#goap x reader
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drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago
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red ochre [1]
series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld
> summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold > tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description
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Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.
Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.
Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.
You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.
"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.
"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.
"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.
"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"
"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."
Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.
He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.
Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.
You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.
The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.
Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.
Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.
"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"
"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."
"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."
You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.
There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.
Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.
Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.
They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.
Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.
Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.
But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.
Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.
Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.
Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?
"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.
"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."
Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.
You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.
A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.
Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.
You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.
His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.
Devils, come to sack the convent.
Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.
You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.
It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.
"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.
The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."
You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.
"Good girl," Skull says.
The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.
Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.
You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.
"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"
"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"
"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.
"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.
It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.
Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.
"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"
A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.
Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.
The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.
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Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.
They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.
Yet.
"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.
His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.
Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.
Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.
"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.
"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"
You blanch, breath leaving you.
"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"
"Take 'er."
With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.
"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."
Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.
The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.
You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.
The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.
Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.
"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Or ask him for help.
Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.
A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.
Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.
"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.
"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."
"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.
When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?
God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?
"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.
You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.
"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.
"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."
They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.
Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.
It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.
You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.
Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.
You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?
The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.
Blood rushes in your ears again.
You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.
A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.
"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."
You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.
"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."
"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"
"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"
"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."
He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.
"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."
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It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.
The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.
"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.
You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.
"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.
The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.
"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"
"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."
"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.
Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.
You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.
Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.
"Here," Simon says. You look up.
In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.
His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.
"For me?" you ask.
"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.
"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.
"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.
Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.
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Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.
Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.
When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.
Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.
He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.
"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.
"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"
No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.
Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.
"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."
You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.
You wonder when this journey will end.
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Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.
She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.
Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.
"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."
"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.
Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.
"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"
Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.
Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.
Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.
"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.
"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.
"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."
He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.
"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.
Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.
"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."
You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.
"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.
The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.
You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.
The soap is better than the water.
"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.
"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."
"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.
"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."
The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.
"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.
The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.
"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.
The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.
"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.
"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"
"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"
"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.
You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.
Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.
"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."
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disgustingtwitches · 7 months ago
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"She sounds so familiar..."
Goap x reader situation where you're kind of seeing both of them at the same time without them knowing :/
Soap brings you up first. Talks about how he met this sweet thing at a bar one night.
"Gorgeous, curvy, an kind o a brat."
Ghost barely cares, Soap isn't even sure he's listening. He keeps going though, just excited to talk about you;
"Nice place; dark green silk sheets, vanilla candles, made a curated playlist jus for me."
Ghost pauses for a moment before he continues cleaning his boots.
"Fuckin perfect bird she is. Skin smells like shea butter. Got this cute little beauty mark on her left ass cheek. E'en got herself a gold chain wi ma name."
"She from the states?"
Ghost asks, setting his boots down.
"New York." Johnny nods, smiling.
"Tattoo on her left wrist?"
Ghost's mouth twitches, staring at the floor.
"Peonies...her favorite..."
Johnny's mouth goes dry. Simon stares at him, his eyes dark.
"You know 'er?"
Johnny swallows, knowing the answer already.
"Better than Jesus did his disciples."
Simon's voice is chilling. There's a tense moment. Soap feels like he could get crushed by the sheer weight of Simon's gaze alone.
"Let's go pay her a visit, hm?"
Simon doesn't wait for an answer from Johnny; it wasn't a question anyways.
You get a text from Soap:
"Outside :)"
'What a welcomed surprise' you think to yourself. You smile and walk to the door. Much to your shock and horror, there they both are on the other side.
"Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
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meowpupp · 1 year ago
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omg ghost forcing puppy and kitty to deepthroat the double ended dildo so they can “kiss and make up”
ONGGG DONT EVEN
owner!ghost putting a hand on the back of pup!soap and kit!readers heads, pushing the two closer together on the dildo till they gag and choke??? laughing when they try pull back??? making their lips touch, drool mixing as it drips onto the ground??? only letting them pull back after they both start going limp????
“that’s it, not that hard to get along now is it? both so cute when you kiss n make up.”
