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leviathanleva · 20 days

Text

Daisy

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Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader

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Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

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[5.4k words]

[Minor violence, Non-consensual choking]

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Chapter 2 "The Proposition"

You wanted to say something desperately, but your mouth came dry and empty and you promptly closed it to avoid any stray specs of sand. Your neck ached from having to keep it so profoundly craned just to hold eye contact and avoid the gun from pressing against your Adam’s apple.

His boots sunk in the dune as he juggled his weight tantalizingly, prowling in front of you and looking like he was ready to pounce. He was staring at you like you weren’t even human and it made sense because he didn’t look like one. The sun scratched at your exposed shoulders and upper back, hair pooled over your face and breasts and no longer acting as a shield for your delicate skin. It hurt, it burned, your flesh felt like it was cooking on a barbeque rack, but there was nothing you could do except take it like a champ and worry about it later.

This was not how you imagined the world above to be… You never thought you’d be attacked by giant roaches or chased by deranged criminals smelling of shameless cannibalism or held at gunpoint by the man…thing, that saved your life. You never imagined it was this bad up here, so desolate and askew, everything was old, rusted, worn, and crumbling and you had half the mind to just go back and let the raiders kill you and make their threats a reality of making you into human jerky.

The gun tapping incessantly against your cheek failed to pull you out of the depths of your spinning thoughts. But when it was forcibly pressed against the center of your forehead, nearly knocking you back on your arse, you stiffened with a gasp.

Your hero was becoming impatient.

“Never seen a ghoul before, Darlin’?” he asks with somewhat of a frown, his agitation brewing with your silent treatment and mindblown stare. He pranced around you, circling your kneeling, hunched-over form as you tried following his movements with doubtful eyes and a racing heart. “You been livin’ under a fucking rock?”

His gun was cocked and ready to fire, a steady forefinger resting over the trigger in case you decided to be stupid and try to run or lunge at him. He scoffed at the idea but kept his guard up just in case. After so many years of roaming, he’d seen just about everything, he wasn’t risking it no matter how defenseless you appeared at first glance.

“N-No…No, Sir. Never seen a…ghoul. Before.” you forced the words out, fearing his wrath, and clung to your sides as your hands kneaded through the soft material of your dress. Your head lowered obediently, lashes shielding your darting irises as they read his every movement. “A rock? No, I – “

It took him a single spin to notice the Pip-boy slapped over your wrist and his eyes hardened. He stopped by your side, towering over you, and ripped your arm away, clutching it in his hand with a roughness you’d never experienced before. You winced as he leaned over to inspect the device and grimaced with a twitching upper lip.

“ – A vault dweller…” he spat and his gloved fingers dug into your flesh. He ignored your whiney noise of protest, jostling you into silence before shooting a flesh-searing glare right into your soul. “You a vaulty?”

“What? I – No! Yes. Wait – ” you stammered when he dug a knee into the sand and let your arm go before gathering a handful of hair on the back of your head and forcing your neck back to make you look at him. He was…menacing, practically bolting you to the ground with a single glare. “Wait! Please, wait. Please! I – ” your hands shot up to grip his wrist, trembling and useless as you pleaded. He dug the gun under your chin, preventing you from swallowing. “Please, I did. I lived in a vault, but I don’t know anything! Please, please, I promise. Don’t – “ your eyes frantically shot down at where the barrel sunk into your skin, teeth chattering as your lashes heavied with tears.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?!” he snarled, leaning so close that if he had a nose it would have bumped into yours. His breath stank of spirit and you tried to recoil but were promptly jerked back into place.

It didn’t click in your brain what had upset him so. The vaults were created to preserve humanity and its antics from before the bombs, it was for the betterment of the future. It was so that his children could eventually live better lives after you finally left the sanctuary of the underground and restored order to the surface, or so you’ve read. It made no sense for him to hate you based on a stupid Pip-boy that wasn’t even yours, you’d done nothing to him, you didn’t even know him! How could he be so nonchalantly cruel? How could he touch you without your consent? What gave him the right!?

The firearm digging into your flesh told you what.

“I was sick!” you wail, fighting back your tears and a pitiful stutter from poisoning your reply. His grip on your hair tightened and you twitched in pain, shaking like a leaf beneath him and clutching at his wrist in a silent plea to let you go. “I was isolated. I didn’t know anyone but my mom and dad, I didn’t do anything. I don’t know!” you debated for your life, prolonging his spine-chilling intentions. Bargaining with the devil was a difficult task when your body and mind worked against you, all blabbering words and choppy thoughts and jittery limbs. “The vault was taken over and I ran and I don’t know anything about the people and I just – Please…My parents are dead…Please, Mister, please don’t shoot…” you beg through sobs and a sniffling nose, tugging at his iron grip to no avail.

With a grunt and a flexing jaw, he threw you back, treating you with disregard equal to tossing out a piece of garbage, releasing you to curl up protectively over yourself, and standing. His gun clicked and he secured it back in the holster on his hip.

You instinctively rub at the tender area on the back of your head with a dissatisfied plaint, locking your thighs to obscure your exposed privates. Propped up on one hand and with a shaken look, you watched him spit and turn, his expression solid and distasteful and beating down on you for no reason that you could comprehend. Your breaths begin to event out and you swallow with a shuddering hum.

He turned away, drawing distance between you with stiff steps, fighting his resolve as his hand itched to draw his weapon and just shoot you on the spot.

But he couldn’t…

You weren’t worth the bullet, he repeated that bitter sentence under his breath to convince himself that he hesitated and withdrew simply because you were a waste of ammunition. It wasn’t your doe-eyed stare and too-soft-for-this-world skin that felt like silk when your tiny fingers had lingered under the edge of his sleeve. It wasn’t your delicate, shiny hair that looked like it would tear under his hold or the thick, heavy lashes that framed your eyes and held your tears that shone like diamonds in the sunlight. It definitely wasn’t that tiny dress that hugged your little frame and would make any goon go rabid from just a glance. You were no wastelander, didn’t look like any vault dweller who had crossed his path, you were too soft even for the life before the bombs. He didn’t know what you were, but you weren’t worth the cogitation.

You weren’t worth the bullet. You weren’t worth anything. You were nothing.

You were –

“ – Wait!” you hurry to rise and stumble after him. Despite his demeanor, he was the only thing that hadn’t tried to kill you on sight, and without anything or anyone else around, you had mentally latched onto him as your hero. “Mister, wait! You can’t just – “

He raised his weapon and pointed it at you faster than you could blink. Your hands shot up to shield your face and you shrunk in submission, rapidly blinking and with a hesitant look.

“Come closer.” he barks and cocks his gun, arm extended and eerily steady. “See what happens.”

“I – You can’t just leave me here!“ you protest, mustering what confidence you could, scraping at the bottom of a barrel that was emptied the moment you had set foot outside the vault. You straighten when no bullets come and your palms curl into fists, stomping a foot for emphasis. “That’s not right. You can’t just ditch me.”

“Watch me, Princess.” he chuckled, sneered, and bared his yellowish teeth at you like a dog. He gestured with the gun in dismissal and rested his free hand on his hip after flinging his coat back. “Now get!”

“I don’t know where to get.” you whine and curl your fingers in air quotes in a brash display, pushing your luck and mocking his conceit because you were so desperate you took your chances. “I don’t even know where I am!”

He just snorts at you, unbothered and uncaring, and proceeds on his way with a flick of his wrist, refusing to entertain your tantrum any longer.

You didn’t understand how someone could turn down a person in need, it made no sense, the lack of compassion was incomprehensible and so…inhuman. How could a man be this purposefully ignorant of another’s struggle and choose not to do anything? You could never turn down a cry for help, not that you’d ever been faced with such a situation before, but you knew you wouldn’t. So what had this ghoul lived through to be so detached and devoid of sympathy? How much had he been hurt to abandon emotion entirely for the sake of a still mind and dreamless sleep?

What kind of world forced a man to abandon his humanity…

Fueled by frustration, you take a few steps after him, so hellbent on keeping the spotless image of your hero you had forced upon his shoulders that your rationality couldn’t break through your naivety. He couldn’t be this cruel after saving your life and not even bringing up the possibility of a reward. He had to have a soft spot somewhere, beneath the rags and the ruggedness and the hissy threats and brutish actions. He was still a person just like you even if the harshness of the surface had disfigured both his body and soul, you believed in him, you had to for your own preservation.

He heard you move, heard the rustling of fabric and the shuffling of sand, and snapped with a cornered animal.

“Oh I’ve had about enough of you!” he snarled and whirled around, covering the distance between you with three long, menacing strides. Your startled scream was cut short when he squeezed your neck and forced you down on your back like your resistance against him didn’t even exist. He caged you beneath his tights, keeping you in place as you clawed at his stone-firm grip and gasped apologies and pleas through labored breaths. The gun knocked against the side of your forehead to stifle you into stilling. It clicked threateningly as he applied pressure to the trigger, sunken eyes staring down at you without any hesitation. “First rule of the wasteland, Sweetheart.” he grumbled through gritted teeth and a stiff jaw, tightening his chokehold until your eyes rolled back and you burst into a fit of coughs. “Don’t trust nobody.”

Your mind raced fervently, battling against the lack of oxygen and trying to search for anything in your memory that could guarantee you even a chance at surviving his unrelenting assault. A sliver of hope as unconsciousness splotched the edges of your vision with viscous darkness. Your ears screeched as blood thrashed around in your head and face, bulging and boiling, trapped and unable to reach the rest of your writhing body. Your feet kicked and thrashed without results and no matter how deep your nails sank in his leathery skin he didn’t so much as flinch. Spit dribbled from the corner of your gaping mouth, the threat of the gun completely discarded due to suffocation and your lungs screamed and burned with the scarce air.

And he just watched you struggle with a solemn visage and jagged features.

“Say something! ANYTHING! THINK OF SOMETHING!!!”

“Water!” you croak and it was nearly unintelligible, but he understood.

“What?” he hisses and his grip on your throat slacks enough for you to finally suck in a full breath.

You gulp greedily at the dry, scorching air, groaning in octaves so low you couldn’t recognize your own voice. Supposedly having your neck nearly crushed like a rotten pencil did that to one’s vocal cords. You relax beneath him and hold onto his forearm for support as if he hadn’t been the cause of your near-death experience. You cling to him like a lost child and not his victim and it utterly baffles him. He tried to find a glimmer of hatred or disgust, anything that would deter him enough to just shoot you and get this overextended fiasco to an end, anything that would let him pull the fucking trigger. There’s nothing though, just desperation and confusion and fright and you had placed him as the only barrier between yourself and the rest of the world and even when he watched the life drain from you as you fought for breath you still didn’t even glare at him. You were just too pure, undefiled by the cruelty of the world you’d set off to venture and a tiny, once-dead part of him boiled at the incessant thought of you falling into the hands of a less kind man. What if someone else had found you first…

“There’s a storage safehouse. It was made for emergencies.” you gasp and clear your throat, pushing past the need to gag and looking up at him because you were taught that holding eye contact was a good thing when speaking about something of grave importance. He softened above you and leaned away and you took that as your cue to continue. “Those people, the ugh…the bad guys can’t get to it. It’s hidden and you need a Pip-boy to unlock it.” you gulp audibly and wince at the soreness before licking at your chapped lips and wiping the drool off your cheek. “It’s full of food and water…and stimpaks and bandages and…whatever you wish. You can take all of it just – ” a wave of trembles racked through you and you tried to suppress a whimper, but couldn’t. “ – Please, just help me get to it…I just want to go home, Sir…”

“Thought you said you didn’t know anything, Princess? You tryna lie to me now?” his chin dipped as he cocked his head to the side. His voice was flat, and his cold demeanor breaching through your dress and nipping at your insides until you were littered with goosebumps despite being pinned down in a desert in the middle of the day.

“I don’t…I’ve never been there – I was an archive keeper. I know everything in theory I just never knew the people except my parents…But I can find my way to it just by memory, I know where it is I just need to walk around a bit and – ”

“ – Stop yappin’.” he scolded, cutting your rant short before tucking away his gun.

He took a moment to mull over your words, still keeping you locked beneath him while you laid there like a corpse and prayed wordlessly as anticipation punched at your churning stomach. He rubbed at his chin, tongue twisting in his mouth as if he were tasting your proposition. His eyes dipped down to your scrawny form, done skimming over the barren desert sea and deciding this didn’t need much more contemplation. You got to go home and get off his back, he got supplies for a good few weeks, and a handful of raiders would end up dead. Simple. Easy. He could do that.

“Done deal.”

You nearly cried out in joy at his words.

Then he finally stood and gripped your upper arm before roughly pulling you to your feet and you nearly faceplanted in his chest at the force. He laughs as you flounder and fight not to trip, the baritone of his voice sending you spiraling into a pit of embarrassment and abashment because he was the first person you had ever properly met and you were making a fool of yourself. There was a feint, innocent need prickling at your heart, you wished you could’ve impressed him, and made a good first impression, but that had been thrown out the window in its entirety the moment he’d pointed a gun at you.

Now you were torn between needing him close because he was your only source of comfort and wanting to slap him because he was such a rude and foul man. Who even pointed a weapon at an unarmed woman?

He did…the bastard.

“Shoulda just started with the storage, Missy.” he teases as if he’d not nearly killed you a few minutes ago, all lighthearted and smirking. He holds your arm until you’re stable enough to stand on your own and you’re grateful even if a bit abrasive. “Coulda saved us a whole lot of tusslin’.”

“I would have, sir, but you – “

“ – Sssst!” he susses you like one would a mischievous cat and your lips are sealed in an instant. Then he nudged his head forward and readjusted the collar of his coat after releasing you. “Walk.”

Deciding you’ve run your luck dry for the day, you let go of a snarky remark hanging on the tip of your tongue and do as instructed, trudging through the dunes as the familiar sting returns to the bare soles of your feet. Now, however, you had a nasty gash on your ankle to boot and it didn’t help that it was slowly getting covered by specs of sand that rubbed excruciatingly against your exposed flesh.

God damn those roaches, they were a menace when they were tiny! Now? You mouthed at the recollection.

You bite your tongue to keep from whining when the hurt becomes too unbearable, the rest of the time you were heaving with an open mouth as the idea of licking at your sweat for some sort of thirst relief grew. You’d not known thirst until today, it was worse than any needle or medical practice your father had used on you, you couldn’t even swallow properly, the motion happened automatically and you cringed at the stickiness of your dried-up throat.

It was too hot and you were woefully unprepared to deal with it or any of the other discomforts tugging your nerves thin. It bothered you how unphased he seemed by the harsh weather, one glance at him told you he hadn’t even broken a sweat. He was covered from head to toe in heavy clothes and strode with confidence and ease as if he were taking a walk through a park. You shrug without realizing it, too sunken into your head. Maybe he doesn’t have sweat glands anymore.

The sun was finally moving, sinking to the west and casting dramatic shadows over the desert. As his shadow grew, you found sanctuary in it from the still-sizzling rays and sighed in relief. It was a tiny drop of comfort, but it was enough to ease some of your strain. The muscles in your thighs were numb from overexertion for the first time in your life and you dreaded the cramps you’d have to deal with later on. The skin on your feet was smooth as butter from the intense exfoliation of walking through sand for so long, that was an interesting little fact you’d never heard of before. Dead skin cells could be removed by rubbing coarse surfaces over the body. Dope.

Locking yourself in the sanctity of your head and isolating your surroundings, you were numb and blind to how your legs shook. It wasn’t until you collapsed and tasted brittle little specs on your tongue that you realized you were lying down.

The ghoul paused and turned to look at you over his shoulder with profane boredom.

“Didn’t tell you to stop, Princess.”

“Mm…My legs don’t work.” you state before even realizing the cruciality of that bit of information. Your eyes pop open and the exhausted expression vanishes in an instant, you prop up on your elbows and stare back at the limp limbs. Panic ensues, pumping through you like a drug as a dry sob punctures your chest. “My legs don’t…My legs!”

“What in the hell!”

He’s on you in an instant, bent over and pushing at your shoulder until you roll on your back, the spaces where his eyebrows should be are locked together and he shushes your cries with a curt noise, but you’re too stressed to acknowledge it. There are no more tears left, your nose can’t even fill with snot from dehydration, and you end up a mess of ragged sobs and loud wails as you paw at your legs to wake them up. You double over and clutch at your upset stomach with a shaky hand as your teeth grit in dread.

