Sex pest Johnny who doesn’t get why you keep shoving him off when he’s humping your leg and trying to get you hot and bothered. Is it him? Is he not attractive enough? Why else would you not be willing to let him eat you out for hours?
The only solution is to enlist the help of his LT, who sits you squirming and squealing on his lap before his huge hands and low, rumbling voice melts you against him. You try and protest but every noise that comes out is more of a stifled moan than anything else, and soon Ghost’s gloves are coated with the arousal dripping out of you.
Soap can’t help but be jealous, but it’s hard to decide whether he wants to be Ghost, or be you, squirming and mewling as Ghost looks half-lidded down at the Scot and rumbles a dark and pleased: “Behave, puppy.”
Vox orgasm denial is popular and for good reason but is anyone else on board for Vox orgasm REFUSAL. He’ll be damned if he lets that man make him cum ALASTOR ISN’T EVEN GETTING ANYTHING OUT OF IT!!!!!
m!yautja x reader. reader has a pussy but is otherwise undescribed/no gendered language is used. yautja is left largely undescribed so it could be any of your favs. dub con. reader is into it but it's also clearly a make the best of an abduction situation. alien biology/xenophilia. body modification. under-negotiated kink. vaginal fingering. penetrative sex. squirting. breeding kink kinda. surprisingly sappy. MDNI
It's different, somehow, from a being whose culture seems to prioritize strength and prowess above all else. Or nearly, at least, the evidence of his devotion rotting mere feet away, becoming less and less viable for a successful reattachment by the minute. And maybe that's the thing, what has you pleading with him in a language you're not certain that he fully understands - the commonality he's been able to find, the effectiveness of his communication regardless of his wellbeing or the brutality involved. Your connection, your pleasure, is more important. Evolution and circumstance may have made of him a living weapon, but he was willing to sacrifice precious assets for your benefit. Or his own, judging by the proud set of his shoulders when your back arches and your fingers dig into the thick cords of his forearm."
I said your Yautja lover would probably cut off his own fingertips if you could effectively communicate his claws were bad for the pussy, and then I just kept saying things [ao3]
AN: visual reference of my HC for Yautja cock
You're no stranger to the trials of xenophilia. Honestly, the speed at which you've adapted to being kept as a living trophy by a member of a brutal, ruthless alien race you'd up-until-then never known existed or even possessed the framework for re: sentient, extraterrestrial life had become something of an internal point of pride. Perhaps it hasn't been the healthiest reaction, but it has made you the happiest, all things considered, so at some point you figure it has to circle back. To that end, you've made the most of it. Communication was the first, and often most difficult step, but you've found some work arounds. He seems to be able to understand you, at least, even if his own method of expression is often limited to what he can play back of your own words. It presents some problems. Your inability to articulate his name, for one. Situations like this, for another.
He likes watching you pleasure yourself, enraptured by your nimble ministrations, throat clicking along with the soft, wet sounds you pull from yourself. His fingers often trace your own, the violent threat of his claws against your vulnerable flesh making you shiver. You've shown him, with some success, how he can touch you without hurting you, but you can tell by the agitated way his mandibles curl that it's not enough, are left gasping each time he presses his luck, the pads of his fingers slipping dangerously against your slick skin.
"Watch the claws," you hiss and he returns fire, a challenge for your autonomy you've long since shied from, surging up to meet him with your own approximation of a grow until he relents, minutely, fingers flattening as he shrinks away to give you more room to arch and curl and writhe in the pleasure you can only ever give yourself, this way.
You offer him consolation, shudder and shake under the touches you guide him through. Keeping the soft scales of his fingerprints pushed flat against your pearl, his deadly talons kept carefully pointed away. It's enough, usually, but there are times when his nature rears, nights when his pride rankles and you can see it then, his gaze caught where he can't quite reach you, his own digits left to frame your cunt while you take your own breath away. You can imagine, best you can, how he must see it: bested by such pathetic little things, like fleshy worms toiling in the dirt underfoot, and yet unable to crush them for all his might, bound to your pleasure as he is. As he allows himself to be.
But Yautja are surprisingly adaptable.
You're inspecting examples of his written language when he returns - some hunt on another planet that had kept him away for days. Normally, he brings you with him, but this excursion had seemed to have some ceremony ascribed to it, if the amount of ornately adorned weaponry he'd brought along had been any indication. Alone, you'd passed your days hidden away in his shelter, well aware of the risks you took upon yourself every time you stepped out without his protection. His kin seemed to tolerate your presence, for his sake, but the limitations of their patience waxed and waned with his coming and going, and you were content to while the days away pacing and pretending your worry is rooted only in concern for your own position, not for the captor who you've come to tolerate, sure, but not miss, right? And yet, there you are, poring over texts as you attempt to find a connective thread, some way to bridge the gap. He can read your writing - or the technology within his helmet's UI can, at least. But the only time he's ever truly frightened you since coming under his care was when he found you trying to don the article, curiosity getting the better of you, and you'd gathered very quickly that there must be some sort of cultural significance to the piece distinct from the rest of his armor which he didn't care if you handled beyond the caution he would give you about the built-in weaponry. And so you're left at a disadvantage, as you so often are, asking him to transcribe your writing in his own so you can ponder the patterns in his absence. It's largely fruitless, and you're happy enough for the distraction of his return, stretching your arms above your head as you offer him a welcoming smile -
Only to shrink back, apprehensive, as you take in his rigid stance, impressive form backlit by the live edge of his plasma blade.
Fear grips your chest, squeezes the breath from your lungs in a silent wheeze. There's a part of you that always knew this day would come, when he'd decide he'd grown tired of your pliant, soft body and replace you with a new distraction - a new alien trophy, or a mate of his own kind. This tentative safety had always had a looming expiry date, and you were never naive enough to dream he'd return you home, but neither had you imagined this, a swift execution at the hands of your - what? Lover?
More fool you.
His footsteps ring in the room, tread ominously heavy. You know from experience that he's capable of being silent when he wants to be, imagine how his previous victims have felt in this exact moment: the dawning horror of realizing your hunter has ceased the game, finds no more merit in stealth. You feel woefully underprepared for your own endgame.
"Wh- what are you doing?"
There's no answer, of course, at least not one you can decipher. He chitters at you, a low sound you've heretofore interpreted as soothing, though the noise only sets you further on edge now, sharp teeth needling along your spine. He stretches a broad palm across the table, thick fingers planting before you with enough force to tip the edge slightly, his weight pressed forward enough that the ledge bites into your ribs. You respond in kind, leaning away, until his noises adopt a harsher tone and you understand that decently well, settling back into your chair, close enough to share his breath. Metallic, heavy. Freshly fed. Platitudes that might have worked once, in another life, flit to the tip of your tongue. How'd the hunt go? Did you miss me? Bag yourself a new cumdump? Even if he understands, the sentiment won't save you. You've never seen him shy away from a kill.
As if to prove your point, his blade shifts, violent light casting long, twisting shadows across the space between you until it stops at its zenith, the quiet threat of a cold star seconds before implosion. You flinch as it falls, hands rising to protect your head. He doesn't stop you, confident in his arc, and a shriek catches in your throat as the blade falls with a heavy thunk, and you feel the low grit of the table's metal drag across your palm as you fall away from it.
Strong hands grip your arms, catching you before you can hit the floor. Disoriented, you stare back into the apathetic gaze of your captor's mask, the HUD winking mutedly behind the tinted visor as it catalogs your state, tells him all he needs to know to have him pulling you toward the bed before you can even decipher what you've lost. Not your life, it seemed. Not this time. So what -?
The room tilts, your stomach with it, as you take in the scene from your new position over his shoulder: his plasma blade lodged into the center of the table, red light sputtering out, and the smoking remains of two clawed fingertips left to rot like forgotten garbage. He treats you with more care, cradling your head as he lowers you to the bed, his chittering back in that quiet, soothing register. It doesn't work, adrenaline chasing the nausea until it's all bearable, a mother putting aside her fear of blood to check her child's scraped knee. Probably just as unnecessary, to him.
"Let me see," you demand, fussy hands pulling at his vambraces until you can hold both of his hands in your own, dropping the uninjured one when you get properly oriented, find the charred stubs of his middle two fingers on his dominant hand. Your thumb strokes over his knuckle, stops dead of the ragged skin above the wound. Your voice sounds lost when you ask him why.
The tubing of his mask hisses when he releases it, his uninjured hand working along the cords of his neck until he can tilt the visor back. His expression is as soft as you've ever seen it, mandibles working curiously as he chirps at you. You offer him a smile despite your confusion, and he tosses his mask to the side in order to tug you closer, his lower mandibles hooking behind your jaw, the intimate threat he likes to see you temper as you press your lips to his inner teeth. Caught, you can't pull away to demand answers unless he lets you, his hunger not sated until he licks his rough tongue across your own. Yautja don't kiss, as far as you've been able to gather, but he always seems to enjoy this perversion of it regardless. Likes to make you gag on his dextrous tongue while he splits you open. Though it seems he's not feeling so inclined tonight.
He extracts himself when he deems you properly breathless, enough so that you struggle to remember what you were going to ask him until you feel his palms ghosting down your flanks, the caress at once so familiar and so wrong. You catch his injured hand before he can distract you again, marvel fleetingly at how easily he lets himself be led. But the notion is quickly pushed aside, growing concern replacing it as you inspect the wounds more closely.
It's nothing too severe, all things considered. The cuts are clean, his blade sharp, and the flesh cauterized through by the live edge. The exposed musculature is a dark, sickly green, the skies of an open plain building ominously into a storm, but you know enough about his strange biology by now to acknowledge this is better than the livid, acid color of his fresh blood, and all told the only piece of his current wound that gives you sincere pause is the peak of white at the center of each digit, burnt bone exposed to the elements.
You tut at him, rummaging through the pouch that hangs from his hip until you find the medpack he always carries with him, and he coos happily to be doted on. It's a point of pride for both of you, you think, how quickly you'd familiarized yourself with the strange technology. Basic first aid was how you'd first endeared yourself to him, and he'd been eager to show you his advanced methods, the ritual of selfcare clearly just as important to his people as the dangers upon which their pride depends. It's routine now, to help him with it, any time he returns battered and bleeding, which is often enough. He's left kits for your use as well around the shelter, but they all seem so far away when you're already tucked so closely to him and the wound itself seems easily handled anyway.
Well, seems.
You eye the stubs of his fingers, still laying dead on the table. For a moment you wonder if you should ask whether or not he wants them reattached, but you know better than to imply his blade had missed its true mark. So you don't ask, instead collect the pieces from the kit you'll need to clean the wounds, and the fast-acting dermis layer which will keep it protected and encourage his scales to grow over the wound properly. You work efficiently - or as efficiently as you can manage with his free hand dragging sharp claws down the column of your throat. You swat him away, tell him to be serious as you dab at his lacerations just a hair too aggressively. (He can take it, a fact he reminds you of easily, strange chuffing noises telling you how amusing he finds your fretting.) Still, the dermis laces quickly, exposed musculature scaling over as you watch carefully to ensure proper coverage. It always fascinates you, the pinpricks of flesh toughening, growing until they lap each other. The skin of his palms is soft comparatively, surprisingly fleshy beneath rubbery scales. You'd held a gator once, on a field trip, a world-weary juvenile who'd seen more than his fair share of overeager teens, allowing himself to be hoisted with little more than a begrudging, dog-like sigh. Your job had been to hold its belly, and you remember thinking how strange it felt, how unlike anything you'd ever held: tough, thick skin which yielded to your touch with surprising ease, an ample belly which flowed like a sack of sand over your arms. You'd never tell him, but he reminds you of that here, where his flesh turns pale and vulnerable - palms, pits. The corded swell of his inner thighs. Often, he sighs begrudgingly too when you spend too long testing the give of his flesh there.
The scales of his hands are tiny, intricate. It doesn't take long for the dermis to renew them, silvery flesh darkening until you deem it safe and saved. You hold his own hand up for his inspection, but he barely spares it a glance, amber eyes gleaming with something like mischief as he pulls his hand from your grip just to wrap it around an ankle and yank you down the bed.
"Now, hang on!" you shriek, patience growing thin. "Do you maybe want to tell me why you decided to chop your fucking fingers off?"
He doesn't, it seems, an eerie imitation of your own laugh playing back at you as he continues to maneuver your limbs. He gets you spread before him, your thin leggings stretched over the apex of your thighs tightly enough that you know they hide nothing from him, and you let him look his fill despite the heat fanning your cheeks. He wouldn't be here if he didn't want, you reason with yourself, the sentiment getting easier to stomach with each successful hunt your lover returns from, the evidence of his ruthlessness smeared and painted across his body. For whatever else he is, your captor does not strike you as a being much in the habit of pity fucks. There was also something to be said about knowing with near complete certainty that you weren't often being compared to magazine covers, much as you'd tried to break yourself of the habit even before being abducted. So you swallow down the residual shame and embarrassment, let it simmer and coil in your gut until he turns it, clever fingers, into something like pride. Satisfaction.
With his palms spanning your hips, his thumbs work the creases of your thighs, worn spandex catching on the filed tips of his claws. He does nothing to stop it, delights in the way the fabric tugs down, down, his chittering growing excited as the flesh of your tummy reveals itself. You watch his eyes, watching you - hungry, eager - and you slap your hand down over his just as the fabric finally begins to tear, the surprised jolt it elicits nearly enough to make you chuckle, if not for how badly you want answers, at least as best he can give them. To that end, you merely cock an eyebrow at him, chin tilted defiantly as his noises grow indignant. You squeeze his injured hand, feel the throb of his pulse in the sensitive new flesh, and he bares his inner teeth at you, a silent display that once would have cowed you, yet now only seems like a petulant whine.
"Why?" you prompt again, giving his fingers one last squeeze, and his free hand jerks until your leggings give completely, the cold rush of air across your heated skin making you hiss at him.
He meets it, of course, guttural clicks underscoring his point as he shifts the grip you still have on each other until your palms join flat, his own dwarfing yours. With his palm so wide set, it's hard to measure your thumb against his, but your forefinger and pinky only come up to the second knuckles of his mirrored fingers. His middle two, however, the ones that he's suddenly lopped off for some indeterminate reason, had lost much of their height, comparatively. Truncated now just above the first joint, these fingers stretch only slightly longer than yours, soft new flesh a jarring contrast to the yellow claws which curl over your other fingers.
Still, you don't know what he means by this.
"They're shorter now, yes?"
His face pulls something convoluted, and you file it away for future reference, ninety percent certain you'd just witnessed the Yautjan equivalent of an eyeroll. And yet his movements are patient and sweet, his hand dropping to trail the two soft tips of his mangled fingers down your palm, dance feather-light over the vulnerable skin of your wrist.
