#Victor Szasz | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

decaying-words · 27 days

Text

Freaks

Victor Zsasz x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 3.3k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, scarification, wounds, blood, virgin AO3 • All my stories

"His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins."

Freaks

Gloved fingers, frigid and dispassionate, trace sinuous patterns over the trembling features of my face, smooth and silk-like in appearance, a stark contrast to his, marked and scarred with conscious volition. His marble pallor adorns vicious cuts, the more recent ones reminiscing of crimson snakes crawling over his visage, disfiguring his traits and expressions; they sink deeply in the flesh and split his lips, discolored and cruel. There is a perverse design behind them, a morbid compulsion that makes it difficult to avoid and occult, so I don’t, or can’t really; my eyes are locked on his scars, frightened and terrified. He takes great pleasure, I believe, in seeing me anxious and petrified.

His leather thumb, demanding and inquisitive, caresses my lower lip, opening my mouth and revealing the warm cavity. He tilts his head, pensive and silent, while my eyes search for his, search for a reassurance I know I won’t receive. Truthfully, I’m unsure why I came to him willingly; or perhaps I do, and this frightens me even more.

I used to timidly stare at him from a distant booth of a questionable bar we would both happen to frequent, our unknown encounters going from coincidental to deliberate; and while I have never even approached him, I couldn’t help but detail his striking appearance. Always impeccably dressed in elegant leathery and velvety pieces, his body, gnarly and marked, seemed oddly sublimed. A bizarre charisma that would keep my thoughts racing at night, fingers working quickly on my engorged nub.

Days turned to weeks as I obsessed and yearned for his touch, foreign and forbidden, knowing full well who that strange man was and the crimes he committed, not dissimilar to visiting sharks at the aquarium. I would pretend to be busy working on some undefined task on my laptop, nursing drink after drink, always strategically positioned in a booth in front of him, creating wild and fantastic scenarios in my head on how I would seduce him and how he would make tender love to me; scenarios that would content my inexperienced soul, while occulting the harsh reality of his character.

I suppressed a yelp when he found me in the bathroom tonight, blocking the exit door, toned arms crossed and dark eyes drilling holes in my mind. I’ve never been so close to him then, and I vividly remember the raw panic I felt standing in front of Victor Zsasz. If you keep looking at me like that, he said in a deep and surgical tone, I might well turn to stone. Face flushed with shame and fear, eyes laying inert on the ground, I could barely find the strength to mutter a quasi aphonic apology.

Cocking an hairless brow and tilting his head, he considers me for an instant, impatient and expectant. Perhaps I had too much to drink tonight, or perhaps I was driven by an unknown divine intervention, but in a soft and timid voice I murmured what could have been a confession. You fascinate me. He smirks, smug and proud, reminiscent of a demon luring a soul, and I am the willing participant of my own downfall. We leave the bar together that night.

His gloved thumb moves from my parted lips to my throat, his fingers tracing the contours of the rolling muscles underneath the delicate skin. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time; while my romantic nature imagined my first time under different conditions, I cannot ignore the tremors in my thighs when his knuckles brush my pulsating flesh. How bad could it be, I ask myself naively, my heart beating frantically at the foreign and completely new touch.

One word, sharp and glacial, that annihilates the last hope of romance I could have and makes me question my decision to bring him home. Undress. I do as I’m told, moving in a way I imagine would be languid and sensual under his unappreciative and disinterested gaze; instead, it feels humiliating and bitter. He stops me when I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, leaving me in my underwear. Lay down.

The air feels cold on my heated skin as I lay with the grandiose limpness of a corpse on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen. I do not think much when I feel the mattress dipping next to me, then a sharp yelp breaks the otherwise quiet room as the cold touch of his leather glove caresses my bare thighs. Having now removed his coat, Victor wears a rolled up shirt, exposing his viciously scarred arms, the tally marks too great to count. One for each person he’s killed, I think to myself; and the thought shouldn’t make me feel so warm but it does, as much as seeing his dark gaze exploring my pristine flesh while his fingers massage my plush thighs. I feel a cruel shiver when he removes his gloves languidly, revealing two perfect hands, delicately defined and marked like the rest of his body. My breath hitches and he notices it, cocking an hairless brow at me with an amused light in his eyes, building up a sinful anticipation, one that makes my sex pulsate instinctively.

