#captive reader

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 2

Pairing : Winter Soldier BuckyxReader (Post Apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : R18, eventual smut, dark themes, panic attack

Word count : 1224

Bucky’s masterlist

He leaned on the frame of the doorway as he watched as your little body squirmed under his heavy gaze.

You searched his larger frame, every inch of which was dark and rigid. Your eyes lingered on the bottle, still held tightly between his fingers, the water inside moving only slightly back and forth against the glass.

You shook your head, trying to steer your vision back toward the imposing figure still standing ahead of you. Instead, it made a familiar feeling of pain bloom along the back of your skull. You winced, looking back at the bottle as you felt your drying tongue stick between your cracked lips. It was only a matter of whether the pain would outweigh your intense thirst. Clean water was more than a dream to you, and you put that dull ache at the back of your mind as you tried to form the words to beg for another drink.

The words cracked apart in the back of your throat, scraping past your lips inaudibly.

He must have known what you were alluding to, as he pushed off from the door and held the bottle out for you to take it from him.

“Have the rest.” His voice was just as jarring to hear as the very sight of him.

You didn’t hesitate to reach back out for the bottle, but as you struggled to sit up, your fingers were shaking as you took hold of it.

You broke your eyes from him to take another grateful swig, sucking in a few bubbles of air. You pulled the spout away to sputter for a breath, trying to force the gasping away so as to take another drink.

You cursed the few drops that dripped from your lips and hit the dusty blankets.

The cool feeling it left on your skin was numbing, and you hugged the bottle to your chest as you shuddered.

Breathing shallowly, you turned back to the man still watching you. His eyes never shifted from your pathetic form, and neither did his stance as he stood firm by the only door to this little room.

You swallowed back thickly before trying to speak again, this time with more success.

“Can I ask any questions?”

God only knows who this man is and why he was apparently keeping guard over something as small and insignificant as you. He hasn't shown himself to be trustworthy, but to share such a rare and expensive commodity with a stranger meant he had some level of kindness to give you.

He gave you as little as a nod of his head to answer your inquiry.

“How did I get here?” You spoke carefully, trying to still the tremor in your voice.

He was quiet as he slowly shifted in his heavy boots, his brow raising slightly as he seemed to think.

You persisted with a weak “P-please?”

He gave you a slow nod before answering.

“I found you. And then I carried you.” It was far too cut and dry for your liking.

He was the next to break the silence.

“How are you feeling?”

It wasn’t something you expected him to ask, and it took you a second to register that he’d said it in the first place.

You rubbed at the sore spot at the back of your head as he waited for your answer.

“I’m fine. Thank you for the water.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, as you certainly weren’t dead, and you made sure to be quick to thank him for the good deeds he’s done for you so far.

You tried to stand so as to hand him back the empty bottle. You swung your legs over the bed only to be stopped by something weighing unnervingly heavy on your weak ankle. He didn’t even flinch as you tried to plant your feet to the ground, only to hear the deafening clunk of a thick metal chain hitting the floor alongside your toes.

He nodded to your previous display of gratitude before giving you a barely audible “you're welcome” and taking the bottle back.

For the first time in your life, you felt cold. It was like your blood had frozen in your very veins as your eyes shot back to the still-steely face. As a few fresh tears welled up and threatened to spill, you looked down at the metal cuff that sat tightly locked around your ankle.

You struggled to breathe, cupping your hand over your mouth as a silent sob wracked through your chest.

His charity, more obvious now than ever, was in fact a farce. It's another question entirely as to how you even missed something so major in the first place.

You continued to gasp and sputter over the sight of a shackled leg. Your shoes and socks had been missing, leaving you to stare at your dirty toes.

His expression never changed as he watched the gears in your desperate little brain spin. You grabbed the chair, following the length with your fingers until it was pulled tawt to where it was hooked to one of the metal rungs at the bottom of the bed.

Your head was pounding harder and harder as your vision flooded over again. It blurred his image as he approached you, and you didn’t realize you’d started screaming until he finally rang over the pulsing in your eardrums.

When his hands met your shoulders, you threw yourself off the bed. You kicked at the sheets, falling backwards towards the floor until the wood met your shoulder.

You were a whirlwind of emotion, and he was a silent tiger standing at the edge of the monsoon.

You crawled, clawing at the floor, your limbs moving of their own accord from the waves. I’d panic. You weren’t making it far, struggling like a dying fish in the sand but never reaching the water.

He planned to keep you, of course. Why would there have been any other assumption?

You were a captive, whether that meant for his company, labor, or food.

He remained unbothered by your turmoil, stepping past the wriggling chain and planting each booted foot on either side of your body. Still, in vain, you tried to crawl away. Even as he reached down and locked his hands around your shoulders, you scratched at the floor until he pulled you off of it.

You first saw the flint of dim light bouncing off that metal bicep as he raised you towards his own chest. It was like you weighed nothing more than a small parcel as he pulled you back towards the bed, your feet not even touching the floor anymore.

Your joints felt rigid and your limbs heavy as he hooked his hand under your knee before depositing you back into the bed.

You felt the world spinning as it became blurrier. The air around your head grew thinner and thinner as you fought for each breath.

His thumb was cold against your skin as he pressed it against your check. His fingers cradled the side of your face. You stayed conscious; even as your vision dimmed, you still clawed at the bedding below you.

What came next left you shaken. His voice was actually booming around the little room as he spoke in a commanding tone.

"You need to calm down."

TagList : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn

#fanfiction #fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #bucky x you #the winter soldier #winter soldier #winter solider x reader #winter solider fanfiction #winter solider x y/n #dark bucky #dark bucky x you #dark bucky x reader #dark bucky barnes #post apocalyptic au #post apocalyptic #post apocalypse #inspired by fallout NewVegas #panic attack #captive reader #winter soldier x reader #dark themes

[slashersgirlypop]

Grilled Cheese Chapter 13.

TW: NON-CON KISSING

(September 3rd, 1978)

            I groaned, rolling onto my side, away from the blinding ray of sunlight that shone on my eyes. My back ached from whatever the hell Michael laid me on. I knew we were no longer driving, but I didn’t know where we were.

I opened my eyes, sitting up and rubbing my neck. I was in a dirty, bare-walled room with stains on the carpet. There was a small, smashed window, the glass scattered on the ground beneath it. On the ground next to me was a shattered mirror, with bits of my reflection along the floor, a constellation of me. What was the white thing on my forehead?

I reached up and touching the side of my head where it was aching. My fingers brushed along gauze. Taking one of the pieces of glass, I investigated my reflection. There was gauze wrapped around my head clumsily, but with intent. There was a small dark stain on the side of my head, probably from where Michael smashed my head against my headboard. I gently lifted the gauze, grimacing at the wound. It didn’t look too deep, but it was a head wound so it seemed worse than it probably was.

Getting up, slightly wobbly, I made my way to the door on the other side of the room. I glanced back at the makeshift bed I was on. It seemed like a sleeping bag, well, my sleeping bag. Michael must have packed it. I noticed another sleeping bag, maybe a few feet away from mine. Maybe someone left it?

I slowly opened the door, stepping out into the next room. I think I was in some abandoned mobile home. It looked like someone was in a rush to leave, and whoever used to live here had problems. By that, I mean the various amounts of cheap beer bottles scattered along the hallway.

Stepping into the front room, I saw Michael. He was sitting on a broken sofa that was tilted on its side. 

“Hi,” I croaked out, my throat dry from lack of water.

“What time is it, Mikey?” He pointed to a clock leaning against the wall. 2:45.

“How long are we going to stay here, uh, wherever here is?” He didn’t respond, only returning his attention back to the sketch book he had in his lap.

“Okay…Do you still have whatever you wrapped my head in so I can maybe clean the wound?” I asked. He pointed to the bag on the floor.

Retrieving the first aid kit, I went to the bathroom and tried to find a reasonably clean spot on the messy and stained counter.

I hissed as I felt the alcohol sting my skin, gently cleaning the wound. I was surprised Michael had bandaged my head, although it was a sloppy job. It’s the thought that counts I suppose, though.

I gently applied fresh gauze, content with the job I did. I mean, it wasn’t nurse-level good, but when you are virtually alone most of your life, you learn how to treat a wound decently.

As I cleaned my wound on my head, I thought back on the strange and crazy turn of events that led to this moment. It’s been, what, four days since Michael has entered my life? He entered my home one night, demanded I prepare him food, choked me, spanked me, killed my assistant manager in my own fucking home, and then knocked me out and took me God knows where. To top it all off, despite my dizzy head, probably from the wound he gave me, I am relatively calm about the whole situation.

Shouldn’t I be screaming? Begging, pleading for my release? Saying I won’t tell a soul if he lets me go?

Why am I taking this whole situation so well?

“Mra?” I softly smiled as I finished the knot on the freshly applied gauze wrapped around my head, feeling Mrs. Petunia brush softly against my leg.

I guess having something that provides some sort of comfort does keep me more grounded and less likely to act irrationally. Okay, aside from my escape attempts which have ended with me being choked or spanked cruelly.

Exiting the bathroom, I walked back into the living room. Michael was in his same position, only moving to draw more to…whatever was on his sketchbook. Jesus, was that a picture of him stabbing some poor blonde girl?

“Um, so, what now?” He paused his drawing, slowly looking up at me.

“I mean, I’m surprised I’m taking this whole situation well right now, but what will happen from this point on? Stay here forever? Because if it is, I need some cleaning supplies because this looks like some, uh, drug…place,” I finished weakly, looking at the several grossly colored stains along the wall along with the cheap empty beer cans around the room. Why did it smell like…a skunky smell, I wanna say?

He said nothing, only nodded before drawing his attention back to his sketchbook. I sighed, crossing my arms. I jumped, feeling Mrs. Petunia begin to climb up my pant legs and then up my side, perching herself on my shoulders. She began to purr in my ear, content. I reached up and stroked her, my attention still on the silent masked killer who was using crayons to graphically depict the blood spilling out of whoever that poor lady was.

“Mikey, I’m going to be honest with you here. Why me? What’s so important about me that you couldn’t just, I don’t know, leave me at my house, at least tied up so I couldn’t escape to get help and you could get away?” He once again paused. He looked up at the wall, as if pondering his words, or something like that.

It’s really hard to tell what he’s thinking since he always has that damn rubber latex whatever on.

Finally, he flipped to a new page of his sketchbook and his hand flew across the page, writing something.

He got up once he was finished and made his way over to me. As he got closer, Mrs. Petunia grunted and hopped off my shoulder. Soon, he stood right in front of me, making me feeling immensely small and weak compared to his towering and built figure.

He handed me the paper, and I took it.

“Becuse you are m ine,” Is what was messily written on the paper.

“‘You are mine?’ Mikey, what does that even m-“ He grabbed the back of my throat and pulled me close, crouching slightly to my level. The nose of the mask briefly rubbed against mine before he pressed the fake lips against mine. Shock ran through my veins along with fear. It was over as soon as it started, and he walked back to his seat, plopping down on the sofa. It creaked under his form as I stood there frozen.

Well, this just got more complicated than I thought. Fuck.

~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~

WHAT IS UP MY BITCHES????? Yeah, things are now gonna move more into the Michael being his more bad side!!! I'm sorry it took so fuckin long to update. I've had a mental breakdown, got a new job being a waitress, been sick, and am slowly losing some of my best friends. Oh yeah, and I've officially entered the stage of having alllllll level 3000 courses at uni. so yeah. next chapter might be out next weekend. Fairwell, my fellow slasher sluts ;-3

#halloween 1978 #michael myers #slasher #yandere michael myers #yandere michael myers x reader #hostage reader #tw: noncon #captive reader

[joelsgreys]

captive

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: You find yourself missing your captor while he’s out on an early morning hunt with the rest of the group.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. IMPLIED PREVIOUS NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION. mentions of Joel’s group murdering reader’s group, it’s implied her family members were also killed, Joel pretty much kidnaps reader and keeps her as his own, stockholm syndrome, reader deals with a lot of very distressing and conflicting feelings, Joel isn’t too creepy or extremely dark, but he is still not a good person, mentions of Tommy. VERY BRIEF SMUT in the form of cockwarming, daddy kink but i didn’t go overboard this time, pet names (honey, baby, babygirl, sweetheart) if i missed anything, you can POLITELY let me know because if i missed anything, it was purely accidental. minimal editing.

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

if this isn’t your thing, that’s fine, just scroll on by.

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i might actually throw up idk. i’ve had this itch to try dark joel and seeing as i have major writer’s block with all my other wips i decided to just scratch the itch. this is a little out of my comfort zone but i actually ended up feeling pleased with what i wrote. this is my personal take on dark/raider joel, i’m sure it is very out of character but it’s fanfiction so…yeah. here it is.

It’s the rain that rouses you from your sleep.

It beats down heavily on the remote cabin’s tin roof.

Loud. Much too loud.

You roll over, settling yourself on your side.

The mattress is old, worn, rotting beneath the sheets.

You can’t complain, though. At least you have a bed.

Everybody else is forced to sleep on the hard floor.

He always gets the room with the bed.

As his special girl, that means you always get the room with the bed too.

It’s not quite as flattering as one would believe.

He only ever wants the bedroom for one reason—to keep you behind a locked door so you can’t run.

You sigh softly and stare out the window. He’d secured that too, made certain that it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

Closing your eyes, you try and go back to sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come.

His absence is starting to bother you.

You’ve been with him for an entire season now.

You’re getting used to him.

The sound of his voice. 

The warmth of his body.

The taste of his lips.

You can’t even sleep without him next to you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, clutching the stale sheets, balling them in your fists out of frustration.

How was it possible? How could you be missing him?

He had taken everything from you.

Your family.

Your home. 

Your innocence.

He was holding you captive. He was a monster.

But a monster doesn’t keep you safe.

Doesn’t clothe you.

Doesn’t feed you.

Doesn’t protect you.

He did all of those things and more. 

Is that why you feel so empty without him beside you?

Is that why you’re no longer so certain you would run if you were given the chance to escape him?

You fucking hated him for what he’d done.

Yet here you are, aching for him to come back to you.

It’s another hour before you hear the lock clicking. 

Joel pushes through the door, quietly closing it behind him.

“Y’awake?” he asks, slipping his pack off his shoulders.

“Mhm,” you answer with your back to him. “I am.”

You hear the sound of his pack hitting the floor.

His worn leather boots being kicked off. 

His rifle being set down, propped against the wall.

“How was the hunt?”

You can feel him freeze as he’s taking off his jacket.

Getting you to willingly speak to him had always been a lot like pulling teeth. Difficult, almost impossible.

When he doesn’t respond, you roll over to face him.

There’s a swoop in your tummy.

Joel is drenched from head to toe. His blue denim shirt clings to his broad frame and his dark, graying curls are slicked back away from his face.

He’s got such a handsome face.

Monsters aren’t supposed to have handsome faces.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re really askin’ me how the hunt went?” Suspicion laces his tone. “Why? Y’worried you won’t eat tonight?”

Of course you weren’t.

Joel Miller doesn’t let you go hungry.

When food is scarce, he makes sure you eat first. If he notices you rubbing your tummy because your portion wasn’t enough, he’ll give you his own portion.

