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maudie-duan · 3 months ago

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Summary: Fuck domestic bliss…because you couldn’t remember the last time you didn’t want to bite Harry’s head off or if sex still existed between you both—weeks of cold indifference have turned into all the little angers adding up until you both finally hit your boiling point, and shit hits the fan, a breaking point neither one of you saw coming, and that's it! Now cue the aftermath as you watch the dust settle. How will Harry help you mend all the broken pieces that are past the point of fixing? A/N: This story is based on this request<- bear with me. I did veer off course slightly! But only like the slightest bit. I only added some little gems that made that juicy request even better. Long story short, my brain turned the request into a “worship kink,” and here we are! Warning: Fighting, Filth, Fucking, and Fluff. xFem!reader, this one gets a happy ending!😉 Word Count: 7.6k

Fuck domestic bliss.

What was it anyway? A phrase you had heard so many times and understood, had been lucky enough to have felt and lived it, but lately, you felt it slipping through your grasp little by little.

The contradiction of closeness lies in this truth.

Sometimes, the very comforts of domestic life that once drew you together can slowly pull you apart, familiarity breeding not contempt but a dangerous indifference. Maybe this wasn’t everyone’s truth, but there is truth in the tiny details—In the words left unsaid, in the gestures you keep to yourself, the small angers that were never addressed.

Somewhere between the shared routines and the predictable rhythms of togetherness, you lost sight of what truly mattered—the connection you had that once felt like magic was being buried beneath the mundane details of everyday existence.

And this was you and Harry.

Stuck in the rut of everyday life.

A rut it was because when was the last time you guys had sex? Felt the warmth of his body, not the chill that came with the silent shuffle of starting each new day, the curt good mornings said in passing, or perfunctory kisses goodbye. You knew you both desperately needed this reset.

Dinner had been perfect so far—a homemade lasagna in your favorite vintage casserole dish, the one with the delicate blue flowers around the rim that had been your grandmother’s. It was the only thing you wanted from her estate; you saved it for truly special occasions, and tonight—a chance to finally reconnect with Harry—felt worthy.

When Harry complimented your cooking, his green eyes creasing at the corners as he reached for seconds, you felt the first real thaw in the frost that had settled between you. Maybe tonight could be the beginning of finding your way back to each other. It was the kind of evening you both needed after a long week. The kind where the outside world ceased to exist, where deadlines and meetings and stress melted away with each sip of the rich red wine Harry had brought home.

A perfect, cozy bubble of domestic bliss.

Until it wasn’t.

“Harry, that’s not how you load a dishwasher,” you almost snapped, watching him haphazardly stack plates on top of each other, silverware pointing in every direction, the sight of it already getting under your skin.

He glanced up at you, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Does it matter? It all gets clean anyway.”

You sighed, setting down the wine glass you’d been drying. “Yes, it matters. The water can’t reach everything if you stack them like that. And the silverware needs to be sorted.”

“I’ve been loading dishwashers since before I met you,” Harry replied, continuing to place a bowl where it clearly didn’t belong. “Never had a problem.”

“Well, you’re having one now,” you said, moving to his side and beginning to rearrange the dishes for what felt like the 100th time since you moved in together, “Look, the plates go here, vertically. And cups on the top rack.”

Harry took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seriously? You’re actually reorganizing it?” And he huffs out a breath like a child being reprimanded, and it sets you off even further.

“Someone has to do it properly.”

The tension in the room shifted.

Thickened.

What had started as a simple correction was quickly becoming something else entirely, but you knew you couldn’t go on like this without saying another word.

For weeks now, you’d been swallowing your tiny irritations—the dishes left in the sink, the damp towels on the bathroom floor, the half-empty coffee mugs abandoned throughout the apartment. Each small oversight had been a pebble added to the growing pile of resentment, and suddenly, this dishwasher incident was the final stone that sent the whole thing tumbling down.

The pressure of all the unspoken frustrations had been building inside you like a kettle about to whistle, and now the steam needed somewhere to go.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s tone held an edge to it now, the one you recognized as his defenses going up.

“It means,” you forced, ripping a mug he had wedged between two plates, “that you never load it right, and I always end up fixing every damn dish.”

Harry scoffed. “For fucks sake, here we go. ‘Harry never does anything right.’ Is that it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant. I can hear it with every word you’re saying”

“If it’s not complicated, then why does it matter how I do it?” His voice was rising now, hands gesturing emphatically. “Why do you always have to micromanage every damn thing I do in this apartment?”

“Micromanage? I’m not your fucking mom, Harry!” You felt the heat of anger rising to your cheeks, fury burning through you. “Asking you to load the fucking dishwasher correctly is micromanaging?”

“It’s never just about the dishwasher, is it?” Harry ran a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was getting truly agitated. “It’s the way I fold the damn laundry, or how I organize the fucking refrigerator, or the fact that I put my shoes in the wrong spot. The shit I do is never good enough for you.”

The accusation landed hard, stinging more than you expected, piercing through your irritation, hitting something deeper. “That’s not fair.”

“How is that not fair? Am I wrong?” Harry’s eyes were dark now, his jaw set. “You say you’re not my Mum, but you’re always correcting me, always finding something wrong with how I do things.”

“I’m not—That’s not fucking true and you know it!”

“Yes, you are!” His voice echoed in the kitchen, making you flinch, and you stilled your movements, “You think your way is the only right way, and God forbid anyone do things differently!”

That’s when you felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, your pride refusing to let him see how much his words were hurting you. “I’m just trying to help,” you whisper.

“No, you’re trying to control,” Harry shot back, his voice still loud. Harry was so caught up in his anger that he couldn’t read the room--see the pain lacing your features, “There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed hung heavy, painfully deafening, filled with all the things you both wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. You stared at each other across the kitchen, the distance between you feeling like miles rather than feet. It was terrifying how quickly love could transform into this—how the face you had memorized in all its expressions could suddenly seem like it belonged to a stranger.

The green eyes that usually held such warmth for you now flashed with something cold and foreign. In moments like these, it was easy to forget the thousands of tender touches that had come before, the whispered affections you shared in the dark. Anger had redrawn the map of his features, making him unrecognizable, and you wondered if he saw the same frightening transformation in you—if your face had become a mask that concealed the person he had fallen in love with.

“You know what?” Harry finally said, his voice quieter but no less intense. “I don’t need this right now.” He turned away from you, moving toward the counter where his keys lay.

As he passed the sink, his arm swung out with what seemed like unnecessary force, the dramatic fashion of a child not getting their way, his tantrum knocking against your precious casserole dish that was perched on the edge where you’d left it to soak, and then you caught his eye for just a fraction of a second.

And what was it that you saw?

Was it a flash of vindictive satisfaction hovering at the surface, or was it your imagination coloring the moment with your own anger?

Had he done it on purpose?

Because it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

Time seemed to slow as you watched it teeter, then fall.

You felt the crash as it hit the tile floor, the loud crackle like an explosion, booming through your entire body as a lash of anger tore down your spine; the sound of the scattering pieces filled the quiet apartment as shards of ceramic exploded outward in a constellation of blue and white.

You stood there holding your breath in the aftermath, a split second of recognition as your knees went weak with despair.

“Harry! What the fuck is wrong with you!” The words tore from your throat as you dropped to your knees, shaky hands hovering over the broken pieces of your beloved dish. Maybe it was dramatic, but he knew how much you loved that dish, and here you were staring down at each fragment, each piece feeling like it represented a memory you would lose forever—all the stories it held through time, years of meals shared, now the life you were building with Harry—the meals it would never see.

Harry stood frozen, his face a mask of shock and regret. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Just go…” you whispered, carefully picking up a piece of the rim, the delicate blue flower now split in two. The longer he stood there, the angrier you got until you were yelling, “Just go, Harry! Since that’s what you want to do anyway—Just fucking go!”

“Babe, I’m sorry about the dish, I really am—”

“It’s not about the dish!” And this time, your voice broke, the tears finally spilling over. “It’s about you wanting to walk away instead of talking to me. It’s about you thinking I’m trying to control every detail of your fucking life when I’m just asking you to do something simple.”

Harry’s expression hardened again. “And there it is. It’s simple to you, so I should just do it your way. My feelings don’t matter.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“It’s what you meant.” He shouted, stealing the air from your lungs, your ears ringing with the silence that fell over the room.

And this was the final blow.

The last accusing blow that sliced between you, a perfect circle of hurt and misunderstanding, and you watched, gutted, as he grabbed his jacket, his movements stiff with anger, fast, like he couldn’t get away from you quicker.

“I need some air,” he spits, not meeting your eyes. “Be back later.”

The door closed behind him with a finality that made your heart sink, and there you were, abandoned, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the broken pieces of your casserole dish as tears streamed down your face. His departure felt like a betrayal—choosing escape over resolution when things got too difficult.

It was always like this, wasn’t it? When emotions ran too high, he fled, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces while he walked free of the responsibility of working through the hard parts together.

Slowly, carefully, you began to gather the fragments, each one a sharp reminder of the words he left you with. The dish was beyond repair; you knew that. Some things, once broken, couldn’t be fixed, and now you hoped your relationship wasn’t one of them.

As you dropped the last piece into the trash can, a sob escaped your throat. You knew It was just a dish, you tried to tell yourself—Just a thing—A material thing that could be replaced, but it was your thing, the one thing that held the most meaning. And now it was gone, reduced to shards in a garbage bag, just like your perfect evening had been reduced to angry words and a slammed door.

And there you were, cleaning up the mess, cursing to yourself as you properly loaded the dishwasher. Of course, the irony of it all was not lost on you as you slammed the dishwasher door shut like Harry had slammed the apartment door, and you poured yourself another glass of wine—a large one this time—and crawled onto the couch, ready to sulk in the misery of you and Harry’s aftermath.

Alone.

And if he could be petty and walk out the door.

So could you.

One episode turned into two, and you lost track of when your wine glass emptied the first time because then you were opening another bottle, your eyes drifting to your phone periodically, checking for any messages, any sign of life, but there were none. Each passing minute twisted the knot in your stomach tighter. Where had he gone? Was he drinking at some bar, venting to strangers about you?

Or worse.

Had he found comfort in someone else’s arms? You knew that would never happen, but would he have been angry enough this time? Your heart pounded as the intrusive thoughts multiplied, each more gut-wrenching than the last. The questions circled in your mind like vultures, swooping lower with each passing hour, feeding on the fears—leaving too many questions unanswered as the hours ticked by one second at a time.

It was nearly midnight when you heard the key in the lock.

But you didn’t turn around, keeping your eyes fixed on the television screen where a contestant was having a meltdown over a collapsed soufflé. The door opened and closed softly, followed by the sound of Harry removing his shoes—placing them in exactly the right spot, you noted with amusement, listening to his quiet footfalls, each step reminding you of the lingering irritation still caught at the surface.

His footsteps were hesitant as he approached the couch, stopping just behind you. You could feel his presence, the familiar warmth of him, but you didn’t speak. Let him make the first move, you thought. Let him show you where his head is at.

“You’re watching our show,” he said finally, his voice quiet and a little rough.

You nodded, still not looking at him. “Seemed fitting.”

“Without me?” He almost whined.

And the pained tremor in his voice had you turning around, meeting his eyes for the first time since he had left. Your heart sank when you saw they were red-rimmed and tired, his curls a mess like he had been running his hands through them repeatedly—a nervous habit you’d always found endearing.

“You weren’t here,” you replied simply.

Harry winced, acknowledging the hit. “I know. I’m sorry.” Your body stiffened as he moved around the couch, cautiously sitting down beside you, leaving space, maybe too much distance, as he tried to respect the invisible boundary your tough stance was emanating.

You knew it, but you couldn’t help it.

You were still mad.

Still hurt.

Part of you wanted to maintain the cold front, your pride still stinging from the fight, but deep down, you ached for him to ignore the warning signs completely—to pull you against his warm chest, wrap you in those strong arms that have held you so many times.

You wanted him to make a move, be the one to make the first real motion toward fixing things.

But fuck, it was never easy to let go of a grudge.

And so you remained rigid.

Your cold exterior stubbornly at odds with the longing building inside you.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he continued, that sadness still in his eyes when you didn’t respond. “It was childish, and it didn’t solve anything.”

Coldly, you took a sip of your wine, considering him over the rim of the glass. “No, it didn’t.” And your tone was dry, already wanting him to work harder for the apology.

Harry sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “I was angry, and I felt... I don’t know, attacked? But that’s not an excuse. I should have stayed…talked it out.”

“Yes, you should have.” Your voice was steady now, the tears long dried. “And you shouldn’t have broken my dish.”

“That was an accident,” Harry said quickly, giving you the most sorrowful eyes that made you want to melt. “I swear to you, I would never deliberately break something you love. I was careless, and I’m so, so sorry.”

You believed him.

You really did.

Harry wasn’t cruel, just hotheaded sometimes.

“It was special to me,” you whispered.

“I know, baby.” He reached out tentatively, not quite touching you. “I know it was. And I know it’s not just about the dish.”

You perked up at this, his answer surprising you, warming your insides up, “You do?”

Harry nodded, his expression solemn. “I had a lot of time to think while I was walking around. About why you were really upset and why I got so defensive.”

This is what you had been waiting for, you thought as you set your wine glass down on the coffee table, giving him your full attention. “And what did you come up with?”

“That you weren’t trying to control me,” he confessed. “You were trying to help...in your way. And I took it personally because...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because sometimes I feel like I don’t measure up. Like I’m not good enough for you.”

The confession stunned you.

So bare and honest that it made your heart splinter.

How long had he been carrying this weight?

The thought that he’d been feeling inadequate while you were oblivious sent a wave of guilt crashing through you. All this time, your attempts to help had been reinforcing his deepest insecurities—a reality so far from what you had intended that it left you without words. You never wanted to be the source of his self-doubt, the reason he questioned his worth, and your throat tightened with the shame of it as you reached for him.

Because he had always been enough.

This had never been a doubt in your mind.

“Harry, that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He gave a sad smile. “You’re so put together, so organized. You know exactly how everything should be done. And I’m... not like that. I’m messy and forgetful and I load dishwashers wrong.”

A small laugh escaped you, then. “You do load dishwashers wrong.”

His smile grew a little, encouraged by your softening, and dammit, that sweet little dimple in his left cheek appeared, the one that always made your fucking stomach flutter. “I know. But when you point it out, sometimes it feels like you’re pointing out all the ways I’m not perfect. All the ways, I’m not what you deserve.”

“Oh, Harry, my love...” And you moved closer to him, that icy barrier between you beginning to dissolve. Your thigh pressed against his, warm and solid, sending a subtle electric hum through your body. “That’s never what I mean. Never.”

“I know that, rationally,” he said, finally reaching out to take your hand, and his thumb traced slow, gentle circles on the delicate skin of your wrist, the innocent touch awakening nerve endings you had forgotten existed after weeks of distance. “But emotions aren’t always logical, are they?”

As you squeezed his fingers, you felt the familiar calluses on his palm, slightly rugged, but these were the same hands that could fix a leaky faucet, soft in the way they could cradle your face with a heartbreaking tenderness that never left you guessing, and you couldn’t look away from his lips as you replied, your voice slightly lower than before. “No, they’re not. And I’m sorry too. I can be... particular about things. I should be more patient, more understanding that we have different ways of doing things.”

Harry brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your knuckles that lingered just a beat too long to be innocent. “I worship you,” he said gently, his eyes never leaving yours, the green darkening as his pupils bloomed. “Every part of you. And I should be more open to learning your way, especially when it comes to things that matter to you. Like vintage casserole dishes.”

The mere mention of the dish brought a fresh pang of loss to the pit of your stomach, but it was duller now, overshadowed by the heat suddenly building between you. You knew it was happening the second he said ‘Worship,’ the word sending a rush of thrill up your spine, a wave of excitement swelling through you the closer your bodies got.

And you wanted it.

Welcomed it even as that familiar ache awakened between your thighs. “It was just a thing,” you said, echoing your earlier thoughts, your voice huskier than intended. “Things can be replaced.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry said, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand, his movement causing his thigh to press harder against yours. “I have something to show you.”

He pulled out his phone, and you, without hesitation, shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side as he unlocked it. You had missed him, missed this, and you let your head lower to his shoulder, breathing in his scent— his cologne and something uniquely him that had always felt like home.

As he navigated through his search history, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his shoulder through his shirt, feeling him shiver in response, momentarily distracted his thumb hesitated over the screen for just a moment before he found what he was looking for and tilted the phone toward you.

Your heart stopped.

On the screen was an eBay listing for a casserole dish—not just any dish, but one identical to the one that now lay in pieces in your trash can and as your eyes roamed the listing, Harry pushed a kiss to the top of your head.

