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I’m Mistress Nightmare, the Queen of Whoreslop, but also known as Marie Krueger.
I’m an author of the erotic, dark-themed, and yandere-natured genre, meaning that my fics will often include graphic depictions of non-consensual sex or sex with dubious consent.
Typically, I’ll write oneshots for either FEM or GN readers. Otherwise I write mostly character inserts. But! You can also find the occasional fanon material among my posts. Fandoms I’ve written the most for include BNHA and JJK, but others are to be expected.
Anyway, welcome to Whoreslop Nation! Hope you have a good time!
Recent Fics:
Husband ! Naoya Zenin finds out his wife's pregnant:
♡ I HAVE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING
Viltrumite Gojo & Geto:
♡ HEAVEN ON EARTH
Arranged clan marriage with the great Gojo Satoru:
♡ P1: DUD
♡ P2: INMATE LABOR
Zodiac signs series:
♡ ARIES
♡ TAURUS
Bunny ! reader working off debt to a stripclub in the black market:
♡ BLACK MARKET BUNNY
Husband ! Naoya Zenin comes home drunk:
♡ DRUNK MESS
Go Fish:
♡ RANDOM POST
Marie's Collection of Erotic Thrillers
Read before bedtime! College Years is a collection of twenty short erotic thrillers, each with a loose theme revolving around college—and co
Other:
Tipping jar, for those who wish to support me a little extra: KO-FI
Sideblog, for reblogs and trashposts: @yanderenightmare-reblogs
Backup Tumblr, if this one gets terminated: @marie-krueger
♡ TW: implied arranged marriage, anxiety, pregnancy, reader with questionable taste, misogyny, chauvinism, mentions of passed bullying
♡ FEM reader
He’s back happy from another mission. Blood on his clothes from how much he dominated his opponent. And you’re scared to be the one to spoil his mood.
He’s already on you the second he spots you, without washing his hands clean of the death he’s wrought, zealously grabbing into your softer areas with entitled greed, like a dog wanting a treat after doing a dog’s work, mouth on your neck with teeth and hot and heavy huffs as his fingers move hurriedly to undress you.
It’s not that you’re scared he’ll lay hands on you if you speak up. Despite what people think and say, he doesn’t really do that. Not anymore, at least. No, not since you both grew up and you became his wife instead of the dumb little girl he’d once treat you as. No, though he may be a chauvinist through and through, he doesn’t see the merit in hurting you—not since he discovered that pulling your pigtails wasn’t what he really wanted.
He might still treat you worse, though… if you were anything like certain other women in the clan who’ll remain unnamed as you're not allowed to speak or even think about them, in the fear their bad behaviour will rub off on you and inspire you to do similar stupid things.
But you’re nothing like that. You’re a good girl, and you’ll remain a good girl, because only a truly good girl deserves to be the wife of the man who’ll inherit the clan. And even though it doesn’t always make any sense, you really want to be that good girl.
Of course, you know there could be other things for you out there, other freedoms you don’t have access to in here, under this man who’s such a monster to everyone but you. You’re not stupid.
Then again, perhaps you’re crazy, because, despite everything, you quite like being the one. The one person he can stand. The one person he can be bothered with. The one person with the ability to make him happy. It makes you feel special.
But… these news you have to share with him… you’re afraid it’ll put everything at stake.
It’s not as if you’ve really done anything wrong. In all fair common sense, it’s kind of his fault if anything. And yet, you’re not so sure he’ll see it that way. After all, the man’s not exactly known for his common sense. Especially when it comes to matters of female nature.
Still, though, despite not wanting to say it, you know better than to keep things secret from him, and so you squeeze your eyes shut and force the word out,
“I have to tell you something.”
It feels no less than confessing to a crime, and yet, “It can wait. I have something I need to do to you first,” is all the interest he shows.
Too busy removing the clothes from your body, cursing under his breath about how many times he’s told you to dress more simply—in his eyes, you really don’t need to bother with garments at all. “‘Swear, m’gonna burn that closet down.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important,” you try again, though not with trying to thwart his efforts.
But, with the impatience radiating off him in waves, you were stupid to think he wouldn't take your little demands as an offense. But, of course he does, making him all but growl at you, “So important you have to interrupt?”
His eyes are hard and so is his grip now, already annoyed with you just like you feared, squeezing your waist in a bruising hold.
