daydreaming about sucking cherries free from between touya’s teeth into your mouth—he won’t let you pluck them from the bag yourself, nor will he feed them to you using his fingers. if you want a cherry, you’re going to have to siphon it from his mouth into yours. and then, when you’re done, you’re not allowed to spit out the pit—oh no, touya will take that from you, too, large tongue scooping into your mouth to remove the hard tiny seed, spitting it carelessly in the grass beside you. then the cycle repeats.
sometimes you’re too aggressive, or he’s biting too tightly, and the edges of teeth pierce the flesh, dribbles of sticky crimson streaming down chins, but don’t worry, touya will clean that up too, with puckered lips and a laving tongue. just a cute, fun way to share a summer fruit together <3
🐊 featuring: {separate}: 𝐱𝐢𝐚𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐡𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
🐊 tw: yandere themes ⭐︎ non/dubcon ⭐︎ kidnapping ⭐︎ delusions ⭐︎ they’re mean es shii ⭐︎ two faced asl ⭐︎ sadism ⭐︎ masochism ⭐︎ bondage ⭐︎ footjob ⭐︎ spanking ⭐︎ degradation ⭐︎ babytrapping ⭐︎ choking ⭐︎ manhandling ⭐︎ face sitting (m! receiving) ⭐︎ 69 ⭐︎ rimming ⭐︎ feminization ⭐︎ lingerie ⭐︎ collar ⭐︎ humiliation ⭐︎ hair pulling ⭐︎ stockholm syndrome ⭐︎
🐊 an: ah yes, time to feed the twink lovers, wish you luck ♡
🐊 HEIZOU — Knick-knack!
The collar snaps before your eyes finish rolling.
Leather biting sharp into your throat – not tight enough to choke, just cruelly reminding you he already knew you'd try it.
It forces a sharp gasp out of you—one you don't get to finish, because Heizou's already using that strip of leather to drag you right back between his legs.
Knuckles skimming your jaw as he guides your head down, unbothered, like he'd mapped out every move you were going to make before you made them.
One moment you’re glaring.
Next, your mouth is full of him.
His cock slides hot and heavy over your tongue, and the startled glkh!— that bursts out of you only makes his grin sharpen.
"There she is," he says, voice bright and almost clinical. "I gave you three opportunities to stop before it got to this point. You picked this."
You barely manage a sputter before he adjusts the collar again—SNAP!—tightening it to borderline cut off airflow.
His expression doesn't go cold so much as settle — as if he's arrived somewhere he expected to be. You glare up at him on instinct.
Heizou’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a present.
"Oh, still brave," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip with idle curiosity, like he's noting it down somewhere. "Predictable, but brave. Don't use your teeth, sweetheart. I already know you're thinking about it."
You don’t get to protest.
Before he slams his hips upward, seating himself deeper in your throat so fast your nose hits his skin. His cock nudges a place you're not ready for, your throat seizing around him as your vision spots.
glk!- glkh- glk
Breath stuttering, lashes fluttering as he watches your throat struggle around him.
"T-there it is," he sighs, pleased in that infuriating, already-knew-it way he has. "Much more honest than whatever smart little comment you… were... hah… about to make. I clocked the exact wording, by the way. Would've been a good one."
You dig your nails into his thighs hard, a silent ‘go fuck yourself.’
The sound you make next — a humiliating, involuntary little choke — made you cringe… and him lose composure entirely.
Making Heizou moaned loudly, head tipping back, a low breathless "Ah–!" slipping out before he could catch it, olive eyes fluttering like your defiance knocked something loose in his chest he hadn't accounted for.
First thing he hadn't accounted for.
He stares back down at you, something flickering in his expression — recalculating. Then that grin returns, slower this time. More interested.
"Hm." His thumb drags your lip down, watching the spit string between skin. "You keep doing things I don't predict. Do you know how rare that is?"
Loosening the collar just enough for you to gasp—wrong move. Your pride flares, and you try to snap back, but all that comes out is a vibration against his cock, a choked mmph! that makes his hips jerk.
"Look at you," he says, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen, holding it on his thumb like it's a clue. "Still fighting. Still dripping. And you think I can't tell which one you're more embarrassed about."
Then he's guiding your head back down—slow, but not merciful—letting his cock drag over every tender inch of your tongue while he keeps watching.
slrp!—mmph!—glk!
He follows the tremor in your thighs like a bloodhound.
Watches them press together, you pretending it's not happening. He clocked the exact moment your hips gave the smallest, traitorous twitch toward him.
"There it is.." quietly, to himself more than you, "You know~," he continues, tilting his head, "I wasn't planning to use more than one hand today. But you're so full of-” Then something warm slides between your knees. “-surprises.”
His foot.
The arch nudges your thighs apart, slow and so casual — like it's the obvious next logical step — exposing your soaked underwear to the cool air.
“Hm?” he coos, voice all faux-gentle mockery. "You're already this wet, and we're barely into the hypothesis."
His thumb traces idle circles on the leather strap. "Your body keeps contradicting itself. That's going to be a problem for you."
You try to shake your head — trembling, furious denial — but the collar stops the motion dead. His foot presses in, slow and deliberate, rubbing just enough friction against your panties to make your breath stutter out through your nose.
"You look furious," Heizou observes, voice soft with something worse than mockery — genuine fascination. "You should see your own face right now. You're trying so hard."
Foot rubbing in that same terrifying precision he puts into everything — deliberate circles right against your soaked panties. The pressure is perfect — teasing your swollen clit through the thin fabric while his cock stays buried deep in your throat.
"Every single time I discipline you," shaft still buried deep in your throat, foot working you toward something you're desperately trying not to give him, "your body does this. I've noted it. I have a very thorough record."
You try to grumble around him, but it only comes out as a wet, vibrating mmph that makes his length twitch on your tongue.
Heizou chuckles, low and delighted.
“Oh? You like that?” His foot moves faster, rubbing firm strokes up and down your dripping slit, toes curling to press right against your clit. “Look at you… trying so badly to glare at me while your pussy’s grinding against my foot like a desperate little whore.”
The combination is too much.
Your moan vibrates wildly around his length as your orgasm crashes through you — humiliating, what's worse is that he doesn't even look surprised.
"Mhm." He watches you shake apart with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose theory was confirmed exactly on schedule. "Right on time."
Not giving you a second to recover, his hips chase his own high with the same focused efficiency he does everything else, collar keeping you exactly where the evidence requires you to be.
With a low, unraveling moan — the least composed sound he's made all night — Heizou buries himself deep and cums.
He holds you through every pulse, breathing hard, that careful control finally fraying at the edges.
When he finally pulls back, thumb smearing across your swollen lip, he looks down at you with something that isn't quite the grin from earlier.
More like the face he makes when he's solved something that actually took effort.
"Good girl." Soft. Sincere, almost. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead — unhurried, like punctuation. "You know what the most interesting part of all of this is?"
Oh god
He tilts your chin up. "You already know exactly why you keep ending up here. You just haven't admitted it to yourself yet."
Grinning, eyeing your trembling form. "I'll wait. I'm patient. I already know the answer."
He gives the collar one last gentle tug.
"Knick-knack.~"
🐊 KAZUHA — W.T.F.
“K-KAZUHA WHAT T-THE FUCKKK!—”
Your voice cracks–as he slams into you, deep-deep-deep, the force of it yanking your silk-bound wrists taut against the beam above. The ropes creak as your spine arches.
And Kazuha just watches, amber eyes half-lidded, like he’s admiring the way your body jolts with every thrust.
Fingers cave into your hips, digging past the surface, marking you obsessively. He drives home with a smoothness that shouldn't be this brutal, each roll of his body a new lesson in how much you can endure.
One thrust.
Two.
Counting the hitches in your chest, timing his pace to the exact second your breath fails you.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, voice soft as a lullaby. His hips snap forward—hard—and your gasp catches high in your chest, stuck.
“Is it the bindings?...” His thumb strokes your inner thigh, gently. “Or losing your Vision?”
He says it with a terrifying ease. He’d turned that stolen glass over in his palm earlier, eyes wide and worshiping, before tying you open and filling you.
Your body bounces with every stroke, helpless. “Hahh—!” spills out when he drags you down harder, his grip tightening, fingertips pressing deep enough to leave marks.
The pace picks up—smooth, controlled, relentless—like he’s chasing the sound of your breath shattering.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
The wet smack of skin on skin echoes across the water, obscene.
“Easy…” his breath is a warm ghost against your skin, but his weight is a solid, punishing reality stretching you open. “You keep tightening around me like this—”
A particularly vicious thrust punches the air straight out of your lungs, leaving you hollow. “—I might think you enjoy it.”
“I DON’T—” The words snap out, hot and immediate, but they lose their edge halfway.
Something is failing in the back of your skull. Your thoughts are sluggish, stalling, sinking into a gray fog.
Behind him, the box pulses with a weak, dying rhythm—your Pyro Vision guttering out, its fire turning to ash. You wrench your eyes away because the sight of your own fading ambition is a physical ache.
Kazuha grinds into you, a slow, cruel pressure right where your nerves are rawest, before driving up with a sudden, jarring force.
“Nghh—FUCK—!” It spills out, unbidden. Kazuha just exhales a quiet laugh against your cheek.
You hate the scent of him—cedar and salt air.
Hate the softness of his hair, untouched by the violence of his hips.
Most of all, you hate the memory of the same hand currently bruising your hip, tucking a blanket around your shoulders this morning.
You were something precious then.
Now, you’re just a prize.
The hate is there, but it’s slipping through your fingers, dissolving into the void where your Vision used to be.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice a low vibration in your ear as he thrusts deeper. Schlk…schlk…schlk filling you sends a forced heat racing up your spine. “-my songbird is one of a kind~.”
“KAZUHA I SWEAR TO ARCHONS-” But your voice cracks. The fury is a cavernous gap, feeling emptier by the second.
Another brutal snap of his hips makes your back arch, the beam above you groaning under the strain.
“I thought you’d want it like this,” puzzled, a quiet, private observation. He pouts—a look of pure, confused innocence—while his thumb traces a slow, heavy line up your clit. “You said I was always too soft.”
His shaft pulsed a deliberate, agonizing hesitation just to watch you squirm.
“So I figured…” Another thrust, deeper, meaner. “…you’d like it rough.”
You try to muster up the strength to glare holes into him, but you could only whimper in despair at the effects of not having your vision increase.
Kazuha tilts his head slightly, watching the way your wrists strain against the ropes like you’re testing whether the knots might suddenly grow merciful.
“I’m sorry,” voice dropping, quieter. Almost apologetic, “it has to be like this.”
The sorrow in his eyes is real. Genuine.
It changes absolutely nothing about the pace of his hips.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving as he adjusts his grip — one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your leg higher, spreading you wider.
You can feel it…the hollowness spreads slowly through your limbs like something being gently, methodically unplugged.
"Kaz..." Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "Kazuha, you said…hah y-you always said–"
"I know what I said." He says it softly, watching your face with that unbearable attentiveness, like he's memorizing something. "I meant it. Every word."
His hips roll forward, slow and thorough, and the sound that escapes you isn't angry at all. "I still mean it."
"Tch then why–"
"Because–" and here his composure cracks, "you were gunna to leave n' not come back- heh." fingers fondling your nipple, making you arch just perfectly into him as he pumps his thickened inches through every peak.
"And- I found," he continues, breathless now, white hair falling across his face as he drives deeper, "that I believe in your freedom–" thrust "completely–" thrust "except for that."
The boat sways, adding more force to his thrusts.
He chuckles darkly to himself, a tone you've never heard before. He swirls n' swirls his globular tip, the perfect rounded shape to press into your nerves.
And somewhere in the growing heaviness behind your eyes, you're realizing horribly, humiliatingly... that your hips have started moving back to meet him.
Kazuha notices it, his eyes going soft, reaching up to cup your cheek with a gentleness that has absolutely no friggin business being here right now.
"See?" like he's been waiting this whole time to say it. "Isn't this better than leaving?"
You don't answer, you can't tell anymore if the withdrawal is talking or something worse.
He angled slightly – deeper, more deliberate – and your whole body lurches forward with it, the ropes catching you, swinging you right back onto him.
Sloppy sounds fill up the whole cabin until there's no room for anything else. Including your thoughts.
They keep arriving slower now, holding more weight, and you're not sure if you can keep holding onto hate anymore.
Or even remember why you were so upset in the first place.
He feels it immediately – the shift in you. Kazuha has always been terrifyingly good at reading things.
Wind.
Weather...The exact moment you're about to stop denying him.
"Ah-" You gasp- he grinds into your poor, bruised g-spot. "I-i… m’still f-fuckin’ angryy–"
"Of course," kissing up your neck, he inhaled deeply, smiling against you, "You're allowed to be."
"That's not-" A whine punches out of you when he rolls his hips just so. "That's not what I– ngh– t-that's not the point!—"
"Then what is my love?"
And you open your mouth to tell him. You have the answer…you know you do, it was right there a moment ago, something about how wrong this is, something about him taking your vision, something about how this isn't what you wanted.
His shaft drags slowww and thoroughly across that spot inside you, and every single word dissolves.
"Hm~?" Kazuha waits expectantly as the thoughts leave your face, morphing into something that isn't guilt anymore.
"It's alright." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You don't have to say it."
…He's already decided, somewhere in that poetic, completely unwell little heart of his, that this is love. That this is the right thing, that you'll understand eventually.
"Fuhck- ah! Kazu—" hips rolling back to meet him before you even register doing it—He shivers a single tremor moving through that carefully composed body, his breath catching audibly.
His rhythm stutters for just a fraction of a second. And then it happens — the thing he's been holding back since he tied you in the boats for days now.
"Y-you feel—" He stops, then tries again. "You feel so—" he really can't finish it.
Those eyes have gone somewhere glassy and distant — still looking at you, but seeing something past the surface of you, something he's been navigating toward for a very long time-
Both arms wrapping around you, silk ropes and all, folding you into him like something he's been holding in his hands for years and is only now allowing himself to keep.
His cock pulses deep. His breath comes apart completely.
"Don't leave," he moans into your hair, and it’s not a request or a command either. He’s already made up his mind and refuses to be argued with. “Don't leave. Don't leave. Don't—"
Your mouth falls slack, and you bring what little energy you have to bite into your fist as you scream, cumming all over his shaft.
Your walls clenching around him, as a sound slipped out, one you're sure you’ll be embarrassed about later.
Kazuha grunts, a hand jumping to his mouth, trying not to be loud.
Juices connecting you two, losing the careful rhythm entirely, and then he's shuddering against you, spilling deep, face buried in your neck, lips moving against your skin in something that might be your name or might be an unhinged poem or both.
Your vision flickers once behind him…going out.
…
The boat rocks gently in the silence that follows, his arms wrapped around you, holding you softly.
After a long moment, you hear him sigh.
"Im sorry..." A pause. "I just thought this was kinder."
🐊 KINICH — Got his lick back
SMACK!
"AH—!"
The sharp crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room like a hunter’s whip.
Your cry breaks out raw and humiliating, but Kinich doesn’t give you a second to breathe. His hand stays glued to the stinging flesh, squeezing hard enough to feel the heat bloom under his fingers while his other hand slides between your slick thighs.
“Spread.” Flat. Commanding. No room for argument.
You don’t.
So he forces you anyway — two fingers pushing past your dripping folds, stretching you open with that terrifying precision, curling right against the soft, spongy spot that makes your vision spark white.
The second your hips jerk forward to escape, his fist locks into your hair and yanks you right back onto his lap like a leash.
“Already this wet?” A low, almost thoughtful hum leaves him as he pulls his fingers free.
A thick, glossy string of your slick stretches between your hole and his fingertip, catching the low light.
“Running again… but your pussy keeps begging me to stay.”
You try to snap something back — anything — but he’s already lining up. The flared, swollen head of his cock nudges against your entrance once, twice, then pushes in with one merciless slide that steals every word from your throat.
“F-fuck- Kinich-!”
He bottoms out in one smooth glide, stretching you wide around his thick length until you feel him pressing right against the entrance of your womb.
Buried deep, letting your walls flutter and clench desperately around him while his breath ghosts hot against the back of your neck.
“You keep running,” he says quietly, almost thoughtfully, as he pulls back just enough to slam in again. The wet slap of skin on skin is filthy.
“Every time I tell you to stay. Every time you look at me like you’re already gone.”
SMACK!
Your body jerks hard at the next spank, a broken cry ripping from your throat.
Before you can crawl away, his arm hooks around your waist and hauls you right back down onto his cock, pinning you flat to the slick floor. The woven texture bites into your tits and stomach as he forces you to take every brutal inch.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls low, the first real crack in that calm tone.
His hips snap forward harder, cockhead smacking mercilessly into your cunt with every precise thrust. “You’re not leaving Natlan. Not again.”
Smooth, deep rolls of his hips that drag his veiny length along every sensitive ridge inside you. Your voice climbs higher, cracking on whimpers you can’t swallow down.
Drool slips from the corner of your mouth onto the floor while your thighs shake violently.
“Kinich-! puhleaseeee- it’s too much—”
“It’s not.” Another punishing thrust. “You can take it. You will.”
His hand snakes underneath you, fingers finding your swollen clit.
He pinches and rolls merciless little circles that have your walls clamping down around his cock like a vice. Your whole body seizes, pussy gushing slick down his length as he keeps fucking you through it.
“Don’t know why- Ngh-,” he rasps against your neck, voice fraying at the edges now, breath coming shorter. “Y’kept leaving me. Why ya- won’t stay put. ”
"Th-that's not— ah— that's not your problem!-"
"You made it my problem." A thrust that punches the air clean out of you. “So I found a solution. Gonna fill this tight little cunt until you’re swollen with my kid. Then you won’t have a choice.”
The words hit you like lightning. Your mind blanks for a second– “Wai-what—”
His cock swirls deep.
Pushing deeeep, his fingers pick up pace on your clit, dragging you toward something you've been denying this whole time, your walls fluttering desperately, your voice climbing so high it cracks—“No!- t-that’s genuinely insane!”
"It isn’t." He held a small, satisfied smile.
"That’s not a solution, that’s literally—fuckkkk!"
But your body betrays you completely, cutting you off. Your walls flutter wildly around him, milking his cock as a devastating orgasm rips through you.
You came hard, screaming into the floor, tears streaming, thighs clamping shut around his hand while your pussy spasms and gushes.
Kinich groans low, the sound raw and animalistic, the first time that perfect hunter composure truly fractures.
His hips stutter once, twice, then he buries himself to the hilt with a sharp snap, pressing so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.
“HNGH!—”
Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your womb — pulse after heavy pulse, so much and so warm it spills out around his pulsing cock almost instantly, smearing sticky and obscene between your bodies.
Grinding deep through every wave, slow and deliberate, like he’s determined to push every drop as far inside you as physically possible.
His arm stays locked tight around your middle, tattooed bicep flexing against your stomach, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“…Your body thinks it’s a perfect solution,” he breathes against your sweat-damp neck, voice hoarse but still terrifyingly calm. “Stop fighting it.”
You’re still shaking, still fluttering around his spent cock, when the reality crashes back in.
Tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes as you try to twist away from him, voice cracking with raw upset.
“No,” you choke out, voice hoarse and furious even while your pussy keeps weakly clenching around him like it’s trying to keep every drop he just gave you.
“I’m not getting pregnant. I’m not letting you trap me like this— you can’t just- you can’t-”
He doesn’t pull out.
If anything, Kinich sinks a little deeper, grinding the head of his cock against your overfilled cervix like he’s sealing it. His lips brush the shell of your ear, calm as ever, but the grip on your waist tightens possessively.