FUCK
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hyperfixiation-station · 1 year ago
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Content?
What do yall want to see next while I work on Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of information, Choices(x3), and Guilt-tripped?
Sorry I'm asking a lot of questions today apparently
Also Beach Day is like my least urgent fic rn so it might be a bit before the filler fics start coming, sorry :((
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totallynotasimp67 · 2 months ago
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Ghost x Combat Medic!Reader
I don’t feel like finishing this lmao, this was supposed to Goap/Reader but like I said I don’t feel like finishing this, enjoy I guess
Also, I didn’t actually do any research into the cyanide thing I just remember it from a Wonder Woman movie, I also used google translate for a singular word
*Gaol - Love
Not a clue if it actually means that and I don’t really care lol
~~~~~~~~
“Ghost, How Copy?” The coms device crackles in the Lieutenants ear
“All good over here”
There a slight pause as Ghost ponders why you contacted him from base camp
“Ahh, good, there’s been a minor situation back here”
Ghost freezes, did one of his soldiers get hurt, did Johnny get hurt, did you get hurt, questions flood his mind but you speak before he can
“One of the enemy tried to play recon, tried to see what we had, was a fool that one”
Shit, Ghost thought, his favorite medic, though he wasn’t sure of his feelings, was in danger, he had to get there fast
“Stay hidden, I’ll be there soon… did you say ‘tried’”
“Aye, he’s currently out cold and tied to a chair, although I can’t say the bindings are the greatest, used what what was lying around”
A wave of relief washed over the Lieutenant as he allowed a sigh of relief pass his lips
“Hold your position, if I can’t to you myself I’ll make sure another soldier can”
He hated the thought of you being taken care of by another soldier but he hated the thought of you being hurt or worse more
“Aight, I’m almost finished my ‘examination’ last thing is his mouth”
Ghost wanted to question why you were ‘examining’ the enemy, he couldn’t dwell on it too long he had to get over there as soon as possible
“Soap. How copy?”
“Second floors clear L.T. ye need somethin’” Soap questions
“Sorta, one of the enemy slipped by and is being held back at base camp”
Soap understands now, Ghost’s worried about you, Soap had spared with you a few times per your request, he knows your rather strong but he knew that before you asked to spar, you treated wounded soldiers on and off the field, holding them down or dragging their limp body was nothing new to you, Soap knew it, surely Ghost did too, maybe the rational part of his mind wasn’t working, only caring for your safety
“Aye, all most finished ‘ere, scan the grounds make sure no one slips by then head back, be done soon ‘nough”
Good, he can go to you and not some random solider
“Loud an clear”
Scanning the surroundings for anyone, but only bodies littered the ground, a sigh of relief, Simon can go and make sure you’re alright and not alone with the enemy regardless of if their tied up or not
“s’all clear, nothin’ but bodies” Ghost grumbled into the coms device
“Aye, almost done ‘ere, go check on yer gaol*”
Simon rolled his eyes at John’s comment, not that anyone could see, the sentiment was still there
“Ye can tell me what that means later”
“Haha, not a chance, ye’ll try and kill me”
——— Back at Base Camp ———
Humming to no one in particular as it was only you and the unconscious combatant
“Hhhmm, I wonder what secrets you hold,” your pondering interrupted when your coms crackle
“Fangs, how copy”
It was Ghost, he must be almost done
“All clear, captive doesn’t have any on him that could compromise us or him,”
So that’s what you meant by ‘examination’
“Although he could stand to have visited the dentist more often”
“And why do you know that, ya know what jus tell me when I get there”
Giggling “alright, when will you get here”
“Soon”
That’s all you heard before the coms went silent, guess you’ll have to sit by your lonesome at base camp
‘Base camp’ wasn’t all that bad of a building, it was really just a safe house that Ghost, Soap, yourself and a handful of other soldiers would return too once all necessary targets were eliminated, and the information was secure, looking at your watch it had been almost an hour since the others should have infuriated the target building, they shouldn’t be gone for too much longer, if Ghost comes back alone you’ll have to ask where the others are
The soft crunching of boots on dried leaves let you know someone is approaching, keeping out of sight from whom ever walks through the door, be it Ghost or any of the other boys or another enemy looking for their missing comrade, having decided to not take any chances
One hand the standard issue pistol, the other ready to call for back up, bracing for whoever’s on the other side, friend or foe, the door cracks open at first as if the one opening it is worried about an ambush, opening it the rest of the way having not seen you on the initial opening Ghost calls out
“FANGS! Where are you?!” Worry lacing his voice, he hadn’t seen you on his first scan of the room before him, worried someone might have come for their comrade and for you
Stepping out of the door way you hid in “no need to shout, ‘m right here”
The sight of you unharmed has Ghost relaxing a bit “good, where’s the guy you subdued?”
