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meguwumibear · 5 months ago

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we'll meet again (when the time is right)

praedator!zayne x reader

wc: 5,700 tw for dubious consent (zayne is under the influence of the praedator snare which i took some liberties with but rest assured mc wants to fuck him and he wants to fuck her), dry humping, cumming in pants, fingering, unprotected piv sex, zayne nuts like four times in this because i want him too

There is a scar on your arm shaped like a mouth, the worst of it long since faded to time and proper medical care. Easy to ignore, but not altogether gone, kept hidden by the long sleeve shirts you wear no matter the weather. A necessary precaution, even if hot summer days are unbearable. There’s no telling what the LCBI would do if they discovered your secret; if they rolled up your sleeve and saw the pale, teeth-like indentations near your wrist. Would looking at the healed over wound tell them everything they need to know about it? About you?

It's paranoia. Your rational mind knows this. The radiation leak mutated the minds of the people infected, not their mouths. If discovered, if questioned, there’s plausibly deniability because of this. Maybe you enjoy some unorthodox bedroom activities. And, who doesn’t from time to time? Plain old vanilla sex can get so tedious. Some of us like our partners with a bit of bite.

Before you become an Enforcer, you earn your keep bounty hunting. Is it an honest way of living? Maybe not. But does it pay the bills? Well, not really. As time passes, it gets harder and harder for you to remember why you ever even became a hunter. All it did was expose you to hapless danger. Hence, you know…

There was a man, then, who discovered the truth about you, who tended to your festering wound in a goddamn veterinarian clinic of all places, and gave you medication you couldn’t afford. He never asked about your secret, and you never asked about his. Praedators were after all, just ordinary people once, before the radiation changed them at the molecular level. The veterinarian—Zayne he eventually tells you—proves this to you time and time again, with each stray animal he heals with gentle, loving hands.

You visit Zayne often in the weeks after your injury, and though he doesn’t ever say much, he also never asks you to leave. Nights you stumble in with injuries from the job, he nods to his examination table so he can wordlessly slather your wounds with a punishing amount of disinfectant. The smell of antiseptic wipes soon becomes a comfort to you; it reminds you of secrets well kept and bodies well cared for.

The doctor is a hard nut to crack, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. Despite his efforts to appear unapproachable, the man is surprisingly kind. You aren’t sure when he starts packing you dinner, but there’s always a sandwich or some snacks waiting for you when you visit. The sodas you steal from his minifridge are always replaced.

You often steal glances at him while he works, eyes fixated on the softness of his face while you enjoy whatever he’s chosen to feed you that day. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him cooing at the kittens he coaxes food into, blinking intentionally at them to lower their guard. The helping profession suits him. It’s clear from the rare smile he gives his four-legged patients that he feels fulfilled by it.

In the coming years, you blame Zayne for what you do next. It’s his fault your own field begins to feel so futile. You never thought much about bounty hunting or any career, really, before you started watching him work, but you think about it often after. The bounties you claim are few and far between. They don’t keep a roof over your head, and they don’t keep you full. The work you’re doing helps no one, not even yourself. You want better. You want to make a difference. You want more than a few stolen moments in a brightly lit medical facility. The life of an Enforcer can give you that, so you apply.

Zayne is unusually quiet when you break the news. You thought he’d be happy for you—he never did approve of your career chasing bounties—but his brows furrow when you show him the job offer, marring his otherwise seamless face. True to form, he doesn’t protest. He doesn’t beg or plead with you to stay with him in the Southern District looking after the malnourished street cats, and that’s just fine with you. You wouldn’t have stayed anyway. Your mind was made.

His final gift to you is medicinal capsules infused with your blood and other drugs. Apparently the LCBI runs periodic tests on its Enforcers to ensure they aren’t turning into the very Praedators they’re tasked with managing. If you’re to keep your immunity to the infection a secret, you’ll need to take one before an examination. You thank him by promising to visit the first chance you get; the smile Zayne gives you in return doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You return to Zayne’s clinic in Akso only once after your career change. The onboarding and training took much longer than anticipated. Your days, once filled with uncertainty and freedom, become a whirlwind of policy and procedure. Of proper protocols and endless missions. It’s not like you don’t think about Zayne and his clinic—in fact you think of him often—it’s just, your leisure time drastically lessens and the Southern District is so very far away.

The passage of time doesn’t prepare you for what you return to.

The windows of the clinic—of Zayne’s clinic—are boarded up with rotting wooden planks. You stare dumbfounded at the dilapidating building for several minutes, vision blurring with tears you are determined to hold back. It’s only been a few months, but the building looks as if it’s been abandoned for years. Was the foundation crumbling the night you first stumbled across it? Was Zayne alone keeping the building upright?

After a few, mind-numbing minutes, you jimmy open the lock, convinced that, despite appearances, Zayne is inside the place, bandaging a wounded pup, eager to welcome you back. Instead of the warmth of his presence, you’re greeted by rusting cages and discarded medical equipment. The walls reek of dust and animal dung. You cry silently in the dark of the room, wondering when it got so small.

Life grows around Zayne. It grows around the fucking clinic and the late nights you once spent there when you couldn’t fall asleep. And why wouldn’t it? You spent, what, a couple of weeks hanging around the man who saved your life, drawn to him like some sort of kicked dog? It’s only natural memories of him would begin to fade, just like the very wound that first drew you together.

You’re never going to see Zayne again. That’s fine. You make peace with it. Accept it. Besides, you’ve got much bigger things to worry about. Like the fact your colleagues are framing you for a crime you didn’t fucking commit; a protest that falls on deaf ears because your asshole colleagues have faked convincing evidence that damns you to prison for smuggling Frenzy Enhancer into Linkon City. The charges are bullshit, but they stick anyway. You aren’t even afforded a trial. With no resources or allies in which to defend yourself, you find yourself trapped with the same Praedators you once took down trying to protect the city.

The Warden of the prison you’re shipped off to has a vicious reputation. From what limited intel you could gather before your sentencing, his presence in the cell blocks is rare but felt by all the inmates. Word is, he keeps them in line with his Evol, quite literally freezing anyone causing any sort of disruption in a thin sheen of ice that doesn’t melt. It’s a power you witness your first few hours there.

The guards take you to The Warden the day you’re brought in, laughing alongside the inmates about the danger you’re about to face. They tell you The Warden’s interrogations are unforgiving. Allegedly, very few people escape them alive. Only, when you finally meet this oh-so-vicious Warden, you aren’t faced with any danger, but, rather, the veterinarian from all those years ago.

He’s different than when you last met with him, in more than just title. He believes and even has proof that you are innocent, yet all but blackmails you into going undercover to get close to a fellow inmate so you can extract information about Ever’s biological research from the guy. You agree, because what choice do you have really? Providing Zayne with the list of people involved with the classified experiments at Ever may be the only way to clear your name.

You spend your first night in prison thinking of ways to satiate your anger. What an odd feeling, anger. It has a way of eating at you, of sinking its sharp teeth into your flesh and making a meal out of you. After years of starvation, your anger is whet. It’s because you haven’t fed it that it keeps coming back.

There’s no one to blame for your current predicament but yourself, yet your mind keeps finding ways to pin your frustration on Zayne. Your anger becomes inquisitive and commanding. It demands to know why Zayne left the clinic. Why he never reached out. Why he didn’t seem excited to see you after all these years…

It’s harder than anticipated for you to get close to Levi. The ex-scientist is understandably guarded and seems especially weary of you given your chosen occupation. He keeps to himself and a select group of mean looking inmates whose loyalty he likely bought. You wonder what he offered up in exchange for their submission.

Zayne, at least, has decided to help your investigation in whatever way he can, which just so happens to require him going undercover right alongside you. There’s a petty part of you that wants to hold onto your anger, but seeing him risk exposing his status as an SSS-class Praedator day after day slowly bleeds the feeling from you.

His presence eliminates a few barriers to your work. You never thought much of his class back when you used to visit him at the clinic, but his Praedator nature is hard to ignore here. The man is imposingly tall and surprisingly ripped, another thing you never paid much attention to back when he was just a vet. None of the Praedators fully understand why he’s chosen you of all people to look out for, but it keeps them away nonetheless.

There are some barriers that even Praedator Zayne can’t prevent. Like the presence of less than legal mind-altering substances in the cellblocks. There are lots of illicit drugs in the prison, despite the Warden’s often terrifying efforts to keep them out. Frenzy Enhancer somehow keeps finding its way into the hands of the prisoners. Many use it to try to escape.

And, that’s all fine and good. Doesn’t really impact you one way or another what these bozos inject themselves with or how long they stay incased in ice. Zayne tells you the human body can go three days without water, and sometimes he leaves the prisoners in their icy stasis for exactly that long.

No, the real issue is the Praedator Snare the inmates use to keep each other in line. You’re familiar with the Snare due to your time as an Enforcer. Whenever there’s a potential Praedator siting, the task force would use the Snare to attempt to flush it out of hiding. The compound targets the Praedator’s olfactory system. It impacts them all differently depending on what they smell, and has been known to occasionally bring a Praedator right to the brink of their feared frenzied state.

It isn’t clear how the chemical finds its way into the airducts of the prison—maybe there’s an outsider familiar with an inmate trying to break them out—but the Snare spreads and it spreads fast. The Snare has no biological effect on you, but a bunch of drugged up Praedators certainly spells trouble. There’s no telling what the Praedators around you may smell, or what they may do as a result. You find yourself searching for Zayne in the crowd, used to his levelheadedness in situations like this.

When you manage to lock eyes with him, however, his hazel ones narrow. His breaths appear labored, as if he’s fighting against the effects of the Snare and losing. You don’t know what it is Zayne’s smelling as a result of the exposure, but it’s clearly awakening his inner Praedator. There’s a pink tinge to his face you’ve never seen before that seems to darken as he continues to stare at you.

You take a step back—towards your cell maybe—or perhaps just away from him, and something in Zayne seems to snap. He’s lunges for you so quick you barely have time to register the action. He’s far enough away that you manage to avoid the hands that grab at you, but only just.

Your feet are working before your brain catches up, carrying you as fast as possible away from the Warden. You don’t have any real destination in mind, and there are only so many possible hallways you can turn down, but your feet seem to know you have to at least try to prevent Zayne from grabbing hold of you in this state.

The door to the interrogation room catches your eye as you speed down the hallway of the second floor, and a loose plan begins to form in your mind. Zayne’s far enough behind that you should have enough time to barricade yourself inside the room while his body metabolizes the drug.

You don’t.

Zayne comes barreling through the door before you can lock it, crashing into you with enough force to throw you off balance. Unable to steady yourself, you end up on your stomach beneath him.

For a moment, the two of you just lay there breathing heavy. Then Zayne’s body begins to move. It starts with his nose, which buries itself in the crook of your neck, and travels down to his strong arms which wrap themselves securely around your waist. When you try to wriggle out of his grasp, he stops you with a low growl.

“Don’t,” he warns, his voice unrecognizably gravelly. The arms that hold you are shaky, unsteady. You can feel wet spot forming on your neck as Zayne begins to drool, “Don’t move. I-I don’t know what I’ll do to you.”

“Yeah, okay,” is your reply. You take a few deep, steadying breaths, hoping Zayne regains enough lucidity to let you go soon. Maybe the two of you can ride out the effects of the drug like this. Maybe, if you can just stay perfectly still, his Praedator instincts will calm. “The Snare, it-”

“I know what it does,” he bites. You feel him ball his hands into fists, likely in an attempt to maintain his composure, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. “I fucking created it.”

Of course he fucking did.

“You…fuck, why would you, Zayne!” the question poised on your tongue is quickly abandoned as his own finds your neck. He licks a long, wet stripe down your ear to your collar bone, pressing the entire width of the muscle against you. His saliva is colder than you expect, maybe due to his Evol.

“Sorry,” he groans, shifting a bit so his hips are flush against your ass. Positioned like this, there’s no hiding his erection. His hard cock pushes relentlessly against the fabric of his pants as if trying to bust open the seems to get at you. He licks at you again, this time up from your collar bone to the bottom of your jaw, “You just smell so fucking good.”

You really aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you try willing your body to relax as Zayne continues to lap at you, each lick sloppier and messier than the last. The Snare has him producing and ungodly amount of saliva. It drips down your body to the floor.

When he tires of licking, he graduates to nipping. Not hard. He isn’t leaving any marks. But his teeth find the shell of your ear and attach themselves to it. He works the cartilage between his incisors, breathing hard into your ear.

“Zayne,” you whine as his nibbling intensifies. You need to find a way to reach him before the Snare renders him feral. You start to wriggle beneath him again in an effort to loosen his grip, “Zayne, please. If I could just-”

A hand on the back of your neck stills you.

“Stop, ugh,” his voice is a firm plea. The fingers on the hand scruffing you flex and unflex periodically, almost as if Zayne is contemplating releasing you. Maybe Warden Zayne is still in there somewhere, wrestling with his Praedator side for control. “Stop fucking squirming. It’s just making things worse.”

You settle down to the best of your ability, and the hand on your neck slowly releases you. It’s hard to think with Zayne breathing down your neck like this, but two truths are abundantly clear. One: attempting to remove yourself only seems to escalate Zayne’s impending frenzy, and two: remaining trapped helplessly beneath him only seems to prolong the inevitable. At the rate at which Zayne’s symptoms are progressing, you aren’t sure he will successfully ride out the drug without fucking you raw on the dirty concrete floor. You need a new plan. Fast.

“Zayne?” you ask, putting an absurd amount of effort into keeping your voice even. Because, it’s just, well, in another setting and without the mind-altering drug, you could actually see yourself…

“I said not to fucking move,” Zayne growls, his whole body vibrating against you as he does. His full weight isn’t bearing down on you yet, but with the way his leg muscles are straining to keep him upright, the collapse is imminent.

