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theshypinkflower · 3 months ago

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🎃 Kinktober ~ Worshipping/Bandages

🏆 Matt Goffard (Day 4)

Slight dub-con, oral sex, graphoerotica, blood, blackmailing

You were Derek's toy. And like a child yet to learn how to be gentle, Derek could be a bit rough. And by a bit more like a lot. Deep lacerations that sting for days, hitting, cruel words, but at the very least you lived in a nice mansion. The word “live” is used gently, really it was more of an imprisonment. At the very least you were treated to occasional luxury.

However, bandages were a luxury you hardly received. Derek would rather see the wounds he left than hide them so that they could heal properly. He took such immense pride in how the blood would seep out and how you’d cry so desperately for help. Tonight was no different occasion. Derek had once more left cuts on your skin so he could get his sick enjoyment for the night, leaving you a writhing mess on the floor as he left.

You couldn’t help but sob, loudly. You wanted to go home so badly. Would this endless cycle of torture really be the death of you? You tried using your shirt to stop the bleeding, but the large cuts in your thighs were just so deep it seemed impossible. “Please…please stop! Why won’t it stop?!” You panicked, as if somehow the walls of the massive house would respond. Oddly enough, there was a response, not one you were expecting but a response nonetheless.

After what must've been twenty minutes of wailing and crying, the door to your room was unlocked and opened abruptly. The light was abruptly flicked on and you flinched at the sudden adjustment from darkness to light. In front of you stood a rather tall man with bright blue eyes and chestnut hair. His brows were furrowed together as a first aid kit was held in his hands. “I’m trying to sleep!” He said a mix of a whisper and shout.

He stomped over to you, opening the first aid kit and beginning to clean up the blood from your wounds. “Wait what are-“ you tried asking him only to be interrupted. You let out a painful gasp as gauze was applied.

“I can’t sleep with all your damn crying,” he rudely said before grabbing a roll of bandages and starting to wrap your bleeding leg. “I know my brother is an asshole, but my God a man needs to sleep!” He continued. You heard a little bit about Derek’s family, specifically a “Matt” that he didn’t really get along with. You assumed this was Matt who was patching you up. You wanted to slap yourself as he bandaged you.

Your heart was beating so fast. He seemed just as rude as his brother, but he was giving you first aid. The entire time you had been stuck in this house, you so long craved for an ounce of gentleness or help. And here he was. Helping you. Begrudgingly helping you, but still helping you.

As Matt finished up his first aid and stood up, he was stopped in his tracks abruptly. He looked down to see you hugging his legs tightly as if it was a teddy bear. He was silent for a minute before he cleared his throat, “What are you doing?” He asked.

You looked up with sparkling eyes of pure happiness, “Just…thank you,” you said before pawing at his pajama pants. You weren’t sure what was compelling you to repay him in such a sexual manner, perhaps you had grown used to it with Derek, or maybe you genuinely wanted him. Matt’s eyes widened as he tried swatting your hand away.

“H-hey! The hell are you doing?!” He asked surprised and both confused.

“Repaying you…” you softly said as you pulled out his soft cock. You placed soft kisses along the length as you held it with your hand. Each kiss you could feel him stiffen. Matt blushed a deep shade of red as you began to stroke him. This was completely unwarranted, but not entirely unwelcomed.

He couldn’t deny, he felt a sense of power he longed for with you on his knees before him. The way you kissed his cock so gently before wrapping your lips around the tip, each swirl of your tongue was driving him crazy. You were practically worshiping his dick, making sure to lick nearly every inch and make him happy. Matt always wanted to be worshiped. He for once didn’t feel overshadowed and underappreciated, no, he felt like the boss. All to think because he helped you!

With one hand, he helped guide your head lower and lower on his dick, until your nose was buried in his thick pubes. He smelt like an expensive soap that was probably labeled “Ocean Breeze” or “Tropical Shores”. Matt let out low moans as you gagged on his length. “Fuck, I see why Derek likes you so much,” he groaned as he bucked his hips into your mouth. No matter how much you gagged and how much your jaw hurt, all you could think about was pleasing him. He helped you, it’s the least you could do.