“No,” you squeak. “No, of course not, I'm sorry.”
He spots the tears welling up and how your soft little lips wobble and hates how it wrecks him. You’re such a handful sometimes.
His head drops, letting out a groan between your boobs, airing his frustrations before looking back up with a sigh, “What is it? Spit it out.”
He’s being graceful letting you dictate his actions like this, right as he got home and all. You really know how to pick your timing.
“Mh, I’m…”
He’s being so merciful, and still you have the audacity to waste his time with your mumbling.
“What?” he barks. He swears, if it’s about your wishes of remodeling the kitchen again, he’s going to lose his mind.
“I’m pregnant.”
Behind your closed eyes you see black. It goes hand in hand with the silence that pursues your confession.
Dead silence, until, “What?”
His voice is thin—just a whisper. Nothing you’ve ever heard from him before.
You hate it. You don’t know what it means. Is he angry or something else—something worse. You don’t know and so you spiral, “Well, I—I took a pregnancy test. It's positive. I’m—”
You open your eyes again, letting the tears through the floodgate.
His face gives you no more clues as to his state. His eyes looking off somewhere, through you, into nothing.
He’s so quiet, it gives you goosebumps.
“Are you mad?” you whimper.
He blinks then, brought out of it, saying “No,” with a tiny shake of his head. But he doesn’t sound sure. Almost saying it as a question.
He gets off you next, a tiny curl between his brows that’s never been there before as he sits himself in the sofa next to you instead, running his hands over his face then through his hair—his previous pursuit completely forgotten.
You’re afraid to ask, but something inside you demands to know. “Are you happy?”
His eyes snap back to you. They’re big—shocked, speechless, and that forbidden word—all things he’s not supposed to be, things he’s never been before.
He gets up abruptly, then very nearly storms out of the room, back out the way he’d come from.
Your breath leaves you with the sound of the door and doesn’t come back. Your eyes stare at it until they sting. And then you break, completely. The tears come and won’t stop, escaping you with cries loud enough to make the walls shiver.
You’re silent by the time he comes back. But your eyes are still wet, now swollen and red, cheeks streaked raw. And despite knowing how disrespectful it is, you don’t even acknowledge him with a look as he enters.
You hear him swallow thick before he silently makes his way over to you where you lie in the same spot he’d left you in.
He sits down softly, putting a hand on your leg.
“I’m not mad.”
You look at him then, peeking up from where you’d been drowning out your sobs in the pillow. He still doesn’t sound convinced, you think, and that look on his face isn’t giving you any confidence either.
“But you’re not happy,” you state with a croak. “You left.”
It’s an accusation. In any other circumstance, he’d tell you to watch your tongue, but right now, he allows it—even giving it credit by defending himself from it. Saying, “I needed to think.”
He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but that was about as close to an apology you’d ever come. It’s not his place to do such things. Nonetheless, it is your place to forgive him.
Being angry with him won’t solve anything. Especially when you can tell he regrets it.
And so, you pull yourself up slowly, climbing into his embrace. Sitting in the gap on his lap, with your head against his chest, listening to the fast drums of his heart as he drapes his arms around you and sets his chin down atop your crown—both of you silently acknowledging each other.
“I’m scared,” you murmur after a while.
He won’t say it out loud, but you can tell… he’s sacred too. Even though he denies it with unconvincing encouragement, “What's there to be scared about?”
Despite it being an obvious show of bravery, you still somewhat appreciate it—at least one of you should pretend to know what you’re doing. You’re happy he takes on the role.
Meanwhile, you’ll take on the role of voicing all those fears you know he can’t. Because that’s what he needs. For you to act just a little more hopeless than he feels, so that he can feel empowered by being the one who saves the day.
Fists curled in his shirt while hiding your face in his chest, your words come out all pitiful and muffled, stating the terrifying obvious, “I’ve never been pregnant before...”
He stiffens again, like earlier, hesitant. It’s not often he’s had to comfort you. Usually it’s the other way around. He thinks about what you usually tell him, hoping to find the right words.
“You were never a wife before this either, but… you're pretty good at that.”
You’re sure, if you snuck a peak of his face, he’d be blushing. “Really?”
“Yeah…” he says—voice nearly shaking, holding you tighter. “The best.”
Despite all his ways, he really is quite cute sometimes. Though, you’d never tell him that.
Instead, you reward him with a kiss to his neck—one that then travels up.