“You already are,” he stares, almost fondly. “Or you will be. Soon.”
You pushed him off hard, “Like hell–”
.
.
🐊
A month later, the humid air inside the Scions of Canopys midwife’s hut feels too thick to breathe.
You’re sitting on the low mat, knees drawn tight together like that might somehow undo everything, while the older woman hums softly and presses careful fingers along your lower belly.
Nausea still clings to the back of your throat. Your breasts ache. Certain smells make you want to retch.
You already know what she’s going to say.
Your captor behind you like a silent sentinel — arms loosely crossed, green-gold eyes half-lidded but missing nothing.
The midwife finally sits back on her heels, expression unreadable for a long beat.
“Congratulations! You're expecting,” she says, no question in her voice, your stomach dropping.
“It seems you're a month along, oh! The baby is healthy…you would be due…”
As the midwife drones on and on, pointing at the chart, you craned your head to glare at Kinich meeting his expectant gaze.
His expression, for once, was readable, and it only conveyed one thing:
‘You can deny it all you want, you’re stuck.’
🐊 LOHEN — Denial is a river
“LOHEN LET ME DOWN—YOU DONE LOST YO MIND.”
You thrashed wildly, hanging upside down from the thick rope coiled tight around your ankle.
The world swayed in sickening circles, blood rushing straight to your head while your own heartbeat hammered in your ears.
Dignity? Gone. Long gone.
Meanwhile, Lohen was losing his shit.
Full-body, stomach-clenching laughter poured out of him as he bent over, one hand braced on his knee, as if he might actually collapse from how hilarious you were.
Red eyes squinted with pure delight, tears pricking at the corners while he wheezed.
“HA- holy shit!-” He dragged in a gasping breath, still grinning like a maniac. “You really walked straight into that one. Fuck, you’re adorable.~”
He finally straightened up and stalked closer, head tilted as he studied your flushed, upside-down face.
That manic little smile curled slowly and hungrily across his lips, one that promised nothing good.
“You actually thought you could escape me?” he cooed, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Cute. Real cute.”
You glared hard enough to burn holes through him.
Lohen only stepped even closer, until he was right in front of your swaying body.
Two fingers reached out and squished your cheeks together like you were some grumpy little creature he’d caught.
“Look at that face,~” he sang, eyes sparkling with pure unhinged joy.
You jerked your head and sank your teeth into his thumb — hard.
A low, genuine, filthy sound punched straight out of his chest. His eyes fluttered, lashes kissing his cheeks.
You pulled back, staring at him in pure disgust and disbelief.
He stared right back, looking almost surprised at himself for half a second… before that wild grin crawled back onto his face, twice as wide.
“Fuck I think I just came a bit…Do that again.”
This fucking freak
His hand finds your face again - cradles it, almost, which was somehow more unsettling than if he'd gripped it.
Thumb pressing into your cheek while your head kept spinning, and the rope creaked above you.
“You’re turning such a pretty shade.~” voice soft and sweet like poison. “Wow, are ya really that happy I’m touching you?”
“YOU PSYCHOTIC LITTLE—”
“Mhm,” Lohen cut you off smoothly, not even listening. His eyes dragged over you slowly and warmly, completely shameless. “Most people would’ve seen the rope, y’know,” he said, like you weren’t literally hanging upside down from his trap.
“Well, most people aren’t being fucking hunted-”
“Nope.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, gentle and obsessive all at once.
“Just you… ‘cause iiiii loooove yooouuu.~” He drew the words out in that obnoxious, singsong way that made your skin crawl and your stomach flip at the same time.
You rolled your eyes so hard it made you dizzy.
Lohen hummed, tilting his head as he watched you sway.
That dangerous little smile never left his face while he tapped one finger against his chin like he was thinking.
“Now~” he purred, smirk widening with wicked promise.
“How should we fix that nasty little attitude of yours…?”
Fuck
.
.
🐊
“Cmon what are ya waitingggg forrr?”
You’re straddling him, completely humiliated, his thick cock buried to the hilt inside you while he lounges back like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
Hands tucked lazily behind his head, mint-green hair splayed wild across the grass, that damn beauty mark crinkling as he grins up at you with pure psychotic delight.
You’re not moving.
Not one fucking inch, half out of overstimulation, half out of pure spite.
SMACK!
His palm cracks hard across your ass, the sharp sting making you jerk upward with a broken yelp.
The sudden movement drags your dripping walls along every veiny inch of him, Lohen moaning loud and shameless beneath you, biting his lips like he just tasted heaven.
“There ya gooo~” he coos, voice syrupy sweet with fake innocence. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I fuckin’ hate you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs, low and wheezy, eyes sparkling as he tracks every furious twitch on your face. “You gonna move properly, or do I gotta smack that pretty ass red again?”
You barely move.
Slow. Grudging.
The most resentful little roll of your hips that’s ever existed.
Throwing his head back he bursts into loud, unhinged laughter. “HAHAAH— fuck, look at you! So madddd~ So fucking upset and still creaming all over my cock.”
“Are you deadass right now-? Of course I’m mad-!”
“Faster.”
“What—?”
“Faster,” he repeats helpfully, tilting his head with that manic little grin. “You’re going reeeaaally slow, baby. My dick’s getting bored.”
You’re going to kill him.
Fuck it.
You’re going to cum and then kill him.
But your cunt says otherwise, pussy fluttering and sucking greedily around his thick length, no matter how much you glare at him.
Lohen’s eyes darken with hungry delight. He suddenly sits up, arms wrapping around your waist like steel bands, yanking you down flush against his chest.
Shaft grinding deep, bullying right against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision spark white.
“F—fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, that primal edge slipping into his voice. “One more, yeah? Just one more f'me, pretty thing.”
“Lohen, you’ve said that,” You batted your eyes, fighting the pleasure, “-for hours, lemme go!”
“Mmm, doesn’t sound like an answer,” he purrs, rolling his hips up in a filthy, precise way that makes your toes curl. “Doesn’t sound like you’re saying no to me.”
He doesn’t even wait for your reply.
His forearms hook under your thighs, spreading you wide open like a ragdoll as he starts rutting up into you harder.
Wet, sloppy sounds fill the air with every thrust — squelch-squelch-squelch — his cockhead kissing your cervix over and over like he’s trying to knock right through it.
“Hm? Hah- mmph!, seems like someone agrees with me.~” he laughs breathlessly against your ear, nipping at the shell with sharp teeth. “Your pussy’s the one begging for more. Greedy little thing keeps gulping me down like she never wants me to leave.~”
You try to squirm, try to plant your feet and lift off him even a little, but Lohen just tightens his grip and fucks up into you even meaner, bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing.
“Hahhh?? Running again~?” he tuts, voice mockingly sweet. “Nahhh, we still got s’much more rounds to go, baby. Five? Or is it six? I lost count already.”
Your mind was blanking out; you've been doing this for so long, you couldn’t even form coherent sentences. “Fuh- no- mgh- I’m d-done!”
"Your pussy's not done~."
“My- p-puhssy–! Don’t getta vote!” You shatter instantly — eyes rolling back, a broken scream ripping out of you as your sixth orgasm crashes through your exhausted body.
Lohen screams loudly while your walls milk him tight, but he doesn’t stop.
“Ohh-Fuck fuck fuck! Here’s ah!- another one, baby!-” Cumming hard with you, filling you up - he keeps thrusting through your high, chasing every last flutter like a man possessed.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your already overstuffed cunt. Grinding deeper, chasing every last flutter like a man completely possessed.
“Mmm—hah, there it is,~” he moans happily, beauty mark crinkling as he grins against your sweat-slick neck. Mint-green hair sticks to his forehead, messy and wild. “Good girl. That wasn’t for you, though~ That was all for this pretty pussy of mine.”
You’re sobbing now, chest heaving, body twitching uncontrollably in his lap. But Lohen just keeps bouncing you on his still-hard cock, slow and filthy, like he could do this forever.
“And she’s telling me…” he drawls, voice sing-song dropping into something darker, more dangerous, lips brushing your ear, “that you can handle three more.♡”
You flop forward against his chest, boneless and whimpering, barely able to hold yourself up. “A-asshole… h-hate you…”
Lohen’s manic laughter rings in your ear as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, never once letting his cock slip out of your spasming heat.
“Keep fighting it, baby. Keep telling me how much you hate me.” He leans down, eyes glowing with lovesick affection as he starts pounding you into the grass. “Makes my dick so fucking hard when you lie like that.”
You cry out, nails raking down his back as he folds you nearly in half, knees pressed to your chest.
Every thrust is loud, messy, obscene — the constant squelch of his cum being fucked deeper into you, the slap of skin, your broken sobs mixing with his breathless laughter.
“Look at her,” he coos, glancing down between your bodies where his cock disappears into your puffy, cream-filled pussy. “Still sucking me in so hungrily. Seems like she doesn’t wanna let go, does she?”
“Stop- I can’t-!!”
“You can,” he laughs softly, leaning down to bite your bottom lip. “And you will. ‘Cause every time you say you’re done… this cute cunt just begs for more.”
Picking up speed, pounding you into the grass with relentless, mind-melting strokes. Staring straight into your tear-filled eyes, beauty mark crinkling with that same unhinged grin.
“Three more, f’me baby. Then maybe- maybe I’ll let ya rest.~” His hands push your legs up to your head, angling deeper, making your eyes roll.
“Or maybe I’ll just keep going until you forget how to say the word ‘no’ at all.~”
🐊 LYNEY — Hole dirtier than laundry!
You're so sure you're going to fucking suffocate at this rate.
Lyney’s perched on your face like he weighs nothing, knees planted on either side of your head in the middle of his messy bed, sheets already twisted and half-pulled off the mattress.
That skimpy little lingerie set he’d been hiding under his coat all evening still clinging to his slender frame—purple lace stretched taut over his flushed cock, the thin strap of the thong shoved to the side so his pretty, leaking hole could sit right against your mouth.
The fabric’s soaked through already and so is he.
He’d wanted this for weeks.
The filthy thought had lived rent-free in that pretty head of his ever since the first time you turned your face away from his goodnight kiss.
Then again, when you shoved his hand off your waist.
Then again, when you told him to “fuck off” like it was nothing.
Every denial made it worse.
He got nervous—actually nervous—thinking you’d hate it.
That you’d push him off and call him disgusting for wanting something so selfish, so greedy.
But tonight you’d denied him one too many times, pushed him away with that same cold little glare, and this was the perfect excuse.
Discipline
Clean. Simple.
He could finally do it and blame you for making him snap.
Except he's the one losing his breath — soft, shaky exhales spilling from those painted lips every time your tongue brushes against his rim. That carefully constructed composure dissolves, piece by piece, every time you move beneath him.
“Mmmh—!” He grinds down harder, your hands flailing against his thighs, nails digging into lace and soft skin. “Cat got your tongue, mon amour~?”
His voice is all theatrical breathiness, that signature charm cracking at the edges.
Shifting his weight just enough for you to gasp in a desperate breath, only to sink back down again — ass firmly planted on your face, rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles.
The wet heat of his hole drags over your lips, your tongue, smearing slick and lube everywhere.
The sound Lyney makes when you're forced to lick him is loud enough that the entire wing's probably filing a noise complaint right now.
Ash-blond hair with that tiny braid falls messily around his face, violet eyes fluttering shut, cat-like pupils blown wide.
“F-fuck… just like- that!—ngh!”
His slender fingers fist the sheets above your head, hips twitching every time your tongue pushes inside.
“D-didn’t think you’d be so… eager to clean me up after all those- ah! Nasty words you threw at me this week. You sure you didn’t want this?~”
He laughs breathless, a little unhinged—and the sound melts into another whimper when you suck on his rim trying to get air.
The lingerie thong keeps slipping back into place, and he has to keep tugging it aside with shaky fingers, the lace now completely drenched.
"Haah — look at you. Flailing around.~" Another slow grind, deliberate and mean, his cock twitching hard against the lace as it leaks onto his stomach. "But you're not pushing me off, are you? No… you're licking deeper. Mmph!~."
You thrash hard, punching at his thighs, trying to get this sick man off your face. He either mistakes it for enthusiasm or simply doesn't care — the effect is the same.
His thighs shake harder, athletic muscles flexing as he rides your tongue with more urgency. That guarded side is completely gone.
Replaced by something rawer.
The need to be wanted so badly that it overrides everything else.
"Keep going, mon amour," he pants, voice pitching higher, "because if you stop — hngh — I swear I'll sit here until morning. Until you forget every nasty word you said to me… and only remember this."
His fingers thread into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face exactly where he wants it.
Not until he’s satisfied. Not until you’re his again—completely.
He can feel it building — hot, coiling, dangerous. And he refuses to finish like this, not when he hasn't taken everything.
With a shaky laugh that doesn't quite hide the edge beneath it, Lyney finally lifts off your face — justttt enough for you to drag in a ragged breath, spit and slick smeared across your lips.
Lungs burning as you try to speak—“Lyney, wait—” and before you can get a single word out-
His cock impales your mouth in one smooth thrust—thick, leaking, stretching your lips wide around the base of his shaft.
You choke instantly, eyes watering, the sudden fullness reducing every word you had to a wet gluck-gluck-gluck.
His thighs lock firmly beside your head. "Mmmph — there we go." He rocks into your throat with shallow, greedy thrusts, voice dropping as his face disappears between your thighs. "That's it. Let me feel how sorry you are."
Leaning down his tongue is immediate and merciless — lapping, sucking, flicking over your clit with a precision that feels almost unfair.
One hand grips your thigh hard enough to bruise. The other presses flat against your stomach, pinning you exactly where he wants you.
You push at his hips, a muffled protest vibrating around his length — he just rolls deeper, unhurried, his cock fucks your mouth in the same rhythm.
The room echoes with the wet sounds of him thrusting into your throat, mixed with the slurps of his mouth on your cunt.
"Don't- fight it, mon amour," he groans against your spreaded folds, the words vibrating straight into your core. "You don't get to push me away anymore. Not after all those mean words."
He sucks hard on your clit, hips stuttering as he holds back his own orgasm. "Not after telling me to leave like I'm nothing."
The lace thong is still tangled around his balls, rubbing against the bridge of your nose with every shallow thrust. His tongue curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside—matching the way his cock bullies the back of your throat.
Your moans of reluctant protest are drowned out by his cock, completely overstimulated by how much of him you're feeling at once.
Every thrust pushes him deeper, every swirl of his tongue makes your legs shake. Whimpering into your cunt, the sound vibrating through you, but the words that slip out between licks are pure silk-wrapped venom.
"If I have to do this every night until you stop denying me—" A sharp suck on your clit. "—then I will."
His cock throbs heavily on your tongue. "I'll keep you right here. Until the only thing you know how to do is stay."
You try to pull off—hands slapping at his hips, a broken sob ripping from your throat around his shaft—but he just angles deeper.
The filthy gluck-gluck-gluck of him fucking your mouth fills your brain, your eyes streaming tears that mix with the spit dripping down your chin.
And he doesn’t stop, tongue lashes harder between your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth with a lewd pop! before flattening it again.
Mean. Possessive. Trying to pull your orgasm out by force.
Your thighs shake around his head, hips jerking up involuntarily as the pressure coils tighter-too much, too fast, too-
You cum with a shattered cry that vibrates straight down his cock.
Creamy slick gushes over his tongue, thighs clamping around his ears, and Lyney moans like he’s the one breaking. Holding himself right there on the edge—cock twitching wildly in your throat—until your walls start fluttering hard.
“F-fuck—ngh, that’s it—give it to me-”
His cock pulses hard on your tongue, swelling thicker, and then he’s cumming too.
Rope after rope shoots straight down your throat, thick and hot, until you’re choking on it, coughing up his seed around the length still buried between your lips.
He doesn’t pull out. Just keeps shallow-thrusting through it, forcing you to swallow every drop while he drinks you down like he’s dying of thirst.
The room spins. Your lungs burn. Tears won’t stop. While Lyney stays there a second longer, chest heaving, hips still twitching with the aftershocks.
Panting, he eased cock from your mouth with a slurp!
Strings of cum and spit connect your swollen lips to his tip. Lyney watches it break with half-lidded violet eyes, his cheek flushed red.
You’re still sobbing softly, chest heaving, when he finally flips around. He curls over you, pressing soft kisses to your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling lips, like he didn’t just fuck your face and sit on you for "punishment".
“Shhh… mon amour,” he whispers, voice sweet as sugar, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “See? Wasn’t so bad. You took me so well… my perfect little assistant.”
Lyney's fingers thread back into your hair, holding you there as he nuzzles against your neck.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.” A soft, theatrical little laugh brushes your ear.
“Or tomorrow.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth, tasting himself on you.
“Or ever.”
🐊 XIAO — Bite first. Regret later
BAM!
"I'm leaving- ” The wall meets your back before you finish the sentence. “-Xiao. I mean it this–"
The impact rattled your teeth, your breath was punched clean out of your lungs, he was just across the room, teleporting in a haze of green and black, shoving you against the wall.
Another sharp gasp to follow when Xiao drove into you again, deeper, meaner, like he was trying to carve his place inside you permanently.
This is the problem.
This has always been the problem.
He doesn't talk to you, doesn't tell you he needs you, doesn't acknowledge what this even is, what you are to him — just pulls you close when it gets too heavy and expects that to be enough.
Weeks of silence.
Weeks of watching him look straight through you like you're something precious he refuses to name because naming it would make it real, and real things can be taken away.
You're exhausted.
Your legs stayed locked tight around his narrow waist, thighs trembling violently.
"I—" You push at his shoulders. He doesn't move. "Stop. I said I'm leaving—"
The only thing keeping you from sliding down the wall was his iron grip on your ass, fingers imprinting in so deep you knew they’d leave bruises shaped like his hands for days.
Xiao doesn’t respond, no words, or explanation — just eyes burning with determined focus
The tattoo on his arm bleeds green into the dark.
"Let me go." Flat. Furious. You dig your nails in hard. "I- ah! Mean it! I'm n-not doing this anymore, I can't keep– pretending-!"
He looks at you.
Amber eyes completely unguarded for once — staring at you like you've already got one foot out the door and he's watching it happen and he still, still cannot make himself say the words that would fix it. Jaw locked tight, breathing ragged.
Hitting that little spot inside you, your whole argument stutters. "That's not—"
You try to hold onto the thread of it. "That's not good enough, you can't just — this doesn't fix anything—"
He drives deeper. Your back hits the wall harder.
"Xiao!"
Nothing.
Just that devastating eye contact and the brutal, relentless pace of him, he's decided if he can't say it, he'll just make you feel it instead.
Your nails rake down his arms. "Oh-! This is- fuck! Insane. Shit! Your hurtin!- You can't keep doing this and expect me to stay!-" You twist, trying to get leverage.
His hand wraps around your throat, forehead dropping to yours, eyes closing, and he stays there breathing hard while his hips find a slower, deeper angle that makes your vision dissolve at the edges.
The weight of his karmic debt presses down on the room like a physical thing. Ozone and something older, darker, filling your lungs with every breath.
You're furious, shaking, and overwhelmed.
But believe it or not, he was terrified of hurting you.
And yet he couldn’t stop.
"Shit, what do you want from me!?"
Instead of answering, he just bites down on your throat instead. Sharp. Claiming. So suddenly, your whole body arches into him against every intention you had.
A broken sound tears out of you—high and pathetic—and you immediately hate yourself for letting it slip.
Teeth sinking in harder, not enough to break skin but enough to mark, enough to own, and your cunt clenches around him so violently it makes him stutter.
