Imagining, you were broke, bills were piled up and you had no idea how you were going to make rent. So when your friend suggested “easy work, you literally just wear a little magitech device and sit there.” You thought it was too good to be true.
Now your sat here, fully connected to the app, identity and wellness checks done and your trial run completed you were now “open to the public” any monster could use you any time any where no matter what you are doing unless you took a break day.
Your trial was fine, bigger than you have had sure but not anything that broke you so you were confident with the thought of whoever came next, certain you could handle it as you lay spread out on the couch with some Netflix show in the background just waiting for your next client.
It didn’t take long, the app had marked your account as “new account - tight human pussy” and that apparently brought you attention.
You feel fingers tapping at your entrance lightly before pushing in and curling them, repeating this motion as you clenched down, surprised by the intrusion you couldn’t see.
You don’t get long with just the fingers fucking into you, you feel the tip slide between your folds, teasing you almost before pushing in to the hilt, filling you entirely.
You nearly scream, so so full now as the cock starts pumping in and out of you. The pleasure is overwhelming as you arch automatically, spreading your legs further.
It’s not long before your eyes snap open, feeling a second cock line up and tap just below where the first cock was still pistoning in and out of you. It’s too much almost, you move again, basically presenting yourself to the invisible forces and bite down on a pillow when you feel the second one slide in, stretching you impossibly.
The second one is smaller, but it still makes you feel fuller than ever, both cocks timed just right as one pulls out the other pushes in.
You cum around them, more than once, crying from overstimulation by the end as they pull out and you are left empty, your first public clients done with you.
You lay back down on the couch, too exhausted to move unable to tell how long they were going for.
Slowly your eyes draw to a close, you fully intent on sleeping the rest of the night. That’s when you feel it, a long almost tentacle like something pressing against your pussy, ready for you.
‧˚꒰🐾୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ “When I lost my voice last night I knew, I don't deserve you.”
♡ The Warden x Fem!Reader x Leland Coyle
☆ A/N, i used to PRAY for times like this, ANOTHER CHUBBY MAN? FOOORRR MEE??
☆ Header made by me, credits to Red Barrels & Supersonico.
☆ 3.7k words.
☆ WARNINGS// CNC, heavy angst, p in v, both reader & warden get their shit rocked by coyle, cucking, threesome, WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT, deep throating, VOMIT WARNING, small plot straight porn, daddy kink, pet play, dumbification, breeding kink, squirting, praise kink, manipulation, stereotyping, coyle warning, cum eating, this fic is nasty chat prepare yourself, extreme degradation, aftercare, abuse, guys coyle stomps on the warden’s dick, BDSM.
☆ MINORS DNI.
☆ NSFW UNDER THE CUT.
Over your time at the prison farm your mind was full of things you wish you could tell Dr. Easterman, how good you’d be for him, how you’d do better, how you would do anything but be one of Coyle’s pets. Sometimes you’d stare into the camera’s Murkoff set up around the facility staring deep into the black lens as you sobbed for daddy to come through those elevators and hold you. Brush your hair as Easterman held you in the comfort of his lap, telling you did so good for him.. That you were his baby and he was going to make you feel all better. But every time those doors opened it was only another expop who either disregarded you or one who took interest in your vulgar nudity, it was never Easterman. The guards who stood behind chain linked fences brushed you off like you were just a stupid grunt, the doctors would close the shutters on you from their reinforced windows.
You got thrown into the prison farm after your steady A+’s and perfect performance went to D’s.. Your perfect performance was quickly destroyed after you failed invasion. You had one task, kill the reagent.. But right when you were about to stab them in the face they begged and showed you a picture of their child, a newborn baby they were trying to get back too.. And you couldn’t do it, you let them overpower you and run away. Easterman was ashamed of your performance, his little how high couldn’t even kill another person. You weren’t as perfect or as dedicated as he thought you were, so you were taken from the sleep room one night. You woke up everyone with your banshee-like screams as guards dragged you out of your destroyed room, you can remember Dorris’s saddened expression watching you wail and sob.. Begging for them not to take you, you being taken reminded her painfully of the night guards took Henrietta from her.
You thought the doctors would turn you into another mindless grunt, or maybe use you as another scapegoat for the judge, but no. Easterman took pity on you, yes, you failed him. Disappointed him, brought shame to his doorstep. Another stain to clean up from his perfect reputation.. You were given to Sergeant Leland Coyle for Project Boneyard, a new trial environment you were shoved into.. But you weren’t the main attraction to this utter shitshow, another person was there. Given to Coyle like a welcome to the neighborhood present, a house warming gift, The Warden he was called. A chubby man who had a burlap sack over his head that had metal triangles embedded on the top to symbolize dog ears, a metal mouth piece that had sharp “teeth” and a tongue. He was Coyle’s little fuck pig, and you were just the whore that came with him. You both weren’t as sane as you used to be, endless abuse, experimentation, trials.. It changed you, The Warden was sure he was untouchable because he did sexual favors to Coyle in return for protection, you were sometimes forced to watch the man suck Coyle off till Coyle got bored of him. Coyle would never let The Warden come, no matter how hard he begged Coyle brushed him off–So out of horny desperation, began to use you. Constantly. The shame he felt from being used by Coyle daily and being in this god awful place, he took it out on you. Unlike others he was barely restrained, he had free range and motion. And of course he took advantage of it, acting like a true corrupted prison warden and using you till you passed out.
“U–Uh! uh, uh..!”
Stupid incomprehensible noises came from your spit covered lips, the glossy muscle all swollen from crying for hours on end, from sucking the warden’s heavy dick, from biting your lips to try not to whimper so hard when his fat cock violently plowed into your puffy cunt. The warden had you bent over his desk, fat tits pressed against the polished wood as he pulverized your poor pussy into a sticky mess. “Y,Yeah? Yeah? D–Daddy makes you feel reeaaall good don’t he?” Jesus Christ, he couldn’t even hold a sentence from whimpers and moans cutting into each syllable. His bruised large hands disgustingly groped the fat of your ass, fingers squeezing that beautiful flesh and making it squeeze between the free space of his fingers. Hands aggressively palming your ass as the fat of his hips rammed into you, his dick was so sore–His hips ached, his chubby thighs violently trembled as he tried to keep himself up so he wouldn’t collapse on you. “G,Good girl.. So good fer’ daddy..” God you were a mess, lips permanently stuck in an “o” shaped, your bruised legs violently quivering and twitching, your entire lover half was jello. Pure jello, all you could feel was that violent crave of his dick drilling so hard in your canal you were sure he was bruising the opening to that pretty little cervix.
The embarrassingly loud squelches and squishes that came from between your legs were painfully loud from how much you’ve come, he’s made you squirt almost every 4 minutes. You couldn’t help it anymore, he reduced you into a fire hydrant. Uncontrollable spurts of slick coming from your aching hole, warm cum drooling down your thighs to mix in the puddle on the floor. You weren’t even holding on to anything anymore, you couldn’t. Your brain was all mushy and stupid, you were completely cockdrunk! You just laid there and took every thick inch like this was the therapy Dr. Easterman wanted you to learn, and you were learning alright. What spots that got that pretty messy pussy snapping down on him like a venus flytrap, sucking him of all his sweet nectar. And right in front of you, sitting in a leather chair.. Manspreaded like a whore was Sergeant Leland Coyle, huffing like a bull as he sucked the tobacco out of his cigarette. Visors resting against the bridge of his crooked nose as those cold blue eyes were glued onto you, watching you drool all over yourself to the point where it was down to your naval.
