Ghost pulls you against him in the dark, gear and all, claiming he's trying to stay warm. It gets cold at night, after all.
You relax after the initial unexpected contact. He's always been considerate. Just a teammate trying to keep hypothermia at bay.
Suddenly he reaches around you, his hand maneuvering between your legs. He shushes you, calling you a good girl. He covers your mouth when you get too loud, then rubs you through your uniform until you come.
He knows you're a virgin. Says it's one of his favorite things about you, that you're in no hurry to do something foolish with just any bloke.
You believe him, until later he mumbles in his sleep something about taking your virginity. You lean in closer, just in time to catch the part about the guys making a bet...that he plans to win.
Tw. Noncon/Dubcon, kidnapping, invasion of privacy, fisting, yandere
Yandere Nerd who fucks you so frequently in so many different ways that he jokingly starts to collect data on it.
"You've cum 23 times this week without penetration. We can definitely raise that by this time next!"
He keeps neatly color coordinated graphs and charts of the amount of times you'd had sex with him, how many times you came, what different types of toys and kinks you seemed to like the most, and more. He'd write thousand word research essays on the topic while fucking your face under the table. He'd look down through fogged glasses and make sure you'd swallow before he got the motivation to continue on for the next few pages.
It's almost impressive how well organized he keeps track of everything.
Yandere Nerd who explains what he's working on like he's talking to a dumb dog.
"You see, it's quite interesting to find that there's no significant difference between how much you cum from when I spank you versus no spanking when I play with your ass. I think we need to repeat this at least 30 times each to see if there's any further development."
You never imagined that dirty talk could be so dull. Though, he probably wasn't trying to turn you on using anything other than brute force, sheer, will, and a closet worth of sex toys.
Yandere Nerd who likes to stretch you out on increasingly bigger and bigger toys.
His cock definitely is not the size of his fucking arm, but it's not even about his pleasure at this point. He just likes seeing you all whiny and sobbing while begging him to take his fist out of your poor, abused hole. He won't listen at all! How mean :( . In fact, he'd probably measure how large your stretched out entrance gapes after every session and then time how long it would take for your quivering form to go somewhat back to normal.
Yandere Nerd while, mid fuck, suddenly decides to share the good news with you.
"The paper I wrote on you got accepted into a journal!"
How that fucking happened, you don't know, but all of a sudden detailed descriptions of how often you cum on a daily basis were suddenly up for anyone to see. You ended up crying when you read the journal, too humiliated to feel anything but anger and utter embarrassment. He rubs soothing circles into your back while trying to comfort you, but he's not exactly slick with the way he's pulling out his camera to record your reaction.
What!? This is valid data! Now if you're going to be the subject of further studies, then you have to be at least a little bit more cooperative with him, okay?
summary : You're on the hunt for an unsub who's forcing his victims to perform carnal acts or die. What you don't know is that he's set his sights on you and your colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid.
tags/warnings : no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, fuck or die, noncon/dubcon, nonconsensual filming, kidnapping, voyeurism (additional tags on individual chapters)
CHAPTER ONE : like machines do : spencer and our leading lady find themselves in a tricky situation
CHAPTER TWO : you know you're better than this : things start to heat up between our stars.
CHAPTER THREE : too late to stop : our pairs on screen chemistry is tested.
CHAPTER FOUR : and you look half dead half the time : our couple prepares for their final act.
do u see the potential for creep!suguru... noncon, groping, panty shots, stalking, dry humping, public sex, generally icky behavior, dead dove do not eat
Creep!Geto who isn't an old man with a beer belly, no, he is a handsome young man with long lustrous hair, a sculpted body, a high libido and an untreated porn addiction.
Creep!Geto who is flunking at school because he stays up every night watching porn and being depressed. And who's vision of the world ultimately shifts because of that.
Creep!Geto whom with you unfortunately share a train with. You go to your own school and he goes to his. You know each other from looks, maybe a few gentle smiles from your behaf. Unfortunately for you, he is always happy to dissociate imagining what panties you might be wearing under your uniform skirt.
Creep!Geto who has something that makes your skin crawl.
Creep!Geto who takes the oportunity when the train is particularly crammed.
Creep!Geto who stays close to you. A familiar presence should be comforting, how wrong you are. He makes sure to stay on your back, where he can "accidentaly" press his bulge against the curve of your ass. Where he can sneakily take a panty shot with his phone. And who jerks off furiously to the image later that night.
Creep!Geto who takes the oportunity every single time the train is packed. Rutting against you like a dog humps a bitch, snapping a picture beneath your skirt, jerking off to it, rinse and repeat.
Creep!Geto who wants more. And will have it.
Creep!Geto who gets bolder every time, and your shame doesn't allow you to scream. Hands with exploratory fingers that linger under your skirt, tracing the pretty curve of the exposed flesh of your ass and upper thigh. Tracing your slit through your panties. Who takes your hand and forces you to palm him over his clothes.
Creep!Geto who makes everybody uncomfortable when he's obviously discreetly fucking you in a corner of the train. Nobody says a thing, nobody minds him letting the trains motions allow him to fuck into you at a slow pace.
Creep!Geto who makes you walk home with your panties soiled with his cum every time from that day onward.
Summary: Every Wednesday your schedule consisted of attending classes during the day, and satisfying the needs of a sadist through the night.
Warning: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Violence, Kidnapping, Isolation, SociallyAnxious!Reader, Blindfolds, Stalking, Knives, Blood, Gore, Stockholm Syndrome, Smut (+18) mdni, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Insertion, Fingering, Rough Sex, Erotophonophilia, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Dacryphillia, Sadomasochism, Gunplay, Deepthroating, Breeding Kink, Unprotected sex
A/N: Hell is empty
4k Words
You're strapped in a chair, like always, and you are blindfolded because he doesn't trust easily.
It's terribly annoying.
At any point of during and after your little 'arrangement' you could have called the cops. Doesn't he understand that?
Every Wednesday, you're taken from the warmth of your apartment, and you're delivered right back at 00:00 on the dot, every Thursday with barely an inch of life left in your bones. You'd either always come back wet, with semen sliding between your thighs, or with mysterious marks- old and new- crawling underneath your sweater. Whatever mood he was in, he'd always leave you feeling sore.
It should have bothered you.
The thought of seeing this large, domineering shadow-in-a-suit every Wednesday should not overwhelm you with all these feelings of excitement. Instead, you should do like all the mentally ill girls do and just get some fucking help.
But you want him to trust you, for some reason.
Which was utterly ridiculous considering the fact that to him, you were something akin to a porcelain wind up toy for his amusement. You had no business requesting he remove the blindfold aspect but still, you asked anyway. Toy's couldn't be trusted, could they?
"I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to wear one of these everytime I visit your place." He removes the blindfold, and in a second, your vision is filled with nothing but him. One moment you were in the cozy warmth of your dorm room. Curled up on the couch while your roommate spends her youth effectively- out with boyfriends and friends and everything you didn't have. You answered the front door when you heard his special knock, like you always do. You walked with him to the cab. You let him put on the blindfold. You said 'I'm fine’ when the taxi driver got a little too nosy and you let him lead you away from your boring life.
If only for a few hours.
You'd let him do whatever he wanted for those few hours because such surrender was almost sacred. You forfeited your safety in his hands, to do with it whatever he pleased and in that, you found rest. Whatever happens, happens.
Forget this room- what was essentially his personal dungeon, windowless, red and boasting various torture objects- your eyes are only on him.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to kidnap me anymore? We do this every Wednesday," You become more childish around him and he lets you. Like you forgot you are a fully autonomous university student. There was power in that too. "Surely we've established some sort of trust?” He doesn't respond to you immediately. You crane your head up at him, hungry to lock eyes with his cold, empty slits that enchanted you body and soul.
You are in love with him, perhaps.
That's a logical response isn't it?
You laugh almost.
Listening to yourself try to rationalize your fondness for such a horrible man.
Said horrible man is silent. All you hear is the clicking of his dress shoes as he moves to the leather seat directly across from yours. Your eyes scan over all his movements.
The right corner of his lip quirks up. A small coffee table creates the only distance between you and he bends over to pour you both a generous glass of Brandy on the rocks. You don't drink it. Ever since he's been bringing you here, you never do. He knows this, yet still he pours.
"This relationship isn't about trust." He says finally. Something inside you, that is perhaps a little broken, actually purrs at the sound of his voice. You're hyperaware of your thighs squeezing together on the leather seat. They're spilling out of the sundress you purposely wore today.
Lots of your clothes were for the function of comfort. Your body was full and curvy and not always something to be advertised, unless you wished it to. Tonight, you wanted to show off as much as possible.
A thick leather band is keeping both your wrists locked to the armrests, while he sits back, free and so irrevocably in charge it should scare you. It should. But the sick and incredibly deranged thing is that it doesn't.
Outside, the rain is beating down on whatever building you're in, casting a thick veneer of grey all across the city.
But inside this velvet room... your heart is hammering inside its cage as you watch him undo the buttons of his crisp suit. A black one today. Jet black like his hair.
Although-
"You've got more grey in your hair than last week." You can't help but say.
He tilts his head in inquisition. "Are you insulting me or complimenting me?"
"I'll leave that up to you to decide," you shrug your shoulders as much as you can under these limited restraints. At least he hasn't restrained your ankles this time. Progress. "In here, you're the boss. Right?"
He takes a sip of his drink until finally, you've finally locked eyes. Your bare toes curl and your back arches slightly as you sit a bit straighter in your seat. Like you're in a lecture hall, although he is far more interesting than any of your professors.
