Had another fun idea for the Pleasure Portals. Clitoris peripheral (clitoripheral?) on a small stick/wand. I wanna be able to suck & lick it like a lolly, tucking it under my tongue every now and again. Some more fun can be had if they're caught out in public and have to manage to keep themself composed while getting some clit-warming and enthusiastic tongue-lashing. =9
A sex toy and a lollypop and a fidget toy.
I imagine there's a version of a portal where you can change the circumference and make it small enough to just have a clit only portal.
you used to love your boyfriend, but after a few years he got mean and critical so you called for a break. he comes back after a few days and is acting different..
alien! boyfriend x reader
he's in your doorway, bag in hand, and you haven't seen him in four days. four days since you told him you needed space. four days since the door closed and you let yourself feel something close to relief.
he doesn't say anything. just looks at you with those eyes—dark, still, the same ones you fell in love with back when he used to watch you like you were the most interesting thing in any room.
he's watching you like that again now.
"may i enter your dwelling?" he asks.
his voice sounds careful. like he's selecting the words from a list.
you step back. let him in.
"i have been thinking," he starts.
here it comes, you think. the explanation. the defense. the way he'll reframe every cutting comment as honesty, every dismissal as exhaustion, every cold silence as you misreading him.
you've rehearsed your responses. you're ready.
"i think i have been doing it wrong," he says.
you look at him.
"the—" he pauses. something moves across his face. a hesitation you don't recognize. "the way i have been treating you. i have been reviewing the data. running comprehensive retrospective analysis. and i can see now that my behavior was—"
"reviewing the data," you repeat.
"thinking about it," he corrects, very quickly. "just. thinking. like humans do."
you stare at him.
"okay," you say slowly.
"i was critical," he says. "i found things to correct when it was not.. when the corrections were not requested. i understand now that this caused you significant emotional damage."
you've known him for years. he doesn't talk like that. he talks like someone who's never wrong about anything, who phrases observations as facts and facts as verdicts.
"are you okay?" you ask.
he blinks. one second too long. "i am functioning within normal parameters. what i mean is—" he stops. resets. "yes. i am okay."
"who did you talk to?" you ask. "while i was—while we were on the break."
"my male companions," he says.
you go very still.
"your-" you repeat. "your what?!"
"my companions. who are male. my—" he seems to be searching for something. casting around behind his eyes. "my bros."
the word comes out like he's never said it before in his life. like he learned it an hour ago and isn't sure where the emphasis goes.
"right," you say.
"they were very informative. they explained the dynamics of human pair bonding at length. we had an extremely productive discussion about your emotional needs and how i had failed to meet them adequately. one of them had a small beast on his lap the entire time and it stared at me without blinking and i found it—" he pauses. "i found it charming," he finishes, in the tone of someone who found it deeply threatening.
you open your mouth.
you close it.
"a beast," you say.
"a small. domestic. beast." he holds his hands apart approximately cat-width. "with orange fur. it made a continuous low-frequency sound from its chest cavity."
"a cat. it was a cat."
"yes," he agrees, with great relief. "yes. the cat. i knew that."
"what changed in four days?"
his expression does something enormous. theatrical. his jaw tightens, his eyes go distant, and he turns his head slightly toward the window like he's about to deliver news of a war.
"i could not bear it," he says, very gravely. "the separation from you was an agony i had not anticipated and could not calculate my way out of. i consulted my male companions. i sat with their beast. i stared into its eyes for a long time and it stared back and something shifted in me." he looks at you. "i do not want to lose you. so i went and i figured out how not to. i will do better. i am committed to doing better. this is my vow."
this is my vow.
you are going to need a moment.
"you're vowing?"
"i am." he reaches across the cushion and takes your hand, and his grip is warm and steady and so achingly familiar that your chest does something you weren't prepared for. "you are important to me. more important than i communicated. that was an error and i intend to correct it."
his thumb moves across your knuckles. once. deliberate.
later, you tell yourself. ask later.
you turn your hand over and hold his back.
