#francis of the filth | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

notmyneighbor · 1 day

Text

back alley - doppel francis mosses x female reader

part 2

words | 4.5k

rating | explicit

cw | minor blood kink/pain kink/breeding kink/sex

ao3 link

taglist | @purplemys @soonyoung-park @blendingmixer @kpopslur @xxxsecuritybreach @nyxinashes @sleephereicome @vurivuri @beardedblizzardexpert @pissybritchess @unicorngirly1 @umiwu @msdevil333 @tojiscumsock @mariaflor873 @kuroonavirus @xxthatoneartistxx @aannyytthhiinnggg @nothing-to-see-here09

Every other human in the city is trying desperately to keep the doppelgängers away, yet here you are, inviting one into your apartment.

You’re suddenly wondering if you’d tidied the place properly before you’d left that afternoon for work. If there was laundry on the floor or the bed was unmade or there were dishes in the sink. Not that you weren’t a clean person, but sometimes you slacked a bit if you were in a hurry, especially if you’d overslept. It seems silly to be worried about making a good impression on the invader. You doubt such things matter to him. But they matter to you.

You reach for the light switch as soon as you enter the living space and close the door, securing the deadbolt behind you and your guest. You’d made it home at last. No further encounters with the DDD. No neighbors around to see you smuggle the doppel inside. You’re safe.

Your eyes immediately are drawn to the imposter milkman’s bloodstained shirt. You’re lucky no one had seen you on the way home. There’d be no explaining that injury away.

“I’m going to need you to take off your shirt so I can wash it. And, uh, your pants as well,” you add, noting some of the blood had also leaked there, probably during the frenzy of your ‘sex against the alley wall’ session. Your body feels sticky, dirty, tacky from the coats of cum and saliva and blood you’d been doused with. You need to bathe desperately. “You should just take everything off and get in the shower. The bathroom is this way.”

The imposter milkman nods, following you. It’s a tiny space. Crowded, with the two of you occupying it. You brush against him as you move to turn the shower faucet on, letting the water run. It takes time to heat up. The plumbing is old, the pipes groaning in protest. At least the water pressure is decent.

The invader begins unbuttoning his work shirt, wincing when he reaches the layer of the undershirt below, the thin material clinging to his skin where it has adhered with blood. A fresh stream weeps from the corners of the stitched wound. It’s difficult to discern accurately with all of the crimson stains, but it seems as if most of the loops of thread you’d used to suture the laceration shut are, in fact, still intact.

You watch the doppel unfasten his pants and you’re surprised when a fresh bloom of heat radiates between your legs. You shouldn’t be staring. You can’t look away. You want him.

His face lifts and his eyes meet yours. “Are you showering with me?”

You nod. You feel so warm. Almost feverish. You have a doppelgänger in your bathroom. Soon to be naked in your shower. With you.

The invader doesn’t mask his desire as your body is revealed. You shed you dress and bra and panties, peeling down the nylon stockings last. You stand bare before him, letting him drink the sight of you in. His hungry gaze drags across your flesh. It takes tremendous restraint not to touch him, to not simply ignore the filth covering you both and just crush yourself into the alien’s arms. Instead you enter the shower and he follows. The first touch of the water on your skin is refreshing. You linger beneath the spray, soaking your hair, letting it pelt your skin. The doppel stands behind you, waiting patiently for his turn.

You trade places in that cramped stall, reaching for the bar of soap on the shallow ledge affixed to the tile wall. Of course the alien can bathe himself, but you want to do it. An excuse to touch. You lather until you’ve worked up a good amount of suds with a wash cloth, then begin working it over his chest. There’s a sparse patch of dark hair between his pectoral muscles, a thin trail down his abdomen leading to his groin. You spend the most time scrubbing around the injury, trying to be gentle.

“You can press harder.”

His voice is a low rumble, barely audible as it competes with the spray of water.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on the doppel. The condition of his phallus isn’t lost on you, either. So much for needing rest.

”I like you touching me.”

You remain silent, your eyes shying away from the insistent organ lifting near your hands. At last you leave the wound behind and move towards that needy cock of his, massaging soap and water over it. You hear the little choked sound of pleasure he tries to stifle and it makes your pussy throb. Beneath the dark curls that nest at the base of the shaft you cup the scrotum drawn taut. You feel the sudden urge to taste them, to lick and suck at all the forbidden places, but you deny yourself for the moment, shifting your attention to his thighs. There is some blood stubbornly caked there that you want remove. His posterior is clean but you want to touch it anyway, dragging down his spine and massaging across his buttocks.