"That feels nice," you comment almost absently, and cock your head in confusion when he chirps encouragingly. So you mimic him as best you can, your own touch barely there as you skirt your fingers up to his elbow, mapping the thick musculature which flexes and pulls as he keeps touching you in turn: across the bridge of your shoulder, down the valley of your chest. He hooks the claw of his forefinger into the hem of your collar and pulls up, his free hand pushing the fabric up with his palm pressed flush to your flesh the whole way. Nearly bare before him, he lays you back down again, his dreads hanging around you as he lowers himself onto one strong arm. You tilt your face to his, hum appreciatively when his mandibles bloom for you and his tusks notch behind your jaw again.
There's a comfort here, nonsensical as it seems, one of the first reassurances you'd managed to glean from your situation: if he wanted to kill you, he would have.
You don't know why you've carried it with you this long, why it still gives you solace more than any of the other mounting evidence. Really, you don't even know why you ever found it comforting. He'd never forced you, exactly, but there'd always been that hovering threat. What would you do without him? What would he do if you displeased him? The kiss, such as it is, had been the first time you'd come to accept that you were accepted. Just as you were, just as you are. You'd been asked to change so much of your life, but with jaws made soft just for you, he'd been able to show you that he was willing to change, too. So you revel in it, still. In the humid warmth of his upper mandibles stretched over your nose, in the thrill of him controlling your breaths completely. You like feeling him like this, so all consuming. Like it even better when his rough tongue tries to twine with yours. It's clumsy, usually, your bodies not very well suited for each other, and yet despite that - or perhaps because of it - it excites you more than any other kiss you've shared with your own kind.
Just as your chest begins to ache with need, he pulls away, lets you catch your breath while his tongue laves over your jaw, down to the crook of your neck, his own approximation of trailing kisses. Your fingers thread into his dreads, hold him close as best you can despite being under no delusion. With your body pliant and open beneath him like this, he will go wherever he damn well please. But his tongue is only a distraction, his continued touches trailing down your flank, over your hip. Ticklish over the crease of your thigh, an automatic misfire of synapses as your body frets over vital arteries and the living weapon currently tracing them. Still, you trust him, tilt your hips when the rub of raw scales cups your mons, pads of his fingers framing your clit the way you've shone him you like. You sigh, contented, and arch into his touch as his tongue reaches your nipple, a clever distraction that might have worked were you not already wise to his tricks, hyper aware of his grip shifting, fingers curling until -
"Watch the claws," you recite, scripted, and then your body jolts as you realize, sitting up to catch his expression: mandibles pulled back, inner teeth displayed proudly and golden eyes gleaming as he sinks the soft tip of one thick finger into your wet cunt.
Your groan is caught somewhere between relief and exasperation, a low sound which twines with the guttural huffs escaping him. You swat at his bicep, grumbling something about laughing while fingering you for the first time which only makes him laugh harder.
He's been paying attention, despite all his pouting. Quick learner, he concentrates on your face as he works you open on first one, then two broad fingers, the stretch and the strange texture pulling cries from you in record time. You feel overwhelmed, engulfed in his size and pinned in place by his focus, though it's more than just that. More even than the care he took to amputate above his first knuckle, the better to curl his fingers against your front wall and rumble victoriously when it makes you grip his wrist for mercy.
It is also, of course, the fact that he did it at all.
Disgust is a concept you'd slowly been disabusing yourself of. It's useless, really, here on an alien planet. Dangerous, too, when it keeps you from eating even after you've learned to trust your captor's ability to determine what's safe for human consumption. Fear has been harder to shake, but you don't feel it now, despite your better judgement. It's different, somehow, from a being whose culture seems to prioritize strength and prowess above all else. Or nearly, at least, the evidence of his devotion rotting mere feet away, becoming less and less viable for a successful reattachment by the minute. And maybe that's the thing, what has you pleading with him in a language you're not certain that he fully understands - the commonality he's been able to find, the effectiveness of his communication regardless of his wellbeing or the brutality involved. Your connection, your pleasure, is more important. Evolution and circumstance may have made of him a living weapon, but he was willing to sacrifice precious assets for your benefit.
Or his own, judging by the proud set of his shoulders when your back arches and your fingers dig into the thick cords of his forearm.
"Fuck," you mutter, and he purs, very familiar with the word by now. He shifts over you, free hand anchored by your head as he puts more weight behind his ministrations. Your cunt aches already, but it's an empty sort, sore with absence of him as he revels in his new found fun.
"I'm ready, please, just -."
But his mandibles curl, a warning, and his fingers split you open as he sinks as deep as he can, the heel of his hand brushing against your neglected clit. You gasp as your head tilts back, offer the vulnerable column of your neck to him on instinct. He ignores it, sharp gaze casting down the hills of your body to watch how he takes you apart, chittering excitedly when he sees just what has you falling open for him. He rolls his palm cleverly, the flat of it petting your clit as his fingers pump shallow within you and you groan, fingers scrabbling over his broad shoulders, down the light armor still covering his torso to pull at his skirting until you can rake your nails up his thighs and cup the slit that's just beginning to open between them.
"Fuck, you're wet," you whine, a pathetic sound underscored by the soaked squelch he manages to pull from your own pussy at the same moment, just to prove a point.
Vindictive, you try to mimic his movements with your fingers slipping past his lips, snaking alongside his semi-retracted cock, but he chooses that moment to pull away. The hand by your head traces down your flank until he can hook it behind your knee and shove it up against your chest, the other one not far behind, both held in place by one broad palm. He takes a moment to admire his handiwork, his thumb and forefinger tracing sharp claws around your cunt, no doubt framed and forced by your position into a swollen, petaled flower. He collects some slick with his nail, the edge of it catching cruelly on the lip of your entrance, but you ignore the brief flare of pain in favor of watching him lick it off, mottled green tongue working the edge of his claw before he gets curious and sinks his truncated fingers down his own throat.
The display makes you moan, a level of perversion added as you watch him discover the appeal of his own softened edges in real time. A series of clicks follow his fingers from his throat as he pulls them out and takes a minute to look them over, for the first time really inspecting the work you've both done on him. His thumbnail prods at the fresh skin, considering, and you watch a sticky strand of slick and spit stretch between them, his eyes snapping to your own when it breaks, tacky pearls glittering on dark knuckles. He makes a sound that's borderline human, low and deep in his chest.
It sounds a bit too much like the primal roar he lets out when he's defeated a particularly troublesome quarry, though muted and private between you.
His fingers return, overeager. He sinks back in with little preamble, though the flat of his thumb finds your clit quickly enough, as if to make up for it. Not that you need it, moaning as his fingers find that spot inside you that you can't ever reach on your own. You feel so full already, your new position forcing your channel snug around his fingers, but his cock leans insistently against your hamstring as if a threat, a reminder of why he's taking such care to stretch you. This wasn't something you'd ever fantasized about, even if you had long-since found the appeal of his powerful body. You'd loved his cock ever since the first time he'd shown enough patience to get you off with it; and while his mouth had taken some getting used to, there was no denying you loved sucking on his tongue as much as he liked making you do it. Often, on the nights when he was away, your fantasies no longer strayed so far from home, remembering thick thighs braced for you to ride, or a meaty bicep hinged around your throat as his breath labored in your ear. So you were no stranger to wanting him the same way you would have wanted any partner, but with the daggers he wields on his fingers, you'd never really given much thought to how it would feel to be stuffed full of them. Yet now that you have them, you're almost loath to give them up, fighting back your orgasm just as an excuse to keep yourself so perfectly full, keep his focus trained on where his digits fuck you open, fingers scissoring even as he keeps one curled firmly against your front wall. You feel mad with it, unheeding of the noises that spill endlessly from your lips. Endearments and pleas, curses you don't mean, he weathers them all with something not unlike apathy, uncaring of your plight when he's finally got you just where he wants you. When he's finally taken the last bit of purely human relief you had left to you.
"Fuck, take it," you sob, as if he could know your thoughts. And maybe he does, because he chitters almost excitedly and rolls his thumb against your clit and you shudder, nails digging into the meat of the thighs that frame your ribs, hips propped up on the slope of his lap and when did that even happen? "Fuck, baby please, please, just -!"
"Give it," he counters, a bass inversion of your own voice, his throat flexing around the alien sounds.
So you do, head tossed back and feet kicking uselessly, fighting it the whole way for no real reason other than because you know he likes it, likes feeling you thrash beneath him.
Enough so that he doesn't stop, fingers giving you no time to collect yourself before continuing their brutal rhythm, deep with the weight of his hips following after, his heavy cock dragging tacky pre against the back of your thighs. You try to squirm out from beneath him, oversensitive and petulant, but he bears down further, your knees bowing out to the sides to accommodate his considerable breadth and, just like that, you feel it.
"Gonna - fuck, baby, gonna -."
"Yes," he trills, mistaking the way your cunt clamps shut around him. "Give it."
"No," you try to warn him, but your voice stretches high and thin as you struggle to force your own diaphragm to work properly. "Wait, I -!"
He doesn't wait, his thumb merciless on your clit with his fingers buried to the very end of you. Your whole body contracts, struggling to hold back the tide, but it swells until you burst, a font that springs up his arm and across his chest, and you toss your head to the side, too embarrassed to meet his confused gaze.
You expect a chasm of silence to follow, for him to shove away from you in disgust and to storm away in search of a shower. You try to apologize, find your throat closed tight with shame. His weight shifts and you brace yourself for his departure, startle when his tusks nip your inner thigh, the only warning you get before his upper lip curls back and he presses the hidden slits of his nostrils against your mons, inhaling your soaked flesh with a croaky string of clicks.
Heat flushes up your chest, fans over your cheeks. You shove at the high ridge of his forehead, stammering through a demand to know what he's doing. He bares his teeth at you, territorial, and you shrink away as he surges forward, silencing you with his tongue snaking alongside your own. He lets you bear his weight for a moment, chest pressing the breath from your lungs as he uses you as leverage to get his skirting hitched up above his hips. Your knees follow, belting the fabric to his waist as you keep him trapped tight between them. Impatient, you press your calves to his firm ass and he chitters cruelly when the slip of his hard cock against your abused clit makes you hiss.
He just doesn't play fair, is the problem.
You sit up when he pulls away because no matter how many times you see it, it might not ever be enough. His cock is huge, firstly - proportionate with the rest of him, fat head peaking out over thick fingers as he lines himself up. It's also obscenely textured, a bumpy flange which catches on your abused cunt and makes you shiver as he bullies it forward relentlessly. A series of coils follow it, firm flesh which fatten at the bottom as his cock curves up slightly midway down the shaft. It nests in a plain of something akin to stubble, flat, thick projections with a slightly rubbery texture like that of his locs, though these often feel slick and hot, kept supple by the protective clutch of his slit which sits open now, soft lips weeping to kiss your own as he works to wedge himself deep enough within you that they can. One day, he just might.
There's always a hiss of frustration when his cockhead finds your cervix and he relents force for the painful hitch of your breath. It used to worry you, somewhat, made you think it was only a matter of time before he tossed you aside in favor of a partner that could properly take him. It only ever seemed to make him more determined, however, convinced that one day he'd find the winning combination that would make you properly open up for him, and for a brief second you think maybe he has, as an extra girthy ridge plugs past your taut hole which you don't remember ever being able to take before. But then he rocks his hips and his fingers disappear between you to stroke the remaining length and you whine, high and thin and pleading, when you realize that someday, he might actually make you take more.
Of all the noises he can mimic, you've never actually heard him coo before. The noise he makes now, however, is eerily similar, a soft, glottal hitch in his throat as he fans a hot breath over your cheek. It's sympathetic, or at least mockingly so, but your thoughts feel too foggy to find the end of it, comb the knots out and find the source. So you decide that he's being sweet, consoling you even as his hips jerk almost violently, shuttling you up the bed just to cage you in place with his triceps where his elbows are planted above your shoulders. He's folded near in half like this, but it lets him keep his face close to yours, his mandibles scraping precariously over your jaw. You take the threat for what it is, mouth falling open with a moan to let him press his inner teeth to your lips, his tongue knotting with your own until your thoughts, already scattered, begin to lose shape.
Somehow, it's like this every time, still, so overwhelming that you struggle even to reciprocate, reduced only to clinging limbs and breathy curses as he pulls pleasure from you which you weren't even aware you had within you. It's such a sharp contrast to the things you know he's capable of outside of this room, a devotion which you struggle to make sense of given the circumstances of your meeting. Sometimes, late at night, you wonder if it's simply another facet of it, another way to conquer, but then you feel his breaths beneath your palm, soft and safe, or the ruin of nails scraping your scalp now, and know that whatever this is - for better or worse - is mutual.
"Love you," you gasp when he lets you, tongue retreating to lick the drool from your lips, more important than the following heave of breath.
His tusks click loudly against your teeth, the crown of his brow dropping against your own as amber eyes bore into yours. You hiccup, overwhelmed, and your fingers scrabble to keep him close even before you understand why. His hips piston into yours, bodies flush enough that the texture at the base of his cock rubs against your clit with each stroke. Entwined like this, the plating of his chest armor keeps moving over your nipples and you arch into it, feet planting to help you work your hips against his until, impatient, he grips the crest of your hip in one strong hand and digs uneven fingers into your flesh to keep you still. He fucks into you desperately now, thighs slapping against your ass as his eyes go a little unfocused, mandibles tracing your face where his vision can't quite.
So close, the throaty groan when he cums shakes your bones. You feel a familiar flood of heat against your gate, a private thrill that makes your breath hitch as you follow after him, left writhing with the impossible fantasy of being bred by him. It's hard to hear his pleased clicking through the rush in your ears, but the soft headbutt he presses you into the mattress with gets your attention, makes you watch as his throat works around the foreign tongue he's learned so well.
"Love you."
With a smile, you reach for his mutilated hand and press a soft kiss against the tender skin.
thinking about two prey, caught naked and Horny (for whatever reason) in some pred's tight gut, getting so worked up that they start just straight-up fucking in there
and at first it's great, all that slick friction and flesh on flesh on flesh, but when they both climax they quickly realize they can't actually pull out because the walls are keeping them pressed together, leaving them to squirm and writhe as they get teased and overstimulated from the constant motions of the pred's body making them grind into each other....
The ballroom echoes with laughter and the taps of dancing feet, your eyes scanning the expansive area for the one you're waiting for, someone you desperately want to ignore—Illumi Zoldyck—the famous assassin you're acting as an informant for. Though, as you hoped, he didn't take kindly to your evasive manner of your teases and jokes.
WARNINGS. Female Reader. Blood and Torture. Choking. Hairpulling. Reader is a little shit. Definitely not Proofread. Semi-public sex.
wordcount — 6.4k
A/N. Gift for @minnies-puppydoll . Because I failed on making an Illumi fic for Valentines, I'm making this one. EDIT; See how making this one went... Merry Christmas and Happy New Years twin.
October 27th, 2002.
Per the recommendation of good friend of yours, you attend an invitation-only, formal Halloween party. As a woman amongst the upper echelon of society, you had received an invitation weeks prior, but had no incentive for coming until you were contacted by a certain individual. As someone with various connections, serving as an informant or gateway to normally inaccessible places, was not unusual. Serving as an informant to a famous assassin, however, that was new. You had done it once before at his request—but it was still unfamiliar, yet exciting territory.