"okay," you say. "vow accepted."
something moves through his face. relief, you think. or whatever the equivalent is, wherever he's actually from.
"excellent!" he grins, and closes his eyes as he starts to pepper kisses across your knuckles, and for just a second he looks so genuinely, overwhelmingly grateful that you decide, for now, not to ask anything else at all.
every wednesday was date night, one of you would plan date night and then the other would do the week after. you'd been planning date nights for two years, aswell as paying for them whenever he decided to show up.
"i found us a place," he announces, and shows you his phone. it's a steakhouse with 4.7 stars and a review that says great for special occasions!! that he has highlighted somehow.
he pulls your chair out when you arrive. stands there holding it with both hands like he's been rehearsing. you sit down.
the candle on the table gets forty seconds of his complete and total attention before you click your fingers and bring him back.
he orders what you order, you have to remind him he's allergic to mushrooms.
walking home he holds your hand and it's nice, it's really nice, until you notice he's slowly rotating your wrist to look at your fingers from different angles and has been doing it for half a block. "what are you doing..?"
"nothing," his response is so quick it almost gives you whiplash.
outside your building you stop and turn and he's already doing the face—jaw set, eyes very serious, like he's about to announce something grave and historic. you smile up at him and you lean in.
he takes a very large step backwards.
"what are you doing," he says, in a completely different tone than any he's used all evening. alert. wary. his eyes have gone very wide.
"i'm going to kiss you."
"you are going to—" he looks at your mouth. back at your eyes. "you are going to press your face against my face?"
"yes."
"aggressively."
"no. not aggressively."
he doesn't look convinced. he looks like a man running rapid calculations about exit routes. "my male companions did not mention this part.." he says.
"it's a kiss. it's romantic."
"you are coming toward me with your mouth."
"that's what kissing is."
long pause. he looks at your mouth again with the focused expression he gave the candle before his energy shifts and he lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and closes his eyes with the energy of someone preparing to take a hit.
you press up onto your toes and kiss him, soft and quick.
silence.
he opens one eye. then the other.
"that's all it is." your voice is soft, almost warm as you flutter your lashes at him.
he touches his mouth with two fingers. looks at you and then looks at his fingers as if expecting blood, "that was not an attack," he says slowly.
"i told you it wasn't."
"it was—" he pauses. the enormous face happens again, but softer this time, around the edges. "it was acceptable," he nods. "you may do it again."
"how generous."
"yes," he agrees, completely sincerely. "i thought so."
you grin before peppering his face with glossy kisses.
you're sitting on the counter the way he hated, ankles crossed, watching him make tea.
he's very serious about the tea. he always is. he found the process on his third day in your apartment and decided it was important, something about the ritual of it, and now he makes it every morning with the gravity of a man performing surgery.
kettle, mug, the specific shelf where you keep the bags.
he's memorized which one you like without ever asking.
you're watching his back when it happens. the kettle's not quite hot enough, you can tell by the way he tilts his head at it, and then he points two fingers at it, almost casually, the way you'd reach over to turn a dial, and there's a soft sound like the air tightening and the kettle starts to steam.
he pours. stirs. turns around and holds your mug out to you.
you take it say thank you and he nods.
you wrap both hands around the mug and look at him; really look at him, the careful way he's standing, the way he's always slightly more still than a person should be, the way he blinks like he learned to, and you think about a year ago when everything was sharp edges and cold silences and you'd started to forget why you stayed.
"what?" he asks, because you're smiling into your mug.
