Ohhhhh my heart!!! Popular PC hunting Kylar down til she loves her …. 😍😍
Just picture cornering Kylar in the swim locker room with no one around. You egg her on til she has her knife pointed at you. It’s shaking, though. You can’t help but want to have a little fun, it’s harmless. So you keep stepping forward, making her spit little angry words at you, but her eyes are so wide. You’ve got her up against a locker and her knife at your exposed collarbone. And if she won’t do it, you will. It stings a little as you let the knife slice your skin open, but you get to watch Kylar become absolutely entranced. You ask if she wants to touch it. She’s almost dazed when she coats her fingers in your blood, the hand that’s not holding the knife. You cautiously take her hand and lick your own blood off her fingers. When she drops the knife, her face is flushed so red. Pretty, you comment absentmindedly, and she reacts. So you can’t help it! You just keep murmuring how soft her hair is, how pretty her lips are, pressing her further and further against the locker - and press your knee against her crotch. It’s fun to press a few kisses against her neck while you undo her shirt buttons. In the back of your mind, you’re aware swim class is almost over, which you use to your advantage. You barely dip your hand to the band of her panties when you breathe in her ear and invite her to go further in another room. She can still back out. You don’t think she will, though, not with how she’s panting softly.
CUTE CUTE CUTE
cw: knifeplay, blood, dubcon(?)
Isn’t it only fair you wanted to test her bluff? She was telling you to leave her alone, asked what it really is you wanted from her, and said she’d hurt you if you kept going. Kylar’s face is so red as you curl your tongue around her fingers. Just staring and staring. The clatter of her knife hitting the ground snaps her out of it, and she stutters so hard over what she’s trying to say that she ends up not saying anything at all. She squirms at every compliment. Her hands find your sides, and you expect this to be the end, but she pulls you even closer against her after you said you like her a lot.
She lets out the cutest little noise you’ve ever heard when you press your knee against her, some mix of a gasp and a whimper. When you put your lips against her neck, she jumps and jerks her head so your face is squished against her shoulder. Kylar gives a quick apology, before a much quieter d-don’t stop. As soon as she grinds against your knee, you take the chance to ghost your finger over her clit, and she jolts. She’s panting, eyes half-closed and her cheek pressed against the locker to keep her face from overheating. A splash came from the pool, and you remember where you are.
“Do you want to keep going?” You ask, and she huffs. That’s more like the Kylar you’ve gotten to know, rather than the flustered mess of a girl you’ve got pinned underneath you. You like both of them. It’s hard to take her seriously though, when you can feel her getting wetter from the slightest bit of friction.
“ Y-you’re only asking to embarrass me…” She mutters in response. Her nails dig into your skin, though not hard enough to hurt.
“It’ll be more embarrassing once people come in here to change, right?” Eyes widening, she tries to fix her shirt, but her fingers are trembling too much to get it right. You help her. Once you’re done, you finish it off with one final kiss to her throat. “There you go. Wanna finish this somewhere else?” You take a step back, and she stays against the locker, staring at the floor.
“I thought… I thought you would’ve just left…” Aw, was she really expecting you to leave her hanging? You hadn’t been shoving your reputation down the drain by pursuing her so openly for nothing.
“‘Course not. I just said I like you, didn’t I?” Kylar latches on to your arm with both of her own, burying her face against you, legs unsteady. You think that’s enough of an answer.
((…You think you forgot her knife on the floor. Her still-bloody knife. Whoops.)
i can't believe you guessed EXACTLY what i was thinking about. they would love that. they'd never stop wearing it, and proudly display it over their clothes. if someone tore it off their neck and broke it, they'd seriously lose it. it's such a meaningful offer to them, almost like handing your life over, so anyone else putting their disgusting hands on it... yeah, wouldn't end well.
it's even better if you can fill them together, so to speak. kylar will hand you their knife, and let you make a shallow cut on their arm with shuddering breath. then, they'll return the favour. (if you make no move to stop them, they'll do it while their own blood is still smeared on it. they like the idea of mixing yours with theirs.) the whole time, they're blushing and shaking. not exactly because of the blood or the knife itself, rather, the trust. they know they trust you not to hurt them more than necessary, but this is such clear proof you return that sentiment... it makes them lightheaded.
you need to reign them in though, since they're a bit too eager to hand their blood over to you. otherwise, you' ll end up with a necklace, and a pair of earrings, and a ring, and-
plz plz plz can you write m!whitney skullfucking pc
wordcount: 2.5k (can’t believe this is the first time i write an actual fic on here.)
cw: noncon, detailed ero guro / gore porn, eye trauma, drugging, knives, vomit mention, needle mention, degradation, victim blaming.
or: whitney fucks your eye socket and prepares you for the act.
don’t read this to upset or trigger yourself, please.
