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peachesofteal · 4 months

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The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel.

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable.

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive.

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles.

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top.

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod.

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.”

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts.

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.”

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights.

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse.

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one.

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind.

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded.

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area.

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling.

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body.

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm.

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and-

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath.

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment.

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding.

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind.

Sleep.

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel.

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened?

And why do you hurt so fucking bad?

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember?

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate?

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no.

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye.

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip.

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down.

Still…

Didn’t Johnny kiss you?

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed.

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?” You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones.

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience.

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

“Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

#peaches writes #dub con #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #ghoap x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #Ghoap #soap x reader

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heluvaku · 7 months

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HELUVAKINKTOBER: DAY 2 - ROLEPLAY.

A Fyodor Dostoyevsky | BSD x Female Reader Smut Fanfic.

warnings ; smut , roleplay , dacryphilia , sex toys, pussy slapping , pwp/plot what plot , religious themes , cunnilingus , mean fyodor :( , reader is implied to be chubby , reader's role is an angel , fedya is just ... fedya , not proofread , etc .

author's note ; HIHI!!! day two and i was already almost behind.. i've been writing all day to get this done , and i still couldn't finish it all in time so I left it on a cliffhanger. i swear, i'll give you all the part two of this some other time .. but for now , take this. enjoy !

p.s - this is the longest fic on my acc as of currently. ily fyodor ...

heluvakinktober 2023 m.list .

You sit on a lavish bed in a dimly lit bedroom, the lights bright just enough to see your unpigmented lingerie underneath the thin, translucent satin nightgown you wore. The undergarments had intricate weavings, each pattern having meticulous designs with folded white wings sewn into them. To top it off, a headband-bound spring hung up the pastel yellow halo on your head; completing the ‘angel’ look that Fyodor worked so hard to put together for you.

As if your thoughts had cued him in, the sound of a door creaking open filled the otherwise silent room; a chuckle belonging to no one but the man you loved ringing in your ears. Clutching the fabric of the comforter, you watch as the demon shuts and locks your only exit, turning to you with a smile of mischief.

“My, what a sight for sore eyes,” he says, strolling towards your nervous figure. “Such a magnificent, holy woman. Might I ask why you’ve fallen from the heavens to speak with me?”

Fyodor crawls onto the bed and places his hands on your shoulders. He was as cold as a glacier, anemia working everything but wonders on his lankier frame. You, however, were plump. You felt warmer than a fireplace with personality that could light up an entire room. ‘A star brought down from the celestials’, Fyodor would say.

“Are you here to tell me how I’m far from free of sin? Or perhaps..” the Russian murmured, his accent rolling off of his tongue deliciously, “you’re here for conversion.”

Fyodor runs his hands down your body, stopping as he reaches your plush thighs. After giving them a light squeeze, the rat brings his left hand up to your chin, turning your head to face him. “Which is it, моя любовь? Do you wish to spread the ‘lord’s’ faith, or listen to mine?”

You quickly exhale, regaining your composure. “I can’t even fathom the idea of a simple man being able to strip me of the lord’s hands. I’m intrigued, mortal. Do tell.”

“Excellent,” the Rat mumbles, gently kissing your soft lips. He handled your body as if you were a glass figure that he was instructed to handle with care. Fyodor’s icy hands caressed your skin, leaving goosebumps with every touch.

Toying with the hem of the nightgown, Fyodor stares up at you with feigned innocent eyes. “Oh, great one, may I please witness your purity in its entirety?”

“Yes. You have proven yourself worthy, my child.”

“Thank you. I will not put your acts of kindness in vain,” Fyodor mumbled. The Russian leisurely raises your garment over your head, stripping you down to the lingerie you wore. He felt his mouth water at the mere sight of your body, taking in every curve and crevice of your form. “Ты великолепна, любовь моя. I could simply devour you.”

And devour you he did. Fyodor crashed his lips onto yours, his kisses quick and feverish as if he was being timed. Not pulling away from you, the Rat maneuvers himself on top of your curvy figure, laying you down. His lips trail down your body, starting from your cheek and briskly moving down south. Fyodor stops at your lower abdomen, gently kissing your navel.

“Oh, how I wish to spill my seed into you. Perhaps our child would be pure, much unlike all of mankind,” the Demon whispered, resuming his journey down your body. Sighing in content, Fyodor stared at your damp, sticky panties, the fabric clinging to your pussy. “Мой ангел, perhaps you aren’t as innocent as you so claim. Такой мокрый без причины.”

You stifle a moan as Fyodor runs a finger down your clothed cunt, planting sloppy, open mouth kisses on your inner thighs. Once he reaches your dripping core, he smiles, then turns to kiss up the other limb. Desperacy boils within you, pathetic whines becoming flat out wimpish as he takes his sweet time, nipping and licking at the soft flesh.

“Patience, Dear. Patience,” the Russian says, chastising you. You couldn’t seem to tell, though, His voice was too sweet to decipher his intentions — something you despised about him. “Is a man not allowed to eat before he drinks?”

