you know i bite the way i bark.
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.
This is so beautifully written omg