Since all of your holes have been used by others, Whitney makes one for himself.
“Look at you- You can barely keep your fucking head up, slut.”
The voice drifts to you from far away, a figure leaning over the ice you’re trapped under. Where am I?, you ask, but all your vocal cords produce is a gurgle. Your limbs are made of cement and frozen in place. Letting yourself be dragged back into the depths of unconsciousness is much easier than staying afloat. Through trembling eyelids, you barely make out the shape of the person in front of you. Their legs, to be precise. Pain shoots through your scalp and you jolt, finally present enough for the ties around your wrists and ankles to register in your mind, the cold wall you’re leaning against. That it’s Whitney, because who fucking else would it be, yanking you up by your hair. Your tongue still refuses to move.
“Follow.” His voice feigns disinterest. Yet he keeps shuffling, leaning his weight more on one leg, then the other again. He holds his hand in front of your face, moving it from side to side. Your head is so fuzzy you see no reason to disobey. By the time you’ve caught up with him to the right, he’s already back the other way. Your eyelids droop. He laughs. “God, you’re out of it. Poor you, did I gave you a little too much? You can’t say I’ve ever underestimated you.”
As soon as his grip loosens, your head drops and black dots litter your vision. Drool spills from your mouth. Something bad is about to happen, there’s no other explanation for this. His hands will end up all over your body again. But there’s no chatter of his friends, no flashes of cameras, so different from the usual that you don’t know what to expect. The world fades out, before flickering back in the middle of a sentence.
“...pay me back. Got that? Good.” The hand is back in your hair, keeping you steady. He’s digging around in his pocket. “If you weren’t such a whore, I wouldn’t have to do this. Did you think I wouldn’t see those pictures? Wouldn’t know when my slut’s gagging around someone else? I promised I would beat some sense into you if you didn’t listen, so here we are.”
Whitney’s found what he had been looking for. There’s something in his hand, moving toward your face too quickly to make out. Everything’s so blurry that even while squinting, you can’t immediately tell what it is. You nearly go crosseyed trying to figure it out. A handle clenched in his fist, gray, reflecting surface, ending in a sharp point-
A knife.
“You’re a fucking cumbrain already, but I’ll give you one too.”
You watch the situation unfold from the back of your skull. This is happening to someone else, anyone except you. It’s a movie, and a bad one at that. You can’t pinch your arm to wake yourself up. Whitney had hurt you before, sure, with his bare hands. Never like this. He’s always made fun of Kylar for having to resort to knives, why would he use one now? Is it just a threat? It has to be. Then again, you’re so disoriented you don’t stand a sliver of a chance against him. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, so loud it makes your head throb. The furthest your abilities go is to shake your head and force a whimper from your throat, rubbing your wrists raw on the zip tie. Whitney presses cold steel against your cheek. You try to spit at him, but you can’t put any force behind it. It dribbles down your chin in a slow stream.
Whitney barks out a laugh. “What the fuck are you, a dog?” The knife digs into your skin, a gentle push away from slicing you open. “Don’t get to get too excited yet, we haven’t even started, slut.” He slides the blade up to your bottom eyelid, leaving a shallow cut. (Your brain is fuzzy. Your cheeks are warm, burning- Are you blushing? Is the wetness rolling down your face a tear?) Your fingers twitch, your teeth grind together, every muscle pulled tight like a bowstring.
His breathing is laboured, eyes boring into yours, expression blank for a mere moment. Whitney, as you know him from school, is all but empty. He’s of scoffing and snarling, of laughter and grins- This is nothing you recognize. Your gut twists. Every instinct in your body is screeching at the top of its lungs for you to run. At the same time, another part tells you to stay as still as possible, as if you will simply fade out of existence if you don’t move. (But it’s okay, because none of this is real, and you’re at the orphanage in bed curled up under the covers, and you’ll wake up late and rush to get your uniform to not miss the bus and you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine-) Whitney’s tongue darts out to trace his upper lip, his fingers turning white around the handle.
