he grabs you, pulling you into a booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder before you can think. you already know how this is going to go, can feel the buzz start in your fingertips. his smile is mean, sharp, as he slides a beer over to you. "drink up."
pairing: m!whitney x f!reader
wc: ~2.4k
tags: blanket dol content warning, whitney. exhibitionism and the tiniest smidge of pet play at the end.
notes: whitney and the reader fuck around at the pub. i wrote this while playing through a scene in dol and the italicized chunks are taken straight out of the game. the rest is all me baby. 18+ only
it's been a long day. between digging around the landfill, getting accosted by a wolf out in the woods, and giving your last pair of lace panties to a woman who paid you twenty bucks (total cheapskate, but what can you say, you needed the money), you could use a bit of a break. the pub looks inviting this time of night, a warm glow in its window and the sounds of chatter pouring out the door. you like the pub, like its atmosphere, like how landry gives you a bit of a break from whatever fucked-up curse has infected the rest of the town. you even like how easy it is to go home with someone from here, the promise of a quick fuck as sure as breathing. so you go to the pub, intent on downing a few drinks and eyeing up the best-looking person you can find.
too bad you forgot it's sunday, and sunday at the pub means whitney and his pack of dogs.
you feel his eyes on you the moment you enter. his group is hard to ignore, easily the loudest ones in the room. the rest of them carry on like they're the only ones around, but whitney is quiet. watching.
it's a weird balancing act the two of you have. he, by all accounts, torments you every day. he slams you into the lockers, uses your mouth or ass or cunt whenever he wants, treats you worse than a piece of meat. but whatever's wrong with him is mirrored in you. you choke back a moan every time he shoves you around, you cum regardless of the hole he puts his dick in. so when you feel the weight of his stare, heavy as a lead collar, you can't help but be pulled over.
he grabs you, pulling you into a booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder before you can think. you already know how this is going to go, can feel the buzz start in your fingertips. his smile is mean, sharp, as he slides a beer over to you. "drink up."
you do. the beer fizzes as it goes down. you can see whitney's eyes trace your throat as you swallow; he hands you another one before you've even hit the bottom. that one goes down just as easy, the room not even starting to spin. whitney's friends are jeering, cackling to each other whenever you look past the rim of your glass. you feel something on your thigh and know before looking that it's whitney's hand. he pops open the button on your jeans, working his fingers down.
"you're lucky," he whispers. "got in a fight here last week. almost got booted out. now I gotta mind my manners." he sinks his hand lower and flicks your clit. "i'd bend you over the table if i could, but i'll settle on making you squeal."
you almost do. his hands on you always make you want to cry, whether they're playing with your cunt or choking you out. you wonder where he learned to fuck so good, then kill the thought as quickly as it sprouted. you don't want to think about him with anyone but you. you focus back on him, the pads of his fingers circling and rubbing you clit. he pinches it now and again, just to be cruel, but it makes you want to bite down on something to keep your moans in. you're good at sitting and taking it, but he always makes you want more.
you can see the bulge in his pants past the alcohol and your own lust, and you reach over to mirror his movements. it's not payback you want to give him, not even close. you don't want to prove to him that you know what you're doing either, that you're as big a slut as he claims. you're operating on kicked-dog instinct, the helpless hope that by acting good you'll make him keep wanting you. you slip your hands into his waistband and start to work his cock because your small, pathetic, helpless self wants to make him feel nice, too.
it works. you can feel his fingers shaking as he rubs your clit, see the tremor in his thighs the more you twist your hand. maybe all that practice out in the park with one blank face or another was worth it. he pulls his hand out of your pants to force another beer on you. "one more," he pants. you comply, the bitter taste stinging your mouth. but you're his loyal dog. you'd put up with anything if it meant he kept looking at you for one more minute. you drink the beer.
his friends are a little quieter now, a couple of them eyeing you as you finish. they should know better, you think. how good of a slut would i be if i couldn't hold a few drinks?
whitney's no slouch either. still strong, he pulls you up onto his lap. you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing into your cunt past the wet patch you made on your shorts. he pulls you back to his chest, forcing your head back. "that's my slut." his voice is heavy, breathy, all for you. his friends look away, embarrassed or disinterested or both. you suppose this is downright normal behavior for whitney. it doesn't matter. all you can feel are his hands on you, his cock so close, right there-
he pushes up into you, and if it weren't for the clothes you're both wearing, he'd sink home. it's all you can do not to moan out loud into the room. on instinct, you rut back, deliriously hoping somehow he'll get inside you. you aren't really thinking at this point, mind focused only on the feel of his cock against you and how it isn't inside you right now. you're like an animal, like a dog in heat pushing against him. the only thing that breaks the spell is whitney picking you up and spinning you around, face-to-face. you'll never get tired of seeing his face, that sharp smirk, the bite in his eyes, the bangs that make you want to reach up and pull. before you know it, one of his lackeys is back and a shot glass is pushed into your hands. whitney wraps his arm around yours, forcing you to take the shot with him. "bottoms up," he says, eyes starting to go glassy.
you can feel the flush from the booze work its way down your neck. you're sure your whole face and chest are bright red, sure you already look fucked-out despite not having anything in you. it's embarrassing. it makes you want to cry. the cheers from whitney's friends as you both down your shots makes you want to cry more.
whitney pushes against you harder, pinning you between his body and the table's edge. you can smell the liquor on his breath. you hope yours matches. you spread your legs wider, hoping the invitation makes him pull you out of there, hoping he tears your clothes off here and now and fucks you 'til you can't breathe. you can barely think, hips stuttering against his, oblivious to whoever might be watching. the only things in your mind are whitney's hands wrapped around your waist, his breath on your neck, heavy and wet, and his cock still somehow inside his pants and not inside you.
you hear him speak against your neck. you want your sweat in his mouth. "finish your drink." you do just as he says.
the night air is cool on your overheated skin. the urge to cry has dissipated now that you're away from whitney's friends. it's been replaced by the blank-space urge to go along with whatever whitney says. you lean against him as you walk; now that you're moving, the drinks you downed back-to-back have made themselves known.
"fuckin' lightweight," he smirks, but there's no bite in it.
the night is quiet as you two walk along the street, making the slow path to the orphanage. there aren't any cicadas this time of year, and traffic is minimal at two in the morning. all you can hear are your own footsteps, mirroring whitney's. he slows, seemingly lost in thought. his arm goes tight around your waist, supporting more of your weight than before.
"on second thought," he says. "maybe i don't want to wait till you're home. maybe i want to fuck you right here on the pavement."
the thought makes your knees go weak. he feels it, letting you drop and pouncing on you the minute he can. he kisses you, rough. his lips are chapped and his mouth tastes like cigarettes. you almost wish you'd asked to bum one when you left, but getting the taste from his tongue down your throat is just as good. you push your shirt up with one hand, the other daring to tangle in his hair. he moans when you pull on it, high and clear, like a bell. in all the times he's fucked you, you've never heard him make that noise before. it makes your cunt twist. your legs inch wider, if that's even possible.
his mouth moves down to your throat, biting and sucking, sure to leave marks. you hope they're dark enough to last for days. his hands pull your bra down, letting your tits fall out. you can feel him pinching and pulling at your nipples, but your mind is still short-circuting a little from his moans. whitney never lets himself get so loud at school, or the park, or even in the alleys. the small part at the back of your brain wishes you'd heard that moan in a plush bed in whitney's parents house instead of on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, gravel digging into your back. the bigger part is ecstatic you get to hear it at all.
he lets one of your tits go, pushing his pants down, desperate. you match him, pulling your shorts down so fiercely you hear a stitch pop. it's worth it to get his cock in you. he presses up against you again and you release a moan of your own so loud it's almost a scream. the head of his cock rubs against your clit, twice as good as his fingers were in the pub. you can feel him dripping against you.
"look at you," whitney's voice is low. "all it takes is three drinks and you spread your legs wide open."
"just for you," you whimper. "only you."
you feel his lips curl against your collarbone. his thrusts get more insistent, a breath away from pushing into you. you can feel the tip of his cock pressed riiight against your hole, catching on the rim. "just me, huh?"
"yes," you're almost hysterical. "i'm yours, i'm all yours, i'm your slut, i'll do whatever you say-"
you're cut off by his cock pushing into you, as deep as he can go. he's splitting you in half, burying himself inside you so he can never come out. "fuuuck," he breathes. "you're mine."
you choke on the words in your throat. it feels like he's up in your stomach.
he starts to thrust, hard and fast. there are small tears in your eyes, relief and build-up all at once. you're in heaven, drifting along a cloud, disembodied. his breath puffs out against your chest, little ah-ah-ahs as he pushes in and out of you. fucking him always feels good but here, the culmination of his attention on you all night, makes you out of your mind with want. whitney's right that you're all his, and you know it. no one else has ever made you feel this insane.
you've had plenty of cocks in you (even though whitney's was your first, you'll be dead in a ditch before you tell him that) but his is the only one that hits that spot up in you that makes you scream. the head of his cock is the only one that kisses your cervix just right. with everyone else, it just hurts. whatever pain whitney deals out makes your cunt twitch tighter. you reach your hand down between your bodies, trying to find a good angle to rub your clit. it only makes you more frustrated, the slide of how much you're dripping keeping you from getting any friction.
whitney notices what you're doing and smacks you hand away. "knock it off. i want you to cum just from my cock." you let out a high whine at that, desperate. as good as it feels, it just isn't enough. you start to rock your hips in time with thrusts, hoping somehow you'll get him deeper, harder.