Coyle’s eyes were trained onto yours, watching as those pretty little orbs rolled so far back he could count the veins on your whites. See those fat tears glob down those red little cheeks, his thighs spread on instinct. His angry bulge twitching from his little drill sergeant get up, dick throbbing to be inserted between those pretty lips and sucked till he was shooting blanks. The warden’s mouth felt good, but if the one thing he hated was the warden couldn’t suck dick to save his life.. You? By god you sucked him off so good he almost wanted to ask the doctors to keep you alive so he could fuck your throat anytime he needed.
“A–Am I doin’ good daddy? Am, ah–fuck! Am I makin’ baby happy..?” The warden pleaded his deep voice cracking from when your sweet walls sucked around him just right, he was begging Coyle for positive validation. Any Validation, good or bad, was good in his eyes. It meant his life was spared a little longer. Coyle let out a grunt of displeasure almost pissed from his daydream of forcing you to gag on his cock till you threw up was disrupted, his eyes finally broke from yours just for a moment to the warden. Seeing that stupid fuck looking like he was about to pass out from how pussydrunk he is, “She don’t look happy to me, how the hell are you gonna keep her from cheatin’ on you with the milkman while you are away servin’ the country?” Coyle snapped, if you had a brain cell to cling onto you’d know that was something that happened to him with his first wife.. The warden snarled in your ear as his head pressed against your hair, a loud smack filling the air as he slapped your ass so hard you could feel his hand print welting on the bruised flesh. Nasty bruises contrasting from purple to red painted your skin from how hard he beat your ass.
“N,No wife of mine–haah–Is gonna cheat on me–!” He growled angrily like you were his actual wife, his hips found a new vigor as his slams turned into violent pounding that had you sobbing so loudly you were sure any grunt could hear you for miles. You violently squirmed against the desk when his bulbous tip rammed into your g-spot, practically bruising it as he focused all his attention on that one little spot. “O,Oh fuck..” He whimpered pathetically as you squirted all over him again, clear liquid coming out in flowing gushes as that sweet little canal suffocated his throbbing cock. He didn’t last another second before shoving all his body weight into you, a downright stupid little yelp coming from you when you felt his hot load fill your overstuffed pussy. Some of it leaking from your stretched hole as that stupid fucks hips kept jerking into you, your pussy had his poor brain melted. If he could stay like this forever, he would.. Maybe Dr. Easterman would be so merciful and fulfill that wish.
“You stupid heifer.” Coyle said as he grabbed the back of the warden’s neck and yanked him back like a misbehaving puppy, you didn’t even know he got up.. Well, neither of you did because the warden let out a loud sob as he was ripped from the comforting warmth of your womb. “AH! DADDY–PLEASE!” You heard the warden sob in pain as Coyle bitch slapped him with his cattle prod, it wasn’t turned on so he could actually sit down and enjoy the show. “You good for nuthin’ tub of lard, how you goin’ keep her happy? Huh? By puttin’ a baby in her–”
“I–I could! I could daddy–Wan’ me to put a baby in her? I’ll give her all my puppies–AH!” You could barely hear the thud the warden hit the cold ground as Coyle kicked him. “You dumb fuckin’ mutt, sit there like a good boy as I show you AGAIN how to keep her happy. How fuckin’ hard is it?” Coyle snapped as he put his cattle prod onto the desk beside your limp form, leather gloves violently grasping at your waist as he turned you over to face him. Your head hit the back of the desk with a sickening thump as he manhandled you, a scoff coming from him as his hand went to the back of your skull, fingers twisting in your scalp as he forced you to kiss him. His leathery tongue going down your throat as those exposed teeth of his bite down on the fat of your lip, his other hand threw your boneless leg onto his hip as the sounds of your sloppy make out filled your brain. “Mmmphmm, my good lil’ girl.. Look at chu, so pretty.” Coyle cooed as he slowly pulled back, hot breath that reeked of alcohol and tobacco intoxicating your senses. He watched as thick strands of drool kept you two connected as his clothed erection humped your soaking wet folds. Head craning down as a needy groan escaped him, watching those puffy engorged pussy hug his clothed cock. His hips kept a slow yet steady pace as he panted violently, a bit of spittle coming from the corner of his burnt lip. The warden sat below by Coyle’s side, eyes locked onto your face as he watched those eyelids flutter shut. “O,ooohh fuffcckk..” You squeaked out as Coyle let out a chuckle.
“Yeah babygirl? Yeah? Love this dick don’t cha?” He cooed mockingly as he tilted his head in faux care, “Use your words sweetness, don’t be a bitch.” The contrast between him calling you sweet pet names to straight degradation made your stupid little brain short circuit. “Y,yes daddy–Fuck.. I,I love it–” You mewled out as your shaky soft hands somehow found the urge to paw his torso, normally he’d slap those wandering hands away but he leaned into your greedy little touches, “Need it baby girl? Need this dick makin’ your pretty little head all stupid?”
God the little “yeeesss!” that came out from you, you used to throw stuns, bricks, bottles, insults, anything at this disgusting vile excuse of a man’s sperm. Now you were begging for his cock like it would save your soul from being damned, “Yeah I knew you needed this.” He groaned as he looked down at the warden who was sitting on his knees, erect cock throbbing pre-cum as he was lazer focused on that sloppy pussy. “Make yerself fuckin’ useful.” He barked as the warden’s shaky hands went to Coyle’s custom made buckle, undoing it sloppily as he pulled his dick out. Coyle groaned as his head tipped back, hips bucking into the warden’s sweaty palm. The warden’s hand moved quickly against Coyle, pumping his hard shaft as best as he could as the other went up to fondle his balls that were just begging to be buried in you already so he could blow his load into you. “Ffffuuccck..” His head tipped further as his hand groped your beaten ass, little sobs and painful winces coming from you as rough fingers dug into the bruises.
Coyle’s hips jerked hard, so hard his tip slid through you with embarrassing ease causing him to choke. Smoke came from his nostrils as he spit out his half dead cigarette, his hand leaving your head to have both of them jump at your hips. An obscenely loud groan escaping his raspy throat as he wasted zero time sinking allll the way to the hilt. His hands cupped you as those mean fingers buried themselves into your fat, loud screams came from you as he plowed you open. The warden still fondling Coyle as his other hand jerked himself off, you sounded like you were in PAIN as Coyle pounded you so hard you felt like you were about to vomit.
“D-DADDY! DADDY FUCK!” Came from that sweet mouth Coyle’s shoulders shuddered as he huffed through his nose at your reaction, lifting your ass higher so he could nail you. “Y–Yeah? YEAH? This much better than what that dumb mutt was puttin’ you through?” He yelled in pride and lust as his head swung down to watch you, “Y–YES! YES, YES, YEESS! OOOHHH MY FUCKING GOOODDD!” You were screeching like the berserker was shoving his hand in your ass, your screams piercing Coyle and the warden’s ears. You were gagging on your own gasps and cries, gagging from the sheer force of being fucked this hard. Your hands were clutching at Coyle’s uniform as he let you subconsciously rip it off of him, “See boy? THIS, is how you take care of a woman.” He yowled like a cat, making it very known what was happening in the warden’s office. The warden whimpered as his cock throbbed painfully in his hand, he was so dizzy from how hard he is–So nauseous from needing to come so badly, needing you so badly. His hand stopped stroking his dick to cup his tip, whimpering and whining for your attention as Coyle completely disregarded his existence. Coyle’s grunts grew frantic, sounding more primitive as his hips slapped hard against you. Chasing his orgasm he needed to badly, hands using you like a fuck doll as he manhandled you to bounce on his sweaty cock.
