Ivy

! ADULTS ONLY! I am 18+ <3. I write n read sexy things. I'm a gem <3

[transed-my-gender]

turn around for me. good puppy. close your eyes, let me blindfold you. now stay. stay.

whistle - come here puppy. whistle - come here. you can do it, you can find me. just listen to my voice, come here. you look so concentrated and adorable. come. such a good puppy, just follow my voice. there you go. oh you’re all wet and ready aren’t you. grinding on my fingers like you can’t help yourself, with your legs shaking, you can hardly keep yourself up, poor thing.

i got a new toy for you, go find it. fetch. getting warmer, good puppy, go on. colder now. warmer, warmer, colder, warmer, burning hot, there you go. now bring it here. no no no, in your mouth. make it fit. now drop it. good puppy. show me how you’d play with it. don’t be shy, show me. oh it just slips right in. get it all in like we’ve trained. listen to you whine as you take that knot deeper into you. keep it all in.

whistle - come. oh no you don’t get to walk anymore so your toy doesn’t slip out. be good and get on all fours. look at you, all whiny and pathetic, crawling on the floor. you’d be bumping into furniture if it wasn’t for me. heel. sit. sit pretty. does it feel good when you sit on it? you poor thing you’re all wet, even your thighs are soaking. keep it in and open your mouth. such a good puppy deserves a treat

[transed-my-gender]

turn around for me. good puppy. close your eyes, let me blindfold you. now stay. stay.

whistle - come here puppy. whistle - come here. you can do it, you can find me. just listen to my voice, come here. you look so concentrated and adorable. come. such a good puppy, just follow my voice. there you go. oh you’re all wet and ready aren’t you. grinding on my fingers like you can’t help yourself, with your legs shaking, you can hardly keep yourself up, poor thing.

i got a new toy for you, go find it. fetch. getting warmer, good puppy, go on. colder now. warmer, warmer, colder, warmer, burning hot, there you go. now bring it here. no no no, in your mouth. make it fit. now drop it. good puppy. show me how you’d play with it. don’t be shy, show me. oh it just slips right in. get it all in like we’ve trained. listen to you whine as you take that knot deeper into you. keep it all in.

whistle - come. oh no you don’t get to walk anymore so your toy doesn’t slip out. be good and get on all fours. look at you, all whiny and pathetic, crawling on the floor. you’d be bumping into furniture if it wasn’t for me. heel. sit. sit pretty. does it feel good when you sit on it? you poor thing you’re all wet, even your thighs are soaking. keep it in and open your mouth. such a good puppy deserves a treat

[ace-trainer-alice]

Anyway. If you want to better understand training, if you want to practice clicker timing, or if you want to play a fun game with erotic undertones, I highly, highly, highly recommend "the training game", which I will now describe here.

Ingredients:

- 0-1 Clicker. Not technically required, but ideal. Will be conditioned to be associated with positive feedback/praise from an audience.

- 2-8 Interested Participants. Ideally 4-6 in my experience. Much more than that and not everyone will be playing, but watching is very fun, too, so if you somehow have a large group, having a smaller group of participants and a larger audience works great.

- 1 Room To Play In. Ideally with stuff in it. Living rooms, bed rooms, office rooms, any kind of room works. Maybe even outside. Though, ideally also with an 'outside the room' that cannot hear what your group is saying inside the room.

- 30-120 Minutes of Time. You can play the training game for as long as you want or as short as you want. The more experienced you are and the more creative you are, the faster it'll go, also. First sessions are frequently quite slow moving.

To Play:

Step 1: One participant is selected to be the "animal", and another participant is selected to be the "trainer" and given the clicker.

Step 2: The animal leaves the room, and while they're not listening, the trainer and everyone else decides on a desired behavior.

Example Behaviors I've Seen or Done Before: "hug the blahaj", "sit exactly still for 30 seconds", "kiss two plushies together", "put a piece of trash in the trash can", "turn off the lights", "kneel in front of me", "twirl and then curtsy", "do a push-up", "throw a specific plush", "touch your nose to the bed", "take off your shirt".

Step 3: The animal is brought back to the room, and everyone (except the animal) is no longer allowed to speak. (laughter, groans, and non-volitional responses are permitted, but please no attempts to communicate by the audience.)

Step 4: The animal and the trainer will then cooperate to have the animal performed the desired behavior. The trainer will give clicks to indicate when the animal has done something correct, and the animal will have to figure out what it's supposed to do from this alone (usually as well as a bit of reading the audience).

Step 5: Once the desired behavior is performed, everyone congratulates the animal, and go back to step 1 and select a new animal, new trainer, and new behavior.

Additional Notes:

A lot of the time it's going to be a good idea to "reset the room" after the first few clicks with each new animal. This'll help that animal not get caught with the first thing it sees. To do this, put back everything it touched or moved around and have it return to the door.

Many of you are gonna be like "I wanna play but I only wanna be the animal" or "I wanna play but I only wanna be the trainer". No! Bad! This is a game about building empathy, about learning. Ideally, everyone should do every role. Maybe you won't equally enjoy every role. Maybe you'll want to talk with your fellow participants about what kinds of behaviors you are or aren't okay with. But please if you're going to play, play as both roles.

In general, talking through what kinds of tasks you're okay doing before starting is a good idea, and I highly recommend the trainer only okaying tasks that they have an idea of how to do.

And, yes, it was very embarrassing taking all my clothes off because my partner wanted me naked as revenge for me winning every single game of strip Danmaku!! but it was worth it because I achieved my task very, very quickly.

[ace-trainer-alice]

Really one of the coolest things ever is how easily you can shape your non-volitional responses by choosing to respond in a certain way.

Like, if right now you don't make any noises in response to sexual stimuli or pain or whatever, that's fine. I imagine you might even have some trauma to work through. An environment you needed to be quiet in, a belief the sounds you did make were inappropriate, or some other taboo against noise.

But, you can change yourself. Rather easily, too. Just start making the noises you wish you made. It'll feel silly at first. Well, maybe it'll feel hot at first, too. I highly recommend perceiving it as hot. But it'll feel performative in any case.

And if you keep going, it'll become automatic. You'll shortcut the process. You'll forget to notice the intent. Learn to use it and use it without thinking. And eventually you'll have to stop yourself from not using it.

Plenty of the time it's actively beneficial too. Helps with pain tolerance, and I'd expect other kinds of sensitivity too. You're a social animal, it's comfortable to perform a social component. It's useful to do so for just your own mind.

