Ratboy/'Arby' x Reader- Swallow
SUMMARY: You're just trying to break the heat with a new friend. It's too bad his frank lack of social skills just so happens to be attractive. You should probably know better, but your dick sure doesn't.
WORD COUNT: 4.1k
CW: GN reader but they have a penis. You know. For the plot. Explicit sex, oral, wet and messy, a little dacryphilia, reader is worried about power dynamics but RB is VERY into it and not nearly as helpless as they're worried about. Vague yan implications if you squint
Author's note: I've been meaning to write for @quieteeks's project Autophagia FOREVER thanks for the pathetic little guy im??love him
18+ Minors/ageless DNI
It was just one of those things, an inevitable consequence of the turning of the world. August in the city is a bitch. It comes and goes every year, and you manage to suffer through it every time, but that does nothing to settle the sluggish roll of irritation as you sweat through the month, ticking off the days until the sky cracks open and the heat breaks with a deluge of fall rain. Three days into a heatwave, 96 degrees and rising, you’re just about sick of this shit. The rickety swamp cooler propped up in your window wheezes in earnest, but it’s done little more than stir the air inside your apartment in sticky, ineffective circles. You’re sprawled out on the floor, cursing the formica tiling for the indolence of heat retention when your neighbor knocks at the door.
You could always tell it was him- that tepid little rap gave him away every time, soft and rapid as the heart of a bird. Or a rat, if you were to take his troupe of companions into account. He’s been coming around more and more frequently, lately. Normally you wouldn’t spare his company a second thought. He fit into your quiet routine well enough. You introduced him to the tiny corner of your world by degrees- television binges, postpunk albums, shrimp fried rice. Nothing crazy, but whatever isolated hole in the wall you’d imagined him living in had evidently deprived him of even some of the most basic comforts afforded by city living. It was hard to understand how he’d managed to go so long without the material conditions to cook spaghetti, or send an email. The kind of restrained awe on his face was an ever-present fixture of his presence in your life. Spellbound by the smallest things. You’d started appreciating your own life more after he came around- there was some shame in it, you hardly wanted to belittle him, but hot running water and groceries in the fridge really were a lot easier to be thankful for once you stopped seeing them as a given. The poor guy didn’t even have a name, for fuck’s sake.
So yeah, you’d pretty much given him an open-door policy at this point. He was good company, and you liked the way he looked at you, like you’d plucked the moon from the sky and told him to take a bite. It was a hell of an ego boost to be honest, and you were just doing your best not to be too exploitative about it. It was fine to feed a guy and force him to watch cartoons with you as long as you didn’t expect anything back, right?
Today, though, today was a piss poor excuse of an afternoon, and even the prospect of his company was a little grating. You bit back a groan as you listened to the scuffle of your spare key in the lock. You knew he’d made his way inside when the little patter of rat feet circled your head, their twitching wet noses prodding at you from your supine position on the floor. A tiny soft tongue lapped at the sweat on your temple, and you scrunched up your nose at the feeling, turning your head to get a good look at the offending rodent. Chicken Strip was staring you down with his beady little eyes, starting up a friendly brux. The rat boy loomed over you, just out of reach. Notable concern written all over his face- the anxiety rolling off of this guy could paralyze an opossum. You sigh, reaching out your arms and grabbing listlessly at the air.
“Get me a popsicle,” you whined. “Box in the freezer. I’m sweating my balls off.” He retreated from your periphery silently, the loud shuddering smack of the freezer breaking its seal the only indication he’d gotten to your kitchen. You stretched out on the floor, closing your eyes as a number of rats began a lazy crawl across your chest.
“Grab one for yourself, too,” you hollered. “I can’t believe you’re wearing jeans.”
He sat at your side when he returned with the same eerie silence, pressing the cold plastic wrapping into your hand. You grunted in thanks, peeling back the packaging and brushing a few rats carefully to the side as you sat up. He was staring at you when you looked at him, Midi clambering up his shoulder with easy familiarity.
“Hey,” you offered, breaching the silence. He smiled shyly, ducking his head.
“Hey.”
“Hot enough for you out there?” You moved to push yourself up onto the couch, the bunched fabric of your shorts sticking to your legs uncomfortably. He stayed curled up on the floor as you reached for the remote, fiddling with the wrapper of his own treat.
“It’s not so bad.”
You grumbled, flicking the television on to some documentary channel, not bothering to fish for anything in particular. Just a gentle wash of sound to set yourself at ease. You shoved your popsicle into your mouth, letting it drip down your hand and melt on your tongue. Bliss.
“It’s awful,” you asserted, “I’m dying. Eat your popsicle before it melts.”