He takes care of you.

“No.” You pause and sit up. The sheets you two share fall away from your body, leaving your soft, supple breasts on full display for him. “Just wanted to know how your morning went. That’s all.”

It’s not your tits that make his cock twitch against the zipper of his jeans—it’s the sincerity that flashes across your features, the sound of it in the tone of your voice.

You’re being sweet to him.

He clears his throat lightly.

“Went real good. Brought down a deer. Female, ‘bout a hundred pounds or so. Enough to keep all of us well fed for the next couple of weeks,” he says with a nod. “Was pissin’ rain the entire time but it was worth it. Tommy’s in the shed out back right now dressin’ it so we can get a stew started.” He pauses. “You’re gonna get a proper meal tonight, babygirl. Belly’s gonna be nice and full.”

He’s not just talking about food and you know it.

You make an effort to meet his gaze, but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to do it, not when you remembered how he’d taken you away from your family—how he had carried you over his shoulder, kicking and screaming as his people raided your camp and slaughtered every last member of your group because that’s what Joel Miller had ordered them to do.

Looking him in the eye might be the one thing you will never, ever be able to do.

“It’s cold,” you murmur after a minute. “You should get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”

With a subtle nod, Joel turns around and starts peeling off his clothes until he’s completely naked. He uses an old rag to dry himself off as best as he can, although it doesn’t do much for him.

You can’t help yourself and stare—your gaze drags over the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, how they flex and ripple beneath his skin with every single one of his movements. Arousal pools between your thighs and all you can do is fucking hate yourself for wanting it, for wanting him.

“S’pretty early still,” he states, his back still to you as he runs the rag through his hair. “Y’should try to get some more sleep.”

The confession tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think about stopping it.

“I couldn’t sleep while you were gone.”

Surprised, he turns around.

Almost immediately, your eyes fall to his cock.

Even when he isn’t fully hard, he’s still so fucking big.

“Is that so?” Joel asks, sounding rather pleased. 

“Yes,” you say, softly. “I—I missed you.”

His lips turn upwards into a subtle, faint grin.

“Yeah?” he coos. “My sweet little girl missed me while I was gone? Hm?” Slowly, he approaches the bed. It dips slightly and the frame creaks as he plants a knee on the mattress and leans over towards you. Gently, Joel takes your chin between his index finger and thumb. “Y’need Daddy by your side so you can sleep, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whisper, warm tears glazing over your eyes.

It’s bad enough your body welcomed him so easily.

Now your heart was starting to do the same.

And then there was your mind.

What if that stopped fighting him too?

Part of you is afraid it already has.

Joel climbs into bed, joining you under the sheets.

“M’here, my pretty girl. C’mere, honey.” He coaxes you to lay on your side and pulls you back against his chest. His skin is still damp, frigid from having been out in the elements, but somehow he’s still warm. “That better?”

“Need you closer,” you mumble, wiggling against him.

Joel groans, his thick cock hard and throbbing against the small of your back. He nips at your bare shoulder as his hand drags down the length of your body and slips between your thighs. “Christ, babygirl. Pussy’s soakin’ wet for me. Looks like she missed me while I was gone too, didn’t she, sweetheart?”

He runs his finger along your slick, silky folds.

“Daddy,” you whimper, bucking into his hand.

“Don’t worry, honey. Daddy knows what you need.”

Joel pulls his hand from between your legs.

You almost cry—you’re so fucking desperate for him. 

And you shouldn’t be. 

He reaches in between your bodies, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Without warning, he slips it into your tight, aching cunt, sheathing himself in your warm, wet heat in one smooth stroke.

You choke out a sob.

It’s always overwhelming, that initial stretch.

That fullness, the feeling of him being in your belly.

“S’alright, sweetheart. S’alright. I know you can take it,” he soothes you. “You’re such a good girl for me. Always take my cock so fuckin’ well. So good for me, baby. You feel better now that Daddy’s cock is buried inside your pretty little pussy?”

He drapes an arm around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“Yes,” you breathe, placing your hand on top of his.

Joel feathers a kiss onto your neck.

“Go to sleep, babygirl. M’here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he promises you.

That shouldn’t be a comfort to you. But it is.

You close your eyes, your fingers subconsciously lacing together with his as you start to drift.

Cunt full of his cock, you fall asleep in your captor’s arms.

divider credit to @saradika🤍

#tw dubcon #tw dubious consent #tw noncon #raider joel #raider! joel #dark!fic #dark! joel miller #dark joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller drabble #joel miller fanfiction #tw daddy kink #dark!joel x reader #fic: captive

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Pairing: Yandere!Alastor x Reader

SFW

Word Count: 2'627

Warnings: Yandere behaviour, Implied forced relationship, Implied captivity, Toxic relationship, Possessiveness, Invasion of personal space, Non-consensual touching.

Additional Notes: Do be kind, I have not written for this man before and find him exceedingly difficult.

Every week at the Hotel, there was something new Charlie had planned.

Trust exercises. Ice breakers. Activities meant to bring everybody closer together as a group. To try and get people to open up and show a side of vulnerability that - she believed - would help sinners take one step closer to salvation.

Most of them were awkward, and a lot of them never went as planned. A fact she realized and, after a near mental breakdown, had her promptly take advice from Vaggie and agree to try something different.

The task was very simple compared to the previous activities. She requested everybody to think about redemption and what it meant to them.

Thinking about the definition itself took little to no effort.

Redemption (noun): The action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

But it was clear that Charlie wanted more than just a quote from the dictionary. She wanted residents of the Hotel to mull over it while looking deep down into themselves so they could share their stance on the matter later on.

That was the tricky part.

From how you saw it, “saving yourself” from sin was easy enough to accomplish. ‘Just don’t be a dick and avoid the bad shit.’ was the first thought that came to mind, but where you hit a snag was based on what Charlie had shared about Heaven. According to her, even so much as breathing in Hell was enough to solidify your place in the inferno, yet she made it clear that actively resisting sin wasn’t something to go unrecognized.

It took a lot of effort, energy, and courage to do so, and it was hard to disagree even if Heaven didn’t see it that way.

Error was a bit harder. In your opinion, nobody could be saved from that, at least not entirely. Eventually, inevitably, you or someone else would do something wrong, it was just a matter of degree. It could be something as minor as bumping into somebody by accident or as major as Angel relapsing for what felt like the hundredth time, but it would happen and it was only a matter of time.

Charlie did bring up a rather good point, though. Apologizing when you realized you had done something wrong was the best thing someone could do, and it was the first step in the right direction.

You had to give her credit where it was due for that.

But evil was a different matter entirely.

Evil lurked everywhere in Hell. Across every street, around every corner, evil was out in the open for everyone to bear witness and see. None of it was hidden. None of it was meant to be hidden.

What would be the point? You and every other sinner were already in Hell - and many would argue that hiding it would be counterintuitive to being there in the first place.

Charlie tried to plead the case that everyone had good in them. A good that could be tweezed out if given the right chance, and the right environment, which the Hotel was perfect for.

You wish you could agree.

Evil was in the hotel itself, not that Charlie was fully willing to see it.

You believed she was careless there. Little Miss Bleeding Heart wanted to see the best in people, and by god did you ever want to know what it was like to see through such rose-tinted glasses, but you knew you never could. Not in this place.

Stepping a foot into the building was the worst thing you’d ever done because it showed you just how wrong you were about evil being so out in the open. It still had the ability to lurk, something you learned the moment you shook hands with Alastor.

You could see it on his face upon meeting him for the first time - the way Alastor’s perpetual grin widened upon seeing the goosebumps that lined your arms when he clasped your hand in his. No comment was ever made on the matter, but the way his lips peeled back to reveal the black of his gums before he pressed a brief kiss to your knuckles said enough.

Something utterly sinister reeked from him in a manner you couldn’t describe, so you took your own advice and applied the same thing you did when it came to sin.

Avoidance. As much as you could, at least.

Some moments were easier than others. The distinct metallic clack of Alastor’s microphone against the floor combined with a surge of radio static usually bought enough time for you to make whatever excuse you needed in order to leave before he arrived.

Other times you weren’t so lucky, and Charlie’s group meetings were usually to blame in that regard.

At first, you made a great deal of effort to put as much distance between yourself and the Radio Demon as you could, which worked for a time. Unfortunately, Alastor caught onto what you were doing much faster than you would’ve liked.

He reveled in it. You knew he did. After a while you had the gnawing suspicion he was purposefully going out of his way to make you as uncomfortable as possible for his own entertainment. You saw no other reason as to why he’d consistently move so close to you that you could literally feel him breathing down your neck.

Lately, he had adopted the skin-crawling habit of locking eyes with you the moment you stepped foot in the room and patting the seat beside him - reserved specifically for you. Accepting the gesture felt like swallowing nails, but being openly rude to Alastor was something that you knew better than to do.

Instead, you began to find excuses for skipping the meetings entirely and have Angel or Husker fill you in later, which was exactly what you were doing now.

“To be honest I wasn’t payin’ much attention,” Angel said while he scrolled through his phone, resting his chin in his upper left hand while his lower right swirled alcohol around in a glass. “Was the kind of thing that could’ve been sent in an email.”

You traced your finger around the rim of your own glass, its contents untouched. “Still, I want to know what I missed.”

“He’s right, it wasn’t anything special,” Husker replied, slinging a cloth over his shoulder from behind the bar. “Same old bullshit about salvation with a new coat of paint on top.”

A pang went through your chest, but you pushed it down. “So nothing new?”

Angel scoffed and looked up from his phone. “Trust me, dollface, you did yourself a favor.” He downed the rest of his drink in one go. “What were you doing anyways?”

“You know…” You replied with a shrug, glancing down. “I went out.”

Angel smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Out?”

“Yeah.” You tapped your nails against the edge of the glass. “Things were feeling a little claustrophobic, so I went out for some air.”

Husker made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. This place is a mess.”

Angel tilted his head, placing his phone down on the bar and leaning forward a bit. “So where’d you go? Anywhere fun?”

“Where indeed~.”

All your movements went rigid. After a few seconds, you slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder to see Alastor standing barely a foot away from you, staring down at you with a tight, closed-lipped smile. You hadn’t heard him coming in the slightest, which you immediately could tell was intentional.

Whether he’d used his shadow or had actually stalked up behind you wasn’t something you wanted to think about, and if Angel or Husker picked up on the immediate tension, neither of them said anything about it.

“Hey, Smiles.” Angel greeted with his usual flirtation, placing the elbows of his upper arms on the bartop as he turned to face Alastor. “Fancy a drink? You look a little stiff” He gave Alastor a very long once over, “and I’ll have you know I know a few ways I can help relieve some… tension.” 

Alastor’s lips curled back to reveal his teeth, the muscle in his cheek spasming for a moment.

Mentally you were kissing Angel on the cheek for the save as you slowly picked your coat up off the bar and slipped it on, concealing the goosebumps already present on your skin. Husker gave you a glance from the side and gave a very slight shake of his head, silently advising you against your unspoken desire to leave.

“I assure you, such a thing is never going to happen.~”

“You sure?” Angel rested his lower right arm on his hip. “I have a few tricks that can loosen you up.”

The leather in Alastor’s gloves audibly squeaked as his grip tightened around the staff of his microphone and his attention immediately shifted back to you, ignoring Angel entirely.

“My dear,” His voice dripped with such a saccharine sweetness it made you feel sick, “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Fewer combinations of words could instill such a unique feeling of encroaching dread all at once, but you refused to let it show as you nodded and turned your body on the bar stool to face him fully; waiting for him to say the first word.

His eye twitched ever so slightly.

“Privately.”

That made you swallow.

“Sure.” You slid off the bar stool, doing your best not to appear as reluctant as you felt.

“Lovely.~” He said, promptly turning on his heel and walking towards the staircase - expecting you to follow.

You glanced back towards Husker and Angel, each giving you looks of grim sympathy and confusion respectively before you took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, following Alastor up the steps.

You thought he would talk along the way. Engage in some form of idle chit-chat where he’d be pulling the strings, or even hum along to the countless jazz tunes that he played in the halls over the Hotel’s sound system.

But no such music played and he remained silent. A few minutes into the walk you gathered enough courage to glance up at him and found his eyes locked straight forward, not even sparing you so much as a glance.

You averted your gaze, the hem of your sleeves suddenly the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

Eventually, he came to a stop, and he held out the end of his microphone to prevent you from going any further down the hallway.

“Here we are!” Rather than producing a key from his coat, a green flash emanated from the lock when he placed his hand on the handle and opened the door.

He all but leered at you as he gave a small bow that didn’t feel genuine in the slightest.

“After you.~”

Like the alleged gentleman he was, Alastor held the door open for you, eyes never leaving your form as you walked inside his suite.

The smell of dampness and soil hit you immediately.

Alastor’s suite wasn’t the worst thing you’d seen in Hell by a mile, however, it was still eerie beyond words. The skeletons that hung along the walls and mantlepiece of his fireplace became less complete and increasingly disorganized as they led further into the room - which itself gave way to a swamp-like environment halfway through. Undoubtedly a result of whatever hoodoo, voodoo bullshit he was capable of, and while it still wasn’t the worst you’d seen, it served its purpose thoroughly.

It creeped the shit out of you.

“Now, then.” Alastor clicked the door shut, his body half-facing yours as his hand still lingered on the doorknob. “I'm sure you have a good explanation for what you’ve been doing.~”

The immediate dryness in your throat was hard to ignore. You knew what he was talking about, and you knew that he knew, but you still attempted to buy some time as you tried to figure out what to do.

You cleared your throat. “I was just catching up with Angel and Husk-”

He chuckled, the sound like that of a radio shifting stations. “Don’t be coy.” His head turned towards you with a sickening, ossified crackle that bent his neck in a manner that made your stomach lurch. “You’ve been avoiding me, and I’d like to know why.”

Fuck.

“I haven’t.” Lying to Alastor was a mistake, but you still decided to risk it since it wasn’t entirely false. “There’s just been a lot on my mind recently.”

“Hmm.” Interest and something much worse flickered behind his eyes as he faced you fully with another crack of his vertebrae. “Such as~?”

You shook your head, looking away from him. “That’s private.”

There was a quick flash of red, and the tip of his microphone turned your face back towards him - the cool metal of the edge digging into the skin of your cheek. You had to bite back a grimace.

“Not when it concerns me.” His tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the faux politeness he was putting on before. He kept the tip of his microphone where it was to prevent your eyes from looking anywhere but him. “And trust me darling, when it comes to you, everything concerns me.”

His words twisted in your gut. “...I’m not sure what you mean.”

Alastor tutted, his smile widening once more. “Don’t be stupid, darling, it’s unbecoming of you.” The way he said it was patronizing, like he was scolding a child. “You know precisely what I mean, so I’m going to ask again, as much as I hate repeating myself.~”

Cool metal was replaced with the warmth of his hand as he tilted your head up and brought his face frighteningly close to yours.

“Why are you keeping yourself from me?”

It was an odd sensation. Being backed into a corner, both metaphorically and physically. A frightening one that all but yanked on your instincts to do whatever it meant to get the fuck out of there, but you knew that was the worst thing you could do.