“FUCK!” He seethed out, drool dripping down his completely charred skin as he exploded in you. Burning hot cum filling you up in deliciously violent spurts, his hands clutching your ass keeping you still on him so nothing would leak out. You swore you felt a kiss on the top of your head, and another on your sweaty forehead. “Good girl, such a good girl.. Daddy loves you.” He purred lovingly basking in that graceful high he’s been waiting for all day, his lips became more bold as he pressed them all over your face. Cooing about how much he loves you, how he’d let nothing touch a pretty hair on your head, “Yer’ safe here, right here with daddy.” He grumbled as his head rested against yours, you basked in the radiance of his love. For once it wasn’t perversion or abuse, just straight love and admiration.
You let him snuggle you, you snuggled him back the best you could. Whenever you did good for Coyle he was always good to you after, his nose pressed deep into your hair. Smelling your post-sex scent as he nuzzled his face into it, his hands now softer as they rubbed your aching back. “My good girl.” He hummed as he placed one last smooch to your forehead before pulling away. As fast as he was soft and sweet was as fast as he became that dictating asshole, he snarled at the warden who was still jerking off. Your eyes widened in fear and surprise as Coyle stomped on the warden’s cock, a loud scream of sheer pain coming from the man as he fell down into the puddle of cum & slick. Shaking and dry heaving as Coyle rolled his eyes at the man, “You pathetic waste of yer’ daddy’s spunk! You gonna let another man cum in her? Huh? Clean her up you fat fuck.”
Despite being in brutal pain that had his vision blackening he shakily tried to get up but kept falling from how weak he was, “Oh for fucks sake. Do I gotta do everything around here?” Coyle sighed in irritation and disappointment as he grabbed a fistful of the warden’s sack head as he dragged him up and shoved him face first in your pussy. The warden groaned against your hot flesh, a shiver being sent down your spine as you felt the vibration against your puffy neglected clit. The sharp metal of his faux teeth bumping against your mound as his tongue slithered into your spent hole, meaty hands grabbing your thighs and cupping them, pushing them further apart as his head made a home between your legs.
“uuuhhh, hhnnggghgg…” That’s all you could produce. All you could make were noises a slut would make, the warden was so eager and lapped up every drop of Coyle’s warm cum. Wasting zero time to gulp it down as the slick muscle dug further into you, You felt Coyle's hand cup your chin and tilt your head backwards giving you a face full of his dick. Your lips automatically opened as that pretty pink tongue came out to lick at his drooling tip, you heard him shamelessly groan as his hips adjusted so his tip could follow that sweet tongue. The warden’s own tongue dug deeper, hitting spots in you that had your weak legs trembling and your ankles twisting. The bottom of the sack was soaked from drool, the once cold metal of his canine mouthpiece now hot and lubed up. “D–Daddy..” You whimpered pitifully at your poor clit not getting any attention, both of their heads jerked to look at you instinctively. “M,My poor lil’ fawn.” The warden cooed as his hand abandoned squeezing and assaulting you to rub circles on your clit, “S,Sorry babygirl..” He whimpered out as he kept sucking Coyle’s cum out of your cunt, shuddering as he felt his own salty & thick load start to come out. Before you could show him your appreciation Coyle’s hand slammed down on your throat, hips shoving forward to shove his cock down to your larynx. You gagged hard around his cock feeling bile rise up as drool popped from your full mouth, Coyle’s loud groans and snarls of pleasure filled your ears like a siren song as his hips thrusted hard into your mouth. A mix of unkept pubic hair & scarred flesh slapping against your face and filling your nostrils. “Take this fuckin’ cock you slut..” Coyle panted out as his hand tightened around your throat, strangling you so your throat got smaller around his cock. God you were on the verge of passing out and puking, the pleasure was too much–Fuck, your head was so dizzy.. Who were you? Where were you? UUUggh, you never wanted this to end. ♡
The warden groaned with joy when you squirted in his mouth, greedily drinking every drop as his sucking got louder from how soaked you were. Any cum or squirt that was running down your thighs? He was lapping up happily, your nose was working overtime trying to get oxygen to your lungs. Your vision was turning black as you felt Coyle’s cum fill your throat like you were a stuffed pastry. He let out a shaky groan as lights flashed behind his closed eyes as he thrusted hard and deep into that tight throat, forcing you to swallow every drop.. Which you had no choice but to do. His hand relaxed against your now bruised throat, watching as your skin flushed red.. You had his hand prints allll over that slutty neck, he quickly pulled out to creampie your stupid face before you passed out.
You were passed out still in the warden’s arms as he lovingly snuggled you in Coyle’s leather chair, bagged head resting against your shoulder. Big hands now gentle and loving as he soothed the ache in your spine, his job was to protect you while Coyle was gone.. He wished so dearly that Coyle would one day rip the sack from his head and the bit in his mouth and give him the honor of kissing you.
I need to see him beating his cock like a desperate virgin in heat, who's impatient and unable to minimize how turned on he is. Have him whimpering, moaning, his bottom lip trembling and him leaned back on his knees while his rock-hard cock is in the air, commanding attention and as if on display. It's so slick with pre and he can't stop stroking because it feels so good, and he's nothing but a needy, whiny slut who can't stop masturbating for the life of him. Not until I touch him. Or until I nibble his earlobe as I replace his hand with my own. Maybe have him hump a pillow to completion, too. He's indeed a good boy, a pathetic, desperate, slutty boy. 💕 My baby. Mine. 💕
Albert Wesker x Reader | NSFW!!| Controlling/Obsessive Boss AU
⚠️ Smut | Office/Power Dynamics | Oral (F receiving) | Overstimulation | Light Restraints | Possessive Language | Praise | minors dni | Dark Themes | (HE IS NOT A HEAR ME OUT- HE'S A HOLD ME BACK.)
“You're not confined,” he murmurs. “You're kept.”
.
.
.
.
---
His hand drops from your chin. But the weight of it lingers. You feel like you’ve been marked—without bruises, without blood.
“You really think locking me in here with you is going to earn you anything?” you ask, dry. “Loyalty? Gratitude?”
“No,” he says again. “But it will make you understand.”
Then he steps closer. Close enough that your back touches the cold steel wall.
You expect a threat. Instead, he kisses you for the second time.
There’s no warning. No tension. It’s matter-of-fact. Like he’s proving a hypothesis.
And you—
God help you—
You let him.
Because the truth is, part of you had always wondered what lived under the surface of him. Whether there was anything at all beneath the precision, the control.
Now you’ve seen it.
And it’s worse than you imagined.
When he pulls away, he doesn't say something dramatic or proprietary.
He just studies you.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
You are. From adrenaline. From rage. From something else you don’t want to name.
“You scare the shit out of me,” you mutter.
He doesn’t look proud. Or apologetic.
Just amused.
“Good."
“You sound possessive,” you say quietly.
He leans in, low and smooth.
“That’s because I am.”
---
🌶🧬 The shift is subtle but immediate.
He kisses you again—but this time, there’s no cold calculation.
His gloved hand wraps gently around your throat—not tight, just present. A reminder.
“You don’t have to think right now,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Just do what you’re told. You’ve always been good at that.”
The lab feels feverishly warm.
He lifts you onto the steel workbench like you weigh nothing.
His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw—steady, grounding.
You try to speak, but he doesn’t give you the space. His mouth ghosts over yours again, slower now, like he's testing how long you’ll hesitate before following his lead.
There’s no demand in the way he holds you—only expectation. The kind that makes refusal feel foolish. Pointless.