You watched him peel back the plastic, folding it neatly before examining the candy-colored rod in his hands. It was just some store brand rocket pop- aggressive colors, cherry flavored. Nothing special. It suited him though, brought out the neon bursts of color in his jewelry. Made him look more alive. It would have been another standard evening, just shooting the shit and relaxing in defiance of the heat. Would have been, before he opens his mouth wide and jams the thing so far down his throat that the wooden stick is barely poking out between his lips, all without so much as a second thought.
You sputter audibly, face searing red. You’d seen him eat before, knew how quickly he could reduce a portion to dregs, but something about the total ease of it made your head spin. Did he have no gag reflex at all? His eyes shoot over to you in alarm, pulling the popsicle out of his mouth with an obscene pop.
“Are you okay?” He gasps, a little bit of syrup running down his chin.
“Fine!” You cough. “I’m fine. Holy shit, how do you do that?” He looks at you quizzically, head tilted to the side. It’s unfairly endearing.
“Do what?”
You point your popsicle at him accusatorily, making a vague bobbing gesture in the air.
“You just shoved that thing right down your throat. What the hell.” He squints at you, watching closely as you bring the pop to your lips, roll it over your tongue.
“Is that… not normal?” He asks, voice small. Great. Hopefully you haven’t made him feel like shit, and there’s no easy way to say that you’re really not freaked out, you’ve just never seen someone with such insane throat game.
“It’s- fine,” you manage. “I mean, you’re okay. People usually just can’t do that.”
He frowns, letting his head drop a little.
“Really!” You try again, doing your best to sound encouraging. “It’s not bad! Some people even like that kind of thing, it’s just surprising. I was surprised. That’s all, you’re totally okay.”
His brow creases at your explanation, and he returns the popsicle to his mouth- only swallowing it about halfway down, you notice, the rats chasing his hand to lap at the drips of juice trailing down his wrist.
You try to return your attention to the television screen, awkwardly chewing at the end of your ice pop, gone brittle and white where you’d sucked out the syrup.
He’s silent again as he swallows, throat bobbing visibly over the ice. He looks thoughtful. And kind of absurdly hot, which is not fair of him on such a sweltering day, where your thoughts are molten and amorphous as hot tar.
“What do you mean people like it?” He questions, extracting the spent stick from his cheek. Had he- swallowed the damn thing whole?
Your blush returns, kicking yourself for your choice of words.
“Well, you know- it’s impressive. People like that. Just means you’re good with your mouth, is all.”
“Oh.” The syllable comes out from him a little sharp, pitched up and unsteady, and you curse yourself for making things so awkward. He was already such a nervous, shifty kind of guy…Way to dig a deeper hole. You puff out your cheeks, trying to dispel some of the tension in your body. He wraps his plastic wrapper around the stained stick, folds it neatly into the busted up pockets of his baggy grey jeans. Trying for nonchalance, if you had to guess, but all the gangly limbs and the way his eyes dart around the room and never seem to settle down ends up looking pretty fucking chalant to you. You’re hoping you haven’t screwed up too badly when he takes a deep breath in and chances a glance in your direction- the barest tinge of pink staining the bridge of his nose.
“Are you- do you like it?” He asks, voice small. You balk at the question, scrambling to put the right words together as his eyes immediately race back to the floor.
“I- sure I do.” What were you supposed to say? The last thing you wanted to do was make him feel like he was violating you somehow, like he had no business being in your space. You’d say it a thousand times over if it wiped away the guilty set of his shoulders, made him look at ease again. “Sure, man. What’s not to like? I promise, you’re fine.” He still looks a little unsure, so you reach out to the few inches between you, skim your fingers through his fringe in an attempt at some kind of soothing ruffle. A no-worries, all-good kind of thing. For all the time you’ve spent with him lately, you’ve rarely ever touched. He was so nervous you got the feeling that he needed a lot of space, and you tried to give him every opportunity to set his own boundaries. Sitting as far apart as you could from him on the couch, putting his plates in front of him instead of pressing it directly into his hands. Little acts of consideration you figured might get him feeling more comfortable around you, an assurance that you weren’t gonna bite.
It’s both a risk then, and a total surprise when he all but collapses into your hand. You have to scramble to keep him upright as his head shoves itself closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, his eyes blown out wide as he looks up at you from the floor. This. Was not helping, you decided, feeling something long-neglected start to stir inside you as he sighed, nuzzling the palm of your hand against his forehead. Possibly this was the worst outcome, because your very new, very vulnerable friend was going rubber-soft at your feet and looking at you with those eyes again, right after you’d pulled his hair and told him he had a pretty mouth. Maybe not in so many words, exactly, but the way your dick started perking up in your shorts indicated it didn’t exactly care.
