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itsagrimm · 32 minutes

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you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

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itsagrimm · 44 minutes

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Overseas 🇺🇸

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itsagrimm · 1 hour

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special delivery! 💐

from valentines day

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itsagrimm · 10 hours

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nibble (photo ref here!!)

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itsagrimm · 10 hours

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IS IT RAINING, OR I'M DROWNING AGAIN?

TW: dissociation symptoms, mention of torture, swearing, angst, hurt/comfort.

PAIRING: Nikto x F! Reader

A/N: I love angst. That's it.

Nikto hated the rain.

And no one would believe if he said that, because surely a ‘person like him’ would prefer when it rains, the peaceful sound of the raindrops against a window that would give a calming effect.

For Nikto, every raindrop was a bomb setting off inside his brain. It was like an explosion, making him dizzy and unable to move. Like all those days tied to that creaking chair, his head covered by the hood while it rained outside that cold cell he was confined. He remember vividly how it was raining, between the screams of that motherf—

“Nikto?”

Then, he felt a cold shower inside him, holding his breath as he turned around. A hand was open towards him, your figure under the rain, your shirt sticking to your skin.

Fuck. He dissociated again. It wasn’t happening anymore, and now that he was back with the only person who treated him like a human being, he was having those episodes again.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay outside too much. Let’s go back inside, yeah?” How he loved your voice, the way you offered your hand, giving him a choice.

He could see how the rain was soaking your hand, the raindrops falling on both of you, the cold seeping through his bones. His eyes wandered around, assessing the reality. He was outside in the middle of the backyard. He was listening to the sound of raining, then…

He blinked rapidly. He hated the rain, so why he was outside and letting the rain fall on him? He started to count in his mind, one, two, three… and you were still there, still standing in front of him, your hair sticking to your face. You were shivering, but why were you smiling as if you were saying that everything was going to be okay?

He finally takes your hand, the skin clammy and cold, letting you lead him back into the house. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to anyway. He lets you change his clothes. He doesn’t complain for the water that’s soaking the floor, or the towel that you’re using on him to dry off his skin.

But he can still hear the rain outside, bombs setting off on his mind, making him dizzy and unable to run for cover.

Why he was outside, and why he was letting the rain fall on him?

He was drowning, and he wasn’t fighting it.

He observes you as you stand in front of him between his legs, holding his head and placing it against your chest. He lets you move him, not that he wants to fight your touch. But what he hears drowns all the sounds overloading his mind, making him rise to the surface again. He can hear your heartbeat: the rhythm isn’t steady, it beats fast. But it’s there. And it’s real.

It’s calming, enough that when he tentatively grip the soft skin of your thigh, he can feel it, sensing the skin on skin sending to his brain signals of home, of safety.

He doesn’t speak, and neither you do.

But that’s all he needs.

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itsagrimm · 11 hours

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If you see him

It's already too late

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itsagrimm · 12 hours

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#the reason why i am a slow writer

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itsagrimm · 12 hours

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Saw this license plate today and I'm still ugly laughing about it

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itsagrimm · 12 hours

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Burbiškis manor tulips in a bed of snow.

Photos: Laura Prascevičiūtė

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itsagrimm · 13 hours

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got into a discussion about my lack of national Russian pride bc i buy my smetana from the polish supermarket around the corner.

#i mean not wrong what national pride brother ew what is that #but also that's the funniest way to start a fight #grimmwriting

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itsagrimm · 17 hours

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itsagrimm · 20 hours

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‘Keeping Warm’ by Sydney Mortimer Laurence, c. 1921.

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itsagrimm · 21 hours

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the more i think about this the more infuriating it gets.

Like, do you really think people from other countries are stupid?

Do you really think smaller communities cannot see who is new in town?

the amount of over confidence one needs to just mentally place a NATO-member-officer-character in situations as if no one could clock that supposed elite undercover soldier the second he walks of the tarmac is the same line of thinking that keeps people from learning some essential vocabulary when travelling abroad or researching social faux pas before interacting with a foreign culture.

Honestly, confused about CoD fics set in Eastern Europe whose authors seem to think that an armed foreigner who doesn't speak the lingo would not be insta noticed by a semi curious neighbour.

Eastern Europe aside - have you never been in a small town? or a suburban neighborhood? a village? never dealt with nosy neighbours? never met that grandma or bored child or whoever always knows what is happening in front of their house?

cultures might be different. but human curiosity about something new and unusual is very universal.

people pick up on strangers so fast.

#yes i live in a city over run by tourists how do you know

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itsagrimm · 21 hours

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Chernobyl accident: Today is the 38th anniversary of the largest man-made disaster of the last century.

A cloud of radioactive dust hit Ukraine, Belarus, the Russian Federation and parts of Europe. After the accident, 8.5 million people were exposed to radiation.

Painting “CHAES, April 25, 1986”, V. Mykhalchuk

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itsagrimm · 23 hours

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newbie fic authors, shooting themselves in the foot: This fic is bad haha I suck at writing lol I am being mean to myself in the hopes that you will be nice to me but actually am dissuading anyone from even clicking on my fic because all I have done to advertise it is tell you why you shouldn't read it

me: I am King Big Dick of Fanfic Mountain and I have arrived in your fandom with the Express Intention of writing my Very Favorite Fics, which I will generously allow you to read. You're welcome.

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itsagrimm · 24 hours

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itsagrimm · 1 day

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Wegbier

Translation: a beer for the road. It’s the drink (often a beer but other drinks like Clubmate or Almdudler for those that don’t drink alcohol are also common) one takes with them when wandering from one space to another while out with friends. And I literally mean wandering. It’s not a drinking while driving thing but a drinking while walking or using the public transport thing.

