thinking about boyfriend nerdjo who's such a fool for his bratty gf . . . sometimes it feels like you create arguments out of nothing just so that he's always kept on his toes. you're so indecisive, can never just tell him what you want from him straight up. he always tries to compromise with you but it feels like he just cant win... it doesnt matter though, because he'll always give in to you. if you want attention, he's at your door in a matter of minutes, regardless of whatever coding project he was working on. if you want an apology, he's kissing your hands and cupping your face as you sit on the edge of the bed, arms folded and legs crossed. the two of you will argue all day, phone buzzing in his pocket throughout lectures, then at night you'll be allll over him, fucking until the morning. he doesnt mind the arguments as long as he gets to finish up a long day at uni by coming inside of you.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who carries all of the heavy shopping bags when you go to the mall. Buff arms piled high with cloth and paper bags.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who follows you into every store without any complaint.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who won’t complain when you take him into the candle store even tho just passing it gave him a small headache.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who will smell every candle you brought up to his nose to sniff.
“That doesn’t smell bad.” You said, bringing the large candle back to your nose for another sniff.
Simon’s nose scrunched. He didn’t like it. It was too sweet for his liking. “Bit sweet, innit?”
“It’s mild to me.” You replied as you flipped the candle to look at the fragrance notes. “Maybe you just have a better nose than me.”
“Maybe.”
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who lingers outside of the changing room, arms crossed as he leans against the cool wall - patiently waiting for you to push the curtain to the side and model the clothing you picked out.
“Does this look good?” you asked, running your hands down your waist.
Simon's eyes examined you from head to toe. “Look lovely, dove.” His tone was almost bored as he replied.
You hummed as you tilted your head side to side. You twisted your body in the mirror, getting every angle to determine whether you liked it. “I don’t know...”
He watched as you twisted and turned. Simon’s mouth turned into a subtle frown. “What do you not like about it?”
“Sits weird here.” You grabbed the extra fabric darting around the armpit.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who will grab different sizes of the clothing you're trying on if the one you brought into the room didn't fit right at first. He’d keep grabbing until one was just right for you.
“That fit better?” He asked through the thin curtain.
You pulled the curtain back with a smile beaming on your face. Now modeling the tailored clothing happily. “Yeah!”
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who sneakily pays for most of the shopping. If you took too long to pay, he’d pay. If you took too long to get the right amount of change, he’d already swipe his card. So fast you didn’t even realize it until you held out your cash or card.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who would take you to dinner if you were at the mall past dinner time. Taking you to a nearby fish and chips shop, making sure you got your fill.
𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 who, when you’d get home, would bring your legs over his lap and rub your sore feet as you both crashed on the couch. He’d watch some football game as he pressed his thumb into your arch, almost absentmindedly.
a/n: simon is a good boyfriend, can't change my mind (>'-'<)
Simon’s lip is busted, pink skin cracked down the middle.
Your brows are pinched in the middle, shoving him and forcing him to sit down on the kitchen chair. There’s blood running down his chin, and you’re not sure if it’s from his lips or from his teeth crashing into his gums.
“Didn’t need to do that.” You sigh, pressing an alcohol wipe to the wound.
He winces lightly before smiling wide. It draws more blood, but he’s too smug to care. “Bloke touched you.”
“Except he didn’t.” You emphasize, “He was just looking.”
“Arguably just as bad.” His big hands rest on your waist.
“People are allowed to look, you know?”
His fingers tighten around your hips.
“You can’t punch every guy who does.” You level him with a stern look.
He pulls you on to his lap, legs falling either side of his thighs. One hands gone from your hips to your chin.
“Why would I ever let them look at something that’s mine?” His voice is low, peering at you with heavy eyes.
His other hand slides lower, grip finding the globe of your ass through your jeans. It’s harsh, and you can tell there’s still adrenaline running through his veins that he’s decided to push on to you.
He drags you down, crashing your lips on to his. You try to pull away, the gash is still open and bleeding, but he holds you tight. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, fervent and possessive, forcing your lips open with his because he’s decided you should get a taste.
You taste the blood then, metallic and salty. It rushes into your mouth the harder you kiss, and it must hurt Simon, but you know that makes him like it even more. Your tongue swipes out, sliding along the broken skin. He groans, deep, hips bucking up into your parted thighs.
When you pull away, there’s remnants of his blood on your lips. He stares at them with lidded eyes, primal and hungry. His thumb pushes it into your mouth, and you suck instinctively, a horrible smirk breaking out across his face at the sight.
He’ll beat up every bloke or he’ll just keep you here in his lap forever.
“what’s wrong?” you run out of the kitchen, eyes wide, gripping the pastry brush like a weapon- as if he’d need it.
simon curses again, eyes fixed on the wooden pieces in his hands, the instructions paper in shreds at his feet. “this fucking coffee..” he looks up at you and his eyebrows furrow. “what are you doing?”
you mirror his expression. “nothing, i came out here because i heard you yell and-“
“what’s on your face, love?”
at his gentle tone, you turn to face the mirror only to see your doe-eyed reflection staring back at you, cheeks and nose smudged with a white powder. “oh.”
“'s flour. I’m baking that pie you like so much.”
his eyes. light. up.
literally.
and suddenly he’s forgotten all about the stupid coffee table that was giving him hell. he drops all the pieces and walks over to you, pulling you close to his side as he guides you into the kitchen.
“you made the sauce yet?”
“you mean the filling? yeah, it’s- simon!”
in a second he’s gone from by your side and in the kitchen ‘taste-testing’.
“wot?”
you have to press your hand to your mouth to forcibly stop yourself from laughing — because there he was, the big & scary, powerful and silent ghost, lips smeared with berry pie filling as he licked the giant spoon.
“it’s not done yet, si!”
“tastes done to me.”
feedback/corrections are appreciated. feel free to send requests/comment/reblog ! :)
trailer park. dubcon/noncon. creepy socially inept simon. kitchen sex. predatory behavior. tattoo sleeves simon is canon. thumb sucking. breeding kink-ish. pulling the panties to the side is hotter than taking it off. all characters are 18+. DDNE.
You're pretty sure the dad you babysit for is a creep. Alternatively, he hates your guts, wearing a perpetual, nasty scowl as his eyes drop to your skirt's hem, replying only in wordless grunts. Of course, you're a self-respecting girl. You don't stand for any disrespect. You stick your nose up a little and keep away from him unless absolutely necessary, because the pay is good and Simon can't fire you because you're good at your job. At least, that's why you think Mr Riley hasn't fired you yet.
He owns a caravan on the edge of town, totally off-the-grid. Military guy sensibilities. Simon does what he does to keep his daughter safe, and you don't ask questions. It's a nice enough unit and bigger than the whole world when you're a 3ft tall three-year-old.
Your friends urge you to find another job the more they hear about this burly brute with tattoo sleeves you work for in the middle of nowhere, but at the end of another moping phone call, you find a 40% bonus tucked into the envelope with your pay and your fate is sealed.
The thought of him overhearing your qualms—and worse, compensating you for it—makes you feel bad, so you start to work extra hard. Leaving a plate for him from the meals you make for Beth, accompanied by sticky notes; seeing him out the door, etc... all in hopes you'll get tipped. Okay, maybe a conscience isn't the only reason for your good behavior—the financial incentives are great too. The tips keep coming, and your doe eyes only get sweeter. To you, it's good customer service, no flirtations involved. You're a professional, after all.
Simon, famously, is bad with social cues and sees more than there is in your hard work. Doesn't register that the extra sweet 'Good morning, Mr Riley,' and happy-faces drawn in honey on his pancakes only come with payments, not for his mean mug. It starts with casual touches: a hand on your shoulder while you chop Beth's veggies into bite-sized pieces, on your waist in passing. I mean, you're practically a hired wife at this point, so what's the trouble, right? You'd be the perfect mother for Beth.
“Beth's been calling you her Mummy,” he says it one day, all casual-like, hands busy with unlacing his boots. The lights are off save for a small lamp in the kitchen while you pack your laptop and charger into a slouchy shoulder-bag, the air humming with Beth's absence. You fuss with the zipper, the mechanism staggering. Simon pretends not to notice.
“I keep telling her not to--” A breathy laugh slips past your lips—a nervous sounding thing. Your face burns up against all reason and you can't place your finger on what it is about that remark that makes you feel defensive. Surely you wouldn't think twice if somebody else said it, but a strange implication seeps in through the cracks of his noncommittal demeanor. There's always something just slightly off, slightly off-kilter when it comes to him. This is wrong, you think, before anything has happened.
“Nowt to worry about.” He shakes his head dismissively and you fancy that he's almost good at pretending to be a normal person. A real person as opposed to a ghost. The leathery couch squeaks under him as he hauls his weight off, unfolding to his full height.
The zipper finally gives when Simon stops in front of you. Your lips part to say something—announce your departure, maybe—before his long fingers tilt your chin up slightly. “You'd be a great mother,” Simon says, evenly, like he's measuring the words—or rather, you. It's the first solid piece of praise he's given you thus far, and it disarms you just a bit after all the stonewalling you've been subject to.
As if sensing the casual shift in the air, Simon capitalizes with an off handed question: “Ever thought about it?”
“About what? Having my own? Erm, no.” You wave your hands like the notion is ridiculous, laughing awkwardly. You're living on a babysitter's wages and busy getting your degree, a child has no part in the equation.
The way Simon eyes you says he has a different idea entirely. It feels wrong, knowing you have your whole life ahead of you, but he can vividly picture you barefoot and pregnant under that same sundress.
“I love working with kids, but I don't think I'll have a baby any time soon,” you ramble, sounding distracted as you back up against the counter. You know it's unreasonable, but a part of you would rather people-please than be downright rude, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands warily.
You ignore the red alerts, telling yourself maybe—just maybe—you're wrong, and Simon is simply a well-meaning, harmless dad. But that's how you ended up here in the first place; you never let yourself truly read into the way he looked at you, never let it dissuade you from working hard, until now. You even stopped complaining to your friends weeks ago.
“Huh.” Simon nods in consideration, pretending to think for a moment. Your feet remain rooted to the spot as Simon's hands find the hem of your dress, teasing it upwards slightly.