With a couple more thrust, salty ropes of white filled your mouth. Your hands held onto his thighs as he shuddered while cumming inside your mouth. It was the perfect blend of salty and sweet, and you instinctively swallowed every last drop. You wanted to make him happy. He deserved to be worshiped for being so kind.

“Ya know, I could tell my brother about this,” Matt suddenly said while he tucked his softening dick into his pants. Your eyes widened in fear and you gripped the pant leg with such vigor he thought you’d rip it.

“Wait- no- please! Your brother- Derek- he’ll kill me!” You pleaded as tears began to form again. You didn’t wanna die. Not here. Not by the hands of that damn bastard. “Please- I- I’ll do anything!” You said as you once more began to sob. “I don’t wanna die…” you added, your voice strained from the urge to absolutely break down.

Matt smirked. He truly had all the power. “I won’t tell, unless you do me a favor. After all, I gotta teach you not to be such a crybaby,” he chuckled before leaving the room. A couple minutes later, he returned with a marker and his phone. He uncapped the marker with his teeth and began writing on you. You twitched at the sudden sensation of the marker as the smell of the permanent marker filled your nose.

Matt wrote all over you. Your face, your chest, anywhere that looked like it needed a bit of graffiti. You couldn’t read all the words, mostly due to them being on parts you couldn’t see, but you could see some words like “crybaby”, “whimp”, and “whiner”. The words made you frown a bit, was your reasonable crying that much of an issue?

It didn’t matter, because as soon as Matt finished writing on you, he began posing you like a doll. He put you in lewd positions that showed off the words, and you couldn’t help but want to die from embarrassment. “You promise you won’t tell Derek, right?” You timidly asked as the camera flashed blinded you.

“I promise,” Matt said with a smile.

Then again, Derek didn’t need to hear it from Matt that someone touched his property, especially with all your new “tattoos”!

#mattgoffard #tpof #fanfic #ao3 repost #ao3 fanfic #Matt Goffard x Reader #RAAAAAAH THERES NOT ENOIGH FANFIC OF MATT #I originally wanted to write it with Cain but there’s not enough Matt in the world soooo #kinktober #tw.nsfw #tw.blood #tw.dubcon #people need to use graphoerotica more often

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butterbabyflapjack · 2 years ago

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ch. 2

༄ Gold Gilded Leash

Derek Goffard x Matt Goffard (The Price of Flesh) x fem!reader

Once upon a time, there lived an unfortunate woman minding her own business, struggling just to get by. Until one lovely, fateful day, when she just so happened to be at the very wrong place at the very wrong time.

Knocked unconscious. Kidnapped. Auctioned off as property. An item for one lucky bidder to do with whatever they pleased. And her life which was stolen, was traded - to one flaxen-haired, gold-blooded monster who paid the top of daddy’s dollars to hunt her down.

It’s funny, looking back.

Right?

It’s funny?

What you’ve been reduced to?

And you thought you had it bad back then.

Tumblr chapter directory

ao3

Derek belongs to @gatobob

Warning tags: explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, Derek owns you, some graphic depictions of violence and bodily harm, obsession, wrath, punishment, yandere, rape/noncon, highly dubious consent, variations of noncon to con, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, kidnapping, escape attempts, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, knifeplay, bloodplay, rough sex, possessive sex, death threats, dead dove: do not eat, sadism, masochism, angst, depression & wry coping, breathplay, choking, warning: Derek (the price of flesh), Derek might lend you to others, others might steal you for some fun

CHAPTER TWO: Clipped Wings...

Author's Note: If you’ve never seen Derek’s brother and are curious, he was posted on Gato’s pillowfort. And if you’re not 18+, you shouldn’t be going there nor should you be reading this story <3 Everyone else, sorry I barely edited this lets do it ~

___________________________________

“You belong to me.”

