#implied poly141 x reader

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 4 Satanic Cult

Warning: Heavily inspired by Rosemary's Baby so all the warnings that apply to that apply here (Gaslighting, rape), Reader is AFAB but gender is not mentioned, mentions of menstration and attempts at getting a baby

Also, before I go on, I DO NOT recommend you go through legal channels to watch the movie. As it's made by a known pedo who is still alive and getting money from it, if you must watch the movie, pirate it.

You wake with a gasp again, shaking as memories of the dream fade rapidly from your mind. The new apartment feels cavernous, especially with your boyfriend sleeping in a different sleeping bag from you. There’s no one to hug you, to soothe you and reassure you that everything is okay. Hell, even if your bed had arrived early, he probably would still be snoring, completely ignorant of the terror that is currently running up and down your spine.

“Fuck,” you huff, climbing out of your sleeping bag clumsily, toddling toward the bathroom on stiff limbs.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning of your first true day in your miracle apartment is hectic. Your new apartment is huge, but empty, with wifi and a washer-dryer in it. All of this for $400 a month.

“This is too good to be true,” you repeat as you pull out the dishes you brought, a few of them antiques and a few from your college days.

“C’mon babe,” Brandon, your boyfriend, sighs, “Just accept that we’re getting a break. We’re in New York, I’m at a theatre company, and your writing’s picked up.”

“It’s too good,” you reiterate, separating the plates. Brandon groans and drops his head back, slumped on the couch that arrived at 6 this morning. Apparently, the moving company scrambled to drop your shit off when they heard which building you moved into, which is both great (no more sleeping on the floor!) and terrible (they woke you up and saw you in your shittiest pajamas). You rise slowly, cursing yourself for sitting on the floor again, and pick up the antique plates, moving slowly to put them into the cabinet in the kitchen. Suddenly, a loud knock sounds at your door.

“Babe! Door!” Brandon calls out, still sprawled out on the couch. You huff, idly wondering what you saw in him five years ago, before walking out the kitchen, past the couch, and opening the door. Before you is a group of four men, all of them easily around or over six foot and something in your stomach drops.

“Hullo, sweetheart,” the oldest looking of them greets you, the imperial beard doing nothing to hide his chunky cheeks, “The name’s John Price, and this is my roommate, Simon. We live on your right. These are Kyle and Johnny, on your other side.” You open your mouth, trying to say something, but drawing a blank. There’s something disturbingly familiar about these men, something scratching at the back of your brain.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brandon demands from behind you, startling you out of the spiral John had put you on. The older man’s eyes flash, his blue eyes seeming to change colors, but it’s quick. If you hadn’t been staring, you wouldn’t have noticed, but you didn’t catch the color.

“John Price, one of your neighbors on your right.”

“Whatever,” Brandon scoffs, rolling his eyes and trying to appear bigger. Brandon, who’s 5’6 and 115 pounds soaking wet, against four men who tower over him, “Leave, you limey.”

“Brandon!” you snap, elbowing your asshole of a boyfriend. He winces, but continues to scowl at the men. John frowns, but one of the men behind him chuckles.

“Y’re a lil’ shite. Don’ let tha’ get y’ in trouble,” the man in the balaclava rumbles, something dark rolling underneath his words. Brandon scowls at him while you grab his arm.

“Fuck off,” Brandon snaps, slamming the door closed on the men.

“Brandon!” you hiss again, giving your boyfriend a shake, “What the fuck?!”

“I’m not letting some British assholes take a lookie-loo of my house without permission,” he huffs, making you pause. You hadn’t really noticed, the unreasonable terror in your brain preventing you from seeing it, but the men had been leaning towards you. You thought it might have been to get a look at you, but this is New York. Why look at someone plain like you when they could be scoping out something to steal?

“Still,” you decide to ignore the part of you insisting that they didn’t care about the apartment, “It was rude of you, hun. You’re going to be an actor, you’ve gotta get your temper under control.” Your boyfriend puffs up, a scowl on his face, before completely deflating with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he admits, “It was a shitty thing to do. I didn’t have a good sleep last night, we’ve been moving shit all morning, and I guess I just lashed out due to that.” Immediately, you soften at his tone. This is the man you fell in love with, who can admit when he’s done wrong and work to be better. God knows you love him.

“Alright,” you accept his explanation, “But you owe them an apology.” He nods sheepishly before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“How about, we finish unpacking the kitchen, then we make those cookies that we’re so good at making? Use those to butter up the neighbors for my apology,” he jokes, giving your waist a squeeze before walking past you, to the kitchen.