The replicant pulls the soapy cloth from your fingers, letting it fall to the tiled floor, where it slaps wetly beside the drain. He reaches for the bar of soap and repeats the process of collecting a mass of suds out of reach of the water, then coats your torso with them, generously lathering your breasts. Your nipples instantly harden beneath his touch, appreciating the attention. He’s at your hips now, nudging for you to turn around and face the wall. The tail of your damp hair is pushed to one side, the doppelgänger’s mouth near your ear. “Are you still afraid of me?”

“Yes.” You feel his cock nudging the cleft of your buttocks. You do still fear for your safety. You fear for how much you want him, too. You can taste it at the back of your throat. It aches, like the cunt that drools, desperate to be filled again.

“I’m not going to harm you.”

His hand slips between your thighs. You whimper as his fingers make contact with your clit. He passes through the folds and prods your vaginal opening gently. The soap is nearly gone now, diluted by the water cascading over your body. This is no longer about bathing.

“I want to breed you again. Would you like that?”

You’re still sore. Your skin stings where the abrasions you’d sustained against the brick wall earlier are. Your pussy feels swollen, tender as he prods it.

But you want him to fuck you again. You like the sound of being bred. Animalistic. Primitive. Being fucked from behind like a dog. Filled with cum that is incompatible with your fertile womb. At least you think it is. You don’t know, and that’s part of the thrill, too. You want that monster to pump you full again. You manage to gasp out your acceptance right before he pushes you against the tiles. You can feel the head of his prick dragging over your buttocks, the pressure as he searches for the opening and then he’s back inside of you for the second time that evening.

You moan and he joins you in that sound of pleasure, gently thrusting in deeper and then withdrawing slightly. His fingers dig into your deltoid. You’ve got water running between your parted lips. His hips kiss your ass again. Still sawing gently in and out. The other hand hasn’t ceased circling your throbbing pearl. Strange that an alien lover is more considerate than any man you’d ever been intimate with.

“Harder,” you beg, surprised when the words leave your lips. Your hand slaps out to brace yourself when he complies, the sound of wet flesh meeting repeatedly filling the air. His hand abandons your arm and covers yours, his lips on your throat. Easier to cross the bridge to orgasm, now that you’ve been over it once tonight already, your body melting and quivering, until you feel you are all liquid, around you, inside of you. The breath of the imposter milkman stutters against your ear, and good timing, that—the hot water is cooling, the supply exhausted. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming, hngh…” A new wetness fills you, the invader’s cock shooting streams of hot release into your womb.

The temperature of the water is unpleasant now, driving you both to leave the stall. You hastily shut the faucet off and the doppel drags the curtain aside. You grab one of the bath towels off of the rack mounted on the wall, handing it to your companion before securing your own.

You can still feel the seed he’s gifted you leaking out between your thighs, and you save this place for last, dragging the terrycloth fibers over the flushed area that is more sensitive than ever. You’d been pounded good, and you’d enjoyed every minute of it.

The crumpled, bloodied clothes piled on your sink remind you of the task you’d originally intended on performing. There is still the wound to tend to.

“I have to fix your stitches. You can sit here.” You gesture toward the toilet and he settles on the closed lid. “You really need to be careful of strenuous activity from now on,” you reprimand gently as you kneel down, examining the torn threads more closely.

“I believe you were the one that said to go harder.” The mimic sounds amused as he sprawls a bit so you have better access to his lower abdomen, unfolding and stretching out his torso for you. You begin to hum, some melody from the radio that’s always on for the customers, trying to steady your nerves. You thread a new needle. The suturing process isn’t quite as terrifying as it had been the first time, when you’d had to contend with the overshadowing threat of the DDD searching for the invader, when the doppel had been a scary stranger.

What was he now?

“Okay, all patched up again.” You don’t have a first aid kit, something you should probably invest in. For now there are just simple adhesive bandages covering the most compromised areas along the laceration. At least the bleeding had slowed. The added compression of the dressings you’d applied should help it stop completely soon.

“You’ve missed your calling, I think.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur shyly at the compliment. You begin to gather your things together, preparing to stand up but freezing when you feel his hand reach out, tucking a loose strand of wet hair back behind your ear.

“Pretty,” he says, the backs of his knuckles grazing your cheek.