The listing showed it had been purchased just an hour ago.

“You bought this?” you asked, looking up at him in surprise, ready to jump his bones right here, right now, because you wanted him so fucking bad.

Harry nodded, a hopeful expression on his face that quickly shifted to something heated, more primal as your bodies connected. “It’s being shipped express. Should be here in a few days. I know it won’t have the same memories attached, but we can make new ones.”

And there it was again.

That ping.

That pulse.

That pull deep in your gut, and your body flushed at the thought of it as the heat spread across your skin like wildfire. “You spent your evening searching for a replacement?”

“Part of it,” Harry admitted, his voice dropping to that low register that always made your stomach tighten with want. “The rest I spent realizing how much I never want to miss moments with you again. Not even watching people cry over pastry.” And he nodded toward the television, where the show was still playing, forgotten in the background.

The sincerity in his voice.

His genuine regret.

And that fucking lovesick look in his eyes melted the last of your resistance.

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity—every breath, every slight movement charged with unspoken desire. You set the phone down and moved closer to him, consciously letting your breast brush against his arm again as you pressed against his side, and his sharp intake of breath told you he felt it too.

That magnetic pull.

That desperate need to reconnect not just emotionally but physically.

“Prove it,” you said softly.

Harry blinked, his breathing growing shallow as he caught the unmistakable invitation in your tone. “Prove what?”

“Prove that you never want to miss a moment with me again.” Your hand found his thigh, fingers tracing an intentional slow path upward. “Prove that you’re sorry.”

“Tell me what you want?” His voice gravel, a tone that sent liquid heat collecting between your thighs, a shiver down your spine with want.

You leaned in, letting your chest press against him as your lips brushed his ear, teeth grazing his lobe before you whispered, “I want you to worship me.”

A low groan vibrated from deep in his chest, his entire body tensing, his hunger barely restrained as he moved without hesitation. Harry slid from the couch to his knees before you, his strong hands pushing your thighs apart, gentle but insistent, the pressure wanting, and holy fuck, the look he gave you from that position made your clit fucking throb with anticipation.

And this is what you missed; this is what you both needed.

“I do worship you,” he said, his fingers skimming up your inner thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they approached your warm center before diverting to the hem of your shirt. “Every. Fucking. Part of you.”

His words made your heart jump.

Your heart picking up when his fingers found the hem of your shirt, moving with tantalizing ease as he lifted it, exposing your stomach as his knuckles deliberately grazed your heated skin. Your nipples were already pressed hard, almost painfully, against the fabric of your bra as cool air met your exposed flesh, waking your entire body with its presence.

“I worship your strength…your strength to have to put up with my shit.” when he laughed, his hot breath fanned over your skin, and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your quivering stomach, his tongue dipping past your navel in a way that made you gasp. “Your kindness…god baby, your fucking kindness.” he breathed, his tone weak as he pressed another kiss higher, working his mouth up your body.

Every time Harry’s mouth met your flesh, you drew your legs together, trying to dull the pulsing ache taunting you between your thighs, but Harry wouldn’t budge, and as they closed around his body this time, you felt a light pinch at your inner thigh making you buck your lower half.

And then you sucked in a sharp breath when Harry’s teeth scraped a gentle path against the underside of your rib cage. “Your passion,” he added as his hands slid around to your back, fingers splaying across your heated skin before they found your bra clasp, flicking it open with a practiced ease that reminded you of all the countless nights of pleasure because without a doubt there had been so much pleasure.

Harry’s eyes never left yours, green depths swimming with a craving, a hunger, something deeper, more profound as he removed your shirt and bra in one fluid motion, “I worship your heart,” he continued, cupping your breasts, a tender grasp as he said, “So full of love, even when I don’t deserve it.”

Greedy, you arched into his touch, your body more than ready, responding to each word that tumbled from his mouth with every caress. “Harry...” you breathed.

“Shh,” he soothed, leaning forward to take one of your nipples into his mouth, his warm tongue circling the sensitive peak. “Let me show you. Let me prove it to you.” Then Harry’s wandering hands moved to the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down with your underwear as you lifted your hips to assist him.

As the last barrier between you fell away, you found yourself naked before him in the soft glow of the living room light, and there was something sacred in this vulnerability—a heartfelt intimacy that transcended the physical. His worshipful gaze felt like kneeling at the altar to pray as you lay there naked.

With Harry, you never needed to hide—his eyes had always been your safest place, a sanctuary where every part of you was cherished without judgment. This moment of being completely bare before someone who held your heart with such care felt like the truest form of yourself that you could ever give him.

Then his hands were skimming up your calves, over your knees, along your thighs, your entire body humming with his touch. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you for permission as if he needed it, and you felt that tight flutter deep in your belly.

All you could do was nod, unable to form words as the anticipation built within you. Harry smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that promised pleasure beyond measure, and you felt all the lingering tension leaving your body.

Then he lowered his head, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, working his way inward with deliberate care, each kiss slow, but you felt the silent plea with every touch of his lips to your skin, a quiet apology, each brush of his fingers a promise of devotion.

He started gently, teasing at first, licking a slow, delicate line up your slit, a hum of satisfaction vibrating against your pussy lips, and you gazed down at him, holding your breath as you watched his calm composure falter, his need for you making him weak, his brows drawing together in pure agony.

Pain and pleasure stole his features as he stilled his movements, sucking in a harsh breath against your thigh and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into your skin. You watched him force a shaky breath from his lungs, and he pushed a hand into the crotch of his jeans, his whole demeanor shifting, physically aching from the presence of your pleasure.

“This...I worship this.” he rasped, pulling back to drive his point home, and you tried to draw your legs together as a breathy laugh slipped past his lips, and he nips your inner thigh with his teeth, making you gasp out, and you comply spreading them wide.

And like a flip of a switch, he dove in with a renewed hunger, his tongue already working, circling your clit as the other hand left your thigh, and then you felt his fingers teasing at your entrance, gathering your wetness, his finger sliding against you before slowly pressing inside.

One finger at first, curling upward with expert precision to find that spot that made your fucking toes curl.

“Oh, god—Harry!” you cried out, your hips jerking involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he bellowed against you as he added a second finger, ready to stretch you as he pumped them in and out in rhythm with his tongue. “So tight, baby—say my name. Let me hear how good I make you feel. Let me hear how much you fucking need this.”

And it’s true you fucking needed this.

You both did.

And now you wanted the release.

All at once, the dual sensation of his mouth and fingers was overwhelming, and you found yourself writhing beneath him, one hand tangled in his hair while the other gripped the couch cushion desperately, holding your breath as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity, the sensation curling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

“You’re dripping for me,” he rasped, his voice rough with want. “So fucking wet. Could drown in you and die happy.” Then his fingers twisted inside you, pressing harder against that perfect spot, his tongue flattening against your clit, firm this time, steady pressure you knew would have you coming in seconds.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking as you felt yourself approaching the edge. “Please, Harry, right there—baby—please!”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping,” he groaned, briefly lifting his mouth before immediately returning to your slick heat. “Want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to taste every drop you give me. Need it like I need air, baby, this is mine...”

Then you felt his fingers curl, curving inside you, hitting that exact spot with each thrust while his tongue worked your clit with unwavering focus. The combination was too much—the physical sensation coupled with his filthy words and, dammit, the sight of him between your thighs was so fucking beautiful, Harry completely devoted to your pleasure.

“I’m going to—” you moaned, your thighs beginning to shake uncontrollably as you fisted his hair, your grip tightening, pushing his face into your pussy like you could fit him inside you.

“Do it,” he commanded, his voice vibrating across your sensitive flesh. “Come for me, baby. Flood my fucking mouth.”

And then it was happening: your orgasm hitting with such staggering force that it knocked the air from your lungs, crashing through you in waves that seemed to go on forever, and you screamed out his name as your back arched off the couch, your walls convulsing around his fingers just like he wanted, and Harry moaned deeply against you, drinking in your release, his tongue gentling but never stopping as he guided you through every aftershock, every tremor of pleasure.

Harry didn’t stop until a soft whimper left your mouth, and you gently pulled away; only then did he reluctantly withdraw his mouth and he pressed his forehead against your trembling thigh, catching his breath in hot puffs against your skin as you gazed down at him, catching sight of your essence glistening on his lips and chin, a testament to your undoing.

When he lifted his eyes to meet yours, his gaze burned with more than just desire—they held a fierce, almost predatory pride in having unraveled you so completely, Harry knowing he had earned every shudder and cry his mouth had coaxed from your body.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your shaky thigh. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

“Come here,” you said, letting out a lazy laugh, your voice still hoarse from your orgasm as you tugged at his shoulders. “Let me kiss those shiny lips.”

Harry smiled as he rose from his knees, his movements a little stiff from the prolonged position. Of course, as he stood, you couldn’t help but stare hungrily at the prominent bulge straining against his jeans, and he moved to sit beside you on the couch, his lips a dark blush, wet with the evidence of your pleasure, his expression a mixture of adoration and raw, untamed hunger.

“I meant what I said,” he told you, brushing a strand of hair from your face with shaky fingers. “I worship you. Every part of you. And I’m so sorry for hurting you earlier.”

And even though you hear his words, you don’t respond. Instead, you grabbed his face and pulled him into a deep, aggressive kiss, gradually licking across his lips first, tasting your own arousal with a moan that made his entire body go slack.

And the groan that left his mouth spoke volumes as you climbed onto his lap, his hands gripping your waist as you straddled him, barely breaking the kiss as you continued, pressing harder, your tongue exploring every corner of his mouth, finding every hint of your essence that was left, a whole new greed filling your chest.

“You like that?” you asked, grinding slowly against his erection as you pulled back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. “You like when I’m filthy for you? When I lick my cum off your face?”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily beneath you, his pupils completely blown with lust. “You’re going to fucking kill me.”

You smiled wickedly, dragging your tongue along his jaw to his ear. “You taste so good mixed with me,” you breathed, feeling him shudder beneath you. “And I believe you,” you added, your voice softening slightly as you pulled back to meet his eyes, stroking his flushed cheek. “And I forgive you. Now let me show you exactly how much.

Relief washed over his features, followed quickly by a need that seemed to rise up as you knowingly licked your lips, tasting the last glimmers of yourself. “Now,” you continued, your hand moving to the bulge in his jeans, “let me show you how much I love you too.”

Harry’s breath hitched as you palmed him through his denim jeans. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you assured him, working at his belt buckle. “I want to taste what I do to you. I want to taste us together.”

Your words pulled a deep moan from somewhere inside him, his hips lifting of their own accord to help as you tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him, his dick bounced up between you, hard and straining, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

You leaned down, maintaining eye contact as you licked it away, savoring the salty-sweet flavor that mingled with your own taste, still lingering on your tongue, and you watched Harry’s eyes roll back, his hands already fisting in the couch cushions.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “If you keep that up, this is going to be embarrassingly quick.”

You smiled against him, pressing a kiss to his sensitive head. “That’s okay. We have all night for round two.”

Before he could respond, you took him into your mouth, sliding down as far as you comfortably could. The sound he made—half groan, half your name—felt like one of the most erotic things you had ever heard as your head began to move.

When you finally pulled back to catch your breath, saliva dripped from your lips to his shaft as you pumped him with your hand. “You like watching me choke on this big dick?” you asked, voice rugged before you took him deep again, this time letting your throat constrict around his tip.

“Fuck!” he shouted, his thighs tensing beneath you. “I’m not gonna last if you keep that up.”

You loved this part.

This was your favorite part, watching how easy it was to make him come undone.

And you continued to work him with your mouth and hand, establishing a rhythm that had him panting and cursing above you. When his hands found your hair, it wasn’t guiding, just connecting, Harry needing to touch you as you pleasured him.

“I’m close,” he warned after only a few minutes, his voice strained. “So close, babe.”

You pulled off with a pop, looking up at him with a mischievous smile. “Not yet,” you said, climbing onto his lap and straddling him. “I want to feel you.”

Harry’s hands immediately went to your hips, steadying you as you positioned yourself above him. “Are you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, deep and passionate, as you slowly sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he was fully seated within you. The stretch now arousing the desperation even more, your body still sensitive from your earlier orgasm.

“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want this. I want you.”

You began to move, setting a slow, grinding pace that had both of you moaning, and Harry’s hands roamed your body, touching everywhere he could reach, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, really his.

“I love you,” he said between kisses, the words like a prayer being answered. “I love you so much. Never want to fight with you. Never want to be apart from you.”

“I love you too,” you replied, increasing your pace as the pleasure built again. “Always, Harry. Even when we fight.”

“Fuck—you’re so big,” you moaned against his lips, your inner walls stretching to accommodate his girth. “Can feel you so deep inside me.”

“So—tight,” Harry pushed, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as you began to pick up your pace. “So fucking wet and tight around me. Like this pussy was made for me.”

And you both laughed when your eyes met his. Both of you realizing it had been way too long since you had spoken these filthy words into existence, but you needed it, both of you spurring one another on as the pleasure took hold of each of you.

You established a rhythm, rising until just the tip remained inside before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt each time. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps, each sound breathing life back into the space.

“That’s it,” Harry urged, his voice strained as he thrust up to meet your downward movements. “Ride that dick. Show me how much you fucking need it.”

And dammit, what had Harry said? you needed it like you needed the air in your lungs, the blood flowing through your veins, the fucking heart pumping in your chest that could only beat for him.

In this moment.

Always.

You needed him.

Forever.

The tension between you had transformed completely, the anger of earlier replaced by a desperate, all-consuming love. Each movement, each touch, each whispered endearment was a reaffirmation of your bond, stronger now for having been tested.

You felt hunger drive from within as you increased your pace, grinding your clit against his pelvis with each downstroke. “So deep,” you gasped, throwing your head back as he hit that spot inside you. “God—Harry—you’re so fucking deep.”

His hands moved from your hips to your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples as you bounced on his lap. “Look at you,” he groaned, eyes dark with need, with purpose as they raked over your body. “Taking me like this. Fucking goddess.”

The pleasure was building, charged with a thrilling energy that had you both sloppy for more as your second orgasm loomed even faster than the first. Harry could tell—he always could—and he slipped one hand between your bodies to circle your clit.

“Want you to come on this dick?” he forced, his voice a rough growl that sent shivers down your spine. “Going to squeeze me so tight I can’t hold back?”

“Harry—” you moaned, each movement becoming erratic as you chased your release. “Make me come, Harry. Need to come with you inside me.”

“The way you take me so deep... fucking incredible.” he praised, thumb stroking your clit in circles, moving in sync with your movements.

“Come with me,” he urged, his voice tight with the effort of holding back. “Want to feel you come around me.”

The added stimulation was all you needed, and you felt your second orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, less intense but somehow deeper than the first, and you moaned out Harry’s name as your inner walls clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you.

Fuck.

It was so good.

This was so good.

And then he was burying his face in your neck as he came, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it was hard to tell where you ended and he began as a swell of longing flooded your body, and you held him just as fiercely, riding out the waves of pleasure together until you both collapsed, spent and satisfied.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, connected in the most intimate way, hearts beating against each other as your breathing slowly returned to normal, and Harry pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, before finally finding your lips in a tender, loving kiss.

“I really am sorry,” he murmured against your mouth. “About the fight, about the dish, about leaving.”

You stroked his hair, smiling softly. “I know. And I’m sorry, too, for being so rigid sometimes. Maybe we can work on it together?”

Harry nodded; his eyes were serious despite the blissful aftermath you guys found yourselves in. “We will. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the seller is including the matching serving platter too.”

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, pure joy replacing the last vestiges of hurt. “You found the matching platter? Those are even rarer than the casserole dish!”

“Only the best for you,” Harry said, his smile mirroring yours. “I told you, I worship you. Every part of you, including your love for vintage dishware.”

You kissed him again, pouring all your love into it. “And I worship you, Harry. Even when you load the dishwasher wrong.”

When his laughter joined yours, filling the apartment with the sound of happiness restored. The broken dish was forgotten, replaced by the promise of new memories to be made, new moments to be shared, and a love that was stronger for having weathered its first real storm.

As you curled against him, content and complete, you knew that this—this imperfect, sometimes messy, always passionate love—was the most precious thing you would ever possess. And unlike a casserole dish, it couldn’t be broken by a careless moment or a heated argument. It could only grow stronger, more beautiful, with each challenge overcome together.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73

@haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden

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#harry styles smut #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles reader insert #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfic rec #harry styles fiction #harry styles blog #harry styles request #harry styles masterlist

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 1 year ago

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Don't cry. || Nikto

[MASTERLIST]

Rating: E Words: 3K~ (this one got away from me) Pairing: rogue asset!Nikto x civilian!Reader cw: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT., bad/incorrect medical care, injuries (described), being held at gunpoint, verbal and physical threats, blood and gore. other tags: you/your pronouns. fat/chubby!reader, no russian. Summary: A stranger takes you hostage in your own home and demands medical care... But you might have gotten more than you can chew. a/n: YES, Nikto’s voice actor is only 5ft10 but he’s 6ft5 in my mind, and I’m in charge sooo.