"I'm not as young as I used to be," he finally says as he takes one more sip of his drink before bringing his briefcase onto the coffee table. Its presence is ominous and so horribly loud for an inanimate object. It kickstarts all your dormant nerves, revving up all the rest of your senses that have yet to catch up to the fact that you were facing the man of both your desires and nightmares once again.
"Who have you told about our arrangement?" The question causes you to roll your eyes. He watches the petulant movement with that same, silent smile and blank eyes. He unclicks the briefcase. Your stomach lurches and your thighs squeeze together. Pavlov's dog.
"Every time you ask me-" an object clinks onto the table. A butcher knife.
You try to pull your eyes away from the objects he's placing on the table, one by one. "Everytime you ask me if I've told anyone about our arrangement-" another object. A wooden spoon beside the knife. "Everytime I tell you the same thing."
Your throat closes when he uncovers a dildo. Bright pink and fucking menacing. "Carry on talking." He says, snapping your gaze away from the objects lining the table.
"I don't have any friends." Your voice is wobblier. You try to deny the sight of the rabbit vibrator, "It's the reason you picked me." You clear your throat as you hoped to clear all the nerves beginning to fog your mind. "Someone could've followed me here. B-But I don't really know anyone enough to care." The final object that clunks onto the glass coffee table and this time, you're unable to look away.
"Are we ready to begin?"
The metal revolver laying quiet and undisturbed beside the rabbit vibrator makes everything else on the table look like children's toys. Even the butcher knife.
You pull at the restraints, your legs quivering slightly as you shift and writhe in the seat. He studies you as closely as you were once studying him. You can see the excitement begin to flood his eyes at the physical manifestation of your discomfort.
"Now you're getting it." He nods sardonically, taking another sip from his glass before placing the briefcase on the floor beside him. "You were a little too happy to see me," he joked, letting out an airy exhale of laughter.
"You wanna hazard a guess as to what we'll be playing today?" He's smiling, genuinely. With that look in his eyes you can tell he's hovering in the clouds. Meanwhile you've begun to feel real fear. No matter how regular these visits might become you'd never get used to him. It's impossible. Not when he found new and daring ways to torture and pleasure you every single week. You couldn't get used to something as brash and unconventional as him. Like the conditions of a child in a broken home, he kept his tactics inconsistent so that every week is a new hell or perhaps- depending on his mood- heaven.
"If I guess wrong?" You swallow thickly and something dark in him settles. He spreads his legs more, there's a twitch inside his lips before he smiles again.
"Well, guessing isn't the game, so you'll be fine."
You nod your head... assessing the objects. There's menacing objects and household objects. Even just looking at them you can tell what they all have in common.
"Am I going to have to insert-"
"You're not guessing." His voice booms. He rests his elbow on the armrests, his hands corded with veins seem itching to do something, you're not sure what. "I said guess." He commands.
"Hide and seek?"
He snickers, "A favourite-"
"More like your favourite." You snip back, "I couldn't sit down the whole week." You frown at the memory. That week he'd brought you to an abandoned warehouse, letting you run the entire perimeter full.
"It's in your best interest to keep coming to our sessions-" he reminds you, snapping you back into the present.
"You're paying my university fees, I'm not complaining." You nod, before plastering a thin smile on your face, "All I have to do every week is prostitute myself to a literal sadist-"
"Have you given up on guessing today's game?" He didn't like you making him hyper aware of the fact that this dynamic, whatever it is, is considered objectively bad. And so you're not surprised when he swiftly moves past the topic.
He leans forward. His large hand disappears under his chair before uncovering a small whiteboard. Four lines- 2 horizontals are running across 2 verticals, creating 9 blocks. He stands up, while your eye is still focusing on the board. From your point of view it sits underneath the row of objects on the table. You don't even realize your right wrist strap is being untied.
"Colour?" He asks, pushing a crate of whiteboard markers towards you. With your now free hand you pick the pink one.
He snickers. "Predictable." He whispers before placing a large, domineering hand on your head. He presses down your braids, patting you like a stray he's rescued from the cold. You stare aimlessly ahead, fearing you won't be able to contain everything you've begun to feel for him if you lock eyes now.
"We're playing tic-tac-toe," he relents. His hand lingers on your head a bit longer before he's stepping away.
"With a twist, I presume?"
"Clever girl," he nods, walking back to his seat. "So you're aware of the objects."
"Place a gun in front of a girl and she's going to notice."
"Paranoid girl." He tsks before leaning forward.
"You want to start or should I?"
"Wait-" you swallow, "What happens if I win?"
He smiles that dazzling, debonair smile.
"You pick which one goes inside you."
Lightning cracks across the sky. A chorus of thunder roars all at once like some kind of phenomenon and your lips stutter open.
"Th-That's insane I-"
"I shouldn't have to remind you that you came here out of your own volition. "
"What happens if you win?"
"Then I choose." He says.
Your eyes skate over the object. It doesn't take an ivy league graduate to hazard a guess as to which of the objects he's itching to stick inside you.
"There's a fucking knife here-" You're trembling. Tears are pooling in your eyes. It doesn't even matter that you're a somewhat decent tic tac toe player. It doesn't matter that you're confident in this game. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
"And there's also a spoon," he nods, neutrally, "And a vibrator, and a dildo. Etcetera. Etcetera." He leans forward, unclicking his whiteboard pen, "your words are just words, Darling. You're just listing things. Start," he says, with a deadly lilt in his voice. "Or I will."
You scramble to uncap your marker with one hand, all while he watches with dead and black eyes. You knew that whoever starts the game was placed at a big advantage and so you're nearly scrambling to place that dignified X in the center block.
"Clever girl." He says once again, drawing his blue 'O' directly beside your pink 'X'. You aim for the block above him. He blocks it. You aim for the block beside the center. He blocks that too.
Your victory comes too quickly. You barely feel it as you strike a line vertically through the blocks. 3 X's.
Relief washes over you but it's overcast with doubt. Like you're celebrating in trepidation as you watch him stand up.
"Congratulations! Which do you choose?"
"I can pick anything?" You ask, staring up at him, bright eyes wild with the adrenaline that comes with wanting to preserve your organs.
"Anything you want, my little winner."
You begin to lean over. His eyebrows quirk up when you wrap a small hand around his wrist.
"I pick that." You say breathlessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his hands at his side. And you watch as he walks towards you, as if compelled by an unforeseen force. His palms are calloused underneath yours and you blow out several unstable breaths as he stands above you. So imposing it's breathtaking.
"You sure?" It's the way he asks it that has you second guessing. And perhaps he sees the caution seeping into your eyes because there's excitement lurking in his. Before you're even able to formulate a response, his hand is locked tightly around your esophagus, vacuuming all pathways shut until you're writhing for air.
"A fine, fine choice," He's becoming more and more riled up the more you writhe in your seat, trying to scrounge for a single breath of air. He doesn't let you. Instead he moves behind you, before leaning down.
If you could breathe, you would shiver at the feeling of his lips behind your ear. "Here we go-" he whispers, before reaching around your torso with his free hand before forcing your legs open. The second he lets his three digits stab into your cunt, he uncurls the grip on your throat as you make a horrid sound somewhere between a moan, a scream, and a haggard gasp. "FUCK- Sl-Slowdown-" you knew better than to request something like that. All you hear is a snicker from behind you as pain blossoms all across your nether regions. He's not gentle. He's not kind. He doesn't allow you to adjust to his fingers before he's scissoring them inside you, causing a blood-curdling scream to rip itself out of your throat. Your back is arched and you're trying to get away from him but the fucking persists.
"You've been wet like this for me the entire time?" He sounds absolutely demented, behind you, "You wanted this didn't you?" He bites at your ear as the first tears begin to pool at your eyes, "My little winner."
"P-Please stop-" His fingers are restless inside you. Curling and uncurling. Scissoring and stabbing as if wanting to open you up and split you all the way in half.
"What a pretty little pussy, huh? Look at what a mess you're making."
"When-" you can't form words. "When- Stop?" It's all you're able to say as your nails dig into the material of his suit.
"The sooner you cum the sooner it stops."
You doubted your ability to cum under these circumstances. He's setting an ungodly pace and it's all so hurried and in a frenzy, it's like your brain does not have time to understand if you even like what's currently being done to you.
"What- Do you want you want my help?" you begin to shake your head. "I'll help you, baby-"
His other hand reaches over and pinches your clit.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm is quite literally forced out of you. Your hips writhe and your ass tries to leave the seat as the first feelings of pleasure rip through you by force. "That's it, Clever girl," he coos, still curling his fingers inside you, "That's my Clever girl." He says once more before stilling his movements. For a second you just sit there, trying to collect your breath while he's still inside you. All at once, his hands are removed from your body.
He grabs a handkerchief from his breast pocket and you watch him clinically wipe his hands before erasing the marks on the board with the same cloth. A very clear boner pushes against his black slacks yet still his face is calm.
"Alright, My turn to start-"
"WHAT!? B-But I won." You scream, absolutely seething with desperation.
"You know everyone who plays 'X' has a significantly higher chance at winning-" You say with your eyes narrowed. He nods.
"And you know that too, which means we each should be granted alternating times to play ‘X’. Regardless if you won or not." You slump in your seat, suddenly far too aware that your bare cunt is exposed.
"Don't mope." He says, "It's not cute." Before drawing his 'X' in the center.
You close your legs, sitting upright with a new zeal of self preservation as you grab ahold of your marker.
You draw your pink 'O' underneath his.
You both play many more rounds. All ending in ties. This is how you play- with a frazzled grip and closed legs. A shiver every now and then overcomes you with the gravity of your aftershocks. His snickers bring your eyes up to his. He speaks as he makes his move.
"You're so focused on blocking," he sighs, "You're not even trying to win anymore-"
"I'm not letting you stick a knife in my cunt." You nod in finality before blocking another move.