Yanking you up higher, forcing your back to scrape against the wall, making you cry out in pain- as he drives in deeper.
The anger frays at the edges where the pleasure keeps burning straight through—white-hot and unforgiving.
“I h-hate you-” you gasp. Not true. Completely not true, and you both know it.
“You’re so—” Another broken moan cuts you off, raw and humiliating. “Infuriating.”
He makes a sound against your neck. Low. Pained. Even that tiny admission costs him something precious.
Still nothing.
You’re crying now—angry tears spilling hot and fast down your face, your body betraying you completely as he drives you up the wall again and again.
Each thrust shoves you higher toward something you don’t want to give him.
“Please,” you break, hating how small and wrecked it comes out. “Please just say it. Tell me you need me. Tell me I’m—that I’m yours, that this means something, that you’re not just going to let me disappear one day and feel nothing—” His entire body goes rigid.
Exhaling, his hand slides from your throat to cradle the back of your head.
His forehead presses so hard to yours it almost hurts, eyes squeezed shut, hips grinding deep and slow and devastatingly deliberate now.
Every roll of his hips drags his cock against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your vision spark white.
He still doesn’t say it, waiting for you to say exactly what he wants to hear.
Xiao pulls you in so tight you can’t tell where he ends, and you begin anymore. Your breast presses hard against his chest, breath coming in short gasps from how tight he’s holding you, bruises already beginning to bloom.
Maybe...
“I’m staying,” you whisper, defeated, wrecked, voice cracking on every syllable. “I-i’m yours. I’m not leaving. Just—don’t let go.”
The sound he makes is quiet.
Devastated and relieved in a way that breaks your heart a little. He comes with his face buried in your neck, shaking hard, one arm locked around your waist like even now he doesn’t trust you won’t vanish.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flood you—spurt after spurt—while his teeth stay sunk into your throat, muffling the broken groan that vibrates against your skin.
He keeps rolling through it, slow and possessive, making sure every drop stays deep inside you.
Afterward, the room is just breathing. Heavy. Sticky. Charged. Then, so quiet it barely exists:
“…Again.”
Not another round, you know that.
He wants to hear it again—the words he can’t say himself, confirmed in your voice, real and present and not leaving.
“I’m yours, Xiao.” You press your lips to his temple, voice hoarse and trembling. “I’m staying.”
His grip tightens instantly. Fingers digging back into your ass, cock still buried to the hilt and twitching inside you like it’s trying to root there forever.
Xiao still doesn’t say it back; you already know how he feels.
The dark, suffocating truth that settles in the quiet—in the iron grip of his arms and the door you both know he’d never let you reach—is that staying was never really your choice to make.
It stopped being your choice a long time ago.
…Some sick, exhausted piece of you doesn’t even want the choice anymore.
Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man who’s sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.
Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.
It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. You’ve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.
That’s when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you don’t even notice, because you’re deep into a true crime’s podcast and fully dissociated from reality.
Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.
He says something. You don’t hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.
So he taps your shoulder.
Big. Mistake.
You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. It’s the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.
The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.
Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like he’s trying to remember what dimension he’s in.
You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.
The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then Soap breaks.
He howls. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that aren’t even human anymore. He’s gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.
“SHE DECKED HIM!” he wheezes, gasping for air. “She- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! I’M- I CAN’T- “
Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. “Mate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!”
Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man who’s too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.
“Bloody beautiful form,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Textbook right hook. Could’ve been in the ring.”
You’re panicking. You’re hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. “Oh my god- oh my god- I’m so sorry! I didn’t know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please don’t sue me.”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.
Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters “…angels.”
“What?” you squeak.
“I see angels,” he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. “Pretty ones.”
Soap loses it again. He’s on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.
By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. There’s blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
But he’s smiling.
And he’s staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.
“You hit like a tank,” he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. “Bloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a man’s skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?”
“You are concussed,” you reply, voice shrill, face burning. “You need a hospital.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. “But I’m also in love.”
Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.
“Incident documentation,” he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isn’t planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.
“DELETE THAT!”
“Can’t. Evidence.”
When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man who’s discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone who’s been recently KO’d.
“Johnny,” he slurs, deadly serious. “Johnny. Listen t’me.”
“Aye, LT?”
“Get her number.”
“…Ghost, you need medical-”
“Swear it.” His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Swear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.”
Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. “Aye, big man. I’ll get it. Scout’s honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
“I’m really not.”
Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and you’re left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.
Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because he’ll actually haunt me if I don’t.”
You stare at him.
He waggles his eyebrows.
“…Fine.”
Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.
Alternative Part two of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap it was Ghost
You met them in the corridor as they hauled Ghost out of the room. He wasn’t fighting. That was the worrying bit. He walked between Gaz and Soap calmly, mask still on, eyes unnervingly clear and focused in a way that made your stomach knot.
“Get him in the side room,” Price ordered. “Door open. I want him where we can see him.”
They plunked Ghost down in a chair in the small debrief room next to observation. Fluorescent light buzzing. Concrete. Chairs that had seen better centuries.
Ghost sat like a very large, very dangerous statue. Hands folded. Boots planted. Every inch of him broadcast: fine, this is fine, I am absolutely fine.
You’d seen him concussed and bleeding and he’d looked more rattled than this.
Price pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Nobody ask him anything not strictly operational.”
“Copy,” you said, and then- because you are a fool- “How you feeling, Lt?”
Ghost looked up, utterly deadpan. “I want to bend you over this table, push your face down, and fuck you until you’re you dripping and needy, taking everything I give you. I’d keep you there- hand on your back, palm round your throat- ‘til you’re sobbing and soaked through. Want to ruin you for anyone else.”
Soap choked. Gaz left his body. Price closed his eyes and saw the war again.
You stared. “I- what?”
Ghost shrugged, that tiny, indifferent lift of his shoulder. “You asked how I’m feelin’. Well, that’s it.” He paused, head tilting to look at your measuring, clinical. “Be a proper fuckin’ picture, you would. Face down on that table, hands flat, tryin’ to hold yourself together. I’d have you arse up, legs wide, spread out for me, beggin’ me to go easy ‘cause you know I won’t. Wouldn’t let up, not till you’re shakin’, voice gone from moanin’ my name, tears on your cheeks from takin’ my cock so deep you feel me in your cunt for days after.”
“Christ on a bike,” Gaz whispered.
“What the hell, Simon?” You asked, gaping at him.
“Can’t lie, love.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting the weather. His gaze slid down your body; slow, clinical, lingering everywhere it shouldn’t. He took his time dragging back up, fixing you with that heavy stare behind the mask. “And seems I can’t shut up either- every time you walk in, I think about how easy it’d be to get you under me. How you’d sound beggin’ with my hand between your legs my fingers buried in your cunt, how good you’d look with your lips wrapped round my cock, droolin’ for it- fuckin’ fantastic. Been wantin’ to say this for ages.”
Soap leaned his hip on the table, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, I like this.”
Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a safeguarding violation with legs.”
Price ignored them. “Simon, focus. You know who we are?”
“Course I do, sir,” Ghost said. “You’re my captain. Gaz is tryin’ not to laugh. Soap’s havin’ the time of his life. An’ she- ” he jerked his chin at you, “- is three seconds from either swingin’ at me or climbin’ in my lap and bounce on it.” He paused. “Maybe both if I’m lucky.”
You made a strangled, high pitched sound you’d deny on your deathbed. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t need to excuse you, love,” he said. “Just need you to stretch first.”
Silence. Even the lights stopped humming to watch the show.
“Statistically.” He clarified, tapped the table, perfectly calm. “You look at my hands when I’m cleaning weapons and then rub your throat. Pupils dilate point two millimetres when I call you ‘love’. You stand closer when I’m in a bad mood. You want the monster. Preferably on your couch. Cushions are useless, by the way. Won’t help your back when I fold you in half and bury my dick in your cunt.”
Price massaged his temples. “Simon.”
“Sir?”
“Go easy.”
Ghost considered. “Negative.”
He turned back to you, flat as ever, eyes half lidded. “Tonight, I’d put my knee on the chair, you on your stomach. One hand holdin’ you down, other between your legs, rubbing your clit while I fuck you deep, feel your cunt choking my cock. Want to hear you cry for it. Want to feel you fall apart on me while you’re pinned under my hand like you’re made to be there.”
Gaz slapped a hand over his ears. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. Where’s the volume control- ”
He spun toward the observation console, hand shooting for the dial that controlled the mic feed.
In the split second before he got there, Soap clocked his intention and launched.
“Don’t you DARE!” Soap yelled, rugby tackling Gaz away from the controls. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both swearing.
“MacTavish you bloody bastard!” Gaz wheezed.
“No!,” Soap crowed, trying to pin him. “If you touch that button to drown him out, I’ll bite yer hand off, I’m not missin’ this!”
Price dragged a hand down his face. “Professionalism. I’d like some.”
“Not today, sir,” Soap said from the floor. “Today’s for the lads and he’s about to submit a three point plan.”
Ghost obliged. “Four point plan.” He turned to you again. “One: I eat you until you’re crying. Two: you beg. Three: I pretend I didn’t hear you and keep going. Four: you get stupid enough to say please and I reward good manners. Training matters.”
Your jaw had left its hinges. “You can’t- you don’t talk like this.”
“I do now.” He hummed. “This is nice. We should do this more often.”
Price looked skyward. “I’m instituting a swear jar for any word related to… that.”
“Fucking,” Ghost supplied helpfully.
“Right,” Price snapped. “That’s five quid.”
Ghost nodded. “Worth it.” He turned that blank, laser focus back to you. “Also worth it: you sitting on my face. I would die there. Happy to. Don’t revive me. Leave me. Carve ‘died doing what he loved’ into a cheap pine box and throw me in a canal.”
Soap wheezed, tears leaking. “He’s gone, captain. He’s with the angels.”
You grasped for some kind of footing. “But you’re… You’re always so rude to me.”
“True,” he agreed. “Y’like it.”
“I do not,” you snapped.
“Y’like it,” he repeated calmly. “Your cheeks go pink when I bully you. You clench when I call you a brat. You want me to pin you to the floor and tell you you’re annoying while I make you come on my fingers. Then you want to choke on my cock until you’re drooling down my thighs.”
Your soul tried to escape your body via the ceiling.
Gaz wriggled out from under Soap just far enough to gasp, “I’m loggin’ this as ‘intelligence leak’.”
“Fuckin’ right you are,” Soap laughed. “He’s leaking something.”
You reached for dignity again and came up with a knife. “Say another word and I’ll stab you.”
Ghost nodded, thoughtful as ever, like he was adding notes to your personnel file “Noted. You get off on threatening me. Could’ve guessed, but now I know for sure. Makes things easy, doesn’t it? Because I’ll be honest- not like I have a choice- every time you aim a blade at me, every time you spit and tell me to fuck off, it goes straight to my cock.”
His tone didn’t waver, just that quiet, factual Ghost delivery. “Means we’re well matched. You threaten to stab me, I get hard. I threaten to pin you down and make you beg, you get wet. Could build a relationship off that. Real healthy foundation mutual arousal by violence. Not sayin’ it’s textbook, but it’s honest. You threaten to kill me and I’ll fuck you harder. Win-win.”
“I-!”
He held up a hand, courtroom sober. “For the record, I doubt Price is going to let me rail you right now but since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I’ll just paint you a picture instead: every filthy thing I’m goin’ to do to you once this shit’s out of my system. So you’ve got time to get ready and prepare your affairs.”
“Prepare my-?”
“Wills. Stretching routines. Hydration.” He pointed at your water bottle. “Finish that. You cramp when you’re dehydrated and then you get a headache and make these huffy little annoyed sounds. Cute as fuck. Makes me wanna ruin you.”
Price put his face in his hands. “I’m too old for this.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair, inexorable. “Scenario A: you knock on my door at oh one hundred ‘for a question’. I open it. You pretend to forget the question. I say, ‘Out with it, love.’ You say, ‘I hate you,’ and then try to kiss me to shut me up. I put you against the wall and do not kiss you until you ask properly. Scenario B: stairwell-“
“Stop giving options!” Gaz begged. “Pick one and perish!”
“- Scenario C,” Ghost continued serenely, “gym. You’re doing bench dips. I stand behind you and correct your form. You moan. Pathetic, sweet little sound you pretend is exertion. I call you out. You deny it. Then I- ”
“Simon,” you said through your fingers, “I am literally going to combust.”
“Not literally,” he said. “But later, yes. Screaming and everything.”
Soap slapped the floor. “Actually going to combust.”
You tried one last, limp defense. “You’re mean. All the time. You don’t even like me.”
“Incorrect.” He watched you like you were something he meant to disassemble and polish. “I like you in a way that is both deeply inconvenient and alarmingly structural. If I were a house, you’d be the load bearing wall. I cannot knock you down. I can, however, knock you up- ”
“OUT!” Price barked, pointing at the hallway like an angry dad. “Med bay. Alone. No one talk to him!”
Ghost stood obediently, chair scraping, then paused in the doorway and looked back at you. The tone didn’t change, still that unbothered, sand dry delivery but something hungry flickered behind it.
“Contingency note before I’m banished,” he said. “You keep saying I’m mean. Okay. But you would still let me fuck you.”
You threw the knife. He caught it without looking and set it on the table like a librarian shelving a returned book.
“Also,” he added, the barest tilt to his head, “you’re going to punch me about this later. I endorse it. Normal reasons.”
“What fucking normal-!”
“For the record,” he went on, already turning away, “before any of that? I’m going to make you dinner, wash your hair, kiss your knees, and tell you you did a good job today. Then I’m going to put you on your stomach and- ”
“MED BAY!” Price bellowed, herding him down the hall with both hands like a sheepdog herding a very large, very horny sheep.
The door shut. There was a stunned quiet. Soap rolled over boneless to the floor, giggling into his palms. Gaz sat up and put his head between his knees.
Price exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes. “You alright?”
You stared at the empty doorway, brain white noise, thighs pressed together in a way that absolutely wasn’t because of anything he said. “No.”
“Mm.” Price rubbed his face. “He’ll be himself again in a few hours.”
“God,” you said weakly. “You mean worse?”
“Quieter,” Price said. “But he’ll remember. And he’ll mean every word.”
You let that roll through you, catastrophic and warm and terrible.
From down the hall, through the door, came Ghost’s muffled voice with the same implacable calm: “For later documentation: I am going to put my mouth on- ”
“SIMON!” three voices roared in unison.
You mouthed at the ceiling. Then you grabbed your water bottle- hydration, apparently- and took a long drink.
Gaz cheeks pink, eyes wide. “So… gym tomorrow?”
You capped the bottle with shaking hands. “Absolutely not.”
The 141 as a pack- not in the found family kind of way, but in the hunting kind of way.
They spot you by accident.
Price is the first to clock you, mostly because he’s the sort who notices exits, shadows, people sitting alone. You’re on a stool near the end of the bar, tucked under a blown out neon sign that flickers uselessly overhead. The rest of the place is a mess of dim bulbs and TV glow, but somehow the shadows around you are softer, edged in a kind of warm sheen.
It’s probably just the jewelry.
Tiny pieces, nothing flashy on their own: delicate chain at your throat, a charm on a bracelet, thin hoops catching the light when you tuck your hair behind your ear. But every time you move, something glints. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just enough to pull the eye.
Soap follows the first flash of gold the way a cat chases a laser pointer.
“Ach, look at that,” he mutters around the lip of his beer bottle, elbow nudging Gaz’s. “Sittin’ all by herself. Cute as a button. Like a wee rabbit waitin’ for a fox.”
Gaz leans just enough to see past him. You’re nursing a drink, straw between your fingers, eyes on the shelves of cheap liquor like you’re reading the labels to avoid looking at anyone else.
“Been here a while,” he says. “Came in just after we did. No one’s come up to her twice.” His brow creases. “Keeps looking at the door, though.”
Ghost says nothing, but he’s watching too, tracking the pattern: every time the door opens, your head lifts and your bracelet catches the dark, giving a quick, soft flash. When you realize whoever walked in isn’t who you were hoping for, your shoulders fall. You go back to tracing the rim of your glass.
Nobody comes to sit with you. Nobody stays near you for long.
Too alone. Too pretty. Too jumpy.
Easy.
Price takes it in, slow and steady.
Pack instinct kicks in before any of them say the word. They don’t need to say anything to align on the same thought. It’s in the way their focus narrows, the way their chairs angle subconsciously toward you. A hunting posture, dressed in civilian clothes and half finished drinks.
They’re not the soft, found family kind of pack people romanticize. They’re the other kind; the kind that closes around a target without thinking.
“Could just be waitin’ on her boyfriend,” Gaz offers, because he’s the one who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn’t quite believe it.
“She wouldn’t still be here if he was worth a damn,” Soap replies. “Look at her. Fella’s either stupid or blind.”
Ghost watches your fingers. You’re not fidgeting like a practiced flirt; you’re rolling the straw wrapper tight, tight, tight until the paper is an over wound thread. The kind of nervous habit you don’t perform for attention; it just happens.
“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, deciding for them. “Place like this, someone’ll try their luck eventually. Might as well be us.”
Us, not me.
Price drains his glass and stands. “C’mon,” he says. “Before some drunk fucker with worse intentions gets there first.”
Soap grins. Gaz pushes off the bar. Ghost follows.
The four of them rise together, scatter of chairs on sticky floor, their approach casual enough not to spook you, coordinated enough to close off any direction that isn’t toward them.
You feel them before you see them. The bar is loud- music, clinking glass, too many overlapping conversations- but when they move, the noise tilts. You feel a shadow fall across your little island of dim light.
You look up- and up- and up.
“Evenin’, love,” Price says, taking the middle, anchoring your attention. His voice is warm, edged with something rough. “This seat taken?”
You look at him, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat he can see the thought stutter through your head: I should say yes. I should lie.
Then your gaze skips over his shoulder, across Ghost, over Soap’s grin, to Gaz’s more cautious face. Four of them. All big. All dangerous, in the way that sets off every alarm bell you’ve ever had.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. Up close, they’re even more intimidating. Big men, all of them. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The casual alertness that says they’re dangerous even when they’re pretending not to be.
Your throat works around a swallow.
“N-No,” you say, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Um. No, it’s not.”
You don’t move away when he takes the stool beside you, though. That’s the first little surrender.
Up close, he can see the jewelry looks even smaller. A fine chain resting in the dip of your collarbone, charm nestled where his eyes keep dropping. A tiny stud in your ear that catches the bar’s dim light and winks at him whenever you turn your head.
“Good,” Soap says, dropping onto your other side like you’re the natural center of their group. “Be a shame to leave such a lovely lass sittin’ on her own.”
Ghost leans against the bar behind you, silent. Gaz drifts just off your shoulder, close enough that if you tried to slip down from the stool, you’d have to brush past him.
You don’t realize you’re boxed in. Not yet.
“Quiet night for a girl like you,” Soap says lightly, accent softening the words. “You waitin’ on someone?”
You pick at the napkin under your glass. “I was. My friend bailed, though, so…” You give a little shrug, embarrassed. “Just…finishing this before I head home.”
“That right?” Price nudges your drink with a knuckle. “Let us get your last one, then. Call it a good deed.”
Your instinct is to refuse. You start to shake your head. “Oh, no, that’s okay, I don’t wanna- ”
“We insist,” Soap cuts in, already nodding at the bartender. “Same again for the lady.”
You fluster. You’re not used to this kind of attention. Your necklace glints when you duck your head, catching the dim light in a quick flash at your throat.