You reposition yourself for a better angle, straddling him, hands moving across his chest as you undo his buttons. Lips soft against his.
He’s usually over-eager—strong and rough, manhandling you and making you squeal the way he likes. But this time, he shows uncharacteristic restraint.
“Wait—” he whispers with a breath. Eyes searching yours, then your belly. “Won’t it hurt the…”
He’s even afraid to say the word.
“No.” You shake your head, smiling. Voice soft in his ear, “Though, it doesn’t hurt to be gentle.”
He lets out a breath of relief at that before letting his hands retake their place around your waist, squeezing you gently while pulling you flush against him.
TW: suggestive noncon/dubcon, elitism, racism between viltrumites and humans, mentions of pregnancy
FEM reader
AN: Invincible season 4 spoilers!
On Viltrum they practice practicality over all else.
Suguru’s always found that to be the best approach to life. Effective and efficient, without delay or distraction. Straight to the point, then onto the next. That’s how you build an empire.
On Earth, you do the opposite.
Every small thing is a ritualistic celebration to you—making one huge waste of time out of everything. Waking up, eating food, taking a shower, having sex. Things that by all means shouldn’t be more than means to an end. You treat it like something to be savored, something to be remembered, something holy.
Geto absolutely detests that. But, while he brews in the many frustrations of having to live amongst you, Gojo’s eyes light up brighter than they have in a while.
Quick to succumb to that human way of life, he embraces it like an utter glutton. And despite Geto’s many warnings, the man, once one of Viltrum's very best, doesn't even try to suppress his own fall from greatness. No… instead he dives in face first.
He’s always been like that though… and so, even though it’s worrying, it isn't so surprising. Never one to hold patriotic love or loyalty to the grand ideas of the Viltrum empire. To Gojo, it seems there’s only ever been one creed, and it's as simple as he’s the strongest and can do whatever he wants—even if that means succumbing to the lesser ways of human inadequacy.
And feeling as though they should hold the utmost regard for their homeland and its principles, Geto finds this nothing short of offensive.
Which is how they end up here.
“Our energy should be spent upholding Viltrum’s dignity. Not frolicking with lower species. Where’s your sense of pride?” he says, fighting in mid-air with the white-haired man he’s taken to calling friend for the past millennia despite the many disagreements they’ve had and the many times they’ve brought each other to the brink of death.
Depending on how things play out, this might be another.
“What’s the point of being the strongest if we can’t enjoy ourselves?” He only grins without a flinch or sign of meaning to fight back—the idea of pride utterly lost on him. Lounging there horizontally in the air—lazy—just like the planet they’ve had to take as their new home.
“Humans have the right idea…” he continues, fondness in his eyes as he looks out across the little blue planet in view. “In the end, nothing but pleasure matters.”
Geto’s brows curl, and so does his lip, disgusted by his counter’s words and how he seems to be praising the weaklings below them.
“If you ask me…” he adds. “Viltrum’s destruction was the best thing to ever happen.”
Geto’s eyes widen, twitching. “How can you say that?”
“Earth’s richer in every way!” Gojo declares without delay, utterly shameless while singing further praises, “The food, the beliefs, even the work they do. Everything here is designed to let you be as free as you want. Don’t tell me you don’t find it all intriguing.”
He’s always been a charismatic preacher when it comes to self-indulgence, but Geto isn’t so easily convinced nor will he be romanced into letting go of his principles.
Standing by his beliefs, his tone is sharp as he directly reiterates their mission in case his friend forgot, “We’re here for one reason and one reason only. Find suitable females and restore our race.”
But Gojo only scoffs, “Yeah, yeah…” disregarding the other man, convinced he’ll break those false morals of his soon enough. “That doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to have any fun while at it.”
A smile spreads across his face despite the somber circumstance. He’s not even acknowledging that they’re fighting, saying “Loosen up, Suguru. Think of it like a vacation.”
Meanwhile, Geto can barely believe what he’s hearing. A vacation?
“Our planet is gone.”
Gojo doesn’t seem to grasp the reality of it. Or rather, he can’t bring himself to care, only returning it with a, “Better yet, permanent vacation,” as if it all were some big joke.
Geto turns to leave. If this is how Gojo chooses to grieve their losses, he wants no part of it. What’s worse, he’s not sure if this can even count as grieving. It’s more like he’s celebrating.