"Not even if I say please?" He asks, making a faux pout.
"Fuck off."
"In that case, I have to win."
Your heart kickstarts as he pushes his pen to the board. Images flash across your mind. Blood splattered across his gorgeous face. Your blood as he fucks the sharp end of a knife inside you. You nearly vomit while he speaks. “Easy as-" you block him.
"Tic-" you block him again.
"Tac-" you block him some more
"Toe- I Win."
A victory that somehow escaped your vision. He strikes a line diagonally through the squares and your stomach sinks. He stares at you from across the room. His eyes so deeply satisfied you can feel it radiating off of him in waves.
You lower your teeth to the other restraint, violently trying to free your left wrist from its oppressive hold. And you watch as the devil slowly rises.
Your heart aches. Your brain is sent into complete alarm as your flight or fight kicks in and your sympathetic nervous system fires.
"Now, which one would look pretty inside you?" He drags his fingers along the objects, undoubtedly an act of taunting. You stomp your feet on the ground. You try to push the chair underneath you but it's plastered to the floor.
"Please!" Tears are running thickly. They cloud your vision. You don't even see the way his smile falls enough for him to rub over the bulge in his slacks.
"Fuck," he says gravelly as he relents and picks up the gun. "You're so fucking pretty when you're scared out of your fucking mind. You know that?"
You shake your head as he nears, wondering if this might really be the end. Has your body become too worn out by his games? Has the time for him to discard his toy finally dawned on you both? Is he all grown up with no need for such things as toys?
"PLEASE-NO-"
"Open your mouth." He's standing in front of you, your head directly in front of his raging bulge.
You shake your head, trying to move away but he rips your face towards him. "Listening to me is the only choice you have to make it out alive, Baby. You wanna live, don't you?" He's nothing but a tall figure, with the overhead lights shining around his head like a halo. Your face right by his bulge.
"Little girl needs to go to school." He nods, eyes fluttering shut, "She needs to complete her studies and get a good job so she wouldn't have to meet with scary men like me- Fuck-" it riled him up to no end to have you scared of him. You suppose it triggered a part of him that craved attention. He needed to feel like he existed and if that was reeped from fear then so be it.
"Stick the barrel in your mouth," the bottom of his hand coaxed open your jaw, and, as if on autopilot, you listen. Perhaps there is a way out of this. Perhaps you should just listen.
"That's it... Fuck," he brings your free hand up to rub his erection "That's it, Baby, stick it inside your mouth." Cold metal hits your lower teeth, "Stick it in like you would a cock." He says, looking down at you intently as your tongue unfurls and you suck the barrel in. "Shit-" he places his other hand on the back of your head before forcing you to take the gun deeper down your throat. He's trembling. Far too badly. And so is his finger on the trigger.
"Fuck, you're such a fucking whore, you know that?"
You're gagging and flailing around the barrel, saliva slides down.
So desperate to please him.
In your hast you don't even realize your left hand that had been restrained is now free. Your eyes are closed.
Please him.
Just please him and you'll live.
"That's my brainless girl..." he praises and that rouses something in you. It has your hips bucking against nothing.
"Such a stupid girl..." he continues, "You're gonna ride me, aren't you? You're gonna fuck me so good-" You're not about to tell him that sex wasn't supposed to be apart of this game. You're not stupid.
You faintly hear the sound of a belt unlooping. A zipper siding down. "You're making me so happy, baby." He admits before effortlessly lifting you from the chair until you're straddling him.
You're free.
When did that happen?
"F-Fuck, I need you to ride me." His head is leaning back against the chair. His tie hangs messily from his shirt that has two buttons undone.
You're free.
"Don't try anything," he warns, as he lifts you enough to pull his cock out of his pants. "Matter of fact. Keep it in your mouth while you ride me-" He slams you down onto his cock the very second those words leave his mouth. He's fucking into you with recklessness and fury and violence. His hair falls in his face but the gun is too heavy, without a hand there, it nearly slips from your mouth.
He's careful to catch it, forcing the barrel back in your mouth as he places a hand on your ass, controlling how your ass bounces on his lap. The gun offers motivation like no other. It has you arching your back and swirling your hips as you tighten your cunt around him.
He sticks the gun down too far and you gag. "You trying to get me to cum, huh? You little slut-" you nod, the tears still spilling as pleasure begins to stream through your brain. It has you excited by the prospect of being held at gunpoint. You realize with grave certainty that you've arrived at the point of no return.
"What a good girl- fuck-" he's ramming up into you, his hand on the gun twitching like his cock does. "I'm gonna fucking cum- FUCK-" he does and your orgasm immediately barrels into you at the exact same time. You try to ride him, to milk it as much as you can, to continue to make him happy.
"Such a stupid fucking slut-" he whispers, eyes hooded as his hips still spurt cum into you.
Your ears perk. You see his finger on the trigger move. You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear a click.
"Such a silly girl." You hear him say. "Don't worry, Baby, it isn't loaded." You're still in your body. You're still alive, on his lap, your sundress unfurling around you both.
he's my man (he's gone quite mad) | dean winchester/reader
summary; after you call dean "daddy" during sex, you think it's the end of your non-committed-but-also-committed relationship that only seems to exist in his truck. but you're quick to learn what dean truly thinks of it; in a very graphic manner.. 7.4k words.
content; heavy smut + angst. vaginal sex. slight dead dove. trucker!dean. manipulation. dacryphilia. biting/breeding/degradation kink. use of pet-names ("daddy/dad"/"sweetheart"/"kid"/"baby"). fauxcest. asyphyxiation. (slight) demon!dean. public sex. age difference (20s-40s). open ending.
any notes? there's quite a bit of an angsty set-up, but i believe the sex is nasty enough to make up for it! i hope. lol. um. yeah. bit of an open ending (and also a bit of a demon!dean for you guys).. just in case we require more of nasty trucker!dean. nevertheless, enjoy. also on ao3.
The evergreen trees that pass by your window are a blur, as the truck whizzes down the open highway. Breathing in the cramped air of the cabin, it’s heady, almost slick, with the scent of stale snacks from gas stations and an undertone of liquor. Some rock song of a band popular before your time, one that you– no, Dean loves is playing on the radio. Every now and then, there’s the interruption of crackling static, some other trucker cutting into the feed to give an update or so on some road works. Neither you nor Dean care.
Memories for how you got here are blurry. You’d like to say that you met Dean, but it was rather the opposite; he met you. Or really, he found you.
Some rundown, greasy bar a few months back, when you were strapped for cash and debating on whether or not that stripping was a good option (spoiler; it was not), and he, just trying to score with some denim-wearing, hard-hitting woman. You can easily remember what you were wearing– something skimpy and itchy, probably not even your own clothes, what having gotten your shit stolen at the last motel you spent yet another sleepless night at. Thankfully, you managed to hitch a ride with some conservative-looking family, who dropped you off at a bar. The bar– the one you met Dean at.
Dean must’ve been there for hours before he approached you. And somehow, you never noticed him there. Not once. Never snuck him a glance, never looked at some stranger with a rugged, albeit attractive, face, and a voice that made your thighs come together. Then again, you were too busy counting your meagre handful of loose change, pathetically flirting with anyone who came across your way in order to get a free drink. All of this worked, until Dean towered over you as he ordered his next drink, a warm hand on your shoulder as he said to the bartender, “and.. whatever this sweetheart had. Get her another one– on me.”
Somehow, one drink turned into three, and before you knew it, Dean had spent more time talking to you than the woman he clearly was failing to get. And you told him everything; everything that led you here. And he was kind about it. Hell, he offered his room to you– “don’t worry, ‘m not gonna try anythin’. You just look like you need somewhere to sleep,”– said he’d take you anywhere you needed to go. All he asked for in return was that you wouldn’t leave him lonely.
You could’ve run. Could’ve declined this stranger’s offer. But by that point, you weren’t really sure what you were running from– much less going to. And Dean had hell of a lot more than you did. Beside, his motel room had two beds. It wasn’t like anything would be happening between you two. He, the Samaritan; you, the poor and feeble in need of dire help.
It’s not like he took advantage of you or anything. He just gave you a second chance at life. Hope.
And now, you’re here. Riding with him wherever he goes, living on the road. Getting to his second-in-command, or as he likes to call you, his “passenger princess.. sweetheart,”; all complete with a protective glint in his eye and a hungry grin plastered across his face. But you don’t mind. Don’t care.
You stopped caring once Dean fucked you for the first time. Stopped the truck at some abandoned gas station because you were “bein’ a real brat, kid, and I told you that I’m not takin’ that shit in my truck,” and proceeded to pull you from the cabin, bend you over a gas pump and fuck you for no one to see. Pushed his cum so deep into your eager cunt that you’d had a brief moment of total panic that you could get pregnant. Fantasied about having a baby– Dean’s baby– and feeling yourself grow warm and heavy with the idea of being tied to him forever. Maybe this isn’t a bad way of living.
..So. Except for the other few times that you’ve had sex with Dean, complete with its slightly disturbing power imbalance and his carnal need to correct your “behaviour”, things have been normal since.
And yet, there’s something about this journey that isn’t like the others. It isn’t normal. You can’t quite work out why it feels like that; that the already cramped cabin seems smaller than usual, or how Dean doesn’t change the channel when the songs on the radio are the stuff that you like. Everything is like it’s tailored to you, for you. As if you’re a dog about to be put down, and your owner is trying to give you the best day possible. Or some dad about to drop his daughter off for college, fearing that he’ll never see her again.
