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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 2 years ago

Text

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship.

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive.

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function.

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but.

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead.

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright.

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane.

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease.

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525.

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it.

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god.

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything.

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive.

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago.

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear.

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with.

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee.

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh.

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together.

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody.

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane.

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out?

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves.

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago.

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart?

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch.

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all.

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face.

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain.

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked.

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated.

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway.

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now.

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office.

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly.

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not.

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated.

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home.

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park.

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials.

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze.

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off.

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation.

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects.

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab.

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes.

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark.

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant.

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting.

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair.

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly.

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid.

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.”

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?”

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years.

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew.

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment.

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one.

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him.

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek.

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed?

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before.

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever.

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily.

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes.

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time.

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you.

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment.

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him.

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all.

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white.

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly.

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him.

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back.

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him.

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts.

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were.

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch.

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions.

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed.

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body.

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously.

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling.

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth.

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand.

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it.

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands.

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,”

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly.

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass.

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling.

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before.

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt.

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins.

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him.

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open.

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth.

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds.

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in.

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out.

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.”

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach.

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him.

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him.

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm.

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you.

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments.

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you.

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come.

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs.

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior.

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair.

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it.

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid.

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you.

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch.

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily.

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #batman #sub!jonathan crane #sub!jonathan crane x reader

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nina-ya · 7 months ago

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When You Fake It (Zoro x Reader NSFW)

Law Version! A/N: happy kinktober!! this is an unofficial submission for it lol it's zoro yearning hours out here!!! Pairing: Zoro x AFAB reader CW: smut MINORS DNI, P in V sex, missionary, riding, unprotected sex (Wrap it up), creampie uhhhh I'm bad at warnings if I missed anything lmk • masterlist • ko-fi • discord server •

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Zoro looms above you, his thick, hard cock sliding in and out of your drenched pussy. Your body jolts with each thrust, the bed creaking with the force. His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he drives into you, the sounds of flesh against flesh filling the air along with your shared ragged breaths.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, voice strained. You nod in response, biting your lips as your body rocks beneath his large frame. The stretch of him inside you never seems to get less intense, the sensation of his cock dragging against your walls sharp and deep… but its not hitting the way you need it to. You try to focus and fall into the rhythm of his movements, but the pleasure just isn’t building the way it usually does.

His hips snap forward, faster now, and you force a moan, making it loud and particularly breathy, hoping that it’ll trick your mind into pulling you closer to the edge. Instead, it just feels distant. Detached.

“You close?” Zoro pants, his gaze dropping to where his cock disappears into you, watching the way your greedy hole sucks him in with each thrust. His fingers dig harder into your skin, the force enough to leave marks where the fingertips lay.

You nod again, squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn’t bear to tell him that you were far from it. Couldn’t admit that something was missing, not when he’s like this- not when he’s giving you his all. So instead, you arch your own back, hands sliding down to grip the bedsheets below you, and you make yourself moan again. This time louder, higher pitched, doing anything in your power to make him believe your actions.

“Zoro,” you gasp, breath hitching. He grunts in response, his pace becoming erratic as he pushes into you deeper, harder. The thick heat of him fills you completely, but the pleasure you oh so desperately crave still doesn’t come.

So you just decide to rip off the bandaid and fake it. You tense your body, trying to move in the way that you have done dozens of times before in this exact same scenario. You close your eyes, arch your back off the bed and let out a choked, broken cry, jerking your hips up as you do everything you can to put on the most convincing act possible. You clench around him, squeezing tight as you whimper out his name, and just internally pray that he buys it.

You almost sigh in relief as he slows down, and for just a second, you think you’ve gotten away with it, your body slowly relaxing against the sheets. But then, you open your eyes to meet his and the heat in his gaze makes your stomach churn. Zoro is watching you closely, and that look in his eyes tells you that he is not entirely convinced by your performance.

“Did you fake it?” it was a straightforward question– one that had an almost challenging undertone to it right alongside the obvious suspicion.

Your heart stutters in your chest as you realize your lies are crumbling apart by the second. “I-” you start, stumbling over your words, “I didn’t-” but the lie doesn’t come easily. You know he can see right through you, see how you are just putting on some poor excuse of an act.

Zoro raises an eyebrow, expression unreadable, and suddenly the weight of his body on top of you feels much much heavier with the occasional pulse of his cock deep inside of you not letting you forget just how full he has you.

You swallow hard and your hands reach up and slide over his broad shoulders. You can’t hide from him, not when he’s looking at you like this- like he knows exactly what happened. “I’m sorry,” you mumble in defeat. “I just wasn’t feeling it.”

He’s silent for a moment, but then Zoro dips his head down, lips brushing against your neck as he kisses a trail of warmth along the column of your neck. “Why didn’t you ay something?” his voice is softer now, the rasp of his breath hot against your skin. “What’s wrong, huh? Tell me what you need.”

You can feel the sincerity in his question, his concern, but your words seem to be trapped in your throat. You’re not quite sure whato say, not even sure what is it that you need. Instead of verbalizing your response, your hands slide down to his chest, pushing gently. Zoro watches you for a beat, expression shifting to realization as he leans back allowing you to guide him. You press harder, silently asking for control, and he complies as he shifts under your touch as you push him onto his back.

He lets out a low hum of approval, hands resting on your hips as you straddle him, his cock still nestled deep inside of you. “Take what you want, then,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety. “Make yourself feel good. I’ve got you.”

You settle on top of him, your thighs trembling as you take a moment to adjust to the different angle that allowed him to feel much deeper inside. It’s a moment of control, and it feels better- feels right. And Zoro just watches you, hands on your hips as he supports you.

You bite your lip, testing the waters with a slow roll of your hips, feeling every inch of him drag against your gummy walls. The pressure, the stretch- its intense, but its now all on your own terms, building into something that sends shivers down your spine. You hear the green haired man groan below you, and watch as his fingers twitch against your waist as if he’s barely holding back.

Each roll of your hips against him seems to spark a flame within you and you move with more confidence, finding that pace that makes heat pool in your belly, the pleasure nothing short of real this time. Your movements grow bolder, each motion of your hip more purposeful, grinding down until you feel that electric friction right where you need it most. Zoro’s cock twitches inside of you with every roll of your body and you cant stop the tilt of your head back as gasps of pleasure fill the air.

Your nails dig into his chest, leaving small crescent marks in his skin as you ride him with abandon now, the pressure between your legs building and building until you are trembling on the edge. There’s no room for pretending anymore– this is real, the heat between your thighs scorching, the sensation of being so full, so utterly taken over by the moment.

“Fuck… Zoro…” you moan, the words slipping out before you can stop them. It’s as if your senses are heightened and every touch, smell, sound, and taste are all on a different level.

“Good,” he grunts out, hips twitching upward, meeting you halfway as you sink down onto him again. “Thats, it. Don’t stop.”

But how could you? Your body feels like it’s on fire, your clit throbbing in time with your rapidly beating heart as the waves of pleasure grow closer and closer to their peak, threatening to drown you in sheer bliss.

The sensations intensify and soon you feel that familiar pressure coiling tighter and tighter within you. You lean forward, panting and breathlessly saying his name over and over again like a mantra and he responds by thrusting upwards, the bulbous head of his cock bullying that one spot inside you that has you reeling with pleasuere.

Your body oh so craves release as you feel yourself teetering on the brink, and thats when he speaks up. He urges you, his voice low and deep, “I can.. ah fuck-... I can feel how close you are. Just let go for me.”

And thats when that coil just snaps.

The tension that had built so intensely within you shatters like glass, sending shards of pleasure exploding throughout your veins. You cry out, a broken sound escaping your lips as your body convulses in pure ecstasy. Your hands tremble against his chest in your futile attempt to keep yourself grounded while the focus around you shrinks until all that’s left is the pleasure coursing through you. Your walls clench around him, spasaming with each wave of your orgasm in a cycle of overwhelming bliss that seems to stretch on forever.

Zoro’s breath hitches, and you can sense the way he’s watching you– that gaze flickering between your face and that spot where you two connect as he drinks in every detail of your release. “That’s it. Just like that,” he grunts as he grips your hips, guiding you as you ride the waves of your climax.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even after you left that ring of your milky white essence coating the base of his cock. He continues to thrust into you, chasing his own high. It’s a delicious feeling that nearly sends you spiraling again, the sensitivity from your orgasm leaving your mind in a total state of disarray.

“Zoro, a-ah! t- too much-” you gasp out, your words swallowed and replaced by broken whimpers and shaky gasps as his thrusts grow more urgent.

You could see the way his eyes are clamped shut, eyebrows scrunched in focus, jaw slack as hot puffs of breath release with the occasional grunt. All tell tale signs that he was close as well. He mutters out something confirming your thoughts, but you can only focus on the way his pelvis slams up into your clit over and over again, sending you jolting and whining out with the overwhelming sensations.

And with one final thrust, he gasps as his hips stutter into you before he stills completely, emptying his balls into your throbbing cunt. You could feel the way his cock twitches with each spurt of his seed, mixing with the remnants of your own release.

You sigh out as you collapse onto him, the sweat of your bodies mixing as you both pant. Neither of you move, not daring to interrupt the blissful silence as the world comes back into focus. When he pulls out, you whimper at the sudden emptiness, feeling your combined slick pools between your legs. As you shift and settle onto his side, you press lazy kisses against any exposed skin you can readily reach and Zoro responds in kind, pressing kisses to your forehead as his fingers trace your body in lazy patterns. Something about this moment fills you both with the desire to recreate it over and over again. But that’s for another time. For now, you two simply will soak in the afterglow of your feelings for each other, and thats more than enough.

#nina writes~✦#roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #one piece x reader #x reader

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ch33z3grits · 2 months ago

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Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut (bondage, p in v, dacryphilia if you squint, DDLG, edging, breath play, female masturbation), graphic violence (description of murder), domestic violence (verbal abuse, physical abuse), possessiveness/obsessiveness, mentions of blood, HEAVY angst

word count: 10,723

a/n: hi!! so sorry for the late submission this week, I should be back on track to post on Fridays going forward. TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter will have scenes of graphic violence and domestic violence. I will put asterisks (*) at the beginning and end of scenes that some may find disturbing. Summaries of those scenes will be available at the end of the chapter for those who choose to skip.

a/n pt. 2: idk, I'm over writing summaries at the beginning of the chapters. but if y'all prefer them, please let me know! Enjoy :)

Camille's song: Baby Boy-Beyonce ft. Sean Paul | Terry's song: House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls-The Weeknd

Pt. Six

Camille

Camille’s breath hitched as she stood frozen in the doorway. She had walked into her office and found herself utterly speechless. Even though he was out of the office today, Terry had called her moments ago.

“I know it's not one of our rotation days,” Terry had said, a playful note in his tone, “but I want you to stop by your office when you get the chance today.”

Confused, she had furrowed her brow. “Is there something you need me to do?” she had asked, curiosity tinged with a hint of concern.

Terry had laughed softly on the other end, the sound making her lean into the phone even more with a soft smile. “No ma’am, just a little surprise I want you to see.”

He hadn’t given her the chance to question him further, quickly ending the call and leaving her with nothing but anticipation that pulled her toward her office.

And now, she stood there, admiring the unexpected surprise. Her private space had been transformed.

Baby blue and gold balloons floated lazily in the air, some of them bouncing gently against the walls while others hung from the ceiling like clouds. Streamers in similar shades cascaded from every corner. On her desk were four cupcakes, each one delicately frosted, their sugary beauty making them almost too perfect to touch. Next to them, a vibrant bouquet of lilies stood proudly, further adding to the thoughtfulness behind it all.

But what really stopped her was the gold banner draped behind her desk, its letters spelling out Happy Birthday in elegant, bold font. It wasn’t just the decorations or the carefully placed gifts that left her breathless, it was the fact that she felt so seen. It was the thought of someone so special to her, going out of their way to make her feel appreciated.

That morning had begun with an unwelcome jolt from sleep, courtesy of a relentlessly eager Aston. His excitement was palpable, as though he couldn’t wait to see the look on her face, and he made sure he was there to witness it firsthand. Gifts were carefully arranged at the foot of their bed. A dozen shopping bags, each one bearing the logos of high-end brands, lined up like trophies.

She had sat up, trying to mask her grogginess, her eyes scanning the luxury items. Aston had a certain smug satisfaction in his demeanor, as if he expected her to be overwhelmed with gratitude at the sight of the designer items he had chosen for her. Each bags’ contents were extravagant. A sleek black Chanel bag. A pair of pristine white Louboutin heels. Three carefully selected Ralph Lauren dresses. A collection of luxury perfumes and elegant sunglasses followed, each one a symbol of exclusivity. And a delicate lingerie set from a French brand she’d never heard of. It was exquisite, but in a way that felt more about display than desire.

All of it was beautiful. But as Camille lifted each item from its bag, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Each piece was a status symbol. Something to show the world that she was with a man who could lavish her with items meant to impress others. None of them reflected her own tastes. Aston looked down on her love for brands like Le Labo, Aesop, or Anthropologie, so they were never included in his gift-giving. The gifts he showered her with always had his preferences written all over them, as if to remind her, and everyone else, that she existed to be a trophy. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful or bratty. He had worked hard to buy her these things. But the nagging disappointment lingered. She just wished, for once, that he would see the real her when he picked out something for her.

Despite the early rise and the hollow feeling the gifts left behind, Camille’s day brightened from the messages that came through later in the morning. Sweet voice notes from her siblings and heartfelt texts from her mother warmed her heart. Their words were a comfort, a reminder that she was loved. She smiled as she read each message. The thought of the distance between them did feel bittersweet, however.

And although Kali promised to treat her to dinner, she couldn’t make time for that evening due to her late night shift at the NICU. And Aston, absorbed in a pro bono case that had consumed much of his time lately, would be working late as well. Thursday nights had ran over later than usual, and though he insisted it was important, Camille couldn’t help but feel like there was more behind it. But she refused to dwell on it too long. Instead, she accepted the loneliness she believed she would feel for the rest of her 30th birthday. But as she walked through her office at that moment, she felt comforted by the presence of someone who she loved.

Ever since her fainting spell a few weeks ago, something inside Camille had shifted, and she allowed herself to face the truth. The feelings she tried to ignore, the emotions she brushed aside, had risen to the surface. She was in love with Terry.

There was an almost magnetic pull toward him, one that she couldn’t seem to escape. Every time he entered a room, her eyes followed him. When he spoke, his words seemed to drown out everything else and held her attention like no one else’s. And when his penetrating gaze met hers, her heart would stumble, then race, and then stumble again.

She had no intentions of pursuing these feelings. She knew better. On her end, there was too much at stake, too many layers of complication already woven into her life. Her loyalty to Aston and her commitment to her relationship was unshakeable. On Terry’s end, she understood he could have anyone he wanted. While her boss was sweet and humble beyond words, she could see that he was extremely influential in Houston, maybe in the country.

His accolades and clients demonstrated that the world was practically at his feet. Someone like that wouldn’t settle for her. He probably had dozens of high value women throwing themselves at him. She didn’t stand a chance. So, Camille had come to terms with the fact that her heart belonged to someone she could never have, and she accepted that with a strange mixture of pain and peace.

But there was something freeing about being honest with herself. A clarity that allowed her to focus on her professionalism with even more intention. She could acknowledge her feelings without acting on them, without letting them cloud her judgment. And for the first time, she understood how much she had been missing: the raw, aching beauty of love, the kind that made her feel giddy and alive in ways she hadn’t felt in years. In a way, her love for Terry had become a quiet treat, a secret pleasure that she could hold onto, one that gave her the space to feel without any expectations of reciprocity.

It also gave her the opportunity to savor the moment before her life became completely consumed by being Mrs. Aston McCoy. She couldn’t ignore the growing distance between her and Aston, a gap that seemed to widen with each passing year. The passion they once had was a distant memory, and Camille knew they would never find their way back to it. Because of that, she didn’t judge herself for the love she carried for Terry. And she could bear it because, deep down, she knew it wouldn’t last. Terry would be out of her life in less than a year, and after that, she would return to her world with Aston, for better or worse.

For now, though, she allowed herself this one thing, this secret love. It was a fleeting moment, a brief chapter in the book of her life, but it was enough to make her feel something real again. And that was something she would cherish.

She began to approach her desk, her fingers reaching for the gold envelope wedged between the cupcakes and flowers, her name scribbled across. But just as she picked it up, the clack of heels approaching caught her attention.

“Wow,” a snarky voice rang out from behind her. Camille immediately closed her eyes, recognizing the voice with a sinking feeling in her chest. She let out a quiet sigh before turning on her heel, forcing herself to face Stephanie. The other woman leaned against the doorway of her office, her gaze sweeping over the room with open disdain. “How sweet of Terry to celebrate you so… impressively. Even in his absence.”

Camille’s jaw tightened, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to respond. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, but she kept them still, willing herself not to react.

Stephanie’s eyes finally settled on her, a knowing gleam in them as she crossed her arms. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought he was your fiancé, not Aston.”

A sudden wave of dread washed over Camille.

“Excuse me,” Camille managed to say, her voice tight, anxiety curling in her chest. Stephanie simply narrowed her eyes and crossed the room, closing the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps.

“I don’t know what kind of hold you have over him,” Stephanie said, her voice lowering, dripping with malice, “but you should probably stop being so friendly with Terry. You wouldn’t want your colleagues to start assuming you’re... fraternizing.”

Camille swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry and her pulse pounding in her ears. She held Stephanie’s gaze, forcing herself to stay calm. “And why would my colleagues ever come to that conclusion?”

Stephanie's lips curled into a wicked smile. “Who knows? Someone might start spreading rumors,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet. “Suggestions about exchanged looks, late nights in the office, or other behaviors that border inappropriate. And then that someone would let other people’s imaginations wander.”

Stephanie’s smile never wavered as she stepped even closer. “You wouldn’t want that, would you? I mean, Terry’s reputation would go unscathed, sure. But you? You would lose your job. Maybe even Aston too.”

Camille stiffened in response. Her mind raced, desperate to find a counter-threat that would shake Stephanie’s confidence, but nothing came to her. She forced a calmness into her voice, her gaze unwavering. “And what would I have to do to keep that someone satisfied?”

Stephanie’s smile stretched, turning into a triumphant smirk. “Simple,” Stephanie purred, leaning in just slightly. “Just keep Terry at arm's length. Make him feel that whatever this little budding friendship you two have is nothing to you. His investment in you takes away his attention from much more important people in his life.”

Camille snorted, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She can’t be serious right now, Camille thought, the disbelief simmering just beneath the surface.

“And who would those people be?” she asked coolly, her voice smooth, despite her inner turmoil.

Stephanie blinked at her. Then, in an almost mocking tone, she replied, “His girlfriend, silly. Who else would that someone be?”

Camille’s heart skipped a beat, her blood running cold. Stephanie was Terry’s girlfriend? Aston had been right all along? Stephanie’s smile widened, a cruel glint in her eyes. Without another word, she turned on her heel to leave, but then paused, glancing back over her shoulder with a look that sent a shiver down Camille’s spine.

“Remember,” she said, the sweet professionalism dropping away, replaced with something far more venomous, “someone is always watching.”

Then, with a smirk, she reached out, her sharp nail slicing through the air to puncture the nearest balloon. The sudden pop made Camille jump, the silence following suffocating.

As Stephanie walked out of the door, Camille stayed in place, her mind reeling from the encounter. She had to find a way to protect herself from Stephanie’s threats, because she knew that no matter how hard she tried, Stephanie would never be satisfied.

So for the rest of the work day, she hid in Aston’s office, wondering how to keep her job and engagement safe from Stephanie’s claws.

Aston's Song: Money Trees-Kendrick Lamar

Aston

Aston sat at the lavish poker table in the center of Terry’s grand penthouse apartment, excitement and envy swelling in his chest. For the past three Thursdays, he'd been making his way to Terry Richmond’s apartment, hoping to try his luck at poker. And his attempts have been nothing but fruitful so far. Each time, he walked away with more money than he made in a year. Bigger winnings than he thought possible, big enough to keep him coming back for more. And God knows he needed to keep coming back.

Aston McCoy, one of the heirs to the McCoy oil fortune, was living on the edge of financial irrelevance. He wasn’t poor like the average middle-class American. But among the elite circles he moved in, he was a charity case. And it was all because his father, the great Texas oil giant, couldn’t let go of his conservative values for one minute. Or his need to expand his wealth through marital agreements.