“You mean the cookies you make sure I don’t burn?” you tease back.

“Hey! I decorate them!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Migh’ be a bit ‘arder t’ get Pretty ‘lone, Cap.”

“It doesn’t matter. We can get him to agree with the right bait.”)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, you send Brandon off to speak with the neighbors, cookies in hand and a kiss to the cheek, before pulling out your laptop to work a little more on your book. Normally, you’d play music or have an old show on as background noise, but you’re a little worried. What if the neighbors start yelling, or Brandon loses his temper? What if they attack him, or he lashes out for whatever reason? If you were back at your old apartment, you wouldn’t have these worries, with all the old ladies living around you cooing at how cute of a couple you and Brandon are. But, this is New York. The Big City in the United States. You don’t know anything.

You’re pulled from your worries by someone knocking Shave and a Haircut (damn Brandon for teaching that to you) on your door. Standing up, you hurry over and peek out the peephole. Brandon stands before your door, absolutely beaming with an empty tray in hand. You open the door and he steps in.

“They’re great,” he immediately declares when he steps into your apartment.

“Oh?” you intone, more than a little confused at his change in tune about the neighbors. It usually takes him a month or so to get over a bad impression, no matter who caused it. For him to be so happy? They must have said something about his acting career.

“Yeah,” he practically chirps, “Especially Kyle. He went to one of the plays I was actually on stage for, and he remembered me!” You frown, mulling over the three plays Brandon was on stage for. The only major role he played was…

“He saw you as Mercutio? Wasn’t that at an off-Broadway theatre?” you ask.

“Yeah, but it had a Tartuffe before we preformed, then it hosted The Importance of Being Earnest,” he excuses with a wave of your hand. You frown at his flippancy, but sigh and nod. Abruptly, he straightens up and grins, “Oh, and I invited them over for dinner.”

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Pretty’s a loud one.”

“All th’ be’er. A bonnie thin’ wi’ a swee’ scream.”

“English, bruv.”)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Saturday night finds you standing awkwardly in your apartment, glad you managed to talk your boyfriend into changing the dinner to tonight. Unfortunately, that lead to more people being invited, including Farah and Alex, who live across the hall, Ale and Rudy, who are across from John and Simon (the big guy in the balaclava), and finally, Kate and Rosemary, who live across from Johnny and Kyle (an exuberant Scot and the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen).

“So, you write?” Rosemary (“call me Rosy, dear.”) asks politely.

“Yes, ma’am,” you softly admit, flustered and nervous.

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of you,” Farah hums as she sips the wine you managed to get (you politely pretend to not notice how she keeps scrunching up her nose. You’ll offer her one of the better seltzers if she asks for a refill), “Something about…”

“Nonfiction, Darling,” Alex reminds her, “They wrote about the more recent studies into cults and demonology, as well as covering the Satanic Panic of the ‘80’s.”

“Yeah, I did,” you admit, surprised at the fact he even knew. Your book was well-received, but ultimately, it wasn’t a steamy romance between a non-binary artist and their vampiric muse, so it went largely ignored. Alex grins as Farah snaps her fingers.

“That’s it,” she agrees, “You mentioned how a number of horror movies and thrillers of the time help show just what people were afraid of.”

“Ah? Uh, yeah,” you agree, confused at that. While you had spent a page talking about that, the majority of your book had focused more on news articles and stories that were either proven false or used as a cover for something more sinister.

“The Lost Boys, They Live and The Howling. I think those were the movies you mentioned,” Farah continues with a hum.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “Mostly because of the heavy lean of conspiracy and the manipulation of innocence.”

“You also mentioned a number of movies that use demons and demonic summonings, like Evil Dead and Pumpkinhead,” Alex pipes in, practically melting when Farah patted his cheek.

“Of course,” you acknowledge, “They helped prove exactly what many news sources at the time were claiming as occurring around the country. Especially with Hellraiser, summoning demons for pleasure was a widely used excuse for children being hurt.”

“How long did this research take?” Rosemary asks, tilting her head curiously.

“Um, about two years,” you confess, “Luckily, most of the newspapers and stories made it to archives that was able to upload them to databases when using computers became commonplace.”

“Neat,” Alex chirps, swiping Farah’s half full glass to trade with his empty beer bottle. The look of betrayal on Farah’s face makes you laugh at their shenanigans.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“At’s nae fair. Lookit how pretty they ur when they laugh.”

