cw: somophilia noncon drugging panty stealing pervy behaviors from Sukuna and toji, implied Sukuna x toji
your Mom kicked you out— it was so sudden. Apparently she needed “space” and was just tired of being a mom? luckily you found a place fairly quick. You’d just have roommates and it couldn’t be that bad… right?
and when moving in, it wasn’t. it was actually nice— they helped you set up your room and gave you a month to find a stable job, how generous of them. Maybe too generous…
IckyRoommates!Toji and Sukuna stealing your dirty laundry whenever you’re not looking.. putting it between then whenever they rut against each other. They always put it back tho, and with a little treat ㅤ♡
They always find a reason to press up against you , either being behind you when you’re getting something from the cabinet or pressing your hips against theirs. Something they even take it a step further and steal all of your panties. Seeing you squirm and hold your legs together makes their cock jump, especially when you’re too shy to even ask about it, even if they ask what’s wrong you brush it off. It’s intoxicating to them.
Inevitably they start to do more, get more handsy— they grope your ass whenever you walk by, toji always gives it a hard slap. Whenever you confront him (or at least try to) he always shrugs it off as just jokes and you need to learn how to not be so sensitive. Sukuna on the other hand, squeezes your hips and let’s his hand trail up your sides. Sukuna always finds ways to tease you, sometimes hes wearing low sweatpants showing off his happy trail or its him not wearing any boxers and man spreading on the couch. They try to do anything that gets a reaction, even if it’s a tiny one.
And sometimes whenever they cook dinner they add a little extra something in your food, jussstt so you can sleep good ㅤ♡ Toji slides your panties to the side so he can rub his heavy cock between your plush thighs. Soft groans and grunts can be heard from your room, after teasing himself with the slick from your cunt he, slowly slips his cock in
,,Fuck sweetie.. pretty pussy squeezin’ me’’ you shift slightly in your sleep, the only thing giving him an active response is your twitching cunt and slight moans. Toji could do this all night— and he did, he only stopped rightt before ur alarm went off; he quickly lapped up your messy juices and fixed your panties before you wake up.
Of course after hearing your night with toji sukuna wanted a turn. He made a hefty dinner, so much so that you went to sleep almost immediately. It took no time for him to sneak into ur room and rip your panties off. He slides his cock between your folds, your wetness making him ache
“Been waiting for this.. fuckin’ tease” without a second thought he slams his hips into yours. The pace is unforgiving as he holds you up to angle deeper into you. Plaps’ and the sounds of skin slapping bounce off the walls; Sukuna dips his head into the crook of your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark on you
This time when you wake up Sukuna is still there, you can feel his cock resting inside of you. You hold your breath as you inch away, you only get so far before you hear a mumbled voice behind your head “stop moving, need some rest” his hands wrap tighter around your waist as he pulls you back in. You whimper slightly at the thought of staying like this for however long, especially since you don’t remember how you got like this
before your thoughts can spiral to much, you see toji crack open your door. Your eyes light up slightly at the thought of toji saving you from whatever this is. But instead he leans down and gives a kiss to your forehead
“Dont move to much— breakfast will be ready in a minute doll, ” your eyes water as you mumble ‘why’ but he starts rubbing your face and cooing at you “don’t think to hard right now, yeah? Brains not good for thinking or workin’ just stay right where you are” Toji plants another kiss on your forehead and lips before giving Sukuna one
“I’ll wake you two up when foods done” even with his words you’re still in a state of confusion. Is this the first time? What does he mean about working? you have to pay your bills. All these questions flood your mind as your heart sinks deeper and deeper into your chest.
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that fat femme wants to be manhandled by the way! that fat femme wants to be groped and grabbed and maybe even slapped around a bit!! make a fat femme’s dreams come true and touch her inappropriately now!!!!
Idea: Murkoff keeps multiple nude photos of all the Reagents from their personal files for blackmail or whatever. So they decided to fuck with the Reader by using their nudes in place of the propaganda posters in the trials. Could u pls write the Yan!PAs reaction to that.
The devil made me do it, but I also kind of wanted to.
Yandere! Leland Coyle/ Mother Gooseberry/ Franco Barbi/ Otto & Arora Kress/ Liliya Bogomolova x Gender neutral! Reader romantic/slightly smutty headcanons
Summary: To be watched and seen in such an intimate way is terrible and embarrassing, to have it be the most violent people you have ever known is a different type of punishment.
Content warnings: dead dove do not eat, canon typical violence, canon typical sadomasochism, canon typical sexualization of religion(?), yandere content, dom/sub dynamics, abusive behavior, obsessive behavior, sexually violent behaviour, references to nonconsensual nude picture taking, blackmail, slightly sexual content, mention of masturbation (Franco only), voyeurism(?), electrocution kink, non-con elements, sexual content, references to drug use (Franco's poster and vaguely in Gooseberry's part), mention of vomiting (Otto & Arora only), mention of self-harm (Liliya only), mention of self-mutilation (Liliya only), exploitative behavior (Murkoff).
Word count: 2.6k
Please read all warnings!!! I have no real rules about reading this sort of content, just know that if you read it fully/like it/reblog it, that it's on you.
AI was not used for the writing, please do not use any of this for AI.
Ultimate Outlast masterlist
Welcome board
.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.
Murkoff is an odd company. You knew they encouraged the Prime Assets' behavior; the sexual sadism was overbearing when it came to any trial. You couldn’t stand the words they said to you, the sounds they’d made watching you writhe in pain, the way they’d grind against their own palms to relieve themselves. It was too much for you. You hadn’t gone back into a trial environment for days, simply laying in your cell, only leaving for showers, meals, and checkups. That’s when the doctors got you. They kept pushing you for an answer to your lack of trial participation, and you finally gave in and allowed them to know about how the Prime Assets had started to act. The checkup ended and you finally brought yourself to enter a trial environment.
The pictures of you hanging around the trial environment you never remembered being taken. They were artistic renditions like the ones you had collected before, but the sight made you scared. One was of your sleeping face smeared with mysterious fluids with the line “For beauty’s sake” in a weirdly romantic font, another of you holding someone's arm as their hand snuck between your legs saying, “Stay in your trusted position”, and another one of you kneeling by a religious shrine as you drew one of the figurines between your thighs with the line “Remember how to worship correctly”. There had to have been over fifteen of those posters around, and you knew they were all so perfectly made for the disgusting animals that wanted to keep you in a little birdcage forever.
Coyle’s behavior while you were gone was terribly embarrassing to witness. He obviously was missing you to some degree. He was more aggressive, both physically and sexually; he’d treat the reagents worse and shock himself more. He got worse with the doctors (if that was even possible) and he’d increasingly voice against them before they drugged him. When the times are at their toughest, Coyle is finally given the posters and that’s when he starts to believe that it’s the universe telling him that the way he treats you was God-given. He mistreats you because God says so, because Murkoff says so.
He loves the posters, even if he says he doesn’t. It’s in the way he’s traditional but very sexual; he loves it but doesn’t want to act like he endorses it. He’s a model citizen and a pervert at the same time. He’s got to remember his position in society. If he had to choose a favorite poster though, it would be ones that show any sign of submission to a higher power, kneeling before a pair of men's boots, sitting beside a desk chair with electrical burns covering your legs. The ones in his trial are so specific to showing you in the most risqué, almost pinup like drawings made for soldiers. Either way, he adores the idea that your natural born status is to stay in a submissive role for him and only him. He wants to have the ability to do whatever he wants to you and for you to accept it because that’s your natural position within nature and society. He puts his cigarette out on your thigh, or he shocks you with his cattle prod? That’s what's meant to happen.
When you finally go back into one of his trials, he’s going to be so much worse. Coyle will spend his time catcalling you, groping you before electrocuting you, and yelling about how you lack a “mark of the law” to show that you’ve been properly rehabilitated. He’s going to rub the posters in your face to remind you that you’re a whore for a man like him. When you’re not in direct contact with each other, like when you’re trying to find the generator, he’ll start speaking into the darkness to remind you that you were made to be disrespected by him.
Gooseberry hasn’t been the same sing-songy woman like before. She’s very brainwashed from the drugs and electroshock but she knows the differences in the feeling of the reagents in her arms. She knows it's not you. She’s obviously more irritable; she yells more, Futterman’s confused about where you went too, and she feels lonelier. She’ll mumble to herself saying that she misses your beauty, fear, and body. Mother Gooseberry won’t be hostile towards the doctors, unlike the others; she’s too deep into Stockholm Syndrome to do that, but she misses you so deeply. Much of the posters set around her trial environment is meant to keep her spirits high, as she grew a habit of swinging between being too aggressive or not aggressive enough.
Gooseberry’s reaction to the posters is pretty different from Coyle’s. She’s a hedonistic lady; she’s going to adore the idea that your interpretation of love, religion, and beauty is dependent on pure pleasure. She doesn’t care if it comes into play with the orphanage, she’s making them do coke, sex isn’t her biggest problem. Either way, she’s going to spend so much time collecting the posters and giggling about how beautiful your bare flesh is, like a schoolgirl with a magazine with their celebrity crush on the cover. Gooseberry’s also going to spend time talking to Dr. Futterman about the gleam in your eye that she claims only comes with orgasmic pleasure. She will 100% believe the posters are the way you fully view pleasure. The incessant, almost fetishistic, way they show your open mouth and bare pelvis will make her believe that the softness of your body was deserving of her touch and Futterman’s drill. She’ll keep switching between the idea that she’s simply crushing on you, giggling at the thought that you would simply kiss her cheek, and how she needs to teach you how to be good, how to properly feel pleasure and how to be punished.