“No, I know. I’m not. It’s just…” you pause, wracking your brain to find the right words. “I think you need to cum.”

Zayne attempts to scoff, but the sound is less mocking than intended. His body even seems to agree with you. His hips begin to slowly gyrate against the meat of your ass, seeking friction. His next words are firm and brimming with desperation, “Just stay still. Stay back.”

“We both know we’re past that.”

Zayne’s arms wrap around you once more. He grips at the fabric of your shirt, bunching his fingers around the material. His mouth is at your ear again, but he manages to keep his teeth to himself this time, “Then what exactly are you insinuating?”

You let the words sit heavy in the air for a moment, unsure if this truly is the best course of action. When his dry humping begins to pick up speed, you finally offer up, “I was thinking you could get off like this.”

This gives Zayne pause; his hips noticeable stutter. “You were thinking…have you even begun to consider what the consequences of that might be? What if that isn’t enough? What if I need more?”

All fair questions. And not questions you have an answer for.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But you inhaled a lot of the Snare. I’m not sure exactly what you’re smelling, but it’s clearly having an impact on you. I think denying yourself what you need will trigger a frenzy. I’m just trying to prevent that.”

His hips continue to rut against you at random as he does what he can to restrain himself. You optimistically interpret his silence as him respectfully mulling over your proposed solution to his current predicament. When he speaks again, it’s to ask, “What if I can’t have what I need?”

You arch you back in response, pushing your ass against his throbbing erection. You want to tell him that you used to dream about him coming home with you after his shifts, that you’re dirty, perverted mind used to fantasize about you offering yourself up to him to repay him for the medicine he once gave you, for the food he fed you and the company he provided you with. You want to tell him that—if he would have dared to ask—you would have dropped to your knees for and crawled to him, as obedient as all the other strays in his clinic that just kept coming back. Instead, you say, “The only person preventing you from fulfilling your need is yourself.”

Zayne collapses against you then, pressing you down into the floor. Perhaps he heard what you wanted to say. Maybe he was able to read between the lines. “I shouldn’t,” he grunts, though his hips begin to pick up speed. “If I lose control…”

You tilt your head to the side so you can make eye contact with him, “You won’t. I trust you.”

The sound Zayne makes in response is unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him. A deep, guttural noise tears its way out of his throat as his cock spasms within the confines of his leather pants.

“Fuck,” he whines, as he continues to rock against you. Despite his orgasm, he’s still hard against your butt. “It wasn’t…It didn’t…”

“Take off your pants.”

Zayne chokes back a sob.

“Zayne, this is serious. Take off your fucking pants.”

Compliance takes time, but eventually follows your command. It takes longer than necessary for Zayne to relieve himself of his clothing. Unable to let go of you, he struggles to undo his zipper onehanded. The same hand faces another uphill battle pushing his pants down and off his lower half. The fabric ends up bunch around his knees.

Zayne slips his freed cock between your thighs without any further direction. He glides the appendage in and out of the gap with ease, smearing his spend along the material of your prison uniform as he does so. A tightness begins to pool in your stomach as Zayne continues to use your body to get himself off, and your own arousal soon mixes with his.

“Zayne,” you whisper, clenching your thighs together.

“No,” is his immediate reply.

“But you don’t even know what I was going to ask,” you whine.

“I have some idea. And the answer is no. Now be a good girl for me and stay still.”

Zayne picks up his pace then, seemingly in an effort to satisfy whatever libido the Snare kicked up. Despite his obvious desires, Zayne remains married to the idea of his sexual repression. If he were just a man maybe he could exist in such a state of denial, but Zayne hasn’t been that for some time now. He plays at Warden when he shows up for work, he plays at law abiding citizen when he’s off, and when he is done playing, when all of his other identities have been stripped away, he is every bit a Praedator as the inmates he takes charge of.

“Zayne,” you try again.

“This isn’t working,” he replies, his hands grabbing at your hips to reposition them. “I can’t-”

“Take off my pants.”

“No,” he growls, though his fingers find your waistband anyway, as if his mind and body are no longer connected.

“It’s okay,” you say, “I want you.”

“Not like this,” he cries, but he’s pulling your pants down anyway, the Praedator in him beginning to take charge.

“However you’ll have me,” you reply, readjusting yourself for him.

He slips his cock between your folds, gasping as he does so.

“You’re so wet,” he whines. “Did I do this to you?”

“Yeah,” you breath, as his tip rubs against your clit. “Yeah, you did this to me.”

His actions are less controlled now, the pistoning of his hips more desperate. The tip of his cock keeps brushing against your swelling clit, which only deepens your own desire for him. You find yourself wondering what you would smell if you were a Praedator. Would you smell the sharp sting of the hydrogen peroxide Zayne once used to keep your wounds clean? Would you smell the softness of the cologne he wore to work, or the tangy scent that clung to his body once he sweat it all off?

“You, you’re,” Zayne’s wanton voice brings you back to reality. He doesn’t finish his thought, but you can guess what he’s attempting to bring your attention to. Your own hips have begun moving in tandem with his, encouraging him to keep rubbing his cock not just where he needs it, but where you need it too.

It’s your turn to apologize now, so you do, “I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong. I just…”

Is it the wrong time to confess that you’ve pictured this exact scenario in your mind a hundred times before bed? Would it damn you to admit that you may have once literally dreamt about him having his way with you? What if you disclosed that you spent several evenings fucking yourself to completion on a vibrator, wondering how the thickness of it would compare to his cock?

“I know,” he says, as if in response to your unshared thoughts. “That’s why I couldn’t understand why you left.”

The words are a punch to the gut. They also aren’t fair. Because, you didn’t leave Zayne. You didn’t. He left you. You found a new job, sure, a job some distance from his clinic, but that was only so you could grow. You wanted a life. A better one. One where you could afford to buy fresh produce instead of frozen. One where Zayne wouldn’t have to worry about you all the damn time. One where the two of you could be partners, equals. When you came back for him, he was gone.

That’s what happen, right? That’s how everything went down? You didn’t leave Zayne. You didn’t think you did anyway. If he does though…

“I won’t leave you again,” you promise. “Once I get you the information you need and clear my name, I’ll find a way to make up for lost time. I’ll quit my job and move next to you. I’ll spend all my mornings in your kitchen before you leave for work and all my evenings on your sofa so I can ask about your day. We can open a new clinic together, maybe, if you ever want a change of pace. I can help you keep track of clients and-”

Zayne’s cumming before you can finish your thought, cumming and babbling that, “It still isn’t enough.”

“Inside,” you blurt out as if you’re brain is the one turning to mush due to the Snare. You shift a bit around him, and another spurt of warm cum leaks from his tip to the meat of your thighs. “Zayne, please, I want you inside me.”

“Fuck, do you understand what you’re asking?” he moans, the thick tip of his cock prodding at your entrance. You feel your pussy attempt to clench around it. “You, you’re not even properly prepped. Without adequate stretching, sex is painful for a woman.”

“So prep me, then,” you all but snap. “I’m already wet enough to take at least two of your fingers.”

The head of his cock is replaced by his index and middle finger. “Would you like to test that theory?” he asks, but the question is rhetorical. He slides the two digits into you all the way to the knuckle. “Well, would you look at that; you are wet enough for two. How long do you think it’ll take before your cunt can swallow three? Once you can handle that, you should have no problem taking my cock.”

You aren’t sure if the words are meant for you or him. Even all fucked out on Snare, Zayne seems to prioritize your safety and pleasure, not that it’s hard for him to please you. His fingers are long, thick, not quite the size of your favorite toy, but close enough. They’re warmer than the silicone you’re used to, textured in ways that your vibrator isn’t. The heal of his palm keeps brushing your clit as he fingers you, intensifying the already overwhelming feeling of fullness you’re grappling with.

“You keep clamping down,” he observes as your pussy milks his fingers. His tone is so serious it’s hard to believe this is all happening because he’s hopped up on drugs. “I’m going to need you to relax a bit if you want another finger.”

“I’m trying,” you whine, grinding against him. “You just feel so good.”

He hums in response as a third finger finds your entrance. Despite how absolutely soaked you are, the third finger doesn’t slip in as easily as the first two. Zayne takes his time working the thickness of it into you, one agonizing centimeter at a time. There’s no pain, but there is an unfamiliar stretch that accompanies the digit. It takes time for your softening walls to adjust to its intrusion. Once Zayne is satisfied, there’s enough give, he begins to stroke at you with all three, and your legs instinctually begin to try to spread for him.

“Almost,” he promises, kissing at your neck. “You’re being so patient. I had no idea you were this obedient.”

The words, “Only for you,” slip out of your mouth before your brain even thinks them. They’re true, though, so you don’t take them back.

His fingers slip out of you with the filthiest squelch you’ve ever heard. The tip of his dick quickly finds its way to your slick entrance, teasing the wall of muscle there. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop but-”

You slam your hips back before he can finish the thought, sinking onto what feels like half of his length. His cock, though undeniably girthy, pops right in, its quick descent aided by Zayne’s selfless efforts to stretch you and your own juices. Zayne lets out a string of curses as he slams your hips down, preventing you from taking anymore of him inside.

“I’m not gonna last,” Zayne says, voice almost apologetic.

“I don’t care,” is your petulant reply.

“Let me get you off first.”

You don’t argue, “Can you at least stick it all the way in?”

Zayne’s wordless response is to indulge you, albeit slowly, one hand wrapped snuggly around the base of his cock so he doesn’t prematurely ejaculate. You wish you could have seen it before he stuck it in. Next time you fuck, it’ll be on your back, so you can worship him as he deserves. For now, you guess at his thickness, brain going hazy as he bottoms out inside you, cock so thick it manages to press against the exact spot you need it too without any extra effort on his part. His fingers find your clit again, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge.

“Cumming,” you tell him as your orgasm takes you. Your entire body ripples in ecstasy as you cum, the sensation so intense you fear your soul might vibrate out your skin. Your orgasm leaves you boneless, tongue so heavy you’re not sure it’ll form words, limbs so limp they don’t even feel like your own.

Zayne cums right alongside you, his own hoarse voice joining yours as he stuffs you full of rope after rope of fresh, hot cum. You expect him to lose speed after his third orgasm of the day, but his hips continue slamming into you somehow even harder and faster than before. Now that he’s taken care of you, all of his caution is abandoned. His thrusts are no longer gentle and restrained, but swift and erratic, his body a bottomless livewire due to his Praedator strength.

There’s no resistance. Not from you or your pussy. His greedy cock sinks effortlessly into you again and again thanks to the lube provided by his cum and your own fluttering cunt. He seems to like the feel of bottoming out, because soon he sacrifices long strokes for short ones, drilling into your cervix like he plans to fuck it open. His final orgasm occurs while he’s balls deep inside you, his tip bumping viciously against the stubborn barrier.

Zayne refuses to let you up even after the worst of the Snare has worn off. He won’t even let you turn to look at him.

“I still want to bite you,” he sheepishly admits.

“And?” you counter. “What would it matter? It’s not like I’d change.”

“No, but it’s supposed to change you. We need to avoid arousing suspicion.”

“A little too late to avoid arousal.”

“You know what I mean.”

The two of you are quiet after that, stirring only once Zayne is confident he isn’t going to sink his teeth into the flesh of your neck and claim you as his own. He helps you clean up to the best of his ability, lamenting about the fact he can’t properly shower you in the prison facility.

“You’ll owe me one,” you tell him, but he won’t meet your gaze.

You recall the promise you made him in the heat of the moment. To quit your job and move near him. To spend your mornings and nights with him. You’d keep the promise, if you could. If Zayne would let you.

“Hey, Zayne…about the list-”

“Don’t,” he bites, effectively silencing you. Was he always this good at shutting down conversations? “Just focus on the mission. You can be whoever you want after that.”

You open you mouth to respond, but a noise outside the interrogation room prevents a full thought from forming. Guards, maybe, though it’s possible other inmates have made their way up here.

Zayne pinches the brink of his nose, “We need to get you back to your cell. Lay low until this has passed. Levi is close to cracking. I can sense it. We should have you out of here in a matter of weeks if all goes well.”

There’s so much more you want to say, but you don’t get the chance. The door to the interrogation room is ripped open, and you are begrudgingly escorted back to your cell.

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

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Chapter 3

Content: Mild Pet Play, Dub-Con, Sexual Content

You wake to the scent of cooking eggs.

The previous night filters in between the muted clatter of dishes. Sneaking and hiding, then running and struggling. Your ass aches dully, no doubt bruised in a few key places, but the rest of your body is loose and heavy. Pleasantly so. Owed to that spectacular orgasm, though you’re reluctant to give Ghost any credit for that. He just took advantage of your body’s unorthodox arousal responses, that’s all.

Has absolutely nothing to do with the molten gravel of his voice. The rock-hard biceps, barrel chest, thick thighs. Those midnight eyes lurking behind that damn mask.

Nope. Nothing to do with him…

Well, that’s enough of that.

You yawn and stretch, blink your eyes slowly open. Before bed, Ghost scooped you up and took you back to your own cushion, saying something about earning the right to sleep with Johnny. You’d been dozing off and only managed a half-hearted grumble when he clipped your leash on again.

Across the room, Johnny is still splayed out and snoring – likely stayed up on self-imposed watch when he should have been resting. Shaking your head, you gingerly sit up, testing your body weight on your sore butt. Not too bad, if mildly uncomfortable. Manageable, you decide, and slump against the wall.

You rub your eyes, shift as your bladder twinges. Fuck. All that water Ghost made you chug last night. You glance dubiously at the kitchen doorway. To call out or not?

Ghost appears before you can decide. He notices you instantly, rumbles “good morning” in a sleep-laden voice that sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t respond, eyes dropping to your lap as your face warms. Christ, one good orgasm and a tender ass, and you feel like a teenager with a crush.