If he hadn’t left you behind yet, he would now…

And you couldn’t even debate him on it this time, you wouldn’t even be able to stalk him if he tried.

“I can’t move them…” you hiccup. You manage to wiggle your toes but lifting your foot or bending a knee just doesn’t register, instead, you get a few twitches from the spent muscles and nothing else. The worst scenario plagues your sanity and you look to the ghoul for guidance because there is no one else. “What if – ”

“ – Shut the hell up!” he scolds and shoots you a brief glare before averting his eyes down as he cups a large gloved palm in the junction of your knee before lifting your thigh in uncharacteristically gentle examination. His thumb dips in your supple flesh, rubbing in circles, searching for something to hint him in on what the issue was, the concentration evident on his distinct features. Your cries die down to whimpers as he juts a finger against your lips. “You – “ he sighs and after a handsy inspection of your other leg, covers his eyes with his hand and presses down on his eyelids as the urge to hold you in another chokehold resurfaces. “ – You’re just fucking tired, you smooth-skinned little – ” he huffs and halts the slew of curses less you start crying even harder.

You don’t have time to react when he grips your sides and lifts you in the air before tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of tatoes. You wretch when his shoulder digs into your stomach and cough it off with arms flailing. Shaky hands clutch at the back of his coat as he secures one arm around your bare thighs and begins walking as if he’s not carrying another full-grown adult.

“Throw up on me and I will fucking blow your head off.”

He understood your sheltered way of thinking, but this was fucking unheard of. A newborn probably had more stamina than you, more strength too if your display of power earlier while he had you pinned down was the brink of your ability. You were so fragile it was annoying, you wouldn’t last a day out here, would’ve ended up as radroach food if he hadn’t stepped in. You were scrawnier than most people he’d seen and he’d seen plenty, and those who were smaller were on the brink of death from starvation. Who the hell went out in the wasteland unarmed?!

You did…fucking idiot.

“Thank you.” you mumble and audibly exhale, despite his threat, closing your eyes at his scarce kindness and smiling through bitten-down lips to cease your sobbing. You tried ignoring the fact that your butt was a few inches away from his face or that his hat grazed against your side with every step he took. Such bashful thoughts had no right to take up space in your head, but then again, he was your first friend and just having him around shot bolts of excitement through you.

Sure, he was a bit…rough around the edges. But he had saved you and he was carrying you back home. And he was a surface dweller who’d probably never known the comforts of the vaults so you couldn’t hold him accountable for being aggressive. Well, you could, and technically should, but you knew better than to bite the hand that feeds you.

“Don’t thank me, Princess.” he snorts and pats your thigh in feign caringness. “You owe me supplies. I ain’t gonna let you cheat me outta that.”

“There’s a few of them, though…the criminals, I mean.” you mused over what to call them while chewing on your bottom lip, hanging off the shoulder of a ghoul in a thin sundress, carried through a desert, like it was just a normal day.

They had looked more like bandits, but what else were you supposed to label them as? The judgment system was a thing of the past, so what were these people considered now? Outlaws? You continue with a pang of concern, fearing for the safety of your rugged savior, too attached to the idea of companionship and just sick of seeing violence. You’d had enough for one day.

“Are you sure you can handle them? They didn’t seem very friendly.”

“First off, they’re called raiders. Everyone ‘round here’s a criminal now.” he laughed, tipping his head back and you feel the raspy chortle swell your chest.

You liked him happy, he was almost charming this way. Or maybe it was a “Rescue Romance” you were experiencing and the ghoul was just a crusty weird man who had saved you without considering what a pest you might turn out to be. You’d try to find that one psychology book and re-read it once you got back home just to make sure.

“Stop swooning!”

“Second, it’s my job. I’m a bounty hunter, Sweetheart. I kill people for a livin’.” he tilted his hollow nose to the side, addressing you properly as he spoke, and if you’d seen the gesture you would have appreciated it.

“Oh,…a bounty hunter? Like in the Old West then! I’ve read so much about that!” you squeak and perk up, wiggling in excitement as your face beams. Your calf twitched as some feeling returned to your limp legs and it only added to your brightened mood. Now you could actually feel the cool texture of his coat gliding against your skin.

You didn’t see his features grim or how his hat tipped to obscure sunken eyes and hide the brisk vulnerability swirling in them or the flash of regret, the pain, the little piece of humanity he didn’t even know he still had. His grip on your thigh tightened and you strayed to one side and glanced at the back of his head in question, expecting him to be more boastful about his job. Instead, he was mournfully silent and you feared you’d said something wrong, reopened an old would accidentally.

“Just like the Old West, yeah.” he nodded with a low grunt and you frowned. The words slip past his teeth with such dreadful familiarity that you can’t help the curiosity that would no doubt be your downfall one day. You press a tender palm between his shoulder blades, more for your sake rather than his, and pray he didn’t change his mind to drop you and leave.

You doubted books were a common luxury in this crumbling world, you also doubted the ghoul was a man of knowledge, he didn’t look like the type to read. Maybe there were still movie cassettes and TVs in good enough shape to be used and that’s how he learned of the old cowboy history. As slim as those possibilities were, they made more sense than him being alive before the apocalypse and still walking the earth in the present time. His distorted appearance didn’t give you any indicators of his age, so trying to guess was out of the question, but even then the war was over two hundred years ago. He couldn’t possibly…

Maybe you were simply overthinking, but the way he’d said it sounded like he’d lived through it and the longer you pondered over that the sharper your awareness became.

“How long do ghouls live, Mister?” you ask, uncertain of what he’d answer, but holding onto your speculations until he did.

“That the vault?” he shoots back, coming to a halt and straightening and completely sweeping away your inquiry.

It was a good enough answer and despite your gnawing curiosity, you decided not to press the matter further because you didn’t know how far his courtesy extended before he had his gun pressed to your temple again.

You hadn’t even noticed how much ground he’d covered with you slumped over him, everything around you looked the same and with fatigue fogging your lapse of time it wasn’t surprising. He was built for endurance or…mutated for it. What exactly was a ghoul, anyway?

You coil around him like a snake and he holds you secure as you clutch at his shoulder and turn until you can see what he sees.

The distinct metal of the vault door glinted in the dying sunlight, mostly concealed by debris and toppled over stone blocks.

Everything around you was bathed in warm hues of maroon and deep orange and for just a moment the world felt so peaceful. The sun had almost completely set, dipping behind golden dunes, the breeze hollered a deft, haunted tune and there was no noise besides you and the ghoul’s breaths. It was all so beautiful you wanted to cry, your eyes dampened as you soaked in the sight with a slack jaw. The magic of a sunset was so foreign it hadn’t even registered until you’d been made to look around instead of troubling yourself with the bounty hunter’s backstory.

How could something be so impossibly mesmerizing?

“Yeah…” you manage to answer, at a loss for words, yet still conscious of the question and your friend’s proven lack of patience. “Yeah, that’s it.”

He plops you down unceremonially without even asking you if your legs were back in order before grabbing your arm and dragging you along. You waddle after him like a duckling and clutch at his coat when your ankles intertwine and trip you in your stride. A startled noise escapes you, but you successfully manage to keep up with his hasty footing until he’s pulled you directly in front of the vault door, grumbling at your clumsy nature and lack of coordination. A few low curses are hung over your head but you don’t pay them any mind.

“Open it.” he demands and pushes you forward, then unclasps his gun and then another you hadn’t even noticed he had.

Whatever nonchalant demeanor you’d made him settle into was discarded for one so icy and sharp that you failed to understand how he just switched within a blink.

You straighten your dress with a huff, patting out the newly acquired wrinkles and trying to ignore the variety of stains. The Pip-boy is raised up as you maneuver around the plethora of menus.

The ghoul steps closer, stopping once he’s right behind you with a raised weapon and steady eyes glued to the entrance. The lid hisses and you recoil at the scratchy sound until you’re pressing back into him, he wraps an arm around you on instinct, then scowls and rips away as if burnt by a hot rod.

“Watch your step.” he hisses and points the guns at the entrance, treading cautiously, on high alert for any noise that echoes beyond the darkness. Once he’s glued to the vault door he beckons you with his hand and you quickly follow, feet pattering against the metallic floor until you’re closely pressed to his side and peeking from behind him.

It wasn’t scary when he was with you. You strangely didn’t fear the raiders lurking inside anymore, only worrying over the potential harm they might cause him. But he’d proven more than capable, you made yourself believe he’ll be just fine and so would you.

When nothing comes and he’s confident the threat lies further inside, he steps past the entrance.

“Stay behind me.” he makes a face at his statement, then glances back at you. “And don’t get in my way.”

Chapter 3 >>>

🌼 Masterlist 🌼

#the ghoul fanfic #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #fallout tv series

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comfortless · 3 months

Note

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction

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cryptidghostgirl · 3 months

Text

Make You Wish Chapter Four -- Vox

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: I don't think there are any for this chapter? Correct me if I am wrong.

Word Count: 1,225

Previous Part: Chapter Three -- A Reunion

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Make You Wish Master List

A/N I wasn't planning on posting this until tomorrow, but it seems to have some rather excited fans so here is chapter four (and the fourth thing I'm publishing today. We're very done for the day. I am tried and have actual work to do.) Also guys, I'm screaming. I accidentally deleted the whole things right before I was gonna post it. Thankfully I had a draft from when it was almost done save but like, god that sucked.

On the screen was Vox, seated behind a desk.

"Top of the hour and we're discussing a certain has-been how has been spotted cavorting around town after a seven year absence." Vox was saying, a poorly drawn image of Alastor displayed on the screen to his left.

Y/n saw Alastor's ear twitch with irritation.

"Yeah." she sighed, folding her arms across her chest, "Vox has gone kinda crazy since you left. I told you, things got tough."

"Did anybody miss him? Did anybody notice? More on tonight's program." Vox said through the TV, shuffling a stack of papers.

Alastor changed the channel with another flick of his finger.

"Hun, don't worry yourself with it." Y/n advised, "He's still gonna be there tomorrow."

The new channel showed a talk-show set up, Vox-2-Nite, where Vox was both host and guest.

"So, the old Radio Demon is back in town." host Vox was saying to himself as guest.

"Why is he hanging around?" guest Vox asked, taking a sip from a mug that had 'fuck Alastor' written on the side.

"Al." Y/n warned, sensing her friends irritation growing.

"What does that mean for your family?" Host Vox asked before Alastor changed the channel again.

Vox was on the screen again, before a bright red curtain.

"Well, handily, I've got good news." he was saying theatrically, "He's a loser, a fossil, and I don't mean to sound hostel-"

Alastor changed the channel again. This time to one of Vox's mega church broadcasts. Vox stood in the center of the screen wearing a pope's hat with an inverted cross on it.

"But the demon is a coward!" he announced, his words matching the previous channels sentiments perfectly.

"Jesus, V." Y/n asked, eyes wide, "How many channels are you running this on?"

"You can take that as gospel. Pulling my viewers? Impossible. I'm visual, he's barely audible."

"Y/n." Alastor hummed, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Yeah?"

"You wont mind if I handle this quickly. We can have our little chat after, I promise. It wont take more than a moment."

"I don't know, Al..." Y/n sighed, crossing her arms and tapping her foot slightly, "This isn't good for you, letting him get under your skin like this."

Alastor changed the channel again. A cooking show appeared and Vox was standing before the oven, singing along to the music playing in the background.

"But he should've stayed away! While he hid in radio, we pivoted to video!"

Vox on screen turned to the oven as he sang, opening it and pulling out a deer's head on a plate. Y/n bristled at the site, her horns growing just the tiniest bit longer, her teeth just the smallest bit sharper.

"And now his medium is getting bloody rare!"

"Al?" Y/n asked sharply.

"Yes, darling?"

"I lied." Y/n turned to face him, "He took this shit musical. Rip him a new one."

"Oh!" Millie exclaimed, excitedly grabbing onto Moxxie's arm, "We're gonna get a show!"

Alastor's grin widened at Y/n's words, if that was even possible. He stuck his hand out to the side, his microphone materializing in his grasp.

"Lucky for me, I've got the best voice this side of the divide on my side." he noted, shooting Y/n a look.

Her eyes flashed red.

"You flatter me."

Alastor brought his microphone to his mouth, suddenly exceedingly calm. The imps present in the room watched in shock as his ears flattened along his head.

"Salutations, good to be back on the air!" he announced into the device, "Yes I know it's been a while since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!"

Vox's brow furrowed on the TV screen as he inched up close to the camera.

"What a dated voice." Vox shot back, clearly listening to Alastor's broadcast on the set of his cooking show.

"Instead of a clout chasing, mediocre, video podcast." Alastor continued, not showing any sign he had noticed the TV demon's insult, "Is Vox insecure, pursuing allure? Flitting between this fad and that, is nothing working?"

"Ignore his chirping!" Vox commanded from the TV.

Y/n laughed and, turning to face Alastor, realized the man held a hand out to her. With a smile, she took it and he spun her into his arms as he spoke. The music echoed through the office as Alastor raised the volume on the TV once again.

"Every day he's got a new format."

Alastor spun Y/n back out again as the pair began dancing.

"You're looking at the future!" Vox yelled back, "He's the shit that comes before that!"

As Alastor spun Y/n back into his arms, she laid one of her hands on top of his holding the microphone and pulled it closer to her face.

"Is Vox as strong as he purports, or is it based on his support?" she sang in a clear voice, Blitzo, Millie, and Moxxie's eyes widening with recognition at the sound, "He'd be powerless without the other Vees."

"That's true!" Alastor noted, pulling the microphone back to himself as Y/n let go of his hand and he spun her back out again.

"It can't be..." Moxxie muttered under his breath.

"Holy shit!" Millie cut him off, excitement creeping into her voice, "There's no way, Y/n is the guest star?"

"The fuck are you two talking about?" Blitzo asked, turning to Millie and Moxxie as they watched the couple continue to dance.

"Well, Sir," Moxxie began, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket, "back before the Radio Demon went missing, he used to bring guests onto the show on occasion. There was one guest he never named during his broadcasts however. She mostly just sang songs and chatted with him but, she sounded an awful lot like Y/n did just now."

"You don't say." Blitzo hummed, his arms crossed as he turned back to Y/n and Alastor, "So much for little miss 'oh, my life has been so boring. You'd probably just fall asleep if I started talking about it!' She is so gonna get it later."

Alastor let go of Y/n's hand and leaned into the microphone, beginning to sing as well, using the music emanating from the TV as a base.

"And here's the sugar on the cream: he asked me to join his team!"

"Hold on!" Vox yelled.

"I said no and now he's pissy, that's the tea!" Alastor finished, ignoring the demon once again.

"You old timey prick!" Vox exclaimed, his face glitching slightly as Y/n wandered back over to Alastor.

She leaned an elbow on his shoulder, tilting her head to the side in amusement as they watched Vox struggle.

"I'll show you suffering!"

"Aww, the TV is buffering." Y/n said, leaning into the microphone, her voice dripping with sickly sweet pity.

"I'll destroy yoo-o-u-u" Vox exclaimed as his technical difficulties seemed to grow worse.

Alastor and Y/n exchanged a wicked pair of smiles as the TV flickered out. Shadows crept from the edges of the room, encircling their feet. Alastor held an arm out to Y/n once again which she took with a smile. In a flash of darkness, they were gone.

"What the fuck was that?" Loona asked, stalking into the room.

----

Next Part -> Chapter Five -- The Conversation

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distantdarlings · 5 months

Text

UNDOING // m. riddle

RATING: R / 1.1K WORDS (blurb)

Mattheo Riddle x Reader Insert (No gender-specific details)

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this* The Room of Requirement grants you and Mattheo a helping hand.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! No protection - piv, degradation, slight praise, language, Mattheo's a little mean, ripping clothes, dom!Mattheo (+ blurb that ended up a bit longer than expected)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Heartbeat - Childish Gambino

---

It turned out that the Room of Requirement was really there when you needed it. Because when the two of you had come stumbling down the hall, fingers wrapped against each other’s, it had appeared before the two of you. Once inside, his fingers tangled within yours, slamming your hands up and over your head and against the door. Your breath jolted out at the sensation. Before you could comprehend the first movement, his lips were on your neck, laying bruising, biting kisses to the flesh there.