"that's it," he moans out, panting breaths. "crying like a bitch in heat. bet you want me to cum as deep as i can, make you my pet." your cunt pulses hard at that thought. you want him to own you. that's the spark that keeps you coming back to him, the horrible place inside you only whitney can reach. he makes you want to roll belly up and beg whenever he walks by. and he knows it.
you're sobbing now, big gulping breaths you can't control. you spasm the next time he hits your spot just right, twisting tight tight tight, so hard you think you black out. not far behind, whitney starts to stutter against you. "'m cumming," he says as he stuffs his face into your neck. he does, hips twitching a staccato rhythm he can't control, fucking himself into you like a dog. you can feel him pulse inside you.
the two of you lie there for a second, both panting like you've run a mile. you always feel like you've been shot after fucking whitney, like your mind can't register what's just happened. you wait for the pain, wait for the gush of liquid to come out of you. this time it doesn't. he stays on top of you, stays inside you, well past when he normally pulls out. he stays there long enough that you start to feel the gravel in your back again. if you think about it long enough you'll remember your discomfort, but your brain hasn't come back on yet and your body is still riding the high of having whitney so near.
finally, he starts to move. you can feel the sweat on your skin in the cool night air as he peels his body off yours. "c'mon," he says, pulling you back up to your feet. your legs are wobbly as you walk with him back to the orphanage. you want to invite him back up to your room; he invites himself up before you get a chance. whitney practically pulls you through the halls, only resting once you get to your room. he flops down on the bed, dragging you down with him.
you mutter a quiet "good night," tired from the sex and alcohol wearing off. you don't hear him say anything back. when you wake up a few hours later to go to the bathroom, his arms are wrapped tight around you, squishing you to him like a vice.
SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.
GENRE. best friends to lovers, mutual pining bordering mutual obsession (they are down horrendous), catching feelings/getting together, not canon compliant: modern/no-devil/post-college!au
SERIES WARNINGS. heavy adult content. this series is not suitable for minors. refer to all individual chapter warnings.
CHAPTER INDEX
join the series taglist to be notified when the series is complete series completed 13/11/22 <3
01 | genesis (5.5k words)
SUMMARY. stood up by your date at the last minute, you end up on a long, aimless drive with your best friend instead.
02 | elements (11.7k words)
SUMMARY. smoking at midnight beside the lake, with the heavy rains of a summertime thunderstorm pelting the windows of aki’s car, he ruminates over the past, and you grasp at the future.
03 | blue dream (29.5k words)
SUMMARY. reciprocated feelings come to a sudden head in a dizzying haze of frustration and desire.
view asks / discussion relating to this series here [ contains spoilers ]
So anyway I had a dream about Whitney where he was the crown prince, and started flirting w my pc. He’d send a bunch of letters and my pc would secretly read them and commit them to memory before her father would burn them in front of her. Eventually her father died and it was heavily implied Whitney had something to do with it, but pc marries him anyway. Cut to just. so much fucking.
Anyway yeah, just thought I’d share
Crown Prince Whitney, the royal embarrassment, as many of the king's subjects call him when no-one's listening. Honestly, some wonder why the king doesn't just cut his losses and try for more sons, sons who won't bring his kingdom to ruin.
Then comes the day that she catches his eyes; a young woman of lower status, one who, against all better reason, falls for the troublesome royal. It's a whirlwind romance, one that's a poorly-kept secret due to Prince Whitney's lack of shame.
Unfortunately, his lover's father isn't exactly happy about the ordeal. Sure, marrying his daughter to the crown prince would mean a huge boost to his status and riches, but her father is a prideful man, one who finds the prince's actions distasteful.
Though they meet up in secret whenever possible—usually with the help of younger, more rebellious members of the royal guard—their interactions are highly restricted—Whitney's father doesn't want him marrying some lower-class girl whose father hates him.
If it weren't for these secret meetings, neither would've realized that her father was burning every single letter Whitney addressed to his daughter, no matter how chaste the words contained within were. Though, Whitney being Whitney, many of his messages were the sort of thing that'd send any pious, weak-hearted person into shock.
It's a surprise to everyone when Whitney doesn't just give up and go after an easier target, especially when a few nearby kingdoms are offering their daughter's hand in return for a powerful alliance.
Honestly, Whitney, himself, is surprised. For whatever reason, this girl has made herself irreplaceable to Whitney, not even on purpose! There’s just something addicting about her presence, her voice, her touch. He’s still crude, vulgar, and aggressive, but it comes with undertones of need.
Then the day comes that the prince’s potential future father-in-law dies suddenly. The cause of death is never revealed, though the stains on the floorboard don’t suggest a peaceful, dignified death.
Whitney’s girlfriend mourns for her father, as is expected of a good daughter, but she also looks towards the future—her future, with Whitney.
She and the prince marry not long after. Whitney isn’t too happy about having to wait so long to finally properly fuck her pussy—he loves blowjobs, but nothing compares to having a nice, warm cunt clenching and cumming around your cock.
The consummation of their marriage is intense. Prince Whitney is determined to fuck his princess in as many positions and as many places as possible. He doesn’t care if his cock hurts from cumming so much, he has to make up for all the time he wasn’t balls deep inside his girl’s pussy.
wolf azul x bunny (fem) darling + stepcest. :) with some size difference and breeding kink for flavoring.
perhaps it starts with innocent curiosity. the two of you wonder about the other. you've always wondered what it's like to fuck a wolf and he wonders if bunny pussy is as tight as everyone says it is. you're both wholly inexperienced and new to all of this. perhaps the conversation came up at random while you were sitting on the sofa, watching a film. it's the middle of winter and it's deathly cold outside. snow blankets the forest. there's nowhere else you'd rather be than cooped up inside a warm home while your parents are out.
you get to chatting about miscellaneous subjects with azul. somehow you land on the topic of sex and relationships. it's absurd and highly private, but you've grown up with azul and you trust him. you're close in a unique sort of way. somehow, although perhaps both of you knew exactly where this was going, the conversation ends with you lying sprawled on the sofa, with azul on top of you. he's so nervous, clumsy fingers curling into the hem of your soft sweater and lifting it ever so slightly.
suddenly, the movie doesn't matter anymore. you watch him closely with bated breath. gently, he places his palm on your stomach. your skin is warm to the touch. bunnies are naturally smaller than wolves, he's observed time and time again. he has no idea how such a small body will carry an entire litter. your biology amazes him.
your sweater is lifted slightly higher. he fawns over your tits, groping with surprising avarice. you wince when he tugs too hard, and he mutters an apology, minding the claws that pinch your perky nipple. he's not sure what he's doing or how he's supposed to be doing it. any attempt to keep a level-headed composure vanishes the moment you reach for his dick. you palm him through his sweats. only you know just how casual he dresses when he's at home, when he can do away with his business-smart style and relax in hoodies and sweatpants.
he tells himself he doesn't need to dress up for this moment because it's just you and this is all experimental. but deep down he knows there's more to it than that. maybe it's all one-sided. he chooses not to think about that when you yank his pants down his hips and, rather hurriedly, pull him from his boxers. he's half-hard, and for a moment you just look at it. he does, too, and he can't help wondering: how in the world is that going to fit inside you?
maybe it won't. that's beyond thrilling. it has his dick curving up against his stomach and ohhhhh you look positively mesmerized, lying there all patiently for him, your breath in your throat.
you smell so pretty, your scent even stronger with the wave of arousal that washes over both of you. he watches your fingers sink into that tiny pussy of yours, watches the way you shiver, your back arching towards him, all while your other hand pumps his dick slowly. he almost cums from that alone, leaking so much pre-cum it wets your palm, and he's so embarrassed because it makes him look so desperate. he's flushed up to his ears, and the blush only deepens when he presses his thumb into your clit and you make a sound he's never heard before. it's erotic.
you're both panting, hearts hammering, and you make him promise not to cum inside. "you have to pull out in time," you tell him, tugging at his dick, and he thinks that might be impossible in this state. "it's too risky."
but that's what makes it so fun. <3
azul drags your hips closer to his and promises (very emptily) that he won't cum inside (breed you so stupid you'll have no choice but to make room in that womb somewhere for a big litter). he locks eyes with you to confirm. you nod at him, grabbing at his shirt to coax him closer. and with that he presses in, very slowly and shallowly, and he looks between your face and then the space where his cock kisses your pussy, and it's euphoric. he's hardly in, but you're so warm and wet. are you supposed to be this warm and wet? he's never felt a sensation as pleasurable as this before. maybe you're in heat. maybe your body is begging for wolf cock and you just don't recognize that because he's your stepbrother and so mentally it's all jumbled. but physically, your bodies recognize the need to warm each other.
you claw at his arms as they come to rest on either side of your face. he leans over you, digging his sharpened nails into the cushions. he wants to flip you over and prop you on your hands and knees and pound into you from behind. he wants to bite your throat and then kiss it better when you cry. he wants to hold you in his arms and never let go.
"wait... it's too much. too big," you protest, pulling on his sleeve.
"it'll fit. it's okay," he coos, over and over, as he pushes deeper. your face contorts and you gasp as your pussy stretches around him. it's a snug fit, almost halfway in. that's as much as you can take, your poor walls straining with the stretch. "you're doing wonderful. look. you're taking me so well. see?" he presses down on your stomach, searching for himself curved up against your walls, and tamps down a groan. you're so fragile. prey clutched in his maw.
your every word is punctuated with a delicious breathlessness and you chant his name so sweetly. he hangs onto every sound, every smell, and he's entranced. like a fool in love, it has his tail thumping against the sofa, wagging to and fro eagerly. he rocks his hips clumsily and you try to meet him halfway, twisting your legs around his waist to pull him closer. there are tears in your eyes. he feels just a little bad but not enough to stop. you just need to get used to it. if he fucks you more often, soon you'll be shaped to take his cock with ease and then it won't be an uncomfortable struggle.
azul wants to kiss you, but siblings don't do that. not on the mouth. that's wrong, and if your parents knew... he wonders if they'd separate the two of you. bunnies get pregnant so easily. they fuck a lot. he knows this because he hears you in your room every night, peeks in through the crack in your door to watch you grind against your pillows. he just can't help it, though. he loves you. he loves you more than a brother should, and every time your pretty lips part in a moan he's compelled to capture them with his own.
and right now he's rutting into you and you're clinging to him and crying in his ears and you smell so good and he can almost taste your pulse when he kisses your neck and it's everything. it's so good it has him popping a knot, completely unintentional. you panic when you glance between your bodies, and suddenly you're squirming, shaking your head at him.