Alastor was a predator, a creature designed to prey on those he deemed weaker, and turning your back on a predator would almost certainly trigger a series of events that would not bode well for you.

So you did the next worst thing.

You told him the truth.

“Because I can see you.” The words felt wrong to say out loud. “I can see you for what you are, I can feel the absolute malevolence that radiates off you in waves, and it’s suffocating.”

Saying any more was a horrendous idea, but you couldn’t help but add one last thing.

“And if I want any chance at leaving this god-forsaken place, I can’t be around you.”

The silence that stretched on afterward was deafening.

Mentally, you were bracing yourself. Alastor had killed people for far less, and you expected nothing different for saying something so daring to his face.

You could see it too, the anger that simmered underneath his gaze. You expected the red of his sclera to flash black and his antlers to extend with his body in a grotesque display before you were ripped to pieces while he laughed.

What you didn’t expect was for his eyes to narrow into slits and his expression shift into one that was far more genuine than you wanted it to be, and it was then you knew that being saved from this kind of evil was never going to happen.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t need to worry about something silly like that.” Alastor all but cooed.

“After all, what makes you think I’d ever let you leave?~”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2024. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

#riri writes #Alastor #Alastor x Reader #Hazbin Hotel #Yandere x Reader #tw yandere #tw implied forced relationship #tw implied captivity #tw toxic relationship #tw possessiveness #tw invasion of personal space #tw noncon touching #I return to my lil nest now. adeu.

[konigsblog]

since i headcannon könig to have a couple bunnies here's what i'm thinking🐇

kidnapper-könig would let you cuddle the bunnies whenever you're feeling down, or stressed. he'll call you ‘hasechen’ and will let you feed the bunnies too.

or perhaps, he'll get you to dress up in bunny lingerie, to fuel his obsession with the little animals. he'll force you to act like the perfect pet for him!

#LOOK HOW ADORABLE #what about kidnapper-könig allowing his little captive to hold the bunnies? to soothe all your pain and stress :( #orla speaks #könig x you #könig x reader #könig x y/n #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x y/n #konig cod #konig call of duty #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig modern warfare #könig mw2 #könig mwii #konig mw2 #konig modern warfare #konig mwii

[blueberryarchive]

𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 & 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓

♰pairing; preacher!jk x reader x cowboy!jm

♰word count; 4.6k

♰genre; smut, horror, angst

♰tw; dead dove do not eat, drowning, heavy non-con, dacryphilia, oral, penetration, mentions of blood, depiction of religion, gruesome details of death, physical and verbal violence (jk has a serious rage problem), alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of jk wanting to have sex as a teen.

prev//next

"Love. Sweetheart, stay with me a lil' longer, please. Fuck, Jeon, she's dying on me." Jimin bellowed, a halo of violet light outlining his silhouette as dry cornfields passed by the sides of the truck, your body bouncing with the truck's turmoil from side to side.

You looked down and saw your numb leg, the dark hole of burnt skin that Park soaked with a misty liquor. His awake and worried eyes, the dried blood of your lusts on his lips, the new blood that the wound vomited out, covering his hands, becoming thicker and purer.

Your shoulders slumped, your head resting on the back window of the truck. The two men were fighting, but that was just as the murmur of crickets and moths.

The sky was infinite, domed with stars, all subtly arranged in the perfect position. You saw among the sequins of God, all your dresses and the damn heels in which you had to squeeze your growing body. How Miss Texas' adorable smile became a pathetic white plate without emotion.

And oh, you knew that the fall of a star was inevitable, but not even the flame began to die when you were already sunken between the rocks and the soft grass caressing the last spark, your first tears of acceptance. And in the grass, you dozed, feeling sorry for your own useless body, the plastic crowns, the gold, and the memories of the applause.

"No! Stay." A slap brought you back to the hard floor of a barn. The unknown man grabbed your cheeks and choked you with a long, bitter drink of homemade liquor.

The little light came in from a window in the wooden ceiling, the heat emanating from the hay and wool piled in the corner, leaving a strong smell, you groaned before vomiting to the side.

"Fuck, Jungkook. She's not a fucking animal, you're going to make her faint." Jimin pushed his partner. Jungkook swallowed hard. His pale, neat face was dirty with crimson droplets.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Park?" Jungkook pushed him back, and neither of them could believe it, neither the action nor the power in the voice.

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Letting in a bunch of rapist shit-smoking hippies without a fucking cent to pay for their stay."

And then you thought about the rifle the father was carrying, about Sage and the others. A gasp from deep in your chest, the sob reminding you of your pain.

The rifle was pointed at you with anger pooling in his neck that didn't let him breathe. You screamed as you tried to stand up but it was useless, your wounded leg was your cross. Jimin moved as quickly as possible to cover your mouth, squeezing until it hurt.

"What did you do with the others?" Park's voice trembled, and his partner's eyes showed an open, bloody wound that would not close until a couple of demons ran away.

"I shot the boy in the shoulder, the two girls took the car and drove to California. I made them promise not to come back."

"You're a fucking psychopath." Your scream is muffled by the cowboy's fingers.

The rifle flew away in the hay, and the impatient sheep threw themselves to one side when they knew that it was not food they brought but danger.

"Jeon, stop!"

Jungkook was taller and heavier than his partner, so it wasn't difficult to lunge at you, grab your hair, and compress your chin until he felt every tooth. He was sweating with the smell of incense and wine, his thin lips spit in your face.

"It's because of people like you that I want to leave the church and buy a damn truck, pick up every son of a bitch on Route 66 who raises his dirty thumb on the side of the road, and bathe them in acid until they dissolve alive."

You didn't say anything, because you were pure meat in front of him, a mere animal for slaughter if you moved too close…

Two hot tears fell to Jungkook's fingers, and it was as if a flower had opened in his hand. A strange tickling in his throat left him passive, mute. He removed his hat with the respect the pained lady deserved.

"You're the Bell Ranch kid."

"Please tell me you didn't start shooting people in my house." Jimin interrupted, pacing back and forth impatiently.

"Jimin, she's the Bell Ranch kid-"

"I know, it doesn't matter now. You shot her and she's bleeding herself to death, Christ."

"I told you it was just a shot, they'll probably think it was to scare a coyote."

The cowboy crouched down and tucked his head between his legs, the alcohol rising into his veins.

"You're such an idiot, you know?" The father continued, filling the silence.

"What did you just say?"

"You really believe that these people come to enjoy rural life, to feed your chickens and fuck in the mountains."

"I needed the money," Jimin muttered stressed.

"The fuck you needed that money for?"

"To get the hell out of this place." He roared, standing again in front of Jungkook. "I'm sick and tired of Rivermouth and its moribund, corrupt town. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about having to see the fucking faces of the same people at Bee's diner again."

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows at him, seeing him as if he were a child throwing a tantrum.

"But everyone loves you, you're like a star here."

Jimin laughed, glassy eyes threatening to ooze saline waters.

"Do you know who else was a star in this town? Your dad, little church boy."

"Jimin." He warned you saw how his fists showed through his knuckles.

"And the star decided to have a summer camp for all the children, ended up in a human grill, and everyone thought that your dad fucked children."

It was so fast that you couldn't see Jimin's body fall to the ground, the dust hiding the blows that reverberated from Jimin's skull. The cowboy didn't lift his arms, instead, he let his friend vent until he saw Jimin's silver fang painted red.

Jungkook gasped like a barbarian, his arms trembled before he delivered the next punch and fell next to Jimin, overwhelming moans coming from his chest, stale tears, and babbling that only Jimin understood, but he didn't move.

Jimin closed his eyes, thinking about teenage Jungkook who was trying to get close to the burned body of his father, which Jimin never let him talk about or touch, for the funeral he locked him in his room even after protests and threats. He didn't know if he wanted to protect him, if because he was older than him, he thought about taking the role that that monument of a man had left behind.

He was as attractive as his son, charismatic, and an all-around good man. But his statue began to crack when some young people arrived at the church, a couple who convinced him that he did not need the God for whom he so praised and knelt down. But he was the deity, who with his wings would go far.

He had this idea of encouraging the little ones next to him, elevating them. He closed the doors of the old church, while singing with the children and bathed the edges of the windows in kerosene.

The screams were hellish, no one heard them. No one cried more than the little boy who saw his sister burning on the ground, no one screamed more than the girl whose dress melted into her skin, and no one trusted her father more than the youngest son of Father John I.

Jungkook's younger brother hung from his father's clothes, watching his friends burn with a sense of purpose, that this had to happen for his own good.

And like Icarus, the sun kissed his father's body without Jungkook realizing the changes until very late: the sarcastic laughter in the middle of reading, his constant absence, the misplaced and ambitious gaze.

His mother fell into the abyss. Died sitting in a rocking chair when her body seemed to disintegrate more and more every day. A rosary in hand, a tiresome prayer that licked away her sorrows.

"Come on, we have to think about what we're going to do with her," Jimin murmured, wiping away the trickle that ran down his nose. Jungkook gave him his hand and stood up. Both men hugged each other until the minor stopped sobbing.

The father looked in your direction, determined. You could feel the black socket of his eyes fire just once and not miss.

"We have to chain her before she runs away."

Jimin nodded. There was no time to lose.

A latent pain spread through Jungkook's head until a crown of pure anguish decorated his hair. Two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as the phone rang incessantly on the other line.

One of the things that bothered him about Billie, was the way time seemed to run smoothly and leisurely through her fingers. It took her forever to analyze things, to choose what she was going to eat, even if it would always be chicken pot pie; and in this case, answer the phone.

The telephone booth where he was was dirty, it smelled of urine, and the windows were clouded with dust. He was still wearing his black shirt and pants, his collar pristine white, his old man's ring on his right hand being moved anxiously.

He couldn't believe what he would do in his free time instead of being with the girl he had decided to marry. But a letter arrived at his office at the church that afternoon, one of the children playing in the park had been sent with it. The letter was a simple piece of paper wrapped and tied with an improvised wildflower as a cord.

I'll be busy tonight. The sheep must be tamed and sheared. J.

When he read the words, he almost dropped the paper on the floor and sent the boy out with a dollar in his hand so that he would promise not to tell anyone.

He spent the entire mass having trouble speaking, gave averted glances, and cleared his throat like a sick man. The drops of sweat clinging to his chest, it was hell.

"Hello?"

"Billie, it's John, sweetheart."

"Why are you not here?" His chest sank as he heard the sweet voice of his girl. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together.

"I must..." his voice trailed off. The last time he lied was so long ago.

It's not that religion made him feel guilty for telling a lie, sometimes a father must lie to people's faces with such solemnity that the devotee can only let themselves fall into the invisible hands of God and lie down on hope for a miracle.

"I have to take care of one Park's ewe. Poor little one it's havin' some trouble, and he doesn't want her to be alone until his show ends." Terrible, one of the worst lies he's ever made.

Silence.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Billie purred, almost in a plea. He sighed, he could see her pink varnished nail tangled in the phone cord eagerly. Trying not to wake her dad's ears with such questions.

Jungkook had her on the edge because he hadn't even kissed her. He knew he was cruel for that. It's not that he has officially offered either, but sometimes a man doesn't lie through words, but by taking her home, by looking into her eyes for a longer time when he gives her the host, by helping her learn to touch herself inside the confessional.

"It's better not to, pet. I'm sure it'll be an allnighter, the thing'll be crying for hours and I know how sensitive you are with animals."

"It's true, you know me so well, Jungkook."

He smiled. "I know, darling." He clears his throat before continuing. "But tomorrow you can come to the parish, and we will feed the pigeons in the morning. How 'bout that?"

One more lie, this time it was not the hands of God but the calloused and bloody hands of the young father. But she just giggled.

"Goodnight, Billie. Say hi to your mother for me."

"'Night, Johnnie. I love you."

A lump in his throat, and he thanked God because after saying that, she closed the call. His tongue turned to lead to say those three words back. He knew he did, he wanted to protect Billie more than anything and make her happy, but there was no need to say it, right?

Jungkook's shirt was unbuttoned, the shaking in his breathing causing an unusual tremor in the sound of the farm. It was a windy night, there wasn't much moonlight, so Jungkook lit several kerosene lamps on the banks.

The wooden tub was arranged in the center, the horses and chickens raising their heads every time Jungkook grunted, bringing more hot water. The sweat falling down his temples and over his broad chest, the steam had him suffocated in that silence, and you showed no signs of waking up at any time.

He approached the hay in the corner where the sheep surrounded your body curled up like a fetus, you slept with bloody clothes and matted hair. Your breathing is as soft as the wool around you, both hands and feet tied with rope.

You looked like a lost princess. A princess who devoured every man in her land, and now she rests peacefully to reduce her satiety. Your dry mouth and the remains of Jimin's blood fell to your neckline, making Jungkook's face boil, because he couldn't believe that his friend had fallen for such banalities. It made him want to take the same lamp in his fingers and drop it on top of your delicate body.

His boot touched your low heels, but nothing. He crouched down until he had his hand close to your shoulder, your skin tender under the shaking flames, curved and soft under the dress you were wearing.

You were disgusting, angelic, so terribly at peace in your state.

Of course, upon his arrival at Jimin's house, the first thing he did was open your suitcase and touch all your belongings. Because, in the end, a woman is her belongings: she is the compact blush that she has worn since she was 19, she is the old leather necklace with the worn-out heart pendant and the empty perfume bottle.

Women feel this need to keep things that don't work or lose their value over time. Something that may have to do with how Jungkook sees them, how it's the opposite for him. How his father and his uncles also saw the women in his life. The brighter, the better.

Women, instead, have their daughters' teeth in their jewelry like yellowish nacre and love the same man from their fifteenth until the memories fade with their bodies.

Jungkook knew you would like something to remind you of home, where you truly belong. Not California, not New York, not even Austin; but Rivermouth, with its disproportionate mountains, the storm clouds filling the sky at all hours, and the same faces transferring from parents to children to grandchildren.

A place where nothing changed and that was the good thing. Even though things might end up bad.

He was sure your body was not leaving that barn, he had come to that decision the same day he saw you.

To recompensate, he decided to find you the most beautiful dress among your belongings, a delicate bow with which he would decorate your neck and a vermilion lipstick.

His hand squeezed your shoulder until you stood up screaming, his hand went straight to your mouth.

"Don't fucking do that, please." The way you looked around made Jungkook understand that you didn't remember anything, it was sad to see the weight lift your pupils towards his and still try to find an explanation. "You need to shower, your stench is making me sick."

He grabbed your bound wrists and dragged you to the edge of the hot water, a round, yellowish sponge and sulfur soap placed on a stool.

"Don't make a noise, you'll wake up Sweet Pea," Jungkook murmured behind you, the heat of his breath on your back.

Sweet Pea was a sheep separated from the others, sleeping between a bed made of hay and old coats. Her bloated stomach writhed with each ragged breath. She suffered with her mouth open and her woolly paws shivering with every squirm of the babies in her belly, she slept painfully.

"Raise your arms." The man behind you whispered, a sharp Swiss army knife cutting through the fabric of your dress like butter. The cold of his hands removing your dress let a gasp leave your lips. "Easy, there."

