#cw dubcon if you squint | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheerycherrycandy-resurrected · 5 months ago

Text

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 11 + 12

The journey comes to an end. Out of trouble and on good terms at last, Rain and Dewdrop can finally begin to build a friendship. But other lingering feelings might derail that…

Y'all the words don't stop writing themselves, double update this week because I wrote enough for two chapters, but don't want to drag out a camping trip for more than 3 updates!

Rating: M Content: short description of a panic attack, nightmares, mild gore, mild violence, mention of vomiting, possible dubcon if you squint (in a dream) Words: 9161

Links to full fic: Tumblr | AO3

Hi tag gang! @everybodyshusband @rainsbasspick @revengeghoulette

Read below, or on AO3! some entertaining lines from the plan in the end notes this week

Chapter 11

The memory of the warmth in Dew’s wiry, but deceptively strong, embrace stuck with Rain until they went to bed that night. Dew had squeezed him so tightly Rain was afraid he would crush him. He made no move to escape however, and instead clung to him as a drowning man would cling to the last piece of floating flotsam in a shipwreck.

Rain was still coming to terms with how the conversation had just unfolded: never in his wildest imagination had he thought Dew would apologise. He had needed to; his antagonistic behaviour of late had become beyond unreasonable, but Rain had assumed any apology would be insincere and forced out of him by a packmate, possibly at knifepoint.

The shock of Dew both taking accountability and begging for forgiveness had left Rain frozen in place, too many thoughts fighting to break the surface for any to succeed. In the end, his outward appearance had been that of a frozen lake on a calm day: glassy smooth from above, but churning below the surface with invisible turmoil. Dew's scorching embrace had been what he needed to thaw the icy shell around his heart, and he let himself melt against the shorter ghoul who stumbled to keep his balance.

Dew got himself ready for bed in a daze. The relief at having finally cleared the air with both Mountain and Rain was only outweighed at the elation of realising that, after almost two weeks of near-constant worry, his pack really were going to be alright. Drowning in Rain's arms, he was finally able to feel his tangible presence. Rain was here. He was safe. Dew felt like his mind was a runaway train that had been tearing downhill in the pursuit of safety for so long, that he hadn't stopped until now to look and see Rain really stood there in front of him. He squeezed him so tightly, his unglamoured gills popped open.

Dew shivered, although not unpleasantly, at the lingering coolness of Rain's arms ghosting over his skin. The tall water ghoul was stronger than he looked, especially given his current weakened state. Dew decided to file that type of thought far, far away in his mind for now.

That night they finally drifted off to sleep without straining to stay separated. Rain’s long tail, set free at night for comfort, thumped contentedly on the ground between them. If it happened to brush against Dew’s leg with every twitch, neither ghoul mentioned it.

~~~~~~~

Men were chasing him, beating him and kicking at him as he ran. They screamed abuse, calling him ‘murderer’, ‘monster’, ‘demon’. Rain tore forward until his legs burned and his lungs screamed at him to just give up and collapse. His pulse roared in his ears, racing to the beat of a frenetic marching band. Other voices that sounded like those of his packmates howled that he was worthless, a disgrace to them and to his kind. Above the cacophony rose a shriek of cruel laughter; his ghoulette sweetheart.

Rain whipped his head around, trying to make sense of the blur of too-bright colours surrounding his vision as he continued hurtling onwards. The abstract shapes rearranged themselves into the dead faces of those at the farm: the two boys who worked the land, the girl with the painfully familiar ebony hair. Her empty, sunken eye sockets stared at Rain accusingly.

As Rain was distracted by her once again, the ground took it opportunity to race to meet him. His knees hit first, the crushing pain only registering briefly before his jaw hit next, and he felt his front teeth shatter on the hard stone. Blood streaming from his mouth and nose, Rain struggled to lift his head amidst the hail of pain raining down upon him from clubs and boots alike. The faces of those he had killed morphed in front of him, transforming into those of his pack; the decomposing faces of the ghouls he loved.

“No!” he rasped out, but his voice caught in his throat.

The partially defleshed skulls laughed at his pathetic attempt to talk and began to speak, mocking him.

“You doomed us to this!” one with crumbling, decaying antlers rasped. Mountain.

“Stupid, cowardly ghoul.” Snarled another, the only feature identifying it as Swiss was the single gold tooth still glimmering deep within the gaping maw of its mouth.

“This is all your fault.” Aether.

The worst came from the monster resembling Dewdrop. It stalked towards Rain, where the men of the village had left him battered and broken on the floor, begging for the sweet release of unconsciousness. Looming over him, Rain smelled the stench of death and decay on its breath. Its skeletal arms reached out to encircle him, squeezing him. Rain shuddered at the macabre hug, as the limbs tightened around him even more like a boa constrictor with their prey.

“You killed us,” it whispered in Rain’s ear, “we were all so happy until you came along. Now look at us.”

Rain clenched his eyes shut, but the image of the dead humans and his zombified packmates was seared into his retinas. The animated corpse of Dewdrop leaned in closer, until Rain’s nose was all but inside the cavity in its skull where its own nose should have been. The edges of Rain’s vision began to turn dark, flickering with static.

“Useless little water freak.” It whispered, before pressing what was left of its lips against Rain’s. Sucking out the last of his consciousness, the world went black.

~~~~~~~

Rain woke with a start, his whole body spasming from the shock as he gasped, open-mouthed, for air. His heart felt as though it was trying to leap out his chest, only held in by the crushing weight of whatever was stopping his lungs from fully filling with air. Panic gripped every inch of his body, and Rain clawed at his chest as he hyperventilated, hunched over, but still couldn’t get the oxygen he needed.

Beside him Dew, always a light sleeper, awoke with a jolt. The smell of Rain’s hysterical fear assaulted his nostrils, and he could hear his harsh breathing. Dew recognised the tell-tale signs of panic immediately.

“Rain,” Dew bolted upright, “what’s wrong?”

Rain wheezed at him wordlessly, his eyes frantic. In his state, he half expected Dew to snap at him again for waking him, despite yesterday’s apology.

Dew instinctually reached out to grab Rain’s hand that was as cold as ice. With his other, Dew rubbed soothing, rhythmic passes on Rain’s back to encourage him to breath slower.

“C’mon Rain, breath with me,” he begged, “you’re okay now. Deep, slow breaths.”

Rain’s terrified scent was the same as the same as the one Dew had tracked to his jail cell that first afternoon, and the memory of it made him almost retch. He shuffled in closer to the whimpering water ghoul, pulling his larger frame in against his warm chest. Seeing Rain like this, he shivered at the thought of everything he had failed to protect the younger ghoul from over the past weeks; all his suffering he hadn’t been able to prevent.

“It was just a dream, you’re safe here. We’re all safe.” Dew whispered, gently rocking him side to side as Rain’s lurching breaths slowly subsided.

“I’m sorry.” Rain gasped out between lungfuls. Hiccupping sobs threatened to send him back into full body shudders.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Hummed Dew.

The pair sat together in near silence until Rain’s breathing was mostly stable and his tears had dried.

“Let’s get you warm,” Dew helped him back under the covers, still never letting go of his hand, and tucked Rain protectively into his chest, “try and get some more sleep.”

Dew held him close, as much for his own comfort as for Rain’s. He tried to stay awake, instincts screaming at him to protect the ghoul from harm as he drifted back to sleep in his arms, but his own exhaustion won out eventually.

When the pair woke again a few hours later they were totally entangled, a intimately braided pile of limbs and tails. In the cold exposure of the morning light they couldn’t hide their positions. Awkwardly untangling themselves, they silently packed their stuff to move on. Both snuck concerned glances at the other when they thought they wouldn’t be noticed: Dew out of concern for Rain’s wellbeing after his attack during the night, Rain out of fear that he had collapsed the fragile truce they had just built. The day continued as it had started, with both ghouls seeking to avoid each other from embarrassment.

As the ghouls were preparing to leave their camp, Mountain pulled Dew aside.

“Is Rain alright?”

Dew cast a gaze his way. The water ghoul was reinstalled atop the horse. His breathing was still slightly laboured, his lungs exhausted after their intense trial during the night. He looked rough.

“He had a nightmare.”

Mountain nodded sagely. Neither one of them needed to specify what it was about: anything from the catalogue of Rain’s recent traumas would be similarly horrific to relive. After a sober moment, Mountain changed the subject,

“We need water soon,” he spoke slightly louder, so the rest of the pack could hear the plan, “you know where you found the river again Dew, do you want to lead the way?”

If there had been any doubt in Dew’s mind about the sincerity of Mountain’s apology the day before, it crumbled in the wake of his actions; the earth ghoul effectively announcing his trust in Dewdrop to the whole pack. He proudly took his place at the front of the group, and they began their slow march further north behind him.

Mountain used this opportunity to have the final difficult conversation he had been putting off; this one with Rain. He had no idea if Rain attributed any of the recent strife to him, either through his implicit pressure to go to the farm that morning or his less than stellar actions since. Selfishly though, Mountain wanted another taste of the freeing feeling he got from clearing the air between him and Dew.

He sidled up beside the horse, where Rain was sitting staring straight ahead, a faraway look in his eyes.

“How’re you doing, Rainy?”

The water ghoul startled slightly, jolted from his thoughts.

“Alright,” he shrugged, “I'm glad you and Dew made up.”

“Me too,” hummed Mountain, before taking advantage of the perfect opening to segue into why he needed to talk to Rain in the first place. “I want to tell you I'm sorry, too.”

Rain, who had only been half focussing on the earth ghoul plodding along beside him now fully pivoted in the saddle to look at him.

“What for?” he seemed genuinely confused.

“I pressured you into going that morning, into using your powers even though you weren’t ready.”

“Oh Mount,” Rain sighed, “none of that is your fault! You didn’t pressure me into going to the farm that day, I wanted to go.”

Mountain opened his mouth to object, but Rain kept talking over him.

“I’m a grown ghoul, I can make my own decisions. I thought I was capable, and I should’ve stopped when I realised I wasn’t.”

“I should’ve at least stopped Dew being so mean to you!”

Rain snorted wearily: as if it was that simple.

“You tried, you couldn’t do any more than that. Dew’s got his own issues we still need to work through, but I should’ve been the one to stand up to him sooner.”

Mountain stared at him in confusion. Only yesterday the pair had been silently feuding, yet today they seemed almost amicable. He had even thought he spotted them cuddling when he awoke that morning, but had written it off as the imaginations of his own barely-conscious mind. He wondered what had sparked this sudden, positive change.

“Things are gonna be okay Mount, I promise.” Rain looked at the earth ghoul in mild concern. He had gone very still, his face scrunched up in confusion. Rain knew he had a habit of beating himself up over things beyond his control, and it saddened him that he hadn’t been able to stop it sooner. At a loss for what to do, and unable to simply give Mountain a hug from his horseback position, he reached out and patted him gently on his head.

Exhausted, Mountain wrote the odd interaction off as the result of his tired insanity. Rain didn’t seem angry with him, and he felt better now the words that had scared him were out in the open. He dropped back in pace until he was walking in step with Swiss – that felt easier. Aether resumed his post from previous days next to Rain, while Dew happily ploughed on ahead. Mountain and Swiss quietly chatted as they walked, Swiss carrying the conversation but frequently interrupting himself to ask Mountain to name the various flora they passed.

The environment around them was beginning to change: leafy trees gave way to evergreens, the sandy soil beneath their feet was becoming harder and chalkier, and the sounds of the fauna were foreign. The air temperature was dropping too; no longer a balmy summer heat but more temperate and breezy. For the hiking ghouls this was a relief – they were no longer sweating with every step the took under the beating sun. Rain however was becoming uncomfortably cold. None of them had brought more than a few extra layers with them, and the airy linen shirt of Swiss’s he wore held little warmth.

“You’re cold.” Stated Aether, sensing Rain’s discomfort. Rain wanted to deny it, but the shiver that overtook his body when he went to shake his head belied his insistence that he was fine.

Pausing for a moment, Aether dug around in his pack before producing his neatly rolled up blanket. He tossed an end of it up and over Rain's shoulders, allowing him to arrange it around himself without even needing to dismount.

“Let me know if you need more, okay?” He said, softly.

Rain nodded, already snuggling down into the slightly scratchy but warm fabric that smelled comfortingly of his packmate. All bundled up, the water ghoul quickly regained some warmth. A short while later, he and Aether were back to their companionable silence, lost in their respective thoughts.

Rain's mind kept returning to his dream. Not just to the vivid physical and verbal attacks of a hundred nameless villagers, or the dead and decaying faces of his victims. Not even just to the reanimated corpses that resembled Mountain, Swiss and Aether. These were all things his subconscious had conjured to torture him with previously in his own personal horror show. Rain was no stranger to nightmares, both before recent events and since. Most of his attempts at sleep in jail had been disturbed by some kind of night terror, reminding him of what he had done, how he had uprooted and destroyed the lives of many in their sleepy village. In the end, Rain had stopped trying to sleep at all. He had been doing well on this journey so far, still having unpleasant dreams but free of ones of this intensity, until now.

The mutilated face of his childhood beloved affected him less than he thought it would, especially given how her resemblance to the farmer's daughter had sparked his catastrophic loss of control almost two weeks prior. She had come to him in a nightmare that morning too; could witnessing the death of her lookalike have finally robbed her of the power to hurt him further? Her presence in Rain's personal nighttime horror shows had been a constant for as long as he had been away from his home clan, the one constant in his life until he met the pack.

Perhaps she had simply been replaced in his mental playbill by someone else. As hard as he tried, Rain could not get the creature with Dew's face out of his mind. How it stared at him, single-minded in its focus as it stalked towards him. Despite its horrifying nature, skin almost melting off its face, Rain found himself recalling the press of its lips on his, remembering how they felt as it drained his soul.

Hot. They were so hot, Rain felt as though they would burn him if he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t though, not with the iron grip the monster had on him. Rain hadn’t even tried. The world of his nightmare had faded to black as he let the creature with fraying blond hair and a rotting face consume him, before waking in a panic.

Rain shook his head to dislodge the memory, horrified at himself. Was he really that desperate? So lonely the thought of any lips on his own could invade his dreams and even his waking thoughts? The abomination from his dream was neither ghoul or human in appearance, and bore only a passing memory of a resemblance to his packmate, so why was he still thinking about it? Especially given how terrified he had been when he woke afterwards.

In trying not to think about the horrors of his nightmare, Rain’s thoughts drifted to Dew himself. His arms had been so warm when they were wrapped around him, both the night before and again when he was comforting him in the middle of the night. Dew had held him so tightly, grounding him and making him feel truly safe, but the dream had twisted that into danger and fear. Rain’s mind wandered to what the real Dew’s lips might feel like. He imagined they would be warm, still scorching against his own, but not hot enough to burn.

Huffing out a sigh, Rain threw his gaze outwards to his surroundings in search of a distraction from his thoughts. Dew wouldn’t appreciate him having them; despite their recent truce and his freely given comfort last night, Rain still didn’t think the fire ghoul liked him much. His eyes settled on the short figure in front of him, walking along with a spring in his step Rain had never seen before. Dew’s enthusiastic acceptance of his task at leading them today made him feel strangely fuzzy inside: it was an adorable sight really, seeing the normally grouchy ghoul so fervent in his task.

Rain resigned himself to his fate. Daydreaming about Dewdrop was still better than dwelling on his nightmare, or letting any other memories of the time between arriving at the farm and being swept from the gallows resurface. Besides, Dew was technically his husband after all, so surely no one could blame him for any impure thoughts he may be having.

While Rain continued stewing in his own mind, the pack made good progress. Before long, Dew was directing them to stop for a break. They were almost back at the river, he promised, just a few more hours and they would have a constant supply of fresh water for the rest of the journey and not need to carry it around with them anymore.

Aether helped Rain scramble down from the saddle. He was feeling much warmer now, and not just from the blanket.

“I’m going to walk for a bit.” He answered several inquisitive glances as he repacked the blanket with a slight struggle.

Dew had been feeling great all morning. The liberating effect of a clear conscience had finally lightened the load he felt pressing down on him, and Mountain unambiguously demonstrating his trust in him by asking him to lead the way had left Dew feeling like he was walking on air. Watching Rain walking around, chatting happily with a tired and half-listening Aether, Dew would never have suspected the water ghoul had been in such a state he previous night. He didn’t know exactly what his nightmare had been about, but his own imagination could surely fill in the gaps if he wanted it to. Judging by his behaviour now though, Dew was hopeful that it was not continuing to affect him in his waking hours.

The path re-joined the river in the late afternoon, to everyone’s relief. It was wider here than when they saw it before, stretching vast and deep between the two shores. Dew turned around to proudly point it out to the others, only to see a grey blur shoot past him and cannonball into the water with an almighty splash.

“Rain!” spluttered Dew, giving chase, “your clothes!”

The water ghoul resurfaced, fully clothed and soaking wet.

“You’ll dry them.” He replied cheekily, smirking before dipping back under the water. Dew stared wordlessly at the ripples left behind until he suddenly had to dodge the bundle of sodden shirt and trousers thrown at his head by Rain, who had resurfaced again closer to shore.

He was still stood there, holding the wet bundle of clothes, when the others caught up with him.

“Where’s Rain?” Asked Aether. Dew gestured widely at the river. “Of course.” The quintessence ghoul sighed, before sinking down to the floor where he stood, glad of a break.

Dew stared at the soggy fabric a while longer before shaking it out to begin drying it off. As a fire ghoul he was a naturally warm-blooded creature, but the feeling of hot blood flowing beneath his cheeks was strange to him. He didn’t know why he was blushing: they’d both bathed in their underwear together countless times since Rain arrived, several times just this trip even. Here he was though, flustered by Rain effectively undressing for him.

It wasn’t that he thought Rain was unattractive – far from it – but he had always managed to suppress those thoughts before. Now they were on more even terms, they seemed to be coming back with a vengeance. Dew knew he had seriously misjudged Rain before, and he desperately wanted to make amends, but these new and distracting thoughts were really complicating things in his head.

Like earlier, when Rain had been reaching up to bundle Aether’s blanket into a saddlebag. His flowing sleeves had fallen to his elbows, revealing pale arms crisscrossed with an intricate lattice of blue veins, flexors tensing beneath his skin as he struggled. Dew had been struck with the thought that those arms had been tight around him the night before. It tugged deep in his stomach, making him feel almost queasy, and he was equal parts disappointed and relieved when Rain’s sleeves fell back to his wrists.

Strange fascination with his arms aside, Dew told himself that his physical appreciation for Rain was actually perfectly understandable: he was an undeniably handsome ghoul. He had long suspected it was only his youth and naivety that had stopped their older packmates from trying something on with Rain by now. The pang of jealousy that lanced through him at the thought of one of the others claiming Rain as their mate was trumped only by his envy of Rain himself. He was effortlessly attractive but didn’t seem to realise or even care, meanwhile Dew could only compare himself unfavourably to the statuesque water ghoul, feeling more at odds with his own body each time.

Ugh, what was he thinking? Dew huffed in frustration at himself, and started folding Rain’s newly warm and dry clothes. Rain deserved better than him, the miserable fire ghoul who almost let him die at the hands of mere humans. He deserved a water ghoul as beautiful as he was, one who could give him everything he wanted and more. Dew wasn’t even worthy of thinking such thoughts about him, especially given how they were only arguing a day ago. He let out a dry laugh to himself; they were married, supposedly, and Dew couldn’t help but wonder if subjecting Rain to that was his greatest crime of all.

Yet as he watched Rain finally be relaxed enough to properly enjoy himself in the water, splashing around like a puppy and waving at Dew begging for his attention, he realised: the water ghoul was supremely, unavoidably cute.

Dew avoided addressing his thoughts further by staring at the fire all evening. Once Rain, plus a few fish, had been extracted from the river, the pack had settled down for a quick dinner and an early night. Everyone was exhausted, and it was starting to show in the unusual quiet that descended upon the tired ghouls. The greatest excitement had come when Swiss proudly added the assortment of herbs he had gathered under Mountain’s direction throughout the day to the cooking pot.

It was a companionable silence that enveloped the camp that night, thought Aether. The strenuous journey was affecting him more than the others, but the time for rest would come later once they had a roof above their heads. Dew had assured him they were nearing the Abbey now, and their journey would be at an end in a few more days. For now, he was content to watch the blooming relationships of his packmates. He’d had his eye on Swiss and Mountain for a while now, watching the pair dance around each other like planets, destined to collide. Dewdrop and Rain were a new development however, and one he hadn’t been expecting. When Rain had first showed up, Aether had hoped that the two young ghouls would find companionship in each other. However, the immediate animosity between them had swiftly dashed his hopes. Now, watching the pair both pretend they weren’t sneaking glances at the other across the fire all evening, he wondered if there was a chance for them yet.

That night was cold. Their northward journey had also taken them gradually uphill, and alongside the decrease in temperature, the wind had also picked up. At least it wasn't raining, thought Dew as he stoked the fire that night, all five ghouls huddled around it to absorb all the warmth they could. Rain was suffering the worst: the wind whipped through his hair, lifting it up only for cold rivulets to tickle the back of his neck, making him shiver.

As they crawled under blankets that night, Rain was still cold. Unlike earlier in their journey when he would have suffered in silence, praying Dew's warmth would eventually seep over to him, Rain was much more comfortably in voicing his discomfort. Selfishly, a part of him was glad of an excuse to try to snuggle into Dew's warm arms again.

“Dew it's cold,” he griped, aware of how whiny he sounded, but not caring, “warm me up please?”

“Oh, stop being such a princess!” Dew huffed a laugh at Rain's behaviour before reaching out and pulling him close, against his better judgement. Under the cover of darkness, his own actions felt less scary, the implications smaller. The water ghoul wriggled happily as he got what he wanted and settled down to sleep, warm at last.

Dew tried not to think too hard about how easy it felt, holding Rain like this, or about the low purr rumbling from his chest as he fell asleep. This didn't have to mean anything; it probably didn't mean anything to Rain. He was just helping his packmate, Dew argued. He chose to ignore the overwhelming feeling of comfort he found in their position, and before he could torture himself by ruminating on the implications of that further, he was also asleep and quietly purring himself.

Chapter 12

The next morning when the pair inevitably woke even more entwined than the previous day, they both acted as though it was a perfectly normal situation. Feeling emboldened by Dew initiating the hug, Rain made no move to release him. He had slept through the night, mercifully unbothered by night terrors, and didn't want to do anything which might scare Dew off or make him reluctant to repeat this the next night.

Dew was normally the earliest riser among the pack, but that morning he blinked into consciousness to find long, cool fingers gently combing absentmindedly through his hair. The only other ghoul he had let play with his hair was Cirrus, and he melted into the familiar, relaxing sensation. He hadn't felt this cared for in a while so he closed his eyes again, content to stay in this quiet space halfway between waking and sleep for a bit longer. They could afford to; they were so close to the Abbey now that Dew could feel his skin prickling with nerves about introducing the two groups of ghouls he called family to each other. He twitched slightly as he tried to free his arm from where it was going numb, but Rain’s own tightening around him in response, accompanied by a tiny growl, made him quickly abandon that quest.

It was a slow start to the morning, once they eventually crawled out of the blankets and each other's arms, and back into reality. Mountain and Aether seemed particularly affected by the collective exhaustion. Now that they were settling into a routine and any lingering adrenaline had long dissipated, the swiftness of their journey was beginning to take its toll. All of them felt they were simply going through the motions, eating their dwindling rations and packing up their camp on autopilot.

Swiss, although also tired, seemed to be faring slightly better. Dew could tell however that his struggles laid elsewhere: he spent the morning trying to get Mountain's attention like a lost puppy, getting shot down every time. The old Dew would have branded him pathetic, he thought to himself. Now though, Dew could see the fear lurking around the edges of Swiss’ every move, the multi ghoul clearly scared by Mountain's robotic behaviour.

Rain noticed Dew watching them in concern as they walked. Any semblance of leadership seemed to have vanished, the two oldest ghouls single-mindedly barrelling towards their destination with little heed for the other ghouls, and horse, behind them. He bumped shoulders with Dew to get his attention,

“You're worried about them.” he stated, following Dew's eyeline to where Swiss was almost jogging to keep up with Mountain's long strides, chattering in his ear with little to no response.

“They're going to exhaust themselves,” Dew shook his head, worry clouding his eyes, “I should stop them, we're almost there but we won't make it if we keep going at this pace!”

He made to catch up with them, but Rain paused him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Not your fault though, remember?”

“Not my fault, not yours either.” Dew smiled up at Rain. If the water ghoul recognised Dew was about to spiral, then it was likely he was too.

“C'mon then, let's go slow them down!” Rain grabbed Dew's hand, pulling him forwards.

Swiss watched as Rain and Dew appeared from behind, hand in hand, skilfully manoeuvring themselves to the front of the pack and declaring it was their turn to navigate. He couldn't help but be impressed at how efficiently the pair put the brakes on the pack; as soon as they were adequately blocking the path, they slowed their pace forcing the others to follow suit. Finally, Swiss could catch his breath. With their progress slowed he fell into step with Mountain, lending him his silent support, rather than chasing him from a few paces behind.

Jealousy gnawed in his stomach at how quickly their two youngest packmates had gone from being constantly at each other's throats, to each other's closest ally. He had always been on good terms with Mountain, yet no matter how much he longed for more, their relationship was developing at a glacial pace. These last few weeks of endless stress and change had somehow sparked some of the greatest developments between them in months, and Swiss hoped that once they were settled and safe that would continue.

From their position at the front of the pack, Rain and Dew settled into their own rhythm. Dew had eventually let go of Rain's hand under the guise of reaching into his pack for his waterskin, both having held on for so long that letting go would have been awkward. They walked and talked, sticking to safe topics like their surroundings and Dew's journey a week earlier, before lapsing into comfortable quiet. After a while though, it became clear that there were still things unsaid that neither could avoid forever.

“What did you mean you were angry at me for things that weren't my fault?” asked Rain, finally. Dew paused. He had been expecting the question, at some point, but not Rain’s directness.

“You want the abridged version, or…?”

Rain gestured widely at their surroundings,

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Dew chuckled, and began talking.

He started at the beginning; describing his parents’ tumultuous relationship, how his mother’s youthful rebellion had backfired with his birth. A kit born of spite, into a house filled with hatred; he had been doomed from the start. Dew explained that his father had stuck around for long enough to be disappointed, before abandoning him and thus initiating his mothers descent into resentful neglect.

“So that’s why you smelled like water!” Rain exclaimed. Dew was confused: he had no connection to the water portion of his elemental makeup. As far as he was concerned he was simply a fire ghoul; that was just how elemental inheritance worked. Ghouls with connections to multiple elements existed, take Swiss for example, but they were so unique they were effectively their own species.

“Only faintly,” Rain elaborated, watching the cogs slowly grind in Dew’s head, “you still smell like fire, but more like a driftwood bonfire. When you’re angry you smell like burnt seaweed.”

Huh, that was news to Dew. He supposed he had never really known many water ghouls before to point it out to him, and Mist would have been too discrete to unless asked.

“It’s why I brought you fish, that day when I was first here,” continued Rain. Dew winced at the memory of his own reaction – he had been appallingly rude over what had been a polite gift, “It’s a gesture of respect between water ghouls, and I thought you might be a multi ghoul like Swiss or something. He doesn’t smell much like water at all though.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Dew felt awful – Rain had been trying to be friendly with him since the beginning, and he had been nothing but cruel in his response.

Rain shrugged, and Dew figured that was the most acceptance he could expect to get. The silence between them grew slightly strained, until Dew worked out that Rain expected him to keep talking.

“I was angry at you, because I was jealous,” Dew realised just how true that really was as he spoke it, “you arrived, and you were the perfect water ghoul. I thought maybe if I’d been born like you my father might have stuck around, and the my mother wouldn’t have become so resentful to everyone.” Dew stared at his feet as he spoke, not wanting to meet Rain’s eyes. “I saw you as everything I’m not, and I hated you for it.”