Your car rolled to a stop, your butler opening the door for you and helping you out. As you show your invitation to the man at the door, you walk in and take in the surroundings.
A "Halloween" party is a stretch, considering the lack of traditional costumes and apparel—but the venue had pumpkins, fake spider webs, and dark lights. It felt as "spooky" as possible whilst remaining elegant. The guests matched the environment—all, including yourself—dressed vaguely like famous characters. You never had participated in the child-ish 'Trick or Treat' and horrible store-bought costumes, but you had seen enough of it whilst traversing the streets in past years to long for it. Your position prevented as such, but it was fun to imagine that the folks up here would dress anything but prim and proper. At least the guests tried to emulate the colors and shapes of the characters outfits. You found yourself humming in delight at the creativity.
You weren't a specific character, rather based off a popular creature—a vampire.
You wore a black blouse with long flared sleeves, fabric cut to resemble the sharp points of bats wings were clipped to your forearms, floating behind you to emulate bat wings whenever you raised your arms—all with a deep red corset to match. You walk through the large hall, smiling and greeting the occasional colleague that greeted you first. Though, you pay special attention to Edmond Bentley, a trafficker who masquerades as a simple, rich party man. You've unfortunately gone to a couple of them, becoming decently acquainted with him, and being assimilated into his inner circle. As a result, you ended up being the perfect candidate to get information on him.
"Edmond!" you shake his hand, greeting the man with fake earnest, "How is your night?"
Unfortunately, you indulge in conversation with the unpleasant man for a couple of moments, eyes searching for someone.
After a couple times of scanning the crowd and absentmindedly answering Edmond's questions, you find the man you've been looking for—Illumi Zoldyck.
Biting your lip, a sense of anticipation fills your chest. Quickly, you turn to Edmond, interrupting whatever speil he was on to dismiss yourself. "Thank you for the pleasant conversation, but it appears I have some others to attend to. We can talk later, I'm free!" You say, urgently leaving before he could get a word in. You nearly power walk through the swarming humans to reach the intimidating man.
Illumi was dressed in a typical 3-piece black suit with a tailcoat. His long, silky hair is slicked back, draped over his shoulders as a white mask, reminiscent of Phantom of the Opera, covers half of his face. Though, as he moves, some of his hair elegantly falls over his face. His eyes are searching for something, clearly you, and despite your earlier quick escape, you find yourself wanting to elude the assassin. Luckily, the Orchestra conveniently picks up their instruments and begins to play. People flock to the middle of the hall with their partners to begin their practiced steps to the music. A random man offers his hand, which you take and step onto the dance floor.
Your heels click against the tile floor, guided by the gentlemen holding your hands. You attempt to stay engaged with the man before you, though your eyes drift towards Illumi, who's wandering around the hall to search for both his target, and for you. A michevious giggle leaves your lips as you are spun and the entire hall takes a different partner. You're dancing with a different man, eyeing the assassin who gracefully moves through the crowd. His eyes glance across the crowd, locking with you for a moment, and immediately you smile before turning your head from his direction.
Continuing the dance, you switch partners once again, deciding to engage in conversation this time. Pleasant chuckles echo through the air, chatter filling the space alongside the beautiful melody of the violins.
Whilst dancing with another partner, your eyes catch sight of his mask moving through the crowd. Surprisingly, he was dancing as well, though you could tell his poor dance partners weren't receiving the best treatment. An amused hum rumbles in your throat as the two of you lock eyes once more before switching partners again. The music was an enchanting sound to your ears, its notes resonating in your chest as you dance along. Your eyes flutter closed, vocal cords vibrating to hum to the tune as you are spun once more into the waiting hands of another.
Instantly, your smile grew.
The touch of his hand spoke of extensive training, his tense demeanor told of inexperience in the finer pleasures of life, and his presence was an undoubtable indicator for his true nature. Your eyes flutter open to stare up at the void eyes of Illumi Zoldyck. "Having fun?" You inquire.
"As much as anybody else," Illumi responds blankly, stepping to the music in sync with you. "Do you have what I need?"
A whistle leaves your lips, "Straight to business are we?"
Illumi sighs. "Answer my question," his voice remains even, as monotonous as ever just like he's trained to be. After all, an assassin cannot allow feelings to interfere, nor leak their intentions. As per the dance that Illumi has stiffly memorized for elegant settings, he twirls you in his arms before dipping you. The strength in his arms, his hands firmly resting on your lower back and waist, bring you a sense of comfort and a rush of desire—even if he was adorably rigid in his dancing capabilities. Your arms are relaxed as they tie around his neck for support, knowing he wouldn't let you slip. When he lifts you back up, your hands brush along his shoulders, moving down to press against his chest. "Should I?" you whisper, leaning in close so your faces are inches from each other. Your arms slowly glide down his torso to squeeze his sturdy arms, a hum rumbling in your throat. You step away from each other, per the choreography, and find the urge to tease. "I'm not sure. After all, I'm far too preoccupied having fun, which you—" you press a finger to his chest, sliding it down with your lips curled into a smirk, "—should be having right now."
"Let loose a little," you pout. A mischievous giggle falls from your lips as in the next step, he twirls you, and you are face to face with a different dance partner. Swaying to the music, arms holding your partner securely, you ignore the weight of eyes on the back of your head, finding amusement in Illumi's determination.
By the time the dance ended, you and Illumi were on opposite sides of the room. He had separated from his dance partner, looking away for only a second, which resulted in him losing sight of you through the sea of people. You giggle, glancing back to find him in the crowd, just as he is doing for you. Instead of heading towards him, you opt to let him come to you, turning around to engage with one of the other attendees. You laugh with this person, having a mediocre conversation paired with mediocre wine. Perhaps that's why you felt the need to provoke the assassin—excitement. These dances were so dreadfully boring. Engaging in a little cat and mouse wouldn't do much harm, except for the fact that the 'cat' in this situation had killed thousands with his needles.
Perhaps you were too adventurous or reckless, but Illumi's sharpened 'claws' were far too exciting to resist.
Too preoccupied in your thoughts, you fail to notice that the assassin has already found his way to you. "I'll be borrowing her for a moment," he says to the person with you, tugging on your arms without asking. His grip is firm as he pulls you away, leaving you no room for denial. You chuckle as Illumi drags you through the halls and into an empty, spare room. Though both the laugh and the air in your lungs leaves your chest as he slams you against the wall, shutting and locking the doors closed as a precaution.
His hand is firm as his presses against your chest. For a moment, you swear you couldn't breathe. Though, you couldn't tell if his hand was pushing enough force for that, or if his aura was crushing you. His presence grows oppressing and suffocating—fear rolling down your spine.
"Enough," he says firmly, "You are far too relaxed considering the position you're in." His hand leaves your chest to grab onto your wrist, firmly squeezing. One of his needles appears between his fingers, danger raditating from his body. His eyes seem darker than they were before, more hostile. Involuntarily, you shrink under his gaze, peering up at him with a mix of fear and naive curiosity. Those dark pools seem to peer far deeper than the surface, instilling an innate sense of terror within you. Everything inside of you is screaming for you to do one thing—fight, or flight. You need to run from him, somewhat from fear, but also from a desire to draw more from him—perhaps elongate this chase you've started once more. As his stare intensifies, you nervously swallow, pondering if this is what it might feel like to be his target? Suffocating, invigorating, vulnerable—naked.
"Don't—" suddenly there's a sharp pain throbbing from your palm, as he impales it using a needle with a rounded head, keeping your hand firmly stuck to the wall "—interfere with my mission."
There's a wish to scream, to shout and kick him away, but you refuse to submit to your instincts. Your survival instincts, at least. After all, how could you ignore the seemingly instinctually feeling that filled you as you became aware, that the pain was not by itself. Instead, it is accompanied by a wave of desire, a primal sensation that courses through your veins—pleasure.
Lines of blood roll down your palm, waves of pain echoing down your arm. You bite down a scream, screwing your eyes shut as if doing so could erase the feeling, but you could not focus.
Your eyes turn glossy, filling with tears as a reaction to the pain. You cross your thighs, starting up at him with a trembling smile. "Didn't think you'd get irritated this fast, aren't assassins supposed to keep their emotions in check?" You speak in a wavering voice, a weak chuckle leaving your lips. An unexpected, low growl rumbles in Illumi's throat. His face doesn't convey the irritation, but you could feel it wafting from you. This event ends in two hours, and who knows if his target would leave early or not. As a response to your comment, Illumi pushes the needle further into your palm, a whimper leaving your lips at the sensation.
His free hand grabs your neck before you even notice he'd moved. His grip his firm around your throat, fingers squeezing the air from your windpipe.
Despite his hostile nature, or the intent to harm you—something throbbed in your core. You had to be sick, demented maybe, or just a simple whore—to be turned on by something like this. Your thighs press together, core tightening as you begin to feel lightheaded. Whether it's from the lack of oxygen, or because of something that was in his needle, you didn't know. But, did it really matter? When your head in the clouds, high from the pain that twists into pleasure. Illumi's eyes slightly narrow as your eyes turn vacant, tears spilling down your cheeks, your hands weakly gripping onto his wrist.
Before you succumb to unconsciousness, his fingers ease the pressure, and you gasp, gulping down some air. "Why," he glares, "are you so insistent on stalling me? Are you working with the target? Does someone else know about the assassination request?"
Illumi interrogates you, jumping towards the more logical conclusions (according to him). You simply smile, and squeeze the wrist of the hand still wrapped around your throat.
"God forbid a girl wants to tease her crush a little," you croak.
Illumi pauses, blinking as he observes you with a blank expression. A chuckle leaves your lips at his reaction—clearly that possibility hadn't even occured to him. Though, he's clearly skeptical, thinking you're lying.
A giggle leaves your throat, your free hand gliding from his thick wrist, to his strong shoulders, then to the collar of his suit, where you fiercely grab and pull him into a kiss. Your lips smash together, your pinned hand wiggling (in pain), in an attempt to slip from the hold he has on it. Of course, this is a weak way of distracting him, but it could be enough to free yourself. Your theory is proven slightly correct as his hands loosen—a force no longer pressing the needle into your hand, nor squeezing your throat. Though, the reprieve doesn't last for long as he is back to gripping your pinned hand, his other gripping your cheeks. Your lips part for a moment, his fingers pressing firmly into the sides of your face, before he drags you forward, forcing the two of you into another kiss.
Instinctually, you seem to melt into his kiss. Your lips flutter closed, lips parting to allow a deeper kiss. When his tongue entangles with your own, your mind seems to float, unable to further analyze the prick you feel to the back of your neck.
He breaks the kiss, looking down at your doe-eyed expression. His thumb traces your glossy lips, watching as you drunkenly lean forward for another kiss. He hadn't commanded a thing after inserting his needle, had you been truthful about your little "crush"? He tilts your head up, "Answer my questions truthfully."
Your ears feel muddled, like you're submurged underwater, yet his smooth voice comes out as clear as ever—as a command. Ever since that brief prick of pain, your brain feels like its swimming, your mind can only process simple thoughts, commands, and feelings. And for some strange reason, you cannot focus on anything but him. Of course, desire swelled in your chest when you saw the assassin for the first time this night, just like it did the previous times you've met. You felt the urge to pull him towards you, to prompt a chase, because something burried in the pits of your stomach stirred at the thought of him displaying something other than indifference—anger. God, you wanted to make him angry, to pull something out of him that not just anyone could do. Perhaps that stemmed from the rhythmic throbbing of your heart when you saw him, or the heat rising to your cheeks when you two were in close proximity.
But now, you feel drunk.
The painful throb of your hand fades into obscurity, the pricks of pain the back of your neck dulling, fear becoming replaced by a strange sense of calm. You feel the droplets of blood slide down the length of your arm, or drip from your neck, but you couldn't fully register the injuries. Your eyelids widen then droop, subservience and faint arousal filling your mind.
"Enough with your games. Are you involved with anyone else regarding this assassination?"
As if he'd commanded your body, you shake your head no obediently.
"Do have the information you're contracted to give me? Considering you've stalled long enough that he's left."
Previously, you had given Illumi Edmond's schedule for the night. Your presence was supposed to enusre that the man wouldn't deviate from it, but here you are. You nod, staring up at him with eyes full of expectation. Illumi hums, "Then deliver your end of the deal." He catches a flash of defiance in your eyes (that shouldn't be), your plump lips parting as if the action were a request. You swallow, attempting to form coherent words. But saliva pools in your mouth, your chest lifts in shallow breaths, your thighs squeeze in uncomfortable arousal, and his stare was driving you to insantiy. With the silence that follows, Illumi huffs in irritation. You hear the soft clink of metal against metal, perhaps another needle?
Your silent question is answered by the painful grab of your jaw and a brand new piercing through your tongue. A painful squeal leaves your lips, a gasp of pain, and a cough of surprise. A whimper leaves your throat, a mix of saliva and blood pooling in your mouth as you attempt to widen your jaw to prevent the needle from piercing any further. Illumi hums, watching as your jaw trembles, your non-pierced hand gliding up to grip the lapels of his suit.
"Do I have to use a different approach?" Illumi whispers.
His black eyes are locked with your own as if they're searching for answers within your eyes. There's silence for a moment, aside from your frantic huffing and squeaks of pain. However, without warning, Illumi rips the needle from your tongue, pulling a scream from your throat. Though, right as the noise leaves you, his hand smacks over your mouth, preventing you from altering anyone that could be nearby. You sniff, frantically tapping at his shoulder as if to signal surrender. Slowly, Illumi removes his hand, glaring as you choke and gulp down the liquids pooling in your mouth. Your hand trembles as it squeezes onto his sleeve for dear life, an attempt to distract from the pain.
"E-Edmond left with his…companions. He briefly mentioned going to his- his manor. The one off of Maple Lane," you pant, cringing at the taste of copper in your mouth. "All of his victims tend to be moved through that back road. So, that manor, he- he should be there."
Your body trembles, your nerves alit under his oppressive gaze. Illumi stares into your eyes, searching for any fabrications. When he seemingly finds none, he lets out a breath and steps back. "You have done nothing but test my patience, you're lucky my mission takes precedence over bleeding you out," his hand slithers to your throat, his void eyes staring into your own. A sudden weight seems to he put on your chest, perhaps a strange power of his that makes you feel as if your suffocating. A sense of panic fills your chest, especially as his fingers begin to squeeze impossibly tight around your throat. In fact, its worse than the first time.
Before, there was semblance of safety, but now the information has fallen from your lips and he no longer has a need for you. His hand feels as if it's is trying to snap your neck, to sever the blood flow to your brain. His face is as blank as ever, his voice monotone and eyes unfeeling, though there's a hint of irritation in his demenaor. Your stomach drops, real fear showing as your eyes widen and your hands begin to shake. And that stupid, illogical part of you swoons. Your vision hazes, limbs feeling weak and mind feeling light—yet, your panties are soaked. After a moment, his hand releases your throat, a threat of death lingering in his eyes. Coughs rings out through the room when he lightly tosses you away, frantic gasps for air filling his ears as you clutch your chest and neck.
