Kinktober Day 19: Oral/Overstimulation feat. Error
Error/Reader Additional Tags/Warnings: Light bondage Summary: Error reluctantly negotiates A/N: The original blurb was "Error wants to have his cake and eat it, too" but I thought that was so extraordinarily stupid that I scrapped it (ao3 link)
âno! absolutely not!â
You pout, scooting closer to Error where heâs shrunk himself into the corner of the couch. He gives you a narrow-eyed glare as he crosses his arms, his glitches crackling around him in annoyance at your persistence.
âWhy not?â you ask, trying to pull your best cutesy pleading face as your eyes flick down to his clenched teeth.
In all your time knowing the glitch, ever since he had suddenly dropped into your life through a misplaced portal, youâve had one thing on your mind. While your thoughts maybe should be occupied with an array of other, more relevant questions that any sane person would jump to â such as why this monster constantly phases in and out of existence, why he looks so much like that other skeleton you saw being interviewed on TV the day monsters emerged, or why he insists on referring to everyone you know as abominations (you seem to be an exception to this) â youâve been focused solely on a particularly unique physical attribute of his.
The first time you saw them was during a late night of playing a newly released game you had been looking forward to. Error had become intrigued with your personal life, and he showed this by inserting himself into your space whenever he saw fit. That night was no exception, as he had plunked into your living room and proceeded to backseat game for you late into the night, complaining at your sparingly poor reaction time and general lack of strategy as you mashed buttons at each encounter.
As midnight passed and became the early hours of the morning, Error, nodding off into his hands, had yawned â rather obnoxiously, too, as the staticky pitch from his throat stole your attention away from a basic smash-and-grab fetch quest that was honestly making you fall asleep as well.
Thatâs when you caught sight of it (or them, rather), glowing brightly and reflecting the dim light cast from your TV â a mass of cerulean tongues poking from his parted teeth. From a combination of the quick action and the darkness of the room, you couldnât count just how many you saw, but you knew there were multiple. You also knew that they would be plaguing your thoughts that night.
From then on, it had become your mission to get Error to clearly expose whatever he had going on behind those yellowed teeth. You tried sticking your tongue out at him, hoping heâd mirror the gesture, but he had just given you an odd look. You tried telling him he had something stuck in his teeth, hoping heâd let at least one tongue dart out to clean it, but that fell through, too. He had just swiped his sleeve over his mouth and called it good. Even giving him popsicles didnât work, as Error preferred to bite and chew them (like the freak that he is).
But, it turns out, you werenât far from your answer with that last idea. It was really staring you right in the face â while fruity popsicles werenât really a hit, fudge popsicles were meant to be savored.
Error didnât notice you staring him down from across the room, watching with wide eyes as five sinuous tongues tangled over the chocolate. Though, from this new view, tongues arenât really how youâd describe them. Theyâre more like tendrils, thick at base and tapered at the end, dripping with blue-tinged saliva, and oh stars were they agile. They were everywhere at once, coiling and sliding over the treat with dexterous precision as though they had a mind of their own. And when Error went to lap up the melted dribbles on his fingers, parting his mouth wide while they worked, you damn near had a heart attack.
Since then, the image of his tongues have been the subject of many a fantasy of yours. Would they be hot on your skin like a humanâs, or cool and alien? Would he take his time, roaming over your body with care and patience, or fast and desperate, driven lustfully wild by your taste? Would he be careful, worshipping every inch of you, or would he pin you down and dominate you time and time again, until youâre begging for relief? The questions that wracked your mind were endless, and you tried your best to put them aside. They were just silly daydreams, after all.
Until they werenât.
Your relationship with Error progressed further than you thought possible. An awkward acquaintanceship turned to friendship, which turned into⊠well, youâre not sure about the label youâd put on it. Romantic partners? Certainly not. Friends with benefits? Closer, but not quite so impersonal. Somewhere in the ballpark of casual lovers, most likely.
Physical intimacy was put on the table. Error, not much for any sort of touch, was still a creature of urges. And, you found out quickly, he was really fucking pent up. Not being able to stand much touching, sessions were quick but rough, and frequent, at that. His main goal was always to get himself off, but at the very least, heâs always been considerate enough to work you through with one of your toys.