His tall, sweaty body leaned into your hands, his eyes evading yours, swallowing hard. Your breasts fell light and exquisite, your exposed stomach curved until it reached the plain of your pussy and Jungkook felt like the edge of his knife would slip from his hands as he finished tearing your clothes.

"Let's see the wound." He cleared his throat, sitting on the bench where he had a clean pair of gauze. "Does it hurt?"

"What do you think?" You interrupted, raising your foot to the top of his knee.

"Have some respect. I'm not one of your little friends."

You rolled your eyes as the slender fingers removed the knot from the dirty yellowed gauze. You hissed, leaning your body forward. As a result, you placed your hands on top of Jungkook's jet-black hair, tightening the strands under your fingers in the last turn of the gauze. Jungkook took a deep breath, his fingers trembling gently as he examined the bruised hole.

"At least the blood stopped."

"Do you plan to heal my wound until I starve to death here?"

Jungkook was already getting tired of your words, of that shrill accent, and your lips always a little parted as if waiting for them to fill your mouth with-

"I plan to heal your wounds until I find a grave big enough to put you and all your things in." Your alert eyes made him laugh. He loved seeing the terror in them. Made you look more adorable.

He grabbed the clear liquor from among the hay and wet a piece of cotton. Your left leg was shaking from the effort, and you were weak, surely Jimin was stupid enough to not leave you something to eat before going to enjoy his fame.

"You're crying." Jungkook saw the tears falling to your breasts, you were quick to remove the ones that were flowing with your tied hands. Inhaling and sobbing like a little girl trying to be brave. You were terrified.

God and men knew why the statues of virgins were always portrayed as suffering. He wanted to run his fingers over your face, lick every salty tear, and say more chilling things to you to make you cry even more.

His hand rested on his lap and patted a couple of times.

"I know it hurts, stop being so stubborn."

You left your buttocks on his lap and placed both arms on your chest, covering your breasts. You were a mess, and you hated that you were crying, rivulets falling to the sockets of your collarbones. Jungkook focused on it, feeling thirsty as he cleaned the wound.

A hand rested on your bare waist to keep you from falling, calloused fingers unconsciously caressing the soft skin. Your back rose and fell with each whimper.

"I was kiddin', kid. For God's sake." He frowned, yet you continued. He grabbed the bottle again and grabbed your chin with his thumbs, long gulps of sheer force passing down your throat. "There ya' go. Stop the whining, now."

You coughed as you felt the alcohol melt your stomach with its heat.

"I hate you both. I wish I was dead."

"Me too, pumpkin."

The next step was to get into the bathtub. You closed your eyes as the heat engulfed your body, the steam cleaning your pits after crying your fill. You moaned softly as you snuggled into the soggy sheet.

On the other side was the father, sitting with both legs open while he slowly scrubbed the sponge with the soap. His hungry eyes were behind the whitish walls of hot steam.

"You're a virgin. Right, Father John?" Your light, sharp tongue asked, moving you closer to the edge of the tub.

His gaze went to yours, bold, fed up. He dropped the soap and poured water on your face and hair with an empty can of chickpeas. The slippery hair was easy to clench in his fist, the sponge in his hand rubbing circles on your back.

You pursed your lips as you felt the pressure you caused on him. Well, it looks like it was true.

"Don't you have a little girlfriend? It must be so lonely in this fucking town."

"I'll make you cry harder if you keep talking bullshit."

The foam was sliding down to your breasts, Jungkook tried to be as stoic as possible cleaning the area.

There was something quite submissive about him that brought out your worst thoughts. The worst part was that the alcohol made you dangerously flirtatious and you couldn't keep yourself in check. Not even when your life hung on it.

Between his long, slender fingers, over his broad back, and his soft, deadly voice.

You couldn't take it any longer as you moved closer to his body, the exact curve between his ear and his neck, and inhaled deeply. His hand under the water cleaning between your legs. You could feel his breathing become sharper.

"She gave it to you, right?" You sniffed closer. "You wear it to go see her, but now you have to bathe some shitty hippie you humiliated once in your teens."

"Shut up."

"Unlike your cowboy friend, you are a gentleman. You don't fuck 'em, then leave with your dick wet."

Jungkook chuckled. Silence.

He put the sponge on the bench and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

"I think we're done." He smiled.

Your eyebrows furrowed as he kicked off his shoes and stepped into the tub next to you. A heavy hand rested on your face and you could only feel the water entering your lungs, the beat of your screams turning into bubbles among the grayish water.

Out. A gasp, your heart beating a mile an hour searching for air between the hardness of Jungkook's palm.

In. Your body arched, bound hands clawing at Jungkook's arm. The impenetrable darkness consumed you, the sound pressure of the water, the metallic taste in your throat.

Out.

Your purple face, swollen eyes, crimson lips.

"Breathe, breathe." His voice was soft, and his fingers went to your hair to support your weak body. You heard a metallic clinking sound, your eyes burning from the soap in the water. "Open your mouth."

His fingers separated your teeth to make way for his cock, the pulse of his veins massaging your lips. Jungkook hissed loudly, throwing his head back.

"Atta, girl. Open more, I know bitches like you can dislocate their fuckin' jaws."

Your eyelashes fluttered, looking for a way to look into his eyes and ask for mercy. But your eyes burned terribly and the saliva fell in streams from your mouth every time his cock came out and came back in with more force. You could only squeeze his wet pants and clumsily try to shake his thigh to make him realize you were choking.

"Mm."

"Don't trytta "mm" me. This is what you wanted."

For the first time, his cock came completely out of your mouth, drool falling into the water.

His arm supported your body and lifted your top out of the water, revealing how shiny and smooth your ass looked presented to him. The bottle of liquor was right next to you. You heard Jungkook take a gulp and how his forearm chained your neck so you could drink with him. For a few seconds, you resisted until you could do nothing but open your mouth or choke on alcohol.

"Shh, don't cry again." His fingers massaged your wet hair, his face pressed to yours as he slid his cock between your ass cheeks. "Such a crybaby. You're the one popping my cherry tonight, little buckle bunny. Ain't ya' happy?"

"I'm scared, please let me go." Your voice tore through your throat with torture, phlegm building up in your nose.

"No, can't." His cock found your entrance, the sting of the soap lubricating you, and the growl that came from Jungkook's chest made your body tense. "You need me, remember? If it was because of Park, you would have been dead a long time ago."

"I'm scared, please-"

"Shhh."

The lamps were going out little by little, leaving the shadows of Jungkook's body to engulf yours.

When your pussy began to make way and pulse around his cock, he felt sorry for not having done it sooner, for not having taken the first five dollars he stole from his father when he was fifteen and find a whore to fuck, for not having let Mandy, the daughter of his math teacher, suck him last year of school; of not having taken all the divine women in his church and instead of giving them the host, putting his cock in their mouth.

He thought about each and every one of them. He thought about Billie and the confessional, and fuck! How delicious it felt to have all your blood go to one place, leaving you dizzy and stupid like a farm animal in heat.

"Why don't we-" he moaned with tight lips, wetting his face to concentrate. "Why don't we pray, it'll make you feel better, make you less tight."

The lamps went out, leaving only one in the corner outlining Jungkook's profile. From his long oval nose, and swollen lips, from the dying steam.

So what if you said yes? If you intertwined your fingers while that monster attacked you. So what if you closed your eyes and tilted your head to Jungkook's lips to hear his spasmodic voice tell you to repeat after him.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," he whispered, and you repeated, drowning in tears.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." You continued.

"Keep going."

The water began to splash out of the tub with each crash against your ass, his arm hugged your waist and your chest. Soft, wet kisses from your ear to your back.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” You squealed as Jungkook trembled, his moans creating an ethereal song in the barn.

Between his babbling, he mentioned God, you, and all the curses he could think of. It was the birth of a Mephistopheles among the hay and the horses.

"Now and at the hour of our death. Amen." You sighed as you felt your body fall into the water on top of Jungkook's. Your head on his heaving chest, the pulsing pain inside you withering.

Jungkook's heart sounded like the pastures where your memories lie. The warmth of his hand holding you closer to him.

You were angry with yourself because your chest began to hurt and oh, how stupid you were, how stupid your mother had been for having raised you among pretty things and so many compliments.

"I brought you strawberry jam and milk for the night. Tomorrow I'll bring better things." He muttered, hot and his voice raspy.

And oh, how dumb you were for wanting him to wear the same perfume again when he came back.

#—📃: an ewe and the captive bolt #bts imagines #bts #bts smut #bts fanfic #jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook x oc #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts x you #jungkook dark content #jimin bts #jimin fanfic #jimin imagine #jimin smut #jimin x reader

[starry-eyedblog]

captor ghost <3

having thoughts about captor ghost who brushes your teeth for you. just another subtle display of dominance over poor old you, not even allowed to brush your own teeth ;(

he'll make you sit on the closed toilet lid, one hand firmly holding your jaw while the other moves the toothbrush around in your mouth, making sure he's getting every tooth.

sometimes to play with you he shoves the toothbrush down the back of your throat to watch you gag and squirm in his grip. after that, he'll even floss your teeth for you

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley cod #simon riley call of duty #captor simon #tw captivity #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

-

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

*

 

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

*

 

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

*

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #tw noncon #tw csa #tw abuse #tw drugs #tw captivity #dead dove do not eat #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #darkfic

[shamrockqueen]

маленькая сучка

“malen'kaya suchka” - Little Bitch

Pairing : Soldat Bucky x captive and complacent Reader

Warnings : rough sex, dirty talk in Russian, Deep throat, cock sucking, Dubious Consent, Loss of virginity, R18

Word count : 2525

AO3 page link

It was hard to remember when and why you had joined Hydra, nor whether or not you had been kidnapped or tricked into entering the facility, but ever since it had begun, you were to be broken, molded, and shaped for your single purpose.

You had been made to sit on your knees since last night, and since then you have sat unmoved. It left you dozing in this uncomfortable position with your knees held firm as your head hung at your shoulder from exhaustion. This is how he found you, ridged and yet limp. This was unacceptable.

The hard, fast crack echoed throughout the small cell, bouncing off the smooth concrete walls as his palm collided with your cheek. It knocks out the last few ounces of strength that had to hold your body up, and you hit the floor quickly. The cement is cold against your bare skin compared to the hand mark left on your face, which would redden and swell.

You had grown numb to the abuse a long time ago and said nothing as you pushed up on your hands to right yourself back onto your knees. You know better than to stay on the floor after being knocked down. He didn’t like it when you acted weak.

You strained your neck upward, letting it crack from its former stiffness as you took in the sight of him. The soldat. A man whose body was torn and twisted before being put back together along with his mind, going as far as to replace pieces of his body with machinery.

You don’t know how he’d lost his arm to warrant the metal one he has now, and you never dared to ask again after the first time. You stopped trying to give him sympathy not long after meeting him. It didn't matter what they had done to him, as it wouldn’t excuse anything he'd done to you thus far.

From the very beginning, he was your tormentor, your capturer, and your god. Anything and everything you did on a daily basis was dictated by the Soldat and oneone else. You were his gift, a soft and mailable woman to be sculpted as he chose. Falling asleep without permission was a punishable offense, and that first hit surely won’t be the last.

"Ty malen'kaya suka. (You little bitch) No one told you to sleep." His voice is low and hoarse, as he wasn't interested in filling the room with the sounds of screaming just yet.

"I’m sorry." You mummbled only to receive another blow; this time it was backhanded towards the other side of your face, and you fought all of the muscles in your knees not to hit the floor this time. Your sore knees faltered and your upper body swayed, but through your struggle, you succeeded in staying upright.

"nepravil'nyy (wrong)" His voice rose only a little.

"Mne zhal'. ser..(I’m sorry.sir..)" you answered back automatically. You should’ve known better than to let your tongue slip back into English; only he was allowed to talk in that way. It had been difficult to adjust to at first, but over time, your Russian did get better, even if it was only to follow commands and respond to them.

"Uberi svoyu zadnitsu s nog. (Get your ass off your legs). On your knees, now." His voice was only loud enough to be commanding, as you weren’t deserving of any real anger.

You straightened up as he had asked so that your full weight was on your knees and shins alone. You made your back rigid, leaned your head back, and waited for further instruction. You were never allowed to fall behind, nor could you go too far ahead. So, you stood stock still as your knees screamed from having to continue holding you up.

"otkryt' (open)" His voice smacked back off every corner of the room, and you didn’t hesitate to unclench your teeth to open your mouth nice and wide, just as he preferred.

This particular task had become something you became better at with much mandatory practice. But, in spite of the hours of being made to choke him down, there were times that you would still make mistakes, so it wasn’t unexpected when he ran his metal fingers along your lips with misleading gentleness before digging them into your skin to clamp down hard on your face.

He leaned down towards your face to hammer his point in with each graveled word that rumbled from his chest. "Yesli ty vospol'zuyesh'sya svoimi zubami, ya slomayu tebe chelyust'. (If you use your teeth, I will break your jaw.)"

You gave a brief "da ser (yes sir)" before opening your mouth back up as he leaned away again. His hand loosened from your face as he ran his thumb along your bottom lip to show him that naughty bottom row of teeth, a few of which had a metallic sheen similar to his fingers.

That had been the last and only time you’d ever bitten him. It had been a dangerous lesson to learn, as it had cost you four of your teeth. All of which were quickly replaced without the benefit of anesthesia.

He undoes the buckles on his pants as he squares his hips in-line with your face. Your eyes don’t leave his as you stare at one another.

Giving him oral relief upon his arrival was a given, and this time would be no different from the last, for now.

He spit into the palm of his hand as he pulled his long member free from his clothes, giving it a few pumps to harden it until it stood tall and hard.

The tip entered first, pressing against your tongue before sliding over it.

"lizhi, moy kotenok (lick, my kitten)" He growled down at you.

He only used the pet name when you were being good, acting as a trigger word to help spur you further because where there was praise there wouldn’t be any punishment.

So you did as ordered, pulling your head back and flicking your tongue out over the pink tip as you slickened his cock with your saliva.

"Sosat' (suck)," he pushed his hips toward your open mouth, letting his cock slide along your tongue and further into your mouth.

You closed your lips around it, easing him into your mouth as you did as ordered. You started out slowly before you began to bob up and down on his shaft until it slid deeper down your throat when his hips followed your pace. But, his need was to go faster, deeper even.

The Soldat's metal fingers snapped onto the back of your head to push you down on his cock, far enough that your nose was tickled by the dusting of his pubic hair. Your throat enclosed around him, almost swallowing the head of his cock as he shucked your face up and down onto him. It filled the once tensely quiet room with the echo of you breathlessly sputtering and sloshing on his member.

You’ve grown accustomed to holding your breath for however long he needed, but it was often too much. The tears had forced their way out as they rounded around your reddened cheeks as the air in your head grew thin.

The Soldat's strong, steel-like demeanor cracked as he grew closer and growled, "Fuck..takoy khoroshiy kotenok (so good, kitten)" down at you.