“You are property.”

“And I’m going to use you for a long, long time…”

___________________________________

Your chain scrapes across the macassar ebony hardwood of Derek’s sitting room, as you weakly awaken upon the floor. Your lashes barely flutter, stirred into being by the morning’s early light pouring in through the giant skylight carved across the ceiling high above you, its craft like a work of art. And although your body is only just barely clinging to consciousness, like your mind is already fighting being woken in this place, you can’t deny the feel of sun on your skin helps soothe the bruises.

The bedroom attached doesn’t have windows. It’s like a cave. An extravagantly manicured cave, complete with cove lighting and an artisanally masoned fireplace; the flames of which somehow fail to provide any form of comfort.

Being chained out here, left out here, is a rarity. You hadn't even realized there was a wall mount out here to chain you to.

Sunlight.

After your time wandering the desert, you never thought you’d want to see the sun again. But now you weakly uncurl your limbs from where you're strewn across the floor, basking in its golden spill. Wondering how you even got out here in the first place. You don’t recall Derek dragging you out here. You don't remember seeing him at all last night, actually - not for days - and you feel like you’d remember the torment of it.

He didn’t have your dog bed brought out for you, apparently. Not that you expect him to see to even your smallest of comforts, but he seems to especially enjoy how much you hate being treated like his pet.

You’re not sure if being forced to sleep directly on the floor is in any way better or worse.

The luxury of silence, of solitude, isn’t long left to you. And suddenly your heart bolts against your ribs as the two-story doors leading from the sitting room’s foyer are shoved open - both of them, despite their heavy weight.

Shit.

You jerk up into something of a slouch, your weight pushed up on your palms, likely looking like some startled, cornered animal readying to flee the length of its leash – and are simultaneously befuddled and relieved to see the estate manager of Derek’s wing of the household – Emilia Lane, a taut woman with cold eyes – striding brusquely into the room, her sensible heels clacking on the hardwood.

She comes directly toward you, her pace not slowing as you slowly shrink away.

“Get up,” she snaps at you, eyeing you in that same way all the household staff tends to. With a wall behind their eyes rejecting whatever pity or sympathy might lie behind it; ‘ better you than me’.

“Why?” you ask her, and see her thinning frown.

My, you’re feeling bold this morning, aren’t you? Then again, Miss Lane has never struck you. She’s tugged you along with her, sure; digging her manicured claws into your forearms when you try to get away. But she’s not allowed to outright hurt you. No one’s allowed the pleasure of your harm other than the man who’s swiftly become the master of it.

“Get up you filthy ingrate,” Miss Lane clips with more authority, folding her slender arms across her perfectly-pressed, flounce-sleeved blouse. “I’m to have you tended and cleaned before delivered for boarding.”

Part of you wants to continue your dared version of being combative, but you find yourself blinking up at her in confusion instead. “Boarding…?”

She rolls her eyes whilst simultaneously slipping out the key to that iron anklet digging into your skin. “Must I repeat myself? Can you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?” Her eyes slightly narrow as you continue, in confusion, to stare. “Get. Up! I was only given an hour to have you delivered to the jet.” She eyes you, up and down, disdain pinching her pretty features. “And you’re disgusting – I’ll need to have you bathed before anything else, and there’s no time to have anything tailored to whatever shape that is I've been forced into dealing with.”

A maid your don't recognize hurries in through the opened doorway behind her, seemingly belated in her arrival, and Miss Lane turns her narrow gaze from you to the way her feet scuff to a sudden stop.

“Fetch something for Mr. Goffard’s pet to wear. A gown, short, something slim.” She steals a contemplative glance down at you, at that way you're dressed in nothing but your underwear. “...Champagne or blush hued. And tell Miranda to run a bath in the Lavender Room, I expect it filled and the water scented by the time I arrive.”