Don’t even realize he’s moved until he sinks to a knee in front of you. It’s too close; he absolutely dwarfs you. Your head doesn’t even feel screwed on yet, still floating somewhere in the memory of the previous night. He tuts as you duck your head, fingers curling in your blanket.

“What did I say about answering me?” he rumbles, deceptively soft. “Are we already misbehaving?”

He radiates so much heat. A tired part of you wants to curl into him, soak it up as you shake off the chill of sleep. You clear your throat against that thought and turn your face away. Not that he lets you get far, guiding your chin around and up. Exposing your throat – and yet still so devastatingly gentle.

“No. Sorry,” you whisper. “Just woke up, ‘s all.”

He coos. “Just a grumpy little thing, is that it? Need a spot of coffee?”

“A-and the restroom,” you add quietly, unwilling to risk denial. “Please.”

“Give us a proper hello and I’ll take you for a piddle.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tamping down embarrassed anger as your face burns. He’s willing to give you what you want, that’s all that matters.

“Good morning, Ghost,” you murmur.

He hums. “Lovely, but not how my kitten should greet me.”

You blink, brows furrowing in confusion. How you should…? Right, because you’re his “pet.”

You recall what you can of cat behavior (though it’s been a while since you’ve interacted with one) and come to a hesitant conclusion. Slow and gauging, you shift forward, balancing on a hand between your legs. Ghost holds your gaze, dark and indecipherable.

Praying that his request supersedes his “no touching” rule, you lean up to press your cheek to his. When he doesn’t yank you back, you rub your face against the soft fabric of the balaclava, nuzzling to the sharp line of his jaw and then down to his neck. A rumble starts low in his chest. At first, you fear he’s growling. Then realize when he tilts his chin that he’s humming. Happily, it seems.

“Good morning, sir,” you murmur, pressing your nose to the hollow under his jaw. He still smells so fucking good. Even with the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather beneath the bodywash.

“Very good,” he croons, fingers burying in your hair. He scritches his fingers gently along your scalp, petting you. “What a sweet baby.”

You brace yourself against another shudder. You aren’t supposed to find this arousing or enjoyable. He’s holding your need to pee over you. That’s the only reason you’ve gone along with this. The only thing you get out of it is a trip to the restroom.

The chain rattles, drawing you from your thoughts. It’s… gone? When did he do that? Ghost squeezes the back of your neck and guides you away from his shoulder. You meet his eyes, bite the inside of your cheek when you see the gleam in them.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He clicks his tongue again, but lets you stand. It takes you a second, still a little stiff, but Ghost is patient as you stretch. Standing too close, sure, but not rushing you. Probably still preening over your compliance.

He walks you in front of him towards the basement hallway. When you come up short, Ghost chuckles and smooths a hand down your side. Meant to comfort, maybe.

“Downstairs bathroom is this way, little one,” he explains. “The basement isn’t for kitties. Even naughty ones.”

Well, even if he’s lying, it’s not like you have much choice. So you brace yourself and venture into the short hallway at his prodding. There are… four doors. You blink, glance at him over your shoulder. He points to the one at the very end. There are a series of locks on the outside, big heavy ones.

“Ominous,” you joke, strained.

“That’s the basement.” He pivots you to the right. “This one’s the restroom.”

“What… about the others?” you ask.

He snorts. “Sex dungeons one and two.”

You whip around, eyes huge. He barks a laugh and pats your ass.

“Storage and garage,” he chuckles. “Christ, your face.”

“Well, how should I know?!” you complain, shoving at the bathroom door. “I don’t know what you’re into!”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. You will.”

And then he slams the door behind you, leaving you in speechless silence. You press your hands to your face, compelled to hide when there’s not even a mirror for company. Fuck, you’re so stupidly turned on. It defies all logic and sanity. Once you feel a little less like you’re about to spontaneously combust, you hurry to do your business.

The downstairs restroom is a clean and modern half-bath. A brief exploration reveals nothing of interest (namely a weapon) in the cabinets. Hand towels, extra toilet paper, a little travel kit with a toothbrush and toothpaste under the sink. It’s decently stocked, but not helpful for anything beyond its intended use. Fair enough, you suppose.

When you finish, Ghost is waiting for you in the hall. Just like before, he walks you in front of him back to the living room. Soap is just starting to rouse, stretching and yawning widely. You immediately pivot to join him.

Two fingers hook in the side of your collar and tug, not hard enough to choke, but enough to stop you.

“Ah ah,” Ghost says.

You grab at his arm with an embarrassingly whiny noise, turning back to him in confusion.

“Why not?” you demand, frowning.

“Because you don’t have permission, brat,” he answers, voice turning dangerous. “Now, release.”

It takes a beat for you to realize what he means. Then you drop your hands, praying your little transgression hasn’t earned you another punishment so soon. Thankfully, he just tsks.

“Don’t give me that look. You two can play in a bit.”

You scrunch up your nose – not sure what “look” he means but knowing that he’s probably being condescending. Seems like his default.

“Back to bed,” he commands, jerking his head.

You huff and slink to your cushion, even going so far as to flop down. You’re being petulant, you know that, but you’re cranky. Ghost doesn’t say a word, just attaches your chain and leaves you with a patronizing little pat to the head.

“Morning, pup,” he calls.

Johnny squints at him for a second, scratching at the dark stubble shadowing his handsome jaw.

“Mornin’,” he grunts after a second.

Ghost snorts, stops with his boots at the edge of Johnny’s cushion. “I think we can do better than that. C’mere, pup.”

Johnny sighs through his nose but pushes himself up on his knees to shuffle closer. His eyes flick to you, looking for a clue.

Like a pet, you mouth as clear as you can.

His brows twitch with confusion. Then Ghost scratches encouragingly at the shorn hair behind his ear and understanding sparks in his sleepy blue eyes. He balances his palms on those broad thighs and presses his face into Ghost’s lower stomach. Your brows arch, impressed and a little envious – though you’re… not sure of who.

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles, “my good boy.”

“Aye, mind taking me for a pish, then?” Johnny grumbles.

You cough a laugh as Ghost shakes his head with exasperation. But Johnny gets his wish, unclipped and led away just like you were. It sounds like he snips a couple more smart comments, but you don’t catch any of it as another yawn racks you.

When they return, Johnny returns to his cushion and allows himself to be secured again without complaint. Ghost scrubs a palm through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk, then disappears into the kitchen.

“How’d ye sleep?” Johnny asks. He seems more alert now, bright eyes giving you a thorough once over, lingering on your lower body.

“Like a wee lamb,” you tease, badly mimicking his accent.

“Haud yer wheesht, it gets worse every time,” he complains, rolling his eyes.

You snicker at his scowl, even when Ghost emerges from the kitchen. Helps that he has plates piled with food in hand. He delivers one to you and the other to Soap. Dips into the kitchen once more and returns with two mugs this time.

The rich scent of coffee greets you when Ghost sets one in your reaching hands. Peering at the surface, you’re pleasantly surprised to find it just the right shade. The first sip confirms; he’s made it just the way you like. Sugar, creamer, and even a hint of cinnamon.

That should be disturbing. It should chill you to the core and turn your stomach that your serial killer kidnapper knows exactly how you take your coffee. Maybe it will later. Right now, though, it’s a familiar bit of comfort.

“Thanks,” you mumble, balancing your plate on your knees.

Ghost grunts from the couch where he’s settled. No breakfast for him, apparently. Probably on account of his mysterious identity under the mask.

It would be degrading to have to eat on the floor – except you and Johnny have done this plenty of times. On missions, in safe houses, in the base common room. Hell, even to this day, the two of you have camped out on the floor of one of your flats, watching movies with takeout between you. At least you’ve been served on actual plates with utensils.

“Och, love a man who can cook,” Johnny groans into his eggs.

You stuff a bite in your mouth, humming when you find that the scramble is really good. Bits of bacon, onion, pepper, mushroom. Hell, it’s better than you or Johnny would have made for yourselves on a normal day.

“Okay, yeah,” you admit, “this definitely makes up for the kidnapping.”

Ghost doesn’t deign that with more than a droll look as he turns on the television.

There’s even perfectly browned toast with jam! What the hell sort of serial killer is he?

“Ye’ve got any other talents?” Johnny chuckles, mouth half-full. “Did ye knit these blankets yourself?”

“You two are awfully chatty all of a sudden.”

“Good food’ll do that,” you chirp, grinning across at him.

“Didn’t realize I’d nabbed a coupla hens.”

You exchange looks with Johnny. “Bawk bawk, Ghostie boy,” he cackles.

You nearly choke, flipping him off when he laughs at your ragged coughs. And Ghost, to your eternal shock, just shakes his head.

“Call me that again and you’ll be squawking for a different reason,” he warns.

It’s more than likely not an idle threat, but there’s audible amusement in his voice too. Like he thinks Johnny is funny in spite of himself.

Odd, you think.

From what you know of scenarios like this, stalkers don’t really want the people they kidnap. Not the actual person, personality and all. They want some ideal they’ve built up in their head. Try to twist and manipulate their victim into behaving the way they’ve deluded themselves into believing they are. So far, not the case with Ghost. He doesn’t seem disenchanted by Soap’s banter or your snark.

Maybe he did his “homework” after all. Or maybe you and Johnny are on an ever-dwindling timer. Eventually, Ghost’s patience will dry up. Your reactions will stop being novel and amusing, will become frustrating and wrong. He’ll decide you two are not his perfect pets after all and go looking for another pair to fantasize about.

And then, well…

“Finish eating, kitten.”

You blink, eyes darting up. Ghost is staring from the couch, gaze fathomless, like he knows exactly where your thoughts were spiraling. You hum and shovel another bite in. Past him, Johnny is watching as well, a contemplative frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’ll do no good to fret about the inevitable right now, so you pointedly turn your gaze to the telly.

“Aw, the news again?” you complain around your mouthful.

Not much you want to see happening in the world. You used to make a game of guessing which international conflicts Price and Gaz would be deployed to. But then it made you sad and worried, and your therapist told you to stop – for once you’d listened.

“Saturday cartoons are always a winner,” Johnny chimes in. “I loved Looney Tunes as a bairn.”

“You are a Looney Tune,” you reply.

“Och, c’mere and say that, ya wee menace.”

“You’re lucky I can’t come over there.” Punctuated by an obnoxious slurp of your coffee.

Ghost points a warning finger at you, so you stop – though not without sticking your tongue out at Johnny. He responds with a rude gesture that makes your mouth drop open in faux outrage.

“How about a movie.”

Ghost doesn’t say it like it’s a suggestion, but Johnny is sure to impart his opinion anyway.

“Aye, let’s watch a horror movie. We can all compare notes.”

“I’m partial to slashers,” you add.

“Are you now?” Ghost drawls.

You blink at him once and stuff the rest of your toast – a not inconsiderable chunk – into your stupid, traitorous mouth.

“Good idea. Who’s that big bloke with the mask and the knife? Hunts horny campers down?” Johnny asks, a wicked smirk curling his mouth.

You tilt your head, point at Ghost with an arched eyebrow. Johnny’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

“Jason Vorhees,” Ghost answers, flat and unamused.

“Aye, that’s the bitch,” Johnny crows, snapping his fingers. “Cousin of yours, then?”

This time you do choke, breadcrumbs straight down your windpipe. You have absolutely no business crying with laughter in a serial killer’s house – at that serial killer’s expense, no less – but here you are, trying desperately not to suffocate on breakfast.

“Right then,” Ghost sighs.

He rocks to his feet and lumbers to Johnny. His giggles taper off as Ghost approaches, though a shit-eating grin remains plastered wide across his face. He tilts his head back, opens his mouth to say something else obnoxious. Before he can make a single noise, two of Ghost’s thick fingers plunge past his lips.

He jolts, tries to jerk back, but Ghost just follows and pins him against the wall with a leg planted between his thighs, knee to his chest.

“If you bite down,” Ghost rumbles, “you won’t like what happens next.”

Biting looks like the last thing on Johnny’s mind. His eyes go half-lidded and hazy as Ghost’s wrist flexes, petting at his tongue and teasing at his gag reflex.

“You’re cute, pup,” Ghost coos, “problem is, you know it.”

You press your lips together; your input probably isn’t wise at this moment. But yes, he’s absolutely right.

He draws his hand back a bit, hooks his fingers behind Johnny’s bottom teeth and gives a little shake.

“I know you’re all riled up, but it’s not time to play yet,” Ghost condescends, like… well, like he’s humoring a naughty pet. “Now, be good or you won’t get to play at all. Understood?”

Johnny warbles an affirmative noise, tongue flicking over Ghost’s scarred and tattooed knuckles. He allows it for a moment, long enough for a droplet of spit to sneak down Johnny’s chin. Then he steps back to let Johnny breathe, wiping wet fingers on his cheek.

“Good.” He turns and catches your eye. “That goes for you as well.”

“I’m just sitting here!” you protest, offended.

He points at you again, fingertips still shiny with Johnny’s saliva. A (not) small part of you is sorely tempted to see what he’ll do if you push your luck. The ache in your ass dissuades you, but only just. You deflate, turning your face away haughtily.

“Understood,” you grumble.

From the corner of your eye, you watch him duck to collect Johnny’s plate and empty mug, then blink in shock as he crosses the room to do the same with yours. You stare as he takes it all back to the kitchen, followed soon by a telltale rattle of dishes in the sink.

When your eyes cut to Johnny, he’s also gawking at the doorway.

“Do you… get him?” you ask.

“Not a bit.”

Ghost ends up choosing the original 1978 Halloween. You curl up on your cushion with your blanket around your shoulders, bobbing along to the opening theme. After a moment, that creeping sense of being watched itches at your shoulders. You turn to find both men watching you with unnerving affection.

“What?” you ask, flustered. “It’s a classic!”