You’re not accustomed to the praise. Sure, a customer would flirt every now and again, but it wasn’t serious. This feels deeper, somehow. Raw appreciation. The alien found you physically appealing. If you saw what he truly looked like, would you feel the same? You swallow thickly. “Your clothes won’t be dry until morning. Do you…do you want to spend the night here?” You can scarcely force the words out. You’re terrified of the prospect of him staying. Exhilarated as well. You’ve never heard a single positive thing about the doppelgängers, but this one kept defying those preconceived notions at every turn. Is it really possible you just happened to meet the only decent one in the bunch? Were there others like him?

“Do you want me to stay?”

A good question. Yes, you think you do.

Another nervous gulp. “Yes. Do you, um…do you sleep?”

His lips curve gently upward. “Yes, we sleep.”

“I guess…I guess a lot of living things do. That was a stupid thing to ask.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I don’t know anything about you. Your kind, I mean. Well, or yourself, either. But you seem to know so much about humans.”

“It’s key to our survival here. We can’t exist if we can’t convince you we’re one of you.” He pauses. “I’ll answer questions if you have them.”

You push yourself to your feet. “I don’t know what to ask,” you reply honestly. “Or, more like, where to even begin.” You open the mirrored medicine cabinet, removing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide to help remove the bloodstains from the imposter milkman’s uniform. The tired brown eyes look curious as you pour the liquid over the stains, the reaction immediate as a pool of foamy bubbles erupts over the surface of the fabric. Then you submerge each article of clothing one by one, agitating the garments between your hands in a mixture of soap and water.

It occurs to you then that there is nothing for the replicant to slumber in. You’re not even sure where he’s going to sleep. The couch? Your bed? The last unvoiced suggestion has your heart pounding.

Suddenly you feel the doppel’s body warm against your back, pressing against you. You’re frozen, immobile, a deer caught in a car’s headlights, a rabbit gone limp before its predator. His fingers drape across the spaces where your neck and shoulders meet on either side. Just a slight movement and they could be wrapped around your throat, wringing the life from you body. Instead he begins massaging you, the pads of his fingers digging firmly into the knotted muscles.

“You’re so tense. You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“I’m trying to. It’s difficult. Every instinct is telling me I should be afraid of you.”

“As I keep telling you, I have no intention of harming you,” he breathes against your ear. “If that’s what I truly wanted, I could have done that already.”

You shiver at the feel of that warm air passing over your skin. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Is there room for me in your bed?”

Technically yes, there is. But it hardly seems proper.

You’d fucked him in public. You’d fucked him again in your shower. Was there really any shame left in you?

“Yes,” you answer out loud, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“Would you prefer I sleep elsewhere?”

“No.” Your face turns to the side slightly. He’s still speaking close to your ear, the sensations of his breath and lips tickling your skin in the most sensual way. He pulls your hair to one side and kisses your neck softly.

The doppel’s hands slide down your arms, from the top all the way down to your hands still submerged in the soapy basin of water. “Finish this. You’ve done enough work for one day. I want you next to me.”

Your stomach flutters at his words. You hastily finish laundering the clothing, wringing it dry and then rolling the items in one of the used bath towels to remove excess moisture. You then drape them over the shower rod, kicking the towels against the side of the stall to help with any water that might drip onto the floor overnight. The cap and bowtie you decide to leave on the counter.

Exhaustion hits you then. You feel like you’ve run straight into a wall. It had been such a long day; an even longer night. The constant rush of adrenaline, the fluctuating hormones of your fear, your desire, leave you drained of energy. You don’t have any appetite. You just want to lie down.

You don’t know how you’re going to sleep, with a doppelgänger beside you.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror after you pull a nightgown over your head. Your lips look a little swollen from so much kissing. Your pupils are blown wide. Your hair is in complete disarray, still uncombed, now resting in damp, messy tangles. You stare at the image of the flushed young woman standing across from you and hardly recognize it as your own. You hurriedly brush your teeth and comb through your hair. I have a doppelgänger waiting in my bed. You keep repeating the thought in your mind. Madness. Insanity.

You find the milkman’s copy reclining against the headboard, propped up on pillows, looking very relaxed and comfortable. As if it is the most natural thing to be resting in a human’s bed. You sit on the edge of the mattress, leaning over to switch off the bedside lamp before lying back, your body stiff.

The box springs creak as the doppel changes positions, sliding down beside you. He strokes your jaw, somehow finding it in the darkness. His mouth nudges against yours, his tongue prodding yours open. He tastes like mint, from the toothpaste you’d lent him. A more comforting flavor than the metallic one you’d sampled earlier. Your heart is fluttering wildly, like a hummingbird’s blurring wings. “Thank you for letting me stay,” he says softly when your lips part for air. “I like being with you.”