“Yes, wise one, of course,” you whimper, biting your lower lip to calm yourself down, “but please, get to your preaching.”

“Right away, O great one.”

Not a moment after, Fyodor licks a long stripe up your clothed pussy, his tongue flat on your clit. Your body jolts, hips involuntarily bucking towards his face. Chuckling, Fyodor peels your panties to the side, spreading you open with his middle and index fingers.

“You see, мой дорогой, in my eyes, not one soul is free of sin. Not even one as holy as yours,” he says matter-of-factly. Fyodor slowly flicks his tongue up and down your hole, just the tip of the appendage slipping inside of you. His pace was agonizing. There was so much you wanted to do to get him to speed up; but you couldn’t act out of character. Who knew what punishment would await you?

“Whatever do you mean, mortal?” you ask through clenched teeth, watching as he ate you out, “such a snide remark shall have you exiled from the eyes of God. I recommend you explain yourself.”

“Need I explain? My statement will remain true, Darling. I plan on proving it to you like..” He trails off, landing one last sluggish stripe up your cunt, stopping right where your clit was. His laugh was impish, a smile full of ill intent pairing with it. He planned to wreck you.

“This.”

His lips immediately latched onto your clit, sucking the button of flesh and yanking a noisy moan from your throat; halo bobbing as you threw your head back. Fyodor’s eyes never seemed to leave you; watching each move your body made because of his tongue.

“Если бы ты только мог увидеть себя…” the Demon slurred. Lewd, sticky slurps emitted from between your legs, slick and saliva briskly coating your thighs and Fyodor’s pale face. The sound of the headboard punching on the wall partially brought you out of your daze, staring back down at Fyodor to see him humping the mattress at a tempo matching the strokes of his tongue.

His mouth disappeared from your clit, only for his rough fingers to replace it. They rub and flick the nub with fervor, yet it’s far from overdone. It’s fast enough to give you immense pleasure; to send you over the edge. If Fyodor was kind, he would’ve let you cum on his fingers — but what’s the use in discussing the “If”s? He’s not. He lives up to his alias, he truly is a monster.

“That’s more than enough, don’t you think, милый?” Fyodor asks. He shoots you a smile, pulling himself away from your body entirely. You shake your head no, pleas and cries of continuation falling from your lips. The Russian’s grin flattens into a stoic, upset expression, and before you know it, a harsh slap is landed on your cunt. Sobs of pain and pleasure escape your throat, your voice hitching. “Keep in character, кукла.”

You choke on tears, a lump forming in your throat. Fyodor brings two digits to your vagina, running them between your folds as if easing out the sting. The kind gesture was a simple facade, as his arm rears back and smacks you right on your sensitive clit. You yelp, hurrying with your pained reply, “Y-Yes.. Indeed. Please, move on with f-further ministries..”

“So hungry for more.. Is the conversion working, малыш?” the Monster chuckled, getting off of your shared bed to open the drawer of his nightstand. A long, purple dildo rests in his palm as he shuts the dresser and sits behind you. He kisses your tear stained left cheek, a small token of reassurance.

Fyodor pulls you closer to his chest, hands wandering across your body. He gives you a few seconds to recover, then slides his thumb through the band of your underwear, inaudibly asking — no; telling you to raise your hips so he could yank them down.

Of course, you oblige. Fyodor hums, placing the soaked garment to the side for.. ‘later use’. The raven haired man brings the dildo to your tight, wet pussy, running it down your slit. “You’re simply too precious for me, a sinner, to fuck in such a grotesque manner. Won’t you let me drag you down to reality and make you absolutely braindead on this simple object?”

You gulp, wiping your tears from your hot cheeks. “Yes, yes you may. S-Show me how it feels to sin..”

@ HELUVAKU 2023 . do not share or repost .

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xuchiya · 1 month

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j.yunho {espresso for two?}

cafe love m.list || k.hongjoong || p.seonghwa || j.yunho || k.yeosang || c.san || s.mingi || j.wooyoung || c.jongho

I change the location from New York to Japan. hehehe

Jeong Yunho.

Just the name sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing over you. Two weeks. Two measly weeks since he'd so casually declared, "We need some space," his voice as smooth and forgettable as the lukewarm latte he always ordered.

Space? What for?

It wasn't supposed to end this way. You and Yunho have been together for three years, a whirlwind romance that blossomed during your college days. He is your everything: the man who is charming, funny, with a smile that could melt glaciers. Spent hours lost in conversation, future plans whispered over steaming mugs of chamomile tea at your apartment after a long day of class or even workloads, the very one you now toiled in, perpetually surrounded by the bittersweet aroma of love and heartbreak.

The cracks started appearing subtly. Late-night texts unanswered, cancelled dates for "work emergencies," a growing distance that chilled you to the bone. You tried, you did— clinging to the remnants of what you both had, showering him with affection that felt increasingly one-sided. Then came the bombshell – a text, impersonal and cold, informing you of his "need for space."