"nothing, love."
he looks at you for a moment longer before he smiles and turns back to make his own tea, and when the kettle cools again between cups he does it again and is completely unbothered. like he's forgotten to hide it, or decided not to bother.
you think maybe it's the second one.
you take a sip of your tea. it's exactly right, the way it always is when he makes it, and he's standing in your kitchen being an alien, being yours, and you think you love him more than you ever did before.
which is really something, considering he headbutted you on your first date.
in the dark of night, you attempt to write a letter to a priest in hopes that he might save your husband from what he's become. soon, the letter lays abandoned and your husband's lust consumes you on yet another night.
warnings; mdni/18+, yandere character, dubcon, voyeurism, erotic horror, rough sex, blowjob, facial, implied breeding kink (i guess??), extremely explicit sexual details, graphic details of bodily fluids, very prose + detail heavy, horrific imagery + details, derogatory words used (whore, bitch, lunatic - not all mc), pseudo-victorian setting + historical inaccuracies
wc; 4,119
divider; @/strangergraphics & @/cafekitsune
I suggest that you read IMPOSTER and/or ROOT ROT before reading this, but this can still be read standalone.
a/n: this took me a couple of days to complete and get posted, so it would be absolutely amazing if you could reblog + share your thoughts with me!!
It was these dark hours that you feared the most, when the grandfather clock's filigree hands aimed to some despicable time of night where you should have been well asleep by now, dreaming of incomprehensible things while tangled in your sheets and bedclothes.
You envied the rest of the household for their unconcerned ways of living. They could wake with the roosters and the golden sunrise; the shafts of light quietly, gently filtering through the gaps in their curtains, caressing their faces into wakefulness. To them, darkness meant the absence of light and day; it meant that all their worries, their toils, were of no importance for as long as the moon was high and their eyes were closed.
The staff knew that they needn't think too hard so long as their chores were completed, the mansion kept up, and their Masters satisfied in every way possible. Perhaps that's why they turned a blind eye to the noises in the black night; moans and cries and screaming originating from somewhere different each time, but always sounding of the same suffering and pleasure. Perhaps they heard what they did and decided to cower inside themselves and their pillows, afraid to know what they would find if they followed the echoing voices.
Even your maid, Sadiya, seldom interfered during the height of it. She was always the first to get you into a hot bath the following morning, holding one of your hands while pressing a sponge to your naked body, her expression wrenching in disgust when she saw the red, purpling bruises beginning to bloom across your skin. She never said much about it. It wasn't her place.
Tonight, you locked your door and tucked a silk scarf in the long crack below it, hoping to keep the shadow out this time. You weren't confident it would work because nothing ever did. If it wanted in, it always found a way to do so, at any time it pleased, despite how terrible it made you feel.
You pulled a sheer cloth across your shoulders and studied the placement of the silk scarf below the door for a moment longer before going to your desk and lighting a lantern. There, you lifted the lid to reveal writing utensils and beautiful, soft paper. A long envelope already marked with your name and the recipient lay to the side.
Just then, from somewhere within the house, you thought you heard your name called. Deep. Guttural. Ravenous. It hardly sounded human, even as it moaned out your name in a miserly way. You thought it reminded you of a cat in heat yowling for attention.
But there was little time to look for humor in this situation. If you were going to discreetly write this letter, it needed to be done now before it found you again.
To the esteemed Father Marius DuMonde,
Forgive me, Father, for I do not have much time to write to you, but I hope you will read this letter and consider with great urgency an unexpected trip to this household. I have enclosed money for your traveling expenses and any amenities you may need. While you are here, you will be accommodated most exquisitely, and your every need thoroughly tended to. I only ask—no, beg of you—to hear me!
Over the past eight months, I feel as though I have been slowly exposed to a worsening evil that I cannot hope to ever comprehend. It is a heavy shadow that is always upon me, watching me, touching me, and, horribly enough, defiling me. It is inescapable, and I fear that it might be driving me mad.
You might already be thinking that I have lost my mind, that I am a lost cause. I beseech you to hear me, believe me when I say that: I am not a lunatic. I do not suffer from hysteria or delusions of the mind. I have always been as well as I could reasonably be given my circumstances and upbringing in life, and I know reality from fiction of the mind.
What I have been seeing and experiencing is true and raw.
I believe it has possessed my husband, who has been home from handling the affairs of his late uncle's estate for nearly eight months—the same time when this all began happening! I do not think it's a coincidence, and neither do you!