It's cold as all fucking hell in your small town. No. Not as all hell. Because you're pretty sure hell is supposed to be boiling hot.

Why did your family have to come from this small town in bum-fuck-nowhere Russia? And more importantly why did you decide to move back here after college?

Oh, yeah. The house. The little home that your grandma lived in since she was a child, that was fully paid and required no rent, and had very low property taxes due to it being ancient… And was left to you in her will.

Well, in days like these, you can't help but despise the stupid fucking house.

The pipes are frozen, which means you've resorted to getting water from the local firehouse every morning, as do the rest of your neighbors. Plus, it's freezing even with multiple layers of clothes and socks and scarves on. You sleep in front of the fireplace all winter and still fear you'll be dead in the morning.

Every year it's the damn same.

Maybe going to study in Moscow and then doing your master's and doctorate abroad softened you up. But you didn't remember it being so fucking cold.

Having as much meat on your bones as you do, it really shouldn't be as difficult as it is to withstand the cold. Sometimes you wonder if all those damn studies about how fat helps preserve body heat didn't apply only when people had heat to preserve.

Those are the thoughts in your head as you throw your last log in the fireplace and realize you need to get more from the woodpile outside. "Mother fucker goddamn piece of shit..." You complained.

Throwing on a winter coat over your robe, you stuff your double-socked feet into your winter boots, cover your head with a beanie and wrap yourself in a scarf.

Then you venture outside with the flashlight from your junk drawer, to illuminate the way. The wind outside is biting and the snow is tall, causing you to almost trip over your own feet.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck... cold." You grumble under your breath.

Sticking the flashlight between your teeth, you grab a few logs of firewood and slip them vertically into a black milk crate at your feet, trying to hurry so you can go back inside.

As soon as the box is stacked as full as you can carry, you bend at the knees and hurl it up by the handles, gritting your teeth against the flashlight between your teeth.

That's when you feel something hard press against the back of your head... and you hear a muffled voice. "Don't scream. Don't look back. Just move." The command chills your spine more than the -17ºC weather outside.

Your eyes shoot wide open in a panic and you have to force yourself to resist trying to look back. Instead, you nod and wobble your way along to the backdoor while carrying the heavy crate of firewood.

Once you slip inside, you set the crate down in the kitchen floor and take the opportunity to look out of the corner of your eye at the the stranger that held you hostage.

He slams the door shut behind you and deadbolts it shut, then he rushes to the window, ripping the curtains shut.

He's wearing a flight suit and military gear but it's all in a navy color that you don't recognize… Maybe the Navy? But what would a Navy soldier being doing here alone, in the middle of the woods in your land locked town? Plus, he's clearly armed, carrying a pistol in one hand. The other wraps around his midsection and he's leaving a trail of small blood droplets on your floor.

His face is covered by a mask that looks more like a bunch of denim patched together than anything, leaving only his eyes showing. It’s even bolted to itself to not be easily removable.

“Where?” He asks you, eyes and gun trained on you as you straighten up and show your hands in innocence.

“Where… Where what?” You ask in confusion. Your body trembles all over and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to piss your pants if he keeps staring at you like that and barking vague orders at you.

“WHERE?!” He insists, raising his voice in a growl that sounds more animal than human. “WHERE. ARE. WE?” He adds, his voice boiling with anger and condescension.

“P-Provrsk!” You shout the name of your town as you flinch away from his own raised voice. Your gaze is locked onto him, taking in his mask and the blue eyes that stare at you from behind them.

You’ve never had to worry about a masked intruder in your home, ever. This is a small town, this sort of thing doesn’t happen here. Especially not one that looks like he’s deserted from the FSB.

“DATE?” He shouts at you again, making you flinch once more as your whole body tenses and curls into itself in fear.

“8th of February… Thursday.” You reply, your eyes beginning to well up in tears. “Please… don’t hurt me…”

You’ve never been the crybaby type, in fact, you’d say you’re pretty good at staying contained in your day-to-day life, even when life is beating you down… But something about a 2 meter tall man in your kitchen shouting at you while waving a pistol around terrifies you to your very core…

With a deep breath, he leans himself back against the kitchen counter and another animalistic growling escapes him as his left leg straightens and twitches under him, his knee likely weakened. He’s still clutching his side with his hand and more blood puddles at his feet, dripping between gloved fingers.

He looks like he’s immeasurable amounts of pain and considering he seems to have walked here with an injury that’s still bleeding, you can’t help but wonder if the adrenaline isn’t starting to wear off.

The sight of him is pitiful… And for a moment he’s not some terrifyingly “You need… a doctor?” You ask him, more in a tone of affirmation than of question. He needs a doctor and you know it.

“No doctor.” He replies sharply, showing he still has all his mental faculties in place… Somewhat.

“You’re hurt.” You remark softly. “Bleeding all over my floor.” You add. You’re trying your best not to shake and cry and you’re not quite sure you’re succeeding.

“No doctor.” He insists as he shifts his weight around on his legs and hisses. "Needle, thread and alcohol." He demands of you and you’re not stupid enough to disagree with the armed man.

“In the upper cabinet behind you… The metal tin.” You instruct while barely pointing your finger at the cabinet door on his left side for fear that any more sudden movements will cause him to take you as a threat.

He sets the gun very carefully on the edge of the counter so that his free hand can reach up and over, patting at the cabinet, throwing the door open and feeling around inside for the aforementioned metal tin.

He’s been smart enough to put your small kitchen table between you either way, preventing any sudden lunging activity from you.

He never once turns his back on you, not even his face. His eyes are still locked on you, sending shivers down your body, making sure you don’t try anything… Not that you’d be stupid enough to dare.

He finally grabs the repurposed butter cookie tin and sets it next to him on the counter before grabbing the pistol once more and aiming it at you. “Metal spoon.” He demands.

“Over there… second drawer from the left…” You point discreetly at the drawer by the stove.

“Get one.” He demands again and so you do, hands raised, taking very tentative steps across the kitchen, your heavy snow boots thudding against the floor.

Carefully, you lower your hand and pull open the drawer. Before you can even try to grab a spoon, you hear him bark at you again. “Only a spoon. Don’t try to grab a knife.” He warns you.

Nodding very slowly, you reach inside the drawer and retrieve a metal table spoon and show it to him. “Stove.” He orders you again.

“Heat it up?” You ask softly and he grunts in what you assume is confirmation as he nods curtly at you. “I need matches.” You point at the drawer again and very slowly fetch the box of matches before closing the drawer.

Turning very carefully toward the old stove, you turn one of the knobs and strike a match, lighting the burner before extinguishing the match. “Heat the handle.” He demands and you nod in understanding as you peek at him sheepishly.

Slowly, you grip the spoon by the bowl and hold the metal handle over the flame, moving it ever so slightly to ensure an even heating up of the tip, your eyes locked on the flame and the slowly reddening type of the metal spoon.

While your back is turned, you can hear some rustling and a heavy thud on the floor. You assume he’s getting rid of his heavy gear in order to patch himself up… “Hurry up.” He barks.

“I can’t speed up the fire.” You reply softly, too afraid to speak too loud.

“Watch your tongue, or else I’ll cut it off.” He adds, his voice grunted through as you hear some more rustling. His threat was enough to send chills down your spine and sent you back into muteness.

Another minute or so later, you can feel the heat spreading across the whole spoon and even the bowl is too hot to hold. “It’s ready.”

“Move, quick.” He demands and you turn to face him, finding him still in the same spot, across the kitchen, leaning against the wall. He’s shed his plate vest, and undone the zipper of his flight suit, removing the sleeves and leaving it to hang around his hip. That exposes his torso completely, per lack of any undershirts or other layers. You wonder how he hasn’t frozen out there in just a flight suit…

The sight of him is so shocking and… disgusting. You feel your stomach turning, the warm meal you had an hour ago threatening to come out the way it came. He’s covered in scars, his chest speckled in patches of red skin or pale, melaninless skin, something you can only assume are burn scars.

The right half of his torso is covered in dried blood, sporting a hapharzard, thick suture that you can only assume he did a few days ago considering how swollen and red the skin around it is… Infected.

And, of course, the pouring, wet, red blood that escapes from his left side… It looks like he took a gash on it… maybe a gunshot, maybe an explosion, who’s to say… But he’s definitely got a hole and he’s leaking like a faucet.

“MOVE!” He barks at you, causing you to jump, startled out of from your shock-induced trance and you quickly rush over. He grabs the spoon from you with more aggression than you expected and shoves you away with a swift elbow to your side, to force you away from him. You fall on your ass, grunting softly upon landing.

When you were younger, kids used to joke that all your fat would serve as an airbag in the case of a car crash, but the truth is, as you landed on the floor, you ass and legs hurt… As did you side from the elbow you took to it.

Your eyes well up in tears at the soreness on your body, as well as the sound that escapes him and reverberates through your kitchen as he sticks the red-hot spoon handle onto his open wound, gritting his teeth behind his mask as he cauterizes the wound shut. The sound is terrifying, like a gurgle mixed with a shout and an animalistic growl. (find the scream inspo here)

You don’t want to look. But he’s doing this inches away from your face. You can’t help but watch in horror.

HIs legs shake underneath him and he struggles to keep himself upright but succeeds by landing his elbow and forearm on the edge of the counter. The hand that’s holding the pistol, the left one, flexes around the handle, fingers trembling with the pain. He struggles to stay on his feet as his right hand keeps softly twisting the spoon handle in his wound before pulling it out.

He grunts as he lets the bloody spoon fall on the floor at his feet and his head falls back with a couple more grunts and huffs, resting on the upper cabinets, his right hand clutching the wound again for a moment. You’re sobbing on the floor. Something about the sight you just got broke your resolve for a moment. You’re afraid… Very much so.

Just as you’re trying to calm yourself down, crawling backward over to the table to use a table as support to stand up from the floor, the sewing supplies tin crashes onto the floor at your feet with a ruckus so loud you can’t help but squeal.

Looking up at him, you notice him glaring at you. “Suture.” He demands angrily.

“I-” You attempt to speak but you can’t. Too afraid and too choked up to succeed in more than a light stammer.

“SUTURE!” He repeats his demand, his voice loud and sending chills to the innermost part of you as he leans forward a bit to look at you.

“STOP YELLING AT ME!” You shout in return through whimpers and whines.

“Stop crying. You have no reason to cry yet.” He warns you, his voice bitter and mean.

Your whole body quakes as you sob and scramble up on all fours, to grab the tin of sewing supplies from the floor. You pop it open with shaky hands and rummage inside, searching for your pink pin cushion and, upon finding it, you plucked out a needle.

“You’re scaring me…” You were able to get out through trembling lips as you grab a spool of black thread.

“We will do much worse than scare you if you don’t start moving faster.” He tells you. “Do not test my capacity for violence.” He adds. “Now move.”

Slowly, you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You’re so close, you can smell him… And he smells gross… He reeks of sweat and piss, which mixes with the metallic scent of his blood, and gunpowder that lingers on his flightsuit which he now wears as pants only.

Your trembling form makes you struggle to thread the needle but after a few attempts, you succeed and unfurl much more thread than you’d realistically need. While you do so, his pistol changes grips and his right hand holds it aimed right at your head.

Slowly, you push the needle through his skin, grimacing at the wet noise it makes as you drag it through and you hold back a gag and a sob as you try your best to suture him shut.

You don’t know much about medicine… But you’re pretty sure you’re supposed to do a ladder stitch so you can pull the thread taut at the end and ensure the injury closes… So that’s what you start doing, trying your best to not tremble all the way through it.

He’s holding himself surprisingly calmly through it as you stab his skin/wound multiple times… You risk looking up at him, your eyes still teary, your lips trembling, your face red from holding back tears and a gag.

All you find is a pair of soulless blue eyes staring down at you through the two holes of that mask. They seem as cold and unforgiving as the snow outside… They’re bloodshot and the pupils are dilated. And he seems to be looking at you with a predatory gaze that makes you feel small and insignificant.

"Who are you...?" You ask tentatively, surprising yourself at how small your voice sounded, how meek.

"Nobody." He reply as he leaned the pistol against your temple. “Finish.” He demands.

Gulping and nodding, you finish the stitching and pull it taut, which earns you a hiss from him. You tie off the thread and snip it off with a pair of little scissors from the sewing supply box.

Just as you’re about to pull away from him, the needle between your pointer and middle fingers and your hands raised in an act of peace, he pistol whips you across the temple.

You squeal in pain, and throw your hands on the floor to support yourself from fully falling on your side, losing the needle somewhere in the tile floor of the kitchen. Your eyes are cloudy with tears again as you whimper in pain, unaware of what caused that violence.

Is he going to kill you? Steal from you? Make you prisoner in your own home?

“Don’t move.” He demands. “It’s not finished.” He warns you as you struggle to get back on your sore knees.

You watch in horror as he shifts position, to no longer be kneeling on his elbow on the counter, and instead straightens up. His right hand continues pointing the gun at you and, very slowly, the left inches his flight suit down some more.

Slowly, you’re exposed to the sight a large gash across his left thigh, that draws down diagonally to his left knee which is swollen red and bruised…

As well as an obvious lack of underwear and a semi-hardened cock laying against his right thigh, the hilt surrounded by bushy blonde pubes. Your eyes double in size and you have to once again contain yourself from gagging and crying in disgust.

“Get back to work.” He demands as he points at the wounds on his leg. “And don't you dare cry." He adds. "Or else I'll give you other reasons to cry about.” He warns as his hand glides over his cock.

This is fully inspired by the beautiful work written by @391780, gotta love all the nikto ficlets and all the fat!reader stuff! Also wrote this a bit as a request by @ms-rayray who asked me for fat!reader stuff, and also a shoutout to @xxshadowbabexx and her eternal love for nikto.

#ikea writes 💚#cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #nikto #nikto cod #dark fic #cod nikto #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto

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agent-cupcake · 2 years ago

Text

grimm

Pairing: Death (Puss in Boots: The Last Wish) x f!catgirl Reader

Synopsis: The series of unfortunate events and clichés that lead you to meeting a familiar nightmare in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Warnings: 18+, explicit smut w/ a nonhuman character (not a nonhuman cock though), noncon, death, violence

Tags: alternate universe, angst, size kink, object insertion, masochistic reader, praise (voice) kink, outdoor sex

Words: 18.5k

Notes: It's been a while, huh? Yes, today we are going to fuck the furry from a kids movie, I'm not sure if y'all are even surprised but. Anyway. On the one hand I'd say I feel shame but on the other they shouldn't have made him talk so sexy, which is not my fault. All the Spanish is from DeepL and context.reverso. Hopefully any mistakes aren't too bad and you don't find it too cringe, or you can manage to look past it for my sake.

Once upon a time there lived in an unassuming little corner of the world a man. A husband to a beautiful wife and a father of two lovely children. He was strange, perhaps, for the ears atop his head, and the vertical irises through which he looked, and the spry springiness of his limbs. Stranger too for his chosen lifestyle, a traveling merchant whose blood couldn’t get any lower. Ravi, sons and daughters of Bastet, relics of a bygone era. For all that he was strange, however, he was steadfast. Bolstered rather than weakened by the critical eye of other men, the unyielding cut of his silhouette and unshakable confidence made the man a lord in his own right. He had been here, and there, traveling wherever the wind called him, and always with certainty. If his chosen path was obstructed by a swath of trees, he would see the forest leveled before he so much as considered choosing a different route. A further measure of his determination, however, would prove that if he were told that those same obstructing trees were sacred, he would scorch the earth so thoroughly that not even ash dared remain beneath his boots when he trampled on the hallowed ground.

One day, the man looked down to admire how far he had come throughout the years, to smile upon the many grand achievements he had stacked up along the way. But then, looking a little closer, he couldn’t help but notice how long his shadow had become. While he had been distracted, the sun made its arc above him, and now it was falling towards the horizon, casting him in ever dimming light. Taking with it, he thought, Ra’s blessing. He began to tally up all of the things he had been ignoring. A stiff back, sore joints, fatigue after a day of travel, a headache after a night of frivolity. He noticed that while his son had grown tall and strong, he had been shrinking. The lovely apple cheeks of his beloved wife had begun to dull, wrinkles forming around her eyes. This realization filled the man with a feeling he had never experienced before—uncertainty. And then, fear.