“Is that all you got, Riddle?” you spat his name. It was always like this between the two of you—constantly bickering. You’d make a snarky comment, and he’d bite back roughly. His hands would abuse every inch of your skin, breaking bones and tugging muscle, anything to claim you as his own. He’d do anything he had to to make sure everyone knew you belonged to him, even if it meant hurting you. And you didn’t care. You wanted every bit of that.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed in your ear, laying a harsh bite to the lobe. You yelped at the sensation, pushing a swift smack into his chest. Of course, it was useless, as he didn’t move an inch. A dark chuckle spilled like wine from his lips, trailing down the course of your neck and pooling down the midline of your chest. Or was that his fingers? You glanced down to try and figure out the answer when he crashed his lips to yours, tainting the soft flesh there.

His hands were fast and mean, yanking your uniform shirt roughly, the buttons clattering around the two of you like hail. The fingers of one hand worked your bottoms out of their button while the other gripped your hair roughly, pinning your head against the door. Without the security of its fastener, your bottoms fell loosely around your ankles. Refusing to pull your lips away from his, you wiggled your feet out of the bottoms whilst keeping your hands still fastened around his body.

In a movement as fluid as water, his hands tightened around the underside of your thighs, hiking you up against the wall. He moved in against your bare core, allowing your legs to rest comfortably around his taut hips. The rough material of his trousers pressed agonizingly against your core, sending shocks of pleasure up through your synapses. Mattheo’s breath was fast and panting into your mouth. You pull away.

“Mm, sounds like you’re gonna pass out, baby. You sure you can handle me?” you tease. You knew you were in for it as soon as the words left your mouth, but there was something about riling him up that made your sexual ventures so much more exciting. Anticipation pooled between your thighs as his eyes visibly darkened.

He pulled you away from the door and laid you out on the long, dark table that stood in the exact center of the shifting room. His hands went straight to his belt and zipper, not even bothering with the rest of his clothes. The clink of his belt sent a bolt of lust straight to your brain as he ripped his uniform jacket off. His hands unbuttoned the first buttons of his shirt and loosened the tie. And there, above you, with his tousled hair and clothing, swollen lips, and blushed cheeks, you were positive you’d seen a god.

“You gonna fuck me, or just stare?” you say, tugging him closer to your core with your legs still wrapped around his hips. He was angry.

“Gonna shut you the fuck up,” he growled, shoving his pants around his thighs, freeing himself. He looked painfully swollen, the tip of him shimmering beneath the candles floating above the two of you. He spit on his hand and, without warning, pressed the tips of his finger over your entrance, tracing the outside and slowly pressing them within you. The scream that erupted from you must have penetrated the room’s walls because of the way they’d practically shaken beneath the volume.

By the time he’d lined himself up with your entrance and forced himself roughly inside, you’d lost all future taunts that had once danced on your lips. The only thing being freed from your worthless body were the most pathetic whimpers shoved out by Mattheo’s rough thrusts. The look in his eyes as he pushed into you was close to animalistic, his pupils blown impossibly large and his eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

His hands held you like a vice, keeping you still as he bruised your insides, taking a piece for himself. Your lips were perpetually parted, and the breath caught in your throat presented as strangled moans. It was ridiculous what the boy did to you.

“Yeah, baby?” he laughed, almost sadistically. “Where’s that mouth now, huh?” Perhaps you’d imagined it, but it felt as if his pace quickened if that was even possible.

“Come on, baby, give me that teasing,” he taunted. “Where’s it at, hmm?” His hips slowed. And slowed. And slowed. Until he was only pushing into you agonizingly, slow every few seconds. His breaths were hot and heavy against your slick skin. A curl fell before his face, a singular drop of sweat teasing the edge.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he cooed, the palm of his hand coming up to lay gentle slaps to either side of your face. “Is it too much, baby? Is that what it is? God, you’re fucking pathetic.”

His hands reassumed his grip around your hips as he resumed his pace from before. Blindingly, bruisingly rough thrusts that threatened to split you down the middle. Your breathless whines pushed from between your lips faster.

“Tell me what you want,” he groaned, his movement never halting. Even though he knew your response would be silent and useless, he asked anyway, taunting the fact that you couldn’t force your brain to form any words together. The only thing that existed right now was him inside of you.

“Oh, baby…Am I fucking you wordless?” he purred, his words sending fire down to your core. “Can’t even think straight with me so deep, hmm?”

Your end was building hot and fast beneath his degrading words and his mean hands. You wouldn’t last much longer, and Mattheo knew that from the way your legs were tightening around his waist.

Sweat slid down his neck and beneath his shirt, staining the inside with slick definition. One of his hands pushed between the two of you as he stroked his fingers across your most sensitive areas, his touch insistent and direct. Your eyes pushed to the back of your head, your back arching off of the table. Once again, he was your undoing, your legs trembling wildly beneath the weight of your finish.

“Oh, good fucking job, baby,” Mattheo groaned beneath your clenching core, feeling his finish begin to dance across his stomach just like yours. His eyes glanced down at yours as his thrusts became sloppier and sloppier, and his lips parted wider and wider, his release washing over his brain and within you.

*Tag List: @lilymurphy03 (if you want to be added to the tag list for any future works, please send me a dm or message in my inbox, thanks!)*

#fanfiction #creative writing #fanfic #writing #reader insert #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #oneshot #slytherin #harry potter smut #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle #gender neutral reader

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princedesnuees · 2 months

Text

CROSSING THE LINE — afab!reader x mingyu.

pairing: afab!reader x mingyu. genre: smut. summary: you've cheated on your boyfriend and you're going to pay the consequences. warnings: cheating, punishment by sex (consensual), unprotected sex, pet names, degradation, rough sex, domination, big dick!mingyu, breast and nipple play, chocking, biting, breeding kink. words: 1.7k

You've been a bad girl and you know it. How are you going to face your boyfriend now that he's found out you've been cheating on him? And it was your booty call who taunted him by telling him everything. All the juicy details that go with it. Oh yeah, it made him mad, Mingyu. Mad with rage, and maybe mad about something else. You're sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away on your phone like crazy, trying to calm your man's ardor, but you know he'll be home any minute. You're scared because you know that an angry Mingyu is unforgiving. You jump as you hear the front door slam. Crap. "Mingyu...?" You go, not sure if it's still a human who's crossed the threshold. And you're right, because the way he glares at you tells you that words won't help you today. Pity. "Yo baby. Hope you had a good time?" "It's... it's not what you think." "It's perfectly what I think." He swings a bag of groceries across the table, it makes a thunderous noise that makes you jump back in your chair. You've really pissed him off. You bad girl... "I'll explain everything..." "There's no need. I've already been told everything. Was it fun, being fucked on the printer? You liked it? God, you even screamed his name." "Honey... I didn't... I didn't mean to..." The truth is, you wanted to. You wanted it so badly, you couldn't resist. You wouldn't even have been able to resist a cock that big, because that's what you are: a bitch who doesn't assume she likes cock. "Are you that desperate for cock?" "Gyu..." He steps forward dangerously, crossing the meager distance that still separated you from him. His grip collides with your throat, rocking your body backwards. The table smashes into your back. You don't have the time to fight back, or even the strength. Everyone knows that your guy's not only got power in his pelvis, but above all in his arms. It's not for nothing that this godlike body was sculpted at the gym. He leans in. Glides up to your ear. "I'm going to have to remind you who owns you." "G-Gyu... I... My love..." "Spread your thighs." He clearly imposes himself, forcing your little legs open to let him settle in their center. His pelvis crashes into your crotch and the weight falling against your Venus mound causes you to let out a squeak. Fuck. You're so going to get fucked. "Gyu, I... I'm not going to know how to take you..."

You're not used to his big cock after the one you took on the printer. The guy was well-endowed, but never as well-endowed as your guy. Fucking angry dick. He rubs against you like an animal in heat. You feel the muscles in his chest pushing up to your tits. As he always commands, you're not wearing a bra. It's your nipples that graze directly against the fabric. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard, baby. You won't be able to walk, you won't be able to go back to that asshole." So this is the punishment that awaits you. "Gyu please... Don't... don't hurt me too much..." But you're used to his excess. It always leaves its mark. The one you desire as much as you fear is finally released, belt off and boxers down. His huge dick emerges, already large and well veined. It wobbles in the open air, before colliding with your belly. A white pearl fails on it, and it's not long before he's peeling your pants down to your knees, then ripping off those lace lingerie that no longer protect anything. His ragged breathing echoes in the hollow of your neck. He bites, licks, rubs himself like a rutting beast. Then he moves up, forcing a kiss that you don't resist, moaning at the touch of his warm, full lips.

God, you missed the taste of him. "You're such a little slut, aren't you..." "Your very own slut..." "I'm going to fill you to the brim." "Oh baby... Give me your cock... Your cum... Make... Make me a child..." The request makes him grunt as he grips, presses his huge glans against your tiny entrance. You fear the tear and arch your back as you feel him thrust into you without any gentleness. Without any protection. Your man has always been like that, loving to ride bareback, without any preparation, feeling you deep inside, and release a big load of his cum without the slightest restraint. He's marking his territory, after all. Take back what's rightfully his. And your pussy's part of it. "Hmmmm. Fuck..." he rumbles as he go deeper inside. You're so tight, it's hard for his thick centimetres to get through. God, you've always wonder if this excessive size was normal. "The cock that fucked you must have been tiny. I'm still having such a hard time getting through." He's amused by the observation. "M-Mingyu... Aaah... Your... Your dick... is so big...! Han...!" Because it is. And it's eating you from the inside out. He pushes, his veins disappear, swallowed by your already wet pussy. You're soaking wet like a slut. Higher up, his thick palms have lifted your top. Kneading your bare breasts. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, wringing moans from you like a horny bitch in need. "Honey...! You... you know how sensitive I am about nipples..." "Shut up."

He reaches down to catch them between his lips. Eating your breasts like a hungry beast. His tongue wraps around your nipples. He sucks every last drop of milk out of you. Your big baby is thirsty and he's letting you know it. But in the end, it's him who will pour his milk into you. Screwed up to the hilt, his back straightens as he rumbles his well-being. "Damn, you're so tight..." His pelvis starts a movement that makes you scream. You wrap your knees around his powerful hips, your arms knotted behind his neck. And you hold on. You hold on because his swell will eventually tip you backwards. "Gyuuu... Haaan!" His big dick pushes you back, you feel his glans tap into the bottom, throbbing against your burning flesh. You'd fucking forgotten about this incredible sensation. You'd missed your man's big cock so much. "Haaaaan! M-Mingyu... You... You make me so crazy for you!" Your flesh closes around his cock, you know you won't last long before being on cloud nine. He growls like an animal, biting the skin of your neck, grabbing your breasts as the muscles in his back dig in as he fucks you on the kitchen table. "You've been such a bad girl... I'm gonna... fucking kill him... Yeah, kill him... No one will touches you ever again..."

"I'm so sorry my love, I... I've been a naughty girl, I... I deserve to be punished." The shopping bag ends up on the floor. And you too would end up on the floor if his cock wasn't lodged deep in your hot cunt. You wet around his cock, it drips out of your little maternal nest, before dripping onto his balls. They slap hard against your pubic bone. You don't know how many liters these hot balls will pour into you, but you know in advance that you won't be able to take it all. "Did he fuck you good? Was his cock as big as mine? As good? Answer, bitch!" "No, no! It... It had nothing to do... He... He could never have been your equal, my baby... There's nothing better than your penis... Nothing at all..." "You're such a fucking bitch, don't you. Swallow my cock." He reminds you that this pussy of yours belongs to him. That only him can enter it at will. You feel yourself losing your footing. See trouble. Your breasts are being manhandled, tossed back and forth under his onslaught. You look like a cheap whore being vulgarly fucked on a piece of wood, but that's what you deserve for letting someone else climb on top of you. Bad bitch. His tip taps the bottom of your pussy. You feel it throbbing, a sign that the sauce is coming. You know your Mingyu's cock well. Every vein, the way his dick wiggles as if communicating with you. You love him. Fuck yes, you love him. "My love... Cum inside... Fill me up..." "I'm going to make your belly swell."

His grip comes up to squeeze your throat, momentarily depriving you of air as your loins deepen, welcoming a little more of his angry excess. His full balls slam against your rump and, finally, all his muscles tense. You hear him roar, digging his claws into your skin as something boiling pours into you. A flood gushes out, hot and thick, filling your feminine cocoon with a big amount of sperm. Invaded by your man's semen, you cum in turn, struck brutally by orgasm as your neck tilts back. And you scream like a slut, tits and nipples raised to the ceiling, pussy overflowing. You can't take it anymore. You've been ploughing his back like a madwoman. And he's still unloading on you. Fuck, his bags have no bottom. "Gyu..." You catch your man, whose silhouette crashes against you, onto your devoured breasts. He butchered them well. "Baby... It's so good to have you..." You whisper, as he stays lodged inside you. You feel his penis gradually deflate. Clogging the entrance to your vagina, preventing his sperm from escaping. He'll wait like this, until you're pregnant with him. As you begged. "Your beautiful cock... worked well." "I'll always be there to remind you who's the only one who can fuck you."

#mingyu smut #svt smut #mingyu x reader #seventeen smut #svt #kim mingyu #mingyu #smut #mingyu imagines #mingyu fic #mingyu scenarios

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suugarbabe · 5 months

Text

[Chapter 7]

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: SMUT, dom!reader, sub!mattheo, male!masterbation, 18+ content below the cut, MDNI!!

Warmth. That’s what you felt pressed against your back and across your middle as you slowly started to blink your eyes awake. You were confused at first, thinking maybe you were dreaming the sensations that you felt, but looking down at your waist and seeing the tattooed hand that was splayed across your stomach confirmed: Mattheo had stayed through the night. You stretched your arms out in front of you, stretching out your muscles from sleep and the other previous nights activity.

Mattheo must have thought you were trying to get up from the action, his arm that was wrapped around you instinctively pulling you closer to his chest. His face burrowed into your neck, breath fanning against your skin as his breathing stayed even. You allowed him to embrace you a little longer, getting lost in your thoughts, thinking about what everything in the last 12 hours meant. Were you and Mattheo together now, like officially together? Would he tell the others? Were you even allowed to talk about it? You tried your best to fall back asleep, if only until Mattheo woke up, but your mind wasn’t slowing down.

Reluctantly peeling his arm from you slowly, you slipped from the bed, putting on your slippers and heading down to the kitchen. You knew Gimball would make your morning tea for you if you asked, he often makes it for you before you even wake up, but he must have known not to do that this morning. You also didn’t have a house elf at your old place, and you liked the routine of doing some things for yourself still.

As if he expected the change in routine, you walked into the kitchen to see Gimball working on breakfast, but your favorite mug and tea bag sitting on the counter while a kettle was on the stove. “How did you know I’d be down here, Gimball?” You questioned the small elf playfully. Without ceasing his movements he replied to your question, “Gimball knows many things Miss Birdie, especially that Master Mattheo does not like to be disturbed in the mornings.” You smiled at this, cheeks tinting the slight pink at the realization that Gimball knew Mattheo was in your room. Ripping open the teabag and placing it in your mug, you tied the string to the handle before walking over to the whistling kettle.

“You’ve known Mattheo a long time, hmm?” You asked it as if you hadn’t seen into Mattheo’s memories, wanting to see what the elf might say. With a snap of his fingers an array of plates and kitchenware appeared on the large center island, “Gimball has been with the Riddle family for three generations, he remembers Master Mattheo’s birth, taught him his schooling. Master Mattheo is a good man, good man Miss Birdie.” You hummed in acknowledgement, smiling as you poured the hot water into your mug, “Was he good in school?”

You were just fishing for any knowledge about him now, anything you knew he probably wouldn’t tell you, at least not right now. Gimball nodded as he set up all the breakfast food and teas for everyone, “Oh yes, Master Mattheo is very smart, very smart indeed. Very observant, but I’m sure Miss Birdie has already come to knowledge of that.” You huffed out a laugh, nodding your head, “Oh yeah, almost too observant for his own good if you ask me.” Gimball let himself smile at your statement, something you didn’t see him do often. With another snap of his fingers, the food arrangement disappeared from the center island. You knew it was now on the large dinning room table, awaiting everyone in the house as they individually made their way down.

Gimball looked at you again, “Master cares very deeply about Miss Birdie.” You nodded your head, “I know Gimball, he really looks at us like a family. It’s a nice feeling.” Gimball shook his head, waving his small finger in the air, “No, Miss Birdie misunderstands Gimball. His care for her is different than the others. Master Mattheo is not always good with his words. Sometimes he cannot express how he feels properly. Master was not allowed to say his feelings when he was little.”