“Thank you,” you murmur when the fresh drink appears. “You…you don’t have to.”
“What if we want to?” Price asks, lips tipping. “Bit rough, a girl like you alone in a place like this.”
You huff a nervous laugh and twist the straw wrapper tighter. “C-could say the same thing.”
Gaz huffs a small breath. “We’ve got each other.”
“Pack of us,” Soap adds, grin widening.
“Oh.” You glance at all of them again, as if that just made them more intimidating. “That’s…nice.”
Price watches the way your shoulders hunch, the way you angle your knees toward the bar, as if you’re half expecting someone to bump you. “Thank you again.”
“S’okay lass,” Soap grins, leaning in. “We’re not that scary once you get to know us.”
You look at the mask, the beard, the scars at Soap’s throat, the quiet calculation in Gaz’s eyes.
“You’re a little scary,” you admit, voice trembling around the edge of a nervous laugh.
Something pleased curls through Ghost’s chest at that, dark and satisfied. Good. You should be.
“Good instincts,” he says. “Most people don’t have ‘em.”
You fluster, ducking your head, and when the bartender sets down the fresh glass, the cube of ice inside catches just enough of the overhead light to bounce it up, up, directly into the small crystal at your wrist. It flashes once, sharp, a pinpoint of brightness in all the gloom.
You talk.
They ask easy questions- about your job, about living near the river, about why you stayed when your friend left. You answer in fits and starts, words tripping, always circling back to sorry and I don’t usually and this is weird, right?
Every time you move your hands, the charm at your wrist gives a soft, quick gleam. Every time you turn your head, the little studs in your ears catch the bar’s failing lights.
They like how nervous you are. How your voice trembles when Soap leans in to tease you. How you can’t quite hold Ghost’s gaze for long. How you keep saying you should go home but never quite stand up.
You’re not sure how to extricate yourself now that four strangers with war in their posture have decided you’re interesting.
“You got far to walk?” Price asks, casually, after a while. “We’re headed out soon.”
You hesitate. Lie on the tip of your tongue: I drove or I’m just around the corner or My boyfriend’s coming.
You don’t say any of it.
“I live a few blocks away,” you admit. “Down by the river.”
At that, four pairs of eyes sharpen. Enough distance to get you alone. Enough darkness. Not so far that you’ll get suspicious if they offer to walk you.
“Not safe on your own at this hour,” Soap says immediately.
Gaz gives a low, almost gentle snort. “You seen the lot that hangs around near the bridge at night? Nah. We’ll walk you.”
You start to protest, shoulders curling, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag, but he cuts you off with a small, easy smile.
“Let us be gallant, yeah? Last good deed of the night. Then we’re gone.”
You don’t have a good reason to argue with that, and they can see the moment your resistance folds.
“O-Okay,” you say. “If…if you want to.”
Price drops some notes on the bar, more than enough to cover their tab and yours. You slide off the stool, nearly bumping into his chest as you steady yourself. His hands go to your hips without thinking, big palms warm and firm, catching you before you can stumble.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Got you.”
You look up at him from under your lashes, throat working around a small, flustered sound. He feels you tremble, just a little, like a skittish animal not used to being held.
He squeezes, once, possessive.
Then they take you out into the night
The city is wet from some half hearted rain earlier, pavement slick, puddles glimmering in the bruise colored light of far off streetlamps. You walk in the middle of them without being told to, instinct or training or simple common sense putting you where you’re most boxed in.
Price on one side, Ghost on the other, Soap just ahead, Gaz at your back.
You keep your bag strap clutched tight, thumbs stroking the worn fabric. Every now and then your knuckles bump Price’s hand, and every time, he has to stop himself from catching your fingers and not letting go.
“We do this for everyone, you know,” Soap jokes lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s a community service. ‘Walks For Strays.’”
You huff a startled laugh. “Is that what I am? A stray?”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down your body in a way that’s anything but subtle. “Aye. You wandered right into our path, didn’t you?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” you say.
Price knows that’s not true.
He remembers the way his gaze kept snagging on you all night, how hard it was to keep his eyes from drifting back whenever you lifted your drink and the light slipped over your rings. How Ghost, normally content to sit with his back to the room and watch every corner, kept glancing in your direction.
“Wasn’t,” Ghost says quietly. “Was you.”
You don’t seem to know what to do with that. Silence falls for a few steps, your shoes splashing through a shallow puddle that sends a little fan of water up your calves. The reflection shivers there, ripples of light from the lamp above breaking apart and reforming, broken stars at your feet.
When you step up onto the drier pavement again, one of those broken stars lingers, caught on the thin chain at your ankle until it fades.
“Here,” you say softly after a while, nodding toward a side street. “This way.”
The road narrows, buildings rising up on either side. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The river’s smell rides the air, damp and metallic.
Price feels that familiar shift in his chest: the one that comes at the end of a hunt, when the world narrows down to the target and the terrain and what comes next.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching your footing, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement, apologizing when you bump Soap with your shoulder.
You stop in front of an old brick building with a cracked stoop and a single tired bulb over the door.
“This is me,” you say, turning to them with that same small, uncertain smile. “Um. Really. Thank you. For walking me.”
“Be rude to leave it here,” Soap says, tongue in his cheek. “You could at least offer us a cuppa, hen.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh! I, um. I mean, my place is a mess, I wasn’t- ”
“We don’t mind mess,” Gaz says.
Price takes a half step closer, not touching you, but close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him.
You don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I’ve never…”
You bite your lip. Nervous. Thinking. You look at each of them, one by one, like you’re weighing something heavy.
You trail off, skin heating, shame and something else crawling up your neck.
Price files that away like it’s intel. Never. Never taken strangers home. Never done something like this.
But she’s out here, with four men twice her size, letting them walk her into the dark.
You could fumble the lock and slip inside alone, door closing in their faces. You could make up a boyfriend, a roommate, a brother.
You don’t do any of those things.
You nod. Tiny, decisive.
“…Okay,” you whisper. “For a little while.”
The satisfaction that rolls through them is dark and mutual.
“Good girl,” Price murmurs before he can stop himself.
You flush all the way to your ears and fumble the key in the lock. When the door finally gives, you laugh, flustered. “Sorry. My hands are…”
She’s shaking, he thinks, pleased.
They follow you inside.
The hallway is dim and narrow, the overhead light bare and buzzing.
“Sorry,” you say, starting up the stairs. “The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lights on the second floor and then never does.”
“Typical,” Gaz mutters.
On the landing, the bulbs are all dead. The only light seeps up from the stained glass window in the stairwell, painting everything in a murky, underwater wash. It brushes your face when you glance back at them.
For a second, your eyes seem to catch it and hold it, pupils blown wide, irises gleaming oddly in the blue green.
Then you blink, and it’s gone.
“This is me,” you say again, stopping at the first door on the left. You unlock it and push it open into darkness. “I’ll get the- oh. Right. Sorry. The hall light doesn’t reach in here. One second, the lamp is…”
You reach inside, patting the wall, fingers feeling for a switch that isn’t there. The four of them stack behind you, big silhouettes in the narrow hall.
“Here,” Price says, hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you in. “We’re not afraid of the dark.”
You give a breathy little laugh. “I kinda am,” you admit. “Just…don’t leave me standing in it, okay?”
The words make something low in Ghost’s chest twist in a way he doesn’t examine.
“That’s not on the agenda,” he says.
You step fully into the apartment. The dim hall light dies as the door swings almost shut behind them. Shadows swallow everything; the noise of the city outside muffles.
“Lamp’s by the sofa,” you mumble. “Just- hang on…”
They hear you move. The soft thump of your bag dropped on some surface. The scrape of your shoes toed off. Your voice, closer to the center of the room now.
Something inside them unwinds. This is familiar: dark rooms, unknown layouts, a target’s breathing somewhere just ahead. They relax into the predatory rhythm without even meaning to.
Soap’s hand finds the back of the sofa in the dark. Gaz’s foot bumps into the edge of a low table. Ghost’s fingers twitch once, reminding themselves there’s no weapon in them tonight.
“You sure you paid your electric bill?” Soap asks, laughing under his breath when the first lamp you try doesn’t click on.
You huff. “Funny. It worked this morning. I think the bulb just-”
The sentence cuts off.
The silence that follows is sudden and heavy.
“Love?” Price says. “You all right there?”
You don’t answer immediately.
Then, from deeper in the room: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…here. Just- don’t move for a second, okay? It’ll be easier if you let your eyes adjust.”
There’s a new note in your voice. Not exactly different- still soft, still gentle- but smoother. Calmer. Like something let go.
They stand still, obedient without thinking about it.
The dark presses in.
Slowly, shapes begin to tease themselves out- the paler rectangle of a window, the looming outline of a bookshelf, the shadowed bulk of the sofa.
And you.
You’re standing a few feet away, turned toward them. The faint light from the street outside brushes your outline but doesn’t quite touch your face. For a breath, you look exactly like you did at the bar- small, bare armed, hair falling around your shoulders, the delicate chain at your throat a dim line in the gloom.
The glint of your jewelry answers the glow- your necklace, your bracelet, your rings all picking up that strange, pale color and tossing it back in miniature. It slides over your features, revealing them in slices: the curve of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, the line of your cheek.
Your smile is small.
And wrong.
It’s too wide. Not grotesque, not cartoonish; just a fraction beyond human, the corners of your lips pulled back enough to show teeth that look a shade too long, too thin. Not blunt little herbivore teeth, but fine, needled things that catch the strange light the way deep water catches moonshine.
Price’s hand, half lifted, stills.
“Turn the lamp on,” Ghost says, voice low. A command, not a request.
You tip your head.
“No,” you say, almost apologetically. “I don’t need it.”
The room seems to shift around that answer. The air grows heavier, cooler. The smell of the river outside seeps in under the window frame, only it’s stronger now, richer, like true seawater. Salt and depth and something briny underneath.
The moonlight bleeds in through the window slightly and the faint glow it throws off reveals more details now: the way your pupils have narrowed to vertical slits in eyes that gleam with their own internal shine; the faint, opalescent pattern under your skin along your throat and collarbones, like scales lying just beneath the surface; the way the chain at your ankle has gone almost luminescent, the bones of your bare feet pale as the bellies of deep fish.
Price’s mouth goes dry.
“What are you?” he asks, very softly.
You tilt your head again, studying him.
“You know those fish,” you say, “with the little lanterns? Way down where it’s too dark for anything else to shine?” You give the necklace a small, idle flick, and it swings, hypnotic. “They sit there for hours, just…waiting. Letting the hungry things come to them.”
Soap’s pulse roars in his ears. Gaz swallows. Ghost takes a single, measured step forward like he’s testing how real this is, how dangerous.
You watch him do it. The glow stretched over your face makes your smile seem sharper.
“I didn’t want you to think I was anything but innocent,” you go on conversationally, as if explaining something simple. “That’s important. If the prey knows the hook is there, it won’t bite.” Your gaze roams over them, four big men in a stranger’s dark living room, shoulders tense, instincts finally whispering wrong, wrong, wrong far too late. “Do you know how many things in the deep are drawn to light that won’t harm them? To something that looks small, harmless, soft? They can’t help it. Their brains aren’t built to resist.”
The last word curls like smoke, amused.
“You made yourself pretty,” Ghost rasps, fingers digging into his palms as he fights the instinct to step closer. “So we’d…come to you.”
You tilt your head, pleased. Brilliant boy. You’ve always liked the wary ones. They make the best meals. The most satisfying captures.
“Of course I did,” you say. “The abyss doesn’t chase. It waits. It shines.” You tap your chest lightly with the tips of your fingers. “I just had to sit in the right bar long enough. Predators always think they’re the only ones hunting.”
Your own teeth catch the glow when you smile wider.
“Anglerfish don’t chase,” you say, almost gently. “We wait. We shine.”
The little necklace hangs there, bright and terrible in the pitch black of your living room, and Task Force 141 realizes far, far too late that they never chose you at all.
Horrorfest: Movies Don't Create Psychos, Movies Make Psychos More Creative! [Gojo Satoru x Reader]
Title: Movie Don't Create Psychos, Movies Make Psychos More Creative! [Gojo Satoru x Reader]
Synopsis: Gojo Satoru pulls a Halloween prank. At least, you think it's him. For Horrorfest request: Gojo Satoru taunting reader over the phone on Halloween Ghostface style :)
Word count: 3700ish
notes: yandere (kinda); threats & abusive language
The landline in your apartment is a relic. Quite literally–it was left behind by the previous tenant, an old woman who refused to let go of those hardy, increasingly useless mementos of the past, or so the landlord said.
He did offer to get it removed from the wall prior to move in. It was something you considered. A picture might hang in its place, or a spice rack.
But the phone worked and the landlord said he’d include service in the rent for only $1 per month, so why not keep it around? It was nice to have something to use if you had no service on your cell phone, or when there was an emergency.
And there was something quaint about it, something nostalgic, when you picked up the receiver and walked around the house with it held against your ear. It also made for a fun conversation topic, whenever someone came to your house for the first time.
Only a few people had the number to your landline. Emergency contacts, more or less, people who might need to get a hold of you when the cell towers were down or you’d left your phone at work again.
People like Satoru Gojo. Because as obnoxious and overbearing and personal-space-destroying as he could be, he was someone you would call if you were in trouble.
So of course you gave him the landline number, and of course he took it upon himself to call you endlessly. Sometimes prank calls, sometimes just to chit-chat, sometimes to ask your advice on what he should make for dinner which inevitably ended with him shrugging off your suggestion and getting takeout instead while you told him to bother someone else next time, asshole.
Personal time was precious. Especially in your line of work. It’s why you turn off your cell phone, sometimes. Especially on your days off, like tonight, where it currently sits upstairs, dead to the world with an uncharged battery, resting inside your bedroom drawer.
The landline could be used for emergencies. Or annoyances. Gojo Satoru could be counted on to call you in both circumstances.
It comes as no surprise on Halloween night when the landline rings, a loud, clanging intrusion to your annual horror movie marathon. Your hand hasn’t even touched the receiver and you know who it must be.
Gojo Satoru, probably asking if you had any candy. Maybe asking if he could come over to watch some movies. Or maybe he’ll want to debate the merits of ordering takeout on Halloween night just to annoy you.
You answer, biting back a sigh, your movie paused just as the final girl is getting ready in a classic 1980s-movie-montage style to fight back against the killer that’s been terrorizing her friends.
Only when you answer the phone, there is no brazen greeting from Gojo Satoru.
Only when you answer the phone, there’s nothing at first, forcing you to ask: “... Hello?”
Only when you answer the phone, and someone finally answers, it’s not Gojo’s voice at all.
It’s someone else’s, lower, reedier, stranger. Not anyone that you’ve given the number to, that’s for sure. So how did they get it? And who is it? And why are they calling and–
“Are you there, sweetheart?”
Something like static prickles inside you for a moment, then you shake it away. You’re being silly, overthinking it all. It’s a wrong number. That’s all.
“Sorry,” you say, “I think you have the wrong number. I would double check the number and–”
“I’ve got the right number, don’t worry.” Spoken so surely that the static returns, this time rumbling right down to your stomach, tickling the base.
“I mean. Who are you trying to call?”
The voice on the other end chuckles, and it puffs into the phone. “A pretty girl.”
It’s your turn to puff into the receiver, with a snort. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
The call is taking too long to stand in one spot, so you start to pace a bit, walking towards the living room and your static horror movie, waiting to be played. It’s one of your favorites, the original A Nightmare on Elm Street. And dear sweet Nancy Thompson is literally prepping her house and herself and her soul to fight back against Freddy Kreuger, knived gloves and all.
“Aww, c’mon,” the man drawls, interrupting your thoughts about the impending battle between Nancy and the nightmare demon that will, two sequels down the line, stab her in the guts. “I bet you’re really pretty.”
Halloween might be the perfect night to make prank calls, but it’s not the perfect night to take them. It’s annoying. And, well. Maybe it’s making you a bit antsier than you’d like, some stranger on the phone, in the middle of the evening, saying you’re pretty.
So you sigh, hoping the person on the other end will get the hint, as you try to end the call.
“Listen, I’m sure you’re bored and all, but I’m in the middle of something, so–”
“Oh? What are you doing?”
They drop the drawl, at least. They sound interested. Like they were bored, too, and this was a way to pass the time. Fine. You’ll answer. Maybe they’ll realize you’re doing something more Halloweeny on Halloween than talking to a stranger and take the hint.
“Watching my favorite scary movie.”
There’s a pause, and you almost wonder if he hung up, when he says, almost too brightly for someone prank calling a random person on Halloween night–
“I love horror too. So… what are you watching? What’s your favorite scary movie?”
If your landline wasn’t wireless, you’d be twirling the cord by now. You’re deprived of this nostalgic feat, however, so instead you lean against the back of your sofa. Nancy Thompson waits, frozen, on the screen behind you.
“Mmm,” you hum, half-heartedly tinging your words with caution. “Not sure if I should tell you. Isn’t that a quote from something, anyway?”
You can practically imagine this stranger pouting when he speaks next. Kinda cute. Kinda weird. Kinda perfect for Halloween. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’ll keep it a secret. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
You glance back at your TV, at Nancy, dutifully preparing for a battle against Freddy that she’ll win and lose in equal measure. And for some reason, you lie.
“I’m watching Halloween. The original one, not the remake. Or uh, the other remake.”
“Halloween, huh?” You get the curious sense through his tone that the man is disappointed. Maybe he's not a fan of the classics. “Is that really what you’re watching tonight?”
“Yeah,” you lie, again. Restlessness begins to take over and you clear your throat. “Well, stranger, I’ve got to go. Have–”
“Aww, please don’t.” The voice cuts through, all sweetness and pleading. “I want to talk to you more.”
“Why?” It’s almost a genuine question on your part. Nobody paid much attention to you, even if they actually knew you. Except Gojo, although constant annoyance and over the top flirtations weren’t the type of attention you really wanted.“I don’t even know you.”
There’s a beat.
“Maybe you do…”
There’s a beat–on your end, now–before you are sorely tempted to slam the phone back into the receiver on the wall.
It must be, it has to be, who else has a penchant for prank calling you at the most irritating times?
“Gojo, are you fucking kidding me?”
The voice laughs, still reedy, still wrong, but now you know it’s Gojo. Throwing his voice or using one of those voice changer things that they sell at Halloween shops nowadays.
Well. Whatever. Mystery solved, irritating as the solution is; certainly not a fun Scooby Doo reveal, though you’re happy to play the meddling kid who ends the reign of (phone) terror for the night.
“You are a weirdo,” you punctuate each word with as much Halloween candy-induced venom as you can. “Whatever. I’m bored now. Enjoy the rest of your Halloween, see you–”
“Don’t hang up on me.”
He sounds pissed. But it only makes you scoff. The creepiness factor of talking to a stranger on the phone wears off once you know who it is, after all.
“Bye.” You’re eager to get back to your movie, to Halloween itself. You ignore the faint “I said, don’t hang up–” before setting the phone back on the receiver.
Whatever. He can bother someone else tonight. He’ll probably tease you about it tomorrow, but that was something you’d worry about in the morning.
The phone rings before you can grab the remote.
Of course it does.
You pick it up, weary, eyes already rolling back.
“What is it now?”
“I told you not to hang up on me.”
He’s still using the voice, and it still strikes you as unnerving–too dark, too teasing. And now, pissed off. It makes your stomach curdle a little bit, and you remind yourself to ignore him in the morning until he apologizes.
“I already know it’s you, so I don’t know why you’re using that voice changer thing, or whatever it is.” Your eyes flick towards the screen, towards the final girl who has yet to defeat her monster. “I want to finish my movie, so–”
“Why did you lie about the movie, sweetheart?”
