#bear writes

[tumfullofblue]

scratch x either creative reader or lost tourist?

very much like the idea of collateral damage suddenly becoming Not That

bonus points for manipulation!

ʕ♥ᴥ♥ʔ Manipulating Scratch... sigh sigh swoon swoon.

I thought for a long time which version of him to pick for this request (thank you btw I ate the lost tourist concept UP) and decided to go with AW2 version, but a bit less feral.

This little ficlet is fully SFW and with fem!reader.

Enjoy!

ʕ≧㉨≦ʔ

”Lost, are we?”

The voice, coming from somewhere behind tall trees made you jump. Actually, that wasn’t the first jump you made; the woods were alive around you, grass moving, shadows flowing, trees making noises no wood should produce. And now this – growl, dark voice and you clutched the stripes of your backpack harder and blamed yourself for forgetting a knife, before finally, the owner of that husky voice stepped up… well, not into the light of the lamp, but closer and you took a look at him. He looked ordinary enough… but the shadows still obscured his eyes. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a jaw covered with coarse beard. He was wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, like he just stepped out of a lumberjack catalog.

You should run.

That thought crystallized in your mind the moment he showed you a smile – which was polite. Disarming. Just a little bit condescending.

"I - I'm not lost. I'm just... taking a shortcut."

A man’s smile widened - just a fraction. Just enough to make your stomach drop.

"Shortcut," he repeated, and his voice was a purr now, a rumble that settled in your chest and loosened your fear just a bit more. He was just jesting. Of course. No other reason why his words were chopped short, like pieces of meat on a board.

Like he was struggling with connecting them.

"To where?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Back to… town."

"Lost, then," he nodded as if confirming his suspicions… or hopes. "Definitely lost."

His head tilted to the side as his studied you – your backpack, your face, the way your hands trembled.

"Bright Falls… tricky place. Folk get lost a lot."

He took another step, closer to you and away from light post. You could smell him now - pine and rain and something darker, something that reminded you of old paper... and spilled ink.

"You look like you could use a guide,” a man’s hand left his pocket; he extended it towards you, took yours, clutched your fingers.

"I'm Alan," he said, and there was something in the way he said it - a hesitation, a pause, like he was testing the name on his tongue, like it didn’t quite fit.

"The storm’s coming,” he nodded towards the dark cold sky. "You won’t make it out of woods tonight. My cabin is over there. Come on.”

And because you were tired, or stupid or something else entirely you followed him. He took you away from a main path, deep into the darkness and the trees and woods grew eerie quiet around you two. The cabin appeared out of the darkness like a thought made flesh, small, wooden, a single window glowing with faintest of lights. The steps lead up to the porch, a chair rocking gently in the wind, even though there was no wind. Alan held the door open for you, gesturing you inside.

"After you," he said and you stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind you and you realized that the room was lit by a single black candle on a floor, that the walls were covered in pages - sheets of paper, covered in writing, pinned up like a madman's scrapbook.

"Welcome to my cabin."

His hand touched your shoulder. Gentle. Cold. Unavoidable.

"Make yourself at home."

Your feet were frozen to a ground. He took your backpack from your shoulders and you didn’t hear it landing on the floor; the man’s hand returned to you, fingers dangerously close to your neck.

“Been awhile,” he hissed into your ear “When some stupid girl wanders too far away from light.”

He squeezed, just enough, but it made you whimper. The man pressed his nose against your neck, breathing you in, tasting your fear and despair.

"Don't worry," he said, and his voice was almost gone now, soft and overlaying itself like two records playing at the same time.

"I'll take good care of you. I'll make sure you never get lost again."

One hand slid down to grab your hip, the other curled around your jaw, squeezing hard, tilting your head and forcing you to look at the ceiling - at the pages that covered it, the writing that spiraled in patterns you could almost understand.

"Look," he commanded. "Look at what I've written."

Your eyes scanned the words. Your mind struggled to make sense of them.

She came to the cabin.

She was afraid.

She was tired.

She was exactly where she needed to be.

"You see?" he whispered. "It's already written. Everything that's going to happen. Everything I'm going to do to you."

His hand left your throat. Slid down your chest. Pressed against your heart.

"You're a character. My character. And I've got so many plans for you."

He turned you around. Looked down at you with those dark, unhuman eyes.

"Sit," he commanded. "Stay put. And let me write you a story."

He pushed you gently toward the couch.

Your legs buckled. You sat.

And he smiled.

[tumfullofblue]

July (Optimus Prime x Fem!Reader) SFW Part 1

ʕ≧㉨≦ʔ Mama Bear fully embaraccing being Optimus Prime wife for real for real. I really do wanna commit more for him since he might be one of my oldest s/o, we talking about from straight up CHILDHOOD.

Anyway, here's a soft, summer filled and yearning (from both sides!) x reader fanfic with part 1 being SFW and part 2... not so SWF.

Enjoy! And if you want more Optimus x reader, send me requests!

ʕ¯ᴥ¯ʔ

How hot it could get in the summer? Very, very hot it seemed. The sun beat down on the Nevada desert like a hammer, turning the air into something thick and impossible to breath in, a haze that made the distant mountains waver like a mirage. The base you were assigned to was a hidden complex of concrete and steel, designed to withstand Decepticon assaults, but not, you thought, the sheer, oppressive weight of a July sun. Soldiers in their fatigues moved slowly, their faces flushed, their eyes squinting against the glare. Technicians hunched over equipment with towels around their necks. Even the air conditioning units, usually reliable, were groaning under the strain, pushing out lukewarm air that did little more than stir the dust. You proceeded to wear shorts and tank tops, despite the glares, despite your own internal monoluge of – stop it, cover yourself, you are far too fat for this. You were hot.

Maybe even in more ways than one.

And then there were the Autobots. They didn't sweat. They didn't wilt. But they felt the heat too, felt it in their systems, in the whir of their cooling fans, in the extra strain on their processors. Most of them had retreated to the shade of the hangars, their massive frames crouched low to avoid the direct assault of the sun.

Except one.

Optimus Prime stood in the middle of the main courtyard, his red and blue armor gleaming almost painfully bright in the harsh light. He was speaking with a pair of NEST officers, his deep voice a low rumble that carried across the surface, but his optics kept drifting. He watched you now, as the officers finally left, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple, your shirt sticking to your skin in a way that made something low and ancient stir in his processor. He shook himself. Physically. A visible shudder that rattled his frame.