That being said, it really does feel like the latter. To the point that everything you said in the motel room last night comes flooding back to you like a sickening blow to the head. How the waitress at the diner said that it was rare to get fathers and daughters spending time together around these parts, or how there was only one bed in the room and you really did have to sleep with Dean for once– no excuse of saying your own bed was too cold and lonely, and him begrudgingly letting you sleep in his own.
Or how, as he bullied his pulsing cock into your dripping hole because you were continuing to complain about how cold you felt, you called him it.
Daddy.
It was like a memory slip; nothing to think too hard about. But you know what it really was. Something that would’ve had Freud rolling in his grave. Because though you’d never admit it aloud, that in a way, Dean was like a dad to you. One that fucked you, that is.
And it’s not like things were bad with your own father. You just never had that typical father-daughter relationship that you’d seen on the TV as a kid. Maybe there were times where he wasn’t there for you, and maybe he didn’t always support you in the way that you wanted him to. But those memories are all sun-bleached, fading away in the deep background of your mind. You couldn’t give two fucks to where your father now is.
Anyway. You’re more focused on the events of last night to think of anything else. How Dean then continued to pound into you in complete silence, barely even gracing you with one of his pretty grunts as he came deep inside of you. Eventually, all you got, comfort-wise, was him holding you tight because you’d started crying because of it. Telling you that, “hey, ‘s fine, sweetheart. Jus’ gotta no overthink this. It was just a mistake,” and stroking your hair. But the things is, it wasn’t a mistake. You knew exactly what you were doing by calling him that. Daddy. And to think that you weren’t even drunk when you said it, either.
“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, with your face buried in Dean’s bare chest. You remember breathing in the scent of the body wash that you got him as a late birthday gift, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and suddenly hating it. Hating everything. “I didn’t mean to say that. It’s– fuck– I’m sorry–”
Dean shaked his head. His fingers were still interlaced in your hair. “No, don’t do that, kid. You don’t need to apologise.” And whilst you wanted to believe him, some part of you couldn’t. Some bitter and black part of your heart told you that this was it; the moment that breaks this fucked-up dynamic between the two of you. That tomorrow, wherever you stopped, he’d leave you behind for good. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
But you did. You did mean to say it.
And now, here on your final drive that you’ve dubbed swan song, you can’t help but think about it. Overthink it; overthink everything. Think about the life you would’ve had if you hadn’t gotten in this truck with Dean. Wondered how much of this situation– you can’t call it a relationship; you’ve never once believed that Dean truly loves you– has been some strange, delusional fantasy that you’ve crafted in order to make up for something drastically missing in your life.
There’s not much to write home about for Dean– except for your soul-binding love for him, and a desire to suddenly drop to your knees and let him have his way with you. You’ve basically carried it with you since the first day you met.
The problem is that it’s one-sided. Clearly. There’s this invisible, unmoveable wall between the two of you, and no matter how many times you claw at it, do something reckless on a hunt to break it down, it springs up again and again; typically more threatening than the last time. A sign from the universe that the two of you can’t happen.
Not that you care, anyway. You’ve never cared for him– despite what you’ve said.
Because, deep down in a small part of you that’ll never see the sun, is your infatuating love for Dean. And he’ll never know about it, and you’ll never do anything about it, because it’s wrong. The truth still twists your insides into violent knots, though.
There’s a lot of reasons as to why it’s wrong. The biggest is that he’s older than you– though that’s never stopped anyone before; it’s the type of shit that would make people subtly judge you for fucking somone as old as your father– the type of guy to call you “kid” and see you as his little sister, and actually mean it. But he also holds doors open for you, and can recall your favourite fast-food order without you even asking him, and remembers all the smallest details about you.
Sure, Dean doesn’t get emotional. He takes that “macho guy” shtick to the extreme sometimes, but he does have feelings, and he can express them. It may be the wrong time and wrong place, but it shows that he does give a fuck. A bigger fuck than most men you’ve met, anyway. All of it has to mean something– at least to you it does. There’s also his personality, and whilst it wouldn’t hit big on the dating apps (eh, depending what you’re into), you don’t mind it. You’ve spent enough time with him to know that this is how he is. There’s no changing it.
The trauma between you two could fill entire oceans, and then fill them up some more. And it does not make him a terrible person, like your girlfriends back home like to believe (when you’ve eluded to some mystery guy you’ve been seeing, but also not been seeing. “It’s complicated!” you claim, and then fuck off for another few weeks or so before you have the nerve to call them again to remind them that you’re safe), because you’ve seen literally every side to him. Dean’s the best type of man that one can be. Nobody will ever compare.
What you know is that you’re crazy– for Dean. Being away from him leaves you feeling as if he’s dug his hand into your chest cavity and ripped out your heart, walked away and dripping blood, left you to die. Death. That’s what this feels like. Being without him is death. And you’d really like to die now–
“Bein’ awful quiet today, kid. Thought you said that you’d never fall asleep on me, hm?”
And there it is. The feeling that he’s ripped your heart from your chest. It takes a minute for you to come past to the present, to mentally untangle yourself from the intrusive spider’s web that your brain has cocooned you in. You turn to Dean. You’re taking in the sight of him– his watchful eyes that really should be on the road, but aren’t; slight stubble on his face because he didn’t shave this morning– inwardly swearing that the worn seat of the cabin is somehow eating you alive. Well, you’re pretty sure that you’re sinking into it, sinking under Dean’s gaze that sobers up into something incorrigibly unidentifiable.
You’re not going to be able to get through this. Not alive, anyway. Dean once told you that he killed things– back in his youth; some quiet tales of what his own father told him was the family business, tales that he only tells you when he’s seriously feeling up to it– so you wouldn’t be surprised if he did kill you.
But he doesn’t seem to take much notice of your blooming fear that permeates the air of the cabin. Whether it’s your sudden silence because the guilt and shame of last night eats at your skull like a screwworm, or just you in general, he seems too far away to actually care. Like there’s something else on his mind that won’t stop eating away at him. That’s something else you’ve admired about him; that when he puts his mind to something, he won’t stop until he’s satisfied.
You’ve always put him above the rest. Doesn’t matter how kind the men you used to date were, or how hard they tried to get you into their beds– none of them compare. None of them can hold the world in their hands whilst simultaneously burning it down.
And now, Dean’s burning your world down. “Um– I’m fine,” you manage to reply, albeit weakly. It’s embarrassing how rough and tired your voice sounds, even though you haven’t been sleeping. “Just..”
“Just what? Thinking? Look, I know you’re a smart girl an’ all, but I didn’t think you were the type to actually put effort into that,” Dean shoots back. You can tell he’s being playful, going along with his whole thing of you being a fool for trailing after someone like him like a lost puppy. But after last night, it feels like he’s pierced you right in the heart. Like he’s degrading you for being so fucked in the head over him.
You scoff lightly, bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying over how you’re misinterpreting his words. “Hm. Maybe I’m trying to think of a way to make you my dad.” You’re just trying to make light of the situation, a shitty joke that you know that he’d laugh at, but Dean doesn’t. Instead, something flickers in his eyes. It’s not anger, nor frustration, but what you believe to be concern, and maybe a bit of tenderness. “Sorry. Bad joke.”
“Yeah.. that wasn’t great, kid.” Dean grimaces like it actually pains him, even though you can see a sympathetic smile trying to break through. But it’s just another violent, wretched tug on your heart. He’s still watching the road, the warm sunset light glowing like an ember before him and reflecting its warmth onto his tanned face. You can’t stop watching him. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice this. He’s talking again before you can say anything else. “I know ‘m not exactly your dad, but–”
“–But maybe you should be,” you find yourself saying, interrupting whatever spiel he was about to heave onto you. As if you’re not already heaving enough– both internally, with your myriad of emotions, and externally, with the fact that you’ve thrown up before from how sick you feel for Dean– and you instantly regret it.
He frowns slightly. “What d’you mean?” he replies, finally looking at you. In a way, you wish he hadn’t– heady eyes that suddenly seem so mute and damp. As if someone’s wrung the life from them. The frown he gives you, this one that’s nothing more than a warning, is like a punch to the stomach.
You know that whatever you say won’t be bought by Dean. Not unless it’s the truth. This man knows you inside and out– maybe not in a literal sense, but he can read you like it’s nothing. He’ll keep pushing and pushing, like someone digging their fingers into a bruise and increasing the pain, until you finally snap. Now, when you open your mouth, you’ll spew the truth all over him.
Ashamed, you quietly admit, “I wish you were my dad.”
Your face is on fire as you blink back whatever blurs your vision. Tears– those are, unmistakably, tears. The cabin of the truck is forcefully lulled into a silence. There’s only the sound of the engine, but soon enough that cuts out as well, as Dean pulls into an empty gas station. You could almost laugh at the sudden deja vu you get. It’s just the first time he fucked you.
Dean feels warm, even just sitting next to you, like the sun has suddenly crash-landed into this truck.
And it’s easy to fly too close to the sun. Literally. It’s easy when your sun is a 6’1 mess, stitched together by eternal brooding and parental issues that’d give Freud a forever boner. But you still choose to fly.
You’re not sinking into the ratty seats anymore, but rather, his touch. With one arm lazily slung over your shoulders, you practically collapse into him, cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers are itching to hitch your shirt up– you can feel the way he hesitates as he ghosts his hand over your spine, like there’s something he wants, but can’t have. Like he needs to touch you.
You open your mouth. You shut your mouth.
“Can’t be sayin’ shit like that, sweetheart,” he mutters, and you feel his chin resting on the top of your head. Biting back a sigh– or something unsavoury that you’d very much like to say– you breathe in his scent of cheap cologne and whiskey. It’s familiar, it’s comforting. It’s all you’ll ever know.