Reaching out a hand for Dew’s, Rain seemed at a loss for words. That was understandable, thought Dew. What could he expect him to say? The water ghoul ran his thumb over the back of Dew’s knuckles as he chose his next words carefully.

“You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control Dew,” he said finally, “but I guess I understand why you don’t like me now.”

“Didn’t like.” Dew corrected him immediately.

“Didn’t like.” Rain confirmed, smiling.

“I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you though, you didn’t ask to be thrown into my issues.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” nodded Rain, “but you know that already.”

An awkward quiet fell again. Rain was acting with a maturity in stark contrast to his frequent kit-like playfulness, and it made Dew feel young and ignorant. He knew better than to expect any sort of immediate forgiveness though; and Rain’s understanding was he best he could hope for right now.

“I’m not perfect either, though.” Rain added eventually. “I can catch fish, but other than that I’m a pretty useless water ghoul.”

Dew stared at him in shock.

“You have got to be joking.”

Rain was the most perfect example of a water ghoul he could have pictured – from his strong tail and delicate gills, to the grace with which he carried himself, Rain was Lucifer’s finest specimen from head to toe. Dew stopped himself dwelling on his physical appearance – there was a time and a place, and now was neither. Thinking instead about Rain’s newly developing magic, it was clear judging from the destruction he had unleashed by accident that he would be tremendously powerful given time to hone his skills.

“If I was a good water ghoul, my first love wouldn’t have left me for the first fire ghoul she came across.” Rain shrugged.

Dew wasn’t sure which part of that shocking revelation to deal with first. Luckily, Rain saved him the trouble.

“We were childhood sweethearts. Everyone thought we’d settle down and raise a brood of kits ourselves.” He sighed wistfully. “Until on the day I wanted to ask her to be my mate, she brought home the most awful, loud fire ghoul you could imagine.”

Dew wrinkled his nose at the idea – he’d met his fair share of uncouth, brash fire ghouls in his time. Rain’s delicate, sensitive mannerisms were as different from them as night from day.

“I was obviously such a bad prospect for her that even someone outside our species was preferable.” Bitterness tainted Rain’s words, and Dew so badly wanted to hurt these ghouls that caused the sweet water ghoul such enduring pain.

“I was scared of you at first too, I thought you would be like him.” Rain admitted. “It’s why I didn’t stand up for myself when I should’ve done, why I tried too hard to make you like me. I thought all fire ghouls were as intimidating as he was and I was frightened you’d be the same.”

“Sorry,” Dew apologised again, “I was probably as nasty as you were expecting.”

“I could tell you didn’t mean it after a while, not always.” Rain looked at him with an evil glint in his eyes. “You’re really not as scary as you think, Dewdrop.”

Dew gasped in mock-offence.

“Besides, you didn’t make the whole pack laugh at me with you like he did.”

Now that Dew could relate to. There was another lull in the conversation, both digesting the wealth of new information they had learned about the other. One last tiny thing stuck in Dew’s mind: Rain’s assertion that his only skill was catching fish.

“Some humans make their whole careers out of fishing, you know. It’s a very respectable livelihood.”

Rain snorted a laugh at the comment, shattering any tension that still lingered.

“Thanks, Dew.”

The pair continued walking and talking as the morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon became evening. Rain was keep to learn as much about Dew’s past as he could, prompting him to continue taking.

Dew explained how he stumbled across the Abbey, and the ghoulettes there had cared for him as one of their own. Dew was careful to gloss over some parts of his initial time at the Abbey, as well as his real reason for leaving. He’d tell Rain eventually, he was sure, but he had made himself more vulnerable in the last few hours than in his whole time ever knowing Rain, so that was a story for another day.

Dew was able to dodge the topic entirely, as the clearing he planned for them to camp at came into dim view in the fading light. He swiftly finished his recollection of joining the pack, skipping over most of his difficulties with survival in the woods, and jumping to Mountain and Aether taking him in. Dew didn’t need to tell Rain all of the embarrassing parts at once, and he was sure either one of the others would delight in telling the tale from their point of view as his heroic saviours.

Their rations were running dangerously low. They had tossed all they had into a pot, too tired to make anything more extravagant. Rain could have caught more fish, but by this point the thought turned their stomachs. Dew had promised that they should make it by tomorrow night, and everyone was hoping his prediction would remain true. The miserable soup simmered gently, as the ghouls watched sleepily, transfixed by the flames.

Dew rifled through his pack, looking for anything edible. Nothing presented itself, but as he groped around the very bottom his fingers brushed against something two items, cold and smooth. One was his birth amulet, that could stay put for now, but the other was the pebble he'd saved from Rain's bedroom. He pulled it out, and it sat heavy in his palm, firelight dancing across the pale surface and illuminating the tiny fossils within. He turned to Rain, presenting it to him like the precious object he supposed it was.

“I forgot, I saved this from the house before we left. It seemed important to you.”

Rain's eyes widened as they landed on the stone, before filling with tears. Dew panicked; he hadn't meant to make Rain cry.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think it would make you upset, I thought you would want to keep it–”

Before Dew could finish apologising, he found himself with a lapful of water ghoul. Rain sobbed wetly into his shoulder, arms thrown haphazardly around him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he choked out between gasps for breath, overcome with emotion and delight at what Dew had thought was a tiny gesture. Dew held him while he recovered his composure, although he made no move to leave the fire ghoul's warm lap.

“I never thought I'd see it again,” sniffed Rain, eventually, “I know it's just a rock, but...” he trailed off, but Dew knew what he meant; he understood sentimentality.

“Where is it from?”

Rain hiccupped another sob before answering,

“I found it in a deep cave, not far from the cliffs my family lived by. I was preparing my mating gifts at the time.” Rain paused, “Wait, how much do you know about water ghoul traditions?”

“Nothing really.” Admitted Dew. He had only ever grown up surrounded by fire ghouls and their very minimalistic traditions.

“We prepare gifts for our prospective mate, before we ask them,” explained Rain, “we catch fish, weave kelp blankets for a nest, and we collect trinkets. Traditionally a water ghoul or ghoulette with multiple prospective mates would choose the one who presented them with the best gifts. There's no real competition like that anymore, but we still give an offering to show our dedication to them.”

Dew nodded his understanding. He'd noticed Rain tended to collect pretty objects he came across; it must be a water ghoul trait.

“I found that rock the very day I planned to ask my sweetheart to officially be my mate, and knew I had to give it to her.” Rain sighed sadly. “Of course, that was before she brought that fire brute right to the spot where I planned on asking her. I found the rock still in my pocket that night and couldn't bear to throw it away.”

“I don't know why I've kept it so long. My life back then wasn't great, and it reminds me of what was the worst day of my life until–” he winced; the new holder of the title ‘worst day of Rain's life’ was clear.

Dew felt he understood the attachment – he had kept hold of the engraved metal pendant he was gifted at his birth for all these years, even though he was long-departed from the unhappy life it represented. Sometimes a reminder of the worst parts of life put every small hardship or minute achievement into better perspective.

Clutching the stone to his chest, Rain admired how its polished surface reflected the contrasting colours of the light of the fire and the full moon. From his perch atop Dew's thighs, Rain thought that the pebble now had an additional meaning: Dew had noticed he kept it close and thought to save it, even before they were friends.

The three other ghouls snuck glances their way, pretending they weren't watching the small spectacle in a mixture of concern and intrigue.

Rain had eventually had to move once their supper was ready, but he stayed glued next to Dewdrop all evening. As Dew fell asleep that night, staring at Rain's face bathed in the pale moonlight, laid only centimetres from his own, he realised they had barely been apart all day. More surprising still; he felt good about it, relaxed, dare he even say happy? Despite the gloomy exhaustion of the others, he felt lighter than air. Had he really been blind to the sweet and funny water ghoul this whole time?

Again, Dew was uncharacteristically the last to wake. It was as though his body was finally allowing him to relax after years of constant tension. For the third night in a row he had gone to sleep cuddled close to Rain, and at this point he was too relaxed to care what his packmates might think. For once, his face looked his young age; free of worry and wrinkles. He knew they needed to get up and get moving if they wanted to reach the Abbey today, but it surely it wouldn't hurt if he rested his eyes for just a moment longer...

Rain was wide awake. He felt full of energy, stronger than he had in a long time, and he could even feel that new buzzing sensation beneath his skin again. It didn't feel dangerous like before when he was threatened, now it felt powerful but controllable. He carefully wriggled free of Dewdrop's iron grip, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. Looking down at Dew, he was struck by just how youthful his face looked, unburdened with the woes of his pack in his sleep. He snuffled slightly as Rain crawled out from under the blanket but otherwise stayed sleeping.

The others were in varying stakes of alertness; Mountain was already scouting around the edges of their camp for the blackberries that grew there, while Swiss was watching him from under his blanket. Rain padded down towards the river, feeling especially drawn to it this morning. He crouched down by its shores, splashing some onto his face and shivering at the icy temperature. The thrumming in his veins intensified, and almost instinctually he reached out a hand, hovering it over the river's surface. He felt the vibrations concentrate in his palm and then, so suddenly he could have imagined it, a jet of water leapt from the river to curl around his hand. Rain gasped, and the water fell back as though frightened.

Hardly believing it, he stretched his hand out again, focussing on his fingertips this time. A thinner stream jumped up, forming an unbreakable ribbon of water that moved when he did. Rain swirled his index finger in a circle and the sparkling droplets followed him, spinning themselves into a small tornado. He giggled in glee and the fine spray celebrated in a glittering shower of their own with him. Finally. His connection with his element had always been shaky but by some miracle, it at last seemed to have clicked.

He spun around to tell the others and found Aether watching him proudly.

“I knew you'd get there eventually Tadpole!” he grinned a lopsided smile at Rain.

Bounding back over to the rest of the pack, Rain found Dewdrop still sound asleep. That wouldn't do – he had exciting news! Rain poked his shoulder to try and wake him, receiving only a grunt in response. He poked him again; nothing. Next, Rain concentrated a tiny bit of the buzzing from his veins into his fingertip, touching it to the fleshy part of his shoulder once again and allowing a small spark to transfer. The screech Dew let out was neither elegant nor restrained.

“Ouch!” he was instantly awake, leaping from the blanket like a cat doused with water. “What was that for?”

Maybe it wasn't as small a spark as Rain had intended. He smiled angelically.

“Good morning, Dew!” he chirped. Dew looked at him, confusion clear in his still sleepy eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked at last, once it was clear that the slightly guilty, but still beaming, water ghoul was the culprit.

“Oh, you haven't seen Rain's new trick?” cackled Swiss, out of bed now and failing at holding in his laughter.

“New trick?” Dew asked weakly, as his heart rate returned to normal. Swiss and Rain's cat-like grins were ominous.

“Rainy can tell you all about it!” drawled Swiss.

“Let me wake up a bit first!” begged Dew, stumbling down to the water's edge with Rain dogging his heels the whole way.

Whatever he had been expecting, Rain's newfound electric eel abilities were far more interesting. He had stared in wonder as Rain showed him, watching blue sparks flash down his arms and instantly stun a fish with a single touch.

“And you just woke up able to do this?”

“In the cell. I woke up down there, feeling this weird buzzing and when I concentrated, I could do this!” Rain pointed his index fingers at each other, and a spark arced between them. “I can control water better too now, not just feed the plants – look!” He made a series of jets of water spring from the river, twirling around each other in a beautiful, magical dance.

Dew was astonished; he'd never heard of powers developing so quickly before. He wondered if there was some catalyst for water ghouls that he was unaware of. He didn't wonder for long though, as Rain jolted him from his thoughts with a well-aimed spurt of water to his forehead.

Before long, the pair had to return to the most pressing task at hand – the final day of their journey. Despite his rude awakening, Dew seemed in a better mood than ever. All the ghouls seemed perkier in fact; the end was in sight, and they were spurred on by Dew's promises of warm beds and hot food. Mountain and Aether were storming ahead, finding new strength as the miles ticked down. Rain had valiantly tried to keep up with them but, even with his burst of energy today, he was soon out of breath and forced to resume his position on horseback. He seemed to have burnt himself out with his earlier exertion, as he was almost falling asleep in the saddle. Dew worried they were heading for a tremendous crash once they reached the Abbey and their exhaustion caught up with them, but at least they would be in the safest possible place for that to happen.

Talking with Rain, already a tall ghoul, when he was on horseback was almost impossible without shouting so Dew brought up the rear of the group with Swiss. The multi ghoul had been having consistently foggy visions ever since they left the village behind; a blur of trees and leaves and rivers that swam in and out of his mind like passing birds. This morning alone however, he had already experienced three sudden premonitions, a loud and demanding jumble of unfamiliar faces and voices. Dew was getting nervous, and hoped the invasive thoughts would not sour him to the Abbey’s residents when they finally met.

To distract him, Dew used this opportunity to ask him about Mountain. He would have tried to be subtle about it, but even when he was trying he was about as subtle as a brick through a window, so he didn't bother.

“What's going on with you and Mount?”

The tips of Swiss’ ears went pink.

“Nothing, yet,” he squinted at Dew, “why, what has he said?”

Dew guffawed, were they both so oblivious to each other's attentions?

“Nothing, but the way you're both acting its clear there's something up. Did something happen while I was away that I don't know about?”

Swiss shook his head.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Dew smirked, “but pay attention next time – he's been sat at your feet every time he's had to keep watch, that's pretty smitten behaviour if you ask me.”

“As if you can talk, cuddlebug.” Swiss shot back. It was Dew's turn to blush now. Foolishly, he'd been hoping none of them had noticed him and Rain's current sleeping arrangement. He spluttered indignantly while Swiss snickered.

“Seriously though,” Dew paused his teasing for a moment, “we were worried about you yesterday when he was racing off ahead with Aether, like they're doing now. You looked scared.”

“S’okay.” Swiss shrugged.

“I've seen them like this before you joined the pack, they get in their old travelling mindset where survival comes first. Don't take it to heart alright?”

Swiss nodded slowly.

“But you think he likes me back?”

Dew nearly bent double with his laughter; they were like a pair of kits with a crush.

“Talk to him, Spark! He's as dense as rocks with this sort of thing. You remember what Aether said the other day; it took months before he even acknowledged they were friends.”

Golden eyes glimmering with poorly concealed hope, Swiss tugged Dew into his side in a one-armed hug as they walked. Dew stumbled to keep his balance, laughing all the while.

“I'm blaming you if this all goes tits-up, Spitfire.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less.”

The pack kept moving, feeling exhaustion licking at them but persevering, nonetheless. The air around them changed, beginning to crackle with magic. The sun was falling fast, the growing darkness and their lengthening shadows only adding to the eerie feeling.

“Just a few more miles.” Dew promised to himself as much as the others, as he panted to keep up with the longer-legged ghouls in their final charge forward. Rain was clearly flagging now, and it was concerning him more than he wanted to let on.

As the last of the sun was grazing the horizon, the main path curved off to the east while the smaller way ahead lead into dense trees. Rising above them was the Abbey steeple, twisted iron beckoning them in. The ghouls exchanged a final glance of anticipation.

“Go on Dew, you lead the way.” Aether smiled encouragingly. Dew steeled himself and started down the path. The trees sapped the remaining light, and the birdsong went quiet. The only sound now was the reassuring footfalls of his pack close behind him.

Emerging from the trees, the deep brown oak doors stood in front of them as tall and intimidating as ever. The brass bell glinted in the fading light as Dew reached out a shaking hand for the bell pull.

15 notes · View notes

milla-frenchy · 3 months ago

Text

Yaaaaayyyyy 😍😍 The glasses, the gray sweatpants ❤️❤️

Harold 🤭

He wants to be everything. He has to be every man you could ever need, and he cares less and less about who knows it.

🫠🫠🫠

“This is mine.” his stiffening cock nudges you through his sweatpants. When you don’t reply, his voice gets firmer. “Say it.” “It’s yours. I’m yours.” “Yeah,” he nods.

Damn, Joel 🥵

It’s the first time you've met his wild man. You've seen glimpses in the way he lashes out in jealousy. And his intensity has always been evident. But you didn't imagine a whole feral form of him. The way his veins bulge, the power of his body. You never fully noticed the build of his chest or how a v muscle cuts through his tanline. This has all been there, all along. Every time he’s snapped at you, it's been this guy. “fuck, Joel,” you breathe. His mouth falls open with a silent moan. About to cum, he grabs your electric toothbrush and races to turn it on. He presses the smooth barrel of your toothbrush against you, with the bottom nearly touching his cock. Your lips part, and your eyelids fall.

Holy shit 😍😍😍

Always such a mess.

Of course 😌😏

So happy to read them again 🙏🖤🖤

the downward spiral (one shot)

PAIRING: stepdad!Joel x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 3k

WARNINGS: 18+ smut, stepcest, jealousy, possessive Joel. dubcon if you squint. Manhandling, Unsafe PIV, improvised toy, creampie. Brief allusion to Joel as your father figure. Hair can be pulled, can sit on Joel's lap.

NOTES: title is a nine inch nails album. reader has an apartment, but she's visiting for the holidays.

—---

In the kitchen, Joel listens to the coffee maker and checks the time. Leaning back against the counter, he opens his New York Times Games app. He’s contemplating what to start with in WORDLE. “CUTIE,” he types.

A snapchat notification from you pops up, making him giddy. He adjusts his glasses, and his thumb hovers over the notification. If it’s erotic, he’d prefer to save it for a more private moment, but not now. He’s been waiting for you to wake up, and he’d rather see you first. The inner battle furrows his brow, then he watches himself tap the notification. His face relaxes at the sight of you, and his cheeks warm with affection. The shot is pretty innocent, but there’s a look in your eye just for him. And your lips are parted. Ugh, your perfect mouth.

“Merry xmas eve,” it says. 36 hours since he last touched you.

A shadow moves on the stairs, and he looks up from his phone to see you watching him, biting your lip with a little smile. You clasp your fingers behind yourself and stretch, then finish descending the steps.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” his hoarse voice greets you, then he clears his throat. He saves your picture to the chat, then slips his phone into the pocket of his gray sweats. He runs a hand through his hair, then braces his hands on the counter behind himself, leaning back as casually as he can, letting you know you’re in control.

You take your time approaching, and his eyes lock with yours when you’re close enough for him to smell your shampoo. He takes a deep breath through his nose. You lift your arms to waist height as you close the gap between your bodies. You wrap your arms around his strong middle, and he exhales as warmth radiates from your chest. Your body presses gently into his. Warmth. Comfort. You’re made of joy.

He hugs you loosely, and you rest your head on him. His chest vibrates with a low, satisfied, “Mm.” He presses the lightest kiss onto the crown of your head.

“Mm,” you echo.

His thumb brushes the nape of your neck, and his other hand rests lower on your back, fingers spread, rubbing a slow aimless pattern. You smell just as warm and cozy as you feel. Your hips push forward, making him flinch, but . Warmth rushes to his crotch, and you don’t pull away when it moves against you. He swallows, trying not to push back on you.

“It’s ok,” you whisper. As he relaxes, his bulge nudges you, and there’s no mistaking his desire.

“Sorry,” he whispers,

“Don’t be,” you reply.

God damn, you’re making this hard.

The doorbell rings. “Prolly a delivery,” Joel mutters, and his thumb brushes behind your ear. He savors every moment with you.

A few seconds later, there’s a bunch of rustling around outside the front door.

“Alright,” Joel grumbles.

“Lotta packages out hea,” a Boston accent is heard through the door. Oh, great. It’s your neighbor down the street. The newly single one.

You start to pull away. Joel’s chest begins to cave in, but the feeling is quickly muffled by irritation. “The fuck is he doin’ here?” Joel grumbles to himself, then accuses you, “That why you’re down here?” With every muscle in his body tensing, he scratches the back of his neck.

Your head tilts in disapproval. “Would you keep it together? Please?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“You sure? You good?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods.

“You’re doing good,” you reassure him, placing a hand on his chest.

The doorbell rings again, and Joel’s nose twitches. “Get outta here,” he nods toward the stairs. “Now.”

“Chill, I’m going.”

He waits for you to get all the way upstairs before answering the door.

—

There’s Harold, crouched over, picking up one last package, trying not to spill his iced coffee in the process. He stands up straight and smiles with his bottom teeth, proud that he hasn’t dropped anything. His navy, quarter-zip sweater is a little tight for his arms. “Happy holidays,” he says.

Joel has one hand on the frame, and one holding the side of the door. His body blocks the entry.

They look at each other for a moment. Harold’s tired eyes fall on Joel’s gray sweatpants, tighter than they were ten minutes ago. With a friendly wink in his voice, he asks, “Catch ya at a bad time?”

“Yeah,” Joel responds flatly.

When Harold doesn’t leave, Joel bites the bullet and accepts the packages.

“They were all out here,” Harold mutters as Joel takes them one by one.

It would’ve been easier for Joel to bring them in himself rather than indulge this ridiculous balancing act. Joel rolls his eyes as he puts the packages down on the floor inside. As he stands up, he glances around and sees no sign of you. Good. He turns toward Harold and grips the side of the door again, ready to close it.

Harold is standing there with a dumb smile and asks, “How ya doin’, man?”

“Not bad,” Joel forces, silently willing the neighbor to leave already.

“Good, good,” Harold mutters to himself. “Me too,” he offers without Joel asking. “Well, ya know,” he adds with a defeated shrug. “All things considered.” Right, his divorce.

“Daughtah home?” Harold asks.

As soon as Joel translates it to daughter, his nostrils flare. His blood pressure shoots up. His vision blurs, and his glasses do nothing. He’d like to kill this man. He takes a deep, calming breath and sizes him up in silence. Has he always been that tall? “Just ran into ya wife,” Harold gestures down the street with his thumb, bicep straining his sweater. “She said your daughter might wanna come to the–”

“No,” Joel interrupts him.

“New year’s party,” Harold mumbles.

Joel unclenches his jaw long enough to say, “Kinda in the middle’a somethin’.”

“Told ya wife I’d invite her,” Harold explains. “Only take a sec.”

“She’s not dressed,” Joel blurts out. He stops short of clarifying that he’s not your father, either. He wants to be everything. He has to be every man you could ever need, and he cares less and less about who knows it.

“Heh,” a faint blush rises to Harold’s face with a flash of his eyebrows. He rocks his plastic cup, making the half-melted ice jumble around.

“bye, Harold,” Joel closes the door in his face, then watches through the window as this asshole walks down the driveway and raises his cup to a passing car.

Joel steps back and cracks his neck in an unsuccessful attempt to release some tension, but it’s only getting worse. His whole body is wound up and ready to fight.

He can't let you see him like this. He’s supposed to be keeping it together.

He goes back to the kitchen and steadies his hand to pour half a cup of coffee. He holds the cup, watching the bubbles disappear.

The bath turns on upstairs, and Joel groans inwardly at the \ urge to charge up the stairs and ravish you. He has a vision of you sitting on the side of the tub, nude. You reach back and dangle your fingers into the water to test the temperature. Every muscle in his body wants to bust through that door and take you.

Another fantasy he’d never have the balls to act on. Right?

He puts down his coffee and takes off his glasses, resting them face-up on the kitchen island. He eyes the stairs, then shakes his head at himself. His hands brace on the edge of the island and he straightens his arms, triceps stretching his white tee. Leaning forward, he hangs his head and closes his eyes, calming himself. He stands there and breathes for a minute.

“Keep it together,” he whispers, but he can hardly hear himself over his inner caveman.

Kill.

Breed.

Kill.

“Fuck,” he curses.

—-------

The water is loud enough that you don’t hear Joel’s heavy steps thudding up the stairs. When the door bursts open, you jump. Your eyes widen as Joel shuts the door behind himself. He doesn’t look at you yet, despite your nakedness. He braces one hand on the middle of the door and the other rests lightly on his hip. He looks down, still trying to conjure restraint.

All you can say is, “Joel?”

His muscular back flexes rhythmically under his slutty white tee as he catches his breath. After a few seconds, his head turns enough to look back at you. His eyes are dark.

“Tell me to leave,” he commands, with his voice deep and breathy.

Your lips part, but you say nothing. You scan his body, lingering on his pumped up muscles.

He takes his hand off the door and turns to face you head on. His fingers twitch at his sides as his dark gaze roves your body. His head tilts forward, casting a shadow over his eyes as he looks at your face again. “Tell me to leave, honey.” When you don’t show any sign of answering, he steps toward the bathtub, chest heaving. His brows knit and he slightly shakes his head.

You sit there captivated by his energy. The drum in your neck beats harder as he gets closer. Your chest bubbles with excitement.

He looms over you, and you’re lifting your head up to look at him when his large hand seizes your arm and he pulls you to your feet. He wraps his other arm around you from behind and grabs between your legs. Grunting under the roar of the water, he manhandles you toward the double vanity.

He gropes your breasts, still holding you by the pussy. He abruptly pulls you tighter against him and the hard bulge in his sweatpants makes you throb.

After releasing your breasts, but not your pussy, he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him in the mirror.

“Last chance, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear.

You answer, “Do it or leave.”

He releases your jaw. “Uggh,” he groans in painful desire. Emboldened by your encouragement, he slowly slides his flattened fingers along your slit, finding you wet. “This is mine.” his stiffening cock nudges you through his sweatpants. When you don’t reply, his voice gets firmer. “Say it.”

“It’s yours. I’m yours.”

“Yeah,” he nods.

He bends you over the counterspace between your sinks. A sweep of your forearm sends an unplugged hair dryer, a bottle of lotion, and God knows what else into the sink you barely use.

Meanwhile, Joel has pulled down his sweats. He holds his hard cock, and his rocks onto the balls of his feet and back. He places a hand on your lower back. You tilt your hips as he lines himself up. His tip nudges into the right spot, pushing at your dripping hole. Then he grabs your hips and shoves into you with a sigh. You grunt at the sweet burn of his sudden intrusion.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “gotta take it.”

He only waits a second before withdrawing all but the tip, then slamming into you harder. He withdraws again. A bruising grip on your hips pulls you back as he slides into you, easier.

The grip of his hands eases up as he buries his cock in you faster. He opts to hold you down. With your breasts smashed against the marble, he grunts as he fucks it all out on you. Your insides bloom with arousal, gripping his cock, pulling at him for more, deeper. Your heart tingles with exhilaration.

His soft affection is a memory. A wild passion possesses him instead, evident with each thrust and grunt. This primal need has him desperate to own you from the inside out.

“Ughh,” he groans, snapping his hips.

You twitch and moan, muffled by the loud water.

He grunts at the sound and fucks you harder.

He needs to pour all of him in there. You have to be his.

He slows down only to wrap a hand around your hair. His firm grip makes your scalp tingle. “Look at me,” he pants. As he begins to lift his fist, you push yourself up on your forearm and look up at the mirror with your breath fogging it. He drops your hair and pulls your upper body closer to his so you can see.

You brace hands on the counter and marvel at this spellbound wreck of yourself. Your movements aren’t your own. You’re controlled only by the rhythm of his cock and his hands. They make you feel small.

“Me,” he commands, and your eyes snap to him.

It’s the face of a man possessed. His eyes are wild and demanding. He grits his teeth. His neck vein bulges. His hair bounces with each unforgiving thrust. His hips move with a purpose - deeper. More. More of you. His. Fuck.

“fuck, Joel,” you breathe.

His mouth falls open with a silent moan. About to cum, he grabs your electric toothbrush and races to turn it on. He presses the smooth barrel of your toothbrush against you, with the bottom nearly touching his cock. Your lips part, and your eyelids fall.

He bottoms out hard, and his shaft twitches against your snug insides as you’re vibrated from the outside. He twitches bigger, harder, and sighs with relief as his seed spills into you. A moment later, another burst, and the warmth spreads in your depths.

He turns the vibration up. “Give it to me,” he demands. “C’mon, baby. It’s mine.” He holds you tight with another deep thrust.