With the intent to leave he orders, "Clean this mess you've caused." Though, he's stopped by your legs, his eyes lingering on them. Particularly the way they wrap around him and tug, throwing the both of you off balance. You slid off of the wall and hit the floor with a painful thud, though you luckily lessened the blow with your arm. Illumi follows suit and nearly falls on top of you, but his arms are propped and soften his fall. His silky strands fall with gravity and frame your face, a wall of black hair disrupting your view of anything around you. A rumble of irritation sounds in his throat, "You have zero idea what you're getting yourself into."
His firm words, however, do not stop you. You gasp, coughing from the blood pooling in your mouth, and the previous lack of oxygen. A gargled chuckle leaves you, "I know exactly what I intend to get myself into. I'm a woman driven by purpose, Mr. Zoldyck." As you speak softly, your hands glide from his back, to his shoulders, to his neck, and then to cup his face in a bold move. Despite your confidence though, apart of you is throbbing with anxiety, unsure if you've poked the bear and today would be your last, or if he'd (surprisingly) reciprocate.
Illumi narrows his eyes and mutters 'fine.'
His hands meticulously remove his own clothing. First, he tugs off his suit jacket, then slowly unbuttons the shirt underneath. The space is quiet, other than the ruffling of clothing. His eyebrows are sligtly curved in displeasure, his body language making it clear that he's pissed. Nervously, you swallow as you peer up at him. "Infuriating," he whispers, "Thats what you are." His voice is surprisingly calm, but there's a twinge of firmess that makes you lay stiff. "There's so many things I could do to you right now, but you'd enjoy them. Wouldn't you?"
Illumi pulls his dress shirt from its tucked position in his pants. "Of course, I could deprive you of any satisfaction and kill you quickly…however that seems like a waste."
His shirt is open, giving you a glimpse of his porclean skin. An undershirt stands in your way, but the peek of his collarbone that nearly calls you to bite it, is sufficient, for now. Licking your lips and waiting in anticipation, you watch as his hand drifts down to undo the clasps on his pants. Illumi leans down, hovering atop you, your noses nearly touching. He tilts his head snd positions his lips mere centimeters from your own. "What exactly were you hoping to get from this?" he whispers, his breath ghosting against your lips.
He continues to hover, awaiting your answer when impatience fills you, and you crash your lips against his. You hear the faint clink of the metal needle hitting the ground, though the feel of his lips, the vibration of his hums against you, makes you feel like your submurged in water.
The kiss is messy—bloody, fluids smeared across your lips, consuming pleasure, and stinging with pain.
Illumi leans down, pressing you firmly against the floor. Despite your insistence on the exchange, your hands frantically paw at his arms and shoulders, body melting underneath Illumi's from the intensity. He pulls away for a moment, allowing you to take a breath. You cough, a string of diluted crimson dripping from your lips. Without a word, he smashes his lips against your own once more. Bravely, you grab his wrists and plant them were you wish for them to be—your waist. In a silent plea, you beg for his hands to strip you bare.
In accordance with your silent wish, Illumi hands slither behind your back and pulls your waist from against the floor. His fingers unravel the strings of your corset, the man moving as if this action is muscle memory. His lips steal your breath, hands diving beneath your, now loose, clothing to pull at your undergarments. You feel him tug at the petty coat beneath your dress, slipping it down your thighs and disgarding it elsewhere. You moan, arching upwards towards him in an effort to help him slip off your dress.
Illumi's lips drift from your own, kissing your cheek, down to your jaw as his tugs at dress and pulls down the bust. He doesn't take the full garment off, only pushing it down to your tummy and undoing the shirt beneath the dress. Soft lips kiss down your neck and to the column of your chest as he tugs open your under shirt and bra, allowing your breasts to spill out. He lifts up, his eyes raking up and down your body. One of his hands grabs at your chest, squeezing one of your tits. The other hand is busy flipping up the front of your dress to get access to the fabric he's been searching for. You lift your hips, whimpering as there's a soft squeeze to your chest, and fingers tugging at the hem of your panties. Embarrassingly, you feel the damp fabric slide against your thigh as he pulls them off of you.
"Il- Illumi, please," you whisper, pleading for an unspoken action that he seems to understand and graciously grant you.
His lips are back against your own, though they're softer, slower as his free hand traces your inner thigh, resting on your hip. His thumb brushes against the soft curls in between your thighs that cover that sweet spot you desperately wish for him to touch. You roll your hips upward, attempting to encourage him to move. However, he simply squeezes your chest as a warning and continues the soft, teasing drag of his fingers around where you desire him to be. "Lumiii," you whine, legs shifting in impatience.
Illumi swiftly smacks your thigh, earning a wince from your lips, with a curt, "Shush."
The hand that cups your breast, slides up, his thumb gliding over your nipple. The hand between your thighs pushes your legs upward to your torso so his view is unobscured. His hand dips between them, the back of his nails trailing right between the meat of your thigh and your precious cunt. His fingers drift deep between that curve of your body until he stops just below your entrance. You feel the press of his fingertips just below your pussy, whining at the feeling of him dragging his fingerstops up and to your twitchy clit, collecting your wetness on them. Embarrassment fills your chest, heat to your cheeks as you realize just how drenched you are, simply from the pain he's given you.
"Hm. I never thought you'd be this messy," he comments, flexing his fingers to see translucent ropes of slick.
His hand dips back between your thighs, dragging his fingers along your vulva until he presses between your folds, teasing at your hole. Your hands impatiently tug at his arms, hips shifting beneath him with a silent plea for him to continue.
"Easy," he seems to mock, as you shudder from his slim fingers slipping inside of you again.
Soft whines leave your lips, feeling the tips of his fingers curl inside of you, pressing against that sweet spot that has your eyes curled and eyes rolling. "Lumi, Lumi," you pant, silently causing him to wonder where you found the audacity to call him that. But, he decides to focus on the reactions he receives with each touch. Every pathetic whine or panted call of a curse — each is catalogued in his mind, as your thighs tremble and your lip quivers.
Illumi phases in between torturing with orgasm denial, or simply letting you cum. The former would likely be more entertaining, informative even, since he had never engaged in that type of activity. However, he was still partially mindful of both the public environment and his assignment that still hadn't been filled.
Zoldycks were known for their accuracy and efficiency — there was a moderate chance that Silva, no, perhaps Kikyo would chew him out when this was done.
His mind was occupied with his assignment, yet his fingers continue their pleasurable movements, and your sweet, soft moans seem to invade his thinking, calling his attention to you. "Fu- ngh! Fuck!" You whisper-shout, hissing at how loud you realized that was. Quickly, you slap both of your hands on your mouth, your moans unfortunately muffled to avoid getting found and the entire experience being interrupted. You were mere minutes from having his cock inside of you, there was zero chance your loud mouth was going to ruin it.
Though, despite your hands wrapped around your lips, your whines noticeably increased in octave, your chest stuttering and breaths quickening.
Illumi feels the way your warm walls squeeze and flutter around his fingers. The way your thighs quiver and your eyes roll. Your hand, the one he previously stabbed with his needle, weakly trembles around the arm between your legs, weak, muffled moans fall from your lips. He curls his fingers, watching as you tense, feeling your walls clamp down on him. A strangled moan sounds behind your hand as you cum, your hips twitching and squirming as his fingers continue to move despite your orgasm.
"I was unaware such degeneracy could exist in a woman," he hums.
Illumi clicks his tongue, pulling his fingers from your cunt, and inspects his now bloodied. "You're making a mess," he comments lowly, wiping his fingers on your dress and sitting up to roll his sleeves back.
"But you enjoy this. Teetering on the edge of my patience until your panties are all wet and you're soaking the floor," Illumi sighs, tugging down the waistband of his pants just below the growing bulge in his boxer briefs. He adjusts your position, flipping you over on your tummy and raising your hips. You whimper at this rough handling, though you provide no push back as you're getting exactly what you what. You pant, tongue lolled out on the floor, the sting and throb of the peirced area persistent. The same can be said for your hand thats planting a partial bloodied handprint on the floor, and strangely the back of your neck. You wiggle your hips a bit, spreading your knees further apart to get as comfortable as possible. Your wide, expectant eyes look back at Illumi who looms behind you.
He's tugging down his boxers and stroking his cock languidly. You envision the scene behind you — Illumi's sizable hand pumping his cock, his thumb spreading the precum along his pretty red tip, his slim, yet long cock slapping against his tummy as he lets go to adjust your hips.
"Getting off to me stabbing you with my needles?" Illumi burries his fingers in your hair and twists his wrist, pulling your head back towards him. His right has your hair in a firm, stinging grip, his left harshly grasping your skin. Though, despite his supposed annoyance and anger, you can feel a hint of enjoyment, of real pleasure, coming from him. "How invincible do you think you are?" He leans forward to press further against you, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. "Your use is to inform me and leave. You're quite lucky you get to be used like this — for my pleasure."
Your weak protests fall on deaf ears as his grip simply tightens. Your fingertips dance along the tile, back arched into the man. Illumi, with his free hand, guides the tip of his cock to your waiting entrance.
A moan falls from your lips as you feel him push in. Your bloodied palm comes to cover your mouth, eyes clamped shut as you try to focus on taking him and staying quiet. Illumi forces your head back down to the floor, earning a muffled mix of a yelp and a groan, as he slowly inches himself inside you. Curses tumble from your lips as you struggle to take his cock — its the slimmer side, but fills you to the brim with its length, curving right into your sweet spot. You hadn't gotten a chance to see it earlier, but you can imagine it's pale with a pretty pink tip.
A weak 'Fuck' leaves your lips when your ass meets his hips, when he's done stuffing you full with an impressive length. You attempt to relax, to take a brief moment to adjust to him, though Illumi robs you of that chance. He doesn't waste a moment pulling his hips away, only to mercilessly slam them back into you.
An embarrassing squeal fills the room. Your eyes widen and heat begins to flood your cheeks, oh how humiliating (though, you've been technically getting off on him humiliating you for the past couple of minutes).
Illumi still has a firm hand gripping your hair, but the tug has lessened, perhaps his annoyance has faded. He leans down, his chest nearly flush with your back while he thrusts his hips firmly into you. His soft, black hair provides a curtain for your face, cascading down his shoulders and onto your own. The black tips brush against your cheek and sway against the cold, tile flooring. Illumi doesn't make much noise, though his breaths are heavier than normal, his teething grinding as he sucks in air sharply.
He hovers behind you, his hips thrusting harshly into your own. Your body jerks at each thrust, little huffs of pain and whimpers of pleasure pouring from your lips and into your hand.
Wet, sticky slaps fill the air. Your slick dampens your thighs and his, precum and remnants of your orgasm stick to your ass and his hips. There's a sinful squelch to each thrust. An embarrassing call from your cunt for more, more, more. His cock feels divine as it fills you, stretching your pussy to take every inch. Huffs begin to fill your ears, his hold becoming tighter.
He feels so good.
You almost relax from the way he's fucking you, rough and deep. Your brain feels like its seeping from your ears and out of your cunt, your walls throbbing and fluttering around his cock. Weakly, your palm falls from your mouth, letting your unfiltered gasps and moans of pleasure fill the room. It smells like sex with a hint iron, and the sickeningly sweet sounds of your pussy crying for him. The nasty sounds of his thrusts echo off of the walls, filling your chest with slight morticfaction.
In fact, you're starting to feel shy. Despite the fact that he's inside of you, huffing in your ear and fucking his sweet tip into your g-spot—your ears heat, and you feel the desire to hide away from the thing you so enthusiastically risked your life for.
"Ah, don't get shy," Illumi huffs, "You want this? Take it. Look at me and take it."
Illumi lifts his body and tugs your head back, forcing your to slightly turn your body to face him. His hand rests on the back of your head as he pulls you into rough kiss. His thrusts never falter, in fact they increase in speed. The slight change in position and rhythm has you pathetically whining into his mouth. You feel hot, the kiss with him is warm, the air between your electric. His tongue tangles messily with your own, strings of saliva connect your mouths with bubbles of spit dripping down your chin. "Ah—mm, 'lumi please," you whine and gasp, "Wan' cum. Please."
Illumi sucks in a breath, rolling his hips into your ass, rubbing and kissing your walls with his cock. "Please- ah—ngh! Please," you moan, uncaring for your volume.
The man doesn't say much, though, he continues his rhythm and cups one of your thighs with his left hand, lifting your leg up. "You want it go ahead," he mumbles into your mouth. With one arm helping you support body's position, the other slots itself between your thighs, pushing your hands to your neglected clit. Your finger ghosts along the senstive bud, hips twitching from the feeling. You give experimental rubs until you find yourself in a pleasure rhythm alongside his thrusts.
Your whines increases, lips falling open amd disregarding the setting. Calls of his name, curses, and jumbled pleas spill from your glossy lips. Your pussy tightens around him, fluttering around his cock. Illumi's thrusts begin to feel erratic, his hold and body slightly tensing. He grunts, before there's silence from him. His hips still, flush against your ass. His cock twitches inside of you, before he cums, filling you to the brim.
Your breath hitches before you tense aswell, a moan of his name on your tongue.
The both of you make no choice to move until a couple of seconds pass and you both relax. Illumi lets out a breath, which he seemed to be holding. Gently, he slips out of you and watches as you slump to the floor, your knees giving out. He sits next to you for a moment, silent, catching his breath alongside you. It's quiet, even somewhat peaceful for a moment. However, he quickly stands up, and starts to pull himself together.
Though, there is no hint of malice, which surprises you. There's not one sign of him wanting to kill you for this little stunt, despite you fully believing he would by the end of the ordeal. Slowly, you sit up and lean yourself against the wall, uselessly flipping your dress down and tugging up the bodice to preserve modesty.
"You're leaving me alive," you lick your bloodied lips with a smile, "Does that mean you want to see me again?"
"That means my assignment takes precedence over you," Illumi responds, adjusting his clothing back to the way things were. He carefully picks up his needles and wipes his presence from the room. "Clean up. You how to erase evidence, don't you?"
You chuckle, "So I will see you again."
Illumi doesn't say anything, he simply turns and quietly exists the room when he's done. Though, he didn't refute your suggestion at all. You smile and begin to clean yourself up, and the messy floor, and the wall. Hopefully you can sneak out of here, considering you look a hot mess no matter how much cleaning you could do. But still, you'll get to see him again.
Maybe, he'll even be a little softer next time.
Throughout the fic, I kept forgetting that this was set in the 2000s, not in the 1880s- airjtb, so I was stuck describing the wrong kind of dress & undergarments. The amount of lines I had to delete and restructure was so painful, I just kept some in. But, finally. Here is the Illumi fic you all have been waiting for! Thank god this is done. Caleb's is last and will be incredibly short because I'm finishing it in one day.
summary james sunderland is a good man. a good, good man.
warnings fem afab reader, college au, age gap (20's-40's), teacher-student relationship, infidelity, dubcon bc of coercion, manipulation, oral (reader receiving), very light feet action, creampie, james' madonna-whore complex sorta, at least 2 billion mentions of mary, james' unreliable narration and rumination deserve a mention, both reader and james are shitty people
a/n tfw you've had writers' block for four entire years and some pathetic sopping wet loser is what brings you out of it. crazy. anyway my thought w this au was kinda along the lines of 'what if silent hill was a person instead of a place' but like. in the context of smut 😭 VERY SPECIFIC I KNOW but it was something i wanted to experiment with. anyway, hope you enjoy! and it goes without saying but minors please don't interact
read it on ao3 !!
