#but his art doesnt really speak to me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ravensmadreads · 7 months ago

Text

OK YOU KNOW WHAT

FUCK YOU

T_T

iron and charcoal

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: pero tovar x f!reader word count: 6.9K summary: Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without – Her. He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come. OR Pero falls hard for a princess and doesn’t know what to do with himself on your wedding night. warnings: angst, brief classism/xenophobia two very stubborn people, pero experiences one Human Emotion and cannot fully process it, arranged marriage, yearning, smut LIKE WOW, soft!pero that i broke my own heart with a/n: Thank you so much to @perotovar for this request: "congrats on your milestone, my love! so happy for you <33 i'm sending a little astrology 💫 + pero & #6 on the fluffy list OR #1 on the smutty list (whichever is speaking to you), because i wanna see your take on him 👀” – of course I chose the slutty one, just for you 😉 I’m actually pretty proud of this one - please consider reblogging if you like it too!

*the image in the header is for aesthetic purposes only and does not reflect the appearance of the reader*

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Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.

Sometimes before battle, the clatter inside Pero’s head goes silent. It listens. It waits.

Other times, it roars. Memories of family, of dead amigos, of mujeres he fucked – they all buck and scratch for a chance to blaze across his mind like a dust storm kicked up by an unbroken mustang.

He doesn’t know which one he prefers or which one will win out. They both have their uses, necessary states of mind to survive whatever is barreling towards him – an ax, a monster out of legend, some other drunken mercenary he intentionally pissed off. It’s an unconscious decision, yet one that has served him well so far. He wouldn’t be alive today if some deep, primal part of him knew what he needed to live through another battle.

And yet, as he climbs those stone steps, his own trunk knocking against his hips as he climbed the sickly ostentatious stone steps to the top of the parapet, the handles starting to pinch his fingers, the barest – nearly invisible – tremor in his knees, he cannot fathom, for the life of him, why that singular phrase from his abuela played in his head like water swirling around and around a cenote.

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.

His inner voice, taking on a myriad of forms, of sounds and voices, never quite standing still, the one companion he could always rely on.

Maybe it was warning him. Dust yourself off, boy, you know exactly how this was going to end.

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.

But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

He feels sweat escape from the nape of curls at his neck, his cheeks warm and chest hot. Two more flights, he can manage two more flights.

His abuela also liked to tell him something else: if hell doesn’t get him, his pride certainly will.

It’s certainly what got him into this ridiculous farce in the first place. Because he can’t alchemize whatever is in his gut into vocalized syllables, he instead has to climb a truly incalculable amount of stairs, while carrying a ragged, torn trunk that weighs as much as his armor.

Because he can’t form the right words, any words, about what he carries lodged beneath his breastbone for her. What draws him up and up and up and up because it’s lighter than hope, makes him lighter than air, and yet it clogs him up, chokes him out all the same. His pride, his vanity, cuts through it, through her – enough to keep him tongueless and dry but not enough to offer this lightness in his chest to her, for her. He can’t take the light out of him or else he fears what he will truly become.

So, he walks, he goes around and around on unforgiving stone steps until finally there is a door. He thinks about waiting, to catch his breath, but he knows he will just as easily turn around and go back the way he came, trunk still heavy and knocking against his hips, and that pride will be the death of him. So he keeps going, opens the handle, and makes abrupt eye contact with the two guards outside her door. They seem uninterested and unamused in his sweaty, stilted breathing, but by his less-than-royal attire, they easily clock him as one of their own; a man who fights to make his way in the world. The one on the left nods jerkily at him.

What they see him as, what he will always be, is nearly the reason he kicks that fucking trunk all the way back down. Instead, he nods back, shoulders rounded, eyes down.

“The princesa - the princess - is requesting the last of her things, to be b-brought up from the stables –,” he clears his throat, “drop this off for her and –,”

“Can’t let you in. King’s orders.” The one on the right sees him as something else – a foreigner first and foremost, their similar stations in life irrelevant. His bright blue eyes rove over Pero’s dark skin, dark hair, jagged scar, distaste and disgust smearing his already ugly features. But he had been dealing with men like these all his life.

“Bueno, you can explain to the King himself why his daughter’s belongings were lost and disregarded. I hear she’s very fond of the Italian prints at the bottom of this . . .”

The guards glance at each other, calculating way above their paygrade. Pero jostles the trunk as if to show he is not above throwing it out the window.

“Fine.” The second one snaps. “Drop it inside and come back immediately.”

He drops his head, a good little foreign boy. “Gracias, señor.”

The heavy wooden door opens beneath the iron lock and the instant he is through, he bolts it behind him. Waits to see if the guards notice. They don’t. Perfectamente – all the time in the world.

All in the time in the world – for what?

To fail? Again?

He stows the trunk in front of the door, extra time, a few seconds maybe – as if she wouldn’t just tell him to get out the instant she laid eyes on him. Only time will tell.

Out of the atrium, another door, this one set deep into the wall. A last line of defense. He knocks, once, then twice, then waits. El orgullo chokes him again but fuck it, he’s come this far. He knocks again, knocks something in his chest free and, with it, spill the words:

“Princesa? It’s me. I –,” it throttles him, “princesa, can you open the door?”

Silence. His heart sits, buried in that trunk. Then –

“It’s unlocked, Pero.”

His heart in his throat, he opens the door to presumably what will be your marriage bed. And yet, by the state of things, you could have been moving out of it. Trunks and bags stack high against the far wall – those fucking trunks he made such a scene over because the unnecessary weight would slow them all down remain untouched, arranged as they had been when they had been first brought in. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, his thumb absently pressing into the callus of his other hand as he glanced around. It is a beautiful room – tall windows, etched in scarlet drapes, to match the scarlet curtains around the bed. With gold thread and impossibly detailed paintings of the countryside, it is fit for a princess, a some-day queen. This is where someone with royal blood deserved to be, not in the back of a hot carriage for weeks on end, surrounded by dirty, loud, rough men.

And yet, with your hair down, expansive gown from the ball tonight replaced with a simple cotton dress, you could not have been more out of place. Pero’s heart lurches briefly, moisture seeping from his mouth, as he realizes this is the same dress he bought you when the two of you had been accidentally separated by the caravan and your previous dress had been ruined in the mud. He had no idea you still kept it, much less wore it ever again.

But if anyone asked him, you look more beautiful in this than any silk or velvet.

Instead of unpacking, settling into your new home and eventual role as wife, you sit hunched over at the intricately carved mahogany desk, eagle feather quill scratching against parchment. You finish with a flourish and look over your shoulder at him, your eyes annoyingly unreadable.

“Yes?”

A stupid brute some may call him, but he wasn’t entirely without awareness. Observation of your customs and what you considered inappropriate only encouraged him: if you really didn’t want him here, you would never have let him see you in this state.

But it’s hard to remember that under your icy stare.

“Y-your things, Princesa. The last from the caravan.”

Your eyes slide over him, to the trunk in the shadows of the atrium. He can tell from a single glance that you know as well as he that trunk is not yours, that no one told him to come here with it, and yet he did it all the same. Something flashes over your eyes but it’s gone by the time you meet his gaze again.

“Thank you. I am, as always, indebted to you.”

He hates your words, but warmth spreads in his gut at the way you say it. That’s how it’s always been between you and him – saying one thing but meaning another. He’d never appreciated a sharp mind like yours until he realized you wield it as he wields a sharp sword.

There are many things he’d never even dreamed of before he met you.

“Then, this means you’re leaving, I suppose.” You draw your sword against him. The metal flashes in your eyes as you stand, one hand against the curved tip of your chair. A bronze halo rims your outline, the fire behind you burning bright and hot. He knows if he touched your shoulder, your neck, your skin would be wonderfully warm.

He wets his lips. “Si. Our contract with your father is done.”

You drop his gaze, your lips tightening for a minute, your fingers running through the carvings of wood on the chair. “Even with William in his state? Would it not be better for him to stay and recover? The journey home is –,” you pause, as though someone had thrown a hand over your mouth, “– the journey back east is long.”

All the longer without you.

“William, he is not an idle man. Two days of bedrest is often all he can take.”

You grin, in spite of this thing circling you both. “Unless he finds the nun attending to him beautiful.

“He finds them all beautiful.”

Your smile expands wide across your bright face when you find him smiling at you too.

This – if this is to be his last memory of you (his heart wrenches at the thought) – this is the you he wants imprinted on his soul: smiling and glowing by firelight.

But as quickly as it came, that grin that warms him down to his bones, fades. In an instant, your eyes grow soft, your mouth twisted, jaw tight.

“Where will you go?” you ask, in the quietest voice you’d ever addressed him with.

It pains him, physically aches within him, to hear the distress in your voice. He hasn’t even thought about the next contract, the next royal cabrón who intends to yank him all across God’s green earth to perform a task he can’t be fucked to take on himself. How can he possibly answer you? Nowhere, without you. To rot in a dark hole in the ground? Off a cliff? What answer would provide you or him any sort of satisfaction?