You move to extract yourself from him, to try and put some distance between you before you start popping a boner in earnest right in front of his face, but he makes the most pitiful sounding whine the moment that your nails detach from his scalp that you don’t have the heart to stop. Your popsicle falls to the floor unceremoniously, and the rats circle it with interest. The rat boy is still pushing into your touch like he’s going to fall apart if you pull away, and your chest is starting to get awfully tight with the intensity of the feeling. Your shorts, unfortunately, have gotten pretty tight as well.
You’re still hoping there’s some way you could salvage this mess when he drops his head to your thigh, skimming over the seam of your shorts as if he’d never known shame a day in his life. Your brain grinds to a complete halt, the air whooshing out of your lungs in one embarrassingly strained huff.
“You like it?” He pleads, lips dragging over exposed flesh, testing the waters. “Really? Can I- can I use my mouth for you? I promise I’ll try really hard.” Your heart is thundering in your chest, and he’s got these stars in this eyes that are making it really hard to know what you’re supposed to do, and his mouth is right there leaking warm breath over your clothed cock- so you give in. You nod, grip his hair a little tighter in your hand, pray you aren’t the world’s worst piece of shit when your friend is there on his knees, practically begging to suck you off.
He moans at your approval, opening his mouth and letting his tongue lathe flat over the bulge in your shorts, spit immediately starting to sop through the fabric. You struggle to keep your hips still as he drags over the length of it, and fuck if he isn’t enthusiastic- you could swear he was trying to eat you alive, no preamble. Your breath is coming out in short, labored puffs, lip tucked tight between your teeth as you try to at least pretend to keep your cool for a little while. But damn, if it’s not difficult when he’s nosing at the swell of your balls, sucking wet shorts into his mouth like he can’t get enough. The cold pads of his fingertips come to rest at your waistband, pawing at the elastic. Even in the heat it seems his skin was cool, and you shiver a little when he shoves his way under your shirt, prodding at your stomach.
It’s a little awkward, you’ll admit. The sounds coming from his mouth are loud and wet and sloppy, and the way he’s gripping your stomach and hips isn’t exactly practiced or sensual- it’s much more like he’s trying to dissolve into the surface of your skin, moving just a little too fast, squeezing your flesh between his fingers as though you’re liable to disappear. What it is is devastatingly hot- in a pathetic, wet dog kind of way. He’s loud and gross and so fucking earnest you could scream, and when he wraps his lips over the covered tip of your dick you have to jerk his head back much more firmly than what could strictly be considered polite to keep yourself from ending this whole situation before it’s really gotten started.
“Hold on,” you pant, watching the way his eyes roll back in his head as though through oil and glass, the world around you distorting in a pleasant, liquid haze. “Slow down a second, fuck…” There’s drool pooling on his bottom lip, spit-shiny and swollen red. He bites down on it, and you suddenly envy his teeth, that they could press so easily against his mouth. You want to be inside that mouth, feel the soft ridges and hollows of it. You want his lip purpled and fat, you want to be so deep inside him that he chokes. It’s the opposite of friendly. You have to remind yourself again this is your friend as he tugs against your grip in his hair, mouth lolling open as if he won’t last if you don’t fill it up. His eyes are on your face, half lidded while his tongue hangs down on his chin, the slick muscle pulsing a little when he swallows.
“Jesus, okay, okay, just let me-” you release him, having to bat his face away when it descends in the moment between your hands coming free and your being cock released to follow. He rocks back on his heels, looking at you expectantly. Impatient and giddy, following the motions of your body as you roll your hips, shoving your shorts down past your hips and letting your dick spill out into the damp heat of the apartment.
He doesn’t even let you get them down past your thighs before his mouth is on you again, sucking at the vein that pulses along the soft flesh of your scrotum. You’d feel a little bad about the sweat and the precum and how undoubtedly sticky the whole ordeal is if he wasn’t whimpering into your skin, pressing his face flush against your balls and you swear to god, inhaling deeply. Savoring it for all you could tell, the puckering taste of salt and the smell of wet sex and sweat and artificial fruit flavored popsicle spit like it was the only breath he’d ever take. You can’t stop yourself from moaning, then. The head of your dick is flushed red and it twitches as he mouths at the underside, the lightest graze of teeth closing around the shaft as he’s gliding up, up to where the glans sits heavy and aching under his attention. He’s got you halfway down his throat in a second, shoving past his soft palate and into the wet flex and stretch of his esophagus. You cover your mouth as you buck upwards, the boy between your knees barely pausing to get his grip on the base of your shaft in one long, pretty hand.
He just keeps sinking deeper onto you, your strangled noises of pleasure seeming to encourage him to go faster, to push harder. His wet, open lips make contact with your pubis, and he swallows, the tight constriction of muscle sending shivers up your spine. You grip the cushions of the couch until your knuckles go white, feel your toes curl as his head begins to bob. He is, in fact, doing a good job. Doesn’t even gag when he’s got you to the hilt, the sounds of his throat so smooth and slick you’d think you were fucking into a cunt instead of pitching up full force into his throat. A tear gathers heavy on the lash lines of one of his eyes.
