cw : male yandere, mention of illegal breeding farm, violence, abuse, hybrids treated as a pet, usually yandere stuff.
an : this is probably not a very original idea but bear with me okay? i love this idea very much so i wanted to shoot my shot 😓
masterlist
yan! puppy boy was rescued from an illegal hybrid breeding farm, leaving him deeply aggressive and riddled with trust issues, even though the shelter staff treated him with nothing but kindness.
he would bite and growl at any vet or staff member who stood even a little too close to him. he was genuinely impossible to "tame," even after months of being cared for at the shelter.
then came you.
yan! puppy boy immediately snapped his teeth the moment you stepped into the room. the staff quickly tried to calm him down, eyeing you warily.
"he's very aggressive. are you sure about this?" one of the staff members asked.
it turned out you were a regular volunteer at the shelter. you fostered hybrids until they found their forever homes, and you had a good track record of being able to "tame" even the most aggressive ones.
which only made yan! puppy boy even more alarmed. you had to be doing something awful to make those hybrids so obedient.
so he did everything he could to make sure you wouldn't take him home. he growled, tried to bite your arm off more times than anyone could count, and even went as far as scratching one of the staff members who was holding him back, leaving the poor man with permanent damage to one of his eyes.
but, to his annoyance, you were one tough nut to crack as you came every single day to check on him, willingly locking yourself in a room alone with him. during the first few days, he would do nothing but snarl at you. if not for the muzzle and collar around his neck, you would've gone home missing a limb.
even so, you kept coming back almost every day.
and he would never admit it, but he found himself growing a little calmer around you. he was still hostile, but at least now he only growled whenever you got close, no longer tried to sink his teeth on one of your limbs.
you're an odd one, he noted.
you were nothing like the other shelter staff. you never cooed at him as if he were some helpless and wounded stray, even though he technically was one. you never pushed him past his limits. you spoke to him the same way you spoke to the other staff members.
with that same quiet, monotone voice and sometimes he wondered if you'd ever raised your voice before. would you scream if he managed to bite you? would you finally give up?
he'd never know as the muzzle kept his jaws locked shut, preventing any accidents from happening.
after roughly three months of visiting him, he finally began to trust you—at least enough that he no longer growled whenever you approached, and his ears would perk up whenever you walked into the room.
that alone was enough for the staff to let you take him home, at least until they found a family willing to adopt him permanently.
even though he was still somewhat defensive around you, you had slowly grown on him, so moving into your house wasn't much of a problem.
and...it had been okay. great, even.
you treated him more like a roommate than a pet, you saw the human side of him far more than the animal one and somehow, for the first time in his entire life... he felt appreciated, it was nice being treated like a normal person, despite being half animal.
although he was still skeptical of you. who knew? maybe one day you'd stab him in the back and pull out a shock collar or something equally cruel. but you never did.
you were indifferent, yet kind and thoughtful. his opinions actually mattered in your house. back at the breeding farm, he had no autonomy whatsoever. even at the shelter, things were better, but he still had little freedom to make his own choices.
but in your home? you always asked him first before making decisions that involved him. whenever the two of you disagreed, you actually sat down and talked it through.
and he was delighted. for the first time in his life... he felt like life was worth living. amd before he know it, the longer he stayed with you, the more he lowered his guard, and eventually he finally understood the other hybrids you had fostered before him.
he was more than a pet to you as you were more than a caregiver to him. you were his savior. sure, the shelter had been the one to pull him out of that living hell.
no.
he wouldn't let that happen.
but you are the one who actually gave him back a warmth he never even realized he had lost, let alone deserved as he was born and raised in a cold, and dirty breeding house.
and just as he had finally found peace... it was threatened once again by the fact that he could never stay with you forever. of course, he was only a foster hybrid after all and he dreaded the day the shelter found another family to take him away from you.
if he had to rip out another person's eye for it... then so be it, he'd do anything to stay with you.
pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader
wc: 9.1k 💀
summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader.
notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.
✶ better bobby series.
“I found something for you.”
BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.
“It was in one of the lower hallways,” he explains, watching for your reaction. “Near a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thought—” He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. “I thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.”
You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked.
It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.
“Thank you, BB.”
He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.
“You do? You like it?”
You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”
The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
You hold out for months.
That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew.
You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.
You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.
His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well.
There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.
So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.
For months after the first kiss. Just that.
“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair.
You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.
“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.
“What about?”
You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”
BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.
“Do you miss it?”
You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.
“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”
BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.
“Tell me about before,” he says softly.
Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.
Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body.
Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.
Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.
The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after.
The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.
You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now.
You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.
That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.
You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.
“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kept knocking.”
You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”
BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.
“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”
You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.
You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.
You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone.
Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it.
You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.
And you didn't leave.
That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you.
You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream.
You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it.
The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.
Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.
BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.
“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”
You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.
That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.
None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.
“Baby?”
BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully.
You nod. “Of course.”
He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”
Your chest tightens. “BB—”
“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”
He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands.
“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out.
You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.
“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”
He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.
That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.
You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—
Grief. You feel grief.
Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.
The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.
You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.
Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest.
That girl was going home. That girl was holding on.
This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up.
It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too.
The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory.
A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore.
Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.
BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.
You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.
You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.
“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.
BB goes still.
“You—”
“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”
The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold.
The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.
You kiss him the next day.
He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin.
BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.
“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.
BB stops talking.
His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats.
“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”
You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.
BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.
You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.
Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him.
His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.
The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.
BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much.
His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.
The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.
You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.
You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.
“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.
BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.
“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”
You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”
“Do… do you mean—”
“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."
BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.
“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.
You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.
“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.
He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.
“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”
His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.
“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”
Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.
“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”
“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”
He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”
He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers.
His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.
“I don't know how to. I've never—”
“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”
He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.
“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”
His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.
“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”
His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.
“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”
Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.
“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”
He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.
“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”
His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.
BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.
“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”
He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.
“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”
BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.
“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”
You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”
BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.
“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”
Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”
BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”
His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.
“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”
He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.
“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”
His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.
“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”
His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.
BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.
You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.
Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.
“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”
You come. Hard.
Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him.
He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.
“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”
His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.
BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.
“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”
He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.
“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”
You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”
He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.
“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”
You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”
“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”
“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”
He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”
His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.
You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.
BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.
“More?” he asks, barely audible.
You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”
His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.
“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”
“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”
He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.
You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.
BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.
“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”
He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.
He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.
“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.
BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.
He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.
The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.
The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.
“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”
“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”
You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you.
You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.
“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”
You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours.
His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.
“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”
He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.
You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.
“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”
You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.
“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.
“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”
He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.
“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”
He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.
“BB. Let me see.”
He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”
BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.
“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”
The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers.
His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.
His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control.
“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.
You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.
“Stay with me,” you say.
He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.
“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."
Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.
“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”
His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.
“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”
His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.
You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.
The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third.
“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”
The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will.
By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”
Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.
BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.
He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.
And he peers down. At your stomach.
You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.
You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.
BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted.
“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”
He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.
“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”
His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit.
He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.
Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now.
You’ve never heard the purr going louder.
“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.
BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.
His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.
“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”
You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.
You nod anyway.
BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.
He fucks you until you black out.
You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.
When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.
You stir. He notices immediately.
“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”
“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”
He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.
“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”
Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”
He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.
“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”
You should be terrified.
But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.
You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.
an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.
Reverent college professor x male reader Drabble~ ! ᜊ𐔌՞ ' ⩊ '՞𐦯ᜊ
A/N: m’ own filthy indulgence’s <33
Warnings: dark content, reader is in his twenties, insert/oc is mid 40’s, Amab anatomy, older man/younger man, pia, riding, rimming, oral, reader receiving, power imbalance
Just imagine it now, staying after class tryin to muster that courage up, trying to stop the humiliation in your gut! Oh you knew it would work, this man eyefuckin you day in an out you just knew it would work, “I got a D sir” You’d respond like an insult musterin up all that confidence just T’ lose it in one blow “seems so yes?” He was cool but that perversion isn’t an easy hide “want a better grade then earn it” he sat there with his brows furrowed not makin the first move, safe words, free interpretations if you weren’t interested but you were.
“Ride me, make it slow and make it last, don’t stop even if I finish…keep going show me you’re an exemplary student ‘boy’ “ he knew what he was doin! He knew he was rilin you up with those words, workin you all up like an angry school boy. Hips straddling his behind his desk burnin inside from your own fingers- you were doin all the work clearly, prepping yourself an all. You needed it. You were rude when he was revenant, bitter when his adoration was lathered on your skin, your fingers shoved down his throat for spit as you fingered yourself, workin it all open makin him watch, makin him suffer the way heat crept his neck an his cock gave a twitch in those sinful slacks. Could almost taste tha salty twang of his salty spill on your tongue.