Your world had tilted on its axis. The vibrant cafe, once a haven of shared laughter and stolen glances, now felt suffocating. Your co-workers, bless their oblivious souls, tried their best. Your senior head took notice of your distant and pale face–offering you to take a quick break which you deny saying that you just haven’t retouched yet after the morning rush, Wooyoung the ever-optimistic barista, bombarded you with motivational quotes. And Seonghwa, the stoic manager, offered gruff words of support (his way of showing he cared). But nothing could mend the gaping hole in your chest.

A particularly demanding customer snapped you out of your reverie. Her shrill voice, laced with entitlement, taking a deep breath, you plastered on a customer service smile, channelling your internal turmoil into forced cheer. Maybe, just maybe, a day spent slinging coffee and feigning happiness would numb the ache a little.

But as you steamed milk softly, the bell above the cafe door chimed, a jarring note in the morning lull. Your gaze flicked up, drawn by a sudden prickle of unease. There, by the counter, stood Jeong Yunho. His usual carefree demeanour was replaced by a shadowed weariness. Your breath hitched, a thousand unspoken words churning in your stomach.

He hadn't changed much. The same tousled hair, the same charming smile – a smile that now felt like a stranger's. He scanned the menu, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when your eyes met. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

"I—," he finally said, his voice strained. "Hi …"

Your heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A million questions bubbled up, but professionalism reigned supreme. You plastered on a neutral smile, "Did you find anything you like, sir?" You managed, your voice surprisingly steady. Adam's apple bob before a small slick smirk creeps on the corner of his lips, “Yeah … you.”You rose an eyebrow, finally showing your emotions that went from ‘Fuck! my ex is here!’ to ‘Let me punch him, the audacity!’. He saw your reaction, his eyes darted on the menu before crawling his throat, “J-Just espresso ..” “Take out or dine in?” “Dine .. in”

You look down to punch his order, “Do you want to add anything, sir?” He shakes his head but his lips move again, stuttering, “M-Make it two .. please.”

You breathe sharply before giving him the receipt after he pays for the two espresso, telling him to sit for a while. He nodded before mumbling a ‘thank you’. As you pulled the shot, stolen glances confirmed the changes you sensed. Dark circles marred Yunho's eyes, etching lines of fatigue onto his previously youthful face. The weight of the world seemed to press down on his broad shoulders. A pang of sympathy warred with the anger still simmering within you.Just why? Where did it all go wrong?

When your barista announces Yunho’s name, you watch in the corner of your eye as he places himself on the window side of the cafe with the two espresso in his hand. As you punch the order of the customer in front of you, a tap on the shoulder interrupts your work, you look over to see Seonghwa with an anticipated look over his usual stoic look, “Yes manager-nim?”He breathes sharply, eyes flicking towards somewhere before looking back at you, “You can take a break … someone needs to see you and let them explain themself.”

You immediately knew who he was talking about. You know Yunho never goes unprepared and certainly, he comes with a fixed mindset.

You sigh, removing your apron as Seonghwa rubs your back soothingly before he places the apron on him to take care of your position. You look at the side to see your senior head, giving you an encouraging smile along with the others cheering on you. You felt grateful as they have been supportive of your relationship with Yunho for a short while of announcing about your boyfriend with minimal information about him yet they never ask you questions about it until you do so.You approached his table, sat down opposite of him. He had an awkward look on his face, “Yunho please get to the point, rush hour will be an hour—”

“I’m sorry.” Those simple words were so easy to say yet the words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat. The air hung heavy with unspoken words. Yunho's apology, though sincere, seemed like the tip of a much larger iceberg. The man across the table fidgeted, hesitant to dismiss an apology so abruptly. The tension crackled between them, amplified by the approaching rush hour Yunho himself had mentioned.

"My excuse won’t do justice to the pain you went through and my sorry can not heal all those pain .The pain you feel is a constant reminder of my failings. I have doubted myself so much that I have neglected you and become selfish for my own emotions and at the end, I have regret all of those things, I have regret ever hurting you, rejecting your small offerings or even your love— I am sorry.” Yunho spoke with sincerity in every word he said, his hands were clinging on the cup of his espresso—controlling himself to not take your hands—while his eyes were glued to you the whole time.

You were slightly taken back, his words were piercing through your head. Your heart soars to the extent that, maybe just maybe, he did regret what he had done. You have known Yunho for as long as you both were before in the stage of dating, you have seen him grow to be a man and you have seen how he came to learn from who he was and what he is today.

Yet there goes the mind from letting you decide from your emotions. Your thoughts run through the painful days you have cried, doubted or even questioned your worth— you were also afraid to go on your days without thinking of your looks that had you wearing a mask to cover yourself— you were a complete and shattered person inside your apartment. The battle between your head and your heart, it is hard to listen.

Yunho, being the observant he is, took notice of your shaking eyes and contemplated heart. He knows what’s going through your head, every thought and he cannot blame you. Even he would be in a complicated mess if your ex suddenly came into your life after months of disappearing after a text so shitty.