As she carves through the distance which separates you, she stoops to unshackle your leash, pencil skirt rising up her thighs as her legs press together. And some part of you finds satisfaction in the way she grimaces against having to lean down like one of the maids she orders around, with her enduring the task briskly before rising to tower over you once again.

“Up,” she states again, pocketing your key.

You massage your newly freed ankle gingerly, rubbing your chafed skin back to life. Not obeying her immediately, and seeing her eyes flash as a result. “What do you mean, boarding? Boarding what?”

“Whatever does one board,” she drawls instead of answering, sarcasm dripping off her tongue. Already striding out of the room without a second glance, fully expecting you to follow.

You consider bolting instead, because of course you do – somewhere, anywhere other than that path the clacking of her heels leads to. But you’ve tried that before. More than once. You never make it very far before a multitude of personal and premises guards finds you, and you still wear the marks of your repeated punishments. A reminder of how much you've tried and how badly you've failed.

No, it’s best if you just play the good pet and follow her. Plus, it sounds like you’re getting a bath, and a bath without Derek’s hands all over you sounds like it might actually resemble something nice. Even if Miss Lane will likely be lording over you like an authoritarian hawk the entire time.

Your aching muscles throb with longing at just the thought of a nice, steamy soak. Not to mention… you’re undoubtedly curious about why you’re to be primped and prodded and delivered somewhere in the first place…

Boarding… your mind spins as you shakily lift yourself to stand, hurrying after Miss Lane as best you can so as to avoid any more of her wrath at your tardiness. Boarding a jet? As in… leaving this place…?

There’s no way… Derek wouldn’t let you off Goffard grounds…

...Would he?

You'd do unspeakable things to slip free of this place. And something suspiciously like hope twists inside your chest, with you doing your best to ignore it. It's better not to get your hopes up about anything, not anymore, not here. Hope is just another thing Derek can steal and tear to shreds in whatever ways allow him the most time in savoring it.

You don’t really know where the Lavender Room is, but you follow the echoed clip of heels on marble, stumble-dashing your way down one hallway and the next. You’ve yet to see a vast majority of the estate – the illustrious ‘Mr. Goffard’ hasn’t exactly provided you with a guided tour – but you’ve seen enough to know that giving rooms distinct titles is a necessity should one hope to traverse this labyrinth without becoming lost and dying of hunger somewhere.

When at last you reach the room the sound of Miss Lane's heels leads you toward, which is of course extravagant and is indeed filled with crystal vases overflowing with freshly cut lavender blooms, you’re too distracted by the magnitude of your surroundings to realize you’re on course to run right into her - not until it’s too late, anyway.

“Auuhnph!”

You cry out awkwardly as she stumbles, barely catching herself with how you barrel right into her. Before she snatches your startled wrist and tosses you on the path in front of her, toward the marble-carved tub at the foot of a large bay window, warm with the wash-room's sunlight, which two maids are already busying themselves over, scenting the steaming water, lathering shampoo suds between their palms.

You dig your heels in against the way you're flung at them; eying both the maids and the bath with a souring expression.

Lords, they’re not going to bathe you like a dog too, are they…? You’re perfectly capable of washing your own damn hair!

Even when Derek’s not personally available to ensure with every drop of his being that you hate it here, that you're treated as his fucking pet, you absolutely hate it here and are treated as such, regardless.

“In,” Miss Lane orders you – the suddenly-pampered Goffard pet.

Briefly, you consider wrestling with and tossing her in, instead. She could surely use a bath, and you really don't mind sharing…

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump as you eventually force yourself to strip off the scant clothing you wear, uncaring to your own immodesty. If anything, some part of you enjoys forcing those sheepish maids to avert their gazes from the state of your naked form. From those raised notches carved across your stomach, your back, your arms, your legs. The brands, the bruises. Even half-healed, busy as Derek’s been these past few days from continuing your torment – perhaps even for a full week, though you’ve given up in tracking the length of your sentence – you’re still a mess; a tapestry of his cruel amusement with you.