The knock at his door breaks James out of the self-inflicted loop of checking emails and grading papers he's created for himself. One quick look at the screen to his left confirms that yes, office hours are still in effect for the next five minutes so he, albeit a bit begrudgingly because he really needs to get these grades in, offers a polite, "come in," and takes a sip of the now too-cold tea he had forgotten about somewhere within the hour.
"Hiya, Doc," you greet with a smile and eagerness in your gait that frankly he doesn't understand where you get the energy for given the hour. But then, you've always had too much spring in your step than perhaps is warranted. So lively, blazing like the sun and impossible for him to look away from.
Which is a detriment to him considering you're somehow in almost every single one of his lectures this semester. And if that wasn't bad enough, you inexplicably decide to attend said lectures wearing outfits that James can only describe as some kind of test of his will. This one is no exception—form fitting jeans that hug your hips and plush thighs with a cropped t-shirt that rides up just enough for him to catch the briefest flashes of invitingly supple flesh.
"Um, hey. Take a—have a seat," he gestures to the chair facing his, hoping you don't notice his sudden lack of a grasp on the English language. He at least has enough sense remaining to remind you that office hours are about to come to a close.
You wave your hand as you sit, an array of silver chains and charms chiming as you do. "Don't worry, I'll be super quick. Pinky promise." There's a disarmingly sweet smile on your face as you reach a pinky out in jest, one that widens when he finds himself reaching out to link with his own without even thinking. "Awww! That was so cute!"
The rational part of his mind knows that he really should shut down these little comments of yours. You've given him more than enough chances, lingering around after his lectures are over and popping into his office with a list of questions you'd written down in endearingly rounded lettering. All he'd have to do is set that boundary, gently remind you both that he is, at the end of the day, your professor and that your playful flirtations aren't appropriate. Say that he has a wife who he's wholly dedicated to and would never want to disrespect, which is true. He loves Mary more than he could ever put into words. She's been the love of his life for 20 or so odd years and that's never going to change, he's certain.
But you're everything he's been craving wrapped up with a pretty little bow.
You're young; a third-year in a major outside of his department and it'd be a lie to say that your youth wasn't at least part of the draw of you, as much as he tries to tell himself it isn't. It wasn't just that you were young, either. You were...full of vitality. You smiled and laughed and spoke so freely and so openly, unafraid to take up space and James couldn't help but feel himself becoming increasingly more drawn to you as the days of afternoons spent together stretched into weeks. It's gotten to a point where he now sees his classes less as lectures and as time he's able to spend in your presence, coveting your warmth and imagining what it would be like to swallow your laugh into his mouth.
At least the guilt drives him insane. That must make up for it in some way. It has to be punishment enough to visit Mary at the hospital and see her withering away during his visits and feel a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he knows he must accept as a companion. He feels it deepening every time he catches himself being short with her on her bad days, hating himself for being angry with her when he knows she's only scared. But knowing that does nothing to alleviate the tension neither of them want to acknowledge. Nor does it doesn't help that there's a different tension, one of his own making, building between the two of you.
He deserves this guilt. Hell, he deserves far worse for wanting to fuck someone half his age alone, the fact that he's also married with a sick wife warrants some kind of eternal torture somewhere lower and hotter than whenever run-of-the-mill sinners end up.
(A small part of him hopes that before then, he finds out what your skin feels like under his hands.)
"So," he manages to awkwardly choke out after a moment, "what did you want to talk about? If it's the midterm on Monday, you really don't need to be worried. I'm pretty sure you're one of the only ones actually doing the homework."
"Well, you did choose some pretty solid readings," you reply easily, shoulders straightened as if preening from his light praise which James doesn't let himself think too long about, "but no, it's not about the midterm."
James' brows furrow. There's a cryptic tone to your voice, like you're inviting him to guess the purpose of your visit which, upon looking at the time again, really should be ending soon. "Well...what, uh, is this about?"
The slight cock of your head jostles your hair enough that he can smell the mixture of your perfume and shampoo even from where he sits. Apples and sandalwood mixed with something so undeniably you. His mouth waters. "C'mon, Doc. You know."
Does he? You have this look in your eyes that all at once playful and mischievous, almost feline, and it gives absolutely nothing away. All he can do is laugh a bit incredulously. "Ah, I can't say that I do? But hey, it's almost six so maybe we could pick thi—"
"Should I give you a hint, then?"
If this were any of his other students, he wouldn't have entertained this. Honestly, he wouldn't have even let them get this far into his office, just turned them away at the door and told them to come back tomorrow when he's got more time. But it's you. And he has nothing but time for you.
"Sure," he hears himself saying before he's able to think better of it.
You smile like you'd been expecting this, leaning forward on folded arms. There's a moment where he considers asking you what you're doing but he finds himself unable to think of anything at all when he feels you hook your foot under the base of his chair and tug him forward. Whatever confusion he feels is short-lived, however, as you leave him with little ambiguity the second your foot slides along the length of his leg.
Not for the first time, he thinks that he should say something, do something, to stop this before it starts but all he's able to manage is a half-hearted, "don't," that you both know doesn't hold any weight.
"You wanted a hint," you say in that same voice he's heard so many times over the semester, light and full of mirth. "I'm giving it to you."
"I'm married," he splutters out, setting the boundary he should have all those weeks ago.
The toe of your shoe presses into the side of his knee. "Well duh," you say with a conversational flippancy that makes his head spin. "But it's not like you care." It stings like a slap to hear out loud but what can he do? Disagree? Act like he hasn't been wanting to fuck you for almost as long as he's known you? Like he hasn't been hoping for this?
James looks at you desperately, pleadingly, says your name like a prayer. "You're my student, I—Look, I'm flattered but this is extremely inappropriate. We could both get into trouble for this."
"You could."
He blinks. "What?"
A manicured nail points in his direction. "You could get into trouble for this," you correct matter-of-factly. When he doesn't respond, you trace along his inner thigh, stopping just short of where he fears you touching the most. He hopes you miss the sharp exhale you get in return. "All I'd have to do is say you came onto me and that'd be that. It'd be your word against mine and I mean, honestly, what's more believable? A 20-something-year-old college student accosting her professor ooor a however-old-you-are professor trying to fuck his student?"
A wry smile works its way onto your face at the absolutely the look of absolute dread he gives you. "Oh, don't look so scared. I'd never actually tell the department. I just think you need to remember the optics here. 'Specially since you're not exactly subtle."
This all feels like a nightmare he very much would like to wake up from, one that's taken the desires he's kept so close to his heart and given it to him in the most twisted and terrible way. James studies you, searching for answers in the face he's come to be so achingly familiar with. Nothing's changed; your smile is still bright and sunny as ever, eyes still sparkling. It's not as if a mask has come off and he's been duped by this secret version of you that's been in hiding all along. You've never been hiding. You've always been this. This is you. He's just been too caught up in his own feelings, too blind to see that while he was looking at you, you'd been looking back.
And now he's on the precipice of something he's sure he's not going to be able to come back from.
"Why?" he asks, voice strained. "What do you want?"
You give him a cute pout that's laughably at odds with the energy in the room. "Isn't it obvious? I want you."
There's a number of things James could say to that but they all get lost on his tongue, leaving him to stare at you with an expression on his face that's one part repressed hunger and one part pain. He wishes he could say that he only cares about Mary, that he spends his days thinking of her face, that he eagerly anticipates their meetings and counts down the seconds until he's able to see her again but that's a lie. Thinking about Mary, what she is now, not his Mary; the one he fell in love with all those years ago, it only makes him feel defeated. She hasn't been that person in a long time and he doesn't know who he resents more for it.
Still, this isn't right. Mary is his wife and he made a commitment to her. One that he hopes is made of steady enough stuff to withstand the force of nature sitting before him. "You need to leave." His hand comes to rest at your ankle, awkward and unsure like he doesn't know if he can touch you. "We can just...put this behind us, okay?"
For a moment, he swears it seems like you look confused. Like you'd honestly expected to walk into his office, strongarm him into having an affair and that would be that. Your eyes go from him, to his hand, before going back to him as if you're trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle before you. Then you're nudging your foot free of his grasp, pressing into the forming bulge he'd been trying to avoid acknowledging.
"I don't think I made myself clear. Your voice drowns out his wince of what he tells himself is agonizing pain. "I'm not going anywhere until I get what I want. And you know what I want."
James can't think. If he thought it was hard to get himself to do something—anything—before, this was leaving him forgetting he ever had any thoughts to begin with. There's no way for him to pretend like he's not getting hard from this now, no way to feign nonchalance when the sole of your shoe is rubbing slow and dangerous against him. He could push your foot away. His hand is close enough to do it, gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that bone threatens to tear through skin—but he doesn't make a single move to stop this. You're regrettably aware of this too, cheek resting in the cup of your palm as you watch him. There's no challenge in your eyes, no dare for him to struggle. It's as if you already know that you've won.
"Puh-Please," he begs, voice no more than a punched-out gasp. "Just-just stop and I promise, I won't say anything to anyone, I won't touch your grades—" A firm press has him cutting his own sentence short with a groan he muffles into his hand.
"But you know that's not what I want, silly." You rub along his shaft, soothing, languid strokes that apply just enough pressure for a haze to settle over his mind and tightness to begin forming in his gut. "And I know it's not what you want either so why deny yourself?"
He could move his chair back. He could stand up right now and end this entire thing if he wanted to. "Why...why would I ever want this?"
"Because you've been spending the better half of the semester fantasizing about cheating on your sick wife with one of your students." You straighten your head to face him properly. "How is Mary, by the way? Doing any better?"
His heart drops. "How do you know her name?"
You smile, all sweetness and sunshine. "I know a lot of things about you, silly. Like that you always drop by the hospital to see her on your way home. Or like how bring her flowers every Thursday on your lunch break," you say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh and I know which floor she's on. Still haven't figured out her room number though—"
"I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone." He's aware of how pathetic he sounds, that the wet spot in his pants only makes it doubly so.
"No, I said I wouldn't tell the department. Which I won't," you correct, half-smiling when his hips unwillingly buck against you. "I don't want to get you fired."
"But you have no problem destroying my marriage?" he asks, breathless and flushed but incredulous all the same.
"Don't be so dramatic," you tut. "You're the one about to blow a load in your pants just from being stepped on. If anyone's destroying your marriage, it's you."
James stills. "I...I'm not—"
You give him a look. "Oh, please. If I wanted to, I bet I could finish you off right now." A soft hum, thoughtful. "But that would be no fun."
It's the disorientation, he tells himself. It's the shock of your words that leaves him paralyzed, helpless as he watches you slide out of your chair and circle around his desk. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, his ears, his bones, as you reach out to cup his face in your hands. Now that you're this close, he can see every particle of glitter at the inner corners of your eyes, smell every single note of your perfume and, oh, feel how soft your hands are. He doesn't even remember the last time he's been touched like this, like he's wanted—desired. The scratch of your nails against the stubble scattered across his jaw has his eyes falling shut, brows furrowed and head heavy with cotton.
"Just say you want this, James. That's all you have to do. You can do that for me, right?"
Distantly, he registers that this is the first time you've said his name. You make it sound sweet, sweeter than perhaps he's gotten used to hearing in these past few years. His name had been soured into something awful and bitter like bile that he forgets that there was once honey in its syllables. That, before his life became what it is now, there was a time where all he knew was nectar and fresh morning dew. What you're offering isn't that, he's not delusional enough to believe otherwise. But you offer something. A salve, a bandaid, a temporary fix, whatever it is; it is real and tangible and he can feel it beneath his fingers.
(When did his hands end up at your thighs? When did his head fall to rest against your stomach? Why do your nails running along his scalp make it so hard to think?)
James is holding you like he's unsure of whether to push you away or pull you in closer, hands shaking with a cocktail of repulsion and want. There's no going back if he lets himself have this. No way that he could ever convince himself that, in spite of it all, he's still the man he promised Mary he'd be. If he gives in, what does that make him? He could tell himself that any other man—any other human—in his position would face the same conundrum, that this was simply a losing battle he was forced into playing. Though, he knows this is all his doing. That this hellish game is of his own making, the rules and limits set by him. You've simply bent them to your advantage. Worst part is, he can't even be mad at you. There would be nothing for you to leverage against him with had he been the husband he tells himself he is, one who doesn't let the first pretty thing that comes his way get under his skin.
He deserves this, he finally concludes. This must be the punishment he deserves: well and truly condemning himself past the point of no return, leaving there no room to pretend anymore.
His breath comes out in a shaky sigh, blood rushing in his ears he turns his face to press his lips against your sternum, just under your breasts. He's already dizzy, drunk despite only having a paltry sip, but he needs more. So he repeats the motion, a touch lower this time, urged on by your hands in his hair and your soft sounds of encouragement. Again, this time landing in the in-between of your shirt and your jeans—on bare skin, he realizes belatedly. On the bare skin that's been teasing him, occupying far too much space in his head. He has to stop himself from moaning from how soft you are, how your flesh gives so eagerly under his touch. There's going to be a wet spot in his pants, if there isn't one already, but he can't seem to find it in himself to care when he's face-to-face with the top button of your jeans.
Wordlessly, he looks up at you through hazy eyes and you get the message immediately, smiling to yourself as you undo the button and zipper. The reality of what exactly he's doing threatens to set in but James finds that he can easily distract himself by pushing forward, closer to you, until you have no choice but to back up into his desk. He thinks he hears the clinking of your bracelets again, this time intermingling with the rustling of his long forgotten papers, but it's all static to him now that he can see the beginnings of deep pink lace. The groan that comes out of him is a pained thing, wrought with everything he's been holding back for all this time.
Your responding laugh is bright, cheery. "I figured you'd like 'em."
You'll be the death of him, he's certain.
His mouth waters when your hands guide his to your hips, cock twitching in its confines when you hook his thumbs into your waistband and tug and—
"Oh."
The lace is sheer, enough that there may as well not be any fabric there to begin with. Making matters worse, you've clearly waxed yourself clean and left him little room for ambiguity. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth when he notices the wetness glinting in the low light of the room, inviting.
Slow, as if he's wading through water, he slides out of his chair and onto the ground on his knees. You make a noise, something like hungered approval, and let him pull your jeans off the rest of the way down your legs. Neither of you see where it ends up after you kick it along with your shoes into some corner of his office but it matters very little when he's shouldering your legs apart, pressing his face into your cunt and breathing you in like he needs it.