“Wherever the coin goes,” he says and the words scrape his tongue like bile. That ache in his chest spiraling rapidly, deep into his gut – like a poisoned limb he cannot amputate – he does the same thing he always does when he’s hurt: he makes others hurt until they leave him alone. “You do not have to worry, princesa, your new husband will keep you in such comfort you will never wonder where the coin comes from.”

He must be a truly sick man, for the knife-sharp glare you throw at him only knots arousal around the base of his spine. It tugs on something attached directly to his groin which, in turn, yanks the next words out of his mouth.

“He looked especially happy with you in his arms on the dance floor tonight.”

The icy shards in your eyes go brittle and crack. His heart races; he’s overplayed his hand.

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

You shake your head, eyes bright and searing through him. “No. It was only the King’s Knights there in attendance.”

Your hand trailing off the edge of the chair, you take a step forward and he feels his weight shift back onto his heels. But he remains firm.

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

“To return the last of your things, princesa. What else is there?”

You flinch, as if he had raised his voice to you. What else is there indeed?

“Not even to . . . say goodbye? Sixteen weeks on the road is an awfully long time to be around someone, only for them to . . . leave so soon.”

He locks his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you wish for me to tell you goodbye, princesa?”

There’s something painfully sad about the way you smile at him. “I wish for whatever would make you happiest.”

Anger roars within him, hungry and hot, like a burn from a white flame. Why can’t you just admit it? Why do you avoid it time and time again? He knows he hasn’t misread anything you’ve sent his way, so why? Why are you so vested in torturing him this way?

“Coin makes me happy and, now that I have it, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

There, that hurts you too, just as he meant it.

“Then leave.” They could make ice fortresses out of the strength of your bone-cold stare. “If you have nothing else to say, then take your goddamn trunk and get out of my sight.”

The flame scorches him, ripping him apart and in his anger, making him cruel.

He bows to you.

“I imagine you will be very happy with your new husband, ranita.”

The term slips from his lips before he can stop it, but his throat and cheeks blister so badly, he physically can’t open his mouth to correct his mistake. Instead, he turns and strides towards the door.

He thinks he hears a gasp from behind him, a sharp sound like breaking glass – small, tinkling, tragic. It spears him through his chest, pierces his heart.

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

Of course he has something to say – words in English and Spanish and broken dialects gathered like poisonous lichen all churning in the boiling cauldron of his mind, but nothing will suffice – nothing reflects or compares to the grief he is already feeling, the despair, the anguish that has settled into all the fleshy joints in his body. Not his pride, but this, saying goodbye to you, this is what actually will kill him.

Every word imaginable crawls up his throat and rages in his mouth, presses up against his teeth, begging for something, anything to be let out, to be free, to tell you that he cannot fucking live without you–

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.”

The fire crackles in the silence, a wicked god pleased at the display of carnage.

“What did you say?”

A dull thud echoes from where he drops his forehead against the wood of the door, all anger flooding out of his system. Do you have any idea the power you hold over him? One request, one tremor in your voice and his knees all but buckle at your altar.

Fuck it.

He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but he’d never expected to be so exposed, so flayed like this.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his throat as dry as sand. “Do not . . . marry him. Please.”

The vision of your great warrior slumped against the door frame, his neck bent, shoulders curled up to his ears has your already pounding heart leaping forward into a gallop. He is defeated, laid low. You watch his guts all but pool out on your hearth.

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel.

Your soldier, your man of iron and charcoal, goes blurry in your eyes.

“And what would you have me do, Pero?” Your plea is damp, malleable at the edges. You press your hand flat against your chest, near your throat, as if you could pull the grief lodged there with your fingers. “I have been engaged to this man before I was even born. How can I stop this?”

“Fight.” The word snarls against his bare teeth. He turns, his eyes liquid ink, and suddenly he has you by the shoulders. His thumbs nervously skitter around the curve of your shoulder, gaze just as unsteady and unfocused as it wavers between your hands, your earlobe, your neck. "Where is my brave girl who fights for what she wants, hm? Fight – for me, please.”

Fight, he asks – but in spite of him or because of him?

You lay your hands on the silver shine of his breastplate, watch as they rise and fall with his steady flow of breath. How many nights had you woken up against that shine, in the crook of his arm for warmth, or protection? You didn’t cherish it at the time because you never knew when it would be your last.

“Why won’t you fight, princesa?” His voice is low, strained, the groan of a wagon wheel before it breaks. You meet his gaze and the exposed look on his face, softening every line on his mouth and around his eyes, nearly sends you into hysterics. You swallow the tears, swallow the hook in your throat as your fingers curl around the clasps of his cape.

"Because if I don't fight then I can't lose.” His fingers slip from your shoulders, to your elbows, to your waist. You inhale and the scents of warm leather, oil, and ash flood your mouth. The tip of your nose is inches from the scruff of beard against his cheek, the ruddy brown of his sun-drenched skin. He has curled you into him and this, you do not fight either. His massive palms map your back, against your skin, but without any urgency or control. “If I can’t lose, that means I don’t lose you. You'll just be . . . gone."

That last word is a lie. It hangs in the air like a sweltering humid rain and you both know you’re lying. He has you wrapped up in his arms, you didn’t stop him even for a second, and you are all too aware that it would take some great, insidious alchemy to ever truly tear him out of you.

You stare at his silver collar, defiant against the waves you had managed to shackle down until this very moment: a wave of hopeless crashes into you, a wave of heartbreak, a wave of helpless that fills your eyes to the point of spilling with that very same salt water.

He touches your cheek delicately, fingers rough with callouses, and the floodgates break open with a sob.

“Preciosa,” he rumbles softly against your hairline, “hush. You break my heart with your tears.”

“Do not mock me, Tovar. Not now.” you sniff, trying to turn your face but his wide hands catch you around the cheeks.

“You are beyond mocking. I’d show you my heavy heart but I do not wish that weight on anyone.” The snag of his rough thumbs against your cheek draws your watery gaze to him. His mouth is a flat line, barred against whatever climbs his throat, but his eyes move like mercury across your nose, your eyelashes, the arch of your cheek. Your fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, a grounding agent against the waves that threaten to pull you under.

“Pero, I –,”

“I have fought you, tooth and nail, for days without end. Every favor, every breath, you have forced them from me. I fight my own mind when I sleep at night. Sueños, always of the same woman.” He smears away the tears with his thumbs, gently, sweetly, before pressing his lips to your wet flesh by his knuckle. He inhales deeply, eyes closed, mouth hovering stationary above the skin of your cheek. “You fight me every step of the way . . . and I am so tired of fighting.”

For all your struggling, for all your tearing and clawing and snarling against the blooming in your chest, nothing is as easy as it is to turn your head and press your lips to his.

The brush of his bristled mustache against your upper lip. His warm, rough palms holding you steady. His lips soft and hot. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him.

There is nothing like, and nothing will ever be like, finally kissing Pero Tovar.

All it takes is the movement of his hands from your cheeks to your lower back, the light trace of his tongue against your lips, and the yearning you’d been smothering for weeks now roars to life. His hands squeeze your hips and you can suddenly barely breathe.

“Pero–,” the noise in the shape of his name that escapes you is near a whine, begging. He nips at your lips, hand firmly at the cup of your jaw, mouth now rough and insistent, and your fingers claw up his neck, wrapping themselves in his dark curls. You tug, nails scratching his scalp, and he groans into your mouth as if you’d just kneed him in the gut.

A thread-bare gasp of your name from his lips splits you from him, then his hand on your hip and the back of your neck pushing you backwards gives you enough air to breathe – to think.

"Your husband will know you're not a virgin,” Pero warns, breathing hard and fast, his eyes like black flints, “if we go on."

You curl your fingers around his neck, dragging your mouth near his jaw, the soft skin at the edge of his ear.

"Then he will also know my heart is not his either.” You ask everything of him with this. His armor blocks his warm body from you – you want to sink inside his hard shell. “If you’ll have it.”

He is not himself, half-human with an inhuman want, with the snarl that leaves him.

“Don’t make such promises, dulzura –,” A threat, a dog forced to expose its underbelly, fear radiating like the pain from a broken bone. Your fingers dig into the buckles of your cape, steadying you against a sudden terrible awareness that bloomed, purple-bruised.

“Unless you don’t want –,”

The desk rattles when your hips break against it, the force of his kiss enough to topple over your inkwell, spill rolls of parchment to the floor. The wood groans under your weight when he gathers the thick swell of your thighs in his hands, heaves you onto the flat surface, and spreads your knees around his waist. He is as hard as the iron on his chest.

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

A frantic sigh of relief, a groan shared between two pairs of lips, seeking skin and warmth and other hungry places.

He drags you onto his chest, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the rings of his armor digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth covering yours in wet pulls, and he stands up right, as though you weighed less than his sword.