You opened your mouth to ask him to explain further, to tell you what he meant by his last few statements but the opening of the kitchen door caught your attention. You turned at the intrusion, only to see Mattheo standing in the doorway, now completely clothed for the day in a pair of black slacks and a white button up rolled to the elbows, displaying the veins and tattoos that decorated his forearms. You were clearly gawking and if Mattheo noticed (which he probably did) he was polite this morning and chose not to acknowledge the fact.

“What’re you doing in here?” was his question instead. You turned back around, only to see Gimball had apparated away. Turning back to Mattheo you held your mug up to your lips, taking a small sip, “Tea.” He quirked an eyebrow, “You know Gimball would’ve made that for you.” You nodded, “I know, but I like to do it myself sometimes.” Mattheo held the door open for you to exit, following close behind you as you did so. “You left me this morning, woke up to an empty bed and pillows that smelled like you,” he whispered in your ear, giving your hip a light squeeze. You smirked at this, not being able to help your quip back, “Mmm, what a bummer of a feeling. Thankfully I was still in the house and you didn’t wake up like that only to find me gone for days on end.”

Mattheo’s eyebrows shot up, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek as he suppressed a smirk. “We’ve got an attitude this morning I see,” he spoke as he sat down next to you at the table. You shook your head, “I would never get an attitude with you, Mattheo.” He huffed out a small laugh then, pilling food onto his plate and choosing not to respond. Soon the others started to trail in, thankfully most of them still in their sleepwear making you not feel like the only one.

Once finished with breakfast Mattheo placed a small kiss on your temple, stating he needed to go to the club early to take care of a few things before the night started. He took Pansy and Draco with him, leaving you at the table with Blaise, Theo and Enzo. The three wore devious smirks, Enzo’s eyes down at his plate avoiding yours. Theo, however, had no shame, pointing his fork at you while he talked, “So, sorella, have a good night?” You glared at him, “Fine, thanks.” Theo gave you a knowing look, “Enjoy it with anyone else?”

This question caused Enzo to choke slightly on his sip of orange juice, the other two men not holding back their laughter. “Serves your right, Enzo,” you stated harshly. The lanky man held up his arms, “Hey, I never said anything!” You rolled your eyes, “But you were smirking like you thought you knew something and obviously agree with Teddy.” Blaise tapped his fork on his glass, grabbing everyone’s attention, “Alright alright, lets stop teasing the poor girl. If anything did happen, which were not saying it did,-”

“or didn’t!” Theo pointed out. Blaise nodded, “Or didn’t,” you rolled your eyes, “can we all just agree that tonight is going to be interesting as hell. Well for us,” he gestured between himself and Theo and Enzo, “maybe not for you, Birdie.” You furrowed your brows in confusion, not understanding the implications of his statement. “Why is tonight going to be interesting for everyone but me, Blaise? What’s happening?” Theo couldn’t stop himself from laughing, clutching his stomach and rearing back in his seat. Enzo gave you a sad smile, “Because there’s a new dancer coming tonight. The one you covered for quit and Pansy said the new one is coming for her first shift this evening.”

You shrugged your shoulders, stuffing another piece of fruit in your mouth, “Okay, so? I don’t care about that. I only danced that one time because Mattheo said I couldn’t. I like bartending with you Enzo. Why would a new dancer make me upset?” Theo leaned both elbows on the table, clasping his hands in front of him as his tilted his head to the side, “Because this girl is proper fit, like, thank you fucking Salazar fit.” You rolled your eyes, “Again…so? All the dancers are fit, Teddy. You’re just a horndog.” Blaise jumped in, “Mattheo used to have a reputation…with dancers.” You stiffened slightly, but waved your hand telling him to continue, “It’s stopped since you came around, for some reason,” he raised his eyebrows slightly, “Everyone’s just curious to see how it will go.”

You placed your fork on your place, dabbing your lips with the napkin from your lap before standing, “Mattheo’s a big boy. I don’t control him, he can do what he wants. Like I said, there’s nothing going on between us, I’m just like the rest of you guys to him.” Theo snorted at this, while Enzo groaned. Blaise just shrugged his shoulders, “Whatever you say, Birdie. Just know if you feel like fighting, I’m on your side.” You couldn’t help but laugh at everyone’s dramatic reactions, “Thank you, Blaise, but I’m sure that wont be necessary. Everything’s going to be fine.”

And it appeared so for the first few hours you were at the club. You and Enzo worked together restocking the bar while Blaise and Theo sat on the stools, going over plans for different ‘business trips’ and other ordeals. You didn’t push it, but did try to sneak a glance or two at what they were working on. You had grown apparently too close to Theo those few days because he immediately caught you. Giving you a playful scolding for even trying.

Nothing seemed a bother until you went to put up two new bottles of rum and nearly slammed into the side of Enzo. “What are you-” you went to question but Enzo’s large hand palmed the top of your head like a basketball and turned it until your line of vision was the same as his. Immediately you felt like your body was on fire with rage.

Across the club Pansy was standing with Mattheo and a brunette woman. She was wearing what you would barely consider clothing in a skirt so short it was practically knickers and a top that was so small you figured there had to be a spell put on it for her breasts not to be spilling out. But that wasn’t even the bother as most of the dancers dressed in similar attire. What was bothering you was the way Mattheo was interacting with her.

It wasn’t like he was coming on to her, but it wasn’t like he was being her boss either. Though it was very apparent that she was coming on to him. Touching his arm, twirling her hair between her fingers, biting her lip. And Mattheo wasn’t helping, leaning slightly in to her touch, giving her a devilish grin. “What a fucking slag,” the words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them and Blaise nearly choked on his drink.

“Mattheo or Trixie?” Theo asked, knowing that using the girls name would probably instill more rage in you. Your eyebrows shot up, a scoff leaving your lips. Enzo groaned, “Cmon, Nott. Don’t rile her up more.” You opened your mouth to respond but it only dropped further in shock when you saw Mattheo tuck a stray hair behind Trixie’s ear. The three boys followed your gaze, all beginning to mumble amongst themselves about how everything was going to play out.

Jealousy is a sexy look on you, Princess, Mattheo’s voice rang between your ears as your eyes snapped to meet his. The fucker had the audacity to smirk at you before giving his attention back to the girl. You slammed a glass down on the counter, not breaking it but definitely causing a sound loud enough for all eyes to turn to you. “Oi, watch it, Birdie. Do you have any idea how much those glasses cost?” You hadn’t noticed Draco walk up to the bar before your actions, too focused on the growing grin Mattheo wore at your increased rage.

Then an idea popped into your head, a definitive way to get back at Mattheo being a right prick. You walked from behind the bar, coming now to stand in front of Draco who only eyed you suspiciously. “Hi Dray,” your voice sickly sweet, “Have any dinner plans?” Draco looked to the other three boys, obviously asking for an explanation of your question. Theo rolled his eyes but Blaise only chucked, “She’s plotting something to get back at Riddle. Seems like your her pawn, Malfoy.”

Draco raised his eyebrows as he looked down at you, “This true, Darling? You trying to use me to get back at cousin? What’d he do- ohh, I see now.” Draco glanced over top of you at Mattheo still talking with Trixie, his focus slightly less strict now that he noticed you grab hold of Draco’s bicep. Meeting your eyes again Draco shrugged, “You know what, fuck it. Matt’s been a dick to me lately, serves him right.”

You sealed happily, clasping your hands together, “Seriously? Oh, Merlin, thank you so much!” You wrapped your arms around Draco’s middle, smushing your face into his upper abdomen. “Easy, there. Don’t want him to kill me before we get to the main event,” Draco joked. You pulled back, smile still evident. Enzo just shook his head, “You sure bout this, Angel?”

Nodding, you walked back round the bar, “Oh I’m sure. Wanna go around 9, Dray? There’s no way he’d leave in the middle of busy hours. You can handle the bar yourself tonight, right Enzie?” You turned to your friend with pleading eyes. Enzo nodded, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll make Pansy help if needed.” You hugged Enzo now, who let out a low chuckle and patted your back.

“I’ll leave a dress for you in the dancers changing room, you’ll get dressed here and I’ll make sure he sees you before we leave,” Draco was looking down at his phone as he spoke. You nodded, “Okay, sounds good.” He sent you a wink before walking back towards the office. You looked at the clock, noting you had four hours to get through before you could implement your plan.

Those hours seemed to drag, Enzo constantly reminding you to not watch the clock and just work. When you saw it was 8:30 you gave Enzo’s arm a light squeeze to let him know you were going to get ready. In the changing rooms you saw a garment bag with your name etched on it. Always showing off money, huh, you thought in your head. Unzipping the bag your face was graced with a smirk. Inside hung a velvet ruched bodycon minidress in a deep emerald green. The chest a sweetheart neckline with a slightly deeper plunge.

Slipping it on you were delighted with the outcome. The dress contouring every curve of your body, hiding the insecure bits and accentuating your assets. Doing your hair in loose waves and applying some light makeup, you slipped on the black heels Draco had included and walked out of the changing room, nearly running into the one person you’d hoped would see you.

Grabbing hold of your waist, Mattheo eyed you questioningly, “Where do you think you’re going?” You rolled your eyes, which only irritated him further, “Don’t worry boss, I’m not dancing. I’m just going to dinner.” This didn’t make Mattheo stop worrying, if anything he worried further. “Dinner? With fucking who?”

“With me, cousin,” Draco walked into the hall, clad in a pair of sleek black trousers and a black button up, “My, my, you look ravishing, darling.” You peeled Mattheo’s hands from your hips, turning to the blonde boy now, “Thank you, Dray. You ready?” Draco nodded, holding out his arm for you to take. You looped your arm in his, glancing over to Mattheo once more to see his face in a deep scowl, jaw clenched. You smirked, flashing him a wink. Jealousy looks sexy on you, Teo, you thought to him just as Draco apparated to the restaurant.

As expected, dinner was wonderfully expensive and posh. Draco surprisingly keeping conversation with you quite well. You even complimented him on it, “I didn’t think I’d every see this side of you Draco. It’s…nice.” Draco snorted slightly, “Figured I’d give an effort since you’re going to be my family one day.” You smiled, “Awh, aren’t we already family Dray? All playing house in that big manor?” Draco shook his head, smirking now, “I meant with what’s going on between you and cousin.”

You rolled your eyes, “Why does everyone keep saying shit like that? I’m sure he doesn’t treat me any differently than any of the other girls he’s shagged.” Draco’s grin grew two sizes, “So you guys have fucked? More than once or…?” You glared at him, “You’re insufferable.” The blonde just smiled more, “You know I’ve known him my whole life, seen him with a lot of girls, and I mean a lot of girls-” You cut him off quickly, “Thank you Draco, move on please.” He snickered lightly, “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen him act like he does with any other girl he’s been around except you. He’s kind of always seen women as a means to an end, like they’re just there for him when he wants them to be, then he can throw them away when he doesn’t.”

A frown painted your face, not wanting to see Mattheo in that kind of light, but knowing Draco was likely telling the truth. Draco continued, “He’s protective over you, not like he is with the rest of us. It’s like…possessive. Obsessed. He used to be really off the wall wild with every trip we made with the business, but now he’s doing more strategic planning, like he doesn’t want anyone to get in to much danger, like he has something to look forward to when he gets back.”

Your chest warmed with this new information, “You’re really close with him.” Draco nodded, “We were best mates growing up. Mum’s are sisters, but his was always off with his dad, you know him,” you nodded with a grimace, “so he would stay with my family a lot. Even had his own room at mine. I know we call each other cousin but he was practically a brother to me growing up, until I went away to school. His dad didn’t let him go to Hogwarts, wanting to train him like some sort of secret weapon for the war.” You nodded your head, remembering the memories you intruded on with Mattheo.

“He used to beg me to teach him everything I learned during summer Holiday. He caught on so fast too. Used to keep my old textbooks and practice with Gimball while I was away. When the war came he was really conflicted. Hell, we all were. I’m surprised you even came to the club after everything that happened. Didn’t you know…about us?” His question caught you a little off guard. Sure, you had known of Draco in school, he made it practically hard for someone not to know him. And you knew slightly of the others, just that they were similar to Draco, purebloods with family members that were devoted Dark Lord followers, but it had been a few years, everyone kind of grew up, looked a little different. Everyone but Draco, sticking still to his signature looks.

You shrugged, “I knew of the club, knew it was wizard ran, but I didn’t know by who. I definitely didn’t know you guys worked there. Had no real clue about Mattheo at all until Pansy told me. Voldemort definitely kept that secret well.” Draco nodded. You looked up from your plate now, meeting his eyes, “If Mattheo really saw me in the way you imply he does, why was he flirting with a dancer earlier today.” Draco’s lip twitched like he was holding back a smile, “Sometimes old habits die hard. Sometimes we get scared of the feelings we have because they happen so deeply, like nothing we’ve ever had before. And sometimes, when we’re especially stubborn, we just need someone to put us in our place. Take charge, so to speak, to prove to us that they reciprocate what we’re feeling, even to the deepest of depths.”

You quirked an eyebrow at his words, questioning if you were really understanding what he was saying. Draco sighed slightly, “I know Mattheo. I’ve seen him in many stages of life, many emotions, good and bad. He’s never allowed himself to feel as deeply about a person as he does for you because he knows once he starts falling, he’s never going to stop. If you feel the same, you have to show him. If you want what he wants, prove it to him. But you have to play his game. Don’t be a pawn, be a gamekeeper. Show him who’s boss, I’m sure he’s tired of the title.”

Draco paid the bill before taking you both back to the manor. Like a gentleman he walked you to the steps leading up to the rooms. “Thank you for tonight, Draco. It was lovely.” Draco smiled down at you, placing a friendly hand on your shoulder. He leaned in close, giving you a peck on your cheek and whispering in your ear, “Anytime darling.” He gave you a curt wink before walking toward his office on the main floor. You turned round, heading up the steps and walking into your room.

He had probably hoped to startle you, but you had almost expected him to be there waiting for you. “Have fun tonight, Princess? Fuck my cousin? Was he good?” You huffed a laugh, taking off your jewelry and setting it atop your dresser before turning to face him. “Don’t be brash, Teo,” you looked him over, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room. His hair was disshelved like he’d been running his hands through it. Which he had been while waiting for you and Draco to come home. The thoughts in his mind spinning wildly about what could have happened.

You walked towards him across the room, him standing to meet you when you push him back down, crawling into his lap. “Draco and I just had dinner,” your fingers started to delicately undo the buttons of his shirt, all the way down before pushing it off his shoulders, “just like I said before we left.” He grunted, unconvinced, his hands going to your waist but you pushed them off, “I didn’t say you could touch me.” He tilted his head slightly, looking at you with a sly grin. You reached between your bodies, unbuttoning his trousers and sliding down the zipper.

You stood up then, Mattheo going to follow once more but you tsked at him, “Sit and take off your pants, briefs too,” you leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I want to see all of you, handsome.” Mattheo felt his cock twitch at your words, at your directions. He wasn’t sure what was happening but he knew he wanted to find out. You walked back towards the bed, just a few feet away, slipping your dress off your shoulders to reveal your bare breasts and black thong to the man across from you.

Mattheo couldn’t help but groan at the site, his cock standing at attention as you slid your panties down your legs before you climbed onto the foot of the bed before turning to face him, legs spread open wide so he got a full view of your glistening cunt. Mattheo groaned at the sight. “You can touch yourself, Teo. Go on,” you encouraged and he followed directions, instantly grabbing hold of his thick cock and pumping himself, “Show me what you wish you were doing to me,” you let your hands cup your breasts, squeezing them lightly causing Mattheo to groan at the view, his eyes rolling, “because tonight you don’t get to touch me at all.”

His eyes shot open then, hand stilling on his length. You pouted at him, mocking his frown, “Don’t stop now, baby. I was enjoying the view.” You lightly slid your hand up the insides of your thighs, giving yourself goosebumps. Mattheo watched with hungry eyes as you took two fingers and glided them through your folds, coating your fingers in your slick before rubbing your clit lightly. “Keep touching yourself, baby, let me see you,” you started applying more pressure on your bundle of nerves, slight whimpers leaving your mouth as Mattheo started slowly guiding his hand up and down his length once more.

