欣？！

(xin.) she/her | cn-sg | 20 | multifandom ♡

[flowerparts]

[quiteros]

Random BaileyPC texts

18+, Mdni, M!Bailey & F!PC, Implied or Mentioned: Abuse/Grooming, Blackmail, Sex, M!Eden/Pc, I mean Dol-Typical warnings really but it’s not crazy explicit. Bit Angsty ofc…

[humanjarvis]

lads LIs: the puppy interview

based on the buzzfeed series!

caleb

breeds he’s matched with: golden retriever, labrador retriever, border collie

natural caretaker. the puppies are instantly comfortable around him, treating him as one of their own—just bigger.

it’s a good thing they’re too old to imprint on him because they totally would otherwise

he uses playtime as an excuse to dodge interview questions and give vague answers. the viewers are too distracted by the wholesomeness to notice what he’s doing 

handles any mishaps like a pro. if one of them gets sick and makes a mess on the floor, he’s guiding the others away so they can stay secure while their buddy gets cleaned up

he’s calm and confident when he talks to them, so they barely act out. since they aren't wriggling out of his grip, he can fit two puppies in each hand. he holds them up to either side of his head, then gives the camera a grin not too far off from the ones on their tiny panting faces.

instant thumbnail.

rafayel

breeds he’s matched with: standard poodle, pomeranian, maltese 

initially reluctant to make himself vulnerable to so many nips and scratches and unsanitary bodily products, and rightfully so

his set of puppies slept the whole ride over, so by the time they descend upon him, they are wide awake and ready to rumble

the interview can’t even start on time—not when you can barely see rafayel through the flurry of paws and tails

just when all hope seems to be lost, he starts singing to them as a last-ditch effort to calm them down. miraculously, it works in a matter of seconds 

hypnotized by his voice, they start howling back at him, eager to sing along. he corrects their pitch, like, “well, not quite. but close. keep trying.” 

he absolutely plays favorites. there’s a little tan pomeranian he absolutely adores, even if he won’t admit it, and he barely lets go of her for the entire shoot. he mentally names her sandy

two weeks later, the shelter receives a donation of custom-designed bows, leashes, collars, and tiny dog clothing from an anonymous donor. but with that precision, quality, and artistic ability…there’s only one person it could be 

valko

breeds he’s matched with: german shepherd, husky, malamute, great dane 

he’s kind of bummed because he explicitly requested a wolfdog, but the staff legally couldn’t give him one. it’s fine, though. he still has so many other friends to play with

he’s actually the most unfazed because he’s used to being surrounded by hyperactive pups climbing him like he's a jungle gym

answers questions in detail like it’s an average tuesday. even with a malamute gnawing on his fingers, he barely loses focus

great at discipline. when one misbehaves, he holds its wriggling body up to his face until it apologizes with puppy dog eyes. when one growls at him, he growls back. it tucks its tail between its legs and licks his hand in apology

after the interview, he plays with them so much that they’re all passed out when it's time to go home. rounding them up to go back in their crates is the easiest it’s ever been

the staff call him a dog whisperer, which he happily accepts 

xavier

breeds he’s matched with: dalmation, chow chow, borzoi, dachshund 

when he answers questions, he’s talking to the puppies more than anything. forgets to look at the camera because his attention is elsewhere 

when he feeds them treats, some of them bite his hands. he nips them back on the scruff of their necks, and they look at him like he’s lost it

chow chow puppies’ cheeks = stress toys. he squeezes and stretches them while they teethe on his hoodie strings

near the end, he grabs the calmest dalmation pup to hold in his lap while he wraps the video up. when the interview’s over, he endeavors to count all its spots aloud. his voice is so soft and soothing, the puppies all curl up and fall asleep around him. before he knows it, he’s out, too

the staff are so endeared, they just turn the lights off in the studio and vow to wake everyone up in an hour.

sylus

breeds he’s matched with: rottweiler, boxer, akita, pekingese

arrives to set uncharacteristically dressed down. will not let any of his treasured clothes or accessories be ripped, slobbered on, or dampened by those overexcited little lumps 

there is a fight between man and puppy to establish dominance. man wins, or so he thinks

has a particularly rambunctious group that views his body as free real estate. more often than not, his answers get cut off by puppies lunging at his face 

he’s a bit too eager to referee all their little squabbles, but he does pull them apart when they get too rough

his two favorites are the strongest and the weakest, simultaneously. he considers adopting them, but for the moment, he much prefers to devote his free time to his kitten

the pekingese pups are just there for fun. he likes the idea of how pitiful purse dogs are. when he fails to hold in his snorts, they cock their heads at him and stare

zayne

breeds he’s matched with: samoyed, corgi, toy poodle, shiba inu

he is run ragged.

they're sprinting around so quickly, his head is spinning. even the busiest shifts at the hospital couldn’t prepare him for this

one naughty samoyed steals his glasses and runs off with them. clips of him waddling around set chasing after it are interspersed between stretches of him attempting to answer questions 

tries admirably hard to stay on topic, but these dogs are practically doing cartwheels around him. if he looks away for just one second, he’ll have to contact his veterinarian acquaintance for the first time since undergrad

there’s a quiet little shiba staring at all the chaos, and he doesn't get to spend much time with it. after the shoot, he asks if he can play with it alone. he knows what it’s like to be left out, and he doesn’t want the little guy to go home sad

he quickly gains its trust, and they become fast friends. when it's time to go home, it tries to scramble its way back to him.

“heartbreak” is a figurative term. however, as the staff carry the whining puppy out the door, zayne discovers just how real it can be

makes sure to jot the dogs’ shelter down on a piece of paper so he can be sure to visit on his next day off…maybe with you in tow, so he can test your compatibility with his new friend 

[humanjarvis]

growing up, caleb never let you see his computer. 

at first, you thought he was just being mean, hogging the highest-tech thing you’d ever seen all to himself. then, once you got old enough, you wondered if all the secrecy was for…nefarious reasons. but every time he smiled and ruffled your hair, you just couldn’t bring yourself to think he’d ever watch that kind of stuff.

plus, the thought made your stomach hurt. 

eventually, you grew old enough to value your privacy just as much. gone were the days of you sneaking glances over his shoulder and trying to guess his password while he wasn’t looking. 

*his password wasn’t your birthday. why wasn’t it your birthday? was it someone else’s birthday?

**it always was your birthday. just typed backwards. 

in all that time, you never would’ve guessed the thing he’d tried so hard to keep from you was his own sims fantasy land. 

he’d spent hours designing both of your appearances and outfits, chasing accuracy down to the pixel. once he was satisfied, he moved your household into an empty world, so that you were free to live as you were instead of who you should’ve been. 

he’s an astronaut, you’re a secret agent. you have a garden, but he always hires someone to tend to it so the plants don't command too much of your attention. his cooking skills are maxed out, as is your relationship level. and there’s a shiny silver band around your left ring finger. 

you have a mansion with a motherlode of things to entertain you: hot tub, cupcake machine, karaoke station, rocket ship. and rest assured, there’s a trusty cowplant in the back to deal with anyone who disrupts your peace. over the years, it has lured and devoured multiple incarnations of a certain black-haired, green-eyed, sweet-toothed genius who you could never seem to stop gushing over. 

and when the grey hairs come in for both of you, and your time starts winding down…well. he already has twin burial plots mapped out in the backyard, right in the middle of the apple orchard. 

not that he’s dreamed about a life with you, or anything. 

[applefishing]

"It's okay," he slurs over and over as you roll against him. "S'okay. Gege's got you."

You're tangled around each other, skin to skin. With his arm wrapped around your shoulders and your leg draped over his waist, it's hardly possible to be closer.

That doesn't stop him trying.

The tips of his fingers brush over your cunt over and over as he palms your ass like he might be able to drag you tighter against him, aiding your rolling hips.

His hums sound like soothing answers to the desperate little sounds you make into his mouth. He's all-consuming, indulgent, relentless. The sloppy lazy cadence of it might put you to sleep if you weren't so desperate to feel him inside you.

He'd never been inside.

So when he slips his aching cock up against your exposed cunt and holds it there as you grind against each other, your heart practically beats out of your chest.

The hot length of him slips over your soppy cunt over and over as eager anticipation sends shivers through your whole body.

"S'okay," he slurs again as you tremble in his arms. "This is what it's made for, mm?" He rolls his hips in one long glide as he presses his hard length firmly against you, coating himself in your slick. "Made for this. Gege's cock was made for this pretty pussy." He bites your lip gently. "Gege is just for you."

Seemingly satisfied with your responding mewl, he applies a little more pressure to the underside of his tip as you continue rolling into him. Gently, in a way that almost seems accidental, he guides himself to dip inside your entrance as his hot breath tickles your lips.

You freeze.

"Just there," he breathes.

Then, he watches your face with rapt attention as he rolls his hips to meet you—sinking into your wet heat with a broken groan. There's a pause afterwards, a mutual indulgence in the delicious release of tension built over years and years as you clench rhythmically around him.

He's the first to break it.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he grips you firmly, fingers digging into soft skin, and tugs you onto his cock with each undulation of his hips. It's a sensual, languid claiming, following a kind of lazy cadence to mirror the way he'd kissed you.

But when you close the tiny space between your mouths and whisper "I love you" against his sodden lips, he whimpers. It's followed shortly after by a full body tremor.

It's different after that.

He wraps his arms tight around you, buries his face in your shoulder, and begins surging up into you—rasping breaths tickling your skin as he gives himself over to long-repressed hunger.

[cocoaxia]

★ — under wraps !

summary: in which you ask about the lads boys condom size.

ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb

notes: suggestive content so NSFW / MDNI, xavier’s a little vulgar, zayne is lovely, rafayel wants to kill himself again (!!!), sylus is lovely again, caleb is strange. no explicit mentions of gender (!!!), only a few comments/compliments but nothing explicitly stated. that’s it (i think)

p.s. this is based on a req SO i hope you like it (even if just a little bit) ^^

a/n: yes…that is a cocoaxia original photo…no i don’t want to talk about the implications of me going about my normal human business and stopping to take a photo of the condom aisle to subsequently use for A LADS SMAU…i do it all for the realism…don’t ever say i'm not committed to you ladsnation…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)

© cocoaxia

[cocoaxia]

WHEN DIDNTHIS HIT 4.5K WHAT THRFUCK

[si-soya]

Found you

[strawberymilkk]

[lovelake]

𓏲˚. ˖ . ݁ AN ANGEL’S RELIEF . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶ་

angels with chastity vows aren’t immune to the temptation of worldly pleasure, and gwylan (your personal walking aphrodisiac) helps you get some relief

m!gwylan x gn angel tf!reader | mdni, 8.5k wc, smut, petplay, sexual inexperience, fingering, knotting dildos, dry humping, praise kink, multiple orgasms, not beta read

note: for the sake of keeping this gender neutral, the reader having any virginity (penile, vaginal, anal) taken would result in them becoming a fallen angel + failing the chastity exam </3 also, shout out to @/envulped for helping me with knowing what relationship stats were required for gwylan to address the reader as ‘pet’ & they also have a notion with a collection of gwylan’s qna if anyone’s interested !!

masterlist read on ao3

All this over a knotted dildo.

Considering your current predicament—being at the hands of Bailey’s tyranny—it’s no surprise that you have the tendency of swiping items right off of store shelves without getting caught. It’s a skill you’ve gained to survive.

Gwylan’s shop is a tattletale, though. And what you stole is most certainly not something you need for survival. 

You feel way too many things at once: blurriness in your vision after tripping over one piece of furniture after another, goosebumps rising all over your now nearly bare body that only has vines keeping you tied, and so much embarrassment that all you can do is look away from him. 

As if the whole situation’s missing a cherry on top, the shop decides to further mock you by making the stolen toy land right in front of you. So much for wanting to apologize and return it.

Gwylan stands there with his arms crossed, looking down at your kneeling form with playfulness sparkling in his eyes. “I would’ve never expected this from my little angel of all people.”

His gaze briefly shifts to the toy. “How very knot-ty of you.”

His pun falls on deaf ears.

“Get it? Knotting, naughty.”

Silence.

What can you possibly say to him? 

Isn’t the shop being a little extreme with its punishment? You didn’t steal any clothes, so why did it rip all of yours away? Then again, you’re unable to think of a proper enough punishment for stealing a sex toy.

“Tough crowd.” He clears his throat, tone more stern now. “You have some nerve, dear. There would’ve been no judgment on my end if you had brought it up to the counter. I would’ve even given it to you for free if you had allowed me to use it on you.”

Okay. He’s making things worse. The enticing images of that make you question your last remaining willpower.

“It’s just—I…”

This, unbeknownst to Gwylan, is all his fault.

You’ve been told that you have a very special gift, one that can possibly make hundreds of dollars fall into your hands if you’re willing to part with it: your virginity. The thought itself used to repulse you. People are already so greedy for even a glimpse of your body, why in the world would you let any of them take it?

You told yourself that nobody would make you sway. Sex itself had no appeal to you; moans and groans sounded like nails on a chalkboard and your hands had never longed to run over someone’s body.

Or at least, that’s what you thought before you met Gwylan. From the moment you became acquainted with him, temptation was at your door. 

He was touchy from the get go. The first bliss you ever felt was from the mere act of him tenderly petting your head upon him leaving the cafe in the morning and coming across you feeding a stray animal on the sidewalk. 

It left you completely dazed, like stars were revolving around your halo. 

When he noticed your delight, his eyes lit up and he cheerfully asked, “does it feel nice?”

It did. You liked it so much to the point it frightened you. “Yeah. But, why are you…”

“You must have a kind heart. Cruel people often don’t care about animals.”

A question popped into your mind. “Gwylan, I feel like you’d be really good with animals. You also mentioned having a big garden once, so how come you don’t have any pets?”

“Having a pet would be…” He chuckled dryly. “Too troublesome.”

“Well, if one day you choose to get one, what kind would it be?”

“I don’t see myself getting one, but…I suppose one that’s obedient and loyal in the sense that, even if I let them go anywhere and everywhere, they’ll always come back to me in the end.”

Them. But don’t people usually use the word ‘it’ for hypothetical pets? And the response you were looking for was something like a dog, cat, or maybe even a bunny. 

You got the feeling he wasn’t talking about an animal, but very quickly brushed it off.

A pinch to your cheek, an arm around your shoulder, a proud pat to your back—all his gestures made your stomach flutter with troublesome feelings. You convinced yourself it was simply because he was one of the few people that had ever touched you so gently.

“Beautiful.” The whispered praise he gave you was nothing short of heartfelt the first time his fingertips brushed over your wings. “Thank you for trusting me with this, dear. Oh— some of the feathers are cold...”

“For the longest time, I thought I was the only one that could see myself like this.” Despite the fact that your wings and halo are very much real, they seemed to be almost completely invisible to passersby. The ones who could see them would ask for pictures, believing it to be a costume. The most others could do was sense the radiance surrounding you and ask for your blessing.

“Most people don’t have their mind open to the truths of the world, they wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“I wonder what having that kind of life would be like.”

“Would you have preferred being ordinary? Though everyone struggles with their own problems, you’re a special case. Life seems to throw curveballs at you nonstop.” The next part, he quietly muttered with a tone you weren’t able to decipher at the time, “and you always get back up.”

He was right, of course. If you were an ordinary person, everything would be much easier. But there was still so much to the world that you craved to learn about firsthand, and that kind of knowledge couldn’t be obtained with a mundane life.

Feeling completely safe in his presence, you had let your eyes flutter close as you thought of your answer. In the end, you told him that if your life had been a typical one, you’d be a completely different person. 

Then, you continued with, “and if I had that kind of life, would I have ever met you? And even if I had met you under those circumstances, your shop probably would’ve been pretty empty to me, right?”

He stayed silent for a while before humming in acknowledgment, staying neutral. Afterwards, he redirected the topic back to your wings. “Seeing you in flight would be quite the sight. …I didn’t mean to rhyme.”

