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fanficsrok · 11 days

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you lose your way on the pastures of a hidden farmstead. however, upon meeting the husky owner, being lost quickly becomes the least of your problems.

cw for noncon/dubcon, forced lifestyle puppy play, kidnapping

read on ao3

John sees you coming from over the horizon.

He heard the sputter of your van before seeing it. The plume of smoke that follows in your wake, orange and ashy, as you drive down the pebbled road.

He was rounding the house after letting the cattle out when he noticed you. He tips the brim of his hat back and watches, grinding his teeth into the wad of tobacco folded into his cheek, his hackles raised because you’ve decided to ignore the splintery No Trespassing sign in big, black letters pounded into the front of his farmstead.

He wraps a hand around his belt, watching as your camper van slows to a stop in front of him.

The hinges in John’s jaw lock. He’s ready to throw out an expletive, threaten you with the bare metal of his pistol, browned with age, and throw you into the back of his rust-bridled truck. He’d drive you into town and toss you onto the porch of the sheriff’s office, maybe teach you a thing or two about trespassing.

But your engine cuts, and your door swings open, and John’s tobacco turns heavy in his mouth.

He sees your shoes first, pressing tracks into the dirty road as you step out. Frilly socks that end below your knees. You’re wearing tight little denim shorts and a gauzy top that sticks to your chest, knotting your nipples in the summer heat.

You smile.

It’s a little sweet, dewy-eyed. It makes John’s cock chub up, makes him swallow his tobacco on accident, sticking to the spine of his throat.

“Hi mister,” you say. Light and wispy like the breeze that whorls through your ropes of hair. “Sorry to be a bother.”

John perks up. He crosses his arms over his heavily built chest, the hair on his forearms bristling with his newfound flush.

“Just trying to find my way here–“ you unfurl a map and point towards a little dot. “Mind helping a girl out?”

You giggle. It’s coy, John tells himself, just like the flutter of your eyelashes as you hoist your neck up at him, preening.

“Um… sure,” John takes off his cowboy hat and runs a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Four hours. East. You jus’ follow the road.”

Gooseflesh creeps down John’s skin as you turn around and toss your map into the van, your ass spilling from the bottom of your shorts.

You turn back around and John coughs, averts his eyes to the cattle in the distance. He tightens the reel of his lasso around his knuckles, squirming.

“Thanks, mister,” you grin. “Know anywhere I can top up on gas?”

He gives you another look.

His eyes sweep a trail of flames over your body, making your blood churn. He keens at your nipples and the grain of your denim shorts digging into your cute pussy. He can see the barest outline of it winking back at him. Making his cock pulse.

He decides not to tell you about the gas station a kilometre west of here. Decides that would be too much trouble for a pretty lady like you.

“I’ve got plenty,” John says. Gruff, grizzled, like a bear that’s been in torpor too long. “Follow me.”

All John has to do is snap his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get you to follow him. He takes you into his rustic farmhouse, the place sparse in a red-blooded way, and leads you to the kitchen.

You don’t expect the dog, large with mud-felted paws, that pounces and almost knocks you to the floor.

Its tongue is rough and wet and gnarled against your cheek. You squeal, trying to push it away. It probably thinks you’re playing because it wags its tail, nipping at the divot in your shoulder.

“Aye,” John barks. “Off of ‘er, Dog. Git! Git on out of here.”

John shepherds the dog—aptly named Dog—into his crate by tossing a threadbare toy into it. The golden-haired mutt chases after it, following the toy into his cage.

“No way to treat a damn lady…” John mumbles under his breath. He smiles apologetically at you, his soft wrinkles puckering. He puts his hands on his hips, digging his fingers into his moth-eaten jeans and his sun-bleached flannel. He cocks his head to the side, squints.

“So, sweetheart, how about that gas?”

John brings you to a barn out back.

He leads you with a hand split on your lower back, past the stables and the paddocks and the roaming cattle beneath the blaring sun.

He pulls open the large barn doors, his arms flexing with the exertion, and puts his hands on his belt.

It’s an abandoned building. There’s no chicken, no stallions. It’s clear that the barn has been delegated to a storage space of sorts, going by the hay-bales strewn around and the miscellaneous staples of ranch equipment.

John smiles. It offsets his rugged look, makes you disarm a bit.

“Apologies for the mess,” he says, starting to tear through the supplies. “Just wasn’t expectin’ a pretty lady on my doorstep today.”

You stifle a giggle just to be nice, but John, in his time-honoured ways, reads it as coy again. It makes his cock stir against the metal teeth of his jeans, makes his mustache turn hot and wiry against the damp skin above his lip.

John rummages some more. Pretends to nick his finger on a metal steeple. Expels a heavy breath. His stomach paunchy and his chest strong, the hairs pressing against the gauze of his flannel as he rises to his feet and shrugs, hands set on his belt.

“Sorry sweetie,” John grumbles. “No gas here. How do you feel about dinner though?”

The change happens so quick you almost get hit with whiplash.

Your lips pop around stutters, and John’s balls turn heavy. He can imagine your lips parting around his cockhead, all the way down to his pubic bone which is stale with sweat and musky, steel-wooled. It makes him grip his belt tighter, white-knuckled, and undo the first few buttons of his flannel.

“Sir… I really should be getting out of your hair.”

“Nonsense,” John chuckles. “It’s the least I can do for havin’ no gas. I can go into town tomorrow and get some.”

You’re already impaired by the burning, penetrative summer heat. It doesn’t help the way John is looking at you, like a stray predator that made its way onto his ranch and forces him to lock up his animals for safety.

John senses the rumination written into your pretty features. He tacks on, “An old man like me never gets any visitors. None as sweet as you, surely.”

You have to nod, still a little hesitant. You say yes only because there’s a bulky rancher here keen on filling your belly and the sun is beginning to set.

John chuckles and claps his large hands together. He leads you back to the main house and ends up feeding you shepherd’s pie and a cold can of Cola. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and that makes you indignant, as if he sees you as a kid.

Dog stirs at your feet while you eat. Nosing at your ankles and nudging your legs for some food. John flares. He snaps his fingers and snarls, and Dog, moulded by his Pavlovian response, ambles into his crate.

“That’s where naughty dogs go,” John tells him. “You’ll stay there ‘til we’re done.”

You finish not long after that. John gives Dog the plates to lick before soaking them in soap water and shows you your room for the night. His room, actually, but he says he’ll sleep on the couch because he’s a gentleman.

That makes you smile.

But when you wake up the next morning, you’re choking.

Your throat is cinched with nylon webbing. The collar cuts into your windpipe, hindering your sprinting breaths, causing panic to lick up your spine. You sweat and the collar soaks it all up. Makes your skin itchy, flaring, as you chisel at your flesh to try peeling it off you.

You stumble out of John’s bed and hurry outside. He’s herding the cattle when you run towards him for help. Your mind is too scattered to realize he’s the only other person on this farmstead. He’s the one who did this.

“Mister, mister–“ your words come out stifled, cramped against the tight ruck of your throat. “Mister, I dunno what’s happened. Help-“

John puts a hand up and tuts like you’re nothing but a strident, misbehaving mutt.

“Easy,” he grunts around a cigar. “Jus’ calm down, will you? You’re hootin’ and hollerin’ and scarin’ the cattle.”

You choke around your tears. You hang your head, still trying to wrestle the collar off you, your fear ripening into panoramic horror when you look down and see golden fur embroiled into the collar. A bone-shaped tag engraved with a word that makes your blood run cold.

Dog.

It’s John’s name for his pet, but on you, it’s derogatory. Degrades you to a four-legged pup that laps water out of a basin and squats to piss, that needs a handler as rough as John to keep you in check.

He cups your cheek, passes his thumb over your fat tears.

“You don’t like it?” He asks, his voice distorted with a hint of disappointment that, despite you, makes you feel bad. “I took it off Dog. Now he’s runnin’ around the ranch with no collar. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

He curls his fingers under the collar and tugs you close. Your face puckers as he expels a plume of cigar smoke over your face, softly squeezing your bum.