The next, there is a blow of air against your eye before pure, indescribable agony accompanied by a wet squelch. You’re dying, you’re dying, you’re dying, it’s over- Half of your face has been blown off, your brain is exposed for all to see and poke and prod, your lungs collapse with every breath, your throat spasms around vomit. What’s left of your right side of vision is a red and black pulsating blur. The screams, the sole outburst you’re capable of, are mere groans in the back of your throat. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish on land. Blood, sweat, tears, pus, slime- You wouldn’t know. Something oozes down your face, thick mucus, making a mess on your lap. You’re warm, you’re cold, sweat thick underneath your clothes. Everything is wet. Everything is hot.
A hand is on your head, stroking. The sensation dissapears into and becomes one with the pain, the thing that melts everything else away. “There you go, you’re being so good! But I’m not done yet.” He speaks to you in the tone reserved purely for dogs. From the corner of your good eye, you can see him reaching his fist back and pounds it against the handle, your entire world dissolving into nothing as it hits.
When you wake up, you do so to a palpitating heart that’s skipping beats left and right, to a convulsing body, to spit frothing at your mouth and a needle in your leg. The gag in your mouth rubs against your tongue and tastes of sweat. Whitney has discorded the knife, left it at your feet. Your eyeball looks like scrambled egg white on one end, a sloppy mess, and you gag. At one point or another, you will have to come to term with the fact that you’re never going to see from it again.
“Can’t have you leaving before the party’s started.” Your head whips around, the sensation of something sloshing inside your eye socket immediately making you regret it. Wind blows straight into the wound and causes you to ear up. He’s on your right. Somewhere. What you assume to be the syringe falls to the ground with a clatter. There’s no way he isn’t standing there, in the void he created, on purpose. You would’ve preferred to be really fucking dead right now. Let him rape your corpse, at least you wouldn’t have to be there to notice it. Whatever he injected you with, it’s all so much sharper now. The lights are brighter, every little step he takes ringing in your ears, your right eye (or the slurry that’s left of it) aflame. You rock back and forth to shuffle further away from him, but you’re already backed against a wall and the movement makes the blood in your skull slosh alongside it.
“Gotta check if you’re wet enough for me. Thank me later, slut.” Whitney pulls on your eyelashes, the tip of his finger teasing the hole. Once in a while, it dips into the wound, your nerves tingling in anticipation at the near touch. Breath hitching every time, your brain can’t comprehend what’s exactly happening to you. Your heart pounds in your ears, your limbs keep twitching against your will. Now that you can, you want to struggle, but you’re so scared of that pain, terrified that he could choose to take the other one as well.
All you want is for this to be over. You just want to be home. As flawed of a home it is, it’s still the one place you can think to return to. (Robin will be there, waiting for you. They always have. Could you still keep up with them during games, now that you’re like this? Bailey’s presence, suffocating as it is, at least keeps you safe from intruders. How pissed off are they going to be, now that you're a damaged ware?)
“Can’t you sit still for one fucking second? You wanna know what it feels like when I slip so badly?” Your head jerks to the side against your will, foot hitting his ankle. “I guess you do, huh? But, fuck- You keep writhing around, maybe I should give the needy whore what they want. You’re soaked, that’s for sure.”
Whitney pulls away, his fingers coated a pale red. Using your hair as a rag, he smears the fluids in it, tugging on it once for good measure. He takes a step back, descends back outside your field of vision. There’s the rustling of fabric, unbuckling of a belt, a zipper being undone. You begin to plead through your gag, repeating muffled, incomprehensible words, because please, anything but this, not right now, not ever, hasn’t he done enough, isn’t he satisfied, he’s already ruined you enough, please, just please-
“It’s cute you think you have a choice.”
There’d been a nagging suspicion in the back of your head that it would come down to this. Every meeting with Whitney would end up leading down the same path, but this time... You choke on your breaths, chest heaving with sobs. With every shock of your shoulders, more heat leaks out of your eyes, your entire face turning into one throbbing mess. You squeeze your eyes shut. (There’s no way you can move the right eyelid, the knife has torn straight through it. All it is now is limp meat, hanging on by a thread.) His dick presses against your cheek. Fucking hell, why does he have to be so big too? There’s ringing in your ears as he leaves a trail of precum, mingling with the mess already there. His scent overpowered by the metallic smell of blood. Why can’t you just pass out again? But you’re still twitching, thoughts racing faster than you can keep track of.