Then, it happened. You walked in on him performing one of his rituals. The second your eyes landed on his bare skin, it was like you were under an unbreakable trance. It would’ve been fine if you had immediately turned away, but you stayed rooted to where you were. 

He was oh so dangerously breathtaking, just like a siren luring a sailor to their death. Desiring someone is a gateway to misery—from that moment, you knew you’d crave him until the end of time.

It wasn’t until he crouched down that you finally noticed there was someone else with him. Your body felt everything. Nobody has ever been able to reach between your legs, not with your chastity belt in the way. So, it was no surprise that the sensations were enough to make you moan out loud.

After unintentionally ruining his ritual and getting scolded, you made a beeline straight to the temple and into the confessional room, stumbling over your words as a penitent.

Prayers of forgiveness and promises of repentance were wasted. A physical reaction to an erotic sight isn’t a sin, it’s a biological response. Entertaining the feeling is a sin, though. And that’s exactly what you did for the first time that same night; crystal-clear fantasies of Gwylan played out behind your closed eyes.

He alluringly beckoned you over to fall deep into worldly pleasure with him. His arms were wide open for you—as if they’d be more comforting than the embrace of your wings. “Come closer, dear. Drown with me.” 

Like always, you did your best to listen to him. All you could really do was let your imagination run wild with your chastity belt in the way. The weekly trials of purity at the temple were nothing compared to the agony of your body burning for him. 

Your confessions increased when you started helping out during his weekly rituals. He told you that his rituals were somewhat similar to the way you sometimes purged the corruption from penitents when you took on the role of a confessor, but this wasn’t enough to absolve you of guilt.

“Forgive me. For I—” You abruptly came to a stop, entirely ashamed and needing a moment to recollect your thoughts. “I’ve participated in sexual acts with things that…aren’t entirely human?”

The person on the other side was entirely taken aback by this. With a loud gasp and apology, they quickly left. 

“Please pardon my sins. I’ve been letting someone see and touch my body. And they…have no intention of ever settling down.”

And then one day—perhaps one of the worst of your life—you spoke through tears and a lingering sting on your cheek.

“Forgive me, brother. There’s a person I hold very dear to me. They made their boundaries very clear and yet I broke the most important one by kissing them.” The sobs you heard from the garden lingered in your mind. “I hurt them.”

Everything about Gwylan was inviting on the surface. He was just like a beautiful rose—if you acted on impulse and reached for him, you'd be stung by all his prickles. You needed the patience to pluck each one out before you could embrace him, either that, or to simply appreciate him from a distance. It’s safe to say that you did neither of the safer options and acted on impulse instead.

His lips parting for yours to reciprocate their movement was like the opening of the pearly gates. Your rise to heaven was equally as fast as your descent. He pushed you away and locked you out, making you scramble for the key until you found him sulking in the pub.

With his eventual forgiveness and the passage of time, the two of you only grew closer and you found a new confession to make.

“Forgive me, I’ve found myself lusting after someone and I’m afraid it’ll make me push my chastity vow to the back of my head one day.”

With you acting as the forest’s vessel instead of luring a denizen for purging, your chastity belt had to be out of the way. Your coherent thought slipped more and more with each ritual, so much to the point that you felt like one day you’d ask him to do it via penetration.

And that’s how you got to the present.

“You what?” He steps closer and crouches down guiding your face towards his. “Enlighten me. You could’ve stolen a sex toy from the adult shop, and yet…you chose to steal from mine instead. Why?”

He’s so close that your halo beautifully illuminates his facial features, making the freckles on his cheeks and nose look all the more kissable. The vines hanging from the brim of his hat brush against your skin, giving you a small taste of what’s to come.

“Keep your eyes on mine, dear.”

You quickly redirect your eyes to his. If eyes are truly the window to one’s soul, then Gwylan surely already knows what—no, who—your ultimate desire is.

“I…I don’t know why I did it.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not good enough, try again.” 

Whether his disappointment is real or feigned doesn’t matter, it makes your stomach churn regardless.

You’re almost tempted to lie because of how humiliating the truth is. Even trying to lie to him is hard, though; he always seems to know when you’re not being honest. In spite of knowing this, the answer struggles to leave your lips.

What are you supposed to say? That he gets you so hot and bothered that you’re tempted to break your vow? That he’s the main star in all of your vulgar daydreams? That your want for him is so blinding that it led you to swipe the knotted dildo? That you broke into a cold sweat when you realized what you’d done?

You’ve seen his ears, fangs, and tail. Following that logic, shouldn’t he have the ability to…well, knot someone?

If that’s the case, a knotted dildo is the closest you can get to having him inside you. Not that you would know what it feels like, though, you didn’t even have the guts to use the dildo on your own. So basically, stealing it was all for nothing.

Under his intense gaze, you finally break.

It jumbles out of your mouth so quickly that you’re unable to process anything you’re saying. Gwylan smiles proudly and nods along, his face gradually reddening.

“There you go, you did so well!” He pats your head and all the vines that had been restraining your limbs and wings finally retract. “Closed mouths don’t get fed, dear. Remember that.”

“I’m…” his eyes dart away from yours, “deeply flattered that you want me so badly. I’ll have you know that keeping ourselves restricted to oral during our rituals has been driving me mad, so I’m glad to know I’m not alone. Your main concern is breaking your chastity vow, correct? That’s good—that concern is keeping you safe. The consequences would be devastating for you.” 

Your head tilts.

“You know I admire your love for knowledge but please don’t try to sate your curiosity on this.” He brushes his fingers over your halo. “Keep this intact and glowing, okay?”

You nod.

“Good! Now for the fun part…let’s get your needs taken care of!” He smiles and claps his hands together, but the look in his eyes makes you feel like you’ve become his prey. 

Dazedly, you blink. 

Suddenly, he’s holding a collar that he got in the span of a second from god knows where. It’s the same one he puts on you during your most intimate rituals, only this time, there’s no leash attached.

Gwylan dangles it in front of you without saying a word, waiting to see what you’ll do. 

Without having to do much thinking, you present your neck to him with so much enthusiasm that it draws a giggle from him. After he puts the collar in place, he leans in and whispers, “you look really good like this.”

He then stands up and gestures for you to come along. “You and me. Bedroom. Now.”

You follow closely behind him in order to not get lost in his ever-changing shop. You take a glance at your surroundings just once and see that there’s no way out. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. The intimacy the two of you share should be reserved solely for the rituals that help cleanse the world. And yet, you truly want this more than anything else. Even the most pious of people fall into sin and you’re no exception.

Once you look back in front of you, you’re standing in his bedroom. You don’t remember going up the ladder that led you here last time.

The decorations in his room start to fade out of your vision until only Gwylan stands out to you. He’s sitting towards the end of his bed with his torso bare. His arms are open for you and he’s smiling sweetly just like in your first fantasy of him.

You walk until your knees meet the end of his mattress, and from then on, you crawl to him and collapse into his arms against his warm chest, right where you belong. He embraces you, lifting a hand to stroke the back of your head like you’re the dearest person in the world to him, the other lightly brushing over the base of one of your wings. 

“There’s my good pet.”

Pet.

The word repeats over and over like the same sweet melody he frequently hums, his voice feels like kisses from the sun itself, cozily warming you up all over until you feel boneless. Your brain turns into cotton candy, soft and oh so easy to melt.

Feeling relaxed is easy when this reminds you of all the times he has laid your head on his lap and lulled you into the happiest of dreams. 

“Aww, do you like being called that?”

You’re not sure how many times you eagerly nod, but it must be an excessive amount of times given the way he’s cooing at you.

“Gwylan.” 

“Yes, dear?”

“I just wanted to say your name.” 

You’re so cute that he wants to bite you all over. “That’s all? Luckily for you, I’m sure you’ll be saying much more of it soon.”

It should be scary how much influence he has over you, but if anything, Gwylan is the scared one. You frighten him to his very core. You threw him into the ocean and made him face his biggest fear. And instead of apologizing and offering a hand to help him up, saying that it was just a silly joke that meant nothing, you sank into the water with him—and ever since then, you have continued to chase after all his words and attention, willingly falling deeper and deeper. 

He instructs you to turn over in his arms. You carefully tuck your wings against your back so they’re not in the way.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” 

“…Yes. Well, kind of?”

“Do you touch yourself often?”

You shake your head. 

Despite the temple teaching you that abstaining from masturbation is something to be proud of, you feel somewhat ashamed in the face of someone who has had his face between your legs on a weekly basis. “But when I do…it’s only on the surface.”

“This’ll be your first time with a toy inside you, then.” He notes this out loud to himself before continuing. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“Is this really the time for an interrogation?” You ask, feeling a mix of impatience and embarrassment. After a couple seconds pass, you give in with burning cheeks and your fantasies flashing in your mind like shooting stars. “Who else could it be but you?”

His quiet laugh against your ear is seductive—your knees would’ve given out on you if you had been standing up. 

“You’re always welcome…encouraged, in fact, to come to me whenever you wish to use a toy. But if you ever happen to use one when you’re alone, always remember to give yourself the proper preparation. For this toy, multiple orgasms are recommended beforehand for the smoothest and safest experience. Are you ready?”

It’s a courteous question; saying no isn’t an option (it’s not like you want to deny him, regardless). What else can you do but nod?

“Good! Let’s get started.”

Furniture quickly scrapes against the floor, there’s now a full length vintage mirror across the bed. You find his eyes through it.

“Impatience is always common when it comes to matters of the flesh, but it’s important to hold back from rushing straight in. From what you just told me, you’re already familiar with foreplay. Aside from caressing yourself,” he rests both his hands on your chest, gently teasing you there, “it can be done in other ways, such as…”

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, “listening to something erotic. Or perhaps, seeing something.”

Images of when you interrupted his ritual serve as constant erotic art pieces that will never fade from your mind even with time. 

Your heart races underneath his palm and he selfishly allows himself to dream that you’ll always hold him near and dear to it—that even if his very shop were to crumble, he’d still have the crevices of your heart to head home to.

“And if you have a partner, all the better.”

He presses his lips against your neck as best as he can with the collar in the way and sucks on your skin while savoring your scent, wondering how there has ever been a time in his life where he didn’t have it committed to memory.

The tips of his fangs are sharp and can easily pierce you or leave a cut if he were to quickly drag them across. He could eat you alive if he really wanted to (he really wants to).

“Gwylan…” You can’t control how desperately you say his name in between heavy breaths. “I need more.”

There’s no way Gwylan doesn’t know how infuriatingly alluring he is, being in his presence alone is the strongest method of foreplay.

“Oh, already trying to get me to go against my own advice? We’ve only just begun. Ask nicely.”

“Please, can—” 

“I think you can do better than that.”

Dignity is a long-lost concept when it comes to anything involving Gwylan, it has been ever since the day he so shamelessly removed all your clothes with just a flick of his hand and left you in momentary shock. 

And so, you indulge him by whining.

His face flushes at the fluttering in his stomach and he gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “Good pet.”

His touch ventures down to your stomach, then further down. He parts your legs, his touch against your inner thighs as gentle as that of someone appreciatively stroking the petals of their favorite flower. His hands linger there for a while, alternating between grazes and light squeezes.

Even your wings tremble with anticipation. You barely process him reaching for something, and finally—

He slides two lube covered fingers inside you and your hips start bucking up against his palm in chase of more pleasure. If your mind wasn’t on the verge of falling apart, it would perhaps be embarrassing just how easily your body gives in to him. All the prayers you recited at night to keep you from falling into lust ended up being futile, and oh, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

You keep your eyes on his, they’re so captivating that you’re unable to look away no matter how tempting the sight down below is. 

Gwylan’s pleased by how eager you are. His ears twitch with each and every noise you make, perking up contentedly whenever his name falls from your lips.

Every jolt of your body sends ecstasy racing through him. Despite how used he is to pleasuring others, he isn’t immune to the effects of it when it comes to you. He’s progressively getting harder and harder and it’s not like he ever wears any underwear either, so the barrier between you and him is almost nonexistent.

He feels you hold onto his forearm and encourages you. “Don’t be afraid to dig your nails into me.”

You abandon the fear of hurting him and leave crescent-shaped indents on his skin. His breath hitches at the welcome sting and he speeds up his movements. 

This’ll only taint your mind even more in the future when it comes to Gwylan. He’s very expressive with his hands—always clapping them together in delight, squeezing your cheek, petting and patting your head, tilting your head up, and washing your body before rituals (he has long abandoned using a sponge).

Most of the people you run into in town always zero in on three places: your ass, your groin, and your chest. Over time, it formed the impression that those are the only body parts that exude allure. 

You couldn’t have been more wrong; every part of Gwylan can spark a perverted thought in you. It’s weird how much one can desire about a person once you’re charmed by them.

You want his fingers in your mouth instead of the sacramental bread you taste every Sunday during mass, and for him to pass the wine to you through a kiss. If he could hold you in his arms all the time, what use would your wings be to give you comfort and warmth? The stars at night are beautiful, sure, but the freckles that form constellations all over his body are even more breathtaking.

His tail and ears used to be cute, but now all you’re curious about is whether giving them a gentle tug would send sparks down his spine.

“Poor thing. You must’ve been wanting this for a while. Go on, let it out.”

His voice is the final push you need to come undone, you tighten up around his fingers as he coaxes you through it.

While recovering, you pant, looking at him needily through the mirror in hopes of making him hurry and get to the main event.

“Not yet.” He kisses the side of your head to calm you. “Just a few more, dear.”

It’s hard to think rationally with a clouded mind. His advice of multiple orgasms being recommended completely slips from your memory, “But, Gwylan, I—”

“Shh, better safe than sorry! Never jeopardize your safety.”

In the end, he makes you finish two more times. All throughout it, Gwylan was thinking: Ah, my poor pet’s definitely upset with me.

By the time it’s over, a large amount of lube drips out of you and onto his bedding. Your legs tremble helplessly.

“There, don’t you feel more prepared now?”

You nod repeatedly despite feeling completely wronged. How dare he ask such a question?! You’ve been ready and—

He holds the knotted dildo against you and you can’t help but gasp. 

“Wait, actually…”

He waits for you to continue, amused. 

“On second thought. Your fingers are good. You know what, I don’t think this toy is even needed.”

“There’s nothing to be scared or ashamed about, dear. People have created and used sex toys—especially phallus-like ones—ever since ancient times! The history is fascinating, we’re lucky the ones used today are made using more comfortable materials. If you’re curious about…”

Though you adore listening to random facts he knows, this is certainly not the time. “Gwylan.” 

“…were actually at one point used to relieve many kinds of pain. There are also debates on whether the belief of them being used to treat—” He abruptly comes to a pause. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“It’s,” you gesture towards it and state the obvious, “big.”

Of course it is, that’s the entire point. But seeing it so close to the place where it’s about to be stuffed into makes you question whether you’ll be able to take it all the way to the base. “It’s different from the one I took.”

“Good eye! The one you grabbed was actually much bigger than this one and I didn’t want to risk hurting you. If you ever try this at home, I suggest starting with an even smaller size. This one also has an ejaculation feature…I thought it’d be nice to give you the full experience. Ah, but not to fear—it’s just water-based lube.”

“But how—” You can’t tear your eyes away from it, and instinctively, you start trying to squirm out of his arms. “I…I don’t think it’ll fit.”

He giggles and it inexplicably makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“Nonsense, of course it will. Just close your eyes for a moment.” He kisses the side of your head as he gently teases your entrance with the tip of it. “I know you can do it, you’re the bravest person I know.”

It’s almost silly how quickly you take his advice, letting your vision descend to darkness. Or well, it should be dark. 

Sweet visions of him play behind your closed eyes: his radiant smile, gentle eyes, and his charming habit of tilting his head with each question he asks.

You feel a mild sharp pain followed by pressure between your legs, you quietly groan.