“Good dogs say thank you though. Are you a good dog?” John asks. His eyes darken, eclipsed by something dusky. “Or are y’naughty?”

John forestalls your begging reply, squashing it against your throat as he grips your collar and drags you behind him. Taking his puppy on a walk.

You bridle at the deep-seated embarrassment. John’s other animals seem to have more freedom than you, watching from their pens and pastures as you kick and scream behind him. He pulls you into the main house and takes you to the kitchen. Bullies you to your knees in front of the crate.

He grips the scruff of your neck and forces your head inside. It smells stuffy, stale. The dog bed is moth-eaten and covered in fur.

John pats your ass. He rubs your pussy through your shorts, slowly pulls them off. Kisses your slick clit which is outlined by the dewy gusset of your panties.

“Y’gonna keep cryin’?”

A long cry quivers past your lips.

John’s fingers, although jaded, a testament to working with his hands, make you feel delirious. Makes you curl your pert ass into him, your cunt begging for more.

“Go on, girl,” he grunts. “Go on in. Git.”

He takes you by the collar and shoves you inside the dog cage, since–

“You wanna keep cryin’. I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.”

There’s barely enough space inside to move around. Dog is a big dog, so you’re able to spin around and face John, but that’s all. You tuck yourself into a fetus position, resting on your knees, the metal grating pressing tracks into your hot skin.

“I don’t reward bad behaviour,” John says. “So for that you’ll spend the night here.”

John clicks his teeth each time you misbehave—clawing at the door, begging him to let you out—his kissing teeth bully the sound of your pleas, until eventually, you quieten, responsive to his clicking tongue.

“That’s it,” John says. There’s a thread of praise in his voice that makes you squirm. “You stay there an’ think about what you’ve done.”

He stands up and prepares his lunch. Eggs on bread and a beer to wash it down. John eats slowly, as if he’s teasing you. Disciplining you further. You don’t think he’s going to feed you, another component of his punishment, until he’s rising from his chair and squatting in front of you, his empty plate in his hands.

Well, almost empty.

Veins of leftover egg yolk are smeared around the ceramic. You look at it, and then at John. He passes his fingers over the yolk and sticks his arm in your crate because the gaps are big enough, waggling his coated fingers.

“Eat.”

You’re shaking. Hesitantly unfurling your tongue, working it around John’s thick fingers, swallowing whatever dregs of food he’ll let you. You become more eager as it goes on—lapping at his yolk-covered fingers as well as the mud and mire crusted into his nails. Sucking at his swollen knuckles, nibbling on his finger hair.

He belly laughs before pulling his fingers out of your cage. John stands up and soaks his plate in sudsy water, turning to look at you.

“Busy day today,” he says. “I’ll see you tonight, pup.”

You find yourself whimpering—not talking—as he turns to leave.

That night, you’re woken with a scuffle and John clicking his tongue.

It rouses you immediately. That, and the thin sound of his belt unbuckling.

Sweat sticks to your skin, dewy, when John prods through the crate and gropes you. You can’t see him but you can feel him. Rubbing your puffy cunt, thumbing your clit. Flattening his tongue against your pussy and pulling your lips into his mouth.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against your clit. “Knew you were a sweet girl.”

John’s tongue travels up and wets your asshole. It makes you jerk against the metal, makes the cage rattle.

He pulls away and you moan, thinking it’s another punishment. You push your ass against the gratings, presenting yourself, the metal gridwall rubbing against your swollen clit and making you shiver.

John mumbles something about patience. It seems that he doesn’t have any patience either, soft-soaped by your pussy, because he’s pressing his tip against your opening and feeding you his cock.

John fucks you through the holes of your cage.

Your lungs barely have space to stretch. Your knees are folded into your chest and your collar is still biting into your neck. You’re being split open on John’s cock, your arousal turning your thighs sticky. Drool trickling from your mouth and sticking to your cheek.

You don’t know when it ends. When you come, thighs trembling, or when John paints your walls. You also don’t know when it starts again.

All you know is that it becomes a daily thing, lapsing into a weekly thing. You go to bed in your cage but, sometimes, when you behave, John will let you sleep on the foot of his bed. He’ll clip your nails for you and keep you well-groomed. Brushing your hair, cutting it for you. Bathing you in a galvanized tub out back.

Unlike with Dog, John will even let you eat while he eats dinner. He’ll unzip his jeans and let you slobber at his fat cock while he sips away at his blended whiskey and polishes off his meal with his full belly and his soon-to-be empty balls, mumbling all the while about how much of a perfect pet you are, how he’ll never let you go.

Not that he was planning to, anyhow.

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fanficsrok · 11 days

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getting baby trapped by 30s art……… i m unwell. after a messy divorce with tashi he found you, his kinder, softer, altogether more human younger girlfriend, and he can’t get enough. part of him craves tashis authority, but the other part of him relishes in being more than someone, older and stronger and wiser. he loves the way you make him feel, loves the way you dote on him and listen to him and take him in his entirety. loves the way you don’t play fucking tennis, you talk about other things, care about other things, fuck about other things. loves the way you lay down on your back for him and do as he says, even when he commands you in his soft, kind way. loves the way your eyes bead with tears as he pounds your tight young cunt and stares into your blistering face. he loves to stretch you open on his long cock and use you, use you for his pleasure until you cream and whimper, eat his seed from your sore, spasming cunt. he could fuck you however he wanted, and you adored him for it. in all his years he had never had so much sexual freedom, never been as totally and utterly fufilled. he loves how you thank him, for everything. with the newest dior hanging from your arm, you thank him. with his cum still on your tongue and bleary eyes, you thank him. he loves so much about you he’s starting to think he loves you. he loves you. you’re everything he needs after all that transpired with tashi, he needs someone loving and open. he wants you forever. but you’re so young. you could change, it could all go away so quickly. he needs a way to keep you, to make sure you always look at him with stars in your eyes, make sure you need him as much as he needs you. so slowly, he begins hiding your birth control. not very well, if you really wanted to find it you would have. but you didn’t. and you won’t.

“art,” you sigh as your wonderful boyfriend kisses your neck. you lay on his white sofa together, legs interlocked, pressing into every part of each other.

“art,” you sigh again, his hands palming your breast over your thin cami,”art, i forgot to take my pill. i couldn’t find my pill.”

“hmm,” he moans into your neck, grinding his hips into your thigh.

“art we can’t.”

“i want you.”

you giggle, and let him push away your top, and take your soft nipple into his mouth until it hardened, and deep in your core you felt a furling, peeling pleasure.

“i’m ovulating,” you breathe,”im gonna get pregnant.”

he groans, rock hard dick straining against his shorts, against your supple thigh. his hands roam over your torso and with kitten licks he flicks your nipple. you expel a soft breath, fingers carding through the blonde, tousled hair you suggested he grew out. you were making him young again.

“i want you. i’ll get a condom in a second.”

he’s lying. hes a liar and a bad bad man and he knows it. but he can’t care. you mewl once more about ovulating, but your fingers comb through his hair, and your chest heaves and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks and licks and paws at your tits, humping your thigh with his achingly hard cock.

“i’m… art… pregnant…” you whine half heartedly, but it only makes him sigh deeper, and he imagines the day that you’ll tell him that in complete sentences. would you be teary eyed? would you need convincing? or would you give yourself to him like he felt you would? only time would tell.

“shhhh.”

you twitched, spine arching and pushing yourself further into his mouth.

“i’m gonna grab a condom any second,” he murmured, “i want you now.”

“you have me now.”

he moves up your body and presses his lips to yours, large hand ghosting your jaw. you close your lips against each others, and open again to touch lip to tongue and tongue to tooth, to taste and to breathe each other. he tastes like sweet nothing, like air and cleanliness and summer. you taste like honey to him. your fingers tuck his hair behind his peach fuzzed ear delicately, and you breathe against each others upper lip. his nose mushes against yours and he flicks his tongue at your gums and lips. it deepens, and he toes the line between lavishing you in affection and trying to eat you lips first. it’s hungry and wet, and you forget where his mouth begins and yours ends, all becoming blurred in the spit and the heat of it.

he pulls away, with a spit string connecting your two puffy lips. his eyes twinkle in the dim light that can reach them in your tight embrace.