“Stop-” Your hand shoots to his wrist as the air hits your thighs, neither pulling nor pushing. Your soft fingers look insignificant next to his arm, pearly manicure to tattoo ink.
“Calm yer tits.” A wry laugh stirs the top of your hair, his shoulders crowding you against the countertop. “Beth's fast asleep.”
You can think up a few other reasons why this is bad business, though you have a feeling they won't hold up well.
Your hand goes slack against his as he reaches up your dress, a shiver rippling up your spine. “We shouldn't-” You stumble against his chest as Simon languidly cups your ass, the heady scent soaked into his shirt flooding your senses until it blurs with the shameful pounding of your heart. “I don't...” Want this.
“You're a little bird, ain't ya?” You meet his heavy-lidded gaze with bated breath as his fingers hook under your chin again, his thumb creeping to the edge of your mouth. The absence of warmth when his hand slips from beneath your dress leaves you almost wondering, before he cups your tits through the flimsy fabric in spite of your shock. “Spook easy.”
“Can feel your heart goin' like mad, y'know?”
For the first time, he speaks more than he listens. Grabs more than he hears your stubborn whines, his fingers stuffing your mouth, before his hands soon find other work. Insistent and cajoling. His meaty palms roam wherever they land—thumbs dragging over the hardened peaks of your nipples through your dress, one hand sliding down to hitch your leg around his waist. The dull throb behind his fly is a demanding ache, a gnawing hunger that makes Simon feel impossibly patient after months of watching you frolic around his home without ever tasting you.
Simon lets out a guttural rasp over you as your writhing body presses against his hard-on, teasing him through rough denim. “Bloody hell.” He turns you by the waist and presses you against the countertop with a finality that draws a startled squeak from your throat. The noise dies at once. His daughter is asleep down the hall; the last thing you need is to make a scene. You swallow whatever words rise to your tongue, acutely aware of every sound in the trailer, jaw tightening as the counter edge nudges uncomfortably against your hipbones.
You blanch at the thick, hard bulge poking your backside, teething at your thumb nail skittishly. A sickening shudder rolls through you as his hips press forwards with a groan above you, lazily rocking you against the countertop.
“Don't make a sound.”
He'd been more action than words for the better part of the last couple minutes, but his voice seems enough to raise the fine hairs on your nape.
“Yessir...” The words slur together as you slip your thumb between your lips, pink-cheeked. The little bob of your head is all Simon needs before he's freeing his cock from the zipper of his jeans.
The ascent of the thin cotton fabric feels impossibly heavy as he lifts the dress up your hips and settles it around your waist. The pad of his thumb traces your slit through the gusset of your panties, moisture darkening the fabric, before he hooks his fingers through the leg holes and bares your cunt to his eyes.
He clicks his tongue to himself meaningfully and tilts his head as if sizing you up while you suckle on your thumb under him, legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen counter. A sight for sore eyes deserves appreciation, and Simon has only ever known one way to show it—one that'd leave you sore come morning.
“Not so flighty now, eh?” Heat skims the edge of your ear as he speaks in a low drawl, and you almost miss the hitch in his breath when he pushes inch-by-inch into the heat of your cunt. “Who's a good girl?”
Your brows bunch together with exertion at the tight stretch as you peek back at him, all hapless with your lips puckered around your own thumb. You hesitantly slip your thumb from your mouth to speak, the words feeling dumb and embarrassing. “I-I am,” you mumble between soft whimpers sheepishly.
“Yeah. You are.” Humiliation curdles low in your stomach at the sound of his amusement, a slick string of arousal dripping down your center. “Little bird stops complainin' soon as she feels this big dick. You love it, don't you? Just need a paci to shut you up.”
Simon's fingers knead into your flesh with an ease that feels strangely intrusive, as though they have no business being so familiar with you. His calloused palm cracks against the swell of your ass before he bottoms out, your toes curling into the cool tiles as he fills you up. The counter's edge bites into your hips as he pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming home without any give. Your palms scrabble against the laminate, searching for purchase as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps.
He's effectively everywhere. One hand splays across your lower back, pinning you down, while the other finds your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck in a secure grip, enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“That's it,” he rasps, the words carried over the slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen's shadows. “Take it.”
Your knees wobble under you, but his grip on your hip tightens like a vice, holding you up, holding you open. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the kitchen—obscene and rhythmic, drowning out your own muffled whimpers.
He leans over you, chest hot against your back, mouth brushing your ear.
“Thought you could get away from me, little bird. Where you gonna go now?”
— wah wah y/n in a sundress ... y/n with manicured nails ... yes IK i've seen every tumblr post making fun of the cliches but this is what you get when the author (me) likes those things!! crucify me 🙄 at least she's independent and educated!!
NOT PROOFREAD! i hatee the super rushed ending. also oops i realized i accidentally described reader as pink-cheeked in this, i usually avoid appearance descriptions but icba to edit it anymore. >_<
Big bad Wolf
HybridAU
Wolf!Philip Graves x Bunny!Reader
+18 mdni
tw: knotting, dub con, praise kink, size difference etc.
Part 1
It was almost cliché how this whole thing had unfolded; innocent prey tricked by the big bad wolf. The same cycle repeated day in and day out in nature—predator and prey, hunter and hunted, the strong devouring the weak. Unlucky for you, little bunny, now was your turn.
You should have known better. Should have recognised the glint in those dark blue eyes when he'd offered you a ride, that lazy predatory smile that didn't quite reach his gaze. Should have noticed how his nostrils flared when he leaned close, scenting you. But you'd been so trusting, so naive, and now you were miles from anywhere, trapped in his remote cabin with no phone signal and no hope of escape.
The realisation had hit you like ice water when he'd locked the door behind you both, pocketing the key with deliberate slowness. When he'd turned to face you fully, shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the window, ears pricked forward with predatory focus. When that smile had widened, showing just a hint of those sharp canines.
"Now then, bunny," he'd rumbled, voice dropping an octave. "Let's have some fun."
And now here you were, trembling against the far wall of his living room, your cotton tail pressed flat against your backside in fear, your long ears pinned back against your skull. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to bolt, to find any escape—but there was nowhere to go. He stood between you and the only exit, and even if you could somehow get past him, you were in the middle of nowhere. A tiny bunny alone in the wilderness wouldn't last an hour.
You couldn't help but cower under his gaze, and oh, how that only fueled his twisted desires. You could see it in the way his pupils dilated, the way his tail began a slow, purposeful swish behind him. The way he inhaled deeply, drawing in your scent—and you knew he could smell it. The fear, yes, but also that other thing. That shameful, confusing heat that had started building between your thighs the moment you'd realised how completely you were at his mercy.
His predator musk was intoxicating, filling your sensitive nose until you felt dizzy with it. Something primal and ancient in your bunny hindbrain recognized it for what it was: the scent of an apex predator, a wolf in his prime, virile and dangerous and utterly dominant. It should have terrified you. It did terrify you.
But it also made your thighs clench together, made your breath come faster, made a shameful slickness begin to gather in your panties beneath your innocent little sundress.
"I-I don't w-want to do this anymore," you managed, the words barely coming out as a shaky whisper. Tears welled up in your big doe eyes, spilling over to track down your flushed cheeks. "Please, I just want to go home."
Graves moved closer—not quickly, but with the unhurried confidence of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run. Each step was deliberate, measured, his claws clicking softly against the hardwood floor. You pressed yourself harder against the wall, as if you could somehow melt through it, escape into the very structure of the cabin. But there was nowhere to go.
He kept advancing until he was right there, so close you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. So close that his body heat radiated against your much smaller frame. So close that each breath drew in more of that overwhelming musk until your head spun with it.
You took a step back on instinct—your spine hit the wall. Trapped. Cornered. Caught.
A low, rumbling chuckle emanated from deep in his chest, and you felt it vibrate through your own body where he stood so close. One large paw lifted, and you flinched as it approached your face, but he only stroked your cheek with surprising gentleness. His palm was rough with calluses, so large it could easily cup your entire face. The pads of his fingers were warm as they traced the path of your tears.
"Shh, shh, little bunny," he murmured, voice a dark purr that sent shivers racing down your spine. "No need for tears."
"Please," you whimpered, hating how small and helpless you sounded. "Please let me go."
"Tell you what, bunny." He leaned down, bringing his muzzle close to your long ear. His breath was hot against the sensitive fur there, making it twitch involuntarily. "If you really don't like it, then I'll promise to take you right on home."
The words sent a chill down your spine, forming a pit in your stomach, because you both knew it was a lie. A pretty fiction he was offering you, a pretense of choice when you had none. His tone made it clear—he had no intention of letting you go. Not now. Not after he'd gotten you here, isolated and helpless and so perfectly vulnerable.
You'd never even so much as kissed a boy, never mind had sex with one. And now your first time was going to be with a wolf, a predator, someone who'd tricked and trapped you like the naive little prey animal you were.
"I—" you started, but Graves didn't wait for an answer.
He struck like the predator he was, his mouth crashing against yours with rough eagerness that stole your breath. His lips were demanding, insistent, forcing yours to part as his tongue invaded your mouth. It was nothing like the gentle first kisses you'd imagined in your innocent fantasies—this was claiming, conquering, taking.
His large paws roamed your small body with hungry possession, and you felt so tiny in his grip, so fragile. One hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric of your sundress, squeezing and massaging the soft flesh with enough force to make you gasp against his mouth. The other slid down to grip your hip, his palm so large it spanned from your hipbone to the curve of your ass, holding you pinned against the wall.
Although it wasn't gentle, although you should have been terrified, although every rational thought screamed that this was wrong—it felt good. His tongue dominated yours, exploring every inch of your mouth with thorough possession. His hands groped and kneaded your breasts, thumbs finding your nipples through the fabric and circling them until they hardened into sensitive peaks.
A moan skipped past your lips before you could stop it, muffled against his mouth but unmistakable.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
"See, bunny?" he teased, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing yours with each word. "I knew you'd like it. Knew you'd be a needy little thing once I got my paws on you."
"N-no, I—" you tried to protest, but he kissed you again, harder this time, swallowing your words.
Your body felt hot, feverish, unlike anything you'd ever felt before. Your mind was saying one thing—that you should fight, should resist, should do anything but surrender to this predator who'd trapped you. But the need between your thighs quickly screamed another story entirely, a desperate ache that clouded all thoughts of rationality.