His face buried away hot in the side of your neck, makin out with it licking you up like a rent a boy, like he was gettin what was owed, groans and soft grunts pleadin against your skin when your perk little ass brushed against his groin givin teases of what he was gonna taste. You rode him like your life depended on it- maybe not your life but your grate at the least! He was leaned back by tha time he spilt in your insides, hot white flashes behind those otherwise foggy eyes just for you. “Do—nt stop” his teeth gritted, jaw clenched tight his demand sounded weak, sounded like every sinful thing you never knew you needed. How could he still feel so hard when your cock was weeping red, spurts of your own on that itchy sweater, the one abandoned on his desk a few moments later
After his fill, begrudgingly lettin you off his cock he’d have your body bent awkwardly on his desk, limps all over the place lickin up his mess when it oozed out of the puffy pucker between your cheeks, letting an almost feral growl when you tried mufflin those as he called them “pretty boy sounds” in that sweater. Your peaks were raw an tender pressed too his desk sore from his mouth jus like your hole, he was like a starved man, like a thirsty man in the desert an you were the gods nectar against his tongue, each delve an glide inside you makin you all flushed, from face T’ shoulder, only lettin ya leave when you couldn’t physically bare it anymore.
“I’ll fix it in the grade book” he’d breath out weak out of breath, his hands shaky, your hips bared the scorn of those hands, you had thought. His tie was loose his face red with a wet mouth down to his slickened chin, his stomach hot full of your taste he was delighted crackin a grin with those lust filled eyes watchin ya dress back an limp on out.
── ★ WHEN DID YOU GET HOT? jock top m!reader x bttm nerd ⭒
⌗ hero ⋆ spider/moth/mantis hybrid ⋆ nerd oc
the last thing you'd expected when entering university was for the old highschool nerd to have gotten so pretty. not just that- but grow an attitude too. seems he has a need to make your life a living hell once he realises you're staring a bit too much.
⌗ cws... nerd x jock trope ⋆ suggestive ⋆ brat taming ⋆ college dynamics ⋆ strong language ⋆ he is suuuchh a brat
featuring ⢷ rishen herrera 781
char analysis ⢷ the kind, preppy nerd by day & fearless hero by night. a fusion of a spider, moth & mantis.
mission brief ⢷ omg a rishen series? a rishen series.
Rishen in highschool was that kid that was always just a mess. He was awkward, incredibly socially inept, unable to work well in group, and above all? A know it all. Fumbling with his notes and dropping flashcards all over the place. He was weird, to say the least. Most stayed clear, you included. As sport's captain you weren't too concerned with a stumbling nerd who couldn't even keep his glasses from falling off of his nose.
. . . but who the hell knew that all that would change in university? When the hell did Rishen Herrera get so hot?
You transferred to the city's university and the first thing you saw during your first day in class wasn't stumbling, or even fumbling weirdo— it was a self-assured, neat, frankly confident pretty boy and a smile that put the sun to shame. A red-knitted sweater vest with a finely pressed white collared shirt neatly laid over brown slacks. And to top it all off? Rimless, round glasses perched atop his curls. Did you mention that smile? That cherry tinted lipgloss? Wait— fuck, was that lipgloss?
While you were in heavy denial that this was the same boy you knew in highschool, you heard one of the girls in the front row call his name with a grin. And instead of fumbling. . . he merely smiled even brighter and waved. Once, twice, a greeting to more people than you could count as he made his way up the benches to the one of the few empty seats left. . . directly next to you.
"Oh, hey, are you new here?" He smiled at you. Smiled. And you knew in that very moment that you were oh so severely screwed.
Wait.
Did he not recognise you?
"I. . . uhm." You couldn't remember when last you fumbled. "Hey, Rishen. . . Remember me?"
But all he did was tilt his head. Furrow his brows and hum in thought. His little shrug left your heart frozen. How the hell couldn't he remember you? The highschool's golden boy?
"Highschool?" He mused at your reminder, fixing his glasses back over his nose and barely sparing you a glance as he tapped his holographic screen into view. As if you were far less important than his upcoming equations.
"Yeah, no wonder I don't remember you." He chuckled.
And what.
The hell.
Was that supposed to mean?
You would have brushed it off. Wouldn't have cared. Not as much as you were right now. If you hadn't seen the telltales of a smile. No. Not a smile— a smirk. One you hadn't quite seen from him, but one that you in all your fuckboy glory knew more than anyone.
Hold on. Was the weirdo turned pretty boy hearthrob. . . Fucking with you?
And that's what started your little mission to get his attention. To get him to remember you. Petty, you know. But you couldn't stand it. He used to stumble in the hallways and now he thought he was better than you? Worse, he thought he was coy.