"that'll never fit. you can't. it's too big!"
he shushes you, holds your hips down, and promises you he'd never hurt you. it'll feel good. you'll love it. you'll love how full it'll make you feel, how close you'll be, how cozy the connection is. even he's not sure it'll fit, but he's going to force it. he needs to knot you and fill you up with his cum. he needs to have your sweaty body pressed to his. he never wants this to end. he's obsessed.
you're crying real tears now. it's too much, and he knows it, but he bullies his way in despite that. he thinks he'll ease the stretch by rubbing at your clit, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. you clench down tightly when you orgasm, and it shakes through your body like a tremor. he's amazed, again, at how the smallest things have such a big impact on you. but maybe you're just sensitive. it takes a few more determined thrusts, each one punctuated with a grunt and a colorful word: "fuck. you're so tight." so small and tight and wet and all his.
and then his knot finally, finally pops inside and your mind blanks and you unravel. he bows his head, rests it between your shoulder and neck, when he fills you up with his spend. you're panting and shaking beneath him, in shocked awe: "it...went in... it's all the way inside..." you grab at your stomach, as if trying to locate the knot or search for a distended bulge from all of the cum. you find neither. "did we... did we mate? is that what just happened?"
azul can't take it anymore. he presses his mouth to yours and it's messy and inexperienced and more teeth than lips and tongue, not at all romantic, but it drives him wild all the same.
you're stuck like this for a while. he has to pull a blanket over the both of you to hide your conjoined bodies from your parents when they return home. >_< you lie curled into his chest, and he can hear your heartbeat. when your parents aren't looking or in the room, he wraps his arms around you and licks at your face, very pleased and satisfied. you fall asleep like that, pinned on his knot, pumped full of cum. maybe you're too old to be cuddling with your stepbrother, but your parents have always known the two of you to be close. you have always been azul's first friend and now you're his first time, first lover, and one day you'll be his first (and only) wife.
very normal thinking abt cock twitching and pulsing while their balls tighten n flex from pumping load after load deep inside. very normal thinking abt them groaning while they give me a creampie they can’t resist fucking in deeper. very normal thinking abt feeling sore and stretched when they finally pull out and a string of their cum connects from their fat tip to my poor abused hole cause their cock still doesn’t wanna let go. yup very normal
Like you know the rooms where you can just see lower halves cuffed to the other side of walls and men are lined up to fuck the exposed cunts? Like that
Not knowing who’s on the other side, not knowing when a man is going to choose you or how he’ll fuck you, feeling a cock head press against your hole and push in right away like you’re an object, hearing the grunts and groans he makes because your hole is such a good toy, maybe in pain because his cock is too big but he’s making it fit, over and over and over, until he cums inside your filthy hole
Being recorded. Later the staff will show you the video of your lower half getting fucked so hard that you jerk against the cuffs, six or seven men breeding you in a row as your legs jerk, hearing your faint whines from the other side of the wall, watching white slip out of your hole and drip onto the floor
Equally horny werewolf thought: put that knot INTO my throat to blow your load in me. Watch me squirm and try to whimper while simultaneously gagging hard over and over, eyes rolling back as you fill me, get a hand on my throat to feel how much your knot distends it, give it a little squeeze to show me I'll breathe when you let me and watch me shiver with arousal. Then once you've finished fill me and I'm nice and half-conscious from the lack of air, pop that knot right back out and clamp a hand over my mouth to force me to swallow any leftover cum down while I struggle and gasp through my nose. Then you have a dizzy, thoroughly warmed up sub for use, and a soaked cunt ready to be pounded.
I'm still thinking about those inflatable knots, though. Just sliding the toy inside a pretty thing, hearing that wet sound as it goes, watching their face as they take it to the hilt. Then, giving them the first pump that just makes it slightly bigger, watching the way their eyes widen as they feel the stretch for the first time. It's still small, so I can fuck it out of them before thrusting it inside, making them grow more wet as they feel the round shape go in and out of their pussy. Once they're somewhat used to it, I inflate it twice all at once, smirking at them as I see the surprise on their face. At this point, it's slightly bigger than what they're used to taking, so it clings to their walls as I move my hips, forcing it out of their hole before fucking it back inside. Once they start to moan louder, almost reaching their peak, I inflate it again and again and again. This time, I stop every movement and stare down at their pussy as I slowly pull my hips back. It stretches their hole, stuck inside by its sheer size and refusing to leave that warmth. They're whining, desperate as they lose that edge and try to get used to this growing thing taking up so much space, bigger than anything their tight pussy ever took. I just smile, asking if it feels good feeling my knot stretching their pretty hole like this, calling them a slut for even taking something this big inside them. Finally, as they try to fuck themselves on this huge knot, I bring a vibrator to their clit, making them come again and again and again while stuffed full, clenching around it as they shake and tremble.
cw. brother-sister incest, fluff/smut, blowjob, brief mentions of puke and rape, established relationship
note. love me some casual incest… also snuck it into some discreet dialogue LOL catch it if u can. I tried to make reader as vague as possible in terms of appearance and background but I just realized that I made this so american-y if that makes sense because of the rest of the family LOL… sowry in advance
Leon’s so, so mean.
He tugs and yanks on your hair whenever you purse your lips at him petulantly, pinches the soft swell of your hip whenever you bump into him in the narrow hallways of your home, and plucks your nose shut with his big, thick fingers whenever his cock is lodged deep down your contracting throat.
Whether he’d like to admit it or not, anyone could see plain as day that he’s got it bad for you, his own little sister. He’s not cool, not the varsity jacket-wearing jock he thinks he is, and especially not the popular smooth-tongued charmer he insists girls would die for a chance to bed. But if you told him that, he’d tear you a couple of new ones, then whine to dad about you giving him “lip”.
That’s the kind of thing that gets you in this situation. If you wanna avoid the worn leather of your dad’s belt tanning your bottom, then you’d have to sit pretty on your knees and stick your tongue out for big brother’s cock.
Hidden inside the dim of his room like some dirty little secret, you’re gulping down his pink dick like it’s a sweet, cherry-flavored sucker.
His hands are pulling at the back of your hair, catching some pieces between his fingers while he pushes your face into his groin. Tongue licking lamely at the underside of his penis, you suckle suddenly with a harsh breath, attempting to reroute oxygen to your brain.
You never give a proper blowie, but Leon doesn’t mind. You think he likes it, makes him feel like he’s got something dumb and willing in the palm of his hand. That, and it gives him this weird, perverted rush.
“Mmmgh..” You whimper, spit bubbling around the corners of your mouth. There’s some snot drooling out of your left nostril, and you sniff often to try to suck it back in, but it never follows. Leon lets out this strained, breathless noise, and you can tell it embarrasses him ‘cause his face goes red (note: redder) and he coughs after.
He doesn’t like making noise during this stuff, you’ve found. Likes to just stay quiet and stare at your face like he does with those scrappy, old newspapers dad leaves on the dining room table for mom to clean up. Like there’s something eye-catching that he gets, and you don’t.
He brings his leg up and crosses it over the back of your head, easing it over your shoulders. His hand smooths through your hair now, petting you kindly. You can’t help but lean into it. It’s rare, but you like it when he’s nice. It makes your heart swell two sizes too big for your body, and your belly go crazy with butterflies.
Suck suck suck.
You’re starting to get the hang of this. Just swirl your tongue over that vein, nuzzle the back of your throat against his glans, and suck until your cheeks go hollow. Leon’s gonna cum. His leg cages you against his groin, and the gentle hand on the top of your head clutches a handful of your hair, encouraging you. He makes a little noise at the back of his throat and sucks in through his teeth.
Warm, salty fluid then shoots down your throat, stunning you. It takes everything in you not to start sputtering and gagging at the musky taste, but you pull through by holding your breath. You have to, lest you want to share your breakfast in chunks and sodden flakes with Leon’s dick.
You peer up at him through wet, clumped lashes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks precious. Cute and boyish with that gaping, O-shaped pink mouth and those fluttering, wet eyes. He’s so feminine. Says he’s not, but then moans like a girl when he thinks no one’s looking and decides to jerk off in his room to god knows what.
When he finally pulls back, he stares down at you, experiencing both post-nut clarity and a strange, obscene love. It’s like he’s staring at some pitiful puppy, the way he’s looking at you. He pats your warm cheek then because, as much as he’s mean, he never wants to make you hate this— hate him. He’s grateful enough that you don’t scream rape and rat him out to your father.
You slide off his cock, bottom teeth catching on the expand of his cockhead, and wheeze in little puffs of air.
“Thanks,” He grumbles, softening his gaze when you push your cheek against his inner thigh and angle your head, resting on him.
He clears his throat, gaze nervously flickering to the door between seconds. “I won’t tell dad,” He reassures, and pulls you up onto his lap. You cherish these moments. They’re the only times you’ll ever get this awkward, sappy side of Leon.
You nod humbly and shift to get comfortable. Dad’s the last thing on your mind right now.
“Okay… thanks,” You smile, still panting. His eyes linger on your swollen lips. They’re wet with saliva and his cum, and split in the middle from his girth. Leon looks like he’s mulling something over, weighing the pros and the cons before leaning in and planting his lips against yours.
