Good Cop, Bad Cop (They're Both Bad)
Basically cop!König and cop!Ghost pull you over
Since my current König post is going to take a while, I decided to cook up this little post for you guys, I hope you enjoy it :)
If there's enough traction, maybe I'll make a part 2, lemme know what you guys think <3
TW: power dynamics oh my, manipulation, implied smut, implied non-con/ dub-con
WC: 4046
MDNI
The asphalt stretches ahead, darkness swallowing far beyond your line of sight. Your dim, aging headlights carve a soft path through the void for your eager eyes to make out, their yellow glow flickering against the cracked asphalt; trees loom on either side, their twisted branches reaching, almost as if to grab you. The night is thick and quiet— too quiet. Each bump in the road rattles through your hands on the wheel, a reminder that you’re alone out here. Or at least, you should be.
You push your foot on the gas, watching the speedometer climb up, noticing an abandoned car on the side of the dirt as you whiz by it. It’s customary to see at least one on these long deserted back roads. You’ve always wondered what ends up happening to these cars that are left behind by their owners. Do they rust away, staying on these streets? Do they get towed away? Broken into? Stolen?
You don’t think much more of it and continue tearing up the road, tapping your finger idly on the steering wheel, mimicking the music beating loudly through the speakers, wanting to get home as fast as possible. You’ve never been a fan of driving at night, especially not this late and alone.
Suddenly, the headlights of this so-called abandoned vehicle come to life in the distance, flashes of red and blue catch your attention from the rearview mirror, and your heart sinks in dread, “fuck.”
The police car eases its way off the gravel that lines the side of the street and onto the concrete. For a moment, the car gets smaller and smaller, your speed creating distance between the array of flashes, and you hope that this distance consumes the car straight out of your sight. To your dismay, the vehicle starts to speed its way to you, lights becoming more pronounced and more difficult to ignore.
You curse yourself and pivot your foot from the gas onto the break, slowing your vehicle down steadily. Due to the sheer speed you were driving at, it takes a moment for the car to decelerate. The dial on the speedometer shifts counterclockwise and you watch as the numbers slowly crawl down, as if dying. After a few seconds, the car is slowed enough to pull it onto the shoulder of the road, tires crunching as they make contact with the gravel, the car rolling to a stop. Your heart is pitter-pattering in your chest, and your hand that was shaking from the sudden rush of adrenaline reaches for the transmission to push upwards on the knob, parking the car, doors unlocking with a click at the gear change. Your foot lifts off the break, and the car steadies itself with a small roll, tires locking. Instinctively pressing down the red and white triangle button on top of your audio system, the hazard lights flick on, imitating the tick of a metronome to illuminate the crushed rocks beneath the vehicle slightly. You’ve never so much as stolen anything before, being pulled over and having to face authorities in these conditions makes your stomach sink into a pit. As you ruminate, the police cruiser slows behind you, parking itself, lights still flashing wildly. You lament the situation, thoughts flooding your mind about how stupid it was for the cops to be here in the first place. It’s practically empty almost all of the time on these backroads, especially at this hour of the night; it doesn’t make sense to you why any kind of law enforcement would wait for a driver to pass by just to nail them with a ticket.
You almost forget that you’ve been pulled over, sucked into your thoughts, until you see a large figure exit the vehicle from the rearview mirror. Your heart jumps at this, and you quickly reach for your glove compartment to grab your vehicle registration, closing the door with a thud. A sharp knock at the window makes you jump and turn your head. He was fast, you thought you had at least a few more seconds. The officer bends at the hip after a moment, leering into the car, and you push down on the window switch, watching the glass disappear into the driver's side door.
You strain your eyes trying to make out his face in the dark, noticing that it is obscured by some sort of cloth, the only part visible being his eyes. You’ve never seen an officer hide their face before, let alone with a piece of fabric.
“License and registration,” he says, accent cutting through the silence like a knife, reaching your ears.
“One second, sorry,” you stammer, grabbing your wallet in the middle console, unzipping it and pulling out a plastic card. You hand him both the registration papers and your license, and he takes them, gloved fingers brushing against your own for a fleeting second. Your heart jumps at this contact, already overstimulated by being pulled over— you retract your hand, placing both your palms onto your lap, beginning to think of excuses.
He stares down at the card, holding it in his large hand. Your name leaves his lips as he repeats it, reading it off of the thin piece of plastic, “Do you know how fast you were going?” His eyes flick up, boring into your own. The dark makes it hard for your brain to construct his eyes, but the light from your dashboard is enough to see the cold expression he holds in them, blue irises a thin line around his blown pupils.
“Uhm.. no officer,” you hesitate, a bit quieter than you had hoped for your words to come out.