What really drove you up the wall was the fact he barely gave you the time of day. A complete role reversal from highschool. He didn't need to. He had the looks. Had the brains. And for fucks sakes he had all the attention he needed. It wouldn't be such an issue if he wasn't such a brat. Oh so intentionally trying to rile you up at every opportunity.
"Mmm, no, of course that's not how you do it," he hummed and pushed his glasses into his hair as he looked over your screen. Condensation dripping from that deceptively sweet voice of his. You felt like you were about to burst a blood vessel. The professor really had to make your life hard by pairing you both for an assignment, huh? "Silly. Let me do it."
He undermined you. A lot. And the worst thing about it? You were sure he was getting a kick out of it. Brat.
Worst of all was when he seemed to belittle you even in your own playground— sport. He never played sport back in highschool why the hell was he so good at it now? And more than anything— why the fuck were you wayyy more focused on his ass in those shorts instead of the ball smacking you across the face? Ouch.
"You're staring," he notes after a stretch. You blinked, eyes fluttering as you tried to find some rebuttal. But he only smiled that. Sweet. Little smile. And brushed past you with a lilted hum. "Don't tell me the brute finds me pretty, hm?"
Of course he knew what he was doing to you! There was no way he couldn't. And now? You were determined to take that frustration out on something else. That tight ass looks like a good— wait. Woahh, calm down. What are you thinking?
You weren't about to let the highschool's resident weirdo get to you. What was he turning you into? And why were you letting him? You'd keep your distance. Well, as much as you could considering he was unfortunately your desk partner. But whatever. You wouldn't give him the time of day. Wouldn't bat an eye. Wouldn't—
"Are you that desperate for my attention?" You hissed at him after one too many accidental nudges of his foot into yours and his thigh into your knee beneath the desk
Rishen batted his eyes with that oh so fake look in his eyes and a small pout.
"Oh what's wrong? I'm only messing, you know."
"Mess with someone else."
You didn't mean to snap, but what did it matter? He didn't seem affected in the slightest. He only gave a theatrical little sigh and leaned his head into his palm to stare ahead at the front of the class.
Finally, some peace— was what you would have thought if you didn't make the mistake of looking over when you caught something in your peripheral.
"Y'know, I have the perfect solution for a blue monday. . . "
Because when you looked? The fucking brat's lips were parted to show you his tongue bulging at his left cheek. With a fist jutting in the same direction. Once. Twice. And then. A coy little giggle as he fixed his face and looked forward once more.
warnings; mdni/18+; mild dubcon, explicit sexual content, masturbation, rough sex, mirror sex, sort of voyeurism, initially loveless arranged marriage, classism, gruesome + horrific details, very brief mention of animal death, homicide
wc; 3,787
dividers; @/honeyluvsw I 18+ @/cafekitsune
if you want more possessed!husband pieces, pls check the a/n!
please interact with this post and reblog it if you enjoyed!!
In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under the covers was not your husband. He had been once, but now he no longer was.
The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, a certain stiffness which held more likeness to rigor in a day-old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.
His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood, where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parents’ patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.
You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.
He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to the point where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whoever was trying to speak to him.
Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.
At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country, and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.
“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused by tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will; it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, sliding into the arms of his heavy coat with your help. Upright at his feet was a hulking suitcase used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”
You expected nothing less from him. This man, who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate a script of vows, hold your hands, kiss you with great decorum, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.
Right after, then as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, saying that he wouldn't have done it at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.
At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk cloth, the ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.
“Write to me every once in a while,” was what you said at present, swallowing your resentment, keeping stifling composure as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing, if you find anything interesting. It gives me something to look forward to.”
“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.
“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”
He left you behind without remorse.
Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of a winter landscape shimmering white-blue outside your windows.
In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace, coveting self-pleasure.
You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.
Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.
Sometimes, you were found the next morning by the maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You needed only to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.
It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped across a bent arm, warm in her other hand, which she used to clean the dried fluids from your body. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.
“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”
“No! No, that's alright.” You told her.
Then, you realized that she was right. The envelope was pale, long, light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from the center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.
You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.
She looked to be just as thrown.
“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”
“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I commented on it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”
You found a letter opener nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.
“Almost? What does that mean here?” You raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual traces of wax from the paper. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”
The maid tried to subdue her interest in the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”
“What?”
You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.
The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the sliver of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:
“Father Marius DuMonde.”
Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to bring something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection, as though he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.
Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.
“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”
The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”
“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”
That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.
You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed architecture while leaning a cheek flush against frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.