You scoff. “About what?”
And oh, how that curdle at the bottom of your stomach gets cold when he answers–
“You’re not watching Halloween. You’re watching A Nightmare on Elm Street. And Nancy’s getting all ready to fight Freddy Kreuger.”
Your voice sounds far away–”How did you know that?”--as your feet carry you to the living room window, where you close the blinds, close the curtains. Instinctively, you get on tiptoes and check the window near the top of the front door. No one there, just the ordinary street, empty, glowing with street lights.
“Aww,” Gojo says, “now I can’t see you. You’re no fun.”
The laugh that croaks out of your mouth is stale and dry. “You’re being creepy. I know it’s Halloween, but this is a bit much.”
Gojo doesn’t answer. Instead, he breathes, heavy, then heavier. Is the fucker touching himself or–
“Open your blinds.”
Your teeth find the inside of your cheek, working the flesh there, a childhood habit you’ve never quite broken. “Why?”
“I want to see you while I’m talking to you.” Demanding, dark. Gojo was… a good actor. Yeah. You’d give him that. Even if he was a monumental asshole.
There’s a temptation to hang up again; a temptation quashed by something in the air that you couldn’t quite pinpoint. Instead, you try to reason with him.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Does it sound like I’m laughing, sweetheart?”
“Gojo.” Your throat is dry, your mind drier. “Gojo, this is fucked up, even for you. I’m calling the police.”
“If you call the police I’m going to break in and gut you open like a fish.”
Your hand flies to your mouth at the same time your other slams the phone on the receiver. A sick, green betrayal seeps over your body, nausea rising along with it. Even if he was drunk, even if someone had put him up to this–it was too much. Too far.
And then the phone rings again.
You don’t think. You just pick it up, voice cracking, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The words that come out are all warbled from your impending tears, and you hope the bastard feels bad about it. “I’m calling the police, so just–just fuck off.”
“They won’t get here in time,” Gojo says quickly, quietly. Earnestly. You believe him. “You left the back door open, you know.”
Your feet stumble forward before your brain catches up and the phone nearly slips out of your hand as you bolt for the back door of the house. But it’s bolted. Locked. Safe. Your breath hitches as you run for the front door, just in case–but just as bolted, just as locked, just as safe.
Slowly, you bring the phone back to your ear. “Fuck you, asshole. It was locked.” Your feet carry you to the back door again, double checking, just in case you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Sweaty fingers fumble with it, making sure it really is turned all the way.
“Are you sure it was locked the whole time?” Teasing now. But you don’t take the bait. There’s something steadier in you, as the image of your infuriating-but-ultimately-beloved coworker crumbles into dust.
Swallowing, feeling more collected, assured by the locked doors, by your own sense of self, you clear your throat. “Yes, I am. And I’m hanging up now. I’m calling the police. You–I can’t believe you.”
A sigh–your own–and then:
“If you hang up on me again, bitch, Gojo Satoru dies.”
If it was possible for your heart to simply fall straight down into your shoes, it might have. Because it seems like the world itself drops out, and even sound falls away for a moment, replaced by a high whine in your ear.
And then your heart does and you realize it's still there in your chest and you're standing in your home on the phone with someone who is not Gojo Satoru, who is threatening to kill you, to kill him, and you are in danger, danger, danger.
“What…” You manage, voice tight, dry.
“Go to the back door and turn on the light.”
The thought didn’t occur to you, before. To see who might be out there in the darkness. Because it was Gojo, before, it was just Gojo being a monumental asshole who didn’t deserve friendship. But now, now…
Somehow, your legs, numb and tingly, carry you to the backdoor. Somehow, your trembling fingers turn on the light, and you peer through the glass at the side of the door.
And there is Gojo. Christ, there is Gojo, tied to the chair with duct tape, a thick strip over his mouth. Wet blood dribbles from his forehead–is he dead already?--but when you squint, you can see his chest move. Alive, but injured. Alive–for now.
The lights go out and your hand instinctively slaps against the glass. Hot tears make their way down your cheeks, no longer content to drown in the corner of your eye. They’re warm, they hurt, the terror coursing through your body makes you want to throw up–
“Why are you doing this?”
The stranger–not Gojo, how could you have ever thought it was him?--hums over the phone. “Because it’s Halloween night. Now,” he continues, more lively. “Let’s play a game.”
Your legs threaten to give out underneath you, and you fumble forward, sitting on one of the barstools set underneath the kitchen counter. It wobbles, or maybe you’re the one doing the wobbling now.
“I don’t want to play a game.” You want this to stop. You want to save Gojo. You want to call for help.
“You do want to play. Because you don’t want Gojo Satoru to get ripped open, do you?” The image flashes through your mind, well-trained on horror films; Gojo’s intestines spilling in his lap, the pain and agony waking him from whatever injury knocked him out. He’d scream–he’d die.
“No,” you whisper.
“Good girl.” The voice sounds almost wet with mirth now, a dark sort of seedy glee. “Let’s play a trivia game. Answer three questions right, he lives. Answer any question wrong, he dies. Then I’ll come get you. Sound fair?”
“No!”
It’s a rhetorical question being asked by some stranger who wants to murder you but you sob out your response anyway. And he just laughs.
“First question, sweetie. We’ll start easy. Who played the original Freddy Krueger in A Nightmare on Elm Street?”
“Robert Englund!” You almost fall off the stool, leaning forward, spitting out the answer as quickly as possible. Maybe… maybe you could do this. Play this sick fucking game and save Gojo and yourself and then call the police and everything would be hunky-dory. Like a horror movie ought to end, you think, with the final girl saving her–he’s not your boyfriend, but fuck, saving someone else she scares about and living to see another day.
The voice on the phone chuckles. “Good. But that was a freebie, really. I know you like that series.” The prickling in your body makes you stand. From fear, from the adrenaline coursing through you, from everything else. “Let’s see… how about IT, hmm? It shows up in Derry after a specific number of years to feed. How many years go between sightings?”
A shuddering breath escapes you. IT… wasn’t one of your favorites, exactly. You read the book. You watched the original mini-series, and the remakes. It’s a detail probably more focused on in the books, you think, as your mind swims.
“Don’t take too long,” the voice says, a hint of a snap in his tone. “You’ve got 30 seconds.”
How many years… how many years. Oh. Oh, yes–the remake. The remake was made 27 years after the original mini-series and every horror fan could not shut up about the fact that it was the same number of years between sightings of It. 27 fucking years.
“Twenty-seven!”
The voice pauses. Like he didn’t think you’d get it. “Wow,” he says, finally. Maybe it’s earnestly. “Impressive. You know, I’m starting to think you guys might just make it through this after all.”
One hand curls against your cheek, while the other, sweaty, hurting, tightly grips the phone.
“Final question.” A grave pause. “In the 2018 ‘Halloween’ movie, who does Michael Meyers return to Haddonfield to kill?”
You thought–you thought the last question would be harder. That you’d have to sit here, silently crying, desperately trying to come up with the answer.
But it’s easy as shit, and your voice is choked with a furious glee, freedom and life itself at the edge of your lips. “His sister!”
“Wrong answer, sweetheart,” he says, almost sing-song.
The furious glee turns to anger. Disbelief. Even a bit of pettiness. You’re not stupid, it’s not a complicated question. He’s just–just trying to justify killing you. Killing Gojo. Well, you won’t let him get away with it.
“What? Fuck–fuck you. That’s the right answer, I saw the remake in theaters, asshole! He goes back to Haddonfield to kill his sister Laurie Strode! She’s all paranoid and shit, locked up in her house!”
The stranger tuts into the phone. Slow, pointed. He’s all coos and condescension, all sweet correction at knifepoint.
“Laurie Strode is only Michael Myer’s sister in the sequel continuity starting with Halloween 2. The 2018 film is a reboot starting from the original, before they made Laurie his sister. She’s just another random victim in the new trilogy. Just like you. Just like poor Gojo Satoru. Would you like to see him again before he dies?”
The truth, the stupid awful movie trivia truth, floods over you like spilled molasses. Oh God. Oh God. You’re crying again. Crying because you’re going to die, because you failed Gojo. And because this is such bullshit.
“That’s not fair,” you say, almost a whine, like something is stuck in your throat. “That’s a trick question!”
There’s another pause. A sound of shuffling–oh God, is he going to kill Gojo now? Should you run out and try to save him? No. You’d both end up as bloody meat in the backyard. Maybe you’re both headed that way, no matter what happens.
But the voice on the other end simply hums.
“You know what? You’re right. That was a trick question. I did it on purpose, to make sure you lost.” He sighs, like he’s really thinking it over. Confusion and fear mingle together, keeping you on your toes, all tingling adrenaline. “You know what, I’ll give you that question. I’m a fair guy. So. I’ll let you and your boyfriend go.”
Relief–but–you can’t stop yourself.
“He’s not my… I mean we’re not dating…” And you’re not. Gojo flirts with everyone. It’s not like you’re the only one he’s teased. The only one he’s kissed on the cheek after doing something shitty that landed you with more work. And he’s asked you out before, but as a joke, surely; you’d say no, anyway. Well. Maybe after this, one date wouldn’t hurt. To celebrate surviving the night. It wouldn’t go farther than that. Gojo wasn’t your type.
The stranger on the phone doesn’t seem to care about the details of your relationship. He just hangs up. And then, from behind you, outside, through the wall, you do hear sounds. Shuffling. A gasp. Then frantic footsteps pounding on your paved patio, followed by firm, quick knocks on the door.
You turn on the light first. You’re not stupid. You are many things–scared, relieved, confused–but you are not stupid.
But to your blind relief, it’s only Gojo, glasses askew, blue eyes wild and wide, or at least the one eye you can see from your point of view as he continues knocking, glancing behind him all the while, on the door. The blood on his forehead looks drier and you take a half second to feel pure relief. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? That he’s not actively bleeding anymore?
Your fingers fumble with the locks before you fling open the door and–
Standing there is Gojo.
Gojo with a cell phone clutched in one hand, and a knife in the other. There’s no time to register it. He pushes you aside, and you stumble stupidly until your back hits the wall. Your knees give out without consideration for your survival and you slide down to the floor as he carefully locks the back door again, humming.
The phone is still in your hands. He crouches, low, and takes it from you. It slides across the floor like a toy. It might as well be one, in this day and age.
“Kinda hurt my feelings when you said we weren’t dating,” he says. He’s crouched in front of you, a smile on his face, dried blood that you suspect is not blood after all on his forehead. With one hand, he brings the knife to your throat. The sharp edge pricks against your skin, and blood that is actually blood after all trickles down your neck.
Then he brings the phone up to his mouth, thumbs on a green app button on the screen, and in the voice that has plagued you all night:
“But we’ll have the rest of Halloween night to talk about that, sweetheart.”
a [ ] around a set of words denotes that the characters are speaking in the language of the otherworld
Mr. Gap x female!reader
Warnings: dubcon bordering on noncon, fingering, oral (female receiving), slight coercion, attempted kidnapping, mentions of death and bodily harm, Mr. Gap being an asshole
Word Count: 9.5k
A high pitched giggle echoed in the open space above your head, which was then accompanied by a single word:
[Cute]
In an instant, your head snapped upwards while your heart rate increased the moment you heard that voice, having unfortunately become quite familiar with it during your time spent in this strange ghost world. In the milliseconds you had before you confirmed the owner of the voice, there was a part of you that hoped it wasn't the one you thought it was, that it was some other entity that had chosen to copy him for the sole purpose of causing you grief. Maybe that asshole with the stitches was the one behind it; that'd be something he would do, you felt.
But of course, it wasn't like that.
With your attention now drawn upwards, you saw that the ceiling was gone, replaced with a black void above your head that appeared to go on forever. There was nothing, as though someone had lifted up the ceiling that had been there only moments earlier.
And the culprit of that act was none other than the giant man who was staring down at you.
With a pale face that was larger than your entire body, long white hair that dipped in over the edges of the walls and eyes that were just as black as the void he seemed to exist inside, he stared down at you, his cheeks creased from the wide smile that overtook his face while he giggled again.
[Small Human]
As soon as the word left his lips, a similarly familiar giant hand reached down for you, intending to capture you once again.
Just like every other time, you bolted, narrowly missing the giant fingers that grasped at you as you made your escape. The giant remained undeterred, however, as his hand continued to swipe at you.
[Cute Human. Me Want]
“Fuck off!” you yelled back as you ran down the hallway. Yelling at him in your native language was useless, you knew, but of the ghosts you had come across, this was one of the ones that couldn't be reasoned with regardless of if he knew what you were saying or not.
Plus, you had yet to learn what the ghost language word for “fuck” was.
The skirt of your long white dress was bunched up in your hands as you ran, giving your legs as much freedom as you possibly could as you rushed down the wrecked, gray hallway while the huge faced one pursued you. The ceiling remained a void above you, and you heard the way he giggled while his hand caused air to hit the your back, pushing up against you in small bursts of wind from the force of his attempts to get a grasp on you.
You either needed to outrun him, or you needed to find some sort of space that was too small for him to reach in and grab you.
Seeing as you were already starting to get exhausted, it felt like the second option was what you would need to go with.
Turning a corner after narrowly avoiding another swipe of the giant's hand, you scanned the area of the current room you found yourself in before you spotted the answer to your prayers: a small, square shaped opening that stood at one corner of the room. Maybe it was a vent, or some sort of crawlspace that lead to another area.
Whatever it was, you didn't care. All you knew was that it would fit you and not him.
So you were going in.
With a renewed burst of energy, you rushed across the room towards the small opening, the sounds of your shoes echoing loudly against the floor as you sprinted towards what you were praying would get you out of your current predicament. All you needed to do was get in, you told yourself. He can't get you after that.
The huge faced ghost seemed to realize that as well, as you heard him exclaim again as he renewed his efforts to grab at you.
[Cute! Want!]
He was trying to grab with both hands now, and you felt your heartbeat increase every time you needed to sidestep away whenever they appeared in front of you, narrowly missing them almost every time.
Don't think. Just run. Run and avoid so you can eventually get out of this place.
You were mere feet away, readying yourself to drop to the floor so you could slide in effortlessly –
Except your dress snagged on something.
You lurched forward, landing hard on the stone surface beneath you, but you barely felt it with the adrenaline that was currently pumping through you. Your only concern was to see what had happened as you whipped your head backwards.
Mr. Huge Face had caught you.
Using his thumb and pointer finger, he had managed to grab ahold of the skirt of your dress, keeping you from moving any further. You were then lurched backwards across the floor when he began using it to tug you away from the opening, his second hand coming down on you.
“NO!”
That scream left your lips did nothing as he continued to pull at you.
But the well-placed kick to his thumb was much more effective, because somehow, that managed to be enough to make him lose his grip on your dress.
There wasn't time to think after that. You just moved, your instincts in full control as you scrambled across the floor towards the opening. Every bit of your energy went into pushing your arms and legs forward as the safety you were seeking was so, so close.
You reached the edge, your fingers hooking onto the edge as you began to pull yourself in.
Having recovered from your kick, Mr. Huge Face grabbed your dress again, this time with a firmer grip as he tugged on it again while you launched yourself into the opening. Gravity pulled you down while he pulled you up, and something needed to give in this tug of war you found yourself in.
It ended up being your dress.
With a loud tearing of fabric, you collapsed into the small space, falling only for a moment before you hit the hard surface that sat only a few feet below the opening. Though even with the fall being a rather short one, it didn't mean that you weren't hurting from it, as your head and shoulder took a bit of a banging once you landed, and you were certain that you'd come out bruised.
But you'd gotten away from him.
He knew that as well, because while the aches that were now running through your battered body left your heartbeat pounding loudly in your ears, you were able to hear the huge faced ghost say a single word:
[Disappointed]
And just like that, his presence was gone.
At that realization, you allowed yourself a small sigh of relief. Sure, you were hurting from the way you had fallen and your clothes were torn up, but at least you hadn't let that guy take you. With the way he had insisted that he “wanted” you, you were scared as to what he'd do if he actually did manage to take you away.
Although, could it really be any worse than what some of the other ghosts wanted to do to you?
You sighed. That probably wasn't a line of thinking you wanted to linger on for too long. Better not to worry yourself over the horrible things that could happen to you and get yourself worked up. Better to just try and survive as best you could.
And seeing as Mr. Huge Face was now gone, you were safe to exit this vent….. Or whatever this little space was.
With several grunts and groans of pain leaving your mouth as you hit your elbows against the walls in the process of maneuvering yourself into an upright position, you managed to stand up before taking a look at yourself. Your dress was wrecked, as expected. Not only was it covered with dirt and blood, but now a good portion of the skirt was gone, the back of it in tatters as it had been torn away when Mr. Huge Face pulled on it. At least it hadn't been pulled off completely, you told yourself. As much as a the dress was hindrance, walking around in only your underwear was far from ideal. Especially in a place like this.
Luckily for you, getting a new outfit would be a simple matter. All you needed to do was say the word “clothes” in this world's language and she'd appear: the headless but friendly female ghost that you only knew as the Bride who dressed in a long white gown that was even poofier than the one she had given you, and she would happily give you clothes without asking for anything in return.
Though maybe when you saw her again, you might ask for something other than a dress, given the trouble your current one had given you.
Hopefully she wouldn't have any issue accommodating that request.
First things first, though, you needed to get out of….. Whatever this place was.
Now looking around at the cramped area of your surroundings, it didn't seem like it was a vent, as the walls were of the same stone as the rest of the rooms in this place, and when you tapped your foot against the ground beneath your feet, there wasn't any sign that the space went down any further.
As much as you wanted to wonder what exactly the purpose of this spot could be, the easiest explanation was that there was no purpose; it just showed up after one of the many earthquakes this realm experienced, probably. For that same reason, it wasn't a great idea to stay in here any longer. If another earthquake hit and the world shifted again, you didn't want the opening to close and for you to end up sitting in such a small, enclosed space for an undetermined amount of time.
Seeing that the coast was clear, a small grunt of exertion left your lips as you grasped the edge of the entrance to the small space and used it to hoist yourself up. At least the narrow walls helped in giving you something to put your feet against.
In a matter of moments, you were halfway through of the hole, your upper half now in the room while your lower half dangled in that small dark space. Nothing left to do other than to get out, and then you could continue your search for a way out of this place.
That was your plan, anyway.
But when you began to lift up your right leg so you could exit the space fully, something stopped you.
Specifically, the portion of your dress that was still mostly intact caught on something just below you, and you felt the fabric tug against you again as you were forced to come to a stop.
Are you fucking serious?
An annoyed groan left your lips as you paused, reaching down briefly to tug on your skirt. You didn't need this right now. Though really, you didn't need most of what this world had to offer you, but in particular you really didn't need to deal with the inconvenience of having your clothes getting stuck on…. Fuck, what had the skirt gotten stuck on? There shouldn't have been anything down there to make it get caught.
But after several moments of awkwardly tugging on your skirt with one arm while sitting with half of your body laying on the floor and the other half hanging in the weird space in the wall, you were forced to accept that you wouldn't be getting out like this. The smarter decision would be to slide back down into the space, use both hands to get the dress unstuck, and then climb back out while taking extra care not to get stuck again the second time around.
Another sigh left your lips at realizing that.
It's not that bad, you tried telling yourself.
At least this is better than getting chased down by a ghost that wouldn't take “no” for an answer.
There were way too many of those.
Still hurting from the tumble you'd taken, you took a moment to stretch out slightly when you removed your arm out of the space, extending your back and your arms as best you could before you prepared to slink back down so you could free yourself.