To access the full $10 million of his inheritance, Aston had a contractual agreement with his father. He had to marry the daughter of whichever business partner he deemed to be the most advantageous. For the first 19 years of Aston’s life, he moved through life unconcerned with an arranged marriage. He was wild, spent money without a care in the world, and felt that his status was secured. But that all changed when his father struck a deal with Colin DeWaterson Sr. The tacky businessman turned refinery owner was desperate to attach himself to an established oil family. So desperate, he had practically sold his soul, and his daughter’s soul, to guarantee such a union.

He had fallen deep into debt with the McCoy family. And the only thing that would satisfy that debt was a marriage that joined the families together. So, at the tender ages of 19 and 17, Aston and Camille were groomed to become husband and wife.

Aston didn't have any particular objections to Camille. She was attractive, intelligent, well-mannered, and came from a respectable family. Everything on paper suggested they’d be a good match. But she failed to elicit any real love from him. He was still young, wealthy, and determined to enjoy life on his own terms. Throughout the early months of their relationship, Aston continued to sleep with other women, assuming that Camille, being just as aware of the nature of their arrangement, would do the same.

However, about eight or nine months into their relationship, Camille discovered his infidelity. The blow was devastating for her, and Aston finally realized that, unlike him, she had been taking their engagement seriously all along. What followed was even more disastrous for Aston: Camille ended their relationship. His father, furious that Aston had jeopardized such a valuable business deal, reacted swiftly and harshly, cutting him off financially.

Gone were the carefree weekends spent partying with his frat brothers. He was evicted from his lavish off-campus housing and his prized sports car was repossessed. Aston was left to scrape by on his own, but he wasn’t ready to give up the lifestyle to which he’d grown accustomed. For months, he begged Camille to take him back, apologizing profusely, but she remained firm, refusing to forgive him.

It wasn’t until three months later, after his father had personally intervened and approached DeWaterson again to smooth things over, that Camille reluctantly agreed to reconcile with him. However, the terms had changed. Aston no longer had the limitless financial freedom he once enjoyed. His father, ashamed of his reckless behavior, set stricter boundaries on his access to his inheritance, and Aston found himself learning the hard way that his wealth was no longer a guarantee, but a privilege to be earned.

The McCoy estate was worth over $90 million, but Aston was left with a measly $300,000 in liquid cash. An amount that would seem like a fortune to most, but was barely enough to keep him afloat in the high-stakes world he dabbled in. To his peers, the money he had was insignificant. It wasn’t nearly enough to maintain the lavish lifestyle he needed to keep up appearances, to keep his friends interested in him. It wasn’t enough to avoid being seen as a loser.

And that was why the poker games, with their promise of quick cash, felt like a godsend. And he didn’t care if he had to swindle some random black guys out of their money. It probably came from selling drugs or fighting pitbulls anyway. It didn’t matter. The kind of money they had, Aston thought, deserved to be in the hands of someone more respectable. Someone who knew how to actually benefit society.

But even as Aston looked forward to those Thursday nights, the thrill of the game, the rush of winning, there was always a bitterness that lingered. A sharp sting in his chest that he couldn’t ignore.

Terry’s lifestyle reminded him of everything he didn’t have. Everything that was always just out of reach.

Terry lived in one of the most expensive and exclusive complexes in the city. The kind of place most people could only dream of. A sleek, modern building with underground parking, a 24-hour doorman, and a concierge who could cater to every whim. But it was Terry’s penthouse that really struck a chord with Aston. Aston could still picture the first time he stepped inside. The crisp, woody scent, the marble floors, the gleaming surfaces. A housekeeper had greeted him at the door, offering a glass of whiskey with a polite smile, taking his coat with practiced hands.

Aston had stepped further inside, the grandeur nearly knocking him off his feet. His eyes had been wide with awe as he took in the soaring ceilings, at least twenty feet high, the opulent space stretching out in all directions. Massive windows stretched the length of the walls, allowing the city’s skyline to pour into the room, like an endless sea of lights and steel. Every corner of the penthouse screamed wealth, sophistication, and power. It was the kind of place people worked their entire lives to get, and still, most would never achieve.

For a brief moment, standing there in that extravagant space, Aston had felt like an outsider. The kind of outsider who might never be able to belong in that world again. And that alienation made Aston’s blood boil, on top of other things.

Terry was a constant annoyance, one that he couldn’t escape, even when he wasn’t around. It wasn’t just the work he did or the cases he handled so flawlessly, it was the way everyone around him adored him. His fellow associates couldn’t praise him enough. Conversations about Terry seemed to seep into every corner of the office. In the break room, in the firm’s kitchen, even in the elevator, it was the same. His colleagues gushed about how incredible Terry was, how lucky the firm was to have him. Everywhere Aston turned, someone had their head up Terry’s ass. And Aston couldn’t shake the feeling that Camille was softening toward him, too.

Aston could sense it, the subtle shift in her demeanor when Terry was around. She was never the same since she found out about his infidelity, Aston knew that. He knew that she would never trust him like she once did, and she definitely wouldn’t love him again. He had come to terms with that, especially since he didn’t love her either. But seeing her respond to Terry with such warmth, with such a quiet affection... it made him jealous. It bruised his pride in ways he hadn’t expected. His ego, already a fragile thing, felt the sting of it every time she looked at Terry like that, her attention completely consumed by him.

But the real sting, the one that gnawed at Aston every day, was seeing how Stephanie fawned over Terry. Stephanie was the most beautiful woman Aston had ever laid eyes on. Her thick, crimson-red hair framed her face like a fiery halo, and her emerald-green eyes held a depth that always seemed to pull him in. Her skin was always kissed by the sun, like she spent every day at the beach. She wasn’t just attractive, she was gorgeous. And she knew it.

Every step she took exuded confidence, and it was as if she knew every pair of eyes in the room was following her. Even though she was just a secretary at Watkins and Grant, she commanded the room in a way that few others could. All the men, including Aston, were tripping over themselves to earn just a moment of her attention. But she didn’t care. She played with them like toys, tossing them aside when they didn’t meet her expectations, moving on to the next.

Aston had spent months trying to win her attention, just to end up frustrated and empty-handed. He tried to be what she wanted, but it was never enough. She had seemed intrigued at first, but when he failed to meet her material demands, her interest quickly disappeared. She moved on as if he were nothing more than another passing distraction. At the time, he’d been disappointed, but now, in retrospect, he couldn’t help but think that maybe it was for the best. Camille might have noticed if things had gone further.

But what truly hurt was watching Stephanie latch onto Terry like a moth to a flame. The way she practically devoured him with her eyes every time he walked into the room, the way she was always the first to offer help, to show interest. And Terry? He didn’t even seem to notice. He was indifferent to her, completely unaware of the power he held over her. It was the ultimate insult, and Aston could do nothing but watch as Stephanie melted under Terry's indifference, while he couldn’t even keep her attention without buying her expensive bags and shoes.

So, Austin approached the poker table with one goal: to take everything he could from Terry and his friends. Make them feel as small as he felt.

He glanced around the table, smirking to himself as he took note of the faces he’d become familiar with the past few games. There was Terry of course, glancing at his cards without a care in the world, as if he hadn’t lost over $200,000 in the last two games. Then there was his doctor friend, Elijah, who was always light and jovial despite also losing a substantial amount of money. The other four looked much more stressed, which made sense. They didn’t have affluent jobs like the others. Jabari and Tariq said they were club bouncers, Devon was a firefighter, and Ray worked at an Amazon warehouse. But, to have the funds to participate in the games, Aston was sure that they were involved in something illegal.

But Aston couldn’t care about that right now. He was winning, he could feel it. The night’s been his, every hand, every bluff, every raise. He’d been untouchable. One more hand, one more victory, and he would walk away with enough money to scale back on his cases at the firm. So he bet everything on this last hand. Everything in his bank account and the $820,000 he got from the past two Thursdays and the previous hands. Once he won, he would be able to go home and do something nice for Camille. It was her birthday after all.

He stared at the cards, the flush staring back at him with promise. Everyone else was nervous and sweating or completely indifferent, but he could see it in their eyes. They knew it was over. And Aston felt invincible.

The cards turned. Aston didn’t even bother to look, immediately dragging all of the chips on the table toward him. Until Terry cleared his throat. Aston’s head snapped towards him, confused. Terry just gave him a light smile, nodding to his cards. Aston followed his glance. His heart dropped to his ass as he looked at the cards. A royal flush.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

No, this couldn’t be happening!

Aston’s gaze snapped back to Terry, his mind racing in disbelief. His chest tightened as he tried to process what had just happened. Terry’s face was unreadable, but the grins that spread across the other players’ faces couldn’t have been more telling. It was as if they had all conspired in some quiet, shared joke that he was the last one to catch onto.

Aston’s lips twitched into a chuckle, but it came out more nervous than amused. He scanned the table, taking in the wide smiles and knowing glances. An anxious snort escaped his nose, his irritation bubbling up as he forced another laugh, trying to play it off. “Alright, guys. Nice try,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been winning every game, but now, all of a sudden, I lose when I bet everything?” He scooped up the chips as though he could brush away the growing tension.

But as his fingers closed around the chips, Jabari, who sat to his right, placed a firm hand over his. It was a subtle gesture, almost casual, but it was enough to send a jolt of annoyance through Aston. Jabari’s touch was a quiet warning, one that didn’t sit well with him.

Aston’s glare locked onto him, his brow furrowing. “Seriously, this is too much money to joke about,” he spat, his voice a mixture of frustration and confusion. “I know you cheated to get a cheap laugh, but it's not funny anymore.”

His words fell flat in the charged air. Aston leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking from face to face, searching for some sign that this was just a game, a joke he was missing. But all he saw were those same smug smiles.

“Aston,” Terry called out, bringing Aston’s attention back to him. His strangely colored eyes flickered with something Aston couldn’t comprehend. “You lost. That’s all there is to it.” Aston began to vigorously shake his head. There’s no way he lost. They had to have rigged it somehow, he thought to himself, growing more agitated by the second.

“No…there’s no way. I’ve been winning every hand since I joined. Every. Single. Fucking. One!,” Aston shot back. Terry’s eyebrow raised, but Aston continued to rant. “You sons of bitches might have done something to the deck, but I didn’t fucking lose!”

Jabari leaned a bit closer to him. “Aye man, there’s no need to get loud. Just accept the loss and move the fuck on–”

Aston jumped from his seat, unable to contain his anger any longer. “This is bullshit!” He yelled as he looked at everyone around the table. But he didn’t like the reactions he saw. No one looked the least bit surprised by his outburst. Gone was the indifference in Terry and Elijah. Gone was the nervousness in the others. Instead, they just looked at him with a strange mix of amusement and irritation.

“Aston, this little tantrum is entertaining and all. But just go ahead and accept the loss so we can all go home,” Terry said softly. The others remained eerily quiet, but Aston couldn’t give a fuck. He was not about to give everything to his name to Terry and his friends of all fucking people.

“Fuck you, Terry!” He shouted, throwing on his jacket. “I didn’t fucking lose. You all are just fucking cheaters. And I’m not going to pay any of you shit. I’m not going to be fucking hustled!” He continued to yell. Terry’s relaxed demeanor disappeared as everyone else at the table stood, chuckling as they walked away from the table. Aston watched as they stood in different corners or the exit, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. He warily looked back to Terry.

“You really think I’m gonna let you walk out of here? And you owe me over $800,000?” Terry scoffed. Aston stared at him for a moment, sweat beginning to collect by his hairline. I need to get out of here, he thought as he resumed collecting his stuff.

“If you think I’m afraid of you, think again Terry. At the end of the day, you’re probably nothing but some shady drug dealer. And I’ll gladly report this to the police,” Aston scoffed, pulling out his phone, ready to call 911. Terry’s loud laugh cut through the air, sending a chill down his spine.

Just as Aston’s fingers pressed ‘9,’ a cloth bag was thrown over his head from behind him. Blinded and disoriented, he dropped his phone as he clawed at the scratchy fabric blocking his sight. But he only struggled for a moment. A sharp, heavy blow to the back of his head sent a burst of pain through his head as he crumpled to the floor and everything went black.

Aston woke up, his head feeling as though it had been split open and his mouth tasted metallic. He blinked, wincing at the sharp pain at the back of his head, trying to process his surroundings. He realized he was in the trunk of a car, arms, hands, and legs bound and his mouth gagged. Panic consumed him as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness of the small space. He had no idea how long he had been in there and no sense of when the car would stop. He groaned, leaning his head against whatever surface he could. But he immediately regretted it after as the car rolled over something like a pothole, sending his head slamming into the rough of the trunk.

Stars moved behind his eyes, artificially lighting up the dark space. Before he could even blink them away, the car braked suddenly, making the car come to a stop. His panic spiked, waiting for any sign of movement.

The trunk of the car popped open, bringing in a rush of light. The brightness magnified the splitting pain of his head, making him whimper and shut his eyes. A pair of hands grabbed him from the trunk with unnatural ease before dropping him on the pavement below. His pained “fuck” was muffled by the rag in his mouth. He was grabbed once more, the mysterious figure carrying him effortlessly, as if he was a piece of luggage. They walked into a warehouse of some sort, which seemed to be in a deserted area.

No one would hear me scream, he thought, his heart dropping. No one would even know I’m here.

He was dropped once again, but this time, he was at the feet of a large figure. He craned his neck to get a good look at them.

It was Terry, an unamused look on his face, menacing beyond words. Aston shrank from his gaze, moving his eyes to the person who brought him inside. Jabari stood silently from a short distance, his arms crossed. The other poker players didn’t seem to be present. But as he laid at his feet, Aston understood that Terry was running the show. Jabari was just reinforcement.

His attention returned to Terry as he used his booted foot to push him onto his back. He crouched down, pulling the rag from his mouth, his expression never faltering. Aston gasped, the absence of the rage making him notice how dry his mouth was. He winced as he flexed his mouth, dried blood at the corners of his lips cracking the skin.

I need to find a way out of this, he thought, refusing to meet Terry’s eyes. I can get an emergency loan from dad, agree to pay it off within the year. Yeah, I can–

“Fucking look at me,” Terry breathed over him, his tone way too calm for his liking. Aston froze, his gaze snapping to Terry’s, but the moment he locked eyes with him, he instinctively recoiled, pulling his head back as his breath caught in his throat. Yes, it was Terry, but not the Terry he knew. This Terry was something else, something unrecognizable.

Terry’s eyes were now a deep, menacing red, dark and rich like fresh blood. Aston’s pulse quickened, his senses screaming that something was wrong, that this wasn’t just a shift in appearance, but something far darker. Terry’s lips pulled back in a cruel sneer, revealing canines that had lengthened beyond what was natural. The sharp tips of his teeth jutted out menacingly, almost piercing the skin of his bottom lip. This wasn't just Terry, it was a version of him that was far more monstrous and it gripped Aston’s very soul.

“Terry, what… what–” he stammered as the eyes watched him with a predatory glint. “Look, I’ll get you your money by tonight. No explanation needed. W-we can discuss this like gentlemen.”

Terry just smiled, leaning back as he shook his head. Suddenly, subtle pleas and cries began to approach them from behind. Aston went to roll to face the direction where the sound was coming from. He was stopped by Terry placing a heavy foot on him, keeping him on his back.

The cries grew louder, amplifying Aston’s terror. He was sure that he would have a heart attack the way his chest thundered.

“Terrence, please. I didn’t mean to run them off! I know Crimson has a reputation to uphold, but those girls just got a bit spooked. I just got a little excited!” An unfamiliar voice filled the space next to Aston. His eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to make sense of the words the new voice was saying.

Without lifting his foot from Aston’s chest, Terry grabbed a stammering man who must’ve been brought in by Jabari. He draped an arm around him as he made him stand in front of Aston. Tears and snot poured down the man’s face, his distress making Aston’s stomach twist even more.

“Aston, this is Cole. Cole is going to help me demonstrate what I do to people who fuck with my money,” Terry spoke calmly as he gripped the back of the man’s neck.

Terry’s hand twitched unnaturally, and in an instant, his nails began to elongate, sharpening into jagged claws before Aston’s very eyes. They gleamed with a menacing sharpness that made Aston’s blood run cold. He tried to twist away, desperate to escape the horror unfolding before him, but Terry’s foot remained planted firmly in place, an immovable force keeping Aston exactly where he was. The pressure of it anchored him down, making it impossible to break free.

Terry’s gaze flickered back to Cole, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. Then, in a blur, his other clawed hand wrapped around the front of the man’s neck, squeezing it dangerously hard. Then, with a flourish, Terry yanked his hand, effectively tearing the man’s throat out. Aston let out a blood curdling scream as blood and tissue splattered onto his face and chest, the sounds of flesh ripping echoing in his mind. Terry remained unphased as he dropped the man’s flailing body next to Aston, pressing his boot further into his chest, forcing him to shut up. Disgust and horror made Aston turn his head, spitting up everything that was in his stomach. He trembled as he turned back to Terry, who brought himself closer to his face, his red eyes seeming to darken. He wiped the bloodied hand he used to kill Cole on the jacket Aston was wearing, making him flinch.

The warehouse was unnervingly silent, the only sound being Aston’s ragged sobs that echoed off the cold concrete walls. The sound of his anguish reverberated through the space, but Terry stood unfazed, a deep, resigned sigh escaping his lips as he rolled his eyes.

His once haunting, blood-red gaze slowly shifted to the unnatural blue-green they usually were. His nails began to retract and shrink back into their human form. And his fangs that protruded like daggers, shrank back into his gums. It was almost like watching an illusion dissolve.

Terry’s gaze lingered on Aston, his expression a mix of indifference and distaste. The fearsome being now looked… ordinary.

Aston’s sobs grew more frantic, his chest heaving with each shaky breath as he squeezed his eyes shut. There was no escaping this. He wasn’t getting out of this alive. His thoughts spiraled, each one more hopeless than the last.

Though he wasn’t particularly religious, Aston found himself murmuring a silent prayer, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t for salvation, it was a plea for mercy. He whispered to no one in particular, hoping that Terry would be merciful, that whatever came next would be quick and final. Aston swallowed hard, his body trembling, as he waited for the inevitable, hoping against hope that it would come swiftly.

Terry began to mockingly shush him, lifting his foot from his chest and moving to crouch down next to him, gripping Aston’s face in his cleaner hand, carefully avoiding the residual puke on his chin.

“Now… I think you finally understand who you’re dealing with, right?” Terry's voice was a low, ominous murmur, his piercing gaze fixed on Aston with unnerving intensity.

Aston nodded frantically, desperate to avoid Terry’s gaze. Terry’s lips curled into a satisfied hum. He tilted his head slightly, his expression of pure, cold detachment being replaced by a small, unnerving smile.

“Good,” Terry purred, his voice dripping with malice. His next words seethed out with barely contained fury. “Because I want my fucking money.” Terry leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke again, his voice dropping even lower, laced with venom.

“But before that, I need you to part ways with what I want the most,” Terry continued, his smile never faltering. “This whole scheme? It was about much more than money.” His words dripped with dark amusement as he watched Aston’s face falter, Terry’s words slowly sinking in. “I didn’t even want your money to begin with. I have plenty of that on my own. But you’ve been disrespecting me ever since I came to the firm, which I find unacceptable. So now, I have to have everything you have. The money is... nice, I suppose. But it’s not my priority.”

Terry leaned in, closing the space between them with deliberate slowness. His breath ghosted across Aston’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. The words he whispered were smooth and velvety.

“You have someone... much more valuable to me.”

Aston’s face scrunched in confusion, his mind racing to understand what was being said. His heart thudded in his chest as the cryptic words twisted in his mind. And then it hit him. The realization crashed into him, freezing him in place. His blood ran cold as the horror settled over him like ice water.

Camille.

The name ran through his head, making his pulse quicken even more. The room seemed to tilt, his world suddenly spinning. He didn’t love Camille in a romantic sense. But she was still his friend, someone he had shared the last thirteen years of his life with. They had been through too much together to be torn apart by some… money-hungry beast. They had been companions in their shared pursuit of belonging, trapped in a world where power and influence shaped everything.

But beyond all of that, she was good. Pure. Kind-hearted. He felt the need to protect her surge through him. She couldn’t fall into the hands of a monster like Terry. Not when he was capable of doing anything to get what he wanted. A wave of nausea swept over him. But instead of cowering, Aston looked Terry in the eyes, showing that this was where he drew the line.

“You stay the fuck away from her,” Aston snarled, a burst of courage running through him. Terry just chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Camille will be well taken care of, well-cherished, and well-fucked,” Terry laughed sinisterly. But his voice returned serious. “But, I need you out of the way. But it has to be subtle. So, if you follow my instructions, I’ll be merciful. But if you try to fuck me over,” he spoke, pulling him up slightly by his collar. “I will make you suffer in every way imaginable.”

Aston sniffled. He couldn’t let him get away with this, but he needed to be smart. He wouldn’t be able to help Camille from the other side of the grave. So he needed to remain in Terry’s good graces until he had a solid plan to navigate the situation.