He is not the same man that I knew. My husband is a scholar, reticent, and the most intelligent man that I know. Who he is now is completely changed. He is now far more outspoken than I, and has utter disinterest in everything he once treasured! He even destroyed his own garden, one that he's grown, maintained, and researched for twenty years. He no longer studies; he seldom reads. His only interest now is in something that I cannot disclose to you, for it is of a most indecent nature.
Father DuMonde, you must—
"My, you're certainly occupied. Who are you writing to this late, my love?"
You reflexively threw the ink pen away, slammed the lid of the writing desk so he could not see the contents of your letter, and stood from your chair. Of course, this would all be useless if he asked to see what you had written, because as his spouse, you could not deny him. But, as he came away from the bedroom door and closer to you, into the dim, flickering light cast by your lantern, you could not distract yourself from the thought that he already knew.
"How did you get in? I locked the door, Solomon," you said.
He closed the distance between your bodies and stroked the side of your face where the bone of your eye and cheek met with his knuckles. You started from his ghostly touch, freezing hands that felt as though they'd never known the warmth of a fireplace or a body. Even though you'd known him intimately in every way imaginable, the ruthless cold that radiated off of him never faded.
Solomon smiled down at you serenely. "Why did you lock the door?"
"Because—" the words hit a snag in your throat, stealing them until you cleared your apprehensions with a quiet cough. "Because I wanted a little privacy for a while. I was given my own room for exactly that purpose, yes? It's the same reason why you have every space that you do in this house, isn't it? There isn't anything wrong with that, is there?"
"Is that really it?" asked Solomon, who then tucked his nose against the crook of your neck and kissed your skin. His lips traversed to one of the throbbing arteries under your jaw, where he focused his efforts and pinched you lightly with his blunt teeth. You flinched again, struggling to swallow around a mounting wad of anxiety in your throat, anticipation beginning to knot your insides in ways that made it hard for you to let him touch you slowly.
"You can tell me what's on your mind, I'll listen," said Solomon, though you did not believe him. That was one difference that you missed most between this imposter and your real husband: The real Solomon would've listened to what you had to say, even if he did not particularly care for it. This version of your husband—this thing—would be satisfied if he only ever ripped screams of ecstasy from your ripe, pink lungs.
It was when he peeled off the thin fabric from your shoulders like a second skin and unfastened the ivory buttons on the front of your nightclothes that you decided to tell him the truth. "I feel watched, Solomon. I always feel like something is looking at me, no matter what I'm doing. It likes seeing me scared. It likes knowing that I know it's there. I've seen it from the corner of my eye sometimes."
Solomon shucked the shirt from your body and immediately placed a wet trail with his tongue and lips up along your breastbone, hands sinking below the waistband of your drawers and undergarments to squeeze your ass. It was your instinct to wind your fingers in his hair, twisting black rings of it tightly with your knuckles as he worked on you.
"What does it look like to you?" asked Solomon between hard breaths, lips and hands never leaving your body as he spoke. He would never tire of your sweetness, of the salty brine that slicked your skin as he fucked you out of your mind, of being the reason for your greatest pleasure and greatest agony. "Tell me, my little love, what does it look like to you?"
"Terrible," you said.
A groan rumbled in his throat, leaving a hot tickle on your skin as he exhaled and kissed and sucked a wet path up to your neck again with the fervor of a man who'd only ever known lust, yet never held something warm in his arms. His hands kneaded your ass dexterously, fingers teasing, prodding you lower and higher to elicit a soft sound from your lips that you tried to mask by biting your teeth and tugging the black hair on his head.
"Why don't you tell me more?" He insisted, using his hands on your backside to bring you flush with his chest and hips, his smiling mouth cool against the shell of your ear. All of the tiny hairs on your body rose like needles, a shiver chased the length of your spine, and the thrill of it all made you throb between your legs. "What does it look like? Tell me just how terrible it is, darling. I want to envision the thing that watches you every moment, follows your every step, haunts your every breath."