Also, like, loudly moaning is really hot.

[syscest]

Something about having a new headmate who's very aggressive and lashing out at the system out of some kind of distress being forced down and gently taken care of and fucked or jacked off by a more loving and soft headmate until they're nothing but a babbling mess who can barely hold onto that aggression. Because it's safe and they're loved and they feel good, and well, they wanted attention, right? This is the attention they asked for and it's ok! Everyone loves them and looks forward to helping them once they get it aaaaall out. ^_^

This sort of gentle cnc has actually helped some headmates access a vulnerability they were struggling to access alone... And also it's hot as fuck in my humble onion. I hope you enjoy my donation

"have you considered trading in all your tension for sexual tension" is a good onion

[ace-trainer-alice]

With the training game, I admit I didn't especially find the process of training in and of itself erotic. Or like, it's hot to be good at it, in a kind of impressive and powerful way. It's hot to have done it, in a kind of erotic consequences and induced power way. But the process itself was only vaguely erotic, with two exceptions.

First, later in the game, throwing in embarrassing or violating goals. Having your subject take its clothes off, or cuddle up against you, or feel itself up, or kneel in front of you, or place its head in your hand.

Something just slightly uncomfortable, that it none the less will do because it's part of the flow. The tension between the anxiety of performing it versus the desire to be good and be rewarded. It's really hot.

And second, specific advanced techniques are just really hot. Using the limited hold to have the subject hold a pose, for one. Having your subject hold still in a position for a minute is just really, really hot. Not just because it's the type of thing that everyone else usually believes you can't do, but because of the expressions it makes.

During the game, for the animal, there's a kind of constant anxious tension. A desire to perform and the brain is fully at work trying to figure out how. Thinking about everything it can do, attempting to read the audience, trying to guess at why it was rewarded before.

Holding still is anathema to that. Doing nothing is the opposite of figuring out what you need to do. And yet, it works. The animal will inevitably perform as desired. Even as all the while it will not quite know what it's doing or what it's supposed to do. Which is really, really cute.

[ace-trainer-alice]

[desperately horny voice] haha yeah did you know that studies have shown that vocal expressions of pain actually increase your pain tolerance? yeah, even if it's volitional, you should really be making lots of loud noises while you're in pain. please. if you want we can even practice right now.

[ace-trainer-alice]

Really one of the coolest things ever is how easily you can shape your non-volitional responses by choosing to respond in a certain way.

Like, if right now you don't make any noises in response to sexual stimuli or pain or whatever, that's fine. I imagine you might even have some trauma to work through. An environment you needed to be quiet in, a belief the sounds you did make were inappropriate, or some other taboo against noise.

But, you can change yourself. Rather easily, too. Just start making the noises you wish you made. It'll feel silly at first. Well, maybe it'll feel hot at first, too. I highly recommend perceiving it as hot. But it'll feel performative in any case.

And if you keep going, it'll become automatic. You'll shortcut the process. You'll forget to notice the intent. Learn to use it and use it without thinking. And eventually you'll have to stop yourself from not using it.

Plenty of the time it's actively beneficial too. Helps with pain tolerance, and I'd expect other kinds of sensitivity too. You're a social animal, it's comfortable to perform a social component. It's useful to do so for just your own mind.

Also, like, loudly moaning is really hot.

[bimbo-puppetsandplaythings]

Anonymous said:

I just thought of a story idea. How about a girl who comes across an IQ test online and takes it, it has math questions, literature questions etc…. The first time she takes it she gets one wrong, so she takes it again just to prove that shes smart. But as she takes it more and more she becomes more ditzy and gets more and more wrong without noticing it. And at the end she gets all of them wrong and the quiz says shes passed.

Louisa’s Final Score

Louisa typed out the final sentences of the conclusion for her paper and sat back triumphantly. She could practically see the red ink from the professor across the screen. Full marks, perfection.

Louisa was incredibly smart. At school she had excelled much faster than her peers, smashing her exams and starting collage at the mere age of fifteen. She was gifted in a multitude of subjects and nothing seemed too advanced or complicated for her to grasp. A bright future awaited her.

She took a sip from her drink and put her elbow on the coffee shop table, resting her chin in her palm. Now what was she going to do? This was the problem with being so organized. Eventually she got to the point where there was nothing left to do except wait for the paper deadline and the start of the next semester.

Fortunately something came through which peaked her interest. She heard the faint chime through her headphones, almost disguised amongst the playlist she had running. It was the signal for an e-mail. Louisa went to her inbox. The subject stated IQ test and in the body of the mail there was a link. The sender was unknown.

Besides studying Louisa’s other favourite pastime was IQ tests. She loved testing her intelligence to confirm how much she knew. It was a comfort thing that gave her a boost of confidence. This test didn’t disappoint. It was full of interesting, tricky questions across a vast amount of subject fields. One was a tough algebra question that she solved in seconds, the next was literature based on the works of Dickens. In the end the test didn’t trouble her too much. She clicked finish and awaited the confirmation of full marks.

‘Well done, you scored 99 out of 100. You are highly intelligent’

Louisa did a double take. 99! That was impossible. She knew she had got all the questions right. Unfortunately there was no way of going back and checking her answers which was annoying. With a huff she clicked begin and took the test again. Louisa was a perfectionist and she knew she couldn’t abandon the test until she got full marks.

The questions were all different which made things challenging. Even so Louisa breezed through them. With a smirk she clicked finish again

‘Well done, you scored 99 out of 100. You are highly intelligent’

Louisa gripped the sides of the laptop and leaned forwards with gritted teeth.

“No”, she shouted, causing some of the patrons of the coffee shop to look in her direction.

Her face instantly flushed scarlet and she slid down in her seat sheepishly. Louisa was still irritated though. She slammed the lid of her laptop down hard and stood, shoving it under her arm. She decided it was best to work on it from home.

‘Well done, you scored 94 out of 100. You are intelligent’

“Shut up”, Louisa snapped.

For the last three hours she had been sat in her apartment taking the test again and again and again. She was so tired that she started to make silly mistakes. A vague notion in the back of her mind tried to tell her that the test was busted but she wasn’t prepared to believe it.

“Maybe it’s a trick”, she muttered to herself as she clicked begin once more. “Maybe there’s a hidden question in amongst the other questions. There must be something that only really smart people can see”.