So, with sex as an option, you had decided to shoot your shot and ask him for some downtown dining.
âbecause!â Error snaps, his eyelights fizzling as his face lights up a sunny yellow. He brings up a hand to shield his mouth from your very prying eyes. âitâsâ thatâs disgusting!â
Now itâs your turn to cross your arms and give him a look.
Error gestures sharply toward the general area of your crotch. âi donât know where thatâs been!â
You huff, offended. âAre you calling me dirty?â
âno, iâ!â The glitches on Errorâs body flicker more rapidly. When he groans, itâs fractured into several different pitches, all scratching together at once.
âThe only place this has been is near that,â you continue, pointing down to his shorts.
You would continue, but you have a feeling you wouldnât be heard through Errorâs episode. The static emanating from him as he locks up from the swirling error messages raises goosebumps on your skin. Itâs not a full on attack, though, as with a violent shudder, Error seems to regain control over his body.
You sit quietly for a moment, biting at your tongue in frustration. Error grimaces and childishly rolls his eyelights, pointedly turning away from you. What he doesnât know is that you have a secret weapon, a glass to break in case of emergency, a bribe he canât refuse.
â...Iâll bake you a lava cake.â
The glitches around Error suddenly smooth out to only a few stuttering pixels. He turns slowly back to you, previously narrowed and irked eyelights suddenly wide and inquisitive.
âthe one with the gooey center?â he asks, his voice much softer and clearer than before.
The second you start nodding, Error abruptly rises to his feet, his scarf trailing as he positions himself in front of your spot on the couch, and promptly drops to his knees.
You recoil in surprise, sinking into the cushions. âWhaâ Now?!â
Error plucks at the button of your jeans, his voice irritated, but his eyelights sharp and focused. âthe sooner we do this, the sooner you can get baking.â
He tugs your pants and underwear off your body quickly, careful to avoid grazing his hands along your skin. The cool air on your heated skin working in tandem with the deftness at which he derobes your lower half draws a shiver from you that races down your spine.
A man on a mission, Error doesn't react to your small gasp. He tilts his head this way and that, trying to determine the best angle at which to proceed that will lead to the least amount of contact. His frown grows tight with frustration as he mutters to himself.
âYou alright down there?â you ask.
âi can'tâ ugh,â he grumbles. âstay still.â
Error leans back and fiddles with his sockets, pulling from them a handful of cobalt strings in either fist. With a quick sweeping motion and a sound of surprise from you, the strings wrap around your legs and wrench them apart.
âJeez, warn me next time!â you pant, sinking lower onto your tailbone to lessen the burn of the sudden stretch.
âshut up and let me concentrate,â he snaps back.
The annoyance in your system gives way to anticipation as Error approaches. You swallow thickly at the hot puffs of breath over your bared skin as he tilts mere inches away. He casts a glance up at you before screwing his sockets shut with the force of someone expecting something painful and poking out a single blue tongue.
Itâs pleasantly human in temperature, you discover, as it hesitantly rolls over you, but thatâs about the extent of its familiarity. Itâs velvety and slick, without any of the texture you might expect from a tongue, and his saliva is thick and leaves a tingling sensation as it begins to coat you with each pass.
The uncertain prods turn to long, smooth, curious strokes. Errorâs tense brow begins to visibly relax as his now flattened tongue glides up the length of your folds, then back down again.
As you lean back to let out a satisfied sigh, your breath stutters in your throat and a sharp groan takes its place when you feel two additional tendrils begin to move over you. One joins the other in lapping up your length, and the other turns in wide, languid circles over your clit. Your nails bite at your palm as your hands itch to do something, and you have to fight the urge to catch the back of his skull and grind his face into your core. Maybe just an encouraging touchâŠ
Errorâs sixth sense for impending touch tingles, and he slaps your hand away before you can make contact. âno touching.â
âButââ
âdo i need to bind your arms, too?â he interjects, retracting his tongues and glaring up at you. âyouâll keep them at your sides, otherwise iâll stop.â
You might have giggled at the image of his tongues protruding from behind his teeth as he gives you that deathly serious look, but your need for him to return to his work burns through you from head to toe. You opt to just nod, letting your hands return to grasping at the couch.