A massive throb of his cock sends you over the edge and releases another long rope. The climax seizes you, making you arch your back, grinding against the vibration. “I got ya,” he breathes, then moans with another shot of cum. Your nipples peak. A second later, your spasming pussy squeezes another burst out of him.

There’s more, and more, until warmth is trickling down your inner thigh and his arms are relaxing around you as you finish. When your body relaxes, he turns off the toothbrush and rolls it onto the counter unceremoniously.

As you catch your breath, Joel hugs you from behind, and his eyes soften. He buries his mouth in your neck, then kisses you on the head and glances at the mirror with a puppy dog look, with a gentle thrust deeper, making you spasm.

He growls quietly. God, he’s hot.

“You okay?” He whispers above your ear.

“Yeah,” you smile, looking down and tracing his knuckles.

The bathwater is almost overflowing. Joel slides out of you and pulls up his sweatpants. Cum trickles all the way down your leg to the tile floor. Always such a mess. With a softening tent in his pants he goes and turns the water off, then checks the temp. He reaches in to unplug the drain and lower the water level, then asks, “that good?”

“Yeah.”

He sits on the edge of the garden tub, scratching one side of his scruff and manspreading as you approach.

“Hey. C’mere,” he says softly.

You stand between his legs completely naked, and he runs his hands down your sides, then pulls you into his lap, helping you straddle him.

“Sure you're good?” He asks.

“Yes,” you reassure him. “That was amazing.”

He holds you in his arms, then adjusts your weight so his bulge is against your crotch, and your breath hitches. You’ve only come once. You could go for more, but it's not smart.

He buries his head in your chest, then looks up, and pulls you down for a kiss that starts soft. His tongue parts your lips then he's trying to drink you in. He pulls you tighter, kissing you hard, grinding you on him in a way that could have you quickly lose control. You're leaking all over him.

Your lips break away. You cup his cheek, give him a peck, and he asks, “too much?”

You nod and whisper, “we’re playing with fire.”

He lets you out of his lap, then holds out his hand and you use it for balance to get into the tub.

Your voices are hushed. “You want a bath bomb or somethin’?”

“You know about bath bombs?” You tease him.

“Eucalyptus all the way,” he answers, then crouches down to an under-sink cabinet.

“Linen closet,” you redirect him.

He picks a rose one and fumbles with the wrapping until he comes back and drops it in. He sits on the side of the tub and his thumb brushes your forehead.

“You should go,” you gently urge him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and leans down for a last kiss. “Can I get ya anything else?”

You shake your head no.

“silicone Joel's water resistant,” he offers, pointing back toward your bedroom.

You crack a smile and tell him, “Get outta here. Now.”

------

THANK YOU FOR READING

#stepdad!joel #joel miller smut #cw stepcest #cw age gap #stepcest #cw dubcon #if you squint #toxicanonymity ☠️#toxy 🖤

1K notes · View notes

osamucide · 4 months ago

Text

⊹ I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A NASTY DOG!

. . . BSD MEN AS OVERUSED PORN PLOTS!

wc: 5.3k

cw: MINORS DNI—explicit sexual content, gn!+afab!reader, a lot of anonymous sex, dirty talk, BIG DICK MEN, probably a good amount of ooc, some questionable dynamics/dubcon that can be read through the lens of roleplay and/or prior consent. character-specific warnings—chuuya: public sex, penetration; dazai: penetration, riding, creampie; kunikida: professor/student, oral (m!receiving); fukuzawa: secretary/boss, office sex, oral (m!receiving), facefucking; atsushi: HEAVY DUBCON WARNING, stuck, perv atsushi, penetration; akutagawa: blackmailing if you squint, degradation, choking, penetration; oda: penetration; ango: public sex, penetration, riding; nikolai: dubcon, home intruder f!masturbation, penetration; sigma: a tiny bit of perv sigma, oral (f!receiving); fyodor: priest!fyodor, religion/blasphemy kink, christianity-specific, oral (m!receiving)

reid: putting my dual major in journalism to work by subtitling these like bad porn videos. little not so thought out drabbles many with no definitive ending just silly whore thoughts. some are more stupid than sexy but either way i hope you enjoy because this was a blast to write HAHAHAHA

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA—HOT GYM BUDDIES CAN’T WAIT UNTIL AFTER THEIR WORKOUT TO FUCK!

“Yeah, that’s a lot better. Look at you, you got it,” the pretty redhead mutters, his hands still firmly on your hips as he spots your squat. “Give me one more, I know you can.”

The praise prompts you to draw in a deep breath that has nothing to do with your next squat; anyway, this gorgeous man, kind enough to help you with your form, believes in you. So you bend once more, squatting down, down, and pushing back up—until on your way back up, you feel your legs begin to buckle.

“Woah, woah.” It’s sweet how concerned he sounds as his hands fly up to the bar and his feet nudge you forward to help you replace the weight on the rack, but his hips end up pressed to yours, and you’re gasping. “You okay?”

You’re fine, caged between him and the bar as he leans over your shoulder to glimpse your face that’s flushed from exertion. Only exertion, surely, even though your ass is pressed firmly to his pelvis. He doesn’t seem hard, but you can still feel it, and it feels big.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moving to duck under the bar, but it’s low and you’re feeling a little dizzy, so you teeter backwards into him, and as his hands find your waist again. “Yeah, I’m about to be done anyway.”

“You should really stretch after maxing out like that,” he suggests, turning you around. “Don’t wanna be hurting, do you?”

But you can only look into his intense eyes and shake your head lightly before he’s easing you to the ground on your back, settling each of his knees over one of your thighs, and slotting his shoulder beneath your hamstring. He pushes forward, gently, slowly, looking to you for anything wrong; and there isn’t.

There’s nothing wrong, except for the fact that you can feel his huge dick against your pussy through both of your shorts.

It’s all you need to start moving blindly, reaching down for his waistband, pawing at his neck, mashing his lips to yours, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it back—he lets up on your leg only to slip your shorts off before your ankle is back over his shoulder and he’s grinding the head of his cock into your wetness.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he pants hotly, looking down at you squirming beneath him. “Yeah, I know you will—you’re strong, you can take it.”

His tip catches on your clit, and you gasp before he’s plunging into you, setting a brutal pace. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He hits the inside of you perfectly, his soft ginger hair falling loose from its low pony—you wish you knew his name so you could scream it, but you settle for moaning, panting, cussing, as he throws your other leg over his shoulder and drills into you on the gym mat. ⊹

⊹ OSAMU DAZAI—MY OLDER BROTHER ALMOST CAUGHT ME FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND!

“Shit—I’ll be back, gonna go shower this off. Asshole.”

That was what your older brother, Chuuya, grumbled at Dazai before scurrying off to the bathroom. The three of you had just gotten back from getting ice cream, and Dazai had the brilliant idea of snatching Chuuya’s cone from him and sticking it in his hair. Cursing ensued the entire walk home.

And Dazai popped the tail end of his cone in his mouth and grabbed for your wrists as soon as your brother was out of sight, which leads you to now—in the living room, on the couch, bouncing furiously on his cock as he grunts.

“Osamu—be quiet!” you plead with him, but you’re moaning, too.

His lips fall into a grin. “Don’t worry, cutie, I can still hear the shower—fuck! Just keep—keep doing that, you feel so fucking good.”

So you reinforce your grip on his shoulders and slam your hips down to meet his, over and over, drawing sinful sounds from both of your bodies as you’re separated by a single thin wall from your brother—Dazai’s best friend, who would probably murder both of you if he found out you were fucking.

And then the water turns off. You muffle the choked cry you let out into Dazai’s shoulder, so damn frustrated that you won’t get there, not before Chuuya comes back—but Dazai’s flipping you onto your back, grabbing you by your hips, pulling you into him with such fervor that you almost shout.

“Need it, baby, I need to cum in this pussy��”

“Osamu!”

But even you can’t tell if you’re egging him on or warning him to stop—with no sound buffer and Chuuya undoubtedly coming back any minute, your body decides for you that you need it, too, you need to cum and you will, no matter how much your mind protests; your eyes flick nervously up to the hallway when they’re not rolling back from how Dazai’s rearranging your guts.

“He’s gonna come back—unh—and you’re gonna sit here with my cum in you, and he won’t even fuckin’ know.”

He’s digging his nails into your hips and ass, making you twitch, reaching down to rub your clit hard, and when you cum, clenching around him, he shoves his palm over your mouth and spills into you with a last few wet smacks.

Dazai’s scrambling back into his pants as footsteps pad down the hall; he all but throws himself at the other end of the couch as you curl up, dressed but fucked silly, focused on not letting the evidence of what just happened gush out of you and leak onto the couch.

“Fuck was that noise?” Chuuya mumbles, sauntering out as he’s tying his wet hair up.

“Hm? I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything.”

When Chuuya turns toward the kitchen, Dazai tosses you a wink. Your face burns as you feel yourself leaking. ⊹

⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA—COLLEGE HOTTIE SUCKS DICK FOR EXTRA CREDIT!

"You do realize I'm going to have to fail you," your professor informs you, looking into your eyes with a little regret. Truthfully, you've always been personable in class and shown promise as a student, and he's disappointed. Not in you, just in your poor academic performance during your final semester.

"There has to be something I can do to make up for it," you nearly plead, hands clasped together on the edge of his desk as you look to him with hope. You know you've been slacking, but you need this class to graduate.

"I don't know—" He sighs your name, clearly confliced. Your attendance record is less than impressive these days, and Kunikida's enforced a strict class participation policy throughout his years of teaching—as well as no extra credit—something he makes clear to all of his students in all of his classes, and you especially should know better after taking his classes for four years. "I don't know. Like what?" Maybe you can do a few credits in the summer and still walk at graduation, or pick up an internship. But he wants you to take the initiative and accountability.

He doesn't really know how to protest when you're slipping out of your seat and sinking to your knees as a spark starts to gleam in your eyes. You rattle off a few academic ideas for posterity, but ultimately find your hands sliding up his thighs and fiddling with his belt.

Fuck it, you think, you'll be out of here soon enough. Plus, Kunikida's always been kind, compassionate, understanding, and sexy—too invested in his field to even notice that handfuls of students on campus would throw themselves at him given the chance. Maybe he'll finally understand, you muse to yourself, as you work his hardening cock out of his dress pants.

He chokes out your name when you take his length in both of your hands; he's all the way gone when you're swirling your tongue over his tip, giving in to your little idea for extra credit sooner than he'd ever admit to himself.

"Oh, fuck—" He's staring up at the ceiling of his office in pure bliss because his student is working hot, sloppy kisses down the underside of his cock. His hands twist into your hair, and you gaze up at him, doe-eyed, as his head falls forward and he looks at you through his glasses. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

He's trying not to thrust into your mouth when you fondle his balls; his pretty blond bangs are dampening with sweat, and you can't take your eyes off him as you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him and moaning at the taste of your professor's cock heavy in your mouth. He twitches and jumps at your attention to detail—your fingers raking tracks down his thighs, your frantic tongue, your fluttering lashes and sugary moans, gags, and slurps that are music to him.

You know, as he falls apart more and more by the second, you won't have to worry about this class anymore.

"Unh—uh, yes, oh, fuck, we'll work something out, yeah, gorgeous? Just don't stop—d—don't stop, don't fucking stop, I'm gonna cum down that pretty throat, yeah, and we'll get it all figured out." ⊹

⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA—NAUGHTY SECRETARY SEDUCES HOT BOSS!

You're perched on his desk when he returns from the meeting—Yukichi, your boss, who, lately, you can't stop thinking about climbling like a tree. You're sure your coworkers see it, too, but you're his personal assistant; no one gets to be as close to him as you, and he trusts you.

Which is why you'll put the moves on him today.

He runs a hand through his silver hair—obviously stressed—sighing as he pulls his office door shut and turns to you. He speaks your name, holds a few papers in your direction, begins instructing you on what he needs from you next.

But you know better what he needs. The papers that make their way into your hands are quickly forgotten about on his desk as you uncross your legs and hop down, sauntering up to place on hand on his arm, the other on his chest.

"Sir, you look so tense. Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do?"

He makes his way to sit down in his office chair, disregarding your touch in a way that has you following after him like a puppy in need of attention.

He doesn't answer, but he also doesn't protest when you settle between his knees beneath his desk and push his yukata and haori up to pool around his hips. His dick is thick and veiny, even soft; when you spit in your hand and begin to work him up and down his mouth falls open with a sigh, and he grows at least two inches as he hardens beneath your grip.

You didn't think you'd be able to fit his absolute monster cock in your mouth, but you find yourself, throat open, with your nose pressed to his happy trail as you swirl your tongue and breathe through your nose frantically; he holds your face down, speaking very little but making up for it with the way he grunts hotly in that deep, rough voice as he bucks into the back of your throat.

"Unh—ugh..."

You breathe through your nose as his hips fall into a brutal pace; his hands on either side of your head keep you pinned in place as he uses you, takes his stress out on you. Your fingers massage his balls, and you can't help the way you hum around him when he twitches in your mouth.

Yukichi pulls out of your jaw and you gasp for air, wiping the spit that drips down your chin with the back of your hand, but he's not done. When he does speak, it's demanding, low, and it makes your cunt throb with need.

"Get up. Get up, sit on the desk. 'Need to fuck you."

You do as you’re told, open up for him with no hesitation, smiling as he works his fat cock into you—yeah, his stress will be gone in no time with the way he fucks your hole so hard and fast that you shake with each creak of his desk. ⊹

⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA—STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR WITH MY SEXY NEIGHBOR!

"Ah! Atsushi, open the door!"

"Um," he frets, punching the button until he's sure it'll break. If it's not broken already. "I—I can't, it's not working!"

Not working? Is he fucking serious? You're trapped in the door—all you did was try to reach back out for your bag you'd set by the elevator and now you're stuck, by the waist, between the two sliding maneuvers, your bag dangling from your hands.

"It's supposed to have a sensor! It's not supposed to even close when someone's on the threshold!" you cry through your teeth as you try to squirm out. Atsushi's mind is already working, though, over the way you're pinned in half, wiggling your ass as you struggle against the industrial strength of the elevator door. "Atsushi, help me, please call someone or something—"

But his hands are on your hips, pulling backward, and you can't help the noise of surprise that slips out of you.

"Atsu', I seriously don't think that will work, please, just call—Atsushi!"

His hands shake as he slides your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass; he tunes out your protesting as he undoes his belt. You hear the clink of it hitting the ground, you feel his fingers dipping into your cunt from behind, and he cannot be fucking serious.

"I'm sorry," he cries like it's out of his control—he feels like it is. "I'm sorry, you're so hot, you're right here, I've wanted this for so long."

And you feel yourself beginning to drip at his desperate tone. You can't fucking believe it—this is depraved. This is some shit you would've never expected from the sweet, cute boy in the apartment across the hall who helped you drag your bedframe and couch from this very elevator to your room but here he is, prodding at you with his pathetically leaky cock while you're stuck in the damn elevator door.

And you'd be frustrated with how your body reacts, but as he slides his dick along your cunt, drenching himself in your wetness, you can't help but arch back into his touch.

"Atsushi, you have to fuck me, please."

And he does, fast and unpracticed—he whimpers for you, tells you you're all he thinks about when he jerks off; he confesses that he looks through his peephole when he knows you're leaving for work or school just to get at least one glimpse of you everyday to fuel his imagination, and you gush around him, the pain of the door trapping you falling irrelevant, drifting out of your mind, as he buries his face in your shoulder and humps into you like an animal, pounding against your cervix.

"Fuck, that's right, so good, so, so good—better than I could've imagined—agh, fuck, that's right, take it all, take it, take it, take it...!" ⊹

⊹ RYUUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA—HOT BABE HAS NO MONEY, LETS THE DELIVERY BOY DESTROY THAT PUSSY!

You rifle through your wallet and hum when you come up short. "Um, I... know you said you don't have a card reader, but I don't have enough cash."

The delivery boy looks at you with little more than boredom until you invite him in.

"Here, let me look in my room—I might have more stashed somehwere..."

He stands over you, searching you with his curious gray eyes as you dig through a drawer, a bag, another bag, only to come up short again. You even peek under your mattress for good measure, but you're just out. You turn to him sheepishly.

"I, uh... I don't have enough, I'm really sorry."

"Well, I can't leave without some form of payment," he deadpans, and you try to think of something, anything—you have a few giftcards for other delivery services, some jewelry—but he's letting his bag fall off his shoulder and grabbing you by the hips before you can register what he means.

You end up face down, ass up on your bed as a compromise, his hips rutting into you from behind as he holds your wrists behind your back. Ryuunosuke his name tag read—you're quick to adopt a way around that mouthful, moaning out, "Ryuu, Ryuu, please!" as he splits you open and calls you a whore.

"Fuckin' slut—"

When you're able to glance back for a second you can see his pretty black hair swaying with each rough thrust, and you're sure he's hitting your lungs—he's so fucking deep inside you, and you're gasping, moaning for more.

"—so eager to—unh—take this dick. Probably hiding your cash somewhere."

But whether you are or not doesn't matter; your eyes are rolling back to the hard smack of his hips against your ass and the white-hot pleasure that rolls through you every time he plows straight into your g-spot, and he's throbbing inside of you at the way your cunt grips him. Your pizza's getting cold on the counter in your kitchen, but you don't care—not when he bunches his fingers up in your hair to arch you back up to him so he can wrap his other hand around your throat.

You hold onto him as he bends you, pulling air down into your lungs when you can, and his gravelly voice barrages you with more words that make you gush around his cock.

"Gonna let me cum in this pussy so you don't have to fork over a few bucks for a pizza? Pathetic."

His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand reaches down to torture your neglected clit, and you're sure he's gonna break you over this, your hot delivery boy who just so happened to have the idea to fill you up as payment. You pant his name desperately between thunderous moans—you're gonna cum soon. ⊹

⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA—THIS PLUMBER FIXED MORE THAN JUST MY PIPES!

"Okay, that should do it." The man stands up, back to a height at which he towers over you, and you lean on the doorframe to the kitchen as he shuts the cabinets beneath your sink. "It's all movin' again."

You were in your robe when you answered the door, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't run to the bathroom to fix your hair and swipe on a little lip balm while he was working. Really, you hadn't meant to try to fuck the plumber. But this man was gorgeous, with his auburn hair, stubble-lined jaw, large hands, broad shoulders. You felt your eyes widen when you first laid eyes on him, and now you'd been throbbing thinking about what those thick fingers could do other than plumbing.

You pull your robe tighter around yourself, hoping to subtly accentuate the outline of your body. "Thank you so much, really, I don't know what I'd have done without the sink."

"Probably used the dishwasher a lot more," he cracked dryly, and your previous words suddenly feel stupid, but it only serves to make him hotter.

"How should I pay you?" You stride over to him. "Cash?"

"You can just pay online." He looks tired, but he has a well-meaning smile on his face.

You look a little incredulous. "Really? I can't—do you accept tips? Seriously, top notch work and super quick. I can't not thank you."

"I'm really not supposed to take tips," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. You find yourself biting your lip; you can't look away from him. You must look like a rabid animal right now, but you can't help it.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from yours.

"I mean, unless..."

Those three words are what find you on your back in your bedroom with your robe thrown open, the sweet and efficient plumber named Sakunosuke standing at the edge as he impales you on his cock. He worked you open with those fingers first, fast and harsh, just how you begged him to, but nothing could've prepared your weeping hole for the stretch of his fat dick—and now he's pounding into you, his hands clutching your waist as you hold your legs open for him to thrust deeper, deeper.

“Oh, shit. Unh—so wet—“

His groans come from his chest, deliciously—he looks a little like he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but your cunt is sucking him in like it was what he was supposed to come here for all along. You spasm and clench around him and he throws his head back, your whole body rippling as his strong hips and heavy balls smack lewdly against your ass with each thrust.

“Mmph—fuck—break that sink of yours more often, alright?” ⊹

⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI—I JOINED THE MILE HIGH CLUB (EXTREMELY RISKY)!

The man you met in the airport bar—oh, he’s pretty.

He's even prettier in your mind when the pilot announces phone permissions now that you're in the air, and the first notification your phone receieves is from him.

I have an open seat next to me in first class. Come visit.

You don't hesitate for a moment. You stride forward from the economy section, past the flight attendants who protest at you flimsily to search for his seat number—you see his unmistakably gorgeous hair, his glasses, his sharp side profile as he speaks to an attendant, catches you in his peripheral, and then shoos her away.

There's hardly niceties before one of your legs is slung over his knee and he kisses you with fervor. You don't think too hard about the people around you—none of whom can actually see you but without a doubt will know exactly what's happening in a few minutes—as you grind down onto his thigh, bite his lips, draw soft gasps from him when your knee nudges his bulge.

Before you know it, his cock is free and he slides your underwear to the side so you can sink onto him; he groans shamelessly when your wet heat envelops him completely, causing heads to turn in your direction, but you just brace your knees against the airplane seat and your hands on his shoulders make quick work of milking him of everything he has.

He kisses you, hot, heavy; he smells good, he smells expensive, and you tear his dress shirt open to rake your nails down his chest as he grabs your hips, letting his head fall back and a full-bodied moan into the cramped air of the plane as he does so. You lift up to let him thrust, let lewd smacks resonate throughout first class, and with your chest in his face he rides your shirt up to latch his teeth to one of your nipples; you echo him, moaning unabashedly, running your hands through your hair, gripping him as people look on.

"Fuuuck, yeah, feels so good," he praises from beneath you. "Knew I had to fuck you from the second I saw you." His eyebrows draw up in concentration as he looks down at where your bodies meet and continues fucking up into you hard. "Hah—listen to that cunt cry for me. You like being watched, huh? Gonna let me fuck you 'til the plane smells like sex? Huh?"

You nod, messily, desperately, and he quickens his pace ever faster, pulling you back down into a sloppy kiss.

An attendant awkwardly approaches in the aisle, but the gorgeous man who's destroying your insides just holds up a palm, shoos her away again.

"Fuck—so sexy. Keep takin' this dick." ⊹

⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL—LUCKY INTRUDER GETS TO FUCK HORNY VICTIM!

You're splayed out on your bed, two fingers stuffed deep in your cunt—and he's just surprised you didn't hear him breaking the lock on your front door.

When you meet his eyes, you're so glazed over with pleasure that you barely miss a beat, your gaze only blowing wide when he peers around your bedroom doorway. His snowy white hair, his sharp features—you can't find the sense to be alarmed at this unfamiliar man, the one holding your laptop and—is that your wallet?

Doesn't matter—they're clattering to the ground, another factor here you can't find it in yourself to care about as his gray eyes are locked onto you fucking yourself open on your sheets. The sheen of sweat that covers your skin, your desperate moans as you grind your clit against your palm, the obscene squelching that comes from your wet cunt—they all serve to propel him over to you, prompt him to dig his already-hard cock out of his pants as you just watch, beg him with your stare to come fill you up. You're so lucky he's here, really—you look like you're struggling to get deep enough with your pathetic little fingers; he guesses it's only fair that he repay you for the material goods he's about to rob you of and pawn off on whatever sucker will buy them for cash, right?

"Right? I'll help you out—" He gives his cock a few pumps as he positions himself between your legs, "—looks like you need it, sweetheart."

You can only bite your lip to supress the moan that leaves you as he enters your cunt and lifts your fingers up and out of you by your wrist to swirl his tongue around them, lick them clean. He's huge—even your third and fourth fingers weren't enough to prepare you properly for the burglar’s dick in your needy pussy, so you let out strained combinations of gasps and screams when he starts to drill into you mercilessly. You can't help the way your ankles link behind his back, the way you reach for him—and he smiles wickedly when your eyes roll back.

"You like having a stranger's cock deep in your guts, huh?" he speaks between deep sighs and grunts. You can only babble your incoherent agreement, your laptop and wallet forgotten, the actions of this man forgotten, everything but how desperately you need to squirt all over him forgotten—you reach down and rub your clit, play with your nipples as your mouth is frozen open as you moan, moan for this man who's just broken into your home. "Uh—yeah, you're gonna like takin' all my cum, too, I bet." ⊹

⊹ SIGMA—MASSEUR HELPS HIS SEXY CLIENT RELIEVE STRESS!

"Oh, yeah—right there," you groan softly as the heel of his palm meets the center of your back. You've been looking forward to this full-body massage the whole week, and this man was not disappointing.

He works his way down your back, twisting knots out as he goes—his lithe fingers feel like heaven against you, overworked from hours at your desk hunched over your computer.

But it's a full-body massage, as mentioned before; when his fingers dig into the plush of your asscheeks, you can't help the groan that leaves you.

"That okay?" he inquires; you think you hear a shake in his voice.

"More than okay," you reply, thinking you could fall asleep as he works you into relaxation. You could close your eyes from how good it feels, or you could peek behind you and see his face burning with blush at your sounds. You do the former, but smirk a little at how sweet it is of him to check in.

He checks in again when his hands are inching your underwear down, and you tell him of course, he's the professional.

He's still the professional when he climbs up on the table behind you and buries his flushed face into your cunt. You arch up and back, crooning, as his hands stay massaging you, spreading you apart, kneading your ass with career expertise and plunging his tongue into you with enthusiasm.

"Oh! Oh—feels good," you breathe, grinding back into his face, onto his nose. He laps at you happily, this masseur you've barely looked upon for a total of twenty seconds, but you can't lie to yourself and say you didn't think he was pretty when he led you back to his room; he hums into you, sending you shivering, twitching. "Please, more."

"Mhm," he mumbles, releasing one of your asscheeks to lay back beneath you and insert a long, thin finger into your pussy; you sigh, you settle onto his face, and his tongue speeds up in this new position in a way that rips a high moan from your lungs.

Not hunched, but arched, the stretch feels heavenly on your back in combination with the way he pumps another finger into you; you graciously sit up, throwing your head back, begging, pleading for more until his tongue settles into a tight back-and-forth rhythm over your clit. "Please, please, please—"

You grind against his nose, your moans become more erratic, and you dig a hand into his hair as your hips move in dizzying circles over his head.

"Cum for me?" he asks, muffled by your pussy; you'll ride him until his face is soaked. ⊹

⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY—CONFESSING MY SINS ENDS IN HUGE CUMSHOT ALL OVER MY FACE!

“And I’ve been terribly, terribly lustful, Father Fyodor,” you say with regret. “It consumes me. I really never used to be like this."

"Temptation lurks everywhere," the priest sympathizes. You can barely see him through the grate, but his soft, forgiving voice sounds close to you. "The Devil and his army are constantly exploiting our vulnerabilities to try and turn us to sin, but worry not, child of Christ; we're human. I'm here to guide you. Continue."

You shift on the wooden seat in the booth, crossing your hands tighter over your lap. "That's really all. It's been very concerning to me. I think about it... I think about it so much."

"About what?" Father Fyodor prompts, and you bristle even more at being asked to elaborate.

"Sex," it barely comes out as more than a whisper. "I can't help it—it's everywhere. It leaves me feeling so... exhausted and frustrated, and the only thing that helps is... Well..."

But you're met with silence. You know he wants you to go on. You're here to confess, after all.

"...touching myself. I do it at least once a day. It's like a burning within me—nothing helps but—but—cumming all over my fingers." Your voice is laced with shame—the throbbing of your cunt as you talk makes you feel all the more guilty, and you can only imagine how he's shaking his head. "That's all. That's all."

"You'll do penance," he says, comfortingly. "When we bring our sins to the Lord and repent he cleanses us of them."

The grate pops out of the window, and you see the the waist of his alb as he speaks his next words.

"You'll take communion, now—" the cinctures around his waist fall undone beneath his hands, and the alb is hiked up to reveal a leaking cock, pretty and pale and bobbing in the air of the confessional. "—and be saved from the flames of perdition.”

"Yes, Father, please. Anything to be saved." But your mouth waters in a way that you know has little to do with your thirst for salvation.

