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Olympians Given Condoms in Paris
Olympians Are Finding Condoms in Their Olympic Village Bedrooms “No Need to Be a Gold Medalist to Wear It” Paris, France — In a move that’s both practical and hilariously unexpected, Olympians arriving at the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics are finding an unusual surprise in their Olympic Village bedrooms: condoms. Organizers have prepared a whopping 300,000 condoms to distribute to the 14,000+…
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#anti-sex beds#Archery Paris#athlete romance#athletes#Badminton Paris#Basketball Paris#Beach Volleyball Paris#boat meeting#bohiney.com#Boxing Paris#cartoonish expressions#condoms#consent#Cycling Paris#Diving Paris#Equestrian Paris#exaggerated expressions.#Fencing Paris#Gymnastics Paris#hearts floating#humorous scene#Judo Paris#love story#Mad Magazine style#Olympic athletes#Olympic condoms#Olympic Games#Olympic Village#Olympics#opening ceremony
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; " asking for consent ruins the moment though !! " cool cool but what if I shoved a condom so far up your ass you abort yourself. Then what. Does consent ruin the moment still or did I reach your brain.
#if when you're reborn you're still that fucked up and uncreative CLEARLY I didn't shove it far enough#consent#consent is sexy#cw graphic#kinda ??#Idk I don't want to not tag this and then like it triggers someone and such ..#better safe than sorry#text post#random thought#abortion tw#I don't know if that's ?? smth I should tag ??#I'm overthinking this#but still.#This js came to me in a vision basically and I had to post so#what better place than Tumblr#am i right#!??#consent is everything#seriously#and not js w sex#but also w sex#also I'm aware this is not how condoms work#please do not shove them up there my stars like#this is not for educational purposes#it's figurative#( is that the word ?? ☹️ )#cw threats#not to anyone here#hopefully.
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Lael grew up in a very, like. open household and I oughta add that to the list to talk about
#OOC / HOLLY.#El who is genderfluid and has a spell to help reflect that#who is also polyamorous and has lovers of all types. it's who they are that matters not what#I think Lael is comfortable identifying as a woman but did take that spell of El's for a whirl for a time#and was like 'that was fun but not for me' but is still very comfortable wearing different presentations to achieve a goal or just have fun#y'know but just did have that safe space to question and explore gender and presentation and what fits For HEr#100% CANONICALLY not straight tho [best confirmation to come from that lore video]#I think for El all that was important was teaching them about safe sex#teaching them about consent and contraceptives and what to look out for etc#be with whoever you want to be with whenever you want to be with them#as long as everyone's consenting and you have a condom etc etc etc you get the picture#very very odd for Lael to go out in the world and realize some people have restrictive views on gender and orientation and sex lmao#'some people will judge you for having sex' 'okay I won't fuck them then problem solved'#DFSGKJH she knows how to navigate people's biases now but it was like. what a fucking non-issue to get upset over
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Doctor Beverly Crusher @SpaceDocMom Enthusiastic consent, proper protection, and flared bases are all important in a joyful event for everyone involved. emojis: eggplant, peach, taco, smile with three hearts, black heart, blue heart, masked 9:01 PM · Jun 16, 2023
#doctor crusher#star trek#star trek the next generation#star trek tng#kindness#support#care#compassion#health care#healthcare#safe sex#sex talk#sex ed#consent#birth control#condoms#respect#flared base#don't stick it in your bodily orifices unless it's safe
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the thing is that they're so fascinated by sex, they love sex, they can't imagine a world without sex - they need sex to sell things, they need sex to be part of their personality, they need sex to prove their power - but they hate sex. they are disgusted by it.
sex is the only thing that holds their attention, and it is also the thing that can never be discussed directly.
you can't tell a child the normal names for parts of their body, that's sexual in nature, because the body isn't a body, it's a vessel of sex. it doesn't matter that it's been proven in studies (over and over) that kids need to know the names of their genitals; that they internalize sexual shame at a very young age and know it's 'dirty' to have a body; that it overwhelmingly protects children for them to have the correct words to communicate with. what matters is that they're sexual organs. what matters is that it freaks them out to think about kids having body parts - which only exist in the context of sex.
it's gross to talk about a period or how to check for cancer in a testicle or breast. that is nasty, illicit. there will be no pain meds for harsh medical procedures, just because they feature a cervix.
but they will put out an ad of you scantily-clad. you will sell their cars for them, because you have abs, a body. you will drip sex. you will ooze it, like a goo. like you were put on this planet to secrete wealth into their open palms.
they will hit you with that same palm. it will be disgusting that you like leather or leashes, but they will put their movie characters in leather and latex. it will be wrong of you to want sexual freedom, but they will mark their success in the number of people they bed.
they will crow that it's inappropriate for children so there will be no lessons on how to properly apply a condom, even to teens. it's teaching them the wrong things. no lessons on the diversity of sexual organ growth, none on how to obtain consent properly, none on how to recognize when you feel unsafe in your body. if you are a teenager, you have probably already been sexualized at some point in your life. you will have seen someone also-your-age who is splashed across a tv screen or a magazine or married to someone three times your age. you will watch people pull their hair into pigtails so they look like you. so that they can be sexy because of youth. one of the most common pornography searches involves newly-18 young women. girls. the words "barely legal," a hiss of glass sand over your skin.
barely legal. there are bills in place that will not allow people to feel safe in their own bodies. there are people working so hard to punish any person for having sex in a way that isn't god-fearing and submissive. heteronormative. the sex has to be at their feet, on your knees, your eyes wet. when was the first time you saw another person crying in pornography and thought - okay but for real. she looks super unhappy. later, when you are unhappy, you will close your eyes and ignore the feeling and act the role you have been taught to keep playing. they will punish the sex workers, remove the places they can practice their trade safely. they will then make casual jokes about how they sexually harass their nanny.
and they love sex but they hate that you're having sex. you need to have their ornamental, perfunctory, dispassionate sex. so you can't kiss your girlfriend in the bible belt because it is gross to have sex with someone of the same gender. so you can't get your tubes tied in new england because you might change your mind. so you can't admit you were sexually assaulted because real men don't get hurt, you should be grateful. you cannot handle your own body, you cannot handle the risks involved, let other people decide that for you. you aren't ready yet.
but they need you to have sex because you need to have kids. at 15, you are old enough to parent. you are not old enough to hear the word fuck too many times on television.
they are horrified by sex and they never stop talking about it, thinking about it, making everything unnecessarily preverted. the saying - a thief thinks everyone steals. they stand up at their podiums and they look out at the crowd and they sign a bill into place that makes sexwork even more unsafe and they stand up and smile and sign a bill that makes gender-affirming care illegal and they get up and they shrug their shoulders and write don't say gay and they get up, and they make the world about sex, but this horrible, plastic vision of it that they have. this wretched, emotionless thing that holds so much weight it's staggering. they put their whole spine behind it and they push and they say it's normal!
this horrible world they live in. disgusted and also obsessed.
#this shifts gender so much bc it actually affects everyone#yes it's a gendered phenomenon. i have written a LOT about how different genders experience it. that's for a different post.#writeblr#ps my comments about seeing someone cry -- this is not to shame any person#and on this blog we support workers.#at the same time it's a really hard experience to see someone that looks like you. clearly in agony. and have them forced to keep going.#when you're young it doesn't necessarily look like acting. it looks scary. and that's what this is about - the fact that teens#have likely already been exposed to that definition of things. because the internet exists#and without the context of healthy education. THAT is the image burned into their minds about what it looks like.#it's also just one of those personal nuanced biases -#at 19 i thought it was normal to be in pain. to cry. to not-like-it. that it should be perfunctory.#it was what i had seen.#and it didn't help that my religious upbringing was like . 'yeah that's what you get for premarital. but also for the reference#we do think you should never actually enjoy it lol'#so like the point im making is that ppl get exposed to that stuff without the context of something more tender#and assume .... 'oh. so it's fine i am not enjoying myself'. and i know they do because I DID.#he was my first boyfriend. how was i supposed to know any different#i didn't even have the mental wherewithal to realize im a lesbian . like THAT used to suffering.
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kink-o-ween - day ten
oscar piastri - breeding kink
cw: smut/pwp, breeding kink, established relationship, marriage, gentle sex, praise kink, mating press position, dirty talk, aftercare, tenderness & romance
kink-o-ween: formula one edition - call of duty edition
mrs. piastri was a title that made you blush. even after being married for over a year, you still felt the heat in your cheeks. you were happy to be married to your best friend.
even though you met by chance, when you spilled your ice coffee all over his lap and you begged to pay for the cleaning. almost on your knees because you felt so guilty! but oscar played it very cool and simply suggested that you could pay for dinner.
your career and his racing kept the two of you busy for extended periods of time. but in recent months you had felt the tickle in your gut when you thought about you two expanding your little family.
you knew that you two were not getting any younger, and the idea of having a child with oscar made you feel almost excited. to share the experience with someone who cared about you so deeply. you brought it up over dinner and you watched oscar get pink in the ears.
"a baby?" he asked.
you looked down at your dinner, "yes. i want to start a family with you. but there's no pressure or anything!"
he leaned back in his seat a little and looked away for a moment. he went more red in the face as he admitted, "no. no. i'd love to, i'm just worried i might lose it if given the chance."
"lose it?" you asked.
he looked at you and replied, "my breeding kink... remember?"
your eyes went wide for a moment as you remembered exactly why you always had condoms on hand. oscar piastri, your loving husband who knew everything about you. from your favourite flower to how you liked your steak cooked. had a massive breeding kink.
you assumed that the kink and his desire to have children weren't one in the same. you didn't want to make assumptions, but him putting them together made your face grow hot. you should've guessed.
"i just held off from wanting to get you pregnant until i got your consent. and we agreed that we wanted to start a family. i wasn't going to baby trap you or anything!" he said, "it takes two to tango."
you both sat in an embarrassed silence for a moment before you said, "well, oscar jack piastri." you stood up in your chair. your face still burned as you continued, "let's make a baby then."
your forwardness had your husband standing up from the table as well. now that your desires were verbalized, oscar didn't want to waste any time. there were numerous times when he was alone with his thoughts in hotel rooms across the globe, that he thought about you pregnant.
he thought about you pregnant with his child. you'd be such a good mother to them. oscar wanted the three of you to be a proper family. he yearned for it, but kept his desired hidden for fear of 'forcing' you into a situation you didn't want to be in. a child was a big step and he didn't want it unless you were onboard too. marriage was a partnership.
you were thankful that the conversation only came up after you had finished dinner and were splitting some cheesecake that you bought from the store. it was left on the table in favour of the bedroom. for oscar to get a feel of his beloved wife.
you barely made it to the bed before oscar's hands were on the waist of your pants. he pulled them off of you, admiring your lower half. your strong thighs that still had a bit of softness to them. he loved your thighs, and while he'd love to kiss them while you smothered him with them. his brain was focused on one thing.
breeding his beloved wife.
the more he undressed you, the deeper his brain fell into the kink. and the hotter he got. his cock strained in his jeans, only finding relief when he got them off and onto the floor near the bed. he eyed you as you got your bra off hastily.
he swallowed back pleasure and you admired his features.
"what's on your mind, my handsome husband?" you asked as you rubbed your thighs together. you still wore the cute cotton panties with the printed roses on them. you left them on for your husband to take off.
"i don't want to scare you off." he said as he got closer to you, "i'm afraid i'll say something wrong." he admitted a little sheepishly.
you laid out on the bed under him and gazed up at him, "oh, don't worry about that." you smiled, "i don't think anything could scare me off at this point. i know too much about you, my dear." you watched him eye you up and down with such tenderness.
he grabbed you by the hips and lifted them to meet his cock. he rubbed himself up against you and exhaled deeply. he could feel the pleasure in his gut. you looked beautiful under him. he knew that he wanted to spend a lifetime with you.
"i wanted to get you pregnant for so long. to have you be the mother to my children." he licked his lips, "the sight of you with my child, being the perfect mother to them. making me so proud. coming home to you and our kids." he felt the pleasure mount in his gut and soon he had you in a proper mating press.
your knees were at your face with your pussy exposed to your lover. you felt something stir in your gut as he got you in a position that was perfect for meeting your goal. you blushed at his words and said, "oscar."
"i know. i know. i can't help myself. i want to make you a mother so badly." his voice was a low purr by the time his cock was dragging across your achy slit.
you could feel the heat splash across your face and you hooked your hands under your knees to give yourself more balance as your husband sank his cock into you. you moaned a little bit and oscar savoured the sounds and the feeling. you felt like a dream just like you had every other time you made love.
despite the position, oscar took his time with you. he wanted to feel every inch of you. this wouldn't be a quick affair, if you were going to make a baby together. your husband wanted it to be a night to remember.
and if it took more than one night to conceive, then it would be a good few memorable nights.
he moved against you more, his cock hit against some of the softest parts of you and it made him run hot all over. you in turn felt the same way to be pressed in such a way made you feel flustered as your husband took you.
he said in a low voice, "you're going to make sure a beautiful mother to our children. you were always so good with everyone else's kids." he said his voice tinged with affection, "we'll both be good parents, working hard together. for our family." he leaned forward and pressed into you further to kiss you on the lips.
"i love you."
"i love you too. more than you'll ever know. you complete me." he said, his voice was doused in love. you knew that he meant it. he wouldn't marry you and lie about loving you.
you could recall his tenderness throughout your relationship. and it made your heart flutter. oscar adored you, even going as far as to have a keychain on his bag with your favourite animal on it. so he'd have a little piece of you when you were apart.
he continued to move against you, his lips found yours once more and you both felt hot. in the quietness of your home during the season break. you could feel how much he loved you even without words. oscar piastri adored you, loved you so deeply that it made up his heart beat.
"you're the funniest, most amazing woman i've ever met." he chuckled softly, "i remember when you took us out on our first date and we split that cheesecake." he moved against you further, "in all fairness it was really good, but i wanted you to have more of it. your smile when you ate it, i couldn't get enough of it."
you squirmed a little more under his heavy thrusts and you moaned a little louder. thankfully you had some privacy in your large home, which allowed the two of you to really go at it.
oscar thrusted against you and you felt hot all over. the throb of pleasure in the back of your head as he moved against you. you said softly, "i love you."
"and i love you." he said. his heart raced. the two of you fit perfectly together, the pleasure pooled between you two. you felt hot all over.
you felt close to your climax. you held onto your legs tighter as you tensed up. you moaned a little louder as you felt yourself reach your peak of climax soon after. as you came, you reached for your husband and the two of you kissed passionately.
oscar was close behind you, his pace staggered and eventually he gave it his all to finish inside of you. he felt the pleasure shiver down his spine as he panted heavily. his body pressed into yours, keeping you pinned under him as he finished inside of you.
he got close enough to pepper your face with kisses. you melted into his touch a little more as you felt the after glow of pleasure. eventually oscar pulled out and you placed your lower half down onto the bed once more.
he laid out next to you and pulled you into his grasp. he loved the feeling of you against him as he peppered your face with kisses. you leaned into him like a flower did the sun and you felt comfortable next to him.
"did i hurt you?" he asked softly.
"no, no." you said as you captured his lips once more before he pulled the covers over the both of you. you both snuggled against one another naked.
he asked, "do you need anything? anything at all?" he always made sure you received after care, even if the sex was tender.
you pecked his lips once more and assured him you needed nothing. until the light bulb went off in your head. you smiled at him and suggested, "maybe we can finish that cheesecake?"
"in bed?"
you giggled, "better than sitting at the table naked."
he chuckled and wrapped an arm around you, "well, it'll be the first and last time. we have to set a good example for our daughter."
"oh, already certain of the gender?" you laughed a little.
"of course. and she'll be as funny and smart as you." oscar pulled you as close as you could get with you leg over his hip. he looked at you with such affection. he couldn't wait to have a family with you <3
#bunny writes#kink-o-ween#oscar piastri fanfic#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri#oscar piastri smut#oscar piastri x reader#f1 smut#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#reader insert#formula one imagine#formula 1#formula one smut#formula one fanfiction#op81 smut#op81 x reader#op81#op81 x you#op81 fic
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ꜰᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ !
♡ content warning . dubious consent, mentions of drugging, sex work, breeding kink, cum play, weird usage of condoms, dom! Coryo
You didn’t know how you ended up like this.
Being an escort wasn’t an easy job. There were times when you were completely disgusted at the men who approached you (if not all of them). Coriolanus was supposed to be a normal client— someone that would fuck and go. Even with his ranking, you never suspected that he would… keep you.
You had had a few weird clients— some asked for the most vulgar, filthy things. Some of them followed you around before your boss had told them off.
But none of them have ever took you home.
You usually weren’t this stupid, this hazy minded, but Coriolanus had scooped you up with his wit and his charm and a bottle of something you hadn’t had before the economy went downhill. You had heard of him— of course you had—- the powerful, handsome, and extremely intelligent, Coriolanus Snow. And before you knew it you were being tossed onto his king sized bed and his tongue was scraping against the roof of your open mouth. You didn’t even have time to gape in drunken wonder at his enormous bedroom— all you could think about was the cock gliding in between your legs, meaty and thick and wet. He had become completely bare to you, regardless of your opposing position. You were still clothed in your pink floral dress and your basic cotton panties.
Coriolanus’ lips grazed over your jugular, his tongue nipping at your skin. You had never been this hot for anyone, especially not a client. Your panties were soaking, your clit was throbbing and you needed to cum. What was happening to you?
“Cor…” you tried to slur out, as your eyelashes fluttered.
“I know.”
His voice was incredibly gentle, and his big hands groped your tits through your dress. He lifted up the hem, made sure to expose your panties to him, and groaned. You could feel his precum smear against your thigh as he ground his aching member against you.
“Can’t even say my name, can you?” Coriolanus continues. “I have an idea. You can just call me Coryo. Short enough for your little brain to remember, yeah?”
Coryo. It was a nice name. A perfect name.
You moaned out when you felt the cool air hit the peaks of your puffy and swollen nipples. Coriolanus—Coryo— was peeling your dress off of your body. When the fabric was thrown across the room his mouth latched to one of your nipples. You mewled, hands going up to grasp his blonde curls, your chest very sensitive all of a sudden. You could feel that familiar organ probing at your folds, and— when did he put a condom on? You didn’t know, but relief would’ve coursed through you if you weren’t so aroused that you were practically drooling.
“Want it,” you whined out, scraping his scalp with desperation. “Coryo. Please.”
