18+ ACCOUNT, MINORS DNI. Howdy! I'm Raven, a 23 year old transmasc artist and writer with a deep obsession for the macab. In the free moments between work and school, I love to make dark fantasies come to life. Please read rules before requesting. Asks: OPEN Headcanon Requests: OPEN Writing Requests: CLOSED Art Requests: CLOSED
While I am working on the remasters, I’d like to do some headcanons to keep the creative gears turning. :)
The fandoms I will write for are:
Dead by Daylight
Slashers
Creepypasta
Outlast
When making requests, please bear in mind that I have been a bit out of touch with some of these fandoms, so I may not be up to date on the latest content.
I am open to writing headcanons for characters I am unfamiliar with, but it may take some extra time as I will have to research the character and develop their profile in my head.
can i trouble you to write the outlast trials PAs (and maybe the expops) 👉🏽👈🏽
Ok so outlast trials has modded outfits and some are skimpy and sexy, so…….. how’d they feel if the reagent wears the said outfit in a trial (pref a fem reagent otherwise gen will do uwu)
This is my first real Trials ask, and I am so happy about it lmao. I love my dirty nasty freaky characters. 🤤🫶🏻
Skimpily dressed reagent NSFW HCs
Leland Coyle
Coyle is absolutely torn between being upset and being delighted.
On one hand, he’s very possessive and loathes the idea of others in the trial potentially lusting after your visible figure. You’re only his, the rest of those filthy criminal fucks don’t deserve to look at you.
On the other hand, he’s prideful about the fact that he owns someone so delicious and would love to strip off what little clothes you have in front of everyone in order to punish and humiliate you.
Public indecency is a crime, don’t you know? Parading yourself like a slut in front of an officer of the law…
If he catches you, he’s shocking you on every bit of exposed skin while scolding you for dressing yourself like a prostitute.
He’ll drag you out in the open while he strips you bare and has you solve the problem you caused with your mouth. If the obscene choking sounds aren’t enough to let everyone know who you belong to, he’ll be loud enough to make up for it.
“Thought you could flaunt that pretty ass ‘round here like some common whore. Do I gotta handcuff you to my personal quarters? Keep you locked ‘n stuffed to keep you from misbehavin’.”
Mother Gooseberry
Goodness! What a naughty gosling…
Futterman is exclaiming that you’re a slut and insulting your figure — ignore that cunt lmao.
Gooseberry is appalled that you would dress in such a manner in a public setting. She’s scrambling to find something for you to cover up with.
She’ll nitpick over you, complaining that you’re going to catch a cold or draw the wrong kind of attention — but it’s all a cover for the fact that you’ve got her hot under the collar.
She’s absolutely enraptured by your figure and how your body moves without clothes covering it. She’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t aroused by your bold choice of attire.
She would definitely ask you to wear it for her in a more private moment. She longs to slip her hands along every bare inch of skin, exploring it and watching as you squirm under her touch.
Gooseberry struggles with insecurity about her body as a result of the mutilations that she obtained in prison, so she somewhat lives vicariously through you. She may not like you dressing barebones in trial, but she adores your confidence regardless.
“Such a pretty gosling for Mother! Let’s get you back safe to my room, and maybe then mama can play with you, darling.”
Franco Barbi
Baby is in heaven, you’ve made his whole day.
He’ll immediately drop whatever he’s doing to trail after you like a starving dog begging for a bone.
You might as well be a juicy steak served up on a golden platter, the way you’ve got him drooling.
Wolf whistling, cat calling, obscene statements, you name it – not a moment of silence while he’s chasing you.
The instant he catches you, his hands are all over you. He’s pawing at your chest, petting your hips, squeezing your ass, and slipping his hands under your garments.
He doesn’t care who can see, he’s stripping you and sucking on you like a lollipop. By the end of the trial, you’re covered in slobber, hickeys, and your nipples and clit/dick are puffy and overstimulated.
At first, Liliya just watches you. Leaves you in suspense for a good chunk of the trial, wondering where she is while she admires your body.
The way you shiver out in the cold, nipples stiff and figure drawn taut. How beautifully your skin glows by the heaters, a sheen of sweat breaking out across your features. So gorgeous, and all hers.
She only emerges if one of the others present in the trial tries to touch you, or if you complete most of the trial. She drags you off to a silent area and takes her time clawing over the expanses of your skin, marking you as hers.
If you’re real sweet to her, she’ll even finger you to completion right there. How could she deny her lovely little lamb?
After she’s done with you, she’ll cut a piece of your outfit off to keep as a souvenir and watch on with pride as you complete the trial while covered in the evidence of her love.
You better see her immediately after the trial, because she wants to see you on your knees worshipping her in your new attire.
“Bestow your flesh upon me, beloved. Show your faith to me as you do your body.”
Kress Twins
Much like Gooseberry, they’re going to be completely aghast at your choice of outfit, especially if it’s one they haven’t approved for you to wear outside their chambers.
They’re disappointed that their favorite subject would take such pathetic measures to fetch their attention.
Arora would be the one more upset about it. Otto would be caught off guard by your revealing attire, but would secretly enjoy it.
Otto convinces Arora to enjoy the show while it lasts, telling her how much easier it is to study your figure running and completing objectives with you bared like this.
She begrudgingly comes around, enticed by watching how your body functions while they hound after you.
Otto teases her for getting wet while looking at you, and she snaps back at him that she’s just looking forward to punishing you when the chance arrives.
When the trial is over, Otto and Arora lock you in their chambers and punish you by edging you while lecturing you on dressing yourself with class and denying you orgasms for a week.
“Such disobedience begets an apology, don’t you think, my love?” “Actions speak louder than words, dear. Get them closer – they can show how sorry they are with their tongue…”
Pitcher
He is so incredibly smug about it.
You’re flaunting what’s his and looking damn good while doing it.
God forbid anyone else touch your bare skin, because he will chuck a molotov straight at their face. Stripper rules – he loves showing you off, but touching is absolutely not allowed.
He loves how exposed you are now. Gives him a better view of the way your sweaty skin glows under his molotov.
If he catches you, you’re getting pinned against a wall and ground against so that you can feel how much he loves your new outfit.
He’ll kiss along your exposed skin with his mask, giving you fresh brands that scream you’re his to any onlookers.
Best believe a piece of the outfit is probably gonna go missing. He’s got a bad habit of taking his favorite pieces from you to use as molotov rags – a bizarre show of his affections towards you.
Pusher
Cue the ramblings.
The instant he sees you, it cues an outpour of words that just won’t stop.
“Do my drugs deceive me, or are you practically naked?”
“Holy fuck doll, looking prettier than me – and that’s sayin’ something.”
“Why don’t you hop up on Doctor Frank’s table? Lemme examine you, baby.”
Only way you can get him to shut up is by letting him feel you up.
He’s tracing you with his gas nozzle, making silly comments about your perfect anatomy and cheekily peeking under the fabric.
He will whine at you and complain until you let him get you high, claiming that you’ll look so much sexier in that outfit while blissed out.
Sleazy bastard will paint the front of your outfit with cum and you’ll have to complete the rest of the trial with his mess drying into the fabric.
Night Hunter
Do NOT let him see you unless you’re ready to be walking wrong for the next month.
You’re not finishing the trial, and you’re not going back to your sleep room without a very intensive visit to the doctors after.
He’s pouncing on you the moment he sees you, tearing his nails along your exposed skin and rutting his already half hard dick against you.
“Holy shit glow worm, brighter than the fucking day like this. Offering yourself up as a treat to your great bird of prey, eh?”
It’s a whirlwind of slobber, gnashing teeth, clawing, and machete tearing through muscle.
The outfit is basically shredded into nothingness, and your body is left totally battered and blood soaked.
Berserker
He may not be able to see you, but he can hear how much smoother your movements are without the weight of fabric surrounding you.
When he gets his hands on you and feels how little you are wearing, he loses his mind.
He can’t stop touching you, feeling how soft your exposed body is.
His arms wrap around you and hold you tight to his stomach so he can rut between your thighs like a dog in heat.
Even as he’s humping you like his life depends on it, he can’t stop petting you and squeezing your soft bits.
“Can feel your skin vibrating. So beautiful and soft and sweet. I need more!”
Note: I genuinely can't stand the original version of this because it shows exactly when my schizophrenia started getting worse and jumbling my speech, so I am IMMENSELY happy with how this one came out lol.
Fingers whiteknuckling into soft cotton, you smother your face with your pillow and loudly groan in sheer frustration and annoyance. The phone in the hallway rings, each wave of sound like an ice pick cracking through your sleep addled skull. With the pillow tossed aside, you spare a quick glance at the alarm clock by your bedside – two in the fucking morning. A frown etches itself onto your face, complementing the dark circles that have made their home under your eyes.
You regretfully roll out of the soothing warmth of your bed, hissing as the cold winter air wraps its chilly fingers around you and the cold wood floor bites at your soles. If it weren’t for the fact that your good-for-nothing sisters had long since given up on answering late night calls and delegated the duty of silencing the ringing to you, you’d jump right back into the toasty embrace of your blankets. A wistful sigh squeezes from your lungs as you slowly make your way out to the phone, eyeing the noisy plastic figure with enough contempt to burn a hole through it.
Taking a deep breath to wash out the irritation boiling in your veins, you wrap a violently shivering hand around the phone and lift it to your ear. There’s a blissful moment of silence, the shrill ringing snuffing out like a candle flame between your fingers. The same routine as every night – one line to confirm whether it’s a legitimate call or the unruly ghoul who has been stealing away your precious beauty sleep.
“Hello? Can I h-”
A high pitched squeal rips through the receiver, and you jerk the phone away from your face as you wince at the pain that lances through your ear. Shocked wide awake, your grip on the phone tightens so much you worry it might shatter. Of course it’s the Moaner calling, again. How stupid could you possibly be to think any reasonable person would call at this ungodly hour? Teeth gritting in searing rage, you bring the phone back up to your ear at a somewhat safer distance to protect your delicate hearing.
“Are you fucking kidding me man? Can’t you just give it a rest for one night?”
You hear him gargling and snorting on the other end of the line, and then he pitches into a fit of giggles. “I wanna lick it. Wanna stick my tongue in your pretty pink pussy. Feel how tight and wet it is–” His breath hitches and trails off into a groan that melts the frost right off your bones – you refuse to discern the feeling behind it, too afraid to find anything but a negative feeling behind the curtains. God, sleep deprivation and being buried in your studies has really done a number on you… When was the last time you got some action?
“Stick it up your ass instead, creep. Sick of this shit…” You mutter, mostly to yourself but loud enough for him to hear. The blabbering in the receiver picks up again, but distorts into jumbled nothingness and then is silenced with a click as you place the phone back in its cradle. Too awake now to rest, but well aware of the exhaustion that clings to your every fiber, you decide it might be in your best interest to unwind. Shaking your hand out as if you’d sullied your palm by touching the phone, you hurriedly make your way back to your room.
Your shoulders slump with relief the instant your bedroom door latches shut behind you, blocking out the chill of the main house and enveloping you in the mild warmth of your small space. Haphazardly tossing your back onto the mattress, you hum contentedly to yourself as you slip under your covers and revel in what little body heat remains in the soft fabric. The low-slinking fever that had wormed its way into your core during the call – which you still refuse to acknowledge the cause for – becomes a softly simmering need that tugs your limbs into action.
With a resigned huff, you slip your fingers under the waistband of your pajamas and softly trail it down the delicate junction of your hip. Your breath hiccups at the bright shock of simple contact, overwhelmed by how absurdly sensitive you’ve become from lack of contact. The lower your fingers dip, the sharper the sensation grows, until it unfurls like a wildfire over your whole figure as you brush over your clit. Thighs tightening involuntarily, your mouth drops into a slackjawed oh as the long-forgotten pleasure washes over your brain in silken waves.
You’re mildly ashamed to find that you’re already soaked, fingers slipping smoothly over your clit with the aid of the slick that had pooled in the gusset of your undergarments. You work small circles over the sensitive bud, rocking your hips up into the sweet feeling. Teeth worrying into your lower lip as you try to stay silent, you push two fingers into your drenched pussy and throw your head back in relief. Your insides swallow them up eagerly, starving for any contact after being denied for so long.
Just as you start to get a rhythm going, a rustling sound jerks you out of focus. Your movements freeze, fingers buried in your still clenching hole as you strain to listen for any other disturbances. Just as you’d stopped, so had the sounds. You sigh in irritation, figuring it had just been your clothes brushing against your covers. Abstinence and stress doesn’t look good on you – getting paranoid over nothing.
Your fingers start moving again, eagerly chasing a much-anticipated high to drain away all the negativity weighing on your system. Small moans hum behind your teeth, chest heaving as a slight sheen of sweat works up over your skin. Higher, higher, higher you build, until…
Shf shf – k-kunk!
You gasp and rip your fingers away, shooting into an upright position to scan your surroundings. That definitely hadn’t come from you, and whatever was making the noise continued to shuffle around. Hastily wiping your fingers off on your pants, you grab the closest object to you – a glass bottleneck vase, long devoid of the flowers it once held – and silently make your way out of bed.
More pattering sounds come from nearby, and you slowly tiptoe towards it. You come face to face with your closet door, sweaty fingers squeaking as they tighten around the neck of the vase. Sucking in a shaky breath, you wrap a hand around the doorknob and yank it open. Fully expecting to find nothing other than the house creaking or perhaps a critter that had made its way in from the cold, you’re caught completely off guard by the absurd sight before you.
The moonlight pouring in through your window illuminates the figure of a man crouched by your laundry hamper. His head immediately swivels to face you, face like a manic owl as he immediately drops the fistfuls of dirty clothes he’d been snatching up. Despite your shocked state, you take note of how his curly red-brown hair frames his pale, freckled face and accents his large, olive eyes – he’d almost be cute if he wasn’t sorting through your closet like some panty-thieving creep. Come on horny-brain, get a fucking grip!
The breath rushes out of your lungs as you move to shout at him, but any potential sound is snuffed into a wheeze as the man throws himself into your gut. You’re knocked onto your back with a harsh unf as your makeshift weapon falls from your grasp and rolls under the bed. Bony fingers wrap around your neck, pressing uncomfortably into your larynx as he scrambles to get on top of you and cage your hips with his gangly legs.
“Pretty piggy found Billy! Naughty piggy! Bad piggy cunt!” He barks in your face, flecks of saliva flying off his bared teeth. The voice immediately hits home with a sickening realization. Your whole body goes rigid under him, eyes flashing white as you stare up at him in horror.
This isn’t just some random man, this is the one who has been battering you and your sisters with obscenities all week. The Moaner isn’t just some bastard down the road pulling some sick phone prank – he’s real, and he somehow has access to your room.
The waves of white-hot fear rolling over you rapidly escalate into a seething, broiling rage as you feel the weight of his body on you. This is no longer some pathetic phone game – he’s flesh and bone and blood, which means he gets to play your game now. With a furious hiss, you buck his malnourished figure off you and roll him under you. His fingernails scrape angry trails over the sides of your neck as you tear his hands off and pin them next to his head.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, you malignant little shit stain? Do you have any idea how shitty my week has been thanks to you?” Your nails dig into his wrists hard enough to draw little crescents of blood. He glares up at you with eyes that are more sclera than iris, snarling and twisting as he tries to escape your grasp. Luck is not on his side, his movements weakened by the absence of weight and muscle on his scrawny frame. “Fucking answer me. All that noise you make, and now you choose to be quiet?”
He hawks a glob of saliva at you, but it falls short on the front of his cardigan. “Gotta punish piggy. Destroy that pretty piggy cunt with my fat cock.” Manic giggles wrack his frame, shaking you where your pelvis rests on his sunken stomach. You grit your teeth in frustration, slamming his hands down into the floor hard enough to bruise.
“Can’t you say anything else, you stupid pervert?” You release one of his wrists to grab a handful of his unruly hair and aggressively yank him nose to nose with you. Your lips part to speak again, but he cuts you off with a high-pitched whine and his eyes flutter shut. Your brows furrow as your stare at him in disbelief, watching as his long lashes brush against his now flushed cheeks. Experimentally, you tug again, watching in fascination as his head falls back to expose his pale throat – Adam's apple bobbing sinfully as he swallows and gives a sultry groan. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he opens his eyes to stare at you from under hooded lids – his irises appearing warmer without the sea of white washing them out. A small shift of your hips snaps you back to reality as something prods against your rear, and a quick glance back confirms that it is precisely what you’re thinking.