“It’s Farah an’ Alex. They’ve always been good at gettin’ people t’ relax. Makes sense they can do it with Pretty.”

“You see who’s not lookin’ at Pretty?”

“Th’ lil’ shite ‘o’s ‘pose t’ be their boy? Yeah, clocked it.”

“Might need t’ give Kate some money for Rosemary to seduce ‘im?”

“Or get one ‘o th’ birds at th’ corner t’ do it.”)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month passes, and you slowly relax around your neighbors. Farah and Rosemary invited you to a book club, often arguing good naturedly about male writers and how they write female characters. Kate and Alex have taken to walking you through understanding sports, while Johnny (“Call me Soap, bonnie!”) will add random tidbits that usually make you look at him in confusion. Kyle, John, and Simon talk to you about all sorts of random things, usually true crime, classic literature, and cooking respectively. Through this all, Brandon’s career seems to be getting better, with him being understudy to bigger parts or acting in decently important minor roles. The downside is that he’s not home nearly as often, leaving you somewhat lonely and lost.

“So, I was thinking,” he starts one morning, when his most recent play wrapped up, “Do you want a baby?”

“What?” you ask around a mouthful of breakfast.

“A baby,” he repeats, “Like, I know we’re still not sure about marrying, but you said when we got together that you wouldn’t mind a baby out of wedlock. A bit out of order, sure, but you seem lonely.”

“And you think a baby will fix that,” you intone. Brandon nods sheepishly, recognizing your tone. Taking a breath, you rub at your eyes, explaining, “Hun, we shouldn’t have a baby just because I’m lonely when you’re working.”

“I know,” he agrees earnestly, “But, it would also be a symbol of love. And you’ve said you wanted one.” Brandon takes a bite of his own breakfast and says, “Just think about it. Okay, sweetheart?”

“…Fine,” you sigh, smiling when he grins at you before seeming to realize he’s got a mouthful of food and scrambles to cover his mouth. Laughing, you stand and drop the dishes into the dishwasher, leaning down to press a kiss to Brandon’s head.

Through the next week, you mull it over. Having a baby is a big commitment, one that Brandon’s shown he can make and one you know you want to make. Just, the thought of a little one, who is half you and half the man you love. It fills you with warmth and adoration, picturing a little boy with Brandon’s big green eyes, or a little girl with your nose. Maybe a little one who laughs like Brandon and smiles like you.

“Okay,” you say to Brandon one night, startling him from his phone.

“Okay?” he repeats, confused.

“Okay,” you repeat, “Let’s make a baby.” He blinks at you before beaming brightly, rolling on top of you and peppering your face with kisses.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Pretty’s ready. Just gotta pick a night.”

“Bin payin’ ‘tention t’ their monthly. Shuid be a week oot from noo.”

“Good work.”)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Brandon work together to calculate when you are most fertile. It took a bit, as you refuse to use those menstrual apps, knowing just what they’re actually used for, but you managed to narrow it down to three days.

“We can still practice,” he had joked and you laughed, bumping your shoulder against his own. Now, however, you aren’t laughing.

“John? What are you doing here?” you ask, looking between your neighbor and Brandon in confusion. The older man gives you a smile while your boyfriend gives you a sheepish grin.

“Oh, just giving a trade,” he explains, handing over a can of irn-bru with a grin, “We never got to thank you for the cookies all that time ago. Figured we can finally give you something in return, thanks to Soap’s mum sending us a crate of th’ stuff.”

“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip of the opened can. John’s smile seems to grow while Brandon’s face flickers. You furrow your brow, looking up at them in confusion again, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brandon immediately insists, “Nothing’s wrong.” You hum and take another sip of the soda. The three of you stand there and talk for a bit, although something starts to feel off. You blink rapidly, fighting off the woozy feeling that seems to be threatening to overwhelm you.

“I- I think I need to go lie down,” you mumble, stumbling over to the bedroom, not even taking the time to tell John and Brandon good night as you practically fall onto the bed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At one point, you open your eyes to see that you are surrounded by your neighbors. All of them are naked and chanting, with John between your legs. His eyes flash red, before he steps back, leaving a beast in the spot he was standing in. Everything is sluggish and dreamlike, even as the creature crawls over you, drooling and growling as something tries to press into you. You try to struggle, your terror sharp despite the lethargy that grips your body. It’s useless, and the beast pushes in. The pain is unbearable and darkness takes you once more.