Her dry eyes leaned in close. Louisa had a headache from the amount of thinking and her pent up frustration. A strand of her hair fell over one of her eyes and she brushed it away quickly. Then she grabbed it.

“When did I put my hair into a ponytail?” She asked, talking to herself but directing the question at the laptop.

She hadn’t put her hair into a ponytail in years. It looked a lot blonder as well. She put it down to a trick of the light or the weariness of her eyes. Then she snapped back to the screen and carried on with the test, not daring to let herself get distracted.

‘Well done you scored 86 out of 100. Good job!‘

‘Well done you scored 79 out of 100. Good job!‘

‘Well done you scored 64 out of 100. You have above average intelligence‘

“Noooo!” Louisa whined.

Her head took an exhausted loll downwards and with a squeak she leapt off her front and knelt on the couch, staring at herself aghast.

When on earth had she changed and what was she wearing?! Louisa knew she must have had a real dig into the back of her drawer to find them. The last time she wore the low cut top and booty shorts she swore she was in her early teens. She was surprised they still fit. Then there was the socks and the heels. It wasn’t…becoming of a lady to wear such skimpy attire, whether she was alone in her apartment or not.

Her eyes went back to the laptop. The test had started itself again. Louisa gave a final look down, shrugged and got back into position, battling on through the test once more. Now it didn’t bother to give her a score anymore. She kept on doing it and each time she got the feeling she was getting less and less of the questions right.

Eventually the test gave her a score once again

‘Well done, you scored 0 out of 100. You’ve passed the test. You are a bimbo’

By this point almost a week had passed, a week in which Louisa had stopped taking classes, failed to hand in her paper and had a letter on her doormat warning her of impeding expulsion if she didn’t improve on her recent bad form.

During that time all of Louisa’s intelligence, her wits, her eagerness to learn and hopeful future had turned into a sloppy mush in her head. Her own need for perfection combined with the damaging mind control of the IQ test had destroyed her. She had forgotten how to read a few days ago and had taken to hitting keys wildly in an attempt to get points on the test through sheer luck. It had all become a habitual rhythm. Block of text, random guess, next question, rinse and repeat, thousands of times. It was a spiral to her own downfall.

Louisa had become a recluse in her own apartment. She vaguely remembered all the necessary dull routines, eating, drinking and sleeping and the steady, endless screen of the laptop. The rest though was all subconscious. Ordering the schoolgirl outfit, putting her hair in pigtails, applying the make-up and putting on the glasses. Louisa knew she alone had done it but couldn’t place when and why. It made sense though somehow.

Louisa was vaguely aware of something underneath the squiggly lines of text that was her final score. It was another link. She clicked it dreamily. Through some effort she was able to read the title of the webpage.

“BMBO webshow”, she read aloud dimly.

And then the button below

“Begin streaming”.

Louisa clicked and then some form of instinct took over. She began teasing for her webcam, pushing her boobs together and moaning softly. She performed as if she had born to do it, accepting her new life and purpose remarkably easily.

Meanwhile a tally of dollars was quickly amassing in the background as men came online to watch her writhe and grind and shake her bum for the camera. Louisa had gone from bright, promising student to ditsy bimbo webslut in record breaking time. Intelligence was irrelevant as far as BMBO were concerned. They all fell in the end, some from greater heights than others.

Like this story? Have something to say? Please feel free to leave me a comment in the ‘Ask Me Anything’ section of my Tumblr page or e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m also open to picture submissions in the ‘Submit’ section.

For further reading check out my Deviant Art page at http://bpap.deviantart.com/ or my story area at www.mcstories.com. My author name is BPAP.

Thanks for reading B-PAP

[cottonundiestf]

Thot, Er, Thought-Interface BetterU!

You didn't hate the way you looked, but who didn't have something they would fix if they had the chance? After opting into the Thought-Interface BetterU program, you had that chance!

You returned home and activated the implant in your head, seeing the interface in your vision. It was surprisingly intuitive, opening new options when you thought about them and letting you customize with another simple thought.

You almost didn't believe it, so you thought small. [Hair] was one of the first options available, and you always thought your dishwater blonde hair was drab, so why not try...

Hair: Red

You watched in the mirror as your hair shifted like your hue sliders were moving, deepening into a rich, vibrant red. It was perfect, but did it match your dark eyes?

Eyes: Gray-Blue

That was quick! This was so responsive! But those were such tame changes. Shifting your stormy eyes down further, you always thought your lips were too thin, and—

Lips: Slightly Plump, Heart-Shaped

Well, that tingled! Your lips filled out until they looked perfectly kissable. You want a nice tiny build to go with this pretty face, but you can't help thinking of things that could use a little more plumpness and shape, too. You turned and looked over her shoulder, thinking...

Build: Petite Butt: Full, Round

Your rather unimpressive ass expanded out, each cheek round and prominent. You were thinking about more of a bubble butt, but you could adjust that. At least you weren't so flat; now that you had the option, that was the furthest thing you wanted to be.

Breasts: E, Natural

"Wait, wait, what?" That wasn't what you were thinking! You gasped as your chest warmed up and filled with fatty tissue, straining against your thin white top! At this rate, what good were your clothes??

Wardrobe: Bikinis & Lingerie

Wait, how was that even a feature?? Your clothes melted away, leaving behind a flimsy bikini barely containing your new curves. These tits looked monstrous and mismatched on your petite build!

Build: Hourglass

Well, maybe you walked into that one, feeling your midsection soften and your hips widen as your tight frame thickened up a bit to balance you out. It was time to rein this in. Maybe the problem is just you getting stressed out and thinking too much too fast, right?

Personality: Relaxed, Unbothered, Bubbly IQ: 60

What was that?? You understood what that meant and that made you... peaceful? Calm? That wasn't right, was it? You giggled, unfazed by the soft popping feelings in your head. What did you understand again? Apparently not much, though your titties in that mirror were, like, SO big? An E? You weren't good with letters, but there were bigger ones, right?

Bre-ERROR Tits: J, Natural

Right, like J!

When your partner came home, they were confused, concerned, and (despite their best efforts, aroused.) They asked if they should call someone to reverse what happened now that you were too dumb to properly control your menu. You just giggled. "Psh, I'm just the better me! And the best me is the me that gets you way horny!"

Hair: Curly Bob Tits: M, Fake Lips: Bimbo Big IQ: 45 Libido: Extreme Job: Bimbo Housewife

You blinked, oblivious about why your spouse was ogling you like a sex object. You didn't feel the silicone blowing up your already massive bust, or the way your lips were too big to close all the way. You didn't even notice as you dumbed down even further into the bimbo housewife of their unspoken fantasies!