During the trial with Mother Gooseberry, she’s going to spend so much of her time trying to get you back to her. The millisecond she realizes that the reagent in her trial environment is you; she’s over the moon. She puts the posters all around to try impressing you on her love for you, but as time goes on, her behavior starts to switch to a more authoritarian state. If you’re getting through the tasks quicker than usual or in a way she doesn’t find favorable, she’ll start muttering about how you simply don’t understand why you’re fighting from her and that she needs to get you and show you all her love. Dr. Futterman will encourage her to get you too, he’ll go on and on about how you’re a stupid slut that needs all their cavities taken care of. She will take that as a good sign too; a father approving of his daughter’s love is something she’s only ever seen in film, and she adores it.
Franco’s probably the worst in terms of sexual treatment. He’s already pent up enough with you in the trial when he’s not trying to grope you, so you not being there at all is like a starving dog thinking of a T-bone steak. He wants you so badly and you’re nowhere to be seen. Franco will harvest more teeth from the reagents, even trying to take some from the living, he’s yelling more, and he’s demanding at random for you to get back into the trial environments because he knows that none of the reagents are you. He knows your shape and smell and fear. So, the posters were more so a protection opportunity for the scientists, as he began trying to shoot them whenever he could.
If you took a black light to any of the posters in Franco’s trials, the entire thing would glow neon blue. That man jerks off to all your posters whenever he can, in fact, he collects new posters when the old ones begin to deteriorate. He was the one that got the most excited for the posters. The ones for his environment show you covered in marker words spelling out the greatness of your body parts, arrows pointing to your sex, your arms covered in track marks, your smile that of someone obviously high. Franco adores the love in your half-lidded eyes; it lets him fantasize about you taking advantage of him or how you’d look so beautiful if he were to perform well for you. He loves that the posters feed into his specific fantasies and now he no longer must use his imagination for anything.
Franco is extra gropey during the trials. He’s so happy that you’re back and no matter your gender, he’s going to moan and squeal about how glad he is that mommy’s home. He’ll intentionally hang up the posters he had used to getting off to make you grab and see them; he wants you to know how you make him feel. Franco will aim for your legs more often to try keeping you down so he can possibly get some time alone with you. He’s not always going to be as gross as possible though; he’ll go on and on about how he just wants to get to know you and that he only wants to get a drink. How sweet!
Otto and Arora’s behavior became more irritable. They gain a habit of making more rude comments towards the ex-pop and keep making jokes about how the doctors aren’t as good at their job as they think because you haven’t gotten into the trial. They don’t argue with each other as you would think, but they constantly are talking about missing you, Arora voicing how sad she feels without your presence and Otto comforting her by sharing his own loneliness. Something the Kress Twins do that the other Prime Assets don’t is constantly preparing. They’re getting ready to see you again, constantly perfecting the ingredients in the vials, making sure they won’t make you too sick but aren’t too weak to let you fight back against them. They also are always trying to become more physically appealing to you, combing their hair, fixing their clothes, creating new perfumes/colognes to make sure they’re constantly at their best just in case you come back into their lives with some intense desire for them to guide you down the right path. It’s only the burden of their class.
Otto and Arora’s reaction to the posters is very “I hate it”. They’re going to see it for the first time and fully believe it’s the most disgusting vile thing to do to a pure soul like you. They’ll go into the viewing with the belief that you are being defiled, held against your will by the doctors that mistreat them too. You didn’t mean to pose like that; you were being forced! You couldn’t possibly like something like that... even if part of them like fantasizing about it too. Their posters are of you covered in jewelry and sheets of fabric saying something like “To protect freedom”. When they’re analyzing the posters of you, Arora spends most of her time mocking the nudity and color of jewels presented on you, while Otto is spending his time reminding her of the artistic beauty of you sprawled out like that. She thinks it’s a direct mockery of their class too; it’s not artistically put together; the jewels look fake, and it’s obviously a mockery of Otto’s interests! How disgusting! They can’t let you know these posters exist at all and need to make sure you never go down a path like that.
The trials themselves are worse. The separation has made them more alert on where you are, almost all objectives lead to you getting sick more times than necessary. It gets gross, but they won’t feel bad about it. Arora will keep making excuses as to why your sickness is justified. Well, they’ve missed you so much, and those things happening to you are like playing tag when the tagger takes short cuts to get to the others. They only need to get a leg up to finally give you the good treatment they always planned. They’ll mumble on about how much effort they’ve put into themselves, how excited both are to see you, and if you think they look as good as they feel. When it comes to the finale of the trial, that’s when their worst behavior comes out. Otto is reprimanding you for forcing your hand in a way that’s disgusting while Arora is yelling at him to keep going to find you.
Liliya’s loneliness was barely noticeable; she was used to it. Her time spent in the snow with only her own words and what she believed to be divinity. The victims in Despoil the Auction got most of the harm. Her voice was louder; she commanded them to hurt themselves more often, knowing they couldn’t. She starts to believe that Murkoff itself is doing something to hold back her divinity and to keep you from her. She hates the predicament she’s in now, she wants the freedom she had before in her resort out in Russia, deep in the snow with her followers, but now she’s stuck in a fake place trying to spread the word of her messiah to people that don’t have ears to hear. You would have listened though; she knew you would. You’re nowhere to be seen, and the anger of your disappearance leads to the mistreatment of the doctors. More of them reported having migraines and sudden thoughts of self-mutilation and harm. So, when they set up the posters, those issues all of a sudden stopped. When the posters started popping up, her disdain towards Murkoff would start to become less prominent.
The reaction to the posters is a very religious one. Liliya’s sexual behavior is all over the place, considering her sadomasochistic words and more likely heavy conservatism growing up in a religious orphanage in the middle of nowhere Russia. Her posters are similar to the “Remember how to worship correctly” poster, it’s all of you laying in the snow, your body obviously deteriorating from the cold, the white flurries drenched in red at your own harm, while you ground against what seemed to be one of Liliya’s religious symbols. She views it as a direct gift to her; your body is hers to consume, as if you were the most prized jewel in the land. She likes that the posters give her a sense of power; she’s divine, so naturally you’re meant to be hers. The nudity itself isn’t seen as sexual in her eyes, as your body is a gift that needs to be carved from its stone. Grinding on the symbol is where the perception of sexuality is obvious. Part of her doesn’t like the idea that you’re indulging so greedily in the holy figure associated with her, and part of her thinks it’s hot. So, it all leads to her believing that you need to be guided down a proper path to know how greedy you are for doing that at all. She’s a hypocritical amalgamation really.
During trials with Liliya, she’s going to spend all her time trying to remind you that Murkoff approves her divine position above you. She won’t tear down any posters of you; she wants you to find them, in fact, needs you to. She’ll go as far as to wrap some of the mannequins' parts in the ripped-up posters to let you know she knows the positions you have put yourself in. The hunt for you is not just simply stopping you from destroying the Lot, but rather her wanting to get the opportunity to punish you for your lack of dignity. Her calls are more about your damnation instead of just giving to her and her religion. You’re going to experience the worst of the worst because you couldn’t keep your legs closed. She’ll guide you back to divinity, don’t worry.
to the rescue, again?⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ age gap relationship leon s. kennedy/ reader hcs
both nsfw and sfw hcs to drabble. explicit. (nsfw under the read more)
cw: 🕊️ dead dove + dubcon in the nsfw section. made with re9!leon in mind, age gap relationship - he's in his 50s and reader is in her late 20s, so all the taboo that comes with THAT, possessive tendencies from leon, he follows you around, degradation, breathplay. reader gets wasted and leon 'coincidentally' finds her, car sex while drunk (only reader is drunk). AFAB! reader, use of fem terms of endearment. this is so gross, sorry guys omg. he still does aftercare he isnt a monster. happy ending!
a/n: idk what to say guys this is just horny smut thats it. something something older man something something sedate me? i don't condone this shit irl, just fantasy. or if its consenual then fuck yeah how does it feel to live my dream?
asks are open! [link] divider by @ cursed-carmine
SFW
Calls you names like 'angel' 'sweet love' 'baby', and relishes how you react to each, a blush dusting your cheeks as you process his words. There's something about this older man that boys your age can't give you. Protection, stability, that tight feeling in your chest.
You'll never have to drive again, amen. Leon will take you where you need to go or at least send a trusted driver your way. (That government agent money is nooo joke.)
Leon would have one hand on the steering wheel, the other making for a protective touch on your thigh. He's sooo attentive to you, making notes of billboards you take a second glance at, turning up the radio when he hears you start to sing along to it, ugh. Swooon.
You tell your close friends all about Leon. They giggle with you over drinks, saying how lucky you are. This shit was straight out of those trashy books y'all read. A gruff older man built like a weapon and just as deadly? But has a soft spot only for youuuu? Hello.
Speak of the devil, he comes out of the kitchen right as your friends are teasing you. Leon's clad in a shirt too damn tight for his own good, and pecks your cheek for them all to see. He'll bring you all more of that wine you're sharing before retreating to your shared room.
Is a tad paranoid with you working. Why would you want to bust your ass all day for money when he makes more than enough for you both? You and Leon may have gotten into some petty arguments about it before, but he always makes it up to you.