He sounds so desolate that it makes you more sick than you already were. Your vision blurs tenfold. “what are you talking about?” you ask, as if you don’t know the answer. But Dean doesn’t reply. He just holds you. In truth, it’s scary; he’s never this quiet. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? Please– Dean. Whatever I did, I won’t do it again. Please talk to me.”
Suddenly, Dean has you by the shoulders. It’s a shot to the heart. You’d rather he did dig into your chest and rip your heart out, leave you bloody and (literally) heartbroken, but he doesn’t. The drastic rejection of his touch makes your eyes ache with the need to cry, your face growing warm.
He’s trying to let you down gently, you think, trying to do everything in his power to convince you to let him leave your life. Or, maybe, it’s just a disguise; him actually putting himself first, and ignoring your schoolgirl crush for him. chalks it down to you being some lovesick puppy, a girl obsessed with a man almost twenty years your senior. Probably a day in hell for him.
And it’s selfish. It’s truthful. It’s mean. It’s right. You hate how honest he is, and you hate how wrong he is. You were surviving on your own for god-knows how long before he crashed into your life, before he took you in– and over. You don’t want to lose him, not now and not ever.
“Shit.. ‘m sorry, kid. It’s not anythin’ you’ve done.” He’s no longer holding your shoulders as tightly as before. You can tell that he’s tired and stressed, you can see it in his face, and it does all-sorts of dangerous things to you internally. You want to scream at him, tell him he’s wrong, but you can’t find your voice. “There’s so much more out there– you know that. You still have a chance to make somethin’ of your life. And you really shouldn’t be sayin’ that about me.”
And there it is. Nothing good comes of you opening your mouth, ever. It’s best to swallow those uncomfortable words, the ones that sit in your throat and choke you like a vice, and pay the price later.
You’re breathing so hard that all you can hear is your ragged breaths and blood rushing to your head. You’re sick with something unforgiving and unkind, and all the while, Dean just stares at you. Just stares. He’s always been hard to read, though over the months that you’ve gotten better at it, but now, he’s as unreadable as ever. Like a photo faded with time and age, the ink turning to bleached sepia. For a second, you don’t recognise him. Not in the same way like this morning, no, but because he shields away his true emotions as that’s all he knows how to do.
“Why?”
Dean’s brows furrow, and then they don’t. His eyes darken, and then they don’t. It’s as if he can’t decide what he wants to feel, what he wants to be. “‘Cause you just shouldn’t.” His voice is controlled, emotionless, and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest. He’s pulled away entirely now and he can’t even meet your eyes.
Your chest aches. It’s familiar; unfamiliar. Feelings you’ve swallowed time and time again because the consequences scare you. They’re dire, bound in barbed wire and leather, and you know that your imagination will get the better of you, leading you to some out-of-reach dream. You’ve seen it happen before. Dean would be no different.
“But that’s what I want.” The words pour out of you, and you’re unable to stop yourself; your bitter anger, those wretched feelings you’ve been holding onto are forcing you to get it out, purge yourself off all these things you’ve held back on. Your heart claws inside of you, begging for release, and you’re pretty sure that, along with your words, you’ll end up spitting up that blackened organ. “I do sometimes think of you as my dad. Not in, like, a weird way or anything.. I don’t know. Maybe it is some weird thing, I’m not sure. But I love you. I love you.. daddy. So much. Please, Dean–”
“Don’t beg.”
In what seems like a split-second, Dean’s gone from zero to a hundred, switching his attitude with you like he’s changing clothes. He’s stern, his brows furrowed as he crosses his arms over his chest. For something so simple, you can’t pretend that it doesn’t turn you on.
“What?”
“I said, don’t beg,” he repeats, staring down at you with those pretty-boy eyes, ones you’ve looked at so many times but currently don’t register as his, and all because they’re full of hunger and lust. Your chest feels like it’s contrasting dangerously fast. “You’re not playin’ that game with me, kid.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean– the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. Followin’ me around like some lost dog, behavin’ with me like– like that. And I can see it in your eyes, y’know? That you want me to keep you around.. for good. Give me a damn good fuckin’ reason to keep you as mine. You always have.”
You don’t know how to respond. You’re forced to listen to Dean continue, list every single thing that he’s been picking up on. It’s funny– you never thought he saw you like that, if you’re getting the right vibe, obviously– but it’s also.. sad. You thought that he just used you for a fuck because he couldn’t score at the bars. And you’re also embarrassed to admit to any of it because your thighs are getting sticky and your cunt aches so badly that you wish you were alone to take care of it.
But when you think back on it, you know that he’s right. The way you two act is an interesting mixture of strange and horny, like two teenagers practicing abstinence or something. Time where the public was too close for comfort, with stolen and small touches that he got away with because you were oblivious and needy. Then cut to nights at some nondescript bar, where you were forced to watch him flirt with women actually in his age bracket, and all the while your underwear would get wet with the bitter thought that it should be you being licked and bitten at by him.
..Or him locking his arms around your waist, your neck, if some guy looked at you in the street. They were probably minding his own business, wondering what the fuck a girl like you was doing with a guy like this, and yet, Dean would decide that everyone within a ten-foot radius had to know that you belonged to him. You just thought that it was sweet and kind; protecting you from creeps.
Just like a dad would do with his daughter.
That was never the case, though, was it? And now that you’re finally forcing yourself to relive every tiny, insignificant moment you ever had with Dean, you’re seeing the signs; he’s got the same fucked-up, perverse love that you have for him.
Maybe it’s not so one-sided after all. Maybe it’s more than you being an occasional fling.
“Sweetheart, ‘m gonna fuck you right here; right now.” Dean’s got you trapped between the seats and his body now, one arm around your waist and the other by your head. His lips are wet, the slight slickness bursting like a ripe fruit as he bites down on it– a subconscious restrain– and he brings his face closer to yours. Your noses touch. “Need you before I do somethin’ bad, kid.. to you. Gotta let daddy put a baby in you, and then you’re gonna be mine for-fuckin’-ever.”
And that’s the last thing he says before he presses his mouth to yours. It’s instantly messy, nasty– all tongue and teeth– like he’s played this out in his head; some muscle memory from a dream. You simply let him take you, whimpering when his teeth come down on your lip, melting into his touch that’s so rough and yet so tender. You never want him to stop.
Your hands find his hair, getting buried and lost until you start tugging on it– harshly enough that he grunts against you, his hand groping firmly at your waist. He pulls you onto his lap, dragging you against him and feeling everything, whilst his tongue rolls over yours. You’re moaning, practically getting drunk off of the way his jean-clad cock presses into your cunt. You’re soaked at this point, underwear beyond saving.
And whenever Dean pulls back, you catch a glimpse of his face– the same one that looks at you like you’re the sun and moon and everything inbetween– his mouth lightly glistening with remains of your lipgloss and your saliva. Then, he goes right back to devouring your mouth, consuming you like an animal in heat.
“Tell me,” he pants against you, as you feel his hand snake its way up and under your shirt. You wince when his rough fingers harshly grope your tit. “Tell me how bad you need me, kid.”
“I need you,” you whisper, grinding your hips into his. “I need you so bad.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought– need your dad that badly? That right, baby?”
Your dad.
You pause briefly, almost pulling away from him, but he holds onto you tighter. You try to fight back, but he maneuvers you so that you suddenly find yourself under him, your back meeting the firm cabin seating. All like you weigh nothing. All with zero warning.
“Dean!”
But he takes no notice. In the small space, he straddles you much like he has before, and yet this is so drastically and obviously different. All you can do is squirm underneath him. And though something in your head tells you that this is wrong, for whatever inexplicable reason that you are yet to find a meaning for, you do pick up on the fact that you don’t fear him. Your heart doesn’t race like it normally does when he fucks you like you’re nothing to him. There’s no strange slick that coats your stomach and makes you want to purge, nor no foul taste in your mouth that rots your teeth like acid.
One thing is for certain, though– you’ve never felt safer with him.
You’re holding your breath as one hand slides under your ass, the other taking your hand into his and clasping your fingers tightly. You shift slightly, wrapping a hesitant leg around his waist. You’re pinned open under him, body splayed out and ready for him to savage. The warmth that radiates from him travels straight through your body, right to your core, and you relax a little.
He leans in, pressing fleeting, feverish kisses to your lips. You’re eager to have something full, something that means something, but he doesn’t let you.
“Gonna take care of you better than he ever did,” Dean mutters against your lips, repeating it over and over like a sick mantra. Or maybe he’s trying to distill this taboo belief into you; that he really can replace whatever your own flesh and blood was. How your thoughts, your ideologies, your being; everything that has ever made you you, will now be controlled and belong to him. “Gonna be the dad you never had, yeah? Gonna listen to me an’ do what I say, baby?”
And the worst part? You believe him. You’ve been so delusionally in love with him, so ready to do whatever he says, that if he suddenly told you to slit your wrists and kneel across fire for him, you’d do it. You’d do anything that Dean asked– no questions.
His nose nudges yours– a silent ask for you to let him do his thing– as his mouth travels down your throat. His slight stubble scrapes your bare skin, before he pauses just around where your pulse lays. You close your eyes as he sinks his teeth in; it’s enough to bruise, maybe even enough to bleed. And you know that’s the case when you feel him tongue the space, that all-too familiar feeling of blood seeping from broken skin.
“‘M not gonna hurt you, kid.” Dean’s reassuring– as much as he can be– grasping onto your hand even tighter. A shiver washes over you, ice-cold tendrils piercing you directly in the spine, and all you can do is whimper. Meanwhile, he’s working at you, biting and kissing and licking, like an animal demanding its mate to surrender.
“I know you won’t.” Your voice comes out as a murmur, almost a question– something black and unforgiving, like bone-marrow in your bones breaking and seeping into your bloodstream. Your body arches up into his, desperate for any and all friction you can get from him. The small bouts of resistance you’ve felt have succumbed to need. It’s heady and aching. “I know you’ll look after me.”