God, you're so fucking warm. Warmer than Mary is, maybe warmer than she ever was. He hates himself for thinking it, hates himself more for lapping at you through the thin barrier of lace and moaning at your taste on his tongue. You taste like stolen bites of apple pie and you leave his lips just as sticky, just as sweet with residue as any syrupy filling could. It makes it hard to think, to regret. The feeling still lingers somewhere in his chest but it's a dull thing that is easy to suffocate with the louder, more urgent voice in his head wondering how long he'll be left smelling like you, if your scent would last throughout the evening. Does he want it to? To take the evidence of the death of his marriage home and let you linger there? His cock twitches in response, so hard now that it hurts. Doesn't really want to think about the implications.
Right now, all he can think of is how soaked your panties are with his saliva, the fabric slick and wet and almost scratchy to an uncomfortable degree. But you look so beautiful above him. An angel, a goddess; eyelids heavy, hair falling over your face, the sounds of hymns on your lips when his tongue swipes along the parting of your centre, coaxing more of your ambrosia out for him to swallow down greedily. How benevolent you are, to take pity on this sinner's heart.
"Need m-more," you decide, brows pinched and voice reedy. "Gimme more?"
It's a miracle that he isn't immediately undone by you right then and there. "Yeah," he rasps, voice ragged, "yeah, c'mere."
From where he's knelt on the floor, he urges you up onto his desk somewhere between his pens and papers and a framed picture of Mary that your elbow knocks into when you situate yourself properly. She's smiling in it. It's genuine too, unguarded. Like she knew she could be her most vulnerable self with him. Like...like she trusted him with her most fragile parts.
You pull him in closer with your heel at his back and he chooses to forget.
This new position opens you up more than before, as unbelievable as that may be for him to comprehend. Your legs are stretched out as far as his desk permits, one of which you've decided to hook over his shoulder to guide him as you please. Not that he needs much of it as all it takes for him to venture back between the absolution-damnation of your thighs is the sight of your hardened clit through your panties.
"I've never—mmph—I've never been with a guy who liked eating pussy as much as you do," you muse. "Your wife's a real lucky lady."
"Don't talk about her." It comes out more as a whimpering plea than anything else but thankfully, having your clit sucked on gets you lax and jelly-boned enough that you drop the topic anyway.
You're so accessible like this—thick folds parted to give way to the inviting twitch of your hole, the perfect pearl of your clit. It's addicting to watch, even more to taste. He can tell by how sensitive you are that you need more, that you need him to tug the lace aside and touch you properly, but a part of him enjoys seeing you writhe like this; chasing after his tongue and squirming when you get it. Maybe it's his own way of getting back at you. Maybe he just thinks it's endearing to see your face screwed up into a little pout, all spoilt princess throwing a tantrum.
He teases you a bit more, flicking the tip of his tongue across your clit just to see you jolt and fastening his mouth over you in your entirety and humming deep and low, wringing a sound out of you that he can only describe as primal. There's a deep satisfaction he finds in that. Both in the righteous sense and in that of his own primality, though at this point he figures there's no point in separating the two with you. It excites him, it scares him. He doesn't know how far you'll go or what lines you'd be willing to cross to get what you want but honestly, he's not sure if he'd put up much of a fight anymore. Not when giving in, letting you have your way, means he gets to feel you arch up off the desk and wail.
"Wait, wait, wait—" you're pushing him back, sole on his shoulder, out of breath, "—I don't—I didn't—" a beat, an inhale to collect yourself, "I wanna cum with you inside me."
"Jesus Christ." He has to take a second; breathes in, then out. "You...you have a condom?"
The curl of your lip is all mischief. "No."
James starts to say your name before you cut him off. "I don't, like, have anything. 'M clean."
He has no idea why he's even considering this. Has even less of an idea of why his body is screaming at him to just fuck you already. "Are you on birth control at least?" Another smile, this time accompanied with a tilt of your head, that he knows to take as a no.
"It'll be fine," you reassure him. "You can just pull out."
"I don't kno—"
"Oh, c'mooon. I'll let you cum on my face if you want to. Just don't get it in my hair, obviously."
He has no idea how you're able to be so casual about all this, like you aren't an accessory in his infidelity asking him to risk knocking you up—knocking one of his students up. He could lose his job—hell, he could never get a job again if he isn't careful. And that's not even considering what it'll do to Mary. They've been in a bad place for a while now but still, this goes beyond retribution for cold shoulders and words you don't mean. This is a betrayal. A backstabbing, unwarranted betrayal to the highest level.
And yet.
"Fine. Fine, okay, just..." He shuts his eyes, swallows. "We need to be careful, okay?"
You smile, pushing yourself up off your elbows to wiggle your pinky in his face. "Pinky promise."
For the second time today, he finds himself unable to resist giving into this little habit of yours.
"Still so cute," you say, fond and warm. "Now get up here."
He has no idea how long he'd been kneeling but judging by the ache in his joints when he stands, it had been far too long. You don't give him long to dwell on that though, winding your arms around his neck with a pleased little sound. Those hands don't stay for long, sliding down his chest, down his stomach, down further still until you reach his slacks. You don't need to wait for his assent to start unbuttoning them, taking the painfully hard outline of his cock and the accompanying wet spot as enough of a reason to make haste in pulling him out of his pants.
"'S all for me?" you ask softly. James doesn't know what to do about the genuine awe in your voice, mind too focused on not cumming from your hand—soft, smaller than his own—around him.
Foreheads touch, an incidental thing he doesn't rectify. "Yeah." His voice is far away, not his own. "All for you."
You shiver, pumping him slowly. "It's so thick," you sigh airily. Your head tilts up a fraction, nose brushing against his. Any closer and you'd be sharing breath. "Put it in me?"
He grits his teeth with the effort it takes to stave off his orgasm.
He takes himself in a single hand, half-dazed as he watches you roll your panties off your hips and down to the floor where it lays in a pile at his feet. Then, it somehow becomes very different. Real. The lace wasn't doing much for your decency in the first place but still, it was a barrier. A safety precaution. It gave him enough that he could feign enough denial at what he was allowing himself to do. Now, he must confront it; slick (because of him), twitching (for him) and radiating heat like a furnace (inviting him).
(All for him.)
It's almost too much, almost enough to scare him in the ways that matter. This is the moment where he realizes this is the point where a good man could just…stop. That, if he were ever the man he had been convincing himself he was, he could end this now and still have enough lines left uncrossed that he'd be able to be at peace with himself. But you're there, hand on his wrist in what is both a demand and a request, and he can't find it in himself to do much else than comply.
Mary flashes in his head again; cold, alone, angry, waiting for him to visit—
The head of his cock is guided to your entrance, testing. You bite your lower lip between your teeth, brows furrowed as it pushes in only a fraction.
"D-does it hurt?"
You shake your head, grip his wrist tighter; begging.
He makes a sound of acknowledgement, one he hopes is assuring. Then he's pushing in further, lips parted when he's enveloped by the sheer heat of you. All he can think of is wetness and softness and heat like he's never known heat before and—the tightness. You're got a grip on him like you never want to let go, like you want him inside you forever and oh, isn't that a thought? And he's not even all the way in, he realizes with a pang to the gut.
Singleminded in his goals now, he places his free hand on your hip to steady you as he pushes in more, more, more until—
"Oh, fuck—"
Your voice is breathy and pitched, chest heaving with laboured breaths when he bottoms out. He's not faring much better; collapsed against you, face pressed into the side of your neck, one hand pressed to your back to keep you steady and the other braced on the desk near your thigh. It's all he can do to keep himself upright, groaning at just how you fit around his cock. Like you were made for this, made to be exactly what he needs. The thought alone has him twitching inside you, exhaling hotly against your skin.
There are hands against his back, under his shirt. "James," you say, all but into his ear at this angle He shudders when he feels the bite of nails. "James, kiss me, please."
The last time he's kissed a woman was back before Mary got sick. Back before she'd turn her head away from him where she used to dive back in for more, frowns where there were once smiles. He debates it for a moment, considers telling you that this would be too intimate, a step too far.
"I shouldn't..."
He turns his face, inadvertently nosing against your jaw.
"A little late to play shy now, doncha think?" A whisper; your face turns, too. Close. Too close? Not close enough? Your lips brush against his when you speak. "You're already breaking Mary's heart, might as well enjoy yourself."
James kisses you like a man starved. Ravenous, wrought with latent energy that threatens to tear you both apart. There is no room for you to make your quips, tongue preoccupied in his mouth after he coaxes it in with his own. It's sloppy, unpracticed; he's certain your teeth have knocked together more times than is probably appropriate and it's glaringly obvious he hasn't done this in a while. But you're more than happy to take the lead. You hold his face in your hands, slow the pace to something more manageable and smile when he moans into your mouth. He lets you run your nails across his back in slow whirling motions that go straight to his cock and remind him he's yet to actually start moving.
Between kisses, he manages, "c-can I—did you want me to-?"
"Please."
He groans, panting when you press your nails into his back. "How? Tell me how you want it."
"Hard, please, need it hard, James. Need you to fuck me ha—fuck, yes, yes, yes, like that, just like that, fuck—"
He pulls out almost completely half of the way and slams back in, spurn on by your begging. Sex with Mary was never like this, always gentle and tender and slow. It really was making love, he thinks. Intimately vulnerable in a way you can't replicate with just anyone. Something reserved for the most devout of lovers.
What he's doing to you now, what he's been wanting to do to you since you walked into his office—since you walked into his life—is anything but. He pulls out almost half of the way before slamming back in and jostling you so hard that your godforsaken bracelets clink together in time with the smack of skin-on-skin. This carnality, this basal need to hear your whimpers and feel your body twitch and shake, insides squeezing around him just as tightly as your arms do around his neck, it's all new to him. It's something he'd long desired, of course. A vice he never would have thought to bring up with Mary. Even back when they first got married and things were new and fresh, the thought of doing this to her, of fucking her like she's something to be fucked rather than someone to hold and pleasure—he could never do it.
But you bring out the worst in him, ask the worst of him which he gives to you freely. The force of his thrusts send you falling back against the desk with him on top of you, face buried into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he pounds into you at this new angle. It's a good one, he figures, if your gasps and choked-out noises are of any indication. You hold him to you like you need him to keep fucking you, like you need this craving sated just as much as he does. It spurns him on, makes him fuck into you harder, makes him want to embed himself into you. He loves Mary, he does, he loves her more than anything in the world but God, you make him feel like he's alive.
He pulls back, he has to pull back, has to look at you and he's glad he does. Your lipstick is smeared across your face with barely any leftover on your pretty lips, mascara smudged from sweat and what he can only assume are tears beaded at your waterline but what gets him, what makes his stomach twist with vicious desire, is the look you give him. Half-crazed, half-desperate, you look at him like you know. Like you can read his mind, like you can read him like the back of your hand and know which buttons to press, what his deepest wants and are and how to use them to get what you want.
He'd give you the world, he wants to see you cry, he wants to tear you to bits, he never wants you to stop saying his name, he wants you to get out of his fucking class, he wants, he wants, he wants—
"I'm close," you gasp.
Though he doesn't say it, he's not too far behind you, thrusts growing more and more erratic.
You moan openly now, hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit with equally erratic swipes of your fingers. God, he can't take his eyes off of you. You're all desperation wound tight and waiting to burst, so close you can almost taste it but motions too frantic to reach that peak. It's something to behold, something James can't tear his eyes away from.
He's still entranced when your eyes go wide, brows pinched together and—there it is.
"Cumming, cumming, 'm cumming—kiss, need to k-kiss, please—"
James swallows down all of your noises, every last stuttered out gasp and moan and whine of his name before you're kissing back with fervour, licking along the seam of his lips and urging him to follow suit with sweet words spoken into his mouth.
"Let go, James. 'S okay, just give in. Don't think too hard about it, yeah? Yeah, oh, fuck yeah, yeah, baby. That's it, cum for me. Give it to me."
The telltale tingle starts at the top of his spine and zips down throughout his fingers, his toes. When he can tell he's right on the edge, he shifts to move away but finds that you've locked your arms and legs around him.
"Want it, want it inside," you say through heavy breaths.
That's what does it, as ashamed as it makes him to admit.
He stares at you in dumbfounded horror as he feels himself flood hot, thick liquid into your insides, a sound somewhere between euphoric and afraid wrenched out of him when you clench around him to drain out every last drop.
"Oopsie," you say into the silence, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.
You still cling to him, even as the stickiness of your bodies and the heat become too much. Neither of you move. He's still staring at you. "What?" you finally ask.
"You promised we'd be careful," he says slowly, like he's talking to a child.
And like a child, you roll your eyes. "Look, if it bothers you that much then I'll pop a Plan B in the morning, okay?"
"That's not the—"
"—not the point, yeah I know. It's the principle or whatever." You finally detach yourself, scoffing as you recline back onto your elbows. "You're so sensitive, Doc. Most guys would be over the moon about this, you know."
You both hiss when his cock slips free, trail of cum following along behind it. James has to look away, tucking himself back into his pants quickly. "Most guys aren't married," he counters bitterly, watching as you trot around in search of your jeans and your shoes. "Most guys aren't your goddamn professor. You just...you can't just..." he trails off, unsure of what it is he's trying to get across but still frustrated that you aren't understanding it.
He watches you slip your jeans on with nothing underneath, panties stuffed into the back pocket. The mental image of you holding his cum in as you make your commute home makes his fingers twitch. "Oh, I'm sorry—I guess I missed this week's reading on how to properly have extramarital affairs."
Princess throwing a tantrum.
He sighs, deep and long and patient. Doesn't bother replying, just focuses on redressing instead of letting you goad him into whatever back and forth he doesn't want to engage in.
But then you surprise him. "You're...mad at me."
He feels an inexplicable need to comfort you, like you're the one who's been violated. "I'm not mad," he says, voice softer than perhaps you deserve, "just...a little...I don't know."
"But you still like me, right?"
That catches him off-guard. "Um," he starts, brows furrowed. The longer he takes to finish his sentence, the more pained your expression becomes. "Well, yeah. I guess so."
You pin him in place with a bright smile. "Okay. Good." Then you're turning around to tie your laces.
James opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out, doesn't really know what he could say. He's always at a disadvantage with you. Where you're able to get under his skin and take up root there, he's still barely scratched your surface. Nothing you do makes sense to him, has no rhyme or reason that he's aware of. You seem to do whatever takes your fancy at that given moment and that...that makes him very afraid of you. He's not sure what you'll want next, what more you'll ask of him, who you'll involve next. What's worse is he's not sure if he'd be able to deny you. If he'd want to deny you.
You bound over to him once you're finished straightening your clothes, head tilted in question. "Kiss for the road?"
His heart warms against his will, stomach churning with unease as he lets you tug him down to your lips.
"Mm...still tastes like me," you say, pleased.
It takes him a touch longer than he'd like to realize you're talking about him. "Oh." He licks his lips and sure enough—"Guess you're, ah, right."
You trace a finger along the curve of his lower lip. "Mm...should probably grab a breath mint before heading over to the hospital, huh?"
The hospital?
A beat.
Realization dawns; it's Thursday.
It's Thursday. Mary's expecting him. Mary's expecting him and he reeks of sex and tastes of your cunt.