He apologizes with flowers, your favorite candies, oddly - that necklace you were eyeing last girls' night - how did he know that? Your lover says it's just a coincidence, that he knows you best.
Lately, there's been more weird 'coincidences' like that one. You were way too drunk for your own well-being, another night out with your girls. They all split in favor of an uber, and you stay behind. The bar was playing your favorite music, you couldn't just leave! (Drunk you didn't make the best choices.)
The club was tight, stuffy, you're stumbling and bumping into people more than you'd like. You decide on getting some fresh air, maybe a walk would help you sober up? Great idea.
You grab your things and exit the club. The cold air of the night feels great on your skin. You're dressed in a tight halter top, neckline nonexistent. (Leon hated that shirt, it drew attention to your tits. He didn't blame you for it, rather all the perverts who think they have a chance with a pretty young thing like you. Makes him feel like the dirty old man he is.)
(Continued, NSFW under the cut.)
NSFW - drabble
You stagger down the streets, ignorant of the glances men are giving you. Anyone with eyes can see you're wasted. You're a walking target, babe.
You're not aware of a lot of things. Where were you going? You didn't know, now you find yourself out of the clubbing district. The streets aren't as bright as they used to be, just buildings upon buildings with their lights out.
You were also not aware of the black car that's been trailing you for at least ten minutes or more - headlights off, of course.
Leon had been 'in the area.' Oh, who are we kidding? He's following you again, just like he does every night you go out with your friends.
You finally notice him as he honks. "Asshole." You spit out, quickly stopping to let the car pass.
It doesn't, instead the Porsche's driverside window rolls down to reveal your stalker. "Harsh, but okay."
"Leon! Oh, baby I am so happy to see you." You take back your curse from earlier, feeling relieved to see his face. He always comes to your rescue! You see him as a guardian angel, still unaware of his repeated stalking. It isn't fate, this shit is on purpose. Calculated. Practiced.
You almost trip on the way to the window. Leaning into the opening, you give your older boyfriend a clear view of your cleavage. (With the way the shirt splits, it's more than just cleavage. It's a miracle your nipples are still covered, saving you some decency in your drunken state.)
You look like a hooker trying to pick up a customer - have some class.
He gives you a disarming smile, but his words are anything but. "Get in the fucking car. Now."
You don't remember fumbling to the passenger seat, but you sure can hear the scolding you're getting.
"I'm way too old for this shit. Picking you up, drunk off your ass in-" He inhales sharply, the hand on your thigh starting to grip you harder. "In god knows where... wearing that."
You don't hate his scoldings. Hell, you'd be lying if it didn't make you a little hot. You've got issues, but who doesn't?
"M'sorry." You slur your words, pulling up your shirt self-consciously.
"Fuck that, you're ready to show your body for everyone at that club, but now..." Leon removes the hand from your thigh and tugs down your shirt, ripping the cheap fabric down the middle. You're exposed, leaving you in that tight skirt and your plunging bra.
You yelp, too shocked by his actions to ask how he knew you were at a club. He was working today, you didn't have a chance to tell him your plans.
"Why don't you take off that bra, angel." The older man eyes you from the car mirror. You felt small, not all in the moment mentally. Like you've got yourself in big trouble, that tightness in your chest when you'd walk to the principal's office.
Your hands find your head, the buzz from the alcohol becoming too much. You're going to get carsick, fast.
Like Leon could give a fuck right now. He doesn't ask you a second time, taking initative to flick the front closure of your bra open. He takes a nipple and tugs.
It isn't until you threaten to throw up all over his car's expensive interior that Leon finds a place to pull over. It was some backroad shoulder, looks right out of a horror movie. You wouldn't feel safe if it wasn't for your boyfriend - ironically.
Such a nice car parked in a place like this. No matter, Leon can handle it if some shady individuals dare to try him right now. He wouldn't be opposed to blowing someone's brains out for intruding on you two.
You're both in the back seat, but this is Leon Kennedy we're dealing with - he's got a gun under the seat. Loaded, safety off. The thought stirs another fucked up fantasy in his mind, but he puts a pin in it for now. Wait, when did you two get in the back? This is bad, your memories are blending together.
You're in Leon's lap now, facing him. You've long lost your bra and what was left of your shirt. You wince at the feeling of his gloved hands on your thighs. Looks like you're down to your panties.
Your head... your head. It's reeling. It's as if someone hit you square between the eyes. Leon mumbles something along the lines of 'punishment fitting the crime.' You lean against the back of the driver's seat.
"Stay with me, angel." Leon won't let you sleep. He pinches your nipple harshly as he did earlier, turning his hand slightly to the left. You hiss as the pleasure stings into familiar pain. You cry out, you're awake.
"Awake.." You pant, struggling to remain conscious.
Your mind is clouded over, drunk. Leon's painfully hard in his pants at the scene, his pretty little thing all malleable and helpless. He just had to come rescue you. You never know what kind of sick perverts are out there. (Or in this car with you.)
"Anyone could have come and picked you right off the curb." Leon's lecturing you again, the grip on your plush thighs becomes painful. You'll see bruises tomorrow - damn, he was strong for his age. "Would you like some random man groping you like this? Huh?"
You want to argue with him, to tell him that you're more careful than that - responsible. Truth is, if Leon hadn't been threatening the other man following you? You'd be in that exact situation. To think of it, you did hear a large 'thud' at some point in your drunken stroll.
Your lover makes quick work of your panties, you think you see him stuff them in his jacket.
He doesn't care to take off his gloves, shoving two covered fingers up your cunt. The stretch is instant, painful - it burns. You almost forgot this was a punishment. You try to squirm out of his iron grip, to no avail.
"Nuh.. nah.. hurts." You drool out your words, "Stah..."
Your protests are lost on the older man. Even as you stand - as far as you can while still straddling him - he keeps up the brutal pace.
"You're going to learn this lesson, sober or not. That's not my fucking problem you drank too much." Leon's speaking at you, knowing you're too far gone to be spoken to.
Sobbing, you're not going anywhere. You're trapped in this earned hell. You're bracing yourself against the ceiling of the luxury car, tears falling down onto your lover's lap. Still glad to see him?
His free hand wipes the tears from your face, smudging your makeup in the process. The leather glove stinks of - what you didn't realize at the time - gunshot residue. Leon dons a shit-eating grin as he wipes the mess around your face.
You hate it when he does that. You'd much rather have the sweet, love-making Leon you've come accustomed to.
"Yucky.. yucky!" You try to shut your mouth as your lover attempts to shove his tear and makeup-stained gloved fingers down your throat. You didn't stand a chance against him. Leon gets his way and presses his middle finger down on the middle of your tongue, his index forming a hook to keep your mouth wide open for him. The dubious amount of drinks you had tonight didn't help your gag reflex either. He pulls back right before you'd vomit on him.
You lose your grip on reality as the breath floods back into your lungs. That tightness in your core, right above your clit. You're gonna squirt from this fucked up punishment. Thankfully, you're insanely wet for your older lover, so the gloves don't hurt as much as they did at the start. Your pussy tightens around Leon's fingers.
"Luh.. love you! I'm so sorrysorrysorry..." You gave up running a while ago. You're limp, supported by the man responsible for your rescue and ruin. You keep begging for forgiveness as you squirt all over Leon, the orgasm he forced upon you sending shockwaves through your body.
"I love you too, baby." He keeps thrusting his large fingers in and out, in and out, taking breaks to pull out so you can squirt to your fullest. "I love you so much that I came all the way out here to get your ass off of these streets - punish you so you can make a better fucking choice next time." See, he really did care! If you were gonna get snatched by a psychopath tonight, aren't you glad it's him?
────୨ৎ────
You passed the fuck out right after that orgasm. Leon held you close, rocking you back and forth in his arms. You'd pass in and out of reality, hearing his loving words - happy to know he didn't mean any of the harsh words he'd be yelling at you earlier.
"You did so good for me, sweet love." The older man's voice becomes soft, encompassing you. He hums a tune you hardly recognize as you drift to sleep in his arms, ruined and fucked out.
You wouldn't remember anything past your climax the next morning, but Leon's dedicated to aftercare no matter. You were wrapped in your favorite blanket from home before being carefully tucked in the passenger seat. He'd click the seatbelt over your sleeping frame, afraid any more rough treatment would shatter you for good.
Leon S. Kennedy was your guardian angel, in his own fucked up way - and you wouldn't have it any other way. You smile in your sleep, dreaming of him even now.
a/n: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR MAKING IT TO THE END... UH WHAT DID YOU THINK?? DID YOU LIKE IT, DID YOU WANT TO RUN AWAY OR BLOCK ME?? HAHA
Summary: You met J on an ordinary Tuesday, quickly befriending him. Six months later, you're spending more time at the Cody house than your own apartment. J is easy to love. Craig is chaos. Deran keeps everyone laughing. Baz always seems to be looming over them all.
And Pope? Pope barely speaks. He only watches.
J warned you to stay away from him. You tried to listen- you really did. But every stolen glance became another step toward something you never should have wanted.
Tonight, the house is quiet. Everyone leaves.
You're alone with Pope...
And he's been waiting for exactly that.
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Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Dark Romance, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Smut, Obsessive/Possessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Coercion, Manipulation, Stalking, Voyeurism, Power Imbalance, Psychological Manipulation, Rough Sex, Breath Restriction (hand-over-mouth), Biting, Bruising, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Praise Kink, Jealous/Possessive Themes, Canon-Typical Violence, Reader Discretion Advised, Your Honor, I can fix him (I cannot), And A Collectively Ignored Warning From J.