“I like being with you, too,” you whisper. Your body turns, tucking against his. His arm wraps around you, his fingers stroking your hair. You can hear his heartbeat, at first as fast as your own, gradually slowing, relaxing, lulling you into a sleep you’d thought you’d never attain.

***

You awaken to shouting.

It’s still dark. You feel the doppelgänger stir beneath you.

Someone in one of the apartments nearby, for certain. Men’s voices. Your hear DDD! called out with authority. They’re after a doppel. You prop yourself up, reaching for his mouth, fingers clamping over his lips you find blindly in the inky shadows. “Don’t say anything. It’s the disposal team.”

You feel him tense. You try to breathe more shallowly. If they came here, they’d kill him. Imprison you for harboring the fugitive. Maybe worse. You don’t know. Humans never sided with the aliens.

Until now. Until you’d committed that very act.

It seems they’ve found the imposter they’re searching for. Gunfire. You feel the doppel flinch, face jerking against your fingers. A single scream. You cannot tell if it belongs to a man or woman, earthling or invader. Loud footsteps. A door slamming. Then silence, eerie and thick.

You let your fingers slide from the doppelgänger’s lips. He inhales and exhales through his mouth, each drag loud and shuddering. “You’re okay,” you say soothingly, aware of how strange it seems, comforting one of the invaders. “They’re gone.”

The air exchange still sounds rough, labored. You feel for his face, stroking across his cheek. He traps your hand swiftly, surprising you. Your lips meet.

Breathless for another reason now, as his mouth works against yours. Tongue impatient, violent, frenzied. You can’t get enough, frantically mashing those wet, panting openings together.

His fingers scramble clumsily for the hem of your nightgown, a pleased sounding sigh hummed when he realizes you hadn’t bothered putting panties on. The digits stroke your external genitalia, still tender and sore from earlier. You inhale sharply and he immediately pauses. “It’s alright. Don’t stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. What if you were on top? Might be better for the stitches, too.”

“Okay.”

You climb onto his lap. His hands stretch up, stroking over your stomach and massaging your breasts. You reach for his prick, lining it up with you entrance, teasing before swiping it through the slick, massaging it through your lips and over your clit, then bringing it back to the opening of your canal. You let your hips begin to drop. The stretch of your swollen tissue burns. You ignore it, grinding down, then rise up. Repeat. Again. And again. There’s still that raw ache inside, but it’s pleasurable, too. You bend to capture his lips, rocking in gentle motions against his erection.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He sucks your bottom lip, fingers brushing at the cascade of your hair falling forward.

For a time you continue the lazy drag back and forth, sheathing and unsheathing. You’re exhausted, but your body is still craving more. You kiss him and straighten, really pressing down now, properly impaling yourself. His hips lift to meet you, driving him in even deeper. You’re trying not to make too much noise out of respect for your neighbors, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult. He seats a hand on your hip and your fingers lace through the other one. The coil inside of you tightens, winding tighter and tighter as the pressure escalates. It’s there, maddeningly close, just out of reach.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, the command issued between gasps of pleasure. It’s exactly what you need to hear, sending you hurtling into bliss. Your body spasms around him, granting you a glimpse of ecstasy with each tremor.

Your nails rake down his chest. His hand clamps over your wrist, shoving your fingers towards the abdominal wound. It feels sticky again. He’s bleeding.

“Press. Hard.”

“What?” You think you’re confused in your post orgasmic state, the lack of sleep addling your wits.

“I want you to…need…” Your hand is shoved deeper against the cut. “Please.” The word tears from his throat.

You shake your head, even though he can’t see you in the darkness. “No, I don’t want to hurt you, I…” A thumb prods against your mouth, slipping between your lips, and you taste the doppel’s blood. You don’t know what makes you lick that pad, dredging for every trace of that sinister liquid caked against the whorls. Can hardly believe when you give the invader what he wants, your hand digging into his marred flesh, the flesh you’d just repaired, would have to mend again when this was over.

“Oh, fuck…” His hips snap up, ramming against your cervix and you feel something molten painting your insides. Your face drops back to his and you kiss him roughly. He tastes like salt now. You’re both sweating. Covered in perspiration and cum and blood once again.

Your legs are aching, trembling as you dismount, his arms bracing you until you’ve successfully found a space to tuck into. You rest your head against his chest. “We have to take care of this,” you say quietly, your hand caressing just shy of the injury.