It was wrong. It was so wrong. But your body didn't care about wrong or right. Your body only knew that a virile male was touching you, that his scent filled your nose and made your head spin, that every place his paws touched left trails of fire across your skin. Your bunny instincts, usually so focused on flight and survival, were being overridden by something deeper and more primal.
The need to be bred. To be claimed. To be filled and knotted and marked as his.
When had your hips started rolling against his thigh? When had your small hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to him instead of pushing him away? When had your protests turned into whimpers of need?
"P-please," you gasped when he finally released your mouth, trailing hot kisses down your jaw to your throat. "Please, I-I need—"
You couldn't even finish the sentence, couldn't voice what your body was screaming for. The shame of it burned through you even as the need intensified. You buried your face against his shoulder, your long ears folding back in embarrassment at how desperately you wanted this, wanted him, despite everything.
"Need what, little bunny?" Graves growled against your throat, his canines scraping over your pulse point in a way that made you shudder. "Use your words."
"I—I don't—" You pressed your face harder into his neck, breathing in his overwhelming scent. Your hips rolled against him again, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache building between your thighs. "I've never felt like this before, I don't understand—"
But you did understand, on some instinctive level. Your body knew exactly what it wanted. Knew that you needed him to knot you, to fill you, to fuck you until that desperate ache was satisfied. Primal instincts were taking over, drowning out reason and fear and shame beneath a tidal wave of pure need.
"It's okay, sugar," he rumbled, and there was dark satisfaction in his voice. Satisfaction at having reduced you to this—a trembling, needy mess in his arms. "I'll make it all feel better. Gonna take such good care of my little bunny."
Before you could respond, he bent and lifted you effortlessly, his large paws gripping under your thighs as he hoisted you up. You let out a startled squeak, your small hands clutching at his broad shoulders for balance. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and the new position pressed your clothed core directly against the hard plane of his stomach.
The friction made you moan, your head falling back as pleasure sparked through you. You were so small compared to him, so light that he carried you as if you weighed nothing at all. It should have frightened you, how easily he could manhandle you, how completely you were at his mercy. Instead, it only made you wetter.
He carried you through the cabin to his bedroom, kicking the door open with one foot. The bed was large, covered in dark sheets that smelled like him—that intoxicating predator musk that made your head spin. He dropped you onto it without ceremony, and you bounced slightly on the mattress, your sundress riding up to expose your thighs.
For a moment, he just stood there, looming over you, his dark blue eyes roaming over your small form with undisguised hunger. His ears were pricked forward, focused entirely on you. His tail swished behind him in anticipation. You could see the prominent bulge straining against his jeans, could see how his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
He looked like a predator about to devour his prey. And you were helpless to do anything but lie there and wait for him to pounce.
"So fucking pretty," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "My pretty little bunny, all scared and needy. Can smell how wet you are, sugar. Bet you're soaking through those little panties."
Your face burned with shame because he was right. You could feel the dampness between your thighs, could feel how your body had betrayed you completely. Your cotton tail twitched against the bed, your ears folded back, and you couldn't meet his eyes.
Graves moved with sudden speed, grabbing your ankle and flipping you over onto your stomach in one swift motion. You let out a startled cry, your hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. Before you could even process what was happening, you felt his claws hook into the back of your sundress.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the room as he ripped the dress clean off your body, the thin material offering no resistance to his strength. Your bra followed immediately after, the clasp snapping under his rough handling. Then your panties, torn away so aggressively that the elastic burned slightly against your skin before giving way.
In seconds, you were completely naked, exposed and vulnerable beneath him. The cool air of the cabin kissed your heated skin, making you shiver. You tried to curl in on yourself, to hide, but his large paws were already on you.
"No hiding, bunny," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. "Want to see all of you."
His paws roamed your naked flesh, rough and possessive, groping and squeezing with enough force to leave faint bruises blooming across your pale skin. He traced the curve of your spine, gripped your hips hard enough to make you gasp, squeezed the soft flesh of your ass. Each touch was a claim, a mark of ownership.
You mewled into his touch despite yourself, your body arching into his hands even as your mind reeled. It felt too good, the rough drag of his paw pads against your sensitive skin, the way his claws pricked just slightly without breaking the surface. Your back arched further, pressing your little cotton tail up toward his face in an instinctive display of submission.
"Fuck, would you look at that," Graves said, his voice thick with hunger. "Look at this pretty little bunny presenting for me. And you're already soaking wet."
One thick finger ran down your soaked folds, and the touch sent electricity shooting through your entire body. You were wet—shamefully, overwhelmingly wet. Your arousal had coated your inner thighs, made your pussy lips slick and swollen. When his finger dipped between them, it slid through your folds with obscene ease.
"G-Graves, please—" you whined, your small hands fisting in the sheets. Please what? Please stop? Please more? You didn't even know anymore. The need was too intense, too all-consuming.
"I know, bunny, I know," he soothed, though there was nothing gentle about the way he continued to play with your tiny puffy folds, spreading your wetness, circling your entrance with maddening lightness. "But we gotta loosen you up before I fuck you nice and good. You're so fucking tiny, sugar. Gotta make sure you can take my knot."
The mention of his knot made your pussy clench around nothing, made more slickness drip from your entrance. You'd never thought about such things before, had barely understood the mechanics of hybrid mating. But now your body knew exactly what it wanted, what it needed.
One thick finger pressed into your tight hole, and you cried out at the intrusion. It felt huge, stretching you in a way that burned slightly even with how wet you were. He was so much bigger than you, his single finger thicker than anything that had ever been inside you.
"That's it, bunny," he praised, slowly working his finger deeper. "Taking it so well. Such a good girl for me."
The praise shouldn't have affected you, but it did. Made you clench around his finger, made you press back against his hand seeking more. He began to pump his finger in and out, each thrust going a little deeper, stretching you a little wider. His other hand played with your tail, stroking the soft fur, tugging gently at the base where it met your spine.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. Your tail was so sensitive, and having it touched while he fingered you open sent shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. You'd never known it could feel like this, never imagined that being touched could make you feel like you were burning alive from the inside out.
"Gonna add another," Graves warned, and then a second thick finger was pressing into you alongside the first.
The stretch was intense, almost too much. You whimpered into the pillow, your small body tensing at the intrusion. But he didn't stop, didn't give you time to adjust. Just kept pushing until both fingers were buried inside you, stretching your virgin hole wide.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, and you could hear the strain in his voice, could imagine how hard he must be. "Gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock, bunny. Gonna ruin this tight little pussy."
He began to thrust his fingers in earnest, pumping them in and out while his thumb found your clit and circled it with firm pressure. The pleasure built rapidly, intensely, like nothing you'd ever felt during your own tentative explorations of your body. This was different—overwhelming, all-consuming, too much and not enough all at once.
His other hand continued to play with your tail, stroking and tugging, and the combination of sensations pushed you rapidly toward a peak you'd never reached before. Your thighs trembled, your toes curled, your pussy clenched rhythmically around his invading fingers.
"That's it, bunny," Graves encouraged, his voice a dark purr. "Can feel you getting close. Gonna come all over my fingers like a good girl? Gonna show me how much you need this?"
"I—I can't—it's too much—" you gasped, but your body was already betraying you, already racing toward that edge.
He curled his fingers inside you, finding some spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. At the same time, he tugged firmly on your tail, and the dual sensation sent you flying over the edge.
You came with a loud moan, your fluffy ears pinning back flat against your skull as pleasure crashed through you in overwhelming waves. Your pussy clenched and spasmed around his fingers as you gushed, your arousal coating his hand and dripping down your thighs. It felt like your entire body was convulsing, like every nerve ending was firing at once.
It was the most intense thing you'd ever felt, and it seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure that left you shaking and gasping.
"Fuck me, little bunny," Graves breathed, awe and hunger mixing in his voice. "Sensitive little thing, aren't ya? Look at this mess you made."
His fingers were still inside you, still moving slowly, drawing out your orgasm until you were whimpering from overstimulation. You could feel your slick coating his hand, could feel it dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you. The evidence of your desperate need, of how completely your body had surrendered to him.
You buried your head further into the pillow, shame and lingering pleasure making your face burn. You'd never come like that before, never even knew you could. The intensity of it had been almost frightening, and you were still trembling with aftershocks.
But Graves wasn't done with you. Not even close.
He withdrew his fingers from your sensitive pussy, making you whimper at the loss. Then his large paws gripped your hips, and he flipped you over onto your back with effortless strength. You found yourself staring up at him, completely exposed, nowhere to hide.
He wanted to see you. Wanted to see how needy you were, how fucked out and desperate. And you knew you must look absolutely debauched—your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your lips bitten to a dark red from trying to muffle your sounds, your eyes glassy with tears and overwhelming sensation.
Your small breasts rose and fell with your rapid breathing, nipples peaked into hard little points. Your thighs were spread around his large frame, your pussy on full display, still twitching and dripping from your orgasm. Your cotton tail was trapped beneath you, your long ears splayed out on the pillow.
You looked like prey that had been thoroughly caught. And from the way Graves's eyes darkened as he took you in, that was exactly what he wanted to see.
"Such a pretty bunny," he cooed, one large hand coming up to grip your chin, angling your face to meet his gaze. "My pretty bunny. Look at you, all fucked out and I haven't even put my cock in you yet."
His dark blue eyes bored into yours, predatory and possessive. His large scruffy ears were pricked forward, twitching slightly as he took in every detail of your expression. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and you felt it vibrate through your own body where he pressed against you.
"Gonna make you mine, bunny," he promised, his voice rough with need. "Gonna fill this tight little pussy, gonna knot you so deep you'll feel it for days. Gonna mark you inside and out until everyone knows you belong to me."
The words should have terrified you. Instead, they made your pussy clench, made more slickness drip from your entrance. Your body wanted it, wanted everything he was promising, wanted to be claimed and filled and marked as his.
Before you could respond, he lowered his head to your chest. His rough tongue traced over one sensitive nipple, the texture making you gasp and arch into him. Then his mouth closed over it, sucking hard, and you felt the sharp points of his canines pressing against the delicate flesh.