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Author's Note: Hey y'all... Guess who's back with some darker shit? Auggie is! 🤭 Listen, if Pope Cody looked at me like that, I'd also make poor decisions. BUT—in all seriousness, please don't date men like this in real life !
I wrote this based on Season 1 Pope Cody—less medicated, freshly out of prison, and... well... not exactly thriving. But who knows? Maybe Reader can fix him! Or maybe her survival instincts have simply left the chat. Either way... y'all know I love writing a walking red flag.
As always, please mind the warnings, and I hope you enjoy the read! Love y'all! 🩵
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You met J on a Tuesday in late August.
The heat was oppressive. The kind that made the asphalt shimmer and stuck your shirt to your back. You were walking home from work, cutting through the residential streets two blocks from your apartment, when you saw him crouched on the sidewalk next to a bike, frustration written all over his face.
He was young, maybe early twenties— with dark brown hair and a lean, wiry build. Tank top and board shorts. He had that California beach-kid look, but there was something sharper underneath. Something restless.
His phone was dead in his hand, and he was staring at the flat rear tire, like it had personally betrayed him.
You slowed. "Need help?"
He looked up, squinting against the sun. His eyes startling blue and assessing. Like he was deciding whether you were worth trusting. Then his expression softened.
"Yeah, actually. You wouldn't happen to have a pump, would you?"
You did. In your car, parked a block over. You jogged back, grabbed it, and helped him get the tire inflated.
He was grateful, and when he asked if you wanted to grab a beer as a thank-you, something in you said yes even though you didn't know him.
The bar was a dive two streets over. Dark wood, neon signs, the smell of stale beer and fried food. You sat in a corner booth and talked for two hours. He was easy to talk to—funny, self-deprecating, smart in a way that felt unpolished.
But there were gaps in the conversation. Things he didn't explain.
A phone call he took outside that made his jaw tighten.
The way his eyes tracked the door every time someone walked in.
You got the sense he came from a different world than yours. Something rougher.
Something you couldn't quite name.
But he was kind to you. So when he asked for your number, you gave it.
...
That was six months ago.
Since then, you'd been around the Cody house more and more. J invited you over often.
Pool days, dinners, late nights when Smurf was out.
You liked the chaos of it. The way the brothers moved around each other like a pack.
Deran with his sharp humor.
Craig with his reckless energy.
Baz with his quiet authority.
And Pope.
Pope who barely spoke. Pope who watched everything. Pope who made you nervous in a way you couldn't explain.
...
"Don't go around Pope," J said once, early on while were helping him in the kitchen.
"Why?" You asked.
J's face went serious. "Just don't... I mean it."
The tone made your stomach drop, but you didn't push. You listened.
But that didn't keep you from looking.
...
Pope was damn good-looking. Big. Muscular. The quiet type. And his stare-
God, his stare. He was always looking at people so deeply. Studying them.
It was scary, sure.
Intimidating, yes.
But to you, it was interesting. He studied everyone around him like he was memorizing their weaknesses.
You knew you should look away. You tried to look away. But something about him, something dark and magnetic, kept pulling your gaze back to him like gravity.
Like you didn't have a choice.
You'd catch yourself staring and force your eyes down, your heart hammering.
Stop it.
But then he'd shift in his chair, or the light would catch his jaw, and you'd be looking again. Helpless. Compelled.
It terrified you. The way he made you feel reckless.
The way J's warning echoed in your head every time you were near him.
You ignored it anyway.
You knew better.
You could feel the danger radiating off him like heat. Something primal and violent simmering just beneath his skin.
But knowing better and being able to stop were two different things.
Every time you told yourself this is the last time, you came back. Every time you swore you wouldn't look, you looked. He was a pull you couldn't resist, a current dragging you under, and the worst part was—
You didn't want to resist anymore.
You studied him.
You never went near him. Never spoke to him directly. But you noticed things.
The way he held his beer, loose grip, like his hands were used to holding other things. Heavier things.
The way he tilted his head when someone lied, predatory. Calculating the situation. Calculating his next move.
The way his jaw clenched when Smurf pushed too hard- violence barely contained.
And sometimes, just sometimes-
You felt him watching you back.
You told yourself it was nothing. Told yourself you were imagining it.
You weren't.
...
It was a rare occasion. A reprieve from the usual feelings in the house. The kind that only happened when Smurf was out of town. When the house shifted into something looser, something unguarded.
The boys and you all grabbed some beers and headed out for pool time in the back. The afternoon stretched long and easy, burgers sizzling on the grill, the smell of charcoal and summer heat thick in the air.
Deran manned the grill with a joint between his fingers, flipping patties while Craig splashed around in the deep end trying to dunk Baz. J floated on a raft, sunglasses on, texting Nicky.
You sat on the edge with your legs in the water, bikini still damp from earlier. Some rap song you didn't know played low from the Bluetooth speaker near the lounge chairs. The bass thrummed steadily underneath the laughter and splashing.
Pope was on a sun chair, shirtless, swim trunks low on his hips. He hadn't gotten in the water yet. Just sat there, beer in hand, watching.
You felt his eyes on you more than once, but you didn't look back.
You kept your focus on the water.
On Craig's terrible jokes.
On the way the sun dipped lower and lower, turning everything gold.
On anything else.
...
As the sun set, everyone slowly dwindled away.
Baz climbed out first, toweling off. "Gotta get back for Lena," he said, grabbing his keys. He clapped J on the shoulder and left.
Deran disappeared down the hall next, muttering something about finding his stash.
Craig got a text and grinned. "Amber's place," he announced, pulling on a shirt. "Catch you later!" He was gone before anyone could respond.
Then J's phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen. "Shit." He sat up, swinging his legs off the raft. "Nicky's pissed. I gotta go."
Your stomach dropped.
J looked over at you, hesitant. Worried. "You okay staying here?"
You nodded. "Yeah. Of course. It's fine."
J threw a worried glance at Pope- a warning glance. The kind that said be careful.
Pope ignored it, sipping his beer. His eyes were fixed on you now. You hadn't noticed yet.
"Okay..." J said slowly. Reluctantly.
"Stay as long as you'd like. Call me if you need anything." He emphasized the last part. Anything.
He left.
And then it was just you.
And Pope.
-------------------
Pope had been watching you for months. Not the way normal people watch.
The way he watched marks.
The way he watched targets.
He noticed you the first time J brought you around. The way you moved carefully through the house—
Smart enough to sense danger, but not smart enough to leave.
The way you smiled at Smurf, polite but distant. Survival instinct you didn't even know you had.
He noticed the dresses. Little sundresses that hit mid-thigh. The bikinis when they had pool days.
The way you'd tuck your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.
The soft skin of your inner thighs when you sat.
The curve of your throat when you laughed.
He cataloged it all.
He noticed the way you looked at him.
You thought you were subtle. You weren't. Cute.
He'd spent years reading people- reading their tells, their weaknesses, their wants. You were easy.
Too easy.
He'd catch you staring when you thought no one was watching. Your eyes would flick to him across the kitchen, across the yard, across the living room.
Then you'd look away fast. Like you'd been caught doing something wrong.
You had been.
Pope didn't do anything about it at first. He just watched back. Studied you. The way he studied everyone before he made a move.
But with you it was different.
With you, he wanted to know more. Wanted to know what you were thinking when you looked at him like that. Wanted to know if you understood what you were doing.
Wanted to know if you knew how dangerous he was.
You didn't. That much was obvious...
...
J warned you off.
Pope overheard him when he brought you over the first day.
"Don't go around Pope." Good advice. The best advice you'd ever get.
You should've listened.
But you kept coming back. Kept wearing those dresses. Kept looking.
And Pope kept watching. Kept cataloging. Kept waiting.
He knew where you lived. Knew your routine. How you walked home from work every Tuesday and Thursday. That you stopped at the coffee shop on the corner. Knew you lived alone.
He'd driven past your apartment three times. Never stopped. Just looked.
Just confirmed-
He told himself he was being careful. Making sure you weren't a threat to the family... It's just surveillance.
It wasn't.
It was obsession.
Tonight Smurf was gone. The house felt different without her- lighter, looser. Everyone was relaxed. Laughter and drinks shared around the table.
Pope sat on his lounge chair and watched you sit by the pool. Legs in the water. Bikini top tied around your neck, the strings delicate against your skin. Your thighs pressed together. Water dripping down your calves.
You glanced at him once. Just once. Then looked away.
He imagined his hands on those thighs. Imagined the bruises his fingers would leave. Imagined the sounds you'd make.
His jaw clenched. His hands tightened on the beer bottle.
The same hands that had broken bones.
The same hands that had held a gun to a man's head two days ago.
The same hands that wanted to touch you so badly it made his chest ache.
He'd been patient. Months of patience. Controlling himself because he had to. Because there were always people around.
Because Smurf would notice.
Because J would know.
But tonight everyone was leaving. One by one, they filtered out until it was just J left.
And you.
J got a text. Pope knew what it was before J even looked at his phone. Nicky. Always Nicky. He almost feels bad for the kid. J was stressed, torn. He looked at you, then at Pope.
Pope didn't react. Just sipped his beer. Kept his face blank. The face he used when he was working. When he was hunting.
J left.
Now it was just the two of you.