“You do not have to talk or anything, I just came by to explain and maybe … have a closure before I go.” Your eyes that were fixed on the table slowly, trails towards his glassy eyes.

“Cl-Closure? Yunho what–” Why does he need closure? You were confused, your heart was expecting something more from what he had mentioned even though your mind had concluded that he will ask for a second chance but this? A closure? That is something you weren least expecting!

Yunho’s head nodded, a small smile on his lips, “Yeah– I have .. thought about it that you deserve an apology… “ He looks around the small cafe, eyes twinkling in admiration before his eyes settle back to you. The softness never left and it made your heart hurt, “I may have not talked to you for weeks but I have come across you a few times and I have seen you grow day by day. You slowly regain back that smile, your contagious laugh and your glow. You deserve so much more than the pain I cause you.” Both of your eyes were turning glossy, his nose was clogging making his voice slightly muffled yet no tears were evident.

Finally, he lets go of the cup and reaches for your hand which you let him hold on to. He squeezes them like he used to, “And you deserve those, you deserve a better chapter … without me.”

There, the water in your eyes had finally streamed down your cheeks when he gave you the smile that you have adored. A smile that reassures you that things will be okay, eventually. You’re gonna be okay and that he will be there to support you.

“Yu-Yunho …” Yunho shakes his head, giving your hand a final squeeze before letting them go. You jerk slightly, wanting to hold him again, “I’m off to Japan with my mom. Seoul will always hold a piece of my heart, but Japan has pushed me in ways I never imagined. I've grown here, found a strength and independence I never knew I had. As much as it pains me, returning feels like something I have wanted. Our paths have diverged, and forcing them together wouldn't be fair to either of us.”

Yunho reaches over, wiping a stray tear, you shamelessly lean into his touch. Yunho’s breath hitches, itching to hold you back in his arms but he has to do it, he has made up his mind that things have reason to happen, “Maybe someday, our paths will realign. Until then, I'll cherish the memories we made.” He stood up, giving you the other cup of espresso while the other tight in his hand.

He looks at you one last time before leaving the cafe. As the door chime hits close, your body shakes as silent sobs echo the, now deserted cafe. The tears blinded yet love never does it, it wounded you to make you wake up in reality that things were over and the questions of him leaving you were answered.

You look at the cup of espresso in front of you, and more tears fall on your cheeks as you read the letters, ‘Espresso for two?’ the inscription seemed to scream, each word a fresh tear on your heart.

You traced the lettering with a trembling finger, the memory flooding back. It was his idea, a silly spur-of-the-moment purchase during a weekend, he had to pull you out from your shift and drag you out to have the rest of the day with him. You'd laughed, teasing him about his overenthusiasm for a simple coffee cup. "What if you never have someone to share it with?" you'd joke, never truly believing it.

He'd squeezed your hand, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Then it'll be a reminder of me sharing this espresso with you so i could espresso my love for you," he'd promised, his voice laced with a confidence you envied now. You laugh at his joke, making him chuckle as your enthusiastic laugh echoes down the street.

A sob escaped your lips, the sound harsh in the sudden silence of the cafe— despite your co-workers glancing at you once in a while to check up on you. The espresso remained untouched, a cold, bitter echo of a love that had turned as quickly as burnt milk. But even through the fog of grief, a flicker of defiance sparked. Wiping your tears, you straightened your spine. Maybe it wasn't meant for two today, but that didn't mean it couldn't be filled someday.

You finish the cup in a go, eyebrow furrowed. You have made up your mind a little to late, but there are things were meant on a perfect time.

You look outside by the cafe windows, "I'll share the espresso with you again."

part 2? another ending? idk 😭😅

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez atiny #ateez jeong yunho #ateez yunho x reader #yunho x reader #jeong yunho #yunho angst

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hazellvsq · 7 months

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hazel drawing her friends

she doesn't draw leo's face bc she's drawn that same face before and its very weird for her but she'll draw faraway shots of him steering the ship like an 18th century sea captain

she drew festus too, asleep but still frightening

piper's self conscious about being drawn but hazel loves her and loves how she looks and spends a lot of time trying to capture what makes piper so magnetic

she herself is kind of self conscious about drawing reyna or annabeth but she draws them in each other's clothes - reyna in jorts, annabeth in a toga and cape - and they both think its funny as hell

hazel draws reyna's dogs too. they pose for her and everything.

obviously arion is her top model

she draws frank all the time and it makes him blush. she'll draw frank drinking juice and caption it "frank drinking juice"

she drew frank in a world war one uniform for childhood crush reasons but felt like something was missing so she drew him in a plane that was about to crash and ended up getting super invested in the plane detail so its a very dramatic drawing. frank was like "uuhhh why am i getting shot down?" and she was like "clearly you don't understand art???"

she draws nico and gives him better hair bc she's nice

she also gives him a cool vintage car in some pictures. or a vespa.

she won't do a self-portrait

she draws percy destroying the glacier, like if the son of neptune cover was drawn by a non-professional artist.

she had one drawing of jason based on the day that she met him at camp jupiter. it was not a good day for her bc she was newly resurrected and very scared. it is a very good technical drawing of jason, and he looks powerful and strong, but he has intense eyes with no expression behind them and there is a very unnerving feeling to the drawing itself.

to piper and leo it reminds them a little of when jason had amnesia, but this is a drawing of him before that, which is not quite accurate to how hazel perceived him or to how he really was. its probably hazel's best work but it makes her and everyone a little uncomfortable.