A stumble, and he spreads you out on the velvet covers of your marriage bed, his hands imprinting on your hips, your knees, the supple meat of your calves. The touch of him on your bare skin feels like the licks of flames, the smoke of arousal blurring your awareness and dragging your eyelids half-closed. On his heels at the edge of the bed, the flint shards of his eyes drift over the bones of your ankles, the bend of your knee, your heaving chest, hair in snarls around your neck and caught behind your back, and finally to your cunt, hidden by the folds of your dress.

Velvet hums as you slide your ankles to the curve of your ass, widening your legs, parting your knees. His lips part open, dark want etching every line of his face. You feel the wet linen of your dress cling to your achy cunt. He swallows, unbuckling his cape one latch at a time, his eyes nowhere else. The metal clatters as it falls to the floor.

Piece by piece, the chinks in his armor fall away. Piece by piece, he is revealed to you. Your hands rise up, up your thighs to your knees, your thumbs rubbing soft circles. He watches, never tears his gaze away from your sticky hole, his nimble fingers working away the buckles and knots with practiced precision. You can see it in his eyes – memories of bedrolls by firelight, of such a deep painful, yearning ache, separated only by thin tarp, they are a physical weight beside you in this marriage bed.

You see them because they’re there for you too. You see them because you've been here a dozen times, on your back, legs spread wide, your hands circling but never dipping, waiting. Wanting. For him.

His bare chest is warm, the wings of his ribs expanding around short, half-drawn breaths, as he crawls up into your pliant mouth. The kisses are slow, like before, with a crackle of heat just beyond them, his hips slipping into the cradle of your thighs, the wet warmth of you separated by the thin linen of your dress. He sucks the tendon below your ear, a whine slipping out of your mouth, fingers spreading over the harsh planes of his back, and his cock bobs against your thigh.

Pero is bare and warm and entirely yours. All man beneath the sweltering armor.

“Amorcita,” he drips into your ear, kisses smeared against your collarbone, your mouth, your earlobe, “amorcita, amorcita . . . ranita, let me take you.”

He starts to use teeth, a harder nip behind his kisses, when he dips down to your chest. A wide palm with stocky fingers grasps at your breast and it’s a startling sensation for you both.

“Soft,” he moans before licking up under the supple curve of your breast, mouthing at what his tongue missed. He slips your erect nipple into his mouth and twists it between his teeth. “Sweet,” he murmurs with your nipple firmly between his lips.

This is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You deliriously thank the gods that he hadn’t touched you like this on the road; you would have kept him, your own wild animal, in bed without rest for days on end.

Pero plucks just as aggressively at your other breast, the spit-wet nipple that preoccupied his mouth verging on purple and aching. He cups you from the outside this time, squeezing and massaging, ringing your nipple with his tongue until your back bows and you let out a whine that has his eyes flickering up to you, the scent of wounded prey filling his nostrils.

That whine of pleasure elongates into a whimper: “please.”

“Tranquila, ranita.” His touch is softer around your bruised tits, but he keeps one hand bagging the weight of your breast while the other slips beneath your skirt.

The pads of his fingers brush your creamy cunt and with a yelp, you grab him by the wrist, your eyes open with a familiar emotion he draws out of you: rage.

“Pero Tovar, if you value your life you will take me under the covers and put your —,”

He chuckles, his cheek against yours, nose rimming the velvet hairs on the ridges of your ear. The vibrations liquify the tension in your bones, loosening your grip. Your eyes flutter, slick obviously running down his fingers. “Ranita, I don’t think you know how you want to end that sentence..”

His words roll like honey over the heat of your skin. It makes your skin tremble. Your grip tightens on his wrist and you roll your hips, your swollen clit finally relieved by the pressure of his palm.

“Oh, oh, Pero—,”

With a grunt, he shuffled closer, elbow by your shoulder and he cups your entire wet cunt in his hand, pushing the heel of his palm flatter against you. You cry out, a sparkling kind of pleasure radiating out from where his hand rests. You buck your hips faster, complete release flickering through your outstretched hand.

“Can you come like this?” You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you barrel towards escape, and you feel him shudder next to you. You are intimately aware that he’s rubbing his cock on the crease of your hip bone but that only drags you faster towards the light. “Then come, ranita, come and I’ll fuck you.”

The wet, curling heat growing between your legs descends, then in a bright snap, explodes across your body.

“Fuck!” You tear open your eyes to find them damp, Pero’s massive hand cupping your cheek towards him, his stallion eyes dark as his fingers drag on the soaked material of your dress, your hips slowing.

“Amorcita, breathe.” The words are torn from his chest, all cock-suredness gone from his frantic gaze. You gulp in air, the weight of his body over yours grounding and smothering you all at once. He pulls his hand away from you, rides it up your thigh to your waist, looking for something to hold onto. He strokes his thumb once against your overheated skin and you’re wriggling up out of your dress.

“Help,” you hiss and his fingers nearly tear the fabric off you.

With a few undone buttons, you shiver out of your dress, the slick-drenched spots catching on your warm skin. He flings it behind him, near the fireplace.

He takes you barely beneath the thick covers before you welcome him back to the heat of your open legs.

But instead of reeling back and plunging his aching cock into you, he takes the time to kiss you. To praise you in all the ways he fears his mouth will end up short. He kisses you, grateful, reverent – wonderful to be swallowed by but also a distraction.

When he lifts your knees by his waist, your hips automatically tilt towards him and for the first time, you feel his red, sore cock between your tacky lips. The dual sensation nearly drags you over the rack of delectably delicious pleasure, as does his worn, broken groan in your ear.

“More, please, don’t stop.” You cry against the bristles of his beard, his hand dropping between your sweat-slick bodies, finding yours already there to guide him. The press of him spreads you open, filling you one sinking notch at a time. The sensation of your pink, dripping walls moving to take more of him in has you arching up into his chest, nails dragging into his back. His dry lips stifle the moans escaping from your mouth.

Pero takes both of your hands in his, dragging them above your head, his fingers locking your palms together as his hips roll forward. “Cálmate, amorcita, cálmate,” he murmurs between distracted presses of his mouth against your chin, your cheek, his breathing heavy and stunted. You writhe, pinned open by his hips and his hands, his cock filling you all too slowly and not fast enough.

With the last few inches, you take him completely, your cunt throbbing, heart pounding, intoxicated by the sensation of being so maddeningly full. Pero drapes over you, his head tucked into your neck, forearms straining with the tension of gripping your hands tightly.

“Santa madre . . .” He is not a warrior right now. He is but a man, cunt-drunk and heaving.

His name is pushed out of the bottom of your lungs with the first swing of his hips. You cling to him, knees at his ribs, nails pricking his spine, unwilling to let even an inch of space between your bodies. But this becomes increasingly difficult as his thrusts gain speed. His flushed lips stain a sticky line against your jaw, down to your throat, and he releases your hands, the oak of the bed creaking beneath the force of him drilling down into you, he props himself up on his palms, his shoulders bent and curled over you, biceps straining, hairline damp, eyelids fluttering. The scar on his cheek is flushed pink.

“Look, amorcita, look how well you take me.”

His words tear you from your nebulous high, the grit of them forcing your head down to the obscene squelch beneath the sheets. The thatch of rough curls over his groin is drenched in slick, his thick cocked soaked to the point of shine as it drives into you again and again. The heavy draft of breath the sight draws from him, the tap of his cock against a place so deep you didn’t know your body possessed, draws the spooling bliss as tight as a wire.

Your trembling thighs squeeze him tighter, that hot pressure rendering you speechless, except for the most pathetic whine. Please, Pero, please, you think, you mutter, you whisper, your body rocking damp against the sheets.

With a sudden snarl, he takes the chunk of your hair at the base of your head flat in his fists and tugs. A shoot of bright pain sparks bliss down to your tight and bruised nipples, and you cry out again.

“Stop fighting, puedo sentir cuanto la quieres. Let me have it.” It is the following word that splits you open like lighting carving apart a tree. “Please.”

The wail that you release is the rush of gooseflesh over your skin alchemized into audible sound. Heat radiates through you, sucking the air from your lungs, your vision going blurry, then black as you clamp your eyes shut against the rush, the final release, that curls you into his arms. His warm, flushed arms, shaking with strain. A final wobbly thrust or two and his elbows are buckling, sweat-drenched chest pressing into your own.

Distantly, you are aware of the warm, slick drip down your thighs, his cock pulsing the last drops into your cum-flecked cunt, and the dangers this sort of intimacy poses. You can’t gather enough breath, enough sense to settle the spinning room, to worry or even care.

Your his, and he is yours. That is all that will ever matter.

The crackle of wood burning is the only other sound than your ragged breaths, the silent roll of sweat from sticky hot skins into the bedsheets. The stone walls of the castle’s room entomb you together for a brief stretch of infinity.