"Take this; eat. This is my body," he recites the scripture as his length reaches through the window; your hands, eager and already on the threshold, accept him willingly. As you wrap your mouth around him, he groans, and it's like seraphim singing their holy, holy, holy.

"That's it—child of God, follower of Christ; I absolve you of your sins," he gasps as his tip hits the back of your throat which was begging for forgiveness moments ago. His hands reach through the window to stroke either side of your face, and then hold you in place to fuck your throat. "The Lord will forgive you for this." ⊹

11K notes · View notes

dmitriene · 5 months ago

Text

cw: selling reader to close the debt, groping, kidnapping, dubcon, thoughts of impregnating.

being sold to outlaw könig, just so your daddy would be able to pay his debt to him, and since he had nothing but you, your dad got together to sell your pretty face to this terrible brute of a man, and your life was over about the moment when he brazenly picked you up in his arms and carried you to his horse with a satisfied squint of blue eyes.

you didn't understand why you had to answer for your father's debts, and even though könig ain't tried to harm you, he didn't react to the thick tears running down your cheeks and chin all the road that you were pressed against his chest, whimpering as he roughly squeezed at the softness of your body over your dress, cruel chuckle slipping from beneath the hood at his face.

könig didn't resell you to any other people, ain't even made a slave out of you, he gave you a clean, spacious room that belonged only to you in a house that wasn't bad, clean, looking like he didn't even live there, but instead of thanking him with your innocent eyes and chirping words, you had to run away from him, not knowing what awaits you.

the lingering perverse of his calloused touch on your body everytime he could grope you over your dress, nuzzle his face in your neck even through your shrieks and small kicks of your fists against his muscular chest, könig likes seeing you pick up a fight like a feisty kitten, not knowing that he's a predator there, and you're bounded to be with him.

to wipe puddles of blood on the floor almost everytime he comes back home by the night, stumbling through the doorway, to let him seat you on his beefy lap and press his face in your shoulder, palming at your body through almost translucent fabric of your nightie, doing a little job of hiding the softness of your curves, making his heavy, fattened erection poke in the swell of your ass.

but you wouldn't claw at him if he'd bury his thick cock in your weepy pussy, you can mewl that it's disgusting and he's gross all you want, while bouncing prettily on his fat cock, letting the ridge of his cockhead prod at the sweet, virgin spot in your cunt, your hole pulsing and oozing syrupy slick at every hump of his hips, hands holding onto his huge shoulders, as his rough palms swallow the fat of your asscheeks.

you should be grateful he kept you alive, hübsches lamm, and perhaps if he'll cream your pussy with his thick seed, sending you to sleep in your room with cum soaked panties, you'll be more docile, acting like you never been sold to könig, but belonged to him from the start.

his sweet little wifey, the one he would knock up as soon as possible, and then, you will be tied to him.

main masterlist. quidelines.

6K notes · View notes

leonsdolly · 7 months ago

Text

Canto V

Plagas!Leon Kennedy x fem! reader

Synopsis: Leon's back from Spain, but there's something off about him.

CW: nsfw 18+, p in v, dubcon, implied somnophilia, breeding kink, bruising, titplay, cunnilingus, creampie, unprotected sex, forced orgasms, overstimulation, lots of spit, choking, reader passes out during sex

WC: 2.4k

It may as well be a universally known concept that when you’re in a relationship with a government agent, you’d better get used to being strangers with the finer details. Who, what, when, where, and why made themselves at home in your vocabulary while you were dating Leon. It was all futile; he couldn't ever tell you where he was going for his next mission or when he was coming back to your grabby hands. Swearing confidentiality with your left hand on the Bible trumps a loving, concerned girlfriend apparently.

Leon had been gone for a few days this time around, and you weren’t sure when exactly he’d be back. You prayed to every divinity who cared to listen that he would come back home safe and sound to you. You did so every time he left. The government calls, he runs, you make your deals with Jesus.

The clock strikes midnight as you flit around your apartment, closing the kitchen and ensuring everything is locked up for the night. You got home from work rather late, and you’re looking forward to falling into a deep slumber, especially since you’ve taken your everything shower, completed your skincare routine, and changed into a cute teddy bear print cami with matching boy shorts. While your heart aches for your absent boyfriend, you throw your shoulders back and keep your chin high, braving another night of sleeping alone in your queen-sized bed. You slide under the covers and turn off your bedside lamp before closing your eyes and ultimately slipping into a welcomed state of unconsciousness.

Scratching, more scratching… Huh? You blearily open your eyes before squinting at the time displayed on your alarm clock - 1:48 am. Did something wake you? You don’t hear anything, yet you have the sinking feeling that something did lull you out of your sleep. You fumble to turn the lamp on - thankfully, there’s nothing standing in the corner of your room or anything else that would have you screaming bloody murder until your lungs collapsed. The covers are pulled aside as you sit up in bed, planting your feet on the hardwood floor.

Once your feet lightly hit the floor, a terrible shuffling resounds from the living room which makes your blood freeze over. Your limbs are immobilized, but your eyes move towards the door, like you’re in a state of sleep paralysis and your demon’s lurking around the corner. Heavy footsteps grow closer and closer to your door, and you watch the doorknob turn in slow motion.

The door swings open, and your body dissolves.

“Leon?” Your eyes blink at him, unsure for a second if he’s the product of a sleep paralysis induced hallucination.

Your lover stands before you with a somewhat dazed expression himself - dark circles engraved below his exhausted eyes, faded bruises on his face, dark veins trailing across his pale skin. He stands transfixed for what feels like forever before he blinks. “Baby.”

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your own stupor, and you launch off the bed and straight into his arms. You bury your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around him tightly. “You’re home.”

He shudders violently before his arms encircle you as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling the smell of your shampoo - ah, figs and camellia, a breath of fresh air from guts and mold. “I missed you… I almost didn't…” His voice is unsteady, wavering in a way that makes you want to never let go of him.

“It's okay, my love. You're home now, you’re safe.”

“I almost didn't make it… You don’t know what happened…” His hands shake slightly as he grips onto you a little harder.

A lump forms in your throat at the realization that he could have very well perished during this mission. It’s not often that he lets you see him in such a vulnerable state, so hearing the fear decorate his tone causes your heart to squeeze painfully.

“What happened?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Fine, at least tell me where you were. S’not like I can head there and foil the government’s plans after it’s already over. ”

“...Spain.”

You wonder what kind of horrors had transpired in Spain, but you know better than to inquire further. You hold him close and rub his back soothingly, trying to make him feel as loved as possible. “It's over now, right?”

“Right…” A hint of worry colors his tone as he presses a kiss to your head. “Can we just go to sleep?”

“Of course,” you reach up to gently rub the shadowy veins visible underneath his eyes and creeping up his neck. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Guess my body just went through a lot back there.”

You take his arms, turning them over and over and examining them closely for any serious wounds. Thankfully, you don’t see anything except for the occasional minuscule scrape, though the unnaturally dark veins worry you. You’re afraid they may be the result of some sort of vascular impairment, so you make a promise to yourself that you’ll drag him to the doctor’s office soon for a proper assessment. You help him wash up, letting him use your products so he’s soft and smelling like you. You hold each other close in bed, relishing the feeling of finally being able to sleep in each other’s arms after time apart.

Ouch. You wince slightly as you wake up to the sun streaming in through your lace curtains. You drowsily fumble for Leon’s hand to hold first thing in the morning like you usually do, but the space next to you is empty. You certainly hope you hadn’t just dreamed of his homecoming.

“Baby?” You croak as you wince again. Are you naked? And why are you so sore? Your eyes trail down to your arms which are littered with bruises. Eyes wide like cherry pies, you tug the comforter off to discover that the rest of your bare body is marked in a similar fashion - bruises bloomed across your neck, teeth marks engraved in your breasts, handprints stamped onto your hips like someone had been gripping onto them for dear life. Trembling, you slowly raise yourself up to a sitting position. You squirm as you feel slick in between your thighs, how fresh it is, you can't say for sure.

“Leon?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears as you call out for your lover.

You’re dazed as you take a step forward, feeling your body spinning like a ballerina, a delicate little thing that’s been used and abused and stuffed in a box marked FRAGILE. A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you to his bare chest- they’re so much warmer than your Leon’s. Your eyes flutter as they gaze straight up into a pair that look like your Leon's except they’re murkier, hungrier.

Inky blood vessels coagulate underneath his skin, giving him a mottled appearance. They interweave throughout his body like morbid ribbons decorating his limbs for a funeral. He breathes heavily as he squeezes at your already tender body, causing you to whimper.

“Leon, ‘m sore… What did you do?” A low growl reverberates within him as he pulls you back onto the bed, shoving you onto your back. Before you can interrogate him further, his lips smash against yours. His kisses are all teeth and slobber, filled with nothing but the desire to ravage everything you hold near and dear.

“Mine, all mine,” he groans as he latches his lips onto your neck, decorating it with his very own artistic flair. “Mine to keep forever.” You whimper at the way his lips assault your most sensitive point like a wolf ready to tear out the wide eyed fawn’s throat.

“Fuck, feels so good,” you moan which further ignites that primal instinct in him that wants to give you the greatest pleasure you’ve ever known, all for the sake of claiming you as his very own mate. He squeezes your tits together and spits on them before rubbing it into your nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. You squeal at the stimulation as he takes a nipple in his mouth, suckling at it as hard as he can before letting go with a pop.

“God, Leon,” you cry out as he continues to suck on your tits. He pushes them together as hard as he can and forces both nipples into his mouth so he can lap at them like a creature who stumbled across an eternal spring in the vast desert.

“Love these tits,” he groans. “Sweet fucking nipples, made to suck on all day and night. To think they’re gonna get even bigger when they're full of milk.” He pushes his face in between them before finally pulling away with a slap to each one, watching them jiggle with a carnal gaze.

“M-milk?” You whimper as he kisses across your abdomen and lowers down to your leaking pussy.

“Yeah,” he pants as he spreads your dripping folds open with his thumbs, inspecting the remnants of the now stale cum he had dumped inside while you slept like an unsuspecting angel. “Your body has accepted my gift.” A tinge of fear courses through your veins at this last line; you can’t put your finger on why it makes your skin crawl, but they don’t sound like your Leon’s words.

“Gift?” You involuntarily moan as he lets himself drool on your pussy before pressing sloppy kisses straight onto your clit.

“You’ll take my seed.” He starts lapping at your pussy ruthlessly, but not before grabbing your thighs and forcing them to clamp around his head, keeping him fused to your most intimate parts. Your sweet noises overflow the room as your back arches like he’s possessing you, dragging you down to flail around for eternity among the powerful black winds. Your voice turns shrill as you cum on his salacious tongue. Canto V.

When he finally emerges for air, his eyes are now murkier than before - the once serene blue that inspired such tranquility is now charred, tenebrous. “Leon,” your eyes tear up as you gaze down at him with your elbows propping you up.

“Shh,” he smirks as he raises himself up to pump his hard cock a few times before aligning himself with your pretty hole. “My baby, my lamb. Gonna get your beautiful belly all swollen for me. Gonna creampie you as many times as it takes.” He pushes himself inside your sopping cunt as you wail for the heavens. Your pussy allows him to enter with ease, clenching around him like it needed him to breathe - which it did. He begins to thrust into you with all the vigor of a madman.

“So good for me, my fucking girl,” he pants as he continues to pound into you. He leers at the way your tits bounce at each thrust before leaning over to spit on them. Your chest gleams with his saliva as you moan louder than you ever have before, like your throat really is being ripped out by the big bad wolf. His cock reaches deep, hitting all the spots you know nothing else can, and before you know it, you’re cumming all over him as he continues to pummel into you. Your nails dig into his back as you try to claw onto anything that can keep you physically grounded through your orgasm.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to fuck you despite the fact you just came. “L-leon,” you cry out. “S’too much, too sensitive.”

“You can take it, been taking it all night.” His balls slap against your ass as he leans down to jam his lips against yours, licking into your mouth until your head’s all dizzy again. He rears back to push your legs up against your chest as his cock pounds into you; the new angle’s making your eyes roll all the way back into your head. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs to himself as his breath hitches and he stares down at you losing yourself in the mating press. “That’s a good breeding bitch.” His words are hushed, but they bounce around in your head and yank another orgasm out of you, leaving you sobbing from the overstimulation.

“S’okay baby,” he coos as he kisses your salty tears away and wraps a hand around your smooth throat. “You’re doing so well, accepting my gift.” His eyes unsettle you, damn near pitch black as they peer right into yours. Your battered pussy tightens in tandem with the hand gripping your throat. Your tongue lolls out as you start seeing stars, and he sucks on it. “Give me another one, little lamb.”

“C-can’t,” you slur as your limbs dissolve. You want to give him another one. Want it, want to bear his child, want to exist for him. Want to breathe him, let him pump through your circulatory system. His breathing becomes erratic, damn near hysterical, as he nears his own high. He rubs your swollen clit to bring you closer to yet another orgasm, though you wonder if you’ll live to tell the tale once you reach it. He pounds into you as hard as he can, unrestrained growls falling from his lips as he dumps his load into you. You manage to cum yet again, release so intense on your already wasted form, that it shatters your senses. You’re vaguely aware of someone shrieking, and it takes a while to realize that it’s coming from your own mouth. You did it. Your vision goes black, and you slump into unconsciousness.

The first thing you perceive when you regain consciousness is the calloused hand gently caressing your face as if you’re a china doll. “Leon?” Your mumble brings him to slowly gaze at you with concern and shame.

“Baby.” He raises his other hand to hold yours with all the love and tenderness he could muster. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore… tired…” You frown slightly as you try to sit up, but he stops you from straining yourself. “What happened, Leon?”

“I’m so sorry.” His eyes are cast downwards as if the floor will be more forgiving than his own lover. “I’m not okay.”

“It’s okay,” you frown as you squeeze his hand reassuringly. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I could’ve. I thought this thing had resolved itself in Spain.”

“We’ll figure this out together.” You gently tug his arm, signaling to him that for now, you just want him laying with you. He slides into the bed and cautiously rolls you over on your side so that he’s spooning you from behind. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and gives your belly a pat.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #leon kennedy drabble #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy oneshot #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil

4K notes · View notes

seraphdreams · 1 year ago

Text

ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK? | GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. the campus power outage gives your sly classmates a proper chance to get to know you.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. fem!reader, college au, dark content, kidnapping, use of toys, one (1) mention of “you cryin?”, vibrators / dildos, fearplay, eiffel tower position, blindfolds / restrictions, dubcon, squirting, double pen if you squint. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 4.0k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! happy friday thee 13th !! i know y’all remember me saying i wouldn’t write jjk anymore but i caved! so here’s my comeback to writing them , i literally can’t get gojo out of my head. as always, comment / reblog if you like it ! i’d muchly appreciate it ♡.

“isn’t she lovely, satoru?”

“fucking beautiful.”

a pair of crystalline-like eyes followed your bare figure down from your heaving chest to your lower abdomen where they settled on your glistening folds. you were spread open, laid against the armrest of the couch you were splayed across, hands bound taut by what felt like cheap, abrasive rope.

of the softer voice you had heard, its owner pulled out a silk piece of cloth from the pocket of his sweatpants, carefully binding it over your eyes, eluding your already subdued line of sight.

their mannerisms were recognizable, the two men who’d gotten you into that pathetic situation.

they were none other than gojo satoru and geto suguru from your foreign affairs class. prior to, you hadn’t shared much of a striking moment with them for their names to be ingrained in your memory, other than the times suguru would ask for a pencil, and gojo, a copy of the notes. it wasn’t until the start of the fall semester that you had grown closer to them.

they’d invite you to the campus’s library on account of needing you, /and only you,/ to tutor them, along with accompanying them to parties held by the school’s fraternity, and back to their dorm when things got boring — they took quite a strong liking towards you, despite your persistence on rejecting each advancement they made on you.

it wasn’t like you found them unattractive, or even unbearable. they just had more rumors than they could keep up with hanging off their reputation; rumors consisting of them switching girls much like they switch clothes simultaneous with how they weren’t particularly shy about their hookups, were among the ones you’d grown familiar with.

but, as the end of the semester grew nearer, you felt a need for excitement and a change of direction; especially in the form of gojo and geto.

“y/n?”

walking back from your overtiring night classes, the call of your name from a familiar voice whipped you straight out of fatigue. it was none other than the duo that seemed to follow you step by step, like puppies with their owner, as you turned around to catch a finer glimpse of them.

“hi,” your voice came out dulcet, and slightly hoarse. “why’re you guys out so late?”

“could be asking you the same thing.” suguru retorts, strands of long, inky black hair framing his mirthful expression. he had always been handsome to you, over six foot tall with sharp facial features that involuntarily caused him to exude an intimidating presence yet, he had a tame personality to back it up. there was a reason he was popular on campus.

he was also remarkably attentive when it came to you. suguru would make it a habit to check up on you from day to day, under the guise of morning texts and showing up to your dorm with limited edition beverages from your favorite cafe.

it wasn’t considered flirting if he was constantly referring to you as a “friend,” right?

satoru quickly came up behind him, resting his arm over the shoulder of the black haired man. he was donned in his signature style of attire, tinted glasses low on the bridge of his nose despite the sun being hours away from rising, which you had presumed was just his fashion choice. he looked better like that, anyway.

“i was just coming back from my night class. it let out early,” your words flowed airily into their ears, the tone cordial as ever.

it was the thing they loved most about you — your doe eyes, plump lips, and sexy curves that they’d fantasized about tracing every inch of with their tongues. you were too perfect, and far beyond naive. The ideal victim.

“pretty girls like you shouldn’t be out so late. it’s dangerous.” gojo held an emphasis to his last vocables, the warning you should’ve taken, yet brushed off as concern. because, of course it was. your friends were only “concerned.”

you nodded your head, lips involuntarily jutting out in a soft pout. “i know, i know.”

gojo was the rather flirtatious half of the duo, often opting to remind you of his undying attraction towards you that never seemed to get through to your glitter-filled mind. you were wrapped around his finger whether you knew it or not — you were but the final reward for him when having the others back to back failed to feed his salacious desires.

“you should swing by, though. satoru and i aren’t doing much,” geto spoke, looking at the blue-eyed man hanging off his side. “right, satoru?”

gojo perked up, a sly smirk making its way to his lips while he beckoned you closer with the movement of his fingers. “yeah, it’s friday. you deserve some time off, pretty thing.”

he wasn’t wrong. most of your time was spent dealing with school in which you barely had a moment for yourself. not to mention the fact that it was convenient, the commute to their dorm held less distance than it would’ve had you walked all the way back to yours. it worked out perfectly, for both parties involved.

with the mindless nod of your head and an “okay”, you made your way towards the two, and began to stride along in the direction of their place.

things were off about the duo, though, but not quite strange enough for you to think anything of it. the route was the same, some vacant corridor that always kissed your skin with its glacial breeze, leading to their hall, and down just a few steps was the doorway to their dorm.

as you patiently wait for geto to scan his keycard, the sensation of featherlight touch ghosting along the mast of skin that your tiny cropped top allowed to be exposed, shook you from your veil of comfort. you had come to realize it was gojo who took it upon himself to rest his hand on your lower back.

the world around you felt recognizable, yet you couldn’t shake the suspicion that deep down, something’s wrong.

the latch of the door beeped, signaling that it had been unlocked successfully, and with a sturdy hand, geto opened the door to allow for you and gojo to slip past while he kept his distance, treading leisurely behind.

satoru flipped up a light, the whole place illuminating immediately after. it looked different from the last time you came over, posters that littered every wall in the living space seemingly replaced by minute frames of artwork, all cohesive with the neutral nature of their dorm.

lit at the coffee table across from the couch where you decided to settle yourself at, was a single-wick candle that filled their air with its hints of fresh sage and amber musk.

“lemme take care of your bag,” suguru extended his arm out to you with a soft smile on his face. gojo sat down beside you, ridding himself of his glasses while you gave geto your tote. “i need to get something from my room so i’ll just put it on the bed that way you won’t have to worry.” he continued.

“thanks, sugu.” you returned his warm smile with a beam of your own.

gojo’s tongue clicked as he rolled his head back against the headrest of the couch. “marry her while you’re at it too, huh?” his tone is painted in vexation that wasn’t clear enough to distinguish between mirth or solemnity.

you heard geto chuckle as he made his way to the bedroom, waving off satoru’s comment. “wouldn’t hurt you to be nice every now and again.”

“you jealous, ‘toru?” you taunted to the ivory-haired man, relaxing further into the couch as his arm took purchase around your shoulder, pulling you in closer. “and if i am, baby? what’ll you do t’me?”

it wasn’t hard to get lost in his eyes, especially when they seemed to draw you in with that playful expression of his and kept you craving more of his attention. he’s so annoying.

you brushed off his query with an eye roll, turning your focus back to geto as he sat on the other side of you, a small box taut in his grip.

oddly enough, the soft whirring of mechanics died down along with the luminescence that filled the dorm shutting off, leaving the three of you in pitch black darkness, with only the faintest sliver of light emitted coming from the candle.

it painted an eerie picture, one that caused the pace of your heart to quicken as your body involuntarily tensed.

“oh?” suguru was the first to voice his mystification. he set the box aside, taking a haste look at gojo; which was more of a silent cue to the latter, reminding him of their true intentions.

what you assumed was geto’s hand over your thigh, diligently ran along the expanse of your lower half until its fingers curled at the hem of your bottoms. “aren’t we lucky?”

his touch was unfamiliar, nonsynonymous to you as the chivalrous suguru you knew. the sensation was weighty with lust, hungry against your skin, enough so to cause you to wonder.

“suguru, your—“

just as you were about to question the man before you, his eccentric best friend cut in.

gojo created the slightest gap of distance between your bodies, mainly to take advantage of the sight before him — geto working diligently to rid you of your garments, stripping you bare, safe for the thigh high socks struggling to contain the spill of your plush thighs.

“what? you afraid of the dark?” satoru’s teasing aided in affirming your suspicions. and the fact that you were utterly helpless, only sprung on his arousal as well. “we’ll take good care of ya.”

geto’s left hand found its place back on your thigh, more-so to spread your legs for the two. “you trust me, don’t you?” he smiled, that same smile that was painted over by an ulterior motive. he stood up, finding his knee in between your thighs, centimeters from your heat. “satoru, the rope?” he held his hand out for gojo, feeling satisfied once his request was fulfilled by his best friend, handing him the cord from the opposite end of the couch.

the words you wanted to say struggled to bubble up in your throat, rendering you speechless and anticipating. in one hand, suguru took both your wrists, tying them taut by the cable and stepping back to get a better view of your helplessness, specifically the way it leaked from your cunt and soaked into the cushions.

all the same events that explained the predicament previously mentioned.

after the unfortunate affair of being blindfolded, you felt lithe fingers drum at your clit. it was a teasing, rhythmic sensation that made it clear to you in the strongest way it could, that gojo was the one with reigns over your body now.

“our feelings are so hurt, babe,” his voice feigns offense, and although you couldn’t see him, you sensed that his signature smirk was etched over his features. and that, it was.

he toyed with your heat, running his index and middle fingers along your slit, collecting as much of your arousal as he could before sinking them into your hole. “you kept rejecting us in the past, but,” as his words trailed off, the pace at which his fingers pumped inside of you quickened. “we’re treating you fucking good, right?”

even though it was just two of his digits, the stretch that they’d allot to your hole was delicious, the tips of his fingers deliberately curling against your gummy walls, right at your g-spot which only made the shaking of your thighs worse.

“god—” you rasped, nodding your head. your heat made no effort in slowing the way it greedily sucked in his fingers. it was almost as if you were waiting for this, fantasizing how it’d be like to be one of their girls.

with every foolish thought came foolish actions.

satoru awaited your answer, speeding up to an impossible pace when you didn’t respond within his time bracket. “wanna hear you say it, baby. tell me how good I'm making you feel,” he demanded.

it felt as though your mind was going to break, the pleasurable mixture of sensations causing your head to spin and orgasm to build within you. you only allotted the fortitude for soft babbles, trying your hardest to conjure up something coherent. “f-fucking good! ‘s so fucking good!”

the pad of his thumb finds your clit, rubbing vigorous circles over the bundle of nerves. “attagirl,”

wet squelches were sonorous in the air, so much so, that the students inhabiting the dorms just across the hall could probably hear the filth taking place at that very moment. not that it was something new to them — it was just another satosugu friday night.

you couldn’t take anymore, your thighs threatening to close around his arm, yet his free hand kept you spread.

“i think she’s gonna cum, satoru,” geto coos, leaning down beside you while watching as gojo edges you closer and closer to sweet release. “can you squirt for us, princess? make a mess?”

before you could retort, your release rippled within you, sending shocks of pleasure throughout your body. evidently, geto’s questions were answered instantaneously the moment you soaked satoru’s fingers with your essence. your chest heaved, your breath growing ragged just moments after.

if only you had the reins to see them — touch them.

gojo slipped his soiled fingers into his mouth, moaning at the saccharine flavor you left him with. if he could live off the taste of you alone, he’d know for sure that he’d die happily.

“are you really that sensitive?” suguru queried. in his hand was the concealed box, filled with toys; some that could vibrate, along with others that were clearly meant to stretch you out. he pulled out one of the thicker dildos, running it along your slit in paintstroke motions.

“do you think this could make her squirt just as fast?” his inquiry to gojo made it undoubtedly clear that they’d been plotting against you from the very start; it wasn’t just some spontaneous idea.

gojo’s focus was unwavering on the dampness seeping through his sweats, his palm rested atop his hard-on as he watched the pleasant sight of geto sinking the silicone into your hole. amidst satoru, he was concerningly gentle. he had kept one hand at your thigh, draw soft patterns while he kneeled between your legs to give himself a better view at how hungrily your cunt sucked him in. “‘toru’s always so rough, isn’t he?” suguru cooed,

you mindlessly nodded your head; it wasn’t like you agreed, but you were stuck between heaven and bliss, not knowing which felt better. whereas gojo was, albeit, impatient and loved to get the good parts, suguru was refreshing, like a cold glass of lemonade on a warm summer’s day. suguru started up a thrusting motion with the toy, building it up to a speed that had your back arching and thighs quivering under his hold.

“you’re so tight, darling. you a virgin?” his soft voice speaks out.

as you were about to respond, gojo’s large hands found themselves at your tits, kneading the flesh while his fingers tweaked at your stiffened nipples. “this virgin’s pretty hot,” satoru commented.

“n-not a virgin!” your reaction came in the form of a cry, seemingly at the increase of stimulation within your gummy walls, the tip of the silicone cock nudging so sweetly against your gspot that the nothingness of your sight morphed into white hot pleasure.

you had fallen perfectly into their trap — what would’ve taken a considerable amount of effort, and even thinking, was handed to them easily though the power of the gods; they’d be sure to thank them later for their service .. or maybe you will.

suguru removed one hand from your thigh, relocating it to dig aimlessly through the box. he was satisfied when he pulled out a tiny bullet vibrator, switching it on to the most mild level and gently circling it against your clit. “mm, i don’t think i believe you,” an amused smile etched on his features watching you squirm in his hold.

with pleasure stemming from the most sensitive parts of your body, it’s difficult to chase away the feeling of yet another, messy, mindnumbing orgasm. “geto..!” your whines fell to deaf ears, suguru hyper-focused on the way your puffy clit twitches underneath the toy. he knew you were close; anyone within a mile’s radius could tell that, and perhaps he was covertly evil, because the loss of stimulation that came soon after he pulled the toys from your heat was pure work of the devil.

he spoke up just as he switched his attention from your aching cunt to your heaving chest. “if you’re not a virgin you shouldn’t have any trouble taking us both, right?”

oh?

they were like that. you should’ve known — the two did everything together, it’d be foolish to deny the possibility of them fucking together.

your obstructed vision was finally restored when gojo took off your blindfold. he figured it’d be much better if you saw how you were about to be obliterated — and obliterated you were.

he took your hand in his, standing you both upwards.

you wobbled beside him, your legs feeling like jello from the insane amount of stimulation your cunt had to endure. “look at her, suguru. she can barely stand,” gojo teases. “and we haven’t even got to the good part yet.”

he wastes no time in freeing his hard cock from the prison that was his boxer briefs. his length was long, bulbous head flushing a soft pink as beads of pre-cum dribbled down his shaft. he gave himself a few experimental pumps before turning you around and bending you over.

without the stability to keep yourself bent completely, you crashed into geto, who was no more than an inch away from your face. you looked up, sheepishly as he rid himself of his hoodie, faced with his toned abdomen.