Huffing out a laugh, he reached down and wrapped his hand around his shaft. He gave it a few tugs, made sure the precum pearled over and made a sticky white stain on the inside of the latex. He used the tip to part your pussy lips and find your hole. He pushed in, slow at first, but your pussy was so wet from whatever he slipped in your cup that it was almost easy. Even with his overwhelming size, your cunt accepted his cock greedily, sucking him inside your tight canal. Coryo groaned, practically going cross eyed at the feeling of your warm, wet pussy.
“Never had a cunt so tight,” he grunted against you. “even with all the men you sell yourself to, you’re still squeezing me like a fucking vice, sweetness.”
Your mouth dropped open, his words making you impossibly hornier. Usually you would be offended by such a vile statement, but his big cock was throbbing and wading through your walls with such precision that it had your legs shaking.
And Coriolanus had this charisma about him— something that made his words even more powerful than most. And after that statement, he just kept talking.
“Oh, Angel. My good, special girl,” his thrusts were impossibly fast now, the plap plap plap of his balls slapping against your sore and raw fucked pussy making you cry. “You’re mine now.”
His. His, his, his. Your fingernails dug into him, his chest touching yours sending tingles all throughout your body, and he kept spewing out dirty innuendos. You never thought being fucked could feel this good. His fingers reached down and rubbed your swollen clit, and it was like magic, the way your pussy spasmed and your orgasm washed over you. Seizing up, you mewled out his name as you came on him.
Coryo was mesmerized by your cunt squeezing him so tightly. Your pretty folds, lips spread out and wet, your hole sucking him in like he was meant to be there, like he was meant to fuck his cum into your womb, it was all so much. No amount of classism could keep him from you. Not after this. District or not, he would make you his gorgeous little wife. He would give you everything, love for you, kill for you. With the thought of this possession towards you, his hips began to stutter. Your eyes were closed, but you were still humping yourself against his awaiting thrusts. His balls drew taught, and he could feel his awaiting cum begin to flood the condom wrapped around his length.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right.
Not to Coriolanus. Not now— your pussy needed to be fucked full of his hot cum. You needed to be bred. And he was going to keep you and make sure of it.
Coriolanus watched your fluttering eyelids, the small smile grazing your features as his thrusts slowed. Something primal coursed through him, and he slowly pulled himself out of you. Watching your gaping hole made his cock twitch again, and he used his fingers to slowly twist the condom off of his cock. Full of his cum, he spread your lips with two fingers and turned the latex upside down. His spend dropped out of it and onto your used little hole, and you whimpered out as his cum splashed against your cunt.
“Coryo? What’r you doing?”
“Just getting you nice and wet for me, little bird. Close your eyes.. let me fuck you again.”
And like clockwork, his cock was probing your entrance for a second time— his sticky cum being pushed into your fertile womb by the tip of his pink mushroomed tip, his balls making more seed for your perfect pussy, and he was claiming your spent body with everything he had. <33
#coriolanus snow#coriolanus snow x reader#Coriolanus snow x fem! reader#dark! Coriolanus snow#coriolanus snow smut#coriolanus snow fanfic#Tom blyth#coriolanus snow blurb#the hunger games#thg#the ballad of songs and snakes#the ballad of songs and snakes fanfic#the hunger games fanfiction
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I'll Do Anything(JJK virginity loss headcanons)
warnings: virginity loss, unprotected sex, use of condoms(Nanami), mentions of cunnilingus/fem!oral sex, dub con(Sukuna), forced sex(Sukuna), dark themes(Sukuna) word count: 1.7k pairings: Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader, Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader, Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader, Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader a/n: I'm so close to finishing up season one of JJK, so I just had to write more content! I hope you all enjoy!! Smut under the cut!
“Pretty baby,” he coos softly as he slots himself between your thighs. “You sure you’re ready? I’m really big.”
You can barely make out what he’s saying. He’s been between your thighs for what seemed like hours. You knew it was to make you more comfortable with losing your virginity to him, but part of you wonders if he takes pleasure in lapping at your cunt.
“Sweetie, I need your consent.” Gojo reminds you, and you lick your lips. You look up at him, and those gorgeous eyes of his just pull you into a trance.
“Ready for you, Gojo. ‘Promise ‘m ready for you,”
He smiles, “That’s my good girl.”
Slowly, he lets his cockhead prod your tight hole. You’re just dripping all over his swollen, red cockhead. It excites him to no end that you’re going to let him be your first. In his mind, there’s no bigger stroke to his ego to have you cumming on his cock and knowing pleasure simply from him taking your virginity.
As he pushes more of himself into you, you swear you can feel your muscles beginning to give out. It’s all too much for you. Your eyes screw shut as the thick cock slides into you inch by inch. You’re panting as it reaches further into you. You didn’t know it would be this good.
“Oh, baby,” Gojo says, his tone teasing. “You really are taking my cock so well.”
The words, you swear you hear them, but your brain is already so mush from all this lust that you aren’t sure he’s speaking the same language as you. It doesn’t take much for him to push the rest of his cock into you, and the moment it brushes against your cervix, you shudder.
“Gojo, I—” you whine. Your walls are contracting around him, making him grunt.
Your whole body shudders and shakes as you feel all this pleasure come over you. You’ve never experienced an orgasm quite like this. It’s so much better than touching yourself or trying to make yourself cum with a vibrator. White hot pleasure is just coursing through you, making you whine and whimper.
Once you’ve come down from your high, you look up at him. He blinks; those beautiful orbs so full of wonder but you can see mischief in this look as well.
“Huh,” Gojo ponders aloud. “You just came, didn’t you?”
Your cheeks burn, “Gojo…”
He leans in to kiss you, “No need to be embarrassed. There’s more to come, sweetheart.”
He thinks you look so beautiful like this, all sprawled out on the bed. But there’s this part of him that just wants to tease you for being so fucked out already. He hasn’t even entered you, and you’re moaning just like a bitch in heat. It’s honestly one of the most flattering things to him, and yet he’s trying not to let it get to his head too much.
“Such a naughty baby,” He murmurs as he presses sloppy kisses up your body.
His lips capture yours as he slots himself between your thighs. You don’t even have much time to react before he’s pushing his thick cock into you. Tears sting your eyes at the sensation of being stretched out like this. You push on his stomach, pleading for him to take it a little slower than he is.
“Come on,” he goads. “You can take it,”
You’re panting now, and the pleasure mixes in with the pain of being stretched out like this. You want to look down to make sure he’s not actually splitting you in half with his cock. But his forefinger and thumb capture your chin to make you look into his eyes. If he could have this moment ingrained in his memory forever, he would choose to do so. You look so precious to be losing your virginity just like this. It’s exactly how Geto wanted it.
“You can take it all, baby. I know you can.”
You whimper as he pushes even deeper into you. Your eyes cross as the pleasure keeps building inside of you. Your walls are clamping down against his cock, making him grunt at the sensation of your virgin pussy trying to milk him for all he’s got. He knows he wants this to last, but he wasn’t counting on it feeling this good.
“Look at you,” Geto chuckles darkly. “You’re a natural slut,”
You whine, “Please,”
He laughs again, loving the effect this has on you. Who would've thought all he needed to tame your brattiness was just some cock? You were clearly so pent up, and now all he had to do was fuck you until you’re brattiness just disappeared.
“Please what?” He asks, his tone mocking.
“More, please.”
And with those words, Geto positions himself on his knees for a little more stability. With his hands on your hips, he begins pounding you into the mattress.
He can’t help but feel enamored by the sweet sight of you on his bed like this. He can’t remember the last time he felt this aroused. When you asked him to be your first, he was touched. Nanami knew he had to make this a moment that you’ll never forget.
And he prepared for the night too. He took you out on a romantic date, bought some condoms and lube, and he made his bed extra comfortable for the two of you. By the time he has you back to his apartment, you’re already feeling pretty affectionate for the man. He was just so special to you, and you knew he’d treat you right.
You look up at him, smiling that sweet smile of yours. Everything that you do in this moment, it goes straight to his cock. Nanami reaches down to adjust himself in his underwear, then he turns his attention back to you.
“Are you ready, sweetheart?” He asks, reaching over to the bedside table for the box of condoms. You smile sweetly again. “Yeah, I’m ready,”
He leans in to kiss you, and your tongues rub together sensually. You’ve never been more sure of something in your life than this. You’ve been in love with Nanami for so long, so when you were ready to lose your virginity, you knew it would have to be him you’d want to lose it to.
He undresses himself completely, and he spreads your thighs. As much as he wants to go in raw, he knows it’s not responsible. So he takes one of the foil packets from the box and tears it open. His eyes inspect the condom, and once he deems it acceptable, he begins rolling it onto his leaking cock.
You can’t tear your eyes away from this scene. He looks so good doing something as simple as putting a condom on his cock. It’s just the idea that the lewd act is coming. He grabs the bottle of lubricant from the bedside table and he smears a little of it onto the already lubed up condom. The rest of the lube goes onto your vulva, and he spreads it all over your tight hole and your swollen clit.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Nanami says before pressing the tip of his cock to your hole.
A gasp falls from your lips as he begins pushing into you. It feels so good to be full like this. His eyes are scanning your features for any signs of pain, but you look so full of love right now. It really warms his heart.
“Please, don’t stop.” You whine, which earns you a sweet chuckle from Nanami. “I wasn’t planning on it,”
As soon as his cock is inside of you fully, Nanami knows that he can start thrusting slowly. He sees the love in your eyes, and he knows he made the right choice in being your first.
Sukuna absolutely loves being able to fuck virgins. But there is something extremely special about you. He’s not even sure what it is, but you’re just so adorable and sweet. He usually thinks himself better than to fall into this kind of affection, but the way you keep clinging to him makes him a little dizzy with lust.
“Oh, you are just asking for it,” Sukuna comments, and his fingers go down to your pussy once more.
You’ve been sitting on his lap for what feels like forever now, and he’s been so eager to just let you have all this pleasure. Whether it be with mouths or with his fingers, he’s happily had you cumming for hours now. You’ve made such a stain on his pants, and the smell of you is just permeating the air. You’re barely coherent now, but you want to hang on. You want more than just cumming on his fingers or on his tongues.
“You want my cock now, don’t you?” He asks, though he knows you don’t have much choice in the matter. You’ll be taking his cock whether you like it or not.
But you nod so obediently, “Yes yes yes, please!”
A delirious laughter rumbles through him. You remind him of the reason he loves virgins so much. They become so caught up in all the pleasure that they forget that they have to give away a part of themselves to him.
“That’s a good girl,” his voice is thick with a mocking tone. “I knew you’d want it.”
With one of his hands, he holds you up. The other hand begins undoing his pants quickly. He wants to be buried deep inside of you as soon as he can. His cock slaps against his abdomen as soon as he’s got it freed from the confines of his pants. You barely have time to react as he sinks you down onto the immense girth.
You scream his name as the sensations of his cock splitting you in two hit you. It’s all so intense at once. Sukuna smirks as he watches you squirm and wiggle, almost trying to get off of his cock. But he keeps his hands on your hips, practically locking you onto him. Before you know it, he’s bouncing you up and down on his thick girth.
“Ganbare, ganbare,” Sukuna teases. His thumb wipes a stray tear from your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me, heheheheheh…”
He throws his head back as the pleasure of your virgin cunt overwhelms him. He’ll gladly keep you right on his cock for eternity if he chooses to do so.
#bacon.writes#jjk fanfiction#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo x fem!reader#geto x you#geto x reader#geto x fem!reader#nanami x you#nanami x reader#nanami x fem!reader#sukuna x reader#sukuna x you#sukuna x fem!reader#jjk smut#gojo smut#geto smut#nanami smut#sukuna smut
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❀ kinks the members would have + their favorite positions (ot7) ..
warnings : implied smut, no actual sex, degration, daddy kink, cnc, wax, over stimulation, quickies, size difference.
don't like, don't read.
heeseung - most likely to have a degrading kink, in which he degrades his girl during sex. likes hearing her cry as he calls her nasty names, even though it only turns them both on. big dick and proud, always hitting the right spots. doggy style so he can smack her ass whenever he wants.
jay - daddy kink. he cares for and loves his girl, spoiling her with gifts and affection. he also loves splitting her cunt open on his dick as she mewls his name and calls him daddy over and over again. prefers missionary so he can kiss her lovingly as she cums.
jake - consensual non consent (cnc). loves sneaking into his girls room at night when he's horny to fuck her while she sleeps. asks for permission the day before though. lazily and sloppily thrusting in and out in pronebone.
sunghoon - wax. as someone who's body temperature is always cold, he finds pleasure in dripping hot candle wax down his girls body as she yelps in pleasure and pain. it leaves marks, which makes his possessiveness rise up. cowgirl.
sunoo - over stimulation. whether it's him or his girl receiving, it turns him on alot. he's a sadist and cums faster when his girl cries as he keeps fucking her through her third orgasm. he might be tired, but his sex drive isn't. loves 69 so he can choke her with his dick while he eats her out for hours.
jungwon - quickies. not really a kink, but he gets boners really easily, so fucking his girl in a janitors closet during school seems suitable for him. often covers her mouth with his hand, sloppily thrusting into her cunt as his cum spills into the condom. against the wall so she stays in place.
riki - size difference. it's pretty obvious he takes pride in being the tallest member. tall = long dick. he especially loves it if his girlfriend is way shorter compared to him, tight cunt squeezing him just right. bouncing her up on his dick like she's nothing. leaves bruises in reverse cowgirl, gripping her hips and ass.
#enhypen smut#enhypen#enhypen suggestive#enhypen hard hours#enhypen jungwon#enhypen niki#enhypen heeseung#enhypen jay#enhypen jake#enhypen sunoo#enhypen sunghoon#jungwon smut#niki smut#heeseung smut#jay smut#jake smut#sunoo smut#sunghoon smut
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dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader
The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.
(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)
this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).
DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+
HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.
he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.
One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box.
“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.”
Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know.
It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks.
That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.
(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)
Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—
(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?)
He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—
What Ghost never really understood was the box.
Shove it into a box.
When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well.
“Up here."
“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.”
Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”
The implication is stark. Heavy.
Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted.
Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”
His problem, specifically.
And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.
The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch.
But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar.
She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—
“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick.
“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to.
When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.”
He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—
It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick?
Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub.
Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?”
“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”
And he's not wrong.
The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire.
It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too.
The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.
But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head.
They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry.
Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.
He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups.
A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with.
They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper.
It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone.
Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues.
Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men.
And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers.
Wants.
But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head.
He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow.
He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—
(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)
Cold-hearted, sure—
But he likes sweet things.
The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to.
(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)
Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth.
His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—
Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors.
And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi.
Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble.
Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close.
(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.
He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)
But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—
Then comes you.
And the forfeiture of his self-control.
You're trouble of a different kind.
Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun.
In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin.
But oh, do you pack a punch—
At first, you think he's homeless.
Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment.
In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from.
He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets.
(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)
It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—
Well. Shit.
The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete.
His teeth ache (so, so bad—).
You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand.
He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to.
And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one.
“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”
You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.
It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid.
“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape.
You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him.
He wonders if you can, too.
(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)
And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person.
(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?”
nah. bury him out back—)
It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him.
The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around.
Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts.
And then—
You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”
It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee—
His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains.
“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?”
You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—
But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him.
Well—
That's new.
Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—
Him.
Ah.
Sweet, sweet girl.
(So naïve.)
He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head.
This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you.
And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—
(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)
“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.”
You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—
Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl.
In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine.
You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once.
Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—
Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left.
He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well.
A reward, huh?
Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint.
So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price.
It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—
The window brightens. Room number two.
He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite.
It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right?
Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads.
It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.
It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.
)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)
Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses.
Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—
It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee.
Silly bird.
Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent.
But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it.
There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him.
And ah—
Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad?
It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars.
He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—
You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board.
You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—
“Thank you—”
You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth.
“Simon. Simon Riley.”
The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down.
You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”
He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt.
You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.
Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat.
He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished.
(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.)
He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester.
It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—
You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase.
You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red.
You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you?
A bludgeon to his self-control—
He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—).
It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons.
But he’s a good mutt. Good—
Until the text.
The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you.
His sweet girl.
(you fuckin’ mutt—)
Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you?
He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat.
Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you.
You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses.
“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”
It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”
You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—
The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.
Odd considering he's dead—
“Sounds like you will be.”
“It's not like that—”
“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”
“I don’t—I wouldn't—”
The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”
“It is.”
“Oh? How's tha’?”
“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow.
Too bad for you, he isn't. And what��s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too.
But that's later, and right now—
He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts.
It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”
“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”
He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”
You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”
“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”
It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits.
Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—
“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.”
And you relent.
Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—
“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.
Friend. Friends.
He'll have to do something about that.
(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—
A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)
Because the thing is—
Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard.
It isn't just fantasy, either.
The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish.
But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand.
(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—
Same thing.)
The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness.
His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability.
It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him.
And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts.
What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up.
Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants.
Simon loves it when you cry.
“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”
It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares.
His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot.
“Thank you, Simon—”
And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together.
He thinks it's cute.
Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.
“Anytime, pet.”
And you're perfect, too.
You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet.
It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life.
He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt.
It's said fondly. Full of love—
His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed.
(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)
Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—
The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—
He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears.
(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)
He clings to it.
You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood.
It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs.
He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—
Stupid fuckin’ mutt.
Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts.
He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest.
Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight. He won't let go. Won't—
Hide it. Put it away.
Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.
But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—
(All he hears is, I don't need you.)
And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow!
In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—
It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—
Like Tommy.
The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn.
He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in.
(he did, too—)
The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.
The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—
No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—
(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)
—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy.
Communion.
Ghost cocks his head in consideration.
(your bird is too big for a cage—
—but maybe a collar would do.)
—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—
In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—
Not anymore.
He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.
He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always.
And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong.
Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger.
But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.
He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine.
He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible.
(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)
It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.
You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours.
But not if he eats you first.
The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too.
He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses.
The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you.
(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)
A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—
—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.
He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them.
It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats.
You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write.
It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin.
(sick, sick sick, wrong—)
It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—
Damnation built by his own hands.
You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room.
Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy.
Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.
And you—
An outlier.
One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—
Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.
You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb.
It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come.
Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it.
He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close.
Sad, but—
Not enough to stop himself.
You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger.
And then he spits on your bare cunt.
It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim.
Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—
He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you.
Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good.
You never are.
Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone.
Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—
(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)
It was a test. And they all failed. All but him.
Yet—
come to Durham.
i’ll think about it.
Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning.
Ah, well—
Lesson learned.
You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire.
He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom.
Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—
He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut.
The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana.
take a bite, it urges. and then take more—
Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll.
Made for him, and—
“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you.
—“A perfect fit.”