“Come on…” Gojo follows, resting a hand on Geto’s shoulder. “I know you’re angry. Don’t think I’m not. I am. But…”
His change of voice makes Geto turn around again. Having shed its mockery, now a little more… he doesn’t know the word. Compassionate maybe, though not as fickle.
“Let’s make the most out of it, yeah?” His eyes burn brighter than a comet's tail, and Geto’s reminded of the reason they’re even close in the first place. “Let’s reap Earth for all that it’s worth.”
And well… if he puts it that way, suppose it doesn’t sound so bad. And so, Geto decides to stick around after all—if only to keep the blue-eyed freak in check any time he feels as though he’s forgetting the real reason behind their permanent vacation, as he calls it.
Meanwhile, Geto’s uptightness remains utterly lost on Gojo. He can’t help but look at the whole thing as a funny turn of events. To think, to be his seasoned age of roughly a thousand years, and still, only now discover this fetish for the very thing he’s been taught to despise.
It barely makes sense, and the very little sense it makes, makes him want to laugh. Viltrumites have an aversion to the weak, and yet, here he is, utterly obsessed with you and all your odd little ways of life.
But maybe it can’t be helped, he wonders. Humans look no different from Viltrumites, after all. Sure, most are rounder and softer and smaller than they are, but that’s just a cultural difference. Apart from that, you’re practically the exact same, visually speaking.
The real difference lies, of course, in ability. You’re weak, your bodies fragile and grounded, sickly, and if you don’t succumb to your own shitty constitutions, you’re so short-lived, it hardly even matters.
Oh, but you sure know how to live.
Good food, good entertainment, but most of all it’s the variety that intrigues him. Utterly unlike Viltrum, on earth you practice this thing called individuality above solidarity. An idea that everyone's different and how that’s something to be embraced not weeded out. It excites him. Even if he did his very best to sample everything Earth has to offer, it would be impossible—after all, you can’t run out of a supply that renews itself.
Different from Viltrumites, humans are all about breaking the rules. And that has always been his true calling. And so, if you ask him, earth’s a dream come true.
Meanwhile, Geto’s come to accept that humans do have some good things about them after all. You’re smart, for starters. Smart enough to understand your own good—which is not always a given. And because you’re smart enough to understand who’s in charge, you’re also well-mannered.
While Gojo finds amusement with all your funny little ways of life, Geto’s more fascinated by that. Many planets and many species they’ve dominated, many of them much weaker and simpler than humans, fighting tooth and nail for their freedom, never giving in, even when it meant annihilation. Meanwhile, some humans act like they’re made to be ruled.
Gods. That’s how you treat them. Which is only right, of course. They are Gods. But still. It’s funny that humans are the very first to understand that and treat them accordingly with the devotion and reverence they’re entitled to.
You’re one. Soft-fleshed, unlike Viltrumite women. Surprisingly, Geto must admit he enjoys that more—all covered in cakey fat his rough hands sink into so well. And you make sounds, also utterly unlike Viltrumite women. Little noises like an animal.
Cute, he’s begrudgingly decided, is the best word to describe you.
You’re also terrified, of course. And you should be. They could and most likely will kill you if you ever decided you didn’t want to be cute for them anymore. Though, he doubts that’s possible. Anything you do is positively adorable, even when you pout and act bratty, it gives him this indescribable urge to just squish you until you’re unable to do anything but sound like a broken little squeaky toy.
Yeah… so maybe he’s been bitten by the same earth bug that Gojo has…
Because soon he’s indulging the same interests, the both of them finding more and more ways to appreciate humans and their funny customs by the day.
Marriage is one.
Geto, of course, wasn’t completely on board at first, but like always, was swayed by Gojo in the end. He’d made a solid argument, that, when on Earth, you might as well do as the humans do, given it can only last for a small fraction of their own lifetime anyway.
And Geto can admit, it’s kind of nice, having you, as their little wife, doing wifely things like cooking and pampering them—nothing like something they would have ever experienced on Viltrum.
Geto agrees with the compromise he and Gojo made. That, as long as it doesn’t obstruct their goal, which is still, of course, to get you pregnant, they might as well enjoy some of the benefits that come with the process of making that happen.
Obviously, it would, of course, be more productive to have many wives instead of just sharing the one, but they also figure it’s more manageable to start small.