Seldom, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland, and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servant's responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.
It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.
“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”
You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.
A while later, you entered the foyer to see that most of the staff had already dispersed, and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.
So, the rumor was true. Something was discomforting in that.
Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell by the wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—
“Oh my… There you are, my sweet!” his voice was the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, Uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”
Could this man really be your husband?
He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well as to appear normal.
But you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath, nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.
“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You flinched from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt something trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”
As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.
He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue, and teeth, hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squealing like a sow.
He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them. Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection, where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.
“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass. There was something of a wheeze that trailed the end of every word. A throat parched for far too long. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”
Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and whom you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed as if a river of the stuff had run between your lips instead.
His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, coming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.
The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply a disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstasy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely improbable, unknowable to you.
You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.
He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…
The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender, and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing from fabric.
“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on. His complexion was sallow with a weird, waxy sheen. A mask that fit, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”
You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.
Everything else you'd wanted to believe was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.
Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.
“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and given her a generous allowance for her travels. She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”
“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”
It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”
The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into the cover of tree tops, and then nothing else.
But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.
A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she nor the old pony had made it out of the woods.
The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them. But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black, and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.
That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of the night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton. A hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall. The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of the dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.
He was faced the other way, unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for his thin breaths of sleep, seeking out the automatic rise and fall of his body. He could've been mistaken for one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.
“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”
“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating having your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me, such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”
Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies, and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.
Your whimpers were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips, beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.
A/n: so I have another longer, pretty raunchy piece for this guy + 30 completed drabble/vignette pieces surrounding this story. I'm also intending to do a full story based around this concept. so, I really don't have any shortage of stuff to him, if you're interested!
he's one of the more interesting characters I've created. a lot of research has gone into the story itself as well
Warnings: Semi-public sex, risky sex, handjob (user receiving), deny of climax, implied prep, both char and reader are in the final year of high school.
As the school's quiet kid, he doesn't have much going for him. His grades are completely average, he doesn't have any social connections, if anything, he's kinda boring. Then how the fuck did he bag an angel like you?
That's probably what the other students think of when they heard of you and him being a couple. But have you ever heard of the phrase "never judge a book by its covers"? Yeah, your boyfriend was a completely different person outside of school.
A closet full of black band t-shirts, tight jeans, leather jackets. A room filled with band posters and a black electric guitar placed neatly in the corner. He was a complete and utter emo. You might as well have two boyfriends with how different he was at school compared to behind close doors.
What was supposed to be an innocent little shopping trip at the nearby mall, turned into a fuck session in the back of his parents' car in the parking lot. You internally thank whoever created the black window tint because without them, you're sure at least three people would've seen you guys by now.
He kept you close to his body as he thrust up into you, gritting his teeth to keep himself from groaning and biting onto your neck. He hated how he had to refrain from leaving any marks on your body, he couldn't bring himself to get you in trouble for his actions though, so he kept his mouth busy by sucking onto your nipple instead.
Your hand gripped onto the back of his neck, the other covering your mouth as the back of your head rested on the window. Pre-cum leaking out and onto his black t-shirt, one of his hands reached down to stroke your cock, his thumb covering your tip right before you could finish.
You grits your teeth, your legs shaking as eyes widened. He had the audacity to continue on, even when he was blocking you from the sweet relief of cumming. It was overstimulating, but god, was it hot coming from someone like him.
You tried to say something but all that came out was meaningless blabbering being cut off by moans and whimpers. His free hand moved to put your leg on his shoulder, he picked up his pace as his breath grew heavier, leaning in to kiss you and greedily drink up your moans like a hungry man.
Right as he was about to cum, he pulled out at the same time as he lets go of your cock, watching breathlessly as your torso and the seat underneath got stained. He leaned in to give you a deep kiss, seemingly happy and content with his relationship with you.
A/N: This was so short and rushed blame my sleepiness, I might do a part 2 on this bc I love the idea of this char sm, also guess who just realized they spelled the original tag wrong all along?
ᯓ★ your best friend fucks you in your boyfriend's room. Cheating, sm_t, no names used, college setting, dirty talking, degradation, cunnilingus, no protection, reader is fem!
ᯓ★
You knew it was a bad idea to be cheating on your boyfriend.
If it wasn't worst enough that your boyfriend loves you wholeheartedly, you're also cheating on him with your best friend.
The same best friend he trusts you to be around with.
That's how you found yourself stressing in the library instead of studying for finals with your boyfriend, who's literally just beside you with headphones on. As he does his own thing and you do yours, your phone vibrates to life and you check to see who it was.