The low light in the room drapes deliciously over the tent standing proud in the loose fabric in his pants, and you’re suddenly very aware of your previous problem again – cunt throbbing hard against Billy’s flexing stomach. Molten molasses pours over your brain, lubricating the gears there as they rapidly turn. You stare at his erection as he bucks it up against your ass, and then turn your gaze to his furious, beet red face. Something clicks as you observe how he glares at you with equal measures rage and lust – a fulfilling, devious, insane, immensely stupid idea.
“What was it that you said on the phone earlier…” You drop his head to the floor with a dull thud and lean back, using his momentary disorientation to release his other wrist and stand up. He looks up at you with a snarl and moves to grab at your ankle, but you stomp on his shoulder with the heel of your foot and give him a withering scowl. He winces and recoils as his shoulder creaks under the pressure, hissing at you and scraping his nails across the floor.
Your fingers hook in the elastic of your pajama pants, swiftly dropping it to your ankles and kicking it off to the side of the room. Billy’s lips seal into a tight line and his eyes bulge as if they’re about to pop out of his head. From where he’s at on the floor, he can clearly see the wet patch on your underwear that sits snugly over the gentle curve of your lips.
“You wanna lick it? Wanna stick your tongue in my pretty pink pussy, feel how tight and wet it is?”
Your fingers are playing with the edge of your undergarments, ready to pull them down, but Billy doesn’t give you the chance to. “All for me! Pretty piggy bitch! Mine!” He surges up, fingers scrabbling at your thighs and nails raking raised lines down the plush flesh as he tears the fabric from your hips. You barely get a chance to yelp in shock before Billy is digging his fingers in your love handles and yanking you down. Your knees collapse to the floor, pain shooting through your legs as he wastes no time in shoving your thighs open and cramming his face between them with a hungry flash of teeth.
The first fat stripe licked between your lips has the both of you vocalizing, his growl drowned out under the high pitched keen you give. “Ohh fuck!” You don’t get the opportunity to savor it; Billy dives right in with unrestrained eagerness. His tongue shoves roughly against your sensitive clit, tugging it between his lips so he can give it a harsh suck. Every movement of his mouth is frenzied, all sloppy teeth and tongue with no consideration for your comfort, only for his overbearing need to feast. Despite the clear inexperience and concerning lack of gentleness, your body eagerly welcomes whatever pleasure it can wring from the experience. It had been an absurd amount of time since you’d last bedded someone, and you can’t even remember the last time someone had eaten you out – let alone willingly or with this level of enthusiasm.
“Fffucking shit, Billy. This might be the only thing your damned mouth is good for.” You manage to gasp out between moans, your palm muffling your sounds so as to not wake your sisters. His tongue rolls over the exposed head of your clit, drawing a honeyed whine from you before he pulls off with a wet pop and looks up at you with wild eyes. The moonlight catches on his face, reflecting off the vulgar mess of saliva and slick coating his puffy lips and twitching jaw.
“So filthy and wet and tight, all for Billy.” He giggles, pressing his fingernails deeper into the soft flesh of your hips and delivering a sharp bite to your inner thigh. You can’t hold back the sharp, shuddering cry you give at that, thrusting against Billy’s face as he pushes right back in and starts fucking your pussy with his tongue. If you weren’t so focused on chasing the golden pleasure thrumming through your veins, you’d be embarrassed by how obscenely loud the wet slurping and sucking sounds emanating from between your thighs are. You silently pray that all your sisters are dead asleep and unable to hear what’s happening in your room, because you’re too far gone to even begin explaining the scene that you’ve gotten yourself into.
Head rolling back as you lose yourself in the waves of pleasure, you rock your hips in time with his messy licks, whining with each rough jolt against your swollen clit. You find yourself climbing higher, gut coiling tighter with each frenzied swipe over the sensitive bud. Your thighs tighten around Billy’s head and your fingers snarl in his hair, but he pays you no mind and stays honed in on pulling as much ambrosia from your sweet core as he can.
“God, I’m so fucking close, please–” The words seem to snap a thread in him, his mouth somehow going faster and harder. Your nails scratch against his scalp as you hold on for dear life, sobbing and thrashing on his face as the wet muscle of his tongue ravages your nerves. The sobbing draws out into a reedy wail as you cum violently, pussy convulsing and gushing over Billy’s dutiful maw. In what little part of your brain that is still present, you worry that you’re going to crush or suffocate him to death. Your thighs hold his skull in a trembling death lock, his mouth suctioned to your cunt and nose buried into your mons.
Head tossed back in ecstasy, you use him to ride out your much-needed climax, humping his face as he licks you through the throes of your pleasure. Finally, as it begins to become too much, you loosen your grip and fall back on your elbows. Billy’s scleras flash manically in the light as he frantically sits up and tries to follow, but you use one shaky foot to push him back.
“‘S too much…” You slur, watching him with heavy lidded eyes as the syrupy pleasure turns to leaden exhaustion in your bones. For a moment, he almost looks like a kicked puppy – big, wet eyes stare up at you from under furrowed brows and his lower lip juts out in a pathetic pout. He looks like he wants to object, but then his tongue swipes out over his lips, and the pout instantly drops as he tastes the remainder of your orgasm still present on his face. With a sated grumble, he rolls you off of him and scrambles back to his feet.
You lean back on your elbows, watching with weary curiosity as the mess of a man snatches your shredded undergarments from the floor and shuffles his way towards your closet once more. He casts you one last glance – looking like a feral cat who’d gotten too greedy with a bowl of milk – and then slips behind your clothing, seemingly disappearing into the wall.
The logical part of you wonders where the hell he’d gone, where the hell he’d come from; the current majority of your mind couldn’t give less of a shit. Your monkeys, your circus, but just not right now. The post-climax haze weighs heavy on your mind and muscles, sapping you of any willingness to deal with the jarring slap to your reality at the current moment. Deciding it’s best to leave all problem-solving for the morning, you peel your sweaty figure off the floor and crawl half-nude under the covers.
The relief is instant, slumber rolling over you like a weighted fog. As you’re drifting off, you can’t help the soft smile that graces your face as your fading hearing picks up on a distinct sound coming from the attic – the rustling of fabric and a deliciously familiar groan.
Note: Once again, derailed by the Trials server and their horrendously (deliciously) freaky ideas. I would apologize for not sticking to my fic schedule, except I'm not sorry, because this came out tasty af lol.
Leland Coyle x TransMasc!Reader
SMUT
Summary: Mess with the storm, and you'll get the lightning. Sergeant Leland Coyle decides to give you a good old fashioned belt spanking.
Rough fingers hook into your lower teeth, prying your jaw open without an ounce of care for the creaking joint. A hastily bundled leather glove is forced flush against your tongue as the fingers retreat, leaving you to angrily grit your teeth into the squeaking fabric as you glare indignantly up at your uncomfortably smug captor. The acrid taste of unwashed leather, oil, and battery acid washes across your taste buds, making your face twist in disgust as you start to drool around the barrier.
“Keep lookin’ like that n’ your face just might get stuck, sweetheart.” Leland sneers at you, crowding you back against the cement wall and boxing you in with his hips.
You shuffle back as much as you can, knees scraping across the rough floor as they spread to avoid Coyle’s boots. A hiss eeks out around the glove as your shoulders twist painfully in the sockets to accommodate the wall sandwiching your arms into your back, unable to move thanks to the handcuffs Coyle had slapped on you earlier into the chase.
Calloused fingertips dig into your jawline, wrenching your head upwards and knocking the back of your skull against the concrete. Stormy blue eyes glare down over their usually unreadable cover, the venomous sparkle in them zeroing in on your furious expression. You try your best to stay defiantly locked into the eye contact, but your attention is easily snatched away as Coyle shifts his hips forward and the fabric of his pants tightens around the obvious erection hugging his right thigh.
“Got me all worked up, assaultin’ me n’ makin’ me chase you ‘round.” He grunts in response to your wandering eyes, gritting the end of his cigarette between his teeth. The apple of his cheek is still bleeding from where you’d launched a broken bottle head at it earlier, lighting a spark of satisfaction in your chest.
Coyle must notice how the corner of your mouth twitches at that, because he delivers a quick slap to your cheek and pinches the stinging flesh. You quickly inhale through your nose at the sensation, thighs tightening around his feet. “Ain’t nothin’ funny ‘bout what you did, bitch. You’re lucky I don’t fuckin’ fry the pink outta you for it.”
He spits a glob of tobacco stained saliva onto the crest of your cheekbone, brushing the viscous fluid across your reddening skin with the pad of his thumb. “Now normally I wouldn’t hesitate to give criminal scum the lightning stick, but you… I got a more effective type’a rehabilitation in mind for you, boy.”
You huff aggressively through your nose, furrowing your brows as you look up at him and wait for him to continue. He fists his hand in the collar of your shirt and drags you up to his level, smoke puffing across your wrinkled nose as he speaks. “Call me old fashioned, but some people just need the belt.”
You wriggle in protest, snarling from behind your makeshift gag as Coyle makes quick work of your pants and briefs. He lets out a low whistle as his eyes trail down to the little throbbing cock protruding from your slick folds. “Shit, the chase rile you up too? Ain’t even touched your boycunt n’ he’s already standin’ at attention.”
A humiliated flush spreads across your features as you squeeze your thighs shut. The motion does little to save your dignity as Coyle drags you by your neck to the nearest chair, his other hand fiddling with the buckle of his belt. After some jingling, the buckle comes undone and he slips his belt out as he settles into the creaking wood with his legs spread. The hand on your neck yanks you down with no preamble, situating you over his lap so that your E.S.O.P hangs over one thigh while your hips are propped up on the other.
Coyle loops the strip of leather in his right fist, puffing on his cigarette as he palms your bare flesh with his free hand. Your whole body stiffens at the contact, goosebumps breaking out across your skin at the sensation of his body heat on you with no barriers. He squeezes one more time before delivering a quick slap, chuckling at the way you jolt and whine. Your hips involuntarily roll against his thigh, rubbing your throbbing dick over the solid muscle and leaving a trail of wetness over the material of his pants.
“Shit honey… Ain’t even properly touched you yet n’ you’re already dancin’ real pretty for me.” His voice drops an octave, accent rolling off his tongue like honeyed gravel. He pushes your thighs apart to expose your core, trailing the belt along your pulsing slit and lightly slapping your pitifully twitching cock with it. You can’t help the pathetic whine that claws its way from your throat, twisting and writhing on the man’s lap as molten heat courses through your system and another gush of arousal wets your inner thighs.
He grants you the small mercy of allowing your thighs to close once more, but any further kindnesses vanish into dust as he plants a firm hand on your upper back and lines up the belt with your arched backside. “Rabbit on me ‘n I’ll fuck you to death, y’hear darlin’?” Hot breath licks along the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine and straight to your core. You give a muffled ‘mm-mmph’ around the glove, doing your best to hold still despite every nerve in your body screaming at you to move, run, fuck him, anything.
The first few hits come easy, a small blessing as a result of having done so many trials – your pain tolerance is unusually high, much to Coyle’s irritation. As if taking your lack of reaction as a challenge, he shifts his angle so that he can bring it down harder. The leather whistles loudly through the air, cracking like a gunshot as it connects edge first with the soft skin where your thighs meet your ass. Your voice cracks in the pit of your throat as you shout, fingers twisting and grabbing at the empty air above your back as you try to wriggle away from the bright burning sensation that eats away at your behind. The next hit lands in the same spot, leaving an angry welt along the soft curve and tearing a sob from your chest as your hips jolt forward. The motion unintentionally ruts your swollen dick against his thigh again, and the pleasure seeping into the pain leaves you reeling and keening as tears nip at your waterline.
You can’t stop yourself from desperately humping his leg as he makes a mess of your backside. Each new hit sends a shockwave straight to your dick, tearing breathy whines and whimpers from your throat as you helplessly chase the feeling. A shit-eating grin spreads across Coyle’s face as he feels you writhing against him, your wetness soaking through his pants and sticking to his skin. His fingers twitch against your back, aching to free his cock and touch himself to the sight of you hurting and needy in his lap, but he can’t risk lifting his hand and potentially letting you writhe right off his lap.
He litters your rear with streaks of various reds and purples, leaving no stretch of skin unpainted with searing agony. Your ears are ringing from the blood pooling in your dangling head and the repeated smacks echoing off the concrete walls. Everything from the waist down is throbbing, skin tingling with waves of fire and ice – each conflicting feeling is a fresh spike of endorphins in your muddled brain. The tears welling at the corners of your eyes start to fall, leaving wet tracks through the dirt along your temples.
Coyle offers you a weak mockery of an attempt at soothing your cries, hushing you and rubbing your back as he pauses his hits to admire his work. He gives an appreciative grunt, trailing his fingers over the worst of the welts and grinning as he notices blood pooling under his touch. You wince as even the smallest amount of pressure bites your skin, the minute feeling almost as intense as the beating itself to your frazzled nerves.
“Hush up with all that cryin’ shit, boy. I know you enjoyed it – pussy’s wetter than a field in a monsoon.” As if to prove his point, he pushes your legs open and snickers at the obscene string of grool that links your thighs. His hand dips in between your lips, coating his fingertips with your slick and rubbing it over your cock.
A low moan tumbles from your lips as you weakly push into the touch, eagerly welcoming the soft pleasure as it washes away the agony. The moan pitches into a yelp as he moves his fingers up and spears your hole open on two thick fingers. His fingers are immediately swallowed up by your wet heat, sucked deeper as your insides greedily convulse around the welcome intrusion.
“That’s it sweetheart, actin’ all hard to get for no damn reason. Coulda been havin’ me gentle sooner if you weren’t bein’ such a bitch.” His fingers pump in and out ever so slowly, teasingly dragging against your tight walls in a way that he knows drives you mad. You whine and buck into his hand, trying to push his fingers deeper and harder. He tsks at that and removes his fingers, gripping your hair and yanking your head back with one hand and slapping your raw behind with the other. More tears stream down your cheeks as he rips the pleasure away from you and pain shreds through your body again.
“Quit that. You ain’t gettin’ off that easy.” The hand in your hair drops down to roughly grip your cheeks, twisting your head to face him. Your brows furrow down over your glossy eyes as you pout up at him. You feel his cock twitch against the side of your arm as he takes in your beet red, cry-puffy face.
He yanks the glove out of your mouth and chuckles at the copious amount of drool that follows, giving you a moment to gasp in air and stretch your aching jaw. Just as you’re about to complain at him for his uncouth treatment, he pulls his cigarette from between his lips and tugs you into an upright position on his lap so he can lick a fat stripe up your cheek – a downright pornographic groan rumbling up from his chest as the salty taste of your sweat and tears hits his tastebuds. You whimper as a sharp shiver rocks up your spine and jolts your oversensitive, denied cock.
His tongue finds your chin, scooping up your viscous slobber and rolling it into the back of his throat as he makes a show of swallowing it. You watch with wide eyes as he huffs and flashes his teeth at you in a cocky half grin, thrusting his hips up into you while the material of his pants scratches against your still-bleeding ass. You hiss and tighten your thighs around his hips in an attempt to arch away from the fresh pain. He takes the opportunity to pull you in closer for a wet, frantic kiss – it’s all teeth and tongue, gnashing and all-consuming. His tongue writhes up against yours, fighting to dominate your mouth while he tastes every dripping nook and cranny.
You moan into the kiss, shoving your chest up against his as you fight back against him and lick the taste of smoke off his teeth. His fingers dig into your ass, making you cry out into his mouth and giving him a better opening to shove his tongue down your throat. You gag around the slimy appendage as you grind your hips down onto his, leaving a wet spot over the tented crotch of his pants. A shaky keen rises from you as you feel his dick kicking and pulsing against yours.