His words were sinister to you; caring far too much for something that frightened you, looked at you through hollow eyes and pinpoint pupils. You recalled a time when it had been watching you from the ceiling as Solomon fucked you into the mattress, your nails clinging to his back desperately. You had noticed it and tried to speak to your husband, but you could not find your voice, so you whimpered and moaned underneath the thrusting man, clenching around him so tightly in your fear that he came inside of you.
"A horrible pale face," you began, which prompted Solomon to nestle his face into your neck again and slowly grind his hips against yours. He was aroused by your discomfort, your reluctance to recall the awful specter obsessed with your very existence. As he guided you through the motions, you felt the bulge in his pants rising, pushing hard against your core and setting your blood ablaze. "I… a horrible pale face; a grinning face with teeth as thin as needles. Its skin looked wrong; pulled too tightly; decaying; shredded. It was cloaked in black. I remember it being so dark that it was darker than the rest of the room."
"Go on, go on," he spoke lowly into your skin, pulling one of his hands away from your ass to unlace the drawstring bow on your drawers so the fabric pooled at your ankles, revealing you to him and the dim room. "Go on, go on. I know you've noticed more."
You thought about how the apparition knew you just as intimately as Solomon did; how it had observed the beauty and oddness and blemishes and perfection of your body just as closely as your own husband. Would it know, then, how to make you unravel just as well as the man who touched you now?
"I remember—I remember the eyes; I remember how they stared into me. Even though its eyes looked empty, something was glowing inside its sockets. It was evil, Solomon. Those eyes were pure fucking evil," you explained with a wispy voice, unsure of how much he could've heard while he was distracted humping you and sucking your neck raw. But, you continued: "I think I remember its head the most. It wore a crown. The most horrible thing I've ever seen."
"A crown can be horrible, you say?"
Solomon's face was under your jaw while his fingers pushed divots into your hips, controlling the friction between your bodies. His clothed cock was nearly erect and stroked your sweetest spot, blurring your vision with searing pulses of white that wrapped around your head like a hot halo. You reached for his belt between your gyrating bodies, but he wasn't finished hearing your talk and grabbed your hands.
"Ah, ah," he sighed into your ear, "the crown, tell me about it."
This surprised you as Solomon seldom denied you in the moments when you plucked the courage to initiate something of your own accord, rather than being hopelessly dominated by him first. He used the pad of his thumbs to caress the insides of your wrists, an impatient gesture meant to coax you into talking more, talking faster.
"It reminds me of what black icicles would look like covered in…"
"Yes?" Solomon pressed.
You told him it looked like flayed skin and viscera tangled into the seven immense spikes on the crown. Sometimes, you believed you were able to detect the entity's presence before ever seeing it by the way it smelled: The malodor of rotting flesh and the tang of blood. On the night when you had seen it watching you from the ceiling, you had thought that the skin seemed fresh.
Solomon gave a satisfied smile and released your wrists to unfasten his belt, the other little, frustrating barriers on his trousers keeping him from what he wanted. He pulled out his cock and gathered the precum weeping from the reddened tip in his palm to smear along the shaft, stroking himself to full hardness. You saw it twitch in his hand, his hips bucking forward in anticipation.
"On your knees," said Solomon, to which you readily obeyed.
The floor was painful and, without the fireplace going, leeched the warmth from your bones. You felt vulnerable in this position for an unexpected reason: You were closer to the darkness in the room now than the light starting to suffocate inside your lantern. It wasn't enough to take the edge off of your urges, of how mesmerized you were by his cock as you began to stroke it and kissed along the underside, letting your tongue taste the sweetness of the precum he had spread.
You dragged your tongue across bulging veins and followed the curve of it to the weeping bulbous head. Solomon sighed in relief when you finally took him into your mouth, coating him in your saliva, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him deeper into your throat.
In these instances with Solomon, you never truly felt like yourself. You were spellbound by a haze of lust so potent that the world ceased to be, time lost meaning, and you would forget that upon awakening later during the day, the pain would be absolute and untreatable. Bruises thudded dully, appearing as broad, dark red ink-spots across your body, and you'd be bedridden and inconsolable in agony.