He first cums in your mouth before pulling out to paint your face and then your breasts with spurt after spurt of salty, sticky seed. It’s all over the space on your cheeks that still stung from the last time he hit you, and the soft tip of his cock tickled your neck a little as he coated the rest of your skin.

You don’t even know if he took pleasure in sights like this, as his expression never changed. Yet, if you dared to look carefully enough, you could catch a glimpse of his pupils swelling as they drank you in.

You straightened up on your knees, waiting for another order. Usually he would just have you stand and clean yourself up at the sink in the corner of the cell. Yet, as he walked around you, he pulled his undershirt from his body before tossing it to you with a gruff "wipe off."

His cock was still hard and dripping with what was left of his seed, before he stopped to stand behind you.

The muscles of his thick thighs strained as he steadied himself, and his heavy boots hit the cement hard with each step.

You did as first instructed and wiped away his spendings from your face and breasts before setting the clothes on the floor by your side, and you waited until another order was called out.

"Bend forward, on your hands," he called out from behind you.

It was a new command, and you followed as best as you could, bending yourself over and pressing your hands to the cold floor. When his knees dropped behind yours, you knew it was time for a new form of conditioning. Especially as his hand slipped between your thighs to spread your knees apart.

You had assumed it was only a matter of time until you would be completely broken in, but that realization did nothing to steady the unease buring into your stomach.

At least he had the forethought to warn you as the cold metal of his thumb brushed along your now exposed core.

"My budem ispol'zovat' eto otverstiye, a takzhe. (We will use this hole as well.)" he said as his head tilted at the sight of his fingers moving effortlessly through your dewy folds. He wasn’t one to play with his food, but he didn’t expect you to already be wet. It was a hidden shame that you would greatly ignore, but it would prove useful now.

His fleshy finger entered you first, feeling your pristine core wrap tightly around it. You have to hold your breath once he pulls his digit away, only to push two inside. You were nowhere near ready for this, having been unbroken before being given to him, but you stood firm on your locked joints as your knees dug into the hard cement floor.

His hand leaves your body as he aligns himself with you, and you suck in a deep breath when you feel the head prod at your core.

The Soldat leaned his body over yours as his metal arms snaked under yours. His teeth were dangerously close to your skin as he gritted out a graveled "kak dolgo ty mozhesh' derzhat' svoy golos, kotenok? (How long can you hold your voice, kitten?)"

He never asked you questions anymore, speaking only in absolutes as he bent you to his commands.

Would this be a challenge? Were you allowed to not accept it?

You could feel him push on the bubble of pressure that had built up in your lungs as you held in a cry. He was only halfway inside as your walls fought to push him out.

He ground his teeth as he growled out a gruff "tugoy (tight)" against your neck as he quickly tore you open on his cock.

His flesh hand slid under your other arm to meet his metal one, before they both slid over your neck to lock his arms over your shoulders for leverage as he pulled your upper body off the floor and drove the rest of his cock inside of you.

You felt every ounce of air being forced out of your lungs, and your knees slid along the floor as you were no longer holding your own weight, but you didn’t scream. Even when the tears started to bubble out, you didn’t make a single sound aside from your own labored breathing.

When he started to pull himself from your core, you had to bite your fucking tongue as he dragged his cock along your newly torn walls. When he thrusted back into you, you couldn’t hold your voice in anymore. Your cries were made to echo throughout the room as your body jolted with each of his movements.

He pulled himself out of your soft, wet heat until the tip was all that was left inside. You wailed through your teeth as his grip on your entire upper body tightened, and a low growl was heard from him as he pressed his lips to the back of your neck. "Tvoya pizda vsegda budet pomnit' formu moyego chlena. (Your cunt will always remember the shape of my cock.)"

He brought his hips forward to collide against your ass with an audible slap, his steely cock slamming into the back of your cunt hard enough to send a louder cry past your teeth. You were lifted almost off the ground, leaving your knees to only graze the floor.

The damn had broken, and as a thin rivlet of blood trailed down your thigh to drip to the cold floor, your pained voice bounced and echoed around the both of you. It made you dizzy as the pain began to numb your body, and the tickle of something hotter blossomed in your core as he drove himself into your aching channel.

Even the cries melted into something more unnaturally flowery, something sweeter and more pleasing to him. When he felt your core twist and squeeze around him, he knew what he was starting to do to you.

He turned his head to take the shell of your ear between his teeth and growled into your hot skin, "Davay, Kotenok, krik. (Come on, kitten, cry.)"

You didn’t expect to melt around him when his voice vibrated through your skin. Yet, just as he demanded, you cried out into the small and sterile room.

You tightened around him until you felt every ridge, and every muscle of his cock as he tore along your inner walls until it made his cock begin to throb and twitch within you.

The Soldat's loud voice boomed over you with "Konchi dlya menya, kotenok. Konchi na chlen svoyego soldata. (Cum for me, kitty. Cum on your soldier's cock.)" and it set your body on edge to the point that you were screaming and squirming in his tight, immovable hold.

He wound that tight little spring hidden in your belly until it finally snapped apart all over him, making you cry out in a broken, "Nyet, Nyet!"

His climax accompanied yours, making you feel it as he filled your core full, as you twitched around him.

He untangled your limbs from his as he set you to the floor with uncharacteristic gentleness.

The shock of the cold floor felt like it nearly burned your skin as you tried to catch your breath. He was still on his knees above you as he let you have a moment's rest when he slid his metal finger along your forehead to wipe away the stray hairs that clung to your sweaty skin.

⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️

@lizatill inspire this Fic With this post

Want more Bucky? Then check out Bucky’s masterlist!

#fanfiction #fanfic #smut #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky smut #roughfuck #dubious consent #Soldat Bucky #winter soldier #Captive reader #Conditioned #dark bucky smut #dark bucky x you #dark bucky x reader #dark bucky barnes #Dark Bucky #Dark Soldat Bucky #bucky fic

[lyome]

little angel.

fyodor did well by sheltering his childhood love, and then she ran away. but it's alright, he'll bring her right back. yan!fyodor x gn!reader, mild dazai x gn!reader but they're meant to be platonic tags/warnings: captivity, reader gets tortured!!! stockholm syndrome, years and years of manipulation, gaslighting(kinda), violence, blood, and permanent injury done to the reader, plsss read with caution

To him, you were his one and only love. You were the ideal he wanted to create. A weak, fickle human that devotedly clung to him. You provided him with that first taste of Godhood. He could pluck adoration off your lips and feel divinity in your touch.

And then you betrayed him.

And then you betrayed him.

You, his first follower. His first believer. His Eve. 

For all of Fyodor’s wisdom, his beliefs served as a terrible blind spot. He never even suspected it. To him, your life was perfect. You were his crowned follower, his one and only, you sat in pretty apartments and watched as the mice brought ruin to the world. Nothing ever affected you in your pretty glass cage. Nothing except the devil’s delusions. 

His insanity had seeped into your own mind. At first, you did admire him. He was Fyodor, your protector. Hunger felt smaller when he was there, his body warm against yours as you huddled together during those ugly rainy nights. Both of you have seen the worst side of the world. You’ve watched it burn at the hands of those ability users Fyodor despised so viciously. He taught you hatred. And you always clung to it.

Everyone except Fyodor is bad. 

That was the belief he instilled in you. And then Dazai found you, an eccentric brunette man with a myriad of bandages and scars. He had thought the lush apartment was Fydor’s. Never had Dazai assumed Fyodor would cherish someone. But you were worthless, with no ability or connections or even common sense. It seemed that you were tailor made for Fyodor. Shoved in a cage and left to wait for your God’s return.

At the time you were terrified. Fyodor hadn’t let you speak to anyone for years. The moment that he could establish himself as this omnipotent God, he made sure you were isolated. He’d come back depicting how terrifying the bleak outside world is. It wasn’t hard to believe. You grew up in the slums of Russia, you’ve already seen the worst. It wasn’t difficult to convince you that every corner of the world was equally terrible. Every piece and country and meadow would give you nothing but torment. You could only be happy with Fyodor.

So why did your world feel so empty?

“My, this is uncomfortable,” Dazai joked. He was awfully casual for someone who had just broken in. You huddled against the window, knees to your chest, fully focused on the opened doors. For all your years here, you couldn’t have ever opened them. You assumed it was the tools that you lacked. Or maybe you were too stupid for it. But you've never seen them opened by anyone except Fyodor.

“Do you own this place, miss?”

“No,” you whispered. Fyodor never prepared you for this. Fyodor told you no one would find you. He said it was a good thing. You lost your safety now. The glass cage has been broken.

“Do you know who does?”

Silence. 

Dazai sighed, you were obviously terrified. He couldn’t even catch your eyes. But you also made no move to stop him as he looked around, examining all the objects about the place. That served as enough confirmation. Fyodor’s clothes were visible inside the wardrobe, and there was even a note left on the kitchen countertop signed in his lovely name. It was in Russian, so Dazai couldn’t quite judge the contents. He only knew the signature.

So why did the demon keep a little lamb locked away? Dazai had yet to learn just how worthless you are, so he kept his distance. It wasn’t improbable that you might just be a weapon more deadly than the Demon himself.

But it was you who spoke next, voice quivering. “How did you open the doors?”

“Hm, why should I tell you?”

Your head echoed your greatest fear. Fyodor is right. People are horrible. He won't tell me anything out of kindness.

Dazai had walked closer now. He was growing less and less certain that you were a threat. In fact, you shrinked further away from him. Body pressed against the glass of your gable window. “I’ll answer your question,” he announced slowly, “If you answer one of my own. But you have to be honest.” He was looking down at you.

It took you a moment to give him a nod. “Okay.”

“Why are you here with Fyodor?”

You were surprised that he knew about the raven haired Demon, the shock visible all across your face. But the deals a deal, and you desperately wanted to know the path he took towards this place. So you can recreate it and finally see this wretched world Fyodor took from you. You needed to see it for yourself. Even if you might end up crawling back to him.

“I’ve always been with him. We just move around a lot. He says it’s dangerous.”

“Yes, but why does he keep you here?”

“Because it’s dangerous? Isn’t the entire world half ruined?”

“By what?”

“I don’t know. Fyodor only said it’s ruined. And dangerous. He always says that word: dangerous.”

Dazai began to understand a little more about you now. You weren’t strong, you were shaking at the sight of someone, and what’s more the apartment gave away your relationship too easily. The single bed, shared dresser, and perfumed notes. Dazai had just found someone even the insane Fyodor loved.

“Now my question, please. How did you get in here?”

“Want me to show you?”

Maybe you shouldn’t have trusted him. But Dazai’s smile was as sick as Fyodor’s, and in your poor tormented head that was a trustworthy thing. He’s like Fyodor, it means he’s smart and caring and all those bad things he does are done out of love. 

It’s funny how your rotten love for Fyodor helped you escape. Guiding you to mouth a desperate yes and allow for this unknown man to let you walk freely again. 

For all your life, you’ve had Fyodor on your shoulder. Through the good and the bad, he was there. In the past you loved him. But now, you saw beyond his lies. The world Dazai had shown you was beautiful. The sun shone on smiling and happy faces. People went about their day without a care in the world. There was nothing wrong here.

Fyodor lied. And you were finally free from the doubt he seeped in you. 

And then the Devil himself ascended to bring you back. You were just going about your day, enjoying the life Dazai had breathed into you. He was kind, and his kindness wasn’t sharp like Fyodor’s. He even let you occupy his tiny apartment. So the mornings were your time to cook, clean, and explore the city. You never expected to see Fyodor out of the corner of your eye. Smiling. Waiting.

You didn’t want to go back. His face served as nothing but an ugly reminder of how blinded you were by him. His bird, his dove, his caged angel. You never asked for any of that. He just swept you up in his arms and kept you in place before either of you was old enough to even think properly. You didn’t know any better. Fyodor used to be all you had.

He didn’t bother approaching you. He was in no rush. As days passed all he’d do is simply walk by you, cold eyes meeting your own. He loved the confusion on your face. The terror and insecurity in whether you’ve made the right decision or not.

And just as you were on the verge of snapping, begging Dazai to not leave you alone, something just had to come up. Dazai was needed, and you couldn’t take up his time. It felt wrong to repay him by more silly burdens. So you never told him why you were terrified. You simply let him go.

The next time you awoke, after a lonely night in the now empty apartment you shared, it was because of a sharp pain across your legs. Something was wet, but you couldn’t see. The world was dark and terrifying and you felt just as Fyodor had described you would. You couldn’t feel your legs. They hurt and the blood felt sticky and you couldn’t stop shaking.

Someone had cut the tendons near your ankles. You didn’t know it then, but you’ve just lost the ability to walk. And who took that from you? Who brought you such a horrible fate?

“You’ve just had to run, zaychik.” 

Bunny. 

Fyodor had called you bunny as he stripped you of your ability to run. You were on the floor, the cobblestone of this unknown place felt icy against your cheek. Everything hurt. Fyodor had pampered you too much, you realised. Things like hunger and pain which were so familiar to you as a child had become unknown. Had you always cried so much over the seeping pain, or had Fyodor planned for this too? Another piece of his sadistic game?

His foot clashed against your head. Heel digging into your cheek. Your head throbbed.

“I’ve given you everything. You had all the pretty things you used to dream of! And you repay me by running to that heretic’s side? What good are you now! You used to be perfect. Mine. Untainted. You let that disgusting dog ruin you.”

As Fyodor spoke, he’d keep moving his foot up and down. You felt your consciousness slipping again. It hurt so much. The blood, the shock, the throbbing, the darkness. Your blindfolded eyes couldn't even help you discern left from right.

Was it so bad to dream? What was wrong with you now? Fyodor was never like this. He was never angry with you. The Fyodor you knew was gentle and warm, he kept you safe. He told you that you were safe. Maybe what he meant during all those years was that you were safe from him. And Dazai Osamu had taken that safety from you.

Fyodor kept you in a large, lush bed from then on. You couldn’t walk, and Dazai had never broken in again. You don’t know what happened with him. You were too scared to ask Fyodor. Things were never the same after your escape. He allowed you less food and kept you weak. To him, your fragile body was the last thing keeping you desirable. Sometimes you’d cry at night, overtaken by guilt and regret and hatred for your predicament. On those nights the old Fyodor might’ve held you and whispered words of reassurance to you. 

This, dark and vile, Demon only slapped you until you’d stop. Numbing your sadness with terror.

Fyodor’s love was never pretty, but you missed his kinder side dearly. At least then, you didn’t have to endure the horrors that he inflicted on so many others. Suddenly, you became just another victim of his. Not a childhood friend or secret lover, you were his victim. 

And that's all you'd ever have in life. Fyodor and his cruelties.

#bungou stray dogs fyodor #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x gender neutral reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x reader #dazai x reader #fanficiton #yandere fyodor #captivity #fyodor x you #gaslighting #manipulation #lyomes moon

[slashersgirlypop]

Grilled Cheese Chapter 6.

TW: NON-CON AND NON SEXUAL SPANKING

(September 1st, 1978)

            I huffed, bored out of my mind. Yes, I was still scared of the big, strong, stabby man, (who I just started to call Mask-Man), but I also was locked in the closet for a great majority of the day. If I had to guess, I had been in this closet for maybe five or so hours? Maybe more? All I knew was that when I knocked on the door, asking for at least some food, a slice of cheese was shoved at me. He only let me out today twice to use the restroom. I heard him leave about maybe an hour after locking me in the closet and then come back four hours later through the back door.