Unable to face the dark, he vowed that he would not allow it, he would do whatever it took to escape such a terrible fate. Unbeknownst to him, this audacious belief invited the attention of a creature with a unique penchant for mischief and an appetite for fear. A wolf. He told the man that he could run, he could fight, he could rage, he could try to pull the sun back with all his might, but in his desperate frenzy to escape the night, he would only incur a great debt. An immeasurable bounty. One, perhaps, that would condemn not only him, but his family and the legacy he had created. A terrible fate.

“I do not fear you,” the man said.

The wolf laughed.

It was to be a chase, then. A hunt. The man ran, searching for something, anything, that would save him, traveling here and there with purpose, scouring the shadows, tracking down myth and rumor with a passion bordering mania. There had to be, he reasoned, a way to remain in Ra’s boundless glory. Circling ever nearer, the wolf harried his prey to the last.

Until, on the lush outskirts of a certain small village, a small ravi family set up their wagon for the night. The woods swarmed with the sound of bugs, the early summer heat simmering back down into the cold dampness of spring nights. Haunting and dreamlike, echoing in the dark, signaling finality, a song. And then, a figure in the dark. A familiar face, a frightening foe.

There, in the night, beneath the full moon, the hunt ended. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run, his obsession had taken him so completely that the only remaining recourse was a final fit of fury against the dying light. Perhaps, in those last moments, the man realized what a fool he had been. Too late. The wolf had grown bored of the game.

Horror of horrors, serendipity struck. A child who should have been tucked up tight in her bed, sheltered and safe from what lurked in the dark, grew bored of counting sheep. She hadn’t yet learned to fear the night, thinking her father to be playing a delightful trick. Creeping, quiet, curious, and ignorant to the cruelty of the dangerous unseen, she breached the forest’s uncanny shadows. Deeper, deeper, until she discovered the truth. Her father’s corpse hit the ground, his empty eyes never seeing her terror, his deaf ears never hearing her scream.

The gray wolf bid her to run, and she did. It was inevitable that they should meet again.

one chance.

Before that night, you never gave much thought to death, or luck, or malevolent forces, or tragedy. It was only when you were huffing, puffing, screaming for help, crying wolf, that true fear crept into your life. Once the door opened, it could not be closed. Although the monster was long gone, its shadow remained.

And they said: you were lucky to have escaped. They said: ravi law, loose as it was, could not be counted on for satisfactory justice. They said: the murder could not have been committed by any of the simple townsfolk. They said: it would be a blight upon the poor ordinary people for the case to drag on and on. And so the crime was tried thus—your brother, suffering a fit of drunken rage, donned a mummer’s wolf mask and murdered your father.

Not even a day passed before the so-called trial was held. The only building that could accommodate the gawkers and jury was the local barroom, a place that stank of old wood and fermentation. You didn't know the man acting as judge, you did not recognize any of the faces around you, only that they were indifferent, cold, and your brother's life rested in their callous hands. He sat near the front as the case was laid out for the gawkers, his face drawn and shadowed. Clapped in irons, his mouth covered to protect his jailors from his sharp ravi canines, ears as low as you’d ever seen them, looking not so much a man on trial than livestock on auction.

"You’re the daughter, are you not?” the judge called. It took you a moment to realize he meant you, his dull eyes signaling you out.

Someone spat at your feet.

“Filthy half breed."

"They’re incestuous, the father must have found them in the act."

“They’re both guilty.”

“Go ahead. Run. No one escapes me.”

The low whisper, practically a growl, made your ears twitch, your heartbeat racing as you scanned the faceless crowd with dry eyes, blinking fast to try and find the source of that terrible voice. But the faces were all human, drawn with cruelty and disgust, but human.

The judge banged on the table, catching your attention. “Young lady! You witnessed the crime, yes?”

You shook your head in rejection of the phantom voice and cleared your throat, breaking free of your mother’s grasp to stumble towards the judge. "Yessir," you said. "Yessir, I am… I-I did."

“Go on, then. We’ll hear your testimony.”

It was difficult to breathe, the air was stuffy and hot, your skin too tight. You could feel the people watching you, the weight of their eyes.

"You've got it all wrong, sir,” you said. “It-it wasn't him. He couldn't-"

"The facts only, if you please," the judge said, cutting you off. "Did you or did you not see the man who attacked you?”

Hot, heavy tears formed in your eyes, primed to travel the same salty tracks down your cheeks left by those before. Fear, pain, sadness, exhaustion, all of it compounded and ached within you. You didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to think. But you had to.

"It was no man, sir," you said, your voice choked.

“Do you mean to tell me a woman killed your father?”

“No sir, it was an… an evil spirit.” Behind you, people muttered and whispered with disbelief. Shock. Doubt. Anger. The judge's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “He had the head of a jackal, or a-a a wolf. ”

“A mask.”

“No, sir. It was not a man.” You heard your mother’s scolding voice from behind you, and your brother raised his head to look at you with shock, but you ignored it all.

"I should hope I don’t need to remind you of the severity of these proceedings,” the judge said, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"I know what I saw,” you replied, your hands balled into tight fists at your side.

"Your testimony is that an evil spirit with the head of a wolf murdered your father and attacked you?" The judge clarified, not so much as pretending to believe you. The question pulled a bit of laughter from the crowd. Your mother grabbed at your arm to pull you back, but you refused to let her. Instead, you set your stance and jaw.

"Yessir."

More laughter, as if there was anything humorous about this situation.

“I know,” the judge said loudly, silencing the crowd with a wave of his hand. “I know that you’ve been through a terrible thing, and I am sorry about that. That’s no excuse, however, and I mean this, it is no excuse for you to lie. You might think you’re defending your brother, but anything less than the absolute truth only strengthens the case against him. And, if I’m to be completely honest, I find this behavior deeply troubling. Perhaps it is acceptable among your kind to believe in stories of evil spirits and the like, but it is not appropriate here. We’re a good, God fearing people.”

“This isn’t a story. I saw it,” you insisted, your throat swollen and the world blurring up with tears. “The beast might still be in the woods, if you just look-”

“Look for the big bad wolf?” the judge asked, a bushy gray eyebrow rising high, inviting further discontent and disbelieving laughter from the people behind you. He sighed, once again calling for order and shaking his head. “It pains me greatly, you must understand, I want to be fair considering your circumstances, but this really is unacceptable. If you won’t testify against him, your father’s killer-”

“I told you,” you insisted, a little louder.

“No, young lady. And I repeat—no. What you have done is insult me and the fine people of this town with your absurd heathen fiction,” he told you.

“That’s not-”

“Your kind think you are above civilized law, but understand that we are giving your father the justice he, as a son of God, deserves by right. Your father brought fear and tragedy into the hearts of these people, and your scoundrel brother committed an unthinkable crime. There are those who don’t believe your brother is deserving of a trial at all, considering the substantial evidence against him. Indeed, this is a kindness I am extending to you and your mother. So, for the last time, I will not tolerate your pagan fiction. Do you understand?”

“I do,” you said, although you could feel your confidence wavering, a shaky cold sweat beading up on the back of your neck, pooling acidically in your stomach. He wasn’t going to listen. He didn’t believe you. “But I haven’t lied, I know what I saw.”

That caused an uproar, the people’s voices overlapping, a relentless and meaningless wave of noise. Demanding you be silenced, removed, executed.

“That is enough,” the judge exclaimed, and you didn't know if he spoke to you or the people. “So far, I have disregarded accusations that you were complicit in your brother’s crime, but if you continue to behave in such a manner, I may have to reconsider. That is a charge of patricide, young lady. Do you not have enough decency to spare your mother the loss of another child?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, overcome with a dizzyingly caustic rush of pain and disbelief at the injustice. He didn’t care if your brother was or was not guilty, or who had actually killed your father. To him, the death of a ravi man was meaningless, let alone two. Let alone three. He saw your eyes and ears and that was it.

Trying to fight back the thick swell of fear and pain and anger, you breathed carefully in and out, staring straight up in an attempt to fight the tears.

“It wasn’t my brother,” you said, forcing the words from your mouth without inflection. "He would never, ever… he wouldn't."

“Did you,” the judge asked icily, bluntly, “or did you not see the face of the man who attacked you?”

Red eyes, a long snout, a canine mouth full of deadly sharp teeth. A spirit attempting some approximation of the god of death with twin sickles in hand, trying to twist the kind shepherd’s image into one of terror, a creature wearing the face of evil itself. But the truth cowered away from something far more potent, shamefully grotesque. Self preservation.

“No,” you said, realizing too late the damning significance of that answer, wanting to add more but not knowing what. When you looked your brother in the eye, you understood. And it didn’t matter what you said after that point. You were the girl who cried wolf.

two times questioned.

That night, a great storm blotted out the stars and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of yourself. You made off into the night with your meager possessions packed up in a sack and some vague idea of where to go in the back of your head, mostly memories of better times. Anywhere was better than the home for wayward girls you had been shuffled into, a place that was a charity in name only.

Ultimately, you didn’t make it far, not even out of the city. There was no place in the world left for you, and you were afraid of the dark, and it was so, so cold.

Falling to your knees at the side of the road, mud splattering you with the force of each raindrop, you cried. Sobbed, curling in on yourself, desperate to wish it all away, wailing louder than the winds could blow as if your misery would overcome nature itself. You tried not to cry much anymore, tried not to show your weakness, but now it all came flooding out. Agony deep enough to drown, heavy enough to crush.

Until you heard a song beneath the gale. Impossible that it should reach you above the riotous storm, impossible that you should know its melody. Panic slushed through your veins in an instant, and you stumbled upright, ready to run from a danger you had so desperately tried to convince yourself didn’t exist. Red eyes and silver sickles and-

When you whirled around to run, you were not caught by a wolf, but by the man you could only think of as the prison warden.

Caked with mud and soaked to the bone, he dragged you back to the home, and you let him, fearing what lurked in the darkness more than you feared the punishment your escape attempt would earn.

Although it wasn’t bright, the light blinded your glazed eyes. You slipped when he released you, but felt nothing when you fell, leaving a muddy smear upon the tiles. Your fingers, bleached of color, were numb to all sensation, slipping when you tried to support yourself. The cold burrowed into your very core. You shook. Violently, as if your soul itself trembled.

Fear had kept it all locked up tight in your chest. Fear of your shame for crying wolf. Fear that if you gave breath to the creature that haunted your dreams, he would be made real. You told yourself that your father was murdered by a man in a mask, but the wolfman haunted you, the face of oblivion, that song and that laugh.

Distantly, you became aware of a commotion, and then the headmistress appeared before you. A towel was forced into your clumsy hands by the same girl who helped you get to your ice-block feet, muttering something about drying off. You doubted a single towel would manage that feat, but you held fast onto the fabric with fingers you couldn’t feel.

��Where in God’s name,” the headmistress demanded, haughty even in her dressing gown and curlers, “do you think you were going?”

You hugged the towel to your chest, feeling the fluffy material grow heavy and limp from your embrace. Ruined by your touch. Shaking so hard your teeth clacked, the entire world jittered and hazed, your bones practically vibrating, tears and snot dripping down your face with the rainwater.

“I asked you a question,” she said, her tone a little more shrill. Anger smoldered in her voice, but your eyes found purchase only on the lacy hem of her nightcoat. Such fine lace would have been imported from the north, your father had sold more than his fair share of it. You owned several pretty dresses decorated with similar frills, once. A lifetime ago. A life that ended with one decisive slash of silver. “Where were you going? Running off with a boy?”

Wide open fields of rippling golden wheat, smooth red cliff sides overlooking deep drops into the abyss, frothy blue waves licking pale sandy shores. Places you knew, places you had only heard about. Ravi weren’t meant to stay in one place, yours was a people of wanderlust and breeze.

The lady stepped forward and slapped your cold, numb cheek. You stumbled, slipping back onto the floor. “You will answer when I ask you a question,” she said. “I will not repeat myself again.”

“I wanted to see my mother,” you finally told her, your voice barely comprehensible from the way you were shaking, more tears welling up. The pain was there, was always there, and it burned hotter than the biting blue on your fingers and toes.

“Oh, for the love of… you’re well on your way to joining her,” she said. “What in the world was I thinking, allowing you into my home…”

You stayed silent. There was no defense you could offer, no excuse you could provide. She sighed, annoyed.

“I’ll decide your punishment in the morning. Assuming you don’t catch cold and die.” She laughed once, a short sound. “I should be so lucky.”

Die. Your sluggish brain was slow to process that word, churning it round and round in a swirl of equally unpleasant thoughts. When you breathed, the air rattled in your chest. Your mother made the same sound at the very end, as if death had already planted its seed in her body, slowly infecting her from the inside out. Fear had never come for her, not like with your father or brother. There was only vacuous ecstasy, the madman’s bliss of fever. When you pictured what she looked like, it was her hollow eyes staring into nothingness, her bones poking out beneath waxy skin in unnatural angles and blood bubbling upon dry lips. “I am going to see them soon,” she told you, smiling. It was the first time since your brother’s execution that she didn’t look at you with blame smoldering beneath her pained eyes. “We’ll be together, and it will be beautiful.”

But it was not beautiful.

Death was a hideous, terrible thing. Despair and empty eyes and rotting flesh without poetry or resolution. Blood dripping from curved blades, lives harvested without mercy, red eyes flashing with glee. A neck snapping and a body gone limp at the end of a rope. Agony in a small room that smelled of human waste and sickness. Death was not beautiful.

three failures.

The other girls called you, among other things, murderer.

“She pushed her.”

“Her kind are all like that, thieves and murderers.”

“Freaks.”

The two of you were stuck cleaning windows, balanced precariously high up in the air. The platform got loose, teetering uncertainly two stories up. It could have just as easily been you rather than her, but it wasn’t. Of course you hadn’t pushed her, but who would believe the word of a ravi?

And who would believe you when you told them of the shadow which greeted her down below? A monster you couldn’t believe in. The bastardized form of a benevolent god. The real murderer.

They saw your fear as guilt. And that was that. Murderer. You hadn’t pushed her, that was a fact. But it was suspicious, wasn’t it? There was a pattern of death surrounding you. Punishment.

Every night, you begged forgiveness, begged for freedom from the creature that haunted you. Bastet did not answer. Ra did not answer. Your prayers became pleas, and your pleas weakened into whimpers. Eventually, you stopped asking.

It followed you. Death, less an intangible concept than a lurking threat circling ever nearer, followed. Your father, your brother, your mother, other girls in the home. But not you, no matter how close you came. Accidents happened. Punishment became more and more brutal. Part of it was because of what you were, a belief that a beast could handle rougher treatment. Part of it was your attitude. Punishment. Live, but live in misery. Survive, but survive endless torment. And they said that you were lucky. The beatings were never deadly, although they should have been. The accidents were never fatal, although they could have been. You shouldn’t have survived, but you did.

four minutes.

It was spring, then. The river beside the road gushed with newfound force, overeager after an especially snowy winter. Even the season of life and rebirth was ripe with violence and death. The scent of it seemed to cling permanently to your dirty clothes, cloying in the chill of night. You and three other girls from the charity house followed by the riverside on the way back to town, your faces dusty and feet heavy from a long day of work. There was, as it turned out, quite a bit of money in renting out orphans to satellite farm estates who could launder clothes, clean carpets, polish silver, and scrub cast iron. No money for you or the other girls, but money nonetheless.

The three chatted as they walked in front of you, a conversation you tuned out. Long had you grown accustomed to walking behind them, ignored and withdrawn. Trailing behind like a shadow, an afterthought. In so-called polite society, that’s all ravi were. They—they with their round irises and human ears, with their unmarked faces and smooth canines—didn’t want you at their side. You understood things like that now, things you had been so blissfully unaware of in your childhood.

You watched their worn-out shoes marching on in synchronized steps. Watched when they suddenly stopped, your eyes drawn up in confusion as they turned towards you with big smiles.

"Those flowers are awfully nice, you should see if you can cross the river to pick some for us."

"I’d go myself, but your kind are more agile than real people, right?"

"The rocks make a perfect bridge for you to cross."

Requests from them, although you weren’t sure they could be called anything other than orders, weren’t abnormal. The only thing lower than an orphaned girl was an orphaned ravi girl. That was the way of it. Rather than forming a bond of solidarity, they emphasized what little status they had left by pushing you around. Surely there were similar flowers on this side of the river, but that wasn’t the point.