It’s a family kiss, like the one you give mom on the cheek and dad on the corner of his lips. Short and sweet, but ultimately nothing.
Now, your turn.
You angle your head like you see in the movies, and smash your mouth into his. Your teeth clack together loudly, and he cringes, face wrinkling in annoyance.
“No, not like that…” Leon grumbles, embarrassed. You pout.
“You didn’t do it right either. I’m not mom.”
The comment awards you with a squirm, but he shrugs, stiff as a board. You tut, crossing your arms over your chest in a faux display of judgment. “I thought you kissed girls a whole lot?”
Leon narrows his eyes, and you quickly add before he can beat you to it with a smart retort, “unless there’s a different way guys kiss other guys.”
He glares, pulling a tuft of your hair, hard. You squeal and hold onto his arm. “Ouch! Sorry, sorry!”
He loosens up his grip, grumbling something unintelligible. You rub at the sore spot on your scalp, frowning. An idea sparks over you, and you perk up abruptly.
“Let’s practice!” You suggest, and Leon shushes you by slapping his palm over your mouth, nodding pointedly at the door, where you can hear mom talking to someone on the phone and dad snoring in the living room, using the sports channel on the TV as white noise.
A minute later, he finally lets go of you, and you lean in enthusiastically, mouthing at his jawline. “We’ve never kissed before,” You whisper. Yeah, you’ve sucked him off, and he’s thumbed at your clit once or twice, but never anything more— or less.
“Kissing is for boyfriends and girlfriends,” Leon scolded, looking awfully shy.
“Then why’d you kiss me?” You challenge.
He opens his mouth to speak, then slams it shut, ‘cause you’ve got him there. He looks away, but shuffles further back onto the bed, letting you straddle him. “I just wanted to see…” He shakes his head. “I’m not kissing you, idiot.”
You whine and push at his chest. “But I sucked you!”
“Shhhh! Shut up!” Leon scowls, face red.
“A kiss.” You demand, eyebrows furrowed stubbornly. “Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
No. Please! No! Please!!!
It goes on like that for a solid minute, with the two of you squabbling and pushing at each other like a pair of children. It’s foreplay, really. And Leon knows he likes it. Though, playing hard to get is for girls, doesn’t he know?
Anyways. Kiss, you do. Not good at all in terms of technique. In terms of enjoyment, you’ve reached Narnia and beyond. His tongue squirms in your mouth, and you suckle on it like a baby with a pacifier, mouth gnawing over his like you want to eat him whole and then some.
He laughs a little, eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth. You’re a little dizzy staring so closely at him. The silly perspective makes you giggle.
Leon cracks an eye open and lamely bucks his hips once to get your attention, making you bounce. “Close your eyes, creep.”
You do so immediately, snorting. He calls you a pig, and you slap his chest between smacks of lips and teeth, mewling into his mouth. That particular noise has his cock chubbing in his pants quicker than he can think, and he gasps.
Footsteps thud down the hall, muffled through the door.
The two of you separate in a flash, and you stumble off his bed and onto the floor with a squeak, flailing. Leon shoots towards his pillows, quickly adjusting one over his groin.
The door creaks open —without a single knock, of course— and your mother peeks her head in, calling your names.
“Keep it down, you two. Your father has work in the morning!” She scolds. The two of you stare dumbly in turn, visibly sweaty and disheveled.
She narrows her eyes suspiciously and then slowly eases out of the room, clicking the door shut.
Tie me up, sit me on 2 big, thick dildos with a vibrator taped to my clit. Put a ring gag in my mouth and hook it into a glory hole. I want random men to come use my throat like a fleshlight, making me choke and gag, spit dripping down my face. Wanna take every disgusting, sticky load in my mouth. All while being uncomfortably stretched and overstimulated.
They'd barely give me time to breathe as they frantically shove themselves deeper down my throat, chasing their release. I can't help but cum over and over from the abuse, the feeling of absolute helplessness. I couldn't stop them if i tried, can't move away to get them out of my throat. Nobody is coming to get me out for hours, no matter what happens. All i can do it take it. Maybe i lose consciousness a couple times, just to wake up to them shooting big, thick ropes into my mouth. Gagging at the taste. I lose count of how many cocks I've taken by the time my shifts over and you let me out, covered in drool and all the loads I couldn't swallow. My own cum dripping out of my abused cunt into a puddle on the floor. I'm so sore i can't barely walk. And I'll be doing it all over again tomorrow
scientists testing a boy’s oral reflexes and lung capacity. has the poor boy on his knees in a straight jacket and head held still but a metal bar with a collar at the end attached to the wall behind him, mouth opened with those gags you can crank open. he’s so sweet, eyes teary and mouth helplessly open, unable to even move his neck as he tries to swallow his spit. they have a dildo - about half a foot and thick, with an inflatable base. the head scientist gives the signal and they slowly lower it, and the boy is making high pitched whines, doesn’t want this to happen, but it slowly approaches. it’s just the tip first, albeit thick, fitting tautly even within his mouth held wide open, before the automatic machine slowly begins to push it in. the boy’s eyes widen as he sputters and gags, but the hydraulic press-like arm of the machine is slow but relentless, only stopping when it meets resistance at the back of his throat. he’s gagging and trembling but the scientists take notes and make a hand motion and the machine continues forward with a harder push, until the dildo is fully seated in the boy’s throat, the base behind his teeth, the boy drooling around it, throat swollen and stuffed full. they turn one of the dials and the base slowly begins to inflate, locking the dildo inside his mouth while tears begin to fall freely from the boy’s eyes as clenches and chokes. they let him choke for a few seconds before his body softens, accepts the intrusion, head lolling as much as it can within the restraint. they then bring out another remote and give it to the head scientist, who finishes taking notes and takes the remote absentmindedly. the first trial begins - they push a button, and the dildo begins lengthening, the boy jerking helplessly as it travels down his throat, into the beginning of his esophagus. they start a rhythm, the dildo lengthening and shrinking as it fucks his throat from the inside and breaches his esophagus with every thrust. the sweet boy is moaning and crying and choking, soft walls convulsing around the giant cock, but he’s helpless as he’s impaled with it again and again. for the final trial, they expand it to its maximum length and clip the boy’s nose, calmly taking note of the time as the poor thing asphyxiates. finally, he softens, face a gentle pink and messy with drool, eyes glassy and rolled with his mouth and throat stretched around the dildo, held still in his restraints. they write down the final time and take the boy out, monitoring his oxygen as he gasps and sobs, before readying him for the next experiment
source: mickeyimagines.tumblr.com archive on the wayback machine
⚘. summary Ꮺ You ordered a custom dildo that perfectly matches your big-brother-figure Caleb’s dick. Caleb ordered a pocket pussy that perfectly matches your's. Neither of you knows the toys are synced to the real thing. Now every time one of you fucks your toy, the other feels it—like ghost sex on steroids. You’ve both spent months thinking you’re being haunted by the supernatural while secretly fucking each other senseless through the wall. The feedback loop goes haywire. No one is surviving this vacation with their sanity intact.
⚘. content warnings Ꮺ pseudocest, og cn gege/meimei trope, heavy dubcon, masturbations, unsolved sexual tension, zero communications, guilt, denial, forbidden desires, sexual frustration, mutual yearning, usage of sex toys, magical sex toys that secretly link to other person's body(portal panties), mutual fucking, semi-public/public, double penetration, extreme tightness + involuntary orgasms, excessive cumming/squirting, porn with little no plot . . .18 + ★ MINORS DNI !
⚘. wc Ꮺ 6k+
⚘. cherry’s note Ꮺ this is probably the weirdest scenario I've written so far... took me some real good TIME to finish...
“And that’s the last box,” you huff, letting the cardboard thud against the scuffed hardwood near the doorway. You straighten up straight, rolling your shoulders, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. The tiny apartment looks like a warzone of luggage and flat-pack furniture Caleb swore you “absolutely needed”—his credit card, his orders, his quiet, stubborn way of still taking care of you even when he’s hundreds of miles away.
Linkon City air tastes different. Sharper. Lonelier.
You’ve been here three weeks and it still doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never will without him barging through the door, scolding you for leaving dishes in the sink or for forgetting to eat again.
A sigh slips out as you kick off your sneakers. Shower first, chaos later.
Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, but the water pressure is perfect—hot, punishing, exactly what your sore muscles crave. Steam fills the cramped space, fogging the mirror, swallowing every reflection that isn’t you.
You tip your head back, letting the spray pound against your throat, your collarbones, sliding down between your breasts. The heat loosens something inside your chest.
Caleb’s face flashes behind your closed eyes uninvited. Always uninvited, yet always there.
Sharp jaw. Tired eyes that soften only for you. The way his pilot uniform hugs his shoulders now that he’s filling out, taller and broader every time he comes home on break. The way he still calls you “little pipsqueak” even though you’re not little anymore.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your hand is already moving, gliding over slick skin, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, lower.
“You must’ve felt this heavy too, gege…” you whisper to the steam, voice trembling with guilt and something darker. “All alone in Skyhaven… in that big empty house with no one to—”
Your fingers slip between your thighs, parting swollen folds, finding yourself already soaked and it has nothing to do with the shower.
A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.
“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”
You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.
You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.
But you know.
You both know.
“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.
You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.
Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.
And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.
You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.
It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.
You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.
With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.
You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.
The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.
“Oh WOW…”
You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.
You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.
“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”
Ding ding.
Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.
Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.
The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.
“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”
Your mouth goes dry.
There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.
You shouldn’t.
You really, really shouldn’t.
But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.
Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.
Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.
The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.
Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.
Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.
In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.
And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.
Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.
“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.
Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.
You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.
Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.
Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.
It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.
You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.
You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.
“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”
Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.
You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.
You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.
Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.
You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.
“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.
The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.
You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.
The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.
You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.
You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.