“why don’t you take off your panties?”

and he leant away, the warmth of his body leaving you burning in its absence. he sat, perched, watching you from above. he looked down his nose at you with a smile, so genuine and yet so condescending. so soft and nurturing, like you needed to be guided and taken care of. that him seeing you naked and feeling your insides and making you stupid and small was what you needed, was how he had to take care of you. it was times like this that you thought about the age difference, when he made you so aware that he could make you want to do anything, anything if it was just to please him. a special ability only he had over you, and if he has his way you would feel it forever. you scramble to be more upright, to rest on your elbows and lift your hips far enough that your reaching fingers could pull down your cotton panties. you writhed beneath him to reveal yourself, nipples peaking from your cami as he watched you fully clothed, in his white shirt and loose pyjama shorts. his hair was ruffled, this way and that, and he looked more collected than he ever had.

shed of your tiny covering, the orange glow of the living room light reflecting off the wetness that was smeared to your inner thigh. from under your lashes u stare up at him, the way his shirt clings involuntarily to the tightness of his core and to his broad shoulders, the way his blonde eyelashes flutter at the sight of your thighs, your hips, your tits, all the parts of you that spill over with softness. your lips part slightly, and in silence you forget what he wants you to forget and beg him to have his way with you.

he was pulled to you once more like a magnet, and you instinctively bent your knees up and spread your legs to receive his torso and hips. he took the bends of your knees in each hand and folded you up so that your ankles hung by his shoulders, bouncing in the air as the sofa gave way for his weight. he knelt above you for just a moment, just a tortuous moment before bending down, sliding his body back so his face could remain above your hot pussy.

with an untroubled drop of the wrist, your legs fell to his shoulders, sprawled on his back. the innermost part of your thighs pressed lightly to his ear, and your heels rested lightly on his back.

with his head situated mere inches from your hot throbbing hole, he took the opportunity to take his time. while he had you in the palm of his hand he made you suffer for it, kissing the tender flesh that shined with the mess he had made for you.

every touch was torture, and he knew what he was doing. his eyes never left your face, the ghost of a smile across his lips whenever they were not eclipsed by the fat of your thighs. your eyes never left his face either, and you watched him breathlessly. he licks a stripe of skin against the grain of your leg hair, and you make a sound like you’re crying.

“oh,” you whisper, “please.”

he hums, laughing. the air from his nose hits your folds and you twitch.

“ok,” he’s soft, controlled, serene.

lips parted, he leans forward into your core, not for one second breaking eye contact with you as he takes your clit into his wet mouth. his pink tongue lathes it, up and down and up and down.

his fingers make sharp indents in your thigh to stop your wriggling, and he forces your ass into his chest. he cranes his neck to eat you deeper, and you cry out, tears beading in your eyes. sucking brutally, he moans into your hole.

“fuck,” you fist the cushion beside you, gathering the fabric and ungathering it,”fuck.”

he eats your pussy like it’s your mouth, makes out with it, makes love to it. he seems to take you in your entirety into his mouth, making you all wet with him, covered and soaked. he reaches up slowly, taking your hand in his, and squeezes it softly. your fingers are tight, paralysed in his hold. the pressure his hand provides gets rid of your compulsive need to squeeze, pacifies you, makes you dumb and limp. you lie back, no longer watching his eyes trained on you, your mouth hanging open and your eyes fluttering closed. you moan involuntarily, unaware at all that you’re alive, that you haven’t died and gone to heaven.

his thumb rubs soft circles on the back of your hand in time with his mouthing, the swirl of his tongue and the rhythmic closing of his mouth. you taste like honey here too, like nectar and sugar and love. your ankles lock together and unlock on his back, and the mere feeling of that sends chills down his whole body.

suddenly he stops. he lays a final fat kiss on your clit, watching as you mewl and your tight, ready hole gushes. he pulls away with your puppy fat legs still hugging side burns and jaw. gently he rises and slips out of your leggy grasp, fingers still interlocked with yours. he wants to kiss you. you are so pathetic when he has his way with you, so passive and pliable. he wants to hurt you because you would let him, but infinitely more and for the exact same reason he wants only to look after you. to make you happy and full and rewarded for your eternal beauty, inside and out.

he wanted to kiss you, and so he did. he leaned over, still completely dressed, and draped his slender, finely chiselled body over yours. it even made him light headed to think about being close to you, to your body, not hardened by the dedication that destroyed him, left soft and unscarred, left without taint. his underbelly of tenderness was your everywhere. you were the rounding to his shoulders, the layer of fat that kept him in warm in winter.

you collided without friction, his wet lips gliding over yours in a dance of want. your legs were still under his control, and as such you were spread beneath him. your knees dangled by his sides, leaving your pussy wide open to leave sloppy kisses on his shorts. you kissed back with the same ferocity. despite your implicit submission, you wanted to consume him as much as he wanted to consume you, if not more. you gave him what he wanted because you wanted to give it to him. wanted to give him everything he would receive.

you gave him your tongue, which he accepted with a grin.

you gave him coiling fingers that grasped the fabric on his back desperately, which he took for momentum. he rolled forward on top of you, deepening the hold his mouth had on yours.

you gave him moans, whimpers from a wavering throat which he took for courage.

“im so hard for you,” you felt the reverberation of his voice in your very core, and you died a sweet death,”i’m gonna put it in.”

“uh huh.”

success. you had forgotten. he laughed, mischievously, and a smile settled into the curves of his face.

all you heard was the snap of elastic, the rustle of fabric and the dulled slap of arts heavy cock against his t-shirt.

all you saw was his pupils grow until his eyes appeared black, like an animal’s, looking at you so directly you felt he saw you deeper than skin, deeper than meat or bone. you felt utterly seen, and utterly loved. you met his gaze pleadingly, eyebrows quirking up in the centre and lips pouting. please, it told him, please my love.

“you want it?” he breathed. pre cum smeared the fat tip, his balls hung low out of his shorts that gathered at his middle thigh. it was so big. long and fat and filling. so big and so pretty, so big and pretty it was all you could do not to cry.

“i want it art,” you replied, voice clipped and cheeks burning,”i want you.”

“yeah?”

he touched your face, from your jaw to the temple. he didn’t even try to kiss you. he just held your face. he was gentle, gentle, gentle as ever. his every action was kind. you love him. you’re in love with him.

“i want you art. i love you.”

and that was that. he was getting you pregnant tonight. someone would have to pry him off of you, because so help him god he would drain himself dry in your hot wet cunt if it was the last thing he ever did.

you squealed as he pushed the entirety of his cock in, bulbous head stretching your cunt wider than any cock had stretched it before. but it slipped in so easily with the outpour of your sticky love. it made a thick squelch, and he groaned so loud, squeezed his eyes shut so hard, you might’ve thought he was being tortured.

“fuck!”

the force of his thrust had caused the thick juices of you arousal to spread around his thick cock where he stretched you out, the pain minimal, familiar and intoxicating.

you throbbed in unison, blood coursing through where you connected. you were so tight and hot, so fucking wet. art struggled, arms bracing either side of your shoulders, to force the rest of himself into you. he also struggled to think, to be a human and not a ploughing, panting, thoughtless dog.

a moan rose through your throat, broke from you involuntarily, came out like the sound of murder. your taut pussy suckled his fat dick with every pulse and quiver. you felt him so deep inside you, and he fought to push deeper. fingers still locked, his crushed your knuckles and your palm.

“oh my fucking god.”

it could’ve been either one of you, because you both meant to say it. this moment of stillness and feeling waited one more second, before art became beast, and drew back his hips so that only his pink tip stayed gripped inside. you felt so soul crushingly empty, until he drove himself back in, and you were brought back to life.

“god,” he pounded any thoughts away, any and all of them, until all you could do was breath and blaspheme, “fucking- christ.”

the buttery, fevered roll of his hips was one he was in no control of. he felt as though he was being moved by some godly force to cram your tight cunt full of him. his jaw hung open, and the hand that didn’t hold yours instead held your shoulder, dwarfing in it in his wide palm. holding onto you for sanity, his eyes opened to take in what he had done to you.