A broken moan dies on my lips akin to a hiccup when his bare hands, warm and surprisingly soft, caress my legs up and down. There is a faint smile on his face, lips slightly parted, as a somber thought darkens his gaze. I like your thighs. I want to mark them. This is not a suggestion, I understand.

Wiggling on the bed, panicked and terrified, Victor then grabs me by the waist and immobilizes me on the mattress, towering over me. His face merely a few centimeters away from mine, he presses his index finger over his mouth, shushing me. Heavy tears threaten to run and spill, and Victor sighs softly, brushing them away from the corner of my eyes with his thumb. You won’t be another tally mark, he promises. I’m unsure this will be enough to calm me down. Not when his hand slips in his pocket and retrieves a butterfly knife that he opens in front of me. The blade, delicately and tastefully engraved, beams in the dim light of the room; it is perfectly clean and cared for.

His scarred lips find my neck, the sensation as devastating as it is confusing. His kisses are passionate and hungry, licking the sensitive flesh there and progressing slowly. Each and every one of his kisses drag a string of breathy moans out of my throat, almost making me forget about my previous panic, the overwhelming sensations disorienting. His mouth is on my collarbone, then my sternum, then my covered breast… Never have I ever experienced such fire inside of me, my legs quivering with desire, my stomach knotting and twisting, as Victor draws a path with his mouth on my body, until finally does he reach my thighs, where he stops and contemplates the skin.

Desire turns to fear again, an emotional rollercoaster that seems to displease him. I’m not the burlap guy; I don’t get off when you’re scared, he scoffs. No, I imagine not. I expect him to get off to my ripped flesh. Nonetheless, I swallow my tears and nod at him, unsure why I am even humoring him. When he smiles, looking up at me, dark orbs shining like stars, I feel my sex throb shamefully. He then presses a chaste kiss on my immaculate skin, murmuring a word dripping with honey and that makes my heart race. Good girl.

The pain is stark and burning but not unbearable I realize; a stark contrast with the intense and unique horror my mind is feeling right now, hissing through my teeth, screwing my eyelids shut and squirming on the bed. I feel his hands holding me still while his breath caresses my scorching flesh, shushing me to no avail. When I feel the cruel blade leaving my skin, warm blood dripping from the fresh wound and running down my inner thigh, I pant heavily, a brief sense of relief soothing my nerves. But I was wrong to relax that soon, as a renewed agony, more vicious and noticeably deeper assaults my flesh, dragging a frank shriek out of my throat. I cry honest tears, begging for him to stop, thrashing on the bed while his free hand immobilizes me. If you keep moving it’ll be worse, he warns. But how could it be, when my entire mind is screaming bloody murder and my body is tearing apart under his brutal instrument?

The torture lasts for an eternity, hot tears ruining my face and heart beating so frantically it could give up at any moment. It burns, the acidic pain radiating in my entire body, my ravaged thigh throbbing ferociously. It feels nightmarish, so much that my brain seems to numb me, in a last act of mercy and love. Until I hear the butterfly knife close, and his voice, soft and deep. Wasn’t that bad, was it? Yes, yes it was.

Through wet eyelids, I tentatively peek at my leg, my heart sinking instantly at the bloody mess of torn flesh. It is hard to even decipher what he marked through the crimson ocean covering the skin and soaking the bed sheets underneath. Propping myself up on my elbows, I take a closer look at my lover from Hell, nestled between my legs and admiring his art; Victor pants heavily, face delicately flushed with an unmistaken arousal. Something boils in my stomach, a lighter feeling that makes me heave. Do you feel it now? he asks. The endorphins? You’ll feel real good very soon. I do not understand.