Ghost obliges to turn back to the screen, but Johnny’s eyes linger. You wrinkle your nose and make a show of ignoring him. Even still, you feel his attention on your profile. It makes you fidgety, so you force yourself to sit still until he finally refocuses on the movie.

It’s easy to settle in after that; Halloween is one of your favorites after all. Nothing like a big scary masked dude with an unrelenting and uncompromising obsession. You remember that Michael Myers was one of your first guilty wanks as a teenager, not sure why you found him attractive, just that you did.

Oh, if only you knew.

Halfway through, your hip starts to protest the extended stint on the floor. As soft as the dog bed is, it’s no substitute for a proper cushion or mattress. You try repositioning, legs extended, then folded, then bent. Nothing eases the building ache though, and finally you relent to stand.

It draws Johnny and Ghost’s attention again, the former frowning when he sees how you’re favoring your leg.

“Acting up?” he asks.

“Just need to stretch,” you say, waving away his concern.

It’s more than that and you know it. Between the fight at the cabin, crawling around yesterday, and a lack of meds, you’re lucky that your hip is only just starting to hurt. Borrowed time, at this point. If you sit down now, chances are that you won’t be able to get up on your own again.

Johnny knows it too, based on the tension in his jaw. But he spares your pride and pretends to believe you, turning back to the telly – though you know he’s sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Ghost is not so polite.

His stare is so heavy it threatens to knock your good leg out from under you. Like Johnny, you pretend to watch the movie, working through exercises the PT taught you. It helps a bit, though you neither lay down nor put much weight on it. You settle for leaning against the wall, absently fiddling with the chain of your leash.

Ghost abruptly stands, one of those uncanny fluid movements that remind you why he’s so deadly. He doesn’t say a word, just disappears into the back hall. Restroom, you figure, and turn round again. In the back of your mind, your spine prickles. That instinctual wariness of taking your eyes off a lurking predator. It’s not like it would do you much good to see him coming anyway.

Doesn’t stop you from startling when fingertips caress the back of your neck. You’re not surprised that you didn’t hear him, but you didn’t even notice his shadow this time. The weight of the leash disappears as it coils onto the cushion at your feet.

You still, shock and confusion freezing you to the spot. Is this another game?

Ghost saunters back to the couch, lounges closer to one arm rather than dead center like usual. He may be facing the screen, but you know he’s scrutinizing your reaction – or lack thereof. After an extended moment, he leans forward, elbow on his knee and hand extended towards you, palm up.

“Here, kitty,” he calls.

You hesitate, caught on distrust and pride. He wiggles his fingers a bit, makes a clicking noise with his tongue like he’s luring a stray. Another beat as you consider… but maybe you really are a cat because curiosity wins out. You slink across the living room until you’re hovering at the far end from him.

“That’s it,” Ghost croons, “c’mon.”

Slowly, carefully, you place a hand on the cushion. His eyes glint with satisfaction, so you settle more of your weight and place the other hand a little closer to him. He hums and leans back in a deliberate gesture to allow you space. You slide your knee up, all but entirely on the couch now – but you stop. Wait.

Ghost just observes, an amused crinkle around his eyes. He doesn’t coax again or try to reach for you. That, more than anything, lures you into crawling fully onto the cushion, scrunched up against the arm of the couch.

“’S alright, little one. Stretch out that leg.”

You blink, mouth parting on words he’s robbed you of. It is… an unexpectedly kind gesture. But then he hasn’t been needlessly cruel, has he? Okay, yes, he spanked you raw last night, but that was a clear chain of action-transgression-consequence. He’s sort of gone out of his way to make you and Johnny comfortable, even if he’s a manipulative asshole.

A glance at Johnny decides you. There’s a glimmer of genuine respect for Ghost in his eye.

You ease across the cushions inch by inch, letting your legs extend until your toes are centimeters from Ghost’s thigh. Only then does he touch you, a warm calloused hand curling around your ankle. His thumb rubs light circles over the ball joint, hypnotic little spirals that leech the tension from your muscles.

“Settle in, now,” he says, “we’re almost at the good part.”

And you have no reason not to, so you do. The extra padding is an immediate improvement and you’re able to enjoy the rest of the movie with minimal readjustments. Ghost never seems to mind, just waits until you’ve rotated the socket to your satisfaction and resumes his gentle petting.

As soon as the credits start rolling, Johnny sits forward and rattles his chain.

“Well now, I’m feeling left out. I’ve been perfectly well behaved,” he complains. “I want in on the snuggle party too.”

You perk up. Johnny is always a good movie companion.

Ghost snorts. “That’s what you call well-behaved?”

“Aye, and if you’ve been stalking us for that long, you know it.”

You hum in agreement. Johnny sitting quietly through an entire movie is something of a feat.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” you chime in. Ghost pins you with a skeptical look and you, in a moment of inspiration, widen your eyes at him. “Please? Sir?”

He squeezes your ankle, eyes narrow. “You’re not subtle.”

You wiggle a little closer, ignoring the twinge in your hip. “Please?”

“Alright,” he grouses. “Enough.”

He stands, dislodging your feet, and crosses to your cushion. At first, you’re afraid that he’s going to leash you again. But then he unlocks the chain from the wall anchor and crosses back to Johnny. He kneels down, fiddles with the links and padlocks for a second before grabbing a firm hold of Johnny’s collar and tugging.

“This is a privilege, you understand?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “If you act up, it’s not your ass I’ll be taking it out of. Clear?”

Johnny’s eyes flash, a stormy glance sent your way in understanding. “Aye, crystal.”

“Give us a bark like a good mutt.”

Johnny’s lip curls, but he delivers a sullen little “woof” that seems to satisfy Ghost. He releases the collar and returns to the couch. This time, he takes the side your upper half is lounging on. Before you can scramble to make room, he lifts you up, takes your spot, and drops your torso onto his lap.

“Hey,” you grumble.

His fingers bury in your hair, equal parts restraining and pacifying. You wriggle around, dig your shoulder into his thigh as revenge. It not that his huge thigh doesn’t make for a nice pillow – the issue is that it does. Warm and firm to support your neck, but still a generous layer of soft tissue for your cheek to snuggle into.

“Consider this a trade for letting the pup onto the furniture,” Ghost drawls.

You subside as Johnny, now on an extended leash with the addition of yours, takes the other end. He gathers your legs in his lap and immediately starts massaging his big, warm hands along the damaged nerve pathway. You make a quiet noise, mouth a “thank you” that earns you a warm look.

“What’s next, then?” he asks. “I’m still partial to that Jason bloke.”

You snicker, earn a tug to the hair from Ghost.

“Something spooky?” you suggest. “Ghosts?”

This time he pinches your cheek hard enough to smart. You whine, almost whack yourself in the face while swatting at him. He does end up putting on a supernatural movie next, much to your delight. It’s something generic that you’ve seen a million times, but the familiarity soothes you.

Twenty minutes later, it strikes you how domestic it all is. Ghost is still playing with your hair, Johnny is digging his thumb into a sore muscle – and despite everything, you’re warm and comfortable and… feel more at ease than you ever have alone in your own apartment.

Well, shit. That’s… that’s probably not healthy.

Thankfully, your thoughts are interrupted by Johnny’s clever hands finding a point that sends a shockwave down your calf and up your spine. You gasp, body jerking, and then loose a soft moan. Ghost’s hand pauses in your hair.

“Yeah?” Johnny asks, voice dipping low and rough. “That the spot, bonnie?”

You hum the affirmative, all you’re able to manage as his fingers press into it again. Persistent pressure, kneading tender muscle where the worst of the pain seems to originate. Every tiny shift ignites another round of sparks through that side of your body, plucking quiet noises from your throat. It hurts as much as it feels good, one of those weird dichotomies of the human body not knowing how to interpret stimulation.

Eventually he eases up, gently working out the last of the tension until you’re little more than a puddle spread between his and Ghost’s laps.

“Thank you, Johnny,” you mumble into Ghost’s leg.

“Any time, darlin’.”

His hands don’t stop moving, though. No longer massaging, just… touching. Not that you mind. You’ve always liked his touch a little more than you should as a friend, and after your pseudo-confession last night, you’re practically squirming for more contact.

He seems all too happy to oblige, one hand anchoring on your knee. The other edges further and further between your thighs, stroking tantalizing patterns across sensitive skin. Even through your joggers his touch is hot, sends tingles into the pit of your stomach.

Johnny’s good with fire, and the one he’s building in your body smolders like coal. Reminds you of underground mines, burning quietly beneath the surface until they finally erupt above ground, scorching everything.

You’ve carried a torch for him so long you wouldn’t even notice if you started to burn.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on the movie as his hand creeps higher and higher. You’re starting to react; it’s only a matter of time before the evidence becomes obvious. You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth, heart beating hard and fast in your chest.

When you sneak a glance his way, his eyes are already on you, knowing and heated.

“Johnny.”

You both jump at Ghost’s sharp tone, eyes flying to him.

“What did I say?” he rumbles. “Behave.”

“I am!”

“Are you going to settle down, or do I need to make you?” Ghost asks, implacable.

You swallow, try to sit up to diffuse the stubborn light in Johnny’s eyes. Ghost’s fingers hook deftly in your collar and keep you pinned down. All you can manage is to twist a bit and shake your head when Johnny’s gaze darts to you. His hand tenses on your knee, jaw twitching with the clench of his teeth. You can see him teetering on the edge of something rash; his temper is a glass threatening to tip over and shatter.

And if that happens, this tentative peace is over. Ghost will punish you both, and probably take away these comfort “privileges” as collateral.

“Ghost?” You murmur. There’s a beat where you think he’ll ignore you. And then his chin tilts, dark eyes glinting when he sees the shy turn to your mouth. It’s not entirely an act either, your face heats as you struggle to hold his gaze. “When the movie is over… could we… could we play?”

He grunts, eyes narrowing – though you can’t tell if it’s with amusement or aggravation at your antics. His thumb traces your bottom lip, tugging it from between your teeth. You let him glide the pad of it along your canines and then back to your molars, opening your mouth to accommodate his hand. Squeeze your thighs together and realize Johnny’s hand is still there, make a soft noise knowing that he can feel the effect this is having on you.

“That pent up already, hm?” Ghost muses.

You nod, careful that you don’t nick skin. He blows out a long breath as if you’re asking for something terribly inconvenient. Then he turns back to Johnny. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, only to offer it with an audible smirk.

“Well, pup?”

You purposefully flex your thighs around Johnny’s hand, a silent plea to mind his temper. It proves to be unnecessary. His eyes are locked on Ghost’s hand, his thumb glistening with your saliva. Johnny’s full mouth parts, tongue unfurling decadently over his bottom lip.

“Is that it, mm?” Ghost purrs. “You just need to play? Need to get all that energy out?”

He smears the pad of his thumb down the midline of Johnny’s tongue and Johnny moans, like the secondhand taste of you is ambrosia. You bite the inside of your cheek and swallow back an answering noise; don’t want to interrupt the moment.

Ghost presses down, pins Johnny’s tongue.

“Puppy needs his exercise, or he gets antsy,” Ghost chuckles. “Alright, then. Be good until this movie is over and then we’ll set you right, yeah?”

Johnny hums agreement, tongue curling around Ghost’s thumb as his thick lashes flutter.

“Atta boy.”

Ghost indulges him a moment longer, then pulls his hand away. Johnny’s brow furrows like he’s going to protest, but then he clears his throat and nestles into the cushions, face pinkening.

The hand in your collar begins to stroke the skin around it, lingering on your erratic pulse and the bob of your throat. It’s distracting, keeps that flame burning bright in your belly. Johnny’s hand is still between your thighs, but even without moving, you’re all too aware of it.

“Goes for you too, kitten,” Ghost warns when you start fidgeting.

You tuck your face against his thigh and force yourself to lie still. The movie is a lost cause at this point. You’re just counting down the seconds until it’s over. Johnny isn’t in much better state; you can feel him pressing against your calf, thick and hard.

In your head, an entirely different movie is playing. Ghost toying with Johnny the previous night, big hands stroking his cock like they belonged there. The way Johnny’s face twisted with pleasure and desperation. You can almost hear the sounds he made, the way ecstasy shredded his voice.

And then you blink, and the credits are rolling.

It barely registers before you’re smothered. Johnny stretches the entirety of his body along yours, one long, muscular line of blissful heat crowding you into the cushions. His mouth smashes into yours, nothing neat or restrained about it.

A little, hazy part of you thinks that if you’ve been carrying a torch, Johnny has been tending a bonfire. At least that’s the way he kisses you. Like it’s the end and beginning of his whole world, like any second his tongue isn’t exploring your mouth is a waste of air. You can’t breathe without him filling your lungs, can barely even move to reciprocate.

And god, do you want to.

The best you can manage is to curl your fingers into his shirt and give him all the access he’s clambering for. He keeps pressing and pressing, wedging his thigh between yours and snaking an arm beneath you to squish your chests together. His teeth scrape your lip when you rock your hips, moaning as you finally get barest hint of the friction you crave.

He gets more frantic when you gather the brain cells to move your hands, sneaking them beneath his shirt. His stomach flexes as you trace the tempting lines you’ve admired so long, physically mapping the hills and valleys you memorized with your eyes. You gently scratch your fingers through the downy hair beneath his navel and feel him twitch against your hip. Do it again and get the barest, eager rock of his hips.

You’re lightheaded when he finally pulls away, though he doesn’t go far. His beard rasps along your cheek and jaw as he licks and sucks down to your neck. Your eyes flutter as you tilt your head back, trying to give him room.

You find Ghost’s eyes instead.

The reminder that he’s right there, that you and Johnny are making out like horny teenagers in his lap, sends a wicked thrill through you. It feels dangerous, like you’re provoking a wild animal, dangling food in front of a starving beast.

Johnny nips your collarbone hard; it’s going to leave a mark. Between one heartbeat and the next, Ghost tangles his fingers in Johnny’s mohawk, tugging him back from you with a chuckle.