“Also what about that comment ‘bout ‘im needing to see a dentist?”
“Oh, that,” motioning for Simon to follow “well, some context, before I became a medic I had, well I still have, quite the interest in execution and torture techniques”
“I don’t even need to see your face to know it says ‘what in the actual hell’ I’ve gotten that reaction before”
Shocked would be one way to explain how Simon felt, gob smacked even, you, the tiny(compared to him most everyone is tiny) kind and harmless person has such a morbid curiosity, one would expect something like that of Ghost himself, but you, it was almost impossible to imagine, something like plants and which ones could be used medicinally maybe, but execution and torture
Pulling Ghost from his thoughts you spoke, “well here he is, but one of the ‘execution’ techniques was a pill of cyanide in a false tooth, so when you get captured to avoid torture you’d break the pill and die”
“Now I know it’s not very common but, I feel the need to check anyway, because the one time I don’t check they’ll have it and boom, we’ve lost a source of intel”
Ghost has to admit though, your thoroughness could prove useful in the future, but now he was just glad you were safe
Wordlessly he checks the bindings on the captive, ensuring their strong enough to hold, he’d have to contact Price when the others go back, then he’s being pulled to the side by his shoulder
“You hurt? This can go the easy way where you just tell me or I strip your gear off and look myself”
Silence, frustrating silence, Simon couldn’t breathe or think let alone reply to your question, the seconds felt like an eternity, the thought of you pulling his tactical gear off and looking over his body with such care, Simon feels as if he could combust when he’s pulled out of his thoughts by your annoyed huff
“Looks like it’ll be the hard way” but before you can start removing Simons gear his hands grab your wrists preventing you from doing anything more
“‘M fine, wasn’t hurt”
“Haaa, ye didn’t say so because…” hoping he’d answer
“Was making sure you weren’t hurt, can’t have our only medic hurt now can we”
If you rolled your eyes any harder they’d roll right outta your skull
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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago
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hello! i love your writing and your goap x captive reader is god-tier, i felt SO seen when you mentioned how much you love the trope of groveling man begging for forgiveness (especially when the Big Wrong of having kidnapped you is still hanging in the air i love tension and problems!!!)
out of interest in taking that to the max, what would happen if reader’s captivity ended up taking away something no promises from the boys could make up for/restore? like in the earlier days after a few months the reader somehow figures out her mom had passed from an aggressive cancer and that being locked down/cut off from her loved ones for her “adjustment period” had robbed her of the ability to be there for her/something else equally unbrushoffable even to them.
i haven’t been eating this good in yeeeeeeeeeeears thank you for your service! - 🫡
i read literally anything people say has a grovel. could be 500+ pages and i will read for that scene. they're soooo fucking good. have read so many bad books because of this but also a few reallyyyy good ones so who am i to complain? i am, however, terrible at writing them lmfao so forgive me
im not gonna use the mom example because honestly, now sure you could come back from that? im like super close with my mom and i would never be able to get past that, and reader isn't me but i just don't think i could figure out how to write that - sorry!! but if they made you cut contact with your friends and you then missed a wedding/birth, or missed an event you'd been really excited for, i could see that being something they'd have to do some groveling for!
