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peach-cream-enmu-archive · 2 years

Text

Head empty. No thoughts other than chubby!reader doing naked apron for Gojo to walk in on after he gets home from a mission. Dude is smitten and his innuendo as he gropes you is vulgar and not the least bit subtle: "Wowee, wowee, wowee~! Aren't I lucky to come home to an absolute feast~!" he sings, immediately coming up behind you to grab your hips. "Where should I start? With some breast meat?" his palms dive into the front of your apron to grab your chest, massaging and plucking at your nipples before continuing his spiel, "but the thighs are so tasty!" He tickles his way down back to your thighs, one hand softly pinching and jiggling the fat with his cheeky affection. Bringing you firmly into his hold, Gojo grinds his growing erection against your ass, reassuring you that despite all his joking, he's still VERY excited about seeing how much you missed him. He moans low in your ear, "I have the sweetest partner ever. You take such good care of me." His hand slides down your hip into the front of your apron. He moans sensually and bites his lip when he grabs your muff. "You even made my favorite~" he coos in an appreciative tone, flexing his fingers and fondling your mound in his giant, calloused hand. "So juicy and tender," he groans, hearing the squelching of your wet folds when he squeezes. "Such a generous helping, too." You squeak when he smacks the fat of your pussy, and he decides he can't wait anymore. You're not surprised when he finally picks you up, but very much so when he places you stomach-down on the counter, your hips resting comfortably on the surface when he kneels down behind you and spreads your cheeks. "Mmm, the glaze is always the tastiest part." Despite, the hot breath fanning on your vulnerable pussy, you're ready to tell him to knock it off with the innuendo, but your breath hitches when his tongue presses against the top of your slit, laying flat as it drags slowly against your folds, circling your entrance a few times before retreating. Gojo never stops talking, speaking between kissing and smacking his lips against your wet pussy. "So good, baby, so yummy <3 'm so fucking hungry~" His words make your face burn red hot and you bite your lip to hold in your sounds. Despite his playful teasing, his grip on your ass never yielded, holding you open and exposed to brief catches of air. It made you more needy for his touch, his warmth, and you couldn't keep from squirming in frustration, desperate for the silky caress of his warm tongue again. You audibly whine when you feel him draw back, crying out his name when he purposefully blows a puff of cold air right against your twitching entrance. "Don't worry, baby," he purrs in a low tone, pressing tender kisses up your thigh and ass. "I'll get to your pie, I promise. I just wanna try the cake first." It's the only warning you get before he shoves that slick, venomous tongue into your puckered rim. ----Honey Tree Anon

I’m not into ass stuff but once again your writing is so good! Gojo’s hands feel so good I just know they do😩 and him completely lifting you into the counter!!! Please sir you can have me!!!

#submission #honey tree anon #cream kaisen #cream filled

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oberynmartell · 5 years

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your kiss

There’s something about it, knowing that you can bring him to his knees like this. The biggest man you’ve ever known, ever seen, with his badge and his gun and his arms that are so big they could snap your neck in an instant, and you can bring him to his knees with just a single word, a single look. You’ve never felt so turned on, so powerful, as you do when kneels before you, lips parted, dark eyes glazed with love and lust and so many things you can see every time he looks at you, as he silently begs to touch you.

The station is nearly empty, the bare bones night crew long ago dispersed to their respective zones. Flip and Jimmy were the only ones left in the bullpen so late at night, but the moment you had come through the door looking so sweet in your yellow sundress Jimmy had pushed himself up out of his chair and excused himself to the kitchen, the way his eyes met your proving he knew exactly why you had schlepped all the way downtown after midnight.

Flip grinned when he saw you, the kind of smile that went all the way through him, from the long legs that stretched toward you to the smirk that played at his lips and the half-lidded eyes that widened at the sight of you.

“You didn’t have to come all the way down here, baby. It’s so late already.” he says, pretending to be stern, but you can feel the way his fingers play with the hem of your dress as you come to stand before him. He pushes himself back from his desk and pats his lap, waits for you to take your seat across his firm thighs.

“I didn’t have to.” You say, feeling his lips drag along the column of your neck, feeling that he’s already half hard against your thighs. His arms drape around you, holding you close against him, holding you so tight that you can feel how truly happy he was to see you.