He leans in, breath warm against your cheek.
“Don’t make this harder than it is.”
Your pulse jumps beneath his hand.
And when you don’t move—when you don’t pull away—he smiles.
Just barely.
But it’s enough.
“No one’s coming in. No one can see you,” he says, sliding the zipper of your lab coat down, slow and deliberate.
“There is no world outside this room. Not tonight.”
You shouldn’t want this. But god, you do.
---
🌶🧬 His control doesn’t slip — it sharpens.
He kneels in front of you like he’s conducting an experiment.
Not rushed. Not eager. Just methodical—clinical.
His gloved hands shove your underwear aside, and he looks up through those damn sunglasses like he’s documenting every flicker of hesitation in your face. As if your reactions are data to be archived. Controlled. Repeated.
Then he leans in—
And presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
Measured. Cold. Almost reverent in the worst way.
His breath is warm, but his mouth is not. And that contrast sends a flicker of heat down your spine, sharp and involuntary.
You tense, just slightly.
“Be still.”
A command.
Spoken low, not loud—but enough to still the breath in your throat. It isn’t a threat. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a statement of fact, like he already knows you’ll obey.
And the worst part is—you do.
His mouth finds you.
Tongue precise, steady, devastating. Like he’s memorizing you—charting nerve endings the way someone maps territory they already intend to claim.
Not sloppy. Not rushed.
Every movement feels rehearsed. Controlled. Like he’s pacing himself on purpose, just to see how long it takes before you break protocol.
He works you open with practiced pressure, dragging slow circles until your hips twitch forward. Instinctive. Desperate.
And when you arch with a sharp cry, his grip tightens around your thighs—holding you down like it’s nothing.
“No noise,” he murmurs against you.
“Containment protocols.”
His voice is almost amused. Almost.
But the order is real.
Then you make a sound anyway—soft, bitten-back, helpless.
And he hears it.
He pauses—not to stop, but to let the sound hang between you. A quiet act of disobedience.
Then:
That smirk. Barely there, but unmistakable.
“So undisciplined...” he hums, tongue dragging slow and deliberate.
“We’ll need more conditioning.”
His mouth returns to you like a punishment.
Like a promise.
And this time, he doesn’t go slow.
It builds fast—heat blooming sharp and immediate, like he’s pulling pleasure from you with mechanical precision. There’s no fumbling. No hesitation. Just a devastating rhythm that leaves no room for thought, only instinct.
Your breath stutters. Legs shake.
Every swipe of his tongue leaves you raw, sensitized, undone—like he's dismantling you piece by piece, learning what makes you twitch, gasp, beg.
You try to hold still. Try to obey. But it’s impossible. He knows exactly where to press, when to pull back, when to push harder.
Your body’s not yours anymore. It’s responding to him. Because of him.
You're burning alive—and all he does is hold you in place, methodical, composed, like he’s watching his favorite experiment succeed.
And god—
It feels so fucking good you almost forget to be afraid.
---
🌶🧬 You come hard, hips twitching—but he doesn’t stop.
“Overstimulation breeds obedience,” he says in that damn cunning, merciless voice.
“You’re not leaving this table until you’ve internalized that.”
And he means it.
The aftershocks haven’t even finished rolling through your body before his mouth is back on you—tongue unrelenting, dragging sensation out of raw nerve endings that haven’t had time to settle. It hurts, almost—but it’s the kind of hurt that coils low and tight and unbearable.
Your thighs tremble. The edge is sharper now, pleasure warping into something hotter, more fragile. There’s no time to breathe, no time to think. Just sensation, again and again, until your body forgets where the first orgasm ended and the next begins.
When you come again, it tears through you. The heat in your legs turns to static, your muscles locking tight before they unravel all at once.
You sob—voice breaking under the weight of it. But he doesn’t falter. He likes that sound.
He licks you through it, steady. Focused. Devoted in that cold, obsessive way of his.
Only when you're shaking—eyes glassy, breath stuttering like a broken machine—does he finally lift his head.
And even then, he’s not done.
He’s just… evaluating.
Gloved fingers stroke your cheek.
You’re breathless, soaked, legs trembling from the second orgasm he forced out of you with his tongue. Your muscles won’t stop twitching. Your skin is hot. Overheated. And your thoughts—what’s left of them—come in fragmented pulses of more, more, more.
You barely register the shift in weight when he rises to his feet—methodical, towering, composed. Not a single movement wasted. No urgency. No mess. Just quiet, controlled escalation.
He begins to remove his gloves.
The leather slips from his fingers in one fluid motion—slick, deliberate. They hit the floor with a dull slap, like the prelude to something you’re not built to handle.
“Don’t move.”
The command slices through the room like a scalpel—sharp and clean, cutting through the thick hum of fluorescent light and your own thundering pulse. You obey without thinking. You have to.
He unfastens his belt next—slowly, deliberately—and the soft scrape of leather through metal rings out like a gunshot in the sterile quiet of the lab. It’s obscene. Wrong. Perfect.
Your eyes drift down—helpless, hungry—and—
Fucking hell.
He’s thick. Veined. Long enough to make your stomach tense. Ridiculously proportional to the rest of his impossibly crafted body. Like everything else about him, it borders on inhuman.
Dark. Flushed. Leaking, because of you.
Because he planned this.
He wraps a hand around the base, stroking himself once—just once—and it sends another wave of heat tearing through your already broken body.
“No more waiting,” he mutters, voice like crushed velvet.
“You’ll take it. All of it. And you’ll thank me for the privilege.”
He doesn’t say it like a threat.
He says it like an equation. Something inevitable. Proven.
And as he lines himself up against your aching, overstimulated core, you already know—
You’re going to let him.
You’re going to take it.
And you’ll thank him for ruining you.
He presses in—slow, stretching, merciless.
Your body clenches around him involuntarily, muscles taut, breath punched from your lungs as he fills you inch by unbearable inch.
“W-Wesker—!”
“Sir.”
His hand is on your jaw instantly, grip firm but not cruel—commanding. He tilts your head up until your eyes meet his—those golden irises burning behind the lenses like warning lights.
“In here, I’m not your colleague. Not your peer.”
“You call me sir.”
You whimper. Something desperate leaves your throat. But before you can even try to respond, he thrusts forward—once, hard—bottoming out in a single, brutal stroke.
Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.
You’re full. Stuffed. Split.
And there’s no grace period. No pause. No adjustment.
He starts to move—hips snapping with cold, mechanical precision, like he’s recalibrating you from the inside out.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs against your neck, voice dark silk.
“You were so cockdrunk on my tongue.”
“Now you’re quiet?”
You gasp as his pace intensifies, dragging friction against every overworked nerve—pain-pleasure rippling so deep it short-circuits thought. His hips grind just right, his angle unerring. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
His breath fans hot against your throat.
“Speak.”
“Or I’ll fuck the ability out of you entirely.”
The table creaks beneath you with every thrust, metal legs groaning in protest as he drives you into the surface like you belong there—like you were made to be taken apart by him, and him alone.
His grip on your hips is bruising—fingers digging in, anchoring you in place, keeping you where he wants you. Where you need to be.
You’re already close again—too close. Your walls flutter around him, a tell you can’t hide.
And of course, he notices. Of course, he fucking knows.
“Tight little thing,” he growls, voice shredded with restraint.
“And all mine. Say it.”
Your body’s breaking open again, pressure coiling hot and unbearable in your gut. Your vision blurs. Your breath stutters.
And still—his voice is what wrecks you most.