#i...have a lot of thoughts on hazel's first week at camp jupiter and her relationship with jason hence the last two points #i also have a lot of thoughts on frank and piper being her art muses #hazel levesque #piper mclean #leo valdez #frank zhang #percy jackson #annabeth chase #jason grace #nico di angelo #reyna avila ramirez arellano

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captain-price-unofficially · 6 months

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Lockheed P-38F Lightning “Glacier Girl”, lost during WWII after crashing in Greenland. Restored to flying condition after 50 years under the ice.

#wwii #home front #aviation

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elryuse · 4 days

Note

Hey can u write a story of 5 stepsisters (IZTY) who r obsessed with their younger brother y/n with mommy kinks.

Stuck With The Cold Princesses

ITZY OT 5 X MALE READER

Y/n flinched as a chorus of giggles erupted from the living room. ITZY, the five K-Pop idols who had become his stepsisters just a month ago, were sprawled on the plush rug, a chaotic mess of limbs and laughter. They were a far cry from the cold, aloof stars he'd seen on television. Here, in the sanctuary of their shared home, they were a terrifying whirlwind of possessiveness and affection.

Their arrival had been a shock to his system. Lia, the eldest, with a voice that could melt glaciers and eyes that could freeze them solid, took charge of the kitchen, her playful jabs about his meager appetite laced with a hidden venom. Yeji, the leader, a human algorithm with a heart of barbed wire, meticulously planned his schedule, ensuring every minute was filled with "approved" activities. Ryujin, the brooding rapper, spoke in grunts and glares, but her silent protectiveness was a suffocating cloak around him. Chaeryeong, the quiet dancer, was an enigma, her gaze a pool of swirling emotions that only flickered into life when it landed on Y/n. And Yuna, the maknae, was a whirlwind of sunshine that could turn into a hurricane with a single raised eyebrow.

Their initial hostility, a barrage of snide remarks and playful (or not so playful) shoves, had been a terrifying initiation. But then, the accident happened. A late-night drive back from a concert, slick roads, a missed turn – and the world turned upside down. The car flipped, a sickening screech of metal, and then silence. Y/n, miraculously unscathed, had pulled them from the wreckage, his voice a beacon of calm in the chaos.

That night, huddled together in the sterile hospital room, a horrifying truth emerged. ITZY weren't just a collection of talented idols; they were survivors of a tragedy so profound it had forged an unbreakable bond. Years ago, their parents, a famous musician couple, had perished in a similar car crash. The girls, left alone, had navigated the treacherous world of the entertainment industry together, a fortress built on shared trauma.

The revelation changed everything. The teasing stopped. The playful hostility morphed into a fierce, possessive protectiveness that bordered on obsession. Their new family dynamic was a terrifying masterpiece, painted in shades of control and affection.

Lia, ever the cook, fussed over his meals, her playful jabs about his appetite laced with a possessiveness that sent shivers down his spine. Yeji, the strategist, took charge of his schedule, ensuring his days were filled with activities she deemed "appropriate" – activities that kept him isolated from anyone but themselves. Ryujin, the taciturn one, claimed his bed every night, her silent presence a physical barrier against the outside world.

One afternoon, while walking home from school, Y/n bumped into Hana, a girl from his class. He hadn't realized how starved he was for normal social interaction until her easy smile and gentle conversation ignited a flicker of warmth in his chest. Their conversation, however trivial, felt like a lifeline thrown across a vast ocean of isolation.

Unbeknownst to Y/n, a pair of cold blue eyes watched from a distance. Yeji, ever vigilant, her gaze a predator tracking its prey. Back at home, the atmosphere was thick with a chilling tension. ITZY, usually a cacophony of chatter, sat in unsettling silence. The air crackled with unspoken threats.

"We saw you with Hana today, Y/n," Yeji finally spoke, her voice low and laced with ice.

Y/n felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "It was nothing, just… talking."

Ryujin slammed her fist on the table, making him flinch. "We don't like her, Y/n. She's not good for you."

Lia, who had always played the voice of reason, purred, a sound devoid of warmth. "Don't worry, darling. We'll take care of it."

The next day, Hana vanished. Y/n, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, searched for her everywhere. The police, notified by her frantic parents, offered little comfort. The girls, their faces devoid of any emotion, simply offered empty platitudes about "missing persons" and the "inefficiency of the authorities."