Pero moves and you think he’s going to back out of you, but instead, he merely adjusts, his head fully on your chest, thick fingers clutching your bruised waist, the shift of his cock pushing more of his release out of your oversensitive cunt. But you’ll take overstimulation over his absence every time. You run your fingers through his damp curls and he hums.

“I’m sorry,” he huffs into your humid skin. “I’m sorry I let my pride keep us apart for so long.”

You grin lazily to the ceiling, your breath settling as affection takes its place in your chest.

“You were not the only one blinded by vanity.”

“But I’m not blind. Not anymore.” He lifts his head, eyes as dark as your spilled inkwell. “I am never letting you go.”

You smile at him, fingers soft against the back of his neck. “I don’t plan on wandering away.”

His oil-black gaze drops to your lips and he leans forward to take your mouth against his. Gentle, but with the promise of more.

“Mi ranita,” he purrs to break the kiss.

“You call me that all the time, Pero. What does it mean?”

At that, a nearly shy expression crosses his face. He shakes his head, shifting onto his elbows to lift off you. “I can’t tell you. It will ruin your good mood.”

You gasp, offended, and you grab him by the ear and twist. He chuckles through a grimace. “You will tell me what that means, Pero Tovar, if you value your appendages.”

“Órale, princesa, retract your claws and I will tell you.”

You release your grip and settle against your pillow. Grinning bashfully, he kisses your neck briefly.

“Remember that I love you after I tell you this.”

Your heart nearly stops, the absence of a steady beat nearly drawing tears to your eyes but you hold firm. You breathe deeply against the fluttering in your stomach and pin him with your glare. Of course, this is how he would profess his love to you – when he’s trying to get out of trouble.

“Tell me, Tovar!”

He chuckles again and preemptively picks up your hands. He kisses the inside of your palms, settling himself between your thighs.

“It means little frog.” Your mouth falls open in a gasp and you struggle to yank your hands back from him, hissing like a tea kettle, but he uses his weight to press down on you. He nips at your nose. “I call you that because when you’re upset with me, much like you are now, you puff up like a bullfrog, your cheeks like this–,”

He rounds his cheeks full of air, crossing his eyes, and you simply cannot take the slight anymore. You push roughly against his gut, the breath trapped in his mouth escaping in a hot puff, and you twist him onto his back. He lets you, of course, his bold, full laughter rendering him defenseless. His body shakes beneath you, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open wide as he laughs and laughs and laughs. You take him by the wrists and push his limp hands over his head, pinning him as he had you. You pinch his chin with your teeth, your messy cunt over his stomach, as his laughter subsides.

“Have you had your fun yet?”

“Barely,” he chuckles, turning his big nose against your cheek and inhaling. He hums.

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

Pero opens his eyes, sober as death rattle. He takes you in, not in a hungry, all-consuming way, but in a look that speaks of awe and rapture.

“You are everything to me.”

You sigh, releasing his hands and curling into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, your eyes on the roaring fire. His thumbs rub your shoulder blades, trace the lines of your spine.

“You’re so very I love you too.”

His wandering against the expanse of your back stills, just for a moment, before his fingers slide into your hair, around the nape of your neck, holding you to him with the intention of keeping you there forever.

“I know, ranita, I know.”

He watches you sleep as the sky lightens beyond the tall windows on the opposite side of the bedroom. The dying fire traces your edges in gold, settling heat in the curve of your lips.

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

There’s more terrible things to come, he knows that. The plan the two of you concocted in the early morning hours will be dangerous, deadly even. But dying together instead of living apart would be much more tolerable, you told him earlier that night, your hand on his chest.

He would kill if you asked. He would kill, even if you didn’t, to keep you safe and by his side. You’ve proven yourself capable of living a life away from this spectacular opulence, but it pains him to know he will never be able to give you anything nearly as lovely as the velvet dresses in the closet, the gold jewelry in your trunks.

Instead, all he has to offer is himself. His strength, his hands, his heart. It’s his own fear that tells him that’s not enough, because you remind him again and again that’s more than you ever wanted.

He traces the curve of your cheek with the hovering pad of his finger, brushing your hair away from your face. How he ended up so lucky with your love, he’ll never know, but he will spend the rest of his days proving that he’s earned it.

You stir in your sleep, sensing him above you, and he hates to steal even a few minutes of blissful sleep from you, knowing the endless nights that are coming. When he steals you away from all that you’ve ever known.

The sleepy grumble in your throat resembles his name as he curls around you, but your eyes remain gently closed. He pulls you against him, the air that leaves your mouth and sits between your chest and his something he covets with his whole heart.

I love you and I’m disgustingly lucky and I love you.

He is a man made of dust, serving men made of silver. He is a man of dust, loving a woman made of gold.

El orgullo? No, Abuela, his ranita will get him first, last, and every time.

Translations:

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. - This rhyme is typically said to children when they have just hurt themselves. The parent (or grandparent) usually rubs the part that is sore and sings this little tune. Literally translates to: "heal, heal, little frog’s tail. If you don’t heal today, you will heal tomorrow."

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

Tranquila - quiet, as in "be quiet" or "relax"

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

puedo sentir cuanto la quieres - I can feel how much you want it/love it

Órale - okay, or an exclamation expressing approval or encouragement.

ranita - little frog, but you knew that already ;)

the rest are cognates (or familiar words) which you can probably guess the meaning of, but feel free to message me if you don't know!

#pero tovar x reader #before we start i just wanna really really really give a very sincere shout out for that header #i didnt expect it.. i thought it was gonna be the generic white person (not a dig just saying)#and i definitely teared up when it was someone who looked like me.. like i can't even explain what this means #so im just gonna gently hug you and walk away like a normal person #AND NOW WE BEGIN #I HAD TO THROW AWAY MY PHONE 3 TIMES TAYLOR THREE FUCKING TIMES #STOP WRITING ART OKAY IT MAKES ME ALL GOOEY AND EMOTIONAL #HOW DARE YOU #ok but the way you wrote peros POV SHUT UPPPPPP!!! that little part about being the outsider the foreigner the one who doesnt fit in #STOP LOOKING INSIDE MY BRAIN MAAM #and then the whole dynamic between pero and his ranita like??? CHEFS KISS #when he asks her to fight while hes using his beautiful words (the role switch the painful vulnerability of doing what they're not good at)#I CANT #the fact that shes scared to fight because she knows she might lose pero (and he own sense of self???)#contradictory to pero being afraid to speak his feelings because all the words in any language couldnt explain how he feels like FUCK OFF #shut up im weak for them #ive had them for 2 minutes but I'll set the world on fire for them #and the SMUT??? your smut always hits harder because the way you effortlessly make it a way of communication n love n a show of commitment??#WHAT IS THIS SORCERY TAYLOR #you lure me in with victorian arrange marriage and star crossed lover vibes AND THEN YOU HIT ME WITH SOFT VULNERABLE FLUFF #JAIL!!! JAIL FOR MOTHER FOR A THOUSAND YEARS #please never stop #every single time you drop a fic you rewrite my brain chemistry #how is this possible #i love u so much im so blessed to see u shine every single day #ok enough mush gonna tackle you to the ground and aggressively make out with you now #*launches at you*#P.S the day you launch A/B/O Joel is the day i vault myself into the sun k thanks bye

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demodraws0606 · 10 months ago

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What Cyberpunk DeadBoy Means and What it's Potentially Foreshadowing (aka very complicated analysis that makes a lot of sense and could happen depending on how colorpalet is feeling while writing the story)

Now I'm seeing so many people like running around wondering what this event could mean for the future for multiple reasons and like I've made like one post throwing my hat into the ring.

I've been frustrated with people's unwillingness to realise that this comm is prob foreshadowing because this is not the first time Colorpalet has hidden foreshadowing into comms weither subtely or not

Exemple's being :

-Akito's second comm foreshadowing his third event

-Lower's cover art literally foreshadowing what would happen to Mafuyu's phone in her event

-88 vocals being emurui and nenekasa foreshadowing the kind of dynamic the disbandement arc had with nenekasa wanting to move forward with emurui being scared of isolation

-Probably way better exemples that I forgot

I've seen people make Some assumptions which I don't agree with but there is one thing I think is true

There is 100 pourcent gonna be struggle between corporation/reality and WxS.

Purely because that's been WxS's entire theme since the beginning. They constantly bash you over the head with the theme of compromising with reality and the importance of dreams. In fact the pick of Maiki-P is not at all surprising as he basically has the same message WxS has just... well harsher.

The Big thing people have ignored however is by focusing on the lyrics, they've ignored something that's personally to me even more telling and that's the line distribution

We know for a fact colorpalet loves to mess around with line distribution, weither it's to make characters say lines that fit them or to kind of foreshadow their headspace.

Now something Big happens with the line distribution of Cyberpunk Deadboy that i've seen NO ONE notice and that's in the last chorus (that and also Tsukasa's lines which people have pointed out but it works less on it's own which is why I'm gonna analyse his lines afterwards).