            Some point during the day, before he left, I heard Miss Petunia come down the stairs. I don’t know what happened, but it didn’t sound like there was any sounds of pained meows. I did hear her begin to eat food, so thankfully the stoic and silent Mask-Man does have decency to at least feed her.

            “Excuse me? Sir? Mr. Mask-Man-Person? Are you, uh, just planning on keeping me in here forever? You know, I got a job and friends who might be wondering where the hell I am. Also, it’s really boring in here. I counted all the brush-hair-things on the broom in here fifteen times. I’m worried I’ll go crazy, so, can I be let out?”

            As expected, I got no response. I groaned, slumping against the door, sliding down until my butt hit the floor. I began to light bonk my head against the wood. Alright, time to use the annoying-hostage-girl approach.

            “Let me out please.” Bonk.

            “Let me out please.” Bonk.

            “Let me out please.” Bonk.

            “Let me oOF-,” I huffed, falling on my back once he opened the door. I stared up at him, my head between his shoes, him looking down at me. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I hoped he looked annoyed by my successful antics.

            “Mra?” Miss Petunia chirped from Mask-Man’s shoulder, looking down at me curiously. My mouth slightly opened in betrayal at my cat. While I was locked in the dusty old closet, my beloved pet was buddying up and getting all cozy with my captor. The audacity of pets, I swear.

            “Alright. So, are we just gonna have a staring contest, Mask-Man? Am I allowed to come out? If you’re planning on a staring contest, it’s not really fair on my end because you could be blinking and I’d have no way to tell with your mask and all.” Shrugging, I looked up at the man. He just stared at me before walking away, leaving me on the floor.

            Groaning, I sat up, feeling my joints cracking in my back. I hoping he wasn’t planning on locking me in the closet tonight, because that would not be comfortable to sleep in. Speaking of which, where did he sleep last night?

            I turned, jumping as he just stood behind me.

            “How are you so fast and quiet, pal?” I asked. Wordlessly, he thrusted two objects into my chest. It was a notepad and crayons. Did…did he want me to draw or something? Then, Mask-Man pushed me not too gently into the family room, where the TV was on, playing cartoons. He shoved me into a chair before walking over and plopping down on the couch. Miss Petunia mewed softly at him as if the gently chide him before hopping off his should and walking over to me. She laid at the bottom of my chair, her head on my foot, and she began to purr quietly.

            Mask-Man said nothing, only focusing his attention on the animated figures. Honestly, this is not how I would imagine a kidnapping or hostage-taking-thing would go. It could be worse; I could be dead. At least my only reason to be alive is that I make him food.

            I began to absentmindedly draw on the paper, getting lost in my thoughts. I didn’t want to be his cook forever, and eventually someone other than Mr. Steinberg is going to wonder what happened to me and come check on me. Mrs. Gracie most likely will send one of her boys to check on me, like she did when I was sick with the flu and had to take off work. Until then, I have to figure out how to play my cards right and not piss off this guy to the point of killing me. Despite my numerous other escape attempts, I knew I could get out and get help. But how is the question? He’s always there, he’s quieter than an ant, he can kill me probably with one hand, so what would I do-wait. My crayon skid to a stop on the mane of the badass centaur I was drawing

            Does he know I have a gun?

            Earlier, when I thought he was just some kid pulling a mean joke, I did mention it, but I don’t know if he thought I was bluffing or not. I hope he does think I’m bluffing. I could use the gun and force him to let me out, or even kill him. I frowned at that idea. I don’t really like the idea of taking a life, even if he did kill people, but if I must…

            I stood up, stretching my arms, his head turning to me. He began to stand up as well before I sighed.

            “I’m just going to make myself some food, Mask-Man. No need to patrol and act as my guard. I’m not dumb enough to try to escape again,” except that I was, “so just, chill out. I’m just hungry because all you gave me was a slice of cheese.” He paused before slowly sitting back down, his head still pointed at me. Then, he slowly turned his attention back to the screen.

            Taking deep breathes as quietly as I could as I walked kitchen, my eyes zeroed in on the drawer where the pistol was. Casually, I approached the pantry, which was near the drawer, but unfortunately in sight of the family room, meaning Mask-Man could see me. It also just occurred to me that I had no idea how to use a fucking gun. It couldn’t be that hard, right? Just aim and shoot. I mean, I think it was loaded, although I wasn’t sure.

            After pretending to peruse the pantry, I took a deep and shaky breath before yanking open the drawer and grabbing the gun. I gripped it with both hands and pointed it at the man, who now was staring at me, standing up.

            “You know what this is, buddy? It’s a fuckin’ gun. I didn’t wanna do this, but I had no choice. Let me go,” I ordered, trying my best to look intimidating despite the man practically being a giant compared to me. He merely stared at me, before taking a step in my direction, which I yelled at.

            “H-HEY! No! Don’t take any steps towards me, you mask-guy-man. Stay there! I will shoot! Don’t try me!” He proceeded to take several more steps, despite my warnings. When he was within five feet of me, I closed my eyes and aimed the gun at his head.

            “I’m sorry, but I warned you!” I pulled the trigger, wincing and bracing myself for the inevitable fact that I will be staring at a corpse when I opened my eyes.

            Click. My eyes whipped back to the gun, wide. It’s in that moment I realized that it, in fact, wasn’t loaded. Fuck.

            He grabbed the gun and wrenched it out of my hands, throwing it aside, staring down at me.

            “Shit, oh shit, I’m sorry, please don’t kill me, I’m sorry! PLEASE!” I pled, shrieking as he grabbed my hair, no doubt pulling out strands as he dragged me to the living room, my scalp screaming in pain.

            He sat down on the couch, yanking me over his lap, making me lose my breath. He grabbed my jeans and yanked them down along with my panties, exposing my ass to the open. I began to writhe, desperately trying to get off him. He was going to rape me, he was going to fucking rape me-

            I gasped in pain as I felt his big hand come down of my right cheek, the pain bursting out. I didn’t have time to process what he was doing though because he continued to spank my ass, no doubt leaving bruises at a relentless pace. I began to sob around thirty, dangling miserably from his lap.

            My ass felt like it was on fire. He didn’t stick to a pattern, he just spanked. I never had felt so humiliated in my life.

            By the time he was done, I was a sobbing mess. Snot was dribbling slowly out my nose onto the carpet below, tears also staining the carpet.

            I choked on air when he cruelly gripped my left cheek, digging his nails into the skin. I just let him, feeling defeated. I didn’t know how to react. I was just grateful he was done.

            He shoved me off his lap and onto the carpet. I yelped, before continuing to sob, my rear exposed to the air still.

He just ignored me, as he normally did.

~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪~🔪

ye, sorry if you aren't normally a crier, (y/n) got a bit of a traumatic experience. I was basing her reaction off what I would do in this situation, and I would just fuckin sob and feel weak. MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HANUKAH/ HAPPY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE!!!! See ya, my fellow slasher sluts.

#halloween 1978 #michael myers #slasher #yandere michael myers #yandere michael myers x reader #hostage reader #tw: noncon #captive reader

[joelsgreys]

captive | masterlist

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. ELEMENTS OF NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION. PLEASE SEE TAGS FOR EACH INDIVIDUAL PIECE.

PLEASE HEED ALL WARNINGS.

a/n: decided to make a masterlist for this universe in case i choose to write more for it in the future. everything will be listed in chronological order even though they may not be posted in chronological order.

conflicted

summary: Your captor gives you a bath. You have some conflicting feelings when he touches you.

captive

summary: You find yourself missing your captor while he’s out on an early morning hunt with the rest of the group.

#captive!joel #raider!joel #dark!joel x reader #dark!joel miller #tw dubcon #tw dubious consent #tw noncon #dark!fic #joel miller x reader

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Idk if I can ask this of youuuu buuuuut hear me out. Chrollo right right. Taking you to the aquarium

I am hearing you loud and clear, my friend 💛

Warnings: Yandere, Kidnapped reader, Implied captivity.

Word Count: 411

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Chrollo’s voice came from your left, but you didn’t look towards him to acknowledge what he said. Instead your eyes remained on the enormous wall of glass that separated you from thousands, if not millions of gallons of water.

The creature in question that earned that comment from Chrollo was drifting by slowly. If someone didn’t know any better, they’d call the movements aimless. Without purpose.

“Dearest?”

“I heard you.” You replied flatly, not looking away from the whale shark swimming no more than twenty feet away from you.

He hummed. “Millions of years on this earth, and still they remain the same.”

You glanced at him briefly, knowing well that he had more to say than just that. You decided to humour him.

“Why would there be any need to?” The whale shark adjusted its course to swim further towards the middle of its massive tank. “Their environment has been stable enough that evolving in response to any change isn’t necessary.”

“True.” He said. “But even still, it’s such a shame such magnificence doesn’t do well in captivity.”

You grunted. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that replicating their environment is almost impossible.” One of your hands went out to gesture to the whale shark as its form grew more desaturated due to distance. “Pelagic species like this don’t belong here.”

“Perhaps this is the moment they needed, then.”

An expression of confusion and mild annoyance spread across your face. “What?”

“To change.” He continued. “They’ve barely evolved because there hasn’t been any need to, correct? Perhaps time in captivity is the stepping stone into that.”

“You can’t be serious.” You scoffed. “You realize that evolution takes millions upon millions of generations to occur, right? There’s no way in hell that would be able to happen, not in this lifetime.”

“Perhaps not evolution, but adaptation.”

“It’s in the same vein.” You argued, getting agitated by how dismissive he was on something that was so obvious to you. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why ever not? If a species as complicated as a human can change their behaviour to suit their environment, surely a creature that has had little change in its initial design could as well.”

The was an ever growing urge to swat at him, and you had to clench your jaw to suppress it. “What’s your point, Chrollo?”

He smiled as his eyes moved between you and the aquarium.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2023. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

#riri writes #900 followers event #Chrollo #Chrollo x Reader #Chrollo Lucilfer #Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader #HxH #Hunter x Hunter #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #tw implied captivity #tw captivity #love my moots #sweet shadow

[konigsblog]

kidnapper-simon riley headcannons

tw/cw: obviously kidnapping, bondage, intoxication, dead dove: do not eat, punishments non/dub-con.

simon riley isn't some sweet, kindhearted angel that would sacrifice the world for you — he tries to be, but he's so worn down and insane that he can't help but lash out and punish you for the smallest of things, from accidentally spilling something, or arguing back.

he gets selfish gratification and pleasure when he's punishing you. he adores the sight of your skin, all bruised and covered in rope burn, your pretty body bare and revealed to him. he strips you of your dignity immediately, because regardless, it'll be stolen from you eventually if it wasn't taken immediately.

he's selfish, he does this for his own needs. he's greedy, and he's aware. simon doesn't even allow you to see his face, just a plain black balaclava covering his face. he loves it, being anonymous, able to make you feel vulnerable and scared as you're unaware and frightened by whatever is hiding behind the mask. simon loves it; he loves when you look into his eyes past the mask while you're locked into the cage, all teary-eyed, sulking and shaking, goosebumps covering your skin.

he takes you because he needs an outlet, for his frustration and sexual needs. you're a nuisance to simon, but god, you fulfill his needs so well when you're all drugged up and intoxicated. doing whatever is asked of you obediently.

“attagirlll... you’r learnin’ so fast, pretty doll.” he chuckles, the hoarse and gravelly sound sending shivers down your spine.

he keeps his hand on the back of your neck, holding your head down as he thrusts and ruts into you. simon isn't delusional; he's more than aware that this is illegal, brutal and cruel for him to do. he's so stoic and cold, that there's no point in building a relationship with a man as horrid as simon.

“feel too-.. too full, si--...”

you pant out, the feeling of him brutalizing your hole, raw and sensitive as he pumps himself into your slicken, drooling cunt. you're a complete, sobbing, broken mess; weak, useless, with your only purpose being to serve simon.

each thrust burns, and he doesn't hold back. he grips the back of the collar around your neck, tugging it firmly and forcing your back against his chest. he grinds into you, his mask lifted over his lips as he kisses down your neck in a sickly sweet, twisted way of loving on you. with his eyes wide and blown out, simon takes slow, hard thrusts, ramming into you slowly. you're so drunk and high, unable to form a proper sentence without crying or stuttering.

the feeling of his fat, heavy balls pressed against your cunt is agonisingly, and the tightening, choking sensation caused by him holding your collar tightly feels restrictive. you pant, breathing out, spitting and slobbering over yourself as you desperately try to breathe, gasping when he lets go, pushing you down onto your hands and knees and slamming into you while spanking and slapping your ass with his leather belt, the texture of his jeans against the backs of your bare thighs painful to your sensitive bruises.

your only purpose is to tease him and take his thick cock well, a slave held captive and bound with ropes.

#orla speaks #why isn't he real 😔😔 #simon would be so brutal and a total bastard to his pretty captive <33 #he'd be such a great kidnapper :3 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost call of duty #cod ghost #ghost headcanon #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: dark content #dead dove do not eat #tw: cnc #cnc kidnapping

[inkblot22]

(PS I don’t actually know the source material for idia I just stumbled upon one of your fics while looking at FFXIV Yandere fics so sorry if this sounds OOC)

I’m not super creative but what do you think might actually be Idia’ routine with his darling? Does he fall into any routine, does it change a lot?

Have a wonderful day (and happy late bunny day!) 🫶

I actually am of the opinion that this is a very creative thought! You should give yourself more credit. I like to idealize the day to day life, but it never occurred to me that writing it down might be a good idea. On that sentiment, I think maybe Vil or even Leona would have a better day to day routine. Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Also, wow, what a pipeline, FFXIV to twst?? You've got good taste lmao welcome to my blog.

I'll put this under the cut, and I'm also not promising that this will be very good. I use the 24 hour clock. I am constantly getting told irl that American people don't do that, but I'm evil, so I'm putting the times in 24 hour clock format.

TW for mentions of noncon, coercion, captivity, someone keeping someone else awake, a hint of Idia being an asshole

+ Idia doesn't really seem like he has much of a set schedule, but Ortho absolutely does and Ortho is lowkey kind of bossy, so...

+ Yeah uh, Idia's partner is absolutely out of luck. Idia likes night gaming a lot, and he gets loud, so good luck sleeping. Idia himself goes to bed late and wakes up whenever the heck he wakes up. He could go to bed at 0300 in the morning and wake up again at 0700.

+ As his kept partner, the schedule is a little more normal, like I said. Ortho doesn't really need to sleep from what I understand, (I haven't read all of book 6, no spoilers or else I WILL temporarily block you) but it's silly to imagine that he doesn't wake up or attempt to wake up everyone else around him as early as 0600.

+ After waking up, Idia will eat breakfast. I think it'd be delivered usually since Idia and his partner are basement dwellers, one by nature and the other by force. After breakfast begins work...