Besides, another difference from female Viltrumite, human women often have many kids. It’s another one of those odd human customs. Family values and such. It’s a foreign concept to them, but seeing you swaddle their offspring like it’s something so precious, Geto quickly forgets why Viltrumites practice such ruthlessness in the first place.
Love. That’s the biggest difference, they come to understand. You love, and you love with everything you have.
It’s not the same type of love they’ve been taught. Love for the empire, love for the Viltrum legacy—it doesn't even come close to the love you have in your heart.
It’s odd… but somehow… it very nearly frightens them.
ur writing lowkey pisses me off your women are either dumbass sluts or hysterical weaklings are you not bored out of your mind from this whoreslop over and over and over again
List of readers who're not dumbass sluts or hysterical weaklings:
Reader who stands on business:
♡ OPPOSITE WAYS
Another reader standing on business:
♡ P1: LISTEN
♡ P2: MISUNDERSTANDINGS
Bratty reader who goes for what she wants:
♡ LOOSE SCREWS
Freaky reader:
♡ BEAMER BOY
Another bratty reader who goes for what she wants:
♡ HOMESICK
Focused and unbothered reader:
♡ FOCUS
Carefree flirty reader:
♡ GLOW UP
Another focused and unbothered reader:
♡ PILL PUSHER
Adventurous reader:
♡ HIGH-PROTOCOL
Manipulative reader:
♡ VENISON
Popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
♡ BLIND TRUST
Sweet girlfriend reader:
♡ SECOND VIRGINITY
Another reader standing on business:
♡ BAD BREAKUP
Another popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
♡ VIRGIN BOY
Another popular flirty reader who loves making loser boys squirm:
i know you hate this question, but would you tell us what you're working on? always love a good poll from you
I don't hate this question, I just hate disappointing you all when I don't do the things I falsely promise you in these polls, but since you're asking, here we go!
upcoming fics if things go smoothely
JJK — modern cannibal chef Sukuna x livestock reader
BNHA — divorced prohero Bakugou x babysitter reader
brothel owner x kidnapped bunny reader
BNHA — IT boss shigaraki x deskmate reader
part 2 to GLOW UP — link down below
JJK — Naoya x pregnant wife
part 2 to FARM ANIMAL — link down below
INVINCIBLE — evil Mark variant x real Mark's girlfriend
mysterious older guy x reader with bad survival instincts
scorpio and others — link to done signs down below
JJK x INVINCIBLE — viltrumite Gojo & Geto x human reader
♡ TW: noncon, yandere, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P1: DUD
It's been a month since your wedding night.
You're still holding onto the hope that this is all just some fleeting interest of his—something he’ll grow bored of come time. By this, meaning your marriage.
You try to speed it along by making yourself seem as dull as possible, avoiding him to the best of your efforts and otherwise ignoring him if you fail to do the first—anything to make him lose interest.
Even so, you’d obviously still have to be his wife. Until death do you part is a binding vow unfortunately, and so, even if you could make him regret ever making it, you’d still have to be Mrs Gojo on paper, and be bound by the duties that come with that title, but outside of that, hopefully, you wouldn't have to see his face any more than what was absolutely necessary.
If you could get your relationship to where that was the standard, you’d find ways to make it work. You’d be the wife of a very rich man, after all, it would be a shame not to reap the benefits for all they’re worth.
Odd as it may sound, having a kid wouldn’t be so bad either. If you aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, having something to do would be nice.
But the problem of your faulty constitution still remains…
But maybe… you could hit two birds with one stone… and revert his attention away from you while simultaneously earning something to occupy your attention in return.
“There she is—my little wife,” he comes in cheering, full of lazy smiles and devious eyes as per usual.
You’d been hiding yourself away in the reading room—a place you doubt he’s ever visited—and still he found you, just like he always does. Suppose those six eyes are to blame.
Even if you never really understood what they do, you know it’s something bad, judging by the sight of him.
“Ew,” you cringe. “You’re covered in blood, go wash.”
It wasn’t an overstatement. He literally was. White hair and pale skin all filthy with red. He doesn’t seem to think much of it. On top of you despite your comment, with no regard to the book you were reading, with a chuckle against your neck, drawling, “Don't say that, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
You sigh, disgusted with him more than usual, deciding it was time to put your plan into effect, “How ‘bout you go fuck one of your whores instead and leave me alone.” Cringing under his touch, and how he reeks of rust and salt.