This is the only time the chorus is like that, the others have a much more even distribution.

In fact the distribution choice makes it look like the rest of WxS is Talking to Rui.

It's even more evident considering the lines they chose to make WxS sing compared to only just Rui

Emu/Tsukasa/Nene saying kimi (you)

Rui saying boku (i)

Which honestly makes me think this is colorpalet foreshadowing some kind of issue reguarding specifically Rui. Remember Emu's second event ? The story of Rilley whose imagination was crippled by the industry to the point where he didn't really have any artistic vision until Emu's grandpa helped him.

In fact remember how the flashback that showcases that has Rilley working on a film

Now we get to Tsukasa's line which have been pointed out to be kind of sus but it's not just his lines.

Tsukasa refuses to sing with Rui (unless it's a line they all sing together but i consider those exceptions). In fact pretty much everyone has a duo line with each other except those two.

In fact in the section where Rui has duo lines with everybody, Tsukasa is the only one he doesnt sing with and the visuals make it clear that it's something that we're supposed to find strange

And then we of course have Tsukasa's solo lines

Tsukasa is the only one that say "fuzakeruna" outside of Rui (of course ignoring entire group WxS lines) and i've seen some people pointed out how it sounds like he's saying it in response to Rui's lines. Which I agree with.

Then we got his big boy solo lines

These lines will make more sense with my theory/analysis but right now if we go with the idea that WxS in the last chorus were speaking to Rui and Tsukasa in this comm refuses to sing with Rui then this implies those lines are Tsukasa speaking to Rui.

And this is where the insanity begins because people have pointed out a concerning trend with Ruikasa that I know some people use for shipping fuel but for me kinda feels more so like foreshadowing.

IGNORING all the ARG ass weirdness of the Fixer 2dmv, this choice to switch Ruikasa's colors have to mean something in my opinion outside of just wholesome shipping influence especially considering the two songs they do this are less than jovial.

What this kind of color switching signifies to me is that, Ruikasa somehow are/or will switch places.

And with that let me bring back Tsukasa's lines

These lines stand out because Tsukasa before remembering his dreams was extremely shallow only doing things for fame and probably the money that would come with it.

Now if you think about everything I've layed out I think you can gain a pretty clear picture.

Of Rui falling into the trap Rilley did, becoming jaded and losing the true motivation of his dream (or at least starting to have doubts). Becoming stuck with the struggle of managing dreams and reality.

Rui's costume even has a mask which can be a metaphor for his artistic voice and individuality being silenced .

Which now you get into the line distribution where WxS is implied to be talking to Rui.

And you get to Tsukasa, who is refusing to sing with Rui and in fact seems to be arguing with Rui if we really want to overthink it. In fact almost switching their roles from the main story.

Because Tsukasa has grown now and how else to show that growth than to switch Rui and Tsukasa's perspectives/roles.

Now how this would happen really depends since there are multiple ways they can go about it with the time they have.

There is obviously mystery dude dude (who i know now is sakaki) who still gives me bad vibes. However there is actually two way they can make mystery dude trigger this sort of plot :

-Mystery dude is malicious and actively manipulates/confronts Rui to make him rethink his worldview

-Mystery dude isn't malicious but instead is just jaded/has been through a lot of industry bullshit which ends up rubbing off on Rui accidentally

But you can even just not have mystery dude involved with this at all (which i doubt but still) because you know what loose plotpoint is still lingering over WxS, fucking Asahi

Rui still has not talked about Asahi to WxS, in fact Curtain Call ends on an explicit cliffhanger which is never really emotionally concluded (at least in Rui's own events, technically the arc ender did but there are still a lot of loose threads from that arc). Why would Colorpalet make Asahi come back after Rui graduates, they could've just had him disappear into the sunset but instead they hint at his potential comeback.

Unless Rui will be forced to again confront similar feelings he did during Curtain Call this time with possibly an added layer of whatever happens during WxS's freelance arc.

Anyways yeah this is overly complicated but then again colorpalet is not being easy with us so...yeah.

#project sekai #pjsk rui #rui kamishiro #wxs #wonderlandxshowtime #project sekai theory #project sekai analysis #rui kamishiro analysis #wxs rui #wxs tsukasa #tsukasa tenma #rui #cyberpunk deadboy #i'm sorry if this giant wall of text makes sense to nobody but me but i need this to leave myt mind otherwise i explode #and also i'm not looking at twitter for theories of this event because twitter is the breeding ground of bad takes so idk if i'm the only #one but it's very interesting #anyways i really don't want any “but what if the comm is not at all related to the event at all” because we've had active confirmation #colorpalet describe events and give at least on sentence prompts to commissioners (which we know pinnochioP and the creators of Mr.Showtime #I believe) and again even if it WERE the case and it was a fluke or a rewrite or whatever #it doesnt change the fact colorpalet made an active choice to make the line distribution and 2dmv like this #this is the motherfuckers that foreshadowed an arc ender years before through a fucking song cover art #complain about their writing all you want these motherfuckers love little detail oriented shit like this for better and for worse

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charlottecutepie · 11 months ago

Text

୨୧ nsfw alphabet (william afton x fem!reader)

author notes: i felt too shy to post something here but I really want to share my writing with you, so I’ll be very glad if you like it <3 ty

cw: p in v, oral (m and f receiving), fear play, knife kink, daddy kink, choking, older man/younger woman, degrading, praising.

minors dni

art by melokoii and imsanlee

A — Aftercare

William is quite rough during sex, but he gets softer after. He can quickly kiss you on forehead or gently stroke your hair, telling you what a good and obedient girl you were for him.

He can feel detached if he's in a bad mood and doesnt have strength to hide it. In this case, he doesn't show much emotion or interest. Doesn't bother to make sure you're okay.

B — Body part

William pays a lot of attention to your neck, sometimes leaving little hickeys on it. Sometimes passionate kisses. Sometimes worse things, like marks from his hands that squeeze your neck hard enough that you turn blue.

William likes your eyes because they speak much louder than your words.

William likes the fear he sees in them. It's like a drug to him, fueling his desire even more. He gets turned on by the fact that you're afraid and can't push him away. He likes the way you involuntarily flinch when he's too close, the way you catch your breath. It's just another reminder that he has control over you.

This isn't just an expression of fear or despair. It's a reflection of your true feelings for him. You're scared, but at the same time you feel a sick attraction to him.

A delightful mixture of emotions that he considers beautiful — fear.

He likes the way you try to hide your true feelings behind the mask of a brave girl. He knows that deep down you belong to him, your body and soul. And he'll make you really sure of that.

Your eyes are a reflection of your soul, revealing your sick and perverted thoughts and desires. A scared look serves as a reminder of how much power he has over you and how much you need him.

So yes, William loves your eyes. Not because they are beautiful and captivating, but because they show him how much you depend on him. And what are your real feelings.

Neither breasts, nor butt, nor any other part of the body that is considered attractive in a woman. William isn't kind of man who cums in his pants at the sight of bare breasts and nipples.

C — Cum

He prefers to cum inside, first of all, to show his superiority over you. Although you can imagine fairy tales that it's because he wants a baby, that's not really true. Afton already has three offsprings, and he doesn't seem to be taking good care of them.

One day, man leaned closer and whispered in your ear: "Will you let me cum inside, bunny?"

You turned your head to him, but he just grinned when he saw how cock drunk you were, pussy clenching on his shaft. You looked so dumb and all what came out of your parted lips were moans of his name as he thrusted inside of you. But for one second, he saw the fear in your eyes when you realized his his question. The fear of getting pregnant. The fear that he's holding you tight and you won't break free even if you want to. He shuddered. A second later, you felt his seed pouring inside. You immediately gasped in shock.

"Oh, baby," a hoarse whisper behind you, William catching his breath. "Damn, did I cum inside? Sorry, I must have gotten too carried away."

D — Dirty secret

William himself is a big fucking secret that no one would want to solve. No one has a simple idea of what is on this person's mind. Because sane people just can't think of such things.

You were aware that William has strange scars. But it was a big surprise to find out that they covered his entire body, every part: neck, arms, legs, pelvis, back, torso. They seemed painful, born a lot of questions, but they were wildly intriguing. The scars were perfectly symmetrical and fresh.

At some point, you found yourself going crazy, thinking they were attractive. But William turned out to be even more insane when he asked you to stick your nails in them.

William's completely naked body against yours was a surprise. He always left clothes on during sex, whether it was a shirt or trousers, but now hes not wearing anything. He was on top, his silvery eyes boring into yours. You didn't dare turn away, intrigued by what would happen next. William gritted his teeth, how charmed you were by him. This undoubtedly reinforced his narcissistic ego.

William's finger runs over your lower lip, pressing on it to open your mouth a little. William behaves differently, very differently. In any other case, this man would have already ruined you, fucked you hard and rough. But right now there's no hint of it.