“Take a deep breath.”

Roses fill your senses as you inhale.

“Exhale.”

You feel yourself sink deeper into the safety nest he’s crafted for you.

Here, you see him in his most comfortable form—completely naked. To him, it’s normal, nudity is something he has long grown used to. But to you, it’s the most tempting sight and almost makes you think that heaven is on earth.

In the real world, Gwylan blushes furiously upon taking note of how quickly you relaxed and the way your breathing has hastened. He isn’t blind to his own attractiveness, he was just never affected by how anyone else viewed him before you came along.

His voice sounds distant and dream-like to you. “You’re doing so good for me, dear.”

“Ah—”

Your eyes snap open and the breath is pushed out of you. This is a fullness you’ve never experienced before. Because of Gwylan’s preparation and relaxation methods, it isn't painful like you thought it’d undoubtedly be. But it feels odd, like if you moved even a little bit, you’d be pierced through.

You look down and see the knot of the dildo resting flush against you.

Each of your thighs are wrapped with a couple of vines coming from the bottom corners of the bed, keeping your legs spread apart.

“Does it feel like you imagined it would?”

You slowly shake your head and laugh nervously, as if in disbelief. “No. I don’t…I don’t know. It feels weird. Really, really weird. Are the vines really necessary?”

He takes on a lighthearted tone. “I can’t have you running away.”

You’re speechless. 

How absurd! It’s not like there’s anywhere to go if you wanted to escape in the first place—you can’t even see an exit. Also, there’s no need for your movement to be restricted in the first place, you already feel weak as is.

“How does this feel?” He slowly drags it out of you before pushing it back in.

Well. 

It still doesn’t hurt and you could certainly get used to it. “Still weird, but better. Um, good, I think?”

Gwylan continues while paying close attention to all your reactions. He experiments with the angle, seeming to be searching for something. “It should be somewhere around…”

You suddenly moan as a thrill rushes everywhere throughout your body like an addictive drug. 

“There it is,” he says matter-of-factly. And with the gentlest, kindest smile on his face, he starts taking advantage of your sweet spot.

You feel some lube trickle out of you with each stroke. The sound of the dildo sliding effortlessly because of it makes you want to hide your face with your wings. Instead, you close your eyes and turn your head to the side, a flame spreading over your face.

“Don’t be shy,” Gwylan chides. Momentarily letting go of his hold over your torso, he grabs your face—his fingers gently squeezing your cheeks and making your lips form a pout—and directs it back in eyesight with the mirror. “Eyes on mine.”

Tears cling to your lashes as you open them again. Even through half-lidded, borderline blurry vision, you find him irresistible. Being under someone else’s control feels electrifying. 

Biting down on your lower lip only does so much to keep you quiet—occasional noises still find a way through. And it’s all the harder with the way Gwylan’s smile turns wry, his eyes sharpening as if to convey: You might as well just give up. Three syllables and I can easily get it all out of you.

And so, you let your jaw slacken and let loose.

He’s satisfied. “Good pet.”

Whenever your eyes shut for more than a few seconds, he delivers a particularly hard thrust to get them open again. The knot teases you each and every time.

You reach a hand back, toppling the hat right off his head so you can sluggishly pet him. He eagerly leans into your touch—it’s a show of trust, he’d never let anyone else do this to him. His tail sways happily.

Ever so familiar with your facial expressions, he sees a very subtle change in your expression. The furrow of your eyebrows isn’t just from pleasure anymore, but from concern. “Penny for your thoughts?”

It’s completely unsexy and illogical, somehow.

“How am I supposed to confess this?” Nobody at the temple aside from the bishop and their hands know about the fact that you often coax corrupt-tainted people into completion. There’s an added pressure on you to be chaste with your reputation at the temple. “What if…the confessor recognizes my voice? What if I’m not forgiven?”

Gwylan secretly thinks to himself: Really, dear? You have a whole sex toy shoved inside you and that’s what you’re thinking about? You truly have…an interesting mind.

“You’re being awfully hard on yourself. When people confess to you with stories of their sexual acts, what do you tell them?”

“It depends on what the sexual act was but—ah!”

“Sorry.” As if. “Go on.”

“If someone told me about something like this, I’d…” You quiver, speaking in between pants. “tell them to repent if it was with a person they weren’t committed to and…forgive them if it was with someone they planned to have a future with.”

Gwylan regrets asking. 

Which ‘person’ does he fit in under that? His defensive walls say that he isn’t someone you should ever commit to and yet…

Pitiably, his heart yearns for you. Beneath the act of him always suggesting that you should spend time away from him and find someone who can return your strong feelings, he’s miserably and quietly hoping that you’ll always want him.

“Gwylan?”

He’s afraid you’ll ask for his thoughts on what you said. Hesitantly, he hums in response.

“…More. Please.” He gradually slowed down to a stop and you don’t know why.

Oh, good. Relief washes over him. I won’t even ask you to beg this time.

“Harder?” Your legs jolt as the brushes against your sweet spot turn into pounding.

“Or…faster?” 

You barely manage to get your answer out with the constant stimulation, “both.”

“Insatiable.” His face flushes. That’s the speed and intensity he personally likes, after all.

Maybe the temple is right in treating lust as one of the most dangerous sins. With a mind as hazy as this, you’re sure you’d do anything if it meant you could continue feeling this euphoric.

Is your chastity vow really that important? It’s clearly holding you back from experiencing one of the greatest pleasures of the world.

Without it, you’d be able to spread your legs or get on your hands and knees and shamelessly tell Gwylan how badly you want him to take your virginity. And it wouldn’t be just a spoken dream—it’d turn into a reality just seconds afterwards.

He has never explicitly stated that he wants to be inside you, but what he said earlier about how he’s also been struggling during rituals drives you to believe that it’s in the back of his head as well.

Your vision goes out of focus, and fantasies replace reality. The dildo is nowhere to be seen. He's inside you instead.

You’re straddling him, sinking down and taking him all the way down to the base. With flushed cheeks, he tells you to hurry, urging you to move until all he can do is hold onto your hips and yip.

The scenario switches.

Your legs are thrown over his shoulders and your thighs are pressed to your chest, no vines are needed to keep you in place. Strands of his hair and his jasper pendant jangle against your face with each rhythmic snap of his hips. And in spite of how lost in the sensation he also is, he manages to mutter out praises and tells you to scratch him up.

If Gwylan were to be tested on knowing all the signs that gradually led to you coming undone and the precise timing of it, he’d pass with flying colors. 

You’ve lost any coherent thought. He can see it in the way your eyes are glazed over and seem to be so far away, disconnected from reality. 

In your fantasy, he whispers to you, “Don’t hold back, finish for me.”

One. Two. And…

Three.

He squeezes the base of the dildo to spill the lube. Without warning—just like how it would happen in nature—he buries the knot inside you.

The vines keep your legs from instinctually shutting. All you can do is arch your back, letting your head tilt back and rest against his shoulder. 

You cry his name out like a desperate prayer: urgently, over and over until the word turns into mere babbles, and with complete and utmost faith that he’ll deliver you to salvation.

Your orgasm drives him to the edge completely untouched just like during your intimate rituals. 

Amidst the bliss, Gwylan also feels a deep dissatisfaction in both his body and soul, he should be inside you. He quickly sobers up from the physical bliss and is left with mixed feelings that he pushes aside in favor of cherishing how thoroughly wrecked you are.

You’re covered in a thin layer of sweat that leaves you glowing. He buries his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, occasionally whining very quietly as he keeps himself from biting you.

It’s only when he picks up on his name gradually fading from your speech that he raises his head.

Catching your breath, you take a look down. It's hard to believe you actually managed to take it all in. 

Before you can ask, he says, “realistically, it takes quite a while to deflate.”

Even though the fullness no longer feels strange (on the contrary, it feels normal now), you’d only be okay with this lasting a long time if it was actually Gwylan’s knot. Besides, there’s something else you’re dying to do.

“…Can the realism end here?”

The vines loosen up and slither away from you. He slowly takes the knot and shaft of the dildo out of you. You whimper uncomfortably at the emptiness. 

Gwylan buzzes with excitement. His praises are spoken in the same tone as that of a person babying a cute animal.

“Who’s my good pet? Is it you? Oh, you did such a good job, I'm so proud of you!” He turns your head to the side so he can lean in and smother affection to your cheek. “Mwah! Mwah! Mw—mmph…”

His exaggerated noises die down as you manage to turn around to face him and capture his lips against yours. Gwylan, the person whose head is always racing with thoughts, hears nothing but static upon being met with your fervent kisses.

No matter how clumsy your attempts are from your head still spinning from exhilaration, they’re nothing short of bewitching to him. His urge to do this for all of eternity is so strong that it overwhelms him.

He feels the buzz of desire circulating all throughout his body just as rapidly and strongly as his heartbeat. All wistful lovers of the ocean face a similar problem: they can’t breathe when they’re submerged no matter how much they wish to be able to in order to continue enjoying the beauty of it. He pulls away with a desperate gasp for air as if he had actually been drowning. 

Even a second away from him is painful. Out of indulgence, you try to lean back in but he gently pushes your face away.

Something’s quickly thumping against the bedsheets—it’s his tail. If he notices this, he pretends not to. His voice trembles a little. “Add greed to your list of sins. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

You feel something hard poking at you again.

You aren’t the only one who’s been pent up this entire time. The worst part about it is that Gwylan can’t get himself off no matter how much he tries; rutting up against his hand or using a toy by himself doesn’t get him anywhere. Climaxing is rare for him and it’s only with you that he’s been able to achieve it. 

You place a hand against his chest and then you go further and further down, practically pawing at him once you reach the soft hair that trails to your destination.

Feeling like your words wouldn’t do your thoughts any justice, you try to tug his only remaining article of clothes off. It’s honestly more weird that Gwylan hasn’t been completely naked this entire time given how transparent he is about loving being nude.

“Careful, dear.” He immediately grabs your hand to stop you. 

Your hand is shaking, but you can’t quite tell whether you’re actually the one shaking or if he is.

“I’m afraid I’ll…” Fail to respect your wishes, he finishes in his head. He’s aware there’ll be a day where he fully corrupts you, and he’s doing everything in his power—even in spite of his primal instincts—to keep that day away. “If you truly want to help, just…lie down on your stomach.”

If you’re reckless enough to kiss him again, he’s not sure what he’ll do.

Without even knowing, you provide a way around that concern. “But I…I can use my mouth. I’m not very good at it but—”

As much as he likes the sound of it, your warm mouth would only make him fantasize about how amazing being deep inside you would feel. 

And torture me by giving me a small taste of what I’m missing? How cruel.

“You’re eager to please. I like it.” He giggles, but his laughter lacks the spark it usually has. He gives your cheek a pat. “Maybe next time. Be good for me and behave.”

You swallow down your protests, giving him one last longing look and sighing. You get off his lap and move further up the bed to do as told. After having them tucked in for so long, you finally give your wings the liberty of stretching.

Naturally, Gwylan marvels at the sight of your wings spread out in all their glory. Wings, right. He has to tread carefully. His eyes flick back up to your shining halo, the one he loves to run his fingers over. It’d be a shame if it were to shatter into pieces and drag you down into the shadows.

He has to think rationally but all beasts have a second brain between their legs that can overpower the one in their head. Would it be so bad if he were to lose it, though? You’re the one who opened the channel for unbearable lust after kissing him all that time ago, after all. 

Your heart races more and more with anticipation on what he might do. Eventually, he straddles you from behind. You can feel his hard-on pressing against the curve of your ass.  

“You’re making this very hard for me, dear.” 

“I’m not doing anything.” You mumble, knowing that his sharp ears can pick your words up easily. “In fact, I’m doing the exact opposite, per your request.”

“You consume my every waking thought and even follow me into all my dreams. I would hardly call that nothing.” 

“Wait, what—”

The question gets knocked out of your head when he starts rutting his hips against you. It feels so good he could drool, and yet, it isn’t nearly enough to sate him from any of his built-up desires. If anything, this is only adding more fuel to the fire. 

He had a better time holding back during rituals since they’re done with an important purpose in mind. It’s different like this—with you right in front of him, no greater objective to achieve, and only one article of clothing preventing him from taking you.

His body’s mostly on autopilot, humping you to its own content to try and relieve its wants to no avail. His tails sways wildly behind him, though whether it’s mainly out of excitement or frustration is unclear. 

Somehow, this feels even more exhilarating than the knotted dildo. Is this how he’d be if he was actually inside you? The thought makes you feel hot all over. You hold the bedsheets tighter and pray for a future where you’re somehow able to become one with him without breaking your vow. 

“Pet…” He grits his words out as if it hurts. “I-I need you.”

What reassurance can you possibly give to a starving man who hungers for you if you can’t feed him? 

Without the knowledge of the extent of his craving for you, all you know how to quietly say is what’s true in your heart, “you have me.”

Gwylan has you in many ways:

As someone to stop and smell the roses with.

As someone to speak the sea with.

And, as someone to share the burden with.

Oh, his naive pet. He can’t bring himself to say anything back, not when all that’s on his mind is the ardent need to defile you into ruin. 

Wondering is a very dangerous thing in the face of lust. His mind is full of curiosity—how tightly would you squeeze your legs around his hips? How much would you struggle with maintaining eye contact? How would you react to him breathlessly rambling about his urge to breed you?

The same person who frequently hums a melody so beautiful that it calms down the forest is the same one who can only whine and whimper as he frantically bucks against you.

Truthfully, Gwylan has been yearning and lusting for you for a very long time now. He tries his best to control himself, but he often catches himself slipping. 

Whenever he catches your scent in the wind while you explore the forest, he curiously tracks you down. It’s always with either a playful or kind intention such as sneaking up on you and giving you a twirl or giving you some of the best berries from a bush. But the part he suppresses wants to pin you down against the dirt, tug needily and recklessly at your clothes, sink his fangs against your neck, and fuck you mercilessly until the whole forest knows it. 

And more than anything—he wants your reciprocation; he needs you to want him just as much.

During his ruts, all he can think about is you. Granted, you’re on his mind very often to begin with, but the desire to mate with his companion keeps him up at night, leaving him quietly and longingly whining for you.

Knotting you would make him very vulnerable if you happened to be on your back. You could easily reach for his face and kiss him with as much fervor as you wanted until the knot deflated; there’d be nowhere for him to run from everything he has ever wanted. The intimacy of it would be equally as thrilling as it would be frightening.

His head feels soft and fuzzy with thoughts of his cum buried deep inside you while you passionately and ungracefully claim his lips. 

Gwylan abruptly tenses and lets out a soft drawn-out moan upon finishing. He weakly rides out his orgasm before slumping against your back and panting heavily. 

It feels like there’s a warm, weighted blanket over you. You fight back the urge to doze off, which becomes even harder when you feel him caress one of your wings ever so softly and delicately, a complete contrast to how he had been moving just before.

After regaining his bearing, he moves to curl up by your side instead.

Wincing at the soreness of your limbs, you turn to your side to face him. The brightness of your halo accentuates the flush of his cheeks.

You brush away some of the strands clinging to his damp skin and he immediately avoids eye contact.

Searching for something to break the silence, he takes note of how soaked the sheets are and how much fluid is clinging to the two of you, “we’ve really made a mess.”

“Not to brag or anything but—” You’re briefly interrupted by a yawn. “I’m really good at washing bed sheets.”

“Temple duties?”

“You’d be surprised by how messy some of the monks can be.” You pause. “By the way, I’m…sorry.”

He regains the confidence to look back up at you, he giggles and playfully taps the tip of your nose. “There’s no need for apologies. But remember—always ask. If you wanted to experiment with sex toys, you could have just told me instead of resorting to stealing.”