"Ah! T-too much!" you yelped, your hands coming up to push weakly at his broad shoulders. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, bordering on painful but somehow still pleasurable.
He didn't stop. If anything, your protest only encouraged him. He sucked harder, his tongue laving over your nipple while his teeth scraped and bit. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave marks, to make you writhe beneath him. His large paw came up to grip your other breast, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh, thumb circling your neglected nipple.
The overstimulation made you buck your hips, made you squirm and wriggle beneath his much larger frame. But he was so heavy, so solid, pinning you completely to the bed. You couldn't escape the overwhelming sensation, couldn't do anything but take it as he lavished attention on your sensitive breasts.
He switched to your other nipple, giving it the same treatment—sucking, licking, biting. His canines scraped over the sensitive peak, making you cry out. Your small hands fisted in his hair, though whether you were trying to push him away or pull him closer, you couldn't say.
Your soft ears twitched and folded with each new sensation, your body writhing helplessly beneath him. It was too much, too intense, but somehow your body was responding anyway. You could feel yourself getting wetter, could feel your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
When he finally pulled back, you were panting, your chest heaving. And as you looked down, you could see the evidence of his possession—bite marks littering your breasts, red and slightly swollen, marks that would definitely bruise. He'd marked you, claimed you, left visible proof of his ownership on your pale skin.
"Perfect," Graves rumbled, admiring his handiwork with dark satisfaction. "Look so pretty covered in my marks, bunny. Everyone's gonna know you're mine now."
His large paw traced over the bite marks almost reverently, and despite the soreness, despite everything, you felt a flutter of something in your chest. Pride? Satisfaction? You didn't want to examine it too closely.
What you did know was that you needed more. Needed him to finish what he'd started, needed to feel him inside you, needed his knot. Your rational mind had completely surrendered to primal instinct, and all you could think about was being filled, being bred, being claimed completely.
"Please," you whimpered, your small hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Graves, I need—"
"I know what you need, bunny," he growled, his hands moving to his belt. "And I'm gonna give it to you."
The sound of his belt buckle opening made your pussy clench in anticipation. You watched with wide, glassy eyes as he unbuttoned his jeans, the bulge straining against the fabric looking impossibly large. When he finally freed himself, your breath caught in your throat.
His cock was huge—thick and long, already fully hard and leaking precum from the flushed tip. But what made your eyes widen further was the prominent bulge at the base. His knot. Even unswollen, it looked massive, and you couldn't imagine how it would possibly fit inside your small body.
"Don't worry, sugar," Graves said, noticing your apprehensive stare. His large paw wrapped around his length, stroking slowly, and you watched a bead of precum drip from the tip. "Your body's made for this. Made to take a wolf's knot. You'll stretch real pretty for me."
He positioned himself between your spread thighs, and the size difference was staggering. His broad frame completely dwarfed you, his shoulders blocking out the light. One of his thighs was thicker than your entire waist. When he leaned over you, caging you in with his muscular arms, you felt utterly engulfed, completely at his mercy.
The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and even though you were soaking wet, dripping with arousal, the stretch was immediate and intense. He was so thick, so much bigger than his fingers had been.
"Graves," you gasped, your small hands gripping his forearms. "I-I don't know if—"
"You can take it," he growled, his hips pressing forward with steady, relentless pressure. "You're gonna take every fucking inch, bunny. Gonna take my knot like a good girl."
He pushed deeper, and your pussy stretched around him, the burn mixing with pleasure in a way that made your head spin. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his invading length, trying to accommodate his size. It felt like he was splitting you open, claiming territory that had never been touched before.
"Fuck, you're tight," Graves groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tightest little pussy I've ever felt. Squeezing my cock so fucking good."
He pulled back slightly, then thrust forward again, working himself deeper with each roll of his hips. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the way his cock dragged against your sensitive walls. Your virgin body was being reshaped to fit him, moulded to take his massive length.
"Please," you whimpered, though you weren't sure what you were begging for anymore. More? Less? Harder? Gentler? Your mind was a haze of sensation, rational thought completely drowned out by primal need.
"That's it, bunny," he praised, one large paw gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other braced beside your head. "Taking it so well. Knew you would. Knew this tight little cunt was made for my cock."
With one more powerful thrust, he bottomed out inside you, his hips flush against yours. You cried out at the sensation of being completely filled, stuffed fuller than you'd ever imagined possible. You could feel him everywhere—stretching you wide, pressing deep, claiming every inch of your channel.
"Look at you," Graves growled, his dark blue eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. "Look at how well you take me. Your little pussy's stretched so pretty around my cock, bunny. Can see your belly bulging from how deep I am."
You looked down and whimpered at the sight. There was indeed a slight bulge in your lower abdomen, visible proof of how deeply he was buried inside you, how thoroughly he was filling your small body. It should have been frightening. Instead, it made you clench around him, made more slickness drip around his length.
"Please," you begged, your hips rolling desperately, seeking friction. "Please, Graves, I need—need you to move, need you to fuck me, please—"
All pretense of resistance was gone now. You weren't the innocent bunny who'd been tricked and trapped anymore. You were pure primal need, desperate and aching, your nymphomaniac nature fully unleashed. Your body knew what it wanted, what it needed, and shame had no place here anymore.
"There's my needy little bunny," Graves said with dark satisfaction. "Begging for my cock like you were made for it. Because you were, weren't you? Made to be fucked and bred and knotted by a wolf."
He pulled back until just the tip remained inside you, and you whined at the loss. Then he slammed back in, hard and deep, and you screamed at the intensity of it. He set a brutal pace, fucking into you with powerful thrusts that made your entire body jolt with each impact.
The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with a rhythmic thudding that matched his thrusts. The sounds of your coupling filled the room—the wet slap of skin on skin, your high-pitched moans and whimpers, his deep growls and grunts, the obscene squelch of your pussy taking his cock over and over.
"So fucking good," Graves groaned, his claws pricking your hip where he gripped you. "Tightest, wettest little cunt. Gonna fill you up, bunny. Gonna pump you full of my cum and knot you so deep you'll never forget who you belong to."
You could only moan in response, your small hands clutching at his broad back, your legs wrapping around his waist as best they could given the size difference. You met his thrusts as well as you could, rolling your hips, clenching around him, desperate for more even though it felt like too much.
Your cotton tail was trapped beneath you, the pressure on it sending additional sparks of pleasure through your body. Your long ears were pinned flat against your head, twitching with each thrust. Every nerve ending was on fire, pleasure building and building until you felt like you might shatter from the intensity of it.
"Graves," you gasped, your pussy starting to flutter around him. "I'm—I'm gonna—"
"That's it, bunny," he growled, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars. "Come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel. Squeeze my cock with this tight little pussy."
His thumb found your clit, circling it with firm pressure, and that was all it took. You came with a scream, your entire body convulsing as pleasure crashed through you in overwhelming waves. Your pussy clamped down on his cock, spasming and gushing, your arousal coating his length and dripping down to soak the sheets.
It was even more intense than your first orgasm, amplified by having him inside you, by the stretch and fullness and the way he continued to thrust through your climax. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through you.
"Fuck, yes," Graves snarled, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Gonna knot you now, bunny. Gonna lock us together and fill you up. You ready for it? Ready to take my knot?"
"Yes!" you cried, still trembling with aftershocks. "Yes, please, I need it, need your knot, please Graves, please—"
You felt it then—the bulge at the base of his cock beginning to swell. With each thrust, it caught on your entrance, stretching you even wider. The pressure was intense, almost painful, but your body was so primed, so desperate, that it only added to the overwhelming sensation.
"Gonna be a tight fit," Graves warned, his voice strained. "Gonna stretch you real good, bunny. But you can take it. You're gonna take my knot like you were made for it."
He thrust forward hard, and his knot pushed past your entrance with a pop that made you both groan. Immediately, you could feel it swelling larger, expanding inside you, locking you together. The stretch was incredible, almost unbearable, your small body struggling to accommodate something so large.
"Oh god," you whimpered, your hands scrabbling at his back. "It's so big, it's too much, I can't—"
"You can," Graves growled, holding himself deep, letting his knot swell to its full size inside you. "You are. Look at you, taking my knot so perfectly. Such a good little bunny, made to be bred."
The knot continued to swell, growing larger and larger until you felt impossibly full, stretched to your absolute limit. It pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, the pressure constant and overwhelming. You could feel your pussy stretched tight around it, could feel how completely locked together you were.
There was no escape now. Even if you wanted to pull away, you couldn't. His knot had you trapped, bound to him, exactly as nature intended.
"Mine," Graves snarled, his hips making small, grinding movements that made his knot shift inside you. "You're mine now, bunny. Marked, claimed, knotted. Everyone's gonna know you belong to me."
He lowered his head to your throat, and you felt his canines scrape over your pulse point. For a moment, you thought he might bite down, might leave a permanent mating mark. But instead, he just growled against your skin, his hot breath making you shiver.
"Gonna fill you up now," he warned. "Gonna pump you so full of cum you'll be dripping for days."
His cock pulsed inside you, and then you felt it—the hot rush of his release flooding your channel. There was so much of it, more than you'd ever imagined, filling you up until you felt like you might burst. But his knot kept it all trapped inside, not letting a single drop escape.
The sensation triggered another orgasm, smaller but no less intense, your pussy milking his cock as he continued to come. You clung to him, your small body shaking, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.
Graves groaned long and low, his hips jerking with each pulse of his release. His large frame shuddered above you, his muscles tensing and flexing. For a moment, the predator looked almost vulnerable, lost in the pleasure of claiming his prey.
When he finally stilled, you were both panting, your bodies slick with sweat. His knot was still fully swollen inside you, locking you together. You could feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he completely engulfed your much smaller frame.
"Good girl," Graves murmured, his voice rough but satisfied. "Took my knot so well, bunny. Knew you would. Knew you were made for this."
He shifted slightly, and the movement made his knot press against your sensitive walls, drawing a whimper from you. You were so full, so stretched, so completely claimed. Your body felt like it had been reshaped, molded to fit him perfectly.
Graves carefully rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were pressed against his broad chest. His knot kept you locked together, your bodies still intimately joined. One large paw stroked down your back, surprisingly gentle now that he'd gotten what he wanted.