It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered.
Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular.
(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)
As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through.
His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root.
Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches.
He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—
It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets.
The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind.
Everything narrows into a needlepoint.
There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—
A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat.
There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself.
It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot.
“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”
“Simon—”
His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete.
It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.
“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?”
There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk.
“So’ry, Simon—”
You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him.
(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)
Not anymore. Not ever again.
It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron.
Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web.
It's for your own good.
And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more.
Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—
The only purchase he finds is in your demise.
His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer.
“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”
He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony.
Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight.
There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue.
It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth.
If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you.
And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this.
He wants, wants—
Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous.
He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—
Pity it’s not an option.
But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—
Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—
He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.”
You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you.
No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—
You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh.
“Simon, Simon—”
His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.
(belly full of dirt:
he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)
“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”
You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”
You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall.
He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout.
“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”
And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck.
Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears.
Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins.
Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—
He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—
More.
And he gives it to you.
Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs.
He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—
And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge.
The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head.
He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”
Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh.
You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.
So, he gives it to you.
Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—
“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”
He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.
But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—
(please)
He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him.
It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered.
It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—
His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot.
Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat.
Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.
Always—
But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue.
Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:
Nirvana exists between your thighs.
Home, too.
(well—
not yet.)
Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—
He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go.
(Bone nausea.
A death sentence.)
It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores.
He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.
Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—
All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—
You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull.
The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head.
(mine, mine, mine—)
He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—
Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit.
Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock.
He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue.
It’s his apotheosis. His end.
His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name.
Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go.
(silly girl—
His pretty little perigee.)
His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal.
It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below.
Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill.
“Fuckin’ hell—”
He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover.
Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him.
It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs.
Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man.
His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth.
Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones.
There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent.
“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night.
“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”
“Las’ night.”
You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.
You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast.
“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory.
He almost purrs.
He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun.
“Bit rowdy.”
It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run.
“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.
But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw.
“Did you use a—?”
He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”
And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this?
Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den.
The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been.
You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him.
He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth.
And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door.
It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some.
But—
Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought.
So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears.
It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you.
Case in point:
You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick.
In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable.
You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you.
You don't even notice.
(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)
And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds.
(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)
Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later.
Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering.
He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground.
Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to.
And it’s all so sweet.
—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—
Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—
But only just.
The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—
“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”
“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him.
(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?
if only you knew—)
He finds it charming, really.
Still—
“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness.
Fuckin' Christ—
All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips.
“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest.
And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—
Maybe not in the way you'd want.
He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own.
Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found.
But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion.
So—
Home it is.
But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores.
(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—
the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)
But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive.
(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)
But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.
You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate.
(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed.
The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.)
Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest.
And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself.
He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular.
You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench.
You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is.
Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth.
You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making.
This little glass jar domicile.
A billet in the mountains.
He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats.
They’ll keep you company when he’s away.
(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)
He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot.
Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss
The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom.
If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price.
(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)
His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach.
Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—
You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower.
His budding rose.
He coos. “You alright?”
You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew.
The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close.
There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks.
The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper.
“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”
You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later.
And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within.
In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow.
All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away.
He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest.
Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head.
But oh. How you try—
His sweet, sweet girl.
The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous.
A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom.
So close he catch the embers in his hand.
“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”
You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw?
But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.
The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—
but:
The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for.
“Yes, Simon—”
You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia.
And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end.
He leans down, and whispers in your crown—
“Good girl—”
—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—
“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”
Click.
(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)
Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)
#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost x reader#goddd this is foul#and was supposed to be up hours agooo but Nahanni closed at 5 today oops#cod#call of duty#simon ghost riley x reader#cod smut#simon riley smut#simon riley cod#ghost call of duty x reader#ghost cod x reader#in many ways this is a psa on the symptoms of rabies
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kinktober. their "donts"
mature content
wriothesley
wriothesley will never slap your face. ass - yes, pussy - yes. but it will never be your face.
being dominant everywhere and all the time. wriothesley likes being dominant but he also likes an active partner who will help him undress, pull his hair and even bounce on him during a cowgirl. he doesn’t really wanna be the person who does everything
neuvillette
neuvillette will never pull your hair without warnings. he loves letting you know what exactly he is going to do with you and this is his golden rule
quickies. neuvillette detests quickies. for him, if it’s rushed it is no longer an act of love but a deed. neuvillette prioritises emotions when it comes to having sex with you, and he won’t ever fuck you in order to simply ejaculate
pantalone
as much as he likes being rough, pantalone is a gentleman and will never force his kinks upon you. he won’t ever practise bdsm or other spicy things with you unless you give him complete consent and plan your safe words
choking. pantalone doesn’t like when his neck is suddenly touched, it’s related to one of his traumas from the past
tartaglia
tartaglia doesn’t do sex when he is after a fight. he feels exhausted, and he wouldn’t like to be sloppy with you. if you two are going to have sex, it’s supposed to be nice and hard, that’s how much tartaglia loves you
hair pulling. tartaglia doesn’t like sudden touch to his hair so he will ask you to refrain. but having you bite his lips and scratch his back is his guilty pleasure
dottore
mirrors. dottore doesn’t want to see his face during orgasm ‘cause he finds it too lewd and embarrassing
unprotected sex. dottore is very strict when it comes to condoms as he cares about you and your feminine health too much. he always has condoms for your encounters, and he will only come inside you if you try for children
capitano
dangerous kinks like impact play. capitano will never do that no matter how much you’d ask him to smack you, he is afraid his strength will break your bones into pieces. after all, he is a lot stronger than mortals
coming into your mouth when having oral. he always pushes your head away, he just finds it disgusting and doesn’t want to stain you
alhaitham
sex that is too rough or extreme. alhaitham is a person who values his peace above everything, and he evades being too thrilled at all times
calling you names. alhaitham prefers your name on his lips, besides he doesn’t like degrading in general
dainsleif
when you leave the bed earlier than him without warning. dainsleif might think that you were dissatisfied with something and that would frustrate him. you should let him know that you enjoyed the night as much as he did
when you are quiet. dainsleif is very quiet in sex himself so he asks you to be the loud one. it stimulates him even more, hence delivering sharper and deeper thrusts
baizhu
holding hands is very important for baizhu during sex. he wants to grasp his partner tightly while building the tension up. he wants to feel your skin, to sense how your fingers shake and scratch his own hand when he fucks you nice and deep
public sex. as a doctor he is aware of many bacteria living outside, so he’d prefer having you in his place, on the clean bed, instead of some forest against the tree
#genshin x reader#dottore x reader#wriothesley x you#wriothesley x reader#neuvillette x you#neuvillette x reader#kinktober genshin impact#kinktober#pantalone x you#pantalone x y/n#dainsleif x you#dainsleif x reader#capitano x you#capitano x reader#baizhu x you#baizhu x reader#ramenkinktober2024
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Hii! Can i pls request a Light x reader nsfw? You know the scenes where L planted a camera in his room right? Well maybe to make L less suspicious of him Light fucks the reader in his room? I thought that it was a hot idea♡ you dont have to do it if you dont want to😊
★ DECEPTION ─ fem!reader
#NOTES ─ i love you for requesting this i cannot tell you how many times i've day dreamed about this (sorry it took so long)
#WARNINGS ─ smut, cnc peeping toms (L), p in v,
#SUMMARY ─ "there was an elaborate plan set in place. but as soon as light's hands snaked around your waist you seemed to forget everything you were supposed to do and say." innocent until proven guilty
there was an elaborate plan set in place. but as soon as light's hands snaked around your waist you seemed to forget everything you were supposed to do and say. his moderately chapped lips kissing your cheek lovingly. much unlike how light usually behaved around you.
"light." his name left your lips, trying to warn him he'd made your mind go blank. but he knew.
"i know." he whispered back, displeasure laced in his voice. luckily, light was more than capable of carrying out the plan for the both of you.
"just let me do all the work." he muttered, his voice not loud enough to be picked up on by the mics on the camera but still he was careful with what he said.
he hoped you would be too. you nodded. looking up at light with a lustful look in your eye that he couldn't deny was making him a little aroused. light kissed your jaw, roughly. as if light was capable of doing anything without roughness.
"last chance to back out." it's not a soft tone, but it does let you know that he won't be mad at you if you do decide you don't want some random creep watching you have sex with your friend.
you shake your head, you weren't going to let him down now. and to be totally honest, the thought of someone watching you in such a vulnerable position was intriguing to say the least. light began to undress you once you'd given him your final consent.
meanwhile, L watched his screen with wider eyes than normal. his eyes grazing every pixel of the screen as he watched light take off your shirt. neglecting the other screens that were broadcasting equally, if not more, important information. L racked his brain trying to figure out if this was just a trick of if he was really witnessing this dirty scene play out.
all your clothes were off in what seemed like a blink of an eye. pressed into the mattress with light's knee inches away from your heated core. you dumbly pull at his tie, fucked out expression but light hadn't even gotten started with you yet.
"you got any thoughts in there at all?" he smirks. silently gloating now that he knew he had every single person he knew wrapped around his godly finger. there was not a thought behind your blown out pupils. it prided light to know he had such an effect on you.
"i haven't even done anything yet." he furthers. and L was hearing all of it.
you paw at the waist band of his bland khaki pants. light chuckled feeling your shaky hands trying to get more of him. his rubs his hand over your chest, caressing your nipple with his pointer and thumb.
"patient girls get rewarded." he tsks. he's met with a whine to which he chuckles again. he knows L will over analyze and find something wrong with the scenario if he doesn't hurry up.
"you wanna get rewarded?" he unbuttons his pants with one hand. you're eager, desperate. you need hm in a way you didn't even know it was possible to want one of your friend.
he reaches over you, grabbing a condom from the book shelf. it was wedged between two books. clearly he was trying to keep it hidden from his maid of a mom and his nosy sister.
he opens the condom with his teeth and you might as well just have hearts in your eyes as you watch him. the wrapper falls somewhere unimportant on the bed. he rolls the condom on. you knew it was only a matter of time before you finally felt full with his cock.
© 2023 MORBIDEROTICA
#─ ♡ death note#he makes me so subby#death note#death note x reader#death note smut#light yagami smut#light yagami x reader#light yagami death note#light yagami#yagami light
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ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ
KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au
You left him with a taste of you lingering between his teeth, after the first time. With his appetite, it’s only fair he comes back for seconds.
★18+
I don't know what possesses me to write a psycho sicko every time the pumpkins start rolling out onto the doorsteps (see Hitchhikerry) but there is simply something in the air, I fear. This is ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ for the KINKTOBER projects.
PLEASE read the warnings, and please put yourself and your comfort first and foremost. Consume only what you’re comfortable consuming. This one is not intended to be read as a love story, and has sensitive topics, dark themes, and *dubious consent.
If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.
CONTENT/WARNINGS: dubcon. stalking. sexual assault. coping with sexual assault. under negotiated kink. unsafe sex (no use of condom, no negotiation prior). manipulation. mask kink. leather kink. daddy kink. breeding kink. p-in-v. oral (m to f). general manhandling.
WC: 12.3K
As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.
Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac.
Gold and liserian and bluebonnet. Midnight and cherry-red massacre, seeping into the gutter grate with the sky glowing like a peachring.
Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. It’s unstilted, and smells like rust, and kerosene, and Summer feels a hundred miles away. A thousand, like sunrise on the twenty-second, milliseconds seeping like sand through a clogged hourglass. Like someone wedged their sticky fingers in through the top and stuck a piece of gum to the narrowed opening.
The miasma, even days later, when waste management hordes the lily-white cadavers into semi’s and street sweepers come out to pressure wash the asphalt, burns your nose like you’re huffing acid.
And it feels like God cupping his hands around the continent and squeezing every ugly, brutish thing out. You wonder if the blood seeping between the asphalt slates sticks to the grooves of his palms. His fingerprints, casting massacre into the pitch sky, smudging asterisms together. You’re supposed to feel the holy spirit.
(Feel it— don’t you feel it?)
At the back of your tongue, in every empty room, like a nebulous haze of goodwill and unconditional love. When you were a kid, you wondered why feeling God didn’t make your skin itchy. It would, right? If the body of Christ stalled at your nape, looming over your shoulder. You were raised catholic, so it still lingers and sticks to the nook of your periphery like an oilslick, no matter how hard you knuckle at your eyes.
You wonder if it’s that same holy spirit they’re tasting in the heme when they cough, supine on the sidewalk. If it’s God’s liquid love, righteous across every capillary, with the swing of a sword. A forefinger on a trigger.
That’s what they say, anyways. Last Tuesday the blonde lady on Fox news said it was always God in our veins on the night of the holy purge— feel God (transubstantiation like a distant, muffled folklore ringing in your ears) cleanse your soul. Fox news always starts to lean on epistemic justification in Spring, and you wonder if people believe God is scrubbing them from the inside with a bathbrush. You wonder if they really even believe in God, anyways, when it’s all just a mangled apparatus for population control.
(But God wants them to kill the poor people, right?)
Last spring, a man broke into your apartment.
Charcoal bulk. Tapered obsidian. Wide shoulders, wide arms, wide, herculean thighs, in all black. Slate denim. Battered leather jacket. Those massive hands, coated in pure-nightfall leather. You remember them well, because you thought they resembled the thick, sheepskin gloves your grandfather would wear out in the snow—
Nothing besides black on him, besides the cruel arsenic white of a plastic doll mask stretched over his balaclava. Like those ugly, inexpressive porcelain things you’d find stacked up in antique stores. Your gaze lingered on the delirious scripture across the forehead. Kiss me.
He slunk in while you were in the bathroom. Cracked in your front door. You discovered a crater in the shape of his kneecap, days later, when you replaced the broken locks.
You found him on your couch like a stygian king, thighs split, like he belonged in your tiny living room in all his ominous, leathery heft, and for a second, you just stalled at the threshold with your heart at the base of your throat. Eyes wide. In stagnant impasse with this absurdly nonchalant intruder. Between a beleaguered rock and a hard place. He’d cocked his head at you. Dead silent, and your hindbrain prickled with parity of a slasher film clip— the kind you’d peep over your blanket, folded up to your nose with shaking hands, after bedtime. You weren’t allowed to watch the movie, at the time. But you always remembered that scene where the indifference rolled off the killer in lapping, tidal waves before he’d strike and carve a character open.
Something scratched at your hindbrain. Some hysterical thread, clinging to the falsehood that this was a rancid illusion. A nightmare, limned in butter-yellow off the lamp on the side table. His dirty boots kicked up on your coffee table. Inkblots in the plastic cut-outs of the eye sockets, glimmering like hungry nightfall. Because it was the purge, sure, but it wasn’t you.
Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.
Hindsight humbles the untouchable, crooked complex you wore on your shoulders. Your head, with your chin held high, behind the glowing string-lights tucked across your blinds and the bleeding street under your balcony.
(You remember you thought God prickled at your nape that night. May God be with you— that’s what they say.)
(God was cold, and it made your skin itch. Maybe he would have been warm, and kind, and you would’ve felt the goodwill and unconditional love if you didn’t ask so many stupid questions in kidhood during bible camp. If you didn’t bury your bible into the bottom of your nightstand when you realized they were justifying their gnarled agenda with the pages.)
You felt sick—
And he told you he didn’t have any interest in killing you. A purr, muffled by layers of stitched cotton and plastic. No interest in all that. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a pretty thing like you.
Like a sarky paradox to all the formidable space he was taking up, in all his horrifying gear.
Kiss me.
An irony to the ichor thumb-smudge across his forehead. An irony, you thought, to God with a bathbrush, and the date, and the time, and the uncomfortable, imperfect squeeze of you into the bracket of wrong-place-wrong-time. In your own apartment.
Aren’t you gonna thank me, he hummed, on his feet now, from across the room. Stalemate. Rotten stasis. Deadlock, at his discretion, with you, shaking like a leaf under the archway.
For protecting you? That’s what he said.
(If you weren’t frozen in place with the leftovers you had for dinner curdling in your belly— eye to eye with a facsimile of the reaper— you would have snorted. It was just so absurdly ironic that it nearly made your ribs ache.)
He was so big, you thought, when his shoulders climbed and his chest swelled, under the animal skin. So rigid. You wondered if he was all bulk like that, under the layers, or if the loose coat, and the gloves, and the daunting mien of a predator just made him seem that much larger. You’re not a small thing, but he made you feel as much. Like a dolly. A maquette— a perfect marionette to toss around between his hands on the perfect night, the perfect date on the calendar.
Lotta bad men around, tonight.
The floorboard creaked under his weight. One step forward. The carpet bristled under your heel.
Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you?
(Kiss me.)
You remember how you went along. Easy. Didn’t say no.
And you could chalk it up to survival— pure, self-preservational instinct— and the gunfire looming outside your window. No. You remember the swell of panic, the riptide of adrenaline tearing you into a deluge of auto-pilot. Something seeped into the hairline fracture across the line between saving yourself— and your dignity, your pride.
(Something ugly, and wrong, and so out of place. So warm in a room so bone-chilling.)
You thought you were broken. The two choices, unequivocally, were always fight or flight.
(So which synapse misfired, that night, that kicked your gears into neither?)
You remember ugly things from that night. It felt like your ribs were being pried open, and he was picking you apart, pinching some raw and deep to pluck it out between leather fingers, until you were squirming in a pool of your own spilled volition. Like milk knocked over on the counter. Left to rot. Curdle.
Because it didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt you.
And maybe that was worse. Because you were supposed to kick, and fight, and scream, and you—
Didn’t.
And maybe at first, it was a form of endurance. Survival sense— shutdown, like a generator on its last limb, preserving its own continuance. Just go along, just survive, just—
It’s easier, you think, in retrospect, to justify that.
What’s harder is that you remember you thought you were broken because part of you, eventually, didn’t want to kick, or fight, or scream.
(Go for the eyes— that’s what they say— and where would you go, in those inky craters, under the shadows? Like polynyas brimful of tar. You’d drown.)
You remember the way he called himself daddy— come sit on Daddy’s cock, tell Daddy how good he feels— and you remember the visceral burgeon of disgust swelling in your belly.
The way it made you revolted, and shuddery, and white-hot.
Wanting. Slick.
Because he’s not your daddy. Wasn’t. Isn’t.
You knew it for what it was. A gross game. Meant to debase your conation. This scary man in his scary mask on this, scary night, in your home, here to take something for himself. A flinder of your rib— a cracked piece of bone, here to tuck it into the inside of his coat. To watch your face crease with the juxtaposing blend of repulsion and want, rolling down your spine like rainwater off a downspout, as your cunt fluttered.