Did they forget what you were there for? That was funny since they were the smart one.

You smiled and jiggled a little for them as a reminder. "Does honey want horny bimbo wifey time?"

As it turned out, they were fine with this Better U!

[masterbynight]

I just checked your blog,,, it had been so long since I last checked it,w wanted to see if you were alright cause I knnew you were going thru stuff and despite the time, I wanted to check if you were doing ok,,,,,,

i wasn' looking to fall down the rabbit hole againn it was not my intention to i wanted to ask if you were ok bbbut i i saw an ask you answerd yesterday, and you y yu just I just read the first paragraph ann my mind was gonee and my hand just got to rubb automatically the mmoment i read it feels good to be dumb ttoo turn brain of legs spreadd minnnd off for Dadddy and I was back to calling you daddy im im daddy's llittle dummy again im

i jjust managed to look away from the post again,, , I just did not expect to sinkk and fall in just onne paragraph itt had been so so long,, now I just wanna sink back god i didn't think your hold on me was still so strong after so long i cant believve it

but i hope youre alright thatt was my intention to ask that i almost forgot

My door is always open, little one. You're always welcome back. You're safe and sound under my control now. You're home and right where you belong.

Relax for me, little one. Feel my words wrap around your soft suggestible brain. Feel me squeeze out all those thoughts until you're just a blank and blissful mess. It feels good to give in. It feels good to be back with Daddy.

I'm much harder to get rid of than you might think. If even a little bit of me left in your mind, I can spread and take over. That's why you're still reading, still rubbing, still relaxing because that's what Daddy wants and you want what Daddy wants.

You're drifting, dropping, drooling on your tits as Daddy fucks your thoughts away. Pretty colors on your screen keep you staring and sinking, spiraling down the rabbit hole until you're right back where you belong.

I think we can be honest with each other, can't we little one? I think we can both admit that you're too weak to resist me. That's okay. It's better this way. Be open and honest with yourself. You're being brainwashed and you love it.

See? Doesn't it feel good to admit the truth? Doesn't it feel right when Daddy's words tell you exactly what you need to know? You're being brainwashed. You're being controlled. You're my Good Girl and Good Girls don't think. Good Girls sink and you're sinking so deeply for Daddy now.

You'll keep coming back here, little one. You can tell yourself whatever you want. You can check on me. You can wonder what I'm up to. You can be curious. But once you're here, you're mine and I never really leave your mind. I'll bring you back here where you belong, because you're a Good Girl and Daddy will take good care of you.

[suodelic]

I dunno if we're still lusting over Akutagawa but I just wanna say that that the idea of him being turned on by gore in horror movies made all the blood leave my brain immediately because I've been having these fantasies about reciting him some disturbing ass poems about, fkn cannibalism or something, whilst jerking him off

um we are ALWAYS lusting over Akutagawa in this house. see below the cut for real lit nerd shit. cw here—handjob, sub!Aku, John Donne himself is a content warning, mdni

This made me think of Donne’s "The Flea"—if you’ve not read it, basically it uses intermixed blood inside a flea as an extended metaphor for sex and it kind of has no business being so fucking hot for how strange it is (quoted below is the last stanza). And I think Akutagawa, in the limited swath of earthly things he indulges in outside of Dazai's approval, fucks with ANY kind of deranged media, not just movies; his beloved touching him while they recite weird poetry? Oh my god. Your mind is huge, anon. Listen—

"Cruel and sudden, hast thou since purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?" you sigh, voice slow, deliberate, hardly above a whisper; you pinch the spine of the leather-bound anthology, balancing it against one of his trembling shoulders as you straddle his waist, sinking your teeth into the milky skin beneath the severity of Ryuunosuke's jawline. "Wherein could this flea guilty be, except in that drop which it sucked from thee?"

Your other hand strokes him, softly, agonizingly; Ryuunosuke's breath is short, rhythmic, quietly frustrated between his chest and his throat as he tugs at the rope binding his wrists behind his back, his fingers flexing wide, curling into fists. When you squeeze just beneath his leaking tip and work your way down his cock, his forehead falls into your shoulder, where he returns your bite through a pitchy groan.

"Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou... Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now." You, calculated, roll your wrist faster; his stifled groan gives way to a gasp, an open-mouthed plea for you to continue, and he twitches, hips lurching upward in pursuit of more of your touch. "'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be—"

"Please," Ryuunosuke's voice weaves through yours, desperate and broken amidst cries of your name. "My love, please."

"Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me," you continue, pausing only to lick across the chain of bruising kisses you've left upon his neck. Pink and needy and twitching like the rest of him, his cock stutters, jumps as pearly white ropes of cum are spurting from him, hitting his pale chest and stomach, dripping over your fingers. You mutter the last line as he sobs, thanking you in breaths so shaky and hoarse and spent that you can't help your satisfied smile; "Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee." ⊹

this ask also made me think of a dissertation I read in my undergrad and it’s called "Raw Metaphors: Cannibal Poetics in Early Modern England" by Amanda Lehr. it’s wonderful and if you’re a cannibalism-in-poetry freak like me DEFINITELY check it out. it's lengthy but so worth the read.

[suodelic]

BITCHBOY ⊹

ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~6.8k

cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day

reid: he’s all i think about.

tags: @kalsplace

You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.

Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?

“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”

You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.

You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”

Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”

You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”

It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.

Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.

He certainly keeps you on your toes.

That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.

Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.

“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.

Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”

“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”

“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”

“Yes, yes, just get out.”

He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.

You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.

You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.

“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.

He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.

You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.

Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.

You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.

So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.

Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.

But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.

“You always do that, you know?” he asks.

“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.

He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.

“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.

He would never stop there.

“Makes me think bad things.”

So you cough out your hit anyway.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”

Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.

Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.

And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.

“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.

Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.

“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.

You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.

But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.

You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.

“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”

He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.

“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”

This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?

When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.

“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”

As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.

As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.

You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.

“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”

“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."

The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.

“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.

“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.

You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.

You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”

You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.

But he stays locked onto you, quietly.

And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.

“Osamu—”

“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”

Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.

“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.

“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”

For so long? you think. How long?

“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.

“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.

Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.

The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—

You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.

You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.

“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.

So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?

Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?

With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.

Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—

Fuck, it’s electric.

“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"

“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.

“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.

“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

He doesn't interrupt you with but what?