Yet, during these long, dark hours of night where your husband belonged to you alone, you wanted him to ravish you, rut you like an animal in heat against any surface he could find, leaving no part of you unknown. You wanted his hands on your throat and his nails pushing crescents into your skin as he split you apart, all the while whispering of terrible obscenities and fantasies that were dizzying and made you want to shrivel away in confusion of him and yourself.
"What are you thinking about, darling?" asked Solomon with his hands wound tightly in your hair, to the scalp, knowing that you couldn't speak around your throat full of his cock. You struggled to keep the pace that he wanted, to keep from choking on him as he thrust his hips into your face and buried himself deeper inside your hot, moist mouth. "Let me guess: You're thinking like a filthy whore, aren't you? You're thinking about everything I've done to you; what else I could do to you. I want you to know, I've felt you clench around me when I've mentioned that slut of a maid of yours, and even my manservant. Perhaps we could invite them in with us one night, yes?"
Of course, you could say nothing, do nothing but whimper miserably as he fucked your mouth, and your own pleasure was limited to what you could accomplish with vigorous strokes on yourself.
Solomon watched you do this from down the length of his sharp nose, through darkened, glassy green eyes that flickered gold in the waning lantern light. He had leaned back into your writing desk to steady himself as the tension built, harsh breaths and moans gliding out from his lips like silk. His sounds were as beautiful as they were lewd and voracious, of a man who could never be satiated, who would always hunger for this.
And then, he stopped abruptly and pulled his cock out of your mouth, one hand wrapped around it as he rapidly brought on his climax from impatience.
"Look at me," said Solomon, coarsely, breathlessly. "Look at me as I cum, like the little whore that you are."
Where had your shame gone? To think that at one time, such vulgarities spoken by a man to you would've made your anger blaze out of control. This nefarious version of Solomon had whittled away your soul bit by bit until you were left an amoral husk who sat at his feet, tongue lolled out of your mouth, waiting for what came next.
Solomon's hips stuttered, cock throbbing in his hand as he came in hot, white ropes across your face and chest. The thick stuff had a milky glisten in the flittering light, cooling quickly as it made contact with your skin, exposed to the cold, airless room. It crawled down the length of your face, slow as a snail, filling the seams of your lips and drying on your hardened nipples. You felt as disgusted as you did aroused, imagining how Solomon would respond if you swept it off of your cheek to smear between your legs, beckoning him to consume you, fuck you until you could feel nothing at all.
He saw the desperation in your eyes shine like tears rimming your lower lashes and took a calming breath as his knees struck down to the floor before you, his cock still half-hard and rising again. Then, he kissed your lips for the first time that night. His tongue traced the soft shape of your mouth, gathering his spend on it before pushing through your teeth and mingling the briny taste of him with your saliva.
"What would everyone think to see you like this, I wonder?" asked Solomon between breaths, between impassioned kisses that made the thoughts in your head whirl. Your answer was to swipe the cum from your face into your hand, smearing it along the length of his cock, feeling it pulse in your grasp as you stroked him stiff. "What would the staff think if they could see you? That bitch maid that you keep around? What would that fool of a father of yours think to see this was awaited you when he gave you away to me?"
"Solomon, fuck me, please." You hoped your begging would distract him, freeing you from the embarrassment of having to think of such things. "I need you."
He let out a crack of laughter that was derisive, yet euphonious; a sound befitting a handsome face like his. Before he had returned home from his uncle's estate, you'd never known him to know true joy or laughter, but now he provided copious mockery.
"You need me? Why would I keep you waiting any longer, then?" Solomon took you by the waist, hoisting you onto his lap with the sort of ease no normal man should possess, and kneaded the weeping, dark red tip of his cock down to the base of his shaft to lubricate himself. "I'm not sure that I could ever share you in the ways that I speak about, darling. You are mine and mine alone. That ring on your finger proves it."
He brought your hand to his lips and lightly touched them to the bright red carnelian band rooted deep into your left ring finger. The affectionate gesture was met with scalding pain shooting up the length of your arm, flashing white behind your eyes, coaxing groans he chose to ignore.