You feel a little embarrassed at being reminded about that again, you murmur a ‘thank you’ under your breath before clearing things up. “I promise I will. But that’s not what I meant. I meant…you’re always the one pleasuring me and I…I feel like I haven’t done much for you.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Oh, my sweet pet.” He pulls you closer and guides your head to his chest. “I’ll have you know that I really enjoy our intimacy. One doesn’t need to be touched in order to feel good. Haven’t you noticed that I…well…that I sometimes come when you do? In fact, it happened earlier.”

“It did?” You must’ve been so lost in your own world that you hadn’t even noticed he actually came twice.

“And plus,” his blush becomes even more prominent. “I did say earlier that next time you could use your mouth on me.”

Your worry subsides and is replaced with excitement for the future. “You’re right, you did. Also..”

“Yes, dear?” He’s fully prepared to soothe you again.

You should’ve brought this question up before this. You would feel somewhat at a loss if this had all started based on a false assumption. 

Hesitantly, you ask, “are you able to knot?”

That catches him off guard 

“I—” He feels shy again. “I am. I’ve never been able to before though because…”

He decides against giving you an explanation. You asked a simple yes or no question and he replied appropriately so there’s no need for him to say more. 

But oh, he should’ve known better than to think he could escape your curiosity.

“Because?”

Because he hadn’t been poisoned by your kiss back then. You managed to charm the most enigmatic witch in town, sentencing his heart to complete disorder. And by doing so, you unlocked a part of him he struggles to keep under control.

But instead, what Gwylan says is: “I think there’s a customer downstairs.”

“What?”

“I should go attend to them.” He suddenly sits up.

“What? But…” You let your eyes do the talking, trailing them over his bare torso and then down to the wet spot just a little further below.

“I’m sure the people in this town would appreciate this look, thank you very much.”

“You said business was slow the other day.”

“Slow business doesn’t mean zero customers.” 

You’re utterly confused.

“They can just leave exact change. You leave this place open when you go to Sam’s cafe for breakfast.” Sitting up, you pull him into your arms, draping your wings over the two of you like a blanket without a care in the world if you come across as clingy. “Stay.”

Gwylan’s heart softens and he melts against you. But deep down, he feels a bit unsettled with the knowledge of what the future might hold.

Perhaps your question will turn out to be completely unnecessary soon.

After all, you’re dangerously close to experiencing the answer yourself.

[dokidokibailey]

m!bailey / f!pc - the snake leaves no remains

chapter 3 - crying lightning *

TITLE: the snake leaves no remains

SHIP: M!Bailey x F!MC (Defiant, Late Game)

WORDS: 4000 words - Spanking

Trigger warning: Grooming, Daddy Issues, Physical Abuse, Jealousy

DESC: How two snakes in the same shithole learned to stop devouring each other only to twist together into an inseparable knot.

AO3 link

My BaileyPC Playlist

Thanks for reading!!!

You fucked Remy's face up.

The left side of his head is wrapped in gauze, bandages already spotting through with rust-colored stains where the burns beneath have wept into. Harper must have pieced his face back together and pumped the farmer full of enough pain medication that he could make his way across town to Bailey's orphanage.

Bailey barely reacted to Remy's sudden presence outside his door. He shook his hand with performed warmth before leading Remy to his office. Orphans scattered and made themselves small in the path of the man who would sell them and the man with half a face that might purchase them.

There's no chair for visitors in his office, so Remy is forced to stand, glaring impotently at Bailey with barely concealed venom. He watches the caretaker casually round his desk and sit down. Below Remy's heated field of vision, Bailey wipes his hand on his trousers.

Morning light cuts through the office window at a low angle, catching the gauze and turning it translucent in patches, revealing the blistered, swollen terrain beneath where the flames had eaten through skin. His visible eye is bloodshot and swollen, the green of his iris a piercing color compared to the red damage surrounding it. His jaw works beneath the bandages, a grinding rhythm Bailey recognizes.

He almost smirks at the sight of the damage you caused to Remy's face, but he smothers it behind his coffee cup. Last night, you kicked one of the men he resented off a tower and mutilated another. You were no longer something as mundane as a troublemaker in over your head in a town that turns little shits like you into corpses or something worse. Last night was the confirmation he needed that you are a goddamn menace.

"Remy. It's good to see you." Bailey leans back in his own chair with his fingers laced across his stomach, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the serpent ink coiling across his forearms in the thin light. His posture is the photographic negative of Remy's in this moment — settled, proprietary, unhurried. His expression carries the easy performance of neutral sympathy, a look he reserves for both funerals and property disputes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Don't play coy with me, Bailey." Remy says, seething where he stands. "You know why I'm here."

"You're right. I do," Bailey replies, reaching across the desk for a cup of coffee that has long gone lukewarm. "A gas leak, I hear. My condolences for the damages you've sustained." He brings the cup to his lips, hiding the slightest upturn of his lip. "Avery's ambitions were always bigger than his attention span. Shame, really. He was a real pillar to the community."

"Spare me the bullshit." Remy glowers, stepping closer towards Bailey's desk. His hands were balled into tight fists at his side. "Someone sabotaged the ceremony."

Bailey simply sips his coffee, slow and mocking as he waits for Remy to make his point.

"You burned down his mansion," Remy's practically spitting across the space between them. "Within hours of the building collapsing. Before the fire department even finished at the skyscraper." He pauses."I'm supposed to believe that's a coincidence?"

"Avery owed me." Bailey replies without hesitation. He sets down his coffee cup and steeples his hands beneath his chin. "I collected what I was owed and secured my property before looters got to it. You'd do the same."

Remy's good eye narrows. The grinding in his jaw stops. The uneasy truth of their working relationship remains that either one of them would stab the other in the back given the right opportunity and weapon.

"Securing property. You mean her. Avery's little pet. The one you sold him. The one you sold me." Remy accuses him. "She came right back to you last night, didn't she?"

Bailey's hand on the desk goes still — fingers pressing flat against the grain of the wood briefly before they lift and reach for his coffee again. He pauses deliberately before he speaks, as though he needed time to scan through some mental register of inventory, as though you aren't his most troublesome headache.

As though you're not the only ward he's ever fisted his cock to in his apartment, holding your name behind his teeth.

He's very good at this. He's had nearly two decades of practice, of pretending he is a man incapable of wants and desires.

"Her arrangement with Avery came to an end so I retrieved my property." Bailey says like it's as fundamental a law as gravity. "I'd expect you to know the terms by now, Remy. My property returns to me. That's how it has always worked." He holds out a hand, palm up, "If you want to purchase her again, you can place your bid and wait. If she defaults, I'll handle the arrangement."

He knew you wouldn't. Avery had been paying your rent for months -- twice your rent, actually, because Bailey had snuck Robin's debt on top of yours, greedy and opportunistic. That idiot never knew. He had the money for it. Even without him, Bailey knew you would be good for it. You were simply too resourceful now.

Remy barks out a furious, disbelieving laugh.

"Your ward. You put her in Avery's house." Remy leans forward, placing his palms flat on Bailey's desk. His voice drops into something colder. "She was living in his estate, taking his money, wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, and hosting his parties. She had access to every room in that building. You don't find that convenient?"

The accusation sits in the air between them.

Remy thought Bailey had sent you into Avery's like some kind of fucking spy. He thought that Bailey had placed you inside Avery's operation like a splinter under a fingernail, that your months of submission and performance were some long game orchestrated from this very office, that Bailey is the kind of man who would sell his own ward into another man's dungeon and wait patiently while she dismantled him from the inside out.

He recognized that you were never Avery's. You were always his. Bailey's.

The thought is not inaccurate. It thrills something deep in Bailey that he kills on arrival, because the thought also means he sent you into danger deliberately, which he didn't. The truth is something he can't quite tolerate: you did it on your own, without his permission, without his knowledge, without his protection, and you came home anyway. The distinction between Remy's theory and the reality is the most important distinction in Bailey's life right now, and he cannot explain it without incriminating you.

"Convenient." Bailey scoffs out loud. Any cadence of professionalism is gone. The flat, sarcastic register he used when he sells you came out at last. "I find it convenient she's alive. I went and retrieved her from the rubble last night. Tell me. Was I not clear? My wards are not to be permanently harmed or involved in your god-bothering hobbies."

Remy stiffens. He knew Avery had crossed a line involving you in the ritual. They thought they could get away with it. They thought it would be clean and easy.

Nothing regarding you is ever clean or easy.

"Enough." Bailey says with finality. When he stands, Remy takes a step back, his hands slipping away from the desk. "If you have a grievance about your little gas leak, take it up with the fire marshal. If you're here to buy my property, make an offer through the proper channels." He picks up his phone from the desk, glancing at the screen with theatrical disinterest. "And if you want to make more accusations, then bring evidence. Otherwise, we're done here."

Remy's thumbs work over his fists, agitated and furious. He glares at Bailey, half a sneer forming on his broken face.

"This isn't over."

"It never is." Bailey says, dismissive. "Out."

Remy leaves the office and stomps his way down the stairs and out the orphanage. Bailey moves to his window, watching the man's car pull away, heading east toward the farmlands where his underground cattle wait in their pens, permanently scarred by one such cow that he had branded. Once the taillights vanish, Bailey peels away from the window, and heads out his office door. He walks towards your room, musing.

He had some cleaning up to do. You have been publicly attached to Avery's arm for months. His companion. His pet. His rescue that he paraded event-after-event as he promoted his skyscraper. Now Avery is dead and his building is ash. The poor little orphan he rescued has returned home in nothing but a towel. The town will talk. Remy will investigate. Harper will scheme. Questions will form in mouths that Bailey would shut because he was going to clean it up for you. The same way he cleaned up your sick. The same way he handles everything.

His mind is sorting through logistics when he steps towards your door.

The sound that reaches him is soft. Wet. The rhythmic, unmistakable cadence of a hand working between thighs. Mattress springs sing their thin, familiar song through the wood.

He stops.

It's not the first time he's walked past your room while you're relieving yourself. It's not even the first time that he's stopped too long to listen. But it's the first time he hears you call out for someone.

"Daddy—"

It's a wrecked, pathetic sound. Half a moan, half a sob, so raw and desperate that it passes through Bailey's chest like a bullet, obliterating the last vestiges of his self-control.

He knows that word. He knows what it meant when you were small and scared and calling it after him in the youth ward because you saw a spider. He knows what it didn't mean when you said it to Avery at his card table and his hand shifted before his brain caught up.

He hears it now, aimed at the ceiling of a room in his orphanage, moaned by his ward a day after she kicked the man that had encouraged her to call him daddy off a burning building.

===

The aphrodisiacs from last night were still coursing through your body this morning when you woke up. Sleepy and frustrated, you try to take care of it. Your thumb presses into your clit uselessly. Your fingers curl inside yourself and provide you no relief. The wet sound of it all fills the small room. It's not enough. You've been trying to cum again for what feels like hours.

Your thoughts turn to the source of your comfort and pleasure last night, to the word that ruined you.

"Daddy—Daddy... I need..."

Your door bangs against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.

It's Bailey.

Bailey stands there, his face perfectly, dangerously still. You see his hand tightening around the doorframe hard enough to whiten every knuckle.

Your eyes fly open. The expression on your face shifts from arousal to terror in a heartbeat, your body jerking upright, wet hand ripping from your shorts, legs scrambling beneath the sheets. Your heart slams against your ribs. The word daddy hangs in the air between you like a lit fuse, and you know — with the bone-deep certainty of someone who has spent a decade learning to read your caretaker's face like scripture — that he heard you say it.

He watches the precise sequence of your panic: the wide eyes, the jerk of your spine, the way your hand move to cover your face, mortified. Thousands of the town's most depraved have seen you in far more scandalous and humiliating situations and now you choose to be shy.

You should know better than to hide from the man who owns you.

He crosses the room in three strides, long legs eating the distance. The door swings shut behind him. His hand closes around your wrist and wrenches it away from your body. He pins it above your head against the pillow, grip firm enough that your fingers splay open. His other hand presses flat against your sternum, shoving you down into the mattress with a weight that pins your ribs and steals the breath from your lungs.

He looms over you, the full geometry of his size bearing down, his shadow swallowing you whole, his red eyes carrying something that burns hotter than anger. The serpent tattoo shifts beneath his rolled sleeve as his grip tightens on your wrist. His breathing is controlled. Yours isn't.

His hand closes around your throat and drives you further back into the mattress. The pillow compresses around your skull. Your free hand flies to his wrist, your fingers wrapping around his forearm, pulling at the tattoo's serpent head like a thing being eaten. His fingers press harshly into the soft tissue beneath your jaw. His weight pins you from above, one knee driven between yours, his face close enough that you can smell cologne and coffee and cigarette smoke.

"Is this what you get off to?" he asks you, his voice low in a way that sends panic coursing through your veins. "You pathetic little whore."

His hand cracks across your cheek, leaving a stinging, red imprint in its wake. Your head snaps to the side. Tears spring immediately, tracking down your temples into your hair. Your chest heaves against his forearm, your breath coming in thin, panicked gasps.

Your face burns. He knows. He knows. He heard you say daddy and he knows you were thinking of him and this is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Worse than being sold, worse than the tower, worse than any single moment of your life because those were violations of your body and this is a violation of the only thing you had left to protect -- the pathetic, depraved, insufferable truth you've carried since Bailey taught you the price of wanting.

He heard it.

"That scum's been dead one night." His grip on your throat tightens, the fingers curled around the column of your neck like a collar. "Gone. Rotting. And you're still in here spreading your legs for him."

You go still.

"Daddy," Bailey says, and the word in his mouth is a blade turned slowly. His lips twist into something between a sneer and a grimace. "That what you called him. Every night in that mansion, on your knees, in his bed — daddy, daddy, daddy."

You stare at him. The mockery cuts through your panic like ice water.

He thought you were calling out for Avery.

"Barely in the ground and you're in here fucking yourself to the memory." His grip on your wrist tightens, grinding the small bones together. "What's the matter with you?"

The misunderstanding crystalizes in the space between his sneer and your fear, impossible and disgusting. He thinks the daddy you moaned for was a dead man. He thinks you're mourning your captor with your fingers in your cunt. He heard daddy and his mind went to Avery because of course it did. You spent the last few months you lived in that mansion, calling the man daddy on command like a pet poodle. Bailey has no conceivable reason to think the word belonged to anyone else since you snuffed it out years ago.

The realization is so absurd and so horrifying that you say nothing, face burning helplessly. Your silence infuriates him further. He hits you again, this time across the other cheek -- a flat, open-palmed crack that snaps your head sideways and leaves your ear ringing. The sting blooms across your cheekbone, bright and immediate, chased by warmth rushing to the surface of your skin. Your vision whites at the edges. The taste of copper gathers on your lower lip where your teeth caught the inside of your cheek.

Your head snaps back and you glare up at him, miserable and furious and humiliated. Defiant, even now.

You could tell him. You could reveal just how fucked in the mind you've become with one sentence. I wasn't thinking of him, I was thinking of you.

You don't say a goddamn word. You say nothing because the alternative is a confession you would rather die than make. You could never tell Bailey that the word daddy was his, that it has always been his, that you stopped saying it at fifteen because the look on his face felt like rejection, and that you've been choking on it ever since. You were certain it would hand him the last weapon you haven't already felt the edge of. He would own it the way he owns your debt, your papers, your body. The knowledge that his orphan — his ward, his property, his best-looking little bitch — wants him with the desperate, self-loathing intensity of someone who has never learned the difference between love and survival would become leverage. Currency. Another line item on the ledger.

So you swallow it. You let the tears fall. You let him believe.

"Fuck you," you spit out. It's practically instinct for you to give him shit when he hits you with it first. "You abusive, vindictive fuck."

Bailey is still for a moment, looking down at you with unhidden disgust.

Then he moves.