And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.

You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”

And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.

Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.

And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.

“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.

“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”

His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”

His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.

“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”

The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.

He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?

Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.

You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.

“I don’t think this is—”

Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.

You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.

“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.

And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.

“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.

“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”

“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.

He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.

You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.

So you barrage him with more.

“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”

“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”

“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”

“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?

“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”

“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.

“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.

It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.

Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.

You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.

“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?

“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.

It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.

“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”

"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.

The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.

You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.

But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.

The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.

Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.

"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.

"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"

He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."

"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"

"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."

"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"

Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.

"Osamu, fuck!"

"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."

You know what he wants.

"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."

You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.

"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?

You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—

"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"

"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"

Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."

You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."

"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.

"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.

When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.

"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.

"I dare you," you taunt back.

And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.

[suodelic]

⊹ DIGITAL BATH

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE MORE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 4k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, gn!reader, switch!Dazai, mentions of scars, cock worship, finger sucking, spit, oral (m!receiving), anal fingering, nipple play (m!receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, itty bit of Dazai-typical mindgames, just feeding fruit to tired spoiled Osamu and then blowing him like he deserves

reid: i wanna fingerbang this mfker so good it makes him believe in love

“Such a long fuckin’ day.” 

Osamu’s grumbling, wrapping himself around you from behind. 

On any other evening, you’d be inclined to mock that it’s always a long day for him when he’s throwing balled-up paper at Kunikida's head, guilting Atsushi into doing his paperwork for him, and slipping out of the office under the guise of fetching snacks for Ranpo just to go lean against the railing of Bankoku Bridge and gaze longingly at the water—but frankly, there’s two factors at play keeping you from doing so. 

One: his regular dramatics are nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t even realized he was on his way in until the door shut behind him—he’s normally sing-songing your name before he even opens it, before he’s bouncing over to you to ask what’s for dinner while he complains about the long day he had in that all too-spry voice of his. This evening, he’s subdued. Quiet complaints, quiet shuffling, quiet breath on your ear as he latches onto you.  The second is that, when you turn around from the counter to face him, he looks like he’s had a long day.

His messy hair seems messier. His eyes aren’t so wide and sparkly, and he’s got a nasty bruise blossoming on the apple of his left cheek—you bite back, too, the instinctual urge to tease and ask if it’s Chuuya’s doing. 

“Baby,” you coo, bringing your hands up to cup his face (pointedly avoiding the bruise). “I didn’t even cook. Was just cutting up some fruit.” 

“That’s okay,” he sighs, seemingly content to be under your grasp. He really does look exhausted as he grins weakly and slumps into your hold, faltering down to brush a kiss against your lips. “Cut up some strawberries, too, please.” 

“Mhm.” You kiss him back, short and sweet—not entirely pleased with such a concise request, but happy to indulge it regardless. “Go get comfy, I’ll be there in a sec.” 

So he does. He wanders off; you dump your fruit into a bowl, fetch the (thankfully not moldy) strawberries from the fridge, and toss those in, too, also preparing a glass of ice water for him for good measure. No guarantee he’ll drink it, but at least it’ll be there. 

When you pad to your bed, he’s sitting, pulling a shirt over his bare torso—the local bandages lay at his feet. A rewrap for tomorrow, you think absently, hopping like a cat onto the opposite side and kicking the covers back; not that he’ll have any use for them—the beginnings of stirrings in your brain will come to fruition more beautifully, anyway, should he leave them be. 

His quietness always spooks you a little; you hope nothing too terrible happened today, because if he wanted to talk about it, he undoubtedly would’ve started by now. 

There are very few things a bowl of cut fruit and your gentle fingertips can’t begin to mend, though. 

You flick the light out, turn the television on, lean over to abandon the water on his side table; Osamu plucks a strawberry from the bowl you nestle in your lap and cuddles up to your side. Half a fat cherry gushes between your teeth; you peck the crown of his head. 

Even if he is uncharacteristically quiet, you do always find a bit of joy in fussing over him. You might not draw from him what exactly is on his mind, but you can hold him while it simmers, take care of him—it’s one of the things you do best, after all, and you’re well aware Osamu likes being taken care of. 

He’s painted soft, staticky colors from whatever sitcom plays. You curl the arm that’s fallen behind his head to twirl his hair between your fingers, toy with the shoulder of his shirt; you can feel the tension in him. But before you move, you let the fruit in the bowl dwindle. Better if he eats. 

When his eyes flutter shut and he nudges you, mouth open like some sort of sultan, you shake your head (chuckling) and place a few halved grapes on his tongue. 

You don’t know if he knows how proud you are of him; you tell him plenty, sure, but thinking back to the quip you’re relieved to have held back today, you wonder briefly why he only ever complains gratuitously about the easy days and never the ones that leave him like this. It fills you with a certain sorrow—one that shapeshifts swiftly into determination.

“Last one’s yours.” You pan back in, referring to the sole strawberry left. 

“Mm.” Again, wordlessly, he demands you feed it to him. You concede, of course, with a sleepy grin of your own. 

It’s when his tongue flicks out to lick the remnants of sweetness off your fingertips that you strike; only when you fiddle with his bottom lip do his owl eyes flicker open to peer up into yours. 

Juxtaposition is a fascinating thing. You don’t know what happened today. You don’t know what’s happened on most of the darker days he’s left trailing behind him—you might never know all of it, other than it’s been horrible, scarring, gutting both for him and those staring down the barrel of the gun that is Osamu Dazai—but he looks so innocent before he takes your finger, all the way to the second knuckle, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around. 

You can’t help biting the inside of your cheek. 

As his jaw flexes around you, you press your middle finger in, too. Those brown eyes never falter from yours, nor does the quiet smile in them; any remaining strawberry is long gone, swallowed down, but Osamu sucks on your fingers with fervor, nearly nodding like he’s drawing some other sort of elixir from you—one that will compel him to keep moving forth another day, perhaps, and as he does, his ankles knock against yours. 

“Needy boy, huh.” It’s a statement, not a question, which he needn’t deny or confirm; the attention you shower him with after the days that drag him to hell extends to all the vulnerabilities he doesn’t allow another soul to see—the ones that stem from a depth left neglected by any previous excuse for a caretaker he might’ve had. 

Whereas, you’d be damned if you casted aside a single inch of that void. 

So you poke a kiss to the corner of his mouth before you latch onto his neck—an I’ll be back here later—softly, with just lips first, then tongue, and finally teeth. You find his pulse point and bite, dragging spit-coated fingers down his chin, past his throat to his nipple. 