“Need you inside me, gege… please—”
You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.
Then you push.
The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.
“F-fuck—Caleb—”
You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.
You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.
You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.
“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”
Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.
When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.
You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.
“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”
The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.
—
—
Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.
Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.
Then it starts.
A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.
Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”
Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”
The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.
He locks his knees to keep from swaying.
The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.
Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.
His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.
He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.
He doesn’t even touch himself.
He doesn’t have to.
The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.
“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.
Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.
His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.
“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.
The pace only gets rougher.
He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.
The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.
Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”
Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.
Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.
Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.
You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.
You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.
And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.
Day 4
You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.
In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.
Day 6
You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.
Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.
Day 8
You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.
Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.
Day 10
You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.
“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”
You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.
In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.
When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.
He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.
For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.
Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.
He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.
Your voice.
He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.
He’s losing his fucking mind.
So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.
He googles the symptoms.
Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.
The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!
He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.
He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.
He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.
He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.
He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.
Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.
He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.
He doesn’t make it to the bed.
He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.
Then he pushes in.
The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.
Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.
He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.
“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”
He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.
He loses control fast.
Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.
“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”
He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.
Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.
Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.
The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.
You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.
Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.
He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”
He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.
The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.
He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.
The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.
And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.
You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”
—
—
The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.
You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.
You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.
You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.
“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”
You freeze halfway down the stairs.
He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.
Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”
Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.
“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”
The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.
Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”
Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.
Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.
Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”
He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.
That night neither of you comes down for dinner.
You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.
You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.
Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.
The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.
Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.
The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.
You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.
He’s right there.
Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.
And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.
You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.
The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.
In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.
His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.
He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.
The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.
It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.
“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.
Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.
The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.
“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.
You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.
For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.
“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.
Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.
He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.
“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.
The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.
You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.
Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.
You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.
The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.
But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.
Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.
Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,
Cervix orgasm is sooo fuckin hot. like I love that I can have this sensitive part of my body slammed until I’m crying and begging them to stop, but it can also randomly force me to tighten and spasm around whoever is inside me if they just ignore me. I love how it happens so deep inside me that it’s more of a full-body sensation, it feels like a much bigger violation than a gspot or tdick orgasm. It’s so embarrassing to know my body wants this, craves this. Wants you to hurt me there. I’m designed to take it deep and hard. I feel the most out of control of my body, the most vulnerable, and I scream the loudest from cervix orgasms. If you want to force me to cum uncontrollably (preferably to punish me or humiliate me), this is the best way. I’ll probably cry for you and you can feel my hole literally suck you inside me against my will :3
thinking of my owner taking me to the vet. the doctor comments on how cute i am and when i blush my owner laughs, rubbing my ears. they let me stay in my owner's lap at first, i'm too shy to get on the table. i can't help squirming when the vet's gloved hands cup my jaw and throat while chatting idly with my owner. i'm so jumpy the vet offers to give me some medicine to relax, my owner tells me to be a good bunny and take the treat, rubbing my nose after successfully swallowing it down. as the appointment goes on i do get more relaxed, my head is a little fuzzy and my breasts ache.
"think you can hop up on the table for me, little bunny?" it doesn't look so scary anymore. they get me on the table where the vet has me lie down first. the feeling of their hands on my skin makes my pulse race, my head swimming from the medicine. each pass over my breasts makes my clit throb, when they spread my legs, they're covered in my arousal. my owner mentions about additional pet services, but i can't follow the conversation as i watch the vet examine my bunny cunt, ignoring my needy clit.
they keep talking, moving me to present on my knees, arms tucked beneath me so my tail is high in the air and my weeping bunny cunt is on full display. when the first finger sinks in, i moan and whine, grinding back only for a firm grip to hold me still. a second finger, a third. i'm panting, wetness running down my thighs as they still ignore my clit, it's not enough. i'm stretched and inspected, my holes worked at a slow methodical pace until i'm a drooling fuzzy mess.
my owner comes around to rub my nose, telling me how good i'm being. "you're almost ready for breeding, bunny. i'll seen you after you're done with the program, okay?" i can only whine, the medicine getting stronger. they never mentioned breeding, this was supposed to just be a checkup. i watch my owner wave as they leave, the vet gives me another two doses of medicine before wheeling me back to the pens.
"here we go, little one." the vet brings me to a room full of hungry eyes, all of them pacing around in cells. the other pets here look even more worked up than i feel, the smell of their collective need making me whine and rub my clit needily. they put me down on a soft pillow in the middle of the room, giving me another nose rub before stepping out. i hear the click of the door locking before a buzz and all the cages open.
maybe now i'll find someone to give my clit that attention it needs...
maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came.
pairing: m!whitney x f!reader
wc: ~3k
tags: blanket dol content warning, whitney. throatfucking, basically. the tiniest smidge of pet play at the end.
notes: started writing this months ago, had a breakdown, put it on hold. finished my breakdown, now i'm back. 18+ only.
it's two a.m. in some podunk town in new jersey and whitney's got his cock shoved down your throat.
let's back up.
two months ago, your band started touring the northeast u.s., an idea brought to your by your manager and approved by whitney's ever-present need to get into fights. you were barely popular enough to justify doing a tour at all, but your manager insisted this was the "next step" to "build up your brand." whatever. what that meant in real life was a series of shows in shitty, falling-down local venues followed by nights you don't remember and days you slept through. and this entire time, while whitney plays his guitar onstage and picks fights with fans, you've been getting hotter and hotter under the collar.
it started in manhattan. you all got up in front of a small but violently invested crowd and hit them hard and fast with your setlist. after a couple songs and a few more drinks, whitney started getting handsy. you say "handsy" - to anyone else, it would look like he's just playing his guitar. but to you, something about the twist of his wrist as he finished a measure put your mind straight into the gutter. every time his fingers twitched on the neck you felt them in your cunt. you swore he did more moaning than singing.
maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came. the worst part was, you were almost sure he was doing it as one of his weird mind games, which meant the other shoe was about to drop. whitney never led you on without making sure to punch you once you were down. he'd pull you by the leash and grind your nose into the ground once you revealed your mess. however fun it might be to fuck yourself to the thought of someone you could never, ever have, that fun was inevitably going to end. whitney's games never did feel good for long.
you were at a in atlantic city nursing your third (fourth?) drink. your thoughts were going in circles. was whitney doing it on purpose? did he know how bad you wanted and wanted and wanted? or was it just some kind a coincidence? and the worst thought of all - was it not about you? did he have someone else on the mind? you were sure he wasn't helping your manager with some social media schtick - whitney would probably kill him if he suggested that. which meant he was doing whatever this was out of his own free will. which meant he had some kind of tormenting agenda. which meant you'd better watch your back.
maybe it was all in your head. you prayed it was all in your head, the culmination of years spent fucking yourself to sleep at the thought of whitney's voice, his smirk, the exact tilt of his eyebrows when he played a riff. any alternative was even more embarrassing.
the next sip of your drink almost choked you. whitney grabbed the back of your neck, just this side of friendly, and slid into the seat next to yours. "how's our girl?"
you can feel the flush splashed across your face. you know it isn't from the alcohol. it's whitney's proximity, the closeness of him making your body fight between flight and freeze. you want to run away and never see him again. you want to show him the soft parts of your neck.
"what did you think of the show tonight?" his smile is mean. he's never looked at you another way.
"it was good," you manage. it's an effort to keep your voice steady. "good crowd."
"yeah, i bet you had to fight 'em off after, huh, whitney?" tom's voice was grating in your ears. you hadn't noticed the rest of your bandmates coming over.
"sure." whitney's eyes linger on you. "they were begging for it."
you want to cry. you want to escape to the bathroom. you want to grab whitney and eat him whole, never let him go. you want to let him claw your heart out.
you take another sip of your drink.
the next stop is the aforementioned podunk new jersey town. it's in some friend-of-a-friend-of-tom's basement, a house party spilling out of all floors into the yard. whitney does his new usual routine of begging someone to fuck him through the hour it takes you to finish your show. you do your usual routine of pretending you aren't soaking through your underwear. once your set is up, you make a beeline for the tub of jungle juice, some bright red monstrosity mixed together by a roommate. it doesn't matter what's in it because tonight you've finally hit your limit. tonight you're going to get stupid drunk and fuck the next person who looks at you.
three drinks later, you notice the cups they have here are unique, blue instead of the customary red.
you're stalling.
normally you aren't shy about trying to find someone if you're in the mood, but the last two months have had you all out of sorts. of course whitney would make you suffer like this too, somehow cockblocking you from….yourself?
what is it about whitney that makes you so crazy? is it the knowledge that he has sex? you know he fucks, it would be hard to miss. he always shows up to practice with bruises on his neck or peeking through the torn knees of his jeans. this new routine isn't out of character; it's really the most whitney-like thing he's done all tour. you'd know, you've been pining after him for years.
fuck, the amount of times he's brought people back to your shitty hotel rooms or shittier van, you know the exact, precise sounds of sex with whitney by heart. you've memorized it, fucking freak that you are, which is maybe why his new routine has you up in arms. you recognize the foreplay motions he's making, the exact tilt of his grin when he knows he has someone on the hook.
(or at least you think you do. this could, after all, be a figment of your imagination, a grand delusion birthed by your inability to have sex with the one person you want. maybe your desire has finally driven you mad, made you hallucinate signs and actions that aren't there.)
your drink is watery in your mouth. you see that grin now, just this side of mean, looking at you from across the room. whitney's had you, hook line and sinker, since you started making music.
the poor guy next to you never stood a chance.
he's passably cute, a little too sweet to scratch the itch you need now, but his lips are soft on your neck in the bathroom of this stupid house. he's doing nothing to work you up, pawing gently at your waist and chest like he's afraid to touch you, but you've been so keyed-up the last few weeks it almost doesn't matter. you can pretend for now, get your fix and go home without this fucking weight on your chest. you let your animal brain take the lead, let your higher-order human mind go blank so you can rut yourself against this guy's thigh like a dog. you're already sticky; this won't take long.
it doesn't, but not because party guy switches gears. the door of the bathroom slams open and there whitney is in all his frontman glory.