Focus, Prime he told himself. She is a human. A colleague. A friend.

But when you looked up and caught him staring, and you smiled - that soft, tired, genuine smile - his cooling fans kicked in with an audible whir.

"Optimus!" you called, waving him over. "You look like you're cooking in that paint job. Come over here, there's a bit of shade."

He didn't need to be told twice. He strode toward you, each footfall a heavy thud against the asphalt, his shadow falling over you like a canopy. He crouched, his massive frame folding with a complexity of grinding joints, until his faceplate was level with yours. His striking blue optics studied you - the flush on your cheeks, the dampness of your hair, the way you fanned yourself with the clipboard, which didn’t help much and you wanted to throw it on the ground and maybe throw a tantrum just to spice things up.

"You are struggling," Optimus observed, his voice a low rumble. "The heat is affecting you most."

You just laughed, a breathless, tired sound.

"Yeah, no kidding. This is not my favorite season."

He tilted his great helm, dermas pressed together. Almost tentatively, he finally said, "My internal cooling system is... functioning at an adequate capacity. Would you permit me to redirect some of the airflow toward you?"

You blinked.

"You mean... you'd blow cold air on me? Like a giant AC unit?"

"I suppose I have been called worse," he chuckled.

Your grin was radiant. Optimus Prime was the handsome bot when he was joking.

"Optimus, that's the nicest thing anyone's offered me all day. Yes, please!" you quickly accepted his offer.

And so he did. You heard it first - a low hum, almost a purr, from deep within his chest. Then a soft whir, and a gentle breeze, cool and dry, washed over you. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, your eyes fluttering closed as the cool air hit your damp skin, your sweat-soaked shirt, the back of your neck.

And Optimus watched.

He watched the way your body relaxed. The way your head tilted back, exposing the long column of your throat. The way the breeze made the fabric of your shirt flutter, revealing the outline of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples through the thin, wet cotton. His ventilators hitched - a sound that was almost a stutter in his voice.

"You are... you are still overheating," he managed, his optics fixed on the way your chest rose and fell.

"Keep going," you waved your hand, your eyes still closed, totally unaware of how breathy your voice sounded or just what you were saying. "Don’t stop, Optimus, not yet… ah…”

Oh, Primus.

"There will be a cool front tonight," he said, weighing innocence. "I have... observed the atmospheric patterns. The worst of this heat will break closer to midnight."

"I," you started, and your voice is still a little wrecked, "I didn't know you cared about the weather."

His optics flickered. Something that might be amusement rippled across his face.

"I care," he sayid quietly, "about many things. Lately… I started to care---"

You opened your eyes.

When did he get so close to you?

“You care about… what?” you prompted him… but he didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t what. It was who.

You wanted to stay in his shade longer and feel the breeze that he produced just for you, but you had job to do. Before he stretched back into his full size, you touched his servo, and said so only he could hear you, "I’d love to meet you when the heat breaks. Closer to…"

"Midnight," he repeated, inclining his helm. "I will be here, little one.’"

Oh, God.

You spent the rest of your shift in a haze. You didn’t notice the heat as much, or maybe it just didn’t bother you. Optimus Prime was going to wait for you. The thought made you giddy. Made you stupid. You were a grown adult woman with a job and responsibilities and you were glowing like a teenager over a boy who happened to be a twenty-something foot alien robot with the voice of a god and the gentleness of a saint. Your shift ended at 11 PM and it took all of your willpower not to rush to a spot where you were meeting. You told yourself you weren't rushing. You walked slowly, deliberately, taking the long way, looking this way and that way, saying goodbyes and goodnights and hey, Bee, because you didn't want to seem eager, didn't want to seem ----

You rounded the corner and here he was, standing in the moonlight like he'd been waiting for hours. The air was cool - the heat had broken, just like he said. You could smell the wet earth, the grass, the night. And you could feel him, even from across the clearing, the weight of his attention like a physical thing. You stopped a few feet away.

Looked up.

Up.

He wasn't kneeling this time, and the sheer size of him in the moonlight made your breath catch all over again.

"Midnight," you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected. "You kept your word."

"I keep all my promises,” his optics flickered into deeper blue. "Especially the ones I make to you." His servo lifted, slowly, and hovered in the air between you. Your hand did the same and you propped yourself up and into the palm, where the metal was surprisingly warm and you forgot all about your weight as he lifted you closer to him. He treated you like you were the most precious thing in the galaxy, his touch featherlight, his thumb brushing across your knees like he was memorizing the shape of you.

"You wanted to meet me," Optimus said, his voice low and intimate. “Here. At midnight. Why?"

The question hung in the air, but what could you tell him? That you couldn't stop thinking about him? That every time you closed your eyes, you saw his optics, heard his voice, felt the cool metal of his servo against your skin? That you were a grown adult and you had never felt this way about anyone, let alone a being of impossible scale and impossible gentleness? That you loved and feared him and--

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I—" you started, and your voice cracked, and you were so embarrassed—

The tip of his cold thumb found your chin and tilted your face up. His face plate moved closer to his palm and you were mesmerized by the moonlight reflecting over silver and blue plates and he studied you, like he couldn't bear to have even this much distance between you, and his optics were so blue, so deep, looking at you like you were the only light in the dark. As your thoughts swirled in your head you didn’t know, couldn’t know that he was wondering the same thing.

Optimus had watched you all day. Not because he was supposed to. Not because you were a soldier under his protection. But because he couldn't stop. Because every time you moved, every time you brushed that wild curl out of your face, every time you tipped your head back to drink luke warm water, he felt something shift in his spark. He had watched you struggle through the July sun, had seen the way your shorts and tank top clung to your soft curves, had noticed the way you bloomed when you were angry and the way you melted when you were tired. He had catalogued every detail. And he wanted more. With his spark pulsing and his processors stuttering Optimus Prime wanted - desperately, irrationally, hungrily - to pull you into his arms and never let go, to make you a viability no warrior should possess.