"Kinda inconvenient, huh?" Your arms twine around his neck, faux sympathy clear as day in your voice. "Guess you're gonna have to reschedule."
A second realization, creeping up the back of his neck like a phantom hand.
"You..." he swallows, feels like he's going to be sick, "you knew. You did this on purpose."
You shrug. "Maybe."
He should push you away. He wants to push you away. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—
But he doesn't. Instead, he just watches as you leave. Lets you go without so much as a protest or complaint. Lets you blow him a kiss before shutting the door behind you.
Then he's left alone, nothing but ungraded papers and cold tea to keep him company. Back where he'd started, back where he fears he will never leave.
thank you so much for reading! plssss send your feedback n thoughts here bc i have!! so many feelings and opinions abt this au i need let them out!!
𔓎 SUMMARY;
— ghost stories are meant to scare, they're meant to invite fear and wariness. choso has no interest in being that kind of ghost, though — all he wants is to strip you of pretense, to help you lay bare every desire you try to hide.
𔓎 WARNINGS; — mdni; please mind the content warning!
— dubcon; coercion; manipulation; monsterfucking (ghost); oral (f!receiving), fingering; p in v, reality manipulation; body manipulation (his); half-corruption kink (lightly); haunting (obviously); implied consumption
if i have forgotten a content tag, please let me know.
𔓎 WORD COUNT;
— 6167.
𔓎 AUTHOR'S NOTE;
— this is probably the weirdest fic i've written so far, and also the first time i'm posting anything dark fiction on here. if any of this triggers you, do NOT read it. i will have tagged this fic with content warning, so it will be your own responsibility to make sure you are not affected by anything on your time on the internet.
i honestly think this could have been better, but i'm just eager to stop working on it and think about it. that being said — have fun for whoever does want to read it!
a huge, huge, huge thank you to @/prettyiwa, @/tyga-lily and @/sodaneko for enduring my crashouts over this!
You hadn't meant to call the ghost in your house.
It was a careless thought, a half-formed wish at the ever-growing slick between your thighs, but from one second to the next, your chair tipped back slightly and the shadowed impressions of his knees appeared on the floor.
Choso was a very curious ghost, incredibly so — he lingered in the corners of your vision, the margins of your thoughts, the edges of your bed, the crack between your thighs.
At first, you were nothing to him, just somebody who wandered into his space, too warm for a cold house. It didn't feel strange when you first moved in; it was quiet, and you liked the quiet, you liked the peacefulness, even if the silence sometimes felt like there was weight in its atoms, like there was the faint weight of a gaze when you were in bed.
But then it started as little things that you thought were just a product of imagination: the shower steam would wind in strange ways sometimes, not rise the way hot air liked to escape, but rather towards you; tendrils that stretched and wanted. But who were you to question physics?
Patterns had a way to find you, though; the bathroom mirror would fog just enough for fingertips to appear having danced across it, despite being sure you hadn't touched it. The bedroom door would ease itself open when you were sure you had shut it.
Once, whilst reading, you had felt it — the tiniest flutter beneath your skin when the story turned heated, when its words set your cheeks aflame, and just then, the lamp flickered, and the room started to feel heavier when you touched yourself.
As curious as Choso was, he was demandingly greedy, too. The little things moved on from their subtlety: a brush of air that made your skin prickle when there were no windows and no draft, when there was the faintest press of something wet at the nape of your neck during the summer heat. You had lifted your hair, glanced around, fingers touching your skin only to find nothing there.
It could have been a coincidence, it could have been your imagination — maybe one of those quirks of living alone that creep up on somebody, a flicker of something unexplainable. So you tried to ignore it, tried to rationalise it.
But every time your pulse quickened, when your thoughts went someplace you didn't want to admit to anyone, you could swear that something in your surroundings changed. As if the air became so much more saturated with water, like there was something heavy dripping, like you felt somebody's breath, close, so very close, standing right behind you.
With that, it became more deliberate, stronger.
A phantom brush of air curling up around your thighs, a slick warmth against your lips when no one should have been there — the sudden impression of wetness on your panties that felt wholly foreign to your own arousal. Reaching for a glass in the kitchen, there would be a fleeting press at your slit, thick and heavy, making your breath hitch, drawing blood with the press of your teeth against your lips to keep from releasing a whimper.
Maybe you should have said something then. Maybe you should have gotten an exorcist, maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe then, he would not have lingered with you in the shower, unseen but tangible, the way a tongue lapped at your nipples, the way invisible fingers parted your folds and swiped the tip of them against your clit as you washed up.
Maybe then he would not have dragged the echo of your own wetness across your lips.
So when the call slipped from you, careless and unconscious, a thought born of unbearable frustration, Choso almost manifested in front of you; like calling him gave him a shape to imitate, like inviting him into your space fully gave him permission.
His hands rested in his lap, and you don't know what you had expected, only that the ghost in your home had never been more than a flicker at the edge of a vision. He had the kind of beauty that ached to look at, sorrowful and noble, like a statue carved to mourn. Pale face, almost porcelain with how sharp his cheekbones seemed to sit, with eyes so soft and heavy; dark marks that marred his face like a memory of how he died.
He was stunning, you registered with a dry throat, and terrible.
You stared, drinking in the fullness of his form, slightly flickering, slightly dissolving in something akin to ectoplasm at his feet. His hands were not solid as much as pressure, a suggestion as his hands braced on your thighs, sliding to the inside to spread them.
"Wha—"
Choso's gaze, the one you knew only as a whisper to your senses, burned into yours now with the hollow desperation of a starving man. It was like his translucence crept up on you, the way the heat spiked through you in retaliation, pooling heavy between your legs as it lost its privacy.
It belonged into the space between you both, and he tasted it in the air, wore it well in the way his lips parted greedily. Choso didn't just see you— actually, had been seeing you for months now, but he knew every angle of your body, too, knew every flicker of heat, every secret fold, every squeeze of your legs shut.
It was without your control that they opened again.
A cool touch slithered in between your thighs, prying at the seam of your thighs, his voice a whisper on itself that seemed to press against the inside of your skull as much as it touched your ears, deep in its baritone. Every word lingered, curled around your thoughts, brushed against the ache blooming low in your belly, making it impossible to tell where he ended and the sensation began.
You don't want to hide from me. You never have before, why would you now?
By the time you realised the nudging of his will onto yours, your legs had loosened already, spread wide, so very shamefully pliant under his touch. Choso's own knees pushed against the floor with an impermeability, dark eyes greedy, eyebrows furrowed with a century long denial — carved into him, those decades of being unseen, of being untouched, of being condemned to watch without ever having.
And he did watch; silently, reverently, and now here you were, soft and warm and living whilst every instinct screamed that to not heed your call was a cruelty he could no longer endure. Choso was no thief; he responded to summons, the answer to a starvation that he hadn't been allowed to sate for years.
What was restraint when desire had been festering in him for so long it had become a part of his very existence?
So his mouth lowered toward the slick heat between your open legs. It didn't even feel like a wet touch at first; the drag of his tongue like coldness that warmed you up before he sank down completely, and then it was physical, the way his lips and tongue were so greedy, a last meal that he was intent on devouring, pressing in as though he wanted to consume every drop.
Your hips jolted and you felt it in your throat, the shocked cry that wanted to come out, but he held you down, his hands phasing in and out of existence at your knees.
Choso licked you like that was his only purpose, like no other thought existed for him, every shiver of his tongue translating into every twitch of your cunt; tight spirals on your clit, then the broad flattening through your folds, swallowing every sound you made.
His voice was not spoken; instead, it existed around you and within you, creeping through your body until it curled around your ears, deep and resonant, vibrating through your core though his mouth never parted from you, You can continue pretending if it makes you feel better.
The words struck you in ways you didn't want to, in ways you hadn't expected to be called out for — not by the ghost that haunted you, and your palms shot forward, desperate to push him back, to do something. But the instant your hands should have sunk against his chest, they found nothing solid.
With a shimmer, almost a trick of light, your fingers passed straight through his body. He had let himself go insubstantial, untouchable, except for the fact that he was still touching you—
Between your thighs, tongue thick and hot and relentless, drawing gasps from you, and then—
A slip of something incredibly cold. It parted you, slid between your folds into you without resistance, as if your body didn't get a choice of whether to let his fingers in. There was barely any stretch, no friction, just this aching sensation of suddenly being full, like Choso had bypassed this barrier so easily.
You cried out, the sound strangled, legs trembling against the command of his hands holding you wide.
He stroked you like he had been inside you a hundred times before, tongue latching onto your clit at the same time as two of his phantom fingers hooked forward, pressing up against the spot that made your whole body clench and betray you.
"I-I'm not—" your breath hitched, panic cutting through the haze of heat, "I-I never pretend—"
Choso's eyes drilled into you, heavy and glazed, his answer sliding through your bones, wrapping around your lungs until you could barely breathe, fingers spreading you open deliberately, Never?
Do you think it's necessary to press your cunt against the kitchen counter to reach for that high glass, when there was another one right in front of you?
Your breath broke into shards at the pull of Choso's tongue, wet smacks and sloppy squelches filling the air as he drew you closer, sank his fingers into you more, a sudden shocking stretch as they curled against that spot within your quivering walls.
When you ride the edge of the bathtub, reading the words I write onto the mirror for you, you pretend still?
Was it him that pressed heavy all around you? That pulled heat and saturated the air with need?
It was maddening, thrilling and a little terrifying: a mix of dread and want that twisted heavy inside you with every devouring touch that wrapped around your thighs. You had never truly been alone — not with the way the press of his tongue mapped out your folds, slick warmth coating you as it slipped right through you, as if its wetness soaked right into your nerves.
And it was without surprise that the pleasure built like a hum, that the pulse beating between your legs grew stronger, body betraying you as it arched up into Choso's mouth. Thighs clamping around his head, shaking, it was a futile attempt to push him off, but it didn't matter for he was inside you, anyway.
Maybe you don't pretend, his voice dark and cold, almost soothing to the hot burning of his words, but you ache. For me. When you rut against your sheets, it's me you're calling. Why else would I be here?
Your spine bowed off the chair as he sucked at your clit, hard, fingers pumping until the pressure burst and damp warmth clung to your skin, spilling messy as it dripped through his hand, faint splatter on the ground.
Legs quivering with aftershocks, Choso's mouth finally stilled against you, and it was with trembling hands that you reached down to try and cup your pussy from him, to shield yourself only to pass straight through his hand.
What curious sight, what curious feeling — the way your skin felt so warm and alive against your mound, pressed against the throbbing slickness of your lips, and the way that did nothing. His fingers, flickering in and out of sight, still moved inside you, through you, languidly, like there was no cover at all.
The way you still felt every unhurried curl, the obscene sensation of something cool and claiming you, and your breath stuttered, half a sob, half a moan, because what defence did you have when you could see your hand trying to protect you, trembling and useless?
It was inevitable, it was unbearable, it was—
Your thighs shuddered open further, and his voice coiled around you, soft and pleased, and if you didn't know he was not alive anymore, there might have been something akin to a glimmer in his eyes, Look at you, fighting me with one hand and begging me with the rest of you.
The second time you gushed around his fingers and the press of his slippery tongue on your clit, it struck you without warning once more. You felt him everywhere you had ever imagined, everywhere your body had ever called for him, every click fold and every secret tremble. Swallowing around another whimper, you dared look at him again, and for a dizzying second, your senses cleared, faltering.
That mournful beauty of Choso's flickered. His eyes, holding such deep desperation to remain, had hollowness clawing at them, and his dark hair shifted slightly as if brushed by wind that did not exist. With the ebbing of your orgasm, he had been disappearing — not completely, but his form was shimmering, edges blurring.
A harsh exhale left you, one that almost turned into horrible laughter if it hadn't been for the bite of your tongue, "You— you're slipping, but you're not leaving. W-Why are you not leaving?"
Choso's eyes snapped up to yours, and a low hum shuddered through the air, a vibration that you felt more than you heard, and his fading fingers flexed deep inside you like a reminder.
"You've always left—"
The words broke apart on your lips. It wasn't defiance in his eyes that you saw, not stubbornness to prove you wrong, no, he looked like he was straining, like every last threat of him was fighting just to stay connected to you.
He couldn't leave. Why not?
Your mind latched onto the question, desperate for an answer that wouldn't claw at your ribs. Fingers still hooked deep inside you, he was the one who refused to let go — that had to mean something, that had to mean you weren't the only one unravelling.
"You like this too much," you breathed out, barely audible. Your hips tilted; a small, deliberate grind against his hand, seeking confirmation, trying to test something, anything. "Don't you?"
And just like clockwork, his form solidified, his mouth — oh god, his mouth — shimmering briefly before pressing wet and cool against your clit again. Shame burned deeply within you at the realisation, but alongside it a reckless need. A confidence you rarely felt, if only now because you understood; this feral and grasping need to survive by using what little you had.
You choked on a cry, "A-all…this time—"
"…watching me…" — His fingers twitched inside you; an involuntary spasm, like he couldn't help himself.
"…touching me…" — This time on purpose, curling, dragging against that tender spot withing your walls.
"…starving for me." — They drove deeper and you could swear you almost felt him in your throat, as though his need was burrowing through you, trying to hinder you from speaking.
"All this ti-hime," you gasped, and your hips ground down, tethering him, a lifeline, "lurking, hah, jerking off to me whilst I slept—"
His body ceased being a silhouette, no longer just belonging to the darkness. When the air fractured around him, the light bending oddly and the temperature dropping, shadows slowly peeled off Choso, like the room was leaving him surrendered to you, leaving him there, there, body trying to knit itself together under your words.
"Like a dog at the door," you hissed, shaking, though you didn't know if from fear or the wild satisfaction curling hot in your gut, the words pulled from some raw, unguarded place inside you, "Is this all you can manage? J-Just a ghost in my, ngh, cunt?"
Choso stilled for the barest second, before he suddenly surged forward, more solid than he had been before, like your accusation had yanked him fully into this world. Your pulse spiked. The moment his focus narrowed, the moment his body lunged to cage you, your hand shot out to his wrist — solid now, incredibly so — and you shoved, nails biting into the flesh that hadn't existed minutes ago.
His fingers slipped free from you with a wet, obscene pop, and your legs almost buckled from the effort, heat receding as adrenaline rose. Choso halted in his movements, chest rising like he wanted to snarl, but no sound came, and his form stuttered and flickered in response, sheer furious desire unspent.
Your teeth sank into your lip as you half-stumbled out of the chair and away from him, bare feet slapping against the floor, trembling muscles screaming with restless urgency. The orgasm he had almost pulled from you moment ago hung incomplete, ripped away before it could bloom.
Blood pounded in your ears, a rush that drowned out all other sound, skin tingling from the traces and whispers of his touch, until you escaped to another room and slammed the door shut. No noise, except your heavy breathing. No vibration in the air, no pressure that engulfed you, nothing.
He wasn't following.
The house was empty and still, like nothing had ever been there at all, the space dimply lit, silence pressing in, and for a second you just breathed, lungs burning like you had sprinted for miles instead of across a few rooms. Your skin prickled with cooling sweat, the remnants of arousal still slick between your thighs.