“you’re so tight. perfect. perfect. perfect.”

“i love you.”

“i love you. i love you. please god.”

what was he asking for? was he asking you or god? you would do it for him, regardless. you would do it.

your hand reached into his hair, and tugged hard. a whorish moan left his lips, the rolling of his lower half stuttering as his neck arched up. his knees were spread wide, digging deeply into his sofa. his pelvis moved on its own, smoothly, as if he had reverted to his baser instincts and let years of evolution take its course, nature guiding him to your inevitable impregnation.

you were as he liked you, completely dumb. he was too gone to enjoy it, but on another planet of pleasure entirely. he couldn’t relish in the feeling of control, but he could in the feeling of you, of having you, being loved by and loving you. the suckling heat of you was more than a man could take, and the picture beneath him was no more comprehensible.

your angel lips spread to a glistening tongue, your eyes glassy and dilated, your brow creased, hair mussed. he had to have that too, and so he kissed you once more. the hand on his hair tightened, and he moaned into your mouth.

he pumped your pussy so deep, pre cum was dashed from his oozing tip inside you, heavy balls slapping at your skin. you were so wet you didn’t notice, only felt the heat and the mind numbing ecstasy. the feeling of being pounded like a piece of meat till your tight girl pussy remembered every vein his grown man dick, but kissed like a lover and held like a princess pushed you that much closer, sent you that little bit more over the edge. you needed it. you needed him to cum. to please your daddy.

“i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum inside you.”

“fucking do it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. get me fucking pregnant art.”

that was all he needed. he breathed into your lips and cried out, long steady body shuddering like a leaf. he held you close, pressing his weight on top of your till he could feel the fat of your breasts move around his chest. cum, thick and milky white, shot deep into your cunt, which even now gripped him tighter than ever. so much of it too. his meaty balls tweaked as their contents leaked into where they were always supposed to go.

your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, parting your lips in a silent scream.

his cock had not moved an inch from where it rested fully buried in your pussy. it was wet. it would spill out once he removed himself. it needed to stay inside.

he pressed his forehead to yours, your eyes fluttering closed from exhaustion and contentedness. you didn’t even think about what art had just done. you didn’t even realise he had done anything. he was just doing what you needed him to do.

you needed him. forever.

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fanficsrok · 11 days

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i’ve been getting an odd influx of Appalachian mountain-related tiktoks on my fyp and while I know it isn’t really the eldritch/off-putting woodland it’s said to be, it’s already planted ideas of a Ghost fic in my head lmao. Ghost living off the land, off grid and rotting in a handmade cabin of his. the reader is impulsive and running away from something (not a bobcat, but a neglectful family and heedless friends) and ends up getting lost. Ghost knows the area like the back of his hand, he can almost sniff her out between damp earth and needle-covered paths. he finds her and invites her back to his cabin. maybe doesn’t plan on letting her go—not like anyone back home would miss her, anyway.

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fanficsrok · 11 days

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Prison/Ex Convict Ghost

Who gets assigned a pen pal while he’s serving time. Gets assigned to someone with a pretty little name. It’s almost endearing how they send him weekly letters sharing tidbits about their life, asking him about his life and his interests. He ignores them all. Every last letter he receives he reads with his nose upturned in distaste.

It isn’t until about the 11th letter that the pen pal program finally peaks his interest… This time his little pen pal sent him a polaroid of themself. And oh aren’t they just a dime… pretty little thing smiling innocently at the camera… He could swallow you whole. Rushes to the library to snag a pen and paper and FINALLY writes you back. He won’t let a pretty bird like this get away from him. Didn’t you mention you liked to cook a few letters ago? Oh he’s smitten now. Stuffs the little polaroid picture of yourself that you sent him into his pillow case so he can sneak it out after hours and fist his cock under the scratchy prison sheets to the image of your pretty smile… Rolls his eyes when Johnny whines and asks if they can share pen pals because he got some old guy as his. He wants a pretty bird sending him sweet letters too :(

Ghost only has 3 more months.. he can’t help but ask your name and where you’re from in his letters back to you. Cataloging every last detail about you so he can find you once he gets out. Pretty little thing should have never sent him such sweet letters in prison if they didn’t want a brute showing up on their doorstep a few months later…

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Me at 3am clicking “keep reading” on the most jaw dropping, earth shattering, pantie dropping, smutty fic when I have to be up in 3 hours

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Konig kidnapping a girl who doesn't speak English nor German. She be begging him to stop in her native language and Konig would probably think "hmm yeah she is asking me to fuck her harder"

Kidnapping a silly little tourist who couldn't even speak any language that he knows...it's almost like a pet situation for him - you don't understand him and he likes to take care of you while you're sitting in his basement and cry to be let go. He wouldn't give you an internet access, of course, and you don't understand anything he is saying - so you're terrified every time he gets into the basement and starts taking off your clothes. He is whispering something to you - something that you don't understand, not even in the slightest. Sometimes, it sounds like something soft, almost like a pet name. Sometimes he is borderline screaming, forcing you to sumbit - you're too terrified to move anyway, but sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes he is pushing your head down until you can't do anything but whimper pathetically as he fucks you. Sometimes you feel like he almost understands you. When you're hurt and can do nothing but beg him to stop, he sometimes listens. Pushes you into a hug and brings you good food - you learn to understand him even if you don't speak the language. He must be lonely, judging by the long, one-sided conversations he has with you. He speaks to you like a man would speak to his dog - sometimes giving you treats when you look particularly clever. This is embarrassing and humiliating, but at least he stopped fucking you every second you're awake. At least now, sometimes, you would wake up with his cock buried in your pussy and he won't start hammering into you immediately. He would just grunt something in your ear and continue sleeping. You just hope he doesn't call you a whore in his language. It actually takes him too long to see what language you speak and what dictionary he should bring to you. German is atrocious, and learning it while sitting on his cock and feeling him dangerously creep closer to your ass, making you believe that if you won't learn how to greet him properly very soon, you'd have to forget about ever sleeping without feeling sore again.

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Petite!Reader that's genuinely scared for their life after they saw König naked for the first time,

"I'll make it fit-"

"YOU'RE GOING TO PUT ME IN THE HOSPITAL IS WHAT YOU ABOUT TO DO"

(As a 4'10ft girlie, even imagining what's that man's size is terrifying)

You're absolutely terrified!! As you should be!! This man is giant. Thick and long, you can't even wrap your hands around him - and you're sure as hell that it's not going to fit. Just two of his fingers are already itching at making you too full, and the head of his cock is enough to strain your jaw. He hates and loves everything about your petite figure. The way you squeeze your thighs in a pathetic attempt to stop him from bullying your cunt with his long, wide tongue, the way you're trying to choke him while he eats you out. He always loved your weight on him - even though most of the time, it feels like nothing at all. You're pretty, you're small, you're fucking adorable and if you want to kill this man one day, you should just place your hands on top of the little bump his cock is making, acknowledging just how well he is fucking you. But, oh, you're scared, just so terrified at the prospect of having sex with him for the first time! he is a horrible, horrible man with a giant cock, and your petite body simply wasn't built to accommodate that. He is trying to make do with just your hands and thighs - would fuck between your closed legs, enjoying the feeling of your plump, plush skin on him. Would try to make you at least lick his cock with your precious tongue, hoping that he would be able to sway you eventually...he is a man, he needs to have his cock fit in some tight, pretty hole, why wouldn't you understand it's his right?? He is serving his country, and you won't even spread your pretty folds for him... Konig is so down bad for you, he would spend hours on his stomach, licking your cunt and preparing you with his fingers - he won't even think about going inside of you for an inch before he can fit at least three fingers inside and scissor you until you came three times just from the feeling of his rough fingertips on your sensitive walls. When he is finally pushing his cock inside, it's cathartic. You just opened Pandora's box because once this man feels the way your walls are tightening around him, he wouldn't stop even for just a second until he is filling you with his cum. He is trying to be gentle, of course, knowing just how terribly weak you are - but a lot of his self-control goes flying out the window once he can test for sure just how freaking perfect you are.