It shouldn't be anything complicated.
Except you ran into another unexpected roadblock, because when you tried to go back down, the back of your dress caught on something, this time on some crevice in the ceiling right at the edge of the space.
And just like before when the skirt got stuck, you couldn't move any further.
…… This is not fucking happening.
Your first move was to pull yourself forward so you could try to get the dress unstuck, but you could only pull forward so far for that to be effective. Then you attempted to reach back with your hands to pull at the fabric with your fingers, only for the area of the dress that had been caught to end up being out of your reach. After that, you pulled again, hoping that you could tear yourself free, but even though the dress had felt as fragile as tissue paper when being pulled at by a giant, it was apparently indestructible to the environment around you.
This is not fucking happening.
With however many minutes you spent trying to free yourself, they were all wasted because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get out.
You couldn't move up, you couldn't move down, and you were sitting with your front half in one area and your bottom in another, and if another earthquake hit while you were in this position, you could easily end up getting cut in half when the world shifted again.
Despite your absolute best attempts at maintaining your composure, you couldn't help but panic at that thought, and that panic manifested itself into a wild frenzy as you desperately tried to wrench yourself free of the small space that was starting to feel increasingly claustrophobic.
You didn't want to die here. You didn't want to end up as a ghost missing her lower half and aimlessly wander around by crawling on your hands forever. No, you needed to get out of here and get back home, and in order to do that, you needed to get the fuck out of this goddamn-!
The air around you grew cold, causing a chill to run down your spine and forcing your struggles to come to an abrupt stop.
A presence had just made itself known. One that lurked behind you within the dark space that your lower half was still trapped in. Your entire body went rigid as you tensed up, scared to see just who or what could be behind you.
After gathering up your courage, you glanced beneath your arm.
Just as quickly as your panic had risen, it went away while you let out a sigh once you caught sight of the face that stared at you out of the darkness. With the only part of his body that you could see being his head and his dark hair that covered half of his deathly pale skin, the ghost that stared up at you with an unblinking eye was one that you had become quite familiar during your time spent in this place.
The one you had come to call Mr. Gap.
He was one of the first ghosts you had come across when you wound up in this realm, staring at you through the crack of a door while he spoke words that you didn't understand at the time; all you had been able to tell was that he had been asking you for something as he held out his hand expectantly. You had shaken your head to tell him 'no', at which he scowled and vanished from sight.
It was a good thing you had refused him; after meeting the silver haired ghost and learning more of this realm's language, you realized what Mr. Gap had been asking you for:
Your heart.
Because of that, you thought him to be a spirit that was malicious. The way he kept requesting for you to hand over vital body parts certainly seemed that way and you were inclined to avoid him.
At least at first.
Despite your initial dislike of the ghost, Mr. Gap had managed to grow on you as he had proven himself to be useful more than once. Whatever it was that allowed him to travel about this place freely through the small, dark spaces that littered the many rooms, he was able to do the same for you, whisking you away from danger and into an area that was safer. Or relatively safer, at least.
He'd even helped you get away from Mr. Huge Face before your latest encounter with the large ghost. Of course, he hadn't done it for free and had demanded something from you, at that time being some of your hair, but as long as he wasn't asking for a piece of your body that would leave you dead if he ripped it out or off of you, you were fine with him having whatever he wanted. Outside of appearing out of nowhere to help you when you were in a tight spot, you often found him peering at you curiously through holes in the wall, drains and boxes that had their lids left slightly ajar, always in darkness and never fully manifesting himself before you.
Maybe there wasn't anything else that could appear. Maybe his face and hands were all he had.
….. Could that be why he kept asking for parts of you? So he could rebuild himself? Kinda weird to start with the heart if that was the case, you felt, but it could also explain why he kept asking even when you told him 'no' over and over again.
Ah well. Your musings about what he wanted with your body parts could wait. Now that he was here, you might as well see if he could help you.
[Hello] you said.
[Hello] Mr. Gap replied in kind. He hadn't yet acknowledged the situation you were in as he kept his gaze on your face.
[Me Cannot Move] you told him. [You Help Me?]
Mr. Gap stared at you for a moment, glancing down at what must have been whatever the skirt of your dress had caught on. Then he spoke again.
[Give Heart?] he asked.
Even though it felt expected at this point, your expression turned into a scowl at that.
[Not Give] you answered firmly.
His lips turned downwards into a pout.
[Disappointed] he said.
“Sure, fine, whatever. Be disappointed. But help me out of this already,” you snapped.
Switching to your native language was useless, of course. He couldn't understand what you were saying, even if he could tell that you were annoyed with him. That feeling appeared to be mutual, as his pout had yet to leave his face.
[Give Leg?] Mr. Gap asked.
[Not Give] you again answered firmly.
His pout deepened into a scowl, and you had a bad feeling that he wasn't going to do anything for you unless you gave him something.
“Look, I don't have much of anything to give you,” you groaned out, slipping back to your native tongue as you were already feeling thoroughly exasperated with him.
[Not Understand Your Language] he told you.
“I know, I know!” you replied before attempting to pull your composure back together.
[Me Give Hair?] you asked him, hoping that would be acceptable again.
[Not Want Hair]
Fucking asshole
“Fine, be that way,” you grumbled as you began struggling to free yourself once again.
Mr. Gap almost sounded exasperated himself as he began to say [Not Understand Your-]
[NOT WANT YOUR HELP!] you shouted in response, promptly shutting him up. If he wasn't going to help you without demanding some part of you that you couldn't live without, then you'd get out of this without him. It wasn't like you were completely helpless; you'd managed to get away from Mr. Huge Face without anyone helping you this time around.
Though honestly, it was a little surprising that Mr. Gap hadn't shown up when you had run to this spot earlier. It was the sort of area that you would have expected to see him in – maybe even expected him to save you like he did when Mr. Huge Face had gone after you before.
Looks like that had been a one-time thing.
You continued to struggle fruitlessly, the only bits of progress feeling like they were being made whenever you heard more tearing of fabric. But even with the way the gown was no doubt growing more and more trashed the longer you pulled at it, it didn't feel like you were any closer to escaping. Mr. Gap's presence wasn't any help, either. Not only was he not offering you any assistance, but the way he stared at you was starting to get on your nerves. It was one thing to struggle in an embarrassing situation on your own – it was another thing completely to struggle with an audience.
You were getting to the point that you were inclined to pull yourself out of the whole dress completely in order to climb out of the hole in the wall. The dress was wrecked anyway, it was better to leave it. As long as you called out to the Bride, the friendly spirit who had given you the garment in the first place, she would come to you with the gift of yet more clothes.
Unless she'd be mad over what had happened to it.
…. No. She wouldn't do that. She was nice. And understanding.
Not at all like the ghost who was continuing to watch you squirm uselessly like a trapped animal.
The reminder of the ghost's continued presence made you irritated again as you wondered why the hell was Mr. Gap even still here. You figured that he would've have left once you yelled at him, or even before that when you made it clear you weren't giving him what he wanted. Yet there he was, his pale face still hovering slightly beneath you, still watching with an indiscernable expression on his face.
He knew you weren't willing to give him anything other than your hair, so why was he bothering to wait? You'd never get so desperate for escape that you'd give up anything that he really wanted.
Eventually, his continued presence got you irritated to the point that you stopped in your squirming in order to look back down at him.
[Why You Here?] you asked sternly.
He didn't answer at first, and you were tempted to reach down and try to smack him in the face. Or maybe kicking him would be the better option if he was going to keep annoying you like this. He ended up speaking again before you got to that point, however.
[Me Help You] said Mr. Gap.
You frowned as you immediately said [Not Give Heart]
[Not Want Heart] he answered.
…. That was surprising.
[What You Want?] you then asked cautiously.
His expression remained level as he said [You Give ------]
…….. Huh?
[Me Give What?] you asked.
[You Give ------]
Despite Mr. Gap repeating it, it wasn't any good. You had no clue what the fuck he'd just asked of you. The word at the end wasn't one you had heard any of the ghosts use before, and with it being completely new, you were nervous; was this his attempt at getting something vital of yours again? Obviously not your heart or any of your limbs, but maybe it was something else you needed? Maybe your brain? You hadn't learned the word for that yet, so that could always be the case.
But he also knew that you weren't going to give him anything that would mortally injure you, and even though he often acted like an asshole, he wasn't malicious. After the help he'd given to you those other times, would he really use this chance to trick you into letting him kill you?
It didn't feel right. Not for him.
[You Give ------] Mr. Gap demanded again.
[……. Me Not Know] you answered. You were trying to figure out how to ask what he was talking about when his expression turned into a scowl once again.
[Disappointed] he said.
And then that pale face in the darkness vanished, his presence going with him.
If him leaving wasn't bad enough, you thought you felt the walls and floor tremble slightly, like an earthquake was about to hit.
Thus your panic made a reappearance.
“Wait! Wait wait wait!” you called out desperately.
Surprisingly, he reappeared, this time looking smug as he stared at you. Even though you were desperate, you couldn't help but note in your mind that he knew he was your only option in getting out. As much as that expression of his incensed you, you weren't left with a choice. You were well and truly stuck, and it didn't seem likely that any other ghost would come around to help you. The only thing you could do was to trust that whatever he was asking you to give him wouldn't end up killing you.
With a deep breath in, you sighed before you spoke again.
[Me Give ------]The unfamiliar word tumbled out of your lips clumsily, but even if your pronunciation was off, at least he would know what you meant by that.
He definitely did, as his smug smile widened into a grin when he heard you say that.
Please don't tell me I just said he could rip out my intestines or something
Mr. Gap vanished then, but while you could no longer see his face, you could still feel his presence behind you.
You'd figure out soon enough if you had just made the worst mistake of your life or not.
You stayed still, your upper half still resting helplessly on the floor while you anxiously waited for him to take whatever he had asked for.
Just don't let it be too bad, you begged in your head. Please.
You weren't sure what you were expecting him to do. Grab you in some way, yes. Yet the way you felt his hands brush against your thighs took you off-guard and you jumped slightly. What was he after down there? Your skin? A few different scenes from different horror movies of varying quality came to mind, all involving women getting their skin ripped off. You began to tremble again. You'd survive if it was a portion of your skin, but not all of it. But when he'd taken your hair, he hadn't ripped all of it out of your scalp, so maybe it would be the same thing here.
You let out another sigh as you attempted to calm yourself down, but even though what little remained of the torn skirt had prevented most of the skin on skin contact, the chill from his flesh left you shivering more.
The ones that had a physical form were always so cold, you thought to yourself.
Whether or not Mr. Gap noted the difference in your body temperatures as well, you couldn't tell. You heard his voice murmuring something, but it was yet another word that you hadn't yet heard before and therefore didn't know what he was saying.
Hearing him whisper like that and the fact that he was standing – hovering? – behind your vulnerable lower half had you feeling embarrassed, and you turned your head to look back at him. Or try to, since you couldn't see him. But you knew he could hear you as you chose to speak to him.
[What You-]
Your words were cut off when you felt Mr. Gap grasped at the tattered skirt and pull it up until it was bunched around your waist, leaving the only thing that was still covering the area between your legs being your panties.
……. What
“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed as you twisted your head back and forth, trying to look at him, only barely having the wherewithal to add in [Get Away!]
You swore you heard him chuckle before he said [You Give ------]
“But what does that-!?”
You were cut off yet again when you felt two of his fingers pushing against your folds through your underwear before he began to rub them up and down, his touch rough and seemingly out of practice, but clearly determined.
And you…. You were in shock.
When you had first entered this place, you had often found yourself asking if everything was real, if what you were experiencing wasn't just a really, really vivid nightmare that you were having a hard time waking up from because rationalizing it like that made more sense at the time. You'd stopped doing that a while ago, realizing that spending too much time wondering about if everything was real or not had the potential of getting you killed. The fact of the matter was, by this point, you'd gotten used to everything this world had been throwing at you.
But with this absolute curve ball of a situation, you were once again wondering if this was reality or if you had managed to hit your head really badly when you jumped down to escape Mr. Huge Face, because what the fuck was this?
Why the hell was a ghost feeling you up like this?
The thing that shocked you out of your current stupor was when a tingle ran up your spine as he continued to rub against your pussy and you realized: it was starting to feel good. You felt it in the way your cunt was beginning to slick and how a moan threatened to escape from your lips.
It was yet another layer of shock and embarrassment; how was it this easy for you to be affected by him?
Those fingers then brushed against your clothed clit and more noises threatened to leave you.
The clap that sounded when you slapped your hand over your mouth to contain your moan echoed in the room, but even if there was some chance that Mr. Gap had managed to not notice that reaction of yours – there wasn't – there was no way he could miss the way he was affecting you as you felt your panties begin to grow wet.
The bastard actually chuckled at you.
You were pushed into protest again when one of his fingertips slipped beneath the slick fabric of your underwear, lightly caressing your fold directly.
[Wait!] you yelled, pulling your hand away from your mouth as you began to thrash about, [Me Not Want!]
[You Give ------] Mr. Gap told you firmly.
[Not Give!] you yelled.
[Give]
He then pressed the finger on your cunt into you, narrowly breaching your entrance. Not fully in, but enough that when you felt his nail scrape against your walls it caused another jolt of pleasure to run up your spine. Clenching your hands into fists, you pressed your forehead against the cold surface you were laying on top of. There was no point in fighting, clearly. There also didn't seem much point in trying to hide how much this was affecting you.
At this point the most you could hope for was that none of the other beings in this world would come across this scene. Because somehow, in a world that was brimming with spirits that wanted to hurt you, being caught getting finger-fucked was somehow worse than being maimed or killed.
A whine left your throat as Mr. Gap shoved another finger into your pussy, his touch growing more confident the longer he kept at it.
Fuck.
The squelching of his fingers in your soaked cunt was getting too loud, and the barrenness of the room wasn't helping in that as the echo caused the sound to be even louder than it should have been. That in turn only served to leave you feeling even more humiliated with yourself as you were forced to listen to the sound of your own arousal that Mr. Gap had so effortlessly drawn out of you.
You didn't want this. You didn't want this but –
Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop as you were caught off-guard when he pulled his fingers away from your pussy, and you let out a yelp when you felt his fingertips hook themselves into the waistband of your panties and pull at them. Mr. Gap then proceeded to glide the fabric down your legs until he had slid them over your shoes and took them off completely. Cold air now hit your heated flesh, causing a noticeable tremble in your legs.
Then, with a strength that you weren't expecting from him, Mr. Gap forced your thighs open with his hands, leaving your most intimate place exposed and vulnerable. You were horrified once again when you felt the way he leaned in, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt the chill gusts of air caused by his breath as they hit the soft folds of your pussy.
You thought the fingering had been bad enough, but now with the way his face was directly between your legs like that – just how far was this going to go?
When you felt his tongue lap against your slit, you instantly clamped your hand back over your mouth. Not that you were able to fully contain the pathetically wanton noise that escaped your lips, as the mortifying sound echoed as well. Your face and your ears were burning while his tongue ran up your pussy over and over again, his saliva slowly coating your flesh.
“S-stop,” you weakly protested against your palm, even though you knew that it wasn't going to do any good. Mr. Gap was clearly dead set on doing this, as evidenced by how tight his grip on your thighs were.
You weren't getting out of this until he chose to let you go.
Up and down, again and again, you felt his tongue run over your pussy, gathering up your growing wetness while adding to it with his own. When that wasn't enough for him, he began to press his tongue in deeper, pushing it between your slick folds. You let out a whine while your legs trembled again, the burn in your muscles growing more noticeable by the second while Mr. Gap continued to hold you open for him.
It hurt, but it also felt good.
It was humiliating, but you found yourself starting to not care about that very much.
You didn't want this, but the longer it went on, the less you wanted to fight it.
It felt like it'd been a while since you this way, probably because of all of the near-death experiences you'd had after arriving here. Was it so bad to enjoy yourself when you were finally given the chance to do so? A voice in your head told you that it wasn't.
….. Your mind was becoming warped by this place. Why else would any inner voice of yours make such a claim?
But seeing as you weren't getting out of this until Mr. Gap decided he was done, there wasn't anything else you could do other than endure it.
That was the excuse you needed to cling to.
However long he spent lapping at your cunt, it was long enough that your thighs were becoming soaked as your juices dripped down your legs, clinging to your flesh as well as his hands as he continued to hold you open. You didn't want to think about how drenched you were down there, or of the way your pussy was clenching every time the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit.
Mr. Gap noticed that, as he pulled his tongue away to speak, his cool breath hitting your cunt again and making you shiver.
[Enjoyable?] he asked.
That question went unanswered due to how you had your teeth biting down on your lower lip and your forehead resting on the surface of the floor in front of you, your body burning up as you continued to try and pretend that this wasn't affecting you as much as it actually was.
Mr. Gap let out a grunt of annoyance before saying [Disappointed]
That was followed by a harsh pinch to your clit which immediately forced you to yelp.
Loudly.
Based on the way he chuckled after, he was pleased by that.
“P-pervert,” you muttered, keeping your face pressed against the floor. And even though you knew he didn't know what exactly you had said, he must have understood on some level, as tongue pressed back in, this time focusing on your clit, lapping over it gently compared to the harsh action from moments ago.
A full body shudder went through you while you whimpered.
Of course he noticed, and he pulled away from your cunt again to ask [Enjoyable?]
You didn't mean to answer; you were trying to keep as quiet as possible, even though you knew there was no point to that by now.
But the pathetic and even needy sounding whine you made seemed to answer his question well enough, and again he chuckled at you.
Then he let you go.
Your eyes snapped open as surprise hit you. His hands had left your thighs and you no longer felt his breath on your cunt.
Was…. Was that it? Was he going to end it there and let you go? Was he not actually going to let you finish? Was this another way of irritating you? You weren't sure if you should have been upset or not, or if you should be worried over the fact that being upset over it was even a consideration in your mind.
Because evidently, he wasn't done with you just yet.
You suddenly felt his stringy black hair brushing against your inner thighs while his chill breath returned, now blowing directly on your clit. His hands were back, too. One to hold open your leg while the other went to your folds. You felt his nose pressing against your skin as he leaned in to place his lips over your clit.
Ah.
He'd only been readjusting his position.
When Mr. Gap began to suck on your clit while pressing his digits back into your cunt, you couldn't be bothered to try and hold your moans in. Even though the way you were leaning on the hard edge of the floor where it met the opening of the hole was starting to hurt as it pressed into your stomach, you didn't care. You were too far gone. After all the shit you'd dealt with since coming here, you might as well enjoy yourself, right?
Who would be around to judge you for it?
Moans and whines spilled from your mouth in earnest now as he gave your clit attention, alternating between sucking and lapping at it with his tongue. In the meantime he continued to fuck you with his fingers, having an easier time doing so than when he'd first started. He slipped a third one in as well, adding to the stretch of your walls that had you losing your mind.
You didn't think you were going to last much longer than this.
The lower half of your body was trembling hard as you felt a pressure building up inside of you. You were clenching your walls around his digits while using your limited mobility to press against his face as best as you were able, now actively chasing your climax.
So close. You were so close –
Mr. Gap pulled away. The son of a bitch actually removed his fingers and moved away from your pussy.
And you let out a noise of pure frustration while you slammed your fist against the floor. The pain that followed after such a stupid action went ignored by you as all you wanted was to grab him by his hair and force his mouth back on you.
With the way your heart was beating so loudly in your ears, you almost missed what he had said to you.
[Give ------?] he asked.
Even in the middle of the haze of pleasure and irritation you were currently in, your mind was able to work well enough to realize now what that word meant.