"Little one," Optimus said, and the word escaped him before he could stop it because he had been calling you that in his head all day. He wanted more. He wanted to know the weight of you in his arms. The sound of your voice when you said his name. The taste of your skin if he pressed his glossa to your pulse point. He wanted to lay you down on the grass and worship you with every part of himself that was capable of tenderness - and he found himself capable of so much tenderness when it came to you.

But he held back.

Because he was Optimus Prime, and he was ancient, and he was wise, and he was terrifyingly gentle.

"You do not have to have all the words," he murmured. "You only have to be here. With me. That is enough. You are enough. You are always enough. And I am so very grateful that I get to see you just… look at the stars with me."

And so you did. He moved you together to far end of the base where you wouldn’t be disturbed and sitted on the ground, perching you up like a precious thing on his shoulder. He weaved stories of space and planets, of Cybertron lost and Cybertron of his dreams. He counted the stars and every so often the blue of his optics, burning with love for humans matched the beauty of cosmos above you.

You are enough, the stars said as well. You are always enough.

For once in your life, held by Optimus, cared for, loved for, you believe it.

[tumfullofblue]

*ahem* so uh. i read that post you made a while back in november about user!reader and tron/rinzler getting freaky. i know it's been a while since then, but would you mind writing more? like, tron getting weirdly attached to user!reader and needing more contact with her while he's recovering? can be as smutty as you like, we're starved for "x reader" stuff in this fandom ;3;

ʕ •̀ o •́ ʔ I did write something for our sweet Tron and not so sweet Rinzler, didn't I? I was really into Tron that end of year (still am tbh where my Flynn girlies attt). Loved your request and had to work on it despite my previous posts lol lol lol. Now mama Bear can rest a bit, don;t you worry!

Smutty and sweet, just like we like em.

Enjoy!

Everything has changed once Tron was recovered from the cruel sea and reprogrammed back from being a Rinzler. He was... broken when they brought him to you, broken in more way than circuits and malicious code - that can be repaired. No, he was broken in the way that mattered. His memory was a shattered mirror, his identity a fractured signal doomed to be replayed again and again and again. He knew he was Tron, knew he was Rinzler, knew he was used and discarded and rebuilt into something new. But he didn’t know what he was now. But you - you were the only constant, the only warm thing that felt real in a simulated cold world.

He reached for you constantly. His fingers would find yours when you sat beside his recovery cradle, his kind, tired eyes tracking you when you moved across the room. His voice - soft, uncertain, almost childlike - called your name when you were gone too long.

"Stay," he asked. "Please, User. Just... stay."

You stayed because it was the least you could do.

You were often spotted by other programs in his chamber, sitting beside him, holding his hand, talking to him, with him about nothing and everything – about the weather on your side, about the books you read recently, about how you missed me and how you afraid for him. He listened with an intensity that made your chest ache. He memorized every word, every inflection, every breath. And slowly, he began to heal. Slowly, but surely the healing brought something else, something neither of you expected.

Touched.

He began to crave your touch.

Not the clinical touch of the healers and the cold light of repair beams and diagnostic scans. Tron needed you. The warm press of your fingers against his circuits. The soft brush of your hair against his cheek. The weight of your hand on his chest, feeling the pulse of his core.

"I do not know what is happening to me," he admited one night cycle, his voice thick with confusion.

"I cannot stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your voice. The way you smell. That you are here and then… going away."

His fingers curled around your wrist and hold tight.

"I need you closer," he whispered, locking his eyes with yours. "I need... more."

"Okay," you whispered. “Okay, Tron, I will give you more."

You careful sat down, positioning his head onto your lap, being careful, though Tron tried to convince you (and healer programs) that he was being back at full functionality. Your fingers threaded through his hair - soft, programmed, impossibly real. He sighed and closed his eyes, his body relaxing just slightly.

"You are good at this," he murmured. "You are good at everything."

"I am just petting you, Tron," you laughed softly.

"It is not just petting. It is you. Everything you do is good. Everything you touch is better. I become better under your touch."

His hand lifted, finding your cheek and cupping it.

"I want to touch you," he whispered. "I want to learn you all over again. I want to remember what it’s like feeling you fall apart because of me."

His thumb traced your lower lip, his eyes turning bright, curious, hungry.

"Will you let me?"

You nodded. You couldn’t speak because your throat was tight, so you did the only right thing to do. You leaned down and kissed him.

He tasted like static electricity and when you sighed into him Tron made a small sound of wonder that vibrated through your entire body. The memories flew back of many kisses before… before…

His fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head towards just enough to deepen the kiss, and you felt the moment something shifted in him - that stubborn final barrier dissolving, the last hesitation melting away into pure, unfiltered want. He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, his eyes impossibly soft, and then he was kissing you again with more purpose, more hunger, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him and let him taste you properly.

The kiss went on for what felt like hours, deep and exploratory, his hands wandering down your back and pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"That I remember now," he whispered, and his hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist. "Can I have more?"

You nodded, breathing heavily and he smiled - that slow, wide smile that made your heart stutter - before he carefully pulled your shirt over your head and laid you back against the soft surface of the recovery cradle, positioning himself above you. He took his time exploring you, his hands tracing the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, his touch feather-light and reverent. His mouth followed the path of his fingers, pressing soft kisses to your skin until you were arching into him, breathless and aching for more. His fingers found you wet and ready and he made a soft, pleased sound that went straight to your core. He was so careful, so deliberate, his touch exploring every fold and hollow with the focused attention of a scholar studying a sacred text. He learned the rhythm of your breathing, the way your hips tilted into his hand, the precise pressure that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He learned you like you were the most important thing he had ever encountered, and when he pushed one finger inside you he watched your face with wonder, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every trembling exhale.

It was better than the first time he did this.

"Like this, my dear?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, and you could only nod and whimper as he added a second finger, stretching you gently, curling just right.

"Tell me if it's too much. Tell me if you need me to stop."

But you didn't want him to stop. You wanted more, always more, and he gave it to you with that same patient, worshipful attention, his thumb circling your clit while his fingers moved inside you in a rhythm that built and built until you shattered against his hand with a cry that echoed off the glowing walls. He watched you come apart with an expression of pure awe, his fingers never stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you lay panting beneath him, utterly undone. He withdrew his hand slowly, careful not to hurt you, and then he brought his fingers to his lips and tasted you. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring.