“we haven’t done this position in a while, huh?” there’s a cocky smirk on geto’s face. one that was his own, yet it wasn’t the suguru you’d known.

since when was he the conniving type? did all his time with gojo finally rot his brain? or were you staring at a man you truly never knew?

suguru’s hand slipped just under the waistband of his sweats to free his cock. the tip tapped harshly against your lips before he took a firmer grip at the base to smear pre-cum over your already saliva drenched lips. “open up, pretty baby.”

instinctively, you slid your tongue around the head of his cock before suckling the sensitive area, only gradually taking in more. on the other end, gojo pushed himself into your core, letting out a low hiss at how eagerly your needy cunt took him in.

“she’s fucking tight,” he groans, squeezing at the plush fat of your hips while rocking his own into you.

“don’t get greedy now, ‘toru,” geto’s voice is soft as his hand in your hair gently guides you to take him deeper, up and down his cock. it’s evident you’re pretty damn good at giving head from the adoration in his eyes when he looks down at you, silvery orbs with hearts for pupils locked onto your vacant ones.

“what a well trained whore you are.” he praised, beginning to buck his hips up into your mouth, not rigorously, but enough to prod at the back of your throat and scatter tears to your waterline.

gojo slipped his thumb into your puckered hole while his thrusts became harder, with fervor. he wasn’t one to be patient nor hold back, especially when it came to someone like you, with a pussy so tight and moans so sweet, he’d have to break you just a bit. where’s the fun in that if he doesn’t?

his balls slammed against your clit, creating a potent string of pleasure to course through your body. throbbing was pertinent within your walls, each drag of his cock along the ridges inside you posing you weak from the shocks of euphoria. a hard slap came crashing down at your ass, gojo’s sizeable hand repeated the motion occasionally to watch the way the flesh rippled.

your moans were muffled by the intrusion of cock getting fucked into your mouth. the room reverberated in an array of messy skin slapping in tandem with groans and whimpers. it was music to their ears, a song they’d want on repeat if it were possible.

“shit.. ‘m gonna cum,” geto’s dulcet tone alerted. you watched in pride at how the muscles of his lower abdomen flexed in the onset of his orgasm. his rhythmic thrusts faltered, morphing into a resonance of scattered heavy thrusts that led him closer to his orgasm until he eventually jettisoned his seed into your mouth. the taste wasn’t as bitter as you were used to, it was almost pleasant and you swallowed every drop before he pulled out ever so slowly, his chest rising and falling while his cheeks were dusted in a soft rose flush.

“you were so much better than i imagined,” his fingers wrapped around your jaw, gripping ever so gently as he bent down to messily kiss at your lips, groaning at the taste of his orgasm on your tongue.

“yeah, yeah. good for you,” gojo started up in his usual bratty tone, sounding more guttural than his typical self. “can finally cum in her without you messin’ me up.”

suguru was used to gojo’s sharp tongue, his complaint not seering as deep as it would’ve had it been their younger years.

whorish moans slipped past your lips, your balance wavering as gojo picked up speed. he was far deeper inside your plush cavern, hitting at the spongey spot with precision that had your whimpers turning into babbles. “s-sho good .. you fuck me sooo good,” gojo took amusement in your slurred speech, pulling you up by the waist until you were completely upright.

it felt as though he couldn’t reach any deeper, yet he did, the feeling spreading all over your body, you were almost 100% certain that you could feel it in your ears. tears had filled your waterline and came cascading down your cheeks before you could even establish what it was. satoru held you close, your bare back pressed against his chest. it was an overwhelming feeling, one that made you lax enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

he smirked, gripping your chin with his fingers to get a better look at you.

“you cryin’?”

that familiar sensation bubbled up within you, what had felt like your nth orgasm had come in blissful surges, his cock coated in the translucent milky essence of your release.

with haste, you were fucked through aftershocks and overstimulation as satoru chased his high.

he had stamina for days, having built it up through multiple one night stands, and yet, he wasn’t quick to pull out like his counterpart, no. there was something of love that came with cumming inside you.

the skin of your thighs clung together with a mixture of your cum and his as he pulled out of your twitching hole. you stumbled a bit, getting back grounded on your feet, the two men tucking their third legs back into their garments.

a flickering noise was sounded from the building, different from the soft flickering of the candle that was beside you. quickly, the surgance of electricity illuminated the dorm, bringing much needed light to the situation at hand. you looked down at your bound wrists before the rush of embarrassment washed over your being once you had taken your naked, used body into account.

gojo carefully whisked you both back onto the couch with you sitting on his lap. “guess our fun’s over, huh?” he pouted, unbinding the rope that rubbed uncomfortably against your wrists. you weren’t exactly sure of who his rhetorical query was aimed to, and you would’ve spoken up had your throat not have been aching from the constant whining or even the pounding of a thick cock fucking bruises in the cavern.

geto was now situated behind the couch, leaning over the both of your figures.

“over? she’s spending the night.”

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — @valentinevampyr @oneofthesevensins @ryukatters @dabibreeder

7K notes · View notes

tawnfawn · 1 year ago

Text

intoxicated | könig

summary: you get along with everyone on your team, except for könig. you think he hates you, but his perceived distaste for you only makes you want him more. you're able to keep your composure until you're partnered up for a mission, where everything seems to go wrong...

tags: könig x fem!reader smut. cod. pure filthy, shameless smut. sex pollen. proofread. MDNI. 5,000+ words

cw: dubcon (due to sex pollen but there's clear consent before and after). unprotected sex (reader IS on birth control, wrap it before you tap it), p in v, oral m!receiving, fingering, accidental drug use (sex pollen), dom!könig and sub!reader, light humiliation kink, heavy praise, size kink if you squint, overstimulation, mutual pining, violence, killing.

MDNI. NSFW BELOW THE CUT

You crept around the corner of the warehouse with your rifle, watching König’s six as you progressed. The other KorTac members were stationed on site as well, giving quick updates through comms as you progressed. Details were scarce, except that in the warehouse, a Russian terrorist group was producing a bioweapon capable of mass destruction—and anyone inside was KOS.

Of course, the bioweapon in question was…dubious, to say the least. A strong aphrodisiac, the contractor had explained, much to the astonishment of your team. During the briefing, you’d managed to keep a straight face, but not all of your teammates were as courteous.

“So let me get this straight—you want us to risk our lives for…Viagra?” Horangi had questioned, exasperated. Your lips pursed at his crudeness, but it was exactly what you were thinking too.

The scientist’s face flushed. “N-no, this is much different,” he snapped. As one of the architects of the bioweapon, he was clearly offended. “It is much, much stronger. Exposure to just one dose will cause severe arousal: heart palpitations, excessive sweating, overheating. Imagine…” He seemed to be struggling to find the words. “Imagine a brain overload, yes? Rational thinking…disappears. Victims may lose all motor control. Too long without treatment can result in heart failure, aneurysms, seizures, stroke, and sometimes death.”

“So what is the treatment?” you interrupted, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Sex,” the scientist answered, shifting uncomfortably on his heels. “It was designed to be, ah… difficult.”

Your jaw clenched, and your eyes darted to König. He was staring down the scientist, narrowed eyes betraying no emotion. While everyone else struggled to keep their bafflement hidden, his sniper hood obscured any hope of reading him. Just my fucking luck, you thought when you were partnered with him.

It wasn’t that you disliked König; it was just that you found it so much more difficult to talk to him. With the rest of your teammates, you were fine. A natural people reader, you were comfortable with the rest of them, relying on body language and the details they let slip to learn more about them. In fact, you considered yourself to be pretty close with them—unsurprising, given that in your line of work, your life rested in their hands and vice versa. But König was… different. You didn’t distrust him, per say, but outside of the battlefield, he was quiet. Reclusive. No matter how many times you’d tried to get him to open up, he barely interacted with you, despite talking to the others. You’d chalked it down to being the newest on the team at first, but now that you’d served over a year and a half together, you were frustrated. Shouldn’t that be well enough time to open up at least a little bit?

You knew your thinking was illogical. Your job was to hunt targets and invade bases, not deep dive into your coworker’s soul, but you couldn’t help the way it took over your mind. Your need to understand him had become a bit of an obsession. You constantly found yourself looking at him, trying to discern any emotion his eyes betrayed. You listened intently for any of his input in person or on comms, no matter how menial it was. You studied his body language, taken note of any habits or gestures. You’d even memorized the way he reloaded his guns.

It was…embarrassing, to say the least. But could you blame yourself? He was so tall and strong and imposing that even just standing next to him made you, a normally very confident and intimidating woman, feel small. Such was the reason that you pushed yourself extra harder whenever you were paired up with him, making sure he knew you were valuable, a force to be reckoned with. Your excellent performance had made you two quite the duo, often clearing out legions of enemies in mere minutes. And you had to admit, seeing him absolutely obliterate enemy lines made you feel some type of way…

But not like that, of course. You were just…curious. When he finally opened up to you (and not if, but when), your obsession would stop, and everything would be fine. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Today, however, there were a lot less enemies than you’d expected. Sure, there were quite a few soldiers stationed around the warehouse (which your team had incapacitated quickly), but inside, save for some scientists and the occasional guard, it was eerily empty and quiet.

“It’s fucking cold,” Horangi’s voice rang out from your radio. You sighed and brought the device to your lips.

“It’s fucking Russia,” you stated. “What did you think it’d be? Beachy?”

König’s quiet chuckle sounded from in front of you, and you couldn’t help the pride that swarmed in your heart. Heat burst in your cheeks, but you tried to brush it off.

“Fuck off,” Horangi replied. “East side clear.”

“West unknown,” you said. “Standby.” You tucked the radio back into your pocket, following your teammate.

You both peeked around the corner to the last room. It was filled to the brim with lab equipment—beakers, bunsen burners, flasks, microscopes—all sitting atop of large resin tables. Bright, fluorescent lights bounced off the sterile grey walls and ceiling, creating a dull glare that was almost depressing. Neat racks of tightly sealed vials and test tubes peeked through glass cabinets on the walls, parallel to the large sinks below. Across the room was a row of unfamiliar-looking equipment, and next to that, an enormous whiteboard boasting messily scrawled notes, diagrams, and equations. A bag of what looked like takeout sat on a nearby desk next to a crumpled napkin and a perspiring styrofoam cup. It was almost exactly what you’d imagined a stereotypical laboratory to look like, albeit a bit messier and more lived in. A singular man stood working at one of the tables, frantically scribbling on a notepad with his back facing toward you. König motioned for you to stay put as he crept forward. You complied.

Then the man dropped his pen.

“Xyй,” he cursed and turned around to pick it up. Of course, when he turned around, he saw König’s gigantic form pointing a gun at him, and he screamed. You fired your suppressed pistol, but not before the scientist hurled a glass vial at König. It shattered against his tactical vest as the dead scientist crumpled to the ground, releasing a burst of lavender-colored smoke that curled into the air and quickly dissipated.

König ripped off his tactical vest, coughing violently, but it was too late—the substance had already entered his lungs, likely reaching his bloodstream by now. He stared at you, blue eyes wide with—for the first time you’d ever seen—fear.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, and he staggered to the wall, crashing down to the floor.

“König?” You stared at him, stricken. His eyes were closed, and he was stock still—stiller than you’d ever seen him—and for a long, hard moment, you thought he might be dead.

Then his eyes snapped open. His pupils were dilated and blown, a sea of black barely tinged by blue irises. He stared at you, unmoving, before letting out a groan and bringing his hand over his face.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. You grabbed your radio. “M-man down!” you stammered into it. “König’s been exposed. West side clear. Requesting med evac in thirty minutes. Going dark.” You turned it off, not bothering to listen to any input. The rest of your team knew what this meant. As did you.

In the time you’d been on the radio, König had torn off all of his other gear, leaving himself in just his shirt, pants, and boots. He was panting, his chest heaving with each breath, ungloved hand still hiding his masked face as he cursed in German.

You crossed the room in seconds and kneeled at his side. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, König, just breathe—”

“No,” he breathed. His voice was deeper, raspier than normal, and the unbridled heat in it sent a shiver down your spine. His hands were clenched into fists, body tensed as he fought the invisible infection. “Go. Now.”

“You know I can’t leave—”

His hand fell to his side, letting his eyes meeting yours for a split second. “Please,” he groaned, starting to tremble as you drew closer. “I—I can’t—”

His gaze strayed lower, and you followed it to the growing bulge in his pants. You gulped, unmoving, and he grabbed your arm. The force of it was enough to make you still.

“Go,” he insisted, his accent even thicker than usual. “I’m not—I cannot control myself.”

“I’m not gonna leave you here!” you argued, swatting his hand away. “You’re my teammate. You could die.”

“I will hurt you,” he retorted. All the muscles in his body were tensed, clearly on overdrive. Even his eyes were watering. “Please, maus. I am not gentle.”

Something inside about his statement made your thighs clench together, but you tried to ignore it. Tentatively, you brought your hand to his chin, pulling his face towards you. His skin was feverish, and your heart twisted in sympathy. “Let me help you,” you pleaded, and he inhaled sharply.

“It feels like I’m burning,” he hissed, and you frowned. His black compression shirt was nearly soaked with sweat, and you grabbed the fabric, pulling it up. He pawed at your arm weakly, but you shushed him.

“You’re overheating. Take it off,” you ordered, and finally, he let you pull it over his head, sagging back against the wall as you threw it to the side.

You’d seen him without a shirt before—it was hard not to with this kind of job, what with donning injuries all the time—but this was different. His head was thrown back as he panted, toned chest heaving with each breath, and you could see all of the muscles in his chiseled abdomen clenched, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. It was… erotic. Just looking at him made you feel dirty. You felt the thrum of something other than worry in your abdomen, and you swallowed.

“Leave me,” König growled, but it sounded more desperate than commanding. You shook your head at him.

“Not letting you die, König.” You began to rip off your gear, tugging off your tactical vest and discarding your weapons.

König grabbed your wrist. “What are you…?”

“Wanna help you, okay?” you said softly, trying to catch his eyes as they darted over your face. “Are you gonna let me?”

He took in a deep breath, his other hand in a death grip on his thigh. “I-I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, but it was starting to lose its original harshness. He was fading, and fast.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. You placed your hand on his bare chest, feeling the way his heartbeat stuttered and stammered under your touch. He cursed in response, the hand on your wrist twitching, clearly fighting the urge to touch you. In a split-second decision, you swung your right leg over his lap and straddled him, careful not to grind against him, waiting for an answer first. He let out a choked noise and grabbed you by the hips, his tight grip making you gasp. “Yes or no?” you breathed.

“Ahhh, maus.” The low groan he let out was nearly animalistic. “Yes,” he begged, and that was all you needed to hear.

You started grinding on his lap gently, trying to restrain yourself from going further. You wanted to be mindful of his sensitivity, but König simply huffed in annoyance and used his tight grip on your hips to tug you all the way down into his lap—allowing you to feel everything. The imprint of his hard, throbbing cock made you dizzy; you couldn’t resist pressing against it, moaning softly at the delicious friction it granted your clit.

“Scheiße,” König murmured, his thighs twitching underneath you. You felt bad, knowing he was probably dying for some real contact, so you decided to give it to him.

Your heart raced as you reached for his waistband, unbuckling his belt and sliding his pants to his knees. His cock was straining against his briefs, a wet patch forming from precum, and you quickly removed those as well, watching his hardened cock spring up and then fall slightly, its weight making it unable to reach his stomach. Your mouth went dry. Fuck, he was huge. You supposed it made sense: as an exceptionally large man, it was logical to have a proportionally large cock, but the sight of it still shocked you.

“Maus,” he whispered, breaking you out of your trance. He stared at you apprehensively, and you wrapped your much smaller hands around his cock, hearing him suck in a breath. You took a moment to marvel at the sheer size of him—your normally average-sized fingers looked miniature in contrast, unable to even fully wrap around his length. You felt your own arousal seep into your underwear, and you leaned down to kiss his tip.

The moan he let out turned you on even more than before, and you wasted no time teasing him, spitting into your hand and pumping his cock a few times before bringing the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the slit before pushing him further down your throat. His cock was so large that you had to fight not to scrape your teeth against it, flattening your tongue under the base of it.

His hand fisted into your hair, pulling slightly every time you moved your lips up and down his shaft, twisting your hand in tandem. Your other hand gripped onto one of his thick thighs, feeling his leg twitch as he struggled not to buck his hips up into your mouth. Each strained noise and curse you coaxed from him only encouraged you more, your own whimpers muffled against his cock as you did your best to fit him down your throat.

After only a few minutes, you felt him twitching in your hand and sped up your pace, determined to pleasure him as much as possible. Curses fell from his lips as he finished, hot spurts of his release shooting down your throat. You swallowed it quickly, continuing to pump your hand up and down his still rock-hard shaft.

König, however, pulled you off quickly, eyes wide and dark with an almost fearful desperation as he stared at you. “The poison. It’s still…”

You looked back down to see his cock still twitching in your hand. “It’s okay,” you said, starting to lean back down, “I’ll just—”

“No!” He pulled you back up by the neck. You blinked at him in shock, and he stared back, pupils blown wide like black moons. There was a fiery hunger in his eyes as he looked at you, one you’d never seen before. The sheer want in his gaze sent a cold shiver down your spine. No one had ever looked at you like this before—like you were prey.

“König?” you asked nervously.

Instead of answering, he began to unbuckle your belt, and you gasped as his hand reached under your waistband to cup your clothed core, index finger tracing lightly over your clit. You fought back a mewl, chest seizing as you shut your eyes from the pleasure.

“So wet,” he marveled. He pushed your underwear to the side, smearing your arousal over your soaked folds as you whimpered, bucking your hips into his hand. “Just from sucking my cock?”

His switch in demeanor startled you, and you moaned as one of his large fingers pressed into your weeping hole, curling inside you with precision. His hands were so much bigger than yours; the stretch was making your knees weak. He quickly found your G-spot, taking care to press against it as you arched into him. “Oh, oh, fuck, König,” you whimpered, coaxing a dark chuckle from him that made you clench around him.

Your thighs clenched around his hand, but he pried them apart with ease, forcing you to straddle him and rendering you helpless to his ministrations as he slowly dragged another finger in and out of you. With each achingly slow push into your dripping hole, he made sure to curl them just right, long fingers able to reach that sensitive spongy spot inside you effortlessly. His palm laid flat against your clit as he stroked your walls, letting you sloppily grind into his hand as he murmured praise into your ear.

“Does that feel good, liebling?” he asked, drinking in each of your breathy, pleasured noises with satisfaction. “You like making a mess on my fingers, mm?”

You simply whimpered, too embarrassed of your flustered state to form a real response. He seemed to pick up the hint, giving you a cocky smirk through his mask. “Ohh, it’s okay, maus,” he cooed, but his soft words were laced with a smug condescension that made your cheeks burn. “You look so pretty like this, all dumb on my fingers. I wish I could’ve seen it earlier.”

You whined again, desperately grinding down on his palm for more friction. His slow pace was torturous, giving you just enough to feel pleasure but not enough to build it. It was mean. It was twisted. It was agonizing. You were eating it up.

“Please,” you tried, teary eyes boring into his. “Can you—can you please—”

“Can I what, maus?” He cocked his head, darkened eyes twinkling with mirth. “Tell me, or I can’t help you.”

You know what I want, you wanted to shout at him, but you knew that wouldn’t work. “Please,” you begged, “I need more."

“What more do you need, maus?” he asked again. “You have a mouth. Use it.”

“Need you to—” You whimpered pitifully, dropping your head into his shoulder. “Please, need you to go—go harder.” You nearly sobbed out the words, desperation winning out over your embarrassment. You were mortified at your teary, shaking voice, but he seemed to revel in it, squeezing your thigh in appreciation.

“Oh, is that what you wanted?” he teased, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “You could have just said so.”

He set a steady pace with his fingers, bullying them inside of you hard enough to make you squirm against him. With each thrust, he curled them just right, sending your eyes rolling back and mouth falling open in heavy pants as you mewled into his shoulder. You were grateful to be spared of his intense gaze; you didn’t think you could look at him in the state you were in. It was mortifying just hearing the sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your gushing cunt.

“Oh, maus,” he cooed into your ear as you trembled, keening at the stretch of his fingers. “You’re just so beautiful like this, you know. So fucking desperate and pathetic. I wish I could see you like this all the time.”

Would I like him to finger me like this all the time? Hell yes, you thought to yourself, but you couldn’t find the words to tell him, only able to whine and nod vigorously into his shoulder, lost in the feeling of his fingers inside you. You could feel yourself starting to reach the edge of your climax, grinding harder and harder into his palm and gasping with each spark of pleasure it gave your throbbing clit. You were so wet that you were starting to wonder if you’d been infected, too; each time he hit your g-spot just right, you felt more and more slick dribbling out of you and down your thighs. It was driving you insane.

“K-König!” You managed a cry of his name right before you came, clenching around his fingers as you bucked your hips into his hand. Breathy whines fell from your lips, your thighs shaking and seizing as you squirmed in his hold, feeling an almost overwhelming wave of pleasure wash over your body. The feeling was so intense it was almost painful; you hadn’t had an orgasm in so long, and the effect was palpable. His arms held you tight, keeping you grounded while you shuddered in his grasp, his big fingers determined to prolong your ecstasy.

When you finally came down from your high, you couldn’t look at him, mortified at your messy state. His fingers were still knuckle-deep in your arousal, and you could feel more of your slick dripping down your thighs, wet and uncomfortable. You kept your head buried in his chest shyly while your happy cunt stayed spasming in his hand.

“Okay, schatz?” he asked softly, using his free hand to tilt your head towards him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You stared up at him, mouth open. There were practically hearts in your eyes; your adoration was clear to him, and he laughed at your expression, cradling your cheek with his hand. “Aww, schatz.” He clicked his tongue, a smile audible in his voice. “You’re so sweet.”

Your cheeks burned red at the words, and you blinked rapidly, unable to look away. His piercing blue eyes stayed trained on yours, but there was a warmth in them that soothed you. He petted your cheek, lifting his hood to press a kiss to your forehead.

Your mind felt fuzzy. All you could think about was your need to be filled by him, and you pawed at his hard cock, wrapping your fingers around the base of it. A hiss of pleasure escaped him, and you kept your eyes on his, wide and pleading. “Please fuck me,” you whispered, still trembling in his grasp.

König’s eyes darkened, and he tugged off the rest of your bottoms quickly. His strong hands lifted you to hover you over his cock, and you shuddered with anticipation, head spinning. He rubbed the tip through your dripping folds, coaxing out a gasp as it brushed over your swollen clit. You tried to push him inside, squirming, but his tight grip on the bottoms of your thighs kept you in place, and you whined his name, hoping he would take pity on you.

“Bitte, König,” you begged, and he practically growled at the words, mercifully allowing you to sink onto the tip of his cock and drawing out a desperate mewl. Even with how wet you were, he was so, so big that he was practically tearing you in half.

“K-König—”

“Hush, liebling,” he soothed, and you moaned as your core clenched around him, beacons of pleasure ripping through you from just the feel of him. He waited for you to relax and then pushed in farther as you gasped at his length.

“Mmph! König—” You keened as he continued to push himself into you, waiting each time to make sure you were okay. You could feel his hard cock twitch with each thrust, and you knew it must be difficult for him not to go straight into fucking you, that he was holding himself back to be more gentle. The thought only made you moan louder.

Tears slipped down your cheeks when he finally bottomed out, and he wiped them away with his thumb. “I’m sorry, maus,” he groaned, no doubt feeling the way you clenched around him. “You’re just—so tight—”

You wanted to tell him to it was okay, but from your already fucked out mind, all that came out was a dumb whimper of his name. In response, he pulled up his sniper hood to kiss your forehead, to which you whined and chased his lips with your mouth. This made him chuckle, and he guided your lips to his, coaxing out a soft moan as his tongue met yours. He tasted wonderful, and you mewled into his mouth, feeling even more worked up from the way he kissed you: hot and desperate and sweet, like the world was ending and you were the last ones in it.

“Mein maus,” he growled, suddenly thrusting up into you and making your eyes roll back. His hips snapped against yours, setting a pace that sent your thoughts reeling. “Taking me so well, doing so good for me, hm? Du bist mein schatz, ja?”

“Yes, fuck—yes,” you babbled, barely able to understand what he was saying. His unusually rough tone was fogging up your dumbed-out mind, the contrast between his sweet words and punishing pace reducing you to nothing but a crying, creaming mess. You’d never been this wet for someone before. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m yours, please—”

“Good girl,” he moaned, pushing you up and down his cock with dizzying strength. Your legs tightened around his waist as he thrust up into you, high-pitched and pitiful noises falling from your lips at a shameful volume. He was using you like a toy, you thought, and the notion of it made your pleasured cries even louder.

“Mmm, yeah? Mmm?” He mimicked your breathy moans, and you could hear the grin in his voice. Normally, you’d be mortified, likely retorting with some witty insult, but now? Now with the way he was fucking you, all you could do was whine in pitiful response.

“So needy for me,” he groaned, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. The sheer force of him made your eyes roll back, and you felt that tight coil in your belly close to snapping.

“Fuck, König—” You panted heavily, your legs starting to give out. “K-König, oh my God, I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he cooed, pulling you closer to his chest so your clit could find purchase on his toned abs. “Doing so good for me, schatz. Such a good girl, getting off on me like this. Like the way I feel, mm?”

His sweet praise became your tipping point, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. You cried his name, mouth falling open in shock as your legs kicked out, your cunt weeping and convulsing around him as you keened. You gasped for air as your orgasm rocked through you, the pleasure suddenly becoming all too much as he continued to drill himself into your gushing cunt.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed from the overstimulation, but he didn’t let up his pace, pressing chaste kisses to your lips to soothe you. “Wonder how many orgasms I can get from you,” he murmured. You could hear the smile in his voice as he panted. “How many more, mein schatz?”

“I—I don’t know!” you cried as his pelvis dragged against your clit, sending shocks of electricity through you. “I don’t—I can’t—”

He groaned as you trembled in his hold, pretty blue eyes boring into yours. “You can do it for me,” he replied. “I know you can. Isn’t that right, liebling?”

“Ahh—König—” The juxtaposition of his soft kisses and brutal pace was making your head spin. Too overwhelmed to answer, you just clutched onto his shoulders tighter, crying out every time his skin brushed against your puffy, overstimulated clit. It was painful. It was overwhelming. It felt so fucking good.

“Hush, mein schatz,” he coaxed, holding you closer as you clenched around his cock, babbling incoherently as he fucked up into you. “You’re doing so good, I promise.”

The answer was two. Two more earth-shattering orgasms before he finally went soft, coming inside of you twice before either (1), his dick just gave out, or (2), the poison wore off. Either way, by the end of it, you were exhausted and fucked out, still recovering from your cock-drunk state as he cleaned you up.

“I’m sorry, maus,” he apologized, sounding genuinely remorseful as he gently wiped your soaked thighs with a clean cloth he had found in the room. “I’m so sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what came over me.”

“Drugs,” you supplied, staring at the ceiling in exhaustion. “Really bad drugs.”

“Yes, drugs,” he agreed, carefully mopping your folds as you sighed. “But still—I am sorry. I was…overzealous. I hope I did not hurt you too bad.”