the thing with these two is that they will take absolutely any opportunity you present to legitimize your relationship in your mind. any argument that's not centered around your captivity is something they're going to solve without punishments and without further bringing up your captivity, yk?
this argument is kind of centered around being kidnapped - you missed x because you were kidnapped - but like... for my sake let's pretend you've reached the stage of totally ignoring the fact that you're being held against your will and have started pretending you're just in a really fucking odd relationship. so when you complain about having to miss the event because "they made you" instead of "they kept you locked to a bolt in the floor" they're like... fantastic opportunity
a lot of the ways they usually make you feel better aren't really things you like - or at least aren't things you'll admit you like. so when they grovel for this it's groveling. doing things you love, gifts you like for you - not lingerie to wear for them or toys to use with them - that they know you want, taking you out somewhere to try and make up for it, fuck they might even start planning a trip to somewhere they know you want to go (with meticulous planning to keep you from getting away too, of course)
johnny's groveling would be just an overload of affection. he'll apologize over and over and over again even if he doesn't mean it, kneels in front of you and rests his chin on your stomach to stare up at you with those big puppy dog eyes :( literally begs for your forgiveness. hate him
simon is a little more subtle about it. he won't apologize because he doesn't feel bad, but he will shower you with gifts. drops things in your lap or in front of you at random intervals of the day, sometimes grunts "you still angry?" right after. if the answer is yes, he'll just keeps getting you more things
the sex is extremely good during this little period. you have more orgasms than you thought possible lol
eventually you get over it, and you're certain they've learned their lesson for this type of thing <3
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imagine-shenanigans · 1 year ago
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hi! i LOVE you goap x reader fic. seriously, ITS SO GOOD OMG. i love the characterisation and how you write the dark content stuff. anyways, before i run up the word count i wanted to ask- do you have a update schedule for the fic? i seriously devoured the new chapter is not even funny 😭😭😭
IM CRYIN AND DIPPING YOU TENDERLY IN THE MOONLIGHT FRFR.
the fucking outpour of support and love has been insane on this fic like im not even kidding when i say i expected like maybe ten kudos max until i got further into the fic/itd been up awhile. it feels like being scruffed like a cat and held up high in the fandom. fucking insane.
anyway to actually answer your question before I go back to bed for a couple hours I do not have a schedule! I'll elaborate more and put a tldr lol. But I've found personally trying to keep a deadline has a negative effect on my writing, so what I've instead been doing is making myself write two chapters worth before i post one, or I at least have to have most of the second chapter outlined. So chapter 3 was posted after I figured out exactly how I want chapter 4 to go and got like. 1k into it. so chapter 4 will be posted when I get either all of 5 written or most of it outlined! Depends on the content of the chapter ngl
Since chapter 4 is gonna be like. all fucking porn I know theres nothjng I'll have to retcon/rearrange in 3 lmao
tldr- no i dont have a schedule, but i do make up for it with my insane ramblings on here and also in the fic itself teehee 💖
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drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago
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red ochre [2]
series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> orpiment
> summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken > tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)
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You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.
Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.
When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.
Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.
It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-
"Did she just-"
"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.
He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.
You scream.
It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.
Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.
Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.
"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."
Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.
"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."
A wink.
"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."
There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.
"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"
Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.
You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.
You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.
"Eat slowly," is all he says.
It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.
Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.
Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.
"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."
"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."
You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!
He's too strong.
The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.
Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.
You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.
"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"
You shake your head.
"That's what I thought."
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Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.
You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.
"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"
"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.
You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.
"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.
His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.
"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"
Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."
He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.
"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.
Simon doesn't let you panic for long.
"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."
There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.
"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.
"No," he says simply.
For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.
Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.
"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."
Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.
"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.
"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."
Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.
"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."
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You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.
Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.
Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.
Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.
You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.
He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.
"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.
"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.
Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.
"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.
"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."
The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.
"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.
The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.
"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."
"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.
You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.
Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.
"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"
After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.
Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.
"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."
His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.
"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."
Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.
The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.
"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.
"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.
