livecrow

[livecrow]

(ngl, with followers now I'm low-key scared that posting anything that's not a fic is gonna annoy yall, lol.)

anyway, promise I have stuff in the works. i'll just reiterate that I create at a glacial pace. the second something starts to make me feel pressure i start to hate it, so i'm trying to nip that in the bud, even if's 100% self-inflicted.

i'm also conflicted half the time when I get an idea whether I should start a new fic or just blurt it out in an informal ramble.

[livecrow]

I for one do not think the dead dove joke is shitty, I actually Lold when I first read it!

wow, feels good to be appreciated, babe <3. i am truly a connoisseur of humor

the alt option i had was "Perished Pidgeon" but that's just far too many syllables

[livecrow]

You get home after a very long day to an empty apartment, or so you thought. Turns out Gaz has been waiting for you, and he’s not here to play nice.

Reader is fat, as per always.

cw: cnc, intruder roleplay, stalker roleplay, face slapping, pussy slapping, gun play

minors dni

Keep reading

[livecrow]

i've been down for the count with another back injury, so here's a short ghost x reader thing featuring back pain

cw: nonconsensual exhibitionism/masturbation/cumplay/stripping, objectification, back pain, breaking and entering, stalking, implied voyeurism, kidnapping, blatantly american reader, entirely unedited with an abrupt ending

bodies are stupid and poorly designed. that's the conclusion you've come to as you lie motionless on your bed, trying your best to will the over the counter painkillers in your system to get to work and relieve the agony you're in. it's your back again, giving you the painful, throbbing reminder of your own mortality, incapacitating you with wave after wave of pain at even the slightest movement.

you'd go to the e.r. if you could a) afford it and b) get mobile enough to get yourself down there. so instead you do what every other pain-riddled poor person does: you suck it up and put yourself on bed rest. it's not too bad, you suppose, just so long as you lie still and don't move or sneeze or cough or fart.

the second worst thing about back pain is the boredom that comes with taking care of yourself. you can only listen to so many podcasts and audiobooks before you find yourself pulled into a haze, a space between wakefulness and sleep. in that foggy mental state you find yourself rocking in and out of consciousness, eyelids drooping closed and sliding open again as steadily as the tides go in and out, your coherent thoughts nothing more than flotsam and jetsam on the beaches of your mind.

it's why you don't hear the scratches of metal on metal as the lock on your front door is picked, or the sound of the door closing behind heavy footsteps that wander around your apartment. your eyes don't flutter open until a large shadow passes over your face, pulling you from the depths of dreamless sleep.

there's a large man in a black hoodie and balaclava standing by the side of the bed, looming above you. dark eyes behind a darker mask stare a hole through you, gazing intensely at you. he's absolutely massive- at least six foot three and just about as broad as he is tall, built like a fucking tank. the sight of him makes you flinch, sending shooting pains through your body as your spine protests the sudden movement.

"you're not supposed to be 'ome." the stranger says, low voice rumbling like an engine.

"wh- what?" you ask, brain still a little slow, not fully awake yet. "who are you?"

"you sick?" he asks, ignoring your question. slowly your groggy brain connects the dots- there's a man in a mask and gloves wandering through your apartment in the middle of the day who expected you to be gone. oh shit, you're being robbed right now.

normally you'd consider lying to him, but there's no hiding that you can't fucking move at the moment. the realization sends fear coursing through your veins- you're just in a t-shirt and your underwear. this man can do whatever he wants and there's fuckall you can do about it because of the intense pain locking up your body. you can't even reach over to throw a blanket over yourself to cover up. like it or not, you're at this complete stranger's mercy.

"well?" the robber asks, clearly impatient with how long you're taking to answer.

"i'm hurt." you admit. that seems to get his attention, judging by the way he tilts his head and rolls his shoulders like he's ready to fight.

"who 'urt you?" he asks with an unexpected intensity in his tone, like he's ready to knock the head off whoever's done this to you.

"i did. i, uh, i picked up something heavy the wrong way." you admit sheepishly. the intruder rolls his eyes.

"your back's fucked, then?" he asks, and you nod.

"my aunt." you blurt out. "a-and my uncle. they'll be by to bring me dinner soon."

it isn't true, of course. your aunt and uncle are in portugal for the next two weeks on their second honeymoon, but he doesn't know that. it's a hail mary, a desperate effort to get him out of here and on his way as quickly as possible. the man cocks his head, staring at you in silence before a low, unsettling laugh slides out from under his mask.

heh heh heh.

"just- just take what you came for and go before they come! please!" fuck your worldly possessions, you just want this guy out of here. never in your life have you met someone who becomes more and more terrifying by the moment, and you're keen to end your interaction with him as swiftly as possible.

he exhales another laugh at your expense and shrugs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed before leaning forward and pulling at his bootlaces.

"i don't understand." you say honestly, voice shaking with nerves. this man is like no robber you've ever heard of- he doesn't seem to have taken anything, and he seems deeply uninterested in your purse or the laptop perched on your nightstand. this would be the perfect opportunity to clean out your apartment around you and leave you with nothing but the bed you're stuck laying on, but he's making no move to fill his pockets with your things, just staring you down with those fathomless dark eyes.