“Yours, sir~,” you sob. “I’m yours—I’m yours—”
He groans, low and feral, a sound punched from somewhere deep in his chest—and then his hips slam forward harder, sharper, as if your admission unshackled something in him.
“Goddamn right you are.”
He fucks you like he means to burn the memory of anyone else clean out of you.
Like he’s branding every inch from the inside out.
And you let him. You fucking let him.
---
🌶️ After
You’re wrecked.
Shaking. Glistening. Leaking his cum down your thighs like a failed sealant test.
Wesker doesn’t move to clean you. Doesn’t reach for a towel.
He just stands there—composed, calculating—watching you fall apart on the table he set the terms for.
His gaze is unreadable behind the glasses, but you feel it like heat—scanning, cataloguing, claiming.
“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” he says, as if it’s protocol.
“I’ll authorize remote work. Tell HR I’ve reassigned you to internal development.”
A button clicks shut. His belt slides back through the loops.
He tucks himself away like nothing just happened—like he didn’t just ruin you with expert precision.
And then—
He picks up your ruined panties off the floor.
Slips them into his coat pocket like evidence.
Doesn’t say a word.
Just smirks. Barely.
“You’ll report to my quarters next week. 0100 hours. Untraceable route. No badge.”
You try to speak—try to form a sound—but your throat betrays you. There’s nothing left but your pulse hammering in your ears and the way your body still clenches at the thought of more.
Wesker leans in.
Kisses you—slow, deliberate. Like the claim wasn’t complete until now.
Like he's proud by how quiet you’ve become.
“You’ve passed containment,” he whispers against your lips.
“Now let’s work on submission.”
And with that—he’s gone.
He turns without hesitation, boots echoing across the sterile floor.
One tap to his comms. A low voice, smooth and absolute:
“Disengage quarantine. Authorization: Wesker.”
A mechanical hiss ruptures the silence.
Locks disengage. Doors slide open. Lights return to full power.
Just like that—the breach is over.
But you know better now.
The real experiment… has only just begun.
---
(A/N: Hi lovelies I've risen from the dead to provide the wesker fic I promised🥺 I'M SORRY I WAS GONE FOR SO LONG- BLAME THE SYSTEM. But even so, I didn't let it stop me from posting this hot, horny, sunufabitch💅 Enjoy sluts.) :>
Hi frennnn 😋 I DONT USUALLY REQUEST STUFF, but can you write a fic that has Akaza x female reader and smut 🙏🏼 I was thinking it kind of be a tainted friendship scenario, where like he’s a demon she’s a human and he has his needs and the reader is the only one he relies on to get that steam off ifykyk
can you include rough play and a little bit of a breeding kink (even tho demons can’t get humans pregnant) JUST THE THOUGHT but yeah I’ll let you do your work THANK YOUU 💗
AKAZA X FEM!READER
Genre: smut
Writer's note: I HOPE YOU LIKE IT❤ Feel free to give criticism if it dissapointed you๑•͈ᴗ•͈๑
WARNINGS: NSFW, rough play, breeding kink, choking, manhandling, size kink, degradation, praise, dubious consent vibes, aftercare, PWP, P in V, unprotected(WRAP IT UP!!)
Akaza comes to your home at night, in need to unwind some SERIOUS boiled up anger...
Y/N was in her home, getting ready for bed. She had hung her kimono up, put on her sleepwear, and was preparing to have the best sleep ever.
Suddenly, the sliding door that led to her home was thrown open with hard force, frightening her. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw it was just Akaza, although… he looked very pissed.
You and Akaza had a complicated relationship. He was a demon, Upper Moon Three, no less--and you were just a plain, ordinary human. It all started when Akaza was out hunting for food and, by sheer coincidence, noticed a man trying to take advantage of you while you were barely conscious in an alleyway. It angered him. Normally, he couldn’t care less about what happened to a human, but seeing someone in such a position stirred something in him. He killed and ate the man, then stayed by your side until you regained consciousness. From then on, your friendship kept blooming.
One thing Akaza had realized was that he also had needs. After a long mission, after being verbally abused by Muzan, or after being annoyed by Douma, he needed to blow off steam. Eating more men didn’t help--it only built up the frustration. But after meeting you, that problem disappeared. He blew off steam by fucking you, hard and rough. And you never complained. It quickly became a regular thing between you two.
You looked up at him, curious and confused.
“Akaza? What happened? You look so… angry,” you asked, choosing your words carefully.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.
“That stupid excuse for a demon… he pissed me off so much today! I hate that piece of shit!”
You already knew he was talking about Douma. It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned him to you, his language always got colorful when Douma was involved. From what you understood, Douma loved to push Akaza’s buttons.
You let out a surprised gasp when Akaza grabbed your arm and yanked you against him. His hands found your waist as he attacked your neck with kisses and sharp bites, leaving marks immediately. Soft moans escaped your lips.
He manhandled you onto the futon, wasting no time as he undid your nemaki. He pushed your panties to the side and scoffed as he dragged a finger through your slit, making you whimper.
“Already wet? Just from getting manhandled and a few hickeys? You really are a slut in the sheets,” he growled, and you felt yourself grow even wetter at his words.
He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand and shoved two fingers inside you with the other, forcing a loud moan out of you. You were grateful you lived in isolation, deep in the mountains.
He worked his fingers in and out at a rough, aggressive pace--it didn’t hurt, though. In fact, it drove you crazy in the best way. Being an Upper Moon demon had its advantages: his speed, his stamina, his strength--and right now, he was using them all on you.
His thumb found your clit, rubbing hard and fast. The intense pleasure made you moan and whine loudly.
“It’s so easy to get you wet… you’re always so ready for me, huh, darling? Such a needy whore you are..” he chuckled, his voice dripping with heat, straight to your core.
“A-Akaza~!! I’m… ngh~!! Mhmm~… c-close~!! Aah~!!” you cried out.
He already knew--you were tightening around his fingers. He picked up the pace, his thumb relentless on your clit.
“Cum for me, darling.”
You didn’t need to be told twice--you came hard, squirting around his fingers and soaking the futon.
He pulled his fingers out, licking your juices off them while staring straight at you.
“You taste so sweet… like always,” he smirked, making you blush furiously.
Without giving you a second to recover, he took his cock out and aligned himself with your entrance, pushing in with no warning. The stretch made you throw your head back and let out a loud, pornographic moan.
“Take it all, like the slut you are! Fuck… you’re so tight,” he hissed, working his full length inside you. Once he was buried to the hilt, he wasted no time slamming into you--hard, aggressive, and unrelenting. All his pent-up rage translated into his thrusts.
He moaned and groaned as he gripped your waist tightly. Releasing your wrists, his hand wrapped around your throat, applying pressure--but not enough to cut off your air.
“You always get off when I’m this aggressive… ah, you little whore,” he growled, his cock hitting deep, his pelvis grinding against your clit, driving you closer to the edge again.
You could barely form words anymore, only broken, incoherent sounds falling from your lips. It made him chuckle darkly.
He looked down at your face, so fucked out, so perfectly dumb, and his desire flared hotter. The thought of filling you up, stuffing you full, made him thrust harder. He couldn’t impregnate you, but it didn’t stop him from fantasizing about it. His hand tightened slightly on your throat as he slammed into you faster.
“I’m gonna pump you full… ngh~ gonna have you leaking for days,” he groaned, losing himself in the heat of it all.
His climax hit hard--he came deep inside you, filling you up just like he promised. The sensation pushed you over the edge again, your vision going white as another orgasm rocked through you, squirting around his cock.
When he pulled out, you both winced at the sudden emptiness. He leaned down, kissing your forehead softly.