Coyle regretfully retracts from the velvety heaven of your maw and glares at you like he’d devour you whole if he could. “You wanna cum?” He grits out, panting hard as his chest heaves with his labored breaths. You don’t even give him a chance to finish speaking before you start vigorously nodding your head – babbling and pleading that you’ll do anything, you need to cum. He snickers at your eager response, digging his fingernails into the burning flesh of your behind just to see you wince and pause your blabbering. “You’re gonna thank me for rehabilitatin’ you. You’re gonna be real sweet n’ genuine about it, you’re gonna mean it, n’ maybe then I’ll let you cum, honey.”
You freeze for a moment, eyes narrowing at him as your stubbornness raises its ugly head and contemplates telling him to take his rehabilitation and shove it up his hairy pig ass – your need to cum ultimately ends up winning over. You begrudgingly bow your head to him, looking up at him through wet lashes as you struggle to dredge up an act of real-enough gratitude. “I was out of line – thank you for punishing me, Sergeant. Please let me cum? I swear, I’ll be a good boy for you.”
Coyle’s lip twists up into a proud snarl as he takes a long drag from his cigarette and slowly lets the smoke drift from his lips, purposefully teasing you with the torturous suspense. “Well darlin’... I s’ppose that was good ‘nough.” His fingers snake between your legs again, pulling a sigh of relief from you as your walls are pressed wide once more. With the angle that he’s at, the pads of his fingers fit snug against your g-spot and the heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your dick.
You rock your hips into his palm the best you can without your hands to support your movements, panting and grunting as the pleasure quickly ratchets up in your core from the prior stimulation. He makes it somewhat easier for you, pushing his hand up into you and curling his fingers while he bites colorful marks along the column of your neck. Sweat drips down your temple and jaw as you work yourself into a soaking wet mess on his lap, each rivulet quickly being devoured by Coyle’s filthy, gluttonous mouth. He groans praise and curses into your skin, drooling into your flushed flesh as he pumps his fingers into your fluttering heat.
It doesn’t take you long to come undone under his ministrations, tossing your head back and practically wailing as your hole violently clamps down around his fingers. Slick gushes over his palm, adding to the embarrassingly loud squelching coming from between your thighs. Just as your orgasm crests, you feel a sharp, bright white pain shear through the haze of your satisfaction, coating every nerve in agony emboldened sensation. Your wail tightens into a hoarse scream, and distantly you realize that Coyle’s extinguished the cherry of his cigarette on your already mangled ass.
“Fuckin’ hell, pussy’s practically chokin’ my fingers off. Ain’t no denyin’ it – you love it when I’m mean, you sexy bitch.” He tugs his fingers from the death grip your walls have on him, laughing as you keen at the loss. He brings the fingers up to his face, noisily huffing the scent of your sex from his skin before taking his fingers into his mouth and greedily sucking the taste of you off his appendages. You lean back and watch him through half lidded eyes, chest heaving as you catch your breath and assess how sore your lower body is.
His fingers snarl in the front of your shirt, tugging you in for another messy kiss. His tongue is ripe with the taste of your finish, leftover smoke and tangy salt smoothing over your palate. You give a content hum, lazily licking against him as the electric crackle of arousal starts to drain from your bones and all the aches and pains you’d gained make their way to the forefront of your senses.
His tongue flicks against yours one more time before pulling back and slowly standing up, firmly gripping your shoulders as your legs wobble beneath you like a newborn deer. “Maybe now that you been rehabilitated, you’ll be more respectful of the law the next time you step foot on my property. You’re lucky I’m lettin’ you off the hook easy this time ‘round.” He unlocks the cuffs from your wrists and stands back with crossed arms as he watches you fight to pull your bottoms up on unstable feet. You cast him a doubtful look, already plotting more devious acts for your next visit to the Police Station.
Your eyes casually fall lower, noticing his cock still half hard under the atrocious, sopping mess on his groin. You raise a brow at him, motioning towards the pitifully erotic sight. “You don’t want to cum?” He stiffens at that, shifting so that his chub is less obvious. A bright red flush spreads from his cheeks down his neck, and he coughs into his fist. “I’m dishin’ out punishment and nothin’ more. Greedy criminal whore like you don’t deserve the reward of finishin’ me off.”
You tilt your head in confusion and open your mouth as if to question him, but are quickly shut down when he glares at you as he slips his glove back on. “You best get outta here before my southern hospitality runs dry, boy.” You’re taken aback by his sudden change of attitude, but suddenly you remember – the way his dick had almost aggressively jerked against you earlier had felt incredibly familiar. You chuckle in disbelief, a smirk pulling at your lips as he stares you down with barely disguised embarrassment-fueled rage. Did he seriously cum untouched from making out with you after beating you black and blue?
With a scoff, you shake some life back into your legs and take note of the nearest exit. Hand clasped tight around your rig, you shoot Coyle a quick wink before tossing your stun device at his feet. The room explodes in a bright flash of white as Coyle stumbles back with a surprised shout, and you take off with a victorious cackle – legs pumping hard despite your smarting rear as you make your escape.
Quick update on where I’ve been — was getting my ass kicked by work, and then as of this past week I was out getting chopped up for swag points. I’m officially 1 week post tongue split and I’m fkn vibing. 🐍
I’ve got 2 Outlast Trial fics in the works at the moment, as well as the next Kinktober remaster. Steadily working on them in my free time and will hopefully have something out soon!
(Discovered you through Lackingspace after I came back from my hiatus, and omg I love your works so much - straight up god tier. 🙏🏻💖)
Could I please request a fic or drabble of Dan Cain and a transmasc reader Eiffel towering a tied up, disgruntled Herbert West? Reader with a strap or not, whichever position, I’ll leave it up to you and your wonderfully devious creative mind. 🫡
Hello! So, love this request, love that you found me through Lackingspace, Harley is THE GOAT, and so glad you asked for this! At last, another Multi-May fic is here! This one was so fun to do, the amount of trans reader fics is shamefully low and the least I can do is try to help out on that front as much as I can! So let's get into it.
---
Hard Reset.
---
Rating. Explicit. Length. 3K. Herbert West/Dan Cain/Trans Masc! Reader. He/Him Pronouns. Warnings: Established Relationship. Herbert Being Hebert. Some Softness And Domesticity. Threesome. Bickering. A-Frame. Eiffel Tower. Strap-On Sex. Face Fucking. Blow Job. Oral Sex. Anal Fingering. Anal Sex. Raw Sex. Denial. Dirty Talk. Mocking. Honestly Kinda Bratty Bottom Herbert. He Can't Shut Up. Taunting. Ropes. Restrained Herbert. Begging. Mentions Of Aftercare.
---
You and Dan are staying out of the basement tonight. You have traded in cold concrete and the surgical slab for a warm dinner, the couch, and a movie on the TV. Usually Dan will be down there with Herbert for work, and you will be there too, to assist as needed or follow your own pursuits while nearby. Honestly if you didn’t make the effort to be wherever they are, the amount of time you’d get with the pair of them would be nowhere near enough. All good relationships take work and compromise after all, so you don a sweater to fight the chill and hang in the basement to get your fill of their company.
The reason for tonight’s change of scenery is Herbert’s building frustration, paired with Dan’s and your inability to relieve it. The situation has been worsening for days and there has been nothing the pair of you can do. He has hit a wall in his research and refuses to let it go. He isn’t taking care of himself properly, isn’t eating right, refusing to sleep. Further still, Herbert is insistent that he push through and no amount of badgering is going to get him to listen to reason. So you and Dan do the only thing you can, you pull back. Let him do what he feels like he needs to and save your remaining sanity in the process. If you continue to prod it will only increase the friction and cause more unnecessary fights. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it won’t be the last you are sure of it. Herbert always comes out the other side, at this point all you can do is give him time.
The now empty plates from dinner are on the table, and the movie is half over. You are curled into Dan’s side and feeling extremely relaxed until you hear hurried footfalls stomping up the basement stairs. A brief and curious look is shared until Herbert comes storming into the living room, as soon as he enters both of your eyes are fixed on him.
You greet him first, “Heya Herbie, any breakthroughs to report?”
He scoffs with a roll of his eyes before responding bitterly, “No, none! Same as yesterday, same as it’s been this entire blasted week.”
Leading you to ask, “So then what brings you back to the world of the living?”
Dan nudges your shoulder and sighs, “Be nice to him, don’t make his bad mood worse.”
You dutifully shut your mouth under Herbert’s harsh glare as he stares you down. His hands are resting on his hips as he leans forward and inquires in a rather biting tone, “May I speak without any other cute pithy remarks?”
Lips still sealed you make a sweeping gesture with your hand, encouraging him to speak his mind. He begins to expound as he starts to pace, “I was downstairs, trying to make progress and nothing was working. It’s been days with no headway and I can’t take it any longer. I decided to try and figure out how to get out of this terrible rut-”
You and Dan watch Herbert as he walks from right to left over and over, your heads following his trail as if watching a tennis match.
Herbert presses on, explaining himself further, “-and I thought back to the other times I made major breakthroughs. I tried to find some correlation and finally, what might just fix this hit me!”
You are very interested as you ask, “Well don’t keep us in suspense, what is it?”
Herbert is a very smart guy, you don’t love all of his ideas, but even you have to admit that at times he comes up with some truly stellar ones. Like the current situation you are in was all him. Herbert is on his side, wrists tied together behind his lower back, and Dan currently between his legs working well-lubed fingers into him. He is looking flush with his glasses slightly askew, a light sheen of sweat accumulating on his naked body, his breathing slightly laboured. You are watching with great interest while you are checking that the rest of the rope rig is good, not too tight but secure enough to not let him move more than you want. The ropes are framing his shoulders and arms, they wind down, making it so that his legs won’t be an issue either. Fingers hook under some of the ropes hugging his waist, and you tug twice, satisfied with your work you pull back.
You ask Dan, “How’s he doing?”
Herbert scoffs before saying in a clipped tone, “You can’t ask me? I’m right here.”
Your response is in an equally annoyed fashion, “I don’t care what you have to say right now, you’re being exceedingly difficult and unnecessarily rude. It was your idea to do this but you sure as shit didn’t make tying you up easy.”
“The ropes were not my idea, they were yours-” He starts, but you cut him off, “-Because we want you to stay in one fucking spot, my God.” You turn your eyes away from Herbert’s face, looking over his body to your fellow partner, prompting him to answer your previous question, “Dan?”
Daniel responds, “He’s opening up, slowly. I’m still on two fingers. As per usual, he’s too tense and can’t relax.” The end of the jab is punctuated with a sharp slap to Herbert’s ass with his hand that currently isn’t a few knuckles deep.
“I can help with that and shut him up at the same time.” You promise as you start to take off your pants quickly.
“Oh lucky me.” Herbert retorts.
He knows he needs rest, knows he needs to relax, but he can’t make his mind calm down enough to do anything but try and press forward on his work. So what is the conclusion he has come to? He realized that the times after you all engage sexually to the point that he is truly and thoroughly exhausted? His mind quiets enough and his body is so fatigued sleep claims him easily. He wakes up renewed, able to do what is needed, eat and clean himself and get back into his work with fresh eyes. In short? He needs to get fucked extremely well, so his brain can do a hard reset, you and Dan are all too happy to provide. Not only because you want him to stop being such a whiny asshole and chill out, but because the times you and Dan use Herbert like this are indescribably pleasurable. It is great for bonding and helping release some of your own frustration over how Herbert has been treating you both for the past several days.
With your pants and underwear removed you thread your fingers in short black hair and pull as you adjust his head to a better angle for what you want. You move closer and rest your knee on the mattress he is lying on, you are near enough to feel his hot breath on your already throbbing dick. You yank on his hair and command, “Open up.”
His lips do part from how roughly you pull, and you take your moment to slip yourself between his plush and wet lips. Your head tips back, and you sigh out, “Fuck yes.”
You don’t waste time, your own need had already been stirred by the incredible view, you slowly start to grind against and fuck his face. It feels so good, the way his lips feel wrapped around you, the heat alone is fantastic, forget about the slick even pressure. You can’t resist looking down at him and God you pulse from the view. Herbert’s flushed face, his eyes glaring daggers up at you while you occupy his mouth. He hates having to give in to his body’s physical needs, hates how much he needs this and gets off on it and honestly, you love to see how he struggles to reconcile it still. In fact, it is almost as delicious as the sight of him struggling against the ropes.
You move your hips, work against his mouth and taunt him, “You can suck better than that, I know you can.”
Purposefully poking at him, trying to stir up his competitive nature, make him work as hard as possible to please you is endlessly fun. He takes the bait. His brows furrow, eyes slipping closed as he redoubles his efforts, and sending another shockwave of pleasure through you. Soon the combination of suction and him winding his tongue around sensitive tissue, has your other knee threatening to buckle.
This is just an opener, something to whet your appetite and distract Herbert enough to get him prepped for the next part. In minutes, it has worked, he’s become so distracted while sucking your dick that his body relaxes enough for Dan to work a third finger into him. He thrusts, curls and scissors them in and out until at last he declares, “I’m getting more lube, you ready for the main event?”
You breathe out, near giddy, “Yes I am.”
Dan’s fingers slide out, and you relish the weak moan of loss from Herbert as you pull back, reaching for the strap harness you’d already placed nearby. Slipping into it is an easy and well practiced ritual, as you are tightening the straps on your hips you look over to see Herbert and fucking Hell. He looks so debauched already. The flush on his face has travelled down his neck and is staining his chest, his lips are swollen from you fucking into it over and over and the mess of you has marked his chin. His hair is wrecked from your fingers knotting into it and his glasses have slipped much further down his nose, you should honestly take a picture of him because you don’t think the memory burned into your brain will be good enough.
Herbert’s voice cuts through your musing bringing you back to the present moment, “Are you going to get back to the task at hand or are you just going to stare at me all evening?”
You think he is right, you really should shut him up again, he is much more attractive when he is gagging on you. With a weary exhalation as you finish prepping yourself, you say, “You know you really know how to ruin a moment. I was just thinking about how good you look, and then you just had to start talking and shatter the whole thing.”
Dan pipes up then, sounding more amused than perturbed, “On and on, it never stops. You both bicker way too much.”
You are closer enough to press the head of the dildo affixed to your hips to Herbert’s mouth. Your reply is steeped in genuinely apology, “Sorry Dan, I know I’ve got to stop playing into it.”
Hands on the back of his head you start to push forward and Dan is behind him lubing himself ready to take him from the other side. He responds, “I’m not much better you know, he’s just so good at pushing buttons. Trust me, I get it.”
“Still-” You have slid about halfway in by this point, you breathe out, “-my apology stands.”
“It’s appreciated.” He informs, his lube slick hand rests on Herbert’s hip and his other hand closes around the base of his shaft, and he starts to slide inside.
The body you are both fucking into tenses, a moan vibrates up the shaft of the dildo and your hips jerk forward. You thrust all the way in, bottoming out, and you moan at the feeling that causes. The dildo you have was modified with Herbert’s help ages ago, the base of it has a textured part that grinds against you so fucking with the strap on provided actual physical stimulation making for much more natural feeling. This lets the toy feel like an extension of your actual cock, it is addicting, sends a rush to your head. It makes your body move on instinct, snapping your hips forward, helpless to do much else but chase the feeling. He at least works with you, puts in his own effort to help, bobbing his head up and down your shaft.
Dan’s own groan as he slides all the way inside sounds so hot, and that one vocal exclamation of pleasure truly sets you both in motion. You work together, find a good rhythm as you use and abuse Herbert’s body for your combined pleasure. Dan fucks in as you pull out, and he pulls out as you thrust in, over and over.
You see the moment Herbert’s brain leaves the party. Dan has been fucking into him at a good steady pace and Herbert has been responding in kind, squirming and gasping around the toy you are still sliding in and out of his mouth, when he changes the angle just right.
He has been purposefully avoiding hitting his prostate, a little payback for Herbert’s terrible mood and more, but now it is time to overwhelm him. Dan is battering that sweet spot perfectly. Herbert’s eyes go completely unfocused, he is looking upwards but not at you, no it’s more like he is looking past you. He isn’t actually seeing you, the location of where his gaze lands is a coincidence, his whole being is concerned with the radiating pleasure that is racking his whole body. One of your favourite things is playing with Herbert’s prostate, it is deliciously sensitive, he is so responsive when it’s touched, and can get pretty loud. Probably one of the best things about it, is that try as he might, he can’t cum from it alone, and all three of you have tried many times to make that happen. Many times over, and nothing can push him over. He needs at least a few small strokes of his dick to cum and let him splatter his release positively everywhere, and since you’ve tied him up? He is at your mercy, he isn’t cumming at all unless you both want him to.