"Gonna be stuck like this for a while," he said, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Knot takes time to go down. But that's okay. Gives my cum plenty of time to take. Gonna breed you proper, bunny."
The words should have terrified you. Should have made you panic, should have made you fight. But you were too exhausted, too satisfied, too completely overwhelmed to do anything but lie there in his arms.
Your pussy still fluttered occasionally around his knot, aftershocks of pleasure making you twitch. You could feel his cum inside you, hot and thick, kept trapped by his knot. Could feel the ache in your body from being stretched so wide, from being used so thoroughly.
You were marked inside and out—bite marks on your breasts, bruises on your hips, his scent covering your skin, his cum filling your womb, his knot locking you together. There was no question who you belonged to now. No question that you'd been claimed, conquered, completely possessed.
The predator had caught his prey. And despite everything, despite how wrong it all was, you felt a deep sense of satisfaction settling over you. Your body was sated in a way it had never been before, that desperate ache finally satisfied.
"My bunny," Graves murmured against your ear, his large paw possessively cupping your hip. "Mine to keep, mine to fuck, mine to breed whenever I want. You understand that now, don't you?"
You should have protested. Should have said no, should have demanded he let you go once his knot went down. But instead, you found yourself nodding, your soft ears brushing against his muzzle.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice small and exhausted. "Yours."
And as you lay there, locked together with the wolf who'd trapped and claimed you, you realized it was true. You were his now—his prey, his possession, his to do with as he pleased.
The innocent little bunny who'd accepted a ride from a stranger was gone. In her place was something new, something that had been awakened by rough hands and a demanding cock and a knot that had reshaped her completely.
You were his bunny now. And some dark, primal part of you was satisfied with that.
Graves's knot would eventually go down. But the claiming was permanent. And you both knew it.
thinking about giving könig a blowjob for the first time and then staring up at him awkwardly when he finally unzips his pants.
his fat cock not even being able to stand properly fully hard, your fingers unable to wrap around his girth fully.
but you still stick out your tongue and start licking the tip, you were never one to quit. especially when you hear his groans, big hand holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail as he bucks his hips into your mouth.
his tip hitting the back of your throat as you try to take as much as you could, his thick warm cum filling your taste buds.
and that’s when you learned that he has hyperspermia, and there’s so much that you feel full. tummy a bit bloated as he apologizes.
licking the cum on the edge of your mouth before giving him a kiss, “why apologize? that was amazing, let’s do it again!”
playfully fighting with bsf!konig before he swipes his foot under yours, pinning you with ease. see, before, you screamed and squealed with excitement as he'd hold you above his head with no issue. "wanna get down, maus? be nice," he held your thigh and planted his hand on your chest and threatened to drop you if you didn't stop! he's playful, you've come to like that about him. it's only now, when you're underneath him in his dim bedroom, that you realize he's much stronger than you--too much stronger. his nose digs into your neck, snuggling in before pressing his bulge against your thigh.
you whine out his name, only for your voice to be muffled by his hand. it's clamped around your mouth, smudging your saliva across your plush lips. "mäuschen, quiet, please." his voice was shaky; his thick cock hadn't had relief in ages. can't you help him? your body's all warm, and those short whimpers coming from your throat tell him you want it, right?
he's just so big, and he easily holds you down and frots his poor cock against you faster and faster until his warm load oozes down his pant leg. "scheiße, maus. look what you've done to me. feel it." he yanks your hand down to your thigh, only to be met with his pulsing tent. "ngh—yes, maus, feel it." the warmth of his body on top of yours, the feeling of his cock all sticky on your thigh, his gruff, low voice in your ear. he's perverted.
Yeah sure man. Inspired by weird roommate König hc by @ferndelight <:3 !!! I love how, pathetic yet charmming weird König of their sm! Like a dog keep humping n sniffing around awkwardly..
"We haven't properly introduced ourselves," the older man started. "I'm Price."
"Ghost." He motioned to the big masked bloke staring daggers at you.
"Soap." The one with the mohawk licked his lips slightly, causing you to grimace.
"And Gaz." Price lastly motioned to the guy with tan skin. You had to admit—he was quite handsome.
"Little code names? Is that all I get?" Your tone was condescending, and it worked. You could see the tightening of Price's jaw.
Without warning, you felt a gloved hand attach itself to your throat, grip like iron, choking out the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Think you're forgetting who's in charge here, love." Price hissed into your ear before letting you go.
You coughed, grabbing onto your throat as you struggled for air, a bruise already forming. But that didn't stop you yet.
"L-like choking little girls, Price?" you weakly spat out, a look full of venom on your face.
You were expecting him to lose it at that point, but he just folded his arms calmly, a smirk on his face even as he looked down at your last attempts to stay in control.
"Little girls? Oh no." His voice dropped lower, darker. "Worthless little sluts? Now that's a different story."
The words cut deep as you sent a glare his direction. Before you could even get out another word, Ghost and Soap had crossed the room in a matter of seconds and had you pinned by your arms on either side against the bed.
Ghost stared down at you—the skull mask made your stomach churn. The hidden identity aspect didn't help at all with the situation you found yourself in. And he was huge. They were all huge, but he was freakishly huge.
They made quick work of your little Halloween costume. Loud fabric tears echoed through the room—shorts and panties and your top in shreds on the floor.
"Let me go!" You wriggled in their grip, but they didn't even budge. They only laughed in response, finding the whole thing amusing. The reality of your fate finally began to sink in, an air of panic rising within you as tears threatened to well in your eyes.
Price stepped forward, nudging your knees apart with his large thighs, exposing your hot core.
He cocked his head to the side, cooing at it like it was alive. Ghost's hand went straight to your clit, pinching it and laughing as you thrashed from the contact.
Soap joined in and started slapping your folds—both men pinching and teasing your poor pussy like it was nothing more than a toy for them to abuse.
Tears fell from your eyes—a mixture of pain and pleasure along with embarrassment as you lay there so helpless under their hold.
"Come on, lads, that's not nice." A soft voice broke through your sobs. It was Gaz. He walked over, joining in on the commotion.
Just as you thought he was going to be your knight in shining armour, he quickly bent down and placed a finger around your entrance, drawing little circles around your hole before inserting it inside you.
"At least let her cum once before she's too fucked to even know what's going on," he mock-sympathised, brown eyes carrying a dark glint as he continued to fuck your little hole with his fingers.
Ghost made steady work of your clit, continuing to rub menacing circles while Soap sucked on your tits. Your sobs turned into moans quickly as you lay there, a wet mess under their hands.
It wasn't long before you reached your climax, releasing your juices all over Gaz's fingers, shuddering from your high. For a second, you forgot where you were or who you were with as your orgasm ripped through your body.
The aftershocks still rippled through you, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as Gaz slowly withdrew his fingers. Your chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, the room was quiet except for your panting—all four men watching you come undone beneath them.
But you couldn't let them win. Not yet.
"T-that all you got?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your voice shaky and breathless but still dripping with venom. "Pathetic. I've had better from a—"
The slap came so fast you didn't see it coming. Price's hand cracked across your face, snapping your head to the side. The sting bloomed hot across your cheek, silencing you instantly.
"There it is," Price growled, his voice dangerously low. "Still running that fucking mouth."
Ghost's grip tightened on your wrists, pinning them above your head with bruising force. "Thought one orgasm would fix her attitude," he rumbled, his accent thick with disdain. "Guess we need to try harder."
"Much harder," Soap agreed, his hand coming down hard on your inner thigh. The sharp crack echoed through the room, followed immediately by another, and another. You yelped, trying to close your legs, but Price's thighs kept you spread wide open.
"Look at her," Gaz said, standing and wiping your slick across your own lips. "Still thinks she's in control. Still thinks this is a game."
Panic clawed at your chest. You needed leverage—something, anything to regain the upper hand. Your father. Your father was a fucking general. They couldn't do this to you.
"Wait—wait until my father hears about this!" The words came out desperate, shrill. "He'll have you all court-martialed! Dishonorably discharged! You'll rot in military prison for touching me—"
The room went silent.
Then they laughed.
All four of them—deep, genuine laughter that made your blood run cold. Price's shoulders shook with it, Ghost's chest rumbled, Soap actually doubled over slightly, and even Gaz's usually composed face split into a wide grin.
"Oh, sweetheart," Price said, wiping his eyes as his laughter subsided. "You really don't know, do you?"
Your stomach dropped. "Know what?"
Ghost leaned down, his masked face inches from yours, voice cold as death. "Who do you think gave us the green light?"
"No—" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"Your father," Price continued, his tone almost conversational now, "stopped me as we were escorting you out of his gala. You remember that, don't you? Saw him whisper in my ear?"
You did remember. You'd noticed it, wondered what was being said, but you'd been too focused on maintaining your dignity as they dragged you away.
"Want to know what he said?" Price's smile was cruel. "He said, 'Captain Price, my daughter needs an attitude adjustment. Do whatever it takes. Break her if you have to. Just make sure she learns some fucking respect.'"
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your vision swam, ears ringing. "You're lying—"
"Am I?" Price pulled out his phone, scrolling for a moment before turning the screen toward you. It was a text message from a number you recognized—your father's private line.
She's all yours. No limits. Fix her.
The phone disappeared, but the words were burned into your brain. Your own father. Your own fucking father had handed you over to them like—like you were nothing. Like you were a problem to be solved, a brat to be broken.
"He even gave us this room," Gaz added, his voice carrying mock sympathy. "Made sure it was soundproof. Said he didn't want to hear you screaming."
"No—no, he wouldn't—" But even as you said it, you knew it was true. The way he'd looked at you lately, the disappointment in his eyes every time you acted out, every time you embarrassed him in front of his colleagues.
"Face it, princess," Ghost said, his grip on your wrists tightening until you whimpered. "Daddy doesn't want you back until we've fucked all that bratty entitlement out of you. You have no leverage. No power. No escape."
Something inside you cracked. The last wall of defense, the final thread of control you'd been clinging to—it snapped. Your father had betrayed you. Given you to these men like you were nothing more than a problem to be handled.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your temples. "Please—"
"Please what?" Price asked, his hand wrapping around your throat again, tighter this time, cutting off your air completely. "Please stop? Your father said no limits, sweetheart. We can do whatever the fuck we want to you. And we're going to. We're going to fuck every last bit of that attitude out of you until you're nothing but an obedient little slut. Understand?"