"Busy daydreaming about me?" Was displayed on the notification and almost like instinct, you close your phone.
You turn, discreetly to look at your boyfriend who luckily didn't see the message. He was too busy solving an equation to even noticed whether you were focused or not. Then that's when the message hit you.
Is he here? Right now?
You tried not to make it obvious but nevertheless it was gonna be obvious you were looking for someone the way your eyes were scanning all the faces in the room. That's when you got another notification. You opened it, this time careful with the brightness low.
"You're adorable" Then silence.
Yeah he was definitely here.
Your heart was beating fast. Maybe one of the reasons you couldn't quit this habit of infidelity was because he made it hard not to. He was the predator and you were the prey. Except you were always the wounded rabbit running back to him each time, knowing the risk that came with it.
Suddenly you see the bubbles buffer as he types. Your throat running dry as you could feel the power he had over you.
"I'm by the bookshelf at the far corner. The one with no cameras" He finally responded and almost pathetically, you got up, telling your boyfriend you were headed to the bathroom to which he nods.
He was oblivious to what you were really up to. Sometimes you hate yourself for this but you'd be lying if you said this wasn't better than anything you could've asked for.
Just as you made around the corner. You finally saw him.
Standing there as he was the human embodiment of temptation itself.
"There you are" He grinned at you, his canines practically showing.
"You've been so busy we haven't even had the time to talk" He said, his hands on your shoulder as you stared at him.
This would have been a normal conversation if it wasn't with all the things you guys have done behind your boyfriend's back.
"I couldn't sneak away. My boyfriends been forcing me to study with him every day" You said and he raises an unamused brow at you.
"That's a sad fucking excuse. What happened to the girl who snuck out of class just to fuck me, hm?" He said, not bothering to lower his voice that you quickly covered his mouth with your hand.
You glared at him, a warning look and even beneath your hand you could see his cheeky smirk. His eyes was what gave it away. The joy he was getting out of this was indescribable. Suddenly he leaned in to your ear, letting your hand linger on his lips as he spoke.
"Could you imagine, me fucking the shit out of you while your clueless boyfriend sleeps beside us, fucck, that gets me pumped up everyday" Then he reaches for your wrist and kisses the palm of your hand before gliding it atop the growing tent on his jeans.
"You wanna go? Now? To his room? It'll be fun" He said, a dangerous look in his eyes and you bit your bottom lip.
This is probably the most fun you'll have in days.
But this is also the worst thing you could ever do to someone.
"I'll meet you there" You said and his smirk grew wider. He leans in and presses a kiss on your temple before walking away
You stood there for a moment, watching his figure leave.
Shit..
You used whatever sad convincing excuse you could to your boyfriend. How your period had come and you needed a nap in his room and he just simply smiles at you, finding it cute that you wanted to be in his room specifically. That's how it lead to him handing you his keys without knowing your intentions behind it.
As you made your way down the hall with your hands gripping the strap of your bag.
You could feel the pool of excitement growing between your thighs.
A voice in your head screaming at you to stop torturing this poor guy but the rest are shouting at you to walk faster.
And faster.
And faster.
Until you saw him down the corridor where he's leaning against the wall with his hands in his pocket. He was looking around and staring at whatever the poster was showcasing about some boring event. Then the moment he heard footsteps, he turned to see you and that mischievous glint found its way back to his eyes.
"You got it?" He asked and you showed him the keys.
He laughs.
"I didn't think you were able to do it. I thought you'd chicken out" He grabs the key and from the way his hands were moving when unlocking the door.
He was just as excited as you were.
The moment the satisfying click echoes through your ears. He swings the door open to let yourself in and so you did, stepping inside cautiously as if you haven't been in here a million times.
Your boyfriend's room was messy, but messy in the way that made it appear homey. Like the way every furniture just looked right where it belongs. You looked around and the sight of your pictures hanging above the table caught your eyes.
And so did it caught his.
With the door closed, he walks over to it and leans down a bit to examine the picture. It was a photobooth photo you and your boyfriend had. You remembered how happy you were when he gifted you that teddy bear.
You wonder if it had a mouth would it have told on you from the amount of times it had seen you bend over for your best friend.
"So cute. We should get one of these one day" He said, tickling the nose of your boyfriend.
"Yeah.." You simply said and sat down on the bed.
Your tone making him tick off a bit.
"You're upset... fuck you always do this... why do you always have that stupid frown like you're being forced to do this?" He approaches you and traps you on the bed between his arms.
A sadistic look now replacing it.