He fucked you stupid on his cock again, and again, and again, until the sun was scraping at the land with its hot fingers, and the corners of your room were white and blue. Took what he wanted, because he decided he could.
And that’s the game. The brutal nature of humanity crumbling under the weight of anarchy, and unrestricted autonomy, even if only for a night. Bereft morals. Selfish whims.
(And you took it. Just took it. Didn’t put up a fight, not when terror started lagging behind pleasure.)
He ate your cunt, too, just the way you liked. For hours, with the plastic mask tucked up like the balaclava, to the tip of his nose. The hard edge, and the cotton, pressing into your mons when he rolled your clit with his tongue, pressed the flats of his white teeth against it. You remember that.
His nice, clean white teeth, and his pink lips.
He must’ve been a pretty man under all the unnerving guise.
By the time the siren screeched at seven, you were strewn on your sheets like puddy across the sidewalk. All worn, and tired, and malleable, which he seemed to like. Panting, sweaty, tacky. Covered in him. The sticky, pearlescent mimesis, like memorabilia. Your pink underwear dangling out of his pocket like a perverted token to pin up onto his wall like a poster, after. His hard, leather fingerprints, blooming across your soft love handles, where he held your bones in place (but you didn’t need him to— not when you were so willing to placate and assuage and give). The chiaroscuro made your ribs rattle when you breathed deep.
You stared at the popcorn ceiling when his belt buckle clinked. Slotted himself back together, into unobtainable nightfall against the backdrop of daytime.
There’s a lot of things that stuck with you from that night. He didn’t hurt you, and your skin stayed sealed, but according to everyone, a part of you maybe-died, or that’s how you should feel, anyway. So, you wondered if that gangrenous part of you was severed off, bleeding out onto the carpet. Between the floorboards, staining the ceiling of the apartment on the floor under yours. A nebula of rust red across plaster.
(You thought it was severed, because at first you didn’t feel it. Anything. Nothing. Numb. Pinpricks across your psyche like your hand when you slept on it the wrong way. Maybe he cut it loose when you weren’t looking— when your lashes fluttered, smogged in the haze of yellow string lights, when your cheek kissed the mattress, and sex.)
You remember a lot of things that make your chest feel tight, like cotton unspooling in the crevices of your lungs, and your head feel waterlogged, and your knees brittle. But you remember he told you, before he left, that he’ll see you next year.
I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.
Like a portent. It should’ve been. In a way, it felt like a reassurance, and you hate that pulpy part of yourself.
And what can you do?
You’re a statistic.
The label feels wrong. Permanent. Like a bumper sticker stamped onto your forehead with gorilla glue. You’re lucky, they tell you, after. What a close call, when you swallow preventive abortion pills and shiver at your own reflection passing in the mirror. You think, maybe, your guardian angel blinked, somnolence searing at the backs of its eyes. Because, maybe, angels sleep, too. You don’t know. They didn’t teach that in church.
You go to therapy. The woman in the big, sable chair gives you this look. Crinkled countenance pinched in pity. How pitiful, you’re reminded, and how lucky you are to only be scratched by a freight train. You’re not smattered pulp on the railroad tracks, but in the cruel cosm, you feel like jam dripping down God’s hands.
You ask her if it’s fucked up that it felt good.
She tells you it’s not.
But then, you ask if it’s fucked up that a crackled fragment of you, maybe-sort-of-in-a-way, wouldn’t mind if it happened again.
That’s a different question.
Because you’ve been mulling that thought over between your teeth, in the hollow gaps between mortified, pale-faced solaces, I’m sorry’s, I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s. It’s been festering, and feels like a chunk of you rotting under the sun. But maybe, if someone tells you that it’s okay—
If you had to do it over— you put it that way, like emphasizing a crease in a sheet of paper, and she gives you another, long, reticent look this time, instead of a response.
(Because, maybe, putting it that way makes the insatiable itch in your arteries more relatable. Easier to swallow. Easier to tolerate. Maybe you sound like less of a freak, with the tumult.)
Guilt for feeling pleasure is, apparently, very common, as indicated by the PDF she emails you that night to look over. Rape Victims and the False Sense of Guilt.
Rape. The word rape, across the screen, makes you flinch. It’s such a small word in the sea of the text, only four Lilliputian letters. Teeny-tiny. But it feels big. Like a big deal— rape, that’s a big word. It’s razor sharp when it echoes behind your skull. It’s ugly, and it ends on a blunt, hard sound. No elasticity. No give. This unyielding, little word that shatters around you in its hideous, mangled phonetics— is that what happened to you?
You’re lucky. What a close call. I’m sorry that happened to you.
Pleasure is a natural, physical reaction. A bodily reaction. That’s what it says.
You can cope with that. Comprehend that. The rest is— loaded. Like an assault rifle, in spring. You don’t know how to peel the pieces apart. You never learned how to take apart a gun.
You know what a bodily reaction is.
But nothing explains the chimera you chase after— the fantasy, when you’re plugged around two of your own fingers, weeks, months later, chasing the phantom ache.
Liking masks is okay, but liking masks is only okay if there’s something preliminary about them. Liking to feel small and scared is okay, but only if there’s a safety net, and safewords, and you trust the other person, and know them like the pores across the back of your hand. A stranger isn’t allowed to make you feel this way.
But liking this— thinking about this, with your head fuzzy and your skin simmering— is wrong. Bad.
It’s okay, but you need to heal. Something bad happened to you, and you need to sweep your pieces into the dustpan before you start to put them back together. That’s what you read between the lines. It feels accusatory.
(Only, you don’t think you could mold them into the same form, if you tried. Stick them back into their rifted crevasses, when they’re jagged and misshapen.)
The things you feel are, by all definitions— according to the internet, and everyone around you— wrong. Ugly. Sick. You shouldn’t feel anything but nausea scraping at the back of your throat, pooling briny under your tongue, when you think about that night. About him. That’s what you find in the vats of their eyes when you tell people what happened, the stricken shape of their faces. Like you’re broken. Because you are broken.
Some part of you has a big indigo bruise stretched across it, smarting something awful. Some part of you is fractured ceramic.
You’re a statistic. A number. A sliver on a bar graph. It feels like throwing yourself headfirst over a rock face. Into a yawning abyss. You splinter upon contact with the water, but it doesn’t ripple around you. Just lets your dissevered pieces wade and buoy.
You don’t go back to therapy after the third time, and you spend all summer burying your esoteric predilections at the back of the shelf. Let them gather dust, because they’re shattered anyways, and you don’t know how to make any sense of the smashed fragmentations. They’re so jagged, they’ll cut the soft skin on your palms up if you cup them too close.
You move when your lease ends in the summer. Not really by choice, but the decision has the weight of all those ruckled, condolatory looks. Those I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s, like flour-sacks across your shoulders. Your apartment still reeks like him. It’s a phantom musk, whispering along your lungs. Cigarettes, and leather, and tangy sweat (it almost feels like it belongs— not unpleasant, like the brine across Poseidon’s abdomen). It’s uncomfortable. You long for it. You’re imagining it, you know that.
Your new apartment is clean. It smells like bleach, and it has all different locks, and the promise spills in cobwebs behind your skull. You try not to get tangled in them.
And everything tells you it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong— everything. A churning, gut feeling, when you sign the new lease, when you roll around your sheets in the middle of the night with your hand between your tacky thighs.
You feel like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You’re supposed to heal. This isn’t healing.
You consider booking that out-of-country trip in March. Week-long, just to stifle the premonition under the heel of your palm. The omen, that was still dripping heady, clotting the air alongside the stifling sound of the zipper closing its teeth together. Crinkling leather when he buckled his belt.
Your mom gives you a call. Tells you to come out to Maine for the weekend. You shrug the invitation off with your phone cradled between your cheek and your shoulder, and your laundry between your fingers. I’m fine, mom. I’m—
Fine. Cataclysmically. Okay. Bleeding out onto the tarmac with every step, like the incipient springtide.
You cup a posy of daffodils between your hands with wistfulness speckling across your chest.
You used to love spring. In kidhood, before the heavy, inordinate burden of purge-nights spanned across your shoulders, spring had the delicacy of a flower. The warmth of sunshine beading across your skin. The naivety of pastels. A callow touch of rose-tint.
You always knew living alone had its risks. In an apartment, no less, flimsy and unsheltered by security shutters and the bulwarks of a standalone. A danger, like a yellow warning sign. It’s the same precarious footing that warrants your mother’s calls back to your hometown every spring.
(The same reason she called you last year. And you— stupid, stupid— didn’t go.)
You don’t know how to excuse yourself this year. Lack of self-preservation? Stupid, callow hope? You don’t know what you’re hoping for.
(What you’re feeding.)
Maybe it’s the way you’ve been dusting the shattered shards on the shelf.
Anybody else in your position would be halfway across the continent, and you’re shutting down your flower shop and turning in for the night. Pretending (that you’re pretending) you’re inviolable, like that headspace didn’t get crushed under his thumb last year. The clock ticks on the wall.
The man who comes up to the register has a bouquet in his hand. A sprig of carmine carnations that crinkles when he lays it flat onto the countertop. He’s tall. Broad. Pretty— the first thing you think of, upon impression, mapping out the ridges of his face, the even slope of his nose, the burnt umber curl that spills over his forehead. Wordless. He stares at you.
Just stares. Not quite boring into you, but lingering, inkpools fixed. Indescribably. Unremitting.
There’s a familiarity in his gaze. Something that weaves across you in unspooling, crepuscular cobwebs, something that prickles. And eye-contact feels like a stalemate. A competition; who will give first? Your mettle splinters in hairline fractures.
“Is this,” your smile is flimsy. Brittle. Eyes dipping to the flowers he’s laid out. “…all for you today?”
He smells expensive. Like amber musk, but something sticks to his scent like an afterthought. A note, in undertow.
Smoke.
Like he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, but couldn’t kick the odor off his clothes, lingering in the stitches.
Emotions dredge up from the pit of your psyche like his presence is the metal head of a shovel. Cold leather. A hot touch. Things you’ve left numb for too long, oozing, electric, alive. Your fingers flex on the stems, and the plastic clicks under your hand when you stare down at it. You can’t look.
“Mm.”
You feel flayed. Raw. Like you’re going to come apart into tatters in the middle of the store. In front of a customer. You cast your gaze up. He isn’t looking at you anymore. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes listing across the melange of flower assortments you’ve got on display behind the counter. And you feel—
Embarrassed. Silly. Your cheeks heat, your heart thundering at your throat. It’s silly.
“Oh,” you breathe as you roll the bouquet between your hands. Key in the numerical series to the system, “I like these. They’re very pretty. …Looks like today, it’s going to be… twenty-six.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all, doesn’t make any motion towards procuring a payment method, and that nagging sense of worry spirals between your brows when you cast your inkpools up to find him staring again. Under your hands. There’s a judder to them. You watch his hand reach into the front-pocket of his jeans, and cull a cashfold. He licks his fingers before he separates the cash, and hands it to you.
Your fingers brush. You swallow.
You hand his change over with your fingers twitching.
“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.
Your smile wobbles. Creases. Curls back up into a proxy of a cheery mien you have the resolve to upkeep. “Happy purge.”
His fingertips drum across the counter. “And may our souls be cleansed.”
It sounds droll. Wry. Like he’s making a mockery of every piece of propaganda the news channel paints across your screen, a week-long affair in snippets before commencement. You swallow.
“Up for anything tonight?”
The question shouldn’t nick between your ribs. Scrape into the soft place— you’ll get loads of customers that ask. That participate, affluent folk. Young people, with grease smeared across their smiles when they tell you that they’re excited to exercise their God-given right.
You shake your head. “No— no. I don’t… partake.”
The silence that congeals between you is suffocating. Heavy. You feel your poise withering. Shrinking back into you, under the weight of his gaze. It’s an eerie stagnancy, and you feel like you’re sinking to the depths.
“You’re,” you tell him, trying to smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes this time, “…all set.”
His eyes roam. Openly. Lash across you in bounds, slow, detail-oriented. It’s odd. Makes you feel strange. Finally, they fix on your face. No doubt, creased with discomfort.
“Stay safe tonight,” he tells you, before he turns, bouquet in hand.
“Right. You— stay safe,” you rock forward on your heels. The bell over the door jingles.
You’re broken, but you’re not stupid. You twist the locks when you get home. Double-check every window. Turn off every light that you aren’t using.
The announcement comes across the TV when you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out, the emergency broadcast has morphed off into a rerun of Friends. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Tuck your knees to your chest and stare at the clock? Roll into the fetal position and pray?
May God be with you.
The gunfire outside begins during the credits. You can’t stomach the harrowing scream that seeps across from the street below, so you plug your ears with your headphones, and you blast music until you feel like your ears are bleeding. Hole up in your bedroom.
You can’t discern the feeling that clots in your chest when you come out to your living room, eventually, to find him on your couch. In eerie stillness. Terror? Relief?
He notices you. Swells when he breathes, all heft, just like you remember. The burgeon of fear that prickles at your nape, making your hair stand on end, you find, clots beside something you’re unable to dissect. For a long second, the both of you just breathe. Observe.
He breaks the silence.
“…Come tell Daddy hello.”
Daddy. Daddy— the titular moniker makes you bristle, startling you out of your stupor like whiplash. What are you doing? What are you doing?
You stall by the bathroom door. This game of cat and mouse is precarious. You’ll lose— that fact is brassbound. Undeniable. You don’t know what you were expecting. Why you stayed. You’ve got the short end of the stick, always. And still, you contemplate, lingering with your hand on the doorknob. The stagnancy in biding your time feels like staring at a snake coiling beside your feet. Waiting for it to lash forward.
You take a slow step forward. Another. He doesn’t make any moves towards you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s keen to sit up. Content with the view of your dread snowballing. Mushrooming. Hands resting across his lap, his tree-trunk thighs split apart.
Waiting. Watching.
You don’t expect it when he sits up, grunting, to wrap his hand across your forearm. Lug you forward, into the alcove between his thighs. The brush of leather across your bare skin makes chills erupt across your skin. Manhandling you, like puddy between his hands. You’re supposed to fight, you’re supposed to kick, you’re supposed to—
Scream. You exhale when he twists you and forces you to sit on his knee. You’re stupid. What you’re chasing isn’t healthy.
You think he’s going to ask why you moved. Silly girl. Didn’t think I’d find you?
He doesn’t.
“Been a good girl?” he drawls, instead, chest swelling in your periphery. It feels mocking, despite the casualness of his tone— unsanded around the edges. The irony of the position has your teeth set, like you’re a child on Santa’s lap, and not a grown woman on his. A petrifying—
Half-stranger. Almost.
The revelation is uncanny to the way you’re searing under your skin. And there’s a thin line, you think, between coercion, and the way your heart batters a little faster, the way you clench your fingers together to avoid squeezing your thighs.
You don’t say anything. It’s rhetoric, because he isn't finished. He cups your knee under his palm, the dark leather, and says, “Kept your pussy to yourself, mm?”
Not your hands. Not your hands.
Your pussy.
The undiluted vulgarity trickles down your nape, makes you flinch, and you fist your hands a little harder, until the crescents dig into your palms. It’s still just as nonchalant, even-toned. But it’s crude, and it makes your face hot.
Like he owns that. Like you belong to him, in some way.
(And maybe, in some way, some part of you does. That piece of your rib he still has tucked into his pocket from last spring.)
Your heart is in your throat. You turn your cheek. Away. Just enough, but the hand that was on your knee presses against the side of your face. Two fingers, gloved, that pry your attention back onto him. It’s almost effortless. Feels like he’s using hardly any strength at all, has your chin snapping back, and the weight of two fingers, against that groove under your cheekbone, has an ache radiating up into your temple. He’s feeling the ridges of your teeth through your soft flesh. Wrenching his fingertips into the hollow rift between the two rows, and your breath ebs your lungs in soft pants, free falling the gap between your lips. The slick, gummy inside of your cheek twinges under the pressure.
You stare back, and—
You don’t know what you find. What you’re looking for. There’s a hunger in the plastic cut outs, glimmering in the tenebrose, like a predator shimmering in the distance of the thicket. One that’s spent all winter hibernating.
He digs his fingers in a little harder. Makes your head tilt with an ease that makes your head spin. The sound that leaks out of you is embarrassing. So unlike you. So small, and vulnerable, and raw.
It reminds you of feeling like you were being carved open, like you were having those pieces pulled out of you. Those fragments that you’ve buried deep behind your ribs, all yours. Delicate chattels between his fingers like a thread that he’ll tug to unspool you to the core.
His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth. Your lower lip. Rests there, all leather. It smells like charred tobacco. Tar.
“Yes,” you breathe. Appease. The word comes out tangled with a frantic note, an exhale, and sounds garbled off your liquified, molasses-heavy tongue.
Maintaining eye contact is difficult. Intense. Feels like wading a knee-deep morass with how treacly it makes your head feel, but it’s impossible to look away. With the angle he has your head, you feel snared into an unspoken standoff. Feels like you’re caught in a springe he’s laid out. You, with your rabbiting heart, and your ankle caught in a noose. And him—
Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush.
“Is that right?”
It’s like a car crash, you think, stuck in limbo. A beatific maelstrom of metal scraping on metal. The beautiful, horrifying view, in the split-second of collision. Time in stasis. Slow motion.
You can’t look away.
He stops pressing to rap the pads against your cheekbone, instead, and the thump that echoes in your skull almost sounds hollow. Loud in your ears. The pang lingers in your jaw, like a dull ache, across your upper teeth, the inside of your cheek.
There’s a split second there, where that bilious feeling slinks into your stomach and coils up, stretching between your lungs. That sick you find, buried under the galvanized cobwebs spooling your sense of self-preservation, like a haze of little, electric gossamers across your synapses. The incipience of a wave of nausea, softly lapping, at the thought that all of this, everything, is premeditated, and the gnarled root of it all sinks so much deeper than you’d ever expect.
That he’ll know— knows— that you brought another man home last fall.
It was stupid. A one off, scraped off a bar stool on a Saturday night after one too many whiskey sours, and the sex wasn’t even any good. You don’t remember it.
But your head feels syrupy. You don’t know what’s worse: this burgeoning fear that you’ve disappointed him with— what? Free will? Autonomy?
Or the slick ooze of the bone-juddering revelation that settles; he’s probably been watching you. Keeping tabs.
(How else did he know where you moved? How to pin you under the pad of his thumb with such startling ease? You’re a thumbtack on a paper map, and a petrified part of you wonders if he’s got it— a chart of your whereabouts, your existence snared into a creased sheet— dangling next to the panties from last spring.)