It burns again, atrocious and vivid, when his tongue, warm and wet, laps my wound; yet this time, there is something much more insidious, more sinful following the depraved sensation. The feeling is confusing, overwhelming, but a heinous pleasure replaces the discomfort and washes over me, making my sex throb and my nipples harden, a voracious desire to touch him, and be touched by him. Victor moans lustfully as the tip of his tongue dips into the cuts like one would lick a cunt, his fingers caressing the exposed insides, and through the agony I swear I can feel it in my core, can feel a soul-crushing liquid bliss building up inside of me.

Victor kisses my cuts, his fingers rubbing them open, and in a quasi delirious state I regret that they aren’t deep enough to be fucked. It feels numb, my brain doing a stellar job at occulting any pain and pumping me with relaxing and pleasurable hormones, and now I understand. Rolling my hips, I stare at his scarred face devouring me, begging him for more, more of this perverse and obscene pleasure only he can give me. He smirks devilishly, dipping his tongue in one of the deeper cuts he gave me, tearing the flesh open, and more burning pleasure follows as I throw my head back and wail.

My hand reveals my breasts, toying with an erected nipple, while the other slips inside my underwear, surprisingly soaked, and caresses my engorged, swollen clitoris in a familiar pattern. Victor slides his thumb inside the now almost translucent fabric, pulling it to the side to have a better view of my glistening cunt. I feel two fingers caressing my vulva, stimulating my lips, while the flat of his tongue licks the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh.

I feel it coming now, a devastating orgasm, sinful and immoral, about to crash and break me, one that will without a doubt forever alter my mind, distort my heart, and ruin my definition of pleasure, as I shriek and scream incoherent praise, filthy curses and his name.

Legs quivering and now a panting mess, I gently push him, beg him to stop, and he does, thankfully, after pressing one last kiss on my raw thigh. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time, but I can’t complain, not when I just saw the stars of a doomed sky with the force of a tsunami, despite the permanent marks he just gave me. Oh God, he marked me.

Through half lidded eyes, I can clearly see Victor’s positively feral state. Breathing heavily, an exquisite flush on his face and a vicious tent in his pants, I understand that we are not done yet. His fingers hook under the elastic of my underwear and remove them while I squirm to unclasp my bra, presenting myself completely bare in front of him. His reaction is immediate, passionate; he bites, until the skin breaks, until blood spills and I scream and shriek, thrashing on the mattress, mourning my pristine and untouched flesh, pushing him when he forces himself on me, scratching his skin even though it makes him moan louder. He defiles me, marking my breasts, my hips, and everywhere his teeth can sink in, sucking and licking blood, leaving less permanent souvenirs of his presence. The pain is shooting now, throbbing and lively, but he shushes my sorrow, kissing my new tears, murmurs sweet praises as if I was a lover, while he undresses.

His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins.

His cock, untouched and intact, stands proudly, his glans a delicious shade of carmine; the first one I’ve seen in real life, but my inexperience does not prevent my feverish mind to crave it. Wrapping my hand around it, it is warm, throbbing and full of life; loud breathy moans break his throat and make my sex throb, but his hand presses gently on my sternum, keeping me on the mattress and making me understand that he’s reaching his limit.

His fingers caress my stomach with a tenderness that feels alien from him, before dipping lower and caressing my sensitive clitoris. I whine and moan softly, but manage to find the strength through my clouded mind to warn him. I’ve never… Victor looks at me quizzically before fully comprehending what I just confessed. There is a dark glow in his eyes as he bites his lip, a wolfish, devilish grin on his face. Staring at my sex with curious care, his thumb delicately opening my untouched hole, revealing my intact hymen; he hums deeply, his cock twitching with interest.