"You don't learn," Bailey says, and then he's hauling you upright by the arm, dragging you across the mattress. The room tilts as he sits on the bed's edge and folds you over his knee in one efficient motion — your legs pinned beneath his thigh, your torso hanging over the opposite side, your bare ass exposed to the cold room with your shorts still tangled uselessly at mid-thigh. His forearm presses across your lower back, heavy and immovable, holding you flat against his lap.

His palm settles on your right ass cheek. The weight is deliberate and possessive. Your skin prickles with the awareness of every ridge and scar on his hand pressing into the soft flesh exactly where Remy's brand reads CATTLE in raised, pinkish scar tissue.

"If you're going to behave like a depraved little animal," Bailey says from above you, his voice carrying the cold patience of a man who has settled on a course of action and intends to see it through, "then I'll treat you like one."

His hand lifts.

"This is what you need, isn't it?"

The first strike cracks across your ass, harder than any whip Avery could wield. You cry out, spine arching, only to be pinned down in place by Bailey's arm. The pain follows a half-second later, a spreading welt of heat radiating outward from the point of impact. You jolt against his thigh, a strangled noise ripping from your throat that you cannot classify as pain or pleasure, because your body stopped reliably separating the two a long time ago.

"Can't survive a night without someone's hands on you."

The second hit lands on the opposite cheek. Harder. His palm covers most of the flesh and the impact sends a jiggle through the muscle beneath his hand. The brand under his palm — CATTLE, proof you survived what he sold you into — doesn't slow his rhythm. If anything, the cadence steadies.

"Go to hell," you hiss, the words muffled against the mattress, your voice cracking on the last syllable because he strikes you as you speak — harder, lower, the meat of his hand catching the crease where thigh becomes ass with a precision that feels deliberate. His breathing remains even, each word landing with the same measured precision as his palm.

"So I can join him?" Bailey snarls down at you. His hand lifts again. You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth set, fingers gripping the bedsheets that hang past his knee. "Get him out of your head."

The next strike overlaps a developing welt, doubling the burn. You jerk forward, stomach pressing against his muscular thigh, and the friction of his trousers against your bare skin sends a line of unwanted heat straight between your legs.

"Six months." Bailey says from above you as he disciplines you. "Six months in his mansion, calling him that. Spreading your legs whenever he snapped his fingers."

The sound of the next blow fills the room — a flat, wet crack that bounces off the thin walls and comes back to you distorted. Your body lurches forward over his thigh, the friction of his trousers dragging against your bare stomach. His palm returns to the spot immediately, pressing flat against the branded skin, holding the heat in like a man testing a stove. The rough pad of his thumb traces the edge of the raised brand on your ass without apparent intention.

The defiance surges up through the shame and the pain and the heat like a fish breaking water, and your head lifts from the mattress, hair swinging, and your voice comes out raw and vicious, "You sold me to him!"

He strikes you on the opposite ass cheek, the crack sharper, higher. Your hips buck against his thigh involuntarily. The aphrodisiac still pooling in your system turns every nerve ending into something live and raw and indiscriminate. The wetness between your legs is spreading — slick and obvious and humiliating — coating your inner thighs, soaking into the fabric of his trousers where your cunt grinds against the seam with every jolt of his palm.

"I know what I did." His voice drops into the register he uses when he sells you — flat, sarcastic, scraped clean of anything resembling sentiment. "You think that changes anything?"

Two strikes land in succession without pause, each one cracking across the layered welts with the kind of steady, metronomic patience that says he could do this all morning and not tire of it. The pain has stopped being discrete — each impact blurs into the next, the heat building and compounding until your entire ass feels like it's been held over an open flame, the skin swollen and raw and radiating a warmth that sinks into the muscle beneath.

"Pathetic," Bailey says, and his hand comes down again. You scream and sob into the mattress, fingers twisting uselessly into the sheets. His next spank lands high on your right cheek — a flat, brutal open-palmed crack against flesh already swollen and hot. The pain crests. His hand lands —

You cum.

Your thighs clamp together around his leg. Your mouth opens against the mattress and a pained, relieved moan tears through your chest. Your whole body seizes over his lap, stomach muscles locking, hips grinding forward in stuttering, involuntary thrusts against his thigh as the orgasm rips through you in waves that you cannot stop. Your cunt spasms around nothing, clenching and releasing in a rhythm dictated by something deeper than thought. Your thighs shake. Your fingers go white. Wetness floods between your legs — obvious, copious, soaking through his trousers in a dark spread that you feel the warmth of the instant it happens.

The room goes silent.

Bailey's hand stays where it landed. His palm presses flat against the hot, swollen flesh of your ass. He does not move. His forearm across your lower back does not lift. His thigh beneath your stomach remains rigid, solid, immovable.

He holds you through it. Not gently. Not tenderly. He holds you the way a man pins a trapped animal against the ground, refusing to let you thrash free because Bailey does not let things free. His breathing above you is measured. Each exhale arrives at intervals so precise you could set a clock to them. His fingers spread wide across your warm, pained, branded skin, holding you flat while your body shakes itself apart against his leg.

The orgasm ebbs in slow, degrading pulses. Your thighs unlock. Your fingers loosen in the sheets. The trembling settles into a fine, whole-body vibration. You press your face into the mattress and do not look at him. Every fiber of your being screams at you not to look at him.

His body is coiled beneath you. You can feel it in the tension of his thigh, in the rigid set of his forearm across your back, in the controlled precision of his breathing. The rage radiates, so dense and pressurized that it bends the air around it. You brace yourself. You wait for the next strike to come harder, faster, meaner. You wait for him to grab your hair and drag you off the bed and throw you into the hallway. You wait for the back of his hand across your mouth.

The silence stretches. One second. Two. Three.

Then you feel it.

Against your ribs. Against the soft underside of your stomach where your body drapes across his lap. He's hard. The shape of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers, pressing into you through the thin cotton of your pyjama top — hot and rigid and pulsing faintly with each slow breath he takes above you.

Your body draped over his knee, your bare ass in his hand, your cum soaking through his leg, and Bailey is hard.

His hand lifts from your ass. His forearm peels away from your lower back. Both hands grip your hips — then you are airborne for a half-second before you hit the mattress face-first, the springs shrieking beneath you, the room tilting as the world rearranges itself around the sudden absence of his body. You hear the sharp intake of his breath. You hear his shoes on the floor — one step, two, three — retreating. The door opens. The door closes.

The latch clicks with a finality that rings in the silence.

You lie face-down on your bed. Your shorts are still tangled around your thighs. Your ass is on fire — welts layered across both ass cheeks, overlapping and throbbing in pain. Your face burns against the mattress. Your eyes are shut so tight the lids ache. Your hands are balled into fists at your sides.

You can still feel the shape of him against your stomach.

[ryuucam]

SURPRISE GIFT!

i love when short guys have such big cocks. and theyre so smug about them too. ugh.

contains venti + dahlia + lohen, virginity loss, dacryphilia, rough sex, shapeshifting <3, creampies, blowjobs

i think that to some extent, venti has the ability to change how only certain parts of his body look like. most of the time, his dick is average - it’s not like he’s showing it freely to everyone! - and it’ll stay that way when he deflowers your pretty pussy for the first time. but he’s so mean, and by the second time you’re sitting all pretty on his cock, he’s suddenly becoming bigger! his shaft is now long and thick, and his fat mushroom tip is twitching. “v-venti.. ‘s so big now..ngh!“ you can whine all you want, but he’s just gonna sit down and enjoy your shy and hesitant bouncing on his dick.

like archon, like follower, so it’s no surprise that dahlia is so similar to venti in that aspect. you can see the outline of his cock from his shorts, and for some reason (you) it’s always half hard and leaky. when he finally pounces on you, he’s like a mad man. if you say something about his size, dahlia’s only gonna get harder and fuck you more! he already is so happy to have such a pretty thing wrapped around his finger that he can’t help but shove his dick in you all at once <3 but you gotta be good, kay miss? be good and take his load.

you spent one too many nights wondering how vice captain lohen’s dick was like. poor you, humping your pillow so lost in thought, so desperate to know what the man of your dreams was packing down there. and when the time comes, and you’re on your knees in front of lohen, all pretty and doe eyes, you realize you were not actually prepared. his cock falls out of his boxers, his fat shaft hitting your forehead. “what, disappointed?” he scoffs, teasing. “n-no, ‘fcourse not, captain-“ “good, aren’t you such a doll?” don’t worry, lohen thinks you look like one even when you’re desperately trying to suck on his cock just to make him feel good!

[xiayizhou04]

maintenance day ☆ suggestive [cw] body horror (?)

a/n. based off of this mutual’s art (please check them out! (@applepuppy77)). sorry if there are mechanical inconsistencies, this is out of my profession. i’ve only tinkered with my pc before

“Caleb, are you sure you don’t want a break… you’re panting a lot…” 

There’s a strained smile on Caleb’s face, thick eyebrows furrowed as beads of sweat line his forehead and drip down his cheeks. 

“…Caleb?” 

“Hah… I’m fine, pips. Keep going.” The quiet whirl of the mechanical parts that make up his abdomen fills the silence, mingling with Caleb’s uneven breaths. 

“I’m nervous, you have to tell me when it hurts, okay?” You bite your lip, picking up the circuit board with care. “You know I’ve only worked on your arm before… what if I mess up?” 

“You’ll be okay,” Caleb assures you, lashes fanning his cheeks. His eyes are hazy, half focused on his open stomach, and half focused on you. “I’ll guide you if you need help. Just… trust your instincts and remember the techniques from when you helped me with my arm.” 

You shuffle to make yourself comfortable in his lap once more, trying to ease the stiffness in your body. “Okay. I’m going to install the piece now. Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

With slow movements, you carefully insert the mechanism until you hear a click, narrating as you go. “It’s in. I need to make sure it’s stable though, tell me to stop if it hurts or feels weird.” 

Fighting to keep still Caleb leans forwards, smile wavering. “Tighten the south bolt tighter than the others. There should be a red mark on it. It loosens too easily.” 

The system is glaringly more complex than his arm, multi-coloured wires threading around the main central core in the middle. You let your eyes trail down towards the bolt he mentioned, nodding. 

“Mkay. Tightening it now.” Taking a deep breath to stop your hand from shaking, you take the small wrench and lean in, a tight furrow between your brows. 

The second you touch the metal connecting his main system to the circuit, Caleb jerks forward, a breathy gasp escaping his lips. His hand curls around the lower half of his face, muffling his sounds as he flushes red of either embarrassment or arousal. 

“Hah… pips. Slow…haaah… down, fuck.” He curses when you tighten the bolt while he’s somewhat distracted, his head jerking back and ramming into the wall behind him. 

“It’s done…! Did it hurt? Sorry, I thought it might be better if I was slightly quicker.” 

“No, it was only a pinch.” Caleb’s cheeks burn a brighter red and his eyes have yet to clear, still glazed over. They dart away from yours when they make contact. “Mind helping me close up?” 

“Mhm,” you say absentmindedly, mind wandering elsewhere. “Masochist.” 

“I…aha, wha—?” 

Your fingers inch forward again to trail down the stabilizing rod, letting your fingertips trace each ridge and texture. The whirling of the fan gets louder as he overheats, his eyes widening at the betrayal. 

After a moment Caleb’s eyes drift shut, shuddering as his hand reaches out to grasp your wrist, though not stopping you. 

“You’re not going to stop me?” 

“You know I won’t. You can do whatever you want to me, I’d take it all.” 

He lets your curious fingers wander, body tightening beneath you when your touch reaches the newly installed component, vibration humming through the metal. 

“Ah—” 

The sound escapes him before he can stop it, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Sensitive?” 

“No,” he says quickly. You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe a little,” he admits. 

“A little… hm?” 

Caleb’s throat bobs as he subconsciously spreads his thighs apart below you. Your fingers brush a bundle of colored wiring near his core, and he jolts. The reaction is immediate, and the lights beneath his synthetic organs flicker erratically. 

“Wow,” you whisper before you can help it. 

“Hah, don’t...” His voice comes out wrecked, breathless around the edges. “You’re making it worse.”

“Worse?” you echo, as your thumb strokes carefully along one of the wires. A shudder tears through him.

“Fuck.” The mechanical whir deepens in pitch, and his hold on your wrist tightens. 

“Caleb?” 

“That’s… that’s enough,” he pants, voice strained. 

“Painful?” You pull away, watching him carefully.

“Something like that.” He motions for you to close up his abdomen, sighing in relief when he’s finally protected from all your teasing. Caleb’s arms loop around your waist as if he doesn’t want you to move away yet, holding you tightly against his chest. “Thank you, pipsqueak.” 

You lean into him, humming in response. “You know I could have turned you off?” 

“If it’s you touching me, I want to experience all of it,” he murmurs, nose brushing your shoulder. “Help me next week?” 

You sigh affectionately. “Sure.”

xiayizhou04’s masterlist ♱ applepuppy77’s art

[halfcup-of-mio]

Gwylan's shop has all sorts of things, doesn't it?

[xiayizhou04]

snowapple x sounding ☆ [cw] sounding, cum eating, poly

“Are you sure this is safe…?”

Caleb lies naked on his bed, fingers wrapped tightly around Zayne’s wrist. In Zayne’s hand is a smooth, slim rod, glistening in slick lube.

“Of course,” Zayne blinks. “I would not use it on you if it wasn’t.”

“Do they always look this daunting?” Caleb mutters, reluctant. His cock bobs beneath them, revealing his excitement and curiosity. The tip is sticky, pearls of precum beading and slipping down his length.

“Some are ribbed. We are only starting with this one to get you used to it.”

“Ribbed…?”

Zayne’s other hand reaches out to wrap around the base of Caleb’s cock, slowly jerking up. “Yes.”

“W-wait! I’m not ready yet!” He grabs Zayne’s wrist, now holding both, as he closes his eyes and frantically shakes his head.

“I’m jerking you off to keep you hard. Do you want to use our safe word?”

“Seeing you like this is enough to keep me hard,” Caleb mutters. He cracks an eye open to drink in the sight before him once again—Zayne is sitting by his side, his own cock stiff and throbbing as he waits patiently. He looks good like this, smooth chest flushed with arousal, calculating eyes watching his every move.

Caleb yelps when Zayne squeezes the base of his length, clicking his tongue. “Focus on me. You’re daydreaming again. Safe word?”

“It’s ‘apple’. But I don’t want to use it yet.”

“Then stop squirming.”

“Just—be gentle—”

“And stop arguing with me.”

With a deep breath, Caleb forcibly relaxes his body, trying to keep his attention away from the sounding rod. “That’s not going to fit.”

“It will. I specifically picked this one.” Zayne gives him a look, as if asking ‘are you really going to argue with a doctor?’

“Okay, okay.” Caleb exhales, letting go of Zayne’s wrists. “I’m ready.”

Zayne nods, jerking Caleb’s cock steadily. It’s flushed and leaking, eager for stimulation. He slows down before circling his fingers around the base, resting against the unruly patch of hair. “Relax. I’ll go slow.”

The nudge of the metal touching the tip of Caleb’s length makes him flinch, gripping the sheets on either side of his thighs. A whine builds up in the back of his throat and he braces for the rush of stimulation that’ll soon follow.

Zayne’s breath hitches, focused on the sliding of the metal against Caleb’s silky length, watching the lube gather around the rod. His finger rests in the hoop at the end of the sounding rod, inching the metal deeper and deeper until the end of it lies snug against Caleb’s tip.

The man before him jerks, head tilting back as a moan rips out of his mouth, hips fighting to keep still.

“The tip must have hit your prostate,” Zayne hums, lifting the rod slightly before pushing it back in with his index. “How does it feel?”

“I-I…! Um—” Caleb’s eyes scrunch shut as he struggles to answer, at the mercy of the foreign feeling.

“It must feel different, if this is the first time you’ve had your urethra penetrated. If I stimulate your urethral walls…” Zayne begins a steady pace, gentle as he lets the warm material slip back and forth down Caleb’s cock.