If he knows about your liaison, he doesn’t indicate it. Opting to, instead, graze the shape of your lips with his thumb again, and push in to scrape the flats of your teeth with the leather. It’s gross. Feels strange— leather against the smooth inside of your lips, and when you breathe around it, you feel like you’re spinning out, headfirst, hurtling toward the ground. Something you don’t want to acknowledge rolls over, white-hot, in the pit of your tummy.
“That’s good,” he settles on, and palms your breast so abruptly that it makes your lungs squeeze. Your throat clicks when you swallow.
It feels so mechanical. Calculating. Collected. Nonchalantly purposeful— nothing gradual, no build up— like he’s here to reap and take, intent on what he’s looking for. But it’s all a startling, unnatural paradox, considering you were left so overly-satiated last spring, that you almost felt like a mindless shell of yourself. Entirely sapped. The enigma left your head clogged up and heavy for days. Weeks. Months. Your lashes flutter, dusting unfitting bliss across your cheeks like the speckling heat. Like pleasure is bulky, and rounded, and doesn’t fit into the jagged slot your anticipation has chiseled.
He squeezes the doughy flesh in his hand, and scuffs your pebbling nipple with a side-swipe of his thumb. Then, the other. Long, thick fingers spanning, and coasting across your diaphragm, climbing your waist, the chiseled, swelling rungs of your ribcage, cupping under one of your tits again. He only stops at the soft sound that crawls out of your windpipe. Eyes flickering at the reedy, wanton whine that gushes through the seal of your teeth. The self-awareness makes you wither into yourself. Shrinking. Ecstasy feels like an agrestal parasite, mushrooming between your nerves. Budding in that slope under your navel.
(Wrong, wrong, wrong— a broken mechanism, misfiring. Grinding. Your eroded mettle squealing under the pressure.)
You can hear him breathing. He sounds like an animal. A panting beast. Feral. Untamed, wild, huffs stifled by ribbed cotton and matte plastic. He notches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches it. Tugs. A gust of your desperate breath escapes through that barren dearth between your teeth when he palms you by the front of your neck and pushes you against the back of the couch.
It’s sloppy. Clumsy, an awkward angle from where you were on his lap— your limbs flail before you topple, and it requires more core strength on your part than you anticipate to sink back, but it isn’t violent. Aggressive. The coarse denim on his thigh abrades your naked skin when he twists to hover over you. Cushion denting under the weight of his knee. Your neck cranes back as he pins you to the back of the couch by the column of your throat. Head tipped back, nearly dangling over, neck straining. He looms over you.
Just—
Staring. Staring. You stare back and wonder if he feels your pulse hammering with the layer of the leather barricade between skin kissing skin. Like this, the mask is limned in shadows from the slant, and the crepuscular orifices under the plastic are even harder to make out. Harder to gauge. You want to gauge. You want to see—
You won’t have the upper hand. You know that, but prying for the threadbare margin of a hint, a motive, a reaction, feels like digging your fingers in for a last-ditch lifeline.
His eyes are half-mast. Dark lashes spanned over the glint in pitch, mounted in white. You can’t see what he’s thinking. Can’t—
He reels forward, back hunched, leather jacket crinkling, and you feel the plastic mask tucked to your cheekbone. Your temple. Your hair. He reeks like santalum. Petrichor— the first rain spilling onto the pavement, scrubbing the bloodshed off into the grates— and the overwhelming scent of leather that clots in your nose. His mask scrapes your ear. He sniffs.
And you think, a little hysterically, that he’s smelling you. The recognition prickles in your skull, and climbs up your nape in a shiver. And it feels so—
Animalistic. Primal. Indelicate. Like any sense of decorum flaking off and shedding like desquamate feathers, and it makes you feel so small. A frisson rides the ledges of your spine. Something shudders across his shoulders. Rattles them— you clock it in your periphery, stunned into subservience with your fingers twisting into the couch cushion.
He sighs. Hums. Like he’s vibrating over you, buzzing, and the thought has that skein across your lungs tightening. The sound that seeps out of him is brassy. Low. Hungry. And the likeness that scrapes at your hindbrain, through the plume of reluctance and crushing desire, nearly makes you feel delirious— it almost sounds like a dog whining. Like he’s been holding himself back, and your scent is too much, chips an integral shard out of his flinty resolve.
You don’t know why, but it makes you squirm. Makes your chest roll under him, hips shifting. Your eyes oscillate. Stutter from the ceiling fan to the corner of the room, because he’s smelling you and sounds like he’s falling apart.
Your throat jumps under his hand. He drums his fingertip under your jaw, and it feels like the tick of a clock. He reels back. Slowly. Tipped over you, huffing with his head cocked. Almost panting. This harrowing monster, quivering in his skin, in all his heft, like he wants to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. His eyes slip. The feather-dust of his lashes kisses the pink-rimmed seam of his lower lashline, and he takes a deep breath, intumescent across the breadth of his shoulders.
You swallow again, your throat still under his hand. The heel of his palm glued to your trachea. Your jaw arched back, under the press of his fingers. His eyes list. Stall across the apex of your denuded thighs, and the brief blip of pressure across your jaw, your throat, the fleeting restriction on your airway when he levels his weight and resituates, has your irises lolling and tainted gossamers stretching in sticky netting behind your skull. His freehand skates your abdomen. Prods your diaphragm, leather fingers grazing your belly button, the hem of your sleep shirt. Rucking it up.
The boundary between arm-twisting and downright craving is negligible. It’s a foundation, under you— a poor excuse of a half-wall— crackled in fissures. When your hips hitch at the way he circles your navel, in a way, it feels like crumbled free will. Your own autonomy worn down and corroded by the chemistry spuming your veins (you tell yourself it’s artificial. A lethal injection of dopamine and melanocortin), because it feels like the hunger is pried out of you. Pulled out, tangled on his crooking fingertips.
(And what do you have to say for yourself, when you need him like you need to eat.)
Your hips cant when he strokes his fingers over your waistband, across the sensitive, soft stretch of skin over your mons. You can still hear him breathing over the bloodrush, like spindrift, across the little, vibrating bones, deep in your ear. He sniffs, gaze pinned to the shape of your quivering thighs (juddering knees, swelling tummy)—
He knocks your legs apart with his thigh, until the plush of them spills around the shape of him. All broad, all muscle, all denim against your smooth skin, and he wrenches one of your thighs up with his fingers under your knee. Presses you back by the shin, with your sole planted on the couch cushion, and—
Like this, he has the perfect view. The perfect shape of your cunt, through your panties. They’re white this year. So unassuming, just a plain bikini-cut in ivory, but you wonder if he’s weighing the way they’ll look beside the other pair, like a sordid tchotchke.
His eyes linger on it. You can’t see his inkpools, but they feel molten. Heady. Predatorial, and the shockwave riding the slanting arches of your ribcage makes it harder to take in a full breath. Lagoons spilling heat. They surge the soft shapes of your body like lavascapes, melting across your skin.
You’re wet. You know that— feel the damp heat like you feel the want droning across your bones, lacing your muscles. And the sloppy, saturated shape of your dribbling pussy, behind the thin veil of a gusset, is no exception. You curl your toes. Dig them into the couch cushion. The carpet. Dangling onto the fragility of your self-possession (unraveling), and then he probes, with the tip of his index, right where your clit sits. A meager tap.
Your arousal is a tangible wad in your gut, and he plays with it between his fingers.
Desperation climbs to the base of your throat at an alarming rate. Echoes in your jugular as a thrum when his eyes sway between your face and the shape of your cunt. The shape of it under the entirety of his palm, swallowing you whole, between your legs, when he pastes his hand there. And he can’t feel the way it’s soaking, can’t feel how slick you are, but you wonder if the sheer heat leaches through the layers.
If he can feel how hot and wanting you are, through the glove.
He purrs like he can. Trails two fingers along the splitting fjord, your puffy lips. His thumb crooks into one end of your gusset just to let it snap back and watch the shiver roll up through your shoulders, huffing around a thick, rumbly noise that sounds amused. Drenched in humiliating mirth. A crater forms around his knee cap when he presses it onto the cushion. Between your split legs, thigh pressed flush to your cunt. Tight.
“Gonna be a good girl,” he murmurs, face dangling over yours, and the words sound masticated. Starved. “—and let me eat that slutty cunt?”
There’s a fine line, you remind yourself, between being forced, and whatever the— you don’t want to admit it, won’t admit it, stuff it down— rapacious froth inside of you means.
He splits your lips with his fingers. Pries them apart like a butterfly to pin up and frame.
Mental snapshots to encase on a shelf, mounted beside your underwear and a pushpin map with your face smattered in uneven, sawtooth cut-outs. All raw, and sloppy, and wet. Gushing down to the cleft of your ass— he can see everything, and his eyes rove like he’s mapping every bit of you to memory, your underwear balled and tucked into the pocket of his coat. Drinking in every delicate detail, your pebbled clit twitching under his thumb scuffing, and it’s so—
Humiliating.
Embarrassing— shame clots in that interstice between your battering heart and your ribs, that soft spot it’s been dribbling into since he perched you on his lap like a little girl begging for a present. You screw your eyes, cup the heels of your palms over them. You can’t look— can’t—
He moans again. Gives you a heady hum, nearly as slick with want as you are between your thighs. Only, his is oil to your honey. Motor fluid to your syrup— a slippery smear of grease to sap. Rotten. Thick and coal-dark, like tar. Something gritty that catches like sand between his teeth when you try to close your knees. It’s a faulty maneuver, with your feet pried apart on his elbows, and you can only latch your knees, and—
It’s the wrong thing to do.
A slipshod attempt to preserve your dignity, but what’s the use, when it’s porous enough for him to spew the virulent pollutant of longing for him? Noxious. Infectious. Enough to mill your pride from the inside into a powdered dust. Instead, he pries the folds of your cunt apart with one hand, on two fingers— an index and a thumb— and slaps the back of your thigh with the other.
Your thighs quake. Plush flesh shaking upon impact, the searing heat wave that robs you of your ephemeral resistance— rolling the thought that this is gross, not what you want— and scorches it through to the core, until all that’s left for you to face is the overwhelming desire.
“Eyes on me,” he grunts. Dour. Unrelenting, until you peer through the spaces in your fingers like you’re watching a nightmare unfold, and let him wrest your knees back apart. “Yeah,” he tells you, hardly over the feather-light weight of a whisper, despite the way it feels like it’s crushing your skull from the inside when it swims your ears. “Just like that. On me, pretty girl.”
You can’t look away, so you chew on your fingers instead. Tuck them between your teeth, toes curling into the cushions. Your sleep shirt is in a discarded puddle of fabric on the floor, beside him. There’s something so uncomfortably potent in nakedness when he hasn’t even discarded his gloves.
He won’t.
But an element of intrigue gets dredged up into the mist of your yearning when he sticks the pad of his thumb under the plastic chin of the mask to pry it to the bridge of his nose. Speckling the nebula, that clouds you, like stardust. Worse, yet, when he pries the balaclava to the same, angular slope, to show his bare chin, his full, pink mouth, his cupid’s bow.
His nice, clean white teeth.
His tongue, slinking out to smear across his lips. Like this, the cut outs aren’t over his eyes, and the pools of hunger are shrouded behind the plasticated layer. He feels with his fingers. Spreads your pussy apart, grazes his thumb pad across your throbbing clit, slick with your own sticky wetness, and you watch him purse his lips before a tacky, wet glob lands across your hood. Drool, dripping down, coagulating at your drenched hole.
You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—
Gross. It’s wet, and it’s rancid, and the feeling of it being smeared across your cunt, the feeling of a finger prodding at your rim, uselessly clenching at the air, makes your face crease. Brows pinching.
(So why, then, do you feel so dizzy from the spiraling wave of your own lust fizzing across your veins?)
You mewl. He tucks his fingers into his mouth. The same ones that have been smudging the amalgam of your slick and his own saliva, still tucked in that leather glove, and the sound he makes at the taste— pure hedonism, dripping around the plug of his own fingers— has your thighs hinging apart wider. Straining.
It sounds so— shattered. So desperate. Frenzied. A sound like that, out of him, feels so unco that it nearly wrenches your head back. He groans around his fingers, sloppy, and grunts when he takes them out to feel for your hole, tease a breach with the middle digit, not quite bursting the threshold—
And God, when he eats, it’s like he’s a man starved. Famished. All animal between your thighs, suckling on your clit, dragging his tongue across your hole, like it’s pure sustenance and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Slurping around you, bullying your clit between his teeth like he wants to chew you up to spit you out. Rinse and repeat.
He drags his tongue across you, so obscenely, seam to hood, like he wants you to see. Wants you to watch— wants you to know that you’ve got this horrifying brute on his knees between your legs, kissing on your cunt. Wants that ugly revelation to stick to the inside of your skull like knotgrass spilling across your bones— a twisted thought you’ll never be able to tame out of fruition. You let this happen; let him take.
(And worse yet, you liked it.)
“Sloppy, little pussy,” he grunts, the words muzzled against your sopping cunt, spilling against his mouth, dripping. Sticking in strings to his lower lip, the corner of his mouth— and he crooks his finger. Notches it against your rim.
It feels wrong. Strange. Leather against your cunt, instead of skin, when he prods and—
Pops the tip in. Stretches your gummy walls to the first, gloved knuckle. The soft, wet heat of you pulsing around him like a heartbeat is lost on the leather, the barrier between your skin, but he’ll make up for it. He’ll make up for it, he’ll—
“God,” you mewl when he crooks the finger and stuffs it to the hilt, stroking the wet squeeze of your walls enveloping it.
The brutal ugliness in the concept of this man prying you open, stretching you taut when he wedges his ring finger in beside the first, with a glove on, douses you in shame. Has a white-hot heat spewing, geyser-like, at your underbelly.
The sounds, though, the wet-squelch of those leather-coated fingers fucking into you, spilling slick and shoving it back in, makes your eyes screw. Has a heat nipping at the apples of your cheeks the way it nips at your cunt when he grinds harsh circles around your clit. It’s too much. Nearly too much when he nicks the razor-sharp mantel of your nerve-endings and hones there upon the horrid, wheezing sound you make, the way your leg flexes out beside his head in jarred reflex. Like he’s punishing it. You. For congealing up in his teeth like an insatiable sweet-tooth he’ll never scrape off his enamel.
You cry out. Knock the heel of your palm into his forehead. Into the edge of that eerie mask, the kiss me, unsmudged, but he’s unperturbed. Unruffled. Unyielding, the same way the brutal crash of pleasure spooling tight behind your navel, your burning, flexed core.
He catches your wrists in his hand. Like two limbs of a lamb, ensnared. The most perfect, decadent feast to carry out on a charcuterie board, and the sound he makes against your cunt nearly sounds inhuman. Like a rabid, territorial animal at its mealtime, mouthing off at a hand that tries to intrude. Encroach. Take. The vibrations make your head spin. Dizzy— you’re so dizzy, and you don’t recognize that you’ve been holding your breath until the shuddery cry that tears its way out of your mouth is silent. A hiss of a breath that melts into a long, wet gasp.
He tucks your hands to your tummy, and takes. And takes, and takes. It belongs to him, right? The garbled slur that slips through the negligible gaps between your teeth sounds fucked stupid, and he hasn’t even split you apart on his cock.
Your fingers twitch, pressed to your mons. Try to reach— to pry— hips canting back, forward, away, into. Against his slippery chin, and his tongue, and his unrelenting mouth.
And oh, how you unravel, under his jaw, like you belong there. Under his hands, and the tip of his nose tucked to your mons, and the flats of his teeth, grazing—
He doubles down when he feels the pop— the release— your pretty, little cunt fluttering around his fingers, sucking them back in on every twist out, like a vice.
It starts on a long, wilting mewl. A desperate note that laces across your vocal cords and seeps out, not by your own volition, and ends on a gasp. The cord snaps. Too taut. Too much. The ripples of the aftershocks, lapping at your core, red-hot, sloppy, and spent, and overly sensitive, crescendo into a horrible ache when he suckles over your clit. Draws a searing stripe across your nerve endings with the tip, stifling groans into your puffy sex.
You squeak. Tremble, toes tensing. Flexing. Hips arching back, trying to scoot away. Off.
“I— came,” you bluster, but it sounds hoarse. Distant, in the thundering thrum of your vertiginous headrush. “I—“ you try again, hips canting, and he swipes out with his tongue, catches something raw and smarting on the fleshy edge.
You jolt. Spine twisting, distorting pleas between your teeth you’re swishing them across your gums. You wriggle your foot, wheedling it under the space where his mouth is flush with your cunt. “I— please—“
He wrenches your foot back into place so aggressively that all you can do is make a pitiful, helpless squeak. Lashes fluttering, writhing, gnawing into your lower lip when he rolls his tongue across your pulsing clit. The sound that rumbles across your core rattles you down to the marrow. It feels like he wants to chew you to the bone.
And when he pops off, finally— finally— panting like he’s had his fill, sucking at one of your lips until it’s tender and kiss-bruised— satiated this quenchless thirst that riles in the apertures of his skeleton, humming in his musculature— you breathe. Just breathe. Catch it— snag it. A soft repose in recompense for the throb in your guts, between your legs. Crystalline beads hover, sprouted from the corners of your eyes, streaking across your lash line. Your gaze is lachrymal. Pools of an unspooled bliss, mottled overwhelming, shimmery and red-rimmed.
And the breath you’ve been catching—
Is forced out from between your lips when his hand lurches. Pins you, supine, to the couch, fingers spanning your nape. Heel of his palm at your jugular. The abruptness of the motion has your heart lurching to your throat. It nearly kisses the shape of his hand.
(But you suppose, if that cracked bit of your rib belongs to him, then maybe a sliver of your lung does, too.)
Somewhere between the dazed stupor of you, panting like you’ve run a marathon, and laying you out on the couch, he’s fixed the mask back on. The balaclava. And the crass, dirty thought that his chin is still slick under the cotton, making it sodden, and hot, and tacky to his skin, seeps across you and cakes like cement.
He stares down at you through the cut-outs. Your heart is a hummingbird behind the rungs, trying to break free, and you feel it in your pulse, where his thumb strokes. You wonder if he can feel it. You’re still in that balmy, soggy headspace with your muscles pliable, your head heavy. A pastiche of heaven in a come-down, roping its way across your bones and smogging your hypervigilance.
You’re less unnerved to be stared down at like that— like you’re a meal for him to chew apart between his teeth, like he’s contemplating every possible scenario and picking through to find the prettiest position to put you in, how to grind out the prettiest sounds— with your head feeling like it’s liquified.