“What do you need me to do then?” He gulped as Terry hummed thoughtfully, watching him intensely.

“We’ll see what works best as we go along. But, your first task will be breaking up with Camille. The little thing loves to stick to her morals, which I admire. But it makes her a bit inaccessible at the moment,” Terry began with a nonchalant shrug.

Aston’s mind seemed to stutter as he processed everything that was said. No, no, he couldn’t let Camille deal with this predator alone. He needed to buy some time.

“I can break up with her, but her hands will still be tied by the contract,” Aston stated, hoping he was giving him new information. Terry’s jaw clenched but he looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“Camille and I have a contractual agreement. The marriage prevents her family from losing everything. Sure, she’ll be covered by you, I’m assuming, but if her family loses everything, their houses, their assets, she’ll be devastated. And her father has placed so much pressure on her to be their savior. If the marriage doesn’t go through, she has no way of preventing them from falling into poverty,” he stammered.

Terry looked genuinely surprised by the revelation. He released his grip on Aston’s collar, making his head fall back into the hard floor. He groaned, white-hot pain throbbing from the site of impact.

Terry rubbed his chin, his eyes flickering to Jabari, who remained silent and unmoving during this entire exchange. He brought his eyes back to Aston, making him hold his breath.

“Huh, I knew that this engagement was arranged, but I had no idea there was a contract involved…” he whispered to himself, more so than Aston. But his eyes came back into focus.

“Alright,” Terry’s grin returned to his face. “You obviously have valuable knowledge of the situation.” Aston released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“But,” Terry growled, fangs once again appearing from the corner of his lips. “I still want you to end the relationship, sooner rather than later. So once I figure this contract shit out, it better be the first thing you do. For your sake at least.” Aston gave a curt nod. He had no intention of breaking up with Camille when the time came, but he just needed to do what he could to get back home.

Terry rose from his haunches, fully standing over him.

“Jabari will make sure that any injuries you got from tonight will heal fully before you get home. It’s a drink we make, but it’ll be mixed with a lot of alcohol so you don’t have to remember anything but the most important details of the night. You’ll also need to wash up and freshen your clothes. Once all that’s settled, he’ll make sure to drop you by your apartment.” Again, Aston nodded furiously, just wanting to move on from this moment in time so he could figure out how to protect himself and Camille.

“And, just so we’re clear,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You tell anyone about any of this, especially Camille, I will kill every family member you have in front of you, slowly and brutally, until no one’s left. Then I’ll kill you too.”

With that, Terry stepped over his body to walk out of the warehouse as Jabari lifted him from the floor.

Camille

Camille couldn’t help but pull at the satin restraints expertly tied around her wrists as she writhed with agonizing pleasure. Through a haze of tears, Camille looked up at the hypnotic blue eyes of her captor as he gazed down at her, silently pleading for him to have some mercy on her. But Terry just smirked down at her, his strong thighs keeping her legs pried open as he slowly pulled in and out of her, his length brushing past a spot that made her vision blur with each stroke.

“Baby…,” her voice barely above a whisper. He hummed, grabbing her leg to place a feathery soft kiss on her ankle. Her toes curled in response and her pussy quivered around him, pulling a satisfied groan from his throat.

“What is it, princess?” he teased before dragging his tongue across her Achilles. “Tell Daddy what you want so I can do it for you. Pussy too good to not let you have what you want.” Camille’s lips quivered as she tried to form words, the delicious pressure in her core too intense for her to think. Her lover placed a few more kisses on her calf, his strokes slowly coming to a stop. Camille’s body throbbed at the absence of his movement, stuck at just the edge of her climax.

“No, no…no, Terry pleaseeee,” she whined, her hands pulling at the restraints that kept her tied to the bed. She could feel her orgasm retreating with every passing second.

“That’s not my name right now, baby girl,” He purred. He reached down between her legs, his calloused thumb, ever so slowly, circling her bundle of nerves. A chorus of pathetic moans escaped her lips at the friction. “Come on, princess. Just use your words. Tell me what you need.”

Instead of answering, Camille furrowed her brows in frustration, moving her hips to meet his in an attempt to find some relief. Terry growled, gripping her thighs to hold her still.

“Uh-uhn. Don’t be a greedy little brat. I already made you cum twice. But now I want you to beg,” his chest rumbled. Camille took a deep breath, finding the strength to voice her desires.

“P-please, Daddy. Please don’t stop,” she whispered. Terry chuckled, nearly pulling out of her completely, before slamming his full length back into her. Camille’s eyes rolled back as his girth stuffed her, nearly knocking the wind right out of her. Terry lowered his body down to hers until his lips were next to her ear, his weight locking her in place. “I can’t hear you, my love,” he mumbled, placing a teasing, sloppy kiss on her neck.

“Please, Daddy I can’t take it! Just fucking fuck me!” she shouted, a sob shaking her body. Terry laughed, licking a tear from her cheek. “As you wish, baby girl.”

He leaned back, his large hand wrapping around her neck as he plunged in and out of her at the perfect pace. Camille’s back arched off the bed as he fucked the last bit of thoughts out of her head. The light squeeze on her neck. The way he hit her spot. The deep groans and moans tumbling past his lips. It was all too much for her. She couldn’t tell if the man was sending her straight to heaven or dragging her down to hell.

“You’re so pretty when I fuck you like this. All tied up. Begging with those tears rolling down your face. Pure fucking perfection. Of course I have to keep you all to myself,” he chuckled, the hand around her neck going to caress her tear-stained cheek. “Which is why, before I let you cum, we need to get an understanding.” Camille’s pussy clenched in response to his rough, almost animalistic tone.

“Tell me you will leave McCoy,” he growled, staring down at her, his pace never faltering. Camille’s eyes widened. How could he demand that of her?

He scoffed at her hesitation, bringing his hand back to her neck. “Camille,” his tone full of warning. “Stop fucking playing with me. He could never fuck you this good. Only I make you this damn delirious. Only me.” Camille bit her lip, feeling a familiar pressure in her stomach. She was almost there…so so clos–

“Camille!” Terry growled.

“I’m yours, only yours Terry!” Camille screamed, her orgasm crashing over her. Stars and fireworks flashed in her vision as her legs shook uncontrollably. “I’ll always be yours!”

He chuckled darkly, licking his lips. “That’s right, Mrs. Richmond.”

Camille jolted awake, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Her chest heaved as she scanned the room, the light from the nearby buildings and billboards bathing it in a faint red glow.

It must be late, she thought, trying to distract from the wetness between her legs and the heat radiating off her body. She turned to Aston's side of the bed, searching for comfort. But his side of the mattress was as empty and cold as it was hours ago.

Confused, she reached for her phone on the nightstand, unlocking it. The screen lit up, and her eyes darted to the time. 11:49.

Where could he be at this hour? The thought spun in her mind urgently. Is he okay?

Aston's pro-bono work had always kept him late, but it was rare for him to be gone past 9:00 PM. She’d become accustomed to his late nights, but this felt different. A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She dialed his number, her pulse quickening with each ringing tone. One, two... then a click switched to a voicemail prompt.

Where is he?

She didn’t hesitate to type out a text, her fingers moving almost automatically. Is everything ok? It’s pretty late.

She hit send, then waited, watching the “delivered” before it flipped to “read.” Her chest tightened as the seconds ticked by. No response came.

A hollow feeling settled deep inside her as she locked her phone, placing it back on the nightstand with a resigned sigh. Her shoulders slumped forward, the emptiness of the room closing in on her. She couldn’t stop the feelings that flooded in, unloved... unimportant. Her mind spiraled. What else could he be doing right now? The question echoed in her mind, but no answer came. Tears threatened to spill, stinging the corners of her eyes. She closed them tightly, biting her lip as a soft sniffle escaped her. Maybe Kali had been right all along. Aston had never truly changed. But what was she supposed to do with that truth? What could she possibly do now?

She needed to distract herself. Do something to keep the hurt from boiling over. The throb in her pussy began to gnaw at her more and her eyes landed on the nightstand. She reached into the drawer, fishing her hand around until she brushed against the silicon of her rose toy. Rolling onto her back, she switched on the toy and stuck it between her legs. As she positioned it perfectly over her clit, she rolled her head back, letting her imagination run wild as her mind shifted from her sorrows and focused on the sensations.

She could see the scenes clearly, as if she were dreaming again. Strong arms wrapping around her. Thick lips parting to stick a dominating tongue into her mouth. Hands pulling on her hair. Loving kisses pressed against her collarbone.

Just a bit more, she thought as her orgasm approached. Then, she’ll be able to lull herself back to sleep. It didn't take long for the wave to crash over her, a name unconsciously slipping past her lips. “Oh, Terr-”

Camille was cut off by the apartment front door slamming open. She screamed, tossing the toy away from her in surprise.

“Fuck! Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!” Aston’s screaming reverberated off the wall. Camille quickly sat up, pulling her robe around her trembling body. She stumbled out of the room, gasping as she entered the living area. Aston was a storm, a whirlwind of fury. His movements were erratic as he thrashed at anything within reach. His fists pounded into the walls, leaving deep, jagged dents, while shards of glass crunched beneath his feet, scattered across the floor from glasses he was throwing. A barstool lay overturned, its legs splintered. He screamed again. Camille’s breath hitched in her throat, terror clawing at her chest. His eyes snapped to her, pausing his rampage. His chest heaved as he ran a hand through his hair as he looked around at the damage he caused. He started to stumble toward hers, his steps uncoordinated. She recoiled in fright, pressing herself against the wall. But then she caught a whiff of him. He smelled like he fell out of a whiskey bottle.

She froze. He had been drinking. Aston never drank.

“Millie… baby. I’m sorry, i-if I woke you–”

“Aston… What the hell is going on?” Camille’s voice cracked.

“Nothing, baby, nothing. We just need to talk,” Aston panted, struggling to catch his breath. His chest heaved and he collapsed onto one of the barstools, his hands shaking. “You have to quit working for Terry. Probably quit working for the firm altogether.”

“What?!” Camille’s voice shot up, disbelief flooding her. “Why? Why would I do that?!”

Aston sneered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Wow, you can’t even think about it? Can’t even consider it? As my future wife, I thought you’d have more respect for me.” His eyes were filled with frustration, but Camille only felt more lost.

“You’re seriously angry at me because I don’t want to quit my job?” Camille’s voice quivered, her heart pounding as the fear inside of her slowly became anger. “Do you hear yourself right now?” Her mind raced from the absurdity of it all.

Aston threw his hands up, eyes rolling in dramatic frustration. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Camille? Do you think I’m just saying this for fun?!” His voice cracked as he yelled, amplifying the chaos between them.

Camille blinked rapidly as hot, silent tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t even tell if they were from fear or from anger. All she could hear clearly was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Aston,” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “I’m not having this conversation with you unless you calm down.”

Aston’s expression faltered, his anger momentarily replaced by something softer. Exhaustion, maybe, or regret. But it didn’t last. He stumbled toward the sectional a few feet away, sinking into the couch, his hands buried in his hair as he sniffled, the tension still coiled in his body. “Baby, I can’t tell you what happened tonight, okay?” His voice cracked. “Just… just know that Terry is fucking dangerous. He’s fucking evil. And I can’t, I can’t let you be around him, alright?”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me what happened?!” Camille shot back, her voice cracking in frustration. She moved closer to him, careful not to step on the broken glass scattered on the floor. “You come in here, drunk as hell and wrecking our home. You scare me half to death. And now you’re telling me to stay away from my boss for some unknown reason? Or is it just your jealousy?!” The words exploded from her before she could stop them, her anger raw and untamed. But as soon as she said them, her eyes closed momentarily with regret, knowing that her words were unnecessary.

Aston’s head snapped up, his eyes filled with hurt and something much darker. The venom in his gaze sent a chill down her spine. He glared at her, his voice lowering to a dangerous edge. “You think you know everything, don’t you? You think Terry’s better than me? Of course you do. You look at him as if he hung the moon,” His words hung in the air, cold and accusing.

She gasped, feeling as though she was one in the wrong and not him. “Aston,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You’re talking crazy. Terry isn’t better than you. Is this still about him making partner—”

“No, you fucking bitch!” Aston shouted, cutting her off, making Camille flinch. “It’s not about that, Camille! Why can’t you just listen to me?!” His eyes burned with anger, and in a split second, he shot up from the couch, his body towering over hers as he advanced. Camille’s chest tightened with panic as she instinctively stepped back.

Aston followed her, relentless. “That guy is out to get me, Camille. And you have no idea how much danger you’re in. That’s all I can say. Tomorrow, you will put in your two weeks’ notice. And then I'm putting you on a plane to somewhere safe,” he demanded, his voice low and deadly.

Camille’s breath hitched in her throat. Despite the fear that gripped her, she would not let Aston take one of the last things that made her happy away from her. She shook her head defiantly. “I will do no such thing,” she whispered.

His anger felt thick and suffocating as it surrounded them. Aston's face twisted in frustration as he stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides. The room was silent except for the harsh sound of their breathing. But then, he walked closer to her, attempting to close the gap between them. Camille retreated until she felt her back hit the wall of their living room.

He slammed his hands on both sides of her head, leaning in close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “You ungrateful bitch!” Camille, terrified, tried to move away from him. But his hands moved to grip her forearms, with enough force that she was sure he left bruises. “You are fucking quitting tomorrow! Do you fucking hear me?!” He jerked her body harder than he intended, slamming her into the wall behind her, leaving a dent. She cried out in pain, falling to the floor as he dropped her. He looked down at her with horror.

“Millie… baby,” Aston's voice trembled as he reached out for her, his hand shaking in the air, desperate to touch her.

“Don’t. Touch me!” Camille sobbed, her voice cracking. Aston flinched as though she had slapped him, his face contorting with shock and hurt. He froze in place, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, as she stumbled back to a standing position, using the wall for support to keep her upright. The tears flowed freely, but she couldn’t stop moving. She had to get away. She had to get somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Her legs barely held her up as she wobbled toward their bedroom, but just as her hand reached the doorframe, Aston appeared in front of her, blocking her path.

“Baby, please… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it! Please, I swear, I didn’t mean it,” his voice desperate. He reached for her again, but she shoved past him with all the strength she had left.

She headed straight for the closet, her hands moving frantically as she yanked clothes off the hangers, shoving them into an overnight bag. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t even think straight as she stuffed her shoes and jewelry in without care.

Aston followed her, his voice pleading, but she couldn’t hear him anymore. His words were drowned out by the deafening roar of her own heartbeat. Tears blurred her vision as she moved through the motions, grabbing her toothbrush, her contact lenses, her makeup case. She refused to stop.

When she finally turned to face him, Aston was on his knees, his face streaked with tears and snot, his chest heaving with sobs that shook him to his core. His gaze locked with hers, desperation and agony showing.

“Millie, please,” he begged, his voice hoarse, almost broken. “Please don’t go. I swear I didn’t mean it… I’ll do anything… just… please.”

She looked down at him, her heart aching, and for a moment, she wondered if she should stay. If he was really apologetic. He does seem sorry, she thought. But I can’t stay. The pain at the back of her head flared again, sharper this time, and she fought to keep herself steady. The thought of his hands on her, his rage, the way he just tore everything apart… it was too much.

She stepped past him, deciding not to take the risk. She pulled her robe tighter around herself. She didn’t look at him again, stepping into her house slippers and making her way toward the door.

“Millie… please, Millie!” Aston’s voice cracked behind her, but she wouldn’t look back. She couldn’t afford to.

She opened the front door, her hand shaking as she pulled her phone from her robe’s pocket. She needed to get away, go somewhere she could breathe and process how her world just fell apart.

She nearly fumbled her phone as she dialed Kali’s number, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. It rang twice before her friend’s voice came through.

“Cammieeee! Hey birthday girl!” Kali’s voice chirped cheerfully, but Camille could hear the shift in her friend’s tone as she sobbed into the phone, her voice cracking in a way she never allowed Kali to hear before. “Kali, I’m so sorry to call and ask so late. But can I please stay the night? Please.”

The moment Kali heard her desperation, her voice softened, concern bleeding through. “Oh my God, Camille… absolutely! I’ll get everything ready for you. Don’t worry, it's not a problem at all!”

“Thank you,” Camille sniffled, the words barely escaping her as she wiped away the last of her tears. She hung up the phone abruptly, barely even hearing the final words Kali had spoken as she stepped into the elevator.

Terry

Terry stood before the altar in his bedroom, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls. He stared as the flames danced, tall, vibrant tongues of orange, red, and pink that swirled and shifted with a powerful potency. His love spell was working. Every flicker of the flame seemed to confirm it, she was in love with him and ached to be his.

His gaze lingered on the sacred space until a sudden vibration from his pocket broke his focus. His fingers twitched as he reached down, wondering who could possibly be texting him this late. He hoped it wasn’t Jabari telling him he ran into any problems.

He glanced at his phone screen, expecting a mundane message. But, the number was unfamiliar. A stranger. Curiosity mixed with unease as the message popped up:

Terry. I know what you want. And I want to help you get it.

His brow furrowed. The words were too cryptic for his comfort. He stared at the screen for a long moment, wanting to delete the message altogether. He wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit. But a voice in his head urged him to engage. Shaking his head, Terry quickly typed out a response:

Who the hell is this?

He waited, and soon enough, the chat bubble appeared, followed by a cryptic reply:

A friend. Someone on your side.

Terry’s patience was thinning. He didn’t have time for this. Impatiently, he typed:

Tell me what this is about or stop playing on my phone.

Just as he was about to toss his phone back in his pocket and re-focus on the altar, the response appeared startlingly quick:

Camille. You want her to be yours, right?

Terry’s heart skipped a beat, his blood turning to ice. His fingers froze over the screen as a cold sweat broke out across his brow. Before he could type another message, another response came:

We should meet up. Come here tomorrow night @7.

A location pin was sent before the chat went completely silent. Terry took a labored breath. This could be trouble. After a long pause, Terry shoved his phone back into his pocket. He would go to this meeting, see who this person was. If they were a threat, he would deal with them swiftly. But if they wanted to support him, he would gladly accept the help.

*: Terry murders a man in front of Aston

**: Aston hurts Camille, prompting her to leave their apartment

--------------

@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @loveschrisbrown20 @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83 @bruleecream

#terry richmond #terry richmond smut #terry richmond fic #terry richmond x black character #aaron pierre #aaron pierre smut #rebel ridge #aaron pierre fic #aaron pierre x black!oc

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creatingblackcharacters · 13 days ago

Note

I'm fascinated by the OC submissions compared to the media character submissions. It's likely a bias for the submitters (people submitting Black OCs to the 'write your Black characters better' blog) but they are primarily earnest attempts to portray Black features (including notably darker skin tones), researched hairstyles, whereas the most consistent failings in media characters have been neglected hair textures/facial features/anything but darker skin (GREY?!).

I expect it's because usually the media characters are beholden to teams of likely majority white people compared to one person learning for themselves in earnest, but it's kind of infuriating - professional artists need to do better! There's a team of you! One person can miss something, but a dozen? Aaahh!!

🤣🤣 I agree! I actually think that happened to the main characters too; I think most people were pushing it safe with characters they liked. But I'm also a tad messy. And it's okay bc the writing portion.

Also, that's another reason I do this! I can't reach those professional creators who were allowed to go that far without drawing a proper Black character in their lives. But I can reach YOU, humble Tumblr user! Like surely if we start at the root, emphasizing why it's important, we can prevent some folks from getting that far.

Because I believe it's a combination of professional artists not having it prioritized in their careers and education to learn Black character design, and majority white audiences not really knowing or caring. If you know the demographic you plan on profiting most from doesn't care, what would encourage you to change and grow (other than, you know, integrity)? Like yeah, we have to be willing to admit, a lot of this isn't a flaw, it's working precisely as designed (ha!)

#once again my best overt example is that situation with dragon age #w davrin and the bird #think about it this way. could you get an art job at Disney if you GENUINELY couldnt draw a white person

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sizzlingcloudmentality · 4 months ago

Text

yes, ma'am

Dave York x dominatrix!reader | 9.5k w | explicit, mdni | ao3

summary: life goes sideways and Dave is close to snapping. he needs professional help. aka let himself be dominated and be at the receiving end for once. good thing he has your number.

warnings: sub-ish!Dave (how sub can a born dom be?), dominatrix!reader, no use of y/n, reader is able-bodied, Dave is a good husband and father™️, Molly throwing up, slight humiliation (the boy being called dummy <3), slight ball torture, (guided) masturbation (m), finger sucking, petnames (ma'am, good boy, love), cum eating, slight shoe worship, dick+pussy pronouns, reader wears lipstick, nail polish and stilettos, squint and you miss unprotected PinV; dm me if I missed any

a/n: my submission for @wannab-urs dmamc 2025. i had so much fun domming my man and I tried to make it believable because, well, he's Dave 'the dom' York. enjoy another character study including his dick. thank you @guiltyasdave for the beta and constant love, even though sub!Dave isn't your cup of tea 🥹💛

"Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time."