“Mmm.” he hums, nibbling gently at the spot behind your ear that has your back arching, feeling his tongue run across the aging bruise that already lay there. He strokes your back lovingly, a Flip-typical gesture that has your heart clenching as much as your cunt, and it’s like he knows, because the smirk half hidden by his goatee grows wider.

“Maybe I missed you.” You breathe, feeling his eyes slide down to your lips as you speak. Your fingers skim down the front of his flannel, feeling his muscle bunch and tighten beneath your hands as he tries to impress you, to show you how strong he is, as if you didn’t already know— as if just the sight of his firm chest and broad shoulders didn’t already make you wet. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Flip kisses you, soft, smooth, simple, a preamble to what is inevitably to come.

He shifts you in his lap, soporific, rubbing himself against you. “That why you wore my favourite dress?” he asks, scratching his chin with the backs of his fingers. Your fingers splay across his chest, slipping through the space between his buttons, feeling his bare skin hot as the precincts fiery space heater, and when he shivers, it isn’t from the cold of your fingers.

Flip pushes you to your feet, holding your hand so he can spin you, can watch the way the light yellow cotton lifts and floats around your long legs. “Like sunshine.” he admires, his hands sliding up your thighs as he pulls you back to him, his legs widening to accept you between them.

“How’d I get so lucky?” he says lowly, and you wonder if he’s talking to himself then.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and you might get lucky twice tonight.” You tease, stepping back from him to push yourself up onto his desk, sitting yourself down right on top of all those papers and files he had just been so focused on, and you think wickedly that the next time he goes to work the pages would bear the marks of your lovemaking.

“Don’t tease me now honey.” he said sternly, turning to face you. “You know I can’t resist when you look at me like that.”

You preen under his gaze and his words, and spread your legs.

Flip follows the movement, soft lips parting as they ache to delve back beneath your dress and chase you to another orgasm, missing the way you tremble and shake beneath him, the way he can always taste how sweet you are when you come for him.

You smile sweetly, so sweetly, and spread your legs wide for him, never having felt as powerful as you do when he sinks to his knees before you. His hands slide up your thighs slowly, your dress rising from the friction of his palms, and when he sees you aren’t wearing any panties his jaw works so tight you worry for his teeth.

He can’t help but lick his lips, tugging at the leg of his jeans in search of some relief to the almost uncomfortable arousal he feels, so turned on that he can barely stand to be this close to you and not be inside of you.

His eyes are dark as obsidian as they meet yours, searching, beseeching, and while you had planned on a lot more teasing and a lot more begging, you take pity on the poor man, beckoning him forward with one curling finger and whispering, “You can touch me, detective.”

He doesn’t wait another moment, kissing the flat of your calves, the sides of your knees, the meat of your thighs. He’s so close he can see your wetness, can smell your arousal, feeling the heat of your core against the lips he licks in anticipation.

He guides you onto your back, balling up his jacket so you have something soft to lay your head upon, and uses his arm to push aside his phone and his keyboard and the framed photo of you so that you had more space. His thumb brushes across your clit just hard enough to have your back arching and your thighs lifting off the desk, just like they do when he drapes them over his shoulders and licks between your legs, and when he lets his rough fingers drag across your cunt you cant help but let your head fall back as pleasure washes over you.

Flip noses at you softly at first, pressing a series of lazy kisses across your folds, lavishing in the feel of how wet you are against his lips. He wants to work you to your peak slowly, wants to make this last and last and last— but he knows Jimmy can only keep the other detectives busy for so long, so before you even have a chance to catch your breath he ventures deeper.

His face presses against you, the flag of his tongue lapping at the wetness between your folds, the wetness that causes his ego to swell when he knows it was caused by him. His long nose bumps purposefully against your clit, a thick finger reaching to press into you slowly and the gasp you let out feels light and pretty as music.

Your fingers rise from where they had been massaging the back of his neck to card through his hair, fisting into the dark curls as he sets to work, your grip tightening each time he makes your thighs tremble and your cunt clench, until you’re holding him just like he likes, almost enough to make him come right then and there from the mix of pleasure and pain.

“Shit honey.” he moans, and you can feel the sound reverberate through your body like a blow. His hand nearly spans the width of your hips, pressing just hard enough to keep you from bolting off the desk as he kisses your wet cunt. “You taste so good. I swear I’ve never tasted anything so sweet.”