“About thirty over,” he states matter of factly before looking into your car, eyes catching your outfit, “What are you doing out this late?”
You feel your mouth go dry at this. The truth is you were just at a house party, celebrating the end of a successful-ish semester. It was about 1:30 am now as you sat in your car trying to come up with any semblance of a believable story. You told yourself you weren’t going to drink, not having a ride back home, being forced to take yourself back to your place through the outskirts of the city at the end of the night. You told yourself. You even made sure to reject any and all alcohol until a close friend of yours urged you, drunkenly begging you to take a shot to celebrate finishing classes. “One can’t hurt, just drink some water after, you’ll be fine, please, for me?” Your friend’s words ring in your ears, and you wallow at yourself for being guilted into taking two more after their initial coercion. It’s been an hour since that, but fear creeps up at the thought of a breathalyzer test. Although you felt sober, you knew the test would not reflect that, and would get you in trouble with the bulky officer staring down at you from your left. It was best to just not act suspicious, take the ticket, and reap the consequences to your bank account later.
“I was just at a friend’s house. Stayed up too late watching a movie, so I decided I needed to get home,” you respond, lying through your teeth, hoping it was convincing enough, feigning a small smile nervously.
The man hums in thought and you feel relief, thinking he bought your lie. He pauses before speaking up again, “Wearing that?”
You look down at your outfit, a pair of jeans and a tiny top that did little to preserve your dignity. You wish you brought a sweater. Arms almost immediately wrap around your waist, insecurity filling you whole. “Yes...” You murmur, hoping he won’t question you further than that.
He breaks eye contact and motions towards the vehicle parked a few feet behind yours, almost like he was calling someone. You watch from the rearview mirror as another figure steps out, this time from the passenger's seat. Their silhouette looked almost entirely black, except for the white on their face that reflected the red and blue lights spinning on the top of the car. The figure’s boots made contact with the ground and crunched softly as they made a few strides towards the other man. “Ran a check, looks good on my end. Yours?” His voice was deep, with an accent behind it that you could only assume was from somewhere in England, something rough and commanding in its tone.
“Can’t say the same,” the taller man speaks out, eyes flickering to yours for a brief moment before quickly shifting away to meet the man standing beside him. The officer with the white mask makes his way toward the other, and as he closes the gap, your mind scrambles to make sense of his appearance. Squinting, you notice that the mask covering his face is white, with strange grooves etched into it that resemble the jagged shape of a skull, deep and haunting. His eyes are like dark, void-like holes that seem to bore right through you as he passes, there’s something unnatural about the way he carries himself, something predatory, and you can’t seem to pry your eyes away.
“What’ve we got ‘ere?” The shorter man, not to imply that his height was by any means unimpressive, chimes, his voice oddly casual. He leans towards the open window of the car, placing one forearm on the side of the metal encasing you safely, almost like a prison.
“Suspected intoxication,” the hooded man speaks up, his tone flat and emotionless. His words hang in the air, each one settling in your chest with an increasing heaviness. The other hums, eyes scanning you once more, but unlike the cold blue ones of the officer standing behind him, his gaze isn’t as icey, there’s something deeper in it, something you can’t quite put your finger on.
“You been drinkin’ sweetheart?” His voice is laced with a syrupy sweetness that makes your stomach flip. The term ‘sweetheart’ rolls off his tongue like a curse, and the word itself feels out of place as if he’s using it to control the situation, to unsettle you. The question hits you hard, and your stomach drops with the weight of an anchor. The unease in your gut tightens into full-blown dread. Something about this doesn’t sit right with you. This isn’t how any regular traffic stop should feel, is it?
When you don’t immediately answer, his voice shatters the silence again, colder now, sharper, “Talk to me.”
You feel your throat tighten, words barely escaping your lips as you answer meekly, “I haven’t..” It’s almost a whisper, barely audible against the growing noise in your head. The man at your window continues to stare at you, eyes piercing, trying to get a read of the situation, searching for any information he could use against you.
“Ghost.” The voice calls from behind him, a demand. The man you now know as Ghost turns, his posture stiff, his gaze flicking to the other looming behind him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, voice laced with annoyance. Shaking his head with a slight scoff, turning back to face you, his eyes crinkle in the corner softly, and you imagine that behind his odd display of a face, is a smile— though something about this situation makes it feel like a threat.
Watching this play out is frightening, to say the least. You feel your pulse quicken, and every second that passes tightens the knot in your stomach. You don’t know if this is the experience most people face when pulled over at night, or if it was just your terrible luck. You don’t have any prior experience to compare it to, but something in your heart screamed at you that this was wrong, something was terribly wrong here.