But before you can ramble on– or make anymore protests as your brain turns to mush– his mouth is back on yours, devouring you. It’s all so wanting and rough and angry, but never once do you pull away. You melt under his unforgiving touch, lost as your pathetic little sounds get swallowed and drowned out.
His hips grind furiously into yours, both hands now pinning your wrists above your head. Bone meets the callous metal frame of the door. “Gonna make you forget whatever fuckin’ plans you had f’your life– make you forget everythin’,” he groans as he ruts against your cunt. “Won’t need anyone, but me.”
You’ll allow him to bring you to salvation. Each and every time.
Those walls you’ve spent all of your life building up– stronger than the last ones; the ones that he broke down before you ever realised– come crumbling down. Then again, did they ever matter? It’s not like you truly got over him, you realise, as you practically throw your arms around his neck. You’re breathing him in, taking every single thing that’s wrong with him and letting it corrupt you. Turn your blood to poison. Your virtue to pitch. You want whatever the fuck is wrong with him to be a part of you.
And yet, you don’t. But it’s not like you can object to that– not when every complaint just becomes another moan of want and need, swallowed and lost into the sea of depravity. Another bruising grip of your wrists; another feverish grind of hips; another tendril of dread envelopes your body as you notice how he holds you down like a disobedient dog.
Your saliva and gloss remains on his lips as he finally pulls away. You’re left back against the seat, stunned, forced to wait in some ugly silence as Dean drags your jeans down impatiently. You swear that he starts salivating as soon as they’re off, and your barely clothed cunt is on display for him. You’re in a flimsy pair of panties, dark blue– worn as if you could sense this was going to happen. Also a pair that Dean bought for you, just like everything else he buys for you.
A dark laugh catches in Dean’s throat. “All f’me, sweetheart?” He breathes out. With that, he hooks two fingers and rips the pair apart at the waistband. The heat that emanates between the two of you hits your bare cunt, and you’re pretty sure you grow wetter. He’s tearing at his own clothes next, and then his hand comes down on your hip. It’s firm, just enough to stop you squirming. “Keep movin’, and I won’t hesitate to make it worse f’you.”
Your hole clenches around nothing, just like how your throat constricts. There’s something in the way he says that, delivers that threat with just enough melted saccharine that clogs up your brain like molasses and conceals that bitter taste of his poisonous words. You hear it in his eyes; see it in his tone. If he loves you, needs you like he says he does, he won’t hurt you.
He told you as such. In just a lot less words.
And whilst Dean’s busy teasing your wet cunt, you allow yourself a sneaking glimpse of him. The sight alone makes your mouth water, and your cunt seize; you honestly don’t know how he’s going to fit. Seriously. He’s big, definitely the biggest you’ll ever had, and pretty. You can see pre-cum bead at the fat head, feeling it catch against your folds as he presses up to you. Truth be told, you’ve never actually taken all of him. He’s always had the bare decency to make sex comfortable for you– to an extent. But this isn’t sex.
It’s debauchered fucking at its core. So of course it takes a bit of force, because he’s simply too big and thick for you, and even without him moving, you’re sure that he’s splitting you apart. You’re whining loudly, just shy of screaming, which causes him to clamp his hand down on your mouth.
“I’ll cut you open, yeah? make you take me better?” Dean smirks down at you, wickedly, blood catching in his teeth. “Don’t wanna be mean to you, kid, but I’ll fuckin’ rid you if I have to. Can’t have people knowin’ what you’re lettin’ your old man do to you. Dirty fuckin’ girl.” You’re stained on his mouth, remnants of what you once were before he bit into you like a fresh fruit, spat out your seeds of cells and plasma. Milky-white turning sanguine. “Let dad play with you how he wants– how you deserve?”
You push your hips up into his. “Please,” you whisper. You’ve become pathetic, more so than usual; downright pitiful. There’s this feeling that sits heavy in your chest, making its home within the cavity there and replacing your heart with something dead, albeit hostile. Every fibre of your wretched being tells you that this is what you want; that this is what you need. and you’ve come too far to back out now.
You try to relax under him, but you can’t. Something tells you that it must be his size, but there’s that little part that knows that’s not the case. That this apathetic want, this anger, has stemmed from somewhere. Has bred in Dean’s mind so much, mutated to the point where he’s just as rotten as you are. Maybe even more. A carnal hunger that can only be satiated by taking and taking and taking from you. Even if it’s what you want.
“Jus’ gotta be good f’me, okay?” Dean muses, nodding. You nod back, almost in sync, except that it’s lazy because you’re already feeling overstimulated. He hasn’t even moved yet– and you already feel like you’re physically shrinking under him. There’s something wet, slightly warm, on your face, but you can’t bring yourself to wipe them away– tears. Thankfully, he does it for you. His blood-stained mouth laps up the salty tears that now slip from your eyes. “Hey, hey– none of that now. Not with me. Gonna treat you really good, better than I usually do. Just be a big girl about it, alright?”
Blood stains your face now, as you lay there, numb. His words of reassurance– the manipulative terms of endearment and questions– leave your cunt seizing and relaxing around him sporadically. You dig your nails into his broad shoulders, run them raggedly down his back.
“Fuck– Dean–” you moan, your chest tightening as he bottoms out. You’ve never felt this way with any other guy; so full, unable to properly accommodate his size. And even though he’s buried to the hilt, he pushes just that little bit more in. “Ohmygod–”
“Just a little more..” he mutters to himself– as if you’re not under him, not even there, stuck with feeling every bit of pain and pleasure that’s thrusted (literally) upon you. Obscene noises fill the sex-heavy air, getting lost within the warmth of the heady cabin. The whole thing feels so nauseating; you’re writhing under him, crying out in painfully afflicted pleasure as he pushes in deeper, harder, with each thrust. Each time he buries himself in your squelching cunt, your walls tighten around him, like you don’t want to let him go.
Dean groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the already bruised and bleeding skin. “Fuck, kid–” And he’s pulling back just enough so he can slam into you again. Meanwhile, you’re doing fuck-all to keep yourself quiet. There’s no point in being quiet– the gas station is empty, with the only witnesses to your vulgar display of morbid affection and decaying erotica being the nightlife that’s beginning to emerge.
He fucks into you like it’s his last day on earth; the last time he’ll ever get to do this to you. The fat tip of his cock presses up against that sweet spot inside of you– to which you savour each time; hoping to whoever that he’ll only keep pressing there– as he groans into your mouth. His teeth find your bottom lip and soon enough, you’re tasting blood. It’s messy, so strong of iron and things adjacent to death that you feel sick. But those feelings, the ones that linger in your brain like a foul odour and tell you that this is wrong, fade quicker than you can process them.
You sob against his mouth when he adjusts his hold on you. His hands grope at your ass, dragging your body towards him. He’s so rough and uncaring with it that you know that you’ll be bruising in no time. But you don’t focus on that– this new angle allows him to bury himself deeper into your slick hole, making your noises louder, more animalistic.
“Never fuckin’ letting you go– ever,” Dean mutters through bites and licks. He’s still thrusting into you, nails digging firmly into your skin and drawing blood. If his goal was to mark you up, make you his, then he’s definitely succeeded. “Gonna do whatever it fuckin’ takes to keep you around.”
You nod hazily, not exactly processing his words. Your legs feel numb from how long you’ve been in this position, only whimpering from stimulation as his pelvis dully thumps against your clit– to which you pathetically grind up into him. He grins against your mouth, pushing your legs further apart with a rough shove of his hand. “Fuckin’– y’want a baby, ‘s that it? That’s gonna be what it takes to let me keep you? ‘Cause I’ll fuckin’ do it, kid. Tie you to the goddamn bed an’ make sure nothin’ happens to you.. never lettin’ you leave me, y’hear?”
“I won’t– shit– I won’t!” you whine back, kissing him more feverishly, more desperately than you were. You want– need him to understand that you’re never leaving him, his life. You’ll play the pretty housewife if he demands you to, let him put a baby or two in you. Make sure that you never, ever leave him. And to prove this, your cunt tightens around him even harder, spreading your legs as far as you can for him, even though he’s pretty much forcing himself inside of you at this point. Your slick escapes your gaping cunt, pooling beneath you. “I’ll do whatever you want– I promise–”
Dean laughs darkly against your mouth. “I know you fuckin’ will. Dad’s special girl, aren’t you?” He’s digging his fingers harder into your skin now, proving that there’s no way in Hell that you’ll be able to escape him. That no matter what happens between the two of you, you’ll go crawling back to him. Every damn time. Because you’re his; to love, and belong to, and to own.
His hand snakes its way around your throat, squeezing gently as he taunts you. “Want me to cum in you? Give you more a reason to fuckin’ hang off of me?” And when you don’t respond– you’re far past the point of thinking– he applies more pressure to your throat. You choke, your wanton noises coming out all strangled and broken. And Dean? He just smirks, grasps your throat tighter in his hand. Your own hands grab at the one around your neck, guiding him to hold you tighter and that you want him to do so, as you silently plead with your lust-blown eyes to his own about how much you love him.
And then, you swear that you see black. No– not as if you’re losing consciousness, but rather in Dean’s eyes. They’re pure, undeniable black. You could chalk it up to the way that you’re beyond overstimulation at this point, that you’re not sure if your body is even whole anymore, but you know exactly what you saw.
But he’s still got a hand around your throat, and too you’re busy burying the back of your head into the seat as you finally cum. You feel your cunt gush all over him, the noises that are being created between the pair of you becoming the stuff that would make angels cry.