You couldn't respond, couldn't breathe. Your vision started to blur at the edges, panic rising as your lungs screamed for air. Just when you thought you might pass out, he released you.
You gasped, coughing and sputtering, but before you could recover, Price grabbed your jaw roughly. "Open."
"Fuck y—"
He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth open, and spat directly onto your tongue. The degradation of it made your face burn with humiliation.
"Swallow it," he commanded.
You glared up at him, defiance still flickering in your eyes despite everything. His expression darkened.
"Swallow. It."
Reluctantly, you did, the taste of him sliding down your throat. He smiled—cold and predatory.
"Good girl. See? You can follow orders when properly motivated."
"Flip her over," Ghost ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command.
They moved with military precision, manhandling you onto your stomach before you could protest. Your face pressed into the mattress, ass up in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable. Ghost kept your wrists pinned while Soap grabbed your hips, positioning you exactly how they wanted.
"This arse has been begging for attention," Soap said, his accent thick with lust. His palm came down hard on your right cheek, then your left, alternating in a brutal rhythm that had you crying out into the sheets.
"Count them," Price ordered from somewhere behind you. "And thank us for each one."
"Fuck—no—"
Another vicious slap, harder than the others.
"That's one you've missed already," Price said calmly. "We'll just have to start over. And add extras for the attitude."
Soap's hand came down again, the sound obscenely loud.
"One," you gasped out, your pride crumbling with each strike. "T-thank you."
"Thank you, what?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Better."
The spanking continued, each strike harder than the last, until your ass was burning and tears were streaming down your face. Your cunt, traitorously, was dripping—arousal mixing with humiliation in a way that made your head spin.
"Look how wet she is," Gaz observed, running a finger through your folds. "Getting off on being punished like the desperate little slut she is."
"Please—" The word escaped before you could stop it.
"Please what?" Price asked, his hand replacing Gaz's, two thick fingers sliding into you without warning. "Please stop? Please more? Use your words, sweetheart."
You couldn't answer, couldn't think. His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, while his thumb pressed against your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming after the pain, your body confused and desperate.
"She's clenching around my fingers," Price announced. "Greedy little cunt wants more."
"Then let's give her more," Ghost said darkly.
You heard the sound of a belt buckle, then another. Your heart raced, anticipation and fear mixing into something intoxicating.
Price withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and aching. "Who wants her mouth first?"
"Me," Soap said immediately, moving around to kneel in front of you. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up. His cock was already hard, thick and intimidating. "Open up, princess. Time to put that bratty mouth to good use."
You pressed your lips together stubbornly, one last act of defiance.
His grip tightened painfully in your hair. "Open. Or I'll make you."
When you still didn't comply, he pinched your nose shut, cutting off your air. You held out as long as you could, but eventually, you had to gasp for breath. The moment your mouth opened, he shoved his cock inside, making you gag.
"That's it," he groaned, holding your head in place as he thrust into your mouth. "Fucking take it."
Tears streamed down your face as he used your throat, giving you barely any time to breathe. Behind you, you felt the blunt head of someone's cock—Price's, you thought—pressing against your entrance.
"Remember, sweetheart," Price said, his voice rough with desire. "You asked for this. You wanted to see what would happen if you kept running that mouth."
He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, stretching you wide, filling you completely. You would have screamed if Soap's cock wasn't buried in your throat. The sensation of being filled from both ends was overwhelming, your body stretched and used.
They found a rhythm, Price pounding into you from behind while Soap fucked your face, both men using you like their personal toy. Ghost still held your wrists, keeping you pinned and helpless, while Gaz watched, stroking himself slowly.
"Such a pretty sight," Gaz murmured. "All that attitude fucked right out of her."
But he was wrong. Even now, even like this, you tried to hold onto some shred of control. You bit down slightly on Soap's cock—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him you still had teeth.
He pulled out immediately, his hand cracking across your face. "Fucking bitch."
"She needs to learn," Ghost said coldly. He released your wrists only to grab your throat from behind, pulling you up so your back was against his chest. Price never stopped fucking you, the new angle making him hit even deeper. "Needs to understand what happens when she misbehaves."
His hand tightened around your throat, cutting off your air while Price continued to rail you mercilessly. The combination of pleasure and oxygen deprivation made your head spin, your vision going hazy.
"You going to behave?" Ghost growled in your ear. "Or do we need to get rougher?"
You couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. Your body was betraying you, another orgasm building despite—or maybe because of—the brutal treatment.
He released your throat just enough for you to gasp in air. "Answer me."
"F-fuck you," you managed to choke out.
Wrong answer.
Ghost shoved you back down, face-first into the mattress. Price pulled out, and before you could process the emptiness, you felt him pressing against your other hole.
"No—wait—" Panic flooded through you.
"Should have behaved," Price said simply, and pushed inside.
The stretch was intense, burning, overwhelming. You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets as he worked himself deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.
You couldn't respond, couldn't do anything but whimper as he started to move, slow at first, then faster. The pain gradually shifted into something else, something that had you moaning despite yourself.
"That's it," he praised darkly. "Take it like a good girl. This is what you needed all along, isn't it? Someone to put you in your place."
Gaz moved to kneel beside your head, his cock level with your face. "Open," he commanded, gentler than Soap but no less firm.
This time, you obeyed. You were too overwhelmed to fight anymore, too lost in sensation. He slid into your mouth, groaning at the wet heat.
"There we go," Gaz murmured, stroking your hair almost tenderly even as he fucked your throat. "See how much easier it is when you just submit?"
They used you together, Price in your ass and Gaz in your mouth, while Soap and Ghost watched, waiting their turn. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Another orgasm was building, impossible to fight, your cunt clenching around nothing.
"She's close again," Price observed, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Can feel her squeezing me. You want to cum, sweetheart?"
You moaned around Gaz's cock, desperate and needy.
"Then beg for it. Beg us to let you cum."
Gaz pulled out, giving you the chance to speak. Your voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Please—please let me cum—"
"Please what?"
"Please, sir—please—I need it—"
"Do you deserve it?" Price asked, his hand coming down hard on your already-bruised ass. "After all that attitude? After all that disrespect?"
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—please—"
"Sorry for what?"
"For being a brat—for talking back—please—I'll be good—"
"Will you?" His pace increased, brutal and punishing. "Will you really?"
"Yes! Yes, I promise—please—"
"Cum," he commanded. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."
Permission granted, your body obeyed. The orgasm crashed through you, more intense than the first, leaving you shaking and sobbing. Price followed moments later, spilling inside you with a groan, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.
He pulled out slowly, and you collapsed onto the mattress, completely spent. But they weren't done with you yet.
"My turn," Ghost said, his voice dark with promise. "And I'm not going to be gentle."
You barely had time to catch your breath before Ghost's massive hands gripped your hips, flipping you onto your back. Through tear-blurred vision, you saw him looming over you—all muscle and menace, the skull mask making him look inhuman. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
Some stupid, stubborn part of you—the part that had gotten you into this mess—tried one last time to assert itself.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" you rasped, your voice hoarse and broken. "You're all the same. Just—"
His hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off your words and your air. He squeezed hard, harder than Price had, until black spots danced in your vision. Your hands flew to his wrist, clawing uselessly.
"Still talking," Ghost said, his voice cold and emotionless. "Let's fix that."
He released your throat just long enough for you to gasp in a desperate breath, then slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You screamed—the stretch was overwhelming, painful, his cock even thicker than Price's. He gave you no time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing pace that had you seeing stars.
"That's better," he grunted, his hand returning to your throat, squeezing rhythmically as he fucked you. "No more smart mouth. Just a hole to use."
The lack of oxygen combined with the brutal fucking made your head spin. Your body didn't know whether to fight or surrender, pleasure and pain blurring into something incomprehensible. Tears streamed down your temples as he used you, his grip on your throat never loosening.
"Look at her," Soap said from somewhere above you. "Fucking crying. Where's all that attitude now, princess?"
You tried to glare at him, tried to summon some last shred of defiance, but Ghost squeezed harder and your vision went hazy. Just when you thought you might pass out, he released you, letting you gulp in air.
"Open your mouth," Soap commanded, moving to kneel beside your head.
You hesitated for just a second—one second too long. Ghost's hand cracked across your face, the slap echoing through the room.
"He gave you an order," Ghost growled, never breaking his rhythm. "Obey."
Your mouth fell open, and Soap immediately shoved his cock inside, groaning as he hit the back of your throat. Between Ghost's brutal thrusts and Soap fucking your face, you couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Your body was just a vessel for their pleasure, used from both ends.
"That's it," Soap moaned, his hands tangling in your hair. "Take it. This is what that bratty mouth is good for."
They found a rhythm, both men using you in sync, and despite everything—despite the pain and the humiliation and the overwhelming sensation—you felt another orgasm building. Your body was betraying you completely, responding to the brutal treatment with desperate arousal.
Ghost felt you clenching around him and laughed darkly. "She's going to cum again. Fucking slut loves being used like this."
"No—" you tried to protest around Soap's cock, but it came out as a muffled moan.
"Yes," Ghost corrected, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles. "Cum on my cock. Show us what a desperate whore you are."
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, ripping through your body with terrifying intensity. You convulsed around Ghost's cock, screaming around Soap's, your entire body shaking uncontrollably. It went on and on, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Soap pulled out of your mouth, letting you gasp and sob. "Fuck, look at her. Completely gone."
Ghost didn't slow down, fucking you through your orgasm and beyond, pushing you toward overstimulation. You whimpered, hands pushing weakly at his chest.
"Too much—can't—please—"
"You can," he said simply. "And you will."
He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could process the loss, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees. You barely had the strength to hold yourself up, arms shaking.
"Ass up," Ghost ordered, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your face into the mattress. "Present yourself properly."
You obeyed without thinking, too overwhelmed to fight. He entered you again from behind, the new angle somehow even deeper. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he pounded into you relentlessly.
"Good girl," he praised darkly. "Learning your place."
Price moved in front of you, his cock still hard despite having just finished. He grabbed your hair, lifting your head. "Clean me off."