Though you hate to admit it, as you crawl into the oversized tub, the balmy water is at once soothing, and makes enduring how the maids tug and scrub and untangle a much easier burden to bear. In fact, besides how swiftly they work beneath the watchful, critical eye of Miss Lane, your bath-at-gunpoint is almost enjoyable, and certainly an indulgence you’ve long gone without.

More maids arrive, and you shrink deeper into the water at the sight of their procession; a wary crocodile with only her eyes above the steam, until you’re tugged back up again for more scrubbing. There’s one maid draping a number of mid-thigh dresses over one arm, another toting boxes upon boxes of shoes, and yet another with what can only be described as a torture-chamber’s worth of cosmetics and other styling accessories.

Perhaps you'd rather suffer through whatever torture Derek might subject you to, instead - not that you have a choice.

You’re pulled from the tub, dripping water everywhere. Patted hastily dry by Turkish towels before hands are all about you, holding gowns and shoes up for Miss Lane’s inspection.

“That one,” she points at a champagne-colored, sleeveless gown, with an onyx haltered neckband and thin, empire belt to match; its hem brushing your upper thighs, with what lace makes up the opened back scratching uncomfortably against your shoulder blades.

Somehow, you feel even more naked paraded in it than you did in just your underwear. And as you catch a glimpse of yourself in the wall of bronze-trimmed mirrors, for a moment you don’t even recognize yourself. Somewhat perplexed with how, even with your legs and shoulders and the curve of your spine on full display, you still somehow manage to appear within the realm of good taste.

Apparently Miss Lane truly has an eye for such things. And she chooses a pair of black t-strap heels to match your new garment, the intimidating height of which seems more like a weapon than a spindle to somehow walk upon.

You can’t help from wryly grinning, thinking it might be funny to die whilst tripping in those heels than from anything Derek can, has, or will do to you. The fact that such ideas likely shouldn’t amuse you doesn’t even occur; not anymore. After maybe a month of being imprisoned here, this place is warping you into whatever creature might best survive it. And if that, in and of itself, is not also alarming, that fact does not occur to you, either.

Soon, what scars are visible beyond your newest veil are painted over, the maids busying themselves about you as you try not to wince with their pressing and prodding. Your hair dried and styled. Your lashes curled, your cheekbones tinted, your lips plumped with color.

You imagine, under normal circumstances, the lovely peacock they transfigure you into might fill you with an accompanying pride. But now you just stare dully at your own reflection, trying to find yourself inside it. Yet all you see is an immaculate shell with a dying flame where a heart should reside.

By the time you’re being rushed toward what turns out to be the entrance hall of this wing, it’s clear by Miss Lane’s tension that you’re cutting things close as far as timing is concerned. And as you blink against the waves of fresh air and sunlight that wash over you upon your hurried escort outside, you're forced to give up the desire of begging to walk wherever it is you’re going almost immediately, forced away from your desperate want to spend as much time just walking, just existing outside as humanly possible, even if forced to do so whilst strapped within your death-trap heels. But a polished Rolls-Royce slides up to the curb of the large, circular drive before you’ve even stumbled ten steps outdoors, and you’re swiftly herded inside of it, with Miss Lane ducking in after you. Neither of you speaking as the chauffeur transports you, she, and the gargantuan bodyguard sitting up front to the on-premises hangar.

You merely stare out the window as you're driven there, dragging one fingerpad across the glass. Imagining yourself basking through the flowers, the trees, the grass you see flying by you. Everything outside seems so much brighter, so more inviting when viewed within the confines of a cage, even one as gilded as the one you've been trapped in.

The car pulls up beside one of several private jets upon a massive runway, and as Miss Lane beckons you to follow her out of the car and toward it, you blink up from its rising shadow with a speeding heart.

You’re really leaving.

You’re actually leaving this awful place.

And you’re not sure if that’s excitement or panic in your lungs.