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Camgirl!Reader X Loser!Konig

This is safe, you think. Getting some losers to jerk off to your body, knowing they would have nothing to find you. Filming from a specifically made background with some dumb anime figures and your pretty pink ring light, never getting any information that people might use to get to you. For fucks sake, you even faked an accent so no one could know where are you from. You're banning any subscriber from an area too close to you - most Europeans are not getting you a lot of money anyway, so as soon as you see an Austrian IP address, you're getting your mods to ban them. Until this one. You stare at the donation in awe. You were popular - but not popular enough to have donation over 1000 Euros for something as silly as calling a name in the video. You were popular, but you were also paranoid and it held your back from growing your account. No video chats before you could gather enough for non-disclosed apartment in a protected area, no face pics until you got enough money to move immediately if something would go wrong. The guy is weird, obviously. He is always so eager to send you money, he already bought all of your photo and video sets, asking for new ones almost every day - and you know rich people, you know people who are saving their last cents to get to their favorite camgirl...and Konig didn't seem like neither. Always having such weird requests too - like you speaking in German and praising him like he is a king from some medieval fantasy. Or talking to him like you're a mean girl from some cheap high school movie, always belittling him. Then apologising with tears, playing into some perverted revenge fantasy. Tying yourself up so he can pretend that he did it, that he could do whatever he wants with you now. Sometimes he wants you to call him daddy or sir - and sometimes he asks you for pictures in that heavy military vest he bought from your Amazon wishlist after you expressed the desire to play into army chick glam. They guys is weird, the guy is obsessed, he will pay for you to insert largest dildo into your soaked pussy and spread ass, and then he would still say that his cock is bigger. Would make you a freaking size queen with the size of the stuff he sends - making you whine and cry for real as you struggle to acomodate, asking your daddy, your commander for help. Begging for him to come - always just a play pretend until someday, he finally showed up on your doorstep. Always a play pretend so he could send you more money, until you suddenly woke up in a dimly lit basement. Maybe you should have banned him a long time ago.

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Red tipped gloves || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

Summary: The thought of motherhood at such a young age was absolutely terrifying. Though Coriolanus doesn’t seem to understand why.!

Warnings: mention of blood, self harm in the form of picking at nails, toxic Coryo, reader is implied to be young, manipulation, if there's anything else pls lmk

Wc: 811

A/n: I'm so bad with these summaries I can't even.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

A child expecting a child. How messed up was that? You rub the swell of your stomach as you stare at yourself. Youth evident in your still-round cheeks, yet the impending responsibilities cast shadows on the innocence of your features.

Gnawing at your law rips, you smooth down the dress that Coriolanus picked out for you. Dainty, innocent, just like how he liked to dress you up for social events.

Your hands subconsciously move together as you pick at your already picked-at nails. The horrible habit you picked up ever since you got married to Coryo.

Hearing the door suddenly open, you quickly pause your actions, moving your hands behind your back as you turn around to face Coryo.

Noticing your strange behaviour, he pauses to look at you before his eyes move behind you to the reflection of the mirror where you fingers were fidgeting.

Swiftly closing the door, Coriolanus strides purposefully toward you, casting a tall shadow as he towers over. Even in high heels, you find him looming above. “Show me your hands,” he commands, his tone firm and unyielding.

A subtle blend of defiance and confusion colors your expression, causing a faint twitch in your lips. “What?” your voice was too quiet, your tone feigning nervousness. A light gulp accompanies the gentle quiver of your lips.

“I said, show me your hands,” Coriolanus repeats himself, his tone escalating in volume. You release a slow exhale through your nose, carefully extending your hands in front of you. Your eyes, hesitant and uneasy, divert off to the side, catching the subtle nuances of your husband’s frustration as he lets out a sigh.

“I thought you stopped that horrible habit of yours,” he retorted sharply, firmly grabbing your hands as you flinched. A displeased expression crosses his face as he looks down at your fingers—raw and drawing blood—before his gaze shifts to your face, your bottom lip nervously tucked beneath your front teeth.

“I couldn’t help it,” you whisper softly, a hint of shame and embarrassment weaving through your tone, while he exhales deeply through his nose. “I’ll arrange for more gloves to be sent to you before tonight,” he says wearily, gently resting his hands on the curve of your stomach before quietly leaving.

Beside Coriolanus, engaged with his fair-weathered friends, you find yourself zoning out, your gaze fixed on the glass of water cradled in your gloved hands. The murmur of conversation fades into the background; you’re simply bored and disinterested in the overly serious discussion.

“Darling,” Coriolanus’ voice, firm yet gentle, pulls your attention as you lift your eyes to find everyone in the group focused on you. “I’m sorry, what was it?” you meekly ask, eliciting light chuckles from the women and amused glances from the men.

Coriolanus holds himself back from rolling his eyes, instead, he takes a large gulp of his posca. “Mrs. Cardew asked you how far along you are,” He smiles down at you, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh,” you say softly, meeting Mrs. Cardew’s gaze, “28 weeks.” You smile at the older woman, and a few people in the group react with appreciative sounds. Coriolanus pulls you closer to his side, a possessive grasp signaling to those with wandering eyes who you belong to.

As the night wore on, a queasiness settled in your stomach. Socializing with Coriolanus’ friends became exhausting—forcing smiles, feigning excitement for the baby was draining. Leaning in, you whisper in Coriolanus’ ear, “Can I retire to our room? I don’t feel well.”

“Do you really need to? Right now?” he harshly whispers, and you gulp, hesitantly nodding. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and gets up. “Excuse me, my wife needs to rest,” he says to those around you with a fake smile as you quietly apologised.

Hand in hand, Coriolanus leads you to your shared bedroom, forcefully closing the door behind you. It was abundantly clear that he's upset about your early departure from the party.

“Did you just make up an excuse so you could leave the party? Is that it?” Coryo bitterly accuses you as you take a seat on one of the couches. “What? I didn’t make up an excuse. I’m pregnant for heavens sake, Coryo,” You frown, deeply offended by his accusation.

“Yeah, sure,” He chuckles, crossing his arms. “Why is that so hard to believe,” you scoff, mirroring his crossed arms. "Eleanor is in the exact same state as you, and she seemed perfectly fine," he shrugs, his tone nonchalant, causing your lips to part in disbelief.

“Are you seriously comparing me to Eleanor?” You furrow your eyebrows, a touch of frustration in your voice. Ready to counter his unfair comparison, you point out the facts, “She's considerably older than me, has experienced childbirth before. Naturally, she'd feel fine, Coryo."

Coriolanus mumbles something incoherent under his breath, his attitude towards you causing tears to well up in your eyes. His choice of comparison feels like a pointed jab in the most sensitive spot. When you sniffle, your husband's attention is caught. "Are you crying?" he swiftly retorts, his gaze probing, while you avert your eyes, concealing the probable redness.

A soft laugh escapes him, "Honestly, you can be so childish sometimes. Getting upset over that?" He raises an eyebrow at you—ironically so. His comment serves as a spark igniting a blaze within you. How dare he call you childish when you’ve done nothing but act older than you were.

“I just can’t believe you’re comparing me to Eleanor who’s had children before, unlike me who’s fucking terrified at the thought of being a mother,” you spat, the intensity of your emotions evident in your words. Even from a distance, you notice the shift in Coriolanus' eyes, the once-blue depths now darkening with an unspoken tension.

“As the First Lady you’re expected to give me heirs. Now I need a woman who’s ready to give me children, are you going to be her or not?” His words strike a nerve, and you feel your eyes twitch as a headache begins to form.

"Did you even think about that before marrying me, Coryo?" you challenge, your words causing him to furrow his eyebrows. "Because you damn well know I'm not prepared to be a mother. So, why choose me? You could have selected someone else—someone older, someone genuinely willing to birth your children." The air hangs heavy with the weight of your words, leaving a palpable tension between you and Coriolanus.

Your fingers unconsciously pick at your nails, the once-immaculate white gloves now bear crimson stains at the fingertips. Coriolanus' gaze fixates on your hands, and he snaps, swiftly moving towards you to pry your fingers apart. "Stop doing that!" he commands, his tone sharp.