You opened your mouth automatically, taking him in, tasting yourself and his cum. The degradation of it should have made you angry, should have sparked some resistance, but instead you just felt... empty. Compliant. Broken.
"That's it," Price murmured, his voice almost gentle. "No more fighting. Just obedience."
Ghost's pace became erratic, his grip tightening. "Going to fill this cunt up," he grunted. "Mark you as ours."
He came with a low groan, spilling deep inside you. The warmth of it triggered another orgasm—smaller than the others but no less devastating. You moaned around Price's cock, your body trembling.
Ghost pulled out, and immediately Gaz took his place. You whimpered at the intrusion, oversensitive and overwhelmed, but he just shushed you mockingly.
"Shh, you can take more," Gaz said, his voice deceptively sweet. "You're going to take everything we give you."
He fucked you slowly at first, almost gentle, but his hand came down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times, until you were crying out around Price's cock.
"Count them," Gaz ordered. "And thank me."
Price pulled out, letting you speak. Your voice was absolutely wrecked.
"One—thank you, sir—"
Another slap.
"Two—thank you, sir—"
Again.
"Three—thank you, sir—"
The spanking continued, each strike harder than the last, until your ass was on fire and you were sobbing openly. But you counted every single one, thanked him for every single one, your resistance completely shattered.
"Good girl," Gaz praised, his pace increasing. "See how much better you are when you behave?"
"Yes, sir," you whimpered, the words coming automatically now. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry for being bad—"
"What are you?" Price asked, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.
"A slut," you whispered, shame burning through you. "Your slut."
"Louder."
"I'm your slut!" you cried out, tears streaming down your face. "I'm a worthless slut who needs to be used—please—please use me—"
"Fuck," Gaz groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "She's really broken now."
He came inside you with a shudder, adding to the mess already leaking out of you. When he pulled out, you collapsed onto the mattress, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Your body was covered in sweat, cum, and tears, trembling uncontrollably.
"One more," Soap said, his voice thick with desire. "My turn to break her completely."
"Please," you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. "Please—"
"Please what?" Soap asked, positioning himself behind you. "Please fuck you? Please stop? Use your words, princess."
"Please fuck me," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out without thought. "Please use me—I need it—I need you to use me—"
"That's what I wanted to hear."
He entered you roughly, and despite everything, despite the overstimulation and exhaustion, your body responded. You moaned, pushing back against him, desperate for more.
"Look at her," Price said, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Begging for it now. Where's that bratty little girl who thought she was in control?"
"Gone," you whimpered, the truth of it hitting you. "She's gone—I'm yours—please—"
Soap fucked you brutally, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, obscene and degrading.
"Say it again," he demanded. "Tell us what you are."
"I'm yours," you sobbed, your mind fragmenting under the onslaught of sensation. "I'm your slut—your toy—your cum dumpster—please—please use me—"
"Fucking hell," Soap groaned. "She's perfect like this. Completely broken."
Another orgasm was building, impossible as it seemed. Your body was beyond your control now, responding to their commands, their touch, their words. You were nothing but sensation, nothing but need.
"Cum," Soap ordered, his hand reaching around to rub your clit. "Cum for me, slut."
You shattered. The orgasm tore through you with devastating force, leaving you screaming and convulsing. Your vision went white, your mind going completely blank. You were aware of nothing but the pleasure, the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure that seemed to go on forever.
Soap came with a roar, filling you one last time. When he pulled out, you collapsed completely, unable to move, unable to think. Cum leaked out of you, dripping down your thighs. Your body was covered in marks—bruises, bite marks, handprints. You were utterly destroyed.
For a long moment, there was silence except for your ragged breathing and quiet sobs.
"Look at me," Price commanded softly.
You turned your head, meeting his eyes. There was no defiance left in you, no attitude, no fight. Just submission. Complete and total submission.
"What are you?" he asked one final time.
"Yours," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm completely yours. I'll do anything—be anything—please—just—"
You couldn't even finish the sentence, too broken to articulate what you needed.
Price's hand stroked your hair, almost tender. "That's right. You're ours now. Our good girl. Our obedient little slut."
"Yes, sir," you breathed, the words feeling right in a way nothing else ever had. "Thank you, sir."
Ghost's hand joined Price's, both men touching you with surprising gentleness now that you were completely broken. "No more attitude," Ghost said. "No more bratty behavior."
"No, sir," you agreed immediately, desperately. "I'll be good—I promise—I'll be so good—"
"We know you will," Gaz said, his hand running down your back. "Because now you understand your place."
"Yes, sir," you whispered, fresh tears sliding down your cheeks. "I understand."
Soap pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his earlier roughness replaced with something almost affectionate. "Our perfect little toy."
You nodded weakly, accepting the label, accepting everything. Your bratty attitude was gone, fucked out of you completely, replaced with desperate submission and need. You were theirs—mind, body, and soul—and the terrifying part was how right it felt.
How much you wanted to stay exactly like this.
Broken. Obedient. Theirs.
"Please," you whispered one last time, not even sure what you were asking for. "Please don't stop—I need—I need you—"
Price smiled, dark and satisfied. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We're not done with you yet. Not even close."
And despite your exhaustion, despite being utterly destroyed, you felt a thrill of anticipation run through you.
I'm obsessed with Price's baby blue eyes sooooooo bad, anywho little headcannon for papa...
Price knew exactly how much power his eyes held over you—and he was entirely too quick to use it to his advantage. Whenever an argument flared up, all it took was for him to look down at you with those striking baby blues, and your anger would instantly melt away. You utterly hated how easily he disarmed you, but if you were being honest, it was the exact thing that had made you fall for him in the first place.
"John, you said you’d do the laundry! Why am I still looking at a pile of unwashed bedsheets?" you called out, utterly exasperated. Getting John to handle household chores was a chore in itself.
"Mmhmm, in a minute, love," his voice drifted back from the living room, completely distracted. His eyes were glued to the TV, tracking the Sunday football match.
Rolling your eyes, you marched into the living room and planted yourself directly in front of the television, completely blocking his view.
Instead of getting annoyed, he just looked up at you, thoroughly amused. The corners of his eyes crinkled with warmth, completely unfazed by your stern expression.
"Come here, love," he murmured, sitting up and patting his thighs, motioning for you to settle into his lap.
With a reluctant sigh, you gave in and sat down, though you kept your posture rigid. "I'm serious. Now that you're home, you should be helping out more around the house," you scowled, crossing your arms tightly.
You purposely kept your gaze locked anywhere but his face, trying desperately to maintain your firm stance.
John leaned in, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He peppered soft, distracting kisses against your skin, nodding along to validate your frustration. "I know, love. Can you ever forgive me for being such an unmannered brute?" he pleaded with mock sincerity.
He leaned back just enough to catch your gaze, staring up at you with wide, innocent blue eyes like a kicked puppy.
A traitorous smile threatened to break across your face. He had you right where he wanted you, and he knew it.
"I'll think about it," you muttered, turning your head away as a warm blush began creeping up your cheeks.
You felt a rough, calloused hand gently cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone to turn your face back toward him.
"Have I ever told you how sexy it is when you get all pissy?" he teased, his grip tightening on your waist as he pulled you down into a soft, lingering kiss.
You couldn't help the giggle that escaped you. Giving in completely, you shifted to straddle his lap, melting against him. You pulled back just enough to take his face in your hands, your thumbs gently caressing the familiar, rough texture of his beard. For a quiet moment, you just sat there, comfortably staring down at your husband and admiring how handsome he truly was. Those boyishly blue eyes looked back up at you, completely softened and radiating nothing but pure love.
"You're lucky you're cute, old man," you murmured affectionately. You placed a sweet kiss right on the tip of his nose, lightly tracing the faint freckle there.
Before he could trap you in his arms again, you pushed yourself off his lap and began to saunter back out toward the kitchen.
"Laundry. Now," you commanded, casting a sharp look over your shoulder to catch one last glimpse of him before leaving the room.
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes were entirely glued to your hips as you walked away, a smug, captivated grin stretching across his face.
contains smut, minors & ageless blogs dni pretty please.
john price would have an independent gf, miss “it’s already been handled, actually” with a genuine smile, someone educated, calm, cool, and collected much like john is himself. she probably grew up pressured by her parents and peers to do better; and to be better. and or; she learned at a young age that if she wanted something done, she’d have to do it herself.
she doesn’t fight, argue, yell, pout, or bitch. she simply acts then explains her actions with a level voice. john learned very quickly that trying to dominate and boss her around first hand was not the right move. she didn’t make him earn her respect per se, but her submission. her willingness. her complete and undivided attention. she’s a very busy woman, so spending hours spread eagle for the older man much less even agreeing to spend a night with him makes him feel honored.
they work so well together however because john is a provider. this man is in charge of three grown men in life threatening situations- on top of knowing their personal backgrounds and today struggles. he’s a natural leader and giver. so when miss “i can do it myself” meets mister “i’m aware, but let me do it for you,” john naturally takes control in this regard too. and he loves it. cherishes it. hell, he praises the idea with the way he slurps and sucks on her needy pussy every night. he knows his focused, driven, confident young missus even needs her fix. even on the nights where she gently pecks his cheek with a small, “not tonight, baby. ‘v gotta long day t’morrow,” she somehow ends up knees to chest with john’s hands harshly gripping the back of her calves as his teeth graze her swollen clit when his tongue prods deep inside her hole.
john price loves a strong, independent woman. better yet- breaking said strong, independent women.
kyle “gaz” garrick would probably have a similar type but more in a punk, “fuck this country and fuck you” way. oh, poor girl hated kyle’s guts when they first met. his cocky, charmingly boyish grin with his perfect shiny white teeth, smooth movements in his body, and his stupidly pretty, harmonious face. and don’t even get her started on how much she hated his voice. that fucking voice of his- high enough to crack jokes and pull smiles from people but deep enough to make anyone stand at full attention, undergarments slightly damp from his authority. so, yeah, it was fuck kyle garrick until he managed to somehow get his bratty girl whiny and snotty sitting on a bathroom counter in some sketchy club after weeks of non stop teasing, testing, and genuinely bratting the hell out with him.