They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.
Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.
You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?
The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.
It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.
"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.
They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.
"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."
You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.
Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.
"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.
"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.
Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.
People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.
The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.
It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.
Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.
"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"
Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.
"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.
By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.
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The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.
It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.
Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.
The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.
These are the fledglings?
You're in a wild, barbaric place.
When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.
No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.
Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.
"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.
"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.
"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.
Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.
"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."
Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.
Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.
Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.
Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.
Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.
"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"
Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.
"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."
A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.
Wife?
"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."
"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?
"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."
"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.
"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"
"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."
"When's that, then?" Price asks.
"Before next summer."
The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.
The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.
"Too tired?" Johnny asks.
You run.
Or try to, as fast as you can.
It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.
Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.
It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.
"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.
"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.
"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.
"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."
The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.
"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.
The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.
"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."
"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."
"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."
Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.
"Get in bed."
Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.
"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"
"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."
God help you, you're so tired you do.
579 notes · View notes
disgustingtwitches · 6 months ago
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MDNI
Every girl needs Paris
Your mouth always got you in trouble when you start drinking. Lucky for you, Johnny loves trouble.
You go out to a bar in hopes of getting free drinks. Lock eyes with this ball of energy that's been staring at you for the past twenty minutes. Introduce yourself and have some small talk. Pleasantly surprised to hear a Scottish accent. He offers to pay for your drinks. Jackpot.
Back to back shots have you talking about the most ridiculous shit. You ramble on about some random things that he's too busy to listen to because he's staring at your pretty face and body. Then you say something that catches his attention,
"S just bullshit that guys think that an Eiffel Tower is just spit roasting with a fucking high five,"
You slur your words, looking at him.
"Like, no! A proper Eiffel Tower is two men making out sloppy style while fucking a girl at the same time,"
He's thoroughly amused by your rant. You mimic the point of a tower with your hands,
"See? It's like- it's like this!"
You then bump the tips of your fingers together,
"That's it- that's them kissing."
He hums in acknowledgment,
"Aye, sounds about right."
"See? You get it!"
You poke his chest and that gets a laugh out of him. He grabs your wrist and pulls you closer, kissing you in a way that makes the other patrons at the bar cringe.
You're at his place surprisingly quick, clothes are practically torn off each other. He moans when he slides your thong off, seeing how wet you already are.
"Forgot tae mention I got a roommate."
He looks down at you while you're nearly folded in half, his tip sat right outside your slick folds.
"This is a studio apartment."
You stare, dizzy from the alcohol and excitement. And now confusion.
"Aye."
He doesn't even let you get a word in before he slams himself into you. Dick in, thoughts out. He was quite mean, bullying you with his dick and words,
"Look at me, pumpin' ye stupider than ye already are."
You just giggled. You didn't give a fuck what he said as long as he kept fucking you like this. He grabbed your hips to get better leverage to pump himself into you, loved the way slightly different angles felt when you fluttered around him. He hit your sweet spot so much you melted around him, nothing but a pool of your come and sweat in his toned arms.
"Fuckin hell LT, ye see the way she takes it? Like a fuckin champ."
Johnny laughs breathlessly. There's a hum of agreement and the clink of a belt being unbuckled. You whip your head to see a brick wall of a masked man watching the both of you,
"Heard Paris is beautiful this time of year."
487 notes · View notes
drgnflyteabox · 30 days ago
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red ochre [5]
series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder
> summary: big nun, little nun > tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab
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When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water. 
Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.
He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.
Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.
So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.
There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.
Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you
You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.
On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.
“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.
Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.
Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.
Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.
“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.
“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”
“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.
He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.
“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.
“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.
I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?
“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”
“Like a bairn?”
“A what?”
“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.
You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?
“You punished me,” you settle on.
“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”
“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”
He turns to you.
“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”
Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.
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You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.
When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.
You have to admire that. At least a little.
“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.
“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”
He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.
“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”
That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.
“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.
“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.
“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”
Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.
Some spirit of confidence grips you.
“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”
“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”
“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.
Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.
“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.
“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”
“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.
Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.
“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“
“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern. 
“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.
“How else..?” you frown.
Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.
“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”
“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.
Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.
“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.
Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.
“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”
You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.
The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families. 
Such was the world.
Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.
“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”
“So, those scars…?”
“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”
Gaz butts in here,  “or, you can ask him yourself.”
“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.
Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”
“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”
“A fight to the death.”
“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”
They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.
Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.
“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.
“Yes,” and it’s honest.
He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.
“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”
Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.
Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.
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Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.
Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.
His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.
You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.
“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.
In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.
“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.
You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.
So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.
Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.
A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.
After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.
“Why me?”
“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”
It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.
“Don't you think it's cruel?”
“No,” finally, he turns to you.
“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.
“You were scared.”
“Yes.”
“Are you still scared?”
“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”
“Not at first.”
“Then when?”
His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.
“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”
“You were cruel to me then, too.”
“I’m a cruel man.”
There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.
You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.
A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome. 
Salt blows in the air,  metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying. 
The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!
The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.
He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.
You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.
Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.
With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”
“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.
“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”
“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”
“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.
“I know.”
“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.
“Mm,” Simon confirms.
You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.
How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.
Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.
You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.
 “Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.
“No.”
You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.
Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.
The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.
He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.
“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”
“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”
He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.
“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”
Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.
“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”
“I haven’t asked for anything else.”
He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.
“Haven’t you?”
Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.
But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.
“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.
There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.
“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.
Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.
“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.
God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.
You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.
Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.
Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.
Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.
Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.
When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.
It’s like flying.
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In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.
More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.
When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.
He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.
Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.
“For you,” Simon says.
You look up at him, heart dancing.
His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.
Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.
You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.
“For me?”
Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.
“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.
 “Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.
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Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.
Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.
You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.
Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.
“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting. 
“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.
“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.
You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.
“Yes.”
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disgustingtwitches · 6 months ago
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Johnny being trained not to cum so fast so you can get yours, Simon just relentlessly pushing the button,
"Slow down. Deeper strokes.'
Johnny literally whimpers like a fucking dog, hips shaking from trying to control himself,
"LT...please..."
This "training" going on for weeks. Johnny building up a pain tolerance so the shock has to be set higher every time. And then one day when Simon shocks him, Johnny finishes immediately because now he associates the pain of the shocks to the pleasure of your pussy. Literally pavloved him into liking that shit. Now he'll literally get a boner just from the static shock from a fucking sweater or something.
Shock collar on Johnny
Shock collar on Johnny
Shock collar on Johnny
171 notes · View notes
meowpupp · 1 year ago
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does owner!price hand you over to soap while you’re in heat 🥹. you’re just too much to handle for him!! he’s getting old, and giving you 4-5 rounds is exhausting, so why not hand you over to simon’s pet?
price and ghost have a mutually beneficial agreement. both of their pups are at the peak of their fertility, and so when heat comes around, there’s only so much they can do. so, they arrange play dates.
it always starts with fighting. both you and soap are so pent up, so tightly wound with energy that as soon as you get your hands on each other, instincts take over.
it’s a tumble of claws and teeth. soap manhandles you to the ground, one hand shoving your face into the floor while the other pulls your panties down. he’s quick to force apart your thighs and shove his face between them. your scent drive him wild, he can’t help but want to devour your pretty cunt.
it’s only once ghost pulls him off, both him and price sick of hearing you whine and cry for cock, that he finally fucks you. soap is rough, his rut clouding his mind. his hips pound down into yours, making your whole body jolt as you slowly turn cockdrunk.
he fucks you till your slick stains the carpet, the rhythmic ‘slap slap slap’ of his hips against yours fills the room. he growls in your ear, too far gone for words. he finally has something soft and warm to rut into, his thick cock filling out every inch of your wet cunt.
you go round after round, soft tummy getting more and more pudgy as he fills you with cum. by now, price and ghost have stopped talking. their eyes fix on the web of slick and cum that connect you and soap each time the bigger pup pulls back. the way you drool into the carpet as you whimper, and how soaps tail whips back and forth as he ruins you.