Pope leaned back in his chair. The sun was almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the horizon. The sky turning purple and pink. The music still played. Some bass-heavy track he didn't know the name of.
You sat there. Legs still in the water. You hadn't moved since J left. But your shoulders were tense now. You knew.
Pope finished his beer. Set the bottle down on the concrete with a soft clink.
He shifted in his chair. Antsy. That feeling crawling under his skin. The one that meant he needed to move, needed to act. Needed to do something or he'd lose his mind.
The feeling he got before a job.
Before violence.
He'd been still long enough. He'd been careful long enough. He'd been patient long enough.
He stood.
-------------------
...
You realize you're alone with Pope.
The sun is nearly gone. Dusk settling heavy and warm. The music is still playing. Quiet now, just a murmur of bass and lyrics you can't make out.
You keep your legs in the water. Keep your eyes down. Watching your feet kick gently, making small ripples.
You feel him watching you. You don't look. You can't.
If you look, it'll be real.
If you look, you'll have to acknowledge that you're alone with the one person J explicitly told you to stay away from.
Your heart pounds. Your skin feels too hot. There's a knot of fear in your stomach that you try to ignore. Try to rationalize.
It's just Pope. It's fine.
You're fine.
You hear him shift. Hear the lounge chair creak. Hear his beer bottle clink against the stone.
Silence. Long, heavy silence.
You risk a glance. Just one.
He's staring right at you.
Your breath catches. You look away fast, but it's too late.
You felt it- the weight of his gaze, the intensity. He wasn't just looking.
He was hunting. Dissecting. The way a predator watches its prey.
Your hands grip the edge of the pool. The concrete rough under your palms. Your pulse hammering in your throat. A car passes on the street beyond the fence. The music shifts to another song. The water laps gently against your legs.
You hear him stand.
Your pulse spikes. Genuine fear shoots through you. You keep your eyes down.
Don't look. Don't look.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Measured.
He's moving toward you.
Your chest rises and falls too fast. You try to steady your breathing, but you can't. Fear and something else- something you don't want to name- coils tight in your belly. Arousal mixing with terror in a way that makes you dizzy.
The footsteps stop.
He's close now. You can feel him. The heat radiating off him. The presence. Danger.
Don't look.
...
"You don't talk a lot." His voice breaks the quiet. Low. Emotionless.
You look up. Shit.
He's standing above you now. Shirtless. Swim trunks low on his hips. His body all muscle, tension, and barely-contained violence. His face unreadable.
But his eyes, his eyes are locked on yours. Intense and unblinking. Empty in a way that makes your stomach drop.
"You don't either..." You say quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods in agreement. "I like that."
You smile, shy. You don't know what else to do. Your body is screaming at you to run, but you can't move.
"You don't talk a lot..." He says again, slower this time. "...But you do look." He takes another step forward.
Your stomach drops.
"What...?" You breathe.
"You look at me." His head tilts, eyes narrowing. "...Too much."
Oh god. He knows.
"I—"
"Why?" You can't answer. Can't think.
Your eyes focus in front of you once again, unable to meet his gaze.
He's too close. Too intense.
He sits down next to you. Close. So close your thighs are touching. The heat of his skin against yours makes you dizzy. Makes you want to pull away and press closer at the same time.
His hand reaches over and grabs your thigh.
"Pope-"
"What?" He says it like it's nothing. Like this is normal.
His eyes now fixed on your thigh. Watching the way his fingers dig in, squeezing. Tight. Too tight. The fat of your thigh pooling around his grip. It hurts.
You can feel the strength in his hand. The same strength that could break bones.
A gasp escapes your mouth.
He stills. His eyes snap to yours.
Your chest rises and falls rapidly. His gaze is unwavering. Watching your reaction like he's studying it. Memorizing it.
Then his hand lifts. You look down and see the redness from the pressure. The indent of his fingers marks. Bruises forming already.
You're too distracted to stop him-
His hands clamp down on your hips, and he pushes you forward into the pool.
You crash under the surface. Water rushes over your head, into your nose, choking you. Panic spikes. You kick up, gasping as you break through.
"Pope, What the fuck?!"
He's already in the water.
He comes at you immediately. Arms snatching you up, wrangling you against him like you weigh nothing.
His front flush against your back. You kick and thrash, but he's too strong. Impossibly strong. His arms lock around you like steel.
"Pope. What the hell are you doing?" Panic in your voice.
"Shut up. Stop moving."
You listen, softening in his hold.
The flatness in his voice makes you freeze. Genuine fear shoots through you.
This is wrong. This is dangerous. But your body- your traitorous body- is responding. Heat pooling low in your belly.
The arms wrapped tight around you start to loosen. His warm breath is on your neck. Your ear. You feel his hands move up your belly. Under the curve of your breast, then back down to your hips. Possessive.
He presses fully against you, every inch of him claiming the space.
You feel him against your lower back, hard and insistent.
His hands wander your body slowly, exploring.
The same hands that have hurt people.
The same hands that have killed.
You don't know that.
"Pope-"
"Shut it."
You whine at his grabby touch. The sound does something to him. He halts. A shaky breath leaves him. The first sign of emotion you've heard.
He twists you around roughly by the waist. Aggressive. You're facing him now. His big hands grip your shoulders hard enough to bruise. He stares at you.
You shrink in his gaze. Terrified, and turned on in a way that makes you hate yourself.
"You keep staring at me," Pope finally says.
"I-I'm sorry, Pope-"
"You keep staring." His grip tightens. "Months. You've been staring at me for months."
Silence. His eyes flicker to your lips. Hungry.
"What do you want?"
...
Your eyes widen. Your cheeks heat up. "Pope- we should-"
"What. Do. You. Want." His voice raw as the grip tightens on your shoulders. Painful now. You can feel his fingers digging into muscle. You try to suppress it, but you moan.
He looks taken aback. Shocked. Then something shifts in his eyes. Something dark. Obsessed.
His hands loosen. Now softly moving up your neck. The contrast terrifying. Gentle after violence. You're stunned.
Then to your hair, grabbing the claw clip to take it out. He throws it over his shoulder, back to the stone ledge.
His eyes scan over you, taking you in now. His hands reach up to play with the soft framing piece of your hair. Tender in a way that feels wrong.
"Pope, what are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. His eyes just keep flicking from your eyes to your hair, then your lips. Toying with the strands. Studying you.
You feel your thighs clench together, seeking relief. You shouldn't want this. You should be scared.
You are scared.
But you want it anyway.
His body looms closer to yours. Your legs touch under the water now. Inching closer. He drops his hands finally from your hair.
"You keep staring at me," He says softly. Dangerously soft.
"I'm sorry..." You say, feeling out of breath.
"You wear little dresses and bikinis around the house..." His eyes drop to your breasts unashamedly. "....You think I don't notice?"
"I- well- I guess..."
"Who are you doing that for?" His eyes narrow, shooting back up. An edge to his voice now. Something threatening.
"N-no one."
"Not J?" There's danger in the question. Violence barely contained.
Your brow furrows. You shake your head slightly, trying to understand where this is coming from. "No- of course not. J has a girlfriend. No..."
He studies you, searching for lies. "Pretty sure that's why him and Nicky are fighting tonight..."
Your eyes widen. "What?"
...
"So you really know nothing? Have no feelings for J?" His hands tighten on your shoulders again. Warning.
"No... Of course not."
He nods quietly, satisfied. His body moves closer to you.
"You've been waiting for this..." He says, matter of fact. Eyes intense.
"You've been watching me. I've been watching you." The way he says it makes your blood run cold. I've been watching you. Not just at the house. Everywhere.
You don't understand. You just nod, feeling your face heat up.
"You wear this for me...?" His finger picks at the bikini strap, then lets it snap back to your skin. Sharp. Stinging. His eyes drop to your breasts.
You can't respond. Horrified. Thrilled. The realization crashing over you
—He knows.
He's known all along. Every glance. Every dress. Every time you looked at him, thinking you were being subtle.
He was watching. He was always watching.
"Answer me." He growls, snapping you from your thoughts.
"I-"
"Tell me the truth." His voice gravelly.
You can't find words. Your throat closes. All you can do is nod. A small, desperate movement, because anything else would shatter you.
Pope's expression never changes. He just nods back. His shoulders look a little less tense. Like something's been confirmed. Decided.
"Good." His eyes drop again. He licks his lip, biting it.
"If you're wearing it for me- then I'll take it off for you." It's not a request.
His hands slowly raise to the straps. You grab his hands before he makes contact.
"Pope-"
His eyes meet yours. Flat. Waiting.
There's a warning in them. Don't fight me.
Your breathing is unsteady. You should say no. You should leave.
You should run.
"Okay..." You say, dropping his hands.
His hands place on your shoulders. Firm grip as he brings you against the wall of the pool, cornering you in. Your back pressed into the stone, his torso pressed against yours. Caging you in. Trapping you.
His eyes are dark as he scans over you. Hungry. Hands easing up your shoulders, to the back of your neck, tugging the tie free from your bikini top. He lets it drop.
You gasp as it does; instinct making you reach to cover your breasts-
His hands catch yours before they can, fingers wrapping around your wrists with deep pressure.
"No." The word is flat. Final. A command that leaves no room for argument.
You shudder- a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature. His grip loosens suddenly, and you feel the rough pads of his thumbs rubbing slow circles against the inside of your wrists where your pulse hammers.