“Good girl… so good for me…” he murmured, gently repositioning you to lie more comfortably on the futon.
You were on the verge of sleep when Akaza got up and went to your bathing area. He returned with a towel, carefully spreading your legs again to clean you up. You let out tiny, sensitive noises, but he was gentle and thorough. When he was done, he tossed the towel aside and lay down next to you, pulling you into his chest.
“You know I love you, right? You’re always so good to me… letting me blow off steam. I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered, lulling you to sleep in his arms.
Not water and fire—because water tries to calm. You? You burn.
From the second you joined the dance crew, it’s been war. If you nail a move, he pushes harder. If he shines in rehearsal, you double your effort. You challenge each other, mock each other, drive each other insane.
And yet… you’ve never looked away.
Especially not when he’s sweaty in rehearsal, shirt clinging to his body, lip caught in his teeth as he watches himself in the mirror with that impossible focus. Or when his voice dips low, sharp and smug, when he says something to rile you up.
You hate him.
You want him.
Which is why the first time it happens, it feels like a dam breaking.
It’s after practice. You’re both the last ones there. You argue. You get in each other’s space.
And then you’re kissing.
No—biting.
No—devouring.
He pins you to the wall like he’s waited months to do it.
You should stop. You don’t.
It becomes a thing.
You don’t talk about it. You don’t plan it.
It just happens—whenever you’re alone, and angry, and can’t stand how badly you want each other.
Your friends think you still hate each other. And during the day? You do. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
But then there’s night.
And the way he looks at you like you’re his only focus.
The way he touches you like it’s more than release—like it’s a need.
His apartment. 11:47PM.
You shouldn’t be here. You said you wouldn’t come. But your body knows the code to his door.
You barely get two words out before he has you pressed against the wall, mouth hot on your neck.
“You couldn’t stay away,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Missed me?”
“Shut up.”
He smirks. “Make me.”
You crash your mouth against his.
His hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, waist, under your hoodie. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and carries you to the couch.
He drops you onto the cushions, kneels between your thighs, and yanks off your shorts in one smooth motion. You gasp as the cool air hits your skin—then moan when his mouth follows immediately after.
“Minho—” your voice is already breathy.
“Keep saying my name like that,” he growls against your skin, licking a slow stripe over your inner thigh.
He slides two fingers through your folds, glancing up with that cocky, devastating smirk. “Dripping. Already?”
You hate how much power he has over you. You love how he uses it.
His mouth is hot, tongue skillful, fingers curling just right as he devours you like he’s starving.
Your head falls back. “Fuck—don’t stop—”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice muffled between your thighs.
You’re close embarrassingly fast. He knows it. Keeps the pace steady, relentless, until your hips jerk and you gasp his name like a confession.
And he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going until you’re shaking, overstimulated, tugging his hair with a breathless “Minho, please—”
He pulls back, mouth wet, pupils blown.
“Take your shirt off,” he says, voice low and dangerous.
You obey.
He strips, revealing skin and muscle and everything you try not to fantasize about when he’s pissing you off during practice.
He climbs on top of you, lining himself up, but pauses—just enough to look into your eyes.
“You want this?” he murmurs.
You nod.
He doesn’t move.
“I need to hear it.”
“I want you,” you breathe. “I always fucking want you.”
His lips crash into yours again, and he thrusts in, slow and deep, making your back arch and your fingers dig into his shoulders.
You cling to him, gasping, every stroke sending sparks through your whole body.
It’s rough, but not careless. Every snap of his hips is measured, deliberate, like he knows your body better than you do.
“You drive me insane,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But I can’t stop. Can’t stop thinking about you. Touching you. Wanting you.”
Your heart stutters.
He’s close. You are too. And when you come again, it hits harder than it ever has—your name breaking from his lips as he follows seconds after, collapsing on top of you with a shuddering breath.
You’re still sprawled across his couch, blanket barely covering you, Minho's arm draped over your waist, chest still rising fast against your back. The room is warm, filled with the scent of sex and sweat and something dangerously close to tenderness.
You’re about to speak—say something sarcastic, maybe ask if he has water—when there’s a sudden buzz at the door.
Minho groans softly, pressing his face into your neck. “Ignore it.”
But the buzz comes again.
And again.
You sit up. “It could be important.”
Minho grumbles but pulls on sweatpants and stalks to the door.
The second it opens—
“Y/N?!”
Your heart drops.
Your best friend, Jisoo, is standing in the hallway, holding the iced coffee you forgot you asked her to drop off earlier. She was supposed to leave it at the door.
Instead, she’s staring past Minho’s shoulder—right at you, wrapped in a blanket on his couch, flushed, messy, very much freshly wrecked.
Her eyes go wide.
You look at her.
She looks at you.
Then Minho.
Then back to you.
You swear time stops.
“I—uh—I forgot I gave her your address once,” you say quickly, voice cracking.
Jisoo slowly blinks. “You’re sleeping with Minho?”
Minho leans casually on the doorframe, smug and shirtless. “Sleeping with? Baby, be honest—we haven’t slept a single time.”
You throw a pillow at his head. “MINHO—”
Jisoo gasps. “Oh my god, I walked into a fucking fanfic.”
You panic. “It’s not serious, okay?! It’s just sex—”
Your voice is louder than you mean for it to be. Defensive. Sharp. Like you’re trying to cut through the heat still lingering in your skin.
Jisoo just blinks at you, wide-eyed in the hallway.
His voice, when he speaks, isn’t teasing. Isn’t smug.
It’s quiet. Certain.
“No, it’s not.”
You freeze.
The words hit you harder than they should.
“What?” you ask, even though you heard him.
Minho looks at you—really looks. No smirk, no bite, no mask. His face is open in a way you’ve never seen.
“I said it’s not just sex,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “At least not for me.”
Your heart stutters.
He glances at Jisoo—who, to her credit, is now pretending to look very interested in the floor tiles—and then back at you.
“I know we’ve been playing this game like it doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it does. To me.”
You open your mouth, then close it again.
He takes a step closer, like he’s afraid you might run.
“I care about you,” he says, softer now. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t just because someone else found out.”
You want to say something snarky. You want to laugh it off. You want to not feel this.
But the look in his eyes?
It guts you.
You feel Jisoo slowly back away, awkwardly muttering something about “text me later” before she disappears down the hallway, giving you space.
Minho doesn’t look away.
“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… maybe if I kept it casual, I could control it. Control how I felt about you.”
His gaze drops to the floor for a beat. Then back to you.
“But I can’t.”
You’re still holding your shirt in your hands. Still standing in his living room in the aftermath of what was supposed to be just another night.
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel casual at all.
_
You leave his apartment with your jacket half-zipped, heart pounding like it’s chasing something you’re still running from.
You didn’t say anything.
Couldn’t.
Not when he looked at you like that.
Like he meant it.
Like he was done hiding and wanted you to do the same.
You don’t text him.
You don’t sleep.
Instead, you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by his voice in your head.
“I care about you. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”
And damn it, you feel it too.
You felt it in the way he touched you like you were something fragile under all the fire.
You saw it in the way he looked at you after you came undone in his hands—like you weren’t just a body, but something he wanted to hold after.
You're not scared of sex.
You're scared of this.
Of how real it suddenly is.
But when your phone buzzes with one single message—
“If you come back, I’ll say it again. As many times as you need.”
—you’re out the door before you can change your mind.
You knock once.
He opens the door instantly—like he’d been waiting just behind it.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
Then you're moving—you drop your bag, step into him, crash your mouth to his.
This kiss is different.