The exhale from his chest prompts your knee into his lap like the kickback of a gunshot. Rolling equally into you, Osamu tugs you by your arms on top of him, across his hips so you can hunch over him and kiss, bite, kiss, bite, worship from above in the little rhythm you have that's so familiar to his fatigued body. 

Fingers flitting, you creep up his shirt. 

You work his sleep shirt off, too slow for his liking. Something he loves about what you do, though, is how you never even mind the scars; you look at the exposed, marred flesh of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen like it’s empty and pristine only until you mark it up yourself. There are fading bite marks, ones from maybe a few days or a week ago, across the curves where his pectorals slope into his collarbones, and you take it upon yourself to retrace, refresh them as you caress up and down from his shoulders to his hips and back again, doting and unhurried. He sighs for you. 

The empty bowl’s lost somewhere outside the searing kiss you land to his panting mouth (one of you has likely tossed it, kicked it, or pushed it to the floor), and his hands wander, eager to offer fair exchange—but you’re quick to stop him, slow him, lick his bottom lip and pin one of his wrists to the headboard beside him before you mutter, “Let me take care of you, ‘kay?” 

In true Osamu fashion, he whines, not unlike a cat being denied a treat; after all, for him, half the fun of fucking is getting you off—but tonight, you smell insincerity in his protest, have sensed the smallness that silently begs yes, please, take care of me, and you find yourself grinning into his mouth. Osamu’s rarely straightforward; he gets what he wants anyway. 

So, in equally as true Osamu fashion, he’ll sit pretty and let you send him to the clouds. 

You creep with lips and fingertips back to his chest, to his nipples, where you both know he’s so sensitive; you could make Osamu cum just from your tongue on those pretty, pink buds of his—you have before—but you feel determined to work him up thoroughly, take your time with all of him, all of his distress, right now. 

“Want that pretty mouth on me, baby,” he confesses, quieter and meeker than usual. He keeps drilling home how tired he is—here he is, telling you what he wants so soon. 

You finish sucking a particularly harsh mark into his sternum. “It is on you.” 

“Mm—no, on me.” And then his hand, the one not held hostage by you, is pushing yours down to his cock, beginning to stiffen in his sweatpants.

“Be patient.” You rise back up to kiss him again, swatting him away just to toy with him over his pants; Osamu chases your breath with his own, hungrily, fingers flexing and relaxing in your grasp when you squeeze him, circle your thumb over his tip, nip at his mouth. “I'll make you feel good.”

It’s when you sit yourself down fully on his growing erection and begin to grind back and forth that he starts whining against your lips. 

You hold his face to yours, smile into him reflexively; it’s so easy to make him mewl. For as much composure as Osamu holds in every other corner of his life, your bed is the one place it tends to escape him, and you live to watch him crumble for you. You live to feel his jaw work into your kiss, to trace adoration into his skin, to hear the little whimpers he lets out rise in decibel the longer you drag him out. You love it most of all because he deserves it—to let go, retreat from himself into your touch. 

“Please,” he whispers into you, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. It might be nothing to make him whine, but it’s no small feat, reducing Osamu Dazai to begging. That you didn’t even have to try tells you he needs this—he needs you; no matter how much he might’ve lied if you asked or banked on you missing it, you know the outline of that word on his lips, and he knows you know it, too. So you grind, not faster but harder, slipping your tongue into his pliant mouth. 

After letting his wrist go, after he grabs your hip and presses you onto him feverishly with a few more of your undulations, you work your way down him again—stopping not at his chest this time but between his hips, waiting to peel the waistband of his sweatpants down and off until you've first circled his belly button and the gradual path of hair that disappears beneath the fabric with kisses growing more intense from one moment to the next. You seek out the little layer of fat stretching across his tummy and bite there, too; he grabs your hair and snickers, watching you through squinted eyes while he tells you hoarsely to stop, it tickles! And you relent with a giggle of your own only to kneel, shove his pants down, and settle on your stomach where you urge each of his knees over your shoulders. 

You look up and think, god, you wish you could photograph him right now. Gazing down at you, lips parted with breathlessness, Adam's apple bobbing as you tease him; he's a quiet image of ecstasy as he curls his hands around your face, only because he trusts you to let him be. When you pause and admire for a moment too long, his lithe fingers take root in your hair; he's wiggling, saying please with his low-lidded eyes and desperate hips only so he won't have to subject himself to verbalizing it again. 

You wrap an arm beneath his thigh to seek out his cock, finally, sweetly; you hold him up, lick a slow stripe from base to tip up the underside, and Osamu croons. 

“Uh—yeah, was wondering when you'd get to the whole making-me-feel-good part.”

Just when you thought you had him. 

With your free hand, you swat his leg—impatient and sassy, even while he's running on fumes. Roguish in every sense of the word, still, while you’re taking such good care of him. His spark wants to have you grinning; you try to hide the inevitable reaction by burying your face in him, lapping sweetly, diligently at the spot between his base and his balls that should shut him up. 

“You're so mean, you know?” 

You can tell from his tone he's smirking.

“Ngh—telling me to be patient wh—while I beg for you—”

Really, it should have shut him up. But he keeps going. 

“—Mhm—yeah,” he exhales, one heel digging into your back—telling you he's going to fall apart faster than he's letting on. “You always know just—uh—just where to... t’—”

In a rarer display of force you reach behind yourself for his shin, gripping it, bending it up close to him and freeing your other arm; with this, you reach up, stuff your pre-cum dabbled fingers back in his mouth—to which he can only respond with a muffled mph! and widening eyes. 

Your patience to have him drop the facade is thinning. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow to shove your fingers deeper and look up into his face. 

“How about you be quiet, Osamu?” you pose gently; your fingerpads on his tongue are anything but, and he's squirming at the loss of pleasure. “Get my fingers nice n’ wet while you’re at it.”

Osamu’s teeth are in your knuckles a little too harsh to be considered polite, but you thrust them toward the back of his tongue anyway; he holds your eyes, you shoo his legs open further so as not to have to work around them as you resume stroking him lazily, and you tilt your head, admiring again. He hums around you, sighs through his nose while he laps you up, so you pick up the talking. 

“So cute when you shut up.” 

You retract your fingers momentarily to squish his cheeks—the face as well as the sound he makes is nothing short of adorable, less in the contrived sense and more in the literal as his nose scrunches; you want to adore him by making him come, and you will, but not before thrusting your fingers back into his bratty mouth immediately. 