You gasp at the words and at the intrusion of a second finger, wishing then that there were two of him, so you could feel his lips on your cunt and your mouth at the same time, and by the time he pushes another finger inside of you, you can already feel your peak beginning to build up at the tips of your toes and the back of your neck, a dull vibration ringing through you like the repercussion of a freshly struck bell.

Flip watches you, always likes to watch you. When you’re washing the dishes in nothing but one of his old flannels, with the sleeves rolled up and balled at your elbows, when you’re on your knees beside the tub as you wash the dog, laughing as you’re sprayed with wetness when she tries to shake herself dry. When you’re sleeping beside him, so peaceful, and you look so soft and sweet that he can’t help but touch you, let his fingertips drag across the slopes of your warm cheeks or the curves of your bare shoulders as you nuzzle closer to him.

But his very favourite is to watch you like this— when you’re falling apart, coming undone under his hands, his lips, his cock.

With your eyes pressed closed and your mouth thrown open and your hands fisting in his dark hair, Flip feels like a God— better than a God, because he isn’t sure a God could touch you like this. He watches your cunt clench beneath his ministrations, your breasts heaving as he moves your thighs over his shoulders like the finest scarf he owns, watches the way redness floods your cheeks so full that it begins to curl down your neck and toward your regretfully covered chest.

“God!” You cry, eyes wide and filled with tears from the pleasure of it all. “I’m so...I need-“

“I got you, honey.” he says, and you believe him.

He’d do anything for you, he always tells you. Anything you want, anything you need. You can see it in his face when he’s working late and you come by the station with fresh coffee and sandwiches for he and Ron and Jimmy. You can hear it, in the steady beat of his heart when you wake in the night and find yourself pulled upon his warm chest, his strong arms wrapped around you almost tight enough to be uncomfortable.

He wants you so bad he considers taking your right then and there, in front of anyone who could walk by, considers hefting you into his arms and carrying you home and not giving a damn about abandoning his post. But you’re right here, right beneath him, and for now it’s enough.

“Flip!” You cry out, so overcome that it’s all you can say, breathing his name over and over like a sigh, like a prayer. “It’s-“ you begin, choking on the pleasure that bubbles through you. You can feel his teeth graze your clit, his beard rubbing against you so intensely that you know you’ll be sore, but Flip will find each mark after, will sooth away the welts with soft, warm kisses. “I can’t Flip. I’m gonna-“

Flip knows you, knows every face you make and every noise that spills from your lips when you come, when he makes you come, and he knows that you’re close. He shifts forward, his hand rising to your throat, pressing just firmly enough to stop the sound that threatens to spring forth as it so often does when he works you like this.

He lifts his gaze to look up at you, and you can see the love and reverence and unfettered desire in his dark eyes, and the way he purses his lips around your clit and begins to squeeze your throat in time with his lips is enough to shatter you, to push you over the edge and into the near blindness of pleasure.

He holds you through it, his eyes sweeping over you so intently it was as though he was trying to memorise every inch of you, every expression, every face. His tight hand at your throat stops the sound of your orgasm from ripping through the quiet precinct, and though he misses the way you moan, the way you call his name so huskily, as though you suddenly lose your voice when he’s inside of you, he can still savour in the way you shake, in the faces you make. Your brows pull together and your mouth falls open in a soundless shout, like a silent movie star caught in the throes of passion, and your body goes so tight beneath him that it seems like you might snap.

He stops working you that way, but continues to lay soft, open mouthed kisses across your cunt and your quivering thighs, carrying you gently through your orgasm. When the sweep of pleasure finally leaves you, you feel sated, boneless, like you could barely pull yourself off his desk, and you’re glad for the strength of his well-muscled arms as he lifts you up and sets you back on his lap, your weak body making Flip hold you like a ventriloquist with a puppet.

“I brought you coffee and doughnuts.” You say weakly and Flip doesn’t miss the smile in your voice. “I hear that’s what you officers like best.”

“No thanks, sweetness.” he says, chuckling darkly. He lifts you up and sets you back on your feet, offering a hand to keep you steady, and you take it happily, letting his arm fall across you to nestle between your breasts where it belongs. “I already had my dessert.”

You can see his cock pushing angrily against the front of his jeans and frown, hoping your cheeks aren’t too red as you look up at him.