As he moves in, his face is so close that you can feel his breath gently fanning your features. Undeterred, he continues with a venom-laced voice, "You should be thanking me for choosing you, for pulling your family from debt." His eyes, intense and unyielding, bore into yours.

“I could have married someone else. I had a list I could have chosen from who could’ve helped but no, you had to marry me.” you assert, the weight of your words causing a brief shock to cross Coriolanus' face. It's a rare moment where you've left him momentarily speechless.

Breaking the silence, he mutters, "I'll have the servants bring you some medicine." With one final glance, he withdraws, leaving the room. The atmosphere hangs thick with unspoken tensions, the stained gloves and the lingering words serving as tangible reminders of the strain in your relationship.

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Baby Blues || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

Summary: motherhood has not been kind to you, neither has Coriolanus.

Warnings: r is implied to be young, toxic, mean Coryo, r experiencing post-partum depression,

Wc: 794

A/n: I’m always gravitating to write these type of coryo fics for some reason…. I hope you like them! Apologies for lack of Tom Blyth/Coryo content, I promise I have some coming!!

You sat in the sunroom, the weight of your 5 month old daughter on your hip, while Coriolanus read his newspaper, seemingly unfazed by his daughter’s cries that filled the room.

Your hands shakily pick up the delicate china tea cup, bringing it to your lips and taking few sips.

You stared at nothing in particular, feeling the weight of both youth and motherhood. You subconsciously start to bounce your leg, all while your daughter wails in your arm, begging for attention from her own mother.

Coriolanus sips at his black coffee, trying his best to drown out the cries as he tried to focus his attention back on his newspaper. Your concerned servant in the room exchanged worried glances with Coriolanus, and finally, he glances at you, frustration etched on his face.

“Y/n, tend to her,” he instructed, irritation evident in his voice. “Don’t just sit there like a mad woman, do something,” He hissed as your gaze moved to him. Your eyes seemingly empty as you stare at his icy blue ones.

At an attempt to soothe her down, you stand up to bounce her on your hip, hushing her. Your daughter’s cries only intensified, drawing Coriolanus to his feet.

The rustle of the newspaper ceased as he took his daughter into his arms. Almost magically, her cries subsided in the secure embrace of her father. A wave of inadequacy washed over you as you witnessed his effortless ability to calm her.

You stand infront of the large floor to ceiling window that overlooked your courtyard, gazing blankly at the last few socialites leaving the presidential mansion after a soirée that Coriolanus hosted.

Your once vibrant, youthful eyes now dull, overshadowed by the weight of motherhood. Coriolanus, sat on one of the chairs, watches you from where he was. “You’ve been standing there for about 20 minutes, sit,” He says, gesturing to the seat beside him as you turn your head, lightly biting your lips before moving.

“It’s like you were in another world tonight, what ever is the matter with you now?” Coriolanus remarks, frustration edging his tone.” You feign a smile, “I’m just tired, Coryo. That’s all,” but your eyes betray the facade, revealing a profound weariness that transcends mere fatigue.

“You always seem tired,” Coryo scoffs. Your gaze flickers towards the nanny, cradling your daughter in her arms. Your heart aches with a mixture of guilt and relief as you observe the bond forming between them.

Coriolanus’s gaze follows your eye line, “Perhaps you’ve been focusing too much on your duties and not enough on our daughter,” He suggests, unaware of the storm raging within you.

“I’m doing my best, Coryo,” you respond, voice barely audible as Coriolanus lets out a tired sigh, massaging his forehead.

The baby’s cries cut through the air, and you flinch as if struck—something Coriolanus observed. He glances at you, a mixture of annoyance and concern etched across his features.

“Can’t you tend to our daughter? You’re her mother, after all.” You nod absentmindedly, standing up and making your way toward the source of the cries.

The nanny, a woman just a couple years younger than yourself, hands over your daughter, a look of sympathy etched on her face.

You clear your throat, feeling Coriolanus’ eyes on you. You cradle her awkwardly, attempting to soothe her, but your efforts were feeble. Coriolanus observes, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“You’re always like this. Will you always treat our child as if she’s a stranger?” He spat, and you bit your lip, glancing down at your daughter whose features closely mirrored yours, except for her eyes and blonde hair.

Your eyes well up with unshed tears, swiftly wiped away. “I just… just need time, Coriolanus. I’ll adjust,” you stammer, seeking to reassure your husband and, more importantly, convincing yourself that you will.

Nearly half a year has passed since you gave birth to her. Skillfully, you’ve evaded numerous public appearances with your daughter, fully aware of the pervasive curiosity surrounding your role as a mother.

You were aware of their judgments. The notion that you were too young to be a mother echoed in your mind, a sentiment you shared as you gazed at yourself in the mirror, your stomach swollen with the imminent arrival of a child into the world.

Coriolanus sighs, a blend of disappointment and impatience coloring his tone. “Pull yourself together, for both our sakes. The people want to see their First Lady and my heir. You can’t keep hiding away. There are already whispers going around,” he admonishes sharply, and you gulp, your baby cradled in your arms as you turn to face him.

Coriolanus couldn’t deny the noticeable change in you since giving birth. When he married you, the youthful aura enveloped you, a stark contrast to the transformation he now witnessed.

The aura had dissipated entirely. Despite your youth, you appeared to have weathered a lifetime. Fatigue etched into your eyes, weariness evident in your mental state.

“It’s wise for you to step back from the public eye for a while, away from your duties. You need to rest,” Coriolanus states firmly, his gaze fixed on the world beyond the window.

Your gaze shifts to your baby in your arms, her doe-blue eyes locking onto yours. Unaware, Coriolanus discreetly signals the nanny to take your daughter.

Caught off guard, you hesitated when she reached for your child, desiring to hold her longer. Reluctantly, you allowed her to take the little one. With a heavy heart, you observed the nanny exit the room, and Coriolanus broke the silence, reassuring you, “Don’t worry about her; go rest.” Slowly, you nodded in agreement.

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fanficsrok · 3 months

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Happy House || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

Summary: This is a happy house, we’re happy here, right?

Warnings: infidelity, toxic Coryo, mild violence, if there’s anything else lmk!

Wc: 505

Divider by @firefly-graphics

In the quiet morning light that filtered through the windows of the grand dining hall, your family sat at the polished mahogany table, seemingly the picture of domestic bliss.

Coriolanus, his chiseled features etched with a façade of contentment, sat at the head of the table, his newspaper spread before him. Balanced on his lap, was your three year old daughter, her tiny hands occupied with a toy.

You sat opposite him, watching the scene with a practiced smile, your eyes betraying none of the turmoil that churned within you. You sipped at your coffee slowly, your eyes moving to your eldest as he shovels spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air.

As if on cue, the nanny entered the room, cradling the youngest member of the Snow family in her arms. Your heart twisted at the sight of the woman, the nanny’s eyes darting to Coriolanus, who met her gaze with a knowing look. You forced herself to smile as you took the baby girl into your arms, your fingers tracing the delicate features you had come to love despite the circumstances of your birth.

“Look who’s awake,” You softly say to your daughter with a bright expression as she smiles up at you. But as you look up, you catch Coriolanus beckon the young woman over to him. It was the subtle exchanges between Coriolanus and the nanny that made your blood run cold.

A glance here, a lingering touch there—each movement a betrayal that cut deeper than any knife. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the facade you presented to the world.

Later that day, as your family made a public appearance, you plastered on your most convincing smile, your hand resting lightly on Coriolanus’s arm as you both posed for the cameras. Lucky Flickerman’s question about another baby drew a forced chuckle from your lips, “Maybe not for a while,” You responded, feeling the venomous look Coriolanus shot you from your peripheral.

It wasn’t until you were alone in the privacy of you solar that the facade finally crumbled. Coriolanus’s anger boiled over at your comment, his words cutting like shards of glass. Your own fury matched his, your heart pounding in your chest as you dared to confront him about his infidelity.

“What do you mean ‘maybe not for a while’?” Coriolanus’s voice sliced through the tense silence, his anger simmering just beneath the surface .