"You like them," William says quietly, and grins when he meets your questioning gaze. "my scars."

"They are perfectly symmetrical..." your eyes run over his body.

He doesn't answer, instead he presses his nose against your neck and you feel his smile on your skin. You're confused, you don't know how to react to his touches and actions. How to behave in such a situation. Everything that is happening is new. William doesn't usually behave like that.

"Touch them." Afton suddenly says, looking up at you again.

You don't understand where the situation is heading, but you obey. The pads of your fingers lightly, almost weightlessly touch his scars on his shoulders. William nods for you to continue, and you run your fingers down his back, sensing his scars. William sighs, closing his eyes, his body tense, the veins on his forehead and arms popping out.

"Harder, y/n, harder." William's breathing harder. You can hear his heartbeat quicken. "fuck, do it with your nails, damn it." you shake your head, already scared of what this is all going to lead to.

"William, no, I won't do that!" you reject, but William doesn't care. In his eyes, you're acting like a brat, well, okay. His hands grab you by wrists and he literally forces you to follow his command. Against your will, your nails dig into his scars.

"That's it, that's it, y/n, yes."

"William..." you dive deeper into William's scars, peeling off the barely healed skin. Blood begins to flow down his arm. William's eyes are closed, and the only thing that can be heard is his loud breathing along with hoarse moans.

It's crazy, you don't know if it's a dream or not. It's wrong to hurt a person. Even if himself asked for it. But you can't stop, you keep tearing at his scars with your nails.

William leans closer to you, placing his palm on your cheek. You're afraid to even look at his face, but you don't have a choice. Although William's eyes are looking somewhere through you, his gaze is empty, mentally he's not here. A small wound on his dry lips bursts with a wide smile.

This is crazy, you think. I'm crazy, you tell yourself, because it turns me on. And William's voice, with sighs and groans, sounds more beautiful than ever.

A disgusting metallic smell filled your nostrils. The sheets under you are soaked in William's blood, you continue to roughly pick at his scars, also staining yourself with a dark red liquid. William's body is shaking. Open scars begin to burn. This pain is everywhere, and William feels it far from on a physical level, no. At some higher one.

And the next moment, Afton covers your lips with his own, pressing his already bloody body against you. He groans into your mouth and pushes his tongue inside, running it over your teeth. He kisses you roughly, continuing to rub his body against yours, which causes pleasant stimulation for both of you. You grab his brown hair, pulling his head back. You can taste awful taste of William's blood mixed with your saliva.

The kiss is sloppy, dirty, disgusting and aggressive. Just like William himself.

William is a disgusting and perverted man whose moral principles are far from normal. A very dark thought is wandering in his sick brain, which has been visiting him too often lately, even in his sleep. To share you with his business partner, Henry, fucking Emily. The sight of you trying to take two cocks at once stuck in William's head for a long time.

E — Experience

He has three children, so yes. Even before he got married, he had... one-night stands, but rarely. He usually studied hard, sometimes staying at the university until late at night.

Although you asked him to tell you more about his past relationship, before he met Clara, William refused, with a shadow of a smile. You're walking on very thin ice. It's a secret you shouldn't know yet.

F — Favorite position

His favorite poses involve dominance and control. He likes it when he can fuck you deeply without breaking eye contact. This is usually a classic old missionary.

He also likes it when you wrap your legs around him if he fucks you against wall. This allows him to enter you rougher and much deeper.

As a punishment, its usually poses where you can't see his face. William knows your weak spot, he noticed not so long ago how you always try to keep your eyes on him, peering and studying.

Also doesn't mind bending you over his desk in his own office. And the cherry on top is an unlocked door, so that sex turns into real torture while you try to restrain your moans. Either it's Henry, who can show up, as always, without knocking, or the staff, who can hear the sounds of bodies slapping and your moans, he doesn't care.

G — Goofy

William isnt a piece of ice that always walks around with a stone face. He has a sense of humor, even if you don't understand it. His humor is witty, dry, sometimes even rude, sarcastic, gloomy, caustic. He can make fun of your behavior in bed, of your inexperience, of things you don't know.

H — Hair

William is well-groomed, he shaves, not everything, but keeps clean. Being a perfectionist isnt easy, but he takes care of himself down there too. He expects the same from you.

I — Intimacy

William may be quite romantic in the early stages of a relationship. Gifts, romantic dates and compliments. All of this to create a feeling of affection.

But he's head and shoulders above such simple and tedious things, in his eyes it's all pretty boring.

William can be gentle and caring if necessary. And here, as in many other things, he hides his true self, his sick and animal sadistic nature.

William is a man with three children. Being a single father isn't easy, but he managed to learn how to wake up before sunrise and cook lunch boxes for them to school. William paid more attention to Elizabeth. All the drawings of his daughter were pasted on the walls of the Afton house. There were always about ten packages of ice cream of different flavors in the fridge, and girl's closet was bursting with a lot of dresses.

William paid a lot of attention to you, too. Whenever children were visiting Henry, William invited you to a romantic dinner at home. His culinary skills were amazing, all his dishes were delicious in appearance and taste.

The way his long fingers squeeze a lemon, the juice of which covers the phalanges, and then drips onto the meat. Your cheeks turn pink, you can't contain the association this sight causes. But it's just William, who does the usual household chores. Such thoughts shouldn't enter your head.

"Do you like the way I cook? I guess i pay a lot of attention to details, don't you think?"

The way his hands are covered in animal blood up to the wrist when he cuts up meat. You shouldn't fucking find it sexy. It's just fucking William, who's just cooking. You need to cool down.

His hand holding a butcher knife evokes another wave of memories. How he held a knife to your neck while ruining your pussy. You... you shouldn't like these kind of things…

It's first signs that you're drowning in this shit, first alarm bells that you're going crazy. And William is more than happy to see what he's turning you into.

He has one of his favorite things in his house — a vinyl record player from the UK, a family treasure inherited from his dead grandfather. It often plays old songs from the 40s and 50s. William is beckoning you with his finger. You feel pretty awkward not knowing anything about the hits of these years and dances thanks to big age difference with William. And when he asks you to dance a little to these songs, you act a little awkward, stepping on his oxfords.

William chuckles, watching your clumsy movements. He puts his arm around your waist, guiding your steps to the beat of the music. His fingers intertwine with yours, and you slowly spin around the room. His hand slides down your back, pressing against your curves.

William always prefers the old-fashioned style of clothing, he always wore white socks with black shoes, brown or black trousers, shirts, vests, sometimes suspenders. He looked damn handsome, perfectly matching the old hits that were sounding on the old record player.

J — Jack off

Only if he really needs to and you're not around. William rarely masturbates, he doesn't have time for this, always busy with paperwork, repairing animatronics and settling conflicts at work. But if you aren't there to calm his arousal, then his hand reaches for the zipper of his pants. Then William takes polaroid photos of you out of his desk. Or maybe of someone else

K — Kink

Dirty talk + humiliation: William has a sharp tongue and it plays a terrible role in sex. He doesn't mind praising you, knowing that you melt when he call you a good girl, but he loves to humiliate you. In all ways. Makes you rub on his expensive oxfords, covering them with your slick. He looks down at you, literally spitting out "Dirty whore."

Or when he pushes inside of you, takes you by the hair and whispers into your lips: "Is that how you like to be fucked, like little stupid whore? I didn't even prepare you but your cunt sucking my cock in so deep. A pathetic little fuck toy. Do you know what i think about when I fuck you? No? About how i slit your throat and break your little bones. Oh, what was that? Are you fucking moaning? Whore, you're even worse than me." There's a distinct mix of disgust in his voice.

Asphyxia/choking: The thought that you are literally in his hands and he can strangle you excites him. He completely controls your life, right up to your very last breath. You think it's just such a fetish, because he likes rough sex. But William looks at it from a different angle. When his hands squeeze you so hard, far from sexually, but like a predator, like a killer, not giving you a breath of air, and your eyes are already rolling back as connection with the world is lost, when his face becomes blurred. That's what William thinks is sexy — the fact that he controls your fate, whether you die or not, depends on him.

Bloodplay: William likes the look of blood, that red disgusting liquid. He hates mess, but whenever the floor of a pizzeria gets dirty with someone's blood, the remains of a brain or even some organs, he is overjoyed. It's probably the only mess he doesn't hate to clean up.

Whenever his hands are covered in blood, Afton without doubt will touch you. He will share this blood with you, leaving it on your clothes or body. William can be so disgusting that he uses a blood liquid as a lube. It's usually your blood, rarely his.

Knife play: William's murder weapon was and always will be a knife. No matter how good others are, the knife will always be special to him. After all, it allows him to approach the victim physically, to see their face distorted by pain. To look into their pitiful eyes, to peer into that very last look when life leaves their body.