"oh no?" he mocks, slowly pulling one boot off and starting to unlace the other. his dark eyes casually flick between you and the knots in his laces as he deftly unties them. it's a horrible thing, to be trapped in a body that is in too much pain to move while every part of your being is telling you to run, go, get far away from this man.

"what are you doing?" you ask quietly, watching him cautiously from your spot on the mattress.

"takin' what i came for, aren't i?" he says with an audible smile in his voice, and the amusement in his tone makes your stomach drop.

"oh god." the air feels thinner, like you need to take in more of it or you're going to die. none of this makes sense. are you dreaming? maybe this is a dream, maybe there isn't a huge masked stranger in your room, telling you he's going to take you. maybe you'll wake up soon to an empty apartment where everything is fine and nothing hurts.

the moment his boots are both off, he's crawling up the mattress towards you, making it shift and dip under his considerable weight, sending pain shooting through your body with each small movement against your spine. there's nothing to do about it but hiss through clenched teeth about it until he finally settles with his knees bracketing your thighs, hovering above you.

"easy, love. breathe. in and out, nice an' steady. you're gonna pass out if you keep goin' like that." he says lowly into your ear, his words nearly making you shudder. "lookit you. just waitin' here oll pretty f'me to come and rescue you, eh?"

the mattress jostles again as he settles into his kneeling position above you, and the pain of it makes you loudly suck your teeth in pain. the way things stand, big as he is, if he fucks you, it'll be complete agony.

"don't- don't, please-" you beg tearfully, and the stranger shushes you, nuzzling his nose against the side of your throat.

"easy, i said. i ain't tryin' to break you. know your back's done in, that's the only reason i'm not fucking that big fat arse of yours right bloody now." he practically purrs. "don't you worry, love. i might be a bad man, but i take good care of my things. won't be easy, but i can wait a bit longer to get my cock wet. probably."

it's probably supposed to be some sort of joke, but a terrified sob bursts out of you anyways, the force of it making you wince in pain as your tears race down the sides of your face and bury themselves in your hair. the stranger presses a cloth-covered kiss to your cheek, gently shushing you. you stare a hole into a new looking smoke detector on the ceiling, trying your damndest to disassociate and get lost in the steady red light, to be anywhere other than here right now.

"shh, shh, it's olright, deep breaths. no need to panic, i got the perfect compromise in mind." the intruder yanks his glove off and sticks his bare palm in front of your face. "lick it. get it oll wet f'me. put on a real show for the camera."

you blink up at him through tear-clumped lashes, stunned and confused by his demand.

"what?" you ask again, bewildered, and he rolls his eyes.

"did i mumble? get to it."

there's nothing to do but comply, tentatively running your tongue over the slightly salty, scarred skin held in front of you. you can't help but be taken aback by the number of marks on his fingers and palm, as if he'd stuck his hand in a blender. you try not to think of where those hands have been, of what he's going to do when you're done. broad and flat, your tongue laves over the divots and keloid ridges cris-crossing his palm and fingers, wetting the skin as thoroughly as possible.

"thassit, yeah. knew i picked myself a good girl." the stranger says as he pulls his hand back, fishing out his fat, ruddy cock and stroking it with his spit-slick palm. the foreskin rolls to expose the leaking head, coming back shiny with your spit as he strokes himself over your stomach. for some reason you can't help but notice that even as big as his hands are, they still have some trouble wrapping all the way around his considerable girth.

the stranger's pleased groan morphs into a chuckle, low and amused, and a quick glance up to meet his intense eye contact makes you realize that you've been caught staring at his hard cock. embarrassment has you shrinking back against the mattress and closing your eyes tightly while you do your best to ignore the wet sounds of spit slick skin on skin. it's the only option you have to try and distance yourself from what's happening right now, to pretend you're alone and there isn't a giant stranger fucking his fist hovering right on top of you.

"don't be like that, sweetheart. s'olright t'like it. come on, look at me. look at how fuckin' 'ard you get me." you feel a light tap on your jaw- not even remotely hard enough to hurt, but it's a clear reminder that he very much can do whatever he likes and there's fuckall you can do about it. you hesitantly crack your eyes open again, the image of him jerking off above you blurred by the yet-unshed tears that have gathered in your eyes.