Your bristled at his tone, your own frustration bubbling over. “What do you think I mean, Coriolanus? We already have three children to care for, and I’m not eager to bring another into this mess. I’m not a baby machine for heaven’s sake.”

Coriolanus’s jaw clenched, his gaze darkening. “Mess? Is that what you think of our family?” You shot back, “It’s what you’ve made it,” your voice tinged with bitterness. “You think I don’t know about your affairs? About the way you’ve been sneaking around with my servants behind my back?”

Coriolanus’s eyes flashed with anger, his fists clenched at his sides. “How dare you accuse me of such things? You know nothing!” “I know enough,” You retorted, your own anger rising. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, the way you touch her when you think no one is watching.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Coriolanus scoffed, but there was a hint of unease in his voice. “Is it, Coriolanus?” Your voice was sharp as you enunciated his full name, your eyes narrowing as you met his gaze head-on. “You can deny it all you want, but I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. I see what’s happening, and I won’t stand for it any longer.”

Coriolanus’s face twisted with rage, his hands trembling with suppressed fury. “How dare you speak to me like that? I am your husband, and you will show me the respect I deserve!”

“Respect?” You laughed bitterly, your heart pounding in your chest. “You lost any right to my respect the moment you betrayed our marriage vows-“ Your words were cut off when Coriolanus grabs your forearm, harshly pulling you close to him as you felt his breath fanning your features, your breath catching in your throat as you struggled to comprehend the betrayal.

Before you could react, the doors to the solar swung open, revealing your children and the nanny, frozen in the threshold. Your heart sank as you watched Coriolanus hastily release his tight grip on you, plastering on a false smile as he turned to his son with outstretched arms.

“My boy,” he said, his voice strained. “Shall we go play outside?” With a final glance in your direction, Coriolanus left the room, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your reality. As the nanny awkwardly averted her gaze, you gathered your daughters close, your voice trembling with suppressed rage.

“Next time,” you said to the nanny, not bothering to look at her, your voice tinged with bitterness, “you should knock before entering a closed room. Understood?”

The nanny nodded mutely, her eyes downcast as you led your children away from the shattered remnants of your once-happy home. But deep within you, you knew that the facade they presented to the world could only hold for so long before the truth tore your family apart at the seams.

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fanficsrok · 4 months

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know that you brought up simon as a actual rapist i cant stop seeing it

TW: RAPE/NON-CON, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. DARK CONTENT, INTOXICATION. 18+ (SCROLL IF YOU'RE TRIGGERED. YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.)

simon who's sensitised to rape after taking part in attempted rape, helping out his buddy. :(

he thinks there's nothing morally wrong with what he's doing. simon believes he deserves it, considering his role in society. a man should always get what he pleases and desires; what he longs for. simon's eyes wander your body, smoking a cigarette held between his two thick, gloves fingers. the black balaclava shields his face, giving him a threatening appearance, one that'll have you shuddering, your breath caught in your throat.

you're drunk, lightheaded, clearly having too much to drink. poor thing, you probably need some rest, but simon's hungry and perverse gaze wanders, his thick and hard cock stiffening in his boxers. gloved hands grasp at your waist abruptly, covering your mouth with a large palm, silencing your screams as he drags you further into the alleyway, darkness consuming you as you're thrown to the cold, wet concrete.

you're weak; defenceless and weak, benefitting the large, looming man, a man you don't recognise – at least at first. simon's cock springs free from the tight confines of his boxers, smacking against his bare and muscular abdomen as he pulls his shirt up, pushing inside your folds painfully. it's all agony, your screams silenced by his cooes, a pathetic attempt to coddle and soothe you from the fear. he doesn't like to cause fear — he already does that enough — he rather just... desires and believes he has the right to a selfish act; an inhumane and dirty, filthy act.

his hand covers your mouth, feeling your slit swell around his thick, lengthy cock, prodding against your gummy cervix with each thrust. your screams fall, quietening down as he pushes inside, too drunk to plead for mercy anymore. simon feels his stomach tighten with shame and guilt, the feeling of wrongness. something is nagging at him, that this is wrong — but god, if it's so wrong, why does it feel so fucking good?

control is his power, having power is everything to simon. how else is he supposed to look at you, as your superior? recognising you as the woman he took advantage of brutally and disgustingly.

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fanficsrok · 4 months

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Kinktober -09: Forced/Fuck or die

Simon Riley x f!reader

Warnings: Here it is, what you've been waiting for. Based on this post. MUTUAL NON-CON, Dark Simon, Simon fighting with himself. This is the darkest thing I've written to date. Heed the non-con warning!

His mask is gone, it’s the first thing he notices when he groggily regains consciousness, the bare skin of his cheek pressed against the grimy cement below his body. All his tactical gear, shoes and shirt are gone too, though his pants thankfully remained on his person.

The second thing he notices is you, curled up in a ball and still knocked out a few metres away from his person, the bare skin of your back on display. Fighting the lingering fatigue he pushes himself up, dragging himself towards you, only noticing the chain clamped around his ankle when it clanks against the floor.

Luckily, he’s been given enough slack to make it to your side, large hand shaking your shoulder as he averts his gaze from your bare form to preserve as much of your modesty as possible. By the time you wake up, Simon has managed to regain most of his faculties and has thoroughly scoped out their situation.

They’re in a cell of sorts, blocked off from the door by a set of iron bars that show no visible weak spots. There are no windows though light is provided by the glaring fluorescent white lights that hurt to stare at for too long, other than that there is a ratty mattress covered in stains that Simon doesn’t want to ponder too long on.

You’re not restrained in movement by a chain like him, though you have been completely stripped bare and when you sit yourself up Simon makes sure to stare directly ahead. You seem grateful for the fact, though neither of you directly comment on your state of undress.

Quietly, the two of you converse, unsure if there are any hidden cameras in the area. Together you manage to piece together the spotty bits of each other's memory leading up to waking up as captives.

It doesn’t take long for you to start shivering, the frigid temperature of the room amplified by your lack of a barrier between your skin and the cold floor. You start to move closer to him and wordlessly Simon holds one of his arms out, allowing you to tuck yourself under his armpit, your legs crossing over his lap.

His heart is pounding furiously in his chest at the feel of your skin on his, your breath shuddering against his side as your arms wrap around his torso. You bury your face into his side, both hiding from his gaze and hiding your own sight of him. Simon meanwhile, starts to expend a good portion of his mental function on not popping a boner. You’re so close that he can smell your hair, even over the musty air.

At some point, you make the executive decision together to move to the mattress, trying to find the least stained patch instead of remaining on the cold unforgiving concrete. As if that had been some sort of invisible cue, the rusty door swung open with a whine, hinges protesting as it scraped against the floor.

Pressed so closely against him, you feel the way his shoulders tense, the arm wrapped around your shoulders subtly tugging you further behind him. The man who entered was skinny, long black hair greasy and shining in the low lighting. His smirk feels even greasier than his skin, however, and the way his eyes trail over your bare skin makes a shiver run down your spine unbidden. Simon evidently notices this too, and the muscles in his arm flex as he subconsciously tries to pull you even closer.

Unfortunately for you both, Simon’s reaction doesn’t go unnoticed, and the slimy man’s sickening grin grows even wider than you would have thought possible. “You’re finally awake! How are you liking the accommodations?” his tone is mocking as he leers through the bars, giving you the perfect view of the gun tucked into his waistband.

Neither you nor Simon answer, simply glaring up at your captor with varying degrees of acid and wariness. “Not going to answer? That’s okay, I can speak enough for the three of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve but neither of us will talk” Simon drawls, his chest rumbling pleasantly against your ear. The response he receives is a laugh, a mocking pitch that further fuels the deep unease brewing in your gut.

“Oh? No skin off my back, I’ve no interest in any information you might provide.” He waves his left hand dismissively, reaching for the pistol tucked into his belt nonchalantly.

Your unease evolves into something deeper, heart-thumping like a rabbit caught in a snare as you try to curl in on yourself even further. The warning signals in your mind are blaring at you to run, but there’s nowhere to go and as such you’re forced to just hunker down beside Ghost. Your mind is confident that your lieutenant will protect you, he always does.