Biting your lip, you looked at the rocks spanning the river’s violent course to the other side. It wasn’t much of a bridge. Attempting to cross was, at best, stupid. If you fell, you would be helplessly carried away by the water, thrashed about against the rocks. Dead, surely. But if you denied them, they would almost certainly do worse. Whisper words of your supposed misdeeds to the headmistress, spread lies that would earn you punishment. Malice gleamed in their empty, hollow eyes.

"All right," you said, feigning indifference as you sized up the river.

The girls smiled and tittered as you faced the river. The water roared. Nerves had your hands shaking, but you didn’t let them show.

With a big breath and a mental prayer to Bastet to steady your feet, you stepped onto the first rock. Beneath the worn sole of your boot, the rock was slippery. You set your jaw, going to take another step.

Something knocked against your back. While it was a light touch, the surprise jolted your balance.

Just like that, the rock slipped out from under you. An undignified squawk left your mouth, and your arms flailed around empty air desperately to regain your footing, but you couldn’t manage it.

The water hit as hard as the ground might, immediately dragging you under.

For a moment that seemed to consume forever entirely, animal panic. You inhaled a lungful of water, thrashing wildly. You tumbled sideways as the river dragged you along, hitting rocks on the way. You violently struggled against its unstoppable current in an attempt to get your head above the water.

Unable to breathe, unable to orient yourself, you were as good as dead.

Then you slammed against a rock. The agonizing impact gave you enough of a painful shock to find purchase against it, slicing your palms against the rough edges as you held fast against the water’s oppressive tow. Blindly, you managed to find which way was up and dragged yourself to it. And then you were vomiting river water, hacking it out of your lungs and desperately trying to suck in gasps of air.

Feeling as heavy and broken as a corpse, you managed to flop onto the bank, covering your entire front with mud, crawling through it to drag yourself out of the water completely. It was there that you came eye to eye with three familiar pairs of shoes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“I guess cats can swim after all.”

“You’re lucky that rock was there, huh?”

You coughed up more water, coughed until you were hacking up blood, wheezing and shuddering with bone-deep violence. There would be a terrible bruise on your stomach. But you were alive because of it. Pain, and life. Lucky you.

five years.

Barely into your lanky teens and with nothing more than meager pocket change to live on, you made your final escape from the charity house and went west. The most recent beating was proof enough that if you stayed, you would die. The woman who stitched you up said you only narrowly avoided it this time. You knew a coffin was the sole eventuality waiting for you there. So you left. Despite the time spent there, you parted with no sentimentality for what you would be leaving behind, or excitement for what laid ahead.

In a way, you were following your father’s example. His legacy. In his final days, you heard him muttering about the sun going down. Your brother whispered that he’d grown paranoid of his own death, that it was why your family never stayed in any place for too long. He was driven by a mean, feral fear and even aggression towards death, the cornered-rat instinct to defend your life at any cost, to protect the pitiful remains of existence as an animal would. You thought you understood. So you pressed against your bruises and exhaled slowly, accepting the pain as proof that you were still alive.

Dust kicked up a big cloud behind the wagon, baking beneath the heat of the sun. Although the world was alive with birds and bugs and the sound of hoofs on the road and wheels crunching over ground, you couldn’t empathize. Crusty from a night of fitful sleep, your eyes cringed away from the garish sunlight, your head pounding angrily. Pain and anxiety from your first night on your own kept you awake and, when you did manage a few hours of sleep, you had bad dreams. A fiction where your family was restored and you were all together again. Whole, untainted by horror and death. You woke up hollow and sick and empty, unalive but breathing.

“Are those real?” the girl beside you asked, breaking you from your thoughts. She pointed at your ears, her eyes wide with curious innocence. You imagined that question had been building up for a while, ever since you hitched a ride on her father’s wagon to the nearest town, the two of you sitting in the back of the bed with your legs swinging over the passing road. She was very young, her round-cheeked smile missing a single tooth and bright colored ribbons in her hair. He was going to the next town over to sell goods from his farm.

"Quinta!" her father scolded sharply.

“It’s okay,” you said. It was better to be asked outright than to endure the side glances. “They’re real.” You tilted your head to show her. Quinta reached out to pet the fur, her chubby little hands cautious.

“What are you?” she asked, getting another stern look from her father over his shoulder. Not that you blamed her. He probably didn’t know either, ravi didn't often leave their small communities, and they were practically unheard of in this part of the world. Little wonder, some establishments wouldn’t so much as let you inside. It was a very positive mark on his character that he allowed you to ride on his wagon in the first place, most people wouldn’t.

“I’m ravi.”

She blinked. “Is that why you look like a cat?”

“I guess so.”

Quinta considered that for a moment, staring at you unabashedly. It wasn’t just your ears that were different, otherwise you could have covered them up and avoided the scrutiny. With round eyes and vertical pupils, markings seemingly painted over your cheeks, you stood out regardless of what you did or where you went. Ravi were strangers to everyone, uprooted and adrift, low as the dust trailing beneath your feet. That fact hadn’t changed after you ran away from the charity house, you merely traded the title or orphan for that of vagrant.

“My mom won’t let us keep cats, we only have a dog,” Quinta finally announced. “Do you like dogs?”

You shrugged.

“Are you afraid of them because of-” She put her hands over her head, mimicking your ears.

“We are natural enemies,” you said, although the comment didn’t come across as the joke you intended. Perhaps because it wasn’t a joke.

Quinta didn’t say anything, looking back at the passing road and her swinging feet. The warm air smelled like trees and dust and the stacks of straw piled up on the back of her father’s wagon. When the breeze blew, you got whiffs of the approaching town. Manure, cooking food, fire smoke, and that tangy, sweaty scent of so many people all crowded in one place.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Somewhere else.”

“Oh.”

You looked down, staring at the road. The sun beat down on your neck, sweat beading up on your hairline. You could hear the chorus of a small town’s buzzing crowds as the wagon pulled closer.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Quinta said. “Will you come to our house? I bet you’ll like my dog, he’s really, really nice. My mom is there, you can meet her.”

You smiled, feeling a sharp little pang at her sweet innocence. “Thank you, I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, please say you will.”

“Quinta, that’s enough,” her father chided. She frowned, but said nothing else.

The wagon pulled to a stop where the animals could be hitched. You hopped off and stretched, looking around the town. You weren’t really sure where you would go next. Far away. As far as possible.

“Thank you, sir,” you told the man, bowing politely.

He nodded gruffly, and you knew you shouldn’t linger. Still, you couldn’t help but glance back at the sound of his heavy grunt. When he passed the wagon bed, Quinta jumped up onto his back, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He was quick to rebuke her, scowling as he put her on the ground. That clearly hurt her feelings, turning away with a trembling lower lip and furrowed brows. You felt, for a terrible moment, a great pain in your chest.

You wanted to tell her that he was just busy. Maybe he could be cold and stern, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. You wanted to tell her to love him while she could, that time was finite. Right then, you weren’t looking at a stranger and his daughter, but at a little girl with ears too big for her head and a man who waved at her from the driver’s seat with a sun-crinkled smile, a man who tweaked those fluffy ears with calloused fingers, and a man who kissed her forehead with paper-dry lips.

But then you blinked, sunblind and a little dizzy, and turned away from the scene.

You thought of your father, love for him tender sweet and swelling in your chest, overwhelming. But quickly, always so quick, his smiling, twinkly eyes were emptied as his body fell to the ground, deprived of dignity in those final moments. And the monster turned from him to face you with a wild expression, a growl in its throat. He said you would meet again. The big bad wolf was not real, he was a masked madman, a creature of fiction. All the same, your anxious, cold gaze scanned the crowd of many faces around you. Haunted. Hunted.

sixth sense.

Blisters covered your hands, and you couldn't stop coughing, your body seizing with fits of it. The tangy sour stench of smoke infected every pore of your body, saturated your lungs with its acrid excretions. Somehow, despite the horror of escaping a building as it burned down, you were alive. You had no idea what had woken you up, but it happened before anybody even noticed the fire. Others weren’t so lucky. The girl who slept every night two beds down from you, who was innocent, who had never done anything at all to you, was dead.

"It's not your fault that you couldn’t get to her in time. You were lucky enough to get out with your life," you were told, an attempt at consolation. A lie.

It was your fault. Your punishment. Your presence invited the flame to spark a blaze in the boarding house for working young women, and yet you had lived while someone else died. Above the sound of so many voices, of a chaos world attempting to fix such a tragedy, you could hear it. She screamed for as long as she was able, until her lungs were too coated in sooty black smoke to make a sound, until her flesh melted by the infernal heat. Other women boasted swaths of charred skin, blisters popping bright red and gruesome, bones broken from leaping out windows. Their lives would be ruined by this, by the sheer misfortune of being near you.

And as the flames licked the sky, you could have sworn you saw an inhuman face at the flickering orange edge where the light tapered into shadow, his eyes not so much reflecting the blaze as they were consuming the fire’s callous violence, soaking in the terror which mingled with the smoke.

Then you blinked watery eyes, and the shadow was just a shadow.

There was nothing for it, you left town as soon as you were well enough. Not soon enough, clearly.

It was your fault, your punishment, but terribly, shamefully, you kept thinking, over and over and over, at least it wasn’t you. You breathed in air that still stank of the memory of murderous smoke and felt grateful that you would recover from this incident.

That selfish drive was the crux of it all, the reason you could never allow yourself to move on. After so many years, most people would have found a way forward. They took their anguish in stride and did something with their life. But you didn’t. For you, there was no forgetting, and there was no moving on. You couldn’t be allowed happiness in a life others had been denied, a life that you hoarded so rabidly. Even cowards had to draw a line somewhere, didn’t they? No matter how miserable, you struggled to squeeze one more day out of the harsh world, to carve yourself another miserable hour, and then, crippled by pain and smoke and fear, felt a coward’s joy when facing tragedy because at least it wasn’t you.

Lucky, lucky, lucky you.

seven rainbow hues.

"Watch out!"

It happened so fast. That was the cliche, but the truth. Time did not wait for you to catch up in moments where survival came down to muscle memory. Panic and surprise cut up your perception in choppy little bits. One second you were walking down the road, you noticed a man beneath a falling beam and lunged, and then you were flat on your ass in the middle of a road, adrenaline spiking your heart rate and your entire body shaking with it. So little time had passed that the warning was still tangy in your mouth, the sound stifled by the echoing impact.

Someone was shouting. Screaming.

Sitting up, little rocks grinding into your skinned palms, you looked at the fallen beam not even a foot away. Had you erred even a few inches to the right, you would have been, at the very least, catastrophically injured. Just like the man you tried to push out of the way. He was screaming. His leg was crushed.

But you were fine. Alive.

People swarmed the man to free him from the beam while the world blurred extra bright, the colors of shock overloading your brain, dozens of different voices buzzing together. Someone asked if you were okay. You were. Of course you were. Alive. The carpenter jumped down from his ladder, finally getting the man out from under the beam. A gruesome mess had been made of his shin, bloody and broken. You only watched, a sort of cool numbness had taken the place of adrenaline.

The man's leg was a ruin of flesh and bone, and your only injuries were a bruised tailbone and skinned palms. You should not have survived that.

eight shots of moonshine.

“He reared up real tall, howling like a beast, and that’s when I stuck him,” the hunter said, his expression animated as he recounted the story. It was, by your count, his ninth drink, and the fifth version of his story about how he fought, and escaped, the terrifying half-man-half-wolf beast—el hombre lobo, in the local dialect. It made sense that some cruel spark of fate would invite the subject matter wherever you happened to be, especially now. That’s the way these things always happened, wasn’t it? The world had a way of kicking you when you were down.

You listened to him with half an ear, staring at your chapped, cracked knuckles. Working as a laundress was not kind to your skin. Unfortunately, being ravi and having a limited skill set meant that simple labor was just about all you could get. So you did odd jobs and, once you had enough money, you would be on your way to the next place, and then the next, and the next. Passing through like a ghost, and then gone. Temporary. Just like this bar, this drink, this man and his story. Transient.

“The sound he let out was deafening, and I mean that,” the hunter continued. “I’ve never heard anything like it, not in all my years.”

“That’s not true,” you said loudly, pulling the story to a screeching halt before its predictable conclusion. You hadn’t meant to speak, but you did. If nothing else than to just make him stop. Details changed, but the ending was mostly the same each time. The creature put up a fight, but the hunter was stronger and smarter. Maybe he’d mention the bear trap again, how he watched the wolfman trying to gnaw off its own leg. And it wasn’t like you cared what some random drunk had to say. You didn’t, really. It was the alcohol, and the memories the alcohol was meant to be suppressing, and some misplaced well of fury crammed deep into your gut, unable to be reached or drained or expressed in any meaningful way. Or maybe it was something else, something less palatable. You had a way of testing people’s tempers. Pain was proof of purchase, after all. And you had paid more than your fair share.

“What was that?” the hunter asked, glazed eyes surprisingly lucid when they landed on you, twinkling with an amused sort of incredulousness at being challenged. He had on a sweat stained red shirt and the ruddy complexion to match. Everyone around you was in similar states of drunken disrepair. So were you, for that matter—a shot of something hard and foul tasting past reasonable. Two shots away from having the energy to engage in this stupid argument, which was ridiculous considering you were the one to involve yourself in the first place.

“That didn’t happen,” you said. The few people who had been paying attention in the first place laughed at you, but the hunter seemed intrigued, if irritated, by your attitude.

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked.

“Do you expect us to believe you fought the big bad wolf?” Those words were old and mean, that of a horrible old man without a shred of mercy in his heart.

Red-shirt’s eyes narrowed. A couple of the men laughed again, sending a few drunken jibes in your direction.

“Is that what you’re supposed to be?” One of his friends called, gesturing at your ears, which twitched under his attention.

“No, no. She’s one of those cat people. The eastern savages,” the man sitting next to you responded, roughly tweaking your ear. He’d made a few friendly comments in your direction throughout the night. And then a few less friendly ones as the liquor loosened his tongue. You winced and ducked away, scowling at him. He grinned. “Have you got any wares to sell us, gata? Or maybe you’re here to put on a show.”

Another laugh, a playful wolf whistle.

“Ah, I understand. I was mistaken,” red-shirt allowed, a mean grin spreading across his face. “It was no wolfman after all. You ought to tell your pa to keep away from these parts. Next time I see him, he won’t get off so easy.”

That drew a bigger laugh from the few people bothering to pay attention. A part of you hated him a little bit, hated him with a riotous, evil sort of passion. His ignorance, his audacity. You hated yourself more for not holding your tongue.

“No, it was her ma,” another man chimed in. “Must have been in heat if she was so focused on you.” You felt a red hot flush rise to your cheeks at that, some uncomfortable mixture of embarrassment and anger.

Needing to calm the impulse of rage, and kicking yourself for having spoken at all, you took a deep breath.

“Aw, pobre gata, don’t be upset,” the man next to you said. Poor cat? He drew out the condescending pet name with a sugary sweetness, going for your ears again. You scooted back to avoid him, nearly falling from the alcohol-induced sway of the world. The men laughed again. “Where’re you going?” he asked. “They’re just teasing.”

You licked your dry lips. You needed to leave, it wasn’t the sort of place you should have been hanging out in the first place. Part of you worried that he might try something. He looked hungry. Worse, part of you wondered if he would, wanted to stick around and find out what kind of situation you’d dug yourself into. Curiosity didn’t come from desire or lust, but from something darker, the impulse of deserved violence. Alcohol made it worse, made you think that maybe you could want it, that you might enjoy being roughed up and used in a vulgar game of intimacy.

“Let me buy you another drink,” he offered. “I promise not to tease you.”

You pursed your lips, and knew you would hate yourself later, and decided that it didn’t matter all that much anyway. “Okay.”

Hours later, you were sweaty, sour with alcohol but no longer drunk enough to tolerate the discomfort, and ultimately dissatisfied with the interaction as you stumbled through the quiet town back to the room you had been renting. The unpleasant scent of sex was all you could smell, it clung to your rumpled dress and messy hair. Evidence of your mistake. Despite being so forward, he hadn’t been what you hoped. Whenever you pulled back, he thought to coax you further with sweet words rather than rough hands. You’d have been better off trying to antagonize the man in the red shirt to get what you really wanted, not a quick upright with a man who wanted to slobber on your neck and call you beautiful.

Disgust, shame—a sickening feeling of wrong had you ducking into an alley, vomiting up a stomach full of bile and alcohol like a homeless wretch, shaking hard enough that your teeth clattered. Snot, stomach acid, and tears smeared against the side of the building when you pressed your fevered cheek against it, the material rough on your skin. But it was cool, and solid, and you were breathing. Alive.

Miserable. Beautiful. That was your mother’s word. An ugly, ugly word. Your shoulders heaved with half-hearted sobs, your skin crawling and stomach twisting. You were alive because the only thing you feared more than the hideous pain of living was beautiful death, and that was the ugliest feeling you could possibly imagine.