The gentleness after violence makes your head spin. Makes you dizzy. You nod because you can't speak. Can't think past the feeling of his hands on you.
His hands let go.
Then drop to your breasts. Rough, claiming palms cupping the soft weight of you like he's memorizing the shape and feel. The way you fit in his hands.
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
He takes his time, doesn't rush. His thumbs brush over your nipples, already hard from the cool air. From fear. From want.
You feel the sensation shoot straight down to your core.
He rolls the sensitive buds between his fingers and tugs. Tests how much pressure makes you gasp. How much makes you whine. Learning your body like he's studying a map. Cataloging every reaction.
"Pope..." You whine, breathless.
He's mesmerized. Eyes locked on his hands touching you. Watching the way your flesh responds to him. The way your nipples peak darker under his attention.
He nods, almost to himself. "I know... I know..." His voice is rough. Strained. Barely controlled.
Like he's holding himself back from something violent.
Something consuming.
His hands trail down over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, settling on your hips with bruising force. He pulls your legs around him, your body flush against his.
Now, you feel the hard length of him pressed between your thighs—separated only by fabric. Your breath hitches. A sharp, broken moan escapes you. Your hands fly to his arms, grabbing onto the solid muscle there.
The same arms that have held people down. Choked them. Hurt them.
The same arms now holding you like you're something precious and breakable and his.
His eyes snap to yours at the sound. Dark. Pupils blown wide. The noise you made undoing something in him.
"Fuck," He pants, feeling the word against your skin, more than hearing it.
Then his mouth is on you.
His head lowers, mouth finding your nipple and taking it in. Teeth scraping the sensitive bud. You cry out before you can stop yourself.
His hand closes over your other breast. Pinching. Rolling. Testing how much you can take while his mouth works the first, sucking and biting the sensitive skin.
Your hands claw at his arms. Holding on like you're drowning.
His other hand grips your hip tight and possessive. Deep purple marks already blooming in the shape of his fingers. He uses that grip to grind you against him hand. Relentless.
The friction even through your bikini bottoms steals your breath. Your vision whites out. Too much. Not enough.
"Pope-" His name breaks in your throat. "Pope, Oh my God-"
The words barely leave your mouth before he's rutting against you, hips rolling in a rhythm that's filthy and raw. He whimpers against your breast- actually whimpers- the sound muffled and broken. So at odds with the violence in his grip.
Pupils blown so wide, his eyes look black. Empty. Hungry. He bites down on your nipple. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make you shriek loud. Echoing-
His hand flies up and clamps over your mouth, cutting off the sound. Cutting off your air.
"No-" He growls against your wet skin.
"Can't do that or we'll get caught."
Your eyes go wide. Your chest heaves against his, trying to pull in air through your nose.
Your hips shift against him, seeking relief. Seeking friction. Seeking anything. The movement pulls a deep, guttural groan from him, you feel vibrate through your whole body.
"Don't wanna get caught out here like this, now do you?..." His voice rough. Breath hot against your ear.
"....Don't want them to see you like this. See what you let me do to you. See you spread open for me in the pool like a good girl."
You shake your head no against his palm. Frantic. Desperate.
A wide smiles grows on his face, not reaching his eyes. Dark and predatory.
"Good girl."
His palm lifts from your mouth and you gasp in air shaking, before his hand slides down between your legs. Now, cupping you through your bikini bottoms. The pressure makes you moan. You feel him twitch against you in response.
"Can I pull these off..." His eyes flick between your face and where his hand cups you. It's not a question. It's more like a promise.
You nod.
"Say yes." His voice rough with want. Demanding. His fingers press harder against your clit through the fabric. You nearly sob.
"Yes, Pope..." You whine. His warm hand still cupping you. Pressing hard, rubbing slow circles that make your thighs shake around his waist.
"You want me...?" He asks, voice uncertain for just a moment, a crack in his control.
He applies more pressure, watching your face with careful focus. Memorizing every micro-expression. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your eyelashes.
Looking for confirmation. Looking for proof that you actually want this.
That you actually want him. Not just fear. Not just the situation. Him.
"Say it."
"Yes- yes! Pope, I want you-!"
The last thread of his restraint snaps. His mouth crashes into yours, hungry. Teeth clashing. Tongues sliding. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to break skin and pulls. You taste copper, mouth full of the mix of metallic, chlorine, and the beer he was drinking earlier.
Both his hands fumble with the ties of your bikini bottoms at your hips. Rough. Impatient. Shaking slightly, like he can't quite control his own hands anymore.
You're moaning into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him. Your hands find his hair, tugging hard, pulling a groan deep from his chest. Sound so raw and broken, it makes you clench around nothing.
The bikini comes free. The fabric floats away in the water, leaving you completely exposed. Completely bare. Completely his.
He pulls back just enough to look. To take you in. His eyes are dark. Hungry in a way that should terrify you—
It does. Somewhere deep in your brain, where the survival instinct still lives. Your hands rest on his biceps, feeling the muscle flex and tense under your palms.
He doesn't touch you. Just watches. Watches your chest rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths. Watches the way you tremble in his arms. Watches you shake with fear and want and need all tangled together into something you can't name.
"I need you, Pope."
His eyes lock to yours. Something shifts in them. Something dark and satisfied.
"Say it again."
"I need you, Pope." Your voice breaks.
He nods slow. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip, pressing.
"You have me." It sounds like a threat. "You have all of me now."
Then his mouth is on yours again, desperate but more gentle this time. All-consuming. His tongue slides against yours as his hands grip your waist tight, pulling you flush against him. You feel his hard length against your bare center, whimpering into his mouth. He swallows the sound, groaning deep in his chest.
"Pope, please-" You gasp when he pulls back.
"I know... I know..." He breathes against your lips. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed. His chest heaving.
"You sure?" There's an edge to the question. Like he's giving you one last chance to run.
"Yes- God, yes-"
His eyes open. Dark. Empty. He studies your face, then he nods once.
His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding you under the water. You jolt at the contact, gasping. He watches your face as he touches you. Rough circles that make your thighs shake around his waist. Learning you inside and out.
"Pope-" You whine.
"Shh... Need you to be quiet..." His voice rough, riddled with restraint.
"Gotta make sure you're ready for me..." His fingers press hard. "...Gotta make sure you can take it."
You nod frantically, hips rolling against his hand. He adds pressure, causing you to bite your lip to keep from crying out. His other hand grips your hip, holding you steady against the pool wall. Trapped.
"That's it..." He murmurs. "Just like that... good girl..."
The water laps around you both, warm and isolating. The music still plays faintly from the speaker. A car passes on the street beyond the fence. The world keeps moving while you're pinned here, trembling under his touch.
No one knows where you are.
No one can hear you.
He slides a finger inside you, rough. Your head falls back against the concrete edge.
"Oh, God-"
His hand clamps over your mouth again. Harder this time.
"What did I say?" His eyes intense. Warning. You whimper against his palm. He adds another finger, stretching you. Your eyes roll back.
"You want everyone to know? Want them to come out here and see you like this? See what you're letting me do?"
You shake your head no, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.
From fear. From pleasure.
"Then be quiet." He punctuates each word with a curl of his fingers that makes you see stars. Rough and claiming.
You nod desperately. He removes his hand from your mouth slowly. You bite down on your own lip, tasting the familiar copper again.
He watches. Transfixed. Obsessed. Then he pulls his fingers out, causing you to whine at the loss.
"I've got you..." He says. His voice softer, but no less dangerous. His hand wraps around himself under the water, positioning. You feel the head of him press against you, causing your breath to hitch.
"Breathe..." Then he's pushing in. Not slow. Not gentle. Claiming.
Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. His length, stretching and splitting you open. The water makes everything slick and smooth, but you still feel every thick inch. He watches your face the entire time, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose. Watching for pain. For resistance.
"Fuckk-" He hisses when he's fully seated inside you. His forehead drops to your shoulder.
"Fuck- You feel... So fucking tight..." His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to hurt.
"Been thinking about this... Been watching you... Knowing I'd have you like this..."
You can't speak. Can't think. You just hold onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.
He stays still for a moment. Letting you adjust. His hands grip your hips so tight you know there'll be bruises tomorrow. The thought makes you clench around him.
He groans, low and broken. "Don't- don't do that or I won't last..." His voice strained.
"Pope, please move-" You beg.
He obliges.
He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in. Hard. Brutal. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.
He does it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that has the water sloshing around you both, splashing up onto the deck. Claiming. Possessive.
"So fucking perfect-" He mutters against your neck, voice rough and broken.
"Knew you would be... Been watching you... Thinking about this... About having you... About making you mine..."
You moan softly, and he kisses you, swallowing the sound. His hips snap against yours relentless. One hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You arch into his touch.
"Pope- P-pope, I'm- mhm"
"I know... I can feel it..." His voice animalistic. "Let go... I've got you... I've got you now..."
His hand slides between you again, fingers finding your clit. He circles it in time with his thrusts. You feel yourself climbing, higher and higher.
"That's it... Come on..." He breathes against your ear, voice dark.
"Wanna feel you... Wanna feel you come on my cock... Been waiting months for this..."
You break apart in his arms, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. Your whole body trembles. Clenching around him.
He groans deep, hips stuttering. Losing rhythm.
"Fuck- w-where-" he gasps. His hands tighten on you.
"Inside- I'm on the pill... Please-"
That's all it takes. He buries himself deep, brutal— and stills. His whole body going rigid. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you. Claiming you. His face buried in your neck, breathing hard. Small sounds escaping him that sound almost pained.