soap is mean, he fucks you like he hates you, rubs your throbbing clit as he chokes you out. he grins as you whimper and babble, crying for your owner. it’s not his fault your body can’t take a proper cock like his, your poor puppy-cunt is used to human cock. he practically splits you in half as he stuffs you with his knott. your cunt cumming around him for the nth time.
price is less than sympathetic, kneeling down infront of you. he brushes your hair back, smirking as he notices just how fucked out you are. soap doesn’t stop as price gently cups your cheeks. “just a couple more rounds, okay pup? don’t want you humping my leg all night again.” he chuckles lowly as you whine, tears streaming down your face as you sob, “cmon, be a good girl n take it. atta girl.”
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meowpupp · 1 year ago
Note
I can’t stop thinking about pup-soap getting muzzled for his play date with puppy-girl reader because he was to rough with her last time :(( he would be so whiny and sad but at this point he’d be lucky to be let off his leash
GAGGED
price who's so mean to johnny. he can't stand how teary you are after each session with the hybrid, poor body covered in dark hickies and bites. after all, you're his. even gaz isn't allowed to mark the soft fat of your body, so why would johnny?
so the next time johnny comes over, he's muzzled. a large, steel cage securely fastened to his face, jutting out almost two inches. he cant even kiss you! poor boy whining clawing at your plush body, desperate to have you close. his ears are all droopy, pouting as he tries to nuzzle your neck.
even when he's deep inside your little cunt, he's barely given any freedom. two of simon's thick fingers looping under his collar, ready to pull him away from you at a moment's notice.
the cold metal of johnny's muzzle nudges against your cheek, desperate to get close, arms wrapping around you, pulling your body as close as possible, lifting your hips to meet his. he's lost in your sweet cunt, body shuddering at the feeling of your walls hugging him. his hips slam against yours, claws digging into the fat of your hips, denying you even an inch of space.
his eyes are trained on your tits, watching them bounce with each harsh thrust. the poor pup is practically salivating, teeth gritting as he presses the muzzle against your sternum. he's almost tearing up, so desperate to be able to sink his teeth into your soft body, drooling against you.
but simon and price are so mean, the moment you finish cumming on his cock, simon yanks him back. his owner shushes him, his hand wrapping around johnny's cock, grip too tight and fast. his cock throbs, twitching as he cums all over your pudgy tummy, almost crying as he's denied your sweet little cunt, again.
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disgustingtwitches · 7 months ago
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Hi! My name is Titi ヾ(*´ ∇ `)ノ
I'm 25. Latina/Asian 🇩🇴🇰🇭
She/her, bisexual, and fucking gross
My art tag
For longer stories, check out my AO3!
Possible triggers and what I DO NOT WRITE
Masterlist :
Restaurant Au w/141
A Rose in Harlem
Drug dealer boyfriend Au w/141
Headcanons/Imagines
///
Ghost:
Neighbor!Simon series (on going)
Situationship pt.1: Come and see me for once
Situationship pt.2: Come over and ride it
Situationship pt.3: Come on over baby
Biting Simon
Skin to skin
Breath play DDDNE
Sub Simon
Sexworker x Simon (AO3)
Ghoap Sperm donor
///
Gaz:
He's so mean
Pretty brown girl
///
Soap:
The artist
Mommy Mamí kink
Shock collar
Undoing zippers
Sperm donor
///
Price:
Pretty assistant (emphasis on the ass)
///
König:
I like a tall woman with a nice big ass
Her legs ran all the way up to heaven
Sugar daddy
Neighbor Au (AO3) DDDNE
///
141:
Stealing from them
Sexworker reader (feat. König + Nikto)
Uncommon kinks (feat. König)
Catholic priests Au
Pegging
///
Goap:
Same girl
Repentance
Eiffel Tower
Sperm donor!Johnny x Husband!Ghost x you
///
Asks:
141 w/ an alt girl
Hurricane shots!