+ Or procrastination. Idia flip flops between extreme focus on what he should be doing and what he should not be doing. He manages to get his schoolwork done, but more often than not, he's asking his partner to cuddle up and watch a movie, drama, or his fingers flying across the keyboard. Idia will not ask them to cuddle if he is doing schoolwork or virtually attending classes.

+ I like to think that he smells smoky, on account of the flaming hair, and he runs hot, so prepare to SWEAT. In the case his partner doesn't really want to hang out with him, he will usually sulk and only occasionally get upset to the point of doing something about it.

+ I don't think he showers every day. I think he's an every other day type of showerer, based solely on him not being particularly active. This means that his partner doesn't have to run on his showering schedule and gets extra hot water on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

+ By the way, in the case that Idia's darling ever gets peckish, Idia has a snack stash that he proudly pulled out and showed them as soon as they were allowed to wander a bit. I figure they get hungry some time around 1400, especially if Idia is also eating at that time.

+ I think his metabolism is fast, but also a bit odd. He is a young person, and therefore he strikes me as the type to get randomly hungry. If asked very nicely (and with the promise of physical affection in some form) he'd be incredibly willing to make his partner something to munch on when he makes his own.

+ Despite Idia's partner being literally held captive in his room, with all his suspicious items and, worst of all, himself, Idia is about as respectful as a kidnapper can be about demanding sex. He doesn't like to be physically forceful about it, and he often will just jerk off in the bathroom.

+ The reason for this is very simple: If Ortho ever saw Idia having sex with ANYONE, Idia would spontaneously combust. Well, obviously he doesn't know that for certain, but it's a theory that he is not willing to test. He won't even talk about his preferences around his little brother.

+ As far as I'm aware, most people in captive situations do not tend to ask their kidnapper to fuck them unless they're being threatened in some way, but Idia's partner isn't typically being threatened (ignore the shock collar,) so they never ask Idia to have sex.

+ This does not stop Idia from being a whiny bitch about not having sex enough as soon as Ortho is gone for a few hours. The close quarters and sudden advent of a human being who he doesn't mind touching him is a big thing for Idia.

+ Ortho goes on "walks" in a sort of unusual schedule. That is to say that he doesn't have a schedule. If something needs to be picked up, he's tired of Idia not listening to him, he has his own stuff to do, or he just feels like it, Ortho will go out, sharing his location with Idia. From there, Idia will typically calculate how long it'd take Ortho to get back paired with whatever Ortho said he was going to do before he left, and see if he can squeeze in some coerced touching.

+ So. Good luck, Idia's partner. Idia will make a big stink until he gets bored or his partner gives in. His partner usually gives in, based on fear of what he might do alone.

+ Bedtime is somewhat randomized. If Ortho was out, when he comes back and it's any time after 2000, he will very subtly try to get Idia and his partner to start winding down. If both or one ignores him, he'll start getting upset.

+ Like I said, Ortho is kinda bossy. He will nag someone, and the worst part is that he's usually got their best interest in mind.

+On the off chance that Idia decides to go to bed at a decent time, he curls up behind his partner. He runs hot and smells smoky, and at some times it's not the worst thing. Some times.

+ By the way, a lot of this flies out the window in the event that Idia decides to attend classes in person. This is rare, so don't expect it to happen often, but it's not as good as it could be. Ortho goes with him and he locks up any way to reach the outside world, so all his partner has to entertain themselves is his manga collection, or the fun pastime of destruction of property. (This is a very bad idea, and I can expand on punishments later.)

+ In Idia's partner's case, every day is much of the same but just a little different, which makes it hard to keep track of time. The fact that Idia prefers low lighting and no natural light doesn't help this whatsoever.

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #tw: dark content #tw: dark themes #tw: yandere #yandere #twst #tw captivity #tw coercion #tw noncon mention #yandere idia shroud #yandere idia x reader #tw inability to sleep #idia shroud #twst idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia x reader #ortho shroud #anon asks #anon answered #thank you for sending an ask!!

[blueberryarchive]

𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.

୨ৎpairing: cowboy!jm x reader x preacher!jk

୨ৎword count: 5k

୨ৎgenre: smut, horror, angst

୨ৎtw: dead dove do not eat, mentions of death and gruesome details (human and animal), blood, mentions of arms and physical violence, cursing, smut (blood drinking and playing, period sex, rope play, degrading, dub-con, groping, penetration)

An Ewe and the Captive Bolt (a serie)

Today was his birthday, and for the first time in 28 years, the sky looked like a sheet full of spots. He felt ever since he saw Sirius and Canopus in the sky as two little white suns the night before, that this year was going to be different.

What Park didn't know was that what would be different was the pain he felt on the left side of his arm and his chest. The hot, thick blood soaked his shoulder and eye until it covered his eyelashes. The battered hat clutched in both dusty hands as he entered Carmen's diner, a child's shame on his tight lips.

The poor girl behind the counter dropped the key lime pie from her hands, creating even more noise in the place (which Jimin didn't appreciate being in such a state).

"Christ." She murmured, still static.

"Be a doll and bring me a glass of water, would ya'?" Jimin crawled to one of the seats, grunting as he felt his muscles burn.

The girl approached with a small towel and a terrified look.

"Never seen blood before?"

"No, sir." Her brown eyes were like two walnuts bouncing between Jimin's face and arms. She was adorable, her face round and her hair so curly that she reminded him of his sheep. If she hadn't been the sheriff's daughter, he said to himself every time he saw her.

"Are you hurt, sir? I can call my daddy and-"

"No need for that, sweetheart." He raised his hand. The last thing he needed was to have Montrell in his affairs. "It ain't my blood, it's my horse's"

Apparently, that seemed to affect the young woman more. Jimin was a little offended by her reaction.

"Why don't you bring me a piece of that delicious key lime pie you had in hand and two coffees."

There were more questions in her curved eyebrows, but she just nodded and walked away. Park took off his shirt, leaving a tank top underneath it, with the handkerchief that he kept in his jeans, he began to wet his hands and his face.

His fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline. The shrill sound of the car's tires driving away, the heated laughter cloistered behind the smoked windows, the last sharp sigh of his horse before Jimin ended his suffering. He had to find the bastards who ran over his horse. FH-6077, he read the plate in the distance before crossing the curve, and his brain couldn't stop humming the six digits like a prayer.

The sudden hand on his shoulder calmed the waters, the undoubtable smell of myrrh and tobacco from his companion.

"Happy birthday, buddy." His voice was gentle. If Jungkook ever went above a couple of those decibels, Jimin assumed he was going to die. Even seeing Park's bloody hat on the table and Park's bloodstained boots, he didn't flinch to ask.

Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical nature that gave him the confidence that at one time or another, others would fill the silence with their confessions. But Jimin could see in the father's noble eyes the desperation for an explanation.

"Sure." That was all he said. The girl approached the table with the pie and the coffee.

"Goodnight, Father John." She smiled widely.

"Night, Billie. How's your dad?"

"He really liked your mass today. I did too, I really liked the reading." Jimin noticed how the corners of Billie's lips twitched, contorting herself to try to look prettier for Father John. So obvious and adorable, but of course, Jeon would give nothing more than a shrug and the most predictable questions.

The difference is that Jungkook could fuck the sheriff's daughter. What father didn't want his daughter to be in the sacred hands of Father John?

Father Jeon (or John due to the Americanization of Jungkook's family) was tall, wide like a log, and robust like an unhorned bull. Attractive in every sense, but bland, shy until it hurts.

"'M glad, tell him I will visit Missus Davis next week."

"Do you have a smoke? I'm dying in here."

They both looked at Jimin who was just smiling with his mouth smeared with whipped cream.

"You can't smoke here, sir."

Jimin winked at her, grabbing the white stick that Jungkook handed him as he also sat down to end the unbearable flirting.

"I know, pumpkin. It'll be a quick one, I promise."

The girl didn't say anything else, and she walked away. Disappointment in her walnut eyes.

"I'll marry her in two months." Said Jungkook.

Jimin frowned. Jungkook curled his fingers, pointing for his friend to come closer and light the tip of the tobacco.

"Marry her? You can barely tolerate the poor girl."

"I love her." The father stated as he nodded slowly while he drank his coffee. "She's a good girl, I think she likes me, too."

"Are ya sure?" Jimin joked.

"Where's that bad hoss you've been riding since last month?"

Jimin's blood warmed again, the drags on his cigarette even longer.

"Fuckin' punks ran over 'im and broke his ribs. Had to do it." He pointed to the gun under his hat. The bloody clothes reminded him how clumsy he sure looked trying to pamper a horse that was already three steps away.

FH-6077.

"I'll find them tomorrow."

"I'll help you."

"What are you gonna do?"

They both looked at each other, the watery, electric current between them. Ideas undulated and braided between their cruel smiles.

"Haven't changed a bit, church boy." Smoke weaved into Jimin's blonde hair, his devilish smile vaporizing memories of his teenage pranks.

Jungkook drank the last of his coffee, his face falling back into the same bitter sadness that every father held as if he carried the weight of all the souls and sins of Rivermouth on his back. The silence was long afterward, the black night extended to the mountains, to the sky, to Park's own reflection in the glass. The round face with pronounced lips and rude, detailed eyes, sweet when they feel like it. The spitting image of his mother.

"I have some hippies coming to the ranch tomorrow."

Jungkook nodded, the pressure in the handle increasing, the clack of the cup being clenched by his teeth in a sip. Jimin knew he shouldn't have mentioned the hippies, but it was that ecclesiastical power. He knew that Jungkook hated the smell of pot, the long hair, and the colorful t-shirts, which reminded him of his father, previous father John.

God knows what Jungkook had to witness, the carbonic stench that emanated from that charred skeleton. The tongue pressed between two pieces of blackish board that used to be teeth. The fetid fat that ripped and curdled in the organs. There was not a day in which the poor man did not think about that before going to sleep and found himself face to face with the featureless face of his father, with the incinerated bowls pointed at the eyes of his son. Sitting in the chair under the cross that has sat on that wall since Jungkook's birth.

And Jungkook cried. He would close his eyes and every night, he would grab the skull and make it crunch under his thick hands. The body did not defend itself, it let its boy vent as if he were a sacred entity and knew that at the same time, the next day and every other day, he would appear again in that chair, and Jungkook would never be able to exhaust his anger against him.

"I have to go." It was the only thing he said leaving a ten dollar bill in the table. Park understood. "Go fetch a new hat from my house tomorrow, it's about time you threw that shit in the river."

"Hey."

Jungkook turned around. Jimin stopped smiling.

"Take it home in the morning, I'll make you breakfast before the rodeo."

Jeon looked at the floor with uneasy eyes.

"We'll see."

As he left the diner, the fresh wind conquered the father's soul. Nostalgia washed away his stony face and for the first time in years, he wanted to be a child again. Disappear with Jimin and sleep in the old hayfields of the abandoned Hillside.

He put on his black hat and started walking down the dark street, both hands in his pockets.

Today the smell of boiling fat was stronger than ever, the ghost of his father floated in the swirls of Rivermouth dust and, with it, the remains of the children who were later taken from that same cabin.

The white lace curtains let in the yellowish light of the first rays. The unmade bed, the smell of pine in the sheets.

In one corner of the bed, Park was dressing for the day, the muscles in his shoulder had swollen with the hours and makeshift cloths covered the open, bloody sores. Every so often, he hissed and swore under his breath.

The coffee began to gurgle in the kitchen as he finished putting on his boots, it was barely 6:30, but he already had the eggs frying and the beans hot in the pot. It seemed strange to him that his companion was not already sitting next to the window, Bible open and the first cigarette of the morning in his hand.

He turned off the stove just in time and poured himself a cup. Today he felt more domestic than ever, he had spent the night fixing every detail in the ranch, from the dust on his late mother's china to the rifles displayed in the hallway. To be frank, he spent the entire night cleaning every corner, maybe detailing every object in every room so that at the end of the weekend nothing would be missing, or the crash made him remember how little he's done in 28 damn years.

A porcelain jewelry box his mother had placed in one of the rooms was covered in a thin layer of gray dust; it was his mother's favorite piece. He hadn't opened it since the last time he stole a couple of pearls to buy his first rifle, the red stained his face with shame, and the only thing he could do as an apology was turn the house over with his own handkerchief and clean even the windows. He was surprised that the smell of lye and soap hadn't killed him.

Hearing one of his sheep bleating, he opened the window and decided to lower his chivalry a bit and smoke his first cigarette before Jungkook arrived. In the distance, he could see one of his ewes, fat and terribly woolly, walking slowly towards the barn. She was pregnant and Jimin knew that there were maybe 24 hours left, her skin was bulging, and her bleating was painful and whiny, she couldn't take it anymore.

The curtain caressed Jimin's face with the wind that was beginning to warm up, he took a drag of the cigarette and turned his body towards the kitchen. He felt a strange itch in his chest, the kind that bothers him when he senses a spirit floating near him. The greenish branches and the smell of sausages were mixed up with the subtle gallop of a skinny horse and the unexpected smell of myrrh.

He walked to the front door and opened it to find Jeon's promised hat. He sighed as he saw that not only was it one of his black deathly-looking hats, but he had also planted him at breakfast, sure to go see the grandmother of his very unexpected but predictable fiancée.

Long story short, Jimin had to eat four cowboys' breakfast and the whole pot of coffee, and the hat he would wear to the rodeo today didn't match his outfit at all. Dozing was the only thing he could do after loosening the buckle on his belt and putting the hat on his face.

The leather furniture was sinking under his body, the soft song of the river in the distance, and the birds pecking at his roof took him back to his childhood. Sleeping wherever he wanted without any purpose. He dreamed of the gallops of his first horse: Champ, a Tennesee Walking that had belonged to his grandfather, black as coal, glistening in the sun of his student days and running like a devil in a hurry. He dreamed that he was in public showing the animal to auction it.

"How do you encourage a horse to move forward, Sage?" A woman in the audience shouted.

"I don't know, kick his ass or something." Heavenly laughter coaxed him out of his lethargy.

His body sat on the furniture before he knew it, sweat covering his back, veins marked on the left side of his face. He ran with the unconscious weight of his body to the window, pushing the curtain aside with his finger until he saw the circular corral where his star horse, Arrow, was located, with a stranger on his back.

His fingers reached for the rifle lying on the rocking chair.

The blonde girl staggered on top of the animal while her thin fingers held his hair tightly. The horse's sleepy eyes moved from side to side, snorting as he searched for direction.

"Come on, horsie!" The girl snapped her teeth and laughed as the horse curved to one side. "Are you seeing, Hunter? It's moving."

Hunter was smiling foolishly, lying on the grass, his thin, wavy hair fluttering around his ears like a delicate flower. The dark glasses covered his wounded deer's eyes.

"You're such a cowgirl, my love." His voice was sarcastic.

And with a shot into the air, silence muted nature. He silenced the current, the clucking of the chickens that fluttered in the distance. Hunter, Sage, and Blondie turned to the cowboy who walked slowly across the grass towards them. A whistle from the stranger caused Arrow to raise his front paws until Blondie fell with a screech to the hard ground.

"Kitty!"