Your lashes flutter. You trace the seams on the ceiling, where it’s been repaired for water damage. Maybe someone bled out on the floor above, you think.
But the warmth of the evanescent fog doesn’t curb the note of nervousness that paints its way into your respiration— like bleeding watercolor— when you hear his hands on his belt buckle. See the way he hovers over you, so large, and indomitable, eyes potent and intoxicant. Hungry.
(He’s sated his appetite enough to hold him over, bar him from tearing you apart, but he’s still hungry.)
“Think it’s about time you start to give back, sweetheart,” he tells you. Dripping ichor-thick with want. Like blood melded with syrup.
Even with apprehension dancing across your mind, you want him to fuck you. You want him to stretch you fucking dumb around his cock, just the way you remember he did—
But his next words make that reluctance buzz a little louder in your hindbrain. Alarms. The blood-curdling croon of the siren.
“What do you think, mm?” he mulls aloud, tracing the pad of his finger across one of your pebbled nipples, then the smooth, unmarred skin of your tummy, pausing over your belly button. “Should Daddy make you a mommy this time? Make it stick?”
Your gasp sticks to your throat. Tangles between your tonsils. Your nostrils flare when you try to take a deep breath as indemnification, and you blink up at him, you find nothing but firm resolve in those voids. Abysmal, and unrelenting.
“I— can’t… have a baby,” you croak, a touch incredulous, but you sound alien in your own ears. Like you’re drowning.
He cocks his head, tipped down at you, with that ugly, ivory mask. “Sure you can. That’s what you’re built for, isn’t it?”
And the degradation, being stripped down to the metal cogs, the tender technicalities of your biology, makes your cheeks blister. It’s demeaning. You hate it. Hate him, you hate him— something molten rolls in your underbelly.
(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)
You feel your legs dipping when under the weight of his crowding closer, between your split thighs. Bent at the knee, feet planted. The couch creaks. And when the coarse brush of denim kisses your naked skin, you feel the heat from it like a furnace.
“No,” you tell him, eyes carved into narrowed slits, and the demand in your own voice makes your bones tremble when you hear. You suck in a breath.
He blinks. Something flickers, congeals, in his eyes, almost like you’ve stunned him with your gall. Your unrestrained defiance. And there’s something uncomfortably stifling in his gaze, searing down at you, when he tips his head. Almost like he’s contemplating your response. Rolling it between his fingers. His thumb draws a feather-light line over your mons, across the stretch of skin where your womb is buried under the soft layers of muscle and fatty tissue.
“How do you think,” he kisses his teeth behind the layers— a muffled sound, but one you pick up on with your heartbeat in your ears, “it works out if I take you now, and they find you later? Keep you all to myself. Cancels out, doesn’t it?”
The indirect threat, framed as a hypothetical happenstance, makes something curdle in your blood like sour milk. The bile rolls in the pit of your tummy, and you feel your throat squeeze. Your exhale is a weak hiss. A wheeze, because you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you, alongside the foolish temerity.
The finger that’d traced a line across morphs into a hand, and he presses the breadth of it to your underbelly. Big. All leather, broad, your belly button peeking from the wedge between his digits.
He sighs, and takes the hand away. Works it back over his belt buckle, until the tails are free-standing, bifurcated, and his fingers work over his zipper. It’s a huff that swells his shoulders, and you’re reminded just how big he is, over you. How massive. How staunch to his ideas— you wouldn’t stand a chance.
“But maybe,” his head bows to watch where he’s working, and his tone is thoughtful. Menacing. Saturated with condescension, the same way you’re drenched with the remnants of your gushing slick, between your thighs. He meets your eye. “They wouldn’t look at all. Awful lotta people go missin’ altogether, tonight.”
You blink. Squirm. Thoughts of you, swollen and pregnant with his baby— chain-linked to his wrist, to a dreary, foreign bedroom like a dog to a doghouse in a backyard— makes you vitriolic. Angry.
Horrified.
(So why, then, does it make your head fuzzy? Kindles crackle at your underbelly, where he pressed his enormous palm.)
“No— no. I’ll be. You can—“ you shake your head. Try again. Placate. This is a gun, broken china on a back shelf. You can’t dissect it for what it means. Your ribcage shakes. “You can do— anything. Please.”
You imagine he’s sneering at you from behind the mask. Under the balaclava, lips crooked, when he tucks a thumb into his waistband and frees his cock. One hand squeezing at the root, stroking up. The motion has a slimy glob of precum blurting from the tip. It’s thick in his fist. Heavy. Mushroomed ridges vivid pink, long, fat. A little lopsided, skewed slightly to the left in his hold, arching towards you.
He didn’t make you suck it last time, but you wonder if he will, tonight. Gag the bold subversion out with the subtle flex of his hips, your insolence— you, stupid, little thing, telling him no— with his cockhead spewing against the gummy wall at the back of your throat.
The view makes you dizzy. Like you’re staring up to the summit of a mountainside with him looming over you. The peak that crawls over you, so tall, and makes you feel so insignificant.
Those liquid gemstones have shed across your temples, but you don’t recognize it until his thumb swipes at the corner of your eye. A pillow-soft caress. It’s almost tender. Almost. Deliriously, you watch him smudge the same thumb, brandished in your tear, along his cockhead. The wet thumbprint coagulates with the slick there, weeping from his slit.
“‘Course I can,” he tells you.
There’s no gentleness in the way he manhandles you, then. Wrangling you, by the scruff of your neck, into a hover across his lap. Positioning you how he sees fit, with him seated back on the couch, and you dangling over his cock, angled up in the seal of his palm. Your knees split across either side of his lap.
“But mum and dad,” he grunts, and when his cockhead prods against your seam, you gasp, flinching up. “should stick together. Don’t you think?”
He drags it forward, smudging it against your spent core, and it catches on your clit, the overstimulated nerve endings there, enough to make you shiver. It wracks up your spine.
There’s nothing romantic about the way he holds you. He doesn’t cradle you close with this sense of softhearted adoration— despite your vulnerability— only pulling you close by the nape when his slick cockhead slaps your clit, your mons, with a wet smack. You gnaw into your lower lip, muscles clenching. Seeking. He smears the tip back to your pulsating rim.
“What’s’a’matter?” he coos, probably at the rucks between your brows, creasing across your forehead. Your eyes flicker up. “You don’t wanna be my sweet, little wife?”
(You do, you do— you—)
“Oh—“
The press of his tip wrenching you open, taut around him, knocks your head back. Makes your shoulders rigid, spine arching over him, and his chuckle to the gasp that clots in your trachea is dark. Rich. It fizzles into a husking growl, though, when he presses down on the tops of your thighs and sinks you over him. Against him. Stretching the wet, sopping heat around him that throbs like a heartbeat with every tight breath you take, every inch lower. Your knuckles scrabble. Notch into his leather jacket, crinkling, burrowing, balling.
“There you go,” he hisses. Groans. You’re not looking, but you know he is. Feel the molten pools of his gaze fixed where he’s feeding his cock, unwavering. He nearly sounds awed— splintering apart— when he tells you, “Such a pretty pussy. Look at this slutty, little cunt. Swallowing me right up.”
It’s raw. Bare— skin on skin— as close as you can get, and the pang that smarts at your rim permeates all the way up to your head, until that too, feels plugged. Foggy.
It’s too much. Too—
He flexes his hips up sharply when you stall, just enough to wedge in to the hilt, and it wrests a high sound of surprise out of you. Nearly pained. Liked a kicked animal. It snags on something deep with the motion, something you haven’t been able to reach with your own measly fingers, and you mewl.
He gruffs a slur behind the mask, tethers it with a groan, a breath that sounds caught in his mouth, but you can’t make out what it is. Not over the thrum in your ears. The assault on your senses, the unstilted stretch that feels like it’s prying you apart. Splitting you down the middle. Your thighs tremble. A sting. A dull throb that spills in your underbelly, lapping at your sex in sweltering, warm waves. Your clit twitches.
There is something so cataclysmic in the way he hollows you out. Carves himself deep, scoring you in a way that’ll leave you begging for a piece of him, after, when you’re empty. A piece of his rib in return. It’s wrong— you shouldn’t want this man, crave him like you crave sanctum and stability. Your frenzied desperation, panting over him, seated to the throbbing root, feels chock-full of a festering longing you’ve been burrowing down since last spring. Spilling over. It sprouts— and spring, you think, bitterly, is all about revival. Rebirth. Flowering— the yearning you’ve been hiding behind your teeth germinates across your shuddering shoulders.
He makes you ride him. Grunting, spitting how he wants you to bounce on his cock like the good girl you are. Soft, sloppy, half-hearted grinds you can manage over him, until he takes over, hitched on a huff that sounds nearly exasperated, and ruts up into you with the leverage of his feet on the carpet.
He fucks you like he’s sedulous to make good on his words. Hard, fast, bludgeoning your rationale until it feels like you need the tang of cigarettes and santalum in every wheezing breath you take, writhing over the shape of him. His thumbs on your nipples. His fingers under the weight of your bouncing tits.
Every pummel up into you feels like it kisses the seal of your womb. Feels like it’s battering a little closer to fruitions, to threats, and omens, and promises.
And you like it. Love it. Can’t get away, can’t get enough, pawing at his chest, and then his collarbones, and then his chin, fingers knocking the border of the plastic mask. Kiss me— you think it’s cruel. So cruel, that you can’t kiss him. Can’t make out the shape of his bared teeth, the glint of them with his lips snarling. You want to lick across them. Bite. Taste blood for doing this to you. For making you feel this way. You want to tear him apart. Catch his tongue against your incisors.
The thought is a distant chimera. A daydream you can’t chase, snared in a limbo— just take, take, take. But over the crests of your cheekbones, your dewy gaze watches him. Watches him, the way he’s watched you. Unrelenting. It’s hazy at the borders. Your sight flecked with wetness, shuddering, like a camera in hands that can’t stay still, but you’re unremitting.
“Spit on me,” he growls. It’s an abrupt request— command, brimful of authority. Perverse. Then again, when you don’t oblige, it spills as a rasping grunt, “Spit on me.”
It wheedles into your threadbare sense of logic, registers. Your brows weave. Pinch, face creasing when he delivers a sharp plunge up, into you, tip to root. It’s gross. Disgusting. Lecherous. You think about your saliva blooming across his face, the way his heavy balls will throb.
You want to spit on him. You want to bite him, claw at him, hit him— you pucker your lips.
It lands as a tacky glob stretching across the bridge of the nose on the mask. Seeping into the inner-corner of the eye cut-out. Glistening, slick. The sight is revolting. Nasty. Your lips curl down, your brows crinkle—
He groans. It’s loud. Suffocated on desire, hunger, want, akin to the noise he made sniffing at your hair like a monstrous hound. A fucking creep.
One of his hands leaves your chest, his thumb wriggles under the plastic white mask. It gets discarded, tossed off onto the couch.
The view of him in, only in a balaclava, is new.
No less unnerving, but it’s different, and it makes your inhale tangle in your throat. Something clicks in your lungs. You hover over him, with his neck craned up at you, and his eyes are green. Two pools of epidote, eroding under the swell of his pupils. Hornblende inkblots. A long, winding wild forest. You could get lost in it.
(And pitifully, part of you already has. Melting apart like gum under the sun, between his stupid, thick fingers.)
“Fuck. Again. Give me another,” he tells you. It rumbles, but it sounds like a plea. You feel it vibrating in his chest, under your fingers, first, then watch the divot of the balaclava wavering into his mouth when he takes in a breath between his teeth. The way the cotton is stretched, tucked, across the bridge of his nose.
You spit where he breathes. Where he’s huffing with every brutal thrust of his hips. It speckles the ribbed cotton with shimmer, then melts into the black where his lips lay. You can’t see how it saturates the mask, but you watch the way it affects him. Watch him unravel— the way he breathes through his nose, long, deep, lashes fluttering and dusting along his cheeks as his irises loll, and you’re faced with the view of their pure ivory frames. The pink rim across his lower lash line.
He hammers into you, mercilessly, with his leather fingertips against your clit. It’s too much. Too harsh. Pleasure and pain coagulate into a lagoon that sloshes your head, pulses between your thighs, under his incessant fingers.
And when he comes apart, under you, you nearly tip over the precipice at the experience alone. He makes a ragged sound, a groan, hips stuttering, and spurts ribbon after ribbon of his cum against the spongy walls flexing around him. Into you. Against the seal of your womb— oh, God— you burrow your hot face into his shoulder, hips canting, and bite at the leather.
“Fuck,” he slurs. Heaves— and you feel him melting under you. Thawing.
Your spine ripples. The molten heat of his cum, sticking to you, plugged up by his throbbing cock, makes you feel feverish. Aching. Charred all over, from the inside. You take a deep breathe and taste his musk at the back of your throat. Lingering along your tongue.
It’s almost comforting. But the reminder of who this man is, and what he does (has done to you, is doing), crawls along the serenity of your haze like a poisonous treacle. You muster the strength in your core to rock up onto your knees, make to clamber off.
“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“
The thought of repose is a bittersweet mirage, though, sparkling in the distance, when he nudges his hips back up from beneath you.
It knocks into something that makes your lungs seize. You feel his tacky spend coated across the undersides of your ass cheeks, spilling against the inside of your thighs. Pooling in the thicket of dark, wiry hair that nests around the root of his cock, dusting his balls. He grunts, and when he jostles you over his lap again, you have to catch your balance with your hands against his pecs.
His eyes are shimmery when you blink up at them. Expressive enough for you to clock the derisive mirth that curdles, in shavings, along the chrysoberyl flecks in the tumultuous seas, when he hums. “You didn’t think I was done, did you?”
He’s not done. Not for a good, long while. But you suppose, that a year of self-denial, precipitous self-restraint, is bound to spill over, eventually.
(It’s just too bad for you that you ended up in the path of the hurricane, front and center.)
He fucks you again over the arm of the couch, with your ribs smushed to the ledge and your knees on the cushion. Arms behind your back, head dangling, tits aching with the press of his weight, every drag against the fabric. Fingers in your mouth, straining the corners wide, riding the grooves of your clamped, slick teeth. Pawing at your ass, squeezing the flesh, prying your cheeks apart humiliatingly wide.
He makes you cum again. And again, until you’re sobbing. Legs hitched over his shoulders, chin twisted, gnawing into your own shoulder to stifle your mewls.
“Tell me your name,” you slur under him. With his chin over tucked your shoulder, his hum ripples across your eardrum like a humid gust. Rolls between your shoulder blades.
“Tell me your name,” you beg, again, mottled with frenzied desperation that climbs your throat. You know those eyes. You know that face— the one that lies underneath. The misty contours of it scratch across your skull in the smog of a memory. You know—
Your lower lip wobbles when he cups over your sternum, takes your breast in a doughy handful, squeezing around it, drowning you in every wet squelch, every slap of his hips against your ass.
“Daddy.”
When you wake up, he’s not there. Ephemeral. The night nearly feels temporal, if not for the slick between your thighs, dewy at your cunt, where your seam is still aching. Crusting along the insides of your thighs.
You feel like every bone is out of place. Like everything needs to crackle and slot back. Worn, tired, when you kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and stand. It pangs between your legs, first. And then across your chest.
Your underwear is gone. You know you won’t find it.
When you check the clock it’s midday. Late, too late to even be considered sleeping in. You’ve wasted the twenty-second off into somnolence. There’s still a haze across your head. This balmy, misty thing that keeps you sluggish. Tired. You’d chalk it up to oversleeping, but.
It’s short-lived. Hollowed by the vacancy. Something stirs in the back of your head— you should probably send a life signal out to your family. Let them know you’re not splattered across the sidewalk, somewhere, or worse yet—
You think about his words. Keeping you all to himself. The thought makes your shoulders shudder.
On the way to the bathroom, you find carmine carnations in your kitchen. Mounted in a vase that belongs to you, plucked out of the cabinet over your fridge. Beautiful, beautiful carnations.
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Untitled #9
Wordcount — 1,618 words
Includes — Fem!reader, mentions of contraceptives, unprotected vaginal sex. Dubcon elements (but it is all explained in detail), mentions/fantasies of creampies, use of petnames (baby).
Author's note — Just a little something! I've had this thought for a while now, and I wanted to put it out there. Despite the dubcon elements of it, I really picture both parties being super into it with full consent —for this, the male character just puts up a fight because he considers things risky, but deep down he wants it just as bad. With that in mind, read this if you have no problem whatsoever with some dubcon. If it's not your cup of tea, just scroll!
Just thinking about a forced creampie with Chan.
He had been pretty vocal about how badly he wants to fuck you raw and come inside you, but the overly-reasonable, almost persecutory part of him doesn't let him get loose. Whenever he thinks about coming inside of you, he can't help but also overthink everything that could go wrong.
“Maybe I just need a little push, you know?” He told you right after you asked him what was stopping him from fulfilling his fantasies. “I tend to get too into my head, maybe I should just- I don't know, go for it in the heat of the moment”.
But even in the heat of the moment, Chan holds back. The amount of self-control he has is crazy, so as much as he wishes to get loose, he never manages to do so on his own.
You come up with a plan, but you first make sure that he is on the same page as you —that he wants this just as much as you. So you ask him just that, and the response you get is enough for you to proceed.
“I think about it at least twice a day,” Chan confessed. “I mean, not a day goes by without me thinking about how pretty your pussy would look leaking with my cum”.
So you start off slow —first, you convince him to fuck you without a condom, fully raw. He pulls out every fucking time, much against his lust's will, but you don't mind. At least not when you can now feel every inch of him, every thickness of his veins and the warmth of his bulge. And now, he gets to feel you too —like fully feel you. From your soft walls squeezing his dick, to the sticky arousal that drips out of you.
It doesn't take long for him to get addicted to that feeling, though —despite him “wanting to take things slow”, he soon becomes obsessed and the idea of using a condom ever again is discarded by Chan himself.
So it all starts off with fucking you raw, and it eventually ends up one night with you offering that much needed push to finally allow himself go.
You're on top of him, straddling his lap while his cock reaches the deepest spots inside your pussy. You can feel him twitching inside of you, and if that isn't enough confirmation that he is seconds away from coming, the grimaces of pain and pleasure along with the veins popping on his temple and neck definitely are.
His hands are bruising your hips pretty bad while he guides your movements on top of him —roughly grinding yourself against him, squeezing your walls to provide him with the stimulation he needs to come.
“Just like that,” he groans biting down his lower lip with furrowed eyebrows and eyes closed shut, “come on, fuck yourself on my cock just like that. Make me come”.
Coincidentally, you're trying to do just that. So when he bents his legs against the mattress, and his hands try to push your body away from his, you don't stop.