Suspicion, doubt, creeps in where any elation slowly bleeds dry of you.

Why is he letting me leave...?

...Where is he taking me to?!

This can't be good. Derek never gives you anything good.

Then... this must be a game. A ploy. Something that will end up hurting you.

Your heels barely get you up the steep boarding steps without resulting in something disastrous for your ankles, and once inside you’re struck by fear into abruptly stopping – that sprinting of your heart seized to a sudden, panicked halt at who you see already onboard.

The realization's as choked as your throat is at the sight of him.

-Derek–!

But… no.

Slowly, your features twist with confusion.

No. That's not Derek.

Your pulse takes at least some solace in that fact.

You don’t know that man staring idly out the window, already sitting with one heel propped up casually across his opposite knee. A drink in crystal balanced in the mitt of one large, upturned hand, some kind of whiskey, despite the sun telling you it’s not even noon yet.

He has Derek’s eyes, though his are more blue. Has Derek’s mouth, though the shape of his lips lacks amusement. And there, the similarities cease. He’s broader. The ridge of his jawline more dense. His dark brows unruly, along with those few honeyed strands of hair spilled across his forehead, rebellious against the way he’s languidly tied the rest of his shoulder-length mane back across his nape.

He looks like a Goffard, and he’s dressed like a Goffard. And he seems to sense you staring; for he turns, a bare pivot, his gaze half-lidded with the boredom and disdain of the rich.

One eyebrow barely lifts at you, and that is his only reaction to your presence and your gawking at him.

“Has walking become something you’re incapable of? Move you wretched girl!”

Miss Lane is behind where you’ve unwittingly blocked the entrance of the aircraft with your sudden, deer-in-headlights stare, and at her outburst you tear your startled attention away from the dark-haired Goffard now idly watching you. Doing your best to ignore the way his ice-like intensity trails after the awkwardness of you passing by him; his silent interest freckling your skin with goosebumps.

There’s a multitude of plush, empty seats clustered beside each interior window of the jet, and you choose one further back from that man you’d rather hide behind whilst simultaneously keeping your sights on; sitting by a window on the side of the aisle opposite his.

Your posture stiffens a bit as that giant bodyguard from the car takes the seat right next to yours; boxing you in between himself and the wall, and you can’t help but feel your being cornered is not by accident.

You hear the mumbling of the pilots up front, already preparing for take-off, as Miss Lane ensures you’re safely tucked in and seated on board with your hulking, silently imposing escort stationed beside you, before she turns as if to leave.

Apparently she's not coming with you.

“Wait,” you say without thinking, just as she starts to turn. “Is Derek not coming…?” You try not to sound too hopeful.

Miss Lane barely conceals a scoff, as she seems to misinterpret your conflicted expression for some impossible version of you missing him. “He’s already attending business dealings in Dubai – you’ll be reunited with him shortly. Now… go to sleep or something. Or at the very least keep your mouth shut. I won’t be blamed for your unspeakable annoyance.”

You blink, biting at your lower lip. “Dubai...?”

She slaps your wrist, and in surprise your teeth stop nipping. “Don’t bite yourself – you’ll ruin your gloss, you insufferable creature!”

With a terse, parting look of supreme disapproval, she spins about and leaves you there. Departing the jet as its engines purr to life.

As the aircraft rolls toward takeoff, you try to stave the alarm slowly creeping over you, ruining any sense of excitement you'd previously had. Your fingernails digging anxiously at the armrests of your seat as you try not to bite at your lower lip again, just in case the bodyguard beside you is also hellbent on you not ruining your makeup.

Why the fuck is he flying me to Dubai?!

Author's Note:

chapter theme

derek goffard , bastard playlist

inspiration behind your dress

#derek goffard #matt goffard #the price of flesh #tpof #fanfiction #my fanfic #ao3 #derek tpof #dead dove: do not eat #derek goffard x you #derek goffard x reader

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