Eventually, you collected yourself, wiping your mouth and eyes, and completed your walk of shame, your thoughts lingering on el hombre lobo and the furious hollow in your chest, and the sort of hatred which begged violence and cried for pity.

nine lives.

Afternoon faded into sunset as you walked, and you weren’t too concerned. If anything, you felt the same relaxing sense of relief you always felt when you left one place for another.

No, you didn’t worry at all until twilight gave way to the rise of the moon. That’s when you stopped, frowning up at the sky. Either you were lost or you had severely misjudged the distance. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done other than continue on and hope that you reached civilization soon. You pulled your cloak a little closer to fight off the chill, adjusting your bag uncomfortably. Summer was coming, but the air retained the cold damp newness of deep spring.

And so you trundled along, reminding yourself over and over that it was okay. While possible, it wasn’t likely that anything would happen to you.

Your anxiety wasn’t helped by the full moon. A morbid coincidence, and a mixed blessing. It was full that night. Illuminating your father’s twisted expression of fear, haloing the impossible beast looming above you, lighting your way when you ran, dying your blood into the color of ink. As always, it was a bit of mischief the universe was having at your expense. It shone the same steady pale silver, bleaching the world in imitation sunshine just like it always had, always did.

A gentle breeze shook the tree canopy, the leaves shivering. Above them, the perfect velvet blue veil of sky was mostly undisturbed by clouds. The stars twinkled and winked, dulled slightly by the radiance of the moon. Bugs wailed and frogs sang their nighttime dirge, an unsettlingly miserable sound. No matter how uncomfortable the sun could be, blinding and revealing, the night was worse. It was the place where nightmares lived, after all. And the woods, the place where the big bad wolf hid.

Right. These were the woods where the hunter claimed to have seen the wolfman those few weeks ago. A chill slithered down your spine at that realization. While it was most certainly a lie, in the dark, it troubled you. It frightened you. There were many things in the deep, dark woods to be afraid of. Hiding, lurking.

Huffing with annoyance at your paranoia, you vigorously shook your head and focused on the path instead. Everything was fine, you just had to keep going.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind began to blow a lot harder, catching the hem of your cloak and loose strands of hair, crawling beneath your clothes to make you shiver. At the same time, a shadow slowly closed in around you, a stray cloud covering up the moon. The sudden lack of light made the shadows darken significantly. Goosebumps crawled across your entire body in response to the windy chill, hairs standing on end and visceral discomfort lurching in your gut like a hook behind your belly button. Surrounded on all sides by darkness, stranded in the woods, you were completely and utterly vulnerable.

Then it all—bugs, the frogs, and the wind—everything died. Not slowly, tapering off naturally, but all at once, as if a great dampener was suddenly pressed into the air. And that was strange, that was eerie, that was cause for fear, but the first whistled note shot straight into your core.

Trees were hungry things. They, with their thick wood and big bodies, had an appetite for sound. Echoes, however, were mischievous. They would rather play tricks than be eaten. Back and forth, from everywhere and nowhere, a tune you knew all too well danced amidst the silent forest. The notes jumped from one to the next in a song that should have been cheerful but wasn’t. You didn’t move. You felt like you couldn’t. Standing there, ears perked and twitching in search of any noise aside from the whistling, heart racing, cold sweat gathering on the nape of your neck, you suddenly knew, with an alarming degree of certainty, that you weren’t alone.

Slowly, eyes watering from the sudden burst and disappearance of the wind, you looked up.

The whistler, seeming not to notice you, was no more than a dozen feet ahead, a darker shadow amidst the void, a little off the edge of the clearing. Jarring surprise shot like lightning down your spine at the sight, at how close you were to somebody you hadn’t noticed, so powerful that you stumbled backward on pure instinct. But your foot landed on a mossy rock and the squishy material slid out from under your boot. You tried to find your balance, but you wound up overcorrecting, sending you forward instead. With a yelp and a loud thump, you tumbled onto the ground, landing hard on your elbows and knees.

The song ended.

“¿Tan deseosa estás de ser engullida?” the man asked, amused. You looked up, terrified, but without any moonlight to help you see, the most you could make out was the vague shape of a hooded figure leaning against a tree.

Fear made your hands shaky, your body unwieldy and awkward. Scrambling, unsure if you should have been embarrassed or scared, you got up to your feet. At least you weren’t hurt.

“I-I don’t… no entiendo,” you said, wondering, hoping, fearing, unsure. At least it was just a man. That shouldn’t have been the consolation it was. It shouldn’t have been any consolation at all.

“I asked if you needed any help,” he clarified in an accented voice, amused in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I, um… I was just surprised, bu-but it’s okay,” you said, trying very hard to calm down. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I would hate for you to wind up like the last girl who got lost in the woods,” he said. You squinted into the dark, but you couldn’t see any details beyond a shadow. Covered moon or not, the dark was borderline unnatural. “She was gobbled up whole, her granny too. You’ve even got the red hood.”

It took you a second to register that he was messing with you. Entertaining any sort of interaction was foolish, but you couldn’t help your nervous laugh, pulling your cloak closer. “Oh, yeah.”

The stranger laughed in turn, forcefully friendly in a very uncomfortably stilted way. The sound sent a fresh shiver down your spine. “They don’t get very many people coming all the way out here to visit,” the man said. “Are you here to see family, gatita?”

Your ears twitched nervously. “Um… Excuse me?”

“Is that offensive? I can never remember what you beast types call yourselves. Ra… something.”

“Ravi,” you said.

“That’s right. I’ve never been much of a cat person myself, but I can see the appeal. The big eyes, the fuzzy ears… Very cute.” He paused. “Hey, can you purr too?”

You drew back, your awkward moment of uncertainty giving way to dread at the underlying danger of a question like that. While many people scorned you blindly, there were those with a particular taste for half-breeds.

“I need to get going, it’s late,” you said slowly. You didn’t want to turn your back on him, and you had no idea how close you were to town, but anything was better than here.

“Wait, before you go, I heard a story recently,” he said, unconcerned with your response. “It’s about your kind. Stop me if you’ve heard it before.”

“I don’t-”

“Once upon a time,” he said, speaking as if you hadn’t, “a gato got it in his head that one life wasn’t enough for him. Even though he had everything he could ask for—a wife, two children, a successful career, he was proud. He didn’t see why he should have to abide by the same rules as everyone else. Of course, he was warned that it was a bad idea, but it became a… preoccupation of his. He traveled just about everywhere, certain that he could do what no one else had.”

The man paused, giving you a moment to register his words, to feel the slow drip of horror pooling in your stomach.

“It didn’t work out for him, in the end. It never does.”

“Who are you?” you asked, although you had a feeling. A very strange, awful feeling. “How do you-”

“Do you know how it ends?” he asked, pushing away from the tree and standing up, stepping out of the shadows, only a few feet in front of you. Your eyes were better adjusted now, taking in as much light as possible. His hood fell back, letting you see the man in full.

Only, he wasn’t a man.

For a second, the ears on the top of his head made you think he was ravi too. But they were too small. Pointed. Distinctly canine.

Then the rest of it registered.

He wasn’t a wolf standing on hind legs, or a person with wolf features, but some inhuman, impossible mix of the two. His long, toothy snout was distinct to a dolichocephalic skull. A beast. That’s what you would assume given all that thick gray fur, round eyes, and the pointy ears directly on top of the head. But somehow, despite all of that, something about his face registered as perfectly, sickeningly, uncannily human.

And you knew him. You saw him in your nightmares, in the shadows, in the darkest places of your mind. No matter what resolve you had before that moment, all you wanted was to run. You needed to run. But fear, pure and distilled, paralyzed you.

“No? That’s fine, it’s just a story, after all,” he said, the words far too well articulated considering the wolf’s muzzle they were coming from, the shiny sharp teeth through which they were spoken.

You opened your mouth to respond, and instead you whimpered as you exhaled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You remember me, don’t you? I remember you. Although, you were a lot smaller back then. Who would’ve thought that you’d turn out to be such a looker?" He laughed at that, a stilted chuckle. When you didn’t respond, his demeanor dropped, darkened. “Your fear was intoxicating.”

Leaning forward, he closed his eyes and sniffed at the air like a dog. You couldn’t do anything, your limbs refusing to move even though every cell in your body screamed at you to run. When he leaned back and exhaled, his lips pulled back in what was very distinctly a smile, an expression that should have been impossible for a wolf to make.

“I’ve waited a long time to see you like this again, I worried that it would be disappointing,” he told you, red eyes opening. They were mad. His smile was mad. Dread overwhelmed your system. “But you smell even better than I remember.”

He took a step forward. With a few unnerving exceptions, his body was human enough. Tall, broad shouldered, slightly hunched, wearing clothes like a person. His hands were almost like paws with pads and claws, but were articulated like your own—short one finger. He was no monster. He was a nightmare come to life.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Surprised to see me?”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, you’re not… not real.”

You could see the excitement in his eyes as he licked his lips with a long tongue, another entirely animalistic motion. The perfect meld of human and wolf traits was fascinating. Sickening. Something that should not exist.

You did nothing other than stare at him with wide eyes as he leaned in. And you did nothing as he raised his hand, dragging the claw in a butterfly kiss over your cheek. “You think?” he asked, the growl in his voice almost like a purr.

That woke you out of your trance and you stumbled back, covering the skin which tingled from the very real touch.

He laughed and straightened out, but didn’t follow you. “It’s not safe to be out here so late. You never know what you’ll find lurking in the woods.”

You swallowed hard, your breathing picking up, the old well of fury cracking open just a little. There should have been more, but the fear was too intense, cold in your veins. “What are you?” you asked, barely audible. Frightened of the answer, but desperate to know.

“Your father called me Anubis. That’s one of your gods, right?”

“You are not a god,” you said, an objection because you couldn’t allow this nightmare, any degree of holy pedigree that you had feared for so long. There was doubt in your voice though, doubt you couldn’t stifle.

“It depends on how you look at it,” he allowed. “But it’s true that I have no interest in being worshiped, and I certainly don’t want your faith. I prefer fear.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head in a hazy attempt to fight back the swelling tide of fear, to deny him that. “I'm not… not afraid of you, wolf."

That didn’t so much as make him blink. "You fear me more than you fear anything else."

"No! You killed my… my—I hate you."

“Sure you do."

“And because of you, my brother was…” You couldn’t finish the statement, your entire body nearly vibrating from the way you were shaking. “And then mm-my mother...”

“Execution and, what was it, some kind of sickness?” The wolf clicked his tongue. “It’s a harsh world.”

“You took them from me,” you said softly. “You took everything.”

“Do you want revenge, gatita? You wouldn’t be the first.”

The mocking tone of his voice was as bad as a slap across the face. Even if you wanted revenge, what fight could you possibly put up against an impossible creature like him? You flexed your hands and clasped them together, your breathing picking up with the confusion of old fury and sadness and fear.

“I want to know why,” you finally said.

The wolf sighed, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated—and far too human—way as he continued to circle you. “Everybody thinks there’s a reason. There isn’t. Who lives, who dies, it’s all the same to me in the end. But there are those who… tempt fate. Although, I prefer to call it tempting death."

"You're saying that my father wanted to die? You're crazy,” you argued, your shoulders tensing in some form of defense.

"He was especially tempting. His pride, his ego, his fear… I gave him several chances, and he chose to insult me over and over again.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I may have gotten carried away. You can’t blame me for wanting some fun now and again."

Despite the relative warmth of the night, the air chilled whenever you inhaled, your skin raising with goosebumps. Something in your head clicked, the understanding you had been trying very hard not to acknowledge.

"What are you?" you asked again, but you were thinking that you knew. Of course you knew, it was something you’d known for a long time.

"You know who I am."

"Death," you whispered.

“And you know all about tempting death, don't you? To be honest, I’m starting to lose my patience, gatita,” he practically whispered the pet name, leaning down behind you so the word brushed intimately against your ear, his breath disturbing the fine hairs and making them twitch.

You yelped and jumped away, twisting around. All you could think about was how close all those teeth had been to your ears. Your neck. Death watched as you stumbled even further backwards, hitting a tree and falling against it.

“Watching you survive things that would kill anybody else over and over, it’s unbearable. You throw yourself into danger like you’re trying to tease me.” Genuine irritation glowed in his eyes. Frustration. You shouldn’t have been able to see an emotion like that on such an inhuman face.

You needed to run. Whether or not that was a good idea no longer mattered. Surely he wouldn’t follow you out of the woods, surely sanity would take his place once you were back among civilization, out of the moonlight’s pure lunacy. Your insides squeezed sickeningly. Your heart raced.

“Is it a cat thing? You inherited the ears, the eyes, and, what, the nine lives? I guess that skipped a generation,” Death mused, his demeanor shifting completely right back into amusement. “Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. What do you think, gatita—are you feeling lucky tonight?”

Run. You needed to run.

Death stepped forward.

You had to run.

Rather than get any closer to him to follow the trail, you rolled off of the tree to the side so you could escape into the trees, letting your pack drop to the ground to avail yourself of the extra weight. With your back to the wolf, you sprinted, not caring where it took you, only that it was as far away from him as possible.

Behind you, you heard him calling out to you. You heard him laughing. You gasped and choked for breath, your feet pounding against the forest floor, your streaming eyes blind to anything other than what was directly in front of you. Running, catching the sharp fingers of trees across your arms and face, stray logs and squishy moss and wet grass threatening to trip you with every step. All around, you could hear his laughter, echoing around amidst the trees and in your head.

And for what? Your escape had been doomed from the start, nothing more than the animalistic instinct of prey.

It really only made sense when you realized that Death stood directly in your path, a hulking shadow with red eyes. Your body jolted on instinct and you skittered into a hard stop, momentum pushing you forward while your feet tried to backtrack.

“¿Dónde vas, gatita? Haven’t you heard that it’s dangerous to stray from the path?”

Thoughtlessly, you twisted around, but you were too slow. Or he was too fast. Grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back of your cloak, Death dragged you backwards. And then you were looking into a pair of bright red eyes, choking as your cloak’s tie tightened around your windpipe.

He growled as a wolf would, and you felt base terror in your very core. No matter how humanly he expressed emotion, his face was very decidedly that of a wolf, of a predator that you were naturally wired to fear. A rising surge of bile burned in your throat from running and all you could hear was your heartbeat, thundering ever faster. You choked out a yelp, lashing out however you could in a bid to get free. He easily avoided every attack you threw out, seemingly bored by the attempts, casually holding you at arms length.

“What I really can’t stand,” he told you, his voice low and calm, “is how you waste it. Fighting so hard to stay alive, and for what? Nothing will be lost when I end it.”

“Shut up!” you cried, choking the words out through gritted teeth. You would live. Survive just like you always did. He considered that, licking his lips before irritation once more gave way to excitement.

“Then again,” Death said, letting you down enough to stand on your toes, allowing you to take a breath. Oxygen hit you in a hard rush, you might have fallen over if he weren’t steadying you. “I’m in no rush.”

“Let me go,” you demanded, your breathing ragged, your ears buzzing and ignorant of his words.

Death smiled, his wolfish muzzle pulled back in an expression so human it bordered on obscene. His face was right to yours, you could practically count each of his deadly sharp teeth, see into the soulless depths of those evil eyes.

“Your fear is positively mouthwatering. The poor little kitten is really terrified of el lobo feroz. That fear is the only thing that’s ever given your life purpose. If you think about it, I’m the only reason you keep going. It’s almost flattering.” He licked his lips again, considering you intently. “You don’t mind having some fun before I kill you, right?”

“No!” you screamed the word, but all it did was make his eyes flash with hunger.

“I’m going to eat. You. Up.”

Every muscle in your body went taut, seizing with a different sort of horror. That confounded curiosity to know what he intended, the disturbing impulse to tempt violence, was only heightened by the adrenaline in your system. You had no word for the dark feeling, for the disturbing impulse. Only disgust, swirling dark twisting up hot and low in your gut. With shaking hands, you finally managed to undo the tie around your neck, dropping out of your cloak and onto the ground. And then, before you could even stand up, you were running.

This time, Death didn’t react. No laughter or jeering taunts followed your escape. Dampened beneath the rush of blood in your ears and your feet pounding on the forest floor, the woods were full of the normal sounds. Bugs and frogs and birds and the breeze.

All the same, you knew that el lobo feroz wasn’t far behind. You knew that, and you knew you wouldn’t escape from him. Not this time. But you couldn’t just stop. So you made your frantic flight through the trees, sprinting as fast as you could to escape a creature which existed in opposition to all that was sane or safe. Death himself.