You feel the pleasure continuing to mount and build in yourself as you watch Herbert’s body tense further with every forward push of Dan’s hips. Soon the trembling starts, he has lost all sense of rhythm as he tries to continue blowing you, but his attempts are pathetic. So you take over completely. Fingers in his hair you fuck his mouth brutally, and Dan speaks up, “Don’t care if he can’t breathe?”
You laugh lightly before your breathless admission, “He’s fine, I can hear him sucking in air through his nose, you aren’t gonna let him cum?”
“Not till we’ve both gotten off, he’s gotta earn it for what he put us through this week.” Dan informs, and you grin, a shake of your head with a joyful moan, “God, I love how mean you are sometimes.”
True to his word, Herbert doesn’t get off until you both do.
Your pleasure is sealed first, the build up is perfect, a steady arc that rises and rises making your pace become sloppy as you get close. “Fuh-fuck, his mouth is too good, I’m gonna cum.”
The groan that tears out of your throat sounds wrecked, but you could not care less, the resulting orgasm is phenomenal. You’ve buried the full length of the strap down Herbert’s throat, his nose is pressed to coarse hair as you rock your hips forward and back, fucking the tightness of his neck and drawing out every ounce of your high. You are panting on the come down when you pull out of him, the dildo is dripping in saliva and as soon as you slide out Herbert is coughing and gasping for air. A garbled curse is thrown at you, perhaps the word ‘asshole’, you aren’t sure.
The back of your hand wipes over your forehead, and you sigh out, “Oops, sorry.” with a smile, not actually meaning your apology whatsoever. You would have done way worse to him for an orgasm of that quality, you don’t feel the least bit bad about using his body to get off. Dan asked, “Good one?”
You exhale heavily before you praise, “Oh my God, yes. He did amazing.”
Finally, Herbert stops hacking and regains his composure enough to speak his voice is very rough, “Fucking Hell Daniel please, it’s been long enough-” He groans, “-let me cum!”
“God, he did a number on your throat. You did a good job.” Dan admits, fucking in harder. “M’ almost there, soon as I’m done, you can.” With another rough thrust in, he punctuates the action with a simple word, “Patience.”
He doesn’t last much longer, less than two minutes later his head is hanging forward as he ruts into him one last time and cums deeply with a long and low groan.
Herbert is begging, completely undignified, “Please, please, please-” Dan gives in, he hasn’t even fully come down before his hand closes around Herbert’s painfully hard dick. His orgasm hits in five strokes, while Dan is still held to the base in his ass. The mess of cum spatters on his chest and the sheets, his body twisting as much as the ropes allow him as he rides it out. You muse once again that a picture of Herbert like this would be an amazing keepsake.
When all is said and done, the ropes are untied, Herbert is cleaned up and his glasses taken off. Herbert doesn’t say anything, blissfully quiet, and totally spent. You make him drink a glass of water and eat a plate of the leftovers from the dinner you and Dan made, and he falls asleep as soon as he is done eating. Dan and yourself join him in bed and crash pretty hard too.
When you both wake up, Herbert is no longer in bed, and you just know, he is already back down in the basement. You pull closer to Dan and wrap an arm around him, deciding to go back to sleep. You can catch up with whatever breakthrough he’s surely making, later.
SUMMARY: You are put on time-out, more or less, for your increasing irritability and carelessness in your trials; forced to perform solo, you meet your match in a Night Hunter encountered in the depths of the Root Canal.
WORD COUNT: 11k
WARNINGS: 18+, explicit PWP, dubcon, canon-typical violence, gore. Oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, spit kink, masochism, woundplay. Mentions of vomit. Reader is fem and referred to as a girl once, but otherwise written mostly GN. No descriptors of appearance, no Y/N.
READ ON AO3 HERE
Easterman thought there was something wrong with you. Scrawled all over your trial gradings were comments that slowly intensified in dual concern and curiosity. According to Murkoff’s brightest minds, you exhibited clear signs of masochism and had displayed truly stunning ego death. It had taken all but two trials for you to accept the new reality you lived in — some funhouse mirror distortion of the world outside, spattered with blood and gore — and both figuratively and literally put your nose to the grindstone. No task was too much, no objective too gruesome. Lesser reagents failed where you powered ahead, limited by stubborn constructs of empathy and altruism.
Yes, Easterman thought there was something wrong with you, and he wanted it surgically extracted, replicated, and installed in every Reagent that came through Sinyala in the future. You were perfect. Every time you came through the decontamination chamber, he let the praise drag from his lips, as hazy as the smoke it chased.
I know a teacher’s not supposed to love a student, but I can’t help myself. You’re wonderful.
So slightly shy of perfection.
I knew you deserved my love.
You took it. You took it all. Of course, you didn’t know Easterman thought you were the prime representative of his program. He kept you on tenterhooks, his spindly fingers hooked deep in your abused mind, dragged you along on your short leash with almost-perfects and nearly-good-enoughs. It smarted. You tried so hard, and were never really rewarded. Stamps were pushed into your hands, vouchers printed out and slid your way from apathetic guards stationed at grimy ticket counters. Sure, the paper felt good when traded for new contraband from Dorris or handed over for an upgrade to your rig, but it was flimsy. Cheap. The dye rubbed off on your palms from sweat; green stains permeated your skin for long after.
Nothing real. It wasn’t what you wanted.
You wanted Easterman’s recognition. Not just saccharine condescension disguised as praise but something physical that proved his words. Something to fill you, something to soothe that persistent ache. You did everything for him. Every faceless, crying body you mutilated and tortured was in the name of pleasing a master that was never sated; kept on your precipice, you grew reckless and irritable in trials, to the point of endangering fellow Reagents.
For your safety and others, you were restricted to solo trials until you “got yourself together,” the doctor had said as she sedated you following a particularly bloody trial.
Everyone on your team had died, Gooseberry’s drill driven through their softest points and vital organs pulped against the relentless machine. It was fine. It was better that way. They had been useless regardless; new Reagents who floundered at the first sign of danger and seemingly couldn’t put together the fact that glowing lights on doors meant that there was a trap on the other side of them. By the third stake you’d pulled out of someone’s chest, you had started to distance yourself.
When they screamed, you did not rush to their aid. Nobody rushed to yours when you had started. Easterman had put you in your first trial alone — Kill the Snitch — and let you free with no small amount of both vindictive delight and morbid curiosity. You had crawled out with a B, shards of broken glass buried in your bare feet and electrical burns smoking on your skin, and in the decontamination chamber, Easterman had tutted at you.
Grade B. Passing. But if it was a steak, I wouldn't eat it. If it was milk, I wouldn't drink it. Are you happy with Grade B?
You were not happy with Grade B.
Visions of meat and milk plagued you as you had slept that night, the food and drink festering in front of your eyes and the putrid rot filling your nose. You were better than Grade B. You were there to get better. You had to want it.
You wanted it.
Your next trial had been Cleanse the Orphans, and you came out with an A-. Easterman noted it just the same, left you with not-quite-praise that had you glaring up at the impassive letter-emblazoned screens through blood-sticky eyelashes.
Nobody helped you. You wanted to be better. You made yourself better, shaped by Easterman’s guiding hand, pushed by the stick and lured by the carrot. It had embittered you; the psychological wedge had been driven in like an axehead, black and shiny and cold. Nobody else seemed to want to try. Not like you did. Weak, pitiful creatures — crying in the Sleep Room, shrieking as they were dragged for medical exams and mandatory trials, returning with glazed eyes and gaping wounds.
You had run straight through one of your teammates’ corpses in a bid to escape Gooseberry during this latest trial. Crunch. Slosh. Shredded tissue parted and squelched around the press of your boot tread as the leather crushed down on fragmented ribs; the toe dragged through the offal-slop and sent a haphazard splatter of half-congealed blood flying in front of you as you dashed down the hallway. It hadn’t even registered until you’d found safe haven in a dark side room of the factory and recognized the feeling of intestine mashed beneath your shoe.
Useless. Useless rookies who could barely put a foot in front of the other to run away from the psycho bitch swinging a duck-shaped drill at their head. Frustration had mounted. You locked a door in the last one’s face to put enough distance between you and Gooseberry; the sobbing pleads melted into wails and sharpened into screams before gurgling out of earshot. It had given you enough time to call the shuttle, and by the time the irate, blood-spattered woman had rounded the corner, you were already sliding into one of the shuttle pods.
The ride back was silent. You had sat alone in the shuttle, exertion burning in your muscles, and enjoyed the quiet rattle of the car as you were shipped back for evaluation.
When the bold B+ flashed at you over your head, you nearly put your fist through the wall. No points were docked for team playing — upon scanning your report, you actually got more for helping others out — but the doctors had thoroughly noted your abandonment and willingness to throw your comrades to the proverbial wolves. Everything else was nitpicking — noise traps you’d set off, the few times a Berserker had got a swipe in at you — and it made you bristle unbelievably hard.
You’d just have to try harder. Get meaner.
Your irritation had shown in your carelessness and aggression. Instead of looking for batteries or lockpicks in trials, you scouted for bricks and bottles. An amp that beefed up your throwing ability got tacked onto your ESOP. You even souped up your stun rig with Noakes’ assistance until he refused your little green vouchers, citing safety protocol and electrical hazard. Anything to make you a walking weapon. Anything to give you just a little more edge over the endless parade of drug-addled, psychologically-broken enemies.
Easterman watched it all. Noted it all. Did nothing about it. Your progression as a Reagent was most interesting, and he was content to simply sit back and watch you develop; you were proving to be one of the most successful products Sinyala had generated, and he was hesitant to mar your advancement for the sake of frivolous personal pleasures. The most he did was string you along; he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way you always stumbled after even the slightest scraps of his praise. You were wonderfully, beautifully perfect, and the only way to keep you that way was to lie to you.
Of course, you were none the wiser. And now you’d been relegated to solo trials because of your instability.
Bullshit. It was such bullshit.
You hovered over the terminal with a sour expression, fingers tight on the lip of the metal. The trial options all blurred together for you — you’d done nearly all of them, at some point or another — and it was hard to choose from the list of repeats. Franco’s were off the table — you despised his seemingly-supernatural ability to snipe you with a fucking shotgun, and that wouldn’t bode well if you were alone — and you’d done too many Coyle trials as of late, since he was fun to throw things at.
So Gooseberry, then. Your eyes flicked over the available options and settled on Drill the Futterman. Relatively simple. Relatively short. Easy stamps, provided you weren’t a dumbass about it. With little flair, you selected the trial and waited for the shuttle lights to switch on; other Reagents blurred around you in smears of motion. Conversations with frayed voices, the pound of fists on the table to cheer on the arm wrestling match behind you. The click of pieces on the chessboard. It all hazed into some opaque layer of noise, cut through by the announcer’s flat voice.
Trial ready. Please enter the shuttle.
Your boots thudded on the grating as you stepped into the pod. There was still blood smeared on them.
The trial itself started alright. You’d selected intensive as your difficulty just to really punish yourself — just to prove to Easterman that yes, you were good, you could do this, you deserved his praise — but even then, you were having an easy go of it. Canal A had been easy to work through; hearts thudded off flimsy whirring Futterman targets as you tagged them, one after the other. A trail of blood splatters followed you; the scent of iron and meat hung heavy in the air.
Grade B. Passing. But if it was a steak, I wouldn't eat it.
Muscle fibers squeaked under the grip of your fingers as your fist tightened around the heart in your hand. Free word association floated through your head as you sought the final target. Steak and meat and flesh — you could only imagine the way the organ in your palm would tear under the rend of your teeth. Maybe that was what that pit inside of you really was. Hunger, a certain kind of hunger, something that couldn’t be sated without external intervention.
Easterman’s intervention, preferably.
You wheeled your arm back and hurled the heart at the cartoon duck as it crawled across the seam of the ceiling. The last one — the voice overhead crackled to life through the intercoms and urged you to proceed.
Goggles down and night vision on, you crept up the now-dark tunnel to the next gate, careful to avoid the errant Grunts and their machetes and the odd Pusher or two that hobbled past you in the dark. Metal groaned as you pushed the lock bar up and away from the door; beyond it, pitch-black yawned, washed in green by your equipment.
A delicate touch was required here. Down in the depths of the Root Canal, the darkness was no longer a haven but your enemy. The Night Hunter liked the bowels of the defunct amusement ride about as much as you loathed them; every errant clank of machinery had your head swiveling to catch sight of an Ex-Pop that wasn’t there. He wasn’t particularly stealthy — always mumbling to himself with accented vulgarities, accompanied by the crackle and whine of his bulky equipment — but he had a nasty habit of ambushing Reagents, and you’d been on the receiving end of it more than you’d like to admit.
Irritation and nerves crawled up and down your spine the longer you stalked around in the service tunnels. Somewhere was the door to the workshop. Somewhere was the man in the Futterman mask, waiting for release by your hands. You could almost see the A+ on the back of your eyelids every time you blinked. No damage from Ex-Pops or traps, no imbibement of psychosis gas, optimal progress on objectives… God, you might have been salivating.
In true Sinyala fashion, though, respite was always just out of reach. Mold, its scent cloying and pervasive, fuzzed the walls in irregular patterns. Sweat beaded on the nape of your neck. A sharp crunch beneath your boot tread made you jump, and frustration spiked in your frame. Broken glass. The sound was impossibly loud against the incessant hum and grind of external machinery — distant shuttles rattling, metal slamming against metal, beeps and clicks. Your eyes shut for a moment, and a sigh blew from your nose.
Fine. It was fine. Even though you could already see the snarky little comment written on your evaluation sheet — points taken away for setting off noise traps — you were still doing fine. Just had to get to the workshop.
“God, these things.”
You knew that voice. It made you freeze right in your place, boot still bent in a half-step, thigh muscles hot with exertion. Fuck. Of course the Night Hunter had to be sniffing around down here. It was always a game of chance, whether or not the scientists running your trial felt like making your already miserable life even more difficult. And, seemingly, they wanted your losing streak to continue. Thank God they didn’t offer poker as a game in the Sleep Room, considering how terrible your luck seemed to be.
The accent crawled over the words, the voice gravelly and sort-of slick around the edges, the Rs rolled over a curled tongue. “They’d never believe this shit back home.”
Heavy, glottal breathing. A faint electric whine. Errant sparks. The sound of a machete’s tip clinking and scraping infrequently off the walls. Several vicious swear words ran through your head, bulged behind your lips, and you just barely saved them from spilling out. Your inventory was paltry. Nothing to throw, and you weren’t using your stun rig for this trial, stupidly. Just a jammer still on cooldown from when you’d opened a locked door just a moment ago.
Boots clunked closer; his breathing was like water sieved through gravel, a constant throttled huffing that dragged through his lungs and ruined lips.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
Your battery ticked down ominously with every second you stayed still. Without your goggles, you were fucked. He had all the advantage — that heavy infrared lamp strapped to his torso, the machete he swung loose in his grip — and you had jack-shit. The Ex-Pop neared. Metal scraped on concrete. You shrank back behind a crate along the wall of the tunnel, latent fear and burgeoning irritation hot in your chest. Sweat dampened your palms.
There was no chance. You weren’t lucky then, you weren’t lucky now. He was going to see you. He could see you, and you were—
“Bright as fucking day!”
And the chase was on.
“Fuck!” The word spat from your mouth as you fell forward into a run. A harsh grunt from behind you signaled the swing of his machete, and you anticipated a bite of pain that did not come. Something like relief, bitter and cool, washed down your spine, but it was instantly bullied out by the icy shock of fear that bolted through your frame. Easterman could beat the empathy out of you as much as he wanted, but at your core, you were still just some dumb animal driven by a barely-intact survival instinct. Adrenaline and cortisol danced through you in a nauseating cocktail; your diaphragm started to spasm with how fast your breaths were coming.
“Go ahead and run, honey!” Gravel curled in your ears as your boots slammed against the grating of the tunnel; everything reverberated off the concrete walls at just the right frequency to leave you dizzy and reeling.