"What a beautiful face you're making," said Solomon teasingly, letting your hand fall to grasp the fat of your hips with his blunt nails as he split you open on his cock, fully seating himself inside of you. He reveled in the tight, slick warmth that surrounded him, the way the tension between your brows deepened from pain to concentration as you lifted yourself partway off of his cock and lowered back down with your thighs.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, leaving featherlight touches down the nape of his neck that made him moan as he sucked raw spots into your flesh, blotches that would reveal this night to the world, unable to be concealed by any neckline or shawl that you owned. He would delight in your humiliation, your sheepish avoidance of everyone, including him, because it offered him the thrill of chasing you, earning your forgiveness time and time again, and repeating the sickening pattern that you never learned better from.
"Solomon, lie back," you gasped, bringing your palms to the front of his chest and pushing him away from you. "This isn't enough. I need more. Lie down."
"How bold of you to make demands of me," said Solomon, but he did not deny you and abandoned the marks on your neck to flatten his back to the floor. The coldness did not startle him as it did you; it comforted him. Darkness now enveloped the room as the last of your lantern light choked in its glass cage, enrobing him in black air carrying the smell of sex and something somewhat distantly foul and rotting.
You knew that the apparition had returned to observe the obscenities. How long had it been there, you wondered? Had it seen the way Solomon defiled you while you sat on your knees and accepted it? Was it seeing you now as you rode your husband and lost control of the rhythm you had built to his savage thrusts up into your body? The only thing keeping you mounted on his waist was his hands holding your ass in a bruising grip, drawing blood under his nails, watching your expression contort familiarly between pleasure and pain.
"There is no greater beauty in the world than what I see right now." His words were so deep in his throat, guttural and rough; you'd heard them before, earlier, as you had been writing your letter to Father DuMonde. "The more I see you like this, the less I want to let you leave."
Right now, you don't want to leave. You wanted Solomon to fuck you into oblivion and cum on his cock while the entity studied you, learning what made your back bend like an archway and scream the loudest. You wanted it to see how Solomon fucked you through your orgasm until your body convulsed, and no sounds could dislodge from your throat.
He obliged, of course, bouncing you down onto him with such ferocity it left you winded and bracing yourself on his chest with one hand, the other still nestled between your legs. A white fuzz trance of ecstasy did not await you once you finally reached your climax. It was a grueling end that hurt, where your moans had dissolved into pitiful whines, sobs you swallowed down in the back of your throat. Solomon stayed inside you at his tipping point, thrusts slow but buried deep, cock pulsing hard as he filled your insides with his warm seed.
Your senses numbed to the phantasm's presence, to the fact that Solomon had yet to soften much inside of you and kneaded your thighs fondly. As you looked towards the windows overlooking the backyard, a heavy sense of dread settled over you and twisted your organs.
Solomon had noticed, too.
"Daylight is still far off, my love. There is still plenty of night remaining for us to enjoy."
The smut is genuinely so good but then you also have all these details like the maid character, the priest, details about what old Solomon was like (rip king) and now this... entity thing? It just makes the story so engaging beyond the first read.
warnings; mdni/18+; mild dubcon, explicit sexual content, masturbation, rough sex, mirror sex, sort of voyeurism, initially loveless arranged marriage, classism, gruesome + horrific details, very brief mention of animal death, homicide
wc; 3,787
dividers; @/honeyluvsw I 18+ @/cafekitsune
if you want more possessed!husband pieces, pls check the a/n!
please interact with this post and reblog it if you enjoyed!!
In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under the covers was not your husband. He had been once, but now he no longer was.
The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, a certain stiffness which held more likeness to rigor in a day-old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.
His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood, where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parents’ patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.
You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.
He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to the point where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whoever was trying to speak to him.
Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.
At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country, and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.
“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused by tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will; it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, sliding into the arms of his heavy coat with your help. Upright at his feet was a hulking suitcase used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”
You expected nothing less from him. This man, who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate a script of vows, hold your hands, kiss you with great decorum, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.