“Easy now, pup,” he says, “play nice.”

“This is nice,” Johnny growls, flashing his teeth. His thigh flexes at the apex of yours, sending a shudder down your spine.

“Then we’ll just have to train you better, won’t we?”

With his free hand, Ghost rucks up your shirt. A tiny part of you thinks to protest his assumed entitlement to your body, but the thought fades when Johnny literally drools. You make a soft noise, get shushed by Ghost while Johnny’s pupils swallow the blue of his eyes. When your shirt can’t get any higher, you help Ghost shimmy it the rest of the way off, leaving your torso bare.

He presses against Johnny’s head, who gladly dips down to continue mauling your chest – only to be stopped just before he can reach you. His mouth hovers at the hollow of your throat, hot breaths puffing out against your skin.

“Well?” Ghost mocks.

Johnny’s tongue darts out, tasting, testing. When he tries to get closer, lips curling back from his teeth, Ghost stops him again. Only allows him close enough for the barest, sweetest brush of his mouth. Understanding, Johnny groans with annoyance, but Ghost is unyielding. He guides Johnny’s mouth to your nipple, hard and pebbled in the open air.

You moan as Johnny circles his tongue, spirals that get tighter and tighter until he’s flicking at it. He smirks when your eyes meet, laps with the flat of his tongue and then blows cool air. You squirm and pant, wanting more, wanting to lean into his mouth, but can’t with Ghost’s wide hand stretched across your collarbones.

Johnny’s teasing doesn’t last long either when he’s constrained to the smallest taste of you. Finesse devolves as hunger grows, his tongue losing its rhythm and technique in favor of sloppy, desperate licks. Saliva drips onto your chest and ribs, his appreciative grunts pitching into pleading whines.

“Something you want?” Ghost taunts.

“Let me…” Johnny breathes. “Let me…”

Ghost just chuckles again and drags Johnny’s face down your abdomen, smushing his cheek against the skin so that his beard leaves red marks in his wake. At your lower stomach, though, Johnny puts up the first real resistance. He turns his head and presses his parted lips to the angry red scars climbing over your waistband.

“Johnny…” you murmur, a little heartbroken at the way his face twists.

Ghost eases up a bit, gives him room to worship the injury that ended your military career. His tongue traces old suture marks, wide gashes where shrapnel embedded. He rubs his lips against the whirls of burns. You slip a hand from between your bodies, rub your thumb against his cheek until his gaze locks with yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your skin. It sounds like it comes straight from his soul.

Your chest hitches with a surge of emotion.

“I’m not dead,” you reply, just as quiet, but fierce. “Stop treating me like I am.”

His eyes flicker, ignite, and burn. He sinks his teeth into a clear patch of skin amongst the carnage. You yelp even through a grin, leaning into the bruising pain until Ghost tugs playfully at his hair.

“Release, pup,” he says after a moment.

Johnny does, but not without sucking first to ensure a livid mark is left behind. He licks his lips as Ghost pulls him away. You’re pulsing against Johnny’s thigh, wish you had even a centimeter of room to grind against his leg.

Ghost seems to notice, cooing at your flushed face as his free hand pinches your nipple. It’s a delicious sharp counterpoint to the sweet ache of Johnny’s earlier attention. You cry out, want to arch for more as much as you want to hide away, and you’re unable to do either. He does the same to the other, twisting as he plucks the flesh to aching sensitivity.

“Getting restless, kitten?” He mocks as you mewl and squirm. “I told you that you’d get to play too.”

You nod, blinking up at him as frustration starts to sting your eyes. He clicks his tongue and untangles his hand from Johnny’s hair, snaps your waistband.

“Off.”

Johnny, bless him, scrambles to help you strip, tossing your pants over the side of the couch. You hiss as your sore ass rubs against the cushions, less pleasant than the soft lining of your joggers.

Ghost outright laughs and manhandles you around onto your front, strokes a covetous hand down your back.

“C’mon, little one. Arch your back like a good kitty.” You’re already complying when he adds, “Show Johnny his toy.”

Syrupy heat washes over you, drips along your spine. Your moan twines with Johnny’s, lust drunk. You plant your knees as far apart as you can and tilt your hips, leaning your weight into Ghost’s lap. Johnny curses softly under his breath.

“Go on, pup. You can touch,” Ghost purrs.

Suddenly Johnny’s hands are everywhere. Your chest, your hips, your thighs, your ass. Stroking and kneading and pulling and squeezing. It’s an overload of sensation after that carefully controlled contact; Johnny’s like a kid let loose in a candy store. All enthusiasm, no restraint, so eager to glut himself on you.

Ghost’s hand cups the back of your neck, thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“That’s it, sweetness. Let him have his fun, get all that energy out.”

You whimper as Johnny licks a hot stripe up the back of your thigh. Punctuates with teeth digging into the crease where it meets your ass.

“Wanna eat you out,” Johnny slurs, breaths heavy against you. “Lemme eat you out, Kit. Promise I’ll make it so good f’you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Feel like you’re going to shake apart and he hasn’t even touched you.

“Please, Johnny,” you whine.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans, spreading your cheeks. “Say my name jus’ like that.”

You gasp as he seals his mouth against your fluttering hole, spare syllables tripping off your tongue. He goes down on you the same way he kissed you. Near feral, licking and sucking, drool dripping. You open up for him embarrassingly fast, can feel droplets of your own arousal falling onto the couch below.

He massages his tongue against your walls, growls when your hips twitch at the too-much-too-fast of it all. His fingers hook around your thighs and yank you back into his face. You yelp, reach for something to feel anchored. Find a large, calloused hand and grip tightly as Ghost hums over your head.

“Doing so well, pup,” he rumbles. “Good boy.”

Johnny curses, wicked vibrations down your nerve pathways. His enthusiasm somehow doubles with the praise. He fucks into you with his tongue, curving the tip each time he draws it out, only to plunge as deep as he can again. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream when he fits a finger inside, pulling gently at your entrance, gaping you open a bit to give his tongue more room. It’s intimate and filthy and perfect.

“Don’t be mean, kitty,” Ghost says. The hand on your neck slips around to toy with your sensitive nipples, pinching and tugging until you’re writhing back onto Johnny’s face. “Tell the puppy how well he’s doing.”

It takes a second to remember what words are. And then another to gather enough air to speak.

“S-so good, Johnny,” you mewl. “Feels… feels so… g-gonna cum if you keep…”

He groans long and loud, twisting his wrist to press his thumb against the nerves past your hole. Your eyes roll back, realize you’re going to make good on your word even sooner than you expected. Then his finger crooks inside you, finds that spot that sends your brain into the stratosphere.

“There, there, Johnny please, right there, don’t stop,” you chant, plead, cry.

He abuses it ruthlessly, pressing and petting until your broken little “ah, ah, ahs” go up an octave and you’re cumming with a scream. You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted, rocking into it as wave after wave threatens to knock your legs out from under you. Johnny milks every last drop of pleasure from you, his rhythm not faltering once while you ride it out.

Your orgasm finally ebbs, but Johnny is still going. Isn’t even slowing.

“Johnny, ‘s too much,” you whimper, trying to crawl away and failing miserably. “Please, please, ’s too – you have to…”

“Told me not to stop, love,” he reminds without pulling his face away. “I don’t plan to.”

“N-no, Johnny,” you start, but he dives right back in and steals the words from your mouth.

He drags you like a riptide into a sea of overstimulation, drowning you in pleasure bordering on pain. You can’t even get your muscles to cooperate enough to push at him, tortured with aftershocks that leech any strength or resolve from your body.

So you settle on your only hope for salvation.

“Ghost,” you sob, “Ghost, please make him stop. C-can’t take it. Please.”

He hums as if debating, lets the moment extend until you wail at the threat of another finger against your soaked entrance.

“Enough, pup.”

Johnny practically snarls, teeth grazing oversensitive skin and making you squeal.

“Enough.”

You feel him shift, though your eyes are closed so you don’t see what he does. All you know is that Johnny’s mouth and hands are gone all at once, leaving you wrung out and trembling. There’s a beat of charged silence. Then two sets of hands help you stretch out your legs, rubbing any lingering soreness from your hips.

You squeeze Ghost’s hand in silent thanks, receive one in return that makes you blush brighter than the orgasm did.

“Don’t pout, pup,” Ghost chides, amusement thick in his voice. “Show me how much fun you’re having.”

Fabric rustles behind you. You peek over your shoulder, suck in a breath when Johnny’s cock springs from his joggers. There’s a noticeable wet patch on the gray fabric. His head is flushed red, shiny with precum, so hard it looks painful. You bite your lip at the sight of him so close, so big. Half of you wants to climb on his dick and ride him until you pass out, the other half is still reeling.

“Let’s give the kitty a break, yeah?” Ghost says. Who would have guessed he’d be the voice of reason here. “Play with yourself for us.”

Watching Johnny fist his own throbbing cock is the singular most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. He’s gorgeous, lit by the TV screen and soft lamplight, hips rocking into his hand like he can’t convince his body to commit to the rhythm. The rosy head peeks in and out of view, pearls of pre slicking the way. Every few strokes, he twists his wrist and squeezes a little harder, and his thumb sweeps over the weeping slit.

“Pretty boy,” Ghost croons, “so good for us, isn’t he, kitten?”

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, Johnny,” you rasp.

He moans, head rolling back on his shoulders. Remembering how he reacted to Ghost earlier, you keep talking.

“I wanna choke on your dick, Johnny. Want you to fuck my throat until I’m crying.”

“Kit.”

He sounds gutted. You make a soft noise, part your legs a bit so that he can see the mess he’s made of you.

“Gonna make you cum in all my holes,” you continue, “drip with you all day.”

Every salacious thought you’ve ever had spills from your tingling lips, no filter or shame to stop them now. Johnny’s hand speeds up on his cock with each word, brutally fast. You can see him twitching, know he must be close from the way his voice is rising and breaking.

“Stop,” Ghost says like a gavel strike.

Johnny’s hand freezes, seemingly from sheer befuddlement rather than willing obedience. His orgasm recedes, replaced with frustration.

“Ghost, why—”

“You don’t want the kitten to get you off, then? My mistake.”

Johnny perks up instantly while your gut clenches – and you can’t even tell if its anticipation or dismay.

“No, wait, ‘m sorry. Please, Ghost.”

“That’s more like it.”

He snatches a fallen throw pillow from the floor – the same one from the previous night. Again, it goes under your hips, propping your ass in the air. This time, he nudges your thighs closer together. Johnny seems to catch on, makes a quiet, pleased noise. You don’t understand until he straddles your thighs and the slick head of his cock nudges at the seam of your ass.

You whine as his hand plants on your lower back.

“What?” Ghost mocks, “You didn’t think playtime was over, did you? ‘S not very fair to Johnny, is it?”

You make a vague noise of agreement. Johnny should be able to get off, and you’re pleased that he’s using you to do it.

“Sweet thing,” Ghost chuckles, petting between your shoulders.

You press your forehead against his thigh, sink your teeth into the muscle as Johnny’s thick cock sinks between your thighs. There’s hardly any friction, wet from his mouth and your combined arousal.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he groans. “Tense up for me, doll. Make it nice and tight.”

You squeeze your thighs together and cant your hips just so, making the perfect channel for him to fuck into. The head of his cock drags against sensitive, swollen flesh, bullies overworked nerves with each jerk of his hips. He’s not being gentle; don’t think he could manage it if you asked.

Even after your “break,” it’s still overwhelming. You struggle to lay there and take it, hands clenching and unclenching in Ghost’s pants. Find yourself mouthing mindlessly at the sizeable bulge pressing against your cheek. Reluctance and embarrassment long abandoned, you turn your head to press your tongue against the fabric.

“Ghost, can I?” you ask. “Please, I-I need something to… please?”

He chuckles roughly, sinks his fingers into your hair to keep your head in place as he rocks against your face.

“That what you need, little one? Need a cock in your mouth to distract you from how good the pup is making you feel?”

You nod as best you can, writhing beneath Johnny’s weight and the awful pleasure that sings through you every time his cock catches on your hole.

“S’pose you’ve been good.”

Ghost dips his other hand into his sweats, allows you to tug them down a bit. His cock is somehow bigger than Johnny’s, almost intimidating. Long and thick, curved towards his stomach, gratifyingly hard just from watching you and Johnny play. A pretty silver ring loops through the head – a Prince Albert, your mind supplies.

You swallow him down without a thought, moan at the way the piercing rubs against your tongue. It’s an instant obsession, you can’t help flicking at it each time you rise up. He seems to enjoy the special attention, grunting when you suck obscenely at the head.

“Oh fuck,” Johnny groans behind you. “You two are so fucking hot, it’s not fair.”

He thrusts harder, more erratic. Your thighs clench tighter as you take Ghost down as far as you can, gagging, eyes watering. He grunts, hips twitching, lodging himself just that little bit deeper. You can’t breathe, but you don’t really want to. Not when you can feel metal teasing the back of your throat.

“Fuck, Johnny, keep being good and maybe I’ll let you have this one day,” Ghost groans.

With the hand in your hair, he guides you into a proper rhythm. Not as demanding as you’d expect a man like him to be, but he’s not coddling you either. You have to get air when you can, actively swallow past your gag reflex. Hum and moan as Johnny continues to grind, getting wetter as his end approaches.

You’re distracted enough by Ghost’s cock ruining your mouth that Johnny’s rutting is almost bearable.

“Fuck, shit, I-I’m gonna…”

“Atta boy, Johnny,” Ghost growls, voice gravel. “Cum all over our pretty kitty.”

You shudder as Johnny buries himself one last time. Heat splatters across your stomach, then as he pulls back, all over your thighs, ass, hole. His breath stutters as he milks himself through it, then smears the head through the mess. One of his fingers toys at your entrance, massages his cum in there.