“Fuck!” His hand slams down on the steering wheel, once, twice. Again, again, again, until his palm hurts and the thrumming pain helps him to push aside the anger boiling inside of him. He rips down his beanie, ripping out a few hairs as well, not giving a shit about it.

He fucked up. If it wasn’t for his partner the mission would have gone south completely, pulling him along. The plan had been perfect, the preparations perfect as well. All he had to do was to pull the trigger and take the target out. But he fucking missed. He fucking missed. Hit the target into the shoulder, and if Dave’s partner didn’t take initiative and put a bullet through the target's head… He doesn’t want to think about it.

He already saw his domestic life passing before his eyes. The police arresting him at home, his daughters terrified and not understanding why they would take their daddy away. Carol at the trial, being questioned if she really didn’t know about her husband’s assassination side hustle, her face puffy and red from crying.

Dave hisses out another curse, hitting the hard wheel in front of him again.

He could always just disappear, always has an emergency duffle bag stowed away with fake IDs and some cash. But he wouldn't stomach it, couldn't stomach it, leaving his family behind.

It was a close call today… He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the tail lights of his inconspicuous car slowly blending in with the dozens of others on the nightly roads as he heads home to his inconspicuous life.

The next few days were difficult, to say the least. His higher up at the CIA was a pain in the ass, deadlines were piling up, Molly got sick and needed attention and care, Carol needed his support, the almost-failed mission was still breathing down his neck… He needed a break and there was no break in sight. Not now. His family needs him, his job does, he needs to fucking function now.

“Daddy, ‘m not feeling good,” Molly mumbles, curled up on the couch, her head in Dave’s lap while he’s working on a report on his laptop.

“Just a second, baby.” He’s almost done, he just needs a minute and the worst part of his report would be finished. Molly stirs on the couch, hastily now. God damnit.

“Daddy…” Her little body starts trembling and with a shudder and a sound that makes Dave’s heart hurt, she slumps over and pukes. All over his notes. Over his pants he had just picked up from the dry cleaning. All over the cream colored couch that Carol wanted so badly and that looks like shit now. All over his laptop. The screen flickers a last time before it goes dark.

“I'm so sorry… Please don't be mad, Daddy.” Molly starts crying, feeling sick and miserable, her little hands shaking as she grips her ruined blanket.

The vein on his neck, he feels it throbbing. His laptop, his fucking work laptop, broken. The sticky, disgusting warmth of what once was chicken soup seeps through his trousers and makes his eyelid twitch.

Just pick your baby up, just comfort her, just help her change into new pajamas, just be a good father, just be good…

“Daddy?” She sounds so fragile, her voice nothing more than a weak breath. She clumsily pushes herself up and accidentally nudges the laptop off of Dave’s knees. The carpet swallows the low thud when it hits the ground, but the cracking of the screen is still very much audible, just as much as Molly’s shocked gasp.

“You broke it. You fucking broke it, Molly,” Dave hisses and is on his feet in an instant, his daughter toppling back onto the couch, now crying even more because she upset her dad.

He doesn’t look over to her but picks up his laptop, trying to bring it back to life. The muscles in his jaw clench when Molly’s sobs start pealing in his eardrums. Dave turns towards her, a barked shut up already on his tongue when Carol appears in the doorway.

One quick look is enough for her to assess the situation. Their crying daughter, a picture of misery and guilt written all over her pale face and Dave, nostrils flared and one hand balled into a fist, the unmistakable smell of vomit reaching her nose… No, this wasn’t good.

“It'll take it from here, Dave,” she says when she strides past him. “Go and calm down.” There's no bite to her words, bite wouldn't do any good at this moment. It would only make it worse, make Dave lose the last bits of reason.

Carol scoops Molly up in her arms, pressing a few soothing kisses to the little girl’s temple. She looks over her shoulder and gestures towards the door with a tilt of her chin as if to say please, just go.

And he does. He flees from the living room and the feeling of shame that starts licking at his insides. It gets too much. A thought crosses his mind, a simple calculation, it has been almost ten months since…

A shiver runs through him and he shakes the idea off his mind like a dog tries to shake off an annoying tick. No, he wouldn't need to do it this time, there sure is another possibility to finally get a grip on his life. He just needs to focus more. Needs a better sleep regimen. More training. More protein. More control over all the small bits and pieces of his life.

Dave shuts the door to his home gym behind him and gets to work. If his muscles are trembling and his lungs are begging him for air, he has no time to think about what kind of an asshole father and husband he is. And so he starts tormenting his body to shut off his mind, to keep the guilt and shame at bay. For now.

That night, when he slips under the bed sheets, almost silently to not wake his sleeping wife, the idea creeps back into his head. Like a tick it has sunk its teeth into his skin and he can’t seem to get rid of it since the first time he has done… it.

It has helped him before, more than he likes to admit it. But he hates it. Because he cannot do it on his own. Because he needs someone else doing it for him, to him. And Dave never liked to be dependent on something or someone.

The sheets rustle and Carol’s hand finds his own, wrapping her fingers around his in the darkness as if she was trying to comfort him. But in reality she wanted his comfort and soothing. Dave wasn't a man who was dependent. Because he always was the man everyone else depended on.

He turns on his side and lifts her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to Carol’s knuckles.

She hums, shuffles closer, her feet slipping between his calves. After a moment of content silence a murmur crawls over the pillows to Dave and settles right on his chest, where the thought about it sits and gnaws at him like a night terror.

“Maybe… maybe you should go see that therapist again? They really helped you the last time.”

Therapist. That was what he told his wife you were. And the things you did, it was therapy. It is, in a way. It helped him. And he hates that it does. He hates that he can’t function like he needs to. He hates that Carol sounds so timid when she suggests therapy, afraid that he could snap at her, too, because she dares to point out his weakness.

He sighs, her soft knuckles still held against his lips. “Is Molly okay?”

“She’s a little better, yes.”

The silence weighs heavy for a moment, Carol’s unanswered question pressing down on Dave’s rib cage. Or is it the feeling of guilt? About being a shit show of a father and husband? About needing you to function, even if it all feels so wrong but afterwards it always feels good and right and he feels better, every damn time?

“I'll make an appointment,” he murmurs and his lips find her ring finger, kissing the spot where the simple golden band always sits. She never takes the ring off, just like him. Carol nestles into his arms, the relief clear when she whispers her thank you, I love you into the hollow between his clavicles. God, he is such a failure, he thinks to himself with his wife in his arms and you in his mind.

You are completely booked out. Months ahead. Of course you are. There never is a shortage of people who want your services. Or to be exact, who need them. So when you received the request for an appointment “asap, ma'am”, signed by David York, you told him you were free again in three months. But then another customer canceled their session and because you like David, you give preference to him.

So a week and a half later you find yourself entering the bar of the Rosewood, one of the finest hotels of the city. Doors magically open because there’s always some finance or marketing guy holding them open for you. Each step with your pointy high heels parts the crowd in front of you and is paved with sleek smiles and licked lips of the men who move out of your way.

You pay them no mind, they only exist at the periphery of your focus. They are not important and will never be. What is important is your customer for this day. You recognize him, the way he sits at the bar, one foot on the footrest of the empty stool next to him, the other one firmly planted onto the ground. Just another pretty man in a suit, interchangeable for most who might look at him.

But for you he was different. A customer, first and foremost. A challenge, too. And he's probably the only man in this bar who is not doubling over to get a crumb of your attention. You had to work for what your customers usually give you gladly and freely: their acceptance and sometimes even devotion.

That is why you like Dave York, because working for him and with him is rewarding. It satisfies you to no end to finally turn his smoothness into something with cracks and weaknesses. And to have him thank you for it.

One of the many men in suits in this bar moves from his place on the outer borders of your attention into the spotlight and obscures the view on Dave. The guy looks you up and down, tries to smile a flirty smile but all you see is a pathetic obstacle. Your mouth already opens to tell him no to whatever suggestion he wants to make, when a big hand lands on the man's shoulder.

Thick fingers, blunt nails, a simple golden wedding band. You look past the surprised strangers face and find Dave, standing behind the man.

“Sorry buddy, not tonight,” Dave tells the man. For a moment they look at each other, like two wolves who found a piece of meat and now silently fight for ownership. Two alphas in suits. But only one of them is a wolf, the other one is just a dog.

“Not ever,” you add when you pass the stranger. The sting of your words gets soothed by your sweet smile, showing off your wolfish canines as you do. Your gaze meets Dave’s own. Two alphas looking at each other again, this time both are wolves.

You don't even bother to care about the other man who disappeared into insignificance as quickly as he had the guts to peek his head out of it. Your focus is solely on Dave now. He looks tired, frail even in the small details of his facial expression. He already looks cracked, maybe you wouldn’t have to work as hard as usual today.

“It has been a while.” You sit down at the bar and Dave gestures for the bartender. He always orders you a drink before you both go up to the booked suite. He never not acts according to the unspoken rules of those kinds of arrangements. He is polite and respectful, even if the air around him very much tastes like aversion. Not against you as a person or the work you do. The aversion is directed against himself and the fact that he was sitting in this bar with you and not at home with whoever was waiting there for him.

He nods his head. That would have to do as an answer. “The usual?” he asks instead when the bartender waits for the order.

“The usual,” you confirm and watch Dave order your vodka on ice. It is a nice change of pace, to not talk and to enjoy the silence, to stretch it like a fabric until it becomes see-through and the silent words between them become audible. Two wolves, dressed in white shirts and blouses, in polished shoes, mustering each other over the rims of their glasses. Sizing each other up.

You take a big sip of your vodka and set the glass down. There’s still a good portion of the booze left, but you need to keep a clear mind for what comes next.

“Are you done?”

Usually he obliges and leaves the rest of his drink on the counter, usually he wants to get over and done with it, with you, with himself. But tonight his need for some more liquid courage is bigger.

“Not yet, ma'am.” His legs spread a little more when he leans back on the barstool. Not in a sleazy manner, not to act like he is hung like a horse. No, taking up space comes naturally to him. And again he is respectful about it. He gives your crossed legs enough room between his thighs, almost like he acts as a buffer between the bustling bar and you.

A thought crosses your mind and makes you smile. He is protective, even though you mean nothing to him. You stretch out your leg, just enough to let the tip of your pointed stiletto brush against his shin. A silent praise for him being good.

Dave’s hand suddenly grabs your ankle, following his first impulse of inhibiting an unwanted touch. Your eyes snap up and meet his, your surprise showing in your raised brows. The grip of his fingers loosens immediately, like he touched something that he wasn’t allowed to, like a too hot cookie fresh from the baking tray.

“Finish your drink then.” A demand dressed up as a friendly request. You pull your foot away, Dave’s privilege of getting a feel for you is already over.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says lowly, just loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the bar. He swirls his drink in his glass and takes another look at you. You look like some partner in a law firm or some higher up shoving around numbers on paper and employees in meetings. Expensive clothes, expensive designer bags, expensive heels. He had seen them often enough to know that you only wear those 700$ pairs. You’re sleek, smooth, polished, with edges that look round and safe to touch but will cut through skin and flesh if you want to.

He takes a sip of his drink and watches you smile, the red lip stretching over your teeth. He feels a part of him getting excited, this one stupid part of himself, the part which constantly makes troubles. Some corner of his brain just loves this. And apparently needs it too, needs it to make him function as a person. This little part loves to make you smile. And he hates it.

You let him finish his drink, let him buy himself a few more minutes before you leave the bar and enter the grand and shiny hotel lobby. Having people move out of your way just by the way your heels click is satisfying. But having someone in front doing it for you is better. You watch Dave plowing through the lobby as he makes his way to the elevators. His ass looks cute, you think to yourself and enter the cabin with him.

He’s so well behaved for you, pressing the buttons, shielding you from the other guests and making sure you can stand comfortably without anyone standing too close to you, himself included, You smile at him again and for a moment one corner of his lips twitch. Good, that's good. He's responsive tonight.

Dave exits the elevator and struts through the long hallway, countless doors left and right until you reach the right one. A quiet beep when the key card opens the door, muffled footfall on the thick carpet and a discreet click when he closes and locks the door behind you both again. Another reason you love this hotel so much, beside the soft beds and high end shower products in the marble bathrooms: the soundproofing.

No matter how hard the stomp, how loud a scream, how sharp a smack, the walls of these rooms seem to swallow the noises and they are never sated. They drink down every word and whisper and always seem to want more. Like the people you work with.

“Tell me about your rules and limits tonight, David,” you say and look around the suite for a moment. You gesture for him to sit down on one of the plush chairs facing a full body mirror.

All you know about Dave is his name, his phone number and another number as an emergency contact. The rest is guesswork you did over the last months and years. The golden ring on his ring finger? He never takes it off. He's married or maybe widowed.

Dave takes off his jacket and hangs it over the backrest of the velvet chair. One time a little toy figurine fell out of his pocket when he took his jacket off. So there must be a child who he has a close enough relationship with for it to sneak little gifts into his pockets. This time nothing out of the ordinary happens. He simply follows your instructions and sits down.

“The same as always.” He lifts his hips again to tug his slacks down, just enough for them to not cut into his groin. “Nothing that leaves marks on me, no touching me between waist and knees, no restraints, no gagging, nothing enters my body, nothing leaves my body without my consent.”

Yeah, just like you thought. “So basically just talking. You know, you could have ‘just talking’ a lot cheaper, down at the bar for example.” You pull a chair for yourself closer to Dave, with the mirror diagonal behind it.

“I'm not here for just talking,” he says quietly with his eyes fixed on his knees.

“Oh I know, don't you worry.” You sit down now, your legs crossed over your knees and one of your high heels swaying in the air just between Dave's spread legs. “Next: safety. Repeat the rules for me, will you?”

He looks up at you and sighs. “We use the color system. Green means more, yellow means keeping the intensity, red means stop.” He likes the simplicity of this system, appreciates it at home, and loves the way Carol loses it whenever he keeps her on yellow for a little too long. But he doesn’t like to be the one using it himself.

“Good. What else means stop?” Your leg is slowly bouncing up and down and Dave's focus shifts to the pencil thin heel for a moment.

“The… the safeword. Helsinki.”

His eyes meet yours again. Dark ponds of raging brown, the storm behind them perfectly contained, for now. “And…?” you prompt, prodding him a little bit with the sweetness in your voice.

“And there's no shame in using my safeword. Or not using it if I'm… feeling good.” He almost chokes on the last words. There is shame in the whole situation, no matter how he looks at it. But you smile again and this one part of him is relieved. He did good, fuck.

“Good job, you remembered,” you praise and the shiny leather of your shoe ghosts along his calf. “Let's start then. No touching yourself or me and no talking unless I tell you to. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He never sounded less enthusiastic than now. His pretty mouth curves into the tiniest scowl and he looks a little more handsome like this. In another life you two could have a lot of fun. Real fun. Fucked up fun.

In another life you might kneel before him and beg for some peace of mind. He could be the therapy the therapist needs. But not in this life. Because in this he was the one needing peace of mind and you were the provider.

“Now, Dave, I want you to take a deep breath and look at yourself in the mirror. Right into your eyes.”

He obeys. When he meets his own gaze through the mirror the scowl becomes more prominent. You will let him sit with his own thoughts for a minute or so. Enough time to recap your last sessions with him.

Pretty quickly into your business relationship with Dave you found out about his history with the military. No details really, you just knew that he had served for several years. Being degraded on a daily basis in your forming years does something to the brain. And it surely did something to Dave's brain because his tough outer layer cracked beautifully for you as soon as you called him a ‘weak fucking loser’.

And that was all that you did since then: humiliating him, watching him turn from the hard and controlled man into one who is struggling to loosen up and finally a man who spits out ‘Helsinki!’ and flees from the scene with a raging boner. He is the weirdest customer you have. Because his requests are so tame, so small scaled for what you could do and for what he could really take.

But all you had to do was calling him names and having him palm himself through his pants. You are not exactly complaining, he paid you as much as the guys who go the whole nine yards. Dave makes you work for your money though. It is a fight, every time.

You see it in his face, he is fighting right now, while he stares himself down through the mirror. A fight he can never win. His upper lip twitches, like he is going to growl at his own reflection any moment. Oh, it is clear as day to you, he really needs this session.

You might need to switch things up a bit, you want your customers satisfied after all. And the way he glares at himself tells you that he needs more today.

“What are you thinking, tell me.”

Your voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. It’s sweet like honey but also sticky. He knows that your mouth is a sugary trap. Every word and gesture and touch a carefully laid out crumb to lead him to where you want him: staring up at you, doing whatever it takes to get your sugar lips to smile at him.

A little nudge of your heel against his thigh. A little harder than it had to be to get his attention. He doesn’t like that he likes it.

“Whimp,” Dave says with heartfelt disdain.

“What else? And keep looking at yourself.” Your heel digs a little more into his thigh and you can feel the tremble of his muscle beneath his slacks. He sure was a runner, you think. Thick thighs look so pretty with a few streaks on them. But no, no marks. “You can tell me everything, you know?”

Dave swallows thickly, the soft velvet of your voice is making his throat tight. He's trapped, caged in between your shiny stilettos and your mouth. His thigh throbs against the thin heel.

He takes in his reflection, the man in power, in slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, in polished shoes. A high heel prodding him. His fingers clutching the armrests. His face tight and sour. His wedding ring glinting.

“Cheater.”

You hum, pleased with his answer and gracing him with a small smile in return. So he is in a relationship. Good, this would make it easier. For you.

Your foot moves, the pointy heel being exchanged with the flat of the sole, pressed against his inner thigh. You drag it up the seam, just a little bit.

This is breaking the ‘no touching’ rule. And yet, he endures, fighting his silent internal fight.

Interesting.

“What’s your color, love?” You tilt your head to the side, enjoying how Dave’s nostrils flare at your audacity. He is defying the sweetness of your words. But he wants more of the stickiness. Just a little bit. It won’t hurt, right?

“Green,” he grits out. Fucking whimp, cheater, loser, failure, he tells himself silently through the mirror. Your sole moves higher now, the pointy tip already indicating towards your final destination.

Green. He wants more, he will get more. Your shoe slides higher and leaves a trail of dusty dirt on his clean pants. He will hate that, you know he will, because you would be pissed off, too.

“Are you not embarrassed, Dave? Sitting here, paying money for this? What would she say, if she knew?”

His eyes snap from the mirror to you, the corner of his lips move into another scowl. The wolf would be baring his teeth soon.

You tap the sole of your shoe against his crotch, just enough for a little sting that lets him jump slightly. Dave looks at you, stunned. Such a pretty sight.

“Oh what's with the attitude now? Did I say you could look at me?” You smile at him, the tip of your tongue running along the edges of your teeth. “Do you think you deserve it, looking at me, dummy?”

His eyes widen and his mouth opens, ready to protest, to call this off, ready to show you your place. But the only thing leaving his throat is a choked sound. Probably because you keep rubbing your foot into his groin, pushing into the not-so-soft-anymore softness.

“Eyes back on the mirror.” Another quick rap, sole meeting joined seams, another jolt and, oh yes, a moan, finally. The walls with their expensive satin tapestry greedily drink down the throaty sound. “Now.”

Your command has nothing of the powdered sugar quality anymore and he obeys. Who even is he, he wonders for a moment of clarity when he meets his own eyes through the mirror again. A stupid man, growing hard under the shoe of a stranger, a stupid man with a loving wife at home. A stupid man with guns hidden all over town. Growing hard.

He looks into the mirror, feeling detached from his own reality. He watches the shiny shoe move between the thighs of this man in the mirror, he sees the stomach of the man tense under his dress shirt, he notices how the man's mouth opens. He hears him groan, this man who looks like himself.

“God, are you seriously turned on by this? That's embarrassing. No wonder you pay me for it instead of getting it at home.” You love being mean for money and you love how Dave writhes beneath your high heel and squirms under your gaze. “Do you like this? Answer me, dummy.”

“Yes.” You only get a single hissed word as an answer. Adorable.

“Yes what?” you hiss back, applying a little more pressure to the bulge showing so beautifully.

“Yes, ma'am,” he snarls now. The wolf is showing his teeth and you're gonna pull one out. You are the only one allowed to bite in this arrangement.

“Christ, do I have to spell it out for you, stupid?” Your foot drops lower, right over the tight little package nestled under the thick, elongated dick outline. The pointy shoe tip slowly pokes into the squishy warmth of Dave’s clothed balls. His breath hitches. “Yes, ma'am, what?” you prompt him, the sugar returning to your words.