“File room?” You ask, squeezing his arm. You’re more than familiar with the consistently empty room, having spent more hours with your face pressed into the old files or your ass resting against the cool steel of the filing cabinets than you can count.

He clicks his tongue, laying his jacket over your shoulders to hide the imprint his things had made upon your skin. “Not today honey.” he says and you falter, brow twitching in confusion. He smiles, takes your hand, pulls you close.“Who needs a file cabinet when you got a proper bed at home.”

You grin, avoiding Jimmy’s knowing eye as you pass him. “And a car.” You say, feeling the rush of cool air on your skin as you emerge into the night. “With a nice big backseat.”

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip x reader #sarcasticallyhateful #dreamboatdriver #aclamclriver #adumbdryer #babbushka #he-wayward-rose #i hope its okay i tagged you!#i wasnt sure #i just tagged my fave x reader writers #fic: freeform #fic: reader fic #drabbles

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platinumnib · 4 years

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Meet the Wessels

Prompt by @musikfurfreiheit: Charmer, Merel meets Charlotte’s parents for the first time. Very long overdue, I’m sorry, I’ve been busy and caught up in various obligations and obsessions.

Hope you enjoy.

“Just one more time, why are we in your parents’ house in secret making dinner for them?”

“It’s a nice surprise for christmas, isn’t it?”

“They think we’re two countries over snowboarding.”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise.”

“Why do I have to be here then?”

Charlotte waltzed towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Cooking alone for five is boring.”

Merel cocked her brow, unconvinced.

“They know we’re together, sweetheart,” Charlotte reminded her. “It’s not like you broke in to rob their liquor cabinet. We’ve cooked enough food to sway them anyhow.”

“You’re paying tribute in meat so they won’t shoot me, that’s comforting.”

“It’s a joke, you donut, go set the table!”

With a sigh of resignation, Merel went into the dining room and searched the cupboards for the “good” china. five people were more than she had ever set a table for, but even through all the apprehension, the idea was pleasant. The idea of family gathered around a meal to celebrate nothing in particular beyond having each other.

Charlotte heard the clatter of broken glass. She hurried to the dining room to find Merel standing unsteadily above a puddle full of shards.

“I’m sorry, I… I heard a car in the driveway,” she stuttered.

“I’ll take care of the breakables,” Charlotte directed, “you don’t touch anything that’s not squishy.”

In moments, the mess was cleaned up, the dinner table was set, and Charlotte disappeared into the kitchen again.

Merel was close behind, wrenching her hands and worrying at her bottom lip.

“Charlie, this isn’t a good idea, they’re gonna hate me, and they’ll yell and everything will be a big-”

Before she knew it, Charlotte was holding her close and shushing her like a child. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” she said.

“You always say that,” Merel groaned, hiding her fearful expression in the red hair.

Charlotte tightened the embrace and hummed in her lover’s ear.

“I’ve been right so far, haven’t I?”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t worry. This is my family, and you’re going to be part of it.”

Merel unwound a little and nodded. Eventually, she let go.

Charlotte put on a pair of mitts and slowly, carefully withdrew the centerpiece of the feast-to-be from the oven. It was a thing of beauty: a roast ham studded with cloves, glazed with honey, baked for a century or so it had felt.

Her squeamishness wouldn’t allow her to handle a full carcass, and so they had foregone the customary goose or hare, but the old guard would surely understand. Merel had served as the reluctant taster - less and less reluctant the more she had sampled.

Fragrant steam filled the kitchen with heady smells of herbs and cooking juices. With great effort, the ham was laid in the largest dish they could find on a bed of roasted vegetables.

Just then, the bell rang.

“Come on, time to meet the gang.”

“Umm you - you go,” Merel stuttered. “I’ll be right out. In a minute…”

Perhaps it wasn’t the worst idea to give her a few moments to compose herself.

“I’ll go say hi, take your time and get ready for first contact, alright?”

Merel just leaned back against the worktop and listened closely as if for the sound of a gun cocking. It was all ridiculous, even for her scaredy cat self, and yet the visceral anguish that grabbed at her guts and twisted them into a knot was not going away.

The key turned in the lock, some cheerful greetings and pleasantries were exchanged on the other side of the wall and the surprise was taken well as far as she could tell.