“We will. Just stay here with me a moment.” You feel his head shift, his lips kissing your hair. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” You’re not sure if you are. You don’t know how to describe what you’re feeling. The violence of what you’d just done. The sensuality and intimacy of it. You feel as if you are caught in a vortex. You cannot resist the doppelgänger, cannot deny his needs. Your own needs. The want fills you to overflowing. Your body has reshapen internally, molded to accommodate him. Allowing him to mark you. Claim you. Strengthening the bond of the contract between you. Deepening the debt.

You bathe a final time. Sew your doppel back together. Change the bed sheets. Tumble into his arms and finally, finally rest.

***

You both sleep late into the afternoon. It’s nearly time for you to go to work. You get ready hastily, your routine watched closely by the imposter milkman. Your fingers sink into his hair at your door. You don’t want to part. You wonder what he will do for the remainder of the day, when he is not at your side. You don’t know when you will see him again. You share a long kiss goodbye. Then your paths diverge in front of the apartment building. You want to look back. You want to follow him. There is a new kind of ache in you. Longing. The fear forgotten.

The diner is crowded today, keeping you busy. You make many mistakes. Delivering orders to the wrong customers. Messing up at the cash register. The owner has always been kind to you, but you can see his exasperation. You tell him you didn’t sleep well. It’s obvious you haven’t. You have shadows under your eyes to match the imposter milkman’s now.

Even the longest shifts must eventually end. It is time to shut down for the night. You hear ceramic crash to the floor in the kitchen, followed by a curse. The dishwasher has dropped a plate again. A frequent occurrence. You hear the sound of the front doors opening—you hadn’t had a chance to lock them just yet—and you begin speaking without viewing the patron. “I’m sorry, we’re closed. We reopen at five…” Your voice trails off. It’s the doppelgänger. Your doppel.

He smiles and you feel the familiar swirl in your tummy. “Hi,” you greet softly.

“Hello.”

“Hey, is the dustpan out here? I need to sweep…oh, hi, Mr. Mosses. Didn’t think to see you here at this hour.”

The smile slips from the mimic’s features. Your hands freeze midway through wiping down the counter. It had never occurred to you that someone might recognize the replicant, mistaking him for the original.

“You…you know him?”

“Well, sure. He delivers to the neighborhood.” The youth doesn’t seem to pick up on the sudden tension in the room, introducing the two of you. You realize you had never learned the name of the man the doppel was impersonating before this.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mosses,” you respond politely, your brain firing on auto pilot.

“Francis, please. The pleasure is mine.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have met before since you don’t work first shift. Oh, here it is.” The teenager retrieves the object he’s been searching for.

“I’m going to make something for Mr. Mo—Francis,” you say, shooting a glance at the imposter that you hope he understands. He sits stiffly on one of the cushioned stools lining the counter, carefully folding his hands in front of him.

“Sure. See you around.” The false milkman nods, attempting another smile before the youth disappears back into the kitchen.

“Just stay there. We’ll be done soon. I’m always the last one to leave,” you murmur quietly before entering the kitchen. You know the doppelgänger isn’t going to be interested in the sandwich and glass of milk your prepare, but you have to provide something to make the encounter seem innocent and natural. You’re relieved when the boy finally leaves, calling out a final friendly farewell before exiting. You lock the door behind him, feeling a burst of relief.

The doppel spits out the bite of the sandwich he’d been chewing, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “No offense, but we don’t share the same palates.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just needed to make it look normal, you know? Are you hungry? Do you want—”

“—I want you.” The false milkman’s cap is lifted and tossed on the counter. He slides off the stool and you lead him into the kitchen, barely clearing the door before the doppel grabs you and captures your lips. You drape your arms around his shoulders, a little squeak of surprise emerging when he lifts you and sets you on the counter.

“Should I call you Francis?”

“Call me anything you want. I missed you,” he breathes, nipping at your bottom lip.

“I missed you, too,” you confess against the side of his neck. He smells like your soap, like your shampoo. His skin is lightly stubbled, new growth emerging. He hadn’t shaved earlier. “Are you going to sleep over again?”

“Yes.” His arms tighten around you.

You sigh contentedly. You’d worry about the consequences of these decisions later. The risks of being involved like this with a doppel can be dealt with another time. For now, it’s as simple as you wanting him.

“Let’s go home.”

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #thats not my neighbor #francis mosses #milkman x reader #milkman x you #milkman #the milkman #that’s not my neighbor #francis tnmn #tnmn smut #tnmn francis mosses #doppelganger francis mosses #doppel francis #tnmn milkman #tnmn doppelganger #tnmn fanfic #divider @strangergraphics

154 notes · View notes