Instinct fought with conditioning as you sprinted down stretch after stretch of identical concrete gut. It was not so much a fox and rabbit analogy as it was greyhound and rabbit — you were bait, released to trigger a predator’s trained prey drive. A perpetually fleeing moving target, designed specifically for the amusement and study of the audience as your pursuer hunted you down with the clear intent to tear you apart. You were built for it. He was built for it.
Nothing about it was sleek. Fear sharpened into rage and melted into a generally-upsetting soup of stress that felt as though it tarred in your veins, coagulating into some gritty slurry that was about the consistency of the Reagents you’d left to die at the hands of Gooseberry however long ago.
You skidded around a corner and slammed into a door with your shoulder. Flimsy boarding gave way with an obscenely loud crack; wooden shrapnel scattered over the floor as you stumbled into the room. The green wash of your field of view revealed nothing particularly useful. Nondescript wooden crates and various metal cylinders — gas or fuel, maybe — dotted your surroundings. The only other doors were boarded over with blue-splattered planks, which made your stomach sink further than even you thought possible. A clear marker that it would have taken two people to break through.
Which meant your only exit was—
“Found you, glow worm.”
—behind the Night Hunter.
Something weak and panicked — so uncharacteristic of you — choked out of your mouth. It was close enough to a frustrated swear that it made the Night Hunter laugh, sadism laced in the glottal chuckle as it crawled out of his ruined mouth.
“What’s wrong, honey?” God, the pet name sounded nightmarish from his mangled lips. “Nowhere to hide now.” he pressed as he stalked closer. Electric whines from his equipment and the rasps of his breathing filled your ears; in the glow of your own night vision, his machete took on an eerie shine. The gleaming discs of his eyes were nearly blinding.
Not like this. You were such a good Reagent. So nearly perfect. One fucking Night Hunter would not knock you from your pedestal.
You were going to get that A+, one way or another.
Every half-step you shuffled backward earned you another stalking step forward from him. He jostled the weapon in his grip. Taunts poured continuously from his throat, soaked in grit and cruel amusement at having you quite literally backed into a corner.
“Go ahead,” he urged, close to having you in the range of his machete. “Make me chase you. I like when they run.” Your eyes flicked along the wicked edge, and you knew precisely how it would feel biting into your flesh. How it would sound. Wet noises — skin and fat and meat giving way to the insistent stab of the blade — would fill the space; your blood would shine under the wash of your night vision.
Your foot hit something solid. Not a wall. Not a crate. Something like hope — some fractured, idiotic analogy to it — fluttered in your chest behind your ESOP.
It was a brick.
The Night Hunter lunged.
You ducked.
Clay scraped against your palms as your fingers closed around what may as well have been your salvation. Your legs barely caught the weight of your upper body — slightly top-heavy from all the gear they had bolted to you from the torso up — and you swore aloud as you nearly sprawled forward.
“You won’t get away like that,” he snarled; you swore you heard the machete as it cleaved the humid air. “Stupid mouse.” The sentence was spat under his breath, and he whirled on his heel blade-first as you attempted to dart past him towards the open doorway. You weren’t so lucky that time. It wasn’t like Murkoff actually cared to protect its assets beyond the bare minimum; the thin fabric of your shirt gave way immediately, and the skin of your back followed suit.
White hot pain sliced a jagged streak horizontally across your spine, and you cried out in animal terror. Retaining some kind of lucidity, your grip tightened on the brick in your hand as gravity won its short battle against you and you crashed to the floor. The weight of your body crushed your ESOP into your sternum, and you felt humiliation sear you all over. There were cameras everywhere. Your pitiful failures would be broadcast live to every researcher assigned to review this trial, and even worse, to Easterman.
So slightly shy of perfection. His voice echoed in your ears as you gasped for air on the floor; the slam of your gear into your chest had knocked the wind out of you and your temporarily paralyzed diaphragm left you spasming.
Mocking laughter rolled over your head. Every twist of your back aggravated the thin gash across the length of it. Before you could attempt to move, agony exploded in your calf, and you screamed. Really screamed. Tears sprang to your eyes as the tip punctured the muscle, aided in its downward thrust by gravity. Your nails scraped hard against concrete, your heart leaping into your throat. Oh, God, you were going to die. You were going to die with your limbs pinned open on the point of a machete, like some horrible imitation of a butterfly in a shadow box display. Nerves fired uselessly, hot little sparks in your pooling blood. Nociceptors shrieked up the length of your perforated muscle.
The blade pulled back from your leg. Instantly, you tried to crawl away — your quixotic little attempt at escape left the Ex-Pop more amused than anything else.
“I’m gonna watch you bleed, and I’m gonna watch you die,” he growled, the grin evident in his voice as he slapped a hand down on your shoulder and rolled you onto your back. You were now face-to-face with him, closer than you had ever wanted to be with any of the monsters prowling the trial environments, and it was not pleasant.
Your battery was low, but that seemed such a far-away concern considering the open wound in your leg and the bloody mess of your lower back. Eyes wide behind your goggles, you stared up at your assailant, up close and personal in the most nauseating way possible. He loomed over your body, crouched above your chest, toying with the machete in his grip.
Fucking hellish, your pain-hazed brain supplied as a first impression of his face. Half of it was obscured by the bulky goggles he wore — the glow was so intense that you cringed backwards against the unyielding concrete supporting your head — and errant sparks flew off the equipment in random places. Wires and pins criss-crossed his scalp and neck, all of them trailing down to the gear strapped to his chest and back. A strong, proud nose supported the bridge of his goggles, but beneath it — nausea turned your stomach, both from the pain and from his visage. His mouth was shredded; loose ribbons of skin hung from his lower face, some of them cut in odd diagonal slashes to reveal his jaw and molars. Perhaps not cut but torn; some of the gashes weren’t clean enough to be wrought by a blade. Teeth glinted in the combined wash of light, wet with perpetual drool; the jagged bone studded bloodied red gums in a gruesome imitation of a perennial smile. White stars against a red sky.
A few strings of spit eked past his slack, panting jaw and dripped onto the collar of your shirt.
“End of the line, glow worm.” Fetid, hot breath washed over your face as he crowded you against the floor. A boot pressed heavily on your shin through your battered jeans. Gore smeared against the frayed denim, cold and wet.
Not yet, you fucking bastard. Your saving grace lay in the brick you’d held onto so tightly the entire time; sweat seeped into the pores of the clay as the material abraded your palm the same way the concrete beneath you scraped the raw skin of your back. His head tilted with a short jerk as he leered just an inch closer, and then—
Crack. With teeth bared in an ugly snarl — laughably similar to his own grotesque grin — you swung your arm up in a wide arc; your makeshift weapon crashed into the side of his skull with a dull thud of impact that made you wince on reflex. Shock jolted down your arm. Irritated your already torn-up back. Still, it was a chance, and that was all you needed.
“Fuck! Watch the equipment, shitbird!” The exclamation was jagged, accompanied by a spray of spit and a sibilant slur to his words.
“Get the fuck off me!” Your reply was instant and brusque; you bucked like a prize bull and shoved the weight of his shockingly-warm body off your own. The machete went clattering; sparks flew in a weak trail as the blade slid across the floor.
With limbs tangled awkwardly, you rolled until the pain in your back halted your motion. Every muscle in your body was already screaming with exertion. If there had been a limit, you’d broken it long ago. An ailing machine running on an engine of cortisol and terror, you kicked and shoved, extremities pistons against the solid muscle of the Night Hunter’s body. He snarled as he regained his bearings; you saw the way his head swung from side to side as he sought his lost weapon.
Weeks upon weeks of compounded frustration boiled over in your gut. Nerves that were already frayed from the general stress of the trials alongside Easterman stringing you along finally snapped under the strain, and you threw your bleeding body at your assailant with as much vigor as you could manage.
Grade B.
“Nearly broke these things— fuck, I’ll damn well kill you!” A grunt left him as your own frame crashed into his.
“Fucking try it, asshole!” Your palm slammed against the side of his goggles and shoved his head to the side, attempting to grind his temple into the concrete. Hands fastened hard around your forearms — his grip was much stronger than you’d bargained for — and yanked.
An adequate performance.
Your forearms were your support struts. He towed them right out from under you and you both went sprawling, disoriented and in pain. A palm found the back of your head and nails bit into your scalp in short order — it was less getting tugged by the hair and more your entire skull getting palmed like a fucking basketball — and then you were looking at the ceiling. The sharp redirect had the vertebrae in your neck cracking and a gasp tearing from your mouth.
A fist slammed into the side of your throat.
I'm trying to make you a miracle. It's not something we can achieve with half-measures.
Extraordinary pain blossomed from your neck upwards. Some ugly choking sound gurgled out of you as your body followed your head in its snap to the side, and you slumped to the floor. Stars flickered behind your eyelids, shadowy and green-tinged, and several seconds ticked by before you could even attempt to get your bearings again. Seconds you didn’t have. Helpfully, the Night Hunter reminded you of that as he scooped up his machete and lunged for you again; he wrestled a grip on your goggles and yanked you up to your knees.
Agony throbbed in your skull as the entire weight of your body bore down on the eyegear screwed into your temples; ragged noises tore from your throat, and your thready heartbeat slammed in time with the throb of misery coming from your various gashes.
Great gasps ballooned his chest beneath the bulky spherical lamp strapped across it. His jaw hung slack, tongue lolled slightly, and although you couldn’t see his eyes behind his goggles and the offensive shine of their lenses, you knew instantly that his gaze was trained strictly on you.
You might have just been delirious, but you almost got the impression that he was smiling.
Embarrassing. Beyond embarrassing, well in the territory of humiliating. A pitiful little display, like you almost didn’t even want to live. Your internal monologue blended with Easterman’s voice; the duality left you reeling as much as the pain did. Was this really it? This was where your therapy ended? Did you truly not want to get well?
The edge of the machete bit into the tender flesh of your now-bruised throat. You could see the paunch of his stomach expanding and contracting, the trail of hair down it fuzzy and matted with blood and sweat. Behind your own goggles, your eyelids scrunched as your face pulled into a reflexive cringe.
“Good fight, little mouse,” the Night Hunter drawled, and you caught sight of the dark blood smeared down his face from his temple. Some kind of satisfaction flickered in you. At least he wasn’t getting out of this unharmed. “That was—hah,” his sentence broke as his tongue darted to swipe an errant rivulet of drool across the ruined flesh of his mouth, “fun.”
More pressure on your throat. He probably felt the slam of your pulse as it vibrated the blade. Easterman’s disappointed sneer curled in your battered brain one final time.
You need to try harder.
You let your eyes slip closed for one moment, let the trial and the Night Hunter and the machete at your neck fade away for just a second — and then exploded forward. It wasn’t much. His grip was still tight on your goggles and prevented you from moving much. But you wheeled your fist back and slammed it straight into his stomach, just a few inches southwest of his iliac crest.
Fat and abdominal wall muscle resisted for only a second before giving way to the drive of your arm. The hand at your head loosened. He crumpled over himself with a swear, instinctively cradling his gut, and you leapt at the chance. Not invincible, motherfucker, you thought with deranged glee as you clawed your way up his body. Pain shrieked in your calf but you ignored it, a second wind powering your movements as you forced your body into his. Nails scraped over his goggles as you pressed your palms over the lenses, blinding him, and he spat several surprised swears before buckling beneath your combined weights.
The machete still swung behind you in hapless arcs, even as you both fell. Messy. The whole damn thing was messy. It was clear he hadn’t expected you to fight back with such persistence, and, honestly, you hadn’t expected it either. But you wanted that A+, and you wanted it bad enough that you would rip the Ex-Pop’s throat out with your teeth if it meant getting back to the shuttle successfully. Eastern would see that you were worth it. He’d see you were a valuable investment.
Roles reversed, your body weight pinned the Night Hunter down, hips snug against the bottom curve of the gear on his chest. There were a few seconds of stomach-turning flailing, but your nails bit into the scar-flecked skin of his forearms and wrestled them down flush to the concrete too, and then you were both still.
Well.
Relatively still.
Immediately he started to writhe beneath you; the motion jostled you downwards till your pelvis slid from his diaphragm down to his lap, but you remained stubbornly atop him, reeling from pain, exhaustion, and delirious exhilaration.
“You son of a bitching bastard shitbird glow worm whore!” Every syllable was punctuated by another buck of his hips, but you merely snarled in return and ground the skin of his forearms against the 12-grit sandpaper of the floor. It rasped against your knuckles.
“How’s it fuckin’ feel,” you panted, head drooped with fatigue. It wasn’t even a question. Each breath dragged through your mouth; you tasted iron.
“Feels like I’m gonna gut you and watch you bleed,” he seethed. A loud dragging noise from behind you as his knees bent in an attempt to gain more leverage. You shoved your weight back down with a vengeance and all but snapped your teeth at him.
Like an animal. Was this what you’d been reduced to? So many fragmented sentences ran through your mind that you struggled to keep up with them. All of them vulgar, many of them violent. You wanted to hurt this thing. This man? The body squirming and swearing beneath you seemed to be the physical representation of Easterman’s control. A living, breathing weapon, dosed up on Murkoff-brand drugs and a machete shoved into his hand and delusions of grandeur instilled in his head and the freedom to hunt down and maim whoever he pleased. You were so tired of being the rabbit. So tired of being the prey.
He had gone startlingly quiet over the course of your fractured inner monologue.
You were going to say something when his hips jumped again, and then your jaw dropped further. Not out of pain — though the gash in your back and the puncture in your calf were still pulsing and bloodied — but out of shock, because the man beneath you was hard. Like your cranial cavity had been filled with cold water, your eyes bulged behind your goggles. Some sort of noise croaked in the back of your throat.
He was still panting. You swore you saw his horrifically-ragged flesh twitch into a grin. “What’s the matter, mouse?” Like caustic water over gravel shores. Wet, poisonous, pushed through a rough sieve. “Feel something?”
A deep gut instinct prickled at the nape of your neck, danced between beads of sweat. He was too gleeful. Sadistic amusement edged his tone. The stiffness pressed right against your inseam was proof enough of his enjoyment — a sharp turn from how enraged he’d been at being pinned — and the realization followed shortly after. He liked your discomfort. Liked your shock. It was like there was some extraneous joke you weren’t in on.
“What the hell?” you breathed.
And then he bit you.
…Bit, actually, may have been an understatement. He lunged his head upwards and snared his teeth in the flesh of your forearm so hard that you shrieked on instinct, disbelief and fear and agony exploding over your abused nervous system. Jagged peaks of bone jammed through your yielding flesh, beyond the point of bruising and now in the realm of tearing; you attempted to yank your arm back and only worsened the pain as the grip of his jaw ripped through your skin. Teeth scraped your wrist flexors. Heat shot up your arm and the familiar sensation of warm blood seeping downwards greeted you; nausea roiled your stomach right up to the cusp of vomiting.
Pressing his advantage and your disorientation, the Night Hunter’s hands snatched at your biceps and all but tore you off; with horrifically little effort, he forced you to the floor hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs. One thigh slid over your hips and settled his weight atop yours; large palms fastened around your wrists and cemented your fate.
Every wound in your body sang, loud and discordant. Your pulse thudded against his palm, each beat shoved through the ragged bite mark. Hot blood smeared and crushed beneath his grip; the stink of metal filled your nose, strong enough to make tears prick at your eyes beneath your goggles. His hips pressed against yours, the pillar of his body slotted between your thighs, and he was still hard.
If you had been lucid enough, you would have laughed at how terribly ironic it all was. Subdued by pain and exhaustion, though, it was all you could do to just lay there and gasp on the floor; instinctively, you bent your knee to keep your bleeding calf from scraping against the concrete.
“Where’s all that fight?” That mangled face swooped low; the smell of rotten meat and Murkoff-brand drugs filled your sinuses. “Don’t get shy on me now, mouse. I like this game. None of you ever fight back. Not till now, mm?”
You didn’t question how exactly he made the noise without true lips to press together and hum, because looking at his face genuinely made you sicker each time you did it. Nightmarish. That skinless, tooth-studded hunk of meat he called a mouth would haunt you to the day you died. The worst part was that it was all you could look at. And it was all you were looking at when your night vision battery finally gave out, drained to its last, and you were plunged into darkness. A startled gasp left you, the sound uncharacteristically weak, and the Night Hunter laughed.