When you slid two fingers inside of yourself, eliciting a gasp from your lips you didn’t miss Mattheo’s low, “Fucking hell”, glancing a look at his desperate eyes. Pumping your fingers you couldn’t help but tease him more, “You’re being such a good boy for me, Teo. Oh, fuck, my fingers stretch me so good, but not as good as when I’m stretched around you, Oh, god, Teo.” Hearing his name fall from your lips while he watched you pleasure yourself was his idea of torture. Your hips bucked against your hand, your clit hitting your palm with every grind and building the familiar heat in the pit of your stomach, “Fuck, Teo, I wish I was about to come on your cock, but you just had to misbehave this afternoon, didn’t you?”

His nostrils flared at your words, speech stuttering as his thumb swiped over his slit, eyes glued to your fingers pumping in and out of your cunt, “I-I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t-”

“Shut up,” you moaned out, looking up to see himself pumping his cock faster. You could tell he was close by the amount of precum leaking from his tip. “Stop touching yourself,” you commanded. Mattheo groaned, but listened to instructions. When you saw he had stopped your bucked your hips faster, chasing your high until you were tumbling over the edge into your orgasm, “Fuck, oh fuck, yes.” Mattheo’s dick twitched at the sight of you coming undone, your thighs quaking, clamping shut on your hand as you rode out your high, still pumping your fingers in and out of yourself before you slowed down, catching your breath and making eye contact with him.

You slid your fingers from your cunt, your juices glistening to where Mattheo could see if across the room. “Come taste, baby,” you held your fingers out of him. Mattheo clambered over quickly, immediately latching his lips to your fingers, tongue swirling around your digits to get every last drop. His lips left your fingers with a pop, hands going to grab your thighs to spread them back open for himself. You slapped his hands away, scooting yourself backwards until you reached the head of the bed, leaning against the pillows.

You spread your legs wide, patting the space between them. “C’mere, Teo. Come sit right here, back to me.” Mattheo crawled over to you, lips quickly attaching to yours in a feverish kiss. His palm against your cheek and fingers splayed on the back of your neck holding you steady as his tongue explored your mouth, groaning at the taste of you still on his tongue. With all the mental strength you could muster you push him away, slapping his face lightly.

Immediately Mattheo started apologizing, “I’m so sorry, Princess, I couldn’t, fuck, I just couldn’t help myself.” You shook your head at his ramblings, making a spinning motion with your finger indicating him to turn around and get in the position you instructed him to be in before. Mattheo turned around, lying against your chest. You delicately ran your nails along his thighs, his cock twitching at the action. “I was going to let you cum, maybe even help you, but you broke a rule.”

You grabbed Mattheo’s hand, guiding it back toward his aching cock. As he stroked himself again you ran your nails lightly up his sides, his muscles twitching in your wake. You continued to talk to him, tease him and get him further to the edge, “Last night you were so good to me, making me feel so full.” Mattheo let out a low groan as you trailed kisses along the side of his neck, his strokes becoming quicker, “Love it when you grip my thighs, spreading them open as you sink your big cock into my tight little cunt.”

Mattheo let out a shuddered breath as his thumb swiped over his tip. You grab his wrist then, stopping his movements. He let slip a pathetic whimper, begging you for release, “Fuck, please, Princess, I need to cum so bad.” His chest was heaving, head resting back against your shoulder. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp, “Do you deserve that, Teo? Do you deserve to cum after blatantly flirting with that fucking slag right in front of me, hmm?” Mattheo groaned, “Fucks sake, I said I was sorry, you went out with c-cousin I should be p-punishing you.”

He stuttered over his words as you raked your nails up his thighs again, massaging just near where he wanted your touch but not giving in. “We just had dinner, just talked. If you thought it was anything more you would’ve hurt him by now.” You released his wrist, allowing him to pleasure himself once more. “Go on, baby,” you wrapped one arm around his shoulders, the other grabbing hold of his hair, pulling his head back with force. “Tell me who you’re thinking about when you touch yourself, is it her or is it me?”

Mattheo let out a guttural moan, “Fuck, Princess, it’s you. O-only you.” You started kissing up his neck again, biting the taught skin before licking to soothe it, making sure to leave a few marks. “Every time I think of you, fuck, and now I have the image of your tight little cunt stretching around my cock so perfectly. I never want anything else, oh gods.” You could tell he was close now, hips bucking into his hand. You brought your lips close to his ear, breath ghosting over his skin, “Cum for me, baby. Be a good boy.”

At your command a deep grunt left his throat, hot ropes of white shooting from his tip and on to the duvet in front of him. Coming down from his high he relaxed into you further, chest heaving as his breathing slowly evened out. You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing his temple. “Fucking Salazar’s sake, Princess, you trying to kill me now, hmm?” You smiled into his skin, “You did this to yourself, sir.”

He smiled lightly, “I said I’m sorry, Princess. Merlin, if I'd known this is what would happen from some simple flirting I would’ve never started.” He turned round, resting his head on your chest now. You hummed lightly, “I think you more than liked what just happened.” Mattheo pinched the side of your bum lightly, causing you to squeal. He turned his head, resting his chin atop your chest before leaning up slightly and catching your lips in a chaste kiss one, two, three times before laying his head back down.

You stayed like that for a moment before he broke the silence, “The boys say I’m growing attached to you.” You smiled slightly, hands running through his messy curls, “Do you agree with them?” He nodded, “Scares me how much I care about you, Birdie.” You frowned slightly, though he couldn’t see it, “Why does it scare you?” His eyes fluttered shut, you playing with his hair soothing him. He slid his hands beneath the underside of your shoulders, holding you as close as possible, “Means I’ve got something to lose.”

#protego series #mafia!slytherin boys #is the last line foreshadowing 👀#mafia!enzo berkshire #mafia!blaise zabini #mafia!draco malfoy #mafia!theo nott #mafia!pansy parkinson #mafia!mattheo riddle #Mattheo riddle x reader #Mattheo riddle x you #Mattheo riddle smut #Mattheo riddle angst #sub!Mattheo riddle

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2kmps · 18 days

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DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 18+ | 2.8k

story summary; your granduncle explains that the noises at the bottom of the lighthouse and the missing chunk out of his leg are from swimming rats. you let him think you're a fool.

story warnings; some graphic depictions that some may consider gory, mentions of biting, mentions of rats, creature in captivity, explicit sexual content, double penetration (not safe), prose + detail heavy, implied breeding, not proofread.

if you enjoyed it, please reblog + interact!!

Granduncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Granduncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, granduncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Granduncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brought a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

“Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

"Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: not my best work, but hopefully passable. it's really helpful when y'all reblog, so please do so!!!

I don't really have any comments on this because I'm starting over from zero on the long-fic of the aquatic monster story bc I hated what I had lmao.

anyway, please keep in mind that is a concept piece. chances are that none of this will be present in the actual long-fic. this just helps me to explore ideas and familiarize myself with characters.

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serpentandlily · 2 months

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Untouchable Part IX Teaser

Untouchable - Azriel x Rhysand'sSister!Reader

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Azriel growled at his High Lord. “I’m leaving. Now.”

Both Azriel and Rhysand looked worse for wear. Rhys’s face was littered with bruises and cuts and Azriel was sure he looked no better. But he didn’t care. All he cared about right now was that his mate was in the hands of that fucking sorcerer and he was going to rip that male apart limb by limb for ever thinking he could take her.

“We need to think this through, Az,” Feyre pleaded. “If you rush in, you’ll end up dead and be of no help to Y/n.”

Azriel’s hands tightened into fists. These past two days had been hell. Once Rhys had misted the Prince in the clearing, he had winnowed the three of them back to Velaris—to start planning their rescue mission.

He hadn’t even gotten two words out before Azriel pounced on him. He could barely remember those first few hours after she had been taken. All he knew was the anger he felt—the rage. The mating bond snapping into place. The bargain breaking. And her…his love being taken away from him, his heart and soul with her.

And Rhys, the fucking asshole, had been at the center of his anger. For making him agree to that bargain with him in the first place. For making him stay away from her—his mate.

It had taken Cassian, Mor and Feyre to pull them apart that day.

He had stopped starting fights with Rhys but his anger still pulsed under his skin, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"We've had plenty of time to think,” Azriel snapped at his High Lady, causing Rhys’s head to shoot up with a warning glare.

“Watch your tone,” Rhys bit back at him.

“Fuck you, Rhys!” Azriel slammed his scarred hands down on the desk between them. “I’m going and I swear to the Gods if you try to stop me, I’ll rip your throat out!”

“No, fuck you, Azriel!” Rhys yelled, standing up to his full height. “Stop acting as if you’re the only one affected by this! She was my sister long before she was your mate! Maybe if you hadn’t gone behind my back—”

“Maybe if you hadn’t made us make that stupid bargain with you in the first place, we would’ve never had to! I could’ve had centuries with her. You stole all those years from us!”

The second the bond snapped between him and his mate, Azriel swore he lived a whole lifetime. A whole lifetime they hadn’t been afforded. It had all flashed right before his eyes. His mate…His beautiful mate. She deserved so much better than this and as soon as he got her back in his arms, he would give her the whole world. He'd tear the sun from the sky if it would make her happy.

“Guys, stop! This fighting between the two of you has only made things worse! Fight all you want once we get Y/n back, but you need to focus. Both of you. For her sake,” Feyre snapped.

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, letting out a noise of frustration. His shadows swarmed around him like a monsoon—screaming his mate’s name over and over again in agony. “You don’t understand, Feyre. Every single time I feel her…during those tiny moments she slips through to the bond…all I feel is her pain. He’s torturing her. How am I supposed to sit here while my mate is being tortured?”

He turned away from them, unable to look at Rhys any longer as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. He had completely and utterly failed his mate. Had let her get into the arms of an enemy. This was all his fault…all of it. She would’ve never even ran away from Velaris if he had never tried to move on with Elain last year. He put those thoughts in her head and there was nothing he regretted more in his life. He had never wanted Elain. He had never even wanted Mor. He had tried, when he thought Rhys’s sister was off limits, to move on. But he had never, ever stopped loving her. He had never felt anything for anyone other than her.

And she had been ripped away from him before they could even have a life together.

“That’s it,” Rhys whispered from behind him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“What?” Azriel snarled, whipping around.

“You said you can feel her sometimes—through the bond, right?”

Azriel nodded his head, crossing his arms.

Rhys stroked his jaw in thought. “He must be drugging her with faebane. But not consistently. There must be small moments when it wears off before he gives her another dose. That’s why you can feel her sometimes.”

“Where are you going with this?” Feyre asked.

“We can use the mating bond to tell us when to act,” Rhys explained. “When Azriel can feel her, we know her magic is regenerating. We should stop looking at this as battle and more like a stealth mission. We bait Koschei into coming to the water’s edge the moment Azriel feels my sister down the bond—act like we are declaring war. Keep him distracted long enough for her to get back most of her power. Meanwhile, Azriel can slip into the cabin, release her from whatever binds he has her in and get her out.”

“What about the wards around the cabin? No one can winnow in or out. Even Az’s shadows might set it off.”

“I’ll have to get inside without using any magic,” Azriel said. “I can do it. I can get to her. As long as you keep him distracted and buy me enough time.”

“Helion has given Y/n some lessons on setting and breaking wards,” Rhys added. “Once she sees you, once she realizes she’s being saved, she can start working on breaking them so she can winnow the two of you out.”

“And you trust that she’ll be able to do that?” Feyre asked.

Rhys let out a long sigh. Azriel knew how much it would pain him to have to force his sister to save herself. Rhys had always been the one doing the heavy lifting for their family, always keeping his sister as protected as he could, especially after she almost died. But he couldn’t save her this time.

He’d need to have faith in her.

“She can do it,” Azriel declared, full of confidence in his mate’s abilities. “She is not that little girl in the woods anymore, Rhys. You’ve trained her. I’ve trained her. She is more than capable of this.”

“I know she’s not,” Rhys whispered. “She hasn’t been. Not for a long time. And I’m sorry, Azriel, I truly am. You’re right. I should’ve never forced you to make that bargain.”

“Save your apology for when I get my mate back,” Azriel spat out.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

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watermelonlovershigh · 1 year

Text

You're a Little Too Loud in Bed (SMUT)

AN: this was loosely inspired by this tiktok. i instantly thought of writing a fan fiction when i watched it. and before anyone comes at me with negative comments, i would NEVER write a story where a child sees their parents having sex. that's very traumatizing for so many. this is as far as i'd go in writing something like this. let me know if you enjoyed!!

This story contains: sex, use of vibrators, crying child, comfort, reassurance, fluffy ending

{ dadrry - dilf!harry - husbandrry - soft!harry - 3 kids (2 unnamed, 1 named Masie [May-zee] ) - harry age 35 }

word count- 1,709

Due to the pleasurable sex you had with Harry, you accidently moan too loud and your daughter down the hall wakes up and gets scared that something is wrong with her mummy.

Harry was currently fucking you from behind. You're on all fours in the center of your king size bed, Harry standing on his knees as he thrusted into you. He had one hand on your hip and the other was reaching down, holding your vibrating wand to your clit to give you added pleasure as well as pleasure for him because the vibrations were hitting his balls with each thrust.

You were trying really hard to stay quiet because your kids were asleep in their rooms down the hall. But with Harry's long, thick cock pounding into your pussy and the steady vibrations attacking your clit, you were struggling with that. Even Harry was struggling to keep his moans at bay.

See, the two of you typically have two different types of sex in your sex lives. The sex that's more slow and anguished where you're all lovey dovey with each other. It can be done in the bathtub or under the covers. Basically love making. Which you'd say you do most often just because you both genuinely love feeling close to one another on levels other than physically, like emotionally.

Then there's fucking sex. Sex that isn't really love making but isn't too kinky either. You normally do positions other than missionary and add a couple toys into the mix. What you're doing now is what you'd consider more so fucking. When you make love you can normally keep quiet and allow your moans to travel into one another's mouths from sloppily making out. But with sex in doggy position with a vibrator in use, it's so much hader.

When you feel yourself getting close, you shove your head into your pillow to try and conceal the moans that you know you won't be able to hold in any longer when you climax. Harry doesn't even need to ask if you're close because he can feel you becoming wetter and your walls are starting to seize up around his shaft.

Harry leans over your back and heaves in a seductive voice, "Come on, let go for me. Let go, baby." He was struggling to hold off on his own orgasm because you just felt so good. And he wasn't twenty-five any more. He's thirty-five. Fucking you in doggy really wears him out.

"I'm, Oh God," you start to speak but are cut off when Harry begins moving the wand from side to side over your clitoris to speed up the process, "I'm coming. Holy shit!" Your back arches upwards and your hands grip the bed sheets beneath you so hard you feel as if you might just rip a hole in the fabric. Your vaginal walls squeeze Harry so tightly that he begins to come as well.

Once you start to come down from your orgasms, Harry turns the vibrating wand off and tosses it across the bed. His hips stop their thrusting and slowly he becomes soft within you. You're both breathing heavy and have a thin layer of sweat coating your naked skin. Your knees give out which leads to you laying flush to the mattress. And well, with Harry still inside of your cunt, he comes crumbling down with you.

He carefully falls on your back so he doesn't hurt you and for a minute you lay together in silence, soaking up each others comfort and love. That is until you hear a wailing cry coming from down the hallway. "Fuck," Harry grumbles, not wanting to separate from your body but knowing he has to check on his child, "I'll go see what's the matter, alright. You stay put." He really hoped whoever was crying hadn't been sick because he really doesn't want to deal with puke right now. But he would if he had to.

With a kiss to the back of your sweaty neck, Harry slips out of you and begins to shuffle off the bed and towards his dresser to find himself some briefs and shorts to put on. You turn around and get under the duvet to cover yourself up at least a little bit. After Harry is dressed enough, he flings your bedroom door open and quickly travels down the hall to where the cries are coming from.

He comes to realize they are coming from your daughter Masie's room, who's five years old. Harry opens her door and coos gently while walking towards her little bed, "Hey loves, what's the matter? Why'r you crying, baby?"

Masie looks at her father and makes grbby hands, wanting him to pick her up. She's a bit too heavy to lift like this but Harry will do anything for his children. Once she's in her daddy's arms, she cries with her little arms around his neck and her head on his shoulder, "I..... I heard mummy screaming. Is she, is she okay?"