“Orgasm,” more than likely.
And here you would have thought that ghosts would have no need for sex, much less have a word relating to it.
All reservations were thrown to the wind as you answered with only one word.
[Give]
You could hear the way his lips stretched into a grin before you even finished giving your answer.
Not that you had any time to comprehend it as in an instant, he was back on you, his lips around your clit like you wanted. And when he started sucking again, you pressed your forehead back on the surface of the floor, your hands grabbing at the edges of the opening as you sought purchase.
Almost. Almost…..
It was the feeling of all three fingers being shoved into your cunt combined with a correctly timed lick of your clit that pushed you over, and the whine you let out was even more needy and loud than every single noise you had made before. Your walls were squeezing his fingers, pressing down around them while your juices gushed out of your pussy. Not that Mr. Gap was letting them go to waste, as he continued lick you through your orgasm, his mouth moving up so he could eagerly lap at your entrance. His actions served to prolong your climax, even getting to the point that it seemed like too much as you felt your poor body shudder and shake with overexertion.
The bastard knew; you heard the sounds of his snickering over your needy whines.
Mr. Gap didn't stop until he had wrung you out thoroughly.
And by the time that finally happened, you felt almost boneless as you continued to lay in that embarrassing position.
Only then did he let go.
Your lower half slid down slightly into the small space, as you were too exhausted at first to hold yourself up. Your overheated front half was still laying on the floor and you were still breathing hard out of your mouth while sweat ran down your skin.
Mind in shambles, you were only vaguely aware of the slight tugging at the skirt of your dress, followed by a more prominent tug on the fabric on your back that had been stretched out this entire time, with it finally giving away with a slight snap as it fell back down to your heated skin. The way you began to slide fully back down into the hole brought you back to awareness, and you slammed your palms against the wall on either side of you to bring that to a stop.
Using more effort than you should have, you pulled yourself up and out. Your chest, then your stomach and waist. And once you managed to brace a knee against the edge of the opening, you were able to give yourself the final push you needed to exit the space completely, crawling out over the floor until you were fully free.
Then you collapsed again, letting out an exhausted sigh as you still felt tremors running through your body.
What was that?
With a groan, you placed the back of your palm across your forehead, feeling the heat that was still coursing through you as you slowly began to calm down from your high. Of all the things you had come to expect from this place, to have something like that happen was one of the last things you expected.
…. Actually, no. With some of the other entities that roamed this place, you could see things going that badly if they were able to do what they wanted with you.
You just hadn't expected that from Mr. Gap.
A flash of white in the area you had just exited caught your attention out of your peripheral vision, and after a few more moments of laying sprawled out on the floor, you pushed on your arms to force yourself up into a sitting position.
Mr. Gap was staring at you, as you figured he would. Although this time he seemed more pleased with himself than usual.
[Orgasm Enjoyable?]
You didn't answer, but your face was burning again while you stared him down. He was gloating. The smug look on his face couldn't mean anything else.
[Me Have Fun] he said. His tone then became more mocking as he asked [You Have Fun?]
[Not Fun] you answered sternly.
The bastard actually sneered at you when you told him that as yet another word you didn't recognize spilled from his lips. If you were to make a guess as to what that one meant, it probably meant “liar”. If that was what he'd said, you hated that he was right. Because as much as you didn't want that – didn't mean to ask for it, some primitive part of your brain couldn't help but enjoy what had happened.
Your hands clenched into fists again as you stewed in your frustration. He could call you a liar all he wanted; you wouldn't ever admit to the truth of the matter.
Not that he seemed to care anymore, as he was looking down within the space that still held him, his attention seemingly on something else. Something that was possibly bad as he looked to you with another grin on his face.
What was it now?
Your question was answered quickly as his hand then appeared again, holding up something for you to see:
Your underwear.
You tensed, your mouth pressing into a thin line while the embarrassment that had faded some came back in full force. You'd forgotten that he'd pulled them off of you, everything that he'd done thoroughly melting your brain during the time he'd been finger fucking you. Now that you weren't lost in the throes of pleasure, you were aware enough to feel humiliation again.
Holding your hand out, you told him [Give]
Mr. Gap chuckled at you.
And then vanished.
“What the hell?!” you yelled as you crawled forward towards the dark space. Unlike before when you'd called out into the darkness, he didn't reappear, and it felt as though he was truly gone this time as there wasn't any trace of his presence returning.
Your heart was angrily beating in your chest as you thought to yourself on how this son of a bitch had really stolen your underwear after coercing you into letting him take advantage of you.
And there wasn't a single thing you could do about it.
About him.
An angry huff left your mouth before you turned your attention elsewhere; mainly, yourself. You were in a wretched state, your skin dirty and covered in scrapes and bruises, not to mention the sticky feeling between your legs. The dress you were wearing was also in an even more sorry state than it was before: not only was it no longer the shade of white it had been when it was given to you, but it was torn in multiple places now, both at the back and the front where the edge of the floor had seemed to do some damage to the area covering your stomach. It wasn't quite torn, but it didn't feel like the garment would last much longer before it began falling apart completely.
While there was nothing to do at the moment about how dirty you felt, at least the matter of the dress had an easy solution.
Taking in a deep breath, you spoke the word that would get you the help you wanted most in that moment.
[Clothes] you said.
In an instant, a figure was standing in front of you. The Bride, wearing her floor-length wedding dress and a veil that hung in place over where her missing head would have been. Despite her head being completely gone, you felt her gaze on your form, invisible eyes looking down at your sorry state as you were still sitting on the floor.
[You Say Clothes?] she asked you.
You nodded.
Getting a new set of clothes wasn't difficult, as the Bride was, as always, eager to help you out. She was even fine with you asking for something different than the gown she had given you previously, instead producing a white raincoat that you were more than happy to take in place of another dress with a long skirt that could be grabbed at.
[Thank You] you told her as you took the raincoat, preparing to remove the gown so you could change into it.
A chill that ran up your legs made you pause.
….. Your underwear. And the image of Mr. Gap holding them up before he vanished.
Fucking bastard
[Something Not Right?] the Bride asked, the confusion she felt at the way you had stopped so suddenly.
The heat entered your cheeks yet again. Asking for this felt embarrassing. But you didn't want to walk around with nothing covering you underneath. Not if you could help it, at least.
[Me Need…..]
Your voice trailed off. Agh…. How are you even supposed to ask for something that specific? Did she even have what you needed?
[Me Need….. Other Clothes?] you asked as you pointed to the area beneath your skirt, hopeful that you wouldn't need to attempt to elaborate further.
The Bride remained silent for a moment before she spoke again.
[I See]Just as she had with the raincoat, the Bride vanished and then returned with something new in her hands: a clean pair of panties.
You never thought you'd feel relief at the sight of clean underwear.
Looking up at her as you accepted her offering, you told her “you deserve the world.”
She didn't understand, but she seemed happy for you as you began to pull on the pieces of your new outfit.
Things were quiet in the other world. Aside from the sound of your footsteps on the floor and the slight noise your raincoat made as it swished about your legs, there was nothing else to be heard in that moment. Not that you were allowing your guard to drop because of that. All it would take for things to change would be the sound of a giggle above your head, or the revving of a chainsaw in the distance, or the sick feeling that would enter your soul while world around you began to grow red. All sorts of dangers still presented themselves in this world, and you wouldn't survive if you weren't ready to react at the first sign of them. Being alert was the only reason why you were still alive.
…. Well….. Being alert and also being lucky. Though the luck part came in largely due to the friendlier entities you had come across here. Like the crawling ghost, and the one who was only a severed head. And the Bride.
…… And then there was Mr. Gap.
Your hands clenched into fists as you walked, the memories of that recent encounter refusing to leave the forefront of your mind. To call what had happened mortifying would be an understatement. You'd been vulnerable, and he had taken advantage of that fact, fully knowing that you wouldn't have known what he was asking for, tricking you into agreeing into something that you would never have done if you knew what the word he used had been beforehand.
You should be angry at him.
You were angry at him, and you still wanted to get at least one good hit to his face before you got back to your world.
But at the same time, there was a small voice at the back of your head that told you it could've been worse. If he had still been like how he was when you first met him, he probably would've taken advantage of that opportunity to tear out something vital of yours. Despite his repeated demands of you, his requests had become less unreasonable over time. That meant something, didn't it? That at the very least, he was no longer interested in hurting or killing you.
Plus, eternity is a long time to be angry with someone
You shook your head as soon as that thought entered your mind. You weren't staying here. You were finding the elevator that lead out of this place, and then you were going home where you would no longer need to worry about creeps with umbrellas chasing after you or giants who wanted to keep you like you were a pet.
You let out a tired sigh as you walked, only briefly glancing up towards a window in the hall that had been largely boarded up before you returned your attention to the path in front of you. As much as you hated this place, there would be people you would miss once you were gone. Like the Nurse. Or the Hairdresser. Or the Bride. The Bride especially out of those three. Even though she seemed to have a limited variety, it was nice to simply say the word “clothes” and have someone appear out of nowhere to hand them over to you for free.
….. Appear out of nowhere?
You came to a sudden halt as a thought came to mind.
You could've just called for the Bride when you were stuck and she probably would've helped you out of that spot. There wasn't any danger in the room at that time and if it was the two of you working together, getting out would have been easy to do.
The agreement you'd been tricked into accepting with Mr. Gap wouldn't have needed to happen at all if you had just thought of calling on her sooner.
For what must have been the dozenth time within the hour, your hands clenched into fists and you felt the now familiar sensation of heat in your cheeks rising again as your embarrassment and frustration grew, this time directed at yourself. You knew how she worked, you knew she came when you called – why the fuck hadn't you thought of that before? Why were you always so stupid when you were panicking?
And then, at the beginning of what would have been a barrage of internal insults towards yourself, you noticed it before it those thoughts could go any further:
A sudden presence within your vicinity.
Specifically within the window next to you.
You whipped your head to the side, looking through the rotted, broken boards and finding a familiar face in the darkness. Of Mr. Gap, who was now at eye level and staring back at you.
All while wearing a knowing smirk on his face, like he could tell exactly what you were thinking.
You saw the flash of white teeth in his grin before he said [You Give Cute Sound. Me Like]
In response you jumped forward and reached for him, wanting to grab him by his messy hair and yank him out of the window.
Mr. Gap vanished before you could touch him, leaving you blindly reaching into the darkness.
“Fucking asshole,” was all you could spit out as you pulled your arm back out. You then proceeded to stomp your way down the hall, your movements fueled by irritation and the ever present sense of embarrassment that had only grown worse with his taunt. You weren't going to let him get away with that. You were going to get back at him.
Though how exactly you were going to get even with a ghost who couldn't exist outside of dark, enclosed spaces and who could disappear in an instant remained to be seen, but still. You'd keep an eye out for the opportunity, and when it presented itself, you'd take it.
Mr. Gap didn't get to toy with you like that without consequences. Not if you had anything to say about it.
As you walked towards the end of the hall, you felt his presence reappear. Whether or not it was in that window or in some other space that you weren't yet aware of, you didn't know. But you knew Mr. Gap was back again when you heard his voice echo against the empty walls of the hall.
[Cute]
You didn't bother to look around or even respond back, but you felt the heat that had been in your cheeks rise up to your ears as you continued walking forward.
The chuckle that rang against the hall after was just another added insult to injury.
Can we please have more Minotaur gladiator with his sweet server girl? 🥹 I’d imagine she has to service many warriors, so would he be jealous or protective of her?
In the beginning, maybe you had to attend to most of the arena winners, but once our big ol' Minotaur got at you, it's him or nothing.
-
The arena handlers hate this arrangement.
Every win streak the minotaur gains, he asks for you, every laurel, and prize-choosing ceremony he stomps through the trained pleasure servants and picks you from the line of regular attendants, grabbing you by the waist and tossing you over his shoulder as he leaves the hall behind, ignoring the calls of officials and his handlers, you won't be going to anyone else not since he's had his taste.
Being the gladiator with the most wins means he always gets first pick; the others just have to try harder if they want to sneak past and get at you.
He'd seen how they glared from the other side of the room as he picked his prize, you and a pitcher of sweet wine, seen the heavy way the other watched as he sauntered off with you to his rooms, seething as they wanted to know why he always went for you, why you were so wanted.
His oiling platform has new carafes of oil and pots of balms to be anointed in, dropping you on the tiled floor before stripping down and sitting on the edge, grabbing a pot of horn balm and pressing it into your palms. Smirking as he tilts his head forward, waiting as he feels your hands working across his horns and chuffing softly when you massage the base of his horns, the skin that joins them is sensitive, but the slow movement of your fingers runs shivers down his spine.
Once your done he takes the balm back and drops it amongst the others, ignoring the oils he'd normally have you coat him with, guiding you to his bath, the large sunk in pool heated and steaming with the scent of lavender. Standing on the first step into the water he pulls the pin and unites the ropes holding your attendants robes together, eyes lidded and dark as he huffs happily at the sight of you naked before him.
Guiding your hands to his waist piece and helping you undo the loose knot, cock slapping against his stomach as he grabs at your hips, lifting and walking into the waters with you.
⚠︎ content: eren jaeger x female reader, college au, porn without plot, halloween party/costumes, semi-public, fake knife play, fake blood, alcohol, cliché af, explicit language, explicit sexual content. reader discretion advised 18+
⚠︎ word count: ~4.5k
This was how it was supposed to work: invitations—which somehow sounded too silly and too proper for a college party—included a link to a simple personality quiz everyone had to submit. Then, the self-advertised fourth-year psychology major would analyze the results like a discount matchmaking service—with the added disclaimer reserving the right to use all collected information for her personality course assignment. Approximately two weeks before the Halloween party, guests received their assigned costumes, one half of a couples costume, and the night’s mission to find their other half.
Maybe it sounded like a lot of work just to attend a house party, but most guests were happy to help a friend-of-a-friend on their final project and gorge themselves on free beer just for participation.
What was your costume assignment? Well, ‘Final Girl’ was the prompt. You know, the girl who survives until the end of the slasher movie. She finds rescue; she kills the killer. You decidedly went with the classic choice: an 80s summer camper. The look came together with a pair of high-waisted shorts, a tight-fitted baseball tee, and tubesocks with sneakers, perfect for a chase. The cherry on top being the three slashes you put through the phony camp logo printed on the front of your shirt, completed with splatters of fake blood. Now, you just needed to wait to find your killer.
Should be easy enough, you figured. You only needed to find the person drenched in more blood than you and, presumably, with some kind of weapon in hand.
And you would be right, stumbling upon your match not too long after arriving. In a sea of pairs—ranging from, at least what you recognized, Sid and Nancy to a lonesome sexy Red Riding Hood most likely waiting on her probably just-as-sexy Big Bad Wolf to make his appearance—you realized that psych student might deserve more credit than you initially gave her. Both of you went the sleep-away camp route, him going for a Jason Voorhees-esque costume, you’d say, with a plastic machete in one hand, drink in the other, and mask pulled back from his face. Thank god for that. It actually gave you the opportunity to look at him, rather than being left to wonder for the better half of the night.
Dark hair, long enough to brush his shoulders and sweep into his eyes if he didn’t have it tied at the back of his head. Pretty white teeth beaming through a conversation that was all smiles between swigs of beer. Good-looking—more than good looking enough to pull off what was essentially a pair of mechanic’s coveralls flecked with dried ‘blood’ with a sort of lazy confidence.
And when you approached him, he didn’t just look at you; his eyes took stock of you. It was more than clear you were each other’s match, yet despite the obvious, you felt drawn to him, hot and buzzing all over, the creaky floor vibrating to the music beneath your every step.
Upon further inspection, you’d say you liked him—Eren, as he introduced—even better up close. You liked how Eren wore his coveralls zipped low, revealing a white undershirt that clung to the muscles of his chest. The teeny snaggle in his smile you could only make out when standing close enough to brush your arm against his every now and then.
Before you knew it, through easy conversation and bad jokes, those incidental touches turned a bit more purposeful. They started feeling electric to you, like a sparked wire just beneath your skin. Practically burning you when he’d bring you in with a hand on the small of your back to say something, his breath right on your ear so you could hear him better. Darting glances became glossy, lingering gazes, maybe from the alcohol, maybe not. Laughter drifted low and familiar, and at the right angle, under the sagging purple and orange string lights, there was an unmistakable glint in his eye. One you were sure you, like your costumes, matched.
At this point, you were well aware of how this all sounded. Yes, this was essentially a party full of couples. And yes, there were on-theme condoms intermixed in the candy bowls. But you swore it wasn’t that kind of party. This was nothing more than your standard run-of-the-mill Halloween party. Just with a cheeky—academic, even—twist.
Though it very much seemed like that kind of party when considering the fact you and Eren couldn’t keep off one another long enough to wait in line for the bathroom. You made out with him right there in the dark hallway, not paying any mind to those gawking as you eventually slipped into the empty bathroom with him.
It was a tight squeeze, not that you’d expected much more. Enough room for a sink, toilet, and what could be a shower but could also be a makeshift closet hidden behind a curtain. You weren’t exactly studying your surroundings—didn’t even get the chance even if you wanted to, because he had you by the lips again before he flipped on the light.
Eren shut the door behind you by flattening your back against it. A ripple of energy coursed through you much like the way the wooden door rattled in its frame. You wanted him closer. With one fist gripping the front of his clothes, you laced the other into his hair. He protested neither, only kissing you harder. Said kiss was seeping with desperation, all wanton and needy, but you wouldn’t describe it as careless. Every measured movement of his lips met yours with an almost coordinated effort, if you actually believed you were capable of any coordination by now.
At once, you felt a strange surge of determination. You weren’t ready to give in, not yet. Not quite so easily—because where was the fun in that?
Between kisses, when Eren would relent on your swollen lips and explore lower to suck on your neck, you breathlessly told him, “I don’t fuck on the first date.” He leaned back to get a look at you, his brow curiously furrowed. You smiled a little. “Let alone the first time I meet a guy.”
“That’s fine,” he replied, wholly unconcerned. The fake blood you used to make your bottom lip appear split had transferred onto the corner of his mouth. When he caught you inspecting his lips, his eyes flitted down to yours. “We can keep making out, though. Right?”
“Obviously.”
When he kissed you again, you coaxed his tongue into your mouth using your own. He tasted like the sticky-sweet caramel apple vodka everyone was taking shots of earlier. He groaned softly, and his grip on your waist tightened. His fingertips dug into the denim and seared into your skin; you could already feel the imprints they’d leave behind.
Eren wrapped his fingers around the belt loops of your shorts and maneuvered you rather effortlessly. Pressed between the porcelain sink and himself, you could feel him achingly hard against your thigh, and you just couldn’t help yourself. Shifting slightly to feel him at your core, you rolled your hips against his front. You noticed how soaked your underwear was already, how it felt against your hot skin and acted as a not-so-subtle reminder of how unabashedly turned on you were.
Eren repeated the movement, firmer this time, by guiding your hips. You could tell how badly he wanted to fuck you if this was his idea of restraint. Not that you could complain, of course. You enjoyed every second spent grinding on him, indulging in the delicious pressure against your clit even if there were layers upon layers of clothes keeping you from him.
The kiss was an after-thought now. Clumsy and sloppy on both parts. Bumping noses, teeth embarrassingly clanking together once or twice, until you had given up entirely and just panted into his mouth, heedlessly working toward your high. No better than a dog in heat, really, but he was right there with you. You knew if you kept burning at this rate, you would fizzle out to an unsatisfactory end.