"You want me to tell him?" He asked and your panicked eyes encouraged him even more.
"What if I call him right now and tell him everything we've been doing behind his back. How everytime you'd always call me when he never fucks you right... or how... you would text me the ways you want to be fucked in bed... you'd think he'd get mad at you or me?" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, acting as though he's not technically blackmailing you right now.
"You want that? You want that sweetie? Because I can do it if you want me to" He asks and you swallowed hard.
"No" You said and he smiles, fond of your fast response.
"That's right.. because you're a whore... and you're ashamed of it even though you loove getting dicked down by your best friend" He grabs you by the jaw firmly and tilts it back for him to admire your exposed neck.
"Should I give him a present? Remind him who you really belong to?" He asks and you couldn't form a proper response.
Your mind stuck on the yes and nos.
"Fuck it, I'll just let your body tell me. You always think better when you're fucked dumb anyways" He said and lays you down on the bed. You watch as he takes off his hoodie and t shirt before tossing it somewhere in the room.
You gasp when he crashes his lips onto yours. Your hands finding its way into the curls of his hair as he poisons you with his tongue. Everytime you pulled back to get some air into your lungs, he'd grunt in protest and grab you by the neck to have your lips back onto his.
It was fast and rough.
Something your boyfriend could never give you.
Then his hands trailed underneath your shirt to caress your breast. You hum into his mouth, finding his touch intoxicating the way he was rubbing the skin. Having enough of it, his hand moved and quickly unclipped your bra. With your shirt pulled up, he leaves your swollen lips to suck on your collarbone.
"Mine" Was all he muttered as he sucked on your skin.
When his tongue started trailing circles around your hardened nipples, you whimpered as you arched your back, trying to get more of that sensation. Your reaction making him laugh while he bit gently and suckled more. His actions slowly turning you into the mess he always made you to be.
With your hands gripping his hair, he grunted before trailing his lips down to your stomach then to the growing wetness between your thighs. He stares at the jeans then at you.
"You think you deserve it?" He asked and you stare at him, you didn't have to say anything, the plead in your eyes gave it away.
He chuckles as his hands started to take it off for you. The zipper pulled down painfully slow, undoubtedly on purpose just to spite you. The moment you're in your panties, he tilts his head to examine the thin fabric now soaked in your arousal.
"Does he ever make you this wet?" He asked, his middle finger slipping under the strap of your panties, he pulls, hard, towards your stomach.
The force making you yelp when you felt the material pressed firmly against your slick.
"Are you gonna answer me or do I have to force it out of you?" He asked, tugging on the strap even harder now.
You whimpered.
"No"
Your answer feeding his ego even more now.
"That's a shame.. but.. you got me to take care of you" You watch as he lowers his body, his hands now shifted to hold your thighs apart as he presses his nose against the fabric.
He inhales deeply then let's out a lewd moan.
"Fuck—I've missed you" He said before pressing a kiss on your clit.
With your panties still in the way, he rubs the spot slowly in circles to get you to ease up, before replacing it entirely with his mouth. You sigh, out of ecstasy as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive nerve on your body. His eyes remained locked on the expressions you made.
The way you would melt into him everytime he ate you out.
It was addictive.
You jerked your hips up towards him, hoping to get more of his tongue but it just made him annoyed. He slaps your ass which had you let out a strangled moan. He laughs.
"First you hesitate and now you want more?" He slips your panties aside and you felt your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment two of his fingers slid inside of you. His fingers moving easily thanks to your wet arousal acting as lube.
Soon, the room was filled with your breathy moans and the squelching sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you. He shifts and presses his chest against yours so he could kiss you again. With the pleasure eating your brain, you could barely compose yourself to kiss him back.
Then you felt his fingers curl as much as he could against the gummy warms inside you. He looks down at you when you let out an erotic moan, shameless if anyone next door would hear.
"Oooh that's right— you love it when I ruin you" He cooed and you nodded like a puppet.
His hands moved faster, his fingers basically fucking you brutally with his palms slamming into your sensitive clit each time. He could feel you start to clench, your moans louder and your face more fucked out than before. He hums, amused at the sight.
"D—Don't stop! Fuuuck— ah!" You held onto his arms as you felt your orgasm come and he grins, his hand moving hastily before completely pulling out.
You look at him, a betrayed expression as though he had killed your dog.
He doesn't say anything but stare back as he licked his fingers clean of your juices.
"You actually thought I was gonna let you come?" He asked, a genuine question and maybe it was because of the absence of the build-up but you sobbed, both frustrated and disappointed.