CN mentions of alcohol and drinking, theft, reader gets lifted up (hold on tight, spidermonkey!), drunk König

Summary: You are walking home with your boyfriend after a night out and cause havoc.

For legal reasons this is a joke.

König X gn reader

1,2 k words

Song that fits this: The Cure – The Lovecats

It was night. Or morning. Somewhere in between when it was hard to tell. You had missed the train to get back into town and instead of waiting for the replacing night bus, you had allowed König to talk you into walking.

“Come on!”, he called back over his shoulder. His long strides made him leave you behind ever 5 minutes and he had to turn around and wait for you to catch up.

“I don’t want to walk anymore!”, you lamented, tired from spending the last hours out with friends and enjoying the summer night at the lake.

“Leave me here, just let me sleep in the woods.”, you gasped dramatically, “That fallen tree with the moss over there looks so cosy.”

He starred into the woods, “That tree looks rotten.”

You suppressed a yawn and took a sip from your Wegbier before dragging yourself on. “Alright, nevermind. Off wandering home, we go. Through the dark hours of the night.”

König chuckled, “Since when are you so dramatic?”

“Since when are you so keen on walking everywhere?”

Another chuckle. “It’s not even 2 kilometres. You are just too used to cars. Less whining, more walking.”

“Easy for you to say, König. You take a step and you already have made about half of that distance.”

“That’s an…”, he paused and took a sip from his Wegbier before continuing while searching for the word, “…exaggeration. That’s the English word. Exaggeration. You exaggerate. For the dramatic effect.”

It was your turn to chuckle.

The evening and the alcohol had turned you into an overdramatic tipsy mess.

But it had turned König into the unfiltered version of himself, laying every thought bare with delightful simplicity.

Your visit in König’s hometown had been fun. It showed you a playful side in him when he joked around with his family, showed you places he loved, or taught you new german words until your head spun from the confusing grammar and unfamiliar pronunciations.

A more surprising thing to you, however, was the amount of walking.

To the store.

To friends.

The odd habit of having to leave the house at least once a day for a little walk like an animal stalking their territory.

And now you walked home with your boyfriend.

At least he walked. You needed a break.

“Come on! We nearly made it”, he called once again before stopping in his tracks and started laughing.

It was a gremlin laugh. One of those laughs followed up by either something very funny or very concerning.

You stared, slightly confused, and finished your beer before putting it next to a trash can for easier access to whoever collected the trash. Another habit König had taught you.

“What is it?”, you called and caught up with your boyfriend, following his stare onto the other side of the street.

“I need this.”, he growled.

“What?”

He nodded into the direction of one of the signs at the side of the road.

You squinted your eyes to see better despite the twilight and the distance to the sign.

K-Ö-N-I-G-S-S-T-R-A-S-S-E.

Your slow, tired and intoxicated brain needed a moment before finally gluing together the letters and translating the word.

Königsstrasse.

Kingstreet.

The street sign displayed your boyfriends callsign.

He laughed again and finished his beer.

“You in?”

You turned to him. “You mean, stealing it?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah. It’s fairly dirty. It will be replaced soon anyway.”

“Awww,”, you teased, “Are you, an active mercenary, trying to justify your crimes? No need, I’m in.”

He nodded as if only half listening and already planning the heist while finishing his own beer and leaving it next to yours at the trash can.

You looked around. A bit off from you there were a couple of houses, dark and silent as its inhabitants likely were deep asleep at this time. The street was empty. And above you a sole nightingale had started to sing.

Determined to get that sign, you crossed the street.

It was up high. Very high.

You jumped, trying to touch it only to miss it by a couple of centimetres.

“There is an easier way.”, König rasped, appearing out of thin air right behind you like a lynx before grabbing you and putting you onto his shoulders.

“Woah!”, you cried out in surprise, “A warning, next time please?”

“Next time? Do you think we are making this a habit, Mausi?”

You giggled at the sound of the pet name and started to feel the street sign for any way to remove the board from the pole.

“Shit!”, you cursed, “We need a screwdriver. Or a socket wrench.”

“A what?”

“A socket wrench.” You made a few cracking sounds to imitate a socket wrench while circling your hands like using… well, a wrench.

“Ah”, was all your boyfriend did while fumbling at his belt underneath you.

You grabbed the sign to steady yourself and grimaced. It really was dirty.

“Try this.”, König passed you his multi tool, “Try the screwdriver on the left side.

You mumbled a few curses while trying to see and get out the right piece of the multi tool in the twilight.

“Got it.”, you finally whispered after having cut yourself nearly twice while fumbling with the tool, “Why do you even have that with you, König?”

“To steal shit and cause havoc of course”, he replied without hesitation.

“Ah-a”, you replied while working on dislodging the sign. It took you a few tries but König hardly swayed underneath you or complained about your weight while you worked on securing the trophy.

“I have it.”, you finally declared and pulled the sign free.

“Is it heavy?”

“No, König, I can hold it. Just let me get down.”

Another of those gremlin snickers escaped your boyfriend as he stepped away from the pole and started walking into the direction of the town.

“What are you doing!”, you cried, trying to hold onto him with the multitool in one hand and the in spiderwebs and dirt covered huge sign in your other.

“I’m carrying you home. You didn’t want to walk anyway, and I’m tired of waiting for you, Mausi.”

“Fucking hell.”, you cursed while grabbing onto his head for balance.

XXX

Epilogue

It was past midday as you woke up. König was snoring peacefully next to you with the pillow over his head to keep out the light.

Still feeling sleepy but not tired enough to get up yet, you turned – and stilled.

Next to the bed was a sign.

A huge streetsign.

You elbowed König and he groaned in protest.

“What is it?”, he grumbled.

“Exactly. What is this?”

With a sheepish look he looked over you.

“Huh, Mausi. That looks like a night's out yield.”

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