"thassit, fuck. the shit you fuckin' do t'me, love. i am a patient, deliberate, and tactical man- but one look at that fat arse or pretty face of yours, and it's got me actin' like a bloody git." he groans, bending further forward and planting a large, gloved fist next to your head on the pillow. he leans in close, the side of his nose pressed to yours as he looks deep into your eyes. "like this, for example. was gonna take my time with you, keep watchin' and waitin', slowly make my move, ease you into it- i had it oll planned out, step by step. but just seein' you up close like this- threw it oll right out the window, didn't it? one look at that pretty face and big soft body and you've got me actin' oll kinds of stupid."

the weight of his words leaves you damn near breathless with realization- this man isn't a robber who's gotten side tracked. he was never here for your things. he came here for you. what was that he said about cameras? oh, god, are there cameras in your apartment? how the fuck did he get in here, anyways? this is so much worse than a robbery gone wrong, the implications of his ramblings hit you like a freight train and send you into a spiral that you're not sure you'll ever recover from.

the rapid pace of your panicked breathing paired with your racing thoughts has you feeling light-headed and dizzy, and it's so distracting that you barely notice the large hand carefully sliding your oversized sleep shirt up your body until cool air pebbles your exposed nipples.

the second you're cognizant of what's happening, you jolt in an attempt to cover yourself, exacerbating your injury as the sudden movement shoots pain through the core of you, pure unfiltered agony climbing the rungs of your spine. hissed curses stream from between your grit teeth as you try your best to curl into a ball, but the pain combined with position of the intruder on top of you makes it impossible to fold yourself into the more protective posture.

"just wanted a better look, sweetheart. don't 'urt y'self now." he slurs, leaning down to rub his face against your bare tits. even through the thin cotton fabric of his mask you can feel the muted prickle of a short beard against your sensitive skin, and somewhere in the back of your fear-addled mind you wonder if it's as blonde as his eyelashes.

"so fuckin' soft, bloody fuckin' 'ell, 'm gonna- gonna-" he grunts mere seconds before he cums all over your belly with a loud groan, bodily flopping over onto the mattress next to you, scooting closer and cooing softly as you suck your teeth in pain at being jostled yet again.

"sorry, love." the stranger murmurs, his cheek resting on your shoulder as his fingers lazily draw spirals and hearts in the pool of cum that's rapidly cooling on your stomach before idly sliding further and further down your body, only stopping to pluck as your pantyline like a guitar string.

"you want a 'and?" you can practically hear the smirk that you somehow know is on his face.

"no, thank you." you reply quickly, more prim-sounding than you'd meant to be. the stranger doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he makes no indication of it.

"mm. probably smart, i'm not the gentle type anyways." he says with a small grunt as he rolls off the bed. he leaves the room only to return a few moments later with a washcloth, too fast for you to even hope that he was leaving for good.

"what are you doing?" you ask, warily watching him as he gingerly sits down next to you in order to run a warm, wet washcloth over your skin.

"told you, didn't i? i take care of my things. soon as i get you cleaned up, i'll see about gettin' you fed." he says as he rubs the damp fabric over your tits. slowly, methodically, he cleans you off, pressing a mask-covered kiss to the valley between your breasts before tugging your shirt back down and pulling a blanket over you.

the light of the smoke detector glares down at you from the ceiling, the solid red glow looks like an ember that wish would fall and burn right through the core of you. there's an unease in your chest, something beyond just having acted as a human cum rag for the man who broke into your home, and that unease twists and churns even more as the stranger follows your gaze to the little white circle on your ceiling and once again laughs at you.

"my clever girl, noticed it olready, eh?" you can hear that awful smile in his voice, and it makes bile rise in your throat.

"that wasn't there before." you realize out loud, too stunned to flinch from the kiss the intruder presses to your forehead.

"just my way of keepin' an eye on things, love. won't go off if there's an actual fire, mind, but if anythin's wrong i can be here right quick." he murmurs, petting over your hair with his gloved hand.

"oh my god, it's a camera." you blurt out, horrified. the red light continues to glow, the image of it burning into your vision. he must've put it up while you were still lying here half asleep, and deep-seated dread settles into the marrow of your bones as you connect some truly wretched dots.

"thassright, and if you try to muck around with it, i'll take it as a sign that your back's 'ealed enough that i don't have to 'old back with you anymore." the stranger warns, nodding up towards the smoke detector. "the second you touch it, i'll be right 'ere to bend you over the nearest flat surface til you're creamin' on my cock and sobbin' my name."

the world narrows down to that damned red light above you, everything else washing away into nothing. you're trapped, not just by your injury and physical limitations, but by the cage that's slowly being constructed around you by this hulking stranger that won't stop petting at you.

"i don't even know your name." the words slip out of you, small, shaking, and frail- like a stray kitten in the pouring rain.

"simon, love." the stranger says lowly into your ear, tucking his massive frame against your side and holding you tight. "it's simon."

[livecrow]

Holy fuck dude, the TF 141 kidnapping fanfic .... My god, 10/10 a real fuckin stunner, hope you write a part 2🙏🙏🙏 but either way your writing is superb👌👌

gfjklsfjklsdfgfbghvhsdh!!1

tysm. 🥺😘❤️❤️

tbh, i'm all over the place with my WIPs. BUT, I definitely plan to circle back.

[livecrow]

Not me checking my tumblr today and realizing people like my fic. Givin' ALL of you a lil forehead smooch.

...you know, as someone with previously almost zero social media footprint, I'd always figured that I'd feel indifferent to engagement if I ever did post.

Turns out, I'm not actually that special!

Every like and reblog is a little treat for my dumb lizard brain. Every comment in a reblog or tags got my kickin' my feet, grinning like an idiot. A little morsel of dopamine to my fucked brain.