Right after, then as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, saying that he wouldn't have done it at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.
At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk cloth, the ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.
“Write to me every once in a while,” was what you said at present, swallowing your resentment, keeping stifling composure as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing, if you find anything interesting. It gives me something to look forward to.”
“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.
“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”
He left you behind without remorse.
Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of a winter landscape shimmering white-blue outside your windows.
In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace, coveting self-pleasure.
You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.
Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.
Sometimes, you were found the next morning by the maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You needed only to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.
It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped across a bent arm, warm in her other hand, which she used to clean the dried fluids from your body. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.
“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”
“No! No, that's alright.” You told her.
Then, you realized that she was right. The envelope was pale, long, light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from the center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.
You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.
She looked to be just as thrown.
“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”
“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I commented on it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”
You found a letter opener nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.
“Almost? What does that mean here?” You raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual traces of wax from the paper. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”
The maid tried to subdue her interest in the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”
“What?”
You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.
The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the sliver of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:
“Father Marius DuMonde.”
Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to bring something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection, as though he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.
Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.
“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”
The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”
“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”
That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.
You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed architecture while leaning a cheek flush against frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.
Seldom, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland, and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servant's responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.
It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.
“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”
You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.
A while later, you entered the foyer to see that most of the staff had already dispersed, and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.
So, the rumor was true. Something was discomforting in that.
Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell by the wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—
“Oh my… There you are, my sweet!” his voice was the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, Uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”
Could this man really be your husband?
He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well as to appear normal.
But you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath, nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.
“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You flinched from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt something trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”
As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.
He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue, and teeth, hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squealing like a sow.
He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them. Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection, where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.
“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass. There was something of a wheeze that trailed the end of every word. A throat parched for far too long. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”
Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and whom you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed as if a river of the stuff had run between your lips instead.
His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, coming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.
The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply a disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstasy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely improbable, unknowable to you.
You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.
He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…
The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender, and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing from fabric.
“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on. His complexion was sallow with a weird, waxy sheen. A mask that fit, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”
You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.
Everything else you'd wanted to believe was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.
Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.
“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and given her a generous allowance for her travels. She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”
“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”
It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”
The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into the cover of tree tops, and then nothing else.
But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.
A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she nor the old pony had made it out of the woods.
The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them. But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black, and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.
That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of the night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton. A hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall. The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of the dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.
He was faced the other way, unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for his thin breaths of sleep, seeking out the automatic rise and fall of his body. He could've been mistaken for one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.
“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”
“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating having your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me, such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”
Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies, and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.
Your whimpers were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips, beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.
A/n: so I have another longer, pretty raunchy piece for this guy + 30 completed drabble/vignette pieces surrounding this story. I'm also intending to do a full story based around this concept. so, I really don't have any shortage of stuff to him, if you're interested!
he's one of the more interesting characters I've created. a lot of research has gone into the story itself as well
He's so curious about the human in the floating rubber donut. You're wearing too little clothing. Aren't you cold, floating like that in the ocean? You dip your arms and legs deeper into the water, wiggling them around. He stares at them in fascination. You have no webbing, and your fingers are as flexible and squirmy as eels. He gathers a big armful of seaweed, and then surfaces to say hello to you.
His greeting is a shrill, clicking shriek. You shriek back, and he grins, unaware that the sound you're making is one of shock, not a friendly greeting. From your point of view, you were just floating around in the shallows enjoying the clear sky and the salty spray of the ocean when a thing emerged out of the water and screamed at you.
It looks somewhat human, but humans don't have finned ears, or slitted eyes, gills, or striped skin. The creature proceeds to dump a pile of seaweed in your lap, cheerfully rasping out something that sounds like "warm!" and all you can do is utter a confused "thank you?"
your best friend humbly offering to take your virginity out of the kindness of his heart because he doesn’t want you to end up losing it to someone who doesn’t deserve it (he’s been plotting on this outcome for months)