Harry has never felt more embarrassed yet proud in his entire life as he does right now. Embarrassed that his daughter heard you screaming during sex. Well it was more so loud moaning that you tried to conceal best as possible, but to a five year old, screaming is the best word she can describe it as. And proud he can still make you scream during sex.

Rubbing a palm up and down her small back, Harry coos, "Shhh, she's perfectly fine, lovie. Mummy wasn't screaming in a bad way. It was happy screams."

As Masie's cries slowly stop, she demands softly, "Wanna see mummy, please."

"Okay, okay, but she'll come in here, alright. Here, sit on your bed and I'll bring her in here so she can tell you she's fine." Harry tells his daughter while carefully setting her back down in her bed. He would have brought her to you but he knows you're not decent at the moment, still chilling naked under the covers.

Masie mutters out a quiet, "M'kay." and waits for her mummy to come see her. Harry quickly goes back into your shared bedroom with embarrassment on his face. You look at your husband as he enters and question worriedly, "Is my baby, okay? What was wrong?"

He goes over to your dresser to pick you out some clothes and answers, "Maise heard you screaming. She thought something was wrong with you and was just worried. Now she wants you to come see her. Here, let me help you get dressed." Harry helps you slip over your t-shirt, not bothering with a bra around the house, and pair of panties and shorts.

Right before you make your way to your daughters room, Harry whispers, "Guess m'gonna have to hold your mouth shut next time."

You turn around with a cheeky glare and retort, "Hey, it's not my fault you fucked me so well. Can barely walk and my clit is still throbbing uncomfortably."

Hand in hand you enter Masie's bedroom and she's just where Harry had left her. When she sees you her bottom lip quivers and she begins to cry again, probably from relief her mummy was okay. No matter how good of a fuck you just had, your daughter's well being is your number one priority and it kills you that she was this worried about you. Thank god you have a rule in this house to always knock on your door so she didn't walk in on the act. That would have traumatized everyone.

"Hey, my darling, mummy's alright. See, I'm okay." you say in a comforting voice as you lean down to wrap her in a hug.

With her face buried in your neck, she asks, "You screamed happy screams?" You snatch you head around to give Harry who's standing in the doorway a death stare. How dare he, but also how else are you supposed to explain to a five year old that what she heard was moans from her parents being intimate. I mean it's totally normal and healthy for couples to have sex but she's way too young to know that right now.

"Yes Masie, mummy was screaming because she was really happy. You know your daddy makes mummy real happy sometimes. Just like when something is really funny and you laugh loudly, well that's kinda like what mummy done, okay."

She nods and questions, "Can I sleep with you tonight, please?" She doesn't really get to sleep in bed with you and Harry unless she's sick, but on special occasions you'll let her, or any of your kids for that matter.

Hugging her to you tightly and lifting her off the bed, you answer, "Yeah, I guess for tonight it won't hurt. Harry, go um, fresh," you try and tell him without saying it out loud, pointing at Masie's covers, "change them." you mouth the last part. Realization comes across Harry's face and he gives you a thumbs up before scurrying off to change your bed sheets.

Though you did lay a towel down during the sex, just something about your daughter sleeping in the same sheets and duvet you fucked on feels wrong. To give him a minute to change the bedding on your bed, you carry Masie into the hall bathroom and help her use the toilet before she sleeps again. Of course she's potty trained but still needs help wiping sometimes.

Five minutes later you walk back into your bedroom to see Harry just now finishing changing the bedding. He turns around and speaks, "There's my girls. Come on, get under the covers and lets give each other cuddles." Your family is very physically affectionate people. You all love hugs and cuddling one another.

You set your daughter Masie in the center of the bed and both you and Harry slip in the duvet beside her. Once Harry turns the lamp off, you both sink down under the fresh covers more and slide over until she's right in between the two of you. You each lean down and place a kiss to her tiny cheeks before settling in the warmth of each other for sleep.

Right as you and Harry start to drift off from exhaustion, you hear a small, "Love you." coming from your daughters mouth. Harry and you both reply back with, "We love you, too." and then sleep finally takes over.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @hsfanficsrecss // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @itfeelslikemytherapisthatesme // @damnasstyles // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet // @meetmyblondemuffins // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles // @skyangel57 // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptress // @clairestylessss // @kissmyaxe140 // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore1 // @florencepughily // @alienorknight //@dancearoundthelivingroom // @swiftmendeshoran

// @luv-flor7777 // @alohastyles-x // @tenaciousperfectionunknown // @sleutherclaw // @siredtohybrid // @whoscamila // @a-strange-familiar // @golden-elodie // @mrspeacem1nusone // @goldenkhae // @lntwithharry // @shadowygladiatorlight // @manifestrry // @mendesblurb // @sunshinemoonsposts // @depersonalizationsucks // @academiaghost // @zendayassimp // @reveriehs // @vsnnstuff // @dancinsunflowerkiwi // @quinnsgrapejuice // @theroosterswife24 // @justlemmeholdyou // @stylesmygucci // @hsonlyangelxo // @luvonstyles // @howdey

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My Masterlist Masterpost

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #smut #angst #dadrry #dad!harry #dilfrry #dilf!harry #husbandrry #husband!harry #softrry #soft!harry #harry x reader #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles comfort

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deangirlsstuff67 · 1 year

Text

Sorry... Not Sorry

Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Smoking, Male masterbation, Drug and Booze use, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sex, Orgasm denial, Dirty talk, Language

Summary: You work with the boys to fulfill Butchers mission. Your family, like MM's, were killed by Soldier Boy. The only difference, you aren't mad about it. Your family was terrible and you constantly suffered at their hands. When you all find Soldier Boy, you offer to be his babysitter, only your attraction for the older supe might be too strong to fight.

Masterlist | Patreon

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He escaped you in Russia, only to track him to The Legend's house. You aren't a supe so for the most part you hang back when they go fight. Butcher always had a soft spot for you.

When it comes to Soldier Boy however, you willing volunteered to babysit the nuclear powered superhero. Everyone was reluctant at first. You're the youngest of the group, but you weren't backing down. Not this time.

Eventually Butcher agreed, which led you here. Some old man's house who wants to relive the glory days. Any other day I would pretend to listen, just not today. I am on a mission.

I walk towards the room The Legend informed me he would be in. Whatever I was expecting to find on the other side of the door, orgy, some chick giving him head, was not what I found.

His back was facing the door when I opened the handle. Wildly designed silk robe hiding his body from my lust filled eyes. Leg proped up on the bed frame. His whole body moving as he grunts from the pleasure his hand was providing his dick.

A very well endowed dick if I remember Russia correctly.

My body begins to heat, my underwear quickly becoming damp from my own private show, breathing coming in fast shallow pants.

Forgetting he had super hearing, Soldier Boy rips a surprised gasp from me when he speaks into the quiet room, "I can practically smell your sopping cunt from here Pretty Girl."

He doesn't turn or even stop his movements. Though you do notice he has slowed to a lazy rhythm. No longer chasing a quick orgasm.

Closing the door behind you you take one step at a time towards the powerful man infront of you. A man who I'm positive can spit me in half with one powerful thrusts into my heat.

Oh what a way to die.

By now you're standing right behind him fighting the urge to touch him. In a blink of an eye he swings around to come face to face with me.

We are in the middle of a staring contest. Him wondering my next move. Me wondering if I even have the nerve to follow through with anything.

Now or never I guess. This is one way to thank him for saving me. I know he hurt a lot of people and is the ultimate asshole, but to me he's a hero.

With a wave of bravery rushing through my veins, I step up and wrap my hand around his huge cock. My tiny hand barely touching as I begin to slide it up and down his shaft.

Soldier Boy throws his head back from the contact. Long, messy hair shining as te sun hits him just right. What I wouldn't give to run my fingers through it. I know I've got him when I hear a deep moan leave his kissable lips.

"Been a long time since a beauty such as yourself has touched me, Doll."

I still can't speak. His husky voice drips of honey when he's aroused, eye's that were once shining green are now hooded and black with lust. The man's beautiful on any given day, but when he's in a stage of bliss, he's breathtaking.

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Strong, long, thick fingers move rapidly inside me as Soldier Boy brings me to the edge again. Pistoling straight into my g spot repeatedly.

"You're stunning when you're fucked out and frustrated, Doll." He removes his fingers from my soaked core, bringing them to his mouth before sucking them clean. My pussy clenching around nothing.

"Mmm... taste sweet." Rolling on top of his naked body I rub my wet center up his length while sinking my tongue into his mouth. Stunned for a moment from surprise before he begins to kiss me back... hard.

Breaking away I lift my body and grab his leaking cock before impaling myself on his perfect dick.

I was right, he's going to split me in half. It burns as he stretches me to my limit. Never had a cock this good. I can feel every vein as I slipped farther down his shaft.

Bottoming out I stay still waiting for my body to adjust. Feeling my velvet walls flutter around him as they fight to accept his size. He shifts slightly sending electricity shooting through my body, another wave of arousal soaks his dick.

"Soldier Boy..."

Laughing he leans up, wrapping a strong arm protectively around my waist as he kisses me sweetly. "Sweetheart I'm balls deep in your sopping cunt right now, pretty sure you can call me Ben." Then he thrusts into me, hitting my cervix.

"Ben..." is all I can moan as he takes control of my body.

"That’s my Pretty Girl. Scream it baby, my names never sounded so sweet before."

His pace quickens sending me into my first orgasm. Clenching him so tight I'm amazed he can still move as he fucks me through it. "Squeezing my cock so good."

Ben watches where our bodies are join, "this pussy is drooling Doll. Making such a pretty mess of my dick." I tighten around him, "oh fuck yes..."

"Got one more in there for me baby girl." It wasn't a question. He brings his rough hands to my bundle of nerves and starts to vigorously rub me there.

My orgasm build fast and hard. Just as I'm think I'm about to be thrown over the edge a new sensation comes over me, "shit... Ben you have to st.. stop. I.. I think I'm go.. going to pee."

He doesn't listen. If anything the statement makes him feral as he double downs his efforts. Then it happens. My body let's go, vision goes white as I scream his name as loud as I can before slumping into his chest.

What feels like hours goes by, but I'm sure it's minutes, before I feel someone gently finger my pussy. Whimpering I hear a dark chuckle beside me.

"That was fucking hot Doll." Ben holds me to his chest as he lazily plays with my pussy and our mess, "I'm far from done with you, sleep for now."

"You should have known better than to try and tease me. Best damn pussy I've had... just might have to keep you now." He gently bites my ear lope.

Through my blessed out haze I weakly smile before whispering, "Sorry... not sorry."

I fall asleep in his warm embrace with his laughter as my lullaby and his fingers bringing small waves of pleasure every once in a while.

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Taglist:

@syrma-sensei

#soldier boy #the boys tv #jensen ackles #soldier boy smut #the boys smut #the boys s3 #the boys season 3 #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #the boys fanfic

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forestshadow-wolf · 6 months

Text

Cw: mention of suicide (not graphic), (vague) mentions of torture

Vamp!ghost in a pure silver muzzle so he can't prey on anyone.

He got turned and muzzled by human!Roba because the torture got so bad that he killed himself, and Roba couldn't have that, so he had him bit. By vernon.

The sadistic bastard was stoked to be able to keep Ghost around a little longer as his "play thing"

The muzzle, little more than a cage for his face, was five horizontal bars with one bisecting the center vertically. At the base of the mask where it sat on his mandable was a hinge, so it could expand and contract because Roba still wanted him able to talk and scream, like the sick fuck he is.

It burned and bubbled and hissed as it seared onto his face, melting the skin so it would cling to the metal when it "healed"

With Ghost's newfound immortality Roba was able to have so much more "fun" with him. He kept him for years, cutting him open whenever he felt like it, just "to see what's going on in there". Branding him with silver to "see what it does" (like he didn't already fucking know). Starving him for months on end. And the muzzle never once came off. When he did get it was through a straw that he was graciously given a single pint of blood.

Then he got bored. And he threw him away. And still the muzzle wasn't removed.

No not thrown away. Buried. In a load of shit. In the desert. One last experiment. To see what Ghost could withstand. He was doomed to burn to death, and even then it was to starve for eternity, or drink through a straw for the rest of his life. He sure as hell wouldn't be getting the muzzle off himself.

One good thing he learned through all this. How far he could break before he truely broke.

Roba locked him in Vernon's reinforced casket, and threw away the key. It took two days of nonstop beating at the wood before he got out, even with the help of the deceased vampire's jaw.

It took 3 days of hiding, and 4 nights of running at inhuman speeds to find the nearest army base.

He also found out that to say he was "starved" wasn't exactly accurate, but there was no other way to describe it. How else you do describe a lack of a need to eat, and yet feeling your body weaken just the same. How else do you explain the feeling of his body using up the blood in him. The way his heart never beats so he needs new blood to replace what has been absorbed or turned into waste, later to be released as venom. What word do you use to describe that othern than "starved", but it's an inhuman kind of starvation, so completely NOT human.

When price found him he was sucking his fifth stolen blood bag dry. He truely was "starved" after so long of not feeding.

The man said he was putting together a task force with the help and authority of a CIA agent. The man, Captain Price introduced him to a dryad, a nature spirit.

It's unusual for a spirits and sprites, especially ones so close to nature, to be in such a violent line of work. But here he was, nonetheless.

Price himself was a normal human, it's the only way the force was allowed to come into fruition.

Ghost was taken to a medic, to see if they could remove the constant burning silver from his face. But it was no use, the doctors said their tools were too soft to ceable to cut into his skin to remove the muzzle. And so there was nothing they could do, short of ripping the thing off, which would only cause more damage, and they didn't have the manpower to do so anyway.

So he stayed in the muzzle, donned a mask to avoid sun exposure, and price made sure to keep a constant stock of blood packs for him, even if sometimes he was reduced to dumping dehydrated pigs' blood into a glass of water, price made sure he was never "hungry" again.

Then price found soap. A natural born werewolf, he said. And he was all rambunctious and happy-go-lucky energy, or that's what it seemed like on the outside. Then Ghost learned that he was a sniper and demolitions specialist, with a wicked memory, and a background intense anti-interrogation training, and he has to wonder how much is for show.

It's only after they defeat hassan that soap asks about it. The muzzle. He knows he saw it when he removed him mask in Las Almas, but he said nothing about it, not did Ghost offer anything.

Soap says he thinks he can get the muzzle off, but they'll need to take leave, head back to his home. Ghost isn't sure how he likes the sound of that. He does want the burning silver off, but he's pretty sure he's heard that wolves and blood suckers weren't exactly friends. And while he's already dead, he can still be killed, and he definitely can't survive an entire pack of wolves (sans one)

Soap says it'll be fine, he'll vouch and/or protect(?) Him. Price encourages him to go, says he can finally get the stupid cage off. And gaz is laughing his ass off at his predicament, and just generally being unhelpful.

A phone call home to Mama Mactavish, explaining the situation had Ghost reluctantly agreeing to go, if only to appeasethe frantic woman. Soap requested 3 months medical leave for both of them, and price easily signed off on it, practically pushing them out the door.

Soap's home was nice, a fair bit or farmland with a large home that just seemed to radiate comfort.

Mama Mactavish was first to meet them at the door with a fresh batch of homemade danishes, she pulled them both into a bone crushing hug and ushered them inside. She didn't even flinch at the sight of the muzzle or the horribly "scarred" skin underneath or his fangs.

Simon wasn't so sure what to think about that, he'd never had this kind of kindness before. He didn't hate it. Everyone else was almost as friendly, and he couldn't tell if it was a pack of anomalies, or if the rumors were false. They even had fresh lambs' blood for him, warmed to perfection.

He and Johnny were given a day to rest and settle in, then they were being woken at the crack of dawn, to start collecting herbs and begin preparations. Mama explained that it was a family secret, so she swore him to secrecy.

He supposed it only made sense for a family of werewolves to know how to treat silver burns.

She put Johnny to work making so sort of... salve (us that what you call it? He wasn't sure), then mama had donned a pair of gloves and had him lay down with his head in her lap, she started massaging the salve into his skin around the muzzle.

It was slow work, and took hours to make even a small bit of progress, but progress it was. As more and more of the silver lifted, Johnny helped slide gauze underneath to prevent it from burning back on.

It took all day and most of the night to finally be able to lift the muzzle off, but Mama never once complained.

Simon thanked her profusely, and would be forever indebted to her, but she just waived him off.

A week later the wounds were still trying to heal over, and he knew by the end of their leave there would be little more than a faint scar over near-perfect skin.