luckily for the both of them, kyle has a lot of patience. especially with pretty girls that obviously are only so angry because they’re so pent up. probably years of celibacy, rejecting partners due to insecurity, lack of trust, toxic feminism- whatever it was, kyle was determined to figure it out and set her straight. she too made her soldier work for her will but only because she was horrified and caught off guard by his interest in her. boys have spent the majority of her life avoiding her, and after maybe experiencing her own heartbreak or watching someone else’s, she genuinely quizzed kyle’s intentions.
again either way, kyle makes sure there isn’t any question or confusion about his adoration for her. he takes very good care of her in all ways, listens to her, and plays into her bitchy behavior before always reminding her that this ‘little attitude’ is a ‘cute act’ but isn’t necessary when her man, her protector, her everything is right here. she definitely gets her pussy ate more than she deserves, but kyle knows to follow through by fucking his thick cock down her throat or dragging her cum-stained face up and down his shaft and heavy balls, sometimes simultaneously.
much like his boss, kyle enjoys ruining a pretty girl with a tough exterior. especially when they truly believe they run things. not with sergeant garrick, princess.
john “soap” mactavish is a proud pervert with a personal preference for innocent, naive women. the type to wear a body fit milkmaid dress, tits all out on display just begging for his mouth to suck them dry, on the first date and call it her “special occasion dress.” he gets a deep pounding in his throat when watching his little lass smile and wave at babies, his mind (and dick) desperately craving to make some of his own. he can’t help it, his pretty princess his just too sweet, too kind, and definitely too fucking cute for her own good. god only knows how many times the scot’s nearly killed a man with his bare hands because they were “eye’n ya up” or flat out flirting with her, and his poor, gentle, soft, sweetness is too shy to get stern with the brave fucker.
never in front of his girl, no, he wouldn’t dare corrupt her beautiful mind like that. it’s a dirty secret he keeps to himself- one that makes him smirk when his rough hands slide down her soft plump waist, humming in satisfaction while he toys with her pink lace. his bunny, his fairy, his literal princess. she’s his everything, and it makes his cock so impossibly hard watching her walk about unconcerned and so unaware of her surroundings- all because she knows her big, strong, man is looking out for her wellbeing.
with all this being said, john takes a lot of pride in this fact. with him, it’s his money she spends, his lap she sits on, his shoulder to cry into, his cock she slobbers and suckles on. he’s obsessed with the idea of impregnating her, stuffing her stupid with his hot seed, and being viciously protective and nurturing over her for the next nine months. it’s grossly animalistic how feral he is about it, and it’s even worse when she’s reaching up for him, begging for a kiss with a tiny, high pitched “please, johnny!” it makes him crack every. single. time.
john soap mactavish is a pervert especially for sweet girls who trust and look to him like he’s the fucking king of the world. oh, and he’d totally never forget about the milfs he’s slept with.
simon ghost riley secretly gets boners for crybabies. his gf full on sobs over drama films, stray animals, and anything inspirational or cute. to most people, she’s childish, needs to grow up, act her age, etc etc. to simon, she’s empathetic, emotional, in tune, sensitive, and most importantly kind. she’s his sweet little crybaby who tugs on his sleeve when words can’t seem to formulate, who sits at his heavy boots when he’s occupied because she knows “si’s busy, but never too busy for me,”, who goes to her man before absolutely anyone else for everything, who cries in his neck more times than not because the world is just too cruel and she can’t do anything to fix it.
she’s a pouter and has her bratty moments- sure, but that’s all quickly ended once simon gives her that one look, the one that groans “come ‘ere, lovie. come to y’man and let ‘im fix it. tell y’si what’s wrong so he can make it better.” and it works. she’s immediately on him in seconds, eyes flushing with emotion as she tells him everything- instead of bratting out and getting roughly pounded like kyle’s gf. if anything, simon has his doll on her back, her holes stuffed full of himself as he softly but fast when he fucks into her cunt. he isn’t much of a talker during sex, but that flips entirely when his babygirl has so much to say and it’s only coming out in tear form. suddenly he feels the need to tell her how beautiful and brave she is, how sweet and sensitive she is, how perfect and broken she looks under him, lips swollen from her own doing and out of breath from simon’s nonstop motions.
simon is a hard, cold man who grew up in a hard, cold environment. his soft little doll makes him quieter, more stable, more here. he’s been so focused on surviving himself, he feels extreme relief in servicing someone else in such an intimate, slow pace manner. she can truly relax and let go around him, and he can comfortably slip into the role of being human again.
Simon Riley has a fixation for you sitting in his lap. he feels the comfort of your warmth, your breath and your weight on top of him and it settles his head. calming the storm of thoughts that he's constantly burdened by.
watching youtube or doomscrolling on your phone? youre in his lap. he makes a passing comment about some of the things you watch, or he'll even watch it with you.
just got out of the shower? he'll dry, brush and maybe braid your hair whilst you're sat in his lap.
if you're sat on the sofa watching tv, you're sprawled across his lap.
He loves to have a hand placed on you, it grounds him to you and he's grateful that you stick around even when he's away for weeks on end without contact.
his favourite thing to do is have you sit in his lap facing him, he can see your face that way, can see what he comes home to every time he's been on a shit mission. he loves when you rest your arms on his shoulders and just talk to him.
reader is kidnapped by Konig and is forced to be his own living doll...
TW: kidnapping, dollification, reader is traumatised, etc. Dead dove do not eat
Baby pink walls. No windows. It could have been the crisp start of morning or hours past midnight—you had no way of knowing. The floor was lined with thick, soft padded play mats, a design choice meant to mock your captivity while ensuring you couldn’t crack your skull against the underlying hardwood. That would be an escape far too easy.
This was your cell. Your new home. You had long since lost the ability to calculate how many weeks or months had bled together; here, the very concept of time ceased to exist. Your prison was meticulously curated with a sickening parody of childhood: teddy bears larger than grown men, a massive dollhouse, a sea of doll memorabilia, and a grand princess bed pushed against the far wall.
When you first arrived, the space had made you physically ill, trapping you in a perpetual, waking nightmare. Over time, the human mind adapted, forcing a hollow acceptance—but that fragile numbness vanished the moment he arrived.
At a passing glance, the room looked like a pastel dream. But the longer you stared into the uncanny void, the more the cracks bled through. The stale, metallic stench of old blood lingered in the air, clashing with the stark iron bars that sealed you away from the world outside. No matter how brightly the paint had once shone, the pink wash was slowly decaying into a decrepit, water-stained grey. It was obvious you weren't the first girl to occupy this space. You likely wouldn't be the last.
You could barely remember your life before the room; it felt abstract, like a movie you had watched half-asleep. All your old, mundane worries seemed laughably trivial compared to the reality you now inhabited. Memories returned only in fleeting, broken shards, never quite fitting together. You had a vague notion that you used to work in a quiet café—an assumption that felt like the catalyst for your entire fate. That was where you met him. He used to stop by so frequently, always smiling. You had mistaken his persistence for eccentric friendliness, assuming he was weird but ultimately harmless. How desperately wrong you had been.
Heavy, deliberate boot steps rattled down the stairs, dragging you violently from your thoughts. The familiar cadence alone sent a sharp ringing through your ears, triggering a volatile cocktail of fear and absolute despair. The heavy deadbolt ground open against the door, swinging inward to reveal him as he stepped into the room. His playroom.
"Klein Maus," his voice rang out, syrupy and giddy like a child on Christmas morning. The sheer innocence in his tone grated painfully against your nerves.
He wasted no time marching across the mats, plop-dropping right in front of you with a large, heavy shopping bag slung over his arm.
"Guess who went shopping?" he giggled, his manic blue eyes locking onto yours with an intense, unblinking focus.
You kept your gaze steady and blank, terrified to answer. In this room, anything could be interpreted as the wrong answer, and your body couldn't endure another "training session" today.
He must have been in a remarkably pleasant mood, because he didn't even acknowledge your silence. Instead, he excitedly began pulling garments from the bag, thrusting the fabrics toward your face to show off his spoils. Through the flurry of pastels, you caught sight of the elaborate, frilly doll dresses. He had an absolute obsession with turning you into a living porcelain figurine. It was all he ever allowed you to wear: stupid, suffocating layers of lace, your hair forced into tight pin curls, your cheeks painted in heavy, artificial blush. He had even forced the total removal of every stray hair from your body to perfect the illusion. The entire display made your stomach turn.
Without thinking, you limply poked at one of the girlish outfits, your expression faltering for a split second into plain, unmasked disgust. It was a fatal mistake. When you looked up, his bright, cheerful demeanor had vanished, his features contorting into a cold, dangerous scowl.
Panicking, you immediately forced your muscles to relax, shifting your face into a mask of superficial delight. You widened your eyes, trying to look eager.
"Much better, little Maus," he murmured, his pleasant expression snapping back into place instantly as he gave your head a patronizing pat. "Do you like them? I can't wait to dress you up, my sweet little dolly."
A dark, icy shiver rippled down your spine. "I-I love them, sir," you whispered, painting a careful smile across your lips and leaning heavily into a submissive, wide-eyed stare.
He drank in the performance completely. Before you could brace yourself, his massive arms hooked under you, hoisting you up effortlessly. He always manhandled you with a rough, heavy-handed disregard, seemingly oblivious to the sheer scale of his own strength. Standing at a towering 6'10", his sheer physical mass made any thought of escape utterly impossible.
He deposited you onto the edge of the high princess bed, your legs dangling over the side like a child's. He began laying out the dresses, meticulously selecting the afternoon's wardrobe before lining up the various brushes and cosmetics required for his makeover. You watched the preparations in silent, suffocating dread.
Your eyes drifted down to your swinging feet. Though he had banned mirrors from the cell, you could catch a warped, gray reflection of yourself in the dark screen of the old CRT television across the room. The shape staring back looked like an absolute stranger. No matter how heavily he caked the cosmetics onto your skin, nothing could hide the deep, dark hollows beneath your eyes, or the severe weight loss brought on by malnutrition and your own stubborn, quiet defiance. Your skin looked sullen, starved of sunlight, and your natural hair was a dull, mousy brown—the cruel inspiration for his favorite nickname.
You were nothing but a hollow shell of the woman you used to be. And looking at him as he smiled over his tools, you realized that was exactly what he wanted. A broken spirit couldn't run away.