From behind you, in front of you, on both slides, all around, the lilting whistled tune finally began. Panic, bright red and raw, caused you to trip. There was a jolt when your foot caught on something, sending a little shockwave all up your body, then a lurch as gravity forced you down and momentum dragged you forward. For a moment, true weightlessness. And then you were skidding and somersaulting along the ground, skinning your hands and knees all over again before you collapsed, your chin painfully knocking against the ground when you completed your tumble. No pain registered, just numb confusion. You were breathing so hard your lungs burned, your tongue paper dry and sour. Despite the deafening sound of your heart beating and the wheezing rattle of air in your lungs, you could hear his song.

Everything, everything hurt, but you forced yourself up, to shamble into the bushes, curling into a ball to wait.

The song ended.

Seconds—less than that, really—passed before anything happened. Then you heard him. He allowed you to hear him, your pursuer wasn’t concerned that you would manage to escape. He didn’t need to bother running after you, or disguise the noise of his approach. You squeezed your eyes shut until you heard heavy feet crunching through the grass and twigs right in front of you, peeking them open to watch a figure emerge from the darkness.

Death stopped to sniff the air like the predatory beast he appeared to be. You pressed both hands over your mouth and nose, your entire body shaking with the tension of staying stiffly still. For a moment, you hoped he would move on. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“This has been fun,” he said conversationally, “but you’re not exactly the most challenging hunt. So, make this easier for yourself and come out, or make it more fun for me and stay put. Your choice, gatita.”

Your sore, overworked body twitched, wanting to obey and spare yourself. But if he knew where you were, he wouldn’t be looking around randomly like he was, right? Unless this was another game and he was trying to trick you, to see how you’d respond to that threat. But he could be bluffing. You didn’t know, and that uncertainty kept you in place.

Death chuckled ominously, leaving your line of sight. Somehow, that was worse than anything else, the nothingness of blind anticipation.

For a fleeting moment, you hoped he had moved on after all.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” Death asked. Behind you, above you. A short little scream ripped from your throat as he grabbed you by the hair, wrenching you upright so fast that your body went limp with dizziness, head spinning with terror and a fresh rush of energy. He kept you up by exchanging a fistful of hair for the front of your dress. “Me temo que no tiene suerte.”

Getting your bearings, you yelped, thrashing out of his grip. Death let you go too easily, causing you to stumble. You went down hard. This time, it did hurt. Your hands and knees were skinned raw. But still, you crawled. It wasn’t a choice, it was instinct.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Death said, crouching down behind you. He laughed. “I’ve got a feeling that you will too.”

“No—no.”

“You can’t lie to me. I can smell it. Fear mixed with desire… It's delicious. I can’t wait to have a taste.”

All you could do was grunt when he grabbed you by the waist, easily lifting you up and manhandling you onto your back. You fell with a heavy sound, dizzy all over again.

“I’d say I was surprised, but… Well, I’m not,” Death said, straddling you. His legs were completely wrong. They bent like a man’s at the knee, but bent again with the backwards angle of a wolf’s legs, ending in a set of thick paws. His face was worse. He spoke with such vivid animation. It shouldn’t have been possible for a wolf’s face to emote like that, it shouldn’t have been possible that Death himself could look so gleeful, so excited. When you attempted to drag yourself away, he settled more of his weight on top of you. “This is how you like it, right? Rough. It makes you feel alive.”

Even in your terrified panic, you knew what he was talking about. How long had he been watching you? How intently? Had you ever managed to escape from him, or were you just running around like a headless chicken, never knowing you were doomed? Furiously rejecting that, you bucked upward, bowing your back to throw him off. When that didn’t work, you grasped fistfuls of fabric from the front of his shirt to get leverage.

Death growed low and grabbed your face, slamming your head against the ground, claws digging into the soft skin of your cheeks. He followed while you were still reeling, leaning down to talk directly into your ear.

“Do you feel alive now, gatita?”

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut so you couldn’t see his frightening face. El lobo feroz. His nose was cold and leathery when it brushed your face as he pulled back, air ghosting across your cheek and making you whimper. Death laughed, sitting up.

“The ears really are cute,” he told you, releasing your cheeks to take hold of your ear instead. The rough pads caught on the delicate skin, brushing the fur up in a way that made you shudder. He saw that, you could tell by the way his red eyes flashed, the way he licked his lips again. “Who knows, maybe you’ll change my mind about cats.”

“Stop it,” you said, covering your face in an attempt to find peace from this absurdity. He hadn’t broken skin with his claws, but your chin and palms were busted up, your cheeks latticed with shallow scrapes from the trees.

“I told you. You can’t hide from me,” Death said, his voice dragging with a growl. The threat was emphasized by the sudden cold edge dragging lightly against your neck.

Stiffening, you lowered your hands, looking up at him with wet eyes—looking at the humanoid wolf claiming to be death, who had killed your father and ruined your life, who had haunted you every day since, whose mere shadow terrified you to your core, and once you came to grips with the unbelievability of what you saw, you had to contend with the knowledge that you were powerless to such a nightmare. Utterly, completely powerless.

Death groaned. Or hummed. Or growled. It was a happy sound, excited. “Está buena, gatita,” he told you, saying it like praise. “I don’t normally go for this sort of thing.” Casually, he nudged your chin upward before dragging the sickle down so the point caught beneath the neckline of your dress. “I shouldn’t. It’ll have to be our secret, hm?”

Willful ignorance had done nothing for you thus far, but you still clung to it. He couldn’t be talking about what you thought he was. He couldn’t be that human.

In a sharp movement, he pulled the sickle downward. Fabric ripped loudly in the quiet night. Yelping, you tried to pull the scraps back together, to cover yourself because that indignity was too far, wasn’t it? Nudity could mean nothing more than a prelude to violence to something like him, but it was different to you.

Death growled in annoyance, pressing the weapon’s tip into the soft give of your stomach.

“Hands off,” he told you. You didn’t move, and he pressed down. Not too much, just enough to break the skin, to draw blood.

“Stop,” you said, clinging even more desperately to the front of your ruined bodice, “that hurts.”

“I’ll keep going. To. The. Hilt.” Death drew out each word, pressing down with each word to make his point, the sickle’s edge disappearing into your skin. He meant it. Obey or suffer.

Looking straight above at the uncaring night sky, you released your bodice. He chuckled as he pulled the weapon away. It might have been that sound, or the crushing disgust of being exposed. There was very little thought behind the way you lashed out, capitalizing on his moment of distraction as he readjusted himself.

Your pathetic attempt at escaping the inevitable lacked any art or intelligence, only the final burst of energy that came from knowing you’d have no more chances after this. Death avoided your thrashing limbs, letting you wriggle your way upward, twisting around to try and crawl away. And then he drove the sickle into the ground right beside your hand, the blade only narrowly missing your fingers as he drove it into the dirt. You yelped, flinching away. Death used the moment to flip you around again, slamming the air out of your lungs.

"Delicious," he growled, curling over you to get at the exposed skin of your torso. Fabric that hadn’t been properly cut was torn away by his hands. Hands, paws. Human finger articulation and the thick pads of a dog’s feet, each tipped with dangerously long claws. They caught your skin, the rough pads like sandpaper on your sensitive flesh. Just as quickly as the fabric was out of the way, his nose replaced it, his hulking form hunching over your body. Each rapid inhale tickled your skin, pairing disturbingly with the cold of his nose. Unlike his hands, his tongue was soft, lapping up the blood he’d drawn on your stomach before he moved up. The uncanny mixture of sensations made you squirm.

“Stop, stop now,” you said, jerking in uncoordinated little bursts beneath him more on instinct than rational thought. Fur filled the spaces between your fingers as you tried to push him off. He didn't react to you tugging on it, all it did was remind you of how bestial he was. The whole situation was terrifying, yes. But, more viscerally, it was gross. Deeply uncomfortable to feel his long, smooth tongue, to endure the threat of teeth as he moved up, to choke back disgust and terror as he passed over your nipples. “Stop,” you whined the word despite yourself, your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to separate from reality. Death chuckled, moving up across your flushed chest, to your neck, leaving you flushing bright red and slick with his saliva.

“Impatient?” he asked, the words brushing over your fluttering pulse. “I’m not surprised. That’s fine.”

The waistband of your dress didn’t part as easily as the top. He worked from the other end instead, making a slit to tear the fabric up and expose your stockings and panties. Claws made short work of the thin, well worn cotton, carving shallow lines into your skin to strip you entirely.

“Nn-no, what are you doing? Stop, st-” your words cut off with a heavy ‘umph’ when he pushed you back down. Death didn’t so much as look at you as he admired his handiwork, let alone respond to your plea.

“Just like I thought,” he said. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“No,” you said, desperately shaking your head. All you could see was his sharp, sharp teeth, those deadly claws. And your body was electrified, covered with drool and chills and thrumming hot with blood. There was no way out of this, you couldn't even comprehend the pain he could cause. Out of options, you pushed down the remains of your skirt, attempting to close your legs.

Claws dug into your thighs as Death forced them back open with a little growl, sparing you no indignity. The moon deprived you of the cover of darkness and it shouldn’t have been so embarrassing because he wasn’t a man, but it was. Just like he had with your torso, Death explored the exposed skin. The puffing brushes of air as he sniffed and licked along your thighs was humiliating and obscene on its own, nevermind when he nipped at the sensitive flesh to make you whimper, forcing you to contemplate the damage those teeth could do where you were most vulnerable.

The thought of such agony had you try a final time to close your legs, only to have them spread even wider, giving you the perfect view of el lobo feroz with his muzzle pressed against your pussy, his long pink tongue lolling out to drag across your slit. It wasn’t the pain you anticipated, but it was just too strange, too surprising, too disturbing. Having the snout of a beast between your legs, regardless of the creature's perceived humanity, was enough to make you feel sick, twisted and filthy.

“No, no, don’t,” you demanded shrilly, kicking in an attempt to displace him. Death growled, claws puncturing into your skin as he pushed your hips back down, peering up at you. His eyes didn’t reflect or catch the moonlight. They glowed. Empty. Evil.

“Ten cuidado, gatita,” he warned. “Haven’t you ever been warned about getting in the way of a wolf and his meal?”

“Please,” you said, unable to comprehend that this could happen. That this would happen. “Please don’t… don’t. You can’t do this.”

“What are you going to do to stop me?”

That was awful, too awful for words. Fight and risk more pain, or let it happen and… And what? What rational response could you possibly have to this other than disgust and despair? Maybe you should have been glad he wasn’t about to rip you to bloody shreds and feast on the remains, glad that you would be spared pain and immediate death, but that consolation felt terribly cheap when confronted with the equally unimaginable.

“You can’t,” you said, your voice too high, terrified into a whine. “You’re not even… I mean it’s not like you can… like you’ll… you can…”

Death hummed in annoyance, you could feel the vibration of the sound. “Te voy a comer. Y luego te voy a coger,” he told you, the words easy like he was explaining something very simple which, considering you couldn’t understand them, only made it that much worse. “¿Está bien, gatita?”

“No,” you said. “No, I don’t…” Understand. Believe. Consent.

Death laughed, arranging your legs into a more comfortable press towards your chest to make room for his hulking form. There was nothing you could do to make him stop.

The pads of his fingers were painfully rough against your pussy’s outer lips, catching on the sensitive flesh as he parted them. His tongue, however, was softer than anything you’d ever felt, lapping at your entrance, up to your clit. You squirmed uncontrollably, locked in some limbo of disgust, discomfort, and embarrassment.

You thought that if you just closed your eyes, if you just blocked it out, you could pretend that this wasn’t happening, but Death hummed out an animalistic growl, and his tongue was far too long and dexterous to be human, and his fur bristled against your thighs, and there was no way out. Already, your body was waking up to the stimulation. Responding. There was something wrong with you. You knew that, you’d known that for a long time, taking pleasure in beatings, wanting sex to be rougher and rougher, needing to be brutalized like it was an itch to be scratched. This was a new low, the grotesque indulgence of those most perverse.

Like you.

“Please stop,” you whined, another plea to add to the string of ignored requests. Death made a sound you could feel more than hear. For reasons other than fear, you shuddered at the noise.

With your clit acceptably swollen, your body twitching with every movement, his tongue slicked downward. Your hips jumped, legs closing and opening with surprise, but Death wasn’t deterred.

“No-oh,” you sounded so weak, your rejection coming out pathetic and breathy.

Death made another growl-like sound, pushing you down flat with mean claws that poked fresh holes into your skin. You hadn’t been trying to escape, you just couldn’t stop from squirming as he tested the flinching muscles of your entrance. This was new, and different, and terrible, and foul. His tongue was soft and long and far too dexterous, pushing into you with a few hungry strokes. No human man could do that. It wasn’t physically possible.

You whimpered, your head falling back in some vain attempt to block it all out. Escape wasn’t so easy. While his tongue lacked the pressure and weight of something solid, he attacked your g-spot with precision. Eating you out. Eating you. Given that long snout, it had to have been awkward, but that didn’t seem to deter him. And every time his head moved, his nose ground against your clit. He was probably watching you, watching you twitch and gasp and writhe helplessly, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of a wolf’s head between your legs like this would kill you, surely it would.

Unbidden, you remembered telling the child Quinta that dogs were your natural enemy, and your penchant for seeking the companionship of those who promised animosity, and the wicked sort of sense it made that you would find yourself here, and you could only laugh at it all but the hysterical sound came out like a sob, and then a low groan, and then a sharp whine when Death pressed the rough pad of one of his fingers against your clit instead, dragging small little circles against it while his tongue continued to torment you.

“No, no, no, no-”

Whatever you were denying, it was pointless. Noise for the sake of it, words getting all tangled up with your choked moans and sobs and hiccups. The little addition of pain from the too rough texture on your clit was enough to give you what you really wanted, what you always ached for.

Pleasure lurched in your core, your hips bucking wildly. Death growled again and it was mean. Aggressive. You seized up, mouth open wide as if for a scream, your feet planted so you could tilt your hips up for more. More pleasure, more pain. Disgust, shame, fear, all of it became white hot and foul, agonizingly sexy in the few moments where the high of orgasm negated the living nightmare between your legs.

And then you were coming down, hips jerking into the tongue of a wolf monster, the creature that had killed your father, Death himself, and you actually sobbed, shying away from his touch as little sparks of overstimulation promised something worse. Unable to escape in any material way, you covered your face. Tears, dirt, and blood smeared together on the feverish, sweaty skin, nearly suffocating as you panted.

Death let you be and sat up, laughing. Laughing at you.

“That was faster than I expected.”

Peeking out from between your fingers, you saw the way his muzzle was glistening before his tongue swiped it away, saw the way he was smiling as he mocked you. “Ah. Unh-no, I-”

Death leaned over you. You flinched away, but he only grabbed the sickle he’d driven into the ground beside you. Casually, he flicked the blade out. The cool metal winked in the moonlight. Although you were still trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, you weren’t too far gone to feel a fresh wave of fear. Immediately, you curled in on yourself, covering as much of your vulnerability as possible.

“You cower in fear, but I can taste your desire,” Death said, licking his lips. “It’s not half bad.”

“Please just… just stop.”

“I’m doing you a favor. You’re too tight.”

Death didn’t elaborate on that, positioning the weapon’s hilt between your legs, pushing the flared base between your folds before you could figure out what was happening. Everything was wet with a mixture of saliva and your own arousal, slick enough for the weapon to press against your entrance. You figured it out then, but he pinned you in place with a hand on your stomach, claws pressing against the flinching skin. There was nothing you could really do to avoid it, and you didn’t dare close your legs around the blade itself.

“This might hurt.”

“Stop, please stop, you can’t—”

Death didn’t say anything, watching your expression as he pushed the weapon’s grip into you. To see such a sharp blade between your legs in any capacity was dizzying, and that was without the intensely physical pressure of its grip rubbing against your inner walls.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he asked. “To. The. Hilt.” With every word, he drove the weapon deeper, your body jerking with each movement.

“Stop, just stop, please, take it…take it out.”

“I’d do it myself, but,” Death said, holding up his off-hand, “I’m not so sure you’d like that.” His claws practically gleamed in the moonlight, and you knew exactly how rough the pads were. The idea of those inside of you was enough to make your insides wither, although all that really amounted to was your cunt tightening around the weapon. You grunted at the feeling, shook your head fast, panicked.

“No! No,” you told him as coherently as you could. Your tongue was dry as bone, you choked on the grit.

“Thought so,” he replied, pulling the sickle back only to slam it back in.