There was one night that Johnny had joined him sitting out on the porch. One unable to sleep, and one who would never sleep again.

"Why did you help me?" It'd been running through his head since they arrived. "You hardly knew me."

"I know you enough." Johnny chuckled, knocking their shoulders together.

"But why?" He still didn't understand.

"You know what it's like to have the words 'echoic memory' on your file? I do. It's why I took all that extra training, put it to use a few times too. But nothing could have prepared me for being force-fed silver." Johnny shivered with a faraway look in his eyes. "The pain lasted months. I couldn't be active for nine months. I can only imagine what it must've been like to live with that on your face for years."

"Thank you."

Johnny nodded.

They spent the rest of the night there on the porch, at some point Johnny fell asleep on Simon, and Mama found them early in the morning.

#vampire au #vampire!Ghost #Human!Price #Dryad!Gaz #werewolf!soap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #mama mactavish is a lovely woman #soapghost #ghostsoap #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #also ghost is a fresh vampire in this #echoic memory!soap #just for funsies #el rambles

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neopuppy · 2 years

Text

Sleep Therapy (M)

Pairing. demon Jaemin x femaler reader

Genre. That Boys Is A Monster AU, life after Be There For You, explicit smut, M/F, dark fic

Warnings. heavy dubcon/noncon elements(don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable. I’m serious. thanks.), somnophilia, breeding, rough and unprotected sex, impreg kink, demon lore, camera use, praise, degradation, obsessive behavior

WC. 6.6(6)k

Now Playing. Slept So Long/Jay Gordon

‘Just wanted to watch you sleep. Wanted to be part of your dreams.’

It’s been hours.

It’s been days.

It’s been weeks.

Herbal teas, over the counter Melatonin, even prescribed sleep medication that could knock out a small child for days scattered your living room table; piled up only to mock you.

Useless, all of it completely useless as you enter another night of restless sleep.

Debilitated by lack of rest has forced you to take a sabbatical from work, per the suggestion of your regular physician. One week at the hospital under careful watch had you in tears every morning, pleading for something to help you. Anything.

It was more than the bags formed under your eyes. Hallucinations had become a reoccurring issue the longer you walked around like a living dead girl, unclear visions of men transforming into monsters; nightmares turned into reality.

“A sleep clinic might be our last hope,” your physician shrugs, having only reached this point with you after insisting you must be exaggerating. “I’ve contacted Dr. Na at the Vision Clinic, he’s the best Somnologist in the district. You should be in great hands.”

Great hands.

Great hands that led up to built up arms confined in a lab coat. Broad shoulders and a warm handsome smile that seems too blinding to even stare at for much long.

Dr. Na floats around his desk to greet you, light as a feather with the most calm of demeanors.

He smells lovely, soothing in a way similar to a hot stove warming up holiday cookies. Nothing too strong, but just enough to pick up a whiff of as he embraces your hand in greeting.

“My new patient.” He speaks with sparkling pearly white teeth on display. Every inch of him is a reminder of how wealthy Doctors are, from the silver Rolex watch adorning his wrist down to his freshly shined designer shoes.

He manages to maintain warmth in his gaze despite the obvious differences between the two of you.

Greasy hair, flesh empty of life and sweats you’ve turned into daily wear paired with fluffy Ugg slippers stand before him on your meek frame. Shyly nodding when he double checks how to pronounce your name and directs you to sit.

Dr. Na seemed too young to be a seasoned professional in this field. He couldn’t be much older than his mid-twenties. Albeit difficult to truly take him in full admiration as he sits against the ledge of the large crimson wooden oak desk placed in the center of his office. He takes time to run through your chart again, repeating the things you’ve heard for months now. No prior health issues or concerning conditions, a proper diet and lifestyle, nothing that could conclude how you’d end up here.

“How’s your caffeine intake?” Dr. Na asks with a charming lift at the corners of his mouth.

“Haven’t had any in two months now.”

“There are many causes behind insomnia.” Dr. Na nods, scribbling notes down while explaining. “I’ll schedule an MRI scan for later today to conduce if this could be connected to a chemical imbalance.”

“Chemical imbalance?”

“Emotional stress, perhaps trauma, lifestyle changes.” He smiles, akin to the way a Kindergarten teacher may when speaking to a naive child. “We will figure it out.”

Scribbling a few more notes, Dr. Na rips out a section of paper instructing you to head down to the cafeteria designated for patients to eat a proper meal. “I’ll be sending out the order for new medication to try. When it arrives at your room please make sure to follow the nurses directions and take them all. I will come by to check on you as soon as I have an open window of time.”

Dr. Na shifts to stand, the full size of him shadowed above your frail exhausted frame. “We’ll see how your nightmares play out this evening, once I can look through your MRI scan results we can move on to other options, such as hypnosis.”

“Hypnosis?” Even your speech comes out in a lazy drawl. Tongue heavy and dry, dizzy on your feet when you get up to head down. Already aware that you wouldn’t be eating much, even lifting a fork to your lips drained you.

“Of course, it’s one of my specialties.” He chuckles. “Might sound silly but I have a real knack for mind control, you’d be surprised how easy it is to dominate the human mind. It’s easier than training an animal.”

If it wasn’t for the speckled white dots infiltrating your vision, you might’ve noticed the slight change in Dr. Na’s expression. The flicker of black consuming his iris, the drag of his tongue across his upper row of teeth, and the amused hum passing through his throat as he takes in your appearance up close.

It’s been hours.

It’s been days.

It’s been weeks.

It’s been longer than that, months of watching you come in and out of your apartment. Endless days of parking far enough across from you to fly under your radar.

There was no rush, until there was.

Suddenly you had a companion walking you to your car after work, you had a reason to shop for pretty dresses, you sprayed more perfume on and smiled to yourself when opening up notifications on your phone.

Suddenly you felt further away, distracted by him. The stupid new much too friendly Economics professor who had found a way to stayed plastered to your side.

It’s too late anyway.

The sound of Jaemin’s knuckles cracked, echoing loud enough to lift your head with a glance around the coffee shop you frequented. He stayed leaned back in a corner less lit up, less noticeable, especially to someone as oblivious as you.

Someone so carefree and innocent, someone who didn’t even bother to make sure to grab the right drink from the counter when the barista called out your name. It was too easy to blindside you, drop a concoction of sleep medication in your cup as he picked up a quad shot Americano sitting near your milky vanilla latte.

Sip after sip had you yawning despite the powerful caffeine. Time and time again your usual morning pick-me-up failed you, to the point that you argued with the baristas about changing ingredients and formula.

It was too late.

Half asleep and drowsy, your key prodded at your front door in frustration, collapsing against it with your eyes shut and a crushed sigh.

The trap had been laid out, more out of enjoying the breakdown of watching you suffer and lose interests in everything the more you stayed awake night after night.

It made him laugh, entertained pulling on invisible puppet strings where he watched from down the hall as you crumbled to your knees, whining desperately for the key to unlock your apartment.

Weak, a perfect victim.

Jaemin had spent time finding you, it hadn’t been easy. Escaping hell never is afterall, bargains had to be made.

A vessel for his spawn, a strong healthy human vessel that could survive demonic childbirth. That was Johnny’s demands.

‘More than 1, I expect you to bring back many.’

You’d only be the first of the batch, the first to carry his lineage, the first to take his seed and hand over every bit of strength your little body had left in it after he finished.

and you’re perfect, immaculate in every way to carry his first child. The epitome of woman from the inside out. The sole purpose of your existence to be bred full, nothing but a hole to fuck.

Jaemin can’t deny the sick pleasure he gets just from watching you nearly pass out at your front door. A bump on your head the next day would be the only hint of what possibly took place. The bulky arms cradling your limp figure to bed would feel like a faded memory, the sound of your door being kicked shut, nothing more than a foreign thought, a distorted picture of a man hovering above you stripping off your clothing to settle you into your bed more of a nightmare than a dream.

Demons don’t have hearts, they don’t feel, they don’t care.

But you’d always be the first.

You’d always be special in comparison to the rest. The first kill of the hunt, the first prey to fall victim, the conquest alone would be more monumental than any of the rest. You’d be his favorite memory, the one he chose first.

Hunger and ache to destroy mattered more, and as his thick fingers dragged down your stomach, following the path of breaths lifting your ribs higher and lower, he salivates. He swallows at a dry itch at the bottom of his throat, fingers crushing your waist to dip in harder.

“Sleep tight princess.” He always spoke to you, a mere muffled sound in your mind.

Muffled sounds, staggered breaths, heavy weight suppressing your lungs and throat. Pain and fear, a dark sensation followed whenever the recollection of thoughts swarmed around.

It could be after a shower, brushing through your hair, applying lotion, dressing for work. The shadowed memory of something you can’t prove ever happened lingers.

Not even the pain in your lower back, the soreness between your thighs or marks blooming across your skin make any sense. Every idea or thought only seemed less plausible. No sign of break in, no clue to indicate intrusion to your home.

The thought of a demon stalking you day and night would never cross your mind.

Demons aren’t real.

Religion had never been an interest for you, your family hadn’t pushed any beliefs to follow. Most of what you’d learn about religious mythology stemmed from horror films, and demons just seemed like such an outlandish idea. A joke.

Why would you ever assume the doctor assigned to solve your problems could be the root of them.

Jaemin watches you sleep for the hundredth time, removing the crisp white lab coat to hang on a hook. He sits near the special bed for out-patients, away from the noise of machines and heart monitors. It’s quiet, peaceful and calm even as you sweat, breathe heavily and twist to hide your face.

Ruined. Mind deteriorated by dark evil, by happenings you have no control over.

It’s not the first time he’s visited your slumbering figure, your bare skin more ingrained in his mind than your clothed one.

The doors locked, nurses working the night shift too busy with sick patients to check on someone knocked out with sleep disorder.

Upon Dr. Na’s instructions no one should come by. As he undoes the buttons of his smooth ironed shirt he grins to himself. A camera’s set up in the room to capture your sleep schedule, how often you wake, if you sleep at all.

The dosage of medication you consumed tonight would be enough to tranquilize even a large dog. There’s no way you’d wake up tonight.

He didn’t want you to remember tonight, as much as the thought of your eyes fluttering open letting out a shrill scream when you see the visual above you made his cock twitch. A tingle burned from the bottom of his spine to his throat. It’d be fun to have you half-lucid, shouting and begging for him to stop.

But it’s more appealing to watch your arm flop limp at your side. Entertained by the way you seem uncomfortable even as you sleep.

Special.

Jaemin thinks about it, pushing the hospital gown up past your waist. He sucks at saliva filling his cheeks taking in the cute pair of light rosey toned panties hiding your center. You’re not even wet, yet, not that he cares. His cock only hardens thinking about it, smoothing down the expanse of your inner thighs. You’ll struggle more to take his size, cry and curl in to get away. Grip at the sheets by your head for some semblance, for anything to ground you and focus your pain elsewhere.

It’s not the first time he’s slowly tugged off your underwear. It’s not the first time he’s stretched your thighs open as far as they’re willing to go. The small scrunch in your nose informing him the pull hurts your hips, it aches up to your groin.

This is good, Jaemin thinks, this is good because he wants you to remember this. He wants you to know you’ve been claimed, fucked by something devilish and unholy. Touched and destroyed by sin in its human form. He wants you to see how well you take it, how your pilant body still manages to jerk and roll up seeking more of his length to dig deeper inside of you.

Tossing your underwear aside, he pauses to blink at the red light flashing on the camera. Recording everything he’s about to do.

He’s waited, waited so long that his cock twitches fiercely against his thigh at the visual of your exposed cunt.

Jaemin wants to take his time, savor the natural scent flowing from your middle. Drag his fingers aimlessly between your folds until you slicken up obscenely, bite every inch of skin, slap and knead handfuls of meaty flesh in a rough manner. Turn you on your stomach to force your ass up in his face, push your pussy folds open just to watch your hole plead. Empty. Begging for a fucking demon to fuck you even if it hurts, even if you don’t actually want it.

He wants to take his time, but he can’t. It’s been months of pulling out, jerking off on your pretty face, cooing and mewling above your cum splattered stomach. Smearing the warm arousal up your chest dreaming of the day he pours load after load inside of you.

and it’s time, it’s time to ruin you for good. Force your unconscious body to take and take.

One hand delicately tugs and strokes himself, hissing as he jerks away from his thumb rubbing across the head. Precum gathered there smearing around the tip, coating it in a thin layer of sticky gloss. His other hand works away the gown hiding your full breasts, ripping off the flimsy garment easily. Easy access to strip a patient, easier access to have you bare and ready for him.

His breath staggers, gliding the pads of his fingers down your chest. Your sternum rising and falling as a human should, because you’re full of life, full of emotions and feelings he could never understand anymore.

The connection to his human self evaded his memory years ago. Void of the life he once had, lifeless, mindless and consumed by nothing but the desire to create pain. To watch a stupid human like you in agony.

A stupid, stupid, pretty little human. Nothing more than a warm blood filled fleshlight to fuck.

Jaemin lets out a chuckle, dropping his neck back to stroke himself above your stomach. Slapping down the middle of your abdomen a few times just to watch your skin tremble beneath, just to picture how far deep inside of you he can reach. With your hips pushed up and expanded, he knows you’ll birth a child for him easily. A new spawn to create a powerful army in hell. The first of his bloodline to lead and carry on the fight for evil.

He knows you’ll make it through, because he won’t give you a choice.

Rubbing the head of his cock up from where your stomach dips to your navel, he almost wishes you’d wake up. Your weak arms would push up, slap his chest, punch his arms, burst into tears with protests.

That will come, in time.

In the meantime, he prods your belly button, smirking at the thought of fucking you there too. Fucking every hole on you just for fun, because who fucking cares what the king of hell demanded. Jaemin’s going to fuck you until only his needs are met and fulfilled.

The thought races through him spine to balls, hunching forward as he shifts on his knees. The bed dipping and creaking under his weight, switching to rub the tip on your clit.

Still dry.

Dry but warm. Warm enough to be incinerated by the jagged rub of his size passing between your folds. It’s dry, but it’s fucking good, just to feel your fleshy folds struggle along his veiny stiff rod. Just to feel your skin pucker against the sticky pre-cum coating areas of his shaft.

He grunts, rubbing his cock against the plush feel of your parted pussy folds, sneaking quick glimpses of your hole— so tight and closed up. Too tight to take his size without it hurting, without ruining your pussy to only take his cock.

He’s way too big, and he knows it. He knows it from the amount of times he's played with you, just swiping against your cunt. Teasing himself to the point of mind-numbing overstimulation by putting in just the tip. Whimpering even in your sleep from the push ripping you open.

Sucking at the drool lining his bottom lip, he staggers for a minute, pushing side to side against your pussy. Lazily drawing his eyelids up to take in your angelic face once more, so much purity and tenderness. All of it soon to be his.

The slumber you’ve drifted off into isn’t peaceful in the least. It’s hot, weighing down on your chest, an itch passing through your nerves. Running through endless hallways filled with doors leading to nothing, nothing but black emptiness.

It’s been Jaemin all along, smoothing your hair away from your face. Snaking his lips over your body layering patterns of kisses. Jerking off for hours on your face, chest, stomach, anywhere he felt like.

He thinks about it again, nudging in not even half of the tip against your resistant entrance. A rubber band-like snap pinches around the width of his size. The skin sucking around him already appears damaged, further arousing him to inflict pain upon you, to make it hurt. Make it hurt knowing you have no choice but to take it and enjoy it against your will.

Groping your jaw with one thick hand, he turns your restless passed out face to watch him; easy to picture your eyes shooting up full of red vessels and tears. It burns from his chest to his lower back, swiveling his hips to push in the rest of the tip of his length. The bulbous mushroom shaped cap suffocates inside of you. Dry and tight as fuck, he thinks fervently, hissing between his teeth shining under the dim light as his lips part in moan.

It’s more than good just to feel you choke around the tip, your mouth falling open with a staggered breath allowing him to pinch and roll your plump bottom lip between his fingers.

Jaemin pauses, once more absorbing just how lifeless and limp you lay spread open. Part of him craves for you to wake, to stare up in shock paralyzed by fear, to be able to relive the torture he’s prepared to demonstrate. To enjoy it, because you’re actually nothing but a filthy slut; his own little human fuck doll.

It’s time. It’s finally time.