The pleasure ripples through Caleb’s body as he squirms, eyes unfocused as drool slips past his parted lips. “Slow…slow down! Please!”

“Breathe, think about her. What are you going to tell her? How it felt?”

“That… it’s too much,” Caleb pants. “And feels good.”

“I’m going at a steady pace I know you can handle, Caleb,” Zayne muses. “Colour?”

“I…!!”

“Colour.” Zayne slows down, tightening his hold on the base of Caleb’s cock.

“It’s green, stop asking!” Caleb whines unfairly, frustrated at the lack of stimulation as his hips jerk up to feel more pressure against his prostate.

“Do you need more from me?” Zayne wets his lips with his tongue, sitting closer. Removing the hand keeping Caleb’s cock upright, he wraps his fingers along both of their lengths, the friction between the silky texture of their skin shooting sparks up their spines.

“Zayne,” Caleb gasps. “More, please!”

“So greedy.”

“I said please—”

Zayne jerks both of them off at a frantic pace, eager to bring himself and his partner to release. He continuously watches the rod move with every stroke of Caleb’s cock, the sight pushing him towards an orgasm faster.

“I’m going to cum,” Zayne grunts. “I’m going to…!” A moan cuts him off as his body locks, cock spurting out a heavy load of semen. The warm slick leaks down both of their flushed cocks as he rides out his high.

Caleb cries out, antsy from not receiving his orgasm. “Zayne…!” A feeling of helplessness bubbles up inside of him, but Zayne is quick to make it up.

“Sh… I’ll help you reach your orgasm in a different way,” Zayne comforts him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead. He repositions himself, lying on his stomach between Caleb’s legs.

Caleb gulps, hand moving to tangle in Zayne’s hair, mewling when heavy breaths can be felt along the underside of his cock.

“Hurry…”

Zayne’s lips turn up before passionately pressing against the tip of Caleb’s cock, smearing fluids around as he groans at the taste of himself. He pays special attention to the metal sticking out of Caleb’s urethra, tongue swiping around the area as he laps up the mixture of their liquids.

“You should be able to orgasm with the sounding rod in,” Zayne says, flattening his tongue to lick from the base to the tip. “Can you do that for me?”

“Haaah, it's too much…!” Caleb’s fingers tighten their hold, tugging Zayne’s locks until he groans at the sting.

Caleb’s reactions urge Zayne to double his efforts, massaging his balls and needily mouthing at his length. His other hand pumps the rod up and down Caleb’s urethral opening, pushing him towards his release.

“I can see it through your skin,” Zayne realizes, cock throbbing at the sight. With some passes, the shape of the rod visually bulges beneath the skin of the underside of Caleb’s cock, disappearing with every pull up.

“Wha—haah?” Caleb peers down, head and eyes rolling back when he sees the image for himself. With a pulse of his balls, his cum leaks out the sides of the metal rod, his body pulsing with each spurt.

Zayne parts his lips, quick to tongue at Caleb’s tip to catch a taste of his salty release. He sloppily makes out with the sticky mess, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds his own hips into the mattress. “I’ll have to update her about this later,” he says, voice muffled.

“That’s enough,” Caleb squirms, feet kicking out as he yanks Zayne up by his hair. Zayne’s eyes are hazed over, glasses slipping down his nose and foggy as he tries to clear his head.

“I… yes. Apologies.” He sits up, quick to start their familiar routine of aftercare. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I can’t move,” Caleb grins tiredly, pushing his bangs away from his forehead. “Y’know, you really know what you’re doing.”

“I would hope so,” Zayne deadpans. “Brace yourself. I need to remove the sounding rod.”

Caleb cringes, chuckling weakly. “Maybe we can wait?”

“Until you’re flaccid? Nonsense.” Zayne holds Caleb’s cock gently in his fist, slowly and gently pulling the rod upwards. Caleb hisses, disliking the newfound hollowness.

Only when it’s fully out does Caleb relax. “Give me an hour and we do round two.”

Zayne stares, unamused. “You’ll be sore for the next couple days. I guarantee it will not be pleasurable for you if we go again.”

“What? What about when pipsqueak is home?”

“It’ll have to wait until you’ve fully recovered. Unless you’d be satisfied just watching.”

“Tempting.”

xiayizhou04’s masterlist

[purple-plum-petals]

Compilation/Masterlist of Official Information for The Freak Circus

I don't know if anyone has done this yet, but I wanted to put together a masterlist of the asks answered and posts made by @nekoboydreams regarding their game The Freak Circus!

I organized the posts by whether they had something to do with game development, or if they were related to the lore or characters. I'm planning on continuing to add links as posts are made, so this will be updated frequently! I'm going to organize them better as soon as all the posts are linked, but that may take a little while, so I apologize for the mess. 😅

I decided to do this because, as someone who loves consuming lore and understanding the characters as much as possible before writing them, it's a lot easier to find the posts in this format – I did it for myself, but wanted to share it with the people and do my due diligence. 🫡

There are quite a lot of posts to go through, so this list is not up-to-date quite yet (as of 08/08), but I will continue working on it in my free time! I'm currently up to the first post of June 24th.

★ Posts Regarding Game Development:

Pierrot Concept Sketches and CG Artwork (June 6th)

Pierrot Expressions (June 8th)

Is the story based on commedia dell'arte? (June 13th)

Game Release Link (June 15th)

Question Regarding Translating the Game into Another Language (June 16th) - [2]

Post Thanking Supporters/Asking Questions (June 17th)

Will the Official Game Have Pronoun Options? (June 17th)

Will There be Intimate Scenes in the Game? (June 18th)

Can We Write Fanfictions? (June 18th) - [2]

Update on Game Progress/Official Merch (June 20th)

Is the Creator Comfortable with 18+ Questions? (June 20th)

How Long Did it Take to Develop the Game? (June 20th)

Is the Game Going to Have 18+ Scenes? (June 20th)

Pierrot's Show OST (June 20th)

Will Other Characters Have Their Own Routes and Endings? (June 21st)

Reuploading/Reposting Game Policy (June 22nd)

Inspiration for Designing Pierrot (June 22nd)

Will There Be an Ending where the MC Ends up with Both Pierrot and Harlequin? (June 23rd)

★ Posts Regarding Characters/Lore:

Pierrot and Harlequin Having Different Intensities (June 11th)

Pierrot and Harlequin CGs/Differences in Character (June 12th)

Pierrot and Harlequin Fighting Over MC (June 13th)

History Between Pierrot and Harlequin/Lore on the Love Triangle Between Pierrot, Harlequin, and Columbina (June 14th)

Pierrot and Harlequin Character Sketches (June 14th)

Why did Pierrot fall for the MC so quickly?/Lore About the "Angel's" Death (June 15th)

Information About Pierrot's Character/If There Will Be Other Characters in the Game (June 16th)

Information About the Pink Tent/Ticket (June 16th)

Pierrot's Height (June 16th)

Do the members of the Circus Have Casual Attire? (June 17th)

Canon Character Sexualities (June 17th)

Pierrot and Harlequin Heights/Are They Monsters from the Story?/Why Does Harlequin Become Interested in the MC/Lore about the Pink Tickets (June 17th)

Pierrot Getting Ready to Kick Harlequin's Ass (June 17th)

Pierrot Canonically Gets Shy Very Quickly/Easily (June 17th)

What Does the Carnival Food do to the MC's Mind? (June 17th)

Pierrot Would Never Let the MC into the Pink Tent if You Have His Affection (June 17th)

Pierrot and Harlequin with an MC Who Has Never Been to a Circus Before (June 18th)

Did Pierrot Use Paint or Blood to Color the Paper Rose? (June 18th)

Jester's Reaction to Harlequin Telling Him About the MC (June 18th)

Was Pierrot Obsessed with Columbina? (June 18th)

Who is the Unknown Person who Gave MC the Pink Ticket?/Identity of the Mysterious Stranger (June 18th) - [2]

Is There Any Other Specialty Offered by the Tickets Other Than Front Row Seating? (June 18th)

Why is the Circus Called "The Freak Circus"? (June 19th)

Information About Harlequin's Personality, Symbol, and Tongue Shape (June 19th)

Pierrot's Reaction to MC Wanting to Live with Him at the Circus (June 19th)

Who Chose Each Member's Role in the Circus? (June 19th)

Can Pierrot and Harlequin Get Someone Pregnant?+How Would They be as Dads?/Why Can't Pierrot Talk in Public? (June 19th)

Can Pierrot Handle Being Teased? (June 19th)

Do Harlequin and Pierrot Have Favorite Foods? (June 19th)

How Human Are the Circus Members?/Information About Pins/Information About the Food Stalls (June 19th) - [Pins as a Form of Competition]

Pierrot is Always Watching and Observing (June 19th)

Do the Characters Have Birthdays?/Is Harlequin's Story Related to the Origins of the Circus? (June 20th)

How Would Pierrot Recieve Kisses from a Shorter MC? (June 20th)

Pierrot and Harlequin's Reactions to an MC who is Obsessed with Them (June 20th)

Voice Claims? (June 20th)

Song that Gives off Harlequin Vibes (June 20th)

Pierrot and Harlequin's Favorite Seasons/Potential Endings to the Game (June 20th)

Do Pierrot and Harlequin Have Fursonas? (June 20th)

Do Pierrot and Harlequin Cuss? (June 20th)

How would Pierrot and Harlequin react to the MC only Wearing One Pin instead of both? (June 20th)

Are Pierrot and Harlequin Divorced? (June 20th)

What Would Happen if MC Asked Pierrot on a Date? (June 21st) - [2]

Is there a way to get into the Purple Tent? (June 21st)

What are Pierrot and Harlequin's Favorite Animals? (June 21st)

Was the Woman Killed During Pierrot's Show the Same Woman from the Coffee Shop? (June 21st) - [2]

What Time Period Does the Story Take Place In? (June 21st)

Do Pierrot and Harlequin Have Canonical Ages? (June 21st)

Difference Between When Pierrot Has Pupils vs. When They're Completely Black (June 21st)

Will We See More of Columbina in-game? (June 22nd)

If Pierrot Can Notice the MC's Heartbeat Changing, Would He Use That to His Advantage?/Would Harlequin? (June 22nd)

Pierrot's Thoughts on Nicknames (June 22nd)

Is Pierrot Wearing a Mask? (June 22nd)

Is the MC a Girl? (June 22nd)

Is There an Ending with Harlequin (June 22nd)

Does the Circus Have Animal Attractions? (June 22nd)

Do Pierrot and Harlequin Drink? (June 22nd)

Pierrot's Reaction to MC Hugging Him in Their Sleep (June 22nd)

Pierrot and Harlequin Interaction (June 23rd)

What do the Black Tickets Do? (June 23rd)

Why does the MC's Mouth Taste Funny When they wake up? (June 23rd)

Pierrot's Reaction to the MC in a Clown Costume (June 23rd)

Pierrot's Tongue (June 23rd)

Why Is Pierrot Silent? Does the Circus Have Rules? (June 23rd)

Information on the Pink Tickets+Tent/Where Did Pierrot Learn to Dance? (June 23rd)

Pierrot and Harlequin's Reactions to Their Colors Being MC's Favorite Color+The Color They Wear Most Often (June 23rd)

Characters' Voices/Theories About the Carnival Food/Pierrot with an MC with Self-Destructive Tendencies (June 23rd)

Pierrot and Harlequin's Reactions to MC Wearing Their Clothes/Information Regarding Harlequin's Puppets (June 23rd)

How Would the Characters React to an MC who Used to be a Clown? (June 24th)

[nekoboydreams]

Oh my god, that’s really so helpful and detailed! Thank you!

[nekoboydreams]

Most Popular Questions:

I decided to make a post with some of the questions I get the most. Some have already been answered, but in this post it’ll be easier to find, right?

About their height: I have a small chart I use when making the sprites. They’re in the same order as the bad ending:

You also ask A LOT about the size of… their body parts haha As you know, they’re not human, so yes, those parts are bigger too, and each one has a different design. I PLAN to draw this, but only after the update is released. After all, I haven’t revealed Jester and Doctor’s designs yet, so I’ll rank them from largest to smallest, okay? 🍆 Size Rank: Doctor Pierrot Jester Harlequin Ticket Taker

👅 Size Rank: Pierrot Jester Harlequin Ticket Taker Doctor

Physical Strength Rank: (I know I haven’t introduced their abilities yet, but this ranking is just for raw strength)

Pierrot Harlequin/Jester (Whoever has the advantage wins) Doctor Ticket Taker

(If you remember Harlequin’s story, this info is just a slight “what if” context Just teasing you with this~ don’t think too hard about it)

About the game:

When will the update be released? I really wanted to release it this month (since it’s my month /o/), but I can’t give a date yet. There’s about 20% left to finish coding (around 25 dialogue pages remaining).

Once I finish coding with the sprites, I’ll move on to music and sound effects. That’s when I’ll be able to estimate a date, and I’ll let you know when I get there.

About translations: The update will include: English, Portuguese, and Chinese.

Someone volunteered to translate into Russian, and another person into Spanish. I haven’t been able to properly talk with them about these translations yet (since I haven’t coded all the dialogue), so keep in mind those languages are a possibility, but please be patient.

How many days will the game have? Haha! That’s a tricky question. See, the second day of the update is huge, and it just goes deeper into the story while introducing the rest of the cast. So there will definitely be a “day 3,” though I’m not sure how far beyond that it will go.

Will the whole cast have a romance route? I have a lot of endings planned, and making the other characters romance options is a possibility. I really like the idea, but I can’t promise anything. Do I want to do it? Yes! Will it be possible? I’ll have to test it in the script after finishing day 2, so I just need a bit more time before I can be certain.

[thukunna]

BREAKING POINT PART 2

pierrot x fem!reader

FANDOM: The Freak Circus

PAIRING: Pierrot / Female Reader

GENRE: Dark Romance, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Romance

RATING: Explicit / 18+ / MATURE

WORD COUNT: 7k

CONTENT WARNINGS: obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, unhealthy attachment, toxic dynamics, possessiveness, non-consensual themes, non-consensual sex, explicit sexual content, emotional dependency, violence, mentions of blood, biting, no foreplay, dead dove: do not eat

A traveling circus has appeared in your city, and through a third-party contract, you’re hired as technical support to help maintain quality standards behind the scenes. The work itself is surprisingly easy, even with the strange performers lingering around every corner. Yet somehow, with each passing day, your body feels more sore than ever before.

Breaking Point Part 1

reader discretion is advised (!)

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, your hands coming to dig their fingers into your lower back. You’re sure your fingers are nearly white with the amount of pressure you’re trying to force into one spot – and yet, when your fingers manage to tentatively target the correct spot needing attention, it causes your body to shudder uncontrollably.

You let out an audible groan, piquing the interest of your shift buddy. 

“You good?” he asks, spinning around in the plastic swivel chair.

You wave him off. “It’s nothing, just sore for some reason.”

He tilts his head but doesn’t seem to question it, with a hum of disinterest he turns his chair back around, facing the small metal desk.

You’re not sure why but your body feels as though it’s been rotting from the inside out for the past few days. Every morning you wake up more sore than the last - even shifting in bed makes you wince. It’s starting to make you wonder if you’ve come down with some kind of infection.

You’ve already made the mistake of searching your symptoms online before. Every result inevitably spirals into cancer, chronic stress, malnutrition, dehydration, underlying conditions, or physical strain from work.

Physical strain is something you rule out indefinitely. Not only do you commit to little physical activity, but your job is the furthest thing from demanding. How could prying open a few rusted panels on outdated equipment explain the deep yet sharp aching wrapped around your sides?

What bothers you most is where the pain sits.

You noticed it the other night while showering, fingertips brushing over sore skin hard enough to make you flinch. Faint bruises had already begun surfacing there; small, circular marks scattered along your waistline. Some showing a faint purple noticeable through soap suds.