You snuck a hand inside the front of his coveralls. From his chest to his stomach, you traced your fingers down the planes of his body, noticing how every muscle tensed beneath the thin-ribbed fabric, each one of them wrung taut with anticipation.
Your hand stopped short of his boxers, merely teasing a finger where the band met his skin. There was a small shudder to his voice, one he tried to mask by clearing his throat before he asked, “You want to—”
It wasn’t your nod that interrupted him but your hand sliding inside his underwear. You smiled to yourself when his eyes fluttered shut.
He was sorely hard against your palm, twitching even, as you wrapped your hand around him and began stroking. Every flick of your wrist felt constrained by his boxers, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. His clenched jaw gave you the feeling he was more focused on preventing himself from fucking your hand, anyway.
After a few more pumps, he pulled himself together. He reached around your wrist to undo the buttons on your shorts before tugging them down your legs. Once you’d stepped out of them entirely, he settled between your thighs, pushing up against you until you were just barely lifted onto the sink’s ledge.
With a hand closed over your pussy, he thumbed over the seat of your underwear. He caught your gasp and sealed his lips to yours, thumb flicking up and down. It was just enough to make your mind blank and your knees buckle for half of a second, but god, how you hopelessly wanted more.
Right as the thought crossed your mind, Eren moved to tuck your panties to the side. His fingers were gentle, caressing your pussy until they were wet enough to easily, slowly, push just his middle finger inside. Your muscles flexed then relaxed, a pleasurable yet painfully fleeting pulse you hadn’t realized how much you needed until now. So much, in fact, that when he added a second finger, curling both to reach that perfect spot, you couldn’t stop yourself from rocking your hips.
More, you thought. You wanted more.
Eren got the hint and started fingering you with more vigor. You let your head fall back between your shoulders as a moan escaped you. As lascivious as it was loud—too loud given the circumstances—it still wasn’t as vulgar as you riding his hand, rubbing down against the heel of his palm each time he had you entirely stuffed. All the while, you continued jerking him off at the pace you wished he was fucking you.
You were close; you could feel the telltale heat tingling, radiating down to your toes. But, fuck. In the back of your mind, you knew this could be so much better. You knew exactly how he could reach even deeper, how you could feel him in your stomach, and it wasn’t going to happen with just his fingers.
“Can I take off your shirt?” Eren asked.
Before you could bob your head yes, from the corner of your eye you caught the three rips you’d put across your t-shirt. Sounding more dreamy than daring (and, admittedly, a little too wrapped up in the moment) you teased, “How about you tear it off me?”
The offer clearly excited him. Breathlessly grinning down at you, he placed his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, keenly aware of the effect it would have on you.
Playing along, he reached for the machete. Obviously, it was fake. Incapable of any actual harm. But there was something you found undeniably titillating about the way he ran the tip from your bellybutton up to your throat. He tipped your chin high with the plastic edge to meet his gaze.
You were so distracted by him, his deep green eyes that had you pinned still, you missed his other hand coming to tear your shirt wide open in one swift movement. It pathetically fell into the bends of your elbows like a cardigan would.
Eren dropped the machete, replacing it with his finger as he traced down your sternum. He stopped at the little bow in the center of your bra and fiddled with it.
“Now, should I keep going?” His finger hooked the band and snapped it. “Or should we let you have something to return to the party in?”
You immediately felt hot all over. But before you could say anything, he kissed you once more, nipping at your bottom lip. His hand palmed your breast, squeezing. His thumb ran across your nipple poking through the padding, and it drew a small sound from you. Encouraged, he continued, his mouth leaving yours to traverse lower. You felt the soft heat of his tongue on your collarbone, then down between your breasts. He used both hands to push your bra lower, freeing your breasts for him to kiss and lick and suck at as much as he wanted.
“Oh my god,” you accidentally let slip. Where you’d expect a response, he only continued on, just as mesmerized as you were.
You had been touched, toyed, and made out with for so long now (at least, that was what it felt like) that you were more than sensitive. Grabbing onto the countertop behind you, you leaned back onto your hands to remain upright. You watched, moony-eyed and slack-jawed, as he played with—no, he worshipped your tits. While his mouth was around one nipple, he made sure to pay attention to the other with his fingers. Every sensation had your hips threatening to buck into him, your body knowing damn well what it really wanted.
You hastily scooped his face between your hands and made him look up at you. “Do you have a condom?”
Through squished cheeks, his hair all over the place thanks to your doing, Eren replied, “I thought you didn’t—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” you asserted. “Do you have a condom?”
His smirk narrowed his eyes. You tried to ignore it, but he punctuated his cockiness by taking you by the hips and unceremoniously spinning you around. He flattened his hand between your shoulders until you were shoved against the wall.
Eren yanked your panties down your thighs, kneeling briefly to make sure they were off each ankle and on the floor. Before he stood, he spread your thighs and buried his face between them to lick your pussy once.
“Oh,” you moaned in surprise, bearing your weight against the wall.
He gauged your reaction before continuing. His hot tongue felt like silk against you, lapping through your cunt a few times, then delving further to circle your clit. He kept at it, maintaining a steady pace that threatened to make your legs give out. Your nails scratched at the wall as if it could provide any grip.
Then he stopped. Left you with your legs shaking, while he pushed himself to his feet.
“Couldn’t help myself,” Eren admitted with frustrating nonchalance as he wiped his face with his sleeve.
After your second almost orgasm, you complained, “You’re such a tease.” But was it really a complaint if you were still there, pliant, waiting for him to just fuck you already?
You glanced over your shoulder to see him retrieve a condom from his pocket. The orange wrapper has a Jack-o’-lantern face scratched onto it in marker like the others from the candy bowls. You wondered when he managed to snag one.
He pushed down his boxers and unzipped his coveralls enough to take his cock out. You watched quietly as he rolled the condom on, then wiggled your hips against him toyingly. Eren slapped himself against your ass before aligning the head of his cock to push inside you.
You were so turned on; there was little resistance, but the way you squeezed down had him pulling out when he was only halfway in. Then he hitched a breath, thrust inside you fully until his pelvis was flush against you.
He slammed his open hand against the wall beside your head. “Fuck,” he groaned, finally releasing that breath.
You felt every inch of him as he fucked you with long strokes, tilting his hips back and forth. He leaned back to watch himself disappear into you, over and over again.
“Ah—faster. Faster,” you urged, cheek pressed to the wall, your own hot breath breaking over your face.
“Faster, huh,” Eren repeated on a gruff breath. He repositioned, hoisting your leg up with his arm and out of his way.
His next thrust hit deeper, made you cry out and your entire body spasm. Before you could settle, he did it again, faster, like you asked. Unrelenting and uninhibited, holding you there because your legs had turned to gelatin. You weren't sure you’d be able to take him and stay upright for much longer.
Your voice was a shaky babble at best. Between half-spoken words, you tried to look back at him, reaching a hand out for him. After he stilled and you gathered yourself briefly, you panted, “Do you—do you think there’s a bedroom?”
Eren breathed just as hard. He ran a hand through his hair in thought. “I’m sure there is.” His hand smoothed circles on the small of your back. “You wanna move?”
“Kinda,” you admitted. Your calf started to cramp.
“Yeah, okay. Just,” he set you down, helped you put on your underwear fast, “get dressed.”
You did just that, sort of. You had to clasp the front of your shirt together to get it to stay on. Eren flushed the condom, zipped himself back up, then grabbed your free hand to go find a bedroom.
There were still enough people for no one really noticed as you snuck deeper into the house. Eren jiggled a couple of locked doors before finding an empty bedroom. Fingers still interlaced with yours, he pulled you in. You forgot how loud everything was—the chatter, the bass and how it thrummed in your chest—until the door shut behind you again.
The room was tidy, the bed made, and the sight made you feel a bit guilty for what you were about to do. You looked from the neatly folded sheets, down to your clothes, then over to Eren. “I don’t want to get fake blood on the bed.”
He shrugged. “Guess we have to get naked then.”
You thought he was just being cute, but when you looked over he had already begun stripping. His arms were out of their sleeves and pushing the rest down his legs. He straightened back out before peeling his shirt over his head, letting that fall to the floor too. When he noticed your staring, he smiled at your self-consuming bashfulness, almost making you believe he could read your mind.
In the low light, you could make out how hard he remained, straining against the boxers. They were stained, darkened with your slick from just a couple of moments ago. Before you could fuss over it, he slid them down his thighs.
Well, you weren’t just going to let him stand there naked alone.
You kicked off your shoes and shimmed out of your shorts and panties. Eren neared you in a step, reaching around to undo the clasp of your bra. Once all that was done, he picked you up, your legs on either side of his abdomen, to carry you over to the bed.
You dropped onto the mattress with a slight sway. He was quick to crawl on top of you, his hips pressed between your legs. You felt his cock against the crease of your thigh, threatening to split you again. He could have done it right then. Instead, he sat up. One at a time, he took your calves and laid them over his shoulders. He pinned your thighs to your chest and mounted you just like that. At this angle, his cock filled you in one easy swing of his hips.
“Oh, god,” you gasped, head thrown back against a stranger’s pillow, their sheets balled between your fingers.
“Yeah, that feel good?” Eren asked, voice like gravel, as he rolled his hips into you again.
“Yeah, fuck—” Your neck curled. “Like that.”
Every thrust into you was unhurried. When he’d reach the hilt, he’d grind against you before pulling out nearly all the way, every time. You would be wriggling and writhing if you could—if he allowed you to. But the weight of his chest against the backs of your thighs had you stuck there, taking everything he had to give you.
“I’m gonna—gonna come,” you whispered frantically.
Eren’s hand caught your chin so you couldn’t shy away. There was something quietly magnetic about him you couldn’t quite pin. Something soft. This impossible pull between danger and warmth. Harsh, yet oh so tender.
“Look at you,” he said, maybe in admiration, maybe pitying you like you were some pathetic little thing. The push and pull. “You said you wanted it fast, but what you really needed was hard, huh?” He dragged out of you, letting your cunt flutter around him and feel every vein. Then he snapped his hips, causing you to whimper. “You feel me in your stomach?”
You nodded because that was all you could manage. And when you came, you tried to hold your bleary eyes on him like you knew he wanted. You trembled from head to toe, your tubesock-clad feet twitching on either side of his head, threatening to lock your ankles around his neck and keep him there forever. You cursed and cried until you were out of air, feeling more like a deflated balloon than a person.
When you finally felt as though you’d returned to your body, those feel-good chemicals melting you from the inside out, you felt less in control of your limbs than you liked. You moved similarly to dough, going along with Eren as he flipped onto his back with you atop.
Limp and lazy, you straddled his lap, letting him do the work of guiding you down onto his cock. Your body was absolutely spent, surrendered to him to be used to his liking. Soft and giving and made for him as his fingers dig into the plush of your sides. You knew it wouldn’t be long until he finished.
“Eren,” you breathed, looking down to where he pumped his cock into you. “Come inside me.”
“Yeah?” There was a headiness to his tone that wasn’t there earlier. Same went for the pink now spanning his cheeks, complementary to his lust-green eyes boring into you.
“Yeah.” You lolled your head to the side. “I wanna feel it.”
“Alright, fuck—” His steady pace stuttered momentarily.
Eren bent his knees and dug his feet into the mattress for leverage. He rested you back on his thighs to put you on full display for him. With your okay, he began fucking up into you, quicker, more intentional this time around. How he wanted to take you this whole time. Bouncing on top of him now, you had to cling to his forearms for more support.
“God, so pretty. Gonna make me come,” he grunted, unable to hold himself back. “Fucking perfect, aren’t you?”
Eren rammed into you once more, yanking you down to meet him much harder than before, as if he thought he could reach any deeper. A groan tore from the back of his throat and he cursed again. When he could open his eyes once more, he undulated your hips, riding out the tail end of his high before pulling his dripping cock from you.
You flopped forward, landing on his chest with a small thud. You lay there together in a combination of heaving breaths. Your skin was tacky against his, body warmed in an all over flush of heat, but that didn’t stop you from staying put for another moment.
His hand came up to brush some hair away from your face, petting back to the nape of your neck.
“How was that, love?” Eren murmured. “What you imagined?”
You hummed affirmatively, happily nuzzling against your boyfriend’s neck.
He pecked the top of your head. He slid higher up the bed, propped himself onto his elbows.
“Hey, by the way,” he mentioned, voice still tight in his throat. He cocked his head toward the clothes piled in the middle of the room. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve guessed we pre-planned our costumes.”
Eren was right. You actually didn’t talk about your costumes beforehand. You wanted to stay semi-true to the theme of the party, even if you had already broken the one cardinal rule by dating.
“That’s why we’re together,” you said, sleepy and unwilling to budge just yet.
“My results only said ‘The Killer.’ Nothing else. What was I supposed to do with that?” he said. “You’re lucky I didn’t choose to go with Chucky.”
You frowned. “I would have hated that.”
Eren laughed, then patted your butt to get off him. You couldn’t stay there forever. Actually, you were probably pushing your luck as it was.
You rolled off but remained there with your hand tucked between your face and the pillow for another long second, watching as Eren started dressing.
His back was to you as he stepped into his coveralls. “Oh, and that whole playing hard to get thing—” He turned to you, zipped himself up. “The ‘I don’t fuck on the first date’—”
That got you moving. You put your hands over your ears like it’d shut him up, rushing to say, “I don’t want to talk about it!” You slid your hands over your eyes to hide. It was too soon for a debrief. “I’m getting embarrassed!”
“Hot.”
“Stop,” you whined as you hurried out of the bed.
Eren went without his shirt this time, tossing it to you to wear instead. Yours rendered useless, he shoved it into one of his pockets so as not to leave any evidence that either of you were here.
“But a lie,” he couldn’t stop himself from teasing. He didn’t need to remind you of your actual first date. You huffed and puffed but left it at that while you dressed. “You wanna get out of here? Grab something to eat and head back to my place?”
And how could you possibly stay annoyed with him after that? He knew the way to your heart.
Smiling, you said, “Sounds good,” and stood on your tiptoes to give him a kiss. As you pulled away, you swiped off some of the fake blood you got on his mouth. “Maybe a shower, too.”
You followed right behind as Eren led you back into the party. The two of you only made it a few steps before he paused, then looked around like he was searching for something.
“I think I left my machete in the bathroom,” he realized.
You felt your brows knit together. “Do you really want that thing?”
He mulled it over. “No,” he eventually decided, but he didn’t seem convinced. He leaned into you, close enough so only you would hear him say, “I just figured you might.”
At the end of the day, you couldn’t say if that matchmaking questionnaire was totally bogus or not. You were going to be paired up regardless since you’d been dating for the last year and asked your friend extra nicely if the two of you could crash. Because who could pass up the opportunity to dress up for Halloween—the stranger roleplay was just a bonus afterthought, you promise.
thank you so very much for reading and happy halloween!
"I could dress up as ghostface." His voice is flat behind you, yet it nearly makes you jump out of your fucking skin.
"Zo, don't scare me like that!" You clutch at your heart, looking over your shoulder to see him staring over yours. You've got Scream in your hands, Zodyl isn't surprised. You watch it nonstop come October, hogging the store's only perk of being an employee here. A movie of your choice.
"Wait what?" You only just now register his statement, you're not sure you heard him right. It doesn't help that he's practically dressed and styled as Billy Loomis now. Hair that 90s grunge look, wet looking, from a shower or rain, or gel that somehow keeps his hair soft. Dark windswept hair pushed back aside from a few stubborn strands that insist on framing his forehead. Not to mention his white tee, oversized dark jacket, blue jeans and combat boots. You look him up and down, somewhere on him there's a knife, he always carries a knife.
"I could dress up as Ghost face." He repeats, reaching over you to grab the DVD from your hands. Zodyl figures he should put it in the player for you, last time you nearly fell and broke your neck. Converse wet from the rain, slippery and dangerous on the ladder's step.
He'd just barely caught you, looking up at him with scared eyes, a racing heart, and your nails biting into his skin like some startled cat. He liked the smell of your perfume, liked the sting of your claws more.
"You said you don't do Halloween." You pout, rising to your feet as you follow him to steady the ladder, not that he needed it.
"I like Halloween." He loads in the movie, presses play, the opening FBI warnings could buy him a little time of conversation before you're glued to the TV despite knowing the movie front and back.
"Yes but liking Halloween and participating in Halloween activities are two different things." You're holding up two fingers to prove your point, other hand on your hip. His eyes take a moment to drink you in, he never noticed your body before. Not until you literally fell into his arms a few months ago. Soft, pliable body pressed against his in the princess carry pose you always sighed about the times you watched the romcoms he didn't care for.
Black skinny jeans hug your frame today, your usual gold chain choker made of hearts and stars paired with another man's hoodie.
Zodyl swallows thickly, he doesn't understand the feeling clawing at the inside of his chest, normally the underlying feeling of rage comforts him. Lately it felt off, different. He wants to rub his thumb over the old scars and roach tattoo on the inside of his arm for...comfort. Ghostly sensation of soft pads caressing over rough skin.
Old burns and angry raised slashes gifted to him by barbed wire, rusted gaps in fences and broken glass.
He expected pity, shock, or repulsion then, just as everyone before you exhibited.
Instead he got something else, a sadness to your eyes, a softer touch. A trace of the ink that did nothing to hide the scarring. The crow your fingers went over smoothly, as if you were petting the animal itself, while the roach you went over slowly. Carefully, lost in thought as you blinked down at his skin.
His fingers had twitched, he suddenly felt vulnerable, as if your eyes could see what others couldn't. He wanted to pull his arm away, to rip his jacket you'd finally settled in away but Zodyl was numb to instinct now. Feelings do not brew or fester, only rage settles in his stomach. Feeding the emotion as a painful reminder of his haunting past.
"A roach?" Your tone had been curious, normally he'd sit in silence and stared knowing eventually people gave up on getting an answer.
But with you, the answer fell from his tongue on its own.
"Practically indestructible, universally hated."
"See I'm right!" Your voice brings him back to the present, his fingers twitching again when he sees the other man's hoodie. Your back is to him now, so used to this one sided conversation.
"You concede with your silence." He can hear the smile in your voice, sharp exhale through his nose in lieu of a chuckle.
"I can participate." He's behind you again as you're now seated on the couch, examining the returned items from the overnight bin making sure the correct DVD was inside.
"As Ghostface? Gonna bring your knife too?" You giggle, leaning back to tap the holster through his jacket. He isn't sure why it makes his veins a little warm, that you remember exactly where it was.
"You could be Sidney, I could press the blade to your throat." The thought slips out as a purr that he immediately regrets. It most likely sounded deadly coming from him. The two of you exchanged a handful of words daily, so a threat would sound anything but playful in his low voice.
Slowly you turn to face him fully, he expects those reactions again. Shock. Repulsion.
Instead he is met with something else entirely. An expression he isn't used to. One that makes a fire start in his empty chest, burning hot through his veins all the way to his finger tips. As if his rage morphed into some unknown beast.
For the first time Zodyl feels his cock stir to life. Watching you look up at him with this unknown expression, fingers fisting the old fabric of his jacket.
"You promise, Zo?" Pretty voice breathy, uttering that damn nickname that awakened something inside him three years ago. Your intense gaze is locked with his and Zodyl is sure he can see hearts in your eyes.
Suddenly he is aching, throbbing, as he stares down at you with a blank expression that slowly morphs into something new. Something that makes the hearts in your eyes that much bigger. Low purr of his voice as he leans closer, delivered as a delicious threat.
do you ever wonder if your choice of blorbo is random baby chick imprinting, or in fact a deep physiological profile that reveals all the things you need therapy for