"You taste like memories," he murmured, and then he was kissing down your body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake until he settled between your thighs and looked up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded, breathless (who would stop him now, anyway?), and he lowered his mouth between your thighs. His tongue was everything, soft and warm and skilled, tracing patterns that made your hips buck and your fingers fist in his hair. He learned you all over again with his mouth, cataloging every sigh and every moan, adjusting his rhythm and pressure until he found exactly what made you fall apart. He brought you to the edge and pulled back, teased you until you were begging, ‘Tron, please, please, Tron—’ and then finally pushed you over with a slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue that had you crying out his name like a prayer. When he finally rose above you, his body covering yours, his eyes were dark with want and his voice was rough with restraint.

"I need to be inside you," he said, and it was not a demand but a confession, raw and honest and aching. "I need to feel you around me. I need to remember what it's like to be part of User."

You turned for him, rolling onto your hands and knees, and he made a sound of surprise and delight that made you laugh breathlessly.

"Like this?" you asked, looking over your shoulder at him, and he nodded, his hands settling on your hips with a reverent grip.

His cock materialized and though you couldn’t see it, you knew how it looked like. Impatiently, you allowed yourself one soft little whine and it was everything that needed for Tron to give you exactly what you wanted. He entered you slowly, so slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he sank into your wet heat. He was thick and hot and perfectly shaped, and when he was finally fully seated inside you he paused, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel incredible," he breathed. “Like I belong inside you."

He started to move, his hands gripping your hips as he found a rhythm that was deep and slow and devastating. He watched the way your bodies joined, his eyes tracing the way you took him, the way you clenched around him with every thrust. He was so gentle, so careful, even as his pace began to build, his fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you both.

"This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he murmured, his voice ragged, his thrusts growing deeper, reaching the places no human ever could, your mouth opening nice and wide in the soundless scream. "You are the most beautiful thing. You are everything. Let go, my dear User. I have you. Tron will always have you."

You shattered around him with a cry that mingled with his, feeling him pulse inside you as he followed you over the edge, his body shaking with the force of his energy release. He held you through it, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When the last tremors faded, he pulled out gently and gathered you into his arms, turning you so you could curl against his chest. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, his hands stroking your back with a tenderness that made you want to cry.

"Oh, to forget that it could be like that," he murmured, his voice soft with newfound wonder. "To feel you. To be happy again. To be back into you, with you."

He smiled down at you, and the Grid pulsed gently around you, as if it was sharing in his joy.

"Thank you," Tron whispered. "Thank you for teaching me what it means to feel again."

[tumfullofblue]

take care of yourself mama bear! you deserve a break from all this tension!

ʕ ´•̥̥̥д•̥̥̥`ʔ You guys are too sweet! Thank you all so much from Mama MWAH MWAH MWAH---

[tumfullofblue]

Could you write something comforting for Alan Wake? The man spent 13 years surviving the hell of The Dark Place; he's so traumatized. But now he's with us, so we can hug him and tell him that everything is going to be alright.

ʕﾉ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ It is time for Mama Bear to cosplay Rose Marigold once again and write for our dear wet sad writer! This one is a bit short, but I think it turned out pretty sweet - just a small talk at night with hurt/comfort vibes.

Enjoy!

The nightmare never ended, not truly. Not for Alan Wake. Even though his eyes were open and his body was held tightly, so tightly by you, you knew with a deep grief that he was still there, still in the Dark Place. It broke your heart to see him twitch, to hear his mumbling or find him completely motionless, eyes straining to see something in the shadows that you could never know.

“Alan,” you called for him in the middle of a night, always around 12 pm, that time when the day ends and the new begins. You could feel the man laying wide awake, body stiff, eyes still looking and searching.

“Alan,” you tried again, your hand finding his under the blanket. Usually so warm, now it felt cold. You were afraid he was having a fever, that he was lost in the darkness of his mind again, but then…

“I’m here,” you heard him whispering. “I’m… I’m actually here. With you.”

The words came out like he was learning to speak for the first time. Rough. Disbelieving. As if he had to test each syllable before he could trust it, as if speaking them was just the same as writing them in ink – once it’s out there, no way to erase them. You felt his hand twitch beneath yours - then slowly, achingly, his fingers, calloused and strong curled around your own.

"Alan…” your voice was softer now, barely a breath. "You're here. You're in bed. With me."

He blinked. Once. Twice. The searching in his eyes didn't stop, but it shifted - like a man trying to focus on something just out of reach. His throat moved as he swallowed, hard.

"The shadows," he said, and his voice cracked. "They were - they were moving. Writing themselves. I could see the words forming on the walls, and I couldn't - I couldn't make them stop-”

"Alan."

You shifted closer, your free hand finding his cheek. His skin was cold, damp with a fine sheen of sweat.

"Look at me. Look at me."

His eyes found yours in the darkness. And for a moment - just a moment - something in his face eased. The tension in his jaw softened and his breath, which had been coming in shallow, uneven quiet gasps, began to slow.

"You're here," he whispered again. But this time it wasn't a confusion. It was a realization. A quiet, trembling wonder.

"I'm here," you confirmed, your voice trembling. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hand came up to cover yours against his cheek, pressing it deeper, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth.

"I keep thinking..." He paused, licking his dry lips. "I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. That this is just another loop. Another version of the story where I lose you."

"You won't lose me." You said it firmly, because he needed to hear it. Because you needed to believe it too. "I'm right here. I've got you."

He let out a shaky breath. Then, slowly, he turned his head and pressed his lips to your palm.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured against your skin, slowly shaking his head.

"That's not for you to decide, mister Wake."

A huff of laughter escaped him - surprised, almost disbelieving. It was the first real sound of amusement you'd heard from him in days.

"There you are," you said softly, echoing the words he'd once said to you. He shifted closer, tucking himself against your side like he was trying to disappear into you. His head found the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, his strong hands wrapping around your body.

"Stay," Alan whispered. "Just... stay with me. Please."

"Always."

His body was still tense, still carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights in a place that never let him rest. But slowly, by increments, you felt him begin to relax.

"I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too, Alan."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly you almost missed it: "Thank you for pulling me back."

There would be many more nights like this. And you would face every single one of them because it would mean that he was still in his bed with you, still here, still real. And that was worth every nightmare.