Slimy man drags a rickety old table close to the bars with an ear-piercing screech and you’re surprised that it doesn’t outright collapse when he jumps to sit on it. His short legs swing back and forth like a child on a ride, the gun laying loosely over his lap, his grin never once dying as he continues to stare eerily.

If it wasn’t information he wanted, then what?

The question floats uneasily in the forefront of both of your minds as you await the man’s next move. The answer to the unvocalised question comes not even three seconds later and punches the breath from your chest in disbelief.

“I want you” he points at Simon with the pistol, “to fuck her,” he moves the gun lazily through the air to point at you, his head leaning forward to rest on his free hand. You cringe when the gasp that leaves your throat is loud enough for him to hear and even Simon can’t quite contain his shock.

Neither of you move. Neither of you speak. As if you’re both waiting for the cameras to roll out and for the man to announce you were being punked.

Predictably, this doesn’t happen and your lack of reaction causes the first cracks in the man’s nonchalant mask to form. His grin finally dies down into a deep frown, his eyes filled with faux pity as he sighs loudly.

The gun is still levelled at your head and your throat is so dry it hurts to swallow. Your heart roars loudly in your ears, thumping so hard you fear it’ll completely burst out from your skin.

“I’m getting a little impatient now. I know you heard me the first time. So you better get to work man, or else I’ll kill her.” All of the perceived amusement has fled from his outward persona and you look up at Simon with wide eyes.

Simon doesn’t look down at you, his jaw clenched so hard you can clearly make out the bulging veins as his skin reddens in anger. Looking up at him, you miss the click of the gun's safety and by the time you’ve noticed Simon’s suddenly panicked reaction pain is already flashing across the skin of your cheek as a bang echoes through the small space.

Simon’s eyes are suddenly very desperate and focused on your face, his free hand cupping your jaw and his thumb running over your cheek. Wincing at the sting of weight against your injury you flinch backwards slightly as blood smears over your face and his hand.

“That was a warning, but I’m reaching the end of my patience so you’d best get on with it unless you want me to kill her.” You whimper at the words, tears that you try to blink away rapidly filling your waterline as you try to keep your breathing under control.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok.” You find yourself muttering over and over again, looking into Simon’s agonised and sick-looking gaze, gently pulling him down until his bulk is trapping you against the mattress.

He’s breathing heavily, panic, disgust, terror, regret, flit so quickly over his face that you can’t even begin to hope to decipher all the emotions running through his head. Though you think they likely mirror your own.

One trembling hand clutched his cheek like a lifeline as you forced his gaze to remain on yours, unwilling to let either of you look at your tormentor. You’re trembling pathetically, your dominant hand struggling with the zipper of his pants as you try not to sob.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Simon is frozen above you still as you repeatedly apologise through cracks in your voice. You’re shaking so badly that you can’t manage to unzip his pants and bile rises in your throat as one of his large hands stiffly reaches down to do it for you.

Due to the stress and depravity of the situation, he’s not exactly hard yet. You don’t want to touch him, not like this, without his permission and you freeze long enough that he decides for you, jerkily stroking himself as his eyes shutter closed with a grimace.

It’s a few agonising minutes of silence, both of you attempting to mentally prepare or disassociate from the inevitable. He must be ready because suddenly the hand that isn’t holding him up slips over your pubic bone and you can’t stop the flinch.

Instantly his hand darts away and his eyes scrunch even more closed. You bring your other hand up to his face, cupping his cheeks with trembling fingers as you urge him to open his eyes. He watches as you nod your head, breath trembling as you continue to spill apologies.

His fingers flick back down to your understandably dry pussy, gently trying to prepare you a little, to make it less painful. You’re still apologising and Simon desperately wishes you would shut up.

He should be the one apologising. But his mouth won’t move and he can’t wake up from the nightmare.

He can’t hide the flinch this time when their captor speaks up once more with a lazy but impatient drawl, “I believe I said fuck her. Not finger her.”

He’d thought the situation couldn’t get worse but once again the ground had been shattered beneath him. It’s only your hands cupping his face like a lifeline that prevents him from reeling back completely. Simon has frozen again and the crushing guilt consumes his soul entirely when you have to force him back into action, wrapping your ankles around his lower back and pushing him closer.

Looking briefly towards the unwanted audience it’s the sight of the gun, still primed and aimed towards you that finally spurs Simon into action. Leaning down on his elbows so his mouth rests near your ear, out of sight he finally whispers his only apologies as he slowly presses the tip of his cock into your unprepared pussy.

He’s barely breached you, having been met with immense resistance and already you let out a slight whimper of pain. He tries to move as slowly as possible but he’s only halfway and you can’t hold back your tears anymore. They roll down your cheeks in earnest and your chest rattles with sobs as you clamp down like a vice on him.

He’s only granted a few seconds to let you adjust before it’s made clear he’s not performing satisfactorily. When he pulls out only to slam back in you shriek, hands moving to grip at his back and leaving harsh scratches that are undoubtedly bleeding.

He has to bite his tongue to prevent a groan of pleasure from slipping out and his nausea grows at the fact.

He wants to be gentle, he tries to be. He swears, but he’s not allowed. Not when it’s apparent that this is supposed to absolutely shatter your body and soul.

It’s not because you feel so fucking good, he swears.

And you’re still fucking apologising to him.

Gods. You’re so perfect his brain coos. So concerned for him when it should be him begging on his knees for your forgiveness.

Even though you won’t risk saying his real name, Simon can’t even blame his actions on the Ghost, because without the mask that’s not who he is right now. It’s not the Ghost causing you such agony, it’s Simon.

It’s Simon that’s doing this to you and it’s Simon that’s started to enjoy it.

With the added stimulation to your clit your body has finally started to provide some natural lubricant, even if you’re still very clearly in pain. The slide in and out has become easier, letting him pound deeper.

His skin slaps harshly against yours, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your limp body. His cheek turns and he noses at your skin briefly, inhaling your divine scent before his tongue darts out and laps at your tears.

You look so pretty like this. Eyes glazed over and fucked out from his cock.

At some point, his horror has turned into pure pleasure and any guilt that threatens to keep surfacing is quickly pushed back down by the dark little voice in the back of his head.

You’d been the one to initiate. A part of you must have wanted this deep down, it whispers.

His face returns to the crook of your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin there as he continues to try and make this even the slightest bit pleasurable for you. Your pained whimpers have mostly died down, sobs reduced to slight sniffles and something in Simon preens in pride at that.

He’s cumming faster than he would have initially predicted, filling you with thick ropes as his hips ground into you as deep as he can humanly manage. His muscles falter a little and he collapses on top of you, face still buried in your neck.

It isn’t until there’s loud applause and boisterous laughter that Simon suddenly returns to his senses. Reeling away from you as if burned, chest heaving in revulsion once more as clarity sets in.

You don’t move, shoulders still trembling minutely as Simon struggles not to vomit at the reality of what he’d done. The reality of what he’d enjoyed.

The door swings closed with a thud and still you don’t move, eyes staring wide and blankly at the ceiling. Simon’s eyes dart between your legs, a mix of his cum and blood streaming down your thighs.

Quickly but gently he pulls you back into his arms, settling you on your lap and flinching when you wince at the movement. It’s his turn to cry, shuddering breaths buried in your hair as he apologises over and over.

“S’ok.” You simply reply, voice hoarse and a little too understanding for his liking. He spends what must be hours apologising into your hair as you tremble and apologise back, your tears marking his skin.

Unfortunately, Simon knows that none of his apologies will ever be enough. Not when that twisted, vile part of his psyche had enjoyed fucking you, relishing in the free opportunity he may have never otherwise been granted.

He doesn’t sleep. Remaining wide awake and battling himself long after you’d cried yourself into exhaustion. Because even now you still subconsciously trust him enough to do so!

His arms tighten around your body as much as possible as he continues to stare blankly ahead. He’s never going to let you go, not even if you both get out alive. You need him to protect you. To protect you so nothing like this ever happens again.

It somehow doesn’t occur to him that perhaps he’s the one you may need protection from.

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