Saliva drenched digits drag down your chin, the center of your throat, dipping between your exposed breasts. Hardened pebbled nipples peak upward, more stiff from the chilled air circulating the room than excitement. You’re too unaware to feel aroused or anxious, too lucid, lost in the nightmare grappling you through hell.

Even if you were to wake up, Jaemin would only fuck you harder, tackle you down to take, take, take.

A shot of exhilaration curls through his gut, tugging his spine toward his navel as he hunches closer with one hand planted by your head to stay propped up. Jaemin’s gaze locks on your core, a pussy made just for him, because it doesn’t matter who fucked you before. He’d be the last.

The slow drag out of you draws an anguished sounds from the back of his throat. He needs to see you one more time, one more time before he claims and makes you useless for anyone else.

With a fist wrapped around his length, his other hand palms your cunt, shoving your swelling slit open to see the full visual of your hole. So empty, tiny, like a fucking virgin.

It really makes his head spin for a minute, rubbing the pad of his finger in a circular motion over your entrance. The airy gurgle that escapes your lungs shoots his eyes wide, focused on your face burying into a pillow. He tugs on himself a few more times, mindlessly rolling two digits over the precum that won’t stop leaking. He needs to fuck you, now.

Stifling a grunt, Jaemin shifts an inch closer, wrapping a thick bicep under your thigh to spread you open more. The head of his cock swipes between your core, slapping down heavy. Heavy and loud despite the lack of wet to clash against. Wedged up as close as possible between your thighs, and Jaemin has to grit his teeth to contain a growl. Pushing his hips forward to rub the underside of his cock against your clit, he wants to let out a throaty cry; a muted sound of pain when he feels it.

You’re clenching around nothing, seeking something.. someone to fuck you. Unaware of what your body is even asking him to do. Each drag spurs your hole to clamp down more, the first push of wetness spewing out smears against his balls. His throat tightens up swiping between you again, the tip teasing and brushing against your entrance without entering.

Jaemin’s nostrils suck in, inhaling a deep breath as he watches his cock bounce off your fleshy folds in slow-like-motion. Nasty, so nasty and raw, wet for anyone like the textbook definition of a fucking whore.

The next stroke along his cock glides easily, wet from your dripping pussy, wet because your body wants him whether you’re awake or not. He doesn’t care, but he knows it, he knows from the way you stare. The dreams you have of him not even under his influence.

Pressing at your hole again has him drooling, laving at the innerwalls of his mouth to collect the saliva that won’t stop from pouring.

“Fuck.” Jaemin finally grunts, biting down on his teeth as he sinks inside of you. It’s wet and tighter than he could have ever imagined. The hand wrapped around himself hardly comparable after many nights spent jerking off on your backside.

A smooth thrust fills you up eagerly, a perfect fit making it too hard to hold back from cramming into you balls deep.

Jaemin stills for a minute, long eyelashes fan on the tops of his cheeks. Swallowing harsh enough for his Adam's apple to visibly bob up and down the length of his dipped back neck. “So fucking good, just like I knew you would be.”

Palms scramble along the sides of your thighs, grinding forward to watch your mouth fall open again. A silent cry he wants to hear echo through the room simply not enough. Reaching for your waist, Jaemin pins your upper half to the bed, wiggling his hips to keep your thighs around his sides.

“Wet like a whore.” Jaemin snickers, clicking his tongue along the backs of his teeth. The painful circle of his hips fills the room with gasped whines, grinning to himself because you’re enjoying it. You like getting fucked, even in your sleep. He could care less with the sole mission to breed you full of cum consuming his head. He thrusts finally, the head of his size catching on your hole earning a louder moan.

The warmth gripping his dick feels mind-numbing, the most he’s felt in months since hunting you down, and his pace alters immediately as the feeling finally gets to him. You’re his for the taking, his and only his.

“Mine.” Jaemin mutters to himself, ruthlessly thrusting back into you in a jerky motion. It’d be painful if you were awake, his pace alternating from meticulously deep rolls of his hips to sloppy, aggressive and messy. The sound of wetness more overbearing than the clap of your skin colliding.

He’s frantic, knowing he can fuck you like his as long as he pleases, and you can’t do anything about it.

Jaemin’s thick arms bracket your head, nose hovered above your lips. Moan after moan sounding more excruciating than the last. Fucking into your tight cunt like a man who just discovered the glory of a fleshlight, reckless abandonment. The ache against your groin and thighs one guaranteed to last for weeks to come.

“So fucking good for me angel.” Jaemin praises, head thrown back when you clench around him. It makes him laugh like a maniac, amused by the idea of you listening, hearing everything he says. Dropping his face to your throat, he licks up your jaw to your earlobe, nibbling before he whispers. “Pretty baby loves getting fucked like a slut.”

A sigh sings from your lips, the prettiest sigh he’s ever heard. A sigh that runs in circles throughout his mind, turning to drop his cheek against yours with wide eyes focused on shut ones. The heavy weight of your eyelids taunting him, pushing him to fuck harder for just a glimpse of your hidden iris.

He could cum off that alone, and it punches through him with the next thrust, burying his thick fat length as deep inside of you as he can. Surely deep enough to rip through your insides, the weight of his heavy cock poking between your pressed together stomachs with each pointed thrust.

Jaemin’s obsessed with the grip your pussy gives, needing to feel you lock you and struggle to take him through your unwanted pleasure once more. Snaking his hand between your connected lower halves, he roughly rubs at your engorged clit, fat between his fingers from neglect. The need to cum more prevalent for the both of you than he cares about, but it feels too good to force his size past your shrunken entrance.

“You’re so fucking good for me. You don’t even know.” Jaemin babbles to himself, nose digging into your cheekbone to quiet the groan ripping through his chest. The sound of your wetness fills the room up in the most obscene way, splashing against his thighs and stomach with each impactful land of his hips.

“Ah—fuck!” A string of curses soars free, jostling you up the hospital bed that struggles to stay in place as he fucks you at a near inhumane pace. The whites of your eyes gleam with his next thrust, rolled back from the powerful hit that arches your back involuntarily.

“Fuck you all night, gonna fuck you everyday.”

Jaemin cries out, ripping a chunk of your hair with a balled up fist to unveil the column of your throat, biting down as the coiling heat in his gut becomes too overwhelming.

And he cums, screaming with his teeth dug into your skin. Bits of flesh scraped off by his sharp canine teeth, but still not enough to wake you, even as you let out a weak moan intensely squirting release around his size.

It’s almost too hard to stay put inside of you, having to realign his weight to keep his cock in despite the wet arousal bursting trying to shove him out.

It’s more desperate than he wanted, to fuck you like he owns you, because he does now. You’re his from inside out now. You’ll always be his.

Jaemin’s flopping down to his stomach, pushing your pussy folds open to ensure every drop of cum disappears. He has to fight back the urge to lean in, slurp of the slick wet coating your labia to watch your hole convulse, twitch and swallow down the white mess of cum passing through.

“We always have tomorrow to keep trying.” He grins wolfishly, throwing your gown back on without a care. “and the day after that.”

The camera shuts off, near the end of it’s battery life, and he thinks the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Scooting back toward your heaving figure, he leisurely trails up one of your thighs, playfully pushing them apart to memorize how damaged he’s left you. A fat wad of cum bubbles deep in your stretched out hole, gaped around nothing, sore and painful looking.

When morning comes you’ll wonder again why your body hurts so much. You’ll cry miserably, losing your patience, ready to end your battle, ready to give up. That’s what Jaemin wants anyway.

“Goodnight angel.”

It’s been over a week now of staying at the clinic, and you feel worse than when you arrived.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a good nights sleep?”

The questions rhetorical, not that you’d be able to decipher the true meaning behind your doctors words.

Between nightmares altering reality and mixing up different prescribed medications, you no longer had a grasp on time. Nothing felt real anymore, even the metal table before you reflecting your exhausted lifeless appearance felt like some horrific illusion.

“I can’t remember.”

Dr. Na leans closer to you with his elbows propped on the table to perch his chin in his hands. A soft yet devious smile painted on his lips as he watches you lose your fight.

“I’ll show you what you have forgotten.”

Dr. Na could say anything to you at this point really. Beyond the horrific visions taking over your brain, your body felt like it was breaking down on you. Every muscle sore, even your bones ached, new marks of bruising appeared everyday.

“I believe, I’ve figured out what’s keeping you awake.” The doctor says, turning to a rolly table at his side. Click clacks of typing sounds throughout the empty room, clearing his throat as he turns a black screen to face you.

“You have?”

Dr. Na stands, he smooths back a bang piece of hair that's fallen loose. The lab coat fitting his frame perfectly begins to slip from his wide shoulders and he removes it without breaking eye contact.

“You see, you’re a special case to me.” He continues, rounding the table to stand behind where you sit with his heavy palms weighing down on your slumped shoulders. “I’ve invested so much time and energy into you.”

Dr. Na’s lips pout behind you, gathering your hair off to one side to tickle down the side of your marked up throat. Marks left behind from his ruthless grip choking away your breath while he fucked you harder and deeper without anything or anyone to restrain him.

“In return, I need you to listen.”

“Doctor?” He could be speaking a foreign language as far as you’re concerned. Tilting your chin to the side to look up at him, your forehead wrinkles confused, met with the always handsome comforting face. Big doe eyes that round in a precious way that makes you feel as if everything will be ok.

“Shh shh” pinching your chin, Dr. Na turns you to face the screen, leaning the weight of his chest against the back of your head as he reaches over. Fingers click down, a video of your sleeping figure taking over the laptop screen.

“Did I do something in my sleep?” You wonder, watching as you struggle to stay still. Your feet kick the more you turn side to side, it’s uncomfortable to see yourself in distress.

“Not quite, angel.” Dr. Na huffs, continuing to push his chest closer to you. He has you hunched in closer, face lit up by the screen. Surprised as the doctor appears, and bright red eyes flash in the direction of the camera. A glitch because of the dim-lighting, you decide. “But I did.”

It’s shocking, disgusting, and humiliating to see what happens next. The choked gasp that pours from your mouth trapped by a large hand slapping down on your lips.

“You see, I chose you sweetie.” Dr. Na’s tone falls an octave, the sugary sweetness behind his words disappearing. “This whole time, I molded you, prepared you for this.”

He nods, pushing his other hand down to grip and hold your stomach. “To carry my future child, to birth my spawn.”

Screams go muffled beneath the palm splayed over your mouth, shoved up with an arm belted around your waist to bend over on the table. Dr. Na rips at the hospital gown covering your backside, arching your neck with his powerful hold on your face to force you to continue watching him take advantage and use your body.

“I said shush!” He sounds more demonic now, displaying an inhuman strength as he shreds off your underwear. The chill air floating through the room smacks your core quickly sending your knees to clink together. Fearful as you watch the man on screen rip you open from the inside. “Almost liked you better asleep.”

He has the audacity to laugh when tears trickle down his fingers, kicking your thighs open with a knee as he plants against your bent body. The cool table melting against your heated flesh with his hips smacking into your bottom. Three fingers shove into your mouth as you attempt to scream for help, someone, anyone to hear you and stop what happens next.

“You see,” fingers drag up the backs of your thighs, gripping roughly where they land on your ass to spread you apart. Sucking in air between his teeth at the sight of your ruined hole, swollen and painfully stretched from the amount of times he’s fucked you through the night now. “You’re perfectly healthy, couldn’t be better. A little stupid, but you’re human afterall.”

He doesn’t explain more than that, thrusting his fingers deeper into your mouth to quiet the coughs and cries spilling out of you. The sound of a zipper opening has you weakly attempting to thrash back, fight him off.

He’s too big, he’s too strong, too powerful to kick away.

The first touch of his bare skin shoots your eyes open, crying out as his girth lands against your core.

He’s too big. He’s too fucking big, and he’ll break you.

Pleads fall empty trying to pray for mercy, his cock only leaking out more spurts of precum as a murmured ‘please God’ sounds.

“God can’t help you now, sweet little angel.” He sneers, rubbing the length of his size between your folds just as he begins to on the screen. The hold on your jaw forces you to watch each action, to watch the way he manipulates your body to do as he pleases.

“Don’t want it princess?” He grunts shakily, growling in his chest because you’re already wet. So fucking nasty, hot and wet between your thighs, canting back to meet his cock ramming against your meaty folds. “But look at how much you loved it.”

He shakes your head in a mocking manner, much like a child being punished for uttering a bad word. The screen too blurry behind your tears, but the image is clear enough to see your doctor take advantage of you in your most innocent helpless state.

“Please, please doctor…please.”

The sound of his tongue clicking in dismay echoes like a jeer, circling your entrance with the tip the more you plead. “Jaemin. Enough of this bullshit doctor act.”

Nothing he says to you makes sense anymore, incapacitated by his weight crushing your feeble body to the table. Deeming your pussy wet enough, he scoots forward to sandwich past your clamped thighs, kicking a foot roughly between your knees for more leverage. He wants it to hurt, wants you to scream to make up for all the times he’s let you enjoy it, wants to see you cry and beg for him to stop.

One swoop forward gives him exactly what he desires, shallowly fucking his full heavy girth in even with how tight you still manage to be. The video on screen displays a similar act, different in position, lacking the blood curdling screams and cries you let out as he mocks and laughs.

“So pretty baby, you’re so pretty for me.” Jaemin licks at his upper lip, jostling against you a few times as he turns you by your chin to look at him, cracking your neck with the strain. “Can I fuck you? Huh?”

He laughs again, an arrogant disgusting laugh, emphasizing the question with another piston of his hips. “Can I? My sweet angel can take it. You already have.”

It’s too easy, you’re nothing but a mindless hole succumbed to his strength. The man behind you more demonic than anything, the gentle features of your concerned doctor turned dark, menacing, purely evil.

His hips hammer wildly, keeping your face turned to the side to watch the way he ravages your body. To watch him destroy and rip away your soul.

Every choked miserable cry you let out only heightens his pleasure, snapping his hips brutally against your backside. The pain hits from both ends with each dig of your thighs and pelvic bone cutting against the table.

“You were tighter the other night.” He spits, wadding up saliva to aim at the middle of your fast. The nasty thick wetness trickling from the bridge of your nose to the puddle of snot and drool accumulated on your lips. “Already fucking loose, you know what that means?”

Fingers squeeze past his relentless hips, shoving between your buttcheeks to scratch at your rim earning a shriek and scurry of your feet to get away. The sadistic laugh that booms out behind you sending shrill fear up your spine, tightening up around the length punching in and out of you with intention to hurt.

“Ah, fuck, yeah. Like that.” Jaemin pushes back, choking your neck from behind to hold you down. Palm smacking down angrily on your rim. “but not today.”

He reaches around, finding your clit between his middle and index finger to pinch and roll until you lift onto your tippy toes with a gurgled scream. “Can’t fuck a baby into you back there.”

“Doctor, please! Stop!” Between heavy breaths and sniffles, Jaemin keeps laughing, biting on his lips from the conflict in your tone. Your pussy locked around his length begging for more the louder you cry and protests.

“Don’t have to beg.” He taunts, licking up your back to bite down on your jaw, his fingers continuing to pleasure your bundle of nerves incessantly. “Gonna fuck you full of cum regardless. You’re so wet for me princess.”

It’s sick, sensing the last semblance of energy leaving your fingertips, the hold you had on the table goes numb, shaking against your will as orgasm rips through you making Jaemin growl and fuck harder past the convulsing around his size. He crushes against you completely, knocking your lungs free of all air, desperately twitching as he paints your insides once again.

He’s quick to recover, faster than you can process, pulling out to throw you down onto your knees and stroke the last spurts of cum onto your lips before you can try to crawl away.

“You’re mine now.” Dr. Na’s chest beats up and down drenched in sweat. You shouldn’t like it, but as you wait for the bile to rise up your esophagus you can’t look away. The pads of his fingers clean your chin, pushing release past your swollen abused lips. Nodding with his chin that you swallow it all.

“What did I just say?” He tuts, pushing two digits down on the middle of your tongue until you cough and choke. Jerking out with a river of drool streaming out onto the floor, onto his designer loafers.

“I’m yours.” You repeat, sniffling with a cough as the tangy taste of cum lodges in your throat. It’s everywhere, rubbed raw onto your skin, stuck between your teeth. The statement is nothing but true as he watches you swallow.

“Exactly.” Dr. Na scoops you up, perched on the edge of the table to slap your thighs open. “You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

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