As sincerely as my ass is capable, thank you to those that leave comments; it warms my heart. If I could thank you individually without feeling like a total weirdo, I would. It makes me way more motivated to make me stuff if y'all like it. Just be patient with me. I'm slow, but I will continue!

My greatest writing aspiration is to give even one person the feeling that I've got from fics in the past.

A rare, little thrill. Butterflies. That niche fic that feels like it was written with you in mind. A fic that makes your day better, makes your heart race. The fic that you go back to for escapism. Daydream about being in.

Even if it's not exactly everyone's taste, I hope it's good enough that it remains enjoyable to even those who don't fully relate with the reader or vibe with everything.

[livecrow]

y'girl's got bondage bags (and other kink shit) on the brain....

price x fat reader bc of course it is

cw: bondage, unnegotiated kinks, absolutely terrible bdsm etiquette, no safewords, intox, marijuana, hypno, blatantly unedited with an abrupt ending (per usual)

when john told you after a few weeks of dating that he wanted to try bondage with you, you did your best to tamp down your nerves and be cool and open-minded. he'd assured you he's make sure you were comfortable, would check in regularly, and even offered to do a 'test run', no sex involved, just to see if it was something you could handle. you'd thought it was sweet, really, and agreed without asking for any specifics.

just a few days after agreeing to try, john called you excitedly, telling you that he'd gotten something for you and wanted you to come over whenever you could so you could 'try it out'. it turned out to be a leather bondage bag, like a sleeping bag with thick belts and straps criss-crossing it with d-rings everywhere. he'd custom ordered it so it would fit over your wide hips, thick thighs, and soft belly, and something about that touched your heart a little bit. knowing that he'd probably paid extra just to render you immobile for a bit made you all the more determined to give it a real shot, to try your best to like it.

after all, john's been so great so far, you can't help but feel like you won the lottery when he asked you out. he's a real old-fashioned gentleman through and through, pulling out your chair for you at restaurants and taking you by the arm whenever you walk somewhere together. they just don't make guys like him anymore, and that was clear from the first date that he was looking for something serious, that he wasn't looking to waste time or fool around. it had been such a breath of fresh air after a long string of dates with absolute flakes, and it hadn't taken long for him to convince you to go exclusive.

and now, after what feels like a weird sort of domino effect, you're here, watching john zip you up in what's basically a tight leather sleeping bag with the brightest, giddiest smile you've ever seen. it's so magnetic, the way is makes his face a little broader and his eye wrinkle in the corners, you can't help but smile back up at him as he finishes buckling the last of your straps. when you're all buckled in, he steps back and looks you up and down.

"feelin' all right?" he asks, and you take a second to really think about it and take stock. it's kind of cozy, if you're honest. it's a little warm, but the snugness is comforting in a way that reminds you a little of a weighted blanket. there's no room to move around in here, your arms are basically pinned to your sides and all you can do is bend your legs and lift your head a little bit. however, there's no panic, no claustrophobia. just the warm, earthy scent of leather in your nose and john's blatant approval making your heart feel full.

"yeah. it's, uh, more comfortable than i expected bondage to be." you admit, and john takes a knee to lean down and press a kiss to your mouth.

"mm. ropes and scarves have pressure points, and i don't want to risk bruising my best girl." he brushes away an imaginary hair from your forehead and kisses you right above your brow. "you're so good to me, sweetheart. appreciate you tryin' this out f'me."

"yeah, of course. it's kinda cozy, i could, uh, i could maybe see getting used to this." you sputter out your admission, feeling your face heat as eye contact gets extra difficult. you can't really verbalize why it's embarrassing, especially since john's already into it. it just feels like a first step into something bigger, and you feel a little nervous about where this path might lead and what you might discover about yourself. the smile on john's face is warm and knowing, like he recognizes what's inside of you.

if you're honest with yourself, you think you might actually get bondage now. there's something about not only the physical sensation of being restrained, held tight and kept still, but also how very vulnerable you feel. from now until he unzips and unstraps the bag, you are entirely at his mercy. john holds all of your trust, willingly handed to him with a hopeful heart.

"would you let me restrain the bag even further, sweetheart?" john asks softly, and you can hear the desire in his voice. the small undercurrent of please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.

"yes." you tell him a little breathlessly, which earns you a kiss to the cheek and a cupped hand to cradle your jaw.

"my good girl." he murmurs against your skin, holding you for a moment before helping you to your feet. it's hard, the way your feet are stuck together and you can't move your hands, but with sturdy arms around your waist, john gets you up and ready to take this a step further.

"i haven't quite finished yet, but it's still structurally sound. just needs a coat of varnish, maybe internal padding." john says over his shoulder as he steps out of the bedroom for a moment, leaving you alone, trapped in a leather cocoon. you can hear the faint sound of something being drug across carpet, coming closer and closer down the outside hallway. john reappears with what almost looks like a casket, but a lot wider. there's a wake being left on the carpet, drag marks that a pass with a vacuum will get rid of. this sucker must be heavy.