You keen, teeth accidentally scraping Ghost’s shaft. Thankfully, he seems to enjoy that, a ragged groan thundering through his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls. “Get over here, mutt.”

Johnny, dazed and sated, stumbles off the couch and crawls between Ghost’s parted knees.

“Up, little one,” he instructs you.

You follow his guidance to the top half of his shaft, where it’s still easy to breathe and move your tongue.

“Well?” Ghost says to Johnny. “Pick up the slack.”

And soon you feel his breath caressing your face, his forehead bumping gently against your chin. It takes a bit of doing, but you manage to coordinate, licking and sucking and worshipping Ghost’s cock. Your lips meet in the middle, exchange messy kisses, Johnny moaning at the taste of Ghost’s precum on your tongue.

It’s messy and hot, humid with shared air and sweat and lust. You dip the tip of your tongue into Ghost’s slit where the piercing threads. He curses, hand tightening in your hair. As one, you and Johnny double your efforts, finding those most sensitive spots and working at them until Ghost pants, ragged, “Just like that.”

Your only warning is the noise Johnny makes in the back of his throat. Then Ghost’s dick jerks violently and salt explodes across your tongue. He pulls you off almost immediately, spurts across your nose and cheek, then yanks Johnny up to receive the same. The two of you lap up the remains, then, at Ghost’s urging, clean each other up.

In the aftermath, you drop your head heavily into Ghost’s lap. Beside you, Johnny slumps over, his arm looping tiredly around your back.

“Well done,” Ghost murmurs, a hand on each of your heads. “Better now?”

You exchange glassy, stupid glances with Johnny, twin dopey grins tugging at your mouths.

“Yes, Ghost,” you chorus.

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Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw #serial killer au #serial killer ghost #mind the warnings

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alkemylabz · 8 months ago

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Everything is happening at the same time . (x)

Existence is the wonderful place beyond oUR reach as a portrait of everything possible.

#labz.txt #unorthodox kitten #horror arg #cosmic horror #gifset #existential horror #mathematical horror #0th iteration #gifs by meeee :) smile #aestheticsposting #analog horror

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kiraley · 9 months ago

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Hitoshi Shinsou x Yandere!Reader

Description: Shinsou doesn’t like your obsessive coddling. Or maybe he does.

Trigger Warnings - Infantilization. Pet play. Yandere and tsundere themes. Kidnapping. Brief brainwashing. Mentions of bullying, insecurity, and being restrained. Stockholm syndrome. This is meant to be a lighthearted one-shot, however, so nothing too serious is shown! No NSFW content. Age of Characters - 18+. Gender Identity of (Y/n) - Unspecified.

***

“Stay still for me, Kitty Cat!”

“No.”

“But these cat ears are the cutest! You’d look so cute if you just stayed still and let me put them on you.”

“Don’t care.”

“Don’t be like that. Who’s my good little kitty cat?”

“Stop this.”

“You are! Yes, you are~!”

“I said stop.”

Shinsou’s deep voice severed through your affectionate babbles. He dismissed you in any way he could. Though, he couldn’t do much to begin with. Not with you straddled to the lap of the taller male, forcing him to be pampered like a helpless little kitten. He shifted in discomfort against the restraints securing him to a chair. Funnily enough, the restraints in question were of his own capture weapon. He was almost impressed at your ability to one-up him, had he not been pissed at being abducted. He’s long since abandoned the struggle to escape his binding, but that didn’t stop him from occasionally retracting from you, or uttering a grievance in protest. He didn’t appreciate you stepping over his pride with your affectionate overindulgence. He found it to be quite flustering.

“Why would I stop now? We’re just getting to the good part!”

After placing a cat ear headband onto his scalp, you continued to accessorize your darling. Hitoshi’s gaze lingered past your own as he stared off into the distance with a deadpan expression. Your fingers brushed against the nape of his neck as you worked to clasp a black choker around his neck suited with a small bell. He shivered against the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Finally, you dismounted his lap and stepped back to view your progress. Hitoshi donned a black, white, and purple themed cat boy maid outfit, with matching cat ears, gloves, thigh-high stockings, and a tail. Minor cosmetic application complimented his look as you adorned his face with emo-esq eyeliner- accentuating his sleep-deprived eyes, and a touch of dark lipstick. And of course a painted on nose and whiskers!

You couldn’t help but swoon even more. He was just too cute! Though the outfit was missing something- a final touch! BUT WHAT???

In contrast, Hitoshi grunted in dissatisfaction. He couldn’t have been more humiliated.

“We're just about done with your outfit! It's coming along so nicely.”

“Oh, goody.”

Your outstretched smile was greeted by his unimpressed muse. You giggled at his reaction and toyed with the bell attached to his necklace.

“This choker really adds to that edge of your personality. Don't you agree?”

“I'm not answering that.”

“You just did, Kitty Cat!”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I'll consider it if you behave like a good kitty for me~,”

“That's an oxymoron.”

“Aw, shucks. I guess you're right! I guess I'll just call you Kitty Cat, anyway.”

Much to his dismay, his impassive commentary was dodged left and right, rendered useless against your blinding adoration. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, enclasping him partially, and snuggled into the side of his face. He huffed out and tried to turn his head away from yours as you rubbed against him like a cat in demand of scritchies. For someone who refers to him as a kitty cat, you sure behaved more like a cat than he did.

“This is highly unorthodox.”

“"Unorthodox"? Please! Is it so wrong to be hopelessly in-love with you?” you purred in admiration.

“If that’s what you’d call being a delusional stalker.”

A quirk of agitation flexed a muscle on his forehead as you laughed off his insult.

“Being feisty, are we? I do love it when you bare your teeth at me, Kitty Cat,” you lulled into his ear. “Be a good little kitten and “meow” for me, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not entertaining your insanity.”

“You should. It’s far too much fun.”

“Have mercy on me, (Y/n). I’m not a pet.” he retorted, sardonically.

“That’s not my name, silly.” you countered in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Through gritted teeth, Hitoshi spoke with much reluctance.

“Oh, sweet darling of mine,” he corrected himself, “please, do have mercy on me. I think we’ve both had our fair share of coddling tonight.”

“But, Kitty Cat! It would be unmerciful if I deprived you of my affection!” you said lightly, “And you’re just the cutest thing ever! I couldn’t stop showering you in love, even if I wanted to. Not that I would ever want to. Or even could.”

“How considerate of you.” he mumbled sarcastically. He tried to ignore the warmth in his cheeks by looking away. Maybe he was just feeling restless.

“Look, I'm getting tired. Can I just go to bed?”

“You mean, can WE go to bed~?”

“Can. We. Please. Go. To. Bed.” he seethed through a gritted smile.

“But I'm so close to completing your outfit! And I had so many fun activities planned! And you just wanna sleep?!”

“Obviously.”

You sighed.

“Well, I don't want you to be tired. My kitty needs his beauty sleep, after all. So I guess I'll wrap this up.”

“Good.” he said sternly.

“Right after I finish your look and take some pictures!”

“ . . . ”

“I'd knew you'd agree!”

“I was feeling the exact opposite.”

“Now,” you cleared your throat as you reached for something in your back pocket, “let’s finish your look, shall we? This bow-tie is just the thing.”

“Please, don’t.” he countered blandly as he attempted to wriggle away. His disobedience caused you to grin.

“I’ll loosen your binds if you promise to behave like a good kitten.”

He stopped moving and his eyes noticeably lit up at the prospect. Was he about to sacrifice what little pride he had left just to appease your insanity? Well, not like he had much pride to begin with after everything you’ve subjected him to in terms of your mollycoddling. He considered your proposal as a possible way to break free to the outside world once again. Without being tied-up, he’d have a much easier time to plan his escape. And inevitably fail.

His compliance lacked verbalization as he nodded silently in agreement.

“Use your words, Kitty.”

He paused to glare at you. You were getting under his skin, and he knew that you knew that. He could tell from your ever-growing smirk and how your words tinged with innocent condescension. There was nothing more enjoyable to you than teasing your darling to death.

“I promise.”

“You promise to~?” you drawled with a loving coo, leaning in for added effect.

He heaved another sigh and rolled his eyes.

“I promise to behave.”

You hummed a smooth chuckle and patted his head as a reward for his obedience. He cringed as you did so.

“Good boy.”

You parted from his lap to unravel the binding cloth around his torso and limbs. The white fabric fell to the floor in a muted thump as his arms and hands gained freedom. You stepped back and watched him stretch out his weary limbs and rub his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile at his ever-persistent state of sleepiness. He reminded you too much of a cat, even down to the smallest of details. You knew the cat costume was a great idea! And of course it had to be maid-themed. Not for any particular reason. But the emo aspect of his outfit spoke for itself. It fit his personality! Your cute little emo boyfriend!

His eyes slowly drifted to meet yours. A subtle look of calculation crossed his visage. A look that, perhaps, you'd fail to pick up on in your current state of swooning.

“Will you ever get tired of the kitten play?” he asked, yet behind his words, there was a strategic element at play. He was planning something.

“I could never!!”

Bingo.

He smirked to himself. The words slipped past your lips seemingly without thought. With his body unrestrained, and your blissful ignorance causing you to respond, the opportunity to escape presented itself. He was about to activate his quirk when he stopped to think about his plan. Maybe he'll keep you under a state of immobilization. But how long would the effects of his quirk last until he found a means to escape? You’ve broken the immobilization tactic before as he was mid-escape; the process would likely repeat if he tried it again. Or he could brainwash you into going to sleep. Or brainwash you into entering a comatose state.

No- he's tried that, too. He shuddered as he remembered that night; the moment he ordered you to slip into unconsciousness, your conscious mind awakened immediately to subdue him. It both impressed him and terrified him, to say the least. You may not be the first to break from his hypnosis, but you remain the only person to actively break from his hypnosis. It's as if the grip of his quirk is useless against you.

If he can't subdue you in that regard, maybe he could get you to unlock the front door or a window leading to the outside world. Then he could run away into the night with his newly found freedom. Or maybe he could restrain you with his capture weapon, and then call the police to deal with your crazy ass. He needed to find a way to brainwash you that wouldn't involve you snapping out of his hypnosis, consequently leading to a time-out for his misbehavior. He shuddered again at the thought. Sometimes he'd be forced to wear a hat of shame as part of his punishment for acting out, but we don't talk about that.

. . .

“Earth to 'Toshi~,”

Just like that, he was snapped from his daze.

“''Toshi"? That's your new nickname for me?”

“I figured that would get your attention.”

He shot you a stoical expression.

“I can't believe how uncool you are.”

“Le gasp!! I am OFFENDED!” you overemphasized as you clamped a hand over your heart, before a smile flickered on your lips. “Anyway, where were we?”

“Doing anything but this.”

“Heh! You're funny!”

Hitoshi grunted. For once, he decided to ignore his thoughts. He'll think of an escape plan later, he rationalized as he thinned his lips, tasting the faint flavor of the lipstick. His gloved fingers started smoothening over his wrists and forearms. They were kind of sore from being restrained. You replaced his fingers with your own as you massaged the tender areas. You hummed as you did so- a contended look etched on your face. His hardened gaze softened ever so lightly at your delicate ministrations. There was such a slight, but tender look in his eye as he inspected you, as if the tranquility of your aura was affecting him, as well. The way your fingers moved with such gentle precision . . . Taking care of him with such doting consideration . . . As you always did . . .

“Better?” you questioned, bringing him back to the present.

“Yeah,” he replied softly, “thanks.”

His absentminded politeness caused you to let out a surprised gasp.

“Look at you using your manners! I didn't even have to remind you. I’m so proud of you.”

Your hand found its way to his head as you rewarded him with the head pats of a lifetime. Your fingers interweaved with his already messy locks, rustling his hair back and forth, and the tips of your nails gently grazed his scalp. You even caressed his cat ears, feigning them to be real ears.

“Such a good kitty cat, aren’t you? Aren’t youuuu? Who's my precious baby boy?”

His contentment dispersed, replaced by bashfulness. A stuttered noise emitted from his throat as he found himself at a loss for words. To add insult to injury, you started leaving smoochies all over his face. The added peppering of kisses proved too much for him to handle and he crumbled under the weight of your love.

“Ngh, hey--! Stop that!”

A deep shade of crimson tinctured his fair face. With your affection making him feel more flustered than usual, his brows furrowed and he tried to shoo you away. You denied his efforts to do so- instead, you giggled at his mortification.

“Awe, is my Kitty cat feeling embarrassed? Do you enjoy your head pats and kisses? Don't be shy, now. You can tell me.”

He refuted your observation with subtle indignance, huffing to himself.

“N--no, I don't, you idiot. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Noooo, I would never.” you teased, sitting back on his lap, “It's not like your face is beet red or anything.”

He cleared his throat sharply. The uncomfortably hot sensation in his cheeks couldn't be disputed. You were an expert in making him feel flustered, after all. It's not like there was a part of him that enjoyed this.

“I'm only red because you're irritating me.”

“Sureeeeee. Definitely not because you're blushing.”

“Would you shut up already?” he mumbled, cursing at himself internally for blushing.

“Easy, tiger! No need to bring your claws out! Let’s just finish up your outfit, shall we?”

Begrudgingly, he sat there in silence as you finalized his look. You fastened a frilly purple bow tie around his neck to seal the deal, humming innocently to yourself. The reserved man detested this more than anything. The poor dude just wanted his sleep. Or in the very least, to get away from your babying. His pride and heart couldn't take much more of this.

An adjustment here- a tightening there, and . . . VOILA! You bounced to your feet to admire your magnum opus. At last, the emo maid cat boy arc has been achieved, and you couldn’t have been happier. The same could not be said for your purple-haired pet. You doubled-over, placing your hands on your knees as you positioned yourself to be at eye-level with Hitoshi.

“Do you feel bonita?”

. . .