“Baby,” he groans out your name, whincing in pain the longer he tries to hold his orgasm back, “'m gonna- fuck, I'm close”.
You lean down over his body, placing chaste kisses along his jaw and neck, “give it to me, Chan”.
He squeezes his eyes shut, just as his body stiffens underneath yours, “move, baby”.
“Inside,” you whimper, shaking your head into the crook of his neck. “Come inside”.
Chan's back arches a little, just as he struggles to maneuver your body, but it's all useless —he doesn't have the strength to push you away, and he doesn't want to.
“No, baby,” Chan hisses, gripping your hips as rough as he can. “I can't- please, let me pull out”.
“Come on, Chan,” you plead into his ear, biting his earlobe while your walls clench around his girth, “I know you want to”.
He lets out a painful, exasperated groan in an attempt to hold back the pent up tension between his legs —you can see he is really trying his best not to come.
“Please,” you leave one last wet kiss on his neck before straightening up your body, going from grinding against his cock to fully bouncing on it, “please, come inside me. I need it”.
Chan swears he is going to lose his mind. Between the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, the sight of your pretty body bouncing on top of his, and the lewd words and moans that are leaving your lips, Chan is sure he isn't going to last any longer.
“Let me pull out,” he tells you once again, with no intention of ever wanting you to stop. At this point, Chan still puts up a fight because he doesn't want to give in too easily. But honestly, he is not interested in winning that fight whatsoever, “'m gonna come, baby”.
You press your hands against his chest and increase the pace of your movements, forcing his body underneath yours while caging it with your legs on each side of his body.
His face is flushed, and the painful grimaces and groans he lets out can only warn you that he might not resist any longer.
“Come for me,” you insist, digging your nails on the flesh of his chest, “please, fill me up”.
At one point, he just gives in to his dirtiest fantasies and carnal pleasures. Who is he to deny himself? You're begging for something that only he can give you, and he fucking will.
So the painful moans turn into primal ones, instictual and animalistic. He opens his eyes and stare at you, his hands going from your hips to your neck, choking you ever so slightly as you ride him to his high.
Not only that, but his hips start fucking into yours from underneath —if he is going to come inside you, he is going to have it his way. Meaning he is going to be the one in control, not you.
Your whole body trembles at the unexpected thrusts, and it doesn't take you long to feel a warm, almost hot sensation filling you up.
“You wanted me to come inside you?” He asks through gritted teeth, snapping his hips against yours while your whole body goes limp. Chan hugs you tightly in place, preventing his dick from sliding out of you, “you better not fucking waste it, then”.
He milks himself inside you with each thrust, letting out deep grunts of pleasure in between.
“Chan,” you gasp when you feel his cum oozing out of your pussy and around his cock, all while he is inside you, “fuck”.
Even after a few seconds, he feels he isn't done yet —he is still throbbing and pulsating inside your walls, and he just can't stop shooting his cum into you. This is the first time he comes like this, and it is as painful as it is pleasurable.
“It's dripping out of me,” you murmur when he finally slows down, looking down to where your bodies connect —it's messy, but neither of you can begin to care. At least not when it feels this good to be filled.
Chan lets out a deep exhale, his chest moving frantically as he tries to catch his breath. He feels defeated, and weak, but at the same time he can't wrap his head about how good it fucking felt to finally let go, to be able to fuck you full of his cum until it dripped out of your tight hole.
So much so, that the idea of pulling out and coming anywhere else it's just not an option any more.
And just like he got addicted to fucking you raw, he might be addicted to stuff you full of his cum now too.
He just needed a little push.
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babygirl ( kim mingyu ) part two
synopsis : it's been a while since you and mingyu made it official. now, he's eager to take a new step with you.
content : 4.8k words, male reader, fluff/smut 18+!!, baby/babe petnames, semi power bottom reader, first time together, handjob (gyu doesn't last long lmao), oral, face fucking, lots of praise, consent checks, fingering, a little chest play, anal, mating press, aftercare, written w/o the use of condoms but safe sex is implied in the form of other preventatives
note : alright, i only went through this once to edit it so sorry if i missed anything. but anyways i basically always post fluff so enjoy the smut!! idk when it'll happen again!!!!
minors go away pls,, im serious lmao
part one
mingyu stared at you from across the table. his cheek was propped up against his hand and his back was slouched. he watched your eyes in fascination. they were locked on your laptop screen, darting here and there while your hands typed away. your eyebrows kept furrowing again and again, which mingyu found amusing to watch.
the two of you had taken things pretty slowly with your new relationship. being friends first, it took some time to get used to things and relearn how you fit together. if you were honest, you couldn't believe you hadn't seen mingyu's feelings for you sooner. his continued patience and understanding made you realize just how invested he was in you.
"i gotta get going soon. i have a lecture to get to," you finally broke the peaceful silence.
mingyu nodded, hiding the small frown on his lips. he knew you'd have to go eventually.
"okay, that's fine," he replied. "could i come over tonight?"
you finally looked up from your computer to see mingyu gazing at you with hope flickering in his eyes.
"sure, yeah. i didn't have any plans so that sounds great. we can watch a movie or play games or something if you want."
mingyu nodded and looked down at his hands.
"..well, i meant could i stay the night?" he clarified. you watched him play with his fingers, a shy smile on his lips. you quietly laughed to yourself. he was too cute.
"are you asking me if we can have sex tonight?"
mingyu's eyes went wide. he looked around to make sure no one in the coffee shop heard you.
"don't say it so carelessly!"
you chuckled again, "you're the one who brought it up!"
"yeah, but i was trying to be subtle," he whispered as he tried to hide his own laughter.
"mingyu, we've literally already talked about sex. and we already went to the doctor together."
"well, yeah, but it hasn't happened yet.. we only talked about being safe and.. about what we like," he said bashfully, "and i didn't wanna make you uncomfortable if it's not the right time yet."
you looked back at your computer, blushing.
"..why are you so sweet?" you muttered. mingyu's smile grew as he watched the pink tint on your cheeks darken.
"i really don't mind waiting. i just wanted to ask y-"
"babe," you stopped him. "i'll see you at my place tonight."
you didn't think you'd ever seen mingyu smile so big. his pretty canines showed before he looked down at his hands again.
you started to pack your things and stand up with your bag over your shoulder. you leaned over him and gave him a quick kiss.
"text me whatever time works for you?" he asked as you began to part from him.
"i will. see you later, gyu."
an eager smile curved on mingyu's lips as he walked to your front door. he could feel his steps speeding up involuntarily, excited by just the thought of seeing you.
he knocked a couple times on your door, but it remained closed, and he couldn't hear any movement from inside either. he double checked the time. it was around eight o'clock - the time you had agreed on in your texts.
confused and a little worried even, mingyu let himself into your place instead of waiting. he figured it would be unlocked - you were terrible at remembering to lock it.
"y/n?" mingyu called softly. still nothing. he frowned and walked further in search of you.
"y/nnnn.." mingyu stopped when he got to your bedroom. your room was dark, but still lowly lit with a few candles you had placed around. he smiled when he finally saw you curled up on your bed, sleeping in the hoodie that he left last time.
"dummy. why didn't you get under the covers," mingyu mumbled. he was about to get a spare blanket, but stopped when you started to stir and your eyes opened drowsily.
"oh, hi baby," you greeted quietly upon seeing him. mingyu grinned at you, moving to sit on the other side of the bed. "sorry, i drifted off after i took a shower earlier," you explained.
mingyu just shook his head at the apology. he got settled beside you, sitting and just staring at you with a smitten smile. he looked at the hoodie that draped over your shoulders and torso, then the thin shorts that laid underneath.
"looks good on you," he complimented as he tugged on the bottom of the hoodie. his hand slowly let go and trailed down to your thigh instead, mesmerized by you.
he watched you then stand up to stretch a bit after your accidental nap. you stretched your arms up and stood on your tip-toes, letting out a quiet groan. mingyu couldn't look away. the hoodie lifted just over your lower stomach and your leg muscles flexed.
"god," mingyu muttered, "you drive me crazy.." he was sure his ears were completely red by now, and he could feel some heat begin to rush toward his crotch. he felt pathetically desperate.
"what?" you asked while letting your arms fall back to your sides. you were still a little out of it, sleepy and cloudy eyed. mingyu flopped down onto the pillows with a heavy sigh.
"i'm just.. really into you."
you smiled and got back on the bed, climbing onto mingyu's lap to straddle him. his head instantly jerked up as his eyes went wide.
"good thing i'm your boyfriend then, huh?" you teased, sifting your hands through his hair. mingyu could only nod and look up at you.
you could tell from the way his mouth drifted open just the slightest bit that he was dying for a kiss. the look in his eyes was growing more impatient by the second. you slowly leaned down, your torsos pressing against each other, and let your lips hover over his. you stayed in place for a minute to enjoy the view of your boyfriend underneath you. before your lips could touch at all, you sat back up straight on his lap. mingyu groaned helplessly.
"y/nnn.." he complained.
"hm?"
mingyu let out a huff of air and stared at the ceiling.
"what is it, baby?"
"..i don't know how much longer i can stay like this," he admitted. he continued to stare at the ceiling to avoid your eyes.
a small smirk formed on your face as you started moving your hips against his. you went slow, watching mingyu's face change in pleasure. his own hips lifted upwards just the tiniest bit in an embarrassing need for more. his hands shifted from your thighs to your backside, trying to urge you to move faster.
"better?" you asked.
"mm.." mingyu didn't know if he meant yes or no, he could barely form words in his head let alone out loud.
you looked down at his grey sweatpants and moved a little faster. seeing his erection fighting against the fabric of his pants made your mind foggy.
mingyu let out a quiet moan when your hands slid beneath his t-shirt and gently moved along his chest. your hands were a little cold, it made his stomach tense up and his mouth fall open a bit more. when your fingers barely missed his nipples, the faintest whimper escaped his lips. you smiled at the reaction.
"sorry, gyu. you're just really cute all worked up like this."
mingyu tried to ignore the blush creeping up on his cheeks again.
"..keep going, please."
you smiled at the breathy words you finally got out of him. your hips were moving faster with his now, grinding against each other at a matched speed. mingyu's gaze kept going to you, watching almost in awe. seeing the tent in your shorts was getting him all the more worked up.
your hands soon traveled back down his chest and waist before settling firmly on his clothed cock. mingyu felt his heart skip a beat, meeting your eyes again.
"can i?" you asked. mingyu instantly nodded, causing you to pull the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down. you took his wet length in your hand and started stroking. he finally gave up and let his head completely fall back onto his pillow, mouth agape and letting all his softest sounds out. maybe he'd been waiting for this longer than he realized.
"just like that.." mingyu's voice was quiet. he shut his eyes as he breathed heavily and enjoyed the attention he was getting. before he knew it, he was thrusting into your hand, losing the embarrassment he'd felt earlier.
you could tell mingyu was close already. from the way his eyebrows furrowed, to the way his fingers curled tightly around the hemline of your shorts, to the way his dick twitched and throbbed as you kept pumping him faster. you found it cute how quickly he could get off when it was you handling him.
"almost there, baby?" you asked, watching some of his pre slide down your fingers.
"g-god, yes..!"
you worked your hand faster around him, bringing your other hand down to fondle his balls. you leaned over him again to finally give him the kiss he'd been wanting. your lips moved sloppily, both of you still focused on the handjob you were giving.
you then pulled away from his mouth and looked down at him with a drunken smile.
"such a good boy.. gonna cum for me?"
it was over for mingyu the second he heard those words leave your mouth. he wasn't even able to utter some kind of verbal answer. his back arched and he let out a loud moan as ropes of cum shot onto his stomach, some dribbling down your hands.
you watched mingyu's stomach rise and fall with his unsteady breathing. his groans died down with his high before your hand finally came to a stop. mingyu couldn't speak, he could only close his eyes and try to catch his breath. you smiled proudly while you unmounted his legs and watched the cum seep into his white t-shirt.
"sorry i should've taken your shirt off, gyu."
mingyu shook his head while sitting up. "it's just a shirt," he replied as he smiled and took your face in his hands, kissing you deeply.
"i can't stop smiling," he whispered, his beaming smile forcing him to stop kissing you. "still wanna keep going?"
you nodded and resumed kissing in what became a messy make-out. mingyu shakily began discarding his sweatpants and boxers, followed by his your hoodie. your hands traveled to his waist and under his shirt again before taking it off completely. he got chills as he felt you pull the shirt over his head, and then admire his tanned skin and perfect muscles.
"you're so pretty, baby," you complimented. you kneeled in between his legs as he sat on your bed. he looked up at you with blushing cheeks while your hands went through his wavy locks.
mingyu's hands caressed your legs, the two of you just gazing at each other in content. his hands ran up and down your thighs again before sneaking up your shorts. his brows twitched upwards in intrigue when he realized you weren't wearing anything underneath the thin piece of clothing.
"no underwear?"
you shook your head, "i figured it'd just slow us down."
mingyu laughed quietly at that response. you certainly weren't wrong. he slid your shorts down and finally laid eyes on your naked form. you continued to look down at him until noticing his longing stare at your half hard length.
"what is it, gyu?"
mingyu swallowed hard. he looked up at you with eyes you'd never seen from him.
"can i suck you?"
your dick immediately jumped at such a question. you mumbled some inaudible curse word and nodded, watching your boyfriend's attention go right back to your cock as he began to stroke you slowly.
you let out small sighs and moans as you watched him become entranced in what he was doing. before long, his mouth hovered over your cock as he looked up at you, as if asking for permission again.
"go ahead, baby."
mingyu smiled before taking you in his mouth. he didn't start slow either. he took as much of you down his throat as he could, tongue massaging your skin.
"fuck-!" you felt your body take a screenshot. your nails dug into the skin of his shoulders as you knelt in front of him.
you had never seen mingyu like this before. his attention was completely fixed on pleasing you. his eyelids looked heavy and he seemed to just keep moving his head faster. before you knew it, you could hear the wet sounds of his mouth and see some saliva slide down his chin.
"holy shit, mingyu," you moaned as your mouth fell agape. you could feel your hips start to snap forward, but you stopped yourself. you pushed mingyu's hair back, bringing him to look up at you again as he deep throated you.
"fuck, that's good.." your head fell back as you closed your eyes and let him work you. all his pretty, muffled moans paired with the lewd sounds of his mouth on your drenched cock would sooner than later be enough to break you.
mingyu pulled off of your dick after another second. his eyes drooped closed as he sat back and tried to breathe.
"you okay, baby?"
mingyu nodded, "just need a second."
"okay, take your time," you comforted.
you decided to take a rest as well. despite mingyu's otherworldly blowjob, your knees were starting to kill you from kneeling in the same spot. you moved to sit on the edge of your bed and propped yourself up with your hands. your cock still stood tall, glistening with mingyu's saliva.
after a minute, you felt mingyu's weight shift on the mattress. you turned to see him getting off of your bed and instead get in front of you on the floor. he gave you a mischievous smile and leveled himself with your crotch.
"babe," mingyu started, "you know you can fuck my face right?" he smiled again when your dick twitched at the question. he slowly started to take you in his mouth again, all while keeping intense eye contact with you.
"..are you sure?" you asked. mingyu nodded, taking you deeper.
"shit." you tangled your hands in his hair again and watched your cock disappear into his mouth. "just tap out if it becomes too much, okay?"
mingyu only moaned in response. he closed his eyes as you began to thrust into him. if you were honest, you were afraid of hurting him, but he seemed perfectly fine. excited even. you looked down at him with cloudy eyes and mouth fallen open yet again. the bed started to move and creak quietly as your thrusts quickened. you tightened your grip on his hair and let out a loud moan at the feeling of your cock hitting the back of his throat.
"fuck, you're taking me so well, gyu.." you were getting way too close, and you knew he could feel it. you pulled out of his mouth and let go of his hair while giving him a soft smile. mingyu didn't waste any time though. his hand instantly went to your leaking cock and started pumping you.
you fell back a bit onto the mattress, eyebrows knitting together and hips bucking up into his hand. you came with a loud groan and a yell of his name. you couldn't bother to worry about where your cum landed, you just let your boyfriend finish you off.
mingyu stood up with a proud smile and hovered over your laying body, giving you a short kiss. he then went off to your bathroom and came back with a wet rag to clean both of yourselves up.
"babe," you called softly. mingyu met your eyes as he wiped your body down.
"hm?"
"if i had known you could suck dick like that.."
mingyu chuckled. "what? you would've locked it in with me years ago?"
you laughed and nodded. mingyu couldn't help but blush. he stood in front of you and began wiping himself down from earlier. you watched him in intrigue. he was just so perfect. when he finally looked up and caught you staring, he instantly looked away with an embarrassed smile.
"stop looking at me," he mumbled. you could've sworn you heard a faint giggle leave his lips.
"okay, sorry babygirl," you responded sarcastically.
mingyu rolled his eyes at the nickname. he turned away from you completely to hide his flustered state.
"babe, you literally just let me fuck your face. but now you get all shy when all i'm doing is looking at you?"
mingyu finally turned back to give you a side eye. he huffed dramatically and set the rag down before joining you back on your bed, laying beside you.
"and it might be your first and last from me if you're not careful."
you laughed before pressing your lips into a thin line, showing him they were 'zipped'. mingyu nodded in approval.
"in all seriousness," you began again, "that really was amazing. i'm sorry it took us so long to do this kind of stuff. i just.. i like going slow."
mingyu shook his head, "don't apologize. i'd wait even longer for you. i want you to feel comfortable with me.. and safe with me."
you rolled over a little to face him better. your hand reached over to cup his cheek, thumb grazing over his skin. his eyes were locked on yours as his lips stretched into another idiotic smile.
"i've never known a man like you, gyu."
mingyu felt every part of him tingle. he leaned in to connect your lips again. your kisses started off slow and soft, as if pouring out every emotion you had for each other. but each kiss got more intense and sensual. he slowly climbed on top of you as your tongues met messily.
as he hovered over you, you realized he looked even bigger and broader this way. his arms flexed and his hair fell out of place, his pretty skin glistened with the finest layer of sweat, and his knee settling in between your legs was getting more and more dangerous.
mingyu stopped kissing you after realizing you were a little distracted. he continued to hover over you with concerned eyes.
"are you okay?"
"hm? yes! sorry.. was just, um.."
his hand came up to gently hold your cheek. "what is it?"
you smiled, "i was just admiring you."