[tumfullofblue]

Ma’am, may I please request some sweet sweet smut with our sweet sweet Dr Darling? Maybe some breeding kink sprinkled in? It could be dark, like how failing Dylan has affected him and he wants to rectify it, but he’s a scientist first and a man second so of course he wants a new subject to redo this, and no one’s better than y/n to make that subject with.

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ💕 At first, dear nonnie (you called me ma'am! aww!), I wasn't too sure about Darling having a breeding kink, but re-reading your sweet request?... Yeah. Yeah, I can kinda see him going deranged (more than usual, that is) and using the reader to his advantage and being so fucking smug about it too <3

Beware of a breeding kink/dubcon and if overall it's not your thing, I suggest not reading, because WE WILL be going deep in this one.

Thank you for your request and enjoy!

No beta read!

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ🎶

His assistant. His confidante. His job buddy, his girl, his little helper. All those names, all those labels doctor Darling came up for you, keeping just one in secret, in the place of his mind even he didn’t like to look into.

His experiment.

Unethical. Dark. Spitting on every single principle that held science together – not to mention the sheer iunhumaness of breaking your trust like that. But he wouldn’t break your trust, no, never. And the code of science community meant little when the stake of all human kind, of reality itself was laying on his, doctor Darling’s shoulders.

He is not smiling when you enter. He rarely does this days and it does something to you. Dr. Darling is always smiling. It is his armor, his shield, his way of convincing the world he is fine, that he, in extent is fine. But tonight, his face is bare. Tired. Hollow.

"Ah," he says, looking up from a file spread across his desk.

"Look at you. You’re here. Good."

His voice is wrong, too flat, too controled. No theatrics, no slight purr when he was talking about his favorite things. There is a faint tremor in his hands that he tries to hide by pressing them flat against each.

"I need your help with something."

You approach. Your footsteps are soft on the concrete floor. The room is cluttered with papers, blackboards covered in fractal diagrams, monitors displaying readouts from God knows what. The only light comes from a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across his face, making the dark pits under his eyes even darker.

"What is it, Dr. Darling?"

He flinches at his own name. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Casper," he corrects, his voice softer now as pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Please. It's... it's been a long week. A long month. Year, maybe? I think we're past formalities."

He stands and moves around the desk, standing in front of you, looking down at you.

"I've been thinking about Dylan," he says and you press your lips together at that name. He’s always thinking about Dylan. He’s always not ready to admit what he’s done to a poor boy. Perhaps, he will never do. But it wasn’t your time or right to judge. You were doing what you were told to do and you were good at it.

“About how he... failed. About how I, Trench, FBC failed him. I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. How I could have... prepared him better. How I could have made him a more... suitable... subject."

His fingers reach for your face, brush your cheek, cup it and hold it as your mind struggles to process just what he was talking about.

“And I keep thinking... you are so much more than he ever was. So much more... receptive. I just didn’t know it was possible."

His eyes find yours. They are brown and warm and terrible. There is something hungry in them, something that has been waiting for a long time, something that was finally, finally free. You found yourself unable to look away from his eyes even if your heart dropped down.

"I need to try again," he whispers. "I need to do it right this time."

He leans in. His forehead presses against yours, his warm breath brushing against your already parting lips.

"I know what this sounds like," Casper says. "I know how this looks. But I need you to understand — I need you to say yes – you trust me, don’t you sweetheart? I-I’d never hurt you, I’d never--”

He is asking, but it is not a question.

He is offering, but it is not a choice.

He doesn't need to do any of those things because you are already nodding, already leaning into his touch, already surrendering to the gravity of his need, saying ‘yes, Casper, I will do anything, Casper--’. He gently turns you around, bends you, presses your head onto the warm wood of his desk, kisses the back of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair. He murmurs soothing nonsense, his hands stroking your shoulder blades.

"There we go," he breathes. "There we go. Just relax for me. Good girl. I've got you."

Pressing you down, down, his warm hands slide up your body, over your neck and grip your hair at the base of your skull. He tangles his fingers in it, pulls your head back, exposes your throat to the cold air. You are vulnerable. Open. His.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "So beautiful. So willing. So perfect."

His mouth finds your throat. His teeth scrape against your pulse. His tongue traces the column of your neck. He tastes you, breathes you, marks you.

"I am going to breed you," he promises. "I am going to fill you so full that you cannot remember a time before me. I am going to plant my seed so deep inside you that it takes root, that it grows, that it becomes something new, something that will finally be right."

Still holding your hair with one hand, another one dips into your skirt, work them open, pulls them down. Faster, faster, you beg him in your mind as fingers find you wet and ready and wanting.

"You are already aching for it," Casper observes, his voice wondering.

"Your body knows what it needs. What it was made for."

He positions himself between your thighs, working on his own pants, pushing them down just enough to expose his hard length, now resting heavy between your cheeks. A thin, needy sounds tears from your throat and you push yourself onto him, so now it was you, only you who wanted this, needed this. He is so much, so thick, so deep, filling you in a way that edges pain and pleasure together until you cannot tell the difference.

"There," he groans. "There you are. There you are."

He moves, fast, rough, relentless, his hips pound against yours, driving deeper with every stroke.

“You feel incredible," he gasps against your skin.

"So tight. So warm. So perfect for this."

His voice is in your ear, low and ragged and praising.

"You are taking me so well. So deep. I can feel you clenching around me, pulling me in. You want this, don't you? You want to be filled? You want to be bred?"

"Yes, yes, yes— oh god, doctor Darling, yes!" it’s not your voice who answers him, it’s not your thoughts filled with lust and pain and pleasure and fear of what he was doing to your willing body.

"You feel that? You feel me inside you? That's - that's science, that's creation, that's our salvation - "

The table scrapes against the floor. Your nails scrabble at the metal surface, seeking purchase, finding none.

"You're going to look so beautiful," he groans, his voice breaking with need.

"Full of me. Growing. Swelling. Everyone will see. They'll know what you did. They'll know what you carry!"

His hand slides from your hair to your throat and presses. Not enough to cut off air, but enough to feel the pulse of your blood under his fingers. Enough to remind you that he could. That he will if things go wrong, if you so much as think about doubting him.

"You're going to be a mother," he whispers, his voice reverent.

"The mother of a new generation. The mother of salvation."

His thumb finds your jaw. Forces your face to the side so he can see your eyes.