It’s not angry. Not desperate.
It’s slow. Deep. Like you're tasting every inch of what you almost lost.
His hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing your jaw like you’re something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
When he pulls back just slightly, your noses still touching, he whispers: “I missed you. Every day I didn’t have you—I missed you.”
Your eyes burn.
You lean into his touch, whispering back, “I was scared.”
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I was too.”
You look up at him, voice barely audible. “Do you still want me?”
His answer is immediate.
“I never stopped.”
He takes your hand, leads you to the bedroom—not like last time.
Not rushed. Not rough.
He strips you slowly, eyes roaming over every inch like he’s trying to memorize you.
“Lie back,” he whispers.
You do.
He hovers over you, kissing you everywhere but your mouth—throat, collarbone, stomach—each kiss a word he doesn’t say out loud.
His hands move softly over your body, teasing but not taunting. Reverent.
When his lips finally reach where you ache for him most, he doesn't rush. He takes his time.
Licks. Sucks. Worships.
You gasp his name like a prayer.
“That's it,” he whispers, fingers curling inside you perfectly. “Let me take care of you.”
You’re already trembling when he slides up your body, eyes searching yours.
“Tell me you want me.”
You pull him in, kiss him hard. “I want you.”
He enters you slowly this time—deep, smooth, like he’s trying to fit the words he can’t say into every stroke.
And it’s different now.
You feel everything.
Every roll of his hips. Every gasp. Every whispered name. It’s not about fucking anymore—it’s about being close. Being seen.
“You feel so good,” he groans into your neck. “Always do.”
You cling to him, nails digging into his back. “Minho…”
“Say it again.”
“Minho.”
He picks up the pace just a little, making you whimper.
“I’m yours,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve been yours.”
That’s what undoes him.
He groans deep in his chest and moves faster, chasing your high as you spiral with him—both of you coming undone, this time not just with bodies but with hearts bared and burning.
After
You’re tangled together in his sheets, breath finally steadying.
He’s tracing patterns on your back, your head resting on his chest.
You look up at him. “You still care about me?”
He smirks, brushing your hair away. “I just made love to you for an hour. What do you think?”
• The Freak Circus Harlequin AU x Reader x Pierrot
• Slight smut + Fluff Fanfic
• Word Count: 2600+
Ruined Desires - Chapter 7
Previous Chapter
The tension in the chamber hung heavy like a living thing wrapping around the three of you. The glowing flowers continued their erratic pulsing casting shifting patterns across the obsidian mirrors and ancient stone walls. Your body still carried the marks and fullness from Harlequins earlier claiming every movement sending reminders through your sore muscles and sensitive core. Harlequin stood protectively close, his tentacles coiled around your waist and thigh while Pierrot remained at a careful distance, his hollow eyes fixed on you with that quiet sorrowful intensity. The air felt charged with centuries of unresolved pain and desire making your scholarly instincts war with the exhaustion and thrill coursing through you. The weight of their shared history pressed down upon your shoulders, the loneliness that had driven you into these ruins now reflected back in their fractured bond with Columbina and the desperate choices that had shaped them.
Harlequin broke the silence first, his voice carrying that familiar theatrical edge. "This changes nothing Pale Fool. She is marked by laughter and pleasure. The forest has already been chosen."
Pierrot did not speak aloud. Instead he tilted his head slowly in a deliberate gesture, one gloved hand rising to press lightly against his painted chest then extending toward you in a gentle open palm offering. His mournful expression softened further as if pleading for understanding without words. The movement was graceful and measured, conveying patience and a deep longing that needed no voice. You interpreted it as an invitation, a promise of the comfort he had whispered about earlier. Harlequin noticed and his tentacles tightened possessively in response to one thick appendage stroking along your inner thigh in a clear reminder of his claim. The touch remained light keeping the sensations minimal yet present enough to stir faint heat in your exhausted body.
You shifted slightly between them, your legs still unsteady from the previous hours. "This is not some prize to be fought over. I came here for knowledge not to be claimed by immortal circus entities with baggage older than most civilizations." Your voice came out hoarse but steady enough reflecting the defiance that had kept you going through everything so far. Deep down the loneliness that had driven your research echoed with their shared tragedy making you feel strangely connected to this fractured history. Your mind wandered to the expedition logs and half forgotten texts that had first mentioned the troupe the way their story had pulled at your own hidden voids.
Harlequin laughed softly, his green eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. "Yet here you stand little scholar leaking my essence and biting back at every turn. The ruins do not release what they desire so easily." One of his sensitive green tentacles brushed higher teasing your folds through your clothing in a slow deliberate motion that sent a reluctant spark of heat through your core. The touch remained light possessive but not demanding a continuation of the afterglow rather than new intensity. His muscular arm stayed wrapped around your waist providing steady support as you moved forward together.
Pierrot gestured again this time with both hands moving in a slow calming motion palms down as if to soothe the air itself. He pointed toward a nearby corridor then to you and finally made a small bowing motion, his head dipping in respect. The gestures suggested guidance a path forward where he could offer solace without force. His hollow eyes met yours directly conveying gentleness and a quiet hope that you might allow him closer when the moment permitted. The silent communication drew your academic curiosity making you wonder about the layers of meaning behind each elegant movement shaped by centuries of enforced silence.
The group moved forward together with Harlequin keeping you tucked against his muscular side while Pierrot followed at a respectful distance. The connected chambers opened into a long gallery lined with more mirrors and intricate carvings depicting the circus troupe in happier times before the chains and starvation. You paused frequently to document what you could, your notebook balanced in trembling hands as you sketched motifs of laughter masks, sorrowful expressions and a central female figure Columbina who appeared in many scenes with both Harlequin and Pierrot. The weight of their backstory pressed on you the desperate survival choices, the enforced silence, the love lost to tragedy. Your own past betrayals in the academic world and secret loneliness made the parallels uncomfortably real. Page after page filled with detailed notes on recurring symbols, the way laughter intertwined with sorrow and how the forest seemed to feed on both emotions binding souls in eternal performance.
Harlequin continued speaking, filling the space with his dramatic explanations. "The Laughing Veil sustains through joy and ecstasy little scholar. What Pierrot offers is but a shadow, a lingering melancholy that binds through regret rather than bliss." His hand roamed possessively over your hip squeezing lightly while a tentacle slipped under your shirt to trace slow circles on your bare skin. The contact kept your body aware and sensitive but stayed minimal, a teasing reminder rather than escalation. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he added more theatrical flourishes to his tales of the troupe's early days.
Pierrot responded only with gestures when Harlequin glanced his way. He raised one hand to his lips in a shushing motion then pointed to a mirror that showed a fragmented image of Columbina smiling between the two figures. His other hand made a heart shape then broke it apart conveying the pain of loss. The silent communication felt intimate in its own way drawing your curiosity even as Harlequin dominated the physical space. At times Pierrot would point out subtle details in the carvings that you might have missed his gloved finger tracing patterns in the air to highlight connections between symbols.
Hours seemed to pass in this manner exploring deeper into the ruins where the carvings grew more personal and the glowing flowers took on softer hues. Your body gradually regained some strength though the constant leaks and aches kept you mindful of Harlequins earlier thorough claims. At one point you stopped at a carved altar similar to the first but smaller and adorned with pale flowers instead of vibrant ones. Exhaustion pulled at you making your steps falter. The air here carried a faint scent of aged herbs and spices hinting at old living quarters nearby.