He laughs.
"Ohh you little shit" He leans in and kisses your face affectionately. The very few moments where he was ever this gentle with you.
Then you noticed his eyes flickered towards something. You shifted to see he was staring at a green hoodie sitting atop the laundry. Without wasting a second, he picks it up and sniffs it once.. then inhaling it long before letting out a sigh.
"Smells just like your sweet sweet boyfriend" Suddenly after a moment of contemplating, he puts it on and you could only watch in confusion, wondering about what he's trying to do.
When he finally notices you're watching, he places his index finger against his lips, shushing you to keep this a secret. Impatiently, he takes off the fabric that has been clinging uncomfortable tight on his bottom half. You sigh when your eyes laid upon his painful erection already dripping in his own pre.
"Come on, take off your clothes" He motions and it didn't take long for you to oblige.
He stands there, watching you strip as he fiddles with the hoodie string in his mouth. His eyes admiring every curve and skin like you were putting on a show just for him. By the time you were done, you watched in anticipation when he slowly got back on the bed, the mattress sinking under his body weight.
"You're so cute when you're like this" He said, grabbing you gently by the chin while he settles himself between your thighs.
You moan when you felt him rubbing the tip of his throbbing cock against your dripping slit. He was big. Definitely big compared to your boyfriend. Maybe that's why you always let him get away with insulting you so much.
Because he always knew how to make up for it.
You gasped in satisfaction as he slowly nudges inside of you. Every inch and vein stretching you out just right. Right as you were about to close your eyes, your head bounced back up when you smelt something familiar. Your boyfriend's scent. Your hands cling to his arms. The fabric of the hoodie under your fingertips.
He notices your expression and chuckles.
"You wish it was him? Hm? Wish he was the one doing all of this to you?" He asked as his pelvis is now pressed close to yours.
You tried to speak but with the way he was making you feel so full. You simply just shake your head.
"Why not? I thought you love him" He asked and you whined when you felt him pull back before slowly thrusting inside.
"Or do you love me more? Love how I'd tease you in public" You moan when he pulls out then thrusted back, this time harder than the first.
His hips picking up the momentum as he drills inside you. Your moans completely muffled by your boyfriend's hoodie, letting your mind be reminded of him as you inhaled the scent. With the brutal force of his thrusts, your body helplessly rocked against him while the bed shuffled under the sheer pressure of everything.
"You remember when we were— haah— a-at dinner? You tried to talk and act like a g—good girlfriend but... fuuuck... little did they know you were squirming and gushing all over that vibrator huuh—" He pants, trying to finish his sentence as best as he could.
You whimpered, remembering the position he had put you that night. It was embarrassing but you didn't fight it. Rather you enjoyed the way he tortured you. How when everyone was ready to leave, he simply pulled you in a goodbye hug, whispering into your ear his room number.
All just for you.
"Ooh— your pussy clenched. You like that huh?" He laughs before having a loud moan be ripped out of his throat.
You look at him, head dazed of pleasure and eyes half lidded. The sight of your best friend thrusting inside you, his arms caging you with his body swallowing yours. It was all too much when he started rolling his hips to hit that sensitive spot of yours.
The feel of his muscles tensing under your touch made you squirm.
"You're my pretty girl... only mine... " He mumbled with his hand stroking your hair.
"No matter — Mmm! — How many boyfriends you get. You're always gonna crawl... your way... back to my lap" He said, no, ordered and you nodded.
He grins seeing you agree before he kisses you on the lips.
With the way the tip of his cock continued hitting your cervix each time he slammed his hips, it drew both of you closer to your limit. How your walls were clenching him had his thrusts started to grow sloppy, he whimpers while he nuzzles his face onto your hair. His body weight colliding into yours hard enough to make your body jump.
"Fuckfuckfuck—!" He uttered repeatedly.
The room now mixed with both your moans alongside the sound of the bed squeaking aggressively. You scream out of pleasure when your orgasm comes crashing down. He groans, his body going stilled as he buried balls deep inside you. His cock twitching aggressively while his hot cum flooded your insides in thick spurts.
It was quiet, the room now just full of heavy breathing and tired moans.
The moment the pleasure finally eases out. He hums, exhausted then slowly pulls out. You whined when you felt the mixture of your juices and his cum leaking out of you, the fluid dripping down from your thighs and then on the bed. He looks at the sight then back at you, chest heaving and close to drifting off to sleep.
"My girl" He leans down, kissing you softly on the cheek.
Whether if your boyfriend walks in on you guys now. It's something you can stress about later.
