents and yourself that you’d never seen before. “I don’t know where your parents are, but I do know that if you remain here, you’ll never find them,” Ghost spoke lowly. Just loud enough for you to hear. 

You nodded in understanding, shoving the picture in your pocket as Ghost stood up. He went to turn back to the team but paused when your hand grabbed his. You avoided his gaze when he looked back at you but didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he picked you up and maneuvered you onto his back. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, laying your head down on his back.

Ghost turned towards his team who were all gawking at the scene before them. “Get goin’ and quit starin’ at me like that,” he huffs, nodding towards the stairs before turning to speak to Roach, Gaz, and Soap. “Get the kid some clothes and we’re gettin’ out of here.”

“Aye, L.T,” Soap almost stutters, pushing Roach and Gaz towards the stairs. Price chuckled to himself before heading up the stairs after the three, rounding up the other two that he’d stationed up there. 

“What’s your name?” Ghost hears you ask quietly.

“They call me Ghost,” the man answers as he heads up the stairs. He felt you nod against his back and you fell silent for a moment. “What’s your name?”

You tell him your name, which he already knew but he wasn’t going to tell you that. That started a short and quiet conversation between the two of you. You asked how long he’d been in the military, where he was from, what his family was like and Ghost answered you and asked you the same questions in return. 

It was a stark contrast to what the 141 was used to. Ghost was generally quiet on these kinds of missions. “It’s gotta be the kid,” Gaz whispers to Soap who nods in agreement. 

“Yeah but what about this kid is different from others we’ve found?” Soap whispers back, rubbing his jaw as he watched you and Ghost interact. Gaz shrugged in response before Roach chimed in.

“Maybe he reminds him of a family member? Younger brother or nephew?” Roach suggests and it was like a lightbulb went off in the other two’s heads.

“That’s gotta be it,” Soap nods. “Does anyone know anythin’ ‘bout his family?” 

Gaz and Roach shake their heads and Soap sighs. He opened his mouth to say something else, stopping when he saw Ghost shoot a look over his shoulder at him.

“Quit chattin’. Be on guard. We’re still in hostile territory,” Price mutters, ignoring the noise of complaint the three made before begrudgingly doing what they were told.

It was your first time on an aircraft. You were glued to Ghost’s side, eyes locked on the floor in front of you. Soap had tried to get your attention a couple times to no avail. If you did make eye contact with him, you were quick to look away as quick as possible. 

The others didn’t have much luck either. Roach had tried to speak to you while Ghost was carrying you and all you’d done was bury your face into the fabric of Ghost’s shirt. 

Price had been the most outward about it, asking to actually carry you so give Ghost a break. That was the only time you’d spoken to anyone besides Ghost. “No,” was all that came from your mouth as you shook your head. Ghost had chuckled and told Price he was good to carry you the whole way.

Ghost had given you his hand to basically ‘play’ with. You braided his fingers, bending them and whatever else you could do to keep your mind calm. The rest of the team couldn’t keep the smiles off their faces at the sight.

Who would’ve guessed. The big bad Ghost had actually a big softie.