“Oh no. It’s so dark in here, isn’t it?” The mocking lilt of his words trailed into a gravelly chuckle. “Oh, but I see you.”
Your hands were dragged over the floor, concrete scraping against your skin, and your wrists were bundled together into the grip of one blood-sticky palm. His other hand, now free, flipped up your goggles, and you cringed back from the yawning blackness that met you.
“I see everything.”
Dread washed cold down your spine. The only light source was the sickly green glow of his lenses; you were sure that it reflected off your cringing face well enough to show him every little detail, down to the errant, embarrassing tear that tracked the curve of your cheek. And you were damn well sure that it lit up the way your eyes widened, even in the dark, as his hips shoved against yours experimentally in a jerky downward grind.
Old faculties that you had disregarded since your arrival in Sinyala wheezed back into functionality. Things you hadn’t even entertained for months — or however long you’d been here — kicked on inside of you; some engine deep in your gut struggled to turn over. So lost had you been in your endless, fruitless quest for perfection that you had discarded much of the rest of the human experience in the process. Eating was no longer a communal, relaxing activity but a mandatory refueling. Sleeping was a temporary, necessary reset period. Social skills fell to the wayside. Your own pleasure was even disregarded. All of it had been. So now…
Even though it was wrong, you made little effort to stop the responding twitch of your own hips. “This isn’t— you shouldn’t—”
Unbelievable pressure against your inseam. A clumsy push and slide that started at your mound and shoved downward; your thigh muscles jerked where they were spread open. You rankled at the wave of hot air exhaled over your bare face. “Why not? Feels like you like it, mouse.”
His fingers tightened on your wounded wrist, and a brilliant stab of pain lanced down your arm. A wretched noise tore out of your throat; the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong.
…Actually, the worst part was that the throb in your arm seemed to march in tandem with the slowly-ramping pulse in your cunt. Every readjustment of position had your nerves smarting, from your forearm to your back to your calf, and the hot flashes of sensation scraped over sensory receptors in a way that left you craving more. You had always craved more. Was that not what your therapy was? Weren’t you always seeking more punishment?
“Fucking disgusting,” you spat in return, dizzied, and attempted to drag a knee up to stab it into the tent of his pants. You failed, but hey, at least you tried.
A low snarl of a laugh curled out of the Night Hunter’s chest, puffed across your face in staccato intervals. Rustles above you clued you in for only a second in advance, and then you jolted at the feeling of a hot, wet tongue snaking from your jaw upwards. Shivers danced up your spine — some got lost in the open gash on your back as sparks of pain — and your lips parted to breathe. Spit cooled rapidly on your skin in the wake of the writhing muscle; he caught the stray tear and purred at the salt.
Nauseatingly pleasurable.
“Sweet,” he hissed in your ear, and the word was the only prelude you got before his tongue slid there too, gliding over the cartilage and tucking into the shell of it. It brushed the opening of your ear canal and the wet noises filled your skull, so perverse and so loud and your hips rolled against his in a shock of want.
“Jesus Christ,” you choked, and it pitched up at the end when he bit down on your ear. The scent of the blood drying on his temple filled your nose when you sucked in a breath. Arousal started to really burn between your legs, a shameful throb that had your face searing hot and your voice hoarse and tremulous in your throat.
With the amount of time you’d spent in the trials, it only made sense that the distinction between pain and pleasure would eventually fall away. Some way, somehow. He still had your wrists pinned in one hand — the ragged bite mark still oozed blood — and with the other he groped at your body with barely-restrained excitement.
“All mine, little mouse.” A huff in your ear as his tongue withdrew; a fine thread of spit hung glossy between your cartilage and his mouth. “Wonder what else I can taste.” As if he were musing to himself, he hummed in thought for a moment before his mouth dropped to your neck and his hand dropped your wrists.
The distinct image of raw meat being dragged against your throat imprinted itself immediately behind your eyelids. What was left of his lips twitched, tooth-studded gums flush to your skin, but he seemed most interested in tasting the sweat and grime that had collected along the lines of your tendons. Without warning, he tilted his head — you felt his obtrusive headgear scrape along your jaw — and dug his teeth in; you yelped, unable to help the jerk of your body in response to the pain.
“You’re a bastard,” you huffed, and your nails raked down whatever parts of his back you were able to reach. Hard. Hard enough that you felt skin roll back beneath your grip, and he let out a pleasured hiss. Every muscle under your palms tensed and his pelvis ground against yours with unbelievable intensity.
Warm blood welled up at your clawing. Smeared over your fingers. “Fffucking— shit,” he growled, voice thick, and his teeth scraped your collarbone. “That burns, damn it.”
“Uh-huh,” you panted, and your fingers curled in the gashes hard enough to make him moan. Drool leaked, sloppy and slick, downwards. Stained the collar of your shirt. Every foray beneath his epidermis made him drive his hips against yours hard enough to hurt. Even despite the layers of rough fabric between you both, the stiff line of his cock shoved against your cunt like he was trying to fuck you right through the clothes.
“This fucking thing,” he sneered as he dragged his mouth down your chest, irritated by ESOP blocking his access. You realized with a start that you, too, were annoyed, and peeled your bloodied fingers away from his back in order to scramble for the leather straps. It was a difficult process, going at it blind and with the weight of his body atop yours, but you scrabbled at the buckles on the side of your chest long enough. The metal gave way and the Ex-Pop atop you yanked it over your head and tossed it aside without care. Some distant, still-lucid part of your brain raised an alarm at the loss of your only means of defense — your jammer rig tacked to your ESOP — but it was immediately drowned out by the feeling of metal poking at the soft fat of your stomach.
The machete. Dear God, the machete. You really were in a bad position, weren’t you? The Night Hunter’s hips pinned yours to the ground. Open wounds throbbed all over your body. Your ESOP and its attached rig had been discarded several feet away. And now he leaned back with the tip of the blade slid beneath the hem of your shirt. Your brain rushed to complete the scenario, lost without the sensory input of vision, and all you could imagine was the way the edge of the machete would hack through your abdominal wall, the way it would churn your organs, the way the smell of iron and meat would fill your nose, the way the wet thwacks of the blade would sound against resistant bone—
Unbearable pressure for just one second, then a sharp rip. He had flipped the weapon over and pulled up, the tip nestled right over your sternum. The fabric gave way and the humid, stale air of the storage room cloyed against your newly bared torso. You sucked in a sharp breath, but the downward swing never came. He turned the machete on its side. Pressed the flat of the blade, cold and long-stained with blood, hard against one nipple.
You moaned.
It was the first truly pleasured sound you’d made throughout the entire ordeal — instantly distinguishable from any gasps or choked sounds, and he chuckled in sadistic amusement at the noise.
“So shiny,” he rasped, and pushed down just a little harder to the point where your flesh pillowed around the edge of the blade. It stung. “Pretty little glow worm. You like the way it hurts, mm?”
The accusation masked as a question made your face burn all over again. “So do you.” It felt like a weak response, but it wasn’t inaccurate. You remembered very well the way he groaned and bucked into you at the feeling of your fingers digging into the gashes you’d left down his back.
“Let’s see what other sounds you make.” No acknowledgment of your response. The machete dragged down from your chest — the tip caught on your hard nipple and you yelped — until the blade rasped over the rapid contractions of your stomach. Having that wicked edge so close to your vital organs threaded fear through your gut. Especially considering it had already tasted your flesh twice… but still, you pushed your hips up against his in a hapless bid for sensation. He noticed. Of course he did. He saw everything, didn’t he? “Needy.”
His hand trailed after the machete, heat replacing the chill. The touch intoxicated you both — bloodied, scarred fingers kneaded and groped at your flesh on the wrong side of too hard, and you struggled to keep your whines in. The effort became monumental when he skimmed his nails over your stomach and stopped short at the hem of your pants, and your eyes flickered shut — not that it made a difference — as arousal rocked through you. His breathing intensified, the raw, rasping sounds wet and closer than you’d expected. Drool dripped errantly onto your bared chest.
“Move and I’ll cut a hole in you to fuck instead.” It was your sole warning — you felt sick at the way it made a nasty little thrill run through you — as he shifted his weight backwards and set the machete down.
You weren’t that stupid. You stayed on your back, torso bare and damp with ropes of drool, and kept your thighs spread as two hands snarled in the hem of your pants and yanked the offending article of clothing down. Down. Down. Eventually the fabric bunched at your boots, and he tore those off too, scrabbling at your laces until your legs were free. Bare. You still had your shirt, sort of, but it had been cut clean down the middle and now just kept your back (mostly) off the concrete. Your pants hung off one ankle, and he lost his patience there. Broad palms splayed across the soft flesh of your inner thighs and shoved until your hips creaked with strain, and your entire face heated to a temperature that could probably melt steel.
The concrete bit into your ass. He did not care — you could see in the dark the way that his glowing green lenses were tilted downwards and staring straight at your soaked cunt. Mortification passed over you in waves, especially as his breathing picked up, and you jolted at the feeling of a few haphazard ropes of drool landing on your mound and soaking into the nest of curls there.
“I wish you could see what I see.” The words oozed out of him, buoyed on ragged breaths, and your hips squirmed in his grip. His nails bit into your thighs. “Look at you drip.”
Something like a swear forced its way between your teeth. He swooped down and dug his teeth into your newly exposed chest, and that sort-of-swear exploded into several very audible ones. Instantly, your nails found his back, and you couldn’t tell whether the bucking of your hips was from trying to get him off you or trying to get yourself off.
His jaws worked against your irritated flesh sloppily — moans vibrated against your skin, and only intensified when you snarled your fingers in his wounds — and left puffy bite marks behind as he trailed his mess of a mouth down your front. His tongue trailed hot over your stiff nipple and was immediately followed by his teeth and you groaned. So much pain. So much pleasure. Had there really ever been a difference?
Teeth raked down your stomach and paused like he was considering whether or not to tear open a hole for access to your organs. Your cunt fluttered in anticipation and shame and fear, hot and wet just like his mouth, and your feet scraped against the concrete beneath. The flex made the wound in your calf sing, and tears pricked at your eyes. Eventually he sank low enough to where you couldn’t score his skin with your nails anymore, and you settled for grasping haplessly at the sides of his goggles in the dark.
Humid breath fanned over your cunt and your nails scraped over the sides of his goggles. You knew what it looked like, even in the dark, and it made you just as nauseated to picture it as it made you aroused. His bulky form between your legs, shoulders wedging your thighs apart, those damn goggles trained on your neglected cunt — and that horrific excuse for a mouth. Raw meat, irritated gums shining with spit, teeth bared in a forever grin. Flayed strips of skin edging the gorefest like some fleshy vignette. And that tongue, perpetually swiping over the exposed flesh to keep it from drying out. Always drooling.
More saliva splattered on your cunt, and mingled with the slick arousal already collected there.
Staccato huffs puffed over your core, and your ears burned. Then a long breath, and you realized with a lightning bolt of shameful desire that he was smelling you, sucking in the scent of your arousal. Before you could form a sentence — not that you really had anything to say except for please or fuck you or hurry up — his jaw slackened and his tongue slid up your cunt in a fat stripe from your hole to your clit.
Oh God. “Oh, God.” Your head thudded against the concrete beneath — why you’d been straining to watch something you couldn’t see, you didn’t know — with a stab of pain. It barely registered, though, because the Night Hunter’s tongue dragged over your cunt like he was trying to eat you alive. Your fingers twitched against the sides of his goggles, body lax and twitching from pleasure, and he laughed against your core. Somewhere along the way the sound melted into a lascivious groan, and he shoved his face further into your cunt.
His goggles pressed hard into your mound and lower stomach; the hard metal edges bit into your skin but God, nothing mattered with the way he ate you. His jaws worked hard and he started to half-chew, teeth scraping over your puffy folds and pinching at your sensitive flesh. One of his hands snarled in the flesh of your inner thigh. Kept you open. The other slid under your leg and shoved it up — your mangled calf screamed in protest — to keep you spread as far as possible. It was humiliating. It was perverse. You could have died happy there. Sweat ran tracks through the dried blood and grime on your skin as your aching hips jolted against his invasive mouth.
“Sweet like honey,” he slurred, his own hips jostling as he ground against the unyielding bite of the concrete beneath. His nails bit into your flesh; slick noises filled the air as he sucked and spat on your cunt. Drool ran in thick ropes down your cunt, shone on your inner thighs, and pooled on the concrete beneath.
Jagged teeth bit at your cunt in unbearable spikes of pain, and you groaned helplessly; too much, too much, it was too much, it hurt having him bite your most sensitive parts— his tongue slid greedily against your entrance, even narrowed like it was trying to fuck inside. You dragged your uninjured forearm to your mouth and bit into the flesh to keep from screaming. Your hips writhed against his face in some instinctive attempt to escape the punishing stimulation, but he merely snarled against you and dug his fingers in harder.
Your clit throbbed, heavy and swollen, against his tongue, and every push and swirl of it dragged you closer and closer to that wicked edge. A violent, jerky spasm started up in the inner muscle of your pushed-up thigh, and the fat quivered in his harsh grip as his tongue laved over your cunt. Sucking, slurping — unbelievably obscene noises dripped from between your thighs the same way his spit did, and your throaty, half-swallowed groans threaded through the sounds as a weak backing track.
Close. You were unbelievably close, a hot flush settled over what felt like your entire upper half, and then—
He stopped. With a wet sound, he pulled back; thick ropes of drool connected the shredded meat of his mouth to your aching cunt, and you felt your orgasm recede with a sinking sensation in your gut.
“You— you fucking— piece of shit, I was so close,” you gasped, voice rough from holding back moans. With effort, you dragged yourself up onto shaking elbows. The bite mark dug into your forearm throbbed with pain at the motion, and all it did was spark heat low in your gut. He still had your thigh shoved upwards, knee pointed at your chest. Jesus, you were so fucked.
“Bitch at me again and I’ll break your fucking jaw,” he snapped. Clearly he had dragged himself onto his knees — you felt the pressure of the tops of his thighs on the back of your own, the gore-splattered fabric of his pants biting into your bruised flesh — and had leaned down over you. Hot breath huffed over your face with his threat, and, blindly, one of your hands swung up in the dark; your fingers secured around the back of his head, sliding over the metal bracketing there, and tugged.
That mess of a mouth crashed into yours in the worst approximation of a kiss you’d ever experienced. He let out a surprised grunt but relented when he felt your tongue slide against his, pushing and pressing and wet. You tasted yourself on top of all that blood — salt and sweat and girl, all the grime he’d cleaned off you and all the arousal he’d pulled from your cunt — and it made you moan. Saliva seeped between the seam of your mouths and slid hot down your chin; your tongue licked against his teeth so feverishly it felt as though you were trying to pull them from his jaw without using your hands.
His free hand scrabbled between your bodies and found the waistband of his pants in record time; after a few seconds of fumbling and cursing into your mouth, he successfully hooked his thumb in the band and yanked it downwards. It snagged for a moment on the tent of his cock and he really snarled then, pulling his head back from yours to stare down at the obstruction. The downward swing of his goggles nearly tagged your face.
You couldn’t see his cock in the dark, but you damn well felt it as it slapped, heavy and hot, against the soft flesh of your stomach. He hissed at the contact and immediately jerked his hips, and you wondered distantly how long it had been, how starved for proximity he was. You were a mess. Arousal ran hot and thick in your veins, settling in a searing pool in your sloppy cunt, and the steady undercurrent of throbbing pain had you dizzy even as you laid on the floor.
“Take your time,” you sneered, brave in your wanton delirium, and that kicked him into gear.
“Gonna make you shine, glow worm,” he growled. “Fill you up.”
Something deep in your gut that you dared not acknowledge purred at his words and the way his hands slid beneath the crook of your knees. With a huff, he shoved your thighs up as far as your hips allowed and then some. Pain lanced up from the joint socket and you swore; your complaints fell on deaf ears as he pressed your thighs to your chest. Your spine curved and the gash across your lower back stung to the point of drawing fresh, reflexive tears from your eyes.