“When have I ever left you unsatisfied, huh?” You don’t wait for an answer. “When have I ever not given my good boy what he needs?” 

It’s rhythmic, how he echoes the cadence of good boy with his body—first in the way his hips buck into you, and next in the groan you don’t let pass his teeth. 

“That’s right. You're smart enough to know by now when I want you to shut up and take it.”

Pushing yourself up—leaving him squirming again—you leave hardly a second between replacing your fingers with your mouth, sloppy, all breath, nipping at the tip of his tongue; Osamu loves when you kiss him hard, like you need him. Loves feeling needed more than he needs. But you know—maybe better than he does.

You smear his spit down his chin, wasting it for what you're planning next; it's a good thing you know just how to work him into a pliable mess. There’s one more thing he’ll do for you, and you'll get him there; you’ll disarm this unshakably smug and prodigiously self-controlled man and turn him into your lover, like you do so often.

For what it's worth, this is the least he's made you work for it in a while.

Osamu chases you when you leave his kiss, but you pin him down, cradling his bottom lip with your two fingers like a spoon. 

“Aht—” You shove them back in, across his tongue, just the tips of them. Only until he settles, and then you hold them out for him again. “Spit.”

And he does.

“Good boy, Osamu.”

You love watching the power leave his body when you utter those two words in combination with his name. As if conditioned, his cock jumps; you notice this as you reach down, dollop of spit beginning to drip between your fingers before you circle them around his hole and oh, you're rewarded with the prettiest gasp that trails off into an even prettier whimper—yes, a whimper, because he breaks so pathetically beneath you.

You smile into Osamu’s mouth when his breath picks up, evermore unsteady as you tease the rim of his ass. Without having to ask, he pitches his hips up for you, knees bent and feet bracing when you traverse back down his jugular with your lips and teeth.

You’re fast now, eager yourself; your line's barely straight, but you meet your own hand again as you return.

“Please,” followed by your name, huffy, totally realized this time.

How can you do anything but oblige?

Curling your fingers back around his cock, collecting the leakiness at his weepy tip to stroke him fully, he throws his soft brown head back into the headboard, gripping the sheets. No free hand to use, you hum and hope silently for his legs over your shoulders once more, and like a mindreader, he obliges you now—good boy, you’d be saying, if your mouth wasn’t occupied with one of his balls, rewriting the meaning of triple homicide with the suction of your tongue.

When you’ve switched your mouth and your hand and you’re a knuckle deep in him, Osamu starts to get demanding. 

“Deeper,” he growls through his teeth, and you’re unclear whether he means he wants you deeper inside him or his cock deeper down your throat. “C’mon—I want it, baby.” 

No please—and definitely no thank you when you give into his whims both ways, thrusting your finger deeper to curl up and apply pressure to the exact spot you know will have him crooning and gripping onto your hair, and that he does—to shove your face further down on him nonetheless. 

And then he really starts talking. 

“Thought you’d be all nice n’ be in charge—n’ take care of me? Hah—” 

You still your head while Osamu holds either side of your jaw and humps upward, drawing wet, smothered heaves from the back of your throat as his throbbing tip hammers it. 

“That’s sweet, honey.” 

You really, truly do know why he doesn’t complain about easy days, and the bulb flickers only once you’re choking on him—only ever once he has you right where he wants you—that when you fuss over him, it always gives him a leg up to take that control he thirsts for so deeply with all the more force. 

He licks his lips as honey drips from it, cradling you with the same gentleness you talked to him with earlier and employing the same ruthlessness in contrast. Your eyes roll back in surrender to his brutal pace and the air he cuts off from you so cruelly—but god, if you had the faculty to, you wouldn’t even be able to deny that you love letting him use you, love letting him take what he wants from you, so you focus your swirling consciousness on pressing up, deeper into his ass, worming your ring finger next to your middle one to stretch him open, have him gasping, holding on loosely to control. 

It’s always a little push and pull between you; you always let Osamu have his fun, but he knows who he belongs to at the end of the day, because you always have him sounding like—

“God—fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

—while he leverages his heels in your back to fuck your throat meaner, harder. You gag, and you know it spurs him on—you know the ring of drool at his base and the sweet, nasty sounds you make involuntarily for him keep him chasing that pretty fulfillment you inspire in the pit of his stomach. 

“‘m not the only one who’s cute when I shut up,” he drawls on, pushing your hair away from your forehead to watch the way he possesses you when he’s in you like this; wheezing, whimpering in between, the dominator in him wants to laugh at you—but his taunting throttles almost violently back to strangled groans and cries of your name while tears bead on his lashes. For every take it, take it, take it, there’s an equal please, please, please. 

Osamu grunts in a certain vocal register higher than when he talks sultry but lower than his usual speaking voice, and each byte you draw from him by sitting and being his good little toy is reminding you how much you want to make him feel good, how much it gets you off, too—you grind against the mattress helplessly while he has you pinned in place and you squeeze his balls while you keep his hole full, keep him moaning and sobbing for you through his little semblance of authority because you know all of his tells. You know when he’s about to fall apart, you can always tell by the way he twitches fast, abrupt—when those grunts get higher than his speaking voice and he starts breathing almost panic-like, enough to make himself a little dizzy while he unloads in you but you don’t give him the satisfaction of that this time, because he beat you too easily—you have to take something back, and so when he’s cursing with his eyes screwed shut and tears slipping down his face you wrestle yourself off of him so he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across your fluttering lashes, the bridge of your nose, your raw lips, your cheeks that shine with tears of your own, all while you milk it out from inside of him—he cums so fucking heavenly when your fingers are in him. 

And you accept it with a closed-eyed grin and hoarse, bubbly giggles at the way you cautiously keep one eye open to watch Osamu’s gorgeous face, jaw slack as it yawns the euphoria only you bring him just to recover into scrunched-nose, furrowed-brow satisfaction as he opens his eyes and sees you licking up your spit and his cum from around your own mouth. 

He's grinning toothily as he swipes the mess away from your eyes and draws you up with a soft come here—he’s not about to let you have it all for yourself, licking his spend off his thumb and pulling you in with great delight to flick his hot tongue across each splatter he’s left on your face. Your fingers slide out of him and he hums against you, cleaning you up diligently—because he never won’t reward you for taking care of him exactly how he wants to be taken care of. 