“I… I like this, ma'am.” His eyes are still glued to the picture in the mirror and he seems to register that this is him. The visual of an expensive high heel pressing against balls matches the thrumming, stingy feeling of pain in his own slacks. And another thing belongs to him, besides the pain. The jumping hard-on, right above this damned shoe.

He swallows thickly, his blunt nails digging into the velvet of the armrests. “Fuck. I like it,” he stutters, staring at his face, like he is seeing himself for the first time. Like he recognizes himself. His stormy eyes become a little calmer, the silent internal fight becoming more quiet.

“There we go. Good job.” You pull your foot away from him and lean closer, elbows to knees, one finger coming up to his chin. He just now notices that your nail polish matches your lipstick. The color would look good around his dick. In another life.

“Look at me,” you croon, laying out your trap for him again. The pad of your finger so warm and gentle under his chin, guiding his eyes to yours. You're smiling, red stretching over white, he did good and his cock throbs against the zipper. He’s wagging his tail for you.

“Good boy.” You lean closer and he can smell your perfume, the mint and vodka on your breath, your amber-scented dominance tinted in black and scarlet. The sweetness of your praise coats his tongue and he swallows it down, to make it a part of him. A little secret part on the inside only he knows about.

“Color?” Soft, alluring, a trap made for him to curl up in.

He takes a moment to think, but not too much. The thinking part of his brain was already beginning to shut down. “Green,” he rasps with his eyes fixed on the way your eyebrows dance when you smile again.

“Good. Now, I have a question for you.” Your thumb rubs against his chin, just enough to feel the day worth of scruff beneath the digit. “Will you take your cock out for me? Let me see him?”

Gentle eyes, soft words, tender chin scratches. You have his tail wagging. Slowly, slowly you are domesticating him into a dog, one praise at a time.

Dave nods his head. There’s no harm in showing his dick. That doesn't make him a cheater, he tells himself. Maybe he could make you smile again, he knows he has a good cock. Good balls too. Maybe you could squish them again. Just a little bit.

“That's a good boy. Show him to me. Show me how hard I make you.” You lean back in your chair and watch Dave hesitantly fumble with his belt, then top button, then zipper. He still has a little fight left in him. You would be concerned if not. A man like him will never give up completely, that is what makes him so interesting for you, so much fun to play with.

The teeth of the zipper hiss, the fabric rustles when he pulls it over his ass and down his thighs, over his knees. He looks a bit disgraceful like this, sitting in the velvet chair, slacks pooled around his shoes, tented black briefs, looking at you expectantly. You would have let him take his shoes off and fold his pants if he wanted. But he chose to be… excited. And a little impatient. Truly adorable.

You move a little closer again, inspecting what you can see so far. You never saw his dick and usually you are not too keen on seeing your customers’ genitals, they were just extensions, more of the canvas you like to work on. But since Dave always made a fuss about decidedly not showing signs of arousal you became curious. Out of professionalism, of course.

It was looking good, the tent. A thick head pressed against the cotton and crowned with a now black, later milky stain.

“You’re leaking? For me?” You sound like he presented you with a bouquet of flowers or a painting he doodled with crayons. You reach out, your fingers stopping shy before touching the wet spot. You look up at him, a glint of horror in his eyes. No touching, with your hands. “Is this okay?”

A head shake and a dry swallow, then he finds his voice again. “No. Ma'am. I’m sorry.” You touching him would be cheating; in his head this makes sense.

“That's okay, don't worry.” You purse your lips, tapping a finger against the red on them. Then you hold out your hand, palm up. “Lend me a hand?”

Dave hesitates. His dick protesting with stirs against the briefs, not caring about who would touch him and how. He puts his hand in yours, trusting that you would accept his limit.

And you do, of course, you're a professional. Which means you know how to work your way around limits and how to stretch boundaries. You guide his thumb to the wet, glossy spot and rub the pad over the fabric, once, twice, until Dave grunts from the tingling friction.

“Let me know how you taste,” you coo and lift his thumb to your mouth. You open it wide, your tongue sticking out, reversing the roles but he still is your wolf in a dog costume. His eyes glint and for a second you can smell his dominance, too, lingering under the scent of his precum.

Two beasts who recognize each other, just for the fragment of a second, as you look into each other's eyes. But only one can be in charge tonight. You lean in and take his thumb into your mouth. Deeply. You sink down until your lips leave a red lipstick print around the base, one half on his palm, the other half on the back of his hand.

He tastes salty, with a sharp bite to it, just like the man himself. He presses his thumb deeper, can’t resist to have the upper hand with you just once. Your pussy clenches. She likes him.

Oh, in another life, you would let him wreck you. But not now. You suck his finger until you can’t taste his precum anymore and pull off of him.

“Kneel.”

He huffs and his brows draw together. “What?”

“Wrong answer, stupid.” Your foot snaps up, sole pushed against his hard dick, pointy heel somewhere in between his balls. “Try again.”

There it is again, the storm in his eyes. He is so much fun to work with, so easy to rile up, always keeps you on your toes. The same toes that feel Dave's cock throb through his briefs and the leather of your shoe. You move your heel from left to right, just enough to make him squirm and hiss.

“Yes, ma'am.” That's what he says but it sounds a lot like ‘fuck you’.

You laugh at that, sit back in your chair and put your foot back down on the ground. “That's more like it. Come on, chop chop. On your knees.”

He does as he is told. Growling and glaring, avoiding his ridiculous reflection in the mirror, of a tough guy with his pants around his ankles and leaking like his cock is drooling for you. Dave finds himself on his knees as he sinks into the thick carpet. Your feet are right in front of him, he catches a glimpse of his face in the glossy black tip of your heels. He looks twisted, but unmistakably like him.

“And now: touch yourself. Over your briefs. Nice and slow. Eyes on my shoes.” You place one foot on his thigh and his eyes follow the movement without moving too much. “You seem to like them?”

His hand, the one with your lipstick on it, runs along his length, slowly, calculated, avoiding his sensitive tip as he does. “Yes, ma'am,” Dave mutters and squeezes his girth like he's trying to soothe himself because your voice doesn’t do it anymore. It's all harsh now and not sticky-sweet.

Your heel gets pressed into his thigh, the thin end biting into his skin. “Yes, ma'am, what?”

His jaw ticks. His thumb is soothingly rubbing over the head of his cock, knuckle pushed against the underside. “Yes, ma'am, I like your shoes.”

“I thought so. You got so hard for them, didn’t you?”

He takes a deep breath and keeps on palming himself, a steady back and forth. The wet blotch grows. “I-...” He breaks off when you start caressing his balls with your sole. Back and forth. Front to back, in the same rhythm as he strokes himself. “I did get hard for them, yes. For you, ma'am.”

He just wants some of that sugar back, some of those honeyed words from you. He's on his knees already, what else could you want?

You let him kneel and watch his hand move, register his hip twitch. You brush your fingers through his hair, just a light pet.

“Take him out now. I can look at him, right?”

He nods his head and tugs himself out. Caught behind the waistband you get a first peek. Girthy, a stunning color, a dusty rose turning into an earthy pinkish-red, cut, a clear bead of precum forming over the slit before it runs down and spreads over the already glistening skin.

With another tug he pushes his briefs under his sack, forcing it up nice and tight, right under his cock. He has a slight curve, too. Fucking perfect. Your pussy clenches again.

Dave's hand fists the base, some of your red lipstick transfers to his shaft. The closest your mouth will probably get to him. Such a shame, you think, swallowing down some pooling spit, because you really would like to get a sore jaw from sucking him off.

“Now that's a pretty cock you got there. Hold still.”

You crouch over to Dave and place your palm over his hand, giving his dick a good squeeze with Dave's hand.

“I won't touch him, I promise. But let me guide you.” Molasse thick, that's how your voice sounds. Almost too thick to be swallowed down.

He manages to do it nonetheless. Ignoring that this is out of the comfort zone of David York, the husband and father. But oh, those words taste delicious for the man who knows rules and laws but lives outside of them.

His own hand relaxes under yours and with the first stroke another yes, ma'am drips from his lips.

This is a strange feeling. He guided several hands in his life, taught them where to rub, how to twist, how much to squeeze. But having his own hand touch him with those foreign movements was… new. Sexy. Frustrating too, because you seem to know exactly what not to do.

He looks down between his thighs and sees two hands moving and he really tries to imagine it was just your hand. He wants your touch. Christ, he wants your mouth on him, too. And you would do it, you would gladly accept the proposal and call him a good boy again. But he can't. He can't do it, it's not the right thing to do. He feels his wedding ring slide up over his tip and back down. No, he can’t have you touch him directly.

But he can give in to you a little more. His dignity hangs over the other chair, taken off together with his jacket right at the beginning. You might as well make him your bitch. He throbs against his fingers and Dave asks himself if you can feel it, too. Without being able to stop it his hips buck into his fist, your fists. You were moving his hand so goddamn slow, he needs more. More pressure, more speed.

“Are you not happy, love? Are you being ungrateful?” You slow down even more until your palms reach his top again. Dave has lubed himself up so nicely with his own precum, you can feel it spreading between your own fingers. With a tight grip you flick and twist, like screwing open a bottle, twisting the cork out of a bottle of champagne.

Dave’s body jerks as do his hips and he moans again, feeding the soundproofing of the hotel room the delicious sounds he makes.

You tut at him, smirking and mocking and twist his hand over his cock again.

“Oh, so you are ungrateful? You have to ask for the things that you want, dummy, That's how this works.” You loosen your grasp and straighten your back, cross your arms and then your legs until the sole of your shoe hovers over his balls. “So…? Are you ungrateful?”

He shakes his head and fights the urge to rock himself against your shoe. More precum gets pushed out of his slit, he fucking aches. He could just spit out the safeword and jerk it in his car, like usual. But he is too proud for that. He is going to finish what he started here, in this room with you.

“No, I’m not. I just-...” he breaks off when you start bouncing your foot, knocking against his balls with almost gentle pats. Dave clutches his girth with a groan, his hips bucking forwards again. “I…,” he strokes himself once, hoping you would get the implications without having to put it into words.

A finger hooks under his chin again, he can smell himself on your skin. A nudge and he looks at your face again, the way you bare your teeth at him in a graceful smile doesn't cover up the authoritative tone hidden in your sweet words.

“You already did so good today. But I want you to do one last thing, yes?” You rub your finger under his chin, smearing some of his sticky precum over his skin. “Will you try it, for me?”

He'd do a backflip, if you kept up the carrot and stick game for a little longer.

And then you do it again, showing him the treat he could have if he only was a good enough boy for you. You start licking your hand clean. Languid laps with the flat of your tongue, starting with the little finger.

“Love, I want you to fuck your hand. You don't have to hold back.” You suckle on the tip of your finger before licking Dave's salty residue off of the next one. You stop at the tip, twirl your tongue around the fingernail painted all ruby and smile at him. Just as if you were licking an ice cream spoon clean.

“Just make sure to keep your hand still and fuck into it.” Now middle and index finger. Your tongue runs over both of them before you put them into your mouth. In and out they go, sluggish and without hurry, you hum at the taste like it's the sweetest cream.

And then, instead of doing a backflip, Dave starts moving his hips. His eyes glued to your mouth and the red of your lipstick transfers to your fingers before it disappears in the dark, tight, wet cavern of your mouth.

His hand doesn't feel anywhere close to what he imagines your mouth does. Dave is just glad that he can finally care for his aching boner. With every thrust, in sync with your fingers sliding in and out between your lips, his balls slap against the leather sole of your shoe. It stings, but it stings good. He didn’t even know he liked this before tonight. Before your expensive stiletto pressed and rapped and pushed into them.

He ruts his hips faster now, not matching the speed he needs, but he makes it up with squeezing himself hard. Soft squelches come from between his legs now with every back and forth. More noises for the thick carpet and walls to swallow, never to be heard again.

You’re sucking on your thumb now while Dave's clutching himself harder, hips thrusting in a relentless pace. He fucks his hand like you told him to.

He looks so perfect in the mirror, that little piece of ass that you can see from your angle. Clenching and unclenching, the movements draw you in, hypnotize you. The perfect cream-white canvas for blotches of red and sprinkles of violet, for scarlet streaks, oval imprints of your teeth even.

You lick your lips when his thighs start trembling. How good he would look if he fucked himself on your strap-on. In another life, you muse and press your thighs together. The sound your thumb makes between your lips resembles the one that will come from your wet cunt later, when you're at home again. With Dave's salty taste in your mouth and a girthy vibrator, one to match the size of his cock.

His eyes meet yours again, just for a second before they dart down to your tongue again when you start licking your palm. He's still in there, the hard man, the one who's fighting against himself, the one who probably whispers insults inside his head. You can see him in that short moment, somewhere swimming in the stormy mahogany.

You stop licking your palm when Dave winces after snapping his hips harder into his hand and his balls against your sole. He’s at his personal limit.

“Almost there, love, hm?” Another lap to your palm, seemingly unbothered by the state he is in. “Do you want to come?”

He groans and growls, his glutes are burning, his knees hurt, his fucking balls thrum. Oh, he wants to come alright. “Yes, ma'am,” he grits out.

“Say that you're pretty when you fuck your hand for me.” Your tongue flicks over your palm again and reveals your canines again. Just a wolf cleaning her silky fur.

If the need for his orgasm wasn't bigger than his pride, he would have rolled his eyes and fucked that smug smile right out of your face. But he really, really needs to come. He is so close. He can play along a little longer.

“I'm pretty when I fuck my… fucking hand for you,” he snarls and a something in the depth of his guts starts fluttering with a burning strength.

“Good job. You really are pretty like that, love.” You pull the leg of your pants up, the heavy, black fabric now rests bunched up on your knee. Dave still ruts into his hand, chasing the release he knows he can’t have that easily.

“Say ‘I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am.’,” you order and push your fingers through his hair, careful to not ruin his side part. A single unruly strand gets fixed with your spit-wet fingers. Nothing that leaves marks on me. Well, he can wash off your little saliva mark later.

More carrots, more sweet words and sugar touches, more of your smug but also content smile. Christ, he just wants to do something right. And you are offering him an easy fix. Dave whines and leans into your touch. Vigorously he pounds his hand, his balls trapped between his waistband and your sole and it all feels so warm, hot, his pulse beats in his ears and throbs in his straining cock. “I will make a pretty mess for you, ma'am. Fuck. I need to move my hand.”

His big browns look up at you, same parts furious, pleading and desperate.

“Say please,” you chirp and tilt your hips to feel the middle seam of your pants pressed against your clit. “Be good, say please and you can come for your ma'am.”

“Please. Fuck, please!” he barks as he steps into your honeyed trap you have laid out for him from the beginning. He is stuck in it knees first, tail between his legs, barking, howling, wagging. How to catch a wolf.

“That's my good boy. Go on, you can come. Make a mess.”

He did good, thank god. Dave starts moving his hand, jerking his cock hard and fast, his teeth sink into his flew to bite back a loud howl when he feels himself coming.

It is beautiful to watch for you, how his eyes roll back slightly, how his hand moves so fast that the smacking sounds are like a rapid fire, how he thrusts a few more times into his tight fist until he squirts his thick creamy cum all over. It feels hot on your skin, like molten wax poured over your shin, down to your foot and finally your high heel.

You moan in unison with Dave. You never are above feeding the soundproofing some of your noises as well. An offering to the gods, to keep you blessed with men like Dave.

He continues to stroke himself, choking on a few whimpers, milking the last remnants of cum out of him. His wedding band isn't shining as much now, all dull and foggy with his seed dimming the golden hue. His hand trembles, his runner thighs tremble too, his briefs, still tucked under his balls, are ruined and he slowly, slowly loosens his hard grip around his cock.

“Love, you did so good. That wasn't so hard, was it?” His cum starts running down your leg now and you both watch it for a moment.

“I'll get you a tissue,” he mutters breathily, ready to finally get off his knees and gain some dignity back.

“Nuh uh. Clean up without tissues or towels.” Nothing enters my body without my consent. He looks at you and scoffs out single disbelieving laughter. You shrug your shoulders. “Listen, you came this far. You can be a coward and use your safe word. Or you can take responsibility and clean up the mess you made. It's an easy task.”

You are right. It is an easy task, compared to the mess his life is. It's easy. It's easy. It's easy. He leans forward and swallows, thickly. He looks up at you and sticks his tongue out. It's easy.

You lift your leg up to his mouth, nodding your head, smiling, baring your teeth like a docile pet wolf. Dave's tongue meets your skin, smooth under his slick, powdery scent under his salty stench. He licks a stripe from your ankle up your shin, then another one and another one. Slowly. It's easy. One lick at a time. Fixing the mess he made.

His clean hand holds your foot, nestled in your stiletto, and he laps his cum from the bridge with shorter strokes.

Dave doesn't flinch away from his own taste, he’s licked his own hands clean often enough to enjoy it to a degree. A form of cannibalism, eating his young, feasting on his own potential.

He cleans your skin, lifting your foot higher and his tongue pressed into the small gaps between the leather and your toes. You pet his head again, humming, purring under his ministrations. Dave's lips purse half above the leather and half above your skin, a small kiss before he sucks his cum out of the tiny gap.

It really is easy. He licks over the glossy black, leather and salt coating his senses, another sugary good boy in his ears and in his hair your claws graze over his scalp.

A few more licks and kisses and the creamy white has disappeared from the shiny piece of leather. He can see himself in it again. A twisted image, but unmistakably Dave.

He rubs his spit into the smooth animal skin, you can wash his mark off later if you want. He's done. With cleaning and with this. It's over, for tonight at least.

He lowers your stiletto onto the thick carpet again and offers free sight to his spent cock, heavy and sticky. No more wagging, no more dog. He's back to being an equal.

“You did amazing, Dave. Really good.”

Your hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat before you rise to your feet and over him your hand to pull him up. He takes it, groaning quietly when his knees crack. Dave feels a little shaky, or maybe more shook than shaky. But he feels good, lighter, loose. Not even ashamed.

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink, something to eat?” You don't even wait for his answer and turn to the minibar, pulling out a cold water for him.

“No, thank you. I'm good. I'll just take a quick shower.” With a thud his shoes land on the floor as he kicks them off. His slacks follow, then his damp briefs.

You watch him undress, amazed and attracted to his confidence and nonchalance, attracted to what lies beneath Dave's clothes, too. In another life you two would be a great match.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” You turn towards the minibar again, looking for something else. There it is, a kitkat.

“You don't have to, but thank you.” Dave smiles at you and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. He holds out his hand now, naked in front of you and not bothered by it. Smug. Big dick energy and he can afford it.

You shake his hand, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. “Until the next time then. Take good care, Dave.”

You smile at each other, the possibilities of being reckless crackling between you, but then he lets go of your hand and turns his back towards you, heading into the bathroom. When the water starts running behind closed doors you take his shirt from the pile of clothes and nuzzle into the fabric. It's a good smell. Masculine, of course.

Slipping a few fingers into your pants and deeper, behind the elastic of your lace underwear and still deeper, dipping them into your sopping pussy, you inhale his scent deeply, clenching to the thought of his tongue on your skin.

You treat yourself to a moment with your fingers buried in your cunt before you pull out again. You write your name on the inside of his collar, invisible ink made out of your slick, setting a scent mark, a last reward for this good boy.

When Dave enters the room again later you have disappeared, in thin air, no trace of you is left. But something churns inside of him when he gets dressed.

Later, in his car, it clicks. Pussy. It smells like pussy, right in front of him. You god forsaken menace. Of course you had to have the last word. Marking him, mocking him, making him hard again. And of course your pussy smells delicious. Sticky sweet. He groans and adjusts himself, driving home a little faster now.

The house lays in silence when he steps over the threshold. The girls are fast asleep, he checked it immediately with a peek into their rooms. Carol is asleep as well. Soft and warm and plush under the blanket, curled up on her side. Dave kicks his shoes off and steps out of his slacks and briefs. They are still damp in the front, from the precum you urged out of him. But the shirt stays on.

He slips under the blanket and pulls Carol closer, her perfect ass against his already half-hard cock. A hand gently kneads one of her breasts, the other one tugs down her pajama pants.

She's awake in no time, whimpering when he grinds against her rear and lets his dick glide between her ass cheeks.

“Therapy was good?” Her voice is so soft, always sweet for him, never harsh, rarely ever does a no come from her.

“Yeah. Missed you…” he mumbles into the crook of her neck, biting and pulling on her skin until she winces softly.

“Dave-...”

He pinches her nipples and she winces again. A waft of your pussy hits him and he breathes it in deeply.

“Color, baby.”

“What?” Carol chuckles, not yet believing that she’s about to be fucked by her always loyal, always loving and caring husband.

“You’ve heard me. Give me your color.” His cock now slides between her legs and through her folds. He’ll slick her up real good, leaking already with a quiet thrumming sting in his balls. Carol’s pussy feels as good as yours smells.

“Green,” she gasps and rocks back against him.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls before biting the flesh over her shoulder blade and pushing into her.

When Dave finally is satisfied, soaked in Carol and him, she rolls on her back and watches him get a warm towel for her. Whatever this therapist did with Dave, it did wonders. He should go more often.

thank you for reading! and remember, kids, comment or reblog to show me I've been a good girl and did a good job, please and thank you

find my Dave York masterlist here

find my general masterlist here

more a/n: I'd probably suck as dominatrix, shout-out to all the bad ass professionals and hobby dom(me)s out there, you are amazing and I'm literally on my knees for you

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

#dmamc2025 #dmamc 2025 #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york smut #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu #pedro pascal #my writing

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perlelune · 1 year ago

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Boadicea | Feyd-Rautha

You took the lives of his men. It's only fair to the na-Baron to have yours in return.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fedaykin! Reader, Fremen Reader, Forced Submission, Dacryphilia, Collars, Mouth Gag, Cannibalism, Knives, Death Fetish, Exhibitionism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Elation bursts through your chest as the dying gurgle of yet another Harkonnen soldier fills your ears. You grow even more satisfied when his body hits the ground. Another screaming bald-headed demon lunges at you. Fierce blows are exchanged. You wince as he nicks you in the flank.

The desperation to win explodes through your veins. You slam your head into his, disorienting him long enough to drive your crysknife right through his gut. Even as he falls across the sand, blood spilling from his gaping mouth, you don’t stop. Unrelenting, you keep stabbing him, fury and vengeance driving your blade. With each strike, more of his dark blood splatters over your face, adding to his slain comrades’.

A war cry rips from your throat when he stops moving.

You rise on quaking feet, the exhaustion of hours of fending off the never-ending swarm of Harkonnen warriors crashing over you at once.

Your gaze swings across the battlefield. Horror surges within you.

It’s a slaughter. Fellow Fedaykin are burning right before your eyes. The Harkonnen artilleries rained death upon the Fremen troops the likes of which you’ve never seen before. The shock of sheer helplessness drills a gaping hole inside your chest.

Cowards, you muse bitterly. Of course they will not face you on the ground. It is well-known one Fedaykin is worth a dozen Harkonnen soldiers. None in the known universe fight more ferociously than the Fremen.

So they resorted to unleash heavy weapons from the sky. The sweltering Arrakis weather did the rest.

You whirl to your little brother. Just like you, he’s covered in grime, dirt and the putrid ichor that serves as blood to the Harkonnens.

“Run, Kaleb, hide!” you yell in Chakobsa, urgency bleeding in your tone.

You are lost. So is the rest of the Fedaykin army. But if your brother leaves now, he can use his hooks to call a maker and hitch a ride to safety.

A frown carves your little brother’s brow. “I can’t leave you,” he says.

You grip his shoulders.

“You have to. Get supplies at the village and go south with the others. Do you hear me?”

When he doesn’t reply, staring at you mouth agape, you jostle his slender frame.

“Do you hear me?” you repeat, louder this time.

He gives a shaky nod. “Yes!”

You remove the cord around your neck to place it around your brother’s instead.

A look of terror distorts his features.

“No, I can’t take your water rings,” he says, his voice trembling.

Your forehead presses against his.

“You must.”

A single errant tear spills down his cheek and you swipe it with your thumb, pressing it between his lips so it reenters his body.

“Do not waste your moisture. Now go.”

Reluctantly, you brother scampers away. A surge of relief fills you as you watch him stand before a dune slope in the distance and plant his thumper into the sand. The drumming begins. The ground starts rumbling some minutes later to signal the arrival of a worm. You dive inside a cave, taking cover as a wave of rising sand crests above the horizon. The deafening familiar hissing of Shai-Hulud surrounds you.

You close your eyes and suck in a wide breath, soothing yourself with a common Fremen saying.

The Uncleansed who have seen a crysknife may not leave Dune alive.

The screams of Harkonnen soldiers, unprepared for the sudden arrival of a sandworm, swell inside your ears as you settle in your hiding spot.

When the uproar dies, you ponder returning to the battlefield. However, whispers in the cave have you freeze in the rocky dint concealing your presence.

You lean forward to steal a peek. Your heart bounces.

Men in full Harkonnen livery stand beneath the vaulted ceiling of the cave.

Your eyes widen as you hear them idly discuss their plans to purge the remainder of the Fremen forces in the south.

Your focus sharpens. You slow your breaths and dull your quickening heartbeats.

A wild, insane idea takes shape in your head.

If you could stay hidden long enough. Perhaps you could return to Sietch Tabr. Report back to Muad’ Dib. Warn them of the Harkonnens’ plan.

A word keeps pouring from the men’s lips, one whose meaning evades you.

Na-Baron.

Confusion knits your brow.

As you continue trying to commit the conversation to memory, the chatter abruptly dies.

You go still, your mind buzzing.

The quiet deepens. Only the muffled sounds of the desert remain.

The blunt features of an Harkonnen warrior crowd your sight.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Before you can hatch an escape plan, you’re roughly dislodged from your hiding spot.

You struggle against the arms that hold you, whirling to shove your crysknife into the man’s throat. He grabs his throat, choking on his own blood before his body finds the ground with a loud thud.

More men lunge themselves at you.

You cut down five more Harkonnen soldiers before a swarm of them surrounds you, punching and kicking you until you tumble to the ground. You cough out a trickle of blood onto the ground.

After every hit, the men attempt to interrogate you.

“Are there any more hiding like you?”

“Where are the others?”

Every inquiry thrown at you encounters a stubborn wall of silence. You will never betray the other Fremen. Though the prospect doesn’t thrill you, you’d much rather die. In fact, you’ve already embraced your inevitable fate. This is where your story ends.

You console yourself with one fact.

That at least you won’t leave this world a traitor.

It takes three men to restrain you long enough to tie you up. You only let go of your crysknife when one of the bald-headed warriors stomps over your hand with his boot, snapping your wrist bone and forcing your palm open. An ear-splitting scream rips from your throat. Still, you do not cry, refusing to waste your body moisture for these monsters.

You’re forced on your knees, hogtied while your broken wrist throbs against your back. The corpses of the men you slaughtered are dragged away.

Voices from outside grow louder as you hear the echo of steps fastly approaching.

“There is only one spy left behind. We couldn’t find the others,” one of the men says.

A gravelly voice, like the scraping of a rock against a hard surface, lands in your ears.

“They have gone south to hide in the storms,” it says.

Your pulse escalates, your gaze lifting slowly. There is something different about the newcomer. He’s tall, athletic, with delicate, aristocratic features that are unusual amongst the Harkonnen. An aura of authority hangs around him, every soldier’s stance stiffening as he enters the cave.

He must be the one in charge, you realize.

Someone hands him your crysknife. A tide of anger mounts within you at the sight. If you were free, you’d plunge it in his neck.

He gauges the blade attentively, his fingertips caressing the bloodied edge.

“Send this message to my uncle,” the newcomer says. “The North is tamed and secured. Harvest spice at will.”

“Yes, na-Baron,” a man near him replies before taking his leave.

Na-Baron. You frown. So it is him.

He takes sluggish, lithe steps towards you, the corner of his lips twisting upwards.

Your muscles coil, cold tendrils of dread clutching your insides.

Even on the battlefield, as your life hung in the balance, you didn’t feel this creeping sense of imminent danger.

The primal, gut-deep inkling that you should run…and never look back.

“You killed six of my men with a single blade,” he says, a mix of surprise and admiration laced in his raspy baritone.

“She won’t talk,” the man behind him says. “We even broke her hand but she still won’t say a word.”

He cocks his head, his tone bone-chilling as he casually states, “Tell her that’s fine. I already know everything I need to know.” A man near him hands him a flame thrower. You take a deep breath. You’ve witnessed Harkonnen soldiers use them to set ablaze corpses and catch runaway Fremen, burning them alive. There isn’t a hint of emotion in the na-Baron’s voice as he points the flame thrower at you. “Only pleasure remains.”

You lift your chin. If death you must meet, you will do it with dignity.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” you reply calmly, a wide smile spreading onto your lips.

The na-Baron’s eyes bulge and narrow, his hands dropping.

He strides forward.

“What did you just say?”

“Just get on with it, will you?” You unleash a frustrated sigh. Shouldn’t you be a charred heap of smoking flesh and bones already? What is this na-Baron wasting time for? You are resigned to it now, having used the time before to accept your fate. “I’m eager to meet my ancestors and be freed of your foul Harkonnen stench,” you taunt, hoping your insolent tongue will hasten things along.

You wait and wait, your defiant gaze never wavering.

But the deathly flames that should lick the flesh clean off your bones never come.

Instead, the na-Baron tosses the flame thrower on the ground and barks an order to one of his subordinates.

“Take her back to my chambers in our base.”

The man casts you a disdainful glare.

“But na-Baron. That woman is danger-” A swift slash across the man’s throat from the na-Baron’s blade has the man choking on his words. Blood fills his mouth, his body twitching as it sprawls across the ground.

He doesn’t spare the dying man another glance, his head slanting.

He leers at you, exerting no effort to disguise the lewd intent etched in his dark gaze.

“And make sure to tell my darlings she’s not for them to have…but for me to feast upon later.”

Fear floods your veins. You readied yourself for death, not for…whatever the Harkonnen warrior has in store for you.

“Yes, na-Baron.”

You’re hauled off the floor. When you refuse to move, one of the Harkonnen soldiers twists your broken limb to get you to lurch forward. You clench your teeth and blink back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You will not cry. You will not give them the satisfaction.

Tears are sacred. They are to honor the dead and nothing else.

Before you’re carried away, the na-Baron approaches you and frames your jaw.

“I hear Fremen do not cry, never squander their water under any circumstance. I wonder…” A sadistic smile unfurls on his pale lips, baring a glimpse of inky black teeth beneath. His thumb sweeps across your tightly pressed lips. “What will it take for you to shed a tear for me, pet?”

You shiver in the ropes as you watch the three Harkonnen women tear bloody ribbons in the male Fedaykin’s flesh with their claw-sharp black nails. The delighted purrs they emit while feasting on human flesh bounce off the black, sterile walls of the palatial chambers.

Your gaze is wide, horrified.

You’ve seen death. You’ve seen violence. But you’ve never laid eyes on such a ghoulish spectacle before. The na-Baron’s cannibalistic mates picking the meat off the man’s bones and digging their hands inside his gut. As if he were nothing but a heap of fresh meat to sate their hunger.

You want to peel your gaze away… but you can’t.

You’re paralyzed.

His lifeless blue eyes, a sinister mirror of your own due to the spice melange, send prickles through your spine.

This could have easily been you. And it would have been…weren’t it for the na-Baron’s whim changing course as swiftly as a weather vane. Just like the apparel must yield to the fickle will of the winds, you must surrender to his.

When the women are done, one of them flashes you a broad smile. Shredded pieces of organs stick to her teeth and blood covers the bottom of her face, dripping down her chin.

A shudder ripples through your spine.

Their inky, whiteless stares settle on you. They discard the mangled corpse and inch closer to you. You retreat against the wall, fear gripping your throat. Ravenous expressions light up their pretty faces.

You swallow through your aching, parched throat. Are you next? Will they do to you what they did to that poor man?

They whisper in Harkonnen. The confusion about the words pouring from their tongues stokes the terror consuming you.

Then they laugh. Strident, bloodcurdling, wicked laughs. You remain still, willing your heart not to beat so loudly.

Dying on the battlefield is one thing. Being eaten alive is another, wildly different thing. The kind of needlessly cruel death you never envisioned for yourself.

Despite the distress tossing your senses into chaos, you force yourself not to cry. No tears, you remind yourself. Not for them. Never for them.

One of them snaps her teeth in your face. Your lip quivers as blood drains from your head. Your reaction draws another round of laughter from them.

They tease you for a while, their threats disturbingly clear despite not understanding a lick of their coarse native tongue.

It’s in their hunched, predatory stance, the hunger twisting their pretty features. They could pounce on you at any time, rip you to shreds and you’d be powerless to stop them.

Their vicious taunting is still in progress when the na-Baron storms into his chambers. His arrival does nothing to alleviate your worries.

A fond smile ghosts over his lips as he soaks the scene before him.

“I see you’ve met my darlings.” The women coo as he approaches them. He lovingly cradles each of their faces, planting deep, passionate kisses on their lips. The sickening display by your fellow Fedaykin’s slain form a few feet away makes your stomach wrench. “Darlings, meet my new pet.”

“I’m not a pet,” you snarl.

The women hiss at you in concert, sounding like snakes ready to strike. You flinch backwards.

He cocks his head.

“You are whatever I say you are.” He glides towards you slowly. Once he’s in front of you, he taps the booted tip of his foot into your bruised knee. His gravelly baritone scratches along your eardrums. “Kiss my feet. I’m your master now.”

You squint at him.

“Fuck you.”

His plump mouth quirks lopsidedly. He then kicks you in the gut without ceremony. The searing pain knocks the breath from your lungs. You keel over, groaning against the tiles.

He hunkers down and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head backwards. The sting in your scalp has you blink back tears before they can spill.

“In time, pretty little pet.”

Steps echo from afar. A man enters the room. The na-Baron’s authoritative timbre whips across the stiff, sweltering air of the room.

“Did you bring what I asked?”

“Yes, na-Baron,” the man replies swiftly. From the corner of your sight, you get a glimpse of metal. Panic sings inside your veins.

As your pulse soars, you’re shocked when the ropes around your frame come loose through a few nimble slashes of a knife.

You jump to your feet.

Your shocked gaze locks with his. Amusement decorates his features.

Layer after layer, he removes pieces of his armor. Until his carved alabaster, muscles are exposed to you, leaving him in little more than a thin strip of fabric hanging precariously over his tapered waist.

A second long, curved blade is tossed at your feet.

Your eyes bounce from the weapon to him. Utter confusion wars with fright within you.

When the guards begin to draw their weapons, he barks at them, “Don’t.” They place their weapons back in their sheaths. He opens his arms, the blade in his hand glinting in the dull light of the room. “Go on. This is your chance.”

You gawk at him. Is he truly baiting you to attack him? Does his life mean nothing to him? Is he a madman?

Your brows crumple. With every second, your confusion grows.

He approaches you. Adrenaline pumps through your veins. You rush to pick up the knife with your unbroken hand and point it at him.

There isn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes as he inches closer, the blade grazing his bulging pec.

“Do it,” he challenges, a clear taunt in his haughty inflection.

Your mouth trembles. What do you stand to lose? You will never see Sietch Tabr or your brother again. You’re a war prisoner. You might as well be dead. You should be dead. In another life, you would already be.

You suck in a sharp breath. You move as quickly as your feet and dwindling strength allow. He matches each of your brutal, clumsy blows. You go for his head and he dodges with ease, grabbing your broken wrist, causing you to stumble. Your breath falters, throbbing pain exploding in your limb. Grinding your teeth, you whirl and deal another series of strikes. He parries each of them, a delighted expression etched on his slender features. Anger glows within you. He’s enjoying this. While you’re in agony, he finds pleasure in every brush with death.

You graze his cheek, leaving a long cut across his flesh. A demented, black grin breaks out on his face. The fight continues for a few more minutes, the clash of metal and his feral roars swelling in the room.

It ends with him tackling you to the ground as he slams your wrists besides your head. The knife slips out of your grasp. You hold your breath, helplessness filling you as his muscular frame drapes over yours.

His lips skim against your temple.

“You fought well, sweet pet. Better than most,” he whispers. You shudder when his cool tongue drags over your cheek. “But it’s time I claim my prize.”

Ice ripples through your blood. You struggle beneath him as he rips your stillsuit from your body. Every effort to fight against him is for naught. Soon, your bruised and battered form is completely bare to him.

He drinks you in as your chest lifts and sags, lust sparkling in his dark gaze. He wrestles a collar around your neck and a ring-shaped gag on your mouth. The contraption forcing your lips apart makes you feel even more trapped than before. He tugs off the cloth covering him, revealing his massive erection, the pale tip already glistening with his arousal.

He hoists you up until you’re on your knees. His fist tangles in your hair, wrenching your neck backwards. Muffled moans of protest fly from your throat.

“I never wondered what a desert rat’s mouth felt like before. But now…” He pumps himself, his tongue darting out to sweep over his bottom lip. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He slips his tip between your lips, nudging you closer when you try to turn your head. That mere contact has him purring in delight. You push against his thighs, desperation swelling as your palms meet unflinching bands of thick, corded muscles. Even the tip of him feels like too much, the corners of your mouth bursting at the pressure. You groan, completely helpless as he pushes more of himself in your mouth.

He cradles your face, his grip firmer than before, and plants his feet in the ground. You gag on his length as he finds the back of your throat, the salty taste of his skin filling your mouth. Shame wells up inside you. Tears burn the back of your eyes as you choke on his size.

Nearby, the cannibalistic women laugh at your torment, sharing words in Harkonnen you don’t understand.

The na-Baron snickers, making you jolt as he shoves inside you to the hilt. The corners of your mouth ache, both from the device and his thick girth.

“Yes. She does take me gloriously, doesn’t she?" He smirks. "Like a true warrior.”

Hatred burns in your eyes as you glare up at him. He seems to bask in the sight, moaning in pleasure as he starts thrusting inside your mouth.

You’re left with no choice but to take his merciless assault. His eyes roll back as he bruises your throat and steals your breath. Stilted whimpers roll off your tongue.

Your eyes sting. You try your hardest to swallow every tear and sob, but as time goes on…your pride crumbles. In its stead, only despair remains.

Tears swell in your eyes and make a slow descent down your cheeks.

“Ah, there it is,” he rasps, collecting the droplets with his thumbs.

As he brings one to his tongue, humming at the taste, you feel him grow harder on your tongue.

The pit of your stomach sizzles. With humiliation. With defeat.

Throaty moans pour from his chest, his head tossing back as he pounds harder into your mouth.

Your body goes limp, his hands the only thing keeping you on your knees. Your vision blurs as you become nothing but a toy for the na-Baron, a vessel for his brutality. A tool to satisfy his basest needs.

“Perhaps, we shall keep that one. What do you think, darlings?” The women’s excited squeals land in your ears. He caresses your damp cheeks. “And if she ever bores us, well…” He licks his lips, a wide grin unfanning on his face. “We’ll make sure no part of her goes to waste.”

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd-rautha #dune fanfiction #dune #dune part two #feyd-rautha x reader #feyd rautha #dark!fic

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saccharinesatoru · 3 months ago

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Unwrap Me (m)

Pairing: gojo satoru x reader (f)

Genre: sorcerer & boyfriend!Gojo + smut w/ fluff

Word count: uhh 6k ish i think

Summary: Satoru felt so very bad after spending so much time away from home, so to make it up to you, he’ll be wrapped nice and pretty for you as a Valentine’s Day gift for the both of you.

Warnings: submissive!gojo, mommy kink, bondage, overstimulation, breeding kink, choking, penetration (f receiving), brief use of daddy kink, pregnancy kink (low key)

A/N: i originally had this as a gojo christmas/belated birthday fic, but i didn’t finish it in time… lmao thank you always for the support. And lemme know if you have the artist’s ^ name, so i can tag or credit them

Xx Jay

Surprisingly, the hardest part about being a sorcerer wasn’t fighting curses, the agonizing hours of training, or even dealing with the ridiculously ignorant higher ups. The most challenging part was how your social life was almost entirely depleted. It’s a miracle you get along so well with other sorcerers like Shoko and Nanami, otherwise you’d have no friends whatsoever… and no boyfriend either. When you first met Satoru, you admittedly thought he was annoying. Though, pretty much everyone felt the same way upon meeting the white-haired sorcerer… and some people still found him annoying to this day (i.e., Nanami).

After years of working together, neither of you could deny the spark you two shared and eventually caved in to the passion. The rest was history. And now, going three years strong, you and Satoru love each other more than anything. There’s just one problem: both of you are so busy that you hardly get any time with each other. You have the day off? Sorry, Satoru’s on a mission abroad. He miraculously finishes a mission early and gets to come home sooner than expected? That’s a shame; you’re caught in a meeting with Yaga and the higher ups. It certainly wasn’t easy being in a relationship with the honored one, and that was emphasized on anniversaries and holidays that you two spent apart.

Today was Valentine’s Day, and you had already prepared yourself to spend the night alone, drinking wine, watching corny romcoms, facetiming Satoru from his mission outside of Tokyo, and trying not to cry yourself to sleep as you lay in a cold bed, void of your boyfriend of several years. You told yourself it was okay. After all, you should be used to it by this point, right? This was hardly the first significant date you had spent without your partner. Surely you’d be able to muster through this one too… right?

That would be much simpler if you hadn’t borne witness to about a dozen couples enjoying the day of love together. Hell, even Principal Yaga had plans and left campus early to meet with some mystery woman. Like Satoru, you're a teacher at Jujutsu High, and you saw plenty of your students celebrating the special day together. Yuta planned a picnic date with Maki, Megumi made a bouquet of origami flowers for Yuji, and even Hakari and Kirara had planned some big trip to a casino in the heart of Tokyo which definitely didn’t seem legal or age-appropriate. As happy as you were to see your students so happy and in love, it reminded you of how your Valentine this year would be your couch and a bottle of wine instead of your boyfriend. You took a deep breath as Ijichi drove you home. Ordinarily, you’d drive yourself, but you had a sneaking suspicion that even Ijichi felt bad for you and decided to show you some compassion… or pity… or both.

You smile softly and wave goodbye to the assistant supervisor as he drives off in the direction of the setting sun. Surprisingly, getting off work late was a welcomed circumstance today given it meant you’d be spending less time alone in an empty house. Trudging to your front door, you fumble with the keys and slip off your shoes upon entering the home you shared with Satoru. You weren’t sure if it was all in your head, but the house quite literally felt colder without Satoru- regardless of what the thermostat said. All you want to do is change into your pajamas and wallow in self-pity… but then you see the rose petals delicately scattered on the floor. You frown, and for a second, you think you’re either hallucinating, about to be attacked by someone who broke into your home, or being pranked.

Your worries are offset when you hear soft music coming from the direction of your bedroom. You slowly walk toward the room, following a line of rose petals. Upon peeking your head in the doorway, your jaw drops and your eyes widen. Who else do you find but the one and only Gojo Satoru sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but his signature blindfold and red ribbon that’s meticulously wrapped to cover his pelvis. Now you’re sure you’re hallucinating.

You stammer, “I… The mission… you’re here…”

He laughs and sits up to rest on his elbows. “Surprise, sweetheart. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

You feel dazed. Here you were, preparing yourself to lie to your boyfriend over facetime about not crying your eyes out due to loneliness when Satoru was sat, waiting all patient and pretty, and ready to be unwrapped like the gift he is. Your jaw must still be on the floor, because Satoru laughs again at your expression. “Don’t just stand there. I didn’t get home earlier than planned just for you to catch flies with that jaw of yours left open all night.”

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you feel tears well in your eyes as you rush toward him and leap onto the bed, pulling him into your arms. You say softly and quietly, “I missed you so much, Toru. I wanted to count down the days until I saw you next, but with how busy we both are, I wasn’t sure when that day would be.”

Satoru looks at you with a soft smile too as he holds you close to his chest and his warmth envelops you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart… I know this is difficult for you and our relationship. I’m going to make a better effort to make time for us. And that’s why I think you’ll like the gift I got you…” He trails off before chuckling. “I mean, it’s not the only gift I got you, but I think you’ll like it most.”

You furrow your brows and look at him. It was not a surprise that Satoru got you multiple gifts for Valentine’s Day. He does the same thing for just about every special day, even holidays like Saint Patrick’s Day that neither one of you even celebrated. So what did he have planned that was so magnanimous that he deliberately mentioned it before giving it to you? “...What is it?”

He smirked at you and whispered in your ear, “After negotiating with the higher ups…” He pauses and amends, “Okay, after threatening the higher ups, I got the two of us a whole week off of work to do whatever… we… want.”

It may sound silly and over dramatic, but you honestly have to hold back a scream at the words he whispers to you. A whole week? Neither one of you has had that much time off since… actually, you’ve never had that much time off. You and Satoru were lucky to get a mere afternoon together. That time was always cherished, but this is an entire week. You feel faint just thinking about it. Your silence and expression conveys just about every bit of excitement and shock you have. Satoru smiles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “That’s right, sweets. Just you and me for the whole week. No curses, no missions, no higher ups… just us.”

A tear threatens to slip down your cheek as you process his words. He softly wipes away your tears with his thumb. You pull him even closer and breathe in the scent of his cologne. It’s the little things, really. The very thought that you’ll be able to take in his scent from rubbing your nose against the crook of his neck rather than try to inhale traces of it from his pillow brings you overwhelming joy that you can’t begin to put into words. You say softly and sincerely, “Thank you, Satoru. This means more than the world… You mean more than the world.”

Satoru smiles. “Anything for you, sweetheart.” He leans closer to you, his breath warm against your ear and whispers, “Now, how about you unwrap your other gift.. I think you’ll really like it.” He grabs your hand gently and places it on the ribbon’s bow on his thigh. You smirk as well and begin to slowly pull on the strand, untying the bow.

“I think it’s a gift both of us will like,” You whisper back.

You undo the ribbon and slowly slide it off Satoru, revealing his body in its entirety. You caress him as if he’s the most precious piece of art you’d ever laid eyes on (which is true). Almost as if in a trance, you whisper, “A masterpiece…”

Satoru’s blush doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Even though Satoru was always very confident (cocky) about his handsome features and bragged frequently about his physique and attractiveness, he never failed to blush whenever you complimented him. Something about you and your praise made him equal parts flustered and proud. And your comment just now was no exception. You chuckle at his expression and run your finger down his body. You have a mischievous twinkle in your eye. “Satoru… I have an idea for your Valentine’s Day gift…”

He furrows his brows in confusion. You have to keep yourself from cooing and pinching his cheeks, given his expression makes him akin to a puppy dog. “What is it?”

You smile and gently pull off the remaining ribbon on his body. Satoru lets out a quiet hiss at the feeling of the silk gliding over his rock hard cock. Once the ribbon is completely off his body, you twirl it in your hands and smile. “Be a good boy for me, and let me tie you up another way.”

Satoru’s eyes widen, and his cock grows impossibly harder. If your previous compliment made him blush, your comment made him red as a tomato. Sure, he likes pet names like ‘baby’, ‘sweetheart’, or ‘honey’... but nothing gets him hot, bothered, and a blushing mess than when you call him your good boy. He stutters, “T-tie me up?”

You chuckle and nod, playing with the ribbon in your hands. “You heard me right, Toru. How bout you let me string you up and take care of you for the night, hm? You must be so tired after your long mission… Why don’t you let mommy do all the work?”

He nearly cums from your words alone. No one would ever expect the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, the honored one, the almighty Gojo Satoru to have such a submissive side to him, but you knew better than anyone that every now and then, Satoru would be so desperate for you to take control that he’d be on the brink of tears. This is no exception. He looks at you like you’re his patron saint, and he worships the very ground you walk on. He nods slowly, eyes still wide. You chuckle again and lightly pat his cheek. “Words, baby.”

Satoru attempts (and fails) to snap out of his daze, but is able to speak softly, “Yes, mommy. Please make me feel good. I need it- I need you.”

You smile and press a soft kiss to his forehead. “What a good boy. Scoot up near the headboard for me, baby. Let’s hope I’m still good at tying knots.” He damn near leaps to the top of the bed. You almost question if he teleported there, too excited to even move normally. It’s not entirely fair to chuckle at his behavior, since you’re just as excited as he is. You use the ribbon to tie his wrists to the headboard. Pulling gently on the restraints to make sure they’re not too tight, you ask softly, “Is that okay, baby? Not too tight?”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine, mommy- no pain or discomfort.”

You nod and caress his cheek again. “You remember our system, right? Green for keep going, yellow for slow down, and red for stop. If your mouth is full, tap me three times, and I’ll stop. Also, be sure to tell me if the restraints are too tight or are beginning to hurt you, okay? I know you can heal yourself with reverse curse technique, but the last thing I want is to hurt you, alright? Don’t ever worry about upsetting or disappointing me. Your safety is the most important thing to me, alright?”

Satoru nods. Even the way you speak to him while explaining your safe words has his stomach doing flips. He’s always appreciated how caring you are, and there’s no exception when it comes to sex. As hot as the actual act is, the amount of love and care you display is the part of sex that means the most to him. And obviously, he’s far too strong for the measly ribbon to hold him back, but the very act of submitting to you willingly has both of you feeling hot and bothered. “Yes, I understand. I will communicate with you how I’m feeling, I promise.”

You nod again and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Okay, baby, let’s get started.”

The excitement in Satoru’s eyes is practically visible through his blindfold. You chuckle and gently slip the fabric up and over his head. “I want to see all of you.” His face heats up at your words and nods, his bottom lip between his teeth and blush on full display. You begin by running your finger gently down his torso, leaving goosebumps along his skin. As you move lower, you begin to pepper kisses along his torso, leading to his muscular thighs. When you reach his cock, you playfully run your tongue over a vein, making him shiver. “P-please don’t tease, mommy. I need you so bad.”

Chuckling softly, you drop a dollop of spit onto his length and take him in your hand, pumping him a few times. “I’m sorry, baby. You know I can’t help but love watching my good boy squirm and beg for me.” Shooting him a sweet smile, you lean forward and wrap your lips around his pretty pink tip, eliciting a gasp out of the man. Deciding you’re done with teasing him, you sink your mouth down further until he hits the back of your throat. Instead of making him cry through teasing, you’ll make sure to bring him to tears by milking him dry.

You begin with a slow rhythm, pumping in your hands whatever you can’t fit in your mouth. Satoru was nonstandard in every sense of the word. To say his cock was massive was an understatement. The feeling of him in your mouth was one thing, but the stretch you felt when he finally slipped inside was unlike anything else you’d ever felt. And you were determined to make him feel as good as he made you feel. Quickening your pace, you hear Satoru moan, the occasional whimper and whine spilling from his lips. You forced your mouth deeper until your nose touched his pelvis, the soft white tufts of hair around his cock brushing against your nose. You lean up quickly for air, you immediately wrap your lips around him again. He gasps at the sudden change and wiggles his hips against you, almost thrusting into your mouth. You tap his thigh, wordlessly giving him permission to fuck your mouth. Satoru whines upon your signal granting him permission and wastes no time bucking his hips upward, his cock repeatedly hitting the back of your throat. You’re gagging, drool and precum spilling from your lips and dripping down your chin. Satoru looks at the sight of you with tears brimming in your eyes from the lack of oxygen as he fucks into your tight throat. He honestly feels like he could cum from the sight alone, but he holds back since he doesn’t want the moment to end. The pleasure feels too good for him to give in now. He bites his lip and clenches both of his fists against the restraints.

Upon seeing him hold back, you narrow your eyes and sit up. When his hardened cock falls from your lips, his eyes shoot open in desperation and he immediately begins to whine, “W-wait, wait, wait! Why did you stop? Please, please keep going, mommy.”

Taking his length in your hand and rubbing up and down the appendage, you say sternly, “You know how I feel about you holding back, baby. You’re not supposed to hold back any noises or orgasms unless I tell you otherwise. I don’t want to have to punish you…”

Satoru feels like he might start crying on the spot. “N-No! No, I swear, I’ll be your good boy. I’m sorry for breaking the rules, mommy. I… I just wanted this to last longer. Y-your mouth feels so good, and I just want to feel it a little bit longer, mommy. I wasn’t trying to be bad.”

You honestly feel bad for even mentioning punishment in the first place with how desperate Satoru looked at the moment. You caress his cheek and say softly, “Baby, I have so much more in store for you. Just because you cum early during a blowjob doesn’t mean I’m not going to milk you dry tonight.”

His eyes light up in excitement at your words, the distress written on his face fading and the tears subsiding. “Yes, yes, thank you, mommy. I’m sorry for doubting and disrespecting you…” Satoru’s face morphs into a pout. “Can… Can we keep going please?”

Chuckling at his question, you nod. “Of course, baby. Tonight’s about you.” You catch him off guard by immediately taking him in your mouth again, causing him to let out a loud moan and tense his thick thighs. You increase the pleasure by moving one hand to his balls and fondling them the way you know drives him crazy. He whimpers at the feeling and faces an internal dilemma as to whether or not he should drop his head against the pillow in pleasure or keep his eyes trained on the captivating sight that is you.

With his cock repeatedly hitting the back of your throat, your hand pumping what you can’t fit in your mouth, and your other hand playing with his balls has him teetering on the edge of climax. He whines out, “M-Mommy, mommy, I’m close. Please let me cum, I can’t take it anymore.”

You hum around him, both giving him nonverbal permission to cum as well as sending vibrations through his already sensitive cock. He gasps and shoots his load into your mouth, whining, moaning, and thanking you for pleasing him. “Thank… Thank you so much, mommy. That felt so… so good.” He’s panting and trying to catch his breath when his eyes widen upon realizing you hadn’t stopped your ministrations. Satoru stammers, “W-Wait, mommy, I finished already. I- fuck- I’m sensitive.”

Despite hearing his nervous stammering, you continue to suck him off. Hearing all his cute little noises sounded even better after he felt boneless following a powerful orgasm. Just to push him even further, you pick up the intensity of your movements and make the act even messier with more drool, tears, and precum. You know how much he likes the sight of you eager to please him and give him the relief he needs.

Satoru feels like his brain is turning to mush. Despite the fact that he just came moments ago, he feels his cock begin to harden again, adding to the sensitivity he feels. He feels his entire body tremble as you increase the intensity. He lets out a shaky breath, feeling as oxygen-deprived as you do. “I-I’m close again, mommy. I’m so, so close. I’m going to cum, oh my god.” Satoru groans and his entire body tenses, anticipating his climax. You pull your mouth off him, but continue pumping him up and down as well as fondling his balls.

You say to your boyfriend warmly, “Baby, I told you I was going to milk you dry. Mommy always keeps her promises, right?”

He nods vigorously which is a miracle considering how high he feels at the moment. Satoru’s lips are red from how much he’s bitten them and his entire body is on edge, teetering on the brink of release. He looks at you with tear-filled eyes. “C-Can I cum, mommy? Please? I’ve been such a good boy for you.”

Leaning forward, you press a soft kiss to his lips and whisper, “Cum for me, baby. Show mommy how good she made you feel.”

You barely finish your sentence before he’s spilling into your hand, several ropes of cum coming from his red, sensitive cock. “Fuck!” Satoru’s a moaning mess, and you’d surely get noise complaints from the neighbors if Satoru weren’t so rich that he could buy the two of you an unreasonably large mansion. He’s loud and shameless- just how you like him.

He comes down from his high and mutters, “Thank you, mommy. I-I was worried about how sensitive I felt at first, but you made me feel so good as usual. Thank you for always taking such good care of me.” Satoru looks at you with stars in his eyes as if you were an angel sent from heaven.

You chuckle softly and lick off the cum that had stuck to your hands. Gently pushing some of his hair from his sweaty forehead, you smile fondly at the man. “Of course, baby. I have to give my good boy every bit of care and affection he deserves.”

Satoru smiles at you softly and leans up to catch your lips in a kiss again. You make him feel so safe, so warm… so loved. He hadn’t felt that way since Suguru said goodbye to him all those years ago and left him to pick up the broken pieces of the life they had built together. You made him feel whole again, and he would spend every day of the rest of his life repaying you for the priceless amount of care and affection you gave him.

He feels content in the moment but longs for you in a more intimate way. Satoru looks at you, a bit shy, and asks softly, “Can… Can you please ride me, mommy? Your mouth feels so good… but your pussy feels amazing.”

You chuckle again and press another peck to his lips. “Of course, baby. I just wanted you to catch your breath first… What color?”

He thinks back to their color safe word system and states confidently, “Green, mommy. I feel a bit overstimulated… but you know I like it…” Satoru looks to the side, blush spreading across his cheeks again.

Gently grabbing his chin and turning him to face you, you meet his gaze. “I know you do, baby. We’re far from done tonight, so I really need you to be honest and vocal with me if you want to slow down… If you’re ready, then we can move on.”

Satoru nods. “Yes, mommy, I’m ready to continue. Please… please use me. Use my body, mommy. My cock belongs to you.” You can tell by his expression just how much sincerity his words hold, and it makes your heart warm like nothing and no one else could. You smile softly at him and capture his lips in a loving kiss. Your actions convey what your words cannot, and Satoru can feel the amount of love you feel for him. It makes his stomach erupt with butterflies. He would fight every cursed spirit and curse-user a million times over just for a simple touch from you.

You throw your leg over his torso, effectively straddling him. You hover over his cock and use your hand to line him up with your entrance. Looking down at him, you ask, “Are you ready, baby? Ready for mommy’s pussy to take your big cock?”

Your words have Satoru feeling feral. He nods so intensely, you think for a moment that he’ll have to use RCT to heal his neck. With desperation in his voice and written across his face, Satoru says quickly, “Yes, yes, please. Mommy, I need you so bad. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Chuckling, you show him mercy (not like you were doing any better yourself). You sink down on his cock and hiss at the stretch. The two of you never wore condoms since nothing felt better than being able to feel each other without any barriers in the way. The thought of that alone made Satoru feel weak, and the action itself made him feel like he ascended to heaven. Every time he filled you up, he returned to his own personal paradise. And the feeling was only exemplified by the fact that he was tied up, completely at your mercy. He whimpers when he bottoms out, your tight, warm walls sucking in his cock like a vacuum, making him shiver uncontrollably.

After taking a moment to adjust, you lift yourself up with your thighs and slam back down onto him, making the two of you moan loudly in unison. After a few slow movements, you begin to bounce on his cock with increasing speed. You bring one of your hands to play with your clit as you ride him which has Satoru feeling both incredibly turned on and also a bit jealous since he wanted to touch your body too. You notice the look on his face and chuckle breathlessly, “Don’t worry, baby. Your touch still feels better than mine. Your hands are just a bit… preoccupied at the moment.”

In any other situation, Satoru would have laughed at your sly joke, but you were fucking him so good that he couldn’t even get in a smart ass comment in retaliation. As your hips meet his, a bit of drool begins to spill from his lips. You lean forward and lick off the saliva that threatens to descend down his chin. Satoru looks fucked out beyond belief. The two consecutive orgasm overstimulation from earlier only made him more sensitive, and you knew it too.

With your spare hand, you wrap your fingers around Satoru’s throat, applying a fair amount of pressure that has him impossibly more aroused. Though you’re careful not to squeeze too tight and risk hurting Satoru since he was particularly sensitive in his submissive state, you press your fingers around his throat and make him see stars with the combination of your tight pussy and tightened grip around his windpipe.

Satoru’s eyes roll to the back, and his head drops down onto the pillow. He longs to place his hands on your hips and guide you up and down his cock, but he knows that he has to be a good boy for you- especially since you’re oh-so-sweetly taking care of him. And in the moment, the mere thought of displeasing you makes him feel like crying.

Noticing his expression, you press your lips to his again, kissing him passionately. He returns the kiss, matching the amount of affection and eager to express his love for you through his lips. You continue to fuck yourself on his cock, making the both of you loud and uncontrollable messes, frantically chasing their releases.

Satoru hisses, “F-Fuck, mommy, your pussy fits me like a glove, I s-swear. I don’t give a fuck about jujutsu; your pussy is the real magic.”

You would have laughed at his words if it weren’t for the fact that you were also turned on beyond belief and felt like you were going to explode if you didn’t climax soon. You release your hold on his neck (much to Satoru’s dismay) and start leaving hickeys along the smooth skin instead. Satoru gasps at a particularly hard bite against his jugular, making his eyes widen. You whisper in his ear, “You better not get rid of the marks I’m leaving on you, baby. You’re my own little masterpiece. My good boy, so pretty and strong. I just wanna mark you so everyone knows who you belong to. So be a good boy for mommy and don’t use your RCT to heal yourself, okay?”

Satoru is nodding quickly before you even finish speaking. “Yes, mommy, I belong to you. I don’t want anyone else looking at me. I- oh my god, you feel so good…” He’s unable to finish his sentence with how good you’re making him feel. He stammers out again between moans and whines, “I’m all yours, mommy- no one else’s. Use me whenever and however you want. Just wanna make you feel good.”

He’s a rambling mess, and you know he’s approaching another orgasm. You ignore the burning in your thighs and force your body to move even quicker. His cock is sucked in and out of your pussy before his eyes, and the sight has him feeling even dizzier than he already does. Moaning against his skin, you breathe out, “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make mommy cum. Be a good boy and thrust up into me like before, okay? Can you do that for mommy?”

Satoru nods eagerly again and starts fucking up into you, increasing the pleasure even more. Your fingers make fast figure eights on your clit and bring you to your climax. You curse and clench around him. “Oh my god, Satoru!”

He’s unable to be quiet even if he wanted to. Your walls tightening around him sends him spiraling over the edge. Satoru whines uncontrollably, and you feel him fill your insides with several spurts of his hot seed. He’s panting, chest rising and falling heavily with his eyes clenched shut. All of a sudden, his eyes shoot open. “Oh my god, mommy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t ask for permission to cum, and you told me to obey you otherwise I’d get a punishment, and I didn’t mean to let you down. You felt so good around me, and I know that’s not an excuse, but I just couldn’t help myself and-”

You cut him off with a kiss. “Baby, it’s okay, I understand. Don’t worry; I’m not mad at you. You’re not going to be punished, baby. Take some deep breaths, okay? I know you’re feeling sensitive.” You softly wipe a tear that threatened to fall from the corner of his eye. He was so distraught at the thought of disappointing you that it had him as breathless as his orgasm. You rub your hand on his chest comfortingly. “What color, baby?”

He takes some deep breaths, trying to collect himself. Your soothing touch did wonders for him (it always did), and he was able to calm down within the next couple of moments before saying softly, “Green, mommy. I just… I just want to make you proud.”

Satoru has a frown on his face that breaks your heart just a bit. You take his face in your hands gently and say softly, “Baby, you make me proud everyday. The love of my life is the strongest sorcerer of the modern age. And the jujutsu isn’t even the most important part.”

He looks at you with a bit of surprise in his eyes, “...It’s not?”

You chuckle softly and shake your head, rubbing your thumb against his cheek. “I’m proud of how smart you are, how brave you are, how big your heart is... I’m the luckiest girl in the whole wide world, because I get to call you mine.”

Before, Satoru felt like he was going to cry out of fear that he has disappointed you by not following the rules. Now he felt like he was going to cry from the sheer impact of your words alone. “You… You really mean that?”

You smile and press another soft kiss to his lips. “I meant every word, baby. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It doesn’t matter if our schedules don’t align or if we don’t always get to be around one another. There’s nothing that could keep me from loving you.”

Now Satoru actually starts crying. You frown and untie his hands gently before pulling him in for a hug. “Thank you for always being such a good boy for me, baby.” He pulls you in closer and wraps his arms around you tightly as if you’ll slip through his fingers if he’s not careful… just like Suguru did.

He whispers, vulnerability laced in his words, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile softly and caress him. “You’ll never have to find out, baby. I’m right here, and there’s nothing you can do to get rid of me.” He chuckles softly at your words, knowing that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Satoru speaks softly again, “I keep having this dream… where you and I are retired, and we spend our days doing all the things we never have time for as sorcerers. Every time I pass by a bakery, I think about baking with you on a peaceful Saturday morning with flour cutely dusted on your face… Whenever I travel abroad for a mission, I think about how amazing it would feel to take you on a trip around the world, visiting every landmark and attraction just for the hell of it… Whenever I’m around the students, I… I think about how it would feel having kids of our own…”

Your eyes widen at that last comment. You know that Satoru is especially soft and sentimental after being in a submissive state, but you and Satoru had never discussed having kids together before. Of course, you wanted to… but having and raising kids when both of you were overworked beyond reason seemed impossible. But to hear him say those words so passionately, so sincerely, it had your heart warming in a way it never had before.

You say softly, “Maybe… maybe we can make that a reality, Satoru.”

He looks at you with hope. “Do… Do you think so?”

Smiling warmly at the man, you press another kiss to his lips. “I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, and the thought of building a family with you only makes me love you more.”

In that moment, Satoru feels more loved than he ever had in his entire life. He pulls you even closer until you feel his heartbeat against your own chest. After a moment, a smile slowly forms on your lips. “You know, Satoru… maybe I should stop taking my birth control…”

His head snaps up, and his wide eyes meet yours. “Don’t mess with me right now, or I swear to god, I’ll hollow purple myself.”

You laugh at his comment. Although it sounded like a joke, you could hear the vulnerability in his tone. He wouldn’t really hollow purple himself… but this conversation about your future together was so important to him that he felt like he was hanging on the edge of his seat waiting for your answer. You whisper against his lips, “I want you, Satoru- all of you. I want the white dress and flower bouquet, I want the sounds of our kids playing in the backyard, I want you by my side as we build a home- a family- together.”

Satoru pauses and looks a bit sheepish before saying, “Well, uh… If you don’t wanna spoil the surprise, then don’t look at the small box on our nightstand…”

You pause as well and naturally turn to the nightstand, unable to resist the temptation. You ask calmly, though your heart feels like it’s about to explode, “Satoru… is that an engagement ring?”

He doesn’t answer, and his silence speaks volumes.

You laugh at his expression and smile playfully. “Well… If we really do hear those wedding day church bells in our future… then maybe it really is time we start building that family…”

Satoru’s cock twitches inside you at your words, and you smirk. “What do you say, baby?”

He catches off guard by flipping the two of you over. You yelp as you're pinned down to the bed, staring up at Satoru with a fire in his eyes you’d never seen before. Before you can say anything, he grinds his hips against yours, and you moan. You ask shakily, “Y-you’re not too sensitive still?”

Satoru laughs and begins to slowly thrust into you. “Ha! Are you kidding? My girl just told me she wants to have my kids. I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my entire life.”

You’re about to playfully roll your eyes when he snaps his hips against yours again and sets a rough pace. You’re a moaning mess, and Satoru’s hard thrusts have you seeing stars. Satoru doesn’t even care that you’re still on birth control, and there’s hardly a sliver of a chance that you could miraculously get pregnant from a faulty medication. None of that matters. He has tunnel vision, and the idea of you pregnant has him crazed. He’s fucking you within an inch of your life. “Fuck, you’re gonna look so good, all round and plump… And your tits are gonna taste even better when they’re swollen with milk.” He latches his mouth onto your nipples and starts sucking and biting.

Long gone is the submissive Satoru who called you ‘mommy’, because now Satoru is hellbent on turning you into a mommy. He’s a man possessed with the way he fucks you. His hardened cock is slamming in and out of you, and all you can do is moan as he fucks your brains out. He chuckles darkly, “Who’s submissive now, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to respond since Satoru’s hand makes its way between your thighs and begins to rub your clit harshly just the way you like. You scream out, “Fuck! Satoru, don’t stop. Oh my god…”

Satoru smiles at your moans and continues fucking into you like his life depended on it. The sound of skin slapping echoes through the room, and the bed begins to squeak due to the intensity of Satoru’s thrusts. Neither one of you cares though, too distracted with the feel of each other. As if in a trace, you two fuck as if you’re the only people left in the world. Satoru speeds up the pace of his thrusts as well as his fingers on the bundle of nerves.

You’re a blubbering mess. “Satoru, fuck, I’m so close.”

Desperately teetering on the verge of your orgasm, you’re desperate for release. Satoru laughs breathlessly as if he’s in a better state than you are. “Can’t hold on anymore? Look who’s- fuck- desperate now.”

An idea comes to mind and you lean in to whisper in Satoru’s ear, “Please let me cum, daddy.”

Satoru cums immediately. He practically bursts. Daddy kinks were one thing, but daddy kinks in the context of you two having a baby together? Fuck, Satoru is reeling. “Shit, oh my god, sweetheart. Take all my seed, fucking cum with me.”

You don’t waste a second and cum immediately after Satoru’s words. “Satoru! You’re so deep inside me- fuck. You’re filling me up so good…” You fight the urge to pass out with how hard your climax was. It seems that you and Satoru are the same in that starting a family has you hornier than ever.

Once you both come down from your highs, you’re both breathing heavily with Satoru lying comfortably on top of you. You hold one another close and enjoy the feeling of each other’s heartbeats.

Satoru chuckles after a while. “I had a special Valentine’s Day dinner planned for us… but now I think it’s best we just stay in bed.” You laugh as well.

“All this baby-making practice sure is intense.” You wipe your hair out of your eyes and gasp when Satoru thrusts into you again, cock harder than ever before. “...Satoru?”

He grins. “I guess we’ll just have to keep practicing our baby-making for when you stop your birth control. Practice makes perfect, right?”

Happy Valentine’s Day indeed.

---

i actually posted when i said i was gonna lol wow that's a first. if you made it this far, thanks for reading and happy belated valentine's day loves <3

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justafewberries · 25 days ago

Note

Something i didnt quite understand in the book is why in the arena they had to kill the game makers is theres any bigger piece to it or is it just pure brutality?

Thanks for your ask!

The answer comes from a few different places, but it ultimately leads back to David Hume’s essay Of the First Principles of Government. (It's a short read, and I highly recommend it!)

In Of the First Principles of Government, Hume discusses implicit submission. He maintains governing bodies derive their power from public opinion, and it is exactly why all of the characters acted the way they did in that scene. I will break it down by character, but first I want to examine some context in SOTR.

In the text, the training scene right before Plutarch begins to question Haymitch foreshadows the later scene:

“There’s this moment, just as I get to my feet, where I look around, and I’m armed, and they’re armed. A half dozen of us hold sleek, deadly knives. And I see that there aren’t many Peacekeepers here today. Not really. We outnumber them four to one. And if we moved quickly, we could probably free up some of those tridents and spears and swords at the other stations and have ourselves a real nice arsenal. I meet Ringina’s eyes, and I’d swear she’s thinking the same thing.” [...] “The more I think it over, the more my dismay grows. Every year we let them herd us into their killing machine. Every year they pay no price for the slaughter. They just throw a big party and box up our bodies like presents for our families to open back home.”

When you read this as context to the scene in the arena, it is the same idea. The armed tributes outnumber the Gamemakers, and in the arena, everyone is on equal footing. The tributes have the numbers and the momentum of days in the arena behind them.

There are two lines that are thematically significant in this section. The first line is from a Gamemaker:

The Gamemaker with the drill raises her mask and straightens up to a full height. "That’s right. And all four of you are in absolute violation of the rules. You must immediately withdraw or there will be repercussions." "That’d be a lot more impressive if you weren’t shaking like a leaf," observes Maysilee, fingering her blowgun.

The only defense the Capitol worker has is that of governing status. She attempts to assert the rules of governance on her side by claiming that they are all in violation of the rules, and therefore they must submit to the Capitol by leaving them alone. Even she knows, as her shaking voice exposes, there is no true way to enforce this rule. This is where David Hume’s essay comes in:

"When we enquire by what means this wonder is effected, we shall find, that, as Force is always on the side of the governed, the governors have nothing to support them but opinion."

The force is always on the side of the governed. The governed, in this case, are the tributes of the arena. Yet, in the arena, where the purpose, according to Dr. Gaul, is to strip man down to his base instincts, a governing body cannot exist. The government exists to make sure man doesn’t regress to said instincts. Therefore, the government cannot exist in the arena in the same way it does in the rest of Panem. Ergo, the public opinion needed to enforce the rules is obsolete, to the point where both parties are on equal grounds. There is no illusion of power.

The second line is:

Silka seems stunned into inertia as well. “What’d you do? Did you kill Gamemmakers? They’ll never let us win now!”

Silka still believes there are winners in the games. In fact, she goes so far as to say “let us win”, thus she recognizes that the Capitol has true control over who wins, and prior to this, she expected to be able to win. Now, she believes winning is a right that the Capitol can revoke, which lends itself to the idea of Hume’s secondary principles of government:

"There are indeed other principles, which add force to these, and determine, limit, or alter their operation; such as self-interest, fear, and affection: But still we may assert, that these other principles can have no influence alone, but suppose the antecedent influence of those opinions above-mentioned."

Because Silka expects to be able to win, she is stunned into submission under her expectation of particular rewards:

"For, first, as to self-interest, by which I mean the expectation of particular rewards, distinct from the general protection which we receive from government, it is evident that the magistrate's authority must be antecedently established, at least be hoped for, in order to produce this expectation."

On the other side, fear stuns Haymitch. Hume details how fear is a form of submission:

"No man would have any reason to fear the fury of a tyrant, if he had no authority over any but from fear; since, as a single man, his bodily force can reach but a small way, and all the farther power he possesses must be founded either on our own opinion, or on the presumed opinion of others."

Haymitch recognizes how futile it would be to take down a few Gamemakers. It is the same reason he deduces when he reflects on his time in the training center. They may outnumber the peacekeepers in the training center, but what would happen? It would be a fruitless rebellion, and public opinion would squash anything that could potentially develop from it. Hume’s discussion of fear is not exactly fear of the tyrant himself, rather, fear of the power he possesses over others. Snow had public opinion on his side outside of the arena. Killing a few Gamemakers here would just bring upon the tyrant’s arsenal.

Maysilee and Maritte, however, both recognize that the perception of power via public opinion doesn’t exist in the arena. Both realize they cannot be punished more than they already are. I don’t usually quote the movies, but I think Reaper’s taunting of the Capitol when he rips the flag down in the 10th Games suits this philosophy extremely well:

“Are you gonna punish me now? Are you going to punish me now?”

Both girls act because they are disillusioned with the power of the Capitol. They refuse to submit. They are free from the secondary aspects of self-interest, fear, and affection. Maysilee alludes to the idea that winning was never going to happen in the first place:

Maysilee’s voice drips honey. “Still chasing that sad little dream, Silka?”

While one can interpret this by assuming Maysilee means she was going to kill Silka, it can also be taken to counter Silka’s belief of a fair win, calling it a dream. Maysilee likely recognizes the Capitol can always give advantages to people they want to win, or send mutts on whoever they don’t like. We see this with Titus in his games. She doesn’t submit.

I would like to cross reference this with the 10th Games in Ballad, where Coriolanus and Sejanus entered the arena. Dr. Gaul used Coryo’s experience in the arena about a lesson on human nature:

“Without the threat of death, it wouldn’t have been much of a lesson,” said Dr. Gaul. “What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed. The tributes. And you, too. How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, education, family background, everything you pride yourself on, stripped away in the blink of an eye, revealing everything you actually are. A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state.”

Later in the scene, she talks about how the death of Coryo and Sejanus would not have brought anyone closer to winning. This is the same idea, just from the perspective of what would have been the Gamemakers, had they survived:

“What did you think of them, now that their chains have been removed? Now that they’ve tried to kill you? Because it was of no benefit to them, your death. You’re not the competition.” It was true. They’d been close enough to recognize him. But they’d hunted down him and Sejanus — Sejanus, who’d treated the tributes so well, fed them, defended them, given them last rites! — even though they could have used that opportunity to kill one another. “I think I underestimated how much they hate us,” said Coriolanus. “And when you realized that, what was your response?” she asked. He thought back to Bobbin, to the escape, to the tributes’ bloodlust even after he’d cleared the bars. “I wanted them dead. I wanted every one of them dead.”

Interestingly, he makes a point about human nature that calls back to what Hume is saying:

“I think I wouldn’t have beaten anyone to death if you hadn’t stuck me in that arena!” he retorted. “You can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, but you made the choices you made, no one else. It’s a lot to take in all at once, but it’s essential that you make an effort to answer that question. Who are human beings? Because who we are determines the type of governing we need. Later on, I hope you can reflect and be honest with yourself about what you learned tonight.” Dr. Gaul began to wrap his wound in gauze.

While initially it seems to validate Dr. Gaul’s argument that humans, by nature, are violent creatures, his refutation actually provides the basis for the very reason Maysilee and Maritte killed the Gamemakers. “[They] wouldn’t have beaten anyone to death if [the Capitol] hadn’t stuck [them] in that arena”.

The arena does not strip people of their nature. It forces them to submit for the very secondary aspects Hume provides. The governing body forces them to kill, and by stepping into the arena, where the Capitol has stripped itself and all beings of their own power to display what it believes to be human nature in its primitive form, it has erased the protection of public opinion.

The Capitol holds no real power in the arena itself. Sure, they bomb it afterwards to clear out the four tributes. Sure, they sic the mutts on Maysilee and Maritte, but they do not govern in the way they do over Panem.

Inasmuch, the Gamemakers died because the arena disillusioned Maysilee and Maritte to their implicit submission. The moment the Gamemakers entered the arena, they were powerless as of their own creation.

I hope this makes sense. Thanks for the ask!

#sotr #thg #the hunger games #sunrise on the reaping #maysilee donner #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #volumnia gaul #dr gaul #silka sharp #haymitch abernathy #sotr spoilers #implicit submission #thg meta #thg analysis

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arthenaa · 1 year ago

Note

Could i ask for HCs of Mizu with a mommy kink? Like her liking to be called that? Thank you!

Mizu with a Mommy Kink (18+ mdni after the line) gender neutral! reader

ALRIGHT

Honestly, the kink stemmed from the fact that she's a natural protector

She may have a contradicting personality with regards to socialization but overall, it's probably because it's influenced by the values and mindset that she learned from when she was young

Violence had never been the right answer and while the world continues to change influenced by the bloodbath in its history, why can't she make use of it as a way to save others?

yeahh getting philosophical in a fucking nsfw post YEAHHH

anyways, you and Mizu had been acquainted for a while now and she respects you enough to be somewhat vulnerable with you

It's the same with you as well, you regard Mizu as a close confidant of your life stories

It's safe to say that you know each other well enough despite how it looks

There have also been quite close calls that made your relationship with Mizu border something more than acquaintances slash friends with a question mark in bold (its for the emphasis)

So imagine to your surprise how worked up she gets over a joke you made after commenting on her natural need to protect

"Y'know," You lick your lips, eyes squinting as you assessed the woman before you quietly drinking her tea. "You have a natural sense of protecting. Kinda like a mommy."

The blue-eyed samurai freezes in her place

It was a look of horror at first and you were quite tipsy during that time (you two were lounging at your home)

So your thought process was, heyyy why not make fun of this mf while I have no shame

so you did

The look of horror, turned into being uncomfortable until her cheeks flushed to a deep shade of red

You've never seen someone change emotions in just a few seconds

You were enjoying this clearly

Mizu was having none of it and while the term did fluster and invoke horrors worthy enough of the judgment of Izanami no Mikoto

Fueled by her emotions, her secret-not-so-secret attraction towards you, and her need to shut you up, Mizu moved towards you

And now you're where you are now

NSFW

Soft dom with a hint of sadistic tendencies

She likes making you beg and plead for her to do something, then turn a 180 and praise you for your work

loves loves loves overstimulating you

I think its because she hasn't gotten any action over the past few years that all she's doing is take take take from you

You're writhing and shaking in the sheets with just her mouth and she hasn't even gone to her fingers yet

She loves looking down at you, reveling in the superiority that your submission to her brings

It makes her menacing tbh but its hot okay

This mf eats you up like a champ

Fast learner

Has a good stamina but her refractory period can take some time

so yeah it ultimately ends up with you overstimulating a dozen times before she finally gets to have her own release (also probs bc she prioritizes your pleasure over her own)

she loves it

She gives you reigns at first, just to let her know what to do and a few seconds later, your eyes are rolling in the back of your head

Quite manipulative in bed

Says a lot of things like, "you're mine right?", "say you want me", "tell mommy that she's all you need"

you indulge her manipulative tendencies tho

all of this is making you develop a praise kink omf

Sometimes gets overwhelmed by the pleasure and pushes you too far but thats okay cuz its mizu

Stops completely and stares you down when you stop saying mommy

That completely just puts you in your spot

Then her voice drops to a chill and calm tone and suddenly you're shivering and flushing at her stare

Know how people's eyes get duller when they're in the state of lust or smn

Hers get brighter for some reason

She likes positions that allow her to wrap her arms around you or where her body is either on top or covering you

yeahhh stems from the need to protect

After you and Mizu establish this kind of relationship, she begins to act more mischievous around you

MIZU IS MISCHIEVOUS damn, that mf will tease you like its nothing

she will eye you up with no shame, whisper in your ear like its not bothering you, and then act like she hasn't done anything at all

Esp when she gets joke gifts from the brothel like sex toys and what not

She will use them on you and you will limp for a week

More of a service-top rather than receiving

She likes the reactions she's pulling out of you and when you return the favor, she pampers you with so much love and affection and you just flush in shyness

yeaaaaa, its okay to be a red flag in bed as long as it's mizu

#arthenaa #the blue eyed samurai #mizu x you #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu smut #mizu x reader #mizu bes

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muiitoloko · 4 months ago

Note

Hi, I really enjoy reading your writings. I would like you to write an adaptation of Lionel Shabandar. At an auction he gets Y/N for a date night, for a very high price, the most sought-after girl at the event. I hope you understand what I mean and have heard about this type of auction before, perhaps for charity or something darker. I feel like it would be a promising plot. (It could end up in a hot night) PS: If there is an error in my request it is because I speak Spanish. I keep learning English, your texts contribute <3 Gracias

Title: The Auction of Innocence

Summary: When a reserved woman is thrust into a decadent world of affluence, Lionel Shahbandar spares no expense to secure her as his prized possession.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Hola! Thank you so much for your kind words, and I love that you’re enjoying my stories! 😊 I completely understand your request, and I have to say, it’s such an intriguing idea—Lionel bidding extravagantly for Y/N at an auction. The potential for a fiery and intense plot is definitely there! Gracias por leer y compartir tus ideas conmigo 💛 Happy New Year!