You hold him. Your legs still wrapped around his waist. The water settling around you both.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time feels strange.
Finally, he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are different now, satisfied. Vulnerable.
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones softly. The contrast terrifying.
"You okay?" He asks quietly.
You nod. "Yeah... you?"
He nods back. Then he kisses you, gentle this time. Sweet. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.
"We should..." You start.
"I know."
But neither of you move.
He's still inside you. Your legs still wrapped around him. The water cool now against your heated skin. The night air settling heavy and thick.
"Pope..." You whisper.
"Yeah?"
"...What happens now?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you gently as he slowly pulls out. You both wince at the loss. He sets you down, your feet finding the pool floor. His hands don't leave your waist.
"Now..." He says, eyes searching yours. "...Now you're mine."
It's not a question. It's a fact. A threat.
A promise.
"You understand? You're mine now."
You should probably be scared. Should probably run. But you just nod.
"Okay."
He nods, satisfied. His hand releases you reluctantly as he reaches for your bikini bottoms floating at the pool's edge. He hands them to you, watching as your trembling fingers fumble with the ties.
You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement, every small shake.
Your top comes next. He helps you secure it around your neck. His fingers brush your skin in a way that feels almost reverent. Almost gentle. The contrast makes your chest ache.
Soft against your skin. Tender.
When you're both decent again, he just stands there. Looking at you. The weight of what just happened settling between you like stones. Like a cage.
...
"J can't know." He says finally. It's not a request, it's an order.
"I know."
"No one can know." His eyes intense, slightly threatening. "This is between us. You understand?"
"I know, Pope."
He nods, then pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you tight. You rest your cheek against his heartbeat. Steady and strong. The heartbeat of something dangerous.
Above you, the stars are coming out. The music still plays. Somewhere in the house, a door closes.
You stand there in the water, held by him as the world keeps spinning around you. You don't understand what you've just done. Not yet. But it's starting to creep in, slow and cold, like water seeping under a locked door.
Standing in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your ear, grip possessive. Claiming.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispers:
-You don't actually know him-
You don't know what he does when he leaves the house at 2 am, coming back at dawn with blood on his knuckles.
You don't know why Deran and Craig go quiet when he walks into a room.
You don't know why J's voice went serious when he warned you-
'Don't go around Pope'- Like it wasn't advice.
Like it was survival.
...
You remember the way Pope looked at a guy at a bar once. Just looked. Didn't say a word. And the guy left. Pale and shaking.
You remember the scar on Pope's ribs. The one he never explained.
You remember Baz saying once, casually, over beers,
'Pope's got a body count, man. Don't fuck with him.'
Everyone laughed. But it wasn't a joke... Was it?
You knew it wasn't a joke.
...
What did you just let him do to you?
Your breath catches, chest tightening.
He's still holding you. Still watching. You can feel his eyes on the top of your head even though you can't see his face.
Studying you. Assessing. The way he's been doing for months.
This wasn't spontaneous. This wasn't passion.
He planned this.
He waited until everyone left. He waited until you were alone.
He waited until you had no escape. No witnesses. No one to stop him.
He's been watching you- learning you.
And tonight, he decided it was time. You were always the target.
The realization hits you like a punch to the gut.
He doesn't love you.
He doesn't even know you.
He just... wants you. Wants to own you. The way he owns everything else in his life
Through control, through fear,
Through force.
And you let him. You begged him.
...
You think about leaving. About pulling away. About running.
But his arms are still around you. Tight. Unyielding.
You don't know if you can leave. You don't know what he'd do if you tried.
You crossed a line tonight. A line you didn't even know existed.
And now you're on the other side of it.
In his world, in his grip, in his possession
There's no crossing back.
This is permanent.
You're his now...
And the worst part?
The part that makes your skin crawl, your heart race, and your breath come short—
Is that some small, sick part of you wanted this. Wanted him.
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step bro!Pope.... this is all for you @valleyanimalz brother
tw pseudocest roleplay, fauxcest, girly moans pope truther, established relationship, impact play, somno n cnc if u squint . Pope calls reader bubby. mega smut ddne pls head my warning and dni if you're under 18!
Pope would enter your home with a long sigh, shoulders slumping forward as he drops everything there in his place. when he comes home after an overnight job, he never let's you know when he's coming home. it could be three in the afternoon, three in the morning. he does this because he gets to see you in your most vulnerable form.
he doesn't undress, doesn't shower, doesn't even step out his boots when he makes heavy steps towards your bedroom. even with all the exhaustion flowing through his body, he knows what he needs. he needs his...sister.
licking his lips, he pulls the covers off your body, a sheer black nightgown riding up your soft thighs. as mentioned, Pope never let you know when he came home. so you, being the doll you are, always make the effort to lay to rest in something pretty, something easy, something teasing.
he bites his lip, hands running up your unconscious legs as he moves you onto your back, his own knees denting the mattress as he leans over the side of you. in the morning, you'll scold him about the marks they leave on your duvet. but for now, you're at his dismay.
every time he greets you like this, you're always ready for him. your arousal seeping onto the back of your thighs, as you don't wear underwear when he leaves. clean, smooth, buttery with your brown sugar lotion coating your body. he inhales deep, hunched over your body as he goes from your hair, down your back, to your ass. you're all mine, he thinks.
he peels off his leather jacket, hands hurriedly sliding off his belt as his dick strains against the harsh denim. he watches your face stir ever so slightly as he runs his knuckles against your soft cheek, "such a pretty lil girl.." he's whispers, his thumb gliding over your plush lip, pressing down on it to watch it squish against his digit.
"missed your throat, sweetie..s'all i could think about.." your mouth opens around him as he slides his thumb past your teeth slowly, his breath picking up as he watches himself intrude you. "you been lettin' anyone use this mouth, baby? she still reserved for your big brother? guess we'll find out."
he's palming himself through his cotton boxers, eyes locked on how you take his thumb deeper into your mouth. he feels you come into consciousness from the inside—your tongue twitching against him as he presses down, curving along it as your lips began to register the unfamiliar thing.
your lashes flutter, he feels your breath pick up against his hand, and its not long until your little hand raises in its sleepy state. you let out a groggy whine, grabbing onto his forehead as you blink awake, Andrew's breath hitching when you stare up at him with big, sleepy eyes. opening your mouth around his thumb, you let it rest on your lips. "..A-Andy..?" you mewl, squinting slighlty to see his pretty face.
with your head angled up he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, his spit covered thumb circling your plump lips. "sorry to wake you bub...just got home.." you hear that word—no that name, that tone of voice. and it clicks in your mind what he wants, even through your tired body.
its what he usually did when he came home from a job. sometimes he wanted to be dad. but more times than none, he was your big brother, not your boyfriend. not in the scene, at least. "what..what're you doin'..?" you watch him bite down on his lip when you give into his play, the hand that's not holding his forearm rests on his thigh, right under where the skin flexes out his boxers.
"don't worry honey. just open your mouth, okay? your big brother had a stressful fuckin' day. gonna help me out?" you watch with big eyes as he gets his pants down to his knees. you push weakly at his thighs, "andy...m'tired.." you whine, squeaking when he grabs your chin roughly to pull you closer.
"I know i know,,I'll be quick just-just open your mouth.." he slaps at your cheek, and you whimper as you stick out your tongue. he taps his tip along it roughly,a raspy hum exiting his mouth before fisting at your hair, easing his cock in your mouth. your eyes roll back the deeper he goes, lip stretching around his fat dick.
from above you, Andrew let's out a long groan, head thrown back slighlty, eyes not leaving the sight of you. "there you go bubby..alll the way back—nuh-uh," he slaps at your cheek again when you gag slightly, tears brimming your lashline, "take it, don't push me. you can do it." he grunts, keeping your head down.
your hands find his thighs, holding yourself steady as he meets your face with his thrusts. you whine and moan around him, lifting your tongue to glide along the underside of his cock, the action making him groan louder. "y'so fucking good baby, Jesus christ.." his hand holds the underside of your jaw, angling your head up as he speeds up his hips, his firey pubes tickling your lips.
you gag with each hit of the back of your throat, tears running down your cheeks now, and he pulls at your hair harder. "fuck bubby, fuck y-oh my god you're so good, takin' that shit huh?" he's getting cocky, your cheeks burning after each impact he sends through you, little sobs humming around his dick.
"you just take it n take it for me every time, such a good Lil sister.." your hands rake up his thighs, bunching his shirt above his abs as he slams his dick down your throat, pornographic gags being heard under his slew of girly sounding moans. "yeah baby, yeah, doin' so fuckin good, m-fuuuck m'almost done, just a lil longer okay?"
his eyes roll back as he hunches over your body, knees pressing deeper into the mattress, your neck beginning to strain from how he forces your head back. your thighs rub together under your gown, arousal pooling onto your thighs the louder he gets, using your throat to reach his release.
as your eyes fog with tears you watch his stomach spasm, abs tightening with each heavy breath he takes, your hands sliding from how tired you are. "bubby m'gonna cum, gonna cum down your fucking throat oh my fffucking god," he moans, brows furrowed as he looks down into your eyes that roll back with each jittery, hurried thrust.
his moans come out raspier, whinier as he reaches his climax, his jaw slack before he squeezes his eyes shut, hips stuttering to a stop as he paints the walls of your throat, holding your head down harder, letting it fill up your mouth before he slowly pulls out, still holding the underside of your chin.
had he not caught your body, you would've fallen face first into his pubes, your eyes shut with tears coating your lashes. as he huffs and puffs, he let's you calm yourself, stroking your wet cheek as he bends down to your level. "show me you swallowed." he rasps, and you shoot up, sticking your tongue out to show your good work. he bites his lip in a smirk, "that's me good girl." he kisses your stained cheek, smiling at the pleased sound you make as you wrap your arms around his neck.