“Aw—you’ jealous?” he grins in your ear.
This time you scoff, teeth grit. “Not particularly. I just fail to see the point in having you keening in my ear when there’s nothing to be made from it.” And with another sigh, you mumble the suggestion, “At least a whore can get you an heir.”
He doesn’t seem to pique his interest. Only snorting at the prospect while he continues in his pursuit of touching you beneath your shirt, “Tch, trust me, the last thing I want is a stinky brat running around spoiling all my fun.”
With a grimace, you veer your head away from his onslaught, feeling his bloody hands grip your waist rough, molding your body against his, into that hard bump kept in his slacks.
You swear, trying to talk to him is like trying to talk to a dog with a bone.
“It’s not as though you’d be bothered,” you continue nonetheless, insistent. “Raising the thing would be my responsibility anyway.”
That actually gets his attention. Stopping, he lifts his head from sucking marks into your chest and looks down at you, now with a furrow between his brows.
“You’d really do that? Raise my bastards?” He questions.
To which you just shrug, saying, “Of course. Seeing as I'm stuck here, I might as well do what I’ve trained to do all my life. It’s my only purpose now, after all.”
His brow quirks, repeating your words as a question, “Your purpose?”
He laughs again then, this time more heartily, saying, “Silly wife… Your purpose is much simpler than that...”
Shaking his head at you before leaning back in, now with his lips just a breath away from yours. “Being mine.”
The proximity invites goosebumps, and so do his words. Feeling a deep shudder run through you. Nearly whining as he continues from where he left off, back with his hands around your waist, tugging your skirt up until there’s nothing separating his fingers from your skin, groping into the fat of your haunches with entitlement and want.
Voice getting gruffer as he gorges himself in your warmth like it’s his personal sanctuary, saying “I'm your first in everything. Your first kiss, your first fuck, your first time making a mess.”
“Don't be gross–” you cringe, but he pays it no mind.
Only continuing, “And I'll be your only one until you die—”
For the first time in a moment, you’re the one who laughs, “Tch—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tone mocking as you roll your eyes—he’s so full of himself it’s ridiculous.
His head lifts again, looking at you in dumb askance.
To which you just tilt your head slyly, talking to him like the great big man-child he is, “Oh, come on, Satoru. Are you forgetting what line of work you’re in? You could drop dead any day.” With a sneer, you cup his face in your hands in sardonic affection. “You really think I'll stick around to weep at your grave when you go?”
A groan rises from low in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, feeling victorious about having angered him. But then he all but moans, “It makes me so fucking horny when you speak like that.”
Kneading your hips, he rubs his clothed bulge against you, messaging you both with the friction between his pants and your panties. Too busy touching you to unbuckle his belt.
His rust is only a heated whisper, kissing your cheek with tongue and teeth as he keeps going, “Knock up a whore, get a brat? I don't think so.”
He pops his collar, and wrings his jacket off quickly. Tossing it aside before bearing back over you.
“Though, it’s funny you think you’d even have the time to spare when you already have your hands full with me.”
Looking down at you with those crazed blue orbs—you wish he’d just keep that infernal blindfold on, the way you feel them strip you bare even with your clothes still halfway on.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.”
Hands on his belt next, he makes quick work of it without taking his eyes off you and that annoyed little face of yours, thinking you’re stupid for ever believing he’d need, want or even be open to sharing it with anyone.
“Nah… it’ll just be you and me playing house all by ourselves. So you better get used to it.”
can you explain the usage of this —
i don't know what it's called hehe
On the Em Dash
Good question!
♡ What is it?
The em dash is a long dash, typically the width of three regular dashes, and is called the em dash because this width is generally the same as that of the capital letter M.
This guy — for reference sake.
When it comes to functionality, the em dash is similar to a comma, parenthesis, or a colon, and is often used to replace either of the three.
You can use it in multiple ways such as when you want to indicate strong emphasis, interruptions, sudden shifts in tone, or when you want to set off parenthetical information. Additionally, authors who enjoy a more talkative, conversational, or stream-of-thought rhythm to their writing are also big fans of this, and will use it, perhaps a little incoherently and sometimes arguably incorrectly.
Guilty as charged, your honor.