His hips pulled back; one arm barred under your knees to keep you up and spread, and the other retracted so he could wrap a fist around the base of his weeping cock. Lost in the dark, with only the glow of his lenses to see by, all you caught was the way he stared at your fluttering cunt before tilting those gleaming green discs up to look at you. Obviously your harried, pained expression was doing it for him.
A short chuckle rasped from his chest. “Look at you,” he cooed, a sneer in his voice; you could hear the strained excitement laced through his tone. “Bright as day.”
He slapped the dripping head on your swollen clit a few times — mean little taps that made you gasp as precum smeared across your flesh — and gave you no other preamble. The tip slid downwards, slippery from combined precum and spit and your own arousal, and caught on the dip of your entrance. It felt about a fucking mile wide, despite how needy you were — you had barely touched yourself since your arrival in Sinyala, and even then, those were utilitarian late-night sessions that involved exclusively your clit and your hand wedged into your panties. Dread, that old familiar feeling, swooped low in your stomach. Despite the pain and the terror and the fact that the Night Hunter might very well just kill you after this, somehow this was the most immediately frightening thing about the entire escapade.
Split open. You were going to be split open.
“Wait, I—”
“Not fucking waiting,” he gritted out, voice ragged, and snapped his hips forward.
Pain scorched up your body from your deepest parts — everything below your navel felt like an open wound. As aroused as you were, you just weren’t ready, and your cunt spasmed violently around his cock as it bullied into you. The head popped past your tight ring of muscle and you watched the Night Hunter throw his head back through tear-blurred eyes. Streaks of green across your vision, smeared and diffracted.
“Fuck, that’s good— hah, so tight, little mouse,” he snarled, his hips jerking forward again and again and again on pure instinct as he chased more and more of your tight, wet heat. The stretch was fucking unbearable. Tears welled on your lash line and spilled in quick succession — you couldn’t move, stuck in your humiliating position, folded beneath his heavy frame as he let gravity aid the sink of his cock.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so full. Your jaw was slack as you gasped for air, which was a massive struggle considering it felt like his cock was nestled right between your lungs. At some point his balls pressed flush to your ass, heavy and hot, and his body curled over yours; his weight kept your knees to your chest despite the complaints from your aching hips.
“Please,” you managed, but you weren’t really sure what you were asking for. Please stop. Please keep going. Please let me go. Please just kill me. Maybe all of the above. Whatever you really meant, the Night Hunter let out a wounded-sounding groan and started to move, and most of your lucidity left you then.
Wherever skin touched skin, sweat collected. His palms were slick against the crooks of your knees where he held your legs up; he made up for it by digging his nails into your flesh painfully hard. His rhythm was nonexistent at first — all jagged, awkward half-thrusts as he lost himself in the feeling of a warm, wet hole — but he dragged himself (and by extension, you) into a passable pace, and it was all you could do to lay there and take it.
The concrete scraped hard against your back on each downward push — the bloodied laceration across your lower spine screamed with each fresh abrasion — as if it were resisting his valiant attempts to fuck you through it. Each thrust was an unbelievable plunge and stretch, his balls slapping heavily against your ass, and each retraction had the flared head dragging backwards over your sensitive walls with a nauseatingly wet noise. Somewhere along the way the pain melded with pleasure; sensation scraped over you like acid over fresh wounds.
His breathing grew heavier with his intensifying pleasure and effort, and his hips picked up a punishing swivel that had you crying out on each thrust.
“Music to my fucking ears,” he groaned, and his hand slid up your calf and dug into the puncture wound.
Pain exploded up your leg in a horrific firework and your moans sharpened into near-shrieks. Fresh blood from the irritation beaded around his prodding, and one of his fingers shoved into the perforation an inch or so. Your cunt clamped down around his cock, your brain helpless to the complete meltdown of your nervous system, and through the haze of pain-pleasure-madness that had fogged your mind, you clawed your hands up the side of him. Warm blood — or spit, or precum, or sweat, you couldn’t tell in the dark — seeped down your calf and sieved through his fingers. Something wet splattered on your cunt. Maybe drool.
Your nails raked across his scalp hard enough to leave welts and caught on one of the pins jutting outward. Sweat-slicked fingers closed around it instantly and yanked. Electricity jolted down your arm — you became the ground connection for the errant discharge sparking off the pins — but you held on, only partially of your own volition.
“Gah! Fuck, fucking— bolted to my head, fuck!” The words were brusque, barely coherent, and accompanied by a spray of spit, but you felt his cock jump inside of you as you attempted to wrestle the metal out of his scalp.
You weren’t able to speak. Drool leaked out of your corner of your slack, panting mouth, and you swore the smell of burning flesh was filling your nose alongside the heavy scent of sex and blood. With aching muscles, you pulled again, and this time managed to tug his whole head off to the side. Fresh electricity surged through you; it felt as though it vibrated your eyeballs and zapped over your teeth.
“Fffucking bitch—” he gasped and hunched over; his entire body collapsed atop yours as his thrusts devolved into incoherent humping. The pressure drove his pubic bone, fuzzed with a thick trail of curls, right against your swollen clit, and the relentless grinding of his hips combined with the pain and the pain and the pain drove you right over the edge.
Although you had felt that hot simmering coil in your gut for a long while, you weren’t prepared for the complete and total avulsion of your brain from your body, a raw gaping hole left in your cranium; white-hot pleasure tore your consciousness from you and left frayed nerves sparking in its wake. Your orgasm was blistering, an unbelievable shock of ecstasy, and you let out something that might have been a sob, or a scream, or no noise at all. Your cunt clenched hard around his cock in spastic little bursts and your thigh muscles twitched helplessly where they were pinned to your chest; shadowy stars flickered behind your eyelids.
He kept going.
Not for long, but enough to turn your brain to a visceral slurry. The wet slap of skin-on-skin filled your ears, your own labored breathing layered atop his feral panting alongside it. He sped up for a final few seconds and then, in tandem, shoved his hips flush to yours and bit down on your neck, right at the junction of it and your shoulder. Your spine arched into it, a slave to sensation, and violent aftershocks shook your body as his cock kicked and pumped inside of you.
“Take it, take it all,” he gasped against the bloodied flesh of your neck, his tongue hot against the wound. “Gonna— hah, gonna keep you full, mouse.”
He made good on his promise. His twitching hips fucked against yours in sharp jerks, even as his balls twitched, newly-emptied and slick with your arousal, against your ass. He was fucking it into you. Stuffing you full. What had you wanted so badly? Easterman’s approval? No, you remembered: you wanted Easterman’s recognition. Not just saccharine condescension disguised as praise but something physical that proved his words. Something to fill you, something to soothe that persistent ache.
You were definitely full.
That persistent ache part… not so much.
After what might have been minutes or hours, he dragged his tongue over your neck a final time — lapped up the blood there — and then pulled back. Crimson smeared down your leg from his toying in your puncture wound, and pain throbbed throughout your entire body at all different tempos. You were beat to shit. Every muscle ached, overworked and fried with electricity, and your brain felt much the same way.
His cock slipped free with a vulgar, wet sound. He kept your thighs spread and up, but no longer pinned; now, he seemed much more interested in the slow leak of cum from your battered cunt. His breath came in long, gravelly heaves, and you just barely caught the way that spit drooled from his ragged mouth in slick ropes.
“I like this toy,” he purred roughly, and one hand slid down your thigh to push the rivulet back into your cunt, up to the knuckle. You groaned weakly at the fresh intrusion, too exhausted to fight, but with his cock spent, he no longer seemed interested in fucking you into the floor. “I’ll be seeing you, glow worm, mm?”
He pulled his finger from your twitching cunt and pressed it into your slack mouth just to make you suck on it, clearly amused by having literally fucked the fight out of you. With a pop, he withdrew the digit, and then dragged himself up into a standing position and tucked himself back into his pants with an undeserved nonchalance.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed on the floor after he slunk away, but it was a while. At some point you found it within yourself to haul your battered body up to a standing position, hunched from your various gashes and covered in a fucking garden variety of bodily fluids, and limped your way through the dark until you happened upon the door to the workshop. The cries of the Futterman toy fell on deaf ears. You put the drill through his spine. Tried not to think about how your own back ached from how the Night Hunter had folded you over yourself.
The return to the shuttle was a complete blur. You collapsed into the shuttle pod with barely-functioning legs, and sat in silence, staring into nothing, as you returned to the evaluation chamber. Every time you blinked, you felt that oppressive darkness, felt the Night Hunter’s tongue, felt the stretch of his cock—
A soft ding.
You stepped into the evaluation chamber. At least you’d get a good grade. At least you’d finally get the—
You looked up as you stepped into the decontamination bath.
Note: Okay, I know this isn't a part of my remaster rotation, and I said it would be a while until my next fic drop, BUT! IN MY DEFENSE!! I'm off work sick at the moment, and the people in this Trials server are feeding me horrendously freaky ideas. A man's gotta do what he's gotta do!
The Pitcher x AFAB!Reader x PeepingTom!Night Hunter
SMUT
Summary: A special someone gets a front row seat to you getting hot and heavy with your favorite arsonist.
Contains: public sex, fingering, pain play (burning/branding), voyeurism, creampie, Night Hunter wants those sloppy seconds
Despite your best efforts, you can’t hold back the high pitched whine that claws its way from your chest. You press a clammy palm to your mouth, hoping to lock away any other rogue sounds that might escape, but the man before you lets out a displeased grunt and tears your palm away with his free hand. His other hand is busy buried under your Murkoff issued garments, strong fingers working feverish circles into your throbbing clit.
If your frantic panting and poorly contained sounds of pleasure aren’t enough to give you away, then surely the increasingly slick sound from between your legs will draw attention. Your heart hammers in your chest like a panicked rabbit – the idea of Coyle finding you like this makes a cold sweat break out across your skin despite the intense heat radiating off your partner. You’d seen Coyle wandering the courthouse not too far from here, and you silently hope that he is oblivious enough to not follow the sounds of your secret rendezvous.
Your wandering thoughts are leashed and yanked to a halt as two leather clad fingers push their way into your core. You bite your lip hard as a moan threatens to pierce the stuffy air of the office, wincing as the biting tang of iron seeps into your mouth. The metal tips of the glove press insistently into the soft curve of your g-spot, leaving your legs trembling against the desk that digs hard into the backs of your thighs. Pitcher hisses in excitement, nudging the scorching hot mouth of his mask against your cheek in an attempt to get you to open up for him.
You gasp, keening as you arch up into him and clamp down around his fingers. Your slick has completely drenched the palm of his glove and begun trailing down your thighs, soaking the thick cotton of your underwear and leaving it clinging to the back of Pitcher’s glove. He grunts irritably as the fabric restricts his movements, hurriedly pulling his fingers from you so he can roughly shove the underwear down your legs. You whimper at the loss of sensation, digging your nails into his chest as you look at him with tear glossed eyes, pleading for more. Pitcher’s eyes roll back in his head at the sudden sweet sting of pain, happily obliging your request.
Strong hands grip the back of your thighs, hoisting you onto the cold surface of the desk and tugging your legs apart to bare your center for him. He practically purrs at the sight of how wet you are for him, a pleased chuff rattling through the muzzle of his mask. His thumbs pull your lips wide, attention zoning in on your hole as it clenches around nothing and leaks more viscous fluid under his intense gaze. One thumb moves to scoop up a string of slick that has started to drool down the curve of your ass and pushes it back into you, slowly thrusting so that you can feel the resistance of the knuckle pushing against your tight rim.
Your hands wind around his biceps, gripping the corded muscles there as you roll your hips and dig your heels into his ass to bring him closer. He chuckles, the raspy sound sending a shiver across your body. His thumb slips from you, wiping the wetness on your skin before moving to shift his skirt so you can see the outline of his erection outlined down the leg of his pants.
You dig your heels again, causing him to stumble and press his hips against the junction of your thigh. Your thighs close around his hips above his bottle-filled belt and you look up at him through hooded eyes, grinding yourself against his hard length. A growl tears from his throat, impatient fingers digging bruises into the meat of your thighs as he unlocks your legs from around him and rushes to unzip his pants so he can pull out his cock.
You thank whatever god the man worships that he had the foresight to leave a lit molotov near the corner of the room. Despite the murky darkness that clings like a veil over the room, the small fire works hard to leave a decent level of visibility. The soft amber film of light dances across the two of you, seemingly telling you where to look as it dapples across his skin like a golden false sun.
You can’t help the needy groan that falls from your parted lips as your gaze falls upon it. It had been so long since the last time you’d had him like this, you’d almost forgotten the incredible sight of what he was packing. It’s nearly intimidating how large he is, the heavy, scarred length of it hanging practically halfway down his thigh. Thick veins wind along the sides, pulsing hard under the tight skin of his scars as they lead your vision lower, honing you in on the ruddy, dripping tip.
He grips it around the base, shifting so he can smear the precum pearled at the slit against your sensitive clit. His teeth clack behind the mask, a frantic low yelp erupting from him as the sensation hits him like a train. He frots the fat crown of his dick against your clit a couple more times, drawing desperate gasps from you with each pass along the throbbing bundle of nerves. Suddenly, the tip slips lower, catching on the edge of your entrance and drawing a startled moan from you.
Pitcher takes that as his cue and wastes no time in pushing home. Your walls are suddenly speared open, wet muscles gripping over every new inch of inhumanly warm hardness that works its way into you. A wail rips itself from your throat, thankfully being quickly muffled by Pitcher’s chest as he leans over you. He firmly plants his palms on both sides of your head, curling his metal fingertips into the creaking wood of the desk as he starts to rut into you at an animalistic pace.
His breath comes out in searing pants against the conch of your ear, interspersed by eager grunts and growls as he tries and fails to tell you how wonderful you’re making him feel. One hand leaves the desk, trailing down the swell of your shoulder to snap sparks against the thin skin of your chest. You hiss as the sparks bite into you, the bright licks of pain only serving to heighten your senses.
He continues lower, sparks littering your ribcage and stomach as he plows into you at a punishing pace. The pathetic whine you let out with each new snap only spurs him on, and he can’t stop himself from shoving his face against your neck. The ring of his muzzle leaves almost hickey-like circles as it burns into your neck, spattering hot flecks of gasoline across the skin as he wheezes giddily.
You’re almost too drunk on pleasure to notice the scratching rrrap-tap-tap sound coming from your left. The sound worms its way into your ear, nagging you until your naturally ingrained curiosity and paranoia give in. Pitcher is too busy marking you to pay attention, his face now buried in your shoulder as he presses his friction heated metal fingertips into your hip like a brand. You slowly turn your head to look, grateful that your partner takes it as a sign to further mark your neck rather than follow your gaze.
Your whole body clenches in shock, a stuttered yelp leaving your mouth as your eyes are met with two green orbs staring back at you through the window of the office. You’re barely able to make out the body behind the green orbs, but you see a pale, spindly limb reach up to press a finger against exposed teeth in a mocking hush motion. When the hell did he enter the trial?
Night Hunter’s toothy grin somehow seems to grow wider – his hand lifts to the window, fingers wiggling hello to you as your attention is momentarily brought back to Pitcher by a particularly rough thrust. Your hands fly up to his back, nails dragging welts over smooth skin and rough patches of raised scars. Pitcher howls into your skin, moving both hands to viciously grip your hips as he angles himself deeper, the head of his cock bruising itself into your cervix.
You’re practically sobbing at the commingling pain and pleasure that racks your body, the aching pressure of him inside you seeming to link pathways with the tingling burns he’s left all over your body. Every nerve throbs with crossed wires that only seem to take your pleasure to new heights – a sickly sweet reminder of why you love these impromptu hookups so much.
Despite the overwhelming waves of sensation rolling over you, you manage to turn your attention to the window again. Your eyes peel wide as you take in the sight it offers you. Night Hunter is pressed up against the glass, pants haphazardly hung down his hips as he strokes his hard length against the see-through surface. There’s a smudgy mess where he’s smeared precum all over the glass, similar to the streaky mess that’s accumulated where he’s attempted to press his face closer, limited only by the space his goggles create.