“I’ll be a little sore,” you admitted, glancing at the bruises his fingers had left on your waist and hips. “But I’ll be fine, trust me.”

He sighed, somehow managing to look resigned even with the sniper hood. “I should not have been so hard on you. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly?” you murmured, blinking at him sleepily. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He froze for a moment. “What?”

“Not that I’ve had a lot of sex,” you said quickly. “But still, that was the best I’ve ever had. Probably will ever have, now that I think about it. You must be very experienced. Oh God, I should not have said that out loud. I am—I am so sorry.”

Even with his sniper hood on, you could tell he was blushing. “Oh, um—it’s okay, maus.” You could hear the shyness in his voice. “I do not consider that to be my best performance, but I will take it as a compliment.”

“Your best performance?” You stared at him, mind running through everything that had just happened. You’d had sex before, but that—that was a whole ass experience. You’d never even dreamed about anything that good. “Christ, what’s your best performance, then?”

“Well,” he replied, sliding your soaked underwear back up your legs for you, “I would have taken you out on a date first, at the very least. That would be the proper way to court you.”

“Court me?” you repeated, sitting up straight. “I didn’t know you were so well-mannered, König.”

He looked away from you, shifting awkwardly from his spot on the floor. “I try to be courteous before sticking my dick in people.”

It took you a moment to realize he was joking, and you laughed—actually really laughed out loud. His awkward humor was charming you, and you felt warmth swell in your chest as you listened to him speak. You grinned at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile back.

König still smiled, but a hint of sadness pervaded his gaze. “Ah, schatz.” He hesitated. “I would have liked to make love to you,” he sighed, “but I did not imagine these would be the circumstances. I was hoping to take you on a date first, get to know you better.”

“You wanted to what?” Your eyes widened, and you blinked in confusion. “But…I thought you didn’t like me.”

König practically jolted in place. It was like you’d electrocuted him. He stared at you. “Why would you ever think that?”

“You talk to everyone but me,” you said softly. “I thought you didn’t trust me. Thought you hated me.”

“Hated—?” He shook his head vigorously. “No, I wanted to speak to you. You just…made me nervous. The others do not.”

“I made you nervous?” The words fell from your lips with shock, your eyebrows furrowing. “How would I—how did I ever make you nervous? You’re like three times the size of me!”

König shrugged, sheepish. “You’re very pretty. And you seemed…kind, and well-connected with the others. I have trouble finding that connection. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing to you and fuck it up.”

“So you said nothing at all.” You were quiet for a moment, turning over the information in your mind. “Wow. I was way off.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but it is okay. I’m sorry for making you think I disliked you, schatz.”

“It’s okay,” you chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. You ran a hand through your hair, beyond shocked at everything happening. You couldn’t believe you’d fucked your colleague, the one you’d had a crush on for who knows long, and also discovered that he didn’t, in fact, hate you. “At least I know now.”

“Next time, I will be better,” König vowed, helping you tug on your pants. “More gentle. I will do things right, I promise.”

“Next time?” You hesitated, biting your lip. “There will be a next time?”

“Of course there will,” he answered, adjusting his tactical gloves. “Did you not hear what I said earlier?”

“Um…which one?” He’d said a lot of things earlier.

He helped you to your feet, towering over you as he cupped his large hand under your jaw. Your heart stopped in your chest as you looked up into his eyes, his large frame dwarfing yours beyond comparison. “Du bist mein schatz, ja?” he repeated, gloved thumb tracing over your bottom lip. His very soul seemed to ooze confidence. “That’s what I said, no?’

With the way he was making you feel right now, you didn’t think it was even possible to say the word no. “Y-yes,” you stammered, adoration clear in your eyes as you gazed up at him.

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “So there will be a next time. Unless, of course, you don’t want to.”

“N-no, no, no, I definitely want!” you said quickly. You stumbled over your words in your eagerness, and your cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I would like that a lot.”

“Good,” he said, patting the top of your head. Normally, you’d be furious at such an action, but considering his height, it seemed more practical than condescending. “Now come, schatz,” he said, adjusting his vest. “Time to deny everything to the rest of the team.”

Oh, fuck. You sighed. “Yeah…I forgot about that.”

6K notes · View notes

sinnful-darling · 7 months ago

Text

mmm thinking about oviposition with yan! naga…

mdni !!

cws : yandere themes, big juicy snake man pumps you full of his eggs, dubcon, implied stockholm syndrome, implied kidnapping, dacryphilia, breeding kink, rut, mating season, he makes you walk around naked, hemipenes, when i say monster cock i mean monster cock, manhandling, aphrodisiac venom, scent kink if you squint, ribbed cock bc i can, size kink bc im filthy and a slut for that shit, idk how big the eggs are supposed to be so just imagine for a moment with me, naga uses magic to heal your cervix bc he pushes past it to breed you….

“little bunny,” the naga murmurs, lips parted and gazing at you with thinly veiled desire. a shiver runs down your spine at the sight, feeling his large hands pull you into his lap. his tail coils around your waist— the chill of his cold scales seeping into your skin.

“you’re cold.” you grumble.

“i know, bunny. needed your heat.” he sighs in content, dipping his head into the curve of your throat and taking a deep breath of your scent. a low groan escaping his lips. he presses open mouthed kisses along your neck, sinking his fangs into you and gripping your hips. his hands rock you against the plate that hide his cocks, the area in question being pushed to the side as he grows aroused.

“h—hey! no—“

his cocks spring free, the both of them pressing against your stomach and larger than you could’ve ever imagined. your eyes widen, the scent of cortisol coming off of you in waves, causing a frown to tug at his lips.

“no need to be frightened, little bunny. i promise i’ll be gentle.” he murmurs slotting his lips against yours. you cry out in protest as his cockhead presses against your folds, your hips forcibly rutting against it in ways that have you dripping for him.

the nest he built for the two of you grows hotter by the second, your skin flushing and cunt clenching around nothing. the naga grins as he slowly pushes into you, pleased that your tiny human body reacted so quickly to his venom.

“thaaats it, bunny.” he groans, shallowly thrusting into you. “y’gotta let me in, pretty.”

the naga lifts your hips, rutting you against one cock while gently thrusting into you with the other. the way your clit brushes against the ribbed flesh pushes you closer and closer to your climax, your whimpers growing louder in volume as your body melts against the strong, sturdy frame of the naga. slowly, the naga’s cock reaches as far as your cunt will allow, utterly filling you to the brim.

your mind was spinning at how full you felt; you’d never felt anything quite like this before. the naga slowly lifts and rocks you, your orgasm washing over you as his cockhead brushes against a certain spot inside of you. tears burn your lashline at the intensity of the feeling, your jaw agape as the air is knocked from your lungs.

“fuck— s’tight…” the naga groans through gritted teeth. his head drops to the curve of your neck, lapping at your sweat-slicked flesh between grunts and groans. he screws his eyes shut as he ruts into you, heavy balls slapping against the curve of your ass. the naga leans back, gazing up at you with a softness, his forked tongue darting out to wet his plump lips.

“bunny,” the naga breathily groans, “feels s’good.”

all you can do is whine in response, your mind melting from the overwhelming pleasure, the feeling sending jolts of electricity down your spine. “p—please! need more…!”

“such a greedy little thing you are.” the naga grins, but picks up speed nonetheless. the pace has your eyes rolling back and tears streaming down your cheeks, your mind melting into a pleasant mush. your thighs shake as you feel the coil in your stomach begin to tighten again, one of the naga’s shafts bumping and grinding into your clit.

your gummy walls clench around the naga’s cock, forcing a throaty groan from his lips. his lashes flutter with ecstasy as his cock twitches inside of you, his quiet noises rising in volume — becoming breathy and whiny.

“little bunny — i’m gonna cum…” the naga groans, his thrusts growing sloppy. “cum with me… need’ta feel you cum again.”

he heatedly slots his lips against yours, groans and whines echoing throughout your shared nest as his kisses trail the expanse of your throat. his touch leaves a trail of fire, your cunt pulsing as you grow closer and closer to the edge.

“bunny — please…. cum with me! cum with me!” ropes of cum spill from the naga’s cocks, simultaneously filling you to the brim and staining the soft flesh of your stomach. he continues fucking into you, the way his shaft bulges inside of you forcing an orgasm to wrack your body.

your eyes roll back, your thighs trembling as your vision blurs with tears, the naga releasing a throaty groan. “that’s it, little bunny. just let go f’me…”

“s’gonna hurt a bit, darling…” the naga warns before his cockhead forces its way past your cervix, blinding pain erupting from your lower half. your fingers dig into his shoulder, a shrill cry erupting from your lips.

“i know, little one… just a bit longer. you’re doing so good for me.”

an egg the size of a tennis ball is planted in your womb, heavy and warm. one after another, the naga fills you with his eggs before slowly, carefully removing himself and brushing away your tears with the rough pad of his thumb. you feel unbearably full, unable to forget the pain from the intrusion. the naga’s eyes soften at your tears, his palm reaching out to gently cup your stomach — just above where your womb would be. a soft light shines from his hand, the scent of rain and moss attacking your senses as the pain ebbs away.

the naga wraps you in his tail, tenderly pressing your head to his broad, sturdy chest as he plants a small kiss to the crown of your head. with a flick of his hand, the naga cleans you up, the fragrance of his magick and the steady beat of his heart lulling you to sleep.

1K notes · View notes

rottiens · 8 months ago

Text

⊹ ˚. RYŌMEN SUKUNA┊ "Not on my legs." He clarifies. "On my stomach." You ignore the flutter that lands on your belly and force yourself to concentrate on keeping your legs steady.

𖤐 about. being taken away from your village, you have to try to live and survive on your own with the king of curses.

𖤐 cw. mdni. true form sukuna x afab!reader, dubcon (since the reader is forced to be a servant), you ride the mouth on his tummy, choking kink, sadistic sukuna if you squint, dirty talk, overstim, oral ( m -> f ), set in the heian era. divider creds: cafekitsune.

Sukuna is not familiar with giving up power, though it is not surprising, after all a man who has achieved so much power to the point of being revered as a god would not expect anything different. He is not used to being commanded, though not many have tried it and lived to tell the tale anyway, yet when you told him you wanted to do it tonight, without his help (you trying to prepare yourself, stretching yourself before taking it), fiery flames charged with lust and pride covered his devilish eyes, turning them a darker red than you are used to.

Drunk with control, Sukuna is always the one who dictates when and how things happen, ordering around those who serve him, as his word is the word of a king. He doesn't remember the last time someone addressed him with such arrogance and pride in their mouth, he should punish you for speaking before he allows you to but tonight he is feeling benevolent.

"Come here." His husky voice gave off hunger and poured over your limbs like honey. The purr in his timbre brought life to your muscles which tensed and contracted with anticipation.

You rose from the floor where you lay on your stomach with your forehead pressed to the ground in submission, and walked silently to where he is. His chambers are covered by a veil of absolute silence that is interrupted from time to time by barely audible vibrations coming from sukuna who lets them out every time he exhales through his nose, something very similar to the purring of a beast.

Filled with insecurity, you get ready to climb into his lap when you are close enough and it is only at that moment when he speaks again, freezing you on the spot.

"Not on my legs." He clarifies. "On my stomach." You ignore the flutter that lands on your belly and force yourself to concentrate on keeping your legs steady.

You take a long look at his figure and end up on his stomach, where you were ordered to sit. To describe sukuna as big is an adjective that would be too small for him, the houses in your village are big, the horses are big, sukuna… was huge. A monster, was what they called it in your village and even that word might not be enough to describe the creature that stood before you.

His four arms are a wonder to behold face to face, especially up close. Two hold him on his elbows gracefully, semi reclining on the futon where he expands his body further to give you the space you need to climb to his belly; while the other two…there is one holding his jaw and another resting above his hips.

Just like his arms, he possessed four pairs of eyes that don't let a single detail escape; all of these were set on you, you could feel them moving on you, there was no way to escape from him.

And finally, in his belly there was a mouth capable of tearing off the lower half of your body with one bite if he set his mind to it.

For how exposed he was, vulnerable even (bare belly and exposed chest, his arms in a resting position), sukuna was very relaxed and which makes you wonder if perhaps he doesn't think you brave or foolish enough to try to attack him, although it's not the right time or place, you couldn't do much if you were to hurt him sufficiently to try to escape, not with his subjects scattered all over the temple at least. Before you could get to the door his servants would have you imprisoned in one of the cold, dark rooms you've already been in.

Clearly impatient, thanks to being too occupied by your mental wanderings, the hand that lay on his hips gently pushes you into the position he ordered you to. You take a quick glance at your new seat, you find yourself just above the curved line of a smile on his lower abdomen. You look up to observe him, rather than relaxed he is now uneasy, concern is marked on your face as you recheck the mouth on his stomach closed in a tight line.

The posture is awkward thanks to the width of his body, your thighs are stretched to the max and your feet dangle from his body like an uncomfortable horse ride.

The imposing mouth suddenly opens suddenly revealing a thick and grotesque tongue and gives you a quick lick immediately wetting your crotch, the moan of surprise that escapes you makes the pair of cocks tremble under the piece of cloth that holds them captive.

Sukuna licks you again slower this time, taking his time to savor your taste. A murmur of approval makes the mouth on your stomach vibrate along with the purring that seems to increase and you hear clearly now that you are close to him. Then you realize it wasn't some noise he was making or your imagination, it was the natural purr coming from a predator and the contrast terrifies you since it sounds as soft as a lullaby.

"Give me more of that sweet taste." You clench. Your eyes, your thighs, your cunt.

The intruding tongue seems to be all over your slit at the same time, it's feather soft yet has just enough pressure to have you sobbing and dripping from how accurate its lashes are.

Soon you feel unsteady, dizzy, you try to grab hold of something firm but there is one of his hands imprisoning your wrists in your lower back and another firmly squeezes your neck making you unable to escape. "You're not going anywhere, little one," sukuna growls.

The soft muscle, coated with an excess of saliva completely covers your pussy in sweet ecstasy, you feel its edges even wet your trembling thighs, the sensation is crushing. Your whole body is charged with a strange static after the intruder moves imitating a wave, attacking your aching clit, squeezing your pussy lips and spilling your arousal into the monstrous mouth that licks and licks and then swallows.

"I want you to ride it." Four fingers pinch your nipples at the same time. "Ride my tongue, you said you wanted to get ready but I do not see you doing anything but being lazy on me," he reminds you, in that teasing tone that could make you cum right then and there.

It's too much. You want to let him know, your cheeks are about to boil and you don't know how much you can hold back the tears. The sensation of pleasure was overwhelming, the line between pleasure and too much of it causing pain was very thin. You wanted to run away, to ask him that you needed to rest at least for a moment but you know what that could cause.

"I do not want to repeat it, woman."

You don't seek to anger him because his punishments are far worse, so you find the last shred of willpower in you and rotate your hips in weak circles along with a broken gasp. He grunts in response.

You're close. Very, very close. The grip on your wrists increases and you slurp through your nose. You rub it desperately up and down, grinding your sensitive clit in the process, you do small bounces on the fully hanging tongue that reveal sticky clicks that expose how wet you are, your own juices mixed with his saliva spilling down the length of your legs and soaking his hips.

"Cum for me." He commands firmly, manifesting small mouths on his hands that are tasked with torturing your tits, sucking and biting your nipples mercilessly as he delights in watching you squirm under his touch.

"Sukuna!" His name feels sweet on the roof of your mouth and rumbles between the walls of his chamber as your movements descend to gradually fade away.

Then you hear a chuckle, the mouth you just rode, a grotesque cackle that bristles your skin and makes you moan at how sensitive you are as it gives you one last lick and then disappears completely into the cavity, showing you just as it did at first a tight line that could pass as a scar if you weren't paying attention.

Abruptly, his fingers dig into your cheekbones, sinking your cheeks so that your lips can pout adorably. His purr is much louder and harder now.

"If you want to make your king proud you will have to do more than that." Your eyes snap open. "You're ready to take my cocks at the same time, I promise I'm going to use that body of yours tonight until you pass out."

This is a repost! <3

#wr #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna smut #true form sukuna x reader #cw dubcon #cw dark content #cw choking #wr.sukuna

1K notes · View notes

rowarn · 8 months ago

Text

cw: dubcon if u squint, mean!simon, cum play?, teasing and punishment <3

sorry i haven't been posting proper works lately, i just haven't had any motivation in sitting down long term to write ): i hope u can understand <3 but here's something i cooked up a bit!!!

You, who just had to get on his nerves. You just had to mouth off at him every chance you got. His patience was a thin thread and you were snipping at it around every turn.

He’d been gone for so long, he was exhausted and worn to the bone. He just wanted some peace and quiet, some time to himself to wind down.

But you were so damn needy for him, pawing at him the second you could get your greedy little hands on him. He was so tired that he simply couldn’t even fathom the idea of getting hard.

But in the face of your whimpering, the feeling of your soft tits pressed against him as you gripped his cock through his sweats, he could feel himself chubbing up despite it all.

You knew how tired he was. You knew he just wanted to rest and decompress. Yet there you were, tugging his cock from his sweats, stroking him languidly like he was your own personal little toy.

And for some reason that just set him off.

Before you knew it, you were pinned face down on the couch, your panties stretched around your thighs.

“Please, Simon,” you pant, voice pitchy and broken from how utterly needy you were.

He thought you were so cute, begging him like you hadn’t gotten on his one good nerve the second he walked through the door.

Just to tease you, to be mean because you deserved it for being such a damned brat, he pressed the tip of his leaking cock against your pretty little hole. He felt you clench, eager to suck all of him in. You wanted to be filled so badly, precious cunt drooling slick down to the couch in sticky strings at the mere idea of getting stuffed nice and full by your boyfriend’s perfect cock.

He tapped the head against your clit, the little bud stiff and neglected. The stimulation made you tremble, a sweet moan escaping your lips from how good the fleeting pleasure felt.

With you distracted by the teasing, Simon quickly began to jerk himself off, using the sweet, wet heat of your cunt to edge him to a quick release. It had been weeks since he’d gotten off, so it was easy for him to find that euphoria with your pretty little ass perked up just for him, ready and willing to be used - something you weren't even going to get.

That thought alone had him cumming with a soft gasp, making sure to aim it right at the crotch of your panties, spilling his load in the pretty, purple cotton stretched around your thighs.

“S-Simon?” you asked, already sounding on the verge to tears as you listened to cum without you.

“There you go, love,” he grunts, lazily tugging your messy panties up.

You whined when his cum smeared all over your cunt, mixing with your creamy juices. The cotton soaked up the liquids and plastered itself to your folds, giving him the perfect view.

Meanly, he patted your cunt before tucking his cock away and climbing off of the couch with a grunt. You flopped onto your side, tearily watching as he made a show of stretching and yawning.

“Really needed that, sweetheart,” he grinned, “I want you to keep my cum nice and warm in your panties while I go have a nap. Think I’ve earned one. And maybe when I’m back, you’ll stop bein’ such a damned brat and I’ll give you what you want, yeah?”

#simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #cod smut #cod x reader

2K notes · View notes

kiwicopia · 3 months ago

Text

MDNI | Themetober: Tricked

Fae!Geto x Fem!Reader

CW: noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, imprisonment, chained reader, mentions of starvation/dehydration, mentions of impregnation, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, overstimulation, licking, biting, body worship, face fucking, sex against the wall, creampie.

tags: @sweetchildcloud

Themetober Masterlist

He had to give credit where it was due, truly. Not many humans could evade a fae for as long as you had, but even you had limits to this evasion. He just had to find them; however, he wasn’t as patient of a fae as he should have been. The desire to have you as his was overwhelming to the point that drastic measures had to be taken. One little slip-up was all he needed, and the very second it occurred, he whisked you away to his domain.

“Darling,” he cooed, dark eyes watching as you shied away from him. Your body moved further back in the cell, and the soft clinking of the chains caused the corners of his lips to twitch as he smiled. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Things would be easier if you would simply give in.” Geto inched closer to the bars of your cell, his fingers tightly wrapping around the cold metal as he rested his forehead against it. “You’re being childish.”

You hadn’t eaten or drank anything in three days, having refused him each and every time he would bring you something—it was such a childish thing for you to do. His eyes lowered, squinting as he assessed your huddled form in the corner of your cell. Geto didn’t want things to be this way. He couldn’t understand why you resorted to such stubbornness, which only resulted in an inevitable deterioration of your body.

The fae huffed in irritation, brows creasing as his mind came to a single conclusion: be forceful. Honestly, this was the last thing he wished to resort to, but he couldn’t think of any other way to make you see reason and listen to him. With a quick tap of his forefinger against a metal bar, the door to your cell opened and he stepped inside. Your wide, teary eyes watched as he came closer to you, causing you to squish yourself against the cold, hard wall of the cell.

“You have left me no choice,” he said. Geto then snapped his fingers, causing the chains connecting you to the cell wall to quickly slide back, which lifted your body to your feet. He came closer, stopping a foot in front of you before reaching a hand out to gently caress your cheek. He thumbed a tear away, tutting softly before letting out a small sigh. “You’ll see reason soon enough.”

Disgust bubbled in your stomach as his hand drifted from your face and down to your thigh. His other hand followed suit, and you squirmed as his fingers wrapped around the flesh beneath your tattered dress before forcing your legs apart. Geto hummed softly, his smile broadening as he lowered himself to his knees.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles against the skin along your inner thighs before cupping the plump flesh and lifting your lower half up. It was just enough for him to roll his shoulders underneath your legs, situating them over his shoulders perfectly—though he still kept his hands cupped beneath your thighs. Geto’s lips kissed along the skin, trailing his movements further up to your awaiting cunt. “So beautiful, and all mine.” His nipped at your flesh, causing you to cry out before attempting to wriggle away from him.

The fae tutted softly, shaking his head a little before tightening his grip on your thighs. You should know better than to refuse—not that you could if you tried. “Please,’ you begged. His eyes flitted up to your tear-filled expression. The way you cried and pleaded for him to stop brought forth a low rumble in his throat, as well as causing his cock to chub at the sight of more of your tears. You were so beautiful like this. Teary-eyed and pleading; a real sniffling mess as you attempted to wriggle away once more, but to no avail. “Please don’t—.”

Your words died midsentence upon feeling his tongue lick a thick stripe along your folds, the tip curling slightly to catch your clit at the right angle. His ears rang with cries that spewed from your pretty lips, only to be ignored as he continued lapping at your cunt. The fae’s fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs to quell the constant squirming of yours as you tried pulling your hips back. Geto’s nose soon brushed against your bundle of nerves the further he pressed his face against your pussy, earning a shrill cry as you tossed your head back against the cell wall.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. The soft slurps rang in your ears, and the fact that your body was so eager to wet itself with arousal as he pleased you felt so wrong. You didn’t want this, you never wanted this. But it felt good. No longer could your mind hold the disgust for what he was doing to you; that feeling now fading as a sick and twisted need for him to continue festered in its place.

The second your hips began to grind against him, he knew. You were giving in, and he groaned softly as his cock twitched beneath the fabric of his pants. It ached to be free, to be deep inside of you, but not yet. Geto still needed you to give in entirely, and there was only one way to get that. His pace increased as his tongue delved past your folds, lapping up the slick that now coated his lips and chin as he feasted on you like a starved beast.

His nails dug into your flesh the more you fucked yourself against his face, now whining and moaning for more. You needed more, wanted it, craved it, and he delivered. The fae held your lower half up as your body shook upon releasing a sudden, sharp cry. His dark eyes watched as your back arched while your senses flooded with pure ecstasy. “Pretty girl,” he chuckled. Geto flicked his tongue along your puffy clit, relishing in the whiny moan that slipped out from you. “I’m still not finished eating.”

He lapped at your sensitive, slick cunt again, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you until he finally felt satisfied. The fae’s tongue licked along his lips after he pulled his face back, relishing in the sweetness of your multiple releases. Your body still twitched from the effects of him overstimulating you, which made you perfectly pliant for him as he stood to his feet and pressed his chest against yours. Geto kept you balanced between him and the wall, with an arm around your waist while a free hand worked to release himself from the confines of his pants.

His cock sprang free—the tip angry and weeping arousal—and he slowly rubbed the thick head against your folds before easing himself inside. You whined at the stretch, body tensing from the sudden burn that ached the more he disappeared inside of you. The fae’s arm around your waist tightened as his hand moved to grip your hip, and his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. Your scent wafted through his nostrils, causing his dick to twitch inside of you, and Geto gave you a small moment of adjustment before pulling his hips back and slamming himself into you.

The pace was relentless, with little to no room for gentleness as he fucked you. Gods, you were so tight and warm, with walls that sucked him back in with ease—so heavenly to him, this feeling. His arm soon unwound from around your waist, and both of his hands firmly pressed against the cell wall. Your tears were long gone by now, with eyes rolled back as you babbled nonsense in his ear, to which he let out a breathy chuckle at.

You were adorable. His little human, getting herself fucked by a fae she thought she could evade. The thought of his little tricks almost not working on you days ago didn’t sit well with him, and he now desired to make you his in more ways than one. Fucking you just didn’t seem to be enough for him. Geto could impregnate you, force the swell of your belly with his seed. Then you would be his forever.

Such an idea spurred him on, his body squishing you against the wall as his cock bullied your sopping cunt. “Take it, take it, darling,” he panted. Those words spilled from his lips like a mantra, a heavenly chant that would ensure your bond to him for life. Gods, it was enough for him to finally come undone. With a low growl rumbling in his throat, Geto fucked into you one last time, spilling into you and painting your walls in thick, creamy cum.

His thrusts had slowed, gentling out as he kissed along the side of your neck. You were too fucked out to comprehend what had even happened. Too overstimulated from orgasms prior to realize the fate he resigned you to. Geto was a fae that had always gotten what his heart desired, no matter how sick and twisted it was.

If impregnating you kept you bound to him, then so be it. Simply another little trick that had to be done.

667 notes · View notes

vivwritescrappythings · 6 months ago

Text

squeeze

tattoo artist!eddie munson x fem!afab!reader

Eddie is your tattoo artist and long term boyfriend, one night you have an idea of how to spice up your next tattoo session.

an: idk why I thought of this but I did

cw: fem and afab reader, needles, tattoos, unsanitary tattoo practices, don’t let anyone do this to you, p in v sex, cockwarming, masturbation, mild dubcon, mentions of marijuana use, i picture this version of eddie as older, masochism, swearing, dirty talk, not proofread.

wc: 2.3k

masterlist

MDNI

—

It was only after a few joints that you could have ever thought this was a marginally good idea. You and Eddie were well baked by the time you stumbled out of his van in the alley, eyes bloodshot and a wide smile on your face. The rest of the tattoo shop was dark as Eddie snuck you in the back door, the two of you giggling like vandals as though it wasn’t his shop. The keys jingled as he tucked them back into his pocket, nudging you toward his station.

He turned on the harsh fluorescent lamps surrounding the leather chair in the center of the small space. Paper screens separated it from the rest of the store, drawings and sketches stuck haphazardly all over the dividers and walls. “You’ve been drawing more,” you murmured, looking over the magnitude of new additions.

Eddie was already wiping down the chair and getting set up, looking over his shoulder at you with a hum of acknowledgment. You took in the way his shoulders filled out his worn Metallica shirt, his jacket hanging on a hook near the back door. There was something about his warm, chocolate-colored eyes that made your heart flutter every time he glanced at you.

“You gonna pick something out or just stare at me?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You rolled your eyes, a little too stoned to come up with a response you considered to be clever enough. The wall of flash tattoos beckoned you closer. Eddie had given you countless tattoos at that point, insisting that dating a tattoo artist meant you had to get all your work done by him.

Anyone else would just be cheating.

It was how the two of you met five years ago: you came into the shop with a crumpled piece of paper with a book quote you loved scrawled onto it looking to get your very first tattoo. Eddie had stolen you from the guy who usually took the walk-in clients with a saccharine smile, ushering you to his little sectioned off area and charging you half what he normally would for a tattoo that size. You left with fresh ink and Eddie’s number, and the rest was history.