"did so good, baby. you ok?" he whsiperd as you both come down from your scene, "tired..missed you..m'so wet for you.." you mumble into his ear, youre cheek to cheek with each other as he lays you ln your back. he dips his hand between your legs, almost a little astonished at how fucking soaked you were.
"yeah, youre so fuckin' wet baby. cmon, lay down." your hands glide off his body as he scoots onto his stomach down to your aching cunt. "gna take care of me..?" you watch as he thumbs at your pussy lips, spreading you open to watch your hole clench at his hot breath. "yeah, honeybee. just lay back, m'gonna take care of ya." (´∀｀*)ε｀ )
nikolai will do anything for you, including making porn for revenge on your dad
18+ mdni, DDNE. major content warnings: incest/fauxcest, price is a bad dad, reader is a worse daughter, exhibitionism, exposure kink, mentions of grooming, mentions of underage, mentions of rape, degradation, daddy kink, piss kink
thank you to @rawme-price for adding to my brainworms!!
maybe your dad should've paid more attention to you growing up, noticed when you started spending more time on your phone watching porn than you did socialising with friends.
or maybe caught on that your grades in uni were slipping because you spent all your free time on omegle flashing your tits to men three times your age.
but he didn't notice a thing, his killer instincts and observational skills focused where his heart truly lies--work.
where your daddy failed, another man kept a watchful eye over you always, counselled you and indulged you at every turn.
that's how you find yourself here, on your knees in nik's temporary sas hanger, doors wide open for anyone to walk past and see.
in nothing but your daddy's jacket, the one he lets you borrow, and the locket he gave you for your 18th birthday--treasured, even though you had to beg him to take a picture for it.
you're on display, not just for the passersby, not just for the man before you, but for the cameras too--one set off to the side while the other is pointed down at you.
every inch of you on show, your body that's been seen by countless pervs online, but now with your sweet little face on show too. there's new additions since you stopped showing off--matching nipple piercings, a tattoo just above your cunt, things you'd planned months ago when you'd settled on this idea. nik would be the first to see them, then your dad and the whole wide web.
"look right at camera, malyshka." nik coos, oh so sweetly but with a sick smirk, like he hasn't just skull fucked you within a hairs breadth of passing out choked on his cock. like your face isn't covered in globs of your own drool, his spit and your running mascara. like he hasn't plastered your driving licence to your forehead just like you asked.
"yes, uncle. papochka."
you blink up through tear-stained lashes, expression the very picture of innocence as you tongue at your uncle's cock and connect with the lens like you were made for this. maybe you were, having been groomed by all the hardcore porn you've watched, by the men who molded you in their image, by your loving, perverted uncle who encouraged every step of your little plan.
"good girl. they're gonna love you." he whispers before plunging deep inside until his cockhead forces open your throat. "take it all, gag on it, that's it." his encouragement is lovely, something that's been so familiar for so long you obey without question.
his spare hand cradles the back of your head, not needing to coax you down to the root because youre already raping your own throat on his cock, depriving yourself of oxygen because you know his pleasure is more important. you delight in the way his fat hairy stomach buries you into his musk, the dichotomy of your smooth young body with his older one.
it's perfect, euphoric, rational thought pushed out of you brain along with the ability to breathe, inhibitions leaking out of your cunt down your leg.
this is what you'd dreamed of all along, doing something that would finally get your daddy's attention, something that might finally get him to act.
after all, surely he won't sit idle as his only daughter's sex tape is spread round the base, round the world, her being subjugated to the most depraved acts by a man he trusted, all while his surname is right there in print, tying the two of them together forever.
you'd be nothing more than a porn fuck toy for sick misogynist men the world over, no one would look at you or him the same way.
finally, he'll act, and show he cares.
"pretty little price girl."
the words just about reach your ears just as your vision goes fuzzy, and you tap on nik's thigh for release. he takes far longer than he should to relent from bullying his cock further down your throat.
you're coughing and sputtering, desperate for air and yet riding the high, aching and throbbing and barely recovering--but nik knows your limits better than you do, he's smart, a man, so many years your senior and wiser still.
so as you gasp just for the chance to breathe, he lines himself up and lets go--warm piss running over your pretty little face, gushing into your gaping mouth, dripping down to your tits and the jacket with captain price sown on the breast.
"such a mess for your uncle nik." he barks a laugh, one that makes your clit throb. "make your smart face for your dad, hmm, just like I showed you?"
and you can't help but comply--eyes bright, tongue lolling out as you smile, open and willing and desperate, because knowing you wanted all this, got off on it, might just be the last nail in your fathers coffin.
this is chapter one. based off of this song. available on ao3 as well.
pairing: benjamin poindexter x gn!reader
tags/warnings: dead dove do not eat, stalker!dex, established rship, obsessed!dex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome reader, violence (not against reader), toxic relationship dynamic, northstar!reader, morally fucked reader, reader is implied to have long hair, more tags i am probably missing
summary: your boyfriend has his issues and you knew that, your love for him never wavered despite his flaws. you never thought the second he felt you "pulling away" he would ruin you for anyone else.
dex had his issues and you were aware of that. there was many of nights where he would sob into your chest, begging you never to leave him and you held him through it all.
when you found out he was the masked assassin known as 'bullseye' you thought nothing of it. sure, killing is wrong, but you didn't have any plans on leaving him ever. you loved him for who he is and if that includes 'bullseye', you were ready to adapt.
however, he did not hold the same sentiment that you did.
"you were not supposed to find out about this," he's pacing and fiddling with his fingers, shirt wrinkled and sweat beading on his forehead. there's a vein popping in his neck, the familiar visual cue of his anxiety. "dex, i don't care about it, i just want you to know i'm here for you." you try to explain yourself for what seems to be the hundredth time, to no avail he continues not to listen to you. he is thoroughly convinced you are going to leave him.
"you're just saying that, i know you are." his footsteps have stopped and he's now facing you, eyes glossy and voice wobbly. you can't help the pang in your heart when he says that because you know he means what he's saying. he's spiraling for no reason, and slowly your attempts to aid him are making him lose it more. you are powerless in this situation.
***
"that's really the last thing you can remember?" he knows the answer yet continues to ask. he's looming over you, your hands bound behind your back rendering you completely helpless. "you should know i'm not going to hurt you and i don't plan on it. i just needed to sedate you, i was scared you were going to run from me." he sounds like his throat has wires around it. choking out every little word like he's going to cry at his next breath.
it's suffocating him to do this to you, or at least that's what he's trying to sell to you.
that's when the anger set in. your eyebrows furrowed and your survival instincts went out the window. "excuse me? you aren't gonna hurt me? oh, isn't it my lucky fucking day." you spat, shaking your head in disapproval at him as you try to wriggle your way out of the tight restraints around your wrists. he watched intently, lips pursed as if he was thinking of what to say or do next.
"baby please, i would never hurt you, don't be mean" he pleads as he kneels to your level, had reaching to card through your hair. you try to pull away at the attention but all he does is hold you in place. "you know i can't lose you, please don't take this personally" every word he says is making your heart drop into your stomach, tears welling up in your eyes and your mouth unable to open and form words.
on one hand he was right, he would never hurt you and a part of you, even in this situation, knew he wouldn't hurt you physically. it conflicted with any reasonable thought, because on another hand he is capable of this, so he is capable of killing you and getting away with it. the thought of that alone made adrenaline shoot through you like heroine in your veins and a sob choke through your mouth.
he was quick to wipe your rapidly streaming tears, shushing you as you sobbed and coughed. "shh, 's gonna be okay, i got'ya. not ever gonna let you leave my side." the words are meant to soothe, but they cut through your skin and only make the sobs worse. the man who was meant to protect you from all evil, the man who was meant to stay by your side and hold you through it all, the man you loved with no conviction was the same man to tie you up inside of your shared apartment off of the sole fear of you leaving him. the same man who was holding you while you sobbed, unable to move on your own.
a sick part of you felt cared for and it made you disgusted. you pushed the feeling away with your body and soul, sobbing into him as he held you like nothing has changed.
except everything has changed and you seemed to be the only one out of you two to understand that.
you were a normal person who lived a normal life with who you thought was a normal boyfriend. now, not only is he now known as an assassin named bullseye, but he's holding you in contempt based off of a feeling. no matter how many times you replay that fact in your brain it's never something you get used to. as you sit with yourself, the man before you seeming to be busy as his head is in the crook of your neck, strong arms holding you close to him while he rocks you back and forth. its uncomfortable and strange and you're cold. you want him to stop, you want it to go back to the way it was before all of this.
"i need... i need a sweater, dex." you speak for the first time in what seems to be hours for dex but only minutes in reality. your voice is broken from all the crying and it comes out mumbled but dex understands you regardless of it all. he nods as he gets you his black fbi quarter zip, bringing it above your head and taking your hair out of the fabric as to not have it get stuck or feel uncomfortable on your skin.