Pressing the heel of your hand to your chest, you tried to steady the gallop of your heart beneath it, and a rasp escaped you in the empty room, "Coward."
You knew Choso heard you, though walls or doors were not a hindrance to him, not when he heard you through that tether that still vibrated in your lower stomach and in between your thighs, a pulse as invisible and intimate as his breath on the back of your neck.
He didn't answer, but the lamplight on your dresser flickered once, so subtle and faint you might have imagined it, and the thought of him in the dark somewhere, having gone back to an incorporeal state — in between your walls, beautiful and terrible, smiling faintly at your challenge — had your heart fluttering.
The silence stretched, and your breath calmed. You could almost convince yourself you had imagined having came on Choso's tongue, that he left you alone now, when the air shifted at last.
It wasn't noticeable, just the slightest weight settling against your skin until it grew thick, humid, your skin growing slick with how heavy it clung to you, and the half-filled glass on your desk toppled over, liquid dripping off the counter, slow and thick.
"You're pathetic," you whispered, and your mirror fogged up in response, very slow, crawling in from the sides until the glass was a pale blur.
And then, against that haze, broad at the base and growing narrower, he pressed himself with deliberate weight. The outline of his cock dragged upward along the glass as if he were grinding against the barrier, leaving a streak in the fog with every slow thrust.
His voice, seemingly everywhere and nowhere, curled through you like smoke, heavy and deliberate, Pathetic? Curious. Is that why you spread for anything that presses you hard enough?
The pressure on the mirror increased, and flushed against the foggy surface was a chest, the imprint of a big hand, fingers flexing, condensation droplets running down the mirror length.
"I don't—" you bit out, and your stomach flipped violently, heat surging, "I don't spread for you—"
Don't lie, the silhouette of him pushed closer until you swore you could feel it, You've been spreading for me for months.
His outline jerked once, hard and needy, before vanishing, leaving behind the fog and your reflection staring back at you. Ignoring his obvious taunt, forced your lips into something resembling a smile, your pulse thundering beneath your skin.
"Maybe," you whispered, and the light flickered again, "but it doesn't change a single thing, does it? No matter how much you wanna hump my mirror—"
Your bed frame gave a long, slow squeal, as if something heavy and relentless had just mounted it, and you spoke over it, "—you can't touch me. Not unless—"
Like a tantrum, he created sounds to reflect his whims; wet, rhythmic and obscene. The springs of your mattress started squeaking a steady, brutal rhythm, paired with low and guttural grunts. The whisper of your name, soft and coaxing, so impossibly close and just out of reach, as Choso mimicked the sounds of your own desire, the wet squelching he knew of your cunt, making you listen as he allowed the whole room to fuck around you, for you, because of you.
Your knees knocked together, breath coming fast again. Your wanted to hold still, to not give him what he wanted, but then the headboard slammed once, violently, as if somebody had driven hips into hips — you flinched so hard, you nearly moaned.
Should I let you listen to what I'm going to do to you?
The bed groaned harder, louder, wet noises intensifying until you couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, and he wouldn't stop, not when you pressed yourself deeper into the corner of the room, trying to anchor yourself to keep him out.
But what were you to do when your phone lit up on the nightstand? When your own voice spilled from it, breathless and broken, a perfect recording of your moans from earlier that you knew you didn't take, looping back at you with a clarity that had your cheeks set aflame?
Look at you, Choso's voice threaded through the playback, low and almost velvet, winding straight into your skull, This is what I hear and see when I watch you. Every night.
The air grew damp, suffocating, and the reflection in the mirror across the room flickered, once and twice, before it warped.
In it, you weren't pressed up against the corner anymore, you were on the bed, shaking legs spread wide to fit a shadowed body between them, bending over you, mouth on your throat.
Let me in, the mirror-version of him whispered against the image of your skin, his tongue dragging languidly up the hollow of your throat, leaving a trail of spit. When Choso's gaze lifted up, there was devotion in the dark of his eyes, feverish and unholy, looking right at you, You're already halfway there.
The you in the mirror arched of the bed, a shameless mimicry you hadn't given it permission for, and—
Your pulse stuttered against your will, and he felt it. He felt the tug of every little secret ache you tried to ignore, a magnetic pull as every pulse was mirrored back to you. The image dissolved, and the next second, long and pale fingers pierced first through the glass of the mirror like water.
Then a hand, veins dark like ink under his translucent skin, and the other followed, bracing against the frame as he began to pull himself through, inch by goddamn inch.
Not unless what?
At the reminder, you turned around to bolt through the door into another room, when suddenly all noise cut and your furniture came to a still, only for the only thing to hinder you, so incredibly loud in the sudden silence, to be the turn of the lock.
Barely any time to realise that when you tried to turn the door knob, it didn't budge. It wouldn't budge, why wouldn't it—
Choso's chest pressed flush to your back within an instant, the cold of him bleeding through your heated skin. His breath left gooseflesh in its wake, ghosting your ear as his arms caged you in place. Even when you tried to pull away, tried to meet the door to put some space between you and the phantom at your back, he followed you so very easily.
His hands, as terrifyingly solid as before, closed over the flesh of your hip with a strength that was inhumane, bruising.
Even as you breathed, it only left the wood beneath your mouth damp, and the room seemed to shrink until it was only him at your back, the iron band of his arms around you, the deep cold of his chest, something incredibly hard against your ass.
Even as you fought — or tried to, clawed at the hands holding you, kicked weakly, gasped out to let you go, he was not budging. Solid and immovable.
I've been so careful with you, Choso whispered, his voice fraying, the faintest echo of it in your mind, coaxing you to relax, I could have split you open a hundred times over. I could have owned you in every corner of this house. And I didn't. I waited.
A shiver ran through you, and you hadn't thought that ghosts could have a scent, you didn't think that Choso would, but there you smelt it — the air was heavy with the scent of wet stone and crushed leaves, and beneath it, a subtle musk, thick and intimate, pressed against your mind as if it were a part of him.
Your stomach tightened, a flutter between your thighs, a shiver running down your spine as his own manifested legs kicked yours open. Every rise and fall of him throbbed against your shoulder blades, the tense contour of him, yet at the same time, it was fleeting, like your nerves were trying to trace the outline of smoke.
It was vexing, the way he could switch between cold and warm and the way it seeped through you.
"And?" the wood tasted faint and earthy, muffled voice soft, almost tender, cooing, "So what if you did? No one asked you to, Choso."
The air behind you turned sharper, cold enough to sting as his breath brushed your ear.
No one asked me?
Low and incredulous, almost laughing, though no humour to be found, You think this—
A ghost touch flattened over your lower belly, something akin to fingers digging into your flesh, —isn't asking? Every night you ache for something you can't name, and you think it isn't me?
The door rattled violently once, as if struck from the other side, Why don't you say it again? Say that you don't want me here?
His mouth, real now, brushed your temple, your cheek, the line of your jaw as his fingers travelled down south, tender and possessive in a way that made it clear to you that he had memorised every curve and every hollow of your body, that he claimed them as his own without asking, reverent and all-consuming.
Your lips curled, breath trembling, "I don't. You're not even real, nothing but a trick of— of my body, some weird parasite that I can just get rid of whenever."
Heavy breathing against the shell of your ear and you watched the hand next to your door waver, a violent shimmer.
"That— that terrifies you, huh?" you pressed, daring to tilt your head just the slightest to catch his gaze. They were trained on you; a feverish hunger, swallowed up by his black irises. There was no blinking in the same way a human would, no faltering, just want that pinned you in pace, "That I can end you just by…closing my legs?"
Is that a challenge?
A low growl vibrated around you, and the shadow of him pushed closer, heavy, You think you can taunt me with restraint?
The pressure against your ass grew harder, more solid, aligned with your words as he ground against you, and like a murmur, Choso's voice licked your skin, Try closing them now. See how impossible it really is.
You didn't want to play his little games, yet you found your thighs trying to press shut, as hard as you could, a feeble attempt at control — but he didn't care. He existed still against you, molding against your flesh, and his cock slid against the slick seam of your thighs, nestling there as if claiming the space you had desperately tried to guard.
Your teeth sank into your lower lip, embarrassment getting comfortable sitting in your cheeks, and you tried again: pushing, clamping down, curling, your breath getting heavier with exertion, but Choso refused to falter.
Mirroring your movement, grinding closer, his weight a force you couldn't resist, as painfully tangible as it was only a suggestion. He was plastered against your back, a wet tongue against your pulse, and it was so terrifying, it was so intoxicating — an invasion that left your body shivering.
Why do you try still? Why don't you let go? His voice vibrated around you, soft and tender, almost pitiful, brushing against your nipples, tasting the sweat on your abdomen, collecting beads of your heat, You can. You can let me take you. Look at you, already allowing me in.
You did; each movement pushed him deeper, warmth spreading through your cunt despite the cold, body responding whether you willed it or not, and even as panic brushed at the edges of your mind, at the thought of opening up—
and you did; thick as he slid at your entrance, quivering, his tip pressing past the ring, willing, so willing as a sharp stretch bloomed through you. Your eyes fluttered shut. It was a strange mix, full and so impossible as he slid inch by inch, stretching you wider than you expected, filling you so deeply, you couldn't help the cry slipping past your restraints. You felt it in your pussy, in your spine, in your chest like a brand.
Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. You were aware of every sliver of skin, of how he could slip, how he could glide into the spaces you thought were yours alone. Opening you up with an obscene squelch, knee holding yours to the side, you tasted iron, teeth having found your tongue to bite into.
Your hand slammed against the door in a way to support yourself, and his own hand, transparent having turned solid gripped your fingers, caressed your knuckles, held it in a tender grip even as his hips met your ass, Won't you trust me? I'll take from you exactly how much you need me to.
There was no rhythm, no reprieve as your walls clamped down with a spasm, clenching tight around him, thick and aching. Every stroke was too much as he pulsed, thrusting and withdrawing, sending sparks up your spine. Your breath hitched with every movement, hips rolling back into him instinctively, chasing the friction that made your knees weak and breath stutter, moans spilling out despite yourself.
But what were you to do when he could layer a phantom tongue over your clit? What were you to do when you tried to writhe away from his lapping, from his cock dragging against your pussy, from him reaching deeper in you than your body should allow, only for him to anchor you in place, holding you down whilst the thrusts grew faster, heavier?
When your body was an echo of his hunger, when he worshipped and desecrated you in the same breath?
I'm yours if you let me, your muscles seized up under the onslaught, voice breaking into raw cries as it ripped through you again, I'll keep you save. You'll let me in, every part of you, and I'll make it worth every second.
"Ohhh—" your voice cracked, cunt clenching as if on command, trying to milk him, every spasm wringing more pleasure out of your own body until you were sobbing, begging for mercy that never came.
He fucked you harder for it, faster, until you couldn't tell whether those were your moans, or low groans tearing from him; whether the shivers wracking your body were yours, or the tremors rolling down his spine; whether the heat pooling low and tight belonged to you, or radiated from him in waves that left you dizzy and trembling.
Every gasp, every cry, every pulse of pleasure felt shared, tangled, indistinguishable — and when he withdrew and surged inside, it was as if your pussy walls moulded tighter to him, like you were made to hold him.
"I can-han't take…more—"
The stretch was obscene already, and you were full, so full, when something inside you shifted — no, split.
A sharp inhale tore out of you, and it was instantly that your legs tried to close, to squeeze down and fight it. Choso's fingers curled around your sweaty ones, arms caging you in, knee forcing your legs apart again.
Shhh, you wanted all of me, didn't you?
The weight inside you thickened and thickened, stroking different angles of your quivering inner walls, and your whole body tried to lurch as the stretch turned unbearable, slick heat spilling down your thighs as you sobbed through it. Broken little gasps fell from your lips. He filled you past the point of sense, pressing your most tender spots with relentless hunger. It was too much, it should have been impossible — and yet. Yet your walls clenched and squeezed around him, desperate for every inch.
Your body can take more. I can make it take more.
You believed him.
Touching you with the certainty of someone who had handled your body more times than you could count, you believed him.
Clenching helplessly around Choso's touch, waves kept wracking you, and with every pulse you felt something being drawn out of you, like he was drinking the every peak of it straight into himself, dragging it out of you like a confession wrung from someone's throat.
Don't you feel how empty you've been? How I'm the only one who could ever fill you?
It was inevitable, not a choice, and in that surrender, in the trembling, he claimed the space between you both.
Let me have you. All of you. Every last part.
Shaking, you were — from the rolling of his hips, the thickness of his cock, the phantom lapping of his tongue on your clit, your nipples, your mouth, everywhere at once, folding you in on yourself, and from his words.
Were you the one reaching? Risking? Were you the one guilty of need, when it was him deciding and him choosing, taking from you all that you could offer?
His breath — was it cold anymore? Hot? His body solid and unyielding behind yours, his tongue leaving behind a burning trail and when your head tipped back against his shoulder, a realisation burned through you like fever.
You didn't have to confess to anything, didn't have to admit to anything, no explanations.
None for the nights you had parted your robe before the mirror; none for the ache you felt for months, for years, too ashamed to speak it into existence; none for the guilt of your own hunger you carried around.
You see it now, you don't have to beg. You don't have to pretend. I'll want enough for the both of us.
Your legs went weak under the weight of his words, under the ruthless stretch that seemed to spear right through your shame and lodge in some soft, untouched part of you. It rushed through your chest in a sudden, dizzying wave — like something finally broke loose, leaving your chest tight and your throat tight. Relief clawed up alongside it, sharp and overwhelming, and it never felt sweeter, never felt more inevitable.
I've taken them — every thought you try to bury, every ache you want to swallow, every filthy wish you're too scared to express. They're mine now.
A chill swept through you, biting and disorienting, leaving your skin burning in its absence. Your lips parted, trying to deny him, to say you're wrong, but nothing came out— because wasn't this what you wanted? To not have to hold it alone?
Choso's hips slowed down, a soft press of his hips to yours, mouth trailing your nape like a lover, and his fingers, unbearably real, squeezed around your hand, thumb swiping over your knuckles, Do you feel it? I've devoured it all. I'll keep taking it, again and again until—
"—there's nothing left of you but pleasure, and me."
Your breath hitched, and there was cold and heat, a strange duality; one moment like kissing a winter storm, the next like molten iron searing through your veins. You wished you could kiss him — what would he feel like under your hands? Would he feel like carved marble? Would his jaw be solid underneath your fingertips?
Would he kiss you with a terrible, wonderful patience?
"Do you want that?" Choso asked softly, almost tender, "To disappear into me?"
monster bf who doesnt understand your embarrassment when he fucks you while all his friends watch. who pulls your arms away from your blushing face because he wants everyone to see your gorgeous expressions as he pumps his deliciously fat cock between the plush lips between your thighs. who drags his friends forward and presses their hands onto your salty sweat covered skin because he wants them to feel how flushed you are.
but who growls the moment they ask to feel your pussy around their cocks, teeth barred and eyes blood red like he's ready to tear them limb from limb.