Then, a stentorian voice shook every wall in the house.

“So where is this daughter in law of mine?”

Merel gulped, mechanically removed her stained apron, and walked out of the kitchen to meet her fate.

*** *** ***

“How many strays?”

“Thirty-one, in one winter’s time!” Merel chirped “You just can’t leave them on the streets when it gets this cold, you know.”

Charlotte’s sister nodded attentively as she sampled the baked potatoes.

“See, mom,” she said, thoughtful, “that’s what we should do. There’s enough room in here for a whole flock of cats.”

Mrs. Wessels rolled her eyes.

“What is this thing with you young women herding every animal you can find?”

Charlotte chimed in with a solemn “It’s a gay thing, mom” between two draughts of beer.

“I’m not gay!” her sister protested.

“Right, you’re the one who paid attention at Sunday school. I doodled.”

Hanneke sipped at her wine.

“Mmm, red, round and fruity,” she mused, “just like my sister!”

Charlotte snorted, too pleasantly full of good fare and drink to pursue retaliation.

“The future of the family, over here! She’s going to make all those grandchildren you go on about, papa.”

He chuckled.

“I wouldn’t dare discuss the matter surrounded by able-bodied women with knives in their hands.”

He did not, however, refrain from voicing his approval of the ham and various sides. It was so exquisite by her parents’ consideration Charlotte almost lamented that she couldn’t partake, but her vegan tart - mushrooms, chestnut and cranberries - had turned out lovely as well.

She reached across the table, clumsily looking for a frail hand with gnawed nails.

Merel looked up in disconcertment.

“Charlie?”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

An impish glint was in Charlotte’s narrow eyes.

“Told me?”

Told me what? It came back to her soon enough. And she smiled when it did.

“You were right,” she said. “Again.”

A kiss seemed to be in order, but they refrained for the parents’ sake. Charlotte couldn’t trust her tipsy self to keep it modest.

They shared a tender look, patient and heavy with understanding.

A kiss could wait for a more private setting, and so could many other things.

#charmer #fanfiction #delain #charlotte wessels #merel bechtold

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ask-pastelkiller · 7 years

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2 plus Ghana cause she isn't allowed to be happy :^) [if you're still doing these of course yikes]

2–Chemicals

Warning for….well, you can probably expect what’s coming.

“You know, I’m really not as happy doing this as you’d think.” Oliver sighed, twirling a lock of pink hair around his finger as he fiddled with the length of fabric tying his apron around his back. He didn’t look at his guest, paying more attention to the metal cart of items in front of him. It had taken him quite some time to heave it down the concrete stairs to his basement, but it had, for three lovely months, been stored away in the basement’s one attached room. A multipurpose room, of sorts. It helped him with so many things. Storing his equipment, giving a small bedroom to the ‘friends’ of his that were quick to accept his rules and requirements.

For now, it was simply used as a storage room, and he had wheeled out his little tray cart into the middle of the basement’s main area.

He huffed as the tie around his back proved to be more than a one hand job, and he stopped playing with his hair, reaching behind him and fiddling with the knot. “Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have tied it so tightly last time. Do remind me to not try and slip it over my head next time, won’t you? I just have no wiggle room.” He let out a faint giggle, his cheeks turning a light pink. “Perhaps I ate a few too many sweets in the past few weeks…Is it starting to show?” He twirled in a circle, glancing inquisitively at his guest.

“Screw you.”

Oliver’s face scrunched up in displeasure, and he stuck his tongue out. “Now now, honey, there’s no use for such vulgar language.”

“Yeah? Well you can go fu–”

“Abigail!”

The girl in question snarled, teeth bared in an animalistic expression that made Oliver raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were civilized than that. I should have known you’d be as daft as you always were. Shame on me, I suppose. Only a fool believes that a fool would change.” He clicked his tongue, shrugging lightly.

“I stand by my statement, go fuck yourself with a rusty golf club.”

Oliver tensed, a shiver of disgust running up his spine, ending with a small tremble in his shoulders. “Abigail, that is–I–That is disgusting! Quarter in the swear jar, now!” His lip pulled back in a near snarl, a malevolent twinkle in his unnaturally blue eyes. “Ah, you didn’t bring quarters? I can make do.” His hand reached to pick up a small glass jar on the tray, one that he usually used to store teeth once extracted.