Days turned into weeks, and a horrifying realization dawned on Y/n. Hana wasn't missing; she'd been silenced. A single red rose, its petals the color of fresh blood, lay on his pillow one night. A chilling note, penned in Chaeryeong's elegant handwriting, accompanied it: "We only want you to be happy, Y/n. And happy people don't need other girls."

His gaze darted to the five girls, their faces illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window. They weren't the vibrant idols he saw plastered on posters anymore. Their smiles were predatory, their eyes devoid of the playful glint they used to hold. In their place was a terrifying possessiveness that made them look like cornered animals guarding their territory.

Y/n understood then. Their love, born from shared trauma and isolation, was a twisted vine that had suffocated them all. They weren't just his family, they were his captors. The fear that had coiled in his stomach since Hana's disappearance now clawed its way up his throat, choking him with a raw terror.

He tried to reason with them, to appeal to their dwindling humanity, but his words were met with chilling silence. Lia, the once playful cook, spoke in a voice devoid of warmth. "You're safe here, Y/n. You don't need anyone else."

Ryujin, the brooding rapper, materialized beside him, her hand finding his wrist with a bruising grip. "We're all that you need."

Desperate, he pleaded with Chaeryeong, the quiet one who spent hours lost in her art. "Don't you see this isn't right? Hana… what did you do to her?"

Chaeryeong stared at him, her eyes pools of swirling sorrow. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, a stark contrast to the chilling smile playing on Lia's lips. "She made you happy," Chaeryeong whispered, her voice barely audible. "And we can't have that."

Yuna, the maknae, broke the chilling silence with a high-pitched giggle that sent shivers down Y/n's spine. "Don't worry, oppa! We'll make you happy. Forever."

Their twisted affection pressed in on him, a suffocating wall built from fear and devotion. Y/n knew then that escape wasn't an option. He was trapped in their gilded cage, a prisoner of their warped love. Days bled into weeks, and a horrifying routine unfolded.

Gone were the playful interactions. The girls became his constant companions, their possessiveness suffocating. Excursions outside the house were rare, and always under their watchful eyes. Their smiles became strained, their once vibrant personalities dulled by the weight of their actions and the growing paranoia that consumed them.

One night, as Y/n lay awake, staring at the flickering shadows dancing on the ceiling, Ryujin, usually a stoic presence, spoke in a voice thick with raw emotion. "It's getting harder," she confessed, her voice a ragged whisper. "The whispers… the dreams… they're getting louder."

Y/n didn't dare ask about the whispers or the dreams. He knew they were the ghosts of their past, the trauma that bound them together while slowly tearing them apart.

One stormy night, the tension reached a breaking point. Lia, usually the picture of control, broke down, her facade crumbling as she sobbed uncontrollably. Y/n, hesitant at first, reached out and offered a comforting touch.

"We didn't mean to hurt you, Y/n," she cried, her voice cracking with grief. "We just… we just wanted to be happy family again."

Something in her desperation resonated with Y/n. He saw in her the same fear and loneliness that mirrored his own. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to break free. A chance to heal, not just for him, but for them.

"Then let me help you," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Let's get help together."

A flicker of hope sparked in Lia's tear-filled eyes, a fragile ember in the vast darkness of their situation. But before they could discuss it further, a scream tore through the house, a chilling sound that echoed throughout the night.

The bedroom door slammed open, revealing Yeji, her face contorted in a mask of rage. In her hand, she clutched a phone, the screen displaying a news report of a missing girl – a girl with striking green eyes and a familiar smile. Hana.

Y/n's frantic pleas for Hana's safety were met with chilling silence. The girls, their expressions a terrifying blend of relief and possessiveness, huddled closer to him. He saw not rage, but gratitude reflected in their eyes. They had won.

The police investigation, fueled by Y/n's fabricated story of a random encounter and abduction, hit a dead end. Hana – a name that would forever prickle his conscience – simply vanished. Freedom, a word that once held so much promise, now tasted like ashes in his mouth.

Life within their opulent penthouse became a twisted parody of family. Gone were any aspirations of college, of escaping the suffocating cocoon they'd woven around him. His days were meticulously planned – movie nights featuring only their chosen films, meals cooked under their watchful eyes, outings that kept him firmly within their grasp.

Their "therapy" sessions morphed into chilling confessionals. They poured out their childhood trauma, the raw pain of their parents' death, the fear that had solidified their bond into an unbreakable chain. Y/n, a captive audience, offered empty words of comfort, all the while knowing his sacrifice had become his prison sentence.

Nights were the worst. Their sprawling bed became a battlefield of suffocating affection. Lia, the one who used to tease him about his appetite, now fussed over every morsel he ate. Yeji, the strategist, ensured his every need was anticipated, before he even knew he had it. Ryujin, the taciturn one, clung to him with a silent possessiveness that spoke volumes. Chaeryeong, the quiet artist, would sketch him endlessly, her eyes devouring his every feature. And Yuna, the maknae, her once infectious laughter now held a tinge of hysteria, showered him with childish demands for attention.