“Good boy,” you gasp, digging your heels into the couch to stay grounded on something, anything. “Good, so good, pretty boy-” And the tears start rolling down his cheeks in earnest, muffled little sobs choking out from the narrow space between his lips and your cock while you spear him with your length. You should feel terrible about it. You should want to cradle his face, to wipe those tears away and wrap him in a softer world, somewhere that such simple praise doesn’t reduce him to gasping, snotty sobs, you should hate to see the mucus building up on his chin and the froth of precum on his lip, you should be terrified of how his clear, focused eyes have gone red and distant. You should be a much better person than you are, balls deep in your friend’s mouth and wishing you had a picture of his face like this, fucked out and broken looking.
You are not that person. He begins to gag, finally, the competition between the tears and the hot flesh and the hiccuping little heaves of his chest finally too much, and the way he tightens around you when he does is so good that you’re thrusting into it with wanton abandon. The more delicate he looks, the more your stomach starts to tighten and this blistering heat builds up in your core. You imagine you’re fucking into the center of him, somewhere deep that his soul is living, tucked away behind his ribs where no one was ever supposed to find it, and when he circles his arms around your waist as if to cradle you, using that leverage to shove him so closely against his mouth that you feel the bite of his teeth leaving indentations on the inside of your thighs, you spill yourself inside him so hard that your vision swims, gone dark around the edges with every pulse of cum you’re pouring down his throat. You imagine it splattering there, in the dark, in that quiet place no one was ever supposed to be, and you feel sick with the weight of the arousal still swirling in your gut.
He swallows it all. As if it were nothing. As if he was made to do it, closing his eyes and letting his head go limp on your lap, still sucking gently on your shaft well past when there was nothing left to give. You shudder, the heat and the mess and the intensity of it suddenly far too much, and you drag him off of you by the chin until your spent dick is flopping weakly to your stomach, soaked with him. He’s a fucking mess, when you’ve gotten enough air in you to notice it properly. His face is blotchy and red, eyes bloodshot, neck wet and shining where the tears and the spit and the cum have all just dripped down, darkening the fabric of his shirt, his hair sticking to the sides of his face where he sweat with exertion. His crotch, you notice with a jolt, is similarly stained, gone dark and heavy looking where the grey fabric bunches over his hips. You’re not even sure when that might have happened- he hadn’t been using his hands, as far as you could tell, and the idea of him cumming into his pants hands free from sucking your dick until he cried was the kind of filthy that you didn’t know even happened to people in real life.
He coughs, swallows thickly when you brush your thumb along his jaw. Looking up at you with that same fucking face, the one that made you think you’d hung the stars and set the Earth to spin.
“Did I do okay?” There’s uncertainty in that voice, and that’s what almost breaks you. When he’d been swallowing you down with the throat of a god and whining like it was all his pleasure besides, it seems ludicrous that he would be uncertain now. That frailty is hanging over him like a shroud, and if you had any sense at all, you’d be begging his forgiveness, promising you’d never treat him like that again if he would only let you treasure him, comfort him, dwell in that darkness with him and keep him steady, keep him breathing the same air.
“You did perfect,” you promise him, combing your fingers through his hair in a fruitless attempt to untangle it, to undo what you had done to him. “You were so good, you did perfect.”
He smiles, wide and loose and goofy looking, basking in the attention as though it made up for everything. Like there was nothing to forgive. It breaks your heart a little, and you steamroll right through your own good sense once again when you lean down to kiss him. He squeaks, pressing into it with the same enthusiasm even though his poor lips have really got to be sore by now, licking into your mouth like it’s a blessing. You don’t bother to wipe the drool away from his chin, just letting the whole thing play out as messy and vulgar as it’s been from the beginning. At some point he makes it onto your lap, wrapping his limbs around you and caging you against the cushions as he’s whining and squirming, swallowing all the space between you as easy as breathing. You still manage to feel like you’re the one taking advantage somehow when you come away breathless and panting, half out of your mind and in sore need of a shower. You’re about to say as much when his stomach growls, and the wave crashes over you all at once.
He’s shy about it. Sweet and thankful when you ring up the local place to bring a pizza, laughs when he discovers the rats still working at the sticky remnants of your popsicle on the floor. In theory, everything was fine. Nothing broken, nothing to repair as he practically glues himself to your side while the television continues to roll into a series on industrial packaging. It’s still so hot in the apartment, and you’re suffocating in his arms, sweat-damp and too out of it to really do more than pick at your food. It should be cute, maybe, if a little clingier than you anticipated. So why do you feel like you’ve shattered him somehow? And deeper still, prickling at the back of your neck when he leans against your chest- why does it feel like now that he’s swallowed you down, he’s never going to let you go?