His guest’s eyes followed him like a cornered animal’s, darting with each of his movements. Oliver saw the gears turning, and did not explain. He set it closer to him, then picked up a roll of fishing line. He twirled a length off the roll, then snipped it with one of his many sharp edges. He tied each end to a short metal stick that had perhaps been a screwdriver in the past. He gripped each metal piece and pulled it, the fishing line going taut with a pleasant ‘tang’.

“Know what we’re doing yet?” Oliver purred.

Abigail glanced from the line to each of the metal sticks in the Englishman’s grasp. She stayed silent, but shifted anxiously in her chair.

“No? Alright.” He stepped forward, getting on his knees in front of her. She tensed against her bonds, staring at him without faltering. He moved to slide the fishing line under her left pinkie finger, then moved one end over the finger, wrapping the line around it. He pulled on the metal shafts, the line tightening snugly around her finger. He glanced up at her through his lashes, a smile playing on his lips. “Figured it out yet?”

Abigail’s eyes were wide as saucers, mouth agape. “No, no–You–You’re kidding, you–”

Oliver didn’t wait for her to finish. He yanked his hands apart from each other, the fishing line pulling tight in one swift motion. The thin, strong string instantly sunk into her finger, slicing through the soft flesh without much protest. It only stopped tightening once it hit bone.

“AAAHHH!”

Oliver waved a hand dismissively, still gripping the metal shafts. “Shh, no need to scream, it doesn’t even hurt. But, maybe it would if I did….This?” He pulled his hands towards his chest, the fishing line attempting to come with him. It did not stay where the finger was attached to the hand. No, it followed Oliver’s movements, but he had not loosened his wide pull. Still tight to the bone, it slid towards the end of her finger, tearing the skin off the bone as it came.

He blocked out the screams as he tugged, forcing it over the knuckle, then continuing his tugging. It fell off the tip of her finger, leaving only her fingernail behind. He hummed in contentment as he picked up the meat off the floor, where it has fell. He stood up and tossed it in the glass jar. He picked up a freshly sharpened wire cutter from the tray, and then knelt back down. Blood gushed from the mangled finger, white bone meeting oxygen for the first time. He leaned forward, opening his mouth. His tongue gently moved underneath the finger, mostly bone by now, and he accepted it into his mouth, up to the second knuckle. He groaned as the delicious taste of iron danced with his tastebuds, and his eyes fluttered closed momentarily. He could feel Abigail’s body start to spasm from the pain. He leaned back only after tugging off a sliver of muscle from the bone, blood dripping from his pink lips and down his chin.

“Mmm…For having such a foul mouth, you taste delicious~” He murmured.

Abigail only heard him because she had been inhaling a desperate breath. She stared at him in horrified disgust, and only moments afterwards, Oliver saw her throat move in a familiar motion. He got to his feet and stepped back just in time to avoid her vomit spewing from her mouth.

He made a face, but didn’t reprimand her. Once her stomach seemed to be empty, he stepped forward and reached down with the wire cutters, snapping the remaining bone with a satisfying crunch. He tossed the bone into the glass jar.

He winked at his guest, who was looking at him with huge eyes. “No quarters? I can take a finger, then.” He reached an arm up, wiping the blood dribbled on his chin away. “Anyways, I have something to try. That’s where you come in.” He leaned close, pressing a quick kiss to her sweaty forehead. If she had all her wits about her, she might have headbutted him, but not many people had a clear train of thought after what she had went through.

Oliver began to hum a cheerful tune as he spun around, poking around at the supplies on his metal tray. He spoke, not expecting much of a reply. “You’d think that being the literal representation of Britain would make it easy to get access to medical testing, but apparently not. So I do testing myself. It’s actually quite fun, I won’t lie.” He picked up a small vial of clear liquid and a syringe. He punctured the top of the vial and filled half of the syringe, then set the vial down. He filled the rest of the syringe with an odd milky substance in a tiny glass bottle from the craft section of the dollar store. After shifting it around the make the substances combine, he tapped the syringe and pushed out the small amount of air within it.

Oliver turned to face his guest, blinking innocently. “Now, we have two options. Tilt your head and let me see your neck, or I can do it the hard way. Which would you like?”

The Nation of Ghana was no stranger to pain, which made Oliver smile as she blinked and spoke, albeit shakily. “I…No, I don’t…No.”