You’ve been reasoning with yourself to avoid overthinking it and scaring yourself any further. However, your mind does find itself wandering to the fact that the marks are round and evenly spaced.

You pull your phone from your pocket despite knowing it’ll only make the paranoia worse. Your eyes drag across the bright screen as you type another search, eyeing the walkie-talkie momentarily.

Bruises around hips and waist causes.

The first result says vitamin deficiencies, the second says blood disorders, with the third result implying internal bleeding. You immediately lock your phone before you can spiral any harder.

If the affliction was merely physical you believe you wouldn’t find too much concern, but it’s the fact that every morning you feel uncomfortably sensitive and sluggish - as if your body was not your own.

You don’t know what’s happening and you’re terrified. 

A small sigh leaves you as you lean back in your chair, rubbing at your temples as your body slides further down the chair. The ache along your waist pulses again to remind you of its presence, making you grimace.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie fills the room with static, making you and your coworker flinch to the abrupt noise. 

“Having issues with the cotton candy machine near the green tent,” muffled music and voices can be heard in the background, “can we get someone out here to fix it?”

Recognizing the voice immediately, a groan nearly slips past your lips before the chair behind you creaks as a hand reaches out for the walkie-talkie.

Your coworker gives you a look you can’t decipher before he responds. 

“Yeah, be there in a minute.”

He clips the walkie-talkie to his front pocket and slips the work lanyard over his head. He shuffles around the cramped room almost frantically, movements aimless and eyes shifting between equipment and his desk, almost as if everything was foreign to him.

“Finally, some actual work,” he says, “I haven’t done a single thing since my first shift, so I’ll take this request.”

The words were almost appalling. 

The first three shifts you had, you could agree with him on. However, after those three shifts you’d constantly been pulled out into the circus tents or booths to fix something. One day it was the popcorn machine that had stopped popping due to faulty wiring - you almost missed the thin slits cut deep into the copper wiring of the main chord. Other days it was speakers that were missing wires completely, nearly ripped or sliced from their sockets. Just yesterday you’d been called out to fix one of the tents after an entire side had collapsed inward.

Fortunately, nobody had been underneath it during the collapse. The assigned performer hasn’t been scheduled for any events during that block of time.

In fact, he’d been standing right beside you when you arrived.

An image of the performer flashes through your mind immediately. You could practically hear the bells on his hat jingling softly, gold orbs fixed on you through the mask as he would look down at you in silence. It didn’t help that whoever designed the mask thought carving a permanent toothy grin into the mask was a good stylistic choice.

“There is no way,” you state. “I’ve been called out at least every shift now, everything over there is ancient - breaks left and right.”

You knew the kid you were partnered with was still in university, so you chalked it up to him simply not working enough shifts to experience the sheer volume of issues.

“Maybe you’re just too good at your job,” he jokes while throwing the bag of tools over his shoulder, “that’s why you’re sore everywhere. I’ll take this one so you can rest - don’t thank me too much.”

You roll your eyes with a quiet chuckle, escaping your lips.

“All yours,” you say, but he’s halfway out the tent by the time you speak. “Try not to break more while you’re out there.”

Your head tilts back against the chair, hanging there for a moment as exhaustion settles deeper into your bones. You were somewhat grateful he wanted to take the request - if anything, it did give you a break. Not from the actual work itself, but from the one performer who somehow always seemed to be the person calling you down there.

Some days it was complete silence, his gaze digging into your skin while you worked through each repair either beneath dim carnival lights. Other days were filled with interrogations. At first, the questions made you deeply uncomfortable, leaving you convinced the strange performer had developed some odd fixation on you.

But eventually you realized the questions were endless - nearly mindless - information that no one would really need. The performer has not once asked for your number or where you lived despite the listless amount of information he already had. 

He’d ask about your favorite foods to only ask you an unrelated question immediately after. He’d ask about what music you listened to, where your favorite restaurant was, why you played with your earrings while trying to assess the issues, why you flinched whenever the lights flickered too hard overhead. The questions stacked on top of each other without pause, spoken with an almost childlike curiosity that never quite matched the unsettling grin painted onto his mask.

Soon, the discomfort had faded into irritation more than anything else. You could only assume the performer either had no friends or had simply lost all sense of social awareness after spending too long in the carnival.

You hear the faint jingle of bells outside your tent, immediately your head snaps up.

A familiar porcelain-white face peers through the opening of the tent, the painted grin stretching unnaturally wide beneath the dim overhead lighting. Your stomach sinks almost instantly - either out of dread or annoyance, you’re not sure anymore.

You weren’t sure the performers were allowed near the maintenance tent - not that they’d have any reason to come here in the first place.

“Pierrot,” you say sharply.

Almost sheepishly, the costumed performer slips into the tent as if he’d been caught. You can’t help but notice how badly he towers over your seated form, his frame nearly forcing the cramped space to feel even smaller. 

What you believe to be the mask’s electric eye sockets glows a striking gold as they lock onto your face, brighter than you’d ever seen them before. The intensity almost makes you believe his real eyes must be burning beneath the porcelain. 

Oddly enough, you notice a faint reddish hue dusting the exposed skin along the sides of his neck.

“Do you not have a performance right now?” you ask, glancing past him toward the tent opening in case your coworker comes back. You glance back, meeting the gold pair that were following you the whole time.

Pierrot tilts his head at the question, bells giving you a soft jingle with the movement.

“Not currently,” he answers after a lengthy pause. Despite the mask, his voice lacks the muffle you would expect - always clear and soft spoken with a slight unevenness behind his words.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Then why are you here? Is there something else that needs to be looked at?”

Another pause fills the room and you decide to cross your arms. However, it backfires as your bruised sides ache to the sudden movement, making your body slightly flinch to the pain.

The glowing gold of his gaze drifts downward briefly before returning to your face. 

“You didn’t come,” he answers softly.

The statement catches you off guard, making your eyebrows furrow deeper. 

“To fix the machine… the cotton-candy.” The words come out awkward and rushed, long gloved fingers flexing at his sides. “I thought you would arrive.”

You suppress the urge to groan. 

“My coworker took the request, we both don’t need to go,” you explain flatly. “Were you able to meet with him?”

The performer goes strangely still, silence once again fills the cramped space. You swear you could hear him breathing at one point. Regardless, you keep glancing behind him in hopes to see your coworker’s figure appear through the flaps of the tent, or his chirpy voice sounding outside. 

Instead, you were met with a small nod from Pierrot.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks softly.

The question immediately makes your expression twist.

“You appear unwell.”

His gaze lowers again, this time lingering somewhere near your waist for just a second too long before returning to your face. Instinctively, your arm shifts across your middle, feeling your face slightly bloom with heat. 

“I’m fine,” you answer quickly.

An obvious lie. Your body was so sensitive to even the slightest of movement, the soreness curled around your sides. Even sitting in the chair had become too uncomfortable at times.

Pierrot remains motionless. The bells hanging from his costume barely make a sound as he leans forward slightly, his shadow covers your smaller form and briefly you remember the warm air around your cheeks.

“You flinched earlier,” he states. “Something is wrong.”

You resist the urge to lean back further into the chair, trying to ignore the hair along your body rising beneath his stare. You feel as though you’re being picked apart in his eyes - searching under your clothes.

“You’re super observant, y’know that?” you mutter with an awkward laugh, trying to steer the conversation away from yourself before it becomes even more embarrassing. “Maybe you should work security instead or something.” Your voice trails off, trying to notice a reaction from him that you could go off of.

For a moment, Pierrot simply stares at you. Then, faintly, the bells along his costume jingle as his head tilts.

“...Security.”

The word sounds almost thoughtful coming from him and the awkward echo of your words tugs at the corners of your mouth, genuinely confused with the tone he repeats. A small smile settles onto your face, capturing his attention completely as the glowing gold flickers then brightens subtly.

“You notice everything,” you continue, rubbing absentmindedly at your side again. “Honestly, maybe you’d be good. There’s been an insane amount of issues lately.”

Pierrot remains silent, he’s listening, you can already tell he is processing each word you are saying. However, the weight of his eyes add to your tingling nerves.

“Like, way more than there should be,” you mumble. “Faulty wiring, missing cords, collapsing tents…its actually ridiculous.”

Your eyes flick toward him again, yet, he shows no intent to respond. 

“You guys should probably update your equipment too…once you’re able to leave,” you say quietly.

The moment the words leave your mouth, something shifts. Pierrot goes unnaturally still.Even the bells hanging from his costume fall silent when he tilts his head.

“Leave?”

The single word sounds oddly strained coming from him.

Your head tilts as your brows furrow slightly, “Yeah? I mean, your carnival travels around, right?” 

You decide to stand up from your chair, once again ignoring the obvious height difference, as you move toward a metal side desk littered with scattered papers. Some detailed the older equipment still being used around the ground, others held shift schedules for the previous and upcoming weeks. The one you were specifically searching for, however, was the carnival’s event schedule for its entire stay.

“It’s been so long already…” you trail off, pulling a thin pamphlet out from a small stack. “You guys only have next week left actually.”

The fact surprises you actually, your eyes skimming across next week’s events and noticing an event titled “grand closing” on its last operating day.

“What town is next after mine?”

Silence cuts into the air once more. However, this time the air around you feels warmer than before. You barely notice it at first, too focused on unfolding the creased pamphlet, before a faint jingle is heard - closer than before.

Your fingers pause against the paper.

“Why do you ask?”

His voice sounds different now - it’s quieter somehow, but with a heavy tone to it. The words press into the cramped tent hard enough to make your shoulder tense, the silence allows you to hear the carnival’s muffled music becoming softer and softer.

You glance up instinctively.

Pierrot is much closer than before.

You hadn’t even heard him move.

The glowing gold behind the mask burns intensely as he stares down at you, his towering frame nearly blocking the dim overhead light entirely.

“I was just curious,” you answer carefully, letting out a short breath, trying not to react to the sudden closeness.

The pamphlet crinkles faintly in your grip as you can see him taking another step closer to you. Your lower back lightly bumps against the edge of the desk, glancing between his nearing masked face and the opening of your tent. Your body burns with an uncomfortable feeling of despair and fear mixing together.

“Pierrot,” you answer with a wavering tone, your hands are twitching to come up and put a barrier between you and his nearing figure. “You’re getting pretty close.”

“My lady,” he starts. The golden orbs deepen into nearly an orange-red hue, his face is so close you can see the eye sockets setting a glow around the eye sockets.

The term makes your heart start to pound slightly more than it was before, you can hear the thumping against your ears. You’ve told him before that being referred to like that makes you uncomfortable, and fortunately, he listened until now. 

His gaze drops briefly toward the pamphlet in your hands before returning to your face again. 

“Would you miss it?” he asks immediately. 

“What? You mean the carnival - ”

He barely gives you time to speak before interrupting you. “Me,” he corrects sharply, you can hear his breath hitch, “would you miss me?”

An awkward smile pulls at your lips instantly, you’re unsure of what to say but you have a terrible feeling you know exactly what response he’s hoping for from the way his glowing gaze remains fixed so intensely on you. The implication behind his words adds another shade of red to your face and neck, your body tense and far too warm as you try to unscramble your thoughts to say something polite without encouraging him further.

A fleeting thought tells you to leave. Just slip past him, laugh the conversation off, tell him that your coworker needs help finding the tent because it has been far too long for a simple cotton-candy machine. Yet, your feet stay planted.

Because he was harmless at the end of the day. Weird, sure - painfully awkward, definitely - but harmless. You knew better than to panic over Pierrot at this point. Every interaction you’d had with him ended the same way: uncomfortable, strange, occasionally irritating, but never threatening.

Just socially inept and lonely. An introvert, you would conclude.

Just a very tall introvert. Right?

The thought weakens slightly as Pierrot takes another slow step forward. 

You can feel the edge of the desk press harder into your lower back.

“No?” His voice inquires softly. You swear the painted grin on his mouth had gotten smaller, dipping slightly at the corners.

“I mean,” you start with a shaky voice, a wave of hot air rushes over you, “listen Pierrot, I like you, but only - ”

You’re interrupted once more. This time not by his words, but by his mouth. 

The movement is so sudden your brain barely processes it. 

One second he’s staring down at you in silence, and the next his gloved hand is bracing you against the desk beside your hip as he ducks forward, lips crashing clumsily yet heavy against yours.

Your breath catches immediately, your eyes widening as you take in how the “mask” you’ve looked at so many times before - something that should be plastic or porcelain - is forming around your mouth like a normal mouth. It’s moving and opening like a mouth. 

It’s warm and slick with something that you could only assume was a tongue licking desperately along your lips, trying to pry them open almost. The kiss itself is awkward - almost desperate as it lacks any real rhythm. His overwhelming size caging you against the desk and immediate intensity makes your pulse spike violently against your ribcage. 

The pamphlet slips from your hands entirely; one hand finds itself on the edge of the desk to stop his weight that is pushing your upper body down. The other hand places itself on his chest, you feel the silk from his costume, but you also note the stiffness behind it. 

“Pierrot - ”

Your words dissolve against his mouth, finding your words an opportunity for him as something slick and long slips into your mouth, the thickness of the muscle is uncanny. His body pushes further into you, bells trembling with every uneven movement. You can feel the heat radiating from him - and the noticeable raised thickness pushing against your lower stomach.

Your planted hand on his chest is shaky but trying to push his body away, yet all it does is make him deepen the kiss, you can feel the metal desk wobble against the both of you. 

His tongue doesn’t just probe along your mouth; it fills. It coils around your own tongue, licking along the roof of your mouth, tasting every inch of you. He moans into your mouth, a high keening sound of pure relief. 

Your head abruptly turns the moment his body laxes with the moan, the warmth and wetness that previously surrounded your mouth finally leaves you while your body is heaving under his glowing stare. You try to catch your breath - and you can feel his chest rise against you in the same frantic manner. 

“Pierrot,” you start, your eyes darting to the rustling of the tent flaps, “you can’t do that - I’m not - not like that - ”

Your hand presses harder against his chest, but it’s futile. Beneath your palm you can feel it clearly - the raw strength packed beneath layers of fabric and costume, unmoving no matter how much force you try to put against him. The realization sends another wave of heat and nerves through you.

Slowly, your gaze lifts, searching his face for some sign of remorse. Instead, the glowing gold behind the mask watches you with unnerving intensity. The reddish hue that had once only dusted the exposed sides of his neck had spread higher now, creeping across his face - or rather, the mask itself. You can finally see it clearly up close.

The painted grin is no longer flat. In fact, the mouth appears stretched upward, warped into something far too wide to be natural, the smile curling nearly to the sides of his face in a way that makes your stomach tighten. 

Then the mask splits.

Your breath catches in your throat to stop yourself from screaming as you watch the mouth of his mask part; a dark forked tongue slips past sharpened teeth, dragging slowly across his lips with shameless ease. 

You know your hands are shaking uncontrollably by now, your head is spinning with things to say - things you should do, and yet your body is unmoving as fear overcomes your senses. All you can feel is your heart violently pounding against your chest.

Before you can speak, he’s on you again. This time he is unrelenting and ravenous, holding your face this time with force to solidify the kiss. This time, he deepens the kiss with a ferocity that borders on painful. His tongue pushes past your teeth, sliding down your throat, making you gag slightly. 

He doesn’t pull back despite your obvious gasps of air. Instead, he groans low in his chest, his hips grinding harder against you, the hard ridge of his cock pressing insistently through the thin cotton. His gloved hands find your hips - exactly where your bruises had been blooming, purple and tender. He presses into them, not cruelly, but with a possessive firmness that makes you wince. His thumbs stroke the sore spots, before his palms slide down to grip your ass, yanking you flush against him.

He breaks the kiss. A string of thick saliva stretches from his tongue to your lips, then snaps. His breath is ragged.

You can feel one of his hands sliding up your body, feeling every curve before hooking onto the collar of your shirt, roughly dragging the fabric aside.