(“Is my part of the deal done?” Brandon asks when it’s all over. Price scoffs at the little coward that hid in the living room while the ritual commenced, feeling His Lord chuckle at the selfishness of men.

“‘Course,” Price agrees easily as Farah and Alex redress quickly, the couple always a little shyer than the rest, “Now, your acting career is secured. If you want to go higher up the rungs, that’s on you.”

“That’s all I need,” the idiot insists, oblivious of his own inadequacy. Price looks over at Ghost and nods. It’s time to get Pretty away from the shitstain who sold them to His Lord. Ghost nods in return and disappears out the door, not even stopping to pull on a robe. Price huffs in amusement, and starts making plans for the nursery for His Lord’s heir. After all, you will need all the support after your baby’s “father” cheats on you, and they want to support you, even beyond the birth of His Lord’s heir.)

[fractiousmink]

Ghost is making your period everyone’s problem. Not just the team, which they don’t even see it as a problem, those three are all delighted at any opportunity to take care of you, but everyone. The whole damn base. Spends most of the month basically ignoring you and the second you start bleeding? Wears his tac vest even when he doesn’t need it cause it’s filled with snacks, tea bags, pain meds, he’s got a rice filled stuffy that you microwave to heat up strapped to him. He buys you expensive period underwear and reusable pads, which he always has spares on him as well.

Which is great for you, but makes him INSUFFERABLE otherwise. Absolutely refuses to go to any meetings or training you can’t come with, or at least get to him “in case she needs anything”. Will not even consider just leaving the things you might need in your room or something sensible. Sends rookies and random sergeants off to get you a seat so you can sit by him as he runs drills, or to heat up your stuffy when the cramps get bad. And if you need something while he’s talking to another lieutenant or a commanding officer? Fully stops listening to them. Just flat ignores them until you’re squared away. Price absolutely encourages this behavior btw.

Gross period sex ranting below the cut

You cannot convince me that this man, however he is written, doesn’t have a blood kink. Even the sweetest, fluffiest incarnation of this man is a fucking fiend for period sex. Guilt free way of getting his dick covered in blood, maybe get you off for some pain relief? Sign him the fuck up. You and him don’t usually fuck, Soap meets most of his needs just fine, but for the 5 days you’re bleeding? No one else touches you.

Makes you drag your messy cunt all over his abs and thighs, loves the blood on his pale ass skin. Half the time her doesn’t even fuck you, just fingers you till you cry and then jerks himself off with your blood. You like your ghost mean? Don’t worry, he’d be so condescending while bullying your poor sore cervix. “Quit your whining pet, you and I both know you’ll feel better once you’ve come a few times. Now hush and let me deeper.” He’s so mean and acts like her doing you a favor even though he’s literally feral for your blood on his cock.

Sometimes, when you’re extra painful, basically crying as he holds you down, he pretends all the blood is from him taking your virginity. He’s so nasty it’s unreal.

[pfhwrittes]

Dark fics Masterlist

banner by @/cafekitsune

noncon somnophilia with john mactavish emotionally manipulative/abusive kyle garrick noncon touching with john mactavish and kyle garrick twisted firefighter soapgaz thoughts (soapgaz, implied gaz x reader)

forcemasc!recruit 1 (pricegaz x transmasc!reader) forcemasc!recruit 2 (poly141 x transmasc!reader) forcemasc!recruit 3 (soap x transmasc!reader)

pfh dark fics tag for all dark and twisty thoughts, asks, headcannons and inspiration.

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 20 Succubus

Warning: Reader is female due to the lore of Succubi specifically (not incubi, which are the male version), weirdly fluffy for a sex demon, allusion to sex

You’re starving, but no one in this bar smells remotely good. All of the men smell rancid or filthy, while the women are equally rancid or overly sweetened. You sigh and pout into your drink, mourning the days when you could slip into multiple men’s rooms in the far flung past. You had been young and stupidly believed that technology would never go past the medieval era, thinking you’d have basically a buffet for however long you wanted. You were an idiot.

Suddenly, you’re slammed by four scents that make your mouth water and you pussy clench in interest. Looking up, you easily spot them, a group of handsome men walking into this shit hole of a bar. They’re obviously military, likely special forces with one man’s mohawk and another man’s beard. The man with the mohawk and another man who can only be described as beautiful are the younger two of the group, bumping into each other with snickers, as the older men walk behind them. The bearded man shakes his head while the man wearing a mask seems to roll his eyes.