The textured grip felt disturbingly good in some mad, broken way. His tongue had been so smooth and soft, but this was solid and firm, forcing itself into you. He used it like a tool, not bothering to simulate sex, twisting it this way and that, forcing your pussy open. Making room. You couldn’t help but writhe with each movement, your cunt tightening around the grip, hips tilting up as you were consumed by a confusing twist of disgust and need. Violence and pain were things you knew and understood. Familiarity had you dripping around the weapon, you could hear how wet you were, and his harsh motions only emphasized the vulgar sound.

“Not bad,” Death said, amused by the sight. You shut your eyes. “This weapon killed your father. It’s only fair that you should die by it too—una pequeña muerte.”

“Don’t,” you said, body going painfully tense with disgust, with hate, with fear. Death pulled the sickle out, pushing it back in with an ugly squelch, dragging a pained yelp from your mouth, and then a distinctly less pained one when he twisted it slightly. “No, no, I…”

Little death. You belatedly realized the implication of that. You’d already come once, it wasn’t nearly as difficult to build you up again. Especially not when he was being more deliberate with each thrust, when the sandpaper-rough texture of his finger nudged at your clit again.

Nothing in particular set you off, maybe it was just the acceptance of sensation, the acknowledgement that it would buy you a few moments of madness from this unthinkable situation. Gasping, flushing, writhing like a creature possessed, you seized up, pleasure flushing through your system with a white-hot sort of frenzy. You didn’t think it could be compared to death, not really. You felt distinctly alive for a few seconds of shivering, wet heat.

Until it ended, abruptly dropping you back in the middle of an unfathomable predicament.

Death hummed as he stopped, letting you wilt back onto the ground, trembling and hot. “I prefer a fight, but-” Without much ceremony and a disgustingly wet shlick, Death pulled the weapon out of your pussy. “You put on quite the show, gatita. This is going to be good.”

“What are you doing?” you asked, drawing your legs in, wincing at the feeling. Some part of you still rejected what was happening, what he was capable of doing. Of course that got a little harder to believe when he pushed his pants down. Was it flattering that a monster would be turned on by torturing you? You wanted to think that it couldn’t be, that you weren’t that depraved, but the part of your deepest self that stirred in reaction to the sight frightened you. It seemed that the human shape and build of his body carried over to his primary sex characteristics. It was sick that the revelation should be relieving, but at least you would be spared the particular grotesque indignity of inhuman genitalia. Maybe if you shut your eyes, if you blocked it all out, you could pretend that it was just a man raping you.

Because that was so much better.

You weren’t even aware that you were trying to crawl away until he clicked his tongue, grabbing your waist to pull you back into place. The pads on his fingers were so rough, claws threatening to rip the sensitive flesh. He licked his lips with wolfish excitement. Fur brushed your bare skin. There was no way out of this, to escape el lobo feroz. Not mentally, not physically.

You pressed your thighs together as tightly as you could, ignoring how slick they were.

“It’s too late for that,” he said, easily prying them apart. Fur brushed against your skin, but you were more concerned with the sight of his cock as it bobbed up before settling against your abdomen.

Heavy. That was your first thought, right before the comparison between your body and his cock really settled in your feverish brain. The head alone was thick enough that you couldn’t fathom it getting past your entrance, let alone that you’d be able to take the rest.

“No, no, no, you-you can’t do this,” you said, staring at his dick with a crawling sense of fear that had nothing to do with his inhumanity—in all regards—and everything to do with the size. “It won’t fit.”

“You can accommodate new life,” he said, a hand going under his cock to press against your abdomen, right above your womb. “Let alone Death. You’ll be fine.” He said it like a joke, like it was amusing. He was sick. You were sick. This was…

When he moved, the slap of his dick on your abdomen was audible, punctuating a joke that wasn’t funny to begin with. Death clearly wasn’t concerned as he rearranged you, pushing your legs up and apart until your thighs screamed, his body bearing down against you for leverage. The unyielding press of his cock between your legs made you panic, but he had you utterly pinned. You couldn’t do anything other than feel it slide across the sensitive flesh, settling right against your entrance. You couldn’t do anything to stop this. Death grunted as he readjusted you, claws digging fresh lines into your flesh, and began to rock his hips forward. When you yelped, bucking up against him, the sharp points broke skin. It would be easy for him to rip you up with nothing more than those claws.

“Quédate quieto,” he growled. You didn’t need to understand to be still.

So close like this, you realized that you could smell him. Not the stench of a dog, of wet fur or a poorly maintained pelt. Not the scent of a man either, familiar and human. Death smelled like a cool summer night, and torrential rain, and a river’s violent rapids, and acrid smoke, and the dry dust of an old road. Although it wasn’t entirely unpleasant in the way you might have expected of a wolf man, it made your stomach churn, doing nothing to help you relax as he continued to press the thick head of his cock against your pussy.

For a moment, you thought that it really was impossible, that you would be spared. That single second of relief was all it took for the head to pop past the initial barrier of muscle. Your mouth dropped open at the feeling. Surprise, maybe. Your legs were spread wide enough to mitigate some of the dragging pain as he forced himself a little deeper, just past the ridge. Death made a sound low in his chest, but all you could manage was stiff, cold shock. Surprise at how surreal it all was. But reality marched on all the same, with or without your comprehension. You weren’t sure what you expected it to feel like, but you would have been wrong anyway. Stretching, aching, too much, too much, too-

Grunting, he rolled his hips, pulling back just enough before thrusting deeper. Little by little, letting you adjust and relax ever so slightly before pulling back to go further. You whined each time, back arching, your pussy tightening around him. It was probably a protective measure, trying to keep him out, but it hurt, pulling a rumbly growl out of his throat, his hips pushing forward despite the painful resistance.

“No more,” you got out, the words tight, pained.

Muttering something under his breath, Death leaned back to let drool drip from his long tongue. It landed heavily where the two of you were joined, splatting with an unattractive slap onto the place where you were joined, onto your swollen clit. He laughed at your girlish yelp of surprise.

You let your head fall back, your hands covering your face. They smelled like dirt and blood. At least the extra lubrication helped, and you knew your body was responding to this. Whether to protect itself or out of some truly disturbing reciprocation, your pussy was soaking his cock, making way for him as he rolled his hips back and forth.

Deeper, further. You were going to split apart.

“Stop, please,” you finally broke enough to beg, pressing against his stomach, ignoring the sickening feeling of fur beneath your hand. You were almost surprised when Death stopped, huffing hard. Worse, you were grateful.

“Too much, gatita? And you were doing so well.”

A pathetic little whine tore from your throat when you looked down at the remaining few inches of cock between your straining pussy lips and his grotesque inhuman body, despairing at the sight. “I can’t,” you whimpered. “No more.”

Death growled in frustration, claws digging painfully into your skin as he shifted back and forth a few times, trying to ease himself deeper. You could see the shadow of distension shifting across your abdomen as he did, proof of how deep inside of you he already was. But no matter how he rolled his hips, or twisted you around, there was no more room.

“Stop,” you said, the word getting caught in your swollen throat, your body desperately straining to get away for fear that he’d just force it in.

Death stilled, exhaling hard to steady himself. It sounded like a growl. Your pussy unintentionally clenched hard around him at the noise. It hurt, the muscles unable to adjust to his size. The reaction had his breath catching, and that became a throaty laugh.

“Fine,” he said, finally dragging his hips back. It was what you wanted, but it still hurt, the stretch worsened by the way your pussy squeezed and pulsed around his length. Death stopped when only the head remained inside of you. “You just need to be broken in. That’s fine.”

You looked, stricken, from the dizzying sight of his cock—now, at least partially, glistening with your own arousal—to the sickening expression of manic glee he wore. How could a canine face express such viscerally human emotions?

And then, in the back of your empty, dizzy head—why was this happening?

“No more,” you begged, squeezing your eyes shut, your pussy trying to push him out despite the discomfort of it. Claws ripped into your skin when his grip had to tighten to keep you in place, his hips chasing yours as you tried so desperately to escape. It hurt all over again. Maybe not as bad, but now you knew what to anticipate.

“It's better like this.” He stopped when he was as deep as he could go and you were grateful that he didn’t push it further, grateful that he was taking it slow. The stretching, pinching ache wasn’t any better, but it wasn’t worse either. “What is this… Two? Three inches?” You looked down, realizing that he was referring to how much of his cock couldn’t fit inside of you. It had to be more than that, although you were stuck on the sight of your pussy stretched around him. “By the end of the night, there won’t be anything keeping us apart. That’ll be… poetic, don’t you think?”

It wasn’t fair that his voice should be that of a man, should be low and dripping with a villain’s dangerous charisma. All you could do was groan weakly, your breathing shallow. Despite what he said, there was nothing poetic to the sound of it. Slick, filthy, disgustingly wet. Every thrust punched a sharp noise out of you, although most of them were nothing more than heavy breaths. Death wasn’t very quiet either, making noises that fluctuated seamlessly between that of a man and that of a beast.

“Hurts,” you whimpered in protest, willing him to slow down. He didn’t.

“Good.”

The single word, the cruelty of it and the accompanying set of a harsher pace, hurt in more ways than the physical. You couldn’t help but wail in despair, writhing with pain you couldn’t escape, unable to get away as he fucked you. Deeper and deeper, forcing you to stretch out to accommodate him.

“You like the pain, right?” Death asked mockingly, his voice low enough to nearly get missed beneath the filthy squelch of each thrust. And all you could do was whimper. Did you like the pain? No, but there was a perverse satisfaction of justified destruction. You had no idea how he knew that.

“I don’t,” you said, needing to reject him. To reject all of this because otherwise you were afraid it would end like before, that you would give in. That you’d enjoy this. But it was too late. You couldn’t help your hips from twitching of their own volition, and a particularly sharp thrust pulled a surprised gasp from your open mouth.

“Buena gatita,” he said in a low voice, half growl. The sound, the language, the speaker, none of it mattered because your body knew praise, and the kind that came with cruelty was what you craved in the sickest part of your brain. “Muy buena.” Your cunt fluttered weakly around him, your hips rolling upward to meet his next thrust. It hurt, and it felt good.

As soon as you admitted that to yourself in any way, you were lost. A few more thrusts and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. There wasn’t a single place within you that wasn’t full of him, not in your head or your pussy or your chest. Consumed entirely by Death.

Gods help you, you could hear the fresh wave of wet arousal your body provided with that awful thought, so eager to submit to his dominion. As if sensing that, he stilled, his cock buried deep into you. Your eyes opened unintentionally, confused by the sudden break.

“Well, well, would you look at that,” Death said as a way of explanation, self satisfied. You followed his eyes, looking at where the two of you were joined. There was nothing between, his pelvis flush between your legs, the fur matting with how wet everything was. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His hips shifted and you could see the bump of distension, more pronounced now. “Like I said—poetic. All you’ve done for years is tease me and now-” He laughed. “Now you’re mine.”

Death pulled back slowly, letting you see how much of his cock he’d forced your body to accept. It looked about as impossible as it felt, you couldn’t really comprehend it on any level other than the most base—sickening satisfaction. Ensuring you were still watching, his hips snapped forward. Once, twice, three times, making sure each thrust was solid and steady, filling you up entirely, the thick head of his cock brutalizing your cunt in a way no human man ever could. The battering against your cervix hurt in a profound, electric way, a way nobody had ever managed to hurt you.

And you took it. Your mouth open dumbly, your head tipping back into the dirt, your body rolling with each movement.

Even suffering such intimate, awful pain, you couldn’t deny your feeling of pleasure. Sublime friction, pressure in every place you needed it. And, to a dreadful degree, Death seemed to be aware of your reactions. Aware enough, at least, to take note when you couldn’t help but moan aloud, to exploit the angle that had you seeing stars. He grabbed you off the ground, forcing you to throw your arms around his neck. Like that, you were even more at his mercy. Full enough to split, you could understand the indulgence of size, of craving excess. Beautiful. Your boiling brain pulled that word out from its scattered nothingness, and it was beautiful. Repulsive, disturbing, grotesque, and beautiful.

“That’s right,” Death practically purred into your ear. “Look at how well you take it, you’d think you were made for this.”

“Oh, gods, oh—please, I can’t, I…” You weren’t even sure what you were begging for, it was too late from the second he praised you, sending you spiraling, coming hard, your pussy squeezing his cock so hard it hurt, your fingers pulling hard at the fur on his neck. Death laughed breathlessly, not slowing down for even a second. You didn’t care. If it hurt, it felt good, an endless feedback loop of madness.

Holding so close to him, you were more aware than ever of how terrifyingly powerful his body was. He could easily destroy you if he wanted.

This was Death at his gentlest.

Dizzy, reeling, hardly able to scrape together any coherent thought beyond that, all you felt at the realization was the vague veil of fear. Letting yourself get fucked by the big bad wolf. Coming on his cock, moaning like a whore for a being that shouldn’t exist in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon.

His hips stuttered then, a groan catching on a growl in his chest.

“Delicious,” he said. “Your fear, I could just…” Death didn’t finish that thought, or maybe you couldn’t hear it as his thrusts became well and truly punishing. Seeking his end like a man would. That was what you expected, in a distant way, but you didn’t expect that a mystical—mythical?—creature would ejaculate, only that you’d had enough encounters with men to know you shouldn’t let it happen. Not inside. Never inside, that was way too dangerous.

“Nn-no-”

He didn’t listen. You couldn’t escape, and you stopped caring after a moment because the heavy, carnal weight of him coming inside of you was enough to make you squeal, your pussy squeezing his cock, your body straining in an arch against his. You didn’t know if you were coming again or if it was just a continuation of the onslaught of stimulation that your brain couldn’t make rational sense of, but there was a sort of lunatic’s bliss in the feeling, in the agonizingly hellish ecstasy of pleasure. Of complete and utter excess. You could feel the rumbling vibrations of his growl, it entwined with the human groans. The two shouldn’t have suited one another, but your broken mind accepted both gleefully, losing yourself in the sound.

After a few jerky, halting movements, Death released you.

He was slow to pull out, which was probably a mercy. Even softening, his cock was painfully big, you couldn’t hold back your pained whimper when he pulled out. The absence was immediate, cold, and hollow. You wilted when he let you fall limp onto the ground, defeated. Deflated. Breathing as if you’d run a marathon, it was all you could do to keep it together, the gravity of all that happened setting in.

Something landed on your naked, sweaty body. Scared, you opened your eyes. But it was fabric. A second passed before you realized it was your red cloak. The one you left behind to escape from him before. It felt like a lifetime ago. You gratefully used it to cover your nudity, glad for the moment to catch your breath with some dignity.

“Ah, that was good,” Death said, satisfied, rolling his neck and shoulders. He’d already fixed his pants and retrieved his weapons. “The fun’s over now. For you, at least.”

“I don’t know… how to get back to the trail…” you said, wincing as you sat up and looked around. His cum dripped out of your gaping, sore pussy, sticky on your thighs. Vaguely, you wondered what sort of monsters would come from such a coupling, but you disregarded that thought just as quickly. If he was done, you needed to get away. Then again, you weren’t even sure if you could walk.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Death’s less than friendly tone rolled over you like ice water. Slowly looking over at him, you exhaled a big, shuddery lungful of cool night air. He stood high above you, his looming figure blotting out the moon. Right then, he looked no different than he had all those years ago. Brilliant red eyes, gray fur, silver sickles. The big bad wolf in all his glory.

“What?”

Those bright red eyes held a different sort of intensity than before. Swirling, passionate madness without any of the ravenous hunger. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since that night. Every time you narrowly escape death, and every time you get other people killed. But you know that, you’ve seen me. That’s why you run, thinking you can escape the inevitable. For whatever reason—luck, fate, the blessing of those gods you claim to believe in—your life has been spared over and over. And yet, you do nothing with it.”

There was malice in those words, a visceral sort of disgust that reflected what you so often felt for yourself. You considered trying to stand up, trying to run again. Fear thundered in your chest, urged you to escape as you always did. But, honestly, you didn’t think your legs could support your weight. No. You couldn’t run. You never had really managed to escape him anyway.

“So, I thought, why does it matter if you die now or later—your life has no meaning. If I finish it now, you won’t be able to keep teasing me, and we’ll both have some peace.”

“I don’t want to die,” you said, your voice hushed to hide the tears.

Death looked down at you, and you wondered if it was disgust or pity you saw on his inhuman face. But then you realized, it was neither. His jewel bright eyes gleamed with glee, passion of a type you couldn’t understand, that belonged to something beyond the realm of what you could possibly comprehend. A living nightmare.

“Your fear,” Death said, inhaling deeply as he took a step forward, his sickles in hand, “has the most intoxicating smell. I might even miss it.”

#death puss in boots #death x reader #death the wolf #not sfw #my writing #tw.noncon

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