"thought i'd find you here," he says, and that's what makes your hips twitch harder than any of this heavy petting. party guy blinks dumbly, mouth open to stutter something out. whitney doesn't give him a chance. he grabs him by the collar and all but throws him out of the room on his ass.
the door shuts behind him. you hear the lock click.
"what's our bassist doing in here with some fucking wannabe?" whitney's tone is light. you hear the danger looming under it; you decide not to care.
"god forbid i try to make my own fun," you scowl, or attempt to. whitney always makes you weak in the knees. "it isn't fair you're the only one who gets their dick wet."
whitney snorts. "please. that fucking guy? you'd be better off humping your pillow back home."
your face, already hot from the alcohol, flushes more. "how do you know?"
"i know what you are," whitney pushes closer to you. your back thuds against the wall. "you need something a little stronger, yeah?"
all the frustration punches out of your chest. "i'm not your fucking groupie, whitney," you snarl, shoving at his chest. he falters for a second before grabbing your arm and twisting, just enough.
"you're right," he breathes. "you're worse."
whitney pulls you in for a kiss hard enough that your teeth clack together. it feels like heaven. you moan without thinking, the curve of whitney's lips with just the right amount of bite. "i've seen you," he says, kissing down your neck. "on stage, you look like you want to cry." he bites down hard, sucking to make sure he leaves a mark. you do cry out at that, half pleasure, half pain. it feels good to finally get what you want. you're still nervous he's going to pull it away.
"god, i've been wanting to do this all tour," he mutters, half to himself. you feel his fingertips rubbing you over your leggings. he's still able to find your clit, teasing the promise of fucking you through the fabric. "wanted to corner you in the green room and push you down on your knees every time."
"do it," you moan without thinking, fingers scrabbling to find purchase in his hair, his shirt, his belt. whitney's hands still, just for a moment. he pulls his face off your skin long enough for you to see his expression - he looks like he's been given a million bucks. then, quick as a flash, his smirk is back and his fingers are in your hair, pushing you down 'til your knees hit the linoleum. you're face-to-face with his dick, the outline of it visible through the fabric of his jeans. on instinct, you lean forward to nuzzle against it, tongue laving a wet patch in the denim. you can tell he's hard. you want him rock fucking solid. you can almost suck the head of his cock into your mouth if you really try.
whitney pulls your face away from him. you look up, whine already in your throat, when you see his face. he's panting, face red. "i knew you were a freak," he says, voice awestruck. "not even five minutes in and you're already drooling for it."
"please," you let a whimper out. it's pathetic, you know it is, but you've wanted him for so goddamn long. it hurts to get what you want; your cunt aches with it.
"you want it?" he shakes your head a little. it feels like he has you scruffed like a dog.
you're actually crying now, little pinprick tears at the corners of your eyes. "please whitney, please."
he smiles, then pops the button of his jeans. his cock slides out, thick and heavy enough to push the zipper down with its weight. you're on it in a split second, laving your tongue around the tip. you make little kitten licks against the length of it, trying to hold yourself back from just shoving the entire thing in your throat. you want him to think you're good at this, like you're a cool kind of person who's sucked a lot of dicks before. whitney has other plans.
he puts his hand on the back of your head, easing his cock further into your mouth. you get about halfway down it before his tip his the muscles at the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag. he lets up, rocking your head back and forth so your mouth slides along his length. you can feel yourself drooling, little strings of spit dripping onto your folded knees. you're in heaven.
above you, whitney's moaning out little uh-uhs in time with the movement of your mouth. you take a quick glance up at his face to see him flushed. he grins with all his teeth when he sees you looking. you want this to be good so bad. you want him to come back after this is over.
he works your head like that for a minute or two, enjoying shallow little thrusts into your mouth. then, he pulls you off him so you can catch a breath. his eyes are glittering. you only take a couple gulps of air before you pounce back on him, this time licking and sucking at his balls. they're soft. you hear him bite off an "oh fuc-k" as you pull one into your mouth, nuzzling it with your tongue. he doesn't let that last too long, taking a fistful of your hair and tearing you off him. he's panting like he just ran a marathon. you're doing the same, and you're sure your face is bright red.
"you like when i fuck your mouth like that?" he asks, giving you another shake. you moan in response, voice a little rougher than before. "tell me how much you like it."
you feel like crying. "i love it whitney, please, been waiting for this for years, please-" you think you are crying by the end of the sentence, so desperate to have him back in your mouth.
"years, huh?" he pulls you back from where you've been inching closer towards him, fist tight in your hair. "if it's been that long, i should give you the full experience."
you're babbling something almost incoherent to yourself, your mind laser focused on his cock and how it's not back in your mouth. "please, please fuck my mouth, my throat, do whatever you want, i'll do anything-"
his grip on your hair loosens just a bit and it's enough for you to get him back in. you bob your head up and down his shaft with renewed vigor, stroking your tongue alongside it. you can feel his tip hit the back of your throat, your mouth still not able to fit his full length inside. you want that desperately to change, trying harder and harder to fit another millimeter of his dick inside you.
whitney has the solution. he puts his other hand on your lower jaw, tilts your head down and like magic, his cock pops into your throat. he lets out the loudest groan you've ever heard in your life. you think you black out, seeing stars, riding the purest shot of pleasure you've ever felt. you keep him in your throat for a moment, nose nestled against his patch of pubic hair, doing nothing but feeling him inside you.
then you start sputtering, drool dripping out of your mouth, stretched wide around him. he keeps your head pressed up against him, muttering "stay there, stay there." it's all you want to do, to be good for him. you'd sit here all day, suffocate yourself on his cock if it meant doing whatever he wanted.
he pulls you back, allowing you to spit out thick wads of saliva and catch a breath of air. you look up at him, stars in your eyes. you think you're in love.
he fucks your throat like that for another couple rounds, enough that your neck and chest are covered in your own spit. you can tell he's walking the line between coming down your throat and holding off, pulling himself back every time he gets too close. you're wet enough that you've soaked through your underwear, maybe even your pants. you might have already cum.
finally, he has your face pressed up against his stomach and his hips start to move, little thrusts, trying to get himself further down your throat. please, you think for the thousandth time that day, please please come down my throat, make me yours, make me yours.
"fuck, 'mgonna cum, i'm-" you can hear him whining over the static in your ears. you want him to fill you up so bad your teeth hurt with it.
he does. you can feel his cum spurting down your throat. there's so much some mixes with your spit and drips out of your mouth. he stays like that for a second, grinding into your throat one more time before he pulls you off him with a pop. you're gasping for air in great big gulps, doing your best to swallow down all of his cum and not choke. whitney slides down the wall until he's on the floor next to you, looking as fucked-out as ever.
he reaches over and gives your head another shake. you feel like you're glowing. whitney snorts. "i can see your tail wagging."
that sends another frisson of lust through you, tired as you are. whitney doesn't miss it. he smiles, still mean. "good dog."
you both sit there for a second, catching your breath. eventually whitney pulls himself up, even reaches to help haul you up. your legs are shaky from adrenaline and sitting with them folded for so long - you wobble out the bathroom door like you've been fucked. whitney slings his arm around your shoulder and doesn't move it even once people start looking. not that anyone cares - this late into a party no one will remember what they saw in the morning. he maneuvers you up the stairs and into a bedroom, where you gratefully flop down on the bedding. you're exhausted, so tired you barely notice the mattress dipping down next to you. you fall asleep quick, lulled by whitney's even breathing and your own exhaustion.
— ݁₊ SUMMARY / xavier seems to have a mental rule for being your work-FWB: no kissing. he pushes his luck, because you pushed him.
WC: 4k
RATING: mature 18+
TAGS: workplace sex, repressed feelings + bitterness + sexual frustration, marking/biting, j e a l o u s y, possibly unrequited love and possible infidelity (it's up to you whether mc is dating any other guy), petulant mc due to petulant xavier (surprising nobody), fingering
A/N: title is from 'my mind now' by paris paloma. this can be read by itself but it takes place after this oneshot! (also for a plot point: FYI the deepspace trials canonically are AR simulations.)
✦ my masterlist | read this fic on ao3 OR read it here ↓
Monday morning at the Association is the best white noise generator. The open-plan office is a soundscape of muted haptic feedback (boop boop bleep), paper rustling, murmuring from desk-to-desk... and when sat, sitting, #seated in air-conditioned places... you… yawn, a lot... you know... that… and…
Chin grazes chest. You jerk upright. You blink blearily, then rapidly. Awake awake awake.
Your desk's hologram monitor is split-screened. On one side: the recording of yesterday's Deepspace trial attempt, circular data transmission field flickering green-red-green-red-red-red. On the other: what your brain keeps turning to static; one of the Association’s spreadsheets for ‘Hunter self-improvement', tracking how you did and at which millisecond you became inadequate.
You’ve gotten to 2:10, transmission 20%, and that cell, like every cell on the spreadsheet so far, features a sad chibi OTTO appended by the spreadsheet’s formula: “BELOW AVG! (◞‸◟；)”
A Caleb-sized shadow falls across your desk. “Sun must get in your eyes like craaaaazy.”
Broad shoulders kindly shield you from the wretched burden of the honeyed afternoon sun diffused through the side window; now the glow serves to trim Hunter Grant’s charcoal-grey jacket. The less flattering fluorescents above bounce down and off his laminate badge:
赵俊 ZHAO JUN
⸻ (GRANT)
(He asks women to call him Grant. His introduction goes, “‘Jun’? Please, call me Grant. My mother calls me Grant.” Cue: thoughtful look, amusement, teehee ha ha.)