"c'mere, hop to me." john instructs, smirking at you as you take teeny tiny little hops to keep from losing your balance. you think maybe at some point he'll tire of watching you shuffle about so tentatively, but he seems content to wait until you're right up close, almost toe-to-toe before deeming you 'done' with a kiss and a hug. "what a sweetheart you are, such a good sport. such a good girl, startin' to think you don't need this, that you'll just stay put."

"i don't- mm." you cut yourself off, feeling that familiar burn of embarrassment when john cocks his head, his eyes scanning your face.

"go on." he urges with a little nod.

"i don't want to be done yet. if that's okay." you admit quietly, backtracking a bit purely out of abashment. thick leather creaks as you cave just the tiniest bit in on yourself, and john cups your cheek, tucking his chin against his chest.

"perfect f'me. just bloody perfect." he murmurs, mostly to himself, eyes raking over your leather-wrapped form. "and with a little bit of training, we'll make you exquisite."

the praise makes you feel giddy, light, excited. it's a heady feeling, making a man like john purr out compliments. you're pretty sure that, aside from the ones he heaps on you, he probably doesn't give compliments or adulation quite as easily.

with one last lingering kiss to your lips, he lifts the lid of the coffin. inside are a few pillows, and the walls have d-rings bolted on. with some gentle manuvering and a little effort, john gets you lying on your back inside of it, tying you down and securing you in place. where there was a tiny bit of room for wiggle before, there is absolutely none now.

"just a few more steps, love. i'm going to put this mask on you and then close the lid for a bit. i'll be sat right here next to you the whole time." john reassures you, not waiting for you to say anything before he slips a gas mask over your face. from under his bed he pulls out a small machine- it's conical in shape, with a glass nozzle connected to a rubber hose that john is affixing to your gas mask. wait- hang on. what the fuck is this? he never said anything about... whatever the fuck is happening here. headphones are slipped over your ears, and your protests are muffled by the mask, unintelligible to even your own ears, and john just pats at your head with one hand while turning the little machine on.

"shhh, it's all right. everything will feel better soon. just need you relaxed." he coos, setting the machine down and out of your sight as the little display counts up- 125*c, 134*c, 160*c...

slowly, carefully, he lowers the lid over your face. it's completely black except for the little gap where the tube affixed to your face is running out of the box. through the wood panel you hear a shrill set of beeps, and then the whir of a fan. before the thought "what the fuck is happening" cam even fully form, you smell it- it's weed. especially skunky weed, at that, and you try to hold your breath for as long as you can, trying to think of a way out of this. none of this is what you'd agreed to, and your excitement fully flips to fear when a small screen that you hadn't noticed was attached to the inside of the lid lights up.

"deep breaths," a soothing voice in your headphones instructs as a black and white swirl pattern spins clockwise in front if you, almost entirely filling your field of vision. "count backwards with me, inhaling and exhaling with each number. ten... nine... eight..."

the voice continues, but instead of following instructions, you try your best to fight, closing your eyes and doing your damndest to kick, to wriggle, to rock this wooden box back and forth to express your displeasure... but you're strapped in too tightly. "stuck" is an understatement. you're completely trapped.

holding your breath doesn't work well, and in order not to pass out, you give in and take breaths of the skunky vapor. it doesn't take long for the sharp edge of your terror to be smoothed out, for your racing mind to slow and the tenseness in your body to slide away. the swirling patterns in front of your eyes become increasingly interesting to look at, and the soothing voice continues to instruct you.

"now just relax, slowly releasing the tension in your body working from your feet all the way to your mind. you are now entering a state of total relaxation, with your mind open and willing to accept your new programming."

wait- programming? that sounds kind of intense, but with how hazy you feel, it's hard to parse out the implications of that particular word. it feels like you're slowly melting into the pillows youre laying on as you slowly unclench your tensed muscles, following the instructions of the kind voice in your ears.

"it is your fondest wish to serve your master. you will do whatever your master requires, because it pleases you to please him. earning his collar and ring are all that matters. serving him is all that matters. your body is his to enjoy, and yours to offer. your master will provide for all of your needs. you love him. you love him. you love him."

your eyelids feel heavier with each breath of vapor, errant thoughts being swept clear from your mind.

you love him. you love him. you love him.

[livecrow]

here's another brain hairball that i'm slapping a 'free to a good home' sign on because i have zero intention of fleshing this out any further

features ghost, price, and you. you poor thing.

cw: noncon/rape where one party does not consent and the other is too delirious to fully consent, kidnapping, implied stalking, threats of amputation, forcing someone to strip at gunpoint, cold-induced illness, hypothermia induced delirium, noncon unconscious dry humping, noncon groping, unrealistic representation of how big a sled is, it's technically price x you but ghost is 'helping', background ghostprice if you squint, unedited with an abrupt ending

something something you're a writer living in the far, far north where taking a sled pulled by dogs is the most reliable and economical way around. staying up in a cabin miles outside of town with your small pack of sledding dogs, using the self-imposed isolation and spotty wifi to force yourself to get your novels finished by your publisher's deadlines. you get so focused on getting your chapters done that you don't notice the extra large bootprints around the kennels, and you sleep too heavily to hear the gates open and close at night.