“You’ve been asking for this, don’t try to deny it. I’m not stupid. Well, you’ve got my attention now. You better be grateful.” He misses the first time, the head of his dick rubbing against your eyebrow. Whitney curses underneath his breath. Trembling fingers tug your eyelids as far apart as possible and you hate it, you hate this so fucking much, you want someone to come by here to save you, you want to sink through the floor, you want to die.
He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, and hits his mark. You’re not sure how much he crammed inside your skull, but all of it was too much, too cruel. The screaming is clear through your bounds, raking your throat raw. Whichever way you move, his cock stays lodged in between the bone. The muscles snap and tear, the bones crack, the flesh, like the tight fit that it is, clings around his dick, and he groans as he pushes himself further inside. An impossible amount of more fat and mucus and slime comes free, clogging your nose. The back of your head slams against the wall with every movement, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t compare.
There’s nothing else. There can be nothing else. Your mind is full and empty at the same time. He’s all you can think about, he’s fucking the memory of him into your brain, leaving his permanent mark. Is this what he wanted? You’re being dissected, pulled apart, the creases of your brain violated. He’s saying things, (tight, mess, slut, enjoying, loud.), but he’s pulling out and the scrape of the warm flesh makes the scenery blur. Your throat feels like it was pulled across sandpaper.
The pressure dissipates and you cry in pure relief. But, a moment later, he’s back in and down a slightly different path at a slightly different angle and there’s more snapping, more gushes of fluid. The only thing that will ever fit there again will be him. The perfect little cocksleeve. He’s pushing up against something and you don’t know what, but every time he twitches and brushes against it, your entire vision blacks out. Where the pain reached a crescendo before, it’s turned around to be almost numbing now. Are your nerves torn up? Are you dying?
“Open your mouth. Wait, fuck-” He’s breathless, stuttering over his words. His dick twitches and scrapes against bone. Trembling fingers remove the gag from your mouth. If this were literally any other situation, you might have been almost proud to have turned him into such a wreck. “Stick your tongue out and it’ll be over. Done.”
You latch onto those words like a lifeline. No matter how it ends, you just want it to be over. Without much more than a second of delay you do as he asks, your good eye rolling up to try and look at him. Considering how full your head is, you hardly notice the strings of cum being added to the pool, until some of it leaks through your nose and onto your tongue. He puts one hand on your head, shaking it until more follows. (Though his cum isn’t the only thing there.)
Strings of blood and slime stick to his dick like drool as he pulls out. You hate him. You hate yourself. You hate this fucking town, and you hate every piece of shit in it. Your brain is a cacophony of screaming, of visions of growing fangs and claws and tearing him to shreds, of burning this whole town down. All you do is stare up without really looking, eyes glazed over. You’re tired, so unbelievably tired. All you want to do is rest, even if it’s while bleeding out in some shitty alleyway. His voice drifts to you from far away, smile clear in his tone.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
An eye for an eye has never sounded so appealing before.
Ooo what about a dom masochist for Caleb? Would he get off if you’re also into pain, say, extremely-bad-idea unprepared anal for you while keeping him pressed against the mattress, cock ring and gag on the precious boy? You get: ripped ass. He gets: praise, orgasm denial and bondage. <3
cw: blood mention, knife mention
It could definitely work out! Caleb likes the rope just a bit too tight, and edged so much that it hurts even when he does eventually get to cum. He's not really into seeing another in pain, but he likes you so much it doesn't turn him off either. (Could develop just a little bit of a taste for it, even. Only watching it happen, though.) Would get whiny about it if you don't switch up who is in the most pain. So one day you get a ripped asshole, and he the next HAHA
Some other ideas;
Caleb would feel even more comfortable sharing his most fucked up fantasies if you're also a masochist. You'd be more likely to understand him! There are some things he'd only admit to while drunk that he might feel confident enough to tell you :)
He'd really, really be into you carving each other's names into your skin! What's more intimate than hurting the one you love the most, while being hurt at the same time...? Especially if it's a permanent mark of your affection for one another? It's incredibly romantic to him.