“Not really,” you murmur, pausing the Trial playback. “Kind of a permanent golden hour; it’s nice.”
“Golden hour?” Grant asks, and sits on the edge of your desk?!
Somehow, you resist shoving him off. “You know when the sun’s about to set and everything’s lit softer because the sun’s, like, lower in the sky?” you ask, eyeing how Grant's drumming his fingers on the edge of your desk. “That’s golden hour.”
“Huh, I think so...” Grant glances at the widescreen in the middle of the room. “Good view, too.” The week’s weather report’s slowly fading in, one day at a time: MON, TUE…
You look back at your monitor and enlarge the paused Trial recording. Maybe Grant’ll see it and say ‘unrelated to you having another m a n in your vicinity, I just remembered I gotta go.’ Maybe he just needs to know if it’ll rain on ‘SAT’ and can’t see the screen from his own desk. Maybe in Grant’s experience, women prefer instant congeniality; being attractive can mean being accidentally and permanently intimidating.
For you, Grant’s good looks are a footnote. They’re in your mental appendix of Grant’s traits, like the fact he’s allergic to peanuts.
(IS THE WEATHER REPORT NOT DONE?)
Paper flaps loudly from across the office. You look up to see Xavier, sat sidelong at his desk, fanning himself with a stack of… blank paper. His eyes slide to you, then Grant, then you again. On his face is his classic non-expression. His hand slows, he tilts his head, and for a moment, there's something there; a sparkle in those wide blue eyes, sort of, 'gosh, bummer!' Like you're dealing with a printer jam.
You look back at Grant; he meets your eyes with a grin. “Sunset’s at six on Friday,” he says, nodding toward the TV, “evening shift will get golden hour!”
“Cool, uh, I really need to finish this, so…” You gesture toward the paused Trial recording. The pixellated version of you is in the middle of calling for resonance. Since Grant's not the guy in the footage, looking at it when paused is a (tiny) breach of confidentiality. It’d be a major breach if you hit Play. Grant surely knows he's keeping you from your work.
“Gotcha.” Grant stands—and lingers. WHERE IS THIS GOING, GRANT? “Want me to review you guys’ protocores?”
NO! “No,” you reply coolly.
Having gotten the hint a full minute ago, the guy finally takes it. “Gotcha gotcha. See you around.”
You force yourself to say it back. If you’d actually slept last night, you wouldn’t be so irritable. Courtesy or ‘hey, please leave’ might’ve come naturally then... maybe.
You shrink the Trial recording again so you're back to split-screen, and start to tap out the time entry on the spreadsheet. Boop boop boop bleep DONG (“BELOW AVG ╥﹏╥”) boop boop SKKRRCH.
The scrape came from a few desks ahead; you know, without looking, that Xavier’s pushed his chair back. Nobody else scrapes their chair.
You let your eyes creep up anyway. Xavier’s stood behind his chair, posture perfect, brow furrowed. A marble statue in a marble-pale uniform, looking down at something on his desk. He starts to tap at the top of his chair, frowning. The illusion of refinement breaks; your partner is but a man who never trusts a device is actually shut down unless he sees it happen.
No need to spectate.
You pull out your phone. You rest your elbows on your desk and open your most recent text conversation.
You hold the phone right up to your face.
Obviously, you're occupied. Xavier can’t try to catch your eye, and you can’t, won't, and shouldn't let him, because he’s a dick. When he came into work today (fifteen minutes late), he went straight to his desk without saying hi (after two weeks of sudden PTO) and now he's...
You know what he's doing. About to do. Will try to do. Whatever. He’s objectively being a presumptive dick.
Unless he texted you... ?
Banished is the indulgent fantasy of your partner sneaking a few texts instead of doing his work. (And the pathetic, bar-in-hell fantasy of him reading your text.)
Focusing on your phone unfortunately doesn’t spare you from having peripheral vision; there’s a 6'1 white-and-silver figure striding down the boulevard between everyone’s desks. You fight back a frown.
To your right comes a muffled tap-tap. You peek at the outer corner of your desk. Two grey-gloved fingers trail overtop, tap-tap, then slip into a white trouser pocket. You turn around fully as Xavier passes you by. Next to the ‘golden hour’ window, the back of his head's almost blonde. Then it’s star-bright under the ceiling fluorescents. Then he steps into the outer hall, and disappears around the corner.
Anticipatory arousal coiled between your legs the whole time. It is ten in the morning! You squeeze your thighs together, cringing. If you don’t follow him, you can finish this Trial review and maybe get a full solo patrol in. Xavier won't care. If you do follow him, it'll be awesome, until it sucks.
Last time you let Xavier at you, dirt got all over your shirt, you stained your trousers, and he glared at you when you came. (Or you hallucinated mid-orgasm.) The blurry memory of his narrowed eyes worsens the pulsing between your legs. The bit of your brain warmed by arousal whines, that was in the No-Hunt Zone, though... the stairwell is nice.
The office's internal stairwell has muted warm lighting and a window every couple of floors; burgundy carpet on the landings which doesn’t smell like damp; metal railings it’s evidently someone’s job to polish; soft-grey walls. Concrete, not painted. The fire stairs are nice, for what they are, but last time you let Xavier at you in that stairwell…
⸺
... his hand open-palmed at the back of your neck, brushing the base of your skull. Your cheek smushed against the wall. You, behaving. Gripped and pressed and hurting and moaning about it. Arching your back to deepen the other hurt, the other hand, Xavier's three plunging fingers. Xavier, working your own wetness inside you over and over and over and over.
Anyone would hear it, right away, if they came in. One flight of stairs would be between them and the sight of you, trousers around your ankles. You, pinned to the wall and pistoned into from behind by Hunter of the Month Xavier Shen. You, too fucked-out to care about him keeping the rest of his body well away from you. Your pussy can't be heard from outside, but your moaning might be, you drag your head up right before you truly drown. You kiss the wall.
Xavier's so-so-soft cheek slides over yours. “That's really unhygienic.”
You are on the edge and could not give a fuck. You want to kiss him, anyway—he jerks his mouth out of reach. You whine right into his breathy laughter. He turns you around, grazes the side of your clit with the rough pad of his thumb, smothers your mouth. “Now my palm is contaminated. Will you clean it?"
Xavier's tender and teasing and you're boneless, anchored to awareness by his hands on you, in you. You kiss and lick until the world refocuses and you can breathe. There's a pinprick of pain on your cheekbone.
⸺
You cup your face, tracing the teensy scar with your thumb. A glance around the office proves everyone engrossed in work or conversation. Quiet as can be, you push your chair back.
⸺
You close the stairwell's door behind you just in time.
Renovating upstairs' meeting rooms apparently includes switching on a lawnmower and then chainsawing into it.
Halfway down the flight of stairs below you, Xavier’s stood with his back on the railing, facing the wall. He plucks his gloves off, one two. Again, he looks at you sidelong; ooh, so aloof! “Hey.”
You join him on the stairs, one step above. “Any good constellations in the little paint cracks?”
“I think you mean, 'any stars',” Xavier says, balling up his gloves. He pockets them. “Each crack in the paint... would be its own constellation. Because of the shape.”
“'Paint cracks' is the collective. Technically I asked if there's any good constellations in the constellations.”
“Technically,” he agrees, “there aren’t any ‘good’ constellations.”
“An—” Wait a sec. “Nevermind,” you mutter. He hadn't agreed with you, he’d been starting a sentence. God forbid About-to-Fuck-You Xavier not taunt you first.
“You came really fast.”
“I'm super eager to procrastinate.”
Xavier turns so you're faced front-on with ugh self-assured hot ugh, and the genuinely interested look on his face.
“Trial debrief,” you continue, which you shouldn't have. It was a bad idea. So was assuming he was interested. Coming in here at all? AWFUL idea. “Literally any spreadsheet melts my brain lately," you continue-continue, changing gears with a quick laugh. “Like, remember how they asked us if the dust physics looked realistic, so we have to like, memorise... it's so stupid. The survey spreadsheet things. With the chibis.”
“You were watching a recording, though,” Xavier points out, figuratively pointing out the fissure you'd tried to cover.
Awesome! Time to crack it open and jump into the abyssal, dread-filled core!
“You looked at my screen?”
“I looked at you.” Xavier raises his eyebrows, all innocence. “Your screen was in the…” He mimes quotation marks. “‘Frame.’ When I walked by.”
When I was looking at his texts. Did he notice I was looking at his texts did he notice I was looking at his texts did he notice... Deep breaths! “Yeah, right," you say, stepping down to stand beside him. You fold your hands behind you and lean on the wall opposite him; the leather vambraces protect your butt and hands from the grit. "Trial debrief. It's boring, though, and hanging out with my partner isn't, sooo. What've you been doing today?"
A smirk swipes across Xavier's mouth. “Are you actually asking me that?” He steps forward and you’re crowded against the wall with his chest pressed to yours and he’s looking down at you and his jawline’s sharp even from this angle?!
“Wait,” you whisper, to which Xavier rolls his eyes. Fuck this guy! You frustratedly gesture to the door you came in from. On the landing a few steps away. Sub-10 feet away. Outer hallway! The office you both work at! Risk! "We need to go upstairs!”
Xavier looks at the door to the office, the stairs above, the stairs below. He scratches his cheek. “Wouldn't you get a heada—”
The machines’ roar returns to a low-ish buzz of drill sounds.
“Good point,” you concede, and start down the stairs.
A hand on your hip shoves you, pins you to the wall; another lands on your waist and saves you from tumbling. Xavier dips his head close; your chin tilts up reflexively, your hips do the same; idiotic optimism slams up your throat. Kiss him kiss him kiss him.