what you do notice, however, is your stuff getting moved around and going outright missing. the sled isn't put away how you normally do, nor are the harnesses stored where you left them. it feels like you're losing your mind- there's nobody else out here for miles, and your closest neighbor is still a good couple of hours away on sled.

you've also noticed that the dogs are gaining a little bit of weight, much to your surprise. it's not a bad thing, per se, they're working dogs out in the cold, so a little bodyfat is good for them, but you haven't been feeding them any differently. none of them seems to be especially thin, either, ruling out food theft among your ranks. so you ignore it, telling yourself you'll swing by the vet's and ask about it next time you're in town.

except the next time you go to town, you never make it. you'd planned on heading into town just before first light, trying to make the most of the shorter days so you could run all your errands and be home before it got late- but that all gets derailed at the sound of a sharp whistle. the dogs veer off course, ignoring your commands and lead pulls, driving you straight towards... something. it's hard to tell what until you get much, much closer- a large stranger in full winter camo tactical gear and a skull affixed to his balaclava. the stranger unceremoniously dumps the contents of his pack onto the ground- a pile of meaty ribs that your dogs beeline towards, dragging you along behind them.

the stranger's gun is in his hands instantly, not trained on you yet, but a clear threat that it could be. with a few large, measured paces he's on you, big boot pressing your foot board deeper into the snow, ensuring you won't be drug off further.

"and where d'ya think you're goin'?" the man asks, english accent rumbling from under the mask like thunder before a storm.

"i- i was just going to town-" you stammer, shrinking back as he leans further into your space. it's not hard to see by the way the corners of his eyes crease and upturn that he's enjoying the way he obviously makes you uncomfortable.

"not anymore." he says, grabbing you by the collar of your coat and shoving you backwards, forcing you to round the sled. "y'know, tried takin' these dogs without ya. wouldn't budge. got some awfully loyal mutts 'ere."

"not that loyal." you mutter under your breath, stealing a glance over at your dogs gorging themselves on meat. your hijacker huffs a mean sounding laugh as he unzips your empty sled bag.

"clothes off and get in." he orders, both hands on his gun, gesturing towards the sled with the muzzle.

"i- i can just teach you the commands-" you stammer, the words never go to the second location ricocheting around in your mind like a ball-bearing in a pinball machine.

"and then what? freeze to death out 'ere? nah, no point in oll that. 'sides, got a job f'you. an easy one. 'ard to fuck up." he tells you, with an aggressive poke to your belly with the muzzle of his gun. "now be quick about it."

stripping in the freezing cold is equally too fast and too slow. you're not keen to feel the wind whipping across your bare skin, but you're equally unenthused about seeing what the consequences of keeping an armed madman waiting are. soon he's snatching the wadded up fabric from your arms and shoving them into the sled bag.

"crawl in, sit on your clothes." he orders, and you comply quickly, grateful to be able to at least hide from the wind chill.

"i don't understand what you want from me." you tell him, voice trembling with fear. this situation is rapidly escalating into something you're having more and more doubts about surviving. the stranger chuckles, zipping you into the bag. he presses the muzzle of his gun against your knee.

"i want you to do what i tell ya, and i'm tellin' ya now to stay 'ere. any funny business and the dogs will get more to eat- everythin' from your knee down. got it?"

you nod frantically, wide-eyed and terrified as you watch him stalk away to a snowdrift where he pulls an unconscious man that's wrapped in a thermal blanket out of a hidden snow shelter. the man he hauls over to you is smaller than he is- but only just barely. the skull faces man wastes no time stripping the man down and shoving his unconscious body on top of you. the runners sink deeper into the snow below you, and you already feel bad for the dogs- unless skullface decides to walk, they're going to be hauling around 600 pounds? maybe more? it's hard to tell, the hairy sleeping man that's unconsciously nuzzling against your bare breast is a heavy motherfucker, squeezing the air out of your lungs simply by resting on you.

"now you keep 'im warm oll the way to exfil, and we won't need to take ya with us when we leave." the stranger tells you, zipping the bag right you feel the shivering unconscious man on top you you start to roll his hips against you. "you just keep the captain warm and 'appy and this will oll be over soon enough. now let's get these mutts movin'."

something something and cut to an hour later, your face is already starting to get windburned as the sun crests the trees, and the man who's been leeching the heat from your body and mouthing at your tits in his sleep starts to wake up, delirious from his injuries. the hijacker stops the sled to better check on him, just to huff a laugh as he sees his 'captain' dazedly trying to mount you, mumbling something about heirs and his 'pretty, soft wife' as you bat his hands away and clamp your thighs together.

the hijacker presses his gun to your forehead, and all the fight leaves your body at once, your shoulders slumping in distraught resignation.

"told you- your job is to keep the old man warm and 'appy. go on, love. let 'im get nice and cozy in that pretty cunt of yours." he says, tone mocking as he shoves the cold metal of the barrel against your skin. the bearded man on top of you continues his weak, dazed attempts to get his cock inside of you, barely able to maintain the strength necessary to hold himself up, constantly slumping against you, brushing wet, uncoordinated kisses against your cheek as he falls.