"Woah, cowboy." Jimin's silky voice approached, placing the buttplate of his rifle on his shoulder, aiming directly between Hunter's eyebrows. "Move slowly, ya wouldn't want to scare an alarmed man any further, now would ya?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

Blondie or Kitty or whatever her name was, rolled her red eyes.

"What the hell are you doing on my ranch?"

"Let's go, Hunter. I'm not going to talk to cornman." Sage was the tallest of them all, her shorts squeezed her thighs until they were overflowing, and her hair was long like a beach princess.

"Watch your fucking language around me, missy." Gritted Jimin removing the safety on the rifle.

"Sage, for once do you want to shut the fuck up."

Hunter raised his hands, sweat beginning to gather on his wrinkled forehead. His eyes shone as he heard the heels slowly approaching behind Jimin.

"Love." He exhaled.

"Is this part of southern charm, Mr. Park?" Coquettish, the dying accent of someone who once lived in these parts, daring, too much for her own good. But still, he lowered the gun, spitting on the ground.

When he turned around it was as if a pink burst of glitter and vanilla had slapped him from the stupor of sleep. The glasses were square and large, they covered almost her entire face, that was the first thing Jimin saw.

"Ma'am, are these your friends?"

"We are your visitors, cornman." Jimin ignored the Californian's irritating nasal whine as the sweet girl in front of him approached little by little with a smile. He felt the itch again, the one that senses a spirit floating nearby, this spirit was the nebulous memory of your face.

"Could you speak again, ma'am?"

"Sorry?" You laughed, and it was like birds were chirping in your throat. "You're Ari's son, right? I really liked the jams your grandmother used to make."

And oh, it couldn't be more obvious. It couldn't be more evident, not even because God had exploded your name in the sky. It was the stunning makeup and hair wax, it was the sequined heels and Patsy Cline songs reverberating from the old speakers. It was your name in the newspaper almost every week.

It was your sailor costume, the jam falling from your humiliated face, it was Jimin's hand caressing the bulge in his jeans that same night on top of the hay, imagining how you ate the strawberry jam that his mother made.

Now you called yourself Love, the name was as obvious as you were. Of course, your hippie name is Love.

"Miss Peaches '57." His voice was soft and trembling. Your eyes opened in surprise.

"Gods, I didn't even remember that title." You put your hand on your mouth, dressed as a Hollywood girl but your loving manners were indelible.

"Excuse me, where are my manners? Jimin Park." He raised his hand for you to place in yours, light and trusting. A chaste kiss to the back of your hand without stopping to see your eyes behind the orange glasses.

"You can call me Love."

"A sight to sore eyes, Love."

"Always." You responded. Jimin swallowed hard, trying to hide that nostalgic smile, 'pure in every way. With that same smile, he invited the four to go through their rooms, the tension subsiding fluidly with each laugh that came from your blessed lips.

It was as if you said one thing and the sun came a little closer, deorbiting out to your echoes, warming the room and Jimin's cheeks.

"Can you help me look for my suitcases?" You touched the shoulder of the cowboy who agreed and guided you to the front door. Like the good boy his mother raised, he opened the door for you, and outside stood a Packard Caribbean: long, yellow, and sleek as a sunflower.

"Nice ride."

"Thank you, it's from Hunter's dad. He gave it to him for his birthday. Isn't it a beauty?"

"Beautiful." His nose scrunched watching your stomach bulge down your cute little top, hard nipples contouring the pink fabric. You still were just good enough to eat.

Examining the car little by little, a detail began to emerge in his memory. Among them, glowing in the heat of that morning were the six digits from the night before: FH-6077.

When it came to religion Jimin didn't have many opinions.

As a kid his mother went to church every Sunday and took him. He saw the statues of Jesus suffering with indifferent eyes, he made his first communion only because they promised to give him a sip of wine with the host, he listened to the stories of death and plagues as if they were cartoons. 

God was a very complicated being, the more he thought about him, the heavier his body became.

To his surprise, God was nothing more than a sham, a wall between you and him. The host, that time Jungkook's father offered him, tasted like nothing and the wine went down his young throat tasteless.

"Body of Christ." You said, the music playing crisply on the record player Hunter had brought. The guitars repeated the same riff over and over, he hated it.

Jimin stuck his tongue out where you placed a small square of magazine paper no bigger than a fingernail. Jimin’s eyelashes fluttered, his knees throbbing as he knelt in front of you, your thumb brushing against his lips before sealing them.

"Amen," he sighed.

The host that you offered to his mortal body was as tasteless as the first, but only Jimin knew the euphoria that, like a hurricane's wind, announced the sweet path that awaited the cowboy.

Jimin was not a man who smoked more than five cigarettes a day, seven if it was a bad day. But your siren song in his ear convinced him to drown his morals in your dark waters, your hands took both sides of his tanned face and you threw him without warning to your sanctuary, towards the steepest rocks, to your glorious eyes. And damn, Park could drink the water from your pupils and die of poisoning.

"I missed you so much, I didn't know it until the moment I saw you." His lips said before thinking about it, narrow pupils lying on the grass next to you. You just laughed, it was the only thing you did and he just admired it.

At one point around noon, Jimin took the steering wheel of the Packard. Hunter, Sage, and Kitty were talking about a record, making strange sounds and asking the opinion of Jimin who was driving down the dusty road, making the engine roar so that you would scream next to him.

"Slow down!" You asked. He went faster, he didn't care.

The purring of the car made Jimin's body pulse, his mouth was dry, his arm no longer hurt, and his lips prayed the license plate of the car, over and over again.

I'm going to find it, he told himself. And when I find him I'm going to make them suffer, as the tips of the horse's bones pierced its dark fur, neighing over his own stupid words trying to calm the wounded animal.

Faster, find it.

Like oil, the green branches of summer became watery and greasy in his vision, and the dust was stalactites that bathed the car in yellow.

"Good luck, cowboy." Kitty approached Jimin, somehow he had made it to the rodeo. The horns announced his name on all four corners and people shouted his last name like the idol he was.

Sage and Kitty kissed his cheeks before he climbed on top of Arrow, the weight of his body creating echoes every time he moved.

There was no one in that audience who saw Jimin on his horse who was not surprised by the agility with which the rope rose above his head and created fluid circles to catch the rough calf that writhed with the knot in its thick neck.

Jungkook saw from a distance how the cowboy's smile was so bright, how he rejoiced at the applause and the roses that were thrown at him. His movements were vehement, fiery, and impulsive like a devil without fear of death.

The hat Jungkook had given him had a small, withered pink carnation on it. He stood up as quickly as he could at the end of the show, but before he could talk to him he only saw Arrow galloping thunderously in the distance, one girl was wearing the gifted hat, she grabbed Jimin's waist and with the other, she gave whiskey to the cowboy. The copper thread falls to his chest and settles on his strap.

"The sight of him today was incredible, I had never seen 'im like that." Billie smiled behind Jungkook, her cheeks red, eyes covered with a fine lust that she probably didn't even recognize.

The firmament rose high above his eyes, there was no star that Jimin didn't feel the overwhelming sound of fire burning in his ears. His body was sweating on the grass, and the smell of nicotine was strong after smoking two cigarettes to settle his reverberating body. The high had passed and his body was a used towel.

He doesn't remember much of what happened, but the remnants of the hallucinogen's burn made him understand that he had the damn time of his life. A laugh left his lips, embarrassed by how easy it was to convince him to do that stupid thing. What Jungkook told him was true: you haven't changed at all, cowboy.

"How's my favorite rodeo king?" The angel landed above his head, you were wearing his hat and a flowered dress.

"Roughened up, I guess." Just like after a good fuck.

"Don't get hooked or you'll end up like Hunter." You combed your hair as you walked around him. "He can't last a day without it or else he starts hitting Kitty."

"Why don't you report it?" Jimin stood following your steps. After looking around him for a few seconds, he realized that he was in the rodeo arena, darkness bathed the stadium. The blue moon showed your silhouette walking over the horseshoe tracks.

"Because Kitty doesn't want to, they are going to get married in a few months. He promised to stop doing drugs when they did. It wouldn't be good for a kid."

There was a lightness in the promises the Californians made to others, they nodded seriously, but you could see the consequences in their evasive gaze.

Jimin nodded.

"Are you always so quiet?"

He nodded again, and they both laughed.

"'M better when I'm not ten feet deep in an LSD hangover, I can assure that."

"Yes, but..." Your silhouette approached his body, and you carried the energy of ten bulls on you. Your immortal look, you haven't changed anything. "I asked if you're always this quiet."

Jimin inhaled as he understood your question.

"When I'm in the stadium I'm more vocal." He again evaded the answer you were looking for so much. His chest beat boldly like the time he saw you covered in strawberries and sugar.

"You were a star this afternoon, your eyes were shining."

"Always."

You raised your eyebrow and scoffed. "Sure thing, sir."

Blood surged to Park's neck, his eyelids drooping, his pride tainting his flirtation. Enough of the games.

"Run." He murmured, saliva pooling in his throat.

You frowned with your typical smile.

"What?"

"I asked you to run." His body suddenly lunged and you became alarmed, raising your hands. "As fast and as far from this stadium as you can."

His pupils didn't move, his soft smile was confident. Your skin grew cold with each step, at first slow and suspicious, the darkness of the large arena was intimidating because it felt like you were not moving forward.

You heard how an object created hollow, sharp sounds in the air. It was his lasso.

"No." You muttered, running even faster.

And swoosh, you fell to the ground. The rope squeezed your neck, leaving your body in mid-air, your tongue came out and your eyes bulged from the sudden lack of air; the hat fell away from you. Your body was no longer yours, your stupid fingers tried to loosen the knot, but it was too late.

The boots approached, collecting the rope that was left over around his arm. The silhouette became part of your blurred vision.

"Stand up."

"I. Can't." Your lips emulated as you writhed like a worm in the dust.

"Lemme' help ya'." Jimin snatched the rope for you to stand up, your knees moved up to him where his fingers loosened the knot a little. "Breathe, little girl. We don't want an accident."

Saliva came out of your mouth in streams and fell to the floor. Jimin grabbed your chin and wiped it.

"Don't make a mess now."

"I'm sorry, sir." And now you sounded as helpless and stupid as Hunter did this morning. It was adorable.

You were afraid to look up, your eyes trained on the hat a few meters away from both of you.

"Tell me, pumpkin. How can two ugly sons of bitches like your parents have such a beautiful girl?" He laughed, dragging the rope to where his hat was, you walked behind him with careless steps. With a couple of blows, he blew the dust off his hat and looked at you again, searching for an answer you didn't even know how to articulate or if you should.

His hand wrapped the rope around his fingers until he had you as close as possible, the smell of tobacco hammered your temples, and your eyelids wrinkled to try to wake up. 

Great was the surprise when you felt a pair of dry lips resting on yours, his tongue daringly passed over your lips so that you would open, his moans softening your fear.

His saliva was bitter and lovely, his tongue running flat across the outside of your mouth until it reached your chin and the tip of your nose.

"Let's see, open your mouth, sugar. Don't be shy."

You obeyed as the knot tightened around your neck, moaning as his lips sucked on the tip of your tongue and bit your bottom lip.

"God have mercy." He sighed, squeezing your chin with his hand. "How can you taste so damn sweet."

You moaned as you felt his teeth nibble gently at your neck, his fingers piling the fabric of your dress around his fingers.

“Mm,” you squealed, walking away even when it didn’t suit you. "Can't."

"It's a good thing I didn't ask." Jimin brought you closer, caressing your neck again.

"I'm on my days." Shame sealing your thoughts, in your eyes the hope that just the thought of seeing the blood would disgust him.

Jimin raised his eyebrows and slowly kissed you again, this time with the softness of an apology.

"A cowboy doesn't mind a little dirt." He murmured, touching the soaked towel that covered your underwear, two fingers pushed aside and the burning of your pussy collided with his cold fingers drawing a moan from your hurt throat.

"A good cowboy loves to get dirty." He smiled, removing the two soaked fingers from the red viscosity to put it in his mouth with a frown on his eyebrows. "Mm." He grunted, swallowing slowly.

You were speechless, stupefied. Who was this demon?

"Have you ever ridden a bull before?" His blood-tainted lips said, the idea shocking your senses.

You denied it, and God knows that was the stupidest answer you could give.

The animal began to make a mechanical noise beneath both of them, the leather surface pressed your thighs against the mechanical bull that began to move slowly.

Jimin's bestial eyes did not take off from you, the last of the bottle of whiskey went down his throat in long gulps and pushed the glass into the distance causing a roar.

Your legs were above his defined thighs, the bleeding wound between your legs dirtying his jeans but the cowboy didn't seem to mind. The dress already forgotten outside the stadium playing area.

"We'll go slowly because it's your first time on top." His consideration was so minimal, considering the situation. But you were a woman whose details annihilated your logic.

To the front and sides and then a gentle turn, this is how the animal began. Jimin moved his center with the animal, the bulge in his pants rubbing against your pussy.

One of his hands approached the dripping hole and with four fingers collected the blood until it painted his hand.

“Ah,” he requested, sticking his tongue out and you followed suit. His fingers got smeared on his tongue and cheeks until they reached his neck. With his tongue he passed over his lips, like wine he drank you, like sweet he possessed you and rejoiced.

His tongue entered your space again, the strange and bitter taste of your own blood while with his fingers he removed the zipper of his jeans until he showed that he was not wearing underwear underneath him, his tall and throbbing cock moved under his fist.

"Climb on, doll. You're wet enough for me." He laughed taking your body to sit on top of him. You hugged him as tight as you could as the mechanical animal began to move faster.

"We're going to fall." You whimpered. "Hurts".

"Shh, shh. Let me medicate you, it'll stop hurtin' when I dick you properly." One spank and his fingers squeezed the skin of your ass tightly. "You just have to move with me."

To the front, to the sides, two turns. You just had to keep your legs elevated a little, Jimin's cock sliding smoothly in and out with each movement.

"Now you're getting it. Fuck." Jimin hissed, squeezing your waist with his forearm. "You're quite the cowgirl, Love."

You moaned, pressing your forehead to his. His eyes absorbed every curve, from your breasts to your red-painted thighs. You were an angel, a myth that devours men. Your songs of pleasure echoing on the aluzinc walls.

The animal began to attack, abrupt and deeper.

"Does it hurt?" You asked between moans, watching the fabrics covering Jimin's arm begin to dye again. Jimin denied, cuntdrunk.

You removed the knot of cloth from the wound on Jimin's arm, running your thin fingers over the bleeding muscle. Park hissed, and the walls of your pussy tightened.

More, you wanted more.

Your lips sucked on the sores until you felt the metallic taste in your throat, Jimin pressed your body against yours. One turn, two forwards, three up. Your poor body trembled with the desire for the game to end but your pussy still wanted your walls to expand until Jimin's cock was molded inside you forever.

"If I knew you were such a slut." Park grabbed your hair to pull you away from his arm.

"If I knew cowboys fucked so well." The bloody smile of both of you was devilishly erotic.

The bull stopped suddenly, you looked at the man standing on the other side of you, rifle in hand, hot tears burning his cheeks.

"Jungkook? Jeon!" It was the last thing you heard before you fell face first onto the inflated floor, blood flowing warm and your eyelids falling softly.

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