"You're going to birth something beautiful. Something powerful. Something that will save us all."

He pounds into you harder. Faster. His breath is ragged, his control fraying.

"And I'm going to be there," he gasps. "I'm going to watch you grow. I'm going to measure you. Study you. Document every change."

His hand slides down your belly, presses against the place where he is buried inside you, feels himself moving in you, feels the stretch of you around him.

"I'm going to know you. Know you better than anyone ever has. Know what you need before you need it. Know what you want before you say it." His forehead presses between your shoulder blades as he keeps on destroying you and keeps on for so long, so perfectly endless that you forgot what it’s like not to have his cock inside you. Finally, doctor Darling spills into you with a cry that is almost a sob. His body shakes as he pumps his seed deep inside you, filling you, claiming you, marking you. You moan in desperation feeling it feel you, feeling him pump it deep into your womb, feeling the moment he claims you completely.

"So good," Casper says, shaking, still burried inside you. His hand strokes your belly. Gently now. Reverently. He eases out of you slowly. His seed drips from you onto the table, a glossy stain on the warm wood. He watches it with clinical, satisfied eyes.

"I'll clean you up," he promises. "Don’t worry, sweetheart - I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything. I have so many tests to run after all. Hormone levels. Baseline measurements. Genetic screening. I need to know what we're working with - "

He catches himself. Blushes. Looks at you with guilty eyes.

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. You must be exhausted. You did so well," he says. "I am so proud of you."

This is what you wanted.

This is what you chose.

Isn’t it?

[tumfullofblue]

Bulking Up (even more) (Ghost x Fem!Fat!Reader) (NSFT)

ʕ º ᴥ ºʔ YALL THOUGHT I WAS JOKING HUH.

Okay, idk if it's fine that I've played zero CoD games, but I'm a simple gorl - if he's mean, masked and sexy, I just TRY and attach my belly kink on them. With them. Whatev.

As I asked in a post earlier, this is a lil smutty fantasy of hitting the gym with intentions of loosing weight, only for the big mean Ghost putting an end to it and giving you very VERY high calorie drinks. This is a very much self indulgent weight gain kinky stuff so...

Enjoy!

It starts innocently enough. You're finished with your workout, sweaty, your thighs, arms, stomach shaking, your gut starving for something to fuel you. You trudge toward the locker room, dreaming of a shower and maybe a protein bar, or something more substantial... Then a bottle is shoved into your hand. Ghost is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes crinkling behind the mask.

"Drink up, luv." His accent curls around the words like smoke. You blink and examine the bottle - chocolate protein shake, already mixed.

"I—"

"You'll need it," he interrupts, pushing off the wall. "Can't have you wasting away, can we? You're already small enough."

He pats your hip. Firm. Possessive. You know damn well you’re not ‘small enough’. Not even close. That’s why you hitting up the gym anyway. And yet… his words land just right.

"Drink."

You do. It's crazy good. Thick. Sweet. Expensive in the way it slides down your throat and makes you feel full before you even finished. Ghost watches you swallow all too intently.

"Good girl."

The next day, he had brought you another bottle after your leg day, vanilla this time.

"You look tired," he observes, his voice mild, amused. "Need to keep your strength up, don't you? All that squatting. All that abduction exercises."

Oh, so he's been watching. He grins under the mask, you’re sure of it. There’s a catch, but you’re to tired to think. Or maybe you can’t think when you notice his tank top clinging to his pecs – who knows?

"Drink."

You do. The bottles keep coming every day now. Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry. Some weird flavor he claims is banana but tastes like chemicals. You can't say no. You don't want to say no. His eyes light up when you drink. His hands find your hips more often. His fingers dig into the softness growing there – as in, more softness growing there.

"You're filling out nicely," Ghost remarks one evening, his hands spanning your waist.

"Getting proper curves on you. Soft. Plush." He squeezes. Lifts. Releases. You’re ashamed because you feel yourself--

"Bouncy."

You turn around and swat at his chest.

"I'm trying to lose weight, you bastard!"

He laughs - a low, warm sound that rumbles through his chest.

"Are you? Could've fooled me. Seems like you're gaining it just fine. Don't worry, luv. I like you bigger. More to hold."

Some weeks later, you cross yourself and stand on the scale. It’s lying. It must be. You've gained 10 pounds. Ten. In two weeks. You stare at the number in horror. It’s not like you didn’t notice it – surely you were smarter than that. Your work out leggings grew tighter. And your tops (even the oversized ones!) are snugger. Your thighs chafed more when you walk. And there was only one to blame…

You find him in the weight room.

”What the fuck is in those shakes?" you demand instantly. You will get your answer and you will not let him distract you.

"Protein,” Ghost shrugs as if it’s the most obvious answer. "Lots of protein. And some carbohydrates. And maybe a little bit of creatine. Maybe some mass gainer."

"You—" you sputter. "You've been fattening me up?"

"Course I have, fatty." The word hits you low in your belly. Hot. Wrong. Perfect.

"Just look at you," Ghost murmurs, his hand sliding down to palp your ass.

"Softer. Rounder. More to grab. More to love." He squeezes. Hard, the flesh spilling between his calloused fingers.

"You're a proper little thing now. Plump. Squishy. Fucking perfect.And you know what else? I’m not even done with you.”

Something unlocked in you now. Some part of you that cling to weight, that loved the way you were filling up, loved being made that way by someone.

"Look at you, waddling around." He watches you walk across the gym, his eyes tracking the sway of your hips.

"Not. Waddling."

"Could've fooled me."Ghost falls into step beside you. "Getting proper wide in the hips, aren't you? Pushing against the seams of those leggings."

He reaches down. Pinches the fabric at your thigh.

"Hear that? Threads screaming for mercy."

You glare at him, a blush spreading around your round cheeks. 

"Don't worry, luv. I'll buy you new ones. Bigger ones. Preggers ones."

"Okay, that's---"

"Locker room. Now."

The air in there when you closed the door is thick and steamy, still carrying the ghost of the sauna’s heat, but the real warmth is radiating off the wall of muscle that is Ghost - pinning you against the cold metal of the lockers with his bulk, his breath, his utter fucking disregard for your personal space. His hands are everywhere.

"Well, well, well," he murmurs, his voice a low, lazy drawl, thick with that Northern rasp that scrapes down your spine like gravel.