“Hey, pretty la’y,” a drunkard slurs, stumbling to your table and leaning over to touch you. You turn your eyes to him and flash them, smirking when he immediately succumbs to your hypnosis.

“You’re going to leave me alone,” you order softly, “And you’re going to tell your friends to leave me alone too.” The drunkard nods deeply before stumbling back to the table he and his little friends are drinking at. You take a sip of your drink, turning to watch the handsome group find their own table. They’ve already ordered as a waitstaff scurries from their table, the masked one keeping his back against the wall as he slowly turns his head around the room. You catch his eye, smirking as you raise your drink to him. You can practically see him narrowing his eyes on you, but you continue on, sipping your drink and making looks at the table.

Eventually, the one with the mohawk rises from the table, the whiskey he’d been brought in his hand as he saunters to your table.

“Fit’s a bonnie lass daein’ on yer oon lek ‘is,” he says, accent extremely thick. You blink and arch an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry?” you reply, giving him a smile that couldn’t melt butter. The man blusters before giving you a sheepish smile.

“Ah asked, what’s a bonnie lass doin’ on yer own like this,” he enunciates, “Wanted t’ know ‘f yeh’d be interested in comin’ tae our table.” You pause, licking your lips thoughtfully before giving him a smile.

“I’d love to,” you agree, watching in amusement as the man perks up and leads you back to his three friends. You swing your hips a little bit, taking note on who is more obviously interested. The mohawked man is openly staring while the beautiful man nearly spills his beer down his shirt with how distracted he is. The older man with the beard is calmly sipping his whiskey, but his eyes are on you, while the masked man watches you warily. If nothing else, you suppose, you can try for the younger men as snacks, leave them a little tired as you see if you can’t find more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price wakes up the next day, still cock deep in your soft walls. Pushing himself up, he drags his soft prick out of you and carefully climbs over Gaz. He can’t help but pause and take in your true form, which had been revealed the night before, during Soap’s second round. A cute little spaded tail wrapping around his thigh as a pair of small horns sprouted from your forehead, your skin changing into an inhuman color.

“What a cute little succubus,” Price mumbles to himself, picking up his cigar for his morning smoke. Ghost snorts from your other side, his cock still in your ass.

“More a pain in th’ arse,” Ghost argues, “Lil’ tart wan’ed t’ be filled t’ th’ brim.” Despite his gruff words, he pats your stomach gently, emphasizing the little pudge that appeared as they fucked you. Soap grumbles behind Ghost, cuddling closer to the Lieutenant’s back while his hand finds your hip to rest on. Price tries not to snort at the situation, but the deadpan look on Ghost’s face is hilarious.

“Yeah, laugh it up, y’ ol’ bastard,” Ghost grumbles as Gaz finally wakes up enough to sit up.

“Is th’ pretty bird still ‘ere?” Gaz slurs out, blinking blearily around the room.

“I fuckin’ hope so, since I’m holdin’ someone,” Ghost snarks, which seems to wake both Soap and you up. Soap yawns and squeezes your hips before rolling right off the bloody bed while you just blink, obviously trying to figure things out.

“Y’ alive down there, MacTavish?” Gaz calls out as Price finally starts pulling on clothes.

“Away an’ bile yer heid,” Soap rasps out in irritation, clawing his way back onto the bed as Ghost uses the instance to escape. You roll on your back and arch, releasing a moan worthy of the best porn as your inhuman features return to your body.

“Well, that was a lovely night, gentlemen,” you say, “But I should go.”

“Oh no, yer nae,” Soap insists, making it on top of the bed and wrapping his arms around you.

“He’s right, pretty bird,” Gaz agrees, “Can’t just let a sweet thing like you leave.”

“Stay here, we’ll get y’ some food an’ sort some thin’s out,” Ghost instructs you as he quickly redresses as Price finishes getting his clothes on.

“You should have been more careful last night, sweetheart,” Price finally speaks up, “You should have seen that there were predators more dangerous than you at that bar.” The look on your face is confused surprise, before you yelp when the two Sergeants drag you down on the bed, more than willing to distract you with even more sex. Price and Ghost leave them to it, heading out to get breakfast for everyone.

“Y’ think she’d wan’ a muffin?” Ghost asks as they head to the car.

“Might be a safe bet,” Price agrees, pulling out the keys to the car. The only time he’s riding with Simon is during a mission or everyone else is blackout drunk.