This close, Xavier's blue eyes look deep as indigo. You let yourself fall into the abyss of his irises, anchoring yourself to the sinking sensation of being smitten.
“I guess you forgot,” he drawls, and you're pulled out of the abyss by the stale-sweet smell on his breath. Cherry mineral water? Soda he drank hours ago? You can't imagine the poised Deepspace Hunter Xavier Shen drinking flavoured soda. Your neighbour Xav who lives in a hoodie and rubs his eyes and unabashedly has a specified 'Naptime,' him, sure. He probably drinks soda while snuggled up with Animal Crossing or some shit.
Once his Hunter uniform's on, Xavier's a seperate entity as far as you're concerned. Neighbour Xavier's near-friendly nature vanishes; now, he'd never glare at you...
You push the maybe-false memory away. “Forgot what?”
... He did too glare at you that one time, because he's doing it now! Forehead-to-forehead, you can't make out most of Xavier's expression, but you can look him in the eye, and he's fucking glaring at you!
“The floor below has all the Training Rooms. And the armory. So there's cameras outside, on the landing. Actually...” The disdain in his eyes melts to gooey, poisonous faux-sweetness. “We could go train. Is it the Fluctuant track you're stuck on?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You know I don't want to go train, Xavier.”
“But you're stuck. The last one we did was easy, I thought.”
“Maybe don't leave again.”
“I won't." Xavier’s hands squeeze your hips and your brain resets to factory settings. You can't think of a response, or smell his breath, or even consider his narrowing eyes. You're His Partner in Autopilot. Perfectly conditioned; comfortably familiar with the impending fuck.
He’ll lean close enough to kiss and then shift to the side. You'll press your face against his shoulder. He doesn't turn you to face the wall anymore, so he can't squash your moans between his palm and the wall. So you’ll mouth needily at the fabric of his jacket instead, muffling yourself there. Xavier, who never makes a fucking sound, will rest his head on the wall, tuck his hand between you and circle your clit ‘til you come. Sometimes he slips a finger inside just as your knees buckle, like you're a fucking fingerfuck-puppet.
God. Damn. It. Shame tries to tug thoughts back into your head while Xavier's fingers trace your belt. I know what you’re doing, you think weakly. As he leans closer, his eyes soften, as if he's affected by the closeness; it's part of the shtick. Getting close enough to kiss.
He shifts to the side, ducks his head, and tells your pulse, “That guy looked seven feet tall.”
You stare at the white shoulder ahead. “Uh…”
“On your desk. Earlier.”
“Oh. Gra-aah," you stammer, voice faltering when Xavier’s mouth brushes the curve of your neck. Like, the skin, like, nearly a kiss. Shivers weave up your back and bloom around your scalp. The hand on your hip slides to mirror its twin at your waist; palms press and smooth up your shirt, tugging it out from where you'd tucked it into your trousers. You take a deep breath and repeat, “Grant.”
“Is that the new 'bet'?”
“What?”
“'Grant.' Is it similar to the slang? 'Bet?'” The warmth of Xavier’s breath moves right under your ear, then over it. "I am super out of the loop.”
You're going to pass out. “W-what? No, the—the guy’s name is Grant, Grant Zhao. You know Grant.”
“Huh, maybe,” replies Xavier, who is insane! He's speaking conversationally, light and breezy while tucking his hands under your shirt to grip your bare waist. Who gives a fuck about Grant Zhao right now! He’s insane! You feel insane; when Xavier trails his mouth back down your nape, his tongue ever-so-slightly grazes your skin, and your nipples stiffen, wanting. Needy.
You need Xavier to lick your tits. You need to warm his cock while he does it. Sat on him sat on the sofa, suckling and smirking and no, nope, I don't. You press your thighs together and don't need anything.
There's a quiet metallic click by your clavicle. Your collar opening? Teeth latch onto the side of your neck ow.
Your brain barely processes ow-ow before a tongue presses to your pulse, hard, trying to taste your heartbeat. Pain lances through the muscle there. Your knees buckle, but Xavier keeps you upright by pinning you even harder to the wall. Your ass squashes your wrists, the wall scrapes your palms. A loud sucking sound breaks over the hum of drilling upstairs, and ow, ow, “o-ow.”
Xavier loops an arm around your lower back so you can arch off the wall, crotch brushing his. The thick weave of his jacket is comfy as a cushion; you let him take your weight. His other arm winds up your back, all the way to your head, where his hand splays between your scalp and the wall.
“Thanks,” says your mouth, gasping, while your brain whines ow, ow, ow. Your hands, now freed, tremble. You put them on his shoulders and tug ‘til he sinks forward, close enough for you to gather the pristine fabric into your mouth, and bite. The dryness reaches the back of your tongue. You barely resist gagging.
Xavier's sucking on the tender skin of your neck, pinched between his teeth. The arousal long-coiled between your legs starts to clench and spasm. You barely stop your hips mid-buck. At best, Xavier ignores acknowledgement of his cock, even when he’s hard as a sword-hilt (which he seems to constantly be.) This is already bafflingly different; you won't push it. Your body is good, obedient. Most of your body is stone, in fact; the place where Xavier's mouth meets your skin is the only bit of you that’s real, ha ha!
“Haaa.” You need to sink and be a puddle because your lower half isn’t a marble statue, it’s melting. “Xav-i-er.”
‘Krtchhhh.' Drilling. Construction. Miles away to a head emptied by arousal, but it probably drowned you out, because Xavier doesn't react. Before you can repeat the plea, fear surges forth from the limbic deep.
What if you’d said ‘stop’?
What if he did hear you? You've never said stop, not even as a 'just give me a sec.' Knowing what a person would do if you said stop is probably important!
You consider giving ‘stop’ a go. Tugging his head up by his hair. He's tucked so close that the most you can see of him, if you strain your eyes, is his hair. Fluffier than ever, in this light; soft shadows shade the strands. You consider what he'd look like if you pulled his head up; if his eyes would be half-lidded, if he'd be mad with focus. His lips would be wet, for sure, and... maybe you’d get away with a kiss. A little thank you, for his hard-working mouth.
Your fingers curl until they ache. That grip becomes leverage when your stupid slut of a pussy presses up to Xavier’s crotch without your permission, needy and traitorous and seeking his cock. It finds his gloves instead, squishes them closer to his thigh, and you get bitten. Then the heat of Xavier’s mouth is gone. The nape of your neck in general is still hot as a volcanic Protofield, though, ow, ow ow ow. You hold back a wince as he steps away.
Xavier's lips look rubbed-raw; there’s a tiny smile there, quickly wiped away with the back of his hand. He lifts his elbows behind him and rests them on the railing, leaning back.
“Hickey, that's new,” you manage, sagging against the wall. “What was that for?”
He tilts his head. “What do you think it was for?”
I can barely think at all, so write that down. “Um, you just missed me sooo much th—”
“So much, yeah,” Xavier mutters. He tucks one hand into his pocket and plucks out his gloves. You watch as he puts them on. And he ignores you.
“Um... Please don't finger me while wearing those. Sincerely.”
Xavier folds his arms and stares at you blankly. “I'm not going to.”
“O-oh. Uh.”
“Anybody could come in,” he says flatly, transferring his blank stare toward the door.
WOW, REALLY? “Yeah, I know that, but... we were already… Is this because I almost touched your dick? I’m sorry.”
His eyes slide back to you. Two cubes of hate-filled ice. “Almost?”
“Um.” You're frozen in place. “Did… I? I mean, not like, not like it's sm—”
“Stop talking about it.”
“Yep.” You fumble with your collar clasp while your mind races. Xavier was flaccid?! Is that even medically possible?! “I really am sorry.”
A small huff. “And I’m sorry you got stuck with Jun.”
“Me and who? What?”
“Jun Zhao. I assumed, but... that could’ve been Andrew, or… almost anybody, huh. Here.” Xavier steps forward. Click. Your collar's secured; you press along the aching skin to check it's covered. “How many did you complete while I was gone, anyway?”
Owch, owch, no-owch... Absentminded, you reply, "Like, six.” Once confident the hickey's mostly underneath fabric, you return your full focus to Xavier. He's crossed his arms again, and ho-ly shit. Eye contact's just a way for that sapphire gaze to sharpen itself on your eyes. There’s a nerve-deep wince in you, worsening.
“With who?”
“Why do you care?” you ask, and for a split second, he looks genuinely hurt.
“I don't.” Xavier's eyes flash. He furrows his brow, and the intensity in his eyes has that limbic fear returning. You’re alone with an angered man. Who is fucking FTL-fast. “Are you going to tell me?”
“I would," you lie. Deep breaths. "But you literally don’t know her”—one truth and a lie—“sooo her name wouldn't really do a lot for you?”
He lowers his eyes and uncrosses his arms. “Yeah. Sorry I hurt your neck.”
“Um, you'd kind of have to, for... a hickey, and... oh.”
Xavier's chin bobs towards his chest. His anger and sex appeal evaporate simultaneously; he's about to float into the ethereal in-between of Soft Neighbour and Enigmatic Hunter. Sleepy Xavier.
You consider letting him be, but the drop behind him would be Very Fatal, so you step away from the wall and wave your hand in front of his face. “Hey. Come nap in the break room. Xav.”
When he doesn't stir, you squeeze his shoulder. Your hand’s instantly knocked away. “Mmnope.” After a damp exhale, Xavier steps up to the landing and sinks down on the burgundy carpet. He pulls his knees to his chest, arms forming a cradle atop. “You go. M’gonna stay here,” he says, tucking his head down. “For a bit.”
⸺
⸺
— A/N: MC do be lying while xavier do be aware ദ്ദി(ㅠ﹏ㅠ) tysm for reading! if you enjoyed, pls consider leaving a like/reply/reblog; my fave thing to write is what i know y'all like to read!
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
dededos
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