Afton loves using a knife when he takes not only someone's life, but also your clothes, especially underwear. He quickly cuts your bra and panties if he needs quick access to your body. Before you can even blink, he's already running the blade over your ribs, stomach, down to your pubic. At this point, fear already appears. William is full of surprises and you will never be able to predict his next move. This creates a sense of power and control. The way a knife can cut through your flesh or clothes, the way a knife creates a sense of vulnerability in you, allowing William to maintain superiority.

If you've been good, he'll put the knife away, beside your underwear or what's left of it.

But if you've been a bad girl, William will definitely hurt you, not deadly, but a cut or scar will remain, on the inside of your thigh or under your breasts, wherever he pleases. This is your punishment, one of his favorites.

If he's in a bad mood or fucking you roughly, he can press the blade against your neck, right against the carotid artery. "Don't squirm or my hand will shake and I might accidentally kill you. You don't want that to happen, right?"

Daddy kink: William never thought about it. He discovered this kink some time ago, when you were so blissful from his cock that you accidentally moaned "daddy!", which immediately turned your cheeks and even your ears red. You immediately shut your mouth, looking ashamed, and hid your face on his shoulder. The level of embarrassment was too great.

"What was that?" William stopped thrusting, which made you almost whine. He pulled back a little to get a good look at your flushed face. "What did you call me? Repeat." because of your shyness, you were speechless. How could you blurt that out? He must have gotten angry. "I won't continue until i hear that word from you again, dear." His fingers lift your chin, forcing you to look at him.

Daddy kink suggests that he takes the role of a dominant and caring figure during sex. It includes William calling you "babygirl" or "princess" and saying how proud he is of you. He likes to control the situation and also show care, even if it is fake.

L — Location

Wherever he wants.

William's sex drive is far from low, he's already fucked you enough in the bedroom, living room and shower, so he's moved on to the next level.

His office, the basement (did it always smell so horrible here?), his car, the park (it was supposed to be just a cute date). And his most favourite is Henry's desk.

M — Motivation

When William plays psychologist with you. When he listens to you pouring out your soul to him and telling him about your problems. Whether it's the little things or something worse: problems with parents or self-esteem.

William enjoys seeing your shoulders droop, your voice tremble and your eyes turn red from crying. At such moments, William opens his arms to you, pressing your face swollen from crying to his chest. His hands are running through strands of your hair as he soothingly rocks you from side to side, sweetly whispering: "My girl, cry, cry as loudly as you can. I'm here." You weaken in his arms, immediately turning into a small child who needs only support and words of comfort.

William knows this and he has no problem being a shoulder to cry on. In his eyes, you are vulnerable, weak and fragile, practically begging him to destroy you, not only physically. Break your psyche, destroy your idea of what a healthy relationship is, make you fall in love with him completely. And he's damn good at it.

N — No

William doesn't like the idea of you dominating him. It just doesn't excite him. Most likely, he will let you try, but only for the first ten minutes, then he'll push you away and pin you against wall or bed. "You done? Now it's time for daddy to show you where you belong."

O — Oral

William is a selfish man, but that doesn't mean he won't please you. Not only his cock, but also his tongue make you arch and moan. Afton knows how to touch a woman, and he is very well versed in female anatomy. He slowly circles your clit with his tongue, while his two fingers are already inside your pussy, moving at a smooth pace.

Then he pulls away, his chin wet with your juices. His fingers are still thrusting. You lift your hips, clutching the sheets.

"Naughty girl, did you think i'd let you cum?"

And while you are trying your best not to reach orgasm, William first gently kisses your clit, and then begins to suck on it, making your toes curl.

William likes it when you give him a blowjob, there's something special about the way you look at him, trying to take all his length in your mouth, but he doesn't always show it. He can be quite restrained and detached, focusing on his own pleasure rather than on your condition.

Sometimes he loses control if you stimulate him not only with your tongue, but also with your hands, caressing his heavy balls. He catches his breath as you push his cock deeper into your throat, his fingers grabbing your hair, pulling you roughly to guide you. His hips involuntarily jerk forward, setting a fast rhythm.

P — Pace

Depends on his mood.

William knows perfectly how to move in a way that will bring you to ecstasy, make you moan and cum in seconds. However, he doesn't always keep the perfect pace. Sometimes he behaves like an asshole, roughly fucking you, moving jerkily, no stimulating you and no allowing you to cum after. And it really hurts, it feels like you've been stabbed right in the most sensitive part of your body. William usually uses this pace in punishments.

In general, his pace is rough and assertive, which reflects his aggressive nature not only in sex.

But there is another side of fucking with him, when your whole body is pierced with an electric current, adding colors to pleasure. The combination of this creates a beautiful picture of agony and dizzying orgasm.

William rarely moves slowly and gently, only at the beginning of your relationship, when he still didn't want to reveal his true side.

Q — Quickie

He's not really a fan of quickies. William likes to do everything slowly, enjoying the moment. To slowly chew the pieces. But there are some circumstances and situations that just force him to fuck you right here and now.

High on adrenaline, sweat broke out on his forehead as his pupils dilated. William throws the bloody knife on the floor, right next to the dead body. The impulses of the sick arousal send signals directly to his twisted brain. William lifts Spring Bonnie's head, revealing his face, a wry insane smile on his lips.

A dead child can wait. William's hands wrap around your throat, forcibly pinning you against the wall. You don't even have a chance to take your last breath, all you can do is grab his wrist, face is distorted with fear. William is more dangerous than ever now. He's already taller than you and now he's wearing an animatronic costume, which has only made him even taller, bigger, scarier. The blood on his hands and the remains of human organs on Spring Bonnie's fur. You're terrified.

"No, I'm not going to kill you. Something much-much worse." he says, as his hands begin to explore your body.

It also happens when William is sitting in his office, busy with work and you're on his lap. You can do what you want, but the clear rule is not to disturb him. And you're trying, really trying to be good girl, but you're fucking sitting on his lap. It turns you on. And you start moving, slowly and carefully fidgeting so Afton wouldn't notice. But you're getting awfully wet and you're not good at hiding your sighs.

"What are you doing, y/n?" he notices your movements. "What a fucking pervert, can't even sit still for ten fucking minutes?"

"I'm sorry," you sob, making a guilty face. "i'm sorry, I just…"

"Just a whore who can't sit still for a minute without my cock inside?" he throws the pen away and then grabs your hips, pushing you onto the table, right on top of his blueprints. "look at you, all soaking just from sitting on my lap." he hisses as his hands work on his belt.

And you're not sure how he's going to use that belt: tie your hands or spank you.

R — Risk

Having sex in his office with the door open is already a damn risk for you. But not for William Afton.

"Stupid lamb," he thinks, seeing how scared you are every time Henry's voice is heard outside the door.

William will put you in more frightening and risky situations than this. It's a dust compared to what he has planned for you.

Afton is always open to trying new things, especially in sex. Usually the offers come from him, not from you. Your brain just doesn't work in that way, yet. William often encourages you to experiment, enjoying your nervousness and inexperience.

This person prefers to risk your health by not using condoms, instead putting you on oral contraceptives.

S — Stamina

He has a lot of stamina, which was useful not only in chasing that boy who tried in vain to escape, but also in sex. Usually William lasts about 20 minutes.

There will be as many rounds as William wants. And, of course you, being his obedient girl, will accept them.

T — Toys

William doesn't use them very often, but he does have some.

Blindfold, handcuffs and vibrator. These three things can be used on you simultaneously or separately. It all depends on what kind of mood he is in.

If he blindfolds you, then he comments his every move. He runs his hands over your breasts, at first just gently touching, squeezing a little, making your nipples harden. And then he pulls them, causing pain, watching your skin turn red.

If he handcuffs you, it's either because you asked him to try or because it's your punishment. Anyway, eventually your hands are handcuffed tightly and painfully behind your back while you kneel in front of him with his cock in your mouth. The view is amazing, William thinks, moving his hips and going deeper, making you wanna vomit. And the thing is, you can't even tap on his leg to tell him to slow down. But that's the point of these handcuffs, that they immobilize you.

"Why all those tears?" he smirks. "didn't you ask for it yourself?"

If William uses a vibrator on you, he holds your hips, pressing the vibrating toy directly against your clit. You're crying not only from pleasure, but also from the growing pain of overstimulation, since you have already cum twice.

U — Unfair

William is an unfair man, in everything. And when it comes to sex, he's doubly unfair. He doesn't know which he likes more: to mock morally or physically, so he chooses both.

He spends eternity with you, stretching you to take his cock, making you so wet that three of his fingers easily enter you. And at the end... a sudden call to work. And the worst part is, he leaves a ghostly kiss on your lips with a whisper: "don't play with yourself while I'm gone, honey. You don't want to be punished, do you?"

William brings you to the meetings that his old friend Henry holds at the end of the work week to see how many dollars they earned. Henry likes to bring his favorite beer, snacks, and he's usually the only one who talks a lot.