Harlequin supported you easily with his strong arms wrapping around your waist. "Rest if you need it, scholar. I can carry you while we uncover more secrets." His tone held genuine concern beneath the playfulness and one tentacle gently massaged your lower back easing some of the soreness. The light touch sent faint ripples of sensation through you but nothing overwhelming kept the moment focused on recovery and discovery.
Pierrot hung back during this, his gestures becoming more subdued. He made a cradling motion with his arms then pointed to a shadowed alcove suggesting a quieter spot. His eyes lingered on you with that patient hunger tempered by care never pushing while Harlequin remained present. Later when the path opened into what appeared to be remnants of an old preparation area with stone hearths and preserved ingredients from the forest's bounty, Pierrot gestured more animatedly. He mimed stirring a pot then pointed to you and made an offering motion with both hands palms up. The gestures clearly conveyed an offer to prepare food to restore your strength, a skill he had honed during the troupe's long years of survival.
Harlequin noticed and chuckled. "The Pale Fool thinks he can win you with simple comforts. But my pleasures run deeper little scholars."
The exploration continued with renewed tension. You documented extensively filling pages with observations about the mirrors that seemed to hold living memories and the way the forest responded to the presence of both entities. Harlequin provided commentary laced with his playful filth while Pierrot communicated through elegant gestures pointing out hidden details in carvings or offering calming motions when your exhaustion showed. At times when Harlequin turned away Pierrot would catch your eye and make small private signals a heart shape a gentle wave a mime of holding something fragile conveying his ongoing offer of comfort and now his willingness to cook a meal tailored to ease your weariness.
Eventually the path split into narrower passages. Harlequin insisted on scouting ahead briefly leaving you momentarily alone with Pierrot in a small mirrored antechamber. The moment the jester like figure disappeared around the corner the air shifted cooler and quieter. Pierrot turned fully toward you, his masked face softening as he stepped closer.
Now alone his whisper emerged soft and private meant only for your ears. "My lady at last. I have waited through the laughter to offer this." His gloved hand reached out slowly brushing a strand of hair from your face with a feather light touch. "You seem kind for a human brave in your pursuit of truth. I would be gentle with you if you allow it. No demands only solace for the weariness he has left in your body. I know how to cook as well my lady. Simple nourishing meals from what the forest provides to restore your strength after such trials. If you allow me the chance I would prepare something warm and comforting just for you."
The whisper carried a soothing quality that eased the rawness in your throat and the deeper aches in your muscles. His presence felt like a cool balm contrasting Harlequins fiery intensity. You stood there caught in the moment, your scholarly mind noting every detail, the subtle sorrow in his hollow eyes, the careful way he maintained distance until invited closer. "This is all so much" you murmured back, your voice still hoarse. "Your history with Harlequin and Columbina, the choices made for survival. I want to understand not just be pulled between you. And a meal does sound appealing after everything."
Pierrot nodded his gestures, returning even in whispers to emphasize points. He traced a gentle circle on your arm conveying patience then placed a hand over his chest and extended it toward you symbolizing shared sorrow and potential comfort. "My lady, the silence rule binds me in public but here with you I can speak softly. You carry strength and kindness rare in these ruins. Let me show tenderness when the moment allows and yes I would cook for you my lady. A broth or stew to warm you from within." His words remained gentle, respectful , never demanding as his fingers lightly traced down to your hand, holding it with cool care. The contact sent a shiver through you different from the heat of earlier encounters more like a promise of rest amid the chaos. For those brief private minutes he continued to whisper softly about ingredients he could gather and simple recipes perfected over centuries offering this domestic gentleness as another layer of his care.
The brief privacy ended sooner than expected as Harlequins footsteps echoed back. Pierrot released your hand and stepped back resuming his silent gestures, a simple nod toward the path ahead as if nothing had passed between you. Harlequin reappeared his tentacles immediately seeking you out again wrapping around your form possessively. "All clear ahead little scholar. More carvings await and perhaps answers to your burning questions."
The exploration continued with renewed tension. You documented extensively filling pages with observations about the mirrors that seemed to hold living memories and the way the forest responded to the presence of both entities. Harlequin provided commentary laced with his playful filth while Pierrot communicated through elegant gestures pointing out hidden details in carvings or offering calming motions when your exhaustion showed. At times when Harlequin turned away Pierrot would catch your eye and make small private signals: a heart shape, a gentle wave, a mime of stirring a pot reminding you of his offer to cook. Your body remained a battlefield of sensations: the constant trickle of cum from earlier rounds, the bruises and bite marks, the lingering sensitivity that made every brush of fabric or tentacle noticeable. Harlequin kept his touches light during this phase , occasionally slipping between your legs to push his essence deeper in a possessive but slow manner or stroking your thighs to maintain connection without overwhelming you further. "Feel how well you took me" he would murmur occasionally "your body remembers even as your mind fights."
Pierrot never interrupted these moments with words but his gestures grew more protective when he witnessed them hands forming barriers or pointing to rest spots. The dynamic created a strange balance, the triangle pulling you in multiple directions emotionally and physically. In another private moment later when Harlequin scouted a different branch Pierrot whispered again. "My lady let me cook for you soon. Something gentle to soothe the marks he left. You deserve care beyond the storm."
Deeper in the ruins you discovered a grand hall with a central pool reflecting the starry ceiling above through some ancient magic. The water glowed faintly and carvings around it depicted the troupe finding solace in performance after their escape. You knelt carefully to examine the inscriptions, your hands tracing symbols despite the trembling in your limbs. Harlequin crouched beside you his presence warm and solid while Pierrot stood opposite gesturing toward specific etchings that highlighted Colombina's role as a unifying force before the tragedy. The pool itself seemed to hold faint echoes of music and movement adding to the immersive atmosphere.
"This changes how I see everything," you said quietly. "Surviving the loss of the rules that kept you together but also tore you apart."
Harlequin nodded his expression momentarily seriously. "Survival demands sacrifice, little scholar. I chose the troupe. Pierrot chose grief."
Pierrot gestured emphatically, shaking his head, then making a breaking motion followed by a reaching one as if trying to mend what was lost. When Harlequin looked away briefly he leaned in and whispered once more for your ears alone. "My lady there is more to the story than his laughter. I offer mending through quiet understanding if you seek it. And a meal prepared with care to give you strength for whatever comes next."
The hours stretched with more discoveries, emotional exchanges and the building pull of the triangle. Your mind cataloged it all the academic drive mixing with the personal resonance of their pain and your own hidden loneliness. The forest seemed to respond to the three of you together with the flowers blooming in patterns that blended green gold and pale silver. Additional private whispers from Pierrot emphasized his cooking offers describing how he could prepare forest berries into a soothing tea or roots into a hearty stew all done with the gentleness that defined his approach to you.
By the time you reached another resting chamber fatigue settled heavily. Harlequin pulled you into his lap, his tentacles providing support and light massage while Pierrot kept watch with silent gestures. Minimal new intimacies occurred: a slow tentacle stroke here, a gentle hand from Pierrot brushing your shoulder there when alone for a moment. The sensations remained light keeping the focus on the unfolding drama and exploration rather than escalation. Pierrot gestured toward an area with potential cooking supplies again reminding you silently of his willingness to provide nourishment.
The ruins had drawn the three of you into their heart and the bonds forming promised to change everything in ways none could yet fully predict. The triangle pulsed with life mirroring the ancient power around you.
none of you were getting out of these ruins unchanged.
Tick... tock..
Next Chapter
Author's Note: Advance Warning for the Next Chapter:
Please be advised that the following chapter contains explicit heavy sexual detailed content. Moreover, gentle sex scenes. after a few introductory scenes involving the meeting of a certain character.