The examples I’m going to use in this text to explain the different methods of when and how you can use an em dash is taken from this fic:
♡ MISUNDERSTANDINGS
♡ Interrupting Dialogue
Classically, when the em dash is used in dialogue, it’s to signal a character being abruptly cut off. Like this:
“That’s not true–”
“Yes, it is,” he interrupts insistingly with another almost theatrical whine.
However, I like to use it further by having it not just signal interruptions but to mimic that broken way of speaking, turning monologues into dialogue. Like this:
“Or, well, it’s not like you don’t talk to me—what I mean is—I want you to include me in, uhm… like… decision-making and stuff–” (...) “I want you to confide in me with your thoughts and feelings and if, you know, you’re struggling with anything—even if it’s just work-related stuff, I just… want to help you like you help me.”
Typically the character is either crying, ranting, or rambling when I do this. Meaning, they're either tripping over their words, or their sentences are interjected with heavy breaths, sobbing, or just awkward cutoffs.
In any case, the em dash is used to signal an interruption or a sudden break.
♡ Parenthetical Info, Typically an Inner Thought
Here, the em dash is, in a sense, used as a stronger comma or like parenthesis to set of clauses of information that the author wishes to give special focus. Like this:
His lip warbles, brows cinched, looking pathetic—and almost, to your utter guilt for even thinking it, a little comical—asking you further sillier questions with his voice in shambles, “So you still love me?”
This type usually comes with a pair of em dashes framing a thought just like with parentheses. Also, just like parenthesis, this framed thought should technically be removable without damaging the grammar.
Try reading the above example without the words inside the em dashes. It’s kind of like the author’s grabbing your shoulder to whisper some gossip in your ear, before moving on with standard procedure.
It can also be done at the very end of a sentence. Like this:
His head lifts, breaths hitchy and heavy, looking at you with enlarged puppy-dog eyes—the type you’d never think to see on him.
Or like this:
You’d heard about getting high off of no sleep, but you’d never actually witnessed it—at least not to this degree.
♡ Introducing Information, or Just a Dramatic Break
Similar to the usage explained above, but here, the em dash is used in place of the colon.
“Yes, I still love you, I never stopped loving you,” you confirm, looking over his harrowed expression—sunken, swollen eyes looking at you in a weary and distant sort of way.
Or like this:
You sigh, feeling good about having cleared that up, but catching his gaze, you realize it hadn’t been all that clear at all—a halfway cocked eyebrow raised expectantly over his eye, silently hoping for a little more context.
The question you might be asking is why we don’t, if it’s all the same, just use a colon or parentheses instead? Well, I think it’s because both of those feel very formal, while the em dash seems more casual.
And though that’s just a theory, it’s still a relevant point, especially regarding the next usage, pertaining to wanting a narrative with a stream-of-thought rhythm.
♡ Sudden Shifts, or Stream-of-thought
Again, this one is similar to the usages above, where the em dash is used to mimic the occurrence of a sudden change of thought.
There’s not many excerpts of this in the example text I’ve used so far. So, I’ll be using this fic instead:
♡ GAMER-RAGE
He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.
Since this entire fic is written from withing someone's head, there’s a lot of examples of the stream-of-thought usage of the em dash. Like this:
And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.
♡ So then… What About the En Dash?
We also have something similar to the em dash, called the en dash, which, you guessed it, is called that because it’s roughly the same width as the capital letter N.
Now, in the UK, they use this just like an em dash, but with a space on each side:
US Style with the em dash: “If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”
UK Style with the en dash: “If anyone can get it – I might as well help myself.”
Aside from that, it’s typically used to represent the word to or through when connecting related items. Like this:
Read pages 1–10
Years 2020–2025
Final score 15–10
Flight London–Paris
♡ Anyway, Fuck Them Rules
Honestly, despite what your literature teacher might have said, when it comes to em and en dashes, commas, and colons, you can do what you want because of one thing.
DRAMA.
The dramatic rules of fictional writing state that you can use any punctuation marks to create rhythm in your text.
Now, of course, that doesn't mean you should be using them all willy-nilly, but if you like to use them semi-incorrectly to structure and emphasize your text—more power to you.
Taurus is a jock who got accepted through a scholarship.
But don't let him fool you. Though it might sounds as though he’s put in a lot of effort to be here, he hasn't. No, he’s just one of those guys who’s got it easy.