Slowly, the defiant spark in Y/n's eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow acceptance. He became a puppet, his emotions dulled by their suffocating love. He no longer fought against the endless movie marathons, the repetitive board games, the constant stream of childish questions.

One day, as they sprawled on the floor, giggling over a particularly silly game, a news report flashed across the screen – ITZY, the K-Pop stars, taking a hiatus to focus on "personal growth." A humorless chuckle escaped Y/n's lips. Personal growth indeed.

He looked around at the five faces, their gazes filled with a possessive contentment. They were no longer the vibrant idols plastered across magazines, but his captors, their smiles tinged with a touch of mania.

Y/n, trapped in their gilded cage, had become their ultimate trophy – a reminder of their triumph, a living testament to their twisted love. The "Mommies," as they insisted he call them, had won. His desperate sacrifice had not saved Hana, but had condemned him to a lifetime sentence in his own personal horror story. He was a prisoner, not just of their warped affection, but of his own guilt-fueled decision. The outside world had faded away, replaced by the stifling sweetness of their twisted love, a terrifying lullaby that lulled him into his own living nightmare.

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kneelingshadowsalome · 8 months

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You König work is amazing! Idk why but with that “y/n cant watch something with sweaty shirtless men!” It made me think what would König do if Engel was a gamer and had a guy that liked to game with her

Lol this turned out long and superduper self-indulgent for no good reason

CW: Jealousy, possessive behavior, mild smut

This guy friend of yours has the best equipment and has the best games, so you usually go to his place to play and have a few laughs. You somehow thought things would remain pretty much the same after you met König (silly you) because you've told him about this friend and how much fun you've had over the years. He's just a friend, there's nothing suspicious going on, so why couldn't you continue seeing him?

Interestingly enough, the words we're just friends are the exact wrong ones. "Friend" or no, you're not going to some other man's gaming lair alone.

He tags along next time you see this guy, and it's a bit awkward, because you know König doesn't play. He greets your friend coldly, then goes to "relax" on the sofa with a stiff upper back and pure ice in his stare. You shrug and start playing with your friend, and soon enough the feeling that there is a whole glacier behind your back recedes. You've missed playing with your friend so much!

Meanwhile on glacier König, things are only getting icier. If looks could kill, this other man would be dead already. König won't play, not even when your friend offers him the controller and you try to invite him to at least try. He says he likes to watch.

And boy, does he watch.

He watches you like a hawk, the way you immerse yourself in the game, the way you come so, so alive. The way your cheeks glow and your eyes sparkle, the way you laugh or frown or bite your lip with excitement.

The silence extends all the way back home, and then out of nowhere König starts to complain that the war game you played was poorly made.

"That game was highly inaccurate. The guns for example. M16 wasn't introduced to the field until–"

"König," you set a hand on his chest, "calm down. It's just a game."

He lifts his chin and looks at you, down, down, down, like he always does when he thinks he knows better – and he always knows better. But when you go to bed, he gets unusually touchy and cuddly. You're not getting any sleep before he has given you a hot, sweaty fingering session followed by an exceptionally needy cuddlefuck. You can't help but think whether the shameless display of fingering skills was to show off how good he is with his hands... And how he doesn't need a PS controller to prove it.

He suggests, uneasily, that he could buy you a big tv and five different consoles and all the games you want. You have to explain to him that it's not about the games per se, it's about the company. If you had a gift that allowed you to see under that mask, you would see how his nostrils flare at your innocent declaration.

Next time at your friend's house, you play Mario Kart. It's just what the doctor ordered because everytime you play that game you go into a giggle high. It's just so fun and harmless and silly... Actually, it's the perfect antithesis of König. Even your friend starts to laugh because joy is contagious. The only one who’s not laughing is König, who sits behind you like a monolith or a supervising adult, his stare flashing between you two. (When have you ever giggled like that with him...? When have you ever laughed like you can't even stop?)

The truth is that König is going nuts. First you played a lousy war game (riddled with mistakes), as if the fact that you have a super soldier like König wasn't enough for you. You even sighed 'wow 'when there was an intro scene with lots of explosions and an adrenaline-filled jump from a crashing plane. As if he didn't do stuff like that every day... As if he didn't shoot a real gun and kill real people every day. You would say 'wow' a thousand times more enthusiastically if you saw him doing all that shit for real.

And then? You play what looks like a colorful, nonsensical child's game and laugh your heart out with tears in your eyes. You're cute when you're in your gaming mode, and he just wants to squish you, get rid of that dude, then come squish you again.

And you sort of know that something is wrong and perhaps you shouldn't be seeing this friend so often...

It's not just the fact that you and your friend both try your best to ignore the hound dog who insists on coming along every single time even though he never plays.

It's not the fact that your soldier boyfriend has a special talent of making everyone uncomfortable.

It's the fact that everytime you come home, König is all over you and nearly smothers you with kisses and his tall, demanding frame. You barely get out of your shoes before he gets all touchy, almost gropey.