"Look at you. Fat little thing gone and swollen up like a bloody balloon." He pinches the soft flesh at your hip, rolls it between his gloved fingers with a clinical fascination that makes your stomach flip and your protest die on your tongue.

"Feel that? That is progress, that is. Proper progress. I can actually grab a handful now, and believe me, luv, I've been dying to do so." His other hand slides up your ribcage, palming the underside of your breast through your sweaty top, weighing it like a piece of fruit at the market.

"And these - fuck - these have gotten heavier, haven't they? I can feel the difference. More to fill my hands. More to suck on. More to make a mess of." He squeezes hard enough to make you gasp, and his eyes - those dark fucking pits behind the mask - crinkle with amusement.

"You know what I think? I think you like it. I think you like feeling bigger. Softer. More fucking abundant." He drops his hand to cup your belly - that new big curve of softness that sits above your waistband, round and warm and perfect.

"I think you like knowing that every shake I shove down your throat is making you fatter for me. My little fatty. My little project." He presses his palm flat against your belly, pushes gently, feeling the give of it, the plush resistance.

"You're getting a proper tummy on you. A real belly. I can feel it squishing against my hand." His thumb traces your navel through the fabric. "I love it. Love how you feel. Love how you look. Love how you're so fucking greedy you can't help but gobble up everything I give you."

He spins you around. Shoves you face-first against the lockers. The metal is cold against your cheek, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressing into your back. His hands grip your hips - hard, digging into the flesh - and he pulls your ass back against his groin. You feel him. Hard. Thick. Pressing against the damp fabric of your leggings.

"Now," he breathes against your ear, the skull mask brushing against the shell of it, "let's take a proper look at the progress, shall we?" His fingers find the waistband of your leggings and pull them down, exposing the curve of your ass, the soft swell of your hips, the new width of you. He makes a sound low in a throat that reminds you of a caged animal.

"Fuck me, look at that. Look at that fat arse. It's spilling out of my hands. I could burrow in here. Live in here. Die in here." His thumb slides between your cheeks, presses against your tight hole - just a pressure, a promise, a threat.

"All that protein. All those shakes. Straight to your arse. Straight to your tits. Straight to that fucking greedy little cunt that's soaking through your panties right now."

SLAP!

He strikes your ass. Hard. The sound echoes off the tiles, of the lockers, of the universe.

"I can smell you, luv. Smell how wet you are. Smell how much you need it." He drops to his knees behind you. "Let's see if all that gaining has made you taste any sweeter."

His figners shove your panties to the side, pules his mask up just enough and Ghost's tongue sinks into you. Deep. Wet. Fucking devouring. You cry out. Your hands scrabble against the lockers. Your hips push back against his face. He laughs against your cunt - the vibration shooting through you like a current - and pulls back just enough to speak.

"There she is. There's my greedy little fatty. Chasing my tongue like a starving thing." He slaps your ass again. "Patience, luv. We've got all night."

He feasts on you. Licks and sucks and bites at your folds until you're shaking, sobbing, dripping down his chin. He pushes two fingers inside you, crooks them, finds that spot that makes your vision white.

"That's it. That's my good fat girl. Fattening up everywhere, aren't you? Even your cunt feels thicker. Plumper. More to fuck." He pumps his fingers into you. "You're gonna come for me," he growls. "You're gonna come on my fingers while I talk about how fucking fat you're getting. How soft. How round. How perfect for me."

You shatter. Your body convulses. You bite your fist to supress your screams and you would have fallen if his hands weren't holding you through it. echoes off the tiles. He then pulls his fingers out slowly, brings them to your lips.

"Taste yourself," he commands. You suck his fingers clean. He watches you do it, watches you enjoy the taste of your own humilation. Ghost turns  Turns you around and looks down at you - sweaty. Flushed. Absoloutely fucked out of your mind. 

The bastard barely broke his sweat. He patted your cheek as if you were a dog who just got a treat.

"Same time tomorrow, fatty," he murmurs. "And bring your appetite. I will give you a new source of a protein to gobble down."

[tumfullofblue]

So… hear me out… Abstracted Gummigoo pouncing on f!reader…

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ" Mama Bear hears you out and gives you something to pounce upon yourself! NSFT/DUBCON ahead!

Enjoy!

ʕ•̫͡•ིʔྀ

The void between adventures was supposed to be empty. That was what Caine said, anyway, when anyone asked where abstracted NPCs went.

"They're GONE, my dear players! De-rezzed! Abstracted! Poof! Bye-bye, back to the digital æther from whence they came! Nothing to worry about! Nothing to see! Nothing lurking in the dark spaces between the code, waiting, watching, needing—"

And then usually pop-goes-the-Bubble and change the subject all too quickly. But Caine, as it turned out, lied (or refused to talk) about a lot of things.

You'd found the crack by accident. A seam in the circus tent that shouldn't have been there. A glitch in the striped wallpaper that flickered when you touched it. And because you were you - curious, defiant, always pushing - you'd slipped through.

Down into the dark.

Down into the spaces between the ones and zeroes.

Down to where the deleted things went.

Down the rabbit hole, down, down, down----

The void ended up freezing cold. Not the simulated cold of the digital lake, but something deeper. Something that seeped into your code and made your pixels stutter, the pure lack of even the concept of warmth. The darkness pressed against your eyes like wet velvet, and the silence was so complete you could hear your own simulated heartbeat - thump-thump, thump-thump - echoing in your ears. And then you heard something else.

Breathing.

Low and deep and ragged, like a wounded animal trying to stay quiet and it was coming from somewhere ahead of you - or what passed for "ahead" in a place with no directions. You followed it (because what else could you do?), your footsteps making no sound on the nonexistent floor, until the darkness began to shift, to thicken, to take shape.

He was huge. That was the first thing you noticed. Gummigoo had always been big - broad-shouldered and tall, a proper crocodile bandit standing bipedal who could block out the sun with his silhouette. But this... version of him was wrong. His form flickered and stretched, pixels glitching at the edges, his body wasn’t made of green and yellow gummy candy which reminded you of summer days and sticky hands. He had scales, pocking out here and there – dark, muddy, almost organic. It looked painful. It made you sick just looking at them. The texture of real reptilian hide, rough and ridged was catching the nonexistent light in ways that made your stomach flip. And he was looking right at you.