You are sitting at the table, discussing something and eating, when suddenly you feel William's hand creeping under your skirt.

And then he pushes your panties to the side, his long fingers touching your clit, what makes you flinch slightly.

"Y/n, is everything okay?" Henry asks.

Meanwhile, you feel William's damn fingers spreading your wet folds, and he inserts one finger. You're choking on your food.

"Yes," Henry needs to be distracted urgently. "c-can you open the window? It's so stuffy in here."

Henry narrows eyes, but gets up from the table and walks over to the window. William starts to run his finger faster over your clit, and you make a moan, which you quickly hide with a cough.

V–Volume

Loud moans from him are rare. William takes deep breaths that ends in growls. Sometimes he makes little moans, murmuring how tight your cunt feels.

If he degrades you, he will mock you by imitating your whines and moans.

William's voice is attractive, and the british accent makes it even better.

The way he pronounces the letter "r" and stretches words, goosebumps run down your spine. When he whispers praises as "my good girl" or "my little rabbit." Or when he growls while fucking you, its both scary and exciting. His voice is enveloping.

His british accent is like velvet, soft and sophisticated. When he speaks, it seems that every word is covered with honey, slowly dripping from his tongue. It's like he's casting a spell on you, and you're succumbing to his charm.

W — Wildcard

Chica wasnt working properly. William needed to see what was wrong with her beak, but he needed someone to hold tools and napkins for him. This job won't take long, he promised you. But you've been here for hours. Turns out that something was wrong with the robot's voice box, Chica couldn't pronounce her lines correctly.

He explained something to you about robotics and how all these mechanics work, but every word he said passed you by. You couldn't concentrate. Although his request was quite simple, it was a real torture for you. The air in the room became heavier and thicker, you felt the warmth spreading throughout your body, passing through all organs and sinking to the bottom of your belly. You didn't know why. Or didn't want to know.

William was half-naked. His white shirt and purple vest were hanging on a chair. You're used to seeing a man like this, he often took off his outer clothes so as not to stain them. After all, work with animatronics has always been very very dirty.

You saw the proves of these words on William's fingers. It's always those damn fingers, you think. William's are long, thin and insanely beautiful. They're calloused, with small wounds. And now they were even more beautiful, stained with animatronic oil.

You tried to focus on something else, but William wiped his hand on his pants, leaving a dark oil stain on them. It only made everything worse. You urgently needed a fresh breath of air, not only because of this sight, but also because of the terrible smell that quickly spread as William began to pick at Chica's beak with a screwdriver.

"What is that smell?" you asked, wrinkling your nose.

"Chica has leftover pizza in her mouth and beak, probably expired. The smell is terrible, i agree." William muttered back. How did pizza ended up there...?

The smell was almost unbearable and your nostrils burned from irritation.

Expired pizza doesn't smell like that.

You turned your head to the yellow animatronic and leaned a little closer, getting under William's arm. Chica looked a little scary without a beak, her mouth turned into a dark hole with a lot of wires sticking out of it. The smell intensified, and you winced again, trying not to breathe through your nose. How could William even breathe so normally? You began to look closely at Chica's face, her design and a cute bib covered with a few drops of blood. Wait, what?

"Why is there blood on it?" you asked again, not taking your eyes off the animatronic.

"One boy got hurt. You know, it happens, the movements of animatronics are not always smooth. He must have tried to hit her." there's a slight pause, and he grins. "Children can be cruel."

You narrowed your eyes as you considered Afton's words. Before you reached the logical conclusion in your mind, William's voice sounded right in your ear, which made you flinch.

"Hand me the soldering iron." he asked, and you nodded, handing him the instrument. When his dirty fingers touched yours, you tensed up.

"This smell... " you couldn't ignore the strange topic. "it doesn't smell like an expired pizza at all."

"Did you know that curiosity killed the cat?" it sounded rather threatening. William stopped picking at robot's beak, making a serious face. You instantly froze, regretting the question you asked. "Haha, what happened?" he laughed. "That's just a warning for the future."

You didn't know what to say. You bit the inside of your cheek in worry, sighing. Although the smell was all over the place.

"Now my turn to ask." he put Chica's beak on the floor along with the tools, his hands reached for a napkin, wiping away the dirt. You were waiting for a question, worried. William was dangerously close to you, the terrible stench from Chica mixed with the smell of his cigarettes. Disgusting, but intriguing. "Do you like me?"

"No." you answer categorically. He looks at you in fake surprise, knowing full well that you're lying. "I mean, yes, a little bit, but-"

He rubbed between his eyebrows, smearing oil there as well. "Actually, i asked to listen to your stupid excuses once again." he paused before grinning. Your flushed face looked ridiculous, but it was pretty cute. "do you really think I don't notice the way you look at me? You think i dont know you're checking me out?"

Your stomach just did a somersault. Your throat got dry. But the last question fucked everything up.

"Do you think I don't know that you touched yourself in the toilet of my pizzeria?" William asked tartly, speaking the question emphatically loudly. You felt sick.

"How did you...?" you stammered, not even denying his words, you were so shocked.

"Cameras, Y/n. You're lucky I saw and not Henry." William continued to mock, slowly crawling up to you. His hand was on your leg. You couldn't take your eyes off his hands, now the oil has stained your clothes too. A chill ran down your spine, you lost all thoughts in a second. Even the disgusting smell seemed to have disappeared.

You automatically moved back and immediately squeaked softly in pain when you hit the back of your head against the wall. William's lips parted in a crooked grin.

"Stop acting like that." he commanded as if to a dog. William moved closer, getting between your legs. He was crawling towards you like a predator to a frightened prey, ready to attack and sink his fangs into its throat.

The dirty oil from his fingers burned your skin. His gaze stared into you, and the oil on his fingers left a stain on your shirt. You couldn't fight it anymore, your body succumbed to his touch, his hands slid over your hips.

"Come on, honey, take the initiative. Kiss me. You wanted this so badly, why don't you take the chance if I'm right in front of you?" you remained motionless, your body tensed. It was unclear if this was another mockery.

His words hung in the air, remaining as a tempting offer. You couldn't hold back the blush that spread across your cheeks, your pulse quickened and your heart seemed to jump out of your chest.

Your lips touched his in a feather-light kiss. William let out a malicious laugh into your mouth, his palms cupped your face, forcibly pulling you closer, now staining your cheeks with oil. His tongue ran teasingly over your lips before sliding inside, brazenly exploring every corner of your mouth. You gave yourself to him completely, wrapping your arms around his neck. William pulled away, your eyes met as you both needed to catch breath.

Before you could say anything, his hands began to unbutton your shirt, exposing your bra underneath. William's fingers traced the contours of your nipples through the fabric, making them harden. William smiled slyly, leaning in for another kiss before whispering, "good girl." He grinned when he heard you moan.

His hands quickly got to your pants and he pulled them down to your knees.

William fucked your mouth with aggressive kisses, not allowing you to pull away.

"Little pervert. Fucked herself with her fingers in the toilet of a children's fucking diner." William growled. "You couldn't even cum. Your little fingers aren't enough to satisfy your cunt, are they?"

You closed your eyes, nodding obediently. Again... again these mocking that make you want to howl plaintively.

You were humiliated by agreeing with every word he said. It was arousing as hell, your needy eyes screamed: "fuck me, right now and right here." Everything in your body burned and ached, begging him for more.

"Buddy, are you done with Chica?" Henry's voice rang out in the hallway of the pizzeria. William pulled back, his lips curling. Your face is pale from the fear of being caught. You immediately began buttoning your shirt with shaking hands.

"We'll continue this a little later, honey." William cooed, looking at your neck contentedly.

X – X-ray

18-19 cm.

Y — Yearning

You turned out to be his little stress reliever. And stress is a very common in William's life, being a single father and a workaholic, he's always busy at work, projecting future animatronics, designing and much more.

But is that all he's doing?

William is often tired at work, under intense stress because of the eternally screaming children and their moms. Also, Henry is always running around the place, either Charlotte is lost or something else. A lot of paperwork is also tiring. In this case, stressed William is more gentle and tender with you, allowing you to sit on his lap while you whimper and rub against him, trying to achieve orgasm. "Good girl. Helping daddy relieve stress after a hard day, that's right. I'm too tired to fuck you properly." he kisses you on the neck and then on the cheek. “Can you cum without my cock? Do it, show daddy that you're a big girl.”

Z — Zzz...

William is a light sleeper, he can wake up from any movement or rustle. If the sex took place in the bedroom, he will only be happy to rest after. Sometimes all William craves is just silence. And you're indeed silent, lying next to him, trying to catch your breat, because you're too tired to talk, even move. After all, sex with him is usually intense and exhausting.

Sometimes William gets so tired after spending the whole day fixing animatronics that he falls asleep first. It gives you an amazing opportunity to glance at him better, to look at his features without his always mocks and teasings about it.

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