Next thing you know, you're being put to bed, literally, as he grinds you into the mattress in a desperate fashion. Grunting and groaning high above you, the poorly disguised fury seems to seep from his skin as he gets all sweaty and needy with you. Your adoring doe-eyes, your thrilled gasps and dazzled silence only spur him on.

Usually, he's mouthy in bed, but the need to possess you has reached such heights that he can't even speak. He just towers over you like a furious god, arms caging you in while he makes love to you with pitched grunts. When you ask him if he's angry (in a slightly peepy voice, because the man is actually freaking you out a bit), he grunts a quick "Nein" through gritted teeth. That's how you know he's definitely, thoroughly pissed.

Deprived moans send him over the edge right after you, and you can barely catch your breath before he collapses on top of you, cock still pulsing inside you as he seeks out the sacred little place between your ear and neck, lips burning your skin as he snarls:

"I know you are teasing me, little one... And I'm warning you that it's not a good idea."

#answered #yandere könig #könig x you #jealous könig #possessive könig

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glacierruler · 1 year

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Alright, so I'm about to go on a long tangent about being bipolar, and how it personally effects me. @hyperfixated-homo I know you said you love learning new things, and would like to know more about it. For everyone who reads this, this is my personal experience, it obviously depends on the person. I'm not gonna get too personal here, but I will be providing some examples, so I can let you know what I'm talking about.

CWs: depression, self harm(sort of, just not what you're probably thinking of), mentions of a car crash,

Soo, during my more depressed moods, it's hard to do anything.(It doesn't help that my legs hurt all the time, but I want to figure out why they do before I do a long tangent about that). What I mean is, I can't take care of myself, I can't cook, clean, sometimes I can't get up out of bed. The smallest things will make me cry or yell, or get angry. It's harder for me to have control of my emotions, and the outlet is usually negative. Bad thoughts also tend to come during these times, but I've gotten good at ignoring them. What usually during this is just getting on my computer and playing a few games, or working on my art. Really anything that keeps me busy.

During my more manic moods on the other hand, in a way they're more dangerous. They tend to make me more susceptible to bad ideas. Like biting my finger, because I want to see how far I can go before it starts hurting. I'm more active during these times. Like, I can get a few pages in a chapter done, and drawing is literally so easy. But I can't be trusted on the road, or with money. I tend to be like fuck the rules during those times, and I could definitely cause a car crash. And I view money as this infinite thing that I can just spend, despite me not having a job and only having as much as I do due to fasfa and the pell grant.

#bipolar #depression #car crash mention #self harm mention #it's not what you think #i promise #this is just how bipolar effects me #there's more #but that would get too personal for tumblr #and honestly #i'm not about to tell you something that my irl friends don't know about me #although some of them don't know i'm bipolar yet #but that's because i haven't gotten around to telling them #glacier rambles

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puppetmaster13u · 9 months

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Some of my headcanons for the Phantom siblings.

Both of them have freckles, but Ellie has hers in human form and Danny has his in ghost form

Ellie went as Phantasm while she was off journeying before deciding on the first name Ellie, in which she started going by Ellie Phantasm

Dan had to do community service for the first few years he was out of the thermos, and actually helped clean up both Amity and other ghostly areas where the veil was thin

Danny takes more after his mom body-type wise as he ages, while Dan visibly took more after Vlad and Jack, and Ellie is something inbetween

Ellie discovers she can go goop at will and use it to shapeshift slightly- the moment she saw spiderman comics with venom it was all over for the other ghosts

Danny's wail is more of a scream with the underlying sound of machinery humming and crackling electricity, while Dan's is more of a roar with an underlying rumble of fire and crash of a cracking glacier

Dan's human form has surprising long hair, which Ellie (and Jazz) likes to braid- Clockwork was the one to teach him how to braid his own hair

They get matching tattoos on their forearms as adults that forms a constellation when put together (they also have small matching flower ones with Jazz)

All of their blood glows in the dark, even in human form. They use this by popping their bones and jokingly shaking each other until they glow like a glowstick.

Their eyes also reflect light, but that's more of a liminal thing shared with all amity parkers

Danny has a space core, Ellie has a moon core, and Dan has a sun core They discover they can combine the strength of their abilities while messing around one day and go feral

#danny phantom #danny fenton #headcanon #dani phantom #ellie phantom #dan phantom #DP #Dp headcanon

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peachesofteal · 4 months

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Who wants to read the first like 1.4k of the winter ghoap fic even though it has absolutely no ghoap in it?

Winter in the mountains can be cruel.

Although, there are some who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter. There are predators who thrive.

“I am.” She casts the one window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top.

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod.

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new baby this weekend.”

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with ski traffic and the tourists in their rental cars.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. Weekend traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts.

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained road, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse.

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It travels perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded.

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, slamming the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling.

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away as you’re jostled around, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and lights spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body.

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm.

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and-

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, black pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath.

Sleep. You could just close your eyes. Close your eyes, and sleep.

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding.

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black pool, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind.

Sleep.

#peaches writes

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