"...mate."

His voice was the same. God, it was the same. That deep, rumbling Australian drawl, roughened now by something that sounded like static and starvation. It vibrated through the void and into your bones. You missed this voice.

You never heard him.

"I remember you," Gummigoo breathed, his massive form shifting in the darkness.

"I know you. You're not her - not the little jester who was kind to me. But you... you're like her. You're real, aren’t cha? You're one of… THEM."

He moved closer.

"They abstracted me," he growled, his voice dropping to a snarl before cracking into something more broken.

"Caine... he said I was just an assest. A prop for his adventure. Something to be thrown when the fun was over. But I didn't go. I didn't go. I fell down here. Into the dark. Do you know how long I've been down here? Do you know what it's like to be forgotten? To be erased but still aware? Still thinking? Still wanting?"

His massive paw shot out and grabbed your chin - not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make you gasp. The texture of his scales was rough, so different from the smooth, gummy skin he'd had before.

"I've been wanting for so long," he rasped, his golden eyes boring into yours.

"Wanting to be seen. Wanting to be touched. Wanting…"

His jaw opened, and a tongue - long and dark and glitching at the edges - flickered out to taste the air.

"...wanting to remember what real feels like."

He pulled you closer. His body radiated heat - strange, generated heat that had no business existing in a void between code. The scales of his chest were solid and rough against your front, and you could feel the rumble of his breathing through every inch of your own form.

"You're real girl," he repeated, his voice a desperate, reverent whisper.

"You're real and you're here and I've been so alone—"

The word cracked in his throat. His grip on your chin softened. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, claws gentle against your scalp.

"—so ALONE, mate. So empty. Can you... can you fill me? Just for a little while? Can you make me feel real again?"

The darkness pressed closer. His body caged you in, the tail, long and thick and ridged with those organic, impossible scales, coiled loosely around your legs. There was no escape. No way for you to break out of the animal’s embrace. His tone changed. He was desperate, hungry, thirsty and you were there and easy to consume.

And consume he did.

A snarl tore from his throat as his maws closed around your throat, his body pushing you down to the nonexistent floor. The breath stealing coldness was replaced by the animal, primal heat of his body as he methodically tore at your clothes, each rip of fabric feeling like a final sentence. A deep part of you wanted to cover yourself up, to escape, to run away. Another, deeper one, felt the presence of a predator and stayed put. Your pulse hammered against his tongue and you felt him taste it. Taste your heartbeat. Taste your fear.

"Real," Gummigoo snarled again against your throat, the word vibrating through his teeth and into your bloodstream.

"You're so real.”

Gummigoo lowered himself over you, his scales rough and hot against your bare skin, his tail unwinding from your legs only to push them apart with insistent, muscular pressure. His warm, sticky snout pressed against your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs, leaving trails of that hot, glitching tongue wherever he went. You shuddered and moaned, despite your fear, your terror. His claws found your bare chest, circling dangerous close to your nipples.

"I'll make you feel good, little ripper," he promised, his voice dropping to a desperate, rumbling whisper against your most sensitive flesh, feverish.

"I was always good. Even when I was the villain. Even when I was just a joke. I was good to her, and I'll be good to you, and you'll - you'll stay, won't you? You won't leave me here alone in the dark again?"

His tongue flickered out, tasting your wet core with a hunger that bordered on worship.

"Say you'll stay," he rasped, his claws grinding over your soft stomach before gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. "Say it. Say it, little ripper, say it, say it!. I can't be alone again. I can't be forgotten again. Not after this. Not after you."

You gasped again, your hips twitching towards his snout, his mouth, his teeth. You would sell your soul to the devil if it meant that he was going down on you again.

“Y-yes!” you rasped, a needy, loud sound, louder that you intended. You didn’t care what you said or what it meant or what Caine might do to you if (or when) this will be over – him, him, only him, that was the only thought in your head.

"Now that’s a good girl," Gummigoo growled, the praise dripping from his tongue like melted gummies. "Good little ripper. You'll give me what I need. You’ll give me everything."

His maw descended, and words became irrelevant. The first stroke of his tongue over your cunt dragged a scream from your throat. It was too much - too hot, too textured, too deliberate. His tongue wasn't the smooth, simple thing of a gummy candy crocodile. It was long and dark and rough, ridged like his scales, it curled and flickered and pressed against your entrance.

"Sweet," he growled against your trembling oozing flesh, the word garbled and glitching.

"You're so sweet. Not like candy - not like the gummy stuff I was made of. Real sweet. Human sweet. I can taste the salt and the heat and the—" His tongue thrust inside you, reaching deeper than any human cock could, and your back arched off the void-floor with a pathetic sob. "—the life. You're so alive. So warm. I want to drink you. I want to drown in you."

His claws gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for his feast. The points pressed into your flesh just hard enough for blood to come out in drops.

"More," you gasped, the word tearing from your throat before you could stop it. Your hips grinded against his snout, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick, ridged scales of his head.

"Please – Gummigoo - more - "

He laughed against you, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your core and made your vision white out. His tongue curled inside you, thrusting and lapping and feasting with the single-minded intensity of a creature who had forgotten everything except the taste of you. He stopped talking all together, focusing only on your taste, on your smell and a little bit on the restraint of not closing his jaws around your mound. He huffed, lapped, snarled, smearing his saliva and your juices over his snout and you were certain you were loosing your mind, babbling and pleading for God knows what.

"Please - please, Gummigoo, I can't - I can't— - it's too MUCH, I need - I need - "

He didn't answer. He just huffed again, his breath hot and damp against your slick folds, and plunged his tongue deeper. His snout pressed harder against your mound, his scales rough and ridged and smearing your own wetness back onto your skin. He was marking you, claiming you, covering you in the evidence of his devotion until you smelled like him - like burnt sugar and static and the dark spaces between the code. His tongue thrust deeper, curling against a spot that made your vision white out, and the restraint nearly snapped. His jaw convulsed. His claws tore furrows into the void and you came, loud, clear, all over his tongue and the void between you.

His tongue left you, but his claws were still on your legs. You realized – he was still hungry. It was just the beginning. He wouldn’t let you go until you were completely and utterly broken.

Just like he was.