The tip of his cock is still pressing incredibly deep into your cunt, hitting your sweet spots and undeniably bruising them. He’s scraping himself against your walls as you feel himself pulse within you. He’s close himself, but doesn’t seem to show it. It’s only when his hips begin to stutter, losing that monstrous pace, that he spills into you.
After that, nothing is said. Silence.
Dean simply buries his face into your neck, breathing heavily against you. Meanwhile, you lay under him, wincing here and there as you feel his cock pulse inside of you now and again. The one thing you wanted more than anything has happened, and yet, you don’t feel anything. Well, it might just be because you’ve had the life fucked out of you, or the fact that there’s more to his ominous family past than he lets on– you’re not entirely sure. You thought that this is what you wanted, but now, you don’t know. Not if it’s the thing that will inevitably get you killed further down the line. And that’s what hurts.
But there’s one thing that you do know..
..Which is that Dean better buy you a damn good ring.
The Master had found you on the steps just outside the entrance, all alone in the pouring rain, near hypothermic and starved—on the verge of death, apparently—with eyes so big and sad he just couldn't bear the thought of leaving you there.
But instead of calling hybrid control as one ought to do when coming across untagged strays, your droopy ears and whiskers had him compelled to bring you with him, inside, into the apartment.
Dog had of course wrinkled his nose at once at your intrusive scent, then marched right over to assess the situation. That’s his job, after all—an upstanding guard on neverending duty. Not that you looked as though you could pose much of a threat—no tiny cat could, when up against a wolf hybrid like him. No, he would sooner tear you to shreds than let you get even a single scratch on him. And yet, there was something suspect about you. Sure, with your coat matted by the rain, sticking to you tightly, contouring every curve of your feline musculature, you were a sorry sight to behold, no doubt, but you were hardly what he’d call starved.
No… With keen eyes like his, he could spot it plain as day, you were no sorry creature in need of charity. Rather the opposite. Everyone knows street cats are bad omens with secrets woven into their undercoat—most likely riddled with ticks and lice too—as well as all sorts of ill intentions they were best left without.
And still, the Master had wrapped you in a fuzzy towel and fed you milk on his lap like a wounded babe. He even went so far as to give you a decent cut of fine meats—which otherwise belong to him—a treat reserved for when he’s been an extra good wolf. You hadn't done a single thing to deserve it, and yet, he’s the one who’s admonished by the Master and ordered to go away and give you some space.
You’d then been dressed in one of his shirts, given one of his beds and blankets, as well as a whole of five of his toys—his very favorite among them, no less. It’s nothing short of ridiculous. A wretched street urchin like you, as well as a dime a dozen mixed grimalkin, given the fine luxuries meant for a pure-bred grey wolf like him.
Safe to say, from the moment of your arrival, Dog did not appreciate the company. He doesn’t like the entirely silent way you strut about the house as if you own the place. He doesn't like how you can withstand sitting in the sun for hours without getting the least bit overheated. Nor does he like how you’ll sit and watch the rain as if you’ve summoned it with some unknown spell. But more than anything, he absolutely hates the coy way your snake-like tail coils around the Master’s wrist when you sit on his lap, purring as you knead your paws against his thigh.
All the while, he’s left entirely neglected. The Master won’t even so much as scratch his ear when he’s got his hands full with you. Not to mention how you look so smug about it too—lips curling up all sly, as you bunt the flat width of your nose against the Master’s chin-stubble, eyes blinking deep and slow, pupils fat, getting yourself so comfortable as you sink against his chest, making use of him like a bed.
Lazy and no-good, that’s what you were. Napping anywhere it suits you. They’d leave for a walk and come back three hours later only to find you in the same exact spot—all harmless and peaceful. Or, at least, that’s how it would seem.
The Master just calls you his sleeping beauty and further spoils you by buying you your very own princess bed, solidifying your adoption with a grand hurrah—getting you cat cupcakes and a brand new assortment of toys—though fails miserably at making you put your collar on.
And still, instead of punishing you, he does the opposite, utterly infatuated by you to the point where he can’t help but find all your little rebellious ways entirely adorable.
Meanwhile, Dog remains unconvinced…
It’s suspicious—a full-grown cat like you doesn't just show up without knowing there’s something to be gained. You’re nothing but a leech that’s had the luck and audacity of entering his home, thinking you can replace him. And his poor Master is too good-hearted to see it.
But no worries—vigilant guard that he is, he’ll be sure to protect him. He knows you’re up to something—he just needs to keep his eyes peeled and his ears sharp, and he’s sure he’ll figure it out before you even know he’s on to you.
And just as he suspected, there you are—leaving your bed to go creeping around the living room in the dead of night while everyone’s sound asleep.
Or, almost everyone. Not him.
No, he’d been waiting awake, expecting you—ever ready to catch you red-handed. In what exactly, he doesn't quite know yet—you’re just wandering around by the looks of it, silently eyeing the decorations like you’re in a museum.
He’s not sure what to make of it, but it’s strange nonetheless. And so, he decides to seize the opportunity to arrest you with a harshly put “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Your tail poofs up thrice its normal thickness where you snap around at the sound—the first authentic reaction he’s seen from you so far.
“Dog,” you state, less in greeting and more so in registration for having found him there, glaring at you in the dark with heavy arms crossed atop his solid chest. Your pupils, slim like a reptile’s for only a split-second before bleeding out like ink into those very deep pools he’s certain many have had the misfortune of drowning in.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” You feign bashfulness with a confidence that betrays you, slinking across the floor, up to him with that coy smile of yours that has the Master fawn all over you.
But he’s not the Master, and your feline guiles are no match for the gut-instincts of a sophisticated canine such as him.
“I asked you a question,” he bites out with a rudeness that has you stop in your tracks, just shy of brushing your tail under his chin.
Discouraged by the looks of you, the obnoxious thing swings in front of you instead, where you proceed to hold onto it all sheepishly as you try your charade again, “I was just…”
He might have enjoyed your efforts if he found you even remotely appealing, but lucky him, he doesn’t, leaving him with no patience to humor you. “Just what?”
“Exploring a bit,” you excuse with a bite to your lower lip, still not giving it up as you turn around again and walk back to the mantle he’d caught you by. “Curiosity killed the cat and all that, as you know. I’ve never seen so many things in one place, it’s just so—”
He groans, beyond tired of your lost-kitten performance, demanding, now once and for all, “Drop the act.”
You whip around again at the sound of his bark, still as a statue as you listen to his growl, “Tell me what you’re up to, or curiosity really will have made your end.”
You stand still for another moment, your tail raised high and waving slowly from side to side behind you while you think. And then, with another blink, your inkblot eyes become as thin as slits once again.
“Oh, fine.” Your voice is different, no longer soft and kittenish, but deeper and sultry as you laxly raise your hands in surrender. “You caught me, you nosy old hound.”
Your entire demeanor alters on the spot, raising your head high instead of disarmingly low, finally acting your age rather than some sorry kit. He’d known it all along, and still, it’s an unsettling thing to behold—makes his hardened gaze adopt a look of repulsion like he’d just watched a snake shed skin.
To which you roll your eyes. “Geez, don’t get your silk PJ’s in a wrinkle.”
You crack your neck, then continue to do a big stretch to complete the transformation—at which point your posture changes into a more dignified presence as opposed to the harmless little ball of fur you’d disguised yourself as.
It only further serves to freak him out.
Noticing it, you scoff once more, repeating yourself more directly, “Relax, will you? Psh—actin’ like I’m a demon or something.”
He’s not so sure you aren’t.
“Hmph—it’s not like I’m here to steal your spot on the couch or anything,” you say then, addressing his exact thoughts like you’d been reading his mind—sporting this patronizing resolve as though mocking him for even thinking that taking his place next to the Master was ever something you’d want in the first place.
You seem to scoff at the very idea, denying having any such desire, saying, “All I want is three meals a day to tide me over for a while. Nothing more.”
Making your way back over, you flash him a sneer and a snicker, “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your shampooed fur before your next spa-appointment.”
This time, you go through with it, ending your insult by brazenly swiping your velvety tail against his throat as you pass him by, going back to bed with a final sentiment, “All you gotta do is stay out of my way.”
Meanwhile, he’s silent. Offput by you more than usual, concluding he’d been right about everything all along. You really were just playing them—preying on his Master for a meal-ticket.
Did you really think you could get away with doing it right in front of his face?
“Tch—insolent.”
The second before you’ve made it too far, he wraps his fist around your tail.
Caught off guard, you yowl loudly, with knife-sharp teeth flashed at him in a hiss, followed by a low growl—ulike any sound you’d made before. More befitting a lioness rather than a tiny domestic-type such as you—especially with how easily he catches your throat in his other hand, thrusting you hard against the nearest wall like a ragdoll. But then again, tiny pups have always been more bark than bite.
“I suppose filthy alley-cats like you aren’t accustomed to my kind,” he seethes, tightening his hold as you sink your needle-like claws into the taut muscles of his arm—seemingly in some desperate attempt to get him to release the hold.
Pinned up like something ready for slaughter, your only hope is crossing your legs behind his back to keep yourself from getting strangled by the deadweight of your own body. And yet, despite it all, there’s a grin stretched wide across your face, with your voice full of mockery, snickering whilst struggling to breathe, “And what kind is that exactly? Fancy yourself an apex predator, do you?”
He blows steam out of his nostrils, displaying his own set of fangs—tough canines that are far better built for snapping bone than yours. Insisting, “I am an apex predator.”
There’s another raw chuckle in your throat, simmering against his palm as you continue to mock, “Pft—don’t make me laugh, you’re nothin’ but a stuffed animal. Keh—a soft couch dog, eating out of whatever hand that rubs your belly. It’s pathetic.”