"pretty bird, ain't she, captain? you like 'er? you need some 'elp, old man? olright, i've got you, we'll get you warmed up." the hijacker says, all-too-casually taking the other man's cock in hand and lining it up to your cunt, notching it against your entrance with the mechanical disinterest of someone switching gears in a manual car.

the captain seems to come back to himself the second he feels the heat of your pussy against his cock, and jerkily thrusts forward, stretching you over himself without an ounce of finesse. it hurts, and you can't feel anything but disgust as he coos against your neck in response to your pained whimpers. what's worse, the man in the mask is watching the two of you intently, rubbing his hand up and down the captain's back, murmuring encouragement.

"thassit, there you go. much better, innit? nice and warm." his gloved thumb brushes at the hair on the nape of the captain's neck.

"s'warm." echoes the captain in a dazed mumble against your shoulder, his thick moustache prickling at your skin as he plants a few wet, sucking kisses.

"knew she would be. this is much better than just takin' the dogs and runnin' off, eh? go on, show 'er 'ow grateful you are, give it to 'er good. get that pretty little cunt creamin' oll over ya." his words seem to reach through the haze, spurring on the captain to pick up the pace a little, punching little ah! ah! ah!s out of you. the captain's cold, broad hands grip your hips tightly, fingers indenting the ample fat there.

even with the zipper open, you can feel him getting warmer, working up a bit of a sweat as he exerts himself. he's not fucking you hard, per se, but it's a right side faster than the dozy pace he started with. all you can do is lie there and take what he gives you, ignoring the way he groans when you loop your arms over his shoulders, holding onto him.

"love you, sweetheart. love you s'much." the captain slurs, nipping at your ear as he shakes the sled with the movement of his thrusts. the cold metal of a handgun presses against your neck, and the captain groans when he feels how you clench down on him in fear.

"say it back. 'e can't cum unless you say it back." your hijacker orders, tone as serious as a funeral. you make the active decision not to think too hard about why this man knows that.

"i love you too." the lie is automatic, borderline robotic sounding, but that doesn't seem to matter. the gun is holstered again as soon as the captain makes a distinctive grunt, and it's not long after that you can feel his cock throb inside of you as he fills you up. he doesn't bother pulling out, instead just collapsing on top of you, arms wrapped around you tightly like he's afraid you're going to wander off naked in the snow unless he holds you down.

the sound of the sled's zipper closing over the two of you distracts you from the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears, and you stare back at those coal-black eyes behind the skull mask as he tucks the zipper under your chin, preparing to take off again.

"next stop, i'm layin' you on top of 'im so you can warm 'is body and 'is cock." he tells you matter-of-factly. "like a big, fat arsed duvet. lookin' forward t'gettin' ya back to ours and fuckin' you somewhere where i won't freeze my bloody bollocks off."

"wh- wait, no, you said if i was good i could leave!" you protest, mind racing to think of what you must've done to pull you out of the 'good' category, earning you this punishment.

"no, said if you were good i wouldn't need to take you with us when we leave. but need and want are two different things, innit?" he fires back, tone mocking and cruel, and when he sees your expression fluctuate from anger to fear to despair, he laughs so hard he can barely get out the word 'mush'.

[livecrow]

do ya'll ever think about a reader in customer service having a slow day at work, shooting the shit with a coworder, doing a mangled ""Scottish"" accent when you think no customers are around

but this cute, bulky guy with a mohawk seemingly just appears out of nowhere, and before you can even put on your best professional "How can I help you?", he's like:

"Och! Abair iongnadh! Guid tae see such a bonne Scottish lass so far from hame! Hou are ye? Where are ye from then, hen? Aberdeenshire? Clackmannanshire?"

and you just. die on the spot.

Soap's grinning ear to ear, think's it's very funny and turns it into trying to get in your pants

i think about this

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“��Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[livecrow]

Imagine an unlucky civilian reader in the wrong place, at the wrong time, looking under Ghost's mask while he's incapacitated, and the 141 takes it extremely fucking personally.

(cw: implied noncon)

Ghost is going to pay you back in full. You’re not going to like how he interprets “an eye for an eye”.

Like,

He'd immediately know something was wrong when he came around.

The eye openings of the skull and balaclava are slightly askew. Just too far off to one side, so now there's an annoying tickle where one of his outer lashes snags on the mask’s material. The neck opening is untucked, leaving a tiny sliver of skin peaking through.

Ghost is not happy.

John, Soap, and Gaz would be equally incensed, offended over the slight on their Lieutenant. Taking advantage while a man’s down? It's completely dishonorable, it's bad form. Captain's mind is immediately made up on the matter, filled with a steely resolve.

Even if the damage was already done, it’ll be a cold day in hell before you'd get away with it without repercussions. That's a promise.

Gaz and Soap are both eager accomplices in John’s personal assignment. Soap is practically spittin’ he’s champing at the bit, English even more incompressible than usual.

They'd do what any good mate would. Bring the bastard in and hand him off to Ghost for some tender loving care. All “off the books”, of course.