He’s a massive dude—barely fits through doorways. Two meters tall, even when slouching—ripped from neck down to his ankles, even when all he does is eat crap. He barely even goes to football practice, and still, the coach is always singing his praises. And while all his fellow teammates are driven insane by, he couldn’t act more aloof—eating a bag of chips with a spacey look on his face while they all do extra reps to get on his level.
And he’s just as lazy, if not even worse, as a student. And you’re always unfortunate enough to get stuck on assignments with him.
“Let’s just use chat and get this over with already,” he whines. Once again, in your dormroom, he’s splayed belly-up across your bed because apparently your chairs are too small and uncomfortable for him to sit on—head dangling over the edge, looking at you with a bored expression as if the two of you hadn’t just started a short ten minutes ago.
All you can do is roll your eyes from where you're stationed at your desk, grumbling back an unsympathetic, “Shut up and read your part.”
The textbook is perched like a tent on his chest—upside-down. He isn’t even trying to pass like he’s reading, and still he has the gall to lie right through his teeth, “I'm trying. But it's so boring, the words just melt off the page...”
Believe it or not, his lazy nature isn't what troubles you the most. Not really, even though you act that way. No... what really gets to you is how insanely, unreasonably, and shamefully horny he makes you without even trying.
But you're determined to stay strong.
“Quit whining. It'll only take longer.”
His little antiques might work on others. You’re sure they grant him many favors with girls, plenty of whom would happily do all the work for him—but pride has you deadset on not being one of them.
Yes. Your pride is more important than whatever guilty fantasies you might have of him on your off time. But give it time and pride can become a fickle thing. And so, you’re set on making it go by quick.
Before something bad can happen.
“I can't concentrate.” He continues to pout, paying your inner turmoil no regard as he rolls over onto his stomach. “I'm too restless.”
Head resting on his beefy arm with puppy dog eyes and tousled hair. You need to battle your inner demons not to stare long enough for him to catch on. Wanting—no, needing, to maintain your uninterested persona for the sake of your reputation as a perfectly respectable young woman who's not so weak as to fall for the seedy guiles of no-good jocks.
You sigh. He’s making this so hard. “I guess we could take a quick break if you promise to work afterwards.” Caving, you look at the time, wondering if you’ll have any left to bask in the cologne he’s most likely leaving on your bed.
“So, what do you usually do when you're feeling wired?” you ask, casually. Meanwhile, cursing your own thoughts, you mentally shake your head, trying to rid yourself of them for now and rather save them for later when he’s no longer around to see how you’d actually love to do anything but study.
You reach for your bottle in the hopes some water might cool you down.
“Fuck,” he answers shortly and you nearly spit.
Ending up in a coughing fit instead, you look up at him with tears in the corner of your eyes and a hoarse, “Excuse me?” leaving you in a shrill shout.
He only shrugs, running his finger along the floor, tracing the panels absentmindedly while he continues, “You know, empty my balls.”
Your eye nearly twitches while you stare at him wide eyed full of shock, needing to ignore the other twitch coming from between your thighs.
You lift your brow at him—trying your best to keep your cool, but not so sure you’re pulling it off anymore. “Okay? ‘Not sure how to help you with that?”
The look on his face is cheeky. Still with his head resting on his forearm, now with a devious little twinkle in his eye, joined by an equally devilish grin. “Oh? I’m certain you do.”
You feign a grimace, then swing your chair back around to your desk, trying to distract yourself with the boring words of your textbook. And then, like a military commander, you bite out a sharp, “Break over. Get back to work.”
You need to get him out of your room as soon as possible before you slip up and make an absolute fool of yourself.
“Come on,” he continues with a drawl, slipping out of your bed and making him way over to you. Hands on your shoulders as he leans down until his mouth nuzzles your ear. “Let me eat you out, and I'll be ready to do anything you say.”
Goosebumps immediately spring to the surface of your neck, going flush, voice weak, squeaking out a terribly unnerved, “What?” while springing out of your chair like a spooked hare. Whipping around, you stumble back against the desk to create some much needed space, spluttering your out more words, “Are you out of your mind?”
But he doesn’t seem fazed. “Aw, come on,” No, in fact, it’s more as if he’s enjoying the flustered sight of you. Finding it amusing as he leans back in, killing the space you were acting so desperate for. “Pretty please? I’m real’ good.”
Made stockstill by the sudden timbre of his voice, you let him get away with ghosting your lips with his, a torrid heat in your cheeks that feels as though might go on forever with no more hopes of cooling down