You stare at Ghost, now leaning forward slightly as he tilts his head. His voice breaks through your racing thoughts, low and silky, “Why doncha step outta the vehicle for us?”
Your body freezes. You aren’t entirely sure why you reacted this way; regardless of what it was, the suffocating feeling, the lead weight against your chest did not waver. Every single instinct inside you is telling you to get out of this situation.
“Did’ja hear me?” His voice shatters through the silence again, sharper now, and the calm, almost bored tone from before disappears, replaced with a command, “Turn the ignition off, n’ step out, love.”
The instructions linger in the air like a final warning, and despite every fibre of your being telling you to refuse, your shaking hands reach for your keys nestled in the ignition and you twist, the engine dying, along with the lights at the head of your vehicle. Holding the keys in your hand, you step out of the car, hesitantly. Ghost steps back to give you space to open the car door and exit. You stand and immediately notice how he dwarfs your height, looking down at you through his skull mask, arms crossed over his police vest. The red and blue spinning on top of the police car creates a cast of colours, allowing you to still make out the scene in front of you despite the darkness that engulfs the scenery. You notice a dark streak across the white letters that read out ‘POLICE’ across his chest. In blue light, it looks almost black, but as the red circles back around, you make out a faint scarlet colour.
Your eyes focus on it, your heart skipping a beat. Though the thought barely forms in your head before he speaks again, “Hands against the car, love, turn around.”
You blink, not understanding or comprehending the sudden demand, “What?” You ask, almost automatically, surprised at his sudden order.
“Gonna search’cha. Turn around, hands on the hood of the car. It’s standard protocol, isn’t that right König?” He remarks, turning to look at the man behind him. His words are so casual, so rehearsed, and it takes you a second, but you're suddenly hyper-aware of the looming presence of the larger man, König, who just nods in approval.
You aren’t well versed in what your rights are exactly, despite seeing countless posts online urging you to become aware in case some cop tries to take advantage of your ignorance. You think back on those moments you’ve scrolled past and feel regret, maybe you should have been more cautious, should have taken some more time to read up on it. The thought of outright saying no flicks through your mind, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came; you’re not entirely sure if you have the right to refuse, so you comply and turn to face your vehicle slowly, moving your arms to place your trembling hands on the hood, still warm from the engine. “Good girl,” he whispers with a growl from behind you.
The words make your skin crawl, sending a wave of nausea through your gut. You want to turn around, stand your ground, and demand answers. You want to scream at him, ask why he pulled you over in the first place, especially here, in this deserted, dark stretch of road. But your body is frozen, your limbs heavy with a deep, paralyzing dread. You can’t speak. You can’t move.
As you find the courage to open your mouth and protest, a wall of muscle presses up behind you— the air is forced out of your lungs in a sharp, startled gasp, and all that escapes your throat is a choked sound, trapped and desperate. It dies instantly at the pressure as if your body knows it’s powerless to stop what’s happening. A nudge from something stiff, something heavy, something warm, presses against your lower back, and the sensation almost makes you fall forward, but you keep your hands on the car, shakily. “What are you doing?” You ask, heat rising to your ears, your voice quiet and cracking, breaking under the weight of the situation.
“Just gonna check ‘ya angel, no need to panic.” Ghost’s voice is smooth as his hands start to move along your sides, gliding over your trembling skin with cold precision as he pushes his hips into you, eliciting another small yelp from you that serves to bring heat straight to your face at the feeling of his hardness against your spine. He then slowly moves down each leg, bending at the knees to pat down your thighs, not before grabbing at the skin, and moving to your ankles. You’re humiliated, and you have to stifle the urge to ask him why this is even necessary. Your top is small, and your pants are tight against your skin, they’d be able to see if you had anything in your pockets, concealed away. His leather-clad hands are along your body. And then, he stands back up, his hands lingering near your stomach, just shy of touching your chest. You can feel the tension hanging between you two, the thin line between a normal pat-down and something much worse. His fingers hover, almost hesitant as if testing the waters, “You don’t mind, do ya?”
You blink at this, your head spinning. Is this normal? He asked for permission, didn’t he? Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe he’s just doing his job, and you’re just nervous. But the doubt gnaws at you. You’ve heard of cops acting imposing, standing tall with a panoptic gaze, demanding submission without ever needing to speak a word. You’ve heard stories of them using that authority to cross boundaries with people— no, to break them entirely.
You’ve always struggled with confrontation. You’ve tended to let things slide before and made excuses for bad behaviour. It’s like a habit, but this, this is different. This is too much. The unease deepens into something darker. Something inside you screams to fight back, to speak up, to demand that they stop.
But all that comes out is a whisper, barely audible, “I’m a little uncomfortable.” The words feel weak, but you force them out, your voice trembling. You hope that’s enough— that the honesty will be enough to make him stop.