That wasn’t really an answer, so Oliver simply assumed she would refuse to tilt her head. He shrugged, and in one smooth, quick motion, jabbed the needle downward, sinking it into the area near her shoulder. The metal needle clinked as it hit her collarbone, and Oliver didn’t quite try and stop it as the needle snapped. Perhaps it was an ‘accidental’ jerk of his wrist that made it snap, who knew? He had managed to inject the liquid before it snapped, so he really didn’t care.

Abigail’s body went rigid, pupils dilated, and her breathing stopped. It wasn’t due to the substance injected. No, it was simply her freezing up, waiting to see what on Earth the drugs did. Oliver waited patiently. Only seconds after being injected, Abigail began screaming, not even having time to open her lips before the sound tore from her throat. Oliver tapped his foot, tilting his head from one side to another as he hummed a tune. The pure capsaicin would begin to fry her nerves, he had expected that. As it surged through her bloodstream, her screaming became more intense, her arm beginning to seize and jerk violently as her body attempted to reject the chemicals. Her breathing was sporadic, her lungs being affected, but it wouldn’t kill her. It would just cause an extraordinary amount of agony.

Her eyes glazed over. Ah, perfect. Her gaze became unfocused on the room, but seemed to dart around and lock onto seemingly invisible things. Her face twisted in terror and her shrieks were much more shrill than before. Her body jerked against her bonds, her legs trying to scrabble backwards, get her away from whatever was terrifying her. Oliver watched with a raised eyebrow, only looking away to fish out fluffy earmuffs from his bloody apron. He slipped it over his head and focused on his guest.

Her muscles tensed every second or so, her abdomen flexing and trying with every ounce of its strength to bring her arms and legs from captivity. “NO! NO NO PLEASE DON’T--GET AWAY GET AWAY LEAVE ME A-ALONE GO GO GO S-S-S-S-S-TO-OP!” Her shrieks echoed off the walls, making the metal tray of tools rattle slightly. Oliver moved to stand in front of her, hopping from one side to the other, dancing from her left to her right, waving his hand once or twice. Her eyes didn’t lock onto him. They looked past him, in front of him, everywhere but directly at him. She wasn’t seeing him. The chair rattled as she struggled, the ropes around her wrists and ankles digging into her skin. Only a few more seconds, and...

The ropes broke the skin. With that barrier out of the way, they sunk deeper with every seize, with every jerk, with every terrified tug. Abigail felt far too much to even register that pain.

Oliver began making faces at her, enjoying the horror flooding her face at a simple stuck out tongue. Tears poured from her eyes, falling down her cheeks like a salty waterfall. They dripped down, only to be replaced with fresh ones, a never ending cascade. He huffed as he got bored, and plopped his rump down on the cold floor. He sat criss cross, staring at her shaking body curiously.

“What do you see?” He murmured, mostly to himself. He had used this chemical mixture on a young person weeks ago, including a small amount of a truth serum he was perfecting. They confessed, in between gasps and screams, that they were being torn apart by human sized spiders, drowning as small ones crawled down their throat, in their nose, their ears. He had no idea what Abigail was seeing, was feeling, and he made a note to add the truth serum the next time he used this on a Nation. The amount of drugs in the person’s system had killed them within half an hour, cutting down Oliver’s fun considerably. But Abigail was holding out wonderfully, probably due to the fact that she wasn’t completely human. She could probably handle some more drugs. What was a bit of scopolamine on top of the capsaicin and psychedelics in her body? Not to mention his current favourite, midazolam.

Or, if she was out of commission after this, he could always use a different Nation. He had quite liked the few glimpses of that Latvian Nation he had seen. First Players were always more satisfying to use.

He sat there for quite a while, watching curiously as Abigail broke down. Once her seizing had stopped, and her movements had lessened to a violent tremble from the trauma, he moved to untie her. He would just drop her off on a street corner and he could forget about her. After all, that lovely midazolam would erase any memories of the pain of torture inflicted while under Oliver’s care. It was so much easier that way. He used a sharp blade to slice the ropes around her wrists, and he giggled as he pulled it away, a funny, wet sound coming from them as he pulled them from deep inside her flesh.

“Good job, Abigail. Thank you for your help~”

#ask-irlghana #writing #dude help me

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