Victor spits a generous globe of saliva in his hand before spreading it on his cock, rubbing its head against my folds. The sensation is warm, soft and foreign, as I grab the sheets next to my head, humming appreciatively. A gentle pressure against my hole, and I look at him with slight panic. Aren’t you going to prepare me? I ask, but he chuckles darkly. Oh, no, don’t want to waste it. Waste what, I wonder? But before my mind can process his words, I feel him push. Oh God, he’s pushing, mercilessly, with no preparation, and it hurts, oh it hurts.

I hit his shoulder, tell him it hurts, beg him to stop, a now familiar circus it seems like; but Victor does not care, does not listen, or perhaps he does and enjoys hearing me suffer, in a true sadistic manner; he shushes me, encourages me somehow, until his cruel cock is completely sheathed deep inside of my pulsating cunt, splitting me in half, every single nerve of my body screaming and shrieking. I clench my jaw, staring at the ceiling, until I feel him remove himself in an equally painful movement. Victor hisses and moans, looking at his now bloodied cock, my blood on his cock, as if it is the most beautiful sight in the world; that viscous blood glistening and beaming on his angry cock. He pants loudly like a wild animal, a thin veil of sweat covering his burning body, watching his sex spearing my insides, defiling my most intimate parts, tormenting my anatomy, blood, precum and other fluids dripping down my ass.

He rolls his hips surprisingly slowly and smoothly, but it is still too much and too painful for me, whining and yelping when his tip brushes against a spot too sensitive, or when my walls tense and refuse to welcome him willingly. His voice trembles when I protest, I know, I know it hurts; I believe he likes it when I’m suffering, maybe because he thinks that pleasure transcends pain.

After an eternity of torturous thrusts, I finally feel my body easing slightly, muscles relaxing around his cock, until, beyond the waves of agony, I can feel liquid bliss pooling inside of me, reminiscent of my earlier orgasm. I moan frankly, allowing my body to relax, welcoming all of his vigor and brutality, and Victor hums, caressing my face and kissing my forehead. Good girl.

His pace quickens now, thrusting fiercely inside of my aching hole, his hand lifting my knee to give him a deeper angle while he groans like a wolf and I wail and cry out, entire body sore and all of my senses assaulted, unsure what I’m feeling, unsure if this is the proper way to do it, all I know is that I have too much of it and also not enough, that I need it to end but also need it to continue, with the wounds on my thighs viciously throbbing again as his sides brushes against them. He looks at my blood, splattered on his lower stomach, on my inner thighs, cursing under his breath, in a quasi delirious state, proud and aroused. He moans louder when his thrusts get more frantic, more irregular, choking the air out of my lungs when his hips give up and his orgasm comes, devastating and brutal, in an animalistic groan.

He stills, spent and panting, almost wheezing, body covered in sweat, until he removes himself, slowly, carefully. His come drips out of my hole in a pink shade, his cock glistening and crimson; his trembling hand pumps himself, spreads my blood on his length in breathy moans. My cunt aches and throbs in agony, used and open for the first time by Victor Zsasz.

He does not roll over and hold me like one would expect from a lover. This bothers me, somehow. Instead, he leaves the bedroom with his clothes in his arms and goes to clean himself, leaving me bare and shaking on the bed, with the limpness of a corpse; and truthfully, I am not sure he didn’t kill me, metaphorically speaking. There is a cruel clarity unveiling my vision, one that should make me feel awful, ashamed even of this aberrant night, but I feel content, satisfied, as if this improper desire, this filthy pleasure was always inside of me, all it needed was a Victor Zsasz to nurture it.

When Victor comes back, he looks as impeccable as he normally does, dry and freshened up, holding his coat over his arm. I cock a brow at my phone in his hand, typing something, while I’m wondering how he found it and how he unlocked it. I should be upset, but I am too drained to protest. He throws my phone on the mattress, right next to me, offering me a polite smile and nodding in my direction.

Call me if you want to play again is all he says before leaving my apartment, leaving me with an agonizing body and much to think of.

#victor zsasz #victor szasz x reader #batman rogues #fanfic #my writing

3 notes · View notes