You squinted up at dozens of drawings crudely taped to the wall, admiring the smooth linework and the variety. There were a few from his Hellfire days, fleshed out Dungeons & Dragons monsters and sets of dice high up near the ceiling. The rest were the typical subjects: skulls and flowers and doodles of food and ghosts.

It was hard to decide, your arms folding over your chest as you worried your lower lip with your teeth. Normally it was a quick decision, you’d pick something off the wall or had an idea of your own and Eddie would be off to the races.

That time it took Eddie pulling out the battered notebook he insisted he did his best work in, his name scratched into the black cover. “How about this one? Been workin’ on it, thought it would look good on you,” he murmured, flipping it open to a page in the middle.

The drawing was beautiful, detailed and delicate while still fitting with the rest of your tattoos. You realized that Eddie was listening when you told him you wanted to tattoo your sternum a few months ago, the pages littered in drawings that were suited to the smooth patch of skin over the bone. As always, he knew what you wanted more than you did.

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” you finally said, tracing it with your fingertip.

“Yeah? You sure?” Eddie asked, already rifling through drawers to put together a stencil.

You nodded, biting your lower lip as you sat back on the leather chair. “Matches everything else you’ve put on me,” you said, making yourself comfortable as he went off to trace out a stencil.

You fidgeted with the well-worn Corroded Coffin shirt you were wearing, running your fingers over the torn-up hem and looking up at the ceiling tiles Eddie had painted black.

Meeting Eddie must have been the luckiest moment of your life. You never thought that you’d find someone, for some reason you’d been convinced that you were beyond what anyone wanted—destined to be the old lady with the cats at the end of the street. But Eddie wanted you, he wanted you fiercely and with a passion that was almost startling sometimes.

“Alright, dove, shirt off,” Eddie said, startling you out of your thoughts. He rounded the corner with the stencil in hand, chocolatey eyes focused on you.

You complied, slipping the shirt off your head and tossing the fabric onto a nearby folding chair. The cold air in the shop made you shiver with just your pajama shorts on. You’d forgone wearing a bra, the trip to the tattoo parlor borne from a spontaneous idea you had in the living room of your shared apartment.

“Never gonna get tired of that,” Eddie mumbled, staring at your chest as you settled back onto the cold leather. You rolled your eyes as your face started to heat up, part of you wanting to cover your chest with your hands.

Eddie stood between your legs, rolling over the silver tray that held the little containers of ink and gloves and his machine. He’d already washed his hands, his fingers were cold as he shaved off the smattering of vellus hairs covering your skin. You squeaked when he wiped down your skin with an alcohol pad. His tongue poked out when he concentrated, his brow furrowed as he started to apply the stencil.

He pressed firm to get it to transfer, pulling the strip of paper away and reaching for a mirror for you to see it. It was weird to see yourself reflected back in the small hand mirror. You sat up to properly inspect how it looked between your tits, the U-shaped stretch marks between them catching and shining in the fluorescent light. The mirror tilted up, letting you see your own bloodshot, hazy gaze in the mirror. The blunts Eddie had rolled earlier were strong.

“Looks great, Eds,” you said, lips quirking into a grin as you settled back on the chair. Eddie hummed, letting the mirror drop with a clatter on his drawing space as he went to wash his hands again.

He came back ready, black latex gloves pulled over his hands and hair tied back in a low bun at the nape of his neck.

Bony hips knocked the insides of your thighs apart, your boyfriend curling down over you. “You still feeling up to the rest of this?” he asked, a brow lifting until it disappeared under his frizzy bangs. You were silent for a minute, taking in the sincerity of his expression. “You don’t have to if you’re not feeling right, dove. I can just do the tattoo and we can go home.”

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head and blurting out protests a little too eagerly. It made him grin, boyish charm returning to his stubble-ridden face as though he wasn’t a day out of high school.

“If you feel uncomfortable, what do you say?” Eddie prompted softly, leaning forward to nudge his nose against your temple. He didn’t touch you with his hands, keeping them sterile.

“Yoo-hoo,” you mumbled a little sheepishly. Eddie picked it, the safe word always made you roll your eyes.

He hummed sweetly, pressing a kiss just above your eyebrow. “That’s right,” Eddie said, the simple praise already making you feel warm.

You bit your lower lip as you looked up at him, watching him get the machine going and getting ink on the needles. It felt like your body was buzzing with anticipation, your knees squeezing at his waist.

“Help me out, can’t get my hands dirty,” Eddie said, twisting to fuss with something on the tray next to him. You didn’t care about what he was grabbing, only reaching forward to loop your fingers in the waistband of the sweatpants he was wearing. On a normal day he wouldn’t be caught dead here in sweatpants.

The original idea had come from you. Something in your stoned mind combined to make you ask Eddie if he’d ever thought about cockwarming while giving a tattoo. He looked at you like you’d grown a second head, but fifteen minutes later he wanted to bring your fantasy to life.

“Been so fucking hard ever since you brought this up,” Eddie hissed through his teeth as you pulled his sweatpants down over his cock. It slapped up against his stomach, the tip flushed red and already leaking. You swallowed thickly, reaching out to wrap your hand around him.

The soft moan coming from Eddie’s pink lips was gratifying in more ways than you expected, satisfaction making you feel warm as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“You want me to take my shorts off?” you asked quietly, tilting your head to one side. There was a thrill associated with being naked in the tattoo shop. Of course, it was the middle of the night as no one would have reason to be there, but it still felt scandalous all the same.

“Yeah,” he said, the harsh buzzing of the tattoo machine starting as he touched the needle to the ink. The sound was familiar to you now, part of you associating it with Eddie. “It’ll be complicated to do this if you leave them on.”

You rolled your eyes, letting go of him to strip yourself of your shorts. He cursed under his breath when he saw you completely naked on the chair. Brown eyes traveled over every curve and slope of your body, taking it all in with reverence as his tongue poked out to run over his bottom lip.

There was a brief pause, the two of you waiting for the other to do something. Eddie ended up taking charge.

“Play with yourself for me,” he mumbled, staring down at your cunt. His gloved fingers twitched. “Get her nice and wet.”

Your face heated up at his request, bashfulness binding your chest together for a moment. It was impossible not to comply with Eddie’s request, your fingers finding their place between your legs. You touched yourself without fanfare, your fingertips settling on either side of your clit and rubbing in tight circles.

His gaze was locked on your cunt, chin pressed to his chest and lips parted. Normally you would be embarrassed under that kind of focus, but the awe shining in Eddie’s eyes made your anxiety slip away.

Your movements were practiced and smooth, sending electricity up and down your spine. It was easy to get turned on, your breaths eventually becoming pants and wetness building up around your fingers. His jaw was clenching, you knew he wanted to pull your fingers away and touch you himself.

He huffed, swallowing hard before directing his gaze to your eyes. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said, stepping in closer between your legs. “Before I just decide to ruin my sterile environment and fuck you the right way.”

The idea was enticing, making you bite your lip as you considered. But you already came all the way down here and had the stencil placed and ink in the tattoo gun. And you wanted to make your fantasies happen.

You grabbed Eddie’s cock, your wet fingers smearing down the length of it. Of all the times you fucked, you almost never were the one to guide him inside of you. It was a bit clumsy as you dragged his tip through the soaked seam of your cunt, nudging against the swollen bud of your clit a few times.

Finally you hit your mark, Eddie’s deep moan filling the air as he slotted himself inside of you with a strong thrust. The patch of dark, soft curls at his base brushed against your already sensitive clit. The stretch made you see stars. Your head rolled back against the leather chair, a breathy whine pulling from you as he rubbed against every gummy ridge and gooey spot inside of you.

“Eddie,” you whimpered, brows pulling together as you looked up at him. He seemed to be going through a similar sense of euphoria, his long lashes fluttering against his cheekbones as he breathed into the feeling.

His eyes open, pupils expanding like ink in water as he curled over you, readying the tattoo machine over your chest. He blinked hard, rutting softly against you once… twice… before steadying. The concentration was incredible to witness, his expression hardening and jaw flexing again.

“You ready, dove?” he asked, briefly glancing up at you before staring at the patch of stenciled skin like he could burn a tattoo into it with just his eyes.

“Yeah,” you breathed, feeling like your entire body was made up of TV static as you willed yourself to relax on the chair.

He nodded, the familiar buzz of the tattoo gun starting again. It pressed to your skin like fire, the vibration carrying from the gun all the way down into the flat bone of your sternum. You held your breath without meaning to, toes curling.

Eddie groaned, a smile finding its way onto his face. “You’re squeezing so fucking tight around me,” he said, voice a bit raspier than normal.

You made a conscious effort to relax, staring up at the ceiling and tapping the tips of your fingers along the sides of the chair. “Sorry,” you murmured, a giggle echoing from you as Eddie resumed the line he was tattooing.

Each stab of the needles kept your body alight, teetering you on the edge of pain and pleasure. “You're such a masochist.”

You smiled, your gaze hazy and your pussy fluttering a bit as you took shallow breaths. “I know, it’s gonna be a long night.”

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #reader insert #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #tattoo artist!eddie

824 notes · View notes

theorist-fox · 3 months ago

Text

Fair trade

John Price x Reader

Cross posted from AO3.

This one shot deals with heavy topics such as emotional manipulation, emotional abuse from family, and self-objectification.

I'm begging you to read the tags before pursuing the story. Thank you so much for taking care of yourself first. 🦊

If you're looking for some aftersex comfort, recommending this by @/karlachismylife. 🧡

Summary: John helps you out of the toxic pattern your family has woven around you, and finds how utterly gorgeous you are behind it. He cuts your strings, and loves you the way you deserve.

18+

Word count: 10k CW: smut (cunnilingus, blow jobs, sex seen as a form of self-harm, sex seen as a way to feel useful), heavy angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon if you squint.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“No, we can’t come over, darling.”

To have a life planned out must be a dream. No worries nor fears, because everything is already outlined—a step-by-step guide, given to you at birth. A path, a purpose.

To give is your purpose.

It’s been ever since before you hit the eighteen mark; the birthday being only a threshold that signed your legal independence.

But you’ve always been, haven’t you? Shadowed by bigger problems ever since you were a small thing because there wasn't trouble that mattered less than you did.

The difference being that before you were shielded by your naïveté, by the bleeding heart they’ve carefully built for you, so you’d bend and break pliantly, even willingly at times, without ever realizing.

Now you're an adult, they'd implied.

Now they can use you at your full potential, and you won’t even put up a fight. You won’t set boundaries, because this is all you’ve ever learned. This is all they’ve ever taught you. Their perfect mold, kneeling in perfect obedience.

But how much can one take in a lifetime?

“Thanks for the help, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

But staring at the phone won’t make it ring.

When you’ve never had a moment for yourself but plenty of time to dedicate to others—where do you draw the line of this so-called purpose, then?

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

“It’s next week, mum.”

“Oh. I must have mixed it up.”

This goal—this agonized prize, towering at the finish line you’re desperately running to, the one defined by your family the moment your first cry pierced the air—what is it, exactly?

It’s a cascade of praises. It’s a shower of love that reawakens you from your torpor like a bucket of ice-cold water. It's abrupt but somewhat needed until it slowly becomes fresh instead of freezing, and it hydrates your skin and soothes the thirst. You feel rejuvenated, coming out of your lethargy, and alive and thriving and—

It stops.

Your fifteen minutes of unbridled, limitless love just snatched away in spare seconds.

And you’re parched again. Sometimes, they leave you wanting until you’re on your knees. Sometimes, they never give it back.

And so, the questions arise—what happens when you’re not needed anymore?

What happens when the calls plummet?

When the visits diminish until there are none?

When you're a ghost haunting your own life because your purpose is slowly vanishing. When that prize stands in the distance as a rushing fountain of praises and kindness, but you've already given a hand, an arm, your legs, your voice, your heart. What then?

How do you move, exactly, if there are no limbs to which attach the strings? How will you speak, if they’re not shaping your voice?

How does your puppeteer lift you from the floor? Your ventriloquist—how will it force you to agree to every demand?

“You... met without me?”

“Sweetheart, we thought you were busy.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“You would’ve said no.”

But you wouldn’t have. You’re not even sure you can say ‘no’ to them.

Is there someone who will hoist you up, when you’re nothing more than a torso, and take you to the finish line?

“Uh, darling, mind calling later?”

“I’m not feeling fine, I was hoping—“

“I’m busy, love.”

A therapist for your mum.

A crutch for your dad.

An advocate for your brother, but you’re no one to them.

A child, once. A person, now.

A notification on their phone. A Google reminder of a birthday.

A missed call. An excuse.

A vacant shape in a family photo. A memory, then nothing.

Raised to serve. But what happens when there’s no one to serve?

“What you’re doing to me is not fair.”

“I don’t like that attitude. Don’t forget how much we did for you.”

Your hands are tight around the steering wheel. White knuckled fists and creaking leather. The car smells of stale tobacco, cigarettes you’ve smoked with your offhand limp out of the car window, then stubbed in the portable ashtray.

"We love you, of course we do. How could you ask that?"

It's raining but your window's rolled down, a ciggie snug between two fingers. Elbow propped on the car door, arm hanging out. The sleeve of your sweater is soaked, and the cigarette is sodden. You don't even notice it when you bring it to your lips and take a drag. Nothing fills your lungs.

It’s fine.

It's a habit. It's autopilot. You go. You exist.

“It really doesn’t feel like it. You haven’t called in weeks.”

“It’s just—we’re people too. We’re busy.”

“You’re not busy for my brother.”

“He’s—you’re different, darling.” You’re used. We’ve consumed you.

It’s a feeling of emptiness that spills out of every hole like heavy smoke, clouding your senses. A husk that billows dark tendrils from its eyes, moves mechanically like an alien imitating a human being.

It's fake. You're a dummy. Unhuman. A thing.

“I just need your help. I—I’m not fine. I’m not asking for much. Just an evening toge—”

"So much is happening right now. You can deal with it on your own, love.”

You close the car door once you've parked it in the garage. Up the stairs you go, dragging your feet on every step.

“Like you’ve always done.”

Would this world exist even if you weren’t in it? Would these stairs lead to your apartment, if you didn’t inhabit it?

Is your flat even yours? Sure, you’ve paid for it. The party you threw after your signature was placed on the contract is still a cherished memory.

But what were you even celebrating? Four walls. A roof over your head. A bed to kip.

It’s a lot, you’re aware. Not everyone can say they own all that. But do you?

They’re things. Can you own things?

Surely, you are owned. By them.

But you’re not even sure you need things. You can’t need, because things don’t need. And what are you, if not a thing? Because things are used, not humans. Humans fight back, eventually. Humans hold their pride dear, it's the only character that separates them from animals, from meat. You never bit back, not once. So what does that make you, if not theirthing?

Your purpose is not a choice you made, it’s theirs. You have to give—that is why they made you.

You own, so you can give them.

You earn, so you can give back.

Because who’s given you a roof when you couldn’t afford it yourself? And the food in your belly?

Darling, it wasn’t for free. You were expensive to raise. You were costly to craft, to mold, to perfect.

But they haven’t called. No one has. No one will.

The master left the strings—and what of you, now? Do you just lie limply on the floor, waiting for the next hand that'll hoist you up?

And if they don’t call to ask from you, how do you know you’re doing fine? How do you know if the finish line is close when they took your eyes already? How do you ask for help, if you don’t have a voice?

But that was the point. Their goal. They own you, and without them, you’re nothing but a heap of wood, infested with termites. Wooden rods on the floor, nylon strings cut short. You’ll grovel and beg, they’ll croon at you in mockery, bleeding you dry, but it will be enough for you—anything would be enough for you.

You unlock the door. John hears and his head peeks from the kitchen.

“Hi love,” he rumbles, and you feel it shaking your heart.

Does he need you?

John Price is a captain of the special forces who has gone through hell and back. He's witnessed things you've only heard from the mouths of journalists or read in black-and-white papers, and he came out of each one of them unscathed. Strong. Resilient.

He doesn’t need you.

“Sortin’ out dinner,” he adds, and returns behind the wall that separates the living room from the cooking area. “You’re gonna love this pasta, I’m telling you.”

Of course, he doesn't need you.

The house is pristine. He takes care of it while you’re at work since he’s off deployment. He’s going to be home for a while now, a handful of months. That’s a good thing, you miss him when he leaves.

It’s you who needs him. But you can’t need, so how does this work, exactly?

How do you explain that hole in your stomach that relentlessly craves to be filled? That makes you want to curl on the floor. Turn into dust and seep through the cracks of the hardwood.

Disappear. Invisible. Paper-thin.

Because maybe you're tired of being needed. Perhaps you want to break through that mindset and start needing something.

You chastise yourself for even concocting the thought.

You stand stock still at the door. You hear nothing but the blood rushing in your ears and John moving pans around the kitchen.

You see his head at the doorway again.

“Love?”

Your eye twitches, but you don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you. Then why is he here?

There are plenty of people out there who’d love to bend for him. Mouths he can kiss. Holes he can fill.

That’s what people are, no?

No. That's what you are.

You’ll make him need you. You’ll show him that you’re fundamental, not just another hole. That you cannot be replaced, because you can't afford to lose him. You can't.

It’s selfish, it is.

You cannot be selfish, it’s not what you were taught. But you will. Just today, just now. The first apparent tear into the careful pattern threaded by your family.

But it's not really a hole, is it? If you're carving it to escape a trap, only to fall back into another one of your own making.

You hurriedly toe off your wet shoes and walk with purpose to the kitchen, dropping your bag on the floor as you do. He quirks a brow at you and your silence, but his face soon morphs into sudden confusion when you come to stand in front of him and drop to your knees.

You know how to do it—how to make people smile.

Your empathy is unmatched. You read people's tics, their quirks. Gauge them from the way they move their lips, the words they use, the way they look at you.

And John—oh, he loves how you work with your mouth.

And if he needs your mouth, then by extension, he needs you.

Your hands palm his thighs as you flutter your lashes up to him. He's forced to lean back against the kitchen counter, but he's not looking at you the way he usually does—not with his lidded blue eyes, heavy and wanton.

John looks dubious instead. Even flinches when you press your cheek to the crotch of his jeans, stroking the fabric to your skin. Denim’s rough, and it especially hurts when the plump of your cheek catches the zipper’s teeth.

Good.

Let him take. And let it hurt.

“What’s goin’ on." He states, doesn't ask.

Please, take.

You’re already working through the button and the zipper when you answer, fingers shaking as you do. “I wanna suck your cock.”

Now, John wouldn’t normally complain, but you sound much different from the other times in which you actually do want to suck his cock.

He hums, allowing you to palm him through his briefs, gently but firmly pressing your hand where he’s still soft. You nose him through the cotton, flattening your tongue against his dick—you can feel it twitch under the muscle. Good, means his body is responding how you want him to.

His hands curl painfully tight around the lip of the counter.

It’s so silent except for your heaving breaths warming up his length and the buzzing fire on the stove.

You place tender kisses as you feel him harden under your lips.

He's looking at you to try and gauge the reason behind all this. It's clear to him that you're not being your usual self, there is something in your eyes that tickles him in the wrong place. You know he knows—you know he's gathered something's wrong. He’s ever so attentive, capturing every minimal change in the wrinkles of your face.

You're so akin to him when it comes to that.

You don't give him time to ponder for long, though. You take his cock out of his briefs and force it into your mouth.

John knocks his head back against the cupboard and fixes his eyes to the ceiling, wide open. A heavy breath leaves him languidly. His cock chubs up as it sits heavy on your tongue, and you can feel it fill up your mouth.

“Christ.”

Yes. It’s what you want, to hear him lose himself in you.

You start slowly, pumping your hand at the base along with the movements of your lips, mindful of keeping your teeth out of the way. Tilting your head sideways, you let the tip of his cock push against your cheek while your tongue lavishes the malleable skin around its length.

Your eyes swivel upward, and you're met with the view of his corded neck, tight and straining as he refuses to look at you.

No.

He needs to know it’s you.

He needs to understand that you can give this whenever he wants, that you're not just another mouth. That no one else is as versed as you are when you eat him up. Your tongue knows how to follow the vein along the velvet of his skin, all the way to the slit on the tip. Your hand knows how to cup his balls and brush the seam in the middle—how he shudders, each time you do.

He needs to know that.

He can’t let you go. Not him too.

He has to hoist the limbless torso that you are towards the finish line, where you’ll get your caresses and your praises and your prize: the crumbs of love you’ll lap until your famished heart stops rumbling.

So, you drift your free hand upward and thread your fingers through the curls on his pelvis, gently grazing the skin with your nails. Then, you drum the pads on his soft belly, feeling them dip into the flesh and hit the harder muscles underneath. You splay your palm in the middle of his stomach, where you can feel the blood rushing madly as his heart pumps all the same.

It’s enough for you, the bodily reaction to the softness of your mouth.

But why isn’t he looking at you?

Recognize that is me. That I can make you feel good. That you need me, that you still do.

In the desperation of the moment, you opt for the best you can do: you take him deeper. The hand at the base of his cock moves to flatten on his thigh, and you carelessly widen your jaw to take more, and more, and more.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft and then twirl it around, all the while hollowing your cheeks without ever daring to take your eyes off him. That way, if he decides to look down at you, he'll find you teary-eyed and wanting—perfectly on your knees, like a devotee, no matter how artificially placed.

Your lips slide so easily up and down his cock, coating it with saliva, teardrops and precum. They swell so beautifully around it like a plump peach being ravaged; he always flatters you for it. Calls you beautiful when you suck him off so fervently, eliciting choked moans from you as you drink up the praise.

You dive in and the head tips at the back of your throat, causing you to gag around it. The muscles of your neck clench and he curses under his breath. Your eyes water in joy and overexertion when he looks down at you at the sudden change in pace. You don’t care if it hurts, let him bruise your throat.

You can give him more. You can give him everything.

You push even further until you're nuzzling against the coarse hair on his pelvis. You choke around his cock, a weak and wet cough that causes drool to dribble at the corners of your mouth. You pull back then, to take a wet gasp around his length, and then push forward to flush your nose to his crotch once more.

The tips of your knees hurt; the tiled floor in the kitchen is hard and merciless against the bone. It'll leave your joints aching and rough. They'll pop when you stand up, they'll hurt tomorrow when you go to work.

Good.

The knot in your stomach is ever so tight, seeking to be released and let go. It contorts in wantonness and, you’ll realize later, mortification. Just because you’re used to giving yourself so freely in exchange for crumbs, it doesn't mean it gets easier every time—to watch yourself bend on a whim, to see your pride shatter into even tinier pieces.

You feel his hand thread through your hair and tears fall down your cheek because yes, now he’s going to fuck your face like you want him to.

Use me. Treat me for what I am. Become the fucking puppet master. Take my fucking strings now that they’ve dropped them and guide me through this fucking shit I was left in.

But instead, he pulls you back, his cock escaping your mouth with the same ease you got it in.

A ragged breath, thick and wet, leaves your lips as soon as they’re free. Your coughs turn into a hack, as you stare at the glisten of your spit coating his shaft. A string of thick saliva tethers your mouth to it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you recollect your breath, nostrils flaring in the attempt to take in the air you’ve deprived yourself of.

“What’s this.”

You swallow down the liquid pooling in your throat, salty precum and viscous saliva like tar, gluing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“Let me.” You croak. The thought that you might sound pathetic doesn’t even cross your mind.

His brows twitch, but he keeps his voice even. “No. What’s going on? Spill it.”

Your pleading look morphs into a glare. Bloodshot eyes, tears, and snot. Spit and cum. Clumped lashes and runny mascara.

Whore.

Your chest heaves, not from the strain, but from being caught red-handed, and you don't know how to behave.

No one ever asks why you do it, they’re simply glad you do.

You’re helping, aren’t you? It’s what you were crafted for, brick by brick, bone by bone. Made to change like a chameleon based on other’s necessities.

It’s what you are—so let me do it.

“I want to suck your cock.” You say as crudely as you can manage. “I want you to come down my throat and then I want you to bend me over the table and fuck me until you’re empty.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, still holding your head by a handful of hair. His fingers aren’t tight, but your scalp stings nonetheless.

“Can do.” He shrugs. “Need to know why, first.”

You’re a heap of wood once again, piled up at his feet. Your limbs are jointless, just lying there, waiting to be thrown in the fire to rekindle its flame, so everyone else can be warm at your expense.

A broken puppet can still be used for other purposes until it's ash.

There's nothing in you, if not how wonderfully soft your mouth would be if only he'd let you wrap it around him again.

“Because I want to.”

He curls his nose, mustache following the stretch. “Hardly.”

“I do.”

He tugs at your hair and says your name in such a commanding manner that you can’t help but deflate. The glare in his eyes snuffs the defiant flame in yours.

"Please let me," you plead, and the way you sound is nothing short of degrading.

You don't care. You don't care if you reduce yourself to a puddle of pleas. You know you're not supposed to need anything, but you need this.

Your hands are sticky with dried spit and precum when they grab his cock again. You start pumping it fiercely, trying to make his orgasm hit earlier than what you had planned. He holds your head out of reach, meaning you can't wrap your lips around it—you'll have to make do with your hands.

Slut.

But it’s okay, you’ll be a slut, if it helps him realize that you can make him feel good with everything you have to offer. That he won’t find another as pliant and willing as you are. That if he wants to be served, you will be his thrall.

Everything you own, it’s so you can give him.

Everything you earn, it’s so you can give back.

He can mold you. He can break you and put you back together the way he likes. He can craft a new puppet out of you, you’ll hand him the strings. He’ll take you to the finish line and love you, then.

Only then.

You see his mouth curl, bile on his tongue, as he reins in his own lust. There’s something wrong about you tonight, and he’s starting to understand what it is.

And so, he leaves your hair, favoring the softness of your cheek. He thumbs the plump of your cheekbone and then rubs a line along your lower lip.

It's then that you take your chance and rush forward, planting a kiss on the tip of his cock. Tongue out to leave kitten licks at the drops of precum you are squeezing out of him with your hands, knowing he likes those tiny shocks it sends up his spine.

And just when you think he’s relented to your pleas, just when you have your lips plump and shiny, ready to wrap around the flushed head of his cock, he takes ahold of your chin and tips your head back.

“I love you,” he croaks.

Words he’s said already, but not as often as he should’ve. It’s his fault, he grievously considers, if you think you have to be on your knees to receive them.

He realizes it when you shock into a stop. When your eyes widen a tick too much.

Blind idiot he is.

"I love you," he says again, more firmly this time.

Your face screws up as if you're trying to wrap your head around this language you don't know. You haven't done much to reach that prize—if anything, you’ve done the opposite. You’ve edged him until the head of his cock has turned an angry red that must be aggravating to handle, impossible to quench without the welcoming warmth of your mouth or that of your cunt.

You blink up at him. Tears fall down your cheeks. “But you need to come.”

If you’d have shot him, he would’ve handled the ache much better than this.

"I need nothing." He supplies gently, tracing the corner of your lips with his thumb, getting rid of the mess he's inadvertently made of your mouth.

His statement hangs in the air, stale and musty and threatening, not as sweet as he thinks. It clogs your nose and tightens your chest, curdling your blood into frozen lumps. The noises around suddenly feel deafening: the bubbles popping on the surface of the boiling water, the wet sound of your skin unsticking from his cock as your hands leave it, their thud as they fall in your lap.

If you’re not needed, then what are you?

Carefully, he tucks himself back into his briefs as he kneels to your level.

He whispers your name and cups your cheek as he does. "I love you.”

You know he does, but stuck in the web woven by your family, you always thought it was a purely transactional sentiment. A fair trade.

He loves you because you kneel prettily in front of the sofa.

He loves you because you let him stuff you up and fill you to the brim with his come at the snap of his fingers.

He loves you because you're a lovely addition to his arm when you doll up for his work ceremonies or other functions.