"ah, i see," mingyu chuckled. "you were checking out how hot your boyfriend is, right?"
you rolled your eyes at him. although he was right on the money, he was still a dork. you wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and brought him back down to keep kissing you.
his lips started to travel down from your lips to your neck, his knee finally pushing up against your dick. your mouth fell open at the feeling. mingyu could've sworn he even heard the faintest whine manage to escape from you, and it just about drove him insane. he didn't bother to keep going slow, he chose a spot on your neck to suck and bite while his knee rubbed against your cock.
by the time you were fully hard again, your whimpers and heavy breaths were fueling mingyu's ego completely. he moved your legs to hook around his waist before crashing back into your lips as if he'd been starving for them. his hands caressed around your hips and down to your ass.
"you have lube right?" he asked with staggered breaths. you nodded and pointed to the drawer of your nightstand, to which he left the warmth of your leg lock to reach for.
you watched him pour the lube onto his fingers before bringing his hand down to your backside. he carefully began to spread the substance around before inserting a finger.
"is this still okay?" he asked softly. you couldn't stop the moan that left your lips. and if that didn't answer his question, you still nodded and managed to utter out a 'keep going' in between the sighs of pleasure.
mingyu's lips were on yours again before you knew it. his body felt warm and safe, and the constant, loving kisses as he took his time working you open added a level of intimacy that you didn't think you'd felt before.
you realized that your eyes had been closed for a while. you finally opened them to meet mingyu's gaze. he smiled at you, giving you another kiss. he had three fingers in you now, scissoring and thrusting as he soothingly rubbed the skin of your thigh with his free hand.
"i'm gonna keep going. just let me know when you're good, baby," mingyu said again. you nodded while his lips traveled back down to your neck. you could see his dick hovering over your own. it made your stomach turn in excitement.
mingyu pulled his fingers away from your stretched hole, about to add more lube when you spoke up.
"..i'm good now, gyu."
mingyu looked at you, "are you sure? i can prep you more."
you only shook your head and gave him a dazed smile. you watched his composure straighten out as he grabbed the lube again to start coating his cock. a dumb, eager, smitten smile was stuck on his face again, but you still found it adorable. how someone so impossibly hot could also be so disgustingly cute was beyond you.
"you look so good like this, baby," you complimented. you rested your arms over your head as you watched him stroke himself. he was getting all flustered again.
"are you seriously talking about me when i have you laying under me like this? all spread out and ready for my cock."
alright, he clocked you.
"..shit, don't talk like that, i might cum on the spot."
"noted." he kissed you one more time and lined himself up with your entrance. your legs naturally wrapped around him again before he began to enter you. his eyes instantly shut as he bit his lip in an effort to hold back his groans. he then took both of your hands and raised them above your head, tightly intertwining your fingers against the sheets.
he stopped to let you adjust before looking at you with glossy eyes. "still okay?"
you nodded quickly in response. squeezing his hands in yours, you lifted your head up to kiss him passionately. it was in that moment that it really hit you - mingyu may be your baby, but he was still a hunk who was realistically much stronger than you.
"keep going, baby," you told him. "you're doing so good for me."
a small moan left mingyu's lips as he let his hips snap forward a little too much. his forehead fell into the curve of your neck, his cock a little more than halfway into you now.
"..you feel so good," he whimpered into your skin.
your staggered breathing filled his ears as he tried to keep still, scared of hurting you if he pushed into you any further. you kept whispering praises to him as you let go of his hands and instead began to caress his arms and back.
"you can keep moving, gyu. i'm okay."
he didn't need to be told again. he looked down and watched as his cock disappeared all the way inside you. he smiled when he earned a guttural moan from you.
"ngh..that's it, baby. good boy," you mumbled, voice a little weak.
mingyu finally began to steadily slide in and out of you. he littered kisses all along your neck and down to your chest by your collarbones.
"fuck, that's good, gyu.. faster."
you heard a grunt from him as he gripped the sheets and started to pound into you. the quick change from gentle to rough made your mouth fall agape for the nth time that night. your legs became weak, falling wider to the sides around mingyu.
you could feel the bed moving with him, his thrusts just getting harder and rougher. you let your head fall back as more moans spilled out. the veins in his arms were popping and his pecs bounced with every thrust. you let your hands wander to his chest, squeezing as you fell into a trance. he looked down at your hands and smirked.
"like my chest, baby?"
you could barely put a sentence together. you just nodded and kept touching him as he fucked you.
mingyu soon needed more of you. he paused to move your legs, bending them up against your body and hooking them over his shoulders. the stretch made you choke out a whimper as he resumed his thrusts.
"m-mingyu..!"
he smirked again as he watched your eyes roll to the back of your head. "what? you like when i fuck you silly like this?" he taunted between grunts.
you nodded frantically, muttering out 'yes's under your breath. your eyes were glassed over, mouth still hanging and hole clenching around him. the sounds of skin slapping and your bed beginning to creak again just drove mingyu to go harder.
"right there-!" you suddenly yelled out just as you saw stars. "right there, baby!"
both of your moans filled the bedroom, mingyu drilling into your prostate. you met his eyes - his gaze was intense. but you couldn't hold the contact for much longer. soon, your eyes rolled back up to just stare at the ceiling, fucked out.
"pretty boy.. can't even look at me. am i making you feel that good?"
his words sent chills down your body as you sputtered out more 'yes's and 'don't stop's. mingyu was quite proud of himself, to say the least. you were always the one teasing him and babying him. but now, here you were, a moaning mess underneath him.
he leaned down closer to you, making your legs burn from the stretch, then managed to take your throbbing cock in his hand.
"y/n- fuck.. i'm gonna cum soon," mingyu groaned out.
"mmh.. me too," your voice almost sounded broken from the pleasure. you held onto his shoulders, hands sliding over his back and leaving reddening scratch marks.
the sound of mingyu's moans got louder and heavier as he chased his high. he continued to fuck you into the sheets, but his hips began to stutter with how close he was getting.
he pulled out with a sly smirk and started jerking himself. your legs fell back down as his eyes locked onto yours.
"let's cum together, yeah?" he prompted.
your jaw hung open as he took your leaking cock in his hand and joined it against his own, stroking both of you at an increasingly fast pace. you couldn't decide where to keep your eyes - mingyu's lewd face or your cocks being pumped together.
mingyu's orgasm hit with the longest moan you'd heard from him yet. you started to finish with him, humping up into his hands as your mixed cum landed across your body and the sheets beneath you.
he kept stroking until your climaxes subsided, leaning down to kiss you softly before falling beside you on the bed. you closed your eyes and tried to steady your breathing while mingyu reached over to get the rag from earlier. he wiped you down once again, cleaning you the best he could.
"don't worry about it, babe. we can just go clean up in the shower," you stopped him. mingyu nodded and gave you another kiss on your cheek instead. you laughed quietly at the smile he couldn't wipe off his face.
"sorry," he laughed with you as he covered his mouth. "i keep smiling too much."
"no, i like when you smile. just confirms that you like me."
he scoffed and looked over at you. "as if we didn't know that already."
pulling you in toward his body, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed your head. your legs tangled together as you hugged him tightly. he let out a satisfied sigh while gently caressing your back, then looked down at you.
"shower now?"
"yes please." you left his embrace and got up from your bed. you started to trudge to the bathroom, but mingyu rushed up to follow behind you.
"wait, wait, wait," he squeaked out as he caught up to you. you stopped in the doorway of the bathroom to look at him in confusion.
"what is it?"
mingyu blushed. "nothing. just wanted to stay with you."
you shook your head at him, although he didn't miss the stupid grin that grew across your cheeks.
"you're such a baby, gyu."
he turned the water on before moving closer to you, hovering just over your lips.
"babygirl, right?" he asked.
you laughed and kissed him, "mhm."
#kpop x male reader#male reader#seventeen x male reader#seventeen x reader#seventeen fanfic#seventeen smut#seventeen#mingyu x male reader#mingyu x reader#mingyu smut#kim mingyu#mingyu#kpop x reader#kpop fanfic#kpop smut
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Yandere sex shit
Cw: fem reader, pregnancy risk, degradation, dubious consent for some, somnophillia, breeding, women with dicks, might be mildly misogynistic in arlecchino’s but idk if it really counts as that.
Characters included: Diluc, Arlecchino, Neuvillette, Yelan, and Pantalone
“I can’t stop…” his voice was like a growl almost. You raised your head, your body felt sore as you took in the scenery and the position you had been forced in. You were on your side, leg hitched onto his shoulder.Diluc must’ve come home late while you were already asleep. The fact your nightgown had been hitched, your panties pushed aside, and your womb had been filled was enough to incriminate him yes. But it wasn’t like you could leave this olace anyways. As his pace resumed the chains on your hands clanked slightly. You hated how you still had to be chained to this day. You had been so good and yet his staff still doesn’t trust you. Or is it their way of offering you as a sacrifice to him, leaving you defenseless so he can have his way. Although initially you were numb to all pleasure, your mind sleepy snd still processing everything. You suddenly gasped as you felt him knock against your g-spot. Your arms thrashed, the chains clanked and jingled.
“You feel like so good.” He commented,”Haah… fuck If you squeeze me like that… oh… fuck.. shit I’m going to cum.” Your eyes widened as you looked down. Unable to communicate your concerns as you realized you had no form of birth control here. Nor was he wearing a condom. But it felt so good you didn’t want to stop deep down. The previous rounds sloshed inside yourself as you couldn’t help but spread your legs s little more. Your sensibility actively fucked out of you.
You just had to hope you weren’t ovulating
“Please~~~!” You whined. The vibrations of the toy inside had been edging you for so long now. Each time you would get close to release Arlecchino would pull it out making you squirm desperately. You had tried to escape recently, growing a bit paranoid after being here for so long against your will. But after what must’ve been hours of orgasm denial the torture session’ had turned you into what you would later regret. But currently you were dumb and horny and really just wanted to cum already.
“You haven’t earned it. Disobedient wives to be don’t try to escape in the middle of then night now do they? You’re a bad little fiancé and therefore you need be punished until you’re absolutely sorry.” She growled into your ear. You whined as she pulled it out once more.
“N-no no I’ll be good i promise! I promise I’ll be good!” You whined desperately. Your hips chased the toy to no avail. You heard her belt unbuckling. You looked down to see a rather impressive cock. You were to out of it to think about how she wasn’t reaching for a condom or any form of protection.
“You promise? As if that has any value.” She smacked your face with her cock. “Don’t just stare at it, be a good little whore for me and I’ll consider letting you cum.” You gulped but quickly pressed your lips to it as she quickly forced it in. Your sounds of surprise were muffled as she quickly settled her own pace.
“A useless little whore. Am i the first to defile this little mouth? Will I be the first to deflower you?~” she grasped your hair like a leash. Forcing you up and down until suddenly pulling out.
“W-wha-“ you whined as she suddenly flipped you over.
“I need to know how pure my beloved little fiancé is.” She responded with immediately sinking her cock into your pussy. You whined as you felt absolutely heavenly. Squirming as she established a brutal pace. “You’re tight, even after all that foreplay… fuck… i need to defile you, make you my whore and only mine. I’ll turn your body into my little cumdump!” You gagged from the ferocity of her thrusts. You tried to say something but it came out in stutters and mumbles. She seemed to understand it somehow. “You’re going to cum? Good. I want to feel you cum on my cock again and again until I fill your womb with my seed.”
“The Iudex is… currently in heat.. miss please do consider your position on your marital responsibilities!” The maids pleaded with you. The Iudex, the hydro dragon was currently in heat but hadn’t the heart to make you accompany him during it. You turned your head away. You could care less if your captor was suffering, it hardly would be as painful ad you felt just being here. “Please its been absolutely torrential rains!” The maids pleads ment nothing.
“I don’t care. Now where is that tea I ordered?” Normally you would be polite and respectful of service workers. But considering who they were working for and what their intentions were you really couldn’t give s fuck if you made them cry. What you didn’t know was in that tea they begrudgingly brought out was a aphrodisiac.
“My love… they said you weren’t feeling well…” His hands traced over your face. You didn’t really know where he came from just that he emerged from hiding to help you. You were certain those maids had some role in your current predicament, but also you were too horny to care. Your body felt firey and hot and you needed him more than ever. He opened his mouth to lick at your sweat as his hands reached down below your nightgown.
“Just… get it over with..” you whined, trying to maintain some defiance. It was humiliating sure but… oh you couldn’t help but fall apart as his finger entered inside. His cold hands making you clamp onto him tightly.
“So.. warm.. fuck.. you’re fertile too.. i can taste it in your sweat.” He purred. “I won’t be able to control myself. Please pardon me.”
“Ne-neu-neuvillette!” You whined as he slammed every inch of his cock into your sopping wet little cunt. His hands pinning you down as you squirmed mindlessly. All resistance long drawn out as you had been fingered through three orgasms until now. You were practically his little bitch now. Unable to think straight.
“You’re so tight for me… fuck I can’t… i need to breed you my love.” You gasped at his words but couldn’t respond as he started to fuck you at a brutal and unrelenting pace. His cock dragging against your insides only to slam back in. “So good for me. So good…” his whines turned you on more than you would like. But who could blame you when his cock was just so thick and reached all the right places, his voice bordered on a purr as you were held in a mating press unable to stop or resist as his cock bulldozed any thoughts out of your head. The aphrodisiac making you into a fine slut.
“Cum inside! Please!” You begged instinctively. Your body wishing to be fertilized and impregnated beyond your senses. You needed him in this moment more than anything.
“Fuck… can’t.. stop… ugh!” He groaned loudly as he came, his seed flooding your womb as you whined in release. He paused briefly before resuming his pace. “I’m going go knock you up, maybe then you’ll finally be a obedient little slut for me”
“You’re such a bad liar you know. I wonder what your god would think if she saw one of her top soldiers bouncing like this.” Yelan was simply smarter than you, a simple Fatui agent. But you really couldn’t resist. Her charisma was irresistible. Her voice itself was aphrodisiac that made you buck your hips.
Pantalone would no doubt be utterly disgusted if he saw you now. Although he’d likely be more disgusted that you were bottoming than your sexual orientation. But the chances of you ever returning now were low. You had a feeling this encounter would leave you in her grasp forever based on that possessive stare she held. “Fuck… you’re such a good slut. I don’t know how you haven’t been taken by that harbinger yet, although he already doesn’t have good tastes in fashion, he must’ve been blind to your true potential~”
“N-noooo… ah~”
“No? You aren’t a good slut? I beg to differ. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun interrogating any of the other agents before. You certainly are a catch.” She purred. You tensed up at the idea that your colleagues may have similarly found themselves in your position. “Don’t worry, you’re the first I’ve done this too. I just couldn’t resist the way your uniform looked on you. You’re always so well dressed. Maybe I should steal your clothes and send you back to him nude?”
“N-no!” You gasped, blushing more than you should’ve. She winced as you clenched on her.
“I’m only teasing now. I have absolutely no intentions of letting you go back at all.” She grinned like a cat as she suddenly held your hips down, forcing you to feel her deep inside. You flinched and squirmed. Desperately trying to get off or finish. “Look me in my eyes now.” You hesitated before eventually obliging. Your hands bound tightly in some artistic pattern behind, your legs sore and exhausted. You were used to the point of exhaustion, a normal sensation but not in the sexual sense. You thought if you could break your restraints now and gain some freedom you could make a escape now, you would just have to cover your torn tights that left your cunt exposed- “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve already tried to break those restraints and you haven’t succeeded yet. Why would you even want to go back anyways?” Her hands pushed your thighs so you were on your back, legs in the air, you tried to kick at her with what little sense and strength you had. But she grabbed it with amusement.
“I’m not letting you leave. I think of all those nick-knacks I’ve taken from that harbinger you’ve certainly been my favorite. I don’t care what he tries, you are going to be mine. Even if I have to melt your mind myself. I’ll happily train you to be a good little slut~”.
“I-i didn’t mean anything sir I was just trying to be polite to her!” You whined. You were simply his secretary. Used to handling and recieving guest when he was busy. Apparently Signora had a bone to pick with the Regrator, some drama you weren’t aware of and she decided to… make him jealous? You hadn’t even known of his feelings. Despite his smile he is hardly expressive minus when he’s angry. What were you supposed to do other than abide by her advances! She was a harbinger afterall!
“I don’t care about that. I don’t care if that manual didn’t specify or told you what. You are mine.” Pantalone was certainly pissed now. His eyes revealing a unnatural and omitting a possessive aura. You felt like a mouse in the clutches of a cat. You hadn’t even been stripped yet as he had simply thrown you onto his desk. He towered above you as his hand trailed up your skirt, which was now pushed up to expose you. “You are my secretary. And I swear if I have to lock you up in some room in my mansion I will gladly do so. I don’t care if some harbinger catches your fancy or whatever prior commitments you have. You will henceforth be considered mine both in mind and body.”
“I-I didn’t know that you considered me in su-AH!” You squeaked as he tore your tights. Those tights weren’t the fragile type either, special made and lined with thicker fabrics to help insulate in the typical blizzards you would encounter leaving the office.
“It doesn’t matter now…. You’re practically leaking right now. You tremble and shake but your body is as ripe as a peach. I wonder if you’ve dreamed of this scenario before…” his voice grew more assertive. “Or maybe you were thinking of that woman instead. Hoping she’d be the one to see this perhaps?”
“N-no! No sir!” You shivered. Your legs trembled as you were utterly lost on where to go from here. You couldn’t escape and you hadn’t ever fucked your boss before so this was a quite the adjustment. A shiver ran up your spine as you suddenly felt his lips latch onto your dripping cunt. Your hand reached to cover your face from embarrassment. Trying to stay still as if it wasn’t already to late. What made you even more embarrassed was the sounds he was making. The sensations and pleasure you felt was in your veins but the sounds of wet smacks and slurping could be heard potentially out of his office. You knew they hadn’t finished soundproofing it. Anyone passing by would hear it. Your hand suddenly was tugged away.
“Don’t muffle your sounds now. You were oh so chatty just a few seconds ago. So go on, scream, cry, beg I don’t care. The louder you are, then the better other people will hear you.”
“Bu-but that’s p-mmmmm!” You bit your lip as a finger suddenly entered. You didn’t even notice the rings had been removed.
“Go on. Let everyone in this building know your mine!” He growled as he began to finger you more aggressively. The tips of his fingers still clothed by his gloves, reached your g-spot making you yelp and squeal. “I’ll make sure you never go unmarked again. You aren’t going to leave this office or my presence until I’m thoroughly satisfied.”
#genshin imagines#genshin x y/n#genshin impact#diluc x you#diluc x y/n#arlechinno genshin#arlecchino x reader#pantalone x reader#yelan x reader#wlw and mlw#fem reader#nsfvv#yandere themed#neuvillette x reader
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