His tongue slips out, leaving a messy streak along the clear surface as drool cascades over his lower teeth. Your cunt clenches tight around Pitcher as you remember the last time you’d been with Night Hunter – the way his tongue had wormed its way inside you and ravaged you until you were swollen, overstimulated, and crying. “What’s’a matter, honey? Can’t take it no more?” Another sloppy, urgent lick against your overworked clit. “I’ll wring another one out of you little mouse, even if it hurts.”
Your nails dig harder into Pitcher, drawing blood this time as you moan loudly. His thrusts stutter momentarily as the pain goes straight to his dick, making him dizzy with pleasure. He snarls and leans back, adjusting his footing so he can fuck into you faster, the wet slap of his balls against your ass echoing throughout the room. Each thrust is punctuated with a high pitched keen from you, your body writhing under him as the pleasure starts to coil in your gut like a snake, ready to sink its fangs into your nervous system.
Pitcher picks up on the shift in your tone and the way your body sucks him in harder. He shouts excitedly, slipping his hands under your knees so he can bring them up to your chest and push deeper. The new angle knocks the breath from your lungs, leaving your head tilting back and mouth gaping open in a silent scream. Pitcher’s head lolls back as well, dead eyes rolling into empty space as he practically fucks the shape of his cock into your guts. A reedy, faltering groan filters through his mask as he feels his own orgasm creeping up on him.
A movement in your peripheral drags your shaky attention back to Night Hunter. He’s humping his tightened fist against the window, the tip of his cock smushing unceremoniously against the glass. His faltering breath leaves patches of moisture against the surface, tinted an unnerving shade of green by his ever-glowing goggles. Saliva floods your tongue at the idea of taking the place of the glass – having him smush his flushed red tip against your soft palate instead, swallowing around him as he drools and gnashes over your pliant body.
The thought paired with Pitcher’s unrelenting pounding of your cunt sends you over the edge, a violent orgasm ripping through you and blinding you in a rush of white stars. You screw your eyes shut tight, chanting Pitcher’s name over and over as pleasure tears through you. Your walls wrap around his cock in a vise grip, gushing slick around the base and making a mess of the front of his pants. Pitcher lets out a strangled gargle as he feels your body choke down on him, pulling you in as close as possible as his orgasm follows suit. His length kicks almost aggressively inside of you, head pushing insistently against the crevice of your cervix as scalding hot ropes of cum fill you up.
You two stay locked like that for a moment, panting against each other’s sweaty skin as you ride the aftershocks of your orgasms. Pitcher is the first to pull away, skilled hands gently massaging the knots that had formed in your legs from the little excursion. You hum in gratitude, stretching your arms above your head as you slowly come to your senses. You turn your head to see if Night Hunter is still there, but the green orbs are nowhere to be seen – the only evidence of his presence being the new stains on the window.
When Pitcher is satisfied with your ability to move, he tucks himself back in his pants and helps you down from the desk. You go to grab your underwear, but he tsks at that, quickly grabbing the damp garments and shoving them in his pocket. You grumble at him, crossing your arms as he gives you the small mercy of pulling your bottoms back up over your now bare hips.
He wheezes at you in amusement, pinching your singed cheek before turning to collect his now dwindling molotov. You trail after him on shaky legs as he exits the room, watching as he makes his way to the nearest insertion gate. He casts one last glance at you over his shoulder, droopy eyes dead as ever as he throws you a lazy wave and disappears.
You let out a disappointed huff, already missing his presence. Wincing as a warm stream of cum starts to leak out of you, you prop yourself up against the nearest wall and force yourself to focus on mentally raking over where you’d left off with the trial’s tasks. There isn’t much left to do, so you steel yourself against the content exhaustion that has settled in your bones and the thrumming ache that has made its home between your thighs. With unsteady feet, you start making your way towards the nearest hallway.
A startled shriek tears from your lungs as a cold, clammy hand clasps over your face, tugging you back into a solid body. The sharp edge of something presses against your unmarred cheek, pressing an indent deep enough to leave warm drops of blood rolling down your jaw. Hot, moist breath fans over the back of your neck, accompanied by your captor shifting so something hard and thick can press against the dip of your lower back. Their slimy tongue flicks against your ear lobe, following the line where it connects to your jaw and eagerly lapping at the fat streaks of red that now adorn the surface.
“Now where d’you think you’re going? Just gonna leave without paying your favorite bird of prey a visit, glow-worm?”
Might be a hot second til the next fic drop — sorry y’all!
Life is straight up fucking me sideways and upside down right now lol. I’m busting my ass trying to finish out my flux core certification before the end of the semester, 2 of my coworkers are out for a while and I have to do mandatory overtime to cover for them, and I have a couple art commissions from people I know irl that I have to work on. 🥴
Headcanon requests will still be open and worked on at regular intervals!!
oh my god please make a drabble about comparing dick sizes with gideon while he's frotting and grinding readers t-dick into fine dust
sublimation
Summary - Obsessed with the more malleable qualities which your body has presented over time, Dr. Victor Gideon conducts a very personal and practical examination of your body. (780w)
(tw for: transmasc reader, frotting, pumping, size difference, teasing, self-pleasure, medical intervention, body modding)
Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi
Splayed across Victor’s lap as he spreads your legs wide enough to wrap around his seated hips, there is a sharpness in his gaze which makes you feel like a mouse about to be devoured by a particularly ravenous snake. Naked, your hands press on the soft fabric of Victor’s dark, clasped shirt – his clothing remaining undisturbed aside from his belt and fly as they sit open to allow his cock to jut free from its confines.
Angled in such a way that your cock lays flush against his own, the responsibility for your pleasure lays with your efforts and you try to keep a decent balance as you roll your hips to grind your cock into his.
Both lengths are stiff with need, his cock so heavy that it lays almost flat against his stomach where he sits while your own is painfully engorged through a mixture of arousal and the small pump which now lays abandoned on the floor.
Victor is content for the moment, his focus dipping between your flushing face and the skin-on-skin whisper of your cocks rubbing together as he keeps one large hand settled on your lower back. His thick fingers are firm against your spine, easily pinning you into place and giving you something solid to lean on as you work up an easy sweat chasing your own selfish pleasure.
His cock dwarfs your own, easily several time as large in terms of length and girth and the chill of his skin – a coolness which never seems to improve up regardless of how dressed he is or how warm the room he inhabits is – feels absolutely delicious against your heated skin.
But his silence never lasts for too long.
“Such progress in so little time.” Victor muses with a soft huff of pleasure, his wide thumb coming to rest beside your cock as he shamelessly measures it up against his digit. “Your prescribed pumping routine has accelerated the results of the hormonal injections more than anticipated.”
Given the brutality of the new pumping routing which he insisted on, you are hardly surprised by the noticeable increase in the livid glans which is now almost constantly sensitive due to his interventions.
When Victor had first discovered your cock, the hardened shaft of it only just able to jut from beneath its protective hood, his fascination was immediate and overwhelming. His knowledge of the body, inside and out, was much vaster than it had any real need to be but that? That had been something new for him to play with.
And play with it he did.
“All those foolish refusals and stubbornness,” Victor continues as he presses his thumb on your cock, “all those wasted tears and for what?” His voice drops to a whisper, something intimate and inviting as he tilts his head closer to your own and snakes his free hand higher to wrap around the back of your neck. “Do you see now that I know what’s best?”
“Yes, Dr. Gideon.” You give him the expected reply as you hump your ass against his lap, burning arousal making your thoughts fuzzy and unable to argue with him in any coherent manner.
“Good. That’s good. And what of the tenderness?”
Victor pulls back on the hood of your cock with that same thumb, the tug forces a fresh grunt from your chest as the new positioning allows more of the length to drag along his cock – greedily swiping across the length as you roll your hips again and try to target the small patches of scaling skin. The texture is wild and it’s something which you have come to love every time Victor fills you as it rubs across the gumminess of your walls and leaves you coming so hard around him that your mind fractures to a million pliable pieces
“Intense.” You gasp out, building a desperate rhythm as you hump your cock against Victor’s own as the man himself watches your shameless need with a clinical, almost predatory expression. “Please, Dr. Gideon. Can you-please?” You beg, not quite sure what you are asking for.
“You don’t need my help.” Victor purrs, the words more of a soft hiss than anything. “You will use me for your own gratification and then we will see about my own. My observation of your burgeoning evolution requires practical data after all, little mouse. I must remain focused.”
A familiar sense of aroused dread tugs at your chest at the words as Victor’s undivided attention never fails to ignite a wicked mixture of exhilaration and terror, knowing that his definition of your limitations is significantly more intense than your own.
Are you still doing HC requests? If so.. how about Unknown reacting to a mousy survivor? Maybe had a rough homelife growing up? Maybe spares them because they are not in a bully squad when they are the last one standing :')
Yup! HC requests are gonna be open for a good while. I have a lot of fun doing them! :)
Still learning about and getting used to this character, so hopefully y’all are pleased with my characterization of them. 🥴
Mousy people are nothing new to the Unknown. They’d seen plenty of timid individuals in their time before the Entity, and even within the realm, they’d observed people like Dwight and Claudette. But you? You’re a whole new level of meek.
They watch as you flinch at every small sound, your eyes wide and watery, and your hands drawn to your chest with nerves. They even see you avoiding the other survivors, noting how you seem to recoil when they talk to you.
During a match with a particularly raucous group of survivors, they get fed up with the constant antics of being blinded and stunned. They wipe out the 3 troublemakers and go looking for the last survivor, only to find you curled up in a corner away from the sacrifices.
They reach a hand out, pausing when they notice you flinch. It reminds them of some of the homes they’d observed before being taken — children flinching away from parents screaming or flailing at them. They try their best to give a reassuring smile (even if it’s only the corners of their already stretched lips tugging up the slightest bit) and softly pat your head.
“There, there. No one will hurt you.” In a gentle woman’s voice. They lift you up, feeling how tense and trembling you are, and take you to the hatch. They’ve seen other killers spare survivors who’ve been kind to them, and they take your shy, passive behavior as a form of kindness (even if unintentional). They see how you relax slightly as the hatch approaches, and you look far less nervous when they let you go.
If you approach them the next time you see them to thank them for sparing you, they’ll eagerly start sparing you in every trial. They think it’s intriguing how your behavior starts to contrast towards them in comparison to your usual reserved self. Their understanding of humans is usually pretty one-dimension, so seeing you go from being shy and flighty, to voluntarily approaching them and speaking to them is fascinating.
You love throwing bricks at him, those must hurt the most. He loudly grunts but by the time he looks up you are gone.
You use the darkness to your advantage. Following him, whispering to him, and when he spins around he gets a face full of brick. The darkness is bad enough, even worse with sunglasses, at this rate he might aswell never find you.
You jump at him from hiding spots. Kicking the locker door open right in his face. Popping up from a barrel and screaming at him, he stumbles back and you jump out and run, laughing.
You also get creative. You found or break things so you can have more than a little brick and bottles.
"Sweet dreams!" You say before you bash him over the head with a pipe you found.
Where did you even find that? Are you wrecking up the furniture? Stealing? It's hard to think when someone just happen to almost make him black out.
He hates you. Hates the thought that he's excited to see you again even more. What might you do next? He tugs on his pants. He tells himself it's cuz next time he'll be the one to get you. But it's hard when you are so good at sneaking, hiding and even able to fight him. Which gets us to the interesting part...
You're able to catch him off guard, snatch his baton from his hands and kick him to the ground. You step on his neck as he claws at your leg. He was afraid of the day when his victims would come get him back. He expected worse, because unfortunately for you, he enjoyed as you put his baton to his lower stomach and zapped him.
He was drooling from the mouth, breathing a bit faster. "...lower...please.." he managed to choke out.
Oh? Oh.
Of course, you almost forgot, this isn't painful for him. Should you give him what he wants? It would leave him with a pathetic memory of himself. Letting a mere reagent take their anger out, meanwhile he's drooling and moaning on the ground. Yes, that idea makes you happy.
You did as he pleased, and push the baton to his clothed hard cock. He gave out a 'hnng' sound as he felt it.
You kept on zapping him, sometimes pushing your boots harder on his neck. You felt him stroke your legs, most likely admiring the view. You focused your attention back to his crotch, before you got tired of hearing him babble.
"Ahh..ha-ahh...so good,, fuck, don't stop!" He tried buckling his hips up, but suddenly you sit down on his chest. You grabbed his tie and teasingly pulled on it, just as he tried to get up, to possibly get a kiss, he felt another zap go through his pants and he threw his head right back.
You put your thumb in his mouth, putting pressure on his tongue, he let his mouth open wide for you. What a slut you thought
What gets him to cum is a final zap to his abused cock as you caress the scarred side of his face.
You pet his head and mockingly tell him he's a good boy. He hates how his cock throbbed at that.
Given the chance, you went back to finish your objectives. It takes him some moment to get up. There's no way he could chase you now, not with his legs shaking, his pants a mess, he himself panting.
You just messed with the law. You won't get away with this. He wants to fight for dominance. And he wants to win.
Next time meeting him will surely make him flustered. Of course you'd remind him of what happened. He looks mad but he's red as a tomato.
You let him catch you, just so you can taunt him even more.
You sink your claws in the hand his holding his baton in, stopping him from hitting you. The other hand squeezes his arm. "Damn, you're really strong" you say, as your legs slowly drag along his, your knee pressing against his groin. He parts his mouth, clearly not having so much attention to his body like this for a while. You make sure to close it for him. You grab his shoulders to pull him down, and with all force, you hit his chin with your knee. Then kick his face, making him fall to the ground.
The little fights with him gives you so much adrenaline. You start jumping around before running out of there. He thinks its hilarious. His chin still hurt tho...
It takes him a while to even accept the fact that he loves to get into fights with you. You're such a criminal, but you're his criminal ya know?
He seductively whispers into your ears whenever you let him catch you. "You're such a little freak you know that? Making an officer all hot and bothered. You want to be punished so bad? You little criminal." He enjoys the vibration of your giggles against him.
He likes it when you pull on his tie, step on him, fight with all yer might. He never knew being dominated could feel so relieving. Don't get me wrong, you get his pulse up, yelling and swinging at you.
But you're nothing like the others. It seems as if he's more than your little stress toy. He noticed how violent you are with others aswell, it makes him laugh to see you hit and get mad at ex-pops. But it's nothing like the way you are with him. No giggles, no taunting, just pure anger and then you pay no mind to them. Besides you seek him out, keep your attention to him. That feels so special.
He eagerly awaits your arrival, hoping you'll hit him again with a side of a kiss as a bonus ♡
He watches as you struggle to sleep. His favourite little lamb. He couldn't have 'joined in' any better time.
Your head was full of his praises, but mostly his lewd comments. "Let daddy fill you up." "Only i love you." His voice vibrates in your brain.
He watches as your hands move under your blanket. He's furious. Aroused but still mad that he cannot get a good view of what perverted things you're doing. Are you caressing your skin? Teasing yourself? Or have you already began to masturbate?
The thing that makes him the happiest though, is that you brought the radio closer to your bed. You press it's button from time to time, whimper and moan as you hear him talk. You're getting off just by hearing him! It warms his heart, and makes his cock throb.
His little lamb loves him. You don't ever want to leave him do you? Not from the way he sees it. He makes sure of it next time you finish a trial, instead of the sleep room, you will be sent straight to his office. Will it be 'cuz of a good or a bad grade? Praise or punishment will be your fate? He's already excited to find out.
He strokes himself through his pants, trying to stay quiet to hear you better. He wishes you would moan louder, like you wouldn't be ashamed to scream his name in the dead of the night.
Your hands gripping the sheet, you hump your pillow. He groans at every little twitch your body makes. You look so desperate.
He imagines you in his lap. You'd look so sweet! If only he could be right next to you, he'd help you. And he knows you'd embrace him, let him take control, let him do whatever he wants to you. He'd fill you up with pleasures you'd never felt before. If only he was there..
His heart almost stops when he hears you quietly moan his name. Even if you can't hear it, he encourages you, he tells you through the screen how good you are being, to keep going, make daddy proud-
Lost in his own babbling he cums. Just right after him, he hears you finally moan louder as you finish. Breathing loudly, sweat covering him, he can't take his eyes off you. As you calm down, you hug your blanket, and drift off. He just hopes, no, he knows you imagined hugging him.
He helped you cum, he helped you fall asleep, and he will keep on helping you. Just you wait.