Your obedience sparks something in him. Errorâs scarlet sockets glint with something dark, something hungered as he draws back in. His laps turn eager and riled, three tongues diving through your folds with newfound pressure and poise. His sockets remain wide, his fuzzy eyelights trained to the expressions you make as he switches up his speed in favor of something faster.
That intense, prideful, almost devotional look, coupled with the insistent flick of his tongues, pushes you over the edge with a hitched breath and a string of curses. Through your spasms, Error doesnât slow down, doesnât stop even as you come down and go slack.
When you start to sit up, though, a weight like a sack of bricks presses onto your chest, squeezing some of the air from your lungs. It pushes you right back down onto the couch.
Error holds a hand in the air, his phalanges alight with blue magic and pointed directly at your soul. âiâm not done yet,â he growls into you. âi want you to do that again. on my tongues, this time.â
âError, whatâ? Oh, fuck,â you cut yourself off with a moan, your question of what heâs talking about answered. His last two tongues make their appearance, probing at your entrance to lick up your previous release before plunging inside.
Two writhing, dripping, slicked tendrils slither into you, splitting you on their growing girth with each inch that you take in. They twine together and wriggle against your walls, growing longer and burrowing deeper to the point that you swear theyâve reached up to your fucking ribcage. You canât help but cry out when they curl and scissor you open.
The orgasm that rips through you is more powerful than the first, latching onto your sweat-soaked body and making you shake and tremble as you constrict around Errorâs tongues. Through the hot pleasure that crashes through you and whites out your vision, you can hear a garbled, guttural, glitching groan from below that vibrates through your core.
Sparks like electrical shocks pulse between your legs as those ceaseless tongues continue to ravage you. Every sensation is heightened to a painful level, every slide through your folds and flick and your clit and thrust into your heat leaves you disoriented and reeling.Â
âIâ I canâtââ you slur, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth as you take shaky breaths through your parted lips.
âyou can,â Error insists lowly, though his voice is strained as he slips a hand down to his shorts. âyou have to. i need more. just one more time.â
His sockets are lidded and his jaw is slack and wide open, making small ragged sounds with every hot exhale. The strings binding your legs pull tighter, and Error is deaf to your squeal as he props himself further between your legs. He flinches when his teeth touch your skin, but the hesitation he had shown previously is thrown to the wind with wild abandon as he crushes his mouth against your soaked, aching cunt.
Error works at you with unyielding fervor, groaning in feverish approval every time your body locks up, every time you keen his name, every time you gush into his mouth. Your body is wracked in blistering ecstasy, walking the line between so fucking good and so fucking painful with every throb of your clit, every throe of your walls until you feel like youâve been fucked boneless. And every time you fall over that edge, Error is there to devour it.
Only when youâve gone numb, when youâve had to beg for him to stop, does Error draw back and finally let his strings dissolve. His teeth slick and shiny as he pants and works himself to release with a final shuddering, mechanical whine. His zygomatic bones burn gold, and his sockets are filled with static while his body spasms with glitches. When the glitches settle, he rests his skull on the couch between your trembling, exhausted legs.
Tears streak your face, your jaw is sore, and your voice is raw. Being able to lift and support your hazy head is a fucking miracle right now as you look down at Error, a tiny, weary smile drawing upon your lips.
âYou think we could take a raincheck on baking today?â you ask, wincing at how hoarse the words come out.
Error blinks and stares up at you blankly, his jaw still agape. âhuh? baking?â
Through all the hysteria, he has completely forgotten why he agreed to eat you out in the first place. You almost donât want to remind him, but he suddenly lights up before you can decide on that.
âmy cake,â he says, the memory flooding back. His teeth almost immediately furl into a displeased frown while fatigue undercuts his forced tone. âof course i donât want a fucking raincheck, we made a deal!â
âIt wouldnât be breaking the deal if I made it tomorrow,â you say, amused with how hard heâs trying to return to his usual persona.
Error stalls, his eyelights darting around. Eventually, he gives in and slumps back down with a sigh. âwe will make it later today.â
âWe?â
âwhatever.â