He loves you because you cook a mean Sunday roast when he comes back from deployment.

And you love him because he's John, because what's there not to love.

With gentle blue eyes framed by bushy eyebrows, and droopy eyelids that give his often scowling look a gentler feel to it. The honey smatter of freckles on his nose, and the sharply trimmed beard on his jaw. Plump rosy lips, how soft they feel when he places them on yours, juxtaposing with the prickly ends of his mustache.

His encompassing heart and the way he's enlarged it for you to fit better, so you're all comfortable and warm in his life.

John gently presses his lips on your forehead as he speaks softly, "I love you."

Your eyes flutter closed. A heaving breath again, one that stutters as you try to inhale it. Fat tears fill the cracks in your lips and flow down your tongue.

John brushes the back of his knuckles across your cheeks. “Don’t need all this to love you.” And then he looks in your eyes, searching for any sign of skepticism, and regrettably finds a considerable amount of it. “You knowthat. Right, love?”

No, you don’t know.

But you don’t have the gall to tell him. Suddenly, it hits how pathetic you look. On your knees, begging for him to stuff your mouth with his cock so you can feel useful, so he can shower you with love once you give him a reason to keep you.

You kneel there helplessly, deflated.

Useless.

You gesture with your hands at him, feeling how limply they hang from your wrists as if you've never used them on your own in the first place.

There is very little you can do to humiliate yourself further, and yet you manage.

“But you need me.” You cry, as your face scrunches in a pain so deeply settled that John has no clue how to work around it. “I need you to need me.”

However, he tries. He tracks your tears with his thumb, stopping their fall right above your cheekbone.

"Don't need you, love." He says tenderly. "I want you.”

He shifts a little closer and cradles your face in both hands so that you cannot avoid his eyes even if you tried.

“Want you.” He breathes hoarsely, “Ain’t with you ’cause I need someone. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want just anyone—I want you. ‘Specially when you’re not on your knees.”

Your nose is stuffy, and you can’t breathe right. Suddenly, you feel so unbelievably tired. Your face plops in his hands, and the humiliation feels ten times worse. It's hard, however, to interject with a word that would make him understand how deep this pattern runs.

He doesn’t let you, but only because he knows already.

"Like you when you get all chuffed ‘bout your plants sproutin’." He drawls. "Love it when you hop into bed and shove your cold feet against my thighs ‘cause I'm much warmer. Or when you make love to me. But not when you—when you pull this."

His voice is heavy. Your heart aches because you're so tightly wrapped in deadly silk, stuck in your family's cobweb, that you've never noticed how it must pain him as well, to see you reduce yourself to this.

"Bloody hell, love." He sighs, furrowing his brows. "I love you, yeah? I don't need—whatever this is. I don't want whatever this is.”

John's eyes close, his face screwing up in that way that tells you he's thinking. He shakes his head subtly, and you're afraid you've gone and done it now. He's going to go because he already has so much shit to deal with that your puzzled self would only be another broken case to add to his file.

But alas, dread doesn't even manage to settle on your heavy heart that he locks you in place with his blues.

One of his hands drifts to the back of your head. He leans in, enough for you to smell the tobacco on his breath.

You swallow dryly, lips parted in shaky pants. Eyes lidded and tired, nose scrunching in sniffles.

John presses a gentle kiss on your lips, no more than a peck. And then another one, and another, and another, until you can’t discern whether it’s the salt of your tears or that of his skin.

Your breathing becomes heavier and it mingles with his own when he comes to rest his forehead on yours.

"I love you," he murmurs tirelessly.

The hand on your nape guides you to him, and he kisses you again. Unlike the previous ones, this is bolder, yet tender all the same. He holds you in place while the rest of the world falls into impeccable silence.

The gentle smacking of lips is all you can hear, and even if only for a moment, it manages to silence the voice in your head—a mimicry of your family’s cries, their lying coos, their grating, consuming, plastic love.

You feel yourself uncoil under John’s touch and the deft work of his tongue on yours. Hands in your lap, you abandon yourself to him, but it's a different type of surrender; your eyes close and all your feelings, all your energy, flow into that kiss.

“I-I love you,” you venture, breathy voice brushing his lips.

John inhales sharply, and he realizes this might be the first time you said it because you wanted to and not because you had to.

His hand drifts from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your stomach and he guides you to lie with your back against the kitchen floor. His palms flatten next to your head.

Normally, John would have you on a fort of pillows and blankets and would never compromise about it—constantly making sure you’re as comfortable as they come as he ravages you. Beforehand, you'd get ready in the bathroom, having prepped yourself to a T. Shaved and moisturized and seasoned like a prized pig for him to consume, wearing the prettiest, skimpiest lace to frame the petals of your perfectly waxed pussy.

Because it’s a fair trade; he treats you like a princess, so you can be his pretty whore.

Yet tonight you think he won’t do any of that. There is a gentleness in his kisses that, while not uncommon, certainly feels unique. Your hands hover between your chest and his, unsure of where to place them. You hope he’ll guide you through this too, manhandle you into position like he always does.

But again, he doesn’t.

He barely feels like John at all. His behavior is so different that if you closed your eyes, anyone could be in his place right now. But that is only your perception, isn't it? Because John has always been tender with you, you were just too busy thinking about how to repay his kindness instead of living in the moment.

His lips leave yours only to busy themselves with the skin on your cheek, then down your chin and to your neck. You gasp at the goosebumps, and he stops.

His face comes into view and it is so flushed you think he must be collecting all his blood right in the apples of his cheeks.

“Okay, love?”

You blink. Your mouth tastes more like his cigars than tears and precum. It makes you feel less dirty, even if what you did (and have been doing your whole life) hasn’t changed.

You swallow thickly as he gazes into your eyes.

“Y-yeah, just—” A crease forms between your brows, “I should—I left you like that, and—”

He hushes you.

"No need to bother 'bout me." He reassures you.

He presses a kiss between your brows, smoothing the lines your concern has formed. You close your eyes, focusing on how warm he is in contrast to the tiles pressing against your back.

“Tell me what you want.” He breathes. As if you have an answer for that.

His kisses trail down your face and your neck, turning more open and wet. The rising gooseflesh, however, does nothing to stop your mind from running miles ahead.

What do you want?

You must've been posed that question before because it's such a basic one. You try to think of contests in which one might ask that, such as your birthdays, or celebrations, or a teacher wondering what is it that you desire in the future: a career, a husband or a wife, a family.

But to desire is to choose, and you don’t think you’ve ever been given that possibility.

Hence why you're rattled, aghast. On your back on the floor, with John sucking love bites on your neck.

You give the answer you know will make him content.

“Fuck me.”

You’ll moan like a porn star. You’ll dig your pretty nails into his back so he can show off the marks you left on him with pride. You'll pretend an orgasm if yours is taking too long, so that his ego will be kept fed and full, and he’ll still find you appealing. So that he can go tell his friends and comrades how good you are, in and out of bed. What a gem. Wife material.

He’ll doll you up and tie the strings around your wrists. Make you dance and you will—coy smile, pretty eyes and all. A new puppet out of you, just for his sake.

John stills, and he shifts uncomfortably above you. His mouth is suddenly next to your ear, and he leaves a kiss at your jaw hinge.

“You don’t want me to fuck you.” He murmurs, and you swear there is a hint of guilt in the way he says it.

You feel dizzy at the thought of being caught. It’s scary to have your thoughts so out in the open after having spent an entire lifetime locking them up.

John nips at the shell of your ear. You venture with your hands and place them on his chest, still unsure of whether you want him closer or far, far away.

"Can I make you feel good?" He asks hoarsely. Your body responds naturally and it makes heat pool in your lower stomach.

You suck in a breath, eyes fluttering closed at the idea his words have instilled in you.

You reply the only way you know. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes.” He says forcefully, almost as if he wanted the answer to stick to your brain for the days to come. The switch is so abrupt your heart skips a beat. “Yes, I have to ask. Of course, I have to ask.”

He props himself up, hips snug between your thighs. He could roll them against yours and seek the friction his chubbed up cock must physically need after you teased it.

But he doesn’t, and it makes you feel both inadequate and nervous.

“So, answer me, love.” He rumbles, as his pupils dance between your eyes. “Can I make you feel good?”

You’re not sure why, but it makes your eyes water and your heart hurt. Your brows draw together in a frown that rips at John’s chest.

“Y-Yes,” you stutter, voice strangled in your throat. “Yes, please.”

John leans in to kiss your eyelids as you snap them closed.

And then he kisses your cheek, your nose, and your lips. His hand trails over your sweater. A gentle tug at the hem makes tears fall down your temple and into your hair.

You give an imperceptible nod at his silent request and he thanks you by pressing his lips to your jaw. He lifts it above your breasts, sitting atop the plain, skin-colored bra you're wearing. You haven't shaved, there's regrowing hair under your armpits and you're flushed to the bone.

You're not the doll you allow him to see. You haven't prepped yourself for consumption this time, and it almost makes you squirm, as you force your biceps flush to your ribcage.

He can't see that you're not the perfect little puppet you've always shown him. If you aren't perfect, willing, and breakable, then he can find a thousand more like you—better than you.

But he presses a kiss to your sternum, ignoring sweat, squirming, and whatnot.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, tongue out to trace the line of the bone. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You sob. It doesn't deter him, as he lines the plain fabric of your cup until his fingers meet the clasp conveniently placed to the front. With a quick snap, he undoes it, and your tits spill out to the sides.

He hooks your attention back with a look, and you understand he’s asking, once again.

He’s seen you naked a thousand times but you realize he’s never seen you this raw. Your cheeks are flushed and his eyes have never looked so gentle yet hungry.

You nod again and he dives in, wasting no time.

His hands grab the fat of your tits. Push them together. Thumbs teasing nipples as they pebble under his pads. Lips kissing anywhere they can land, latching on flesh until it darkens. His teeth graze the peaks of your breasts, and your back arches off the floor.

Each grunt that escapes him has your spine vibrate. You can't fathom the thought that he likes this, not when you’re tasting like a long day at work and wet rain, instead of buttercream and mango.

You try to snake your leg between his own, to give back what he’s giving you. Carefully, you stroke the curve of your foot against his hard length, but he pulls back with his hips and gently guides your thigh to rest once more around his waist.

“Don’t need tha’, sunshine.” He grunts, a murmur lost as his lips mouth at your nipples. "This 's more 'n 'nough."

His hands hold you by the waist now, fingers gripping the flesh with tenacity. His beard scrapes at the soft skin of your tits as he travels downward with his mouth, following the path lined by your sternum to the gap between your ribs.

He licks stripes as if your skin were covered with cream. His teeth sink softly where your flesh is plumper, causing you to writhe against him, and he chuckles under his breath as he remembers you’re ticklish.

Such tiny things he knows about you, you almost forgot it’s been years he’s known you.

His bites turn kisses, and they're chastely pressed on the line of your stomach, over your belly button, and to the seam of your jeans.

John looks up at you when his lips reach the zipper, and by doing so you notice his brows arching up, causing lines to wrinkle his forehead. Pretty blue eyes take you in and the mess that you've made of yourself. Runny makeup, bitten lips.

You know he can see how undecided you still are. Brows pinched in both pleasure and discomfort because this is so new to you.

But you nod a little sharply for him to go on, as your mouth curls down in the hopefully non-futile attempt at muffling your sobs.

John unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips to your ankles in such an agonizingly slow manner you can’t help but think he’s doing it to give you time to rebut, in case you change your mind.

You don't.

He takes them off together with your socks and brings your foot next to his face. Places a kiss on the side of it, sending tingles up your legs that tip to the apex of your thighs. He leaves small pecks down your ankle and your calf, closing his eyes and sometimes brushing his beard against your skin.

You look away, cheek flat to the tiles, now wet with your tears and the rain soaking your hair.

It doesn't deter John in the slightest, not even when he slowly comes down to a crawl, chest to the floor and nose on your mound. He tugs with his teeth at the cotton of your panties, nothing more than plain white cheeky underwear. So different from the way you always present yourself to him, with your expensive lace and your silks and your soft skin—painfully waxed so it could mimic the feel of your babydolls.

Gingerly, you reach down with your hand and thread your fingers through his hair, smoothing them back from his forehead. You cup the side of his face and brush your thumb to his flushed cheekbone. He leans into your palm and kisses it, uncaring of the stickiness left by your previous activity.

You feel something inside of you crash and break, then, like a glass vase falling from a height. You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not, because it makes more tears collect at the corners of your eyes and those are never predictors of a good ending.

He digs the tip of his nose against your slit, following the wet stripe that inevitably formed the moment you dropped to your knees for him.

“Can I?” He asks, sending little spikes of electricity up to your chest when his lips brush against the sensitive skin covered by flimsy cotton.

You feel your chest get so tight someone might as well be curling rope around it.

You feel so pathetic for crying just because you’re being asked about what makes you comfortable and what doesn’t. You’re such an advocate for your friends to go out there and demand for their needs to be met, that you can’t help but wallow in your hypocrisy when someone asks for yours.

He waits patiently for your consent, even if he's a breath away from your private parts, with his hands caressing the back of your thighs. Even if he's done this to you a thousand times already, with your squirming body giving him a show worthy of the cameras, had they been there.

He makes everything around you look so soft, even the tiles of the floor that are uncomfortably sticking to your skin feel like plush cushions.

You wonder briefly if this is how it should’ve always felt, had you allowed yourself to recognize your needs instead of seeing your body as a means to make others happy.

It comes out of your lips as a breath that’s followed by a wet sniffle, your head nodding softly, contrastingly to how tight you’re biting your own teeth.

“Yes.”

No amount of pressure on your jaw could stop the sob that escapes you afterward.

John closes his eyes and a warm shuddering sigh brushes your skin. You’re starting to realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s being affected by this sudden change in your and his intimacy.

His fingers hook at your panties and he slides them to your ankles, letting them hang down one foot. You swing it carefully and kick them off as he returns his attention to the apex of your thighs, hooking your knees on his shoulders.

He starts tenderly, pressing kisses on the soft flesh of your vulva, paying attention even to the smallest bits you weren’t even aware could feel good. He latches on your outer lips, feeling how puffy they get at the slight suction.

Your thighs are corded and stiff under his grip, arms hooked around each plush leg, and palms flat on your skin.

John’s eyes are closed, although you wish he’d look at you as he travels with his lips along your slit. A kiss on your hole without probing too much, then one along the middle of your slit, which was getting impressively wetter as time passed, and the one on your hooded clit.

It sent jolts up your spine, causing your hips to buck against his mouth. His fingers tighten around your thighs in response, as if he’s trying to rein it in for you.

You appreciate it more than he thinks. You don’t think you’ve ever been placed on top of the queue so blatantly in your entire life.

The tip of his tongue darts out, but it’s obscured from your eyes by the regrowing hair on your mound and from his thick mustache. So, it takes you by surprise when he all but licks a thin stripe over the protruding part of your clit.

You hiss, and your head goes dizzy. You feel tiny pinpricks tingling in your brain, making you lightheaded and more than a little breathless.

During the whole relationship, you’ve been so focused on appearing like a full meal to his eyes, that you forgot how good it felt to be that meal on his tongue.

He laps at you again, eyes now wide open to gauge more of whatever you were giving him. You feel them as bright spotlights aimed at your face, but you can’t find it in yourself to display the act you’ve always given him.

You're already too different from the woman he's so used to seeing. You wonder if he likes you anyway; or if he likes you less, or more. When your eyes lock with his own, a dark flash tells you to go back to your ways. To flutter your lashes and pout your lips in small pleas, whimpering moans that always make his eyes roll to the back of his head.

And just as you’re about to give in to those old habits, John flattens his tongue against your cunt and licks all the thoughts out of your head. You tilt it back in a groan that has never, not once, left your lips in his presence.

He seems more than excited to hear it and starts eating you out like you’re his first meal in a century. This time, there is no plasticity in the ways you move. You’re not squirming away and acting coy about it, meeting his eyes to make sure he realizes that you're his pretty doll.

This time there’s you and the pleasure he gives you. There’s a hand in his hair that shyly tries to keep him still, as he puckers his lips around your nub and sucks it in his mouth. There’s the subtle canting of your hips to press your cunt closer to him, and the way he makes sure you don’t pull away from his tongue with his thick arms coiled around your thighs.

It’s so strange to allow yourself to feel so much. All this time you’ve been oblivious to all this as it happened in your same body because you were too busy focusing on how you appeared to his eyes. Even as he tongued your hole, your head told you it still had to be about pleasing him—because nothing in this world could ever be exclusively about you.

It hits you sharply that your beliefs about yourself, instilled by the callous teachings of your family, had bled through every aspect of your life. You already knew that, of course, but you never realized they had seeped into your intimacy as well.

Yet now you have proof of it, because you're sure John has not changed his tactics, it's you who's finally allowing your body to feel all this.

He twirls his tongue around your clit and you’re seeing stars. It’s such a strong sensation that you think you might have lost a marble or two in the process. Each grunt he emits from his lips vibrates through you and elicits similar sounds from your own mouth.

You’re not even looking at him, and you don’t care. It’s too good. He feels fucking heavenly and you’ll probably end up apologizing later for not having included him more, for not having paid enough attention to him as you should’ve.

But now—fucking hell, now—there's only how his tongue toys with each and every nerve ending of your sodden cunt.

You let him manhandle you, then, like he did so many times in the past. But now he positions you in an unflattering angle you would've never allowed before. He sits up on his knees, carrying your pelvis with him, close to his face.

To help yourself up, you place your hands on your haunches, propping your elbows on the floor. The tiles press harshly against the bone, much like they did on your knees when you’d knocked them down to suck him off not even twenty minutes prior, but now that pain feels so fickle compared to the pleasure he’s giving you.

He locks his arms around your lower belly, soft thighs pressed to his ears, and he dives in again.

Like this, you’re sure he can see every stupid, unflattering thing about you. But there’s the catch—it’s stupid. You’re sure you’re going to rethink all this eventually, but now everything that isn’t John and his lips on you is so unbelievably, fucking stupid.

“Taste like honey, y’ do.” You think you hear him say, as he nuzzles your cunt for all it’s worth.

He delves his tongue into your hole, plunging as deep as he can until he’s nosing your clit too. Facial hair scrapes the inside of your thigh raw, but that only enhances the opposite bliss happening thanks to his mouth.

You whimper, but not for show; it feels criminally good, and John knows it's real because your thighs shake so fiercely his vision goes wobbly too.

He chuckles, but it’s not derisive. His eyes are incensed, the light blue barely a rim around enlarged pupils. He looks in utter awe as he takes you in; face flushed, hair still wet from the rain and now from the sweat too. With an expression he's never once seen before, not on you. The sheer discomfort of the position but also the complete bliss that makes you forget you could have this on a more comfortable bed.

“Look at you—fucking beautiful." He murmurs with his lips to your cunt. "Criminal to hide this from me, love."

Your lips part into an oval, and your eyelids tremble, fighting the need to close your eyes and just feel. But he looks so unbelievably stunning you refuse, categorically, to take your eyes off of him.

And he apparently thinks the same, because his gaze never falters, not even when you tighten the grip your thighs have around his head. Nor does his tongue, as he plunges it again in your cunt, nose nudging your clit just right.

He might be fucking you with his mouth, but he sure is doing it with his eyes too.

And you’ve never felt so seen in your entire life. You’ve never felt so beautiful, so worthy, as right now. You wonder if he’s always been looking at you this way, but you were too lost in your own ways to notice.

You feel tears trickle down your temples again, mingling with your hair.

Jaw clenched tight, you breathe it out with all the strength you’ve got left in you.

“I love you.”

And John breaks into something different. You must have given him some final blow because his eyes shut closed and his brows knit together. An expression you've never seen, equally as pained as delighted.

He doesn’t answer, using his tongue for other purposes, keeping the stimulation both inside and out of you. Strong arms hold you still to his face, squeezing painfully tight around your hips. Thick palms flat against your lower belly, with his thumb tugging at your mons to unhood your puffy clit.

He goes on until you can’t hold yourself up anymore, arms giving out from under you. But he catches you anyway, hooking your legs better above his shoulders. The fact that your thighs are pressing against his ears gives you some sort of relief, knowing his hearing might have been muffled by your flesh.

So, you let go.

You moan loudly, fuck the neighbors, and whatever the world has to say. Fuck your head for sabotaging you, and taking you away from him.

You feel it build up slowly but suddenly; one moment it’s just fully encompassing pleasure, the next there’s a vine that stems from your ravaged cunt and curls around your belly, up to your neck.

Your throat blocks off, breathing shallow and sharp.

And then everything snaps.

John fights against the bucking of your hips just so he can keep his mouth on you and fuck you through it.

Your groan is so guttural you don't even think that was your voice. You don't even think, period. Your mind blacks out. A scorching heat develops from your sternum and coils around your chest like ivy in bloom.

You’ve had orgasms before thanks to his mouth, or his fingers, or his cock.

This, however, it’s so different you might consider yourself reborn.

It’s liberating. It’s new. It’s free and only, completely yours.

You don't even notice, as his tongue slows down, that your eyes are staring at nothing on the ceiling. That they fill with tears. And that you're crying.

You notice nothing, but just how good your body trembles, from the tips of your toes to the conscience in your head.

You don’t notice the sobs that leave your lips, as John gingerly places your body back down. Nor the way your chest heaves as if you’ve just learned how to use your lungs, while he hooks his arms behind your shoulders, and lifts you up to sit butt naked on the floor.

He holds you to his chest and you painfully sob against it. Not a thought about whether this is the right time to cry crosses your mind.

He cradles your cheek to his heart, while wet lips press against the crown of your head.

“Let go,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “’M here, love. Let go.”

You cry so hard you think you might crack like porcelain on that floor. Your heaving sobs echo against the walls of the kitchen like the cries of a newborn child.

And John has no intention of letting you go through it alone. He is there with his hands, with his lips, with the strong, steady heartbeat against your ear until your wailing abates. Only then does he cup your cheek to lift your face.

You weep under your breath when you notice the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the clumped lashes. The dampness on his cheeks and the redness of the skin.

He smooths your hair back. Kisses your forehead with such intensity that he just might suck away the self-hatred your family has seeded in your brain with his lips.

He looks at you, then. Lips pursed in a tight line.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now, love.”

It’s inevitable the way your lips stretch in a smile that quivers and shakes in a breathless, wet chuckle.

You dig the heels of your hands in your eyes, sniffling painfully hard to get some air in your lungs. Your mouth is pasty and God, you must smell like proper shite.

But John leans down anyway and kisses your lips, uncaring of the salt of your tears, the snot, and the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

And you kiss him back, this time threading your fingers through his hair, arms looped around his neck in an embrace you never want to break.

Noses flush against each other’s cheeks, lips parting only for you to take breaths because your nostrils are currently too stuffy for you to use them properly.

You sniffle and kiss and tug at his hair and hold him until you're both sated, but never enough. It won’t ever be enough.

A few beats of silence reign the kitchen as you sit on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms. The water in the pot must’ve boiled away, forgotten on the fire that still buzzes silently. John’s chest is your tiny alcove as you rest your head against it, and he holds you until your heart’s content.

Everything you’ve ever learned shakes before your eyes. Every thread that knitted the pattern carefully woven around you is slowly unraveling. The fabric wears down the more he shows you love without asking for anything in return.

He's making you regrow your limbs, returning the eyes they stole, allowing you to see that at the finish line, there's nothing but lies.

Nothing but missed calls, skipped appointments, and neglect. Honeyed words, saccharine pet names to render you soft as dough, willing to offer yourself to their exploitation. Sucking on every last drop of your sap, until only a hollow marionette is left.

John hasn't refilled you with energy; he made you realize you were never empty to begin with. Helped you see that they never smothered your fire to ashes, but only dimmed it to a flame, one you can rekindle easily.

One he cannot wait, for the life of him, to see ablaze again.

He’ll fight with you, give you the wood you need to keep yourself warm and your heart safe. Cut your strings once and for all, until you can get back on your feet again.

He thrives at the idea of seeing you glow like you did moments before, in your most raw and real form; a woman he's yet to meet.

However, being human, he does feel a temporary disappointment at the thought that you had put up such a blatant front for so long. Anger that he’d never noticed, thinking you were just this pliant little thing.

But he should've never thought of you as a thing. Never should've seen you as this obliging, pretty doll hanging from his lips. He should've dug deeper, like he always does even on the field, instead of falling for lies.

He’s often asked himself how you’ve never seemed to need anything, often pegging the behavior to self-sufficiency. You always took care of everything by yourself and promptly refused any aid when he tried to give it to you.

His mind reels with memories of the times he’s offered a helping hand, and you’ve politely declined it. It shatters him to think that you did it because you were afraid you had to give something back and maybe were too tired to offer anything.

It’s then that his mind deep dives into a place that sickens him.

How many times did you have sex with him and see it as a bargaining chip? Or as a way to repay him for something he’s done for you just because he loves you?

He shuts his eyes briefly, forcing the bile down his throat and deciding to dwell on the subject later. This moment comes first. You come first. So, he takes you in, blinking his eyes open once more.

He blindly reaches back to turn off the stove, before returning his arms around you. He brushes his lips to your temple, and your muscles soften under the way his breath tickles your skin.

You tilt your head back to lock your eyes with his own, gauging the earnestness swimming in his blues.

“I love you,” he breathes for the umpteenth time, that day.

No ventriloquist forces you to say it back. No strings move your arms to loop around his neck, as you lift yourself on your knees to be level with his eyes.

It's you, who rests your forehead on his own, brushing your nose to his in a butterfly kiss.

You feel like flesh and bone, more than polished wood tied to nylon strings. No voice box if not your vocal cords vibrating when you decide it, asking and giving all the same.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

There is no hunger for love, no finish line to reach. It’s not a race, not today.

And with John, you don’t think it’ll ever be again.

471 notes · View notes

osamucide · 1 month ago

Text

BITCHBOY ⊹

ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~6.8k

cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day

reid: he’s all i think about.

tags: @kalsplace

You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.

Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?

“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”

You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.

You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”

Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”

You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”

It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.

Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.

He certainly keeps you on your toes.

That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.

Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.

“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.

Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”

“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”

“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”

“Yes, yes, just get out.”

He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.

You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.

You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.

“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.

He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.

You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.

Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.

You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.

So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.

Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.

But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.

“You always do that, you know?” he asks.

“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.

He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.

“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.

He would never stop there.

“Makes me think bad things.”

So you cough out your hit anyway.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”

Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.

Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.

And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.

“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.

Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.

“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.

You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.

But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.

You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.

“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”

He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.

“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”

This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?

When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.

“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”

As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.

As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.

You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.

“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”

“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."

The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.

“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.

“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.

You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.

You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”

You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.

But he stays locked onto you, quietly.

And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.

“Osamu—”

“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”

Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.

“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.

“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”

For so long? you think. How long?

“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.

“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.

Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.

The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—

You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.

You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.

“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.

So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?

Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?

With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.

Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—

Fuck, it’s electric.

“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"

“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.

“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.

“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

He doesn't interrupt you with but what?

And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.

You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”

And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.

Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.

And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.

“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.

“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”

His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”

His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.

“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”

The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.

He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?

Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.

You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.

“I don’t think this is—”

Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.

You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.

“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.

And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.

“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.

“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”

“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.

He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.

You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.

So you barrage him with more.

“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”

“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”

“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”

“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?

“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”

“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.

“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.

It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.

Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.

You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.

“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?

“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.

It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.

“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”

"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.

The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.

You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.

But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.

The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.

Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.

"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.

"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"

He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."

"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"

"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."

"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"

Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.

"Osamu, fuck!"

"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."

You know what he wants.

"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."

You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.

"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?

You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—

"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"

"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"

Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."

You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."

"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.

"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.

When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.

"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.

"I dare you," you taunt back.

And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.

#i want to first thank italics. id be nowhere without italics #dazai x reader #dazai smut #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #nnnsfw.ᐟ #mdni #with love—reid

717 notes · View notes