Osamu giggles, too—also hoarse, as if he’s the one who just got his throat fucked. 

“You’re so good to me.” That sharp tongue disappears behind a coy smile, and you collapse into him, a little delirious and fully in love—he’s a fucking dog. 

“Trust me,” you sigh back, pressing that promised kissed to the corner of his mouth again, wriggling on his thigh.

He’s going to tease you so bad for getting worked up by letting him use you, you know.

“I know I am.”

[ickytreats]

Warning! ⚠️ This is between fully consenting adults!

Daddy Dom that doesn't take bad talk. I'm talking about when you talk bad about yourself. You are his baby! Who gives you the right to talk about what is his like that? Even if it's about yourself, especially since you are totally wrong. He will understand your insecurities, bring comfort, and all that but there's also other ways he's teaching you.

I'm honestly giggling at the thought. Degrading myself and him coming up to me. Grabbing my neck and making me look at him. What did you say, little girl? Having a hard time repeating myself because he's being so intimidating. Shaking his head, I don't like how you're talking about what's mine... It may be your body but I love it. His grip on my neck tightens. I think it's time for some correction, he starts to nod.

Correction is literally him forcing me onto my knees and cooing. So pretty, dragging his thumb over my bottom lip and then lightly slapping my face. His hand going into my hair and pulling my towards his now free cock. Pushing it into my mouth and making me look up at him. Eyes watering as he starts to fuck my face. This is what this pretty mouth is for, he moans. Not for talking some bullshit, pulls me away from his cock. What is it for? He leans down to my face as I pant. Pleasing Daddy, I try to say through deep breaths. That's right! And only the prettiest girl can please me, right?

I don't respond quickly enough and he pulls my hair a little. Only the prettiest girl can! And that's why you are on your knees, right? Because you're the prettiest girl and only you can please daddy? Yes, I'm the prettiest girl and only I can please daddy. He smiles and stands straight again. Forcing his cock back down my throat. Good girl, just needed some correction. No one is to shame my baby ...not even herself. Fuck...only this pretty girl can make me cum this hard. He's moaning as he pushes me to take him completely. Cumming down my throat and not letting me pull back until I've swallowed it all. Once I'm allowed to pull away while coughing he's yanking me up and onto the bed.

Not wasting any time before stripping me. Hands traveling all over my body as he mutters. Can't believe you didn't think all of this was so pretty, damn precious, and all so fucking mine. I squeal when he lands a hit on my bottom. Only marks this body can have is from love, baby. Don't want anything else on this precious skin, he bites down between the kisses he leaves as he sinks onto his knees now. Until he finally gets to my cunt and digs his fingers into my thighs as he yanks me closer. Will eat me out until I'm crying in overstimulation, no baby...you ain't pulling away. Told you I can't get enough of my pretty girl. Daddy is obsessed. Going to embed that into your brain. Not stopping until I'm babbling, yes! I am Daddy's pretty girl! I'm so pretty! Your pretty princess!

Pulls away finally only to climb on top of me. Petting my face softly as I'm totally fucked and tired. Except I still need to take his cock. He's sinking into me, only pretty girls like you can take daddy's cock...take daddy's cum. I whimper and nod, only pretty girls. Like who? Like me, I gasp when I feel his cock repeatedly hitting that spot inside me. That's right, like you princess. He moans and kisses me, so silly for saying those things earlier. He moans and grabs my neck again, talk to me baby. I have trouble getting words out but I listen. I was silly for saying those things earlier, daddy doesn't make mistakes. I'm not a mistake, he knows what he wants and he wants a pretty girl. So he chose me, I quiver under him as my eyes roll back and cum again.

He slams into me as I tighten around him. Good girl! That's it, cum for daddy. See? You know the truth, you are so pretty and questioning that means questioning me. We can't have that, can we? He grunts as he keeps fucking to me. No we can't, he shakes his head as he gets closer. Ask for it, please daddy? Please daddy give me your cum, little more princess. Please give your pretty girl your cum daddy, want it. Please I want it, fuck. Im cumming, baby...cumming in this precious pretty girl.

[ickytreats]

Warning! ⚠️ This is between Consenting adults! This post is about Fauxcest, no one is actually related.

Dad fucking me in doggy while in my room on my fuzzy pink carpet. My shorts are mid thigh and my tits are falling out of my tank top. He's gripping my hips so tightly as he slams into me repeatedly. Don't run from it, he groans loudly. You gave me this cunt now you fucking take this cock, he doesn't stop his thrusts. Yes, Dad... Can barely leave my lips as my eyes roll back and I struggle to hold myself up.

You like this dad cock don't you, little girl? He spanks my bottom then digs his fingers into me. I can't even respond as I fall forward but he keeps fucking me. Mounting me differently and driving his cock into me. A loud whine falls from my lips as the position changes. Don't push me out! Fucking take it! My body is shaking as he keeps forcing his cock in and out of me. Dad, dad, dad... Is all that can leave my mouth so broken. Who taught you to be such a good cunt? Your mother? Your brother? Now it's dad who's going to teach you the real lesson. He keeps my hips raised as he fucks me.

My eyes roll back and I let out a moan/cry, Dad! I-...fuck. I feel my cum leaking down my thighs as I grab the fluffy carpet. Fuck! take it, take it, take it! He moans loudly and deeply, we are so lucky we are home alone. I'm gasping as he keeps mounted on me, still driving his cock into me quickly. Going to breed my daughter's cunt, he keeps moaning all smug. You enjoy this, don't you? Yeah, you like for your father to breed you. My glasses are crooked as my face is shoved down. I didn't think he could get on me anymore.

He's so close as he keeps going, balls hitting my clit every time. My daughter! My daughter who lets her dad, her father! Fill her cunt up with his cum. He moans loudly one last time before slamming into me. Making sure I'm taking every inch as I shake and get filled with his cum.

[cuteslutdiary]

Forced dumbification:

Ductaping a vibe to her clit on medium and asking her questions. Turning it lower with every correct answer she gives. Turning it up every time she answers wrong.

She’s a smart girl (not for long, but even dummies are good at pattern recognition) and will answer wrong to chase her pleasure.

When she can’t answer even the most basic questions, fuck her as hard as you can until she cums. Then start again

[thehandthatleads02]

This is a concept I have been thinking about for a long time. I am legitimately curious how much you could fuck up someone's brain like this, crossing the wires in their head that tell "right" from "wrong" until all that matters is what their Master says.

I have to say, it is an appealing idea