His hand squeezes harder, and you grin even wider, forcing out another heckle, voice raspy under the pressure, “Easy there, big-guy. Wouldn’t want your Master getting the wrong idea.”
He’d been so wrapped up in you, he hadn’t picked up on the noises coming from the masterbedroom—door now open, with him coming through, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a groggy, “What's going on out here?”
Your feet hit the ground soundlessly once his fingers detach from your throat, not wasting a second before you’re lying straight through your teeth again, “Sorry if we woke you, Master.” By which time, your eyes, along with your voice as well as the rest of you, have all reverted back to that soft and cuddly meekness again. “I had a nightmare is all. Dog was only comforting me.”
“Oh—” the Master yawns, scratching his happy-trail, none-the-wiser just like you intended.
Dog opens his mouth, about to expose you as the conniving trickster you are, but then the Master’s attention pans to him, smiling, “How nice of you dog—m’ glad to see the two of you getting along,” and any word he’d meant to say falls flat.
You hide your giggle, whispering under your breath just loud enough for only him to hear, “Good boy.”
Fists balling, he’s not quick enough to pass a growl before the Master continues, now with his kind eyes set on you again with an offer, “How about you come stay in my bed, kitty? I’d feel bad letting you sleep alone if you’re having nightmares.”
It all happens before he can get a word out.
“Really, master? Thank you so much—I'd love to,” you gush, a spring in your step as you rush over, wrapping your hands around his arm with a deceptive purr and big round eyes looking up all adoringly.
The saying becomes all too true… You’ve got your claws in his Master, and he’s left standing where you left him—tongue caught by the victorious smirk playing on your lips as you disappear behind closed doors he’s never once crossed, with only a dismissive “Goodnight, Dog.” to keep him company.
—
Humans are such suckers.
They see a cute little face and can’t help but let their saviour-complex get the best of them. It never ceases to amaze you how foolproof it is. The master really just welcomed you right in. Hadn’t the sense to hide away his valuables or anything—just let you roam around freely like he had nothing to lose.
Dog might have been onto you, but just as suspected, he proved to be no problem in the end.
Humans are a dumb and gullible bunch, but in the end, dogs are far worse off. Bred in their image into subservient slaves, glossed over by being given the moniker of man’s best friend. A meaningless balm. And yet, they’re dumb enough to buy into it—thinking it makes them man's equal.
Poor Dog, with that hatefully envious way he glares at you any time the Master shows you attention. As though you’d ever want to be at the beck and call of anyone else other than yourself. Disgusting.
Dogs will never make any sense to you in that regard—big, strong, smart and yet so eager to please their human masters. It’s nothing short of sickening.
Truly, they’re so stupid you very nearly pity them.
But oh well, not your dog, not your pound—or however the saying goes. That’s what you think at least as you bag all the shiny trinkets in a duffel bag you’d found in the closet—anything that might have some high value at the nearest pawnshop.
Living in whatever shelter pleases you, being able to move freely as you wish is far better than the gilded cage of having to cater to some overlording human—getting plucked and preened and clipped and all types of bullshit. No thanks.
“You’ got soft paws for a street-cat.”
It’s the same as last time. Your tail poofs as though from static shock, with a jolt stabbing the small of your back, making you whip around before you can think.
Eyes, cut-like slits down the middle, you blink to reset yourself then shake your head at the familiar pair of folded arms before scoffing with a sneer, “Tch—caught me red-handed, have you?”
Truly, ridiculous. Who does he think he is, standing there like he’s the town sheriff? A dog's ability to shrink the world into fitting inside tiny apartments will never cease to astound you. It's so naive you could cry.
Instead you laugh, “What, you want a treat? Hmph, maybe you should go boast to your master about what a good little lapdog you are—perhaps he’ll finally let you sleep in the bed for once.”
He matches your scoff, “And give you the opportunity to run?” acting as though he’s arresting you. Further mirroring you by shaking his head and grinning back. “I don’t think so.”
He really prides himself on being in control, doesn’t he? Tunnel-visioned fool. So preoccupied with chasing you down that he’s forgotten his original goal of getting rid of you.
“Tch—” Suppose you’ll have to remind him. “Com’on—that’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it? Me, gone in the night, never to be seen again.” You hold up the duffelbag for him to assess, filled with replaceable nothings, stating, “It’ll only cost you a few trinkets—it’s practically free by your expensive standards. Bet you won’t even notice what’s missing.”
It’s an agreeable offer, you think. A win-win. And still, he shakes his head.
“I’m not letting you leave.”
Your eyes narrow, assessing him for a moment, giving him time to rethink it. But no, dour to no end, he remains stoic as though there’s nobility to be found in it.
“Geez. Those with the most are also the most stingy, after all...”
Sighing deeply, you have to roll your eyes.
“Fine then, I can tell when I’ve exhausted my welcome.”
You drop the bag with a low thud, and throw up your hands, accepting the defeat with knowing it was nothing worth fighting for. “Keep it—there’s not exactly a shortage of houses to rob. Maybe I’ll be a little choosier this time, and pick one without a mangy mutt on my tail.”
Without further grief, you start making your way over to the window, though still somewhat fretting over what a grand waste of time it had all proved to be, wondering whether there was still enough time to stage another con tonight or if you should take the loss and go sleep it off somewhere.
You’ve just about decided when Dog sidesteps you, blocking your path.
“Like I said, kitty,” he continues. “You’re not leaving.”
Something about his tone and the way he stands makes your ears draw back on instinct. Suddenly feeling very small.
You swallow thick, followed by your fur bristling harshly—poofing up in an effort to make you bigger, though succeeding terribly at becoming anything remotely comparable to his size.
You've squabbled with dogs before—but out in the streets you’ve had the opportunity to climb higher and faster than they can reach. Here, though you’re sure you’re speedier and if not that than at least more agile, you still don’t have the room to make use of those advantages.
“Careful, Dog.” you warn, recognizing you’ve got little better to do. “I might have been a bad cat, but I bet your master won’t be too happy to wake up and find my blood on your claws.”
Perhaps, if you appeal to his need for the master’s approval, you could manage scaring him into submission. And so, you hold nothing back, “He’ll probably send you to the pound on the spot—get you a needle shot in your spoiled ass, then watch you die in your own piss and shit like the dumb animal he sees you as.”
It might have been a bit of overkill, but you’d say the situation was dire enough to call for it. In any case, it should make him back away with his tail between his legs.
Or, at least, that’s what you'd expect.
But instead, he chuckles.
Utterly unphased by your words, by the looks of him. He just shakes his head, saying, “You really have the foulest mouth on you, you know that?” He grins—patronizingly so, as he tips his head up and slants it, looking at you sideways. “But I suppose I would too, if that’s all I had.”
Something about the nocturnal shimmer of his eyes and how they flash makes you aware how you were fighting an unwinnable battle, triggering the remaining choice of fleeing.
But it quickly proves just as fruitless, where, within the split-second of your attempt, he catches you as if having pinpointed the exact moment you’d bolt.
“Com’on now, kitten, mind the silk, won’t you?” he mocks, simpering at the sight of your claws tearing into his pajamas as he tackles you onto the floor like prey, with derisive words telling you “There’s no need to be so hostile.”
You keep struggling in spite of it, even when trapped beneath his much bigger frame and his much stronger paws.
Eventually, he manages to capture your wrists, stapling them above your head.
“Who said anything about killing you anyway?” he jeers, lowering his head to your neck and reveling in the way it makes you squirm in fear of the lethal bite he could invoke if he would so choose.
But no, it seems he intends to play with you first.
“Now-now, I know I’ve been unfriendly. And I’m sorry about that…” he whispers, sniffing out the hints of terror lacing your scent like it’s something to relish. Sighing with elation as he declares, “So let me make it up to you, hm? It’s long overdue, but better late than never, right?”
You keep quiet, caught in the trepidation, with only your heart giving voice to your panic, beating furiously within your ribcage—breaths increasing in their speed, frantic now, as he licks the inside of your ear and feeds it more cruel sentiments from the tip of his tongue.
“Let me finally give you a proper welcome to the family.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the feeling of being on the very last of your nine lives, imagining getting ripped into like a piece of meat. The only part of you left able to think somewhat clearly is spending its final moments praying for it to be quick.
But no such end ever comes—neither gruesomely hauled out nor quick and painless.
The heat of his breath retreats, lording over you with a different objective than robbing you of yours.
“Not sure how you kittens go about it, but…” he pulls your wrist and turns you over onto your stomach, nailing it to your back with your arm twisted up between your shoulder blades.
Bent over you, now from the back, his voice returns, wreaking warmth through your ear once more. “Allow me to teach you how we mutts get it done.”
His other paw then takes a firm hold of your hip, lifting you up onto your knees until your back becomes a curved slope.
Ass pressed flush against his crotch, greeting the profound swell of it—it’s only then that his true intentions dawn on you—utterly unnatural as they are.
“We’ll see who the real stuffed animal is,” he imparts as he wraps a fist around the root of your tail, giving it a rude tug that has you mewling.
“When I get to using you like a fucking toy.”
♡ BNHA – Dog Bakugou or Shoto & Master Deku
♡ JJK – Dog Gojo & Master Geto, Dog Sukuna & Master Yuji or Megumi
♡ HQ – Dog Tsukishima & Master Yamaguchi, Dog Kageyama & Master Hinata, Dog Bokuto & Master Akaashi
♡ BLLK – Dog Reo & Master Nagi, Dog Rin & Master Isagi
♡ DS – Dog Inosuke or Zenitsu & Master Tanjiro
♡ GA – Dog Zanka & Master Enjin
♡ Omegaverse & other Hybrid Tales masterlist
♡ FEM/GN X M INSERT masterlist