John’s not exactly going to be getting any thank-you cards from his Lieutenant in the meantime. He’d keep him in the dark, practically locked-down on base while Laswell assesses the damage. It’s for his own good, so he’ll just have to bear it for now. But John’s sympathetic, knows how it feels to have to sit on your hands, idle. Ghost is caught in limbo, nothing much to do but seethe and muse about having a little chat with you.

Maybe he'd start off with the hands first, there are so many fine bones there, so many nerve-endings. It'd be fittin' since you can't keep your grubby 'ands to y’rself. He'd make you regret not just shootin’ 'im and being done with it.

Obviously no one else at base knew anything happened—but the shift in the air was palpable. As if Ghost was the most approachable bloke to begin with. Fortunately, even the greenest recruits had enough of a sense of self preservation to steer clear of the Lieutenant.

There's not just anger, though. John shrewd enough to see it. Simon would never admit it, hell, he might not even be conscious of it, but the whole experience has left him feeling violated. Hardly more than a handful or seconds of vulnerably, is all it took. Rattled him.

Ghost would be bracing himself for the worst, waiting for the other shoe to drop. If his face isn't circulating already, it will be soon. Maybe they're holding out for an auction, might as well cash in. A lot of people would pay good money for the identity of 141's infamous second-in-command. Of course there’s a chance they’d come directly to them first, try to shake the 141 down in exchange for not releasing the photos.

Laswell wouldn’t waste any time, ever since the initial incident she’d have feelers out for news—for anything even tangentially related to Ghost or the 141. But it's been a week and there's absolutely nothing.

She also throws every resource at her disposal to locating you. The recon would take some doing, but she eventually she’d get a good lead. John knew Laswell would deliver, is reliable.

Let's just say, you would not at all be what they expected. It’d leave John with more questions than anything else, but he would deny being relieved. He might almost feel sorry for you, the dumb chit. Almost.

But actions have consequences and there's no un-ringing this bell.

Eh, if he knows Simon, in the end you'll be fine—relatively speaking. Not that he'd ever give you that solace. No, he’s not ashamed to say he’ll like watching you squirm. It'd be a pretty sight.

Soap and Gaz were even more taken off-guard.

Gaz just lets out of a low whistle, brows rising high on his forehead.

"Shite. Dinnae ‘ow we missed her", Soap’s eyes raked the screen.

"—there's a lot tae miss." He couldn't stop himself from laughing before adding, "Aye, this'll be a skoosh."

"...a what?"

Soap was right, the whole mission would go off without a hitch. It’d be nearly anticlimactic.

You were a proper softie, any fight you put up while being shocked awake and tripping over your own bedding was so pitiful it’s endearing. Naturally, they were in and out in 2 minutes with practiced precision. But all the same, Gaz and Soap were eager to give you a good fright.

John would make sure to keep them in line. He'd make it clear from the jump that he’d only made allowance for some light manhandling of the bird. They'd not be taking any liberties. He'd leave that to Ghost's discretion.

It was a clean pick-up. You were plucked and bagged "to-go" without much fuss. Proper delivery drivers they were, brought you back to base in 30 minutes or less.

Laswell would be waiting in the wings, of course. Immediately following the departure, her people scour your flat. No stone was left unturned, every belonging you owned was gone through, systematically. Anything and everything capable of holding an electrical charge would be seized and forensically analyzed.

She confirmed what she already expected. You were no terrorist asset, had no connections to any unscrupulous business. No, you were some civilian who's biggest crime, Laswell estimated, was impulse control. That and film piracy. Still, she’d personally double and triple check the findings before finally giving John the go ahead. Ghost was completely in the clear.

It’d feel like whiplash, the relief would be almost dizzying. But even if any anxiety threat had dissipated, the anger was very much still there. Ghost is flooded with resentment for having any of it foisted on him by some nameless civvie.

Ghost was eerily still as he stared at you. You were a sight.

You're underdressed, disheveled, frozen and wide-eyed. Squeezed into a chair with several improvised polyester ratchet straps that were normally used for cargo. The wide, neon bands cut into the ample flesh meanly. Admittedly, it was probably excessive just to contain one fat bird, but no one can ever claim the lads don't take their job seriously.

The several seconds of quiet must have felt excruciatingly long for you. Gaz and Soap would share knowing grins where they were posted up off to the side, reclining against the wall. You couldn't pay them to miss this.

Any surprise Ghost felt was completely hidden, his eyes drifted back to John.

"She’s all yours," John husked, ambling around you, thumbs tucked in his tactical vest. "Your loose end", answering the unasked question.

You’d flinch, head snapping between the two, desperately trying to keep eyes on the Captain before he disappeared over your shoulder, pulling fruitlessly at the restraints before your wild eyes darted back to Ghost.

That was all the confirmation he needed. Unbidden, any previous machinations started to reform in his mind.

"—I keep telling you, this is all a misunderstanding!" you plead to John, finally finding your voice.

As if he could save you.

Ghost is really going to enjoy this.

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

Dark!Ghost x fat fem reader

CWs: rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

(A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.)

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people  “jus’ need killin’”. 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.

Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.

You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he? 

He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.

Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing. 

As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.

Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”. 

The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.