“Do you, or do you not feel bonita?” you asked again- this time, with much more conviction.

He sighed out the last remaining semblance of dignity.

“I feel bonita.”

“Wonderful! Because you look bonita,”

You grabbed his face and planted a prolonged smooch on his forehead. A noise of disgruntlement warbled from his squished cheeks as you rested your forehead against his.

“You are very precious to me.”

“I can't say the same.”

“Come on, now,” you started, softly, “it’s not so bad, is it? Being here with me? We're in-love, and we're meant to be together. Forever. You know this just as much as I do.”

Shinsou's stare hardened as he glared daggers at you. An expression that read "are you kidding me?"

“This is what you would call a power imbalance. Or perhaps a "toxic relationship." No- "unrequited love" works better. What we have is not even a relationship to begin with. I never agreed to be your partner.”

“Silly little kitten,” you murmured with a hint of slyness in your tone, “if you were against me as much as you say, you would’ve used your quirk to free yourself ages ago.”

Suddenly, his fierce composure wavered. His gaze inadvertently softened as his eyes expanded in realization.

“I–I have tried. Numerous times.” he stumbled over his words, foiling his attempt to sound serious.

“No, no, no,” you booped his nose in three intervals, feigning offence, “don’t lie like that. It's not fair to either of us when you lie. You can’t sit there and tell me you were actually trying to escape those previous times.”

Hitoshi gave you an incredulous look. Your accusations had him flummoxed to a degree he couldn't quite explain. He was against this situation, wasn't he? Of course he would be. There's no way he actually enjoyed your company.

. . .

Maybe you had a point, after all.

No. He shook his head.

There's just no way.

Maybe just a little bit.

Hitoshi scoffed, his eye failing to meet yours as he dismissed your words, “What makes you think I wasn't trying, (Y/n)? You literally kidnapped me. You force me to be your "kitty cat" everyday. So of course I've tried to escape.”

“Hitoshi, darling,” you started and pulled away to meet his uncertain gaze, “"Tried" is exactly the point. You don't try to escape with that much effort anymore. I'll admit, at first when I brought you here, you gave it your all trying to escape my love. Trying to deny your love for me. You almost got away from me at one point, too, y'know. Almost,”

You pinched his cheek lovingly before continuing.

“But it didn't take long for your "declaration of war" to run its course. You aren't resisting as much anymore. Your attempts to "fight back" are amusing at best, lackluster at worst. And let's be real; you're the type to put up a fight. You won't let anything get in your way, no matter the cost. You and I both know just how capable you are. How strong and dedicated you are when it comes to your goals. You aren’t weak. Not by any means. If you wanted to leave, you would’ve done so long ago. Especially with how powerful your quirk is.”

Silence was his only response- sans for a gaping mouth. The deepest hue of rosiness tinged his pale cheeks and his brain wracked with a surge of thoughts as he struggled to rationalize with this revelation. Meanwhile, you were nonchalant. Your half-lidded gaze looked down as you adjusted his bowtie. It's like you were expecting this. And that's because you were.

“That’s why I know that, deep down, you're okay with this. That’s how I know you love me, too. You just haven't accepted it into your heart yet. Not completely, anyway.”

You crane your neck to peer down at him with an expression of prideful amusement. His composure faltered underneath your smirk. It was a soft but domineering look. There was no way he could refute your argument. You had him figured out even before he had himself figured out.

“Judging by your reaction, I can already tell you've come to terms with all of this. I can see you accepted that, maybe, just maybe, you aren't as against this as you initially thought. Isn't that right?”

He avoided your gaze to glance to the side as he cleared the tension from the back of his throat.

Well, shit.

Looks like the cat is out of the bag for real this time.

“I guess I’ll take this over being outcasted by society and villainized for my quirk.”

His relented response caused you to chuckle. He attempted to maintain an expressionless facade but you could tell he was overwhelmed with emotion. You maneuvered your hand through the soft, disheveled tufts of his Indigo mane. The small act of comfort caused his heart to soar with elation. He probably shouldn’t enjoy this, but he can’t help it. He was wrapped around your pretty little finger; an indisputable fact, one that he'd finally come to accept. Maybe deep down, all along, he knew his little acts of resistance were something to prolong the inevitable. To delay accepting his feelings for you. After all, the only real escape was in your arms. The only future he had going for him is a future where you're right beside him. Even if that meant being pampered like a pet all the way. Maybe you weren't that bad, after all.

“I already knew that.”

He closed his eyes and sighed gently. Not in agitation. Rather, in a subtle display of submission and acceptance.

“The world doesn’t appreciate you. It never has. Nobody has ever appreciated you,” you spoke partially to yourself and partially to him. “Nobody could ever appreciate you the way I do.”

A deep chuckle reverberated from his chest. He couldn’t help but agree with your statement.

“Maybe you’re right. You’re the first person to not view me as less than human, or accuse me of being something I’m not. The first to see me as something other than a villain.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I mean, at this point, there's no point in denying my feelings. And there's no denying that you're the only one who never judged me for my quirk. And for that, I'm grateful to you, (Y/n). For giving me a chance. For always being there for me, and for taking care of me now.”

He hated to admit it, but he could appreciate you for who you are. Even prior to becoming your captive, you were the only one to ever treat him with basic human respect. Others rejected him, ostracized him. They deemed him a freak- someone with a quirk suited for villainy. He kept to himself, yet they persisted in his apparent villainous nature. If he was silent, he was plotting. If he spoke, he was an intrusion. If he looked at you, he was perverse. If he didn’t, he was judging. If he worked with others, he was a mooch. If he was alone, he was stuck-up. That’s all he was to people; the embodiment of depravity, no matter the angle he was viewed from, no matter how contradictory their accusations were. He would always be the bad guy. All because of his natural gift.

“Of course. It’s because I love you. I’m the only one in this world who understands you. The REAL you.”

You were the opposite. The complete opposite to what he’d been accustomed to for his entire life. You weren’t afraid to be around him. You weren’t disgusted, judgmental, or abrasive. You spoke to him directly, answering his questions with direct eye-contact. No sign of hesitation, no waver in your voice. You regarded him as another human being- simple as that. You felt comfortable enough to approach him, to smile at him, to invite him for studying sessions and the likes. The only one to ever see past his apparent “villainous” exterior. And for that, he had to thank you, to show you his gratitude.

“The people who judge you and bully you- they claim to be better, yet they treat you so terribly. Who is the villain then, huh? The one fighting to become a hero despite everything, or the one who rejects those based on something they can’t control?” you asked in rhetorical reference. “You aren't the villain. They are. The audacity they have to mistreat you, abuse you, and then claim to be heroic is disgusting. They're hypocrites. Every last one of them.”

You scoffed. Your hands instinctively tightened around him and you nestled into the curvature of his neck. Your words, tinged with repugnance, hit too close to home for the introverted male. All he could do was look at you in his state of shock. His heart fluttered, accelerated by a burning passion emerging from his soul. He remained silent, allowing the sentiments to fester in his mind, and allowing his repressed feelings to finally surface.

“You don’t need to worry about them anymore. You don't need to worry about anything else anymore. I’ll take care of you. From now until forever.”

A comfortable silence befell the two of you. He made no effort to protest your love this time around, nor did he feel any resistance to your benevolence. On the contrary- he wanted to indulge further. From the bottom of his heart, he longed to share his heart with yours. He wanted to accept your love. To be a willing recipient, who not only receives love, but delivers it, too. His soft expression then soured. His thoughts of internal self-wallowing began to emerge, and his expression furrowed into a display of doubt. Even after your declaration, lingering anxieties got the better of him. The remnants of his past came back to haunt him again as he doubted your intentions. He couldn't help it.

“You mean it when you say you love me, right? This isn’t some sick joke? Some misguided, deluded power-trip?”

Your head shot up as you responded to him in a heartbeat.

“Of course I do–,”

The sound of your own heartbeat reverberated in your ears as an immediate stillness enclosed every fiber of your being. A cold numbness beyond your capabilities restricted your mind and body, depriving you of free will. No longer were you in control of yourself.

With your movements halted and your eyes glazed over with an expression starved of emotion, he pounced. He’s brainwashed you before, but never to inquire about your true intentions. A part of him needed to be reminded of your love, but under the condition of his quirk. He needed to know that this was real.

He was a needy little kitty, after all.

“Answer truthfully,” he commanded. “Do you love me?”

“Yes. I love you more than anything. I would do anything to prove my love for you. I would do anything for you to love me.”

Your response was instantaneous. Even under hypnosis, your voice was defined by pure, unadulterated compassion. Shinsou released a staggered breath of air- one he wasn’t aware he was holding in.

He shouldn’t care about your love.

He really shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t even think about loving you, either.

Even after you kidnapped him- even after the countless pampering sessions, where you treat him as some little pet needing to be cared for constantly. He shouldn’t be entertaining your insanity; he’s said it before.

But . . .

Maybe he doesn't care what he "should" or "shouldn't" do anymore. Maybe that’s the line between heroism and villainy that becomes blurred. To love someone who is a villain- to acknowledge and appreciate the good qualities in them.

But who's to say who is and who isn't a villain? Maybe you were just like him. Someone deemed a “villain” merely for existing out of the boundaries of conventionality. Someone called a "villain" just because you lived life a little differently from others.

You may have done some.. less than lawful things, but you still had a good heart. Was this justification? Rationalization? Should he be concerned that he was falling for his kidnapper?

Eh.

Looks like he didn’t care about that anymore.

Coloration was restored the shrinking whites of your eyes as the grip of his quirk relinquished from your being. When you came to, you gazed at him in loving adoration, a soft smirk adorning your lips. The coldness from his quirk was replaced by the warmth of your love. He refused your stare by looking at the ground in shame. The bell on his choker jangled slightly as he did so.

“Have I,” he struggled to find his words as he willingly resigned to his fate, “misbehaved?”

You giggled at his remark.

“Not at all,”

Your hand grasped his cheek as you redirected his gaze, staring deeply into his dark purple eyes.

“I like when you use your quirk on me, Kitty Cat.”

Any mental restraint holding him back disappeared once you said those words.

For the first time, Shinsou made the first move by leaning in to kiss you. Something unexpected from both sides. Your breathing caught in your throat as you were taken aback by his emboldened act of love. His arms slithered around your form to pull you flush against his chest- his long digits splaying across your back, sending a jolt of pleasant tingles down your spine. Your shock diminished quickly and you melted into his touch. Your palms cupped his cheeks as you cradled his face in your hands and rubbed your thumb over his cheekbone. His lips moved in slow, passional synchronization with your own lips as you indulged in a moment of tender intimacy. For once, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, accepting you as his own. The world beyond the two of you didn't need to matter. Not anymore. Your hands slithered up his outfit to entangle in his hair. The feline-themed headband fell to the ground as your fingers tousled about, and you could taste his lipstick smearing onto your own lips. He tilted your head slightly to deepen the kiss and you oh-so graciously accepted. The two of you kissed passionately for what felt like a heavenly eternity. When the kiss parted, the two of you were breathless, weighted in an atmosphere of requited fondness. Hitoshi’s breath intermingled with your own. His lips hovered against yours, as if waiting with bated breath for your next word.

The silence was broken when he peered up at you and muttered against your lips, “You’re the first person to say that to me.”

You smiled and leaned in to kiss him.

“I’ll be the first and only one.”

He closed his eyes to indulge in the taste and feeling of your lips once more. You pulled away briefly, a mischievous glint sparkling in your eye.

“Now, then,” you cooed, “why don’t you meow for me, like the good little kitty that you are?”

Shinsou sighed. This time, he sighed in contentment, with a gentle smile gracing his lips.

“Meow.”

“Now purr for me!”

“Don't push your luck.”

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eleanor-is-fine · 7 days ago

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Agents Behaving in Unexpected Ways, or, Just Another Manic Monday in Q Branch

In our quest for bingo blackout, we were tossing around some ideas and a word was heard wrong, wordplay followed, and hilarity ensued. Please enjoy these linked poems. (Titles links to Ao3.)

A Most Unusual Post-Mission Review

by @kitten-kin

Where you wrote down circumcision should it have been circumstance? 'cause I don't see why you'd do that, Bond, except through happenstance.

Oh, your shoe slipped in a knife fight in a scented oils boutique? And you only meant to lightly maim Giannopoulos the Greek?

It says here that you sheared away a valuable limb, and horrified the henchmen so they all abandoned him?

It's certainly unorthodox; a deed I'd not command. But I have to say it did the job when the villain you unmanned.

Appropriate Language

by @myndelling

I know you’re young, 009 But last time I looked The standards for writing an AAR Are more formal than, “we’re cooked.”

The language of His Majesty Is not one to mistreat There are options far more civilized To say “throw” in place of “yeet.”

The target in your honeypot Is never called your “bae.” And regardless of the mission’s success Please don’t write “I slay.”

Your services we wish to keep But your wrist we now must slap: Your words aren’t just a waste of space They’re low-key cringe, no cap.

Zounds!

by @eleanor-is-fine

The satellite confirmed it - This unprecedented fact: The plaza and the embassy Entirely intact.

And what is this? An earpiece? Not waterlogged or bent Or fried or crushed or pulverized - We could send it out again!

Oh look, a tiny radio Still pristine, in its case. A watch - unscratched and ticking - With blue and gleaming face.

Wait. What? That grin, that impish smirk, What mischief has been done? Oh my, dear Bond, I must sit down - You’ve brought it back: your gun.