“You said you liked me,” he whispers, the words soft and cracked.

Your stomach drops when you notice the way he’s eyeing your exposed skin. 

“Pierrot, that’s not what I meant,” you respond quickly with a shaky voice.

You can feel him flex against you. The cool air hits your bare shoulder a second before his mouth descends without hesitation or warning. 

Immediately you notice his teeth feel more inhuman than they look: too many, too sharp, like needles hinged in his gums. When he bites down, it’s not a nip or a tease. It’s a sink, a puncture that shatters any possible thought of escaping for you. Tears begin to well up in your eyes with flashes of white clouding your vision, trying to hold back the scream that’s beginning to bubble in your throat.

He pulls away finally, licking the blood around his mouth, you notice him eyeing the bite mark with something similar to pride. His hands slide back down to the sides of your hips, you’re unsure how, but he seems to tower you more than before.

“Then explain it to me.”

The request comes out soft, as he always speaks, yet with an edge to it. 

You swallow hard as your mouth runs dry, the taste of him still coating your tongue. Your pulse hammers in your ears as your shoulder stings.

Then you hear it.

Fabric rustling outside the tent. The soft scrape of footsteps on concrete, the sound of tools rattling against each other - a sound you’re all too familiar with. 

Pierrot’s head snaps up and narrows his eyes towards the source of the sounds, finally leaving your trembling form. Irritation flickers through his posture, a sharp tension that rolls through his shoulders, you can visibly see him clench his jaw. The pair of gold orbs that shone so brightly before was reduced to a small dot of yellow in a sea of black, his mouth is thin with a frown.

“Hey, I managed to get that stupid machine to finally work,” your coworker's voice is heard from the outside, slowly getting closer with each step. 

Pierrot looks down at you one final time before letting go of you slowly. The sudden absence of pressure nearly makes your knees buckle. Heat blooms across the spots where he held you, the skin already beginning to ache in a way you know will darken into bruises later.

You cautiously cautiously glance toward the tent flaps just as your coworker pushes through them without a care in the world, looking more bored than anything else

Your mind starts racing with things to say - to warn him.

“You were not joking about how ancient their stuff was,” he mutters, dropping the tool bag onto the floor before stretching with a yawn. “I swear that machine was one bad day away from exploding.”

Finally he looks over at you.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, his eyes widening. 

For one horrifying second, you think he’s reacting to Pierrot. Your head whips around instinctively, but the towering performer is gone - completely. No rustle of tent flaps or the jingle of the bells on his costume. Nothing. 

Your pulse pounds violently as you stare at the empty spot he’d occupied only a second ago.

“...Dude,” your coworker says again, sounding somewhere between concerned and disturbed now. “What happened to your shoulder?”

He immediately runs over to one of the metal cabinets, rambling on about how a first aid kit should be there.

You can only stare absentmindedly, the adrenaline that kept you frozen before was finally slowing through your blood. You can feel your body begin to sag against the desk for support, the bleeding from the bite seeping through the fabric of your shirt and sticking to your skin. All you can hear is ringing and the faint jingle of bells.

It doesn’t take long before you’ve reached your apartment door, trembling hands scrambling through your bag for your keys.

Your breathing comes out ragged, uneven from the fact you’d practically ran the entire way home from the carnival without stopping once. Your legs had carried you forward on instinct alone, refusing to slow no matter how badly your lungs singed with every breath. 

You barely gave an explanation to your coworker the moment he said you should go home. Thankfully, he helped clean and bandage the wound on your shoulder, but his questions were unanswered throughout the process.

Every thought in your head kept circling back to him - to Pierrot. Each memory of his face seemed to warp the longer you replayed it in your mind. The widening grin, the glowing gold behind the mask, the impossible way his mouth had moved like the mask is his face alone, moving as if it was alive. The image twists through your thoughts so vividly it makes your heart pound harder against your ribs.

Your knees feel weak from exhaustion, threatening to give out beneath you at any second, but you know you can’t stop. Not when you can still feel his stare - the monstrous pair of glowing eyes tracing every movement as you ran through the dark streets, ignoring any concerned looks that came your way.

Even now, standing outside your apartment, you can feel the sensation of eyes digging into your skin - lingering far too long across every inch of your body like unseen hands.

Finally, the door swung open to your apartment. The stillness of the room coupled with its raw silence that flooded your senses felt like a wave of relief had washed over you - the lights were all off, everything was in the same place as you left it - a sign that no one was here.

The second the door shuts behind you, you immediately check every lock and latch twice over, fingers fumbling slightly from lingering adrenaline as you run over the metal and copper parts. Afterward, you lean toward the peephole for one final check, only to find the apartment complex’s brightly lit hallway staring quietly back at you.

A shaky sigh escapes your lips before finally pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling hands. Your thumb moves quickly across the screen as you begin searching for the cheapest flights available within the next three hours. Overnight trains. Bus routes. Anything that would put distance between you and the carnival by morning - you’re not even sure where to go and whether it could follow you.

At one point, you even consider calling a friend and begging to stay over for a few nights. 

Anything was better at this point - than staying alone with the image of Pierrot still burned into your mind. You don’t even know what he is. There had always been a question sitting at the back of your mind whenever you saw him at the carnival - a detail you tried not to linger on for too long considering you always worked when he was working - or that everything else about him was strange enough to rule it out.

He never took his mask off. Never once, not in passing, not between shifts.

“Fuck this,” you mutter. 

With soft, yet nimble steps, you make your way toward your closet and drag out the largest suitcase you own. The zipper rasps loudly in the quiet apartment, the noise in complete silence unsettles you, but without a word you start packing.

Clothes grabbed in uneven handfuls and shoved inside. Then shoes, still in their slightly scuffed pairs. Documents next, anything important you can find in drawers half-opened with shaking hands. Your movements are fast, messy, and unorganized, items are strewn across the room making it hard for your brain to really focus. Regardless of the mess or the tears beginning to prick your eyes, you force yourself to keep moving, shoving more into the suitcase even when you know it’ll be impossible to close.

It didn’t matter, you tell yourself as you’re forcing the top of the suitcase down with your full weight, fingers straining as you drag the zipper across with whatever strength you have left. 

It didn’t matter - as long as you got to an airport in time, as long as you were in a public place surrounded by people, security, and officers, you would be -

“What are you doing?” the voice purrs right behind you, and it shouldn’t, because seconds ago there was nothing behind you. Your entire body locks up instantly.

Cold shock rips through you, dragging every thought you had straight to a halt. Goosebumps break across your skin in a wave so sharp it almost hurts, your fingers still curled around the suitcase handle without realizing you’ve stopped breathing altogether.

His voice is still soft as always and it pains you to think that it is. However, there’s something settling underneath his tone. His breath is ragged with an edge to his words, as if his patience was thinning. 

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because you already know what you’ll see behind you - and somehow, that feels worse than not knowing at all.

“Nothing,” you manage to force out, but it comes out broken with your breaths.

The silence that follows your obvious lie - the bulging suitcase sitting in front of you as if a joke - is suffocating. You can feel him there, a looming presence that swallows the light in the room. Slowly, the sensation of a gloved finger traces the line of your spine, sending a violent shiver racking through your frame.

“Nothing?” Pierrot questions, his voice vibrating against the shell of your ear. You can feel him twirl the ends of your hair, coiling it around your finger and letting it drop, almost as if he was admiring it.

Should I run? Can I outrun him?

Your eyes glance over to the door, still latched and locked - untouched. 

His arms, long and heavy, wrap around your waist with bruising force, jerking you backward. Your back slams into his chest, and the bulky suitcase is knocked aside with a careless crash, spilling your belongings across the floor. You let out a small, pathetic whisper, your hands instinctively clutching at the fabric of his costume.

“You’re packing,” he murmurs, his lips are warm when it grazes the sensitive skin of your neck, but he doesn’t offer a kiss. Instead he nips. 

His teeth grazes your skin, reminding you of your prior wound. You feel like prey sitting in the lap of a predator, and all you could do is hold back the sobs constricting at your throat.

“I - I wasn’t… I just wanted to organize,” you stammer, your voice trembling as you try to play into the delusion, trying to appease the monster holding you captive.

You hold your breath as you lean back into him, feeling his weight shift more onto you with a low purr from him, his body feels firm even through the layers of fabric. Your desperate attempt to seem compliant, hoping that he would leave you - at least for tonight.

The grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into your hips. You let out a small whimper in response. 

“Right?” he says, but it doesn’t sound like it’s meant for you. Like he’s testing the idea aloud. “You wouldn’t leave me -” His voice faltered.

Instead of pulling you tighter, his hold shifts - less like restraint and more like something unsteady. His head lowers, the weight of him suddenly collapsing forward until it rests against your shoulder. The strands of his silver-like hair fall over your trembling shoulder, capturing your attention immediately.

“You can’t,” he adds, almost softly, the words muffled against your skin. The goosebumps along your skin vibrate with each word.

“No,” you mutter with a dry swallow following after. “I wouldn’t, Pierrot. I - In fact, I was packing to see you.”

The words thick as another lie escapes through your teeth. And yet, for a moment, there is no sound, no movement - even your breathing stops. Your clumsy lie fills the air and you’re certain that he’s already caught onto you.

“Really?” He responds with a bright tone, almost childlike in its sincerity. You can feel his body perk up, his towering weight before becoming lighter with the pressure around your waist loosen fractionally. Like the tension in him has suddenly been rerouted somewhere else entirely.

“Yes,” you say, forcing your voice into something flat, controlled.

Silence follows again. Pierrot remains close for a moment longer, as if testing the shape of your words against you, like he’s trying to decide whether they’re real. 

Then slowly, carefully, his grip softens another degree.

He spins you around with a sudden, clumsy strength, pinning you against the edge of the dresser. The impact knocks the wind out of you, and you look up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Wait,” you breath out, “I don’t - ”

The pair of glowing gold, almost blinding, looks at you with a gaze of pure, unadulterated adoration. You know for a fact he doesn’t see your terror; he only sees you.

There’s a bloom of red along the middle of his face as well as the sides of his neck. The grin on his face is wide, stretching from side to side, almost trembling in your eyes.

“I love you so much,” he whimpers, his voice cracking.

He lunges forward, not with calculated precision, but with the overwhelming, clumsy hunger of a puppy that doesn’t know its own strength. He crashes his lips against yours, the kiss messy and desperate. The sheer size and length of his forked tongue slides along your lips and teeth, before forcing its way into your mouth to claim you, swallowing your small, muffled protests as if they were sighs of pleasure.

You try to go along with it. Your hands lift shakily to grip his shoulders, hoping that feeding his fantasy might let you steer what comes next. A forced, breathy moan escapes you - and the sound works well to ignite him.

“I want you too - I need you,” he gasps, tearing his mouth away only to shove his face into the curve of your neck, his tongue lapping mindlessly at the bite mark he left on you earlier. 

His gloved hands start fumbling with your clothes, clumsy and desperate. He doesn’t bother with buttons or zippers - just yanks and pulls with ease. Your shirt rips open with a harsh sound, cold air biting your exposed chest. Your pants meet the same fate moments later.

Your fragile plan of surviving through submission shatters the second you see the shredded remains of your clothes hit the floor.

“Wait - Pierrot,” you protest,your voice cracking as you press your palms against his chest, trying to push him away with every ounce of strength you have left. But it’s like trying to move a wall. He doesn’t even budge; he simply absorbs the effort, his body shuddering under your own willing touch as if it was a blessing.

You quickly realized you played your hand too well by trying to appease him, practically feeding the monster a feast of delusions. 

His golden eyes lock onto your trembling form, glowing with a terrifying mixture of need and hunger. You are a deer caught in headlights, paralyzed by the sheer scale of him as he looms over you, blotting out the moonlight of the room.

He lets out a shaky, ragged breath, his gaze roaming over your skin with a hunger that borders on religious worship. 

“You’re so perfect - so beautiful, my lady,” he whimpers, the tenderness in his voice contrasting sharply with the bruising grip he maintains on you.

Despite your frantic attempts to hold your weight down, to anchor yourself to the floor in a desperate bid for freedom, he lifts you effortlessly. You feel weightless in his arms, a doll to be played with. Small, broken sniffles bubble up in your throat as he carries you the two short steps to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress with a heavy thud that knocks the wind from your lungs.

He doesn’t give you a second to recover. He is on top of you instantly, his heavy frame pinning you deep into the mattress.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, his voice a low, vibrating hum against your skin. He sounds like he’s in a trance, talking to himself as much as to you. “Every night… every single night, I would come to you while you slept. I would hold you… kiss you… lick every inch of you… everything.”

The realization hits you like a physical blow, more violent than the impact with the bed. The unexplained bruises, the lingering soreness, the hypersensitivity - it wasn’t just stress. It was him.

A jagged, broken sob escapes your lips, your chest heaving with a new wave of terror.

Pierrot doesn’t notice the horror settling onto your expression; he only sees the way your body reacts to his proximity. His hand slides down, his gloved fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. With a sudden, blunt force, he shoves your leg wide, forcing your knees apart to make room for his bulk.

You shiver violently, your breath hitching in a sharp gasp as you feel the confined hard, thick length of his cock pressing urgently against the thin fabric of your underwear. He is pulsing, hot and rigid.

“I want you - need you… so bad it hurts,” he groans, his forehead resting against yours, his golden eyes wide and pleading, yet possessive. “I waited… I wanted to just knock you up. To fill you so full of me that you could never even think about leaving. To tie you to me forever with a child.”

The sheer obsession in his words makes your skin crawl.

“A child… do you think we can?” he asks, he sounds almost impatient looking down at your stomach.

“Pierrot,” you cry out weakly, you try to push him again, but he only goes to hold your wrists with ease despite your pleads, pinning them above your head.

He reaches down with his free hand, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. With one violent, careless jerk, he rips the fabric, the sound of tearing lace echoing in the silent room. Your pussy is exposed, trembling in the cool air.

He lets out a strangled sound at the sight of you.

“You’re already waiting for me,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust that borders on impatient. 

He doesn't use a slow build-up. He doesn't offer a gentle touch. Driven by the delusion that this is a mutual union of love, he lets go of your wrists momentarily and fumbles with his own clothes, freeing his massive, throbbing cock that bobs against him, the outline of the veins cause a whimper to escape you.

He lines the broad head of his cock against your entrance, pausing for only a heartbeat to look into your eyes. Your wide eyes, filled with nothing but tears, is interpreted as passion to his blind love. 

“I love you,” he whimpers, his cock is already pressed against your entrance, slick with his own pre-cum.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he pushes into you. His eyes roll back, fluttering shut as if he’s testing heaven itself. A low guttural moan escapes his throat, followed by ragged panting that fans hot against your neck. His fingers dig into your hips, gripping so hard you know there will be new bruises forming over the old.

Then he pulls out, just as slowly and torturously, until only the tip remains. And before you can brace yourself or push yourself away, he slams back in with full force. The impact jolts your entire body, a choked cry ripped from your throat as he buries himself deep inside you in one singular, overpowering thrust. 

Your walls stretch to the breaking point, the sheer girth of him filling every void, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that makes your vision swim.

He begins to fuck you with a raw, clumsy desperation. 

There is no rhythm, only the frantic and brutal need to be as deep as possible. Each thrust is a heavy, wet thud, driving you further into the bed, his balls slapping wetly against your skin with each thrust. He is drowning in you, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your neck.

“Mine - you’re mine - my precious, beautiful lady,” he chants, his hips slamming against yours, a slapping sound fills your apartment room.

He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting of salt and desperation, swallowing your whimpers as he drives himself into you over and over again, marking you from the inside out.

thank you guys! make sure to read the first part if you haven't already! i tried super hard to push this out in time for pierrot's bday but i couldn't meet it! sorry again!! please let me know if you enjoyed it! and i apologize for any mistakes! tglist: @faiwihteto