He was teetering the edge of patting you down, and groping you; you’re not sure if this is what a standard pat down is considered to be. You’ve seen people get checked at the airport after stepping through the scanners, lighting up with a flash, at the indication that something was out of place— it was quick, fast, non-invasive. But this. This felt like he was about to grab at your very soul, so tightly that it might as well burst in his hands, deflating any sense of pride or dignity you had left with a harsh crack and spill of the contents. “Poor thing’s uncomfortable,” Ghost murmurs with a frown, turning to look at König.
The other man doesn’t say anything at first, his towering figure casting a long shadow over you, but when he speaks, his voice is commanding, “Enough, Ghost.” Relief surges through you as Ghost steps back, his lips curling slightly in irritation as he clicks his tongue, finally, some distance. But your pulse doesn’t slow; it races, your heart still pounding in your ears, as the confusion and fear hang thick in the air, choking the space around you. Maybe they’ve decided to let you go now, but something in you tells you this isn't over.
Your thoughts are silenced as your hands are suddenly grabbed from where they were resting, being maneuvered roughly behind your back. The sudden action makes you lose balance and fall forward with a yelp. When you make a move to straighten your torso up, a hand reaches the nape of your neck to keep you pinned to the hood of your car roughly, your chest and side of your face becoming dirty with the dust covering your vehicle. The taller man leans over your body, and you’re brought to your tippy toes as he does this, his erection pushing harshly against your ass. The cloth on his face drapes over your shoulder as he brings his mouth close to your ear, “You’re too soft with her, asking if it’s okay if she doesn’t mind. Slut like her doesn’t care about shit like that. Look at what she’s wearing… Begging for it, on display for us.” The way he spoke into your ear made your heart seize up. He spoke directly to you, but referred to you in the second person, dehumanizing you even further, not even addressing you as equal to them. This was beyond humiliating, beyond anything you would have expected.
“Get off of me,” you protest, with a tone less than convincing. The one holding you down laughs, a chuckle breaking through his throat.
He thinks this is some kind of joke.
“Fuck, Ghost,” he chortles, the sound low and sinister, dripping with mockery. “You should see how she’s trembling under me right now. It’s pathetic,” His voice cuts through the stillness, like a sharp blade, and the way he savours the words makes your stomach churn. Each laugh feels like a slap to your senses, echoing in your skull, ringing louder than the panic surging through your veins.
“Fucking bitch doesn’t even know we aren’t actually cops,” he says, and just like that, the ground shifts beneath your feet and your entire world is upside down. Your breath has ceased, and your lungs feel as if they were taken straight out of your ribcage. “We put on a good show for you though, right? Pulling you over like that? Saying you were going 30 over, Ghost saying he ran a check on you.” A laugh spills from his lips again, thick with satisfaction, and every syllable feels like it's pulling you deeper into a pit of dread.
It’s as if time stops. The world tilts sideways, and your body goes cold. The weight of his words presses down on you, and you realize, with sickening clarity, that everything you thought you understood was a lie. The badge, the uniforms, the flashing lights— all of it was just a performance. A sick game.
“Cops in this area have no backbone,” König starts, with a sickening satisfaction lingering on the ends of his words, “They were so easy to take down too, Schatz, you have no idea.” Another laugh billows out from his chest, “Where else do you think we got this uniform from? The cruiser?”
Your heart is pounding so loudly, and everything starts to click. The blood on Ghost’s vest, you should have known. You want to move, to escape, but your body feels like stone. The world around you is suddenly too small, suffocating like the walls are closing in with every laugh, every word. You want to scream, but the sound won’t come. A tear runs down the bridge of your nose and König hums, leaning in close to you to breathe in the scent of your fear, “Love breaking girls like you, fuck.”
Ghost remains silent in the corner, his eyes watching, but you can’t tell if he’s complicit or detached from the cruel charade. You’re too far gone to care now. All that matters is the cold truth sinking into you like a heavyweight. Your mouth goes dry, the room spinning as the sick realization settles in harshly. You weren’t just caught in a trap. You were the prey, and every moment of this has been designed to break you, to twist you into their game.
Your eyes look backwards to meet Ghost’s, and you plead to him with begging eyes, for him to say anything, to get the man on top of you off, give you some sense of respite, some room to breathe, some time to process what is happening. As you thought you were starting to make progress, looking at Ghost with such a sad, pleading look, König notices and glares down at you. He leans into your ear again and speaks words that make you feel like you’ve died, a million times over and over again, “Oh Schatz,” he chuckles with a small sigh, sounding almost disappointed at your display, “Don’t look at him like that, he’s just waiting his turn.”