Hurricane Shots (pt. 2)
141 being mean to you :(
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lorilane33 · 4 months ago
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😳🫠😮‍💨
red ochre [1]
series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description
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Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.
Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.
Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.
You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.
"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.
"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.
"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.
"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"
"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."
Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.
He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.
Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.
You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.
The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.
Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.
Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.
"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"
"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."
"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."
You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.
There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.
Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.
Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.
They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.
Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.
Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.
But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.
Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.
Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.
Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?
"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.
"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."
Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.
You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.
A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.
Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.
You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.
His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.
Devils, come to sack the convent.
Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.
You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.
It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.
"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.
The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."
You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.
"Good girl," Skull says.
The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.
Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.
You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.
"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"
"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"
"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.
"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.
It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.
Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.
"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"
A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.
Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.
The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.
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Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.
They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.
Yet.
"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.
His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.
Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.
Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.
"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.
"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"
You blanch, breath leaving you.
"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"
"Take 'er."
With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.
"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."
Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.
The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.
You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.
The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.
Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.
"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Or ask him for help.
Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.
A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.
Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.
"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.
"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."
"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.
When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?
God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?
"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.
You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.
"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.
"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."
They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.
Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.
It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.
You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.
Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.
You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?
The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.
Blood rushes in your ears again.
You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.
A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.
"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."
You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.
"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."
"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"
"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"
"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."
He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.
"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."
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It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.
The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.
"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.
You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.
"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.
The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.
"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"
"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."
"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.
Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.
You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.
Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.
"Here," Simon says. You look up.
In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.
His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.
"For me?" you ask.
"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.
"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.
"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.
Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.
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Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.
Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.
When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.
Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.
He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.
"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.
"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"
No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.
Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.
"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."
You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.
You wonder when this journey will end.
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Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.
She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.
Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.
"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."
"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.
Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.
"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"
Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.
Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.
Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.
"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.
"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.
"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."
He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.
"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.
Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.
"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."
You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.
"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.
The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.
You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.
The soap is better than the water.
"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.
"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."
"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.
"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."
The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.
"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.
The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.
"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.
The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.
"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.
"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"
"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"
"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.
You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.
Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.
"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."
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lorilane33 · 4 months ago
Text
😅🤭
red ochre [2]
series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> tbd
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken w.c: 3.9k tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)
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You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.
Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.
When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.
Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.
It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-
"Did she just-"
"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.
He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.
You scream.
It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.
Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.
Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.
"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."
Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.
"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."
A wink.
"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."
There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.
"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"
Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.
You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.
You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.
"Eat slowly," is all he says.
It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.
Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.
Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.
"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."
"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."
You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!
He's too strong.
The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.
Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.
You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.
"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"
You shake your head.
"That's what I thought."
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Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.
You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.
"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"
"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.
You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.
"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.
His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.
"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"
Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."
He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.
"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.
Simon doesn't let you panic for long.
"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."
There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.
"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.
"No," he says simply.
For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.
Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.
"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."
Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.
"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.
"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."
Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.
"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."
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You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.
Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.
Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.
Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.
You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.
He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.
"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.
"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.
Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.
"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.
"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."
The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.
"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.
The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.
"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."
"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.
You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.
Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.
"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"
After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.
Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.
"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."
His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.
"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."
Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.
The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.
"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.
"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.
They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.
Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.
You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?
The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.
It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.
"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.
They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.
"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."
You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.
Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.
"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.
"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.
Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.
People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.
The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.
It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.
Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.
"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"
Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.
"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.
By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.
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The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.
It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.
Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.
The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.
These are the fledglings?
You're in a wild, barbaric place.
When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.
No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.
Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.
"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.
"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.
"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.
Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.
"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."
Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.
Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.
Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.
Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.
Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.
"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"
Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.
"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."
A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.
Wife?
"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."
"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?
"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."
"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.
"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"
"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."
"When's that, then?" Price asks.
"Before winter."
The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.
The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.
"Too tired?" Johnny asks.
You run.
Or try to, as fast as you can.
It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.
Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.
It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.
"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.
"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.
"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.
"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."
The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.
"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.
The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.
"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."
"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."
"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."
Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.
"Get in bed."
Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.
"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"
"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."
God help you, you're so tired you do.
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