#007 fest 2025 #station phoenix #station bingo #sirena lachatte

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autisticandroids · 1 year ago

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kink/whump fics

alright. time for day 4 of @spnficrecfest: kink/whump fics. these will be majority but not exclusively destiel. there will be lots of gen and other pairings. and it's all gonna be one list this time so it's gonna be looooooong. arranged by section, and within sections, arranged by order of word count.

kink fics

starfish by copacet, .5k

dean has sex with cas, and cas is okay with it. [you might also like sensation (destiel) (2k)]. btw the only reason i'm not reccing another one of copacet's fics is because it's already on @explainslowly's reclist.

resetting by slopeslippers, 1k, chose not to warn

raphael/naomi. raphael watches naomi at her work and Feels Things.

killer queen by filthyfealty, 1k

deanpala. the thing that makes stanford era dean so special to me, personally, is not that he fucks his car. that's a given. the thing that makes him special is that he holds hands with his car.

service angel by fastandfilthy, 1k

cas is meg's creature, and meg is in heat. megstiel.

heavenly delights by lobotomycastiel, 2k

cas explores his unorthodox sexual fantasies. established destiel, but dean isn't exactly involved in the horniness.

selfish machines by redeyedwrath, 2k, chose not to warn

cas fantasizes about putting his hands inside dean. destiel, gore.

thou shalt not covet by lowkey_existential_despair, 3k, violence warning

the lazarus rising stab awakens something in castiel. destiel.

these cloistered rooms by trieduntrue, 7k

kind of a sex pollen, kind of a d/s pollen type deal. unrequited destiel.

subheading: genderplay of various types

handsome housewife by angelszn, 1k

cassie/fem!dean. fluffy feminization of butch dean in the bathtub. this fic thinks about bodies in a way that's really hot.

finer things by filthyfealty, 1k

masculinity fetishism. dean likes boys, so he likes when cas does boy things. which includes picking up girls. destiel.

his most treasured possession by omegavers, 2k

destiel dollification :3

it's an angel/demon thing by bleedingink, 4k

megstiel bodyswap :3.

they're playing dido in the hospital gift shop by spocklee, 17k

destiel. dean and cas meet in dreams. sexy dreams.

life skills by ilovehowyouletmefall should also be on here, but it's on @explainslowly's reclist for the first day.

subheading: pregnancy (both kink and whump)

in the darkness (of this gas'n'sip) by vaguesurprise, 1k

cas jerks off. destiel, pregnancy fetish.

descent by abstractsilver, 1k, chose not to warn and noncon warning

godstiel's favorite pets forget themselves. destiel and sastiel, stockholm syndrome, pregnancy.

pierce her by burnedpopcorn, 3k, chose not to warn and noncon warning

mary/john, mary/naomi. mary is in heaven and something is growing inside her. brainwashing and pregnancy fetish.

lindworms by ariasune, 14k

cas has a miscarriage. angst, body horror, destiel.

under the skin by lies_unfurl, 15k, violence warning

cas is pregnant with leviathans. gen, whump, pretty graphic body horror and torture.

jubilees by ghostyouknow, 17k, chose not to warn.

season five destiel pregnancy. body horror. uniquely miserable, a higher class of pregnancy whump.

this nervous condition by anonymous also belongs on here but i recced that already.

thin line between kink and whump

indigo by val_creative, .5k, chose not to warn (but i'm gonna break that and say: boy howdy, noncon warning on this one)

sam!meg/jo. exactly what you'd expect.

through the never by wednesday [one chapter of a larger collection], 1k, chose not to warn and violence warning

meg/jo. kidnapping and torture and rape.

there's a danger in lovin' somebody too much by vaguesurprise, 2k

destiel. brainwashing fetish and cnc. dean straps cas to the lobotomy chair.

kitten licks and cougar bites by vaguesurprise, 3k, chose not to warn

rowena/ofc. age gap, femdom, drugging, ritual sacrifice. you can infer the plot.

isaiah 65 by piesexuality, 4k

godstiel. destiel. mindwipenatural.

the horror of no detrimental redaction by sp8ce, 14k, violence warning

cas wants redemption. dean is there to help. destiel, torture, whump.

thy will be done by dogsled, 15k

fairly extreme bdsm, extremely dubious consent. cas doesn't know it's demon dean, until he does. destiel.

fully whump

"we're going to get out of here" by angelfishofthelord [one chapter of a larger collection], 1k, violence warning

cas and mary escape from the men of letters. gen.

wrong end of the stick by softpaperwings, 3k

cas self-harms in the aftermath of jack's death. gen.

forget your troubles for they are many by aini_nufire, 6k

cas forgets everything that causes him pain. that includes the winchesters. gen. [you might also like it's such a mystery (the way you know me) (20k, destiel).]

anathema. by outpastthemoat, 7k

angsty, post-godstiel cas sickfic. destiel

the river by hal_incandenza, 17k, violence warning

an alternate version of the trap. destiel.

unholy terror by aini_nufire, 24k

cas is in the hospital after the events of a slightly altered 9x09. gen.

#spn #spnficrecfest

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weresharks-could-be-neat · 4 months ago

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I scream you scream we all scream at the evil Machine

#this is what too much unorthodox kitten does to a man

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smuttysabina · 2 years ago

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Smitten by Tentacles

(Celine x Tentacle Monster, 1.8K Words) Tags: Tentacles, Even More Tentacles, No Eggs This Time Though, Literally Gallons of Cum, Buckets of Cum Even, More Cum Than Her Body Has Room For, She Kinda Digs It, This Girl Reads Too Much Hentai, Also Unorthodox Monster Hunting Techniques, Actually It May Be Orthodox, IDK, Tentacle Rape (But Consensual, Sort Of)

Celine was quite used to walking the streets of LA at night, meandering through the suburban apartment complexes on her way to indulge herself. What activities she engages in will be left unsaid, but it was a rather tired but proud girl who was making her way home that night; never mind the trail of liquid glistening in the moonlight that marked her journey. Perhaps it was the scent of her sex then, that attracted Celine's final partner of the night, her ovulation had not gone unnoticed by her previous companions; and it would not be overlooked now. Humming as she strode along, Celine instinctively kept her senses straining to their fullest extent, mankind knew well to fear the darkness; as well as the horrors that dwelt within. Not that Celine was afraid, this kitten bore claws, merely cautious. But what was caution in the face of mind-numbing monstrosities (as well as mind-numbing orgasms)? The sound of something undulating against the pavement draws Celine's attention, and she pauses to glance down a seemingly empty alleyway; perhaps it was just the wind then...

But it was a warm and windless night, and before Celine could react she was torn off of her feet and hauled into the dark confines of the alley. She writhes in the iron grasps of her captor, every limb held tight, her legs forced open and her chest thrust forward. She opens her mouth to yell but it is swiftly filled with something thick and meaty, smothering her screams. She gags as the unknown object wriggles down her throat, cramming its way into her stomach before unleashing some sort of warm liquid into it. Celine groans as she feels her stomach slosh with thick fluid, her vision going grey around the edges as she struggles to breathe. Then the tube is suddenly withdrawn, allowing her to gulp in deep droughts of air; before she burps and begins heaving up the liquid that had just been unloaded into her. Thick, salty goo pours out of her mouth, tears running down her face as she coughs it up in long streamers all over her shirt. Breathing raggedly, she now has enough time to properly focus upon what exactly was assaulting her; a seemingly endless array of glistening pink tentacles. Celine moans, she's seen enough hentai to know where this is going. Not that she particularly minds...

A strange warmth spreads from Celine's belly, suffusing her with an erotic glow, her skin prickling with sensitivity; her exposed pussy involuntarily leaking in arousal. A pink tentacle drifts closer to her face, and Celine is unable to resist opening her mouth once more, eager to enjoy having her hole violated again. This time though, it makes her work for it, forcing her to slurp upon it, gleefully running her tongue along it as she attempts to milk the tendril. Celine moans needily, filled with a strange desire to taste the tentacle's cum once more; she feels herself dripping in anticipation. Suddenly the meaty tube begins to pulsate, throbbing as something swiftly travels down its length. Celine's cheeks hollow as she sucks mightily upon its tip, and she is rewarded with a fresh flood of tangy tentacle semen; her throat bobbing mechanically as she swallows every last drop. She whines as the feeler is removed from her mouth, her mind afire with lust; she wants more! Celine gasps as her pants are painfully wrenched off, revealing her soggy panties, the fabric stuck tight against her moist pussy lips. She watches with avid interest as a fresh tentacle gently prods at her wet spots, squeaking as it presses against her slit. Fresh juices slop through her panties as her pussy responds to the pressure, her hole is already beyond ready to get filled. While she is focused upon the burning sensation in her cunt however, several more tentacles haul Celine's shirt up her chest, her breasts wobbling within their constraints before her bra is moved upwards as well.

Celine's tan nipples are already engorged, rigidly refusing to yield as the tendrils play and rub against them. She finds that the tentacles holding her arms have slackened, and so is able to squeeze her hefty breasts together provocatively; escape is the furthest thing from her mind now. With the tentacle still hard at work teasing her pussy, Celine happily welcomes another between her tits, squeezing it tightly against her chest as it slithers in and out. Her mouth involuntarily opens and her pretty little tongue pops out, dangling enticingly as the tentacle's pace increases. With sudden speed, the tendrils slams itself into Celine's gaping mouth, twitching as it unloads a fresh stream of cream down her throat; which slops messily out as she coughs it up. It seems the tentacles had taken a liking to her bodice however, as now several tentacles insert themselves between her breasts. It's all Celine can do to hold her boobs together as the four tendrils excitedly pump away, writhing and squelching in the mushy confines of her tits. Her chest judders under the onslaught, her ponderous breasts growing pleasantly sore as they are violently fucked. Celine was hardly worried though, as soon all four of the tentacles are spraying cum like firehoses all over her chest and face, utterly ruining her shirt and coating her in salty slime.

Scooping goop from her eyes, Celine glances down past her violated breasts to discover that her cunt was next on the menu. With surprising tenderness, the tentacles remove her panties, thick streamers of grool connecting it to her soaked slit. The feeling of warm air against her pussy causes her to shudder and whine, she had never felt like this before... So Celine had hearts in her eyes as she watched the bulbous member approach her sex, beyond eager to be bred and filled to the limit. The thick tip of the tentacle pushes softly against her entrance, and her cunt devours its wide head with ease; she could have taken an entire arm without blinking she was so horny. She moans as she finally receives what her body had been begging for since she had been captured, as the curved tentacle slowly coils its way inside of her. Celine gawps as she watches her tummy bulging obscenely, her pussy stretched until she feels as if it's about to break. Then the tendril withdraws, and starts thrusting. Celine throws her head back at the abrupt explosion of stimulation from her sensitive cunt, her eyes rolling back as she orgasms spasmodically. Her entire body bucks and writhes, uncontrollably pissing and squirting all over the pavement as her mind turns into much from the unceasing pleasure. Celine hardly even knew what was going on between her legs anymore, only that she desperately craved more of it. Her erotic trance only ends when a burst of heat and pressure unceremoniously erupts into her cunt, and she realizes that she is getting creampied by a tentacle monster. The moment is so rapturous, Celine simply passes out, her form limply hanging in the tentacle's embrace as her brain attempts to figure out how to react.

When Celine blearily comes to, she finds herself staring down at a vast puddle of liquid, with a steady drip coming from directly below her. Belatedly, she becomes aware that she is now being held upright, is completely naked, and is still astoundingly aroused. Celine's slightly broken mind had rationalized her situation by convincing itself that all of the tentacles were in fact, very good boys, who required an unending amount of pampering; using her matronly body of course. So when she starts stroking off the tentacles in either hand, alternating between the two when using her mouth; she was perfectly content. Her contentment only grew when she felt further pressure against her pleasantly sore slit; of course her pussy should be used to help reward these boys. Celine groans as the fresh tentacle starts to pump away between her thighs, goodness these good boys were hung beyond belief! More appendages curl around her, squeezing her breasts and caressing her thighs, one ambitious tentacle even starts to probe Celine's asshole... Who lets out a squeak, popping the tentacle out of her mouth to admonish the one below, firmly instructing it to lubricate itself before entering her ass. In response a second member joins the first inside of Celine's stretched out pussy, the pair pummeling her insides together as she cries out in surprise. Her juices quickly begin to splatter all over the place as once again starts a chain of orgasms that leaves her gasping for breath, holding the tentacles within her fists tightly. The rightmost one explodes all over her face and hair, bringing her to her senses in time to experience her guts getting filled.

Celine's body was used to taking a pounding, well tempered from the uncountable fan-gangbangs she had participated in, but this was something novel even to her. The tentacle burrowed its way through her insides, where her stomach had been protruding before, now it appeared downright grotesque. Her tummy sloshed from side to side as sudden gushes of cum surged inside of her, she was so full of tentacle jizz she felt bloated! Having her voluptuous figure turned into a cum-dispenser did not slow Celine's milking efforts down in the slightest however. She quickly grew experienced in draining the tentacles using her mouth within minutes; oftentimes the appendages were the ones left quivering and drained. The tentacles violating her lower holes were constantly being replaced as well, the stinking puddle beneath Celine growing rapidly in size. Soon enough, several members were sharing her ass and pussy at the same time, as many as four or five fleshy tubes hammering away at her seemingly unbreakable orifices. After what must have been hours, the tentacles finally begin to tire; flopping limply out of her reach to retreat into the shadows. Celine pouts as her prolapsed holes sputter emptily, licking her lips clean of watery fluid only to discover no more tentacles waiting to ravage her throat. She is unceremoniously dumped into the pond of sexual juices she helped produce, glancing around to spot the tendrils lazily withdrawing deeper into the alleyway. What sort of good boys would leave a lady so rudely unattended like that?

With an annoyed huff, Celine stalks over to where her purse lay abandoned, stained beyond repair from tentacle cum. She smoothly produces a sawn-off shotgun from within its voluminous interior, her mind returned to reality now that she was no longer getting spit-roasted by a monster. Celine jogs down into the depths of the side-street in pursuit; while she had enjoyed getting tentacle raped, she could hardly allow such a beast to roam free...

And perhaps, it still had a little left in it before its time was up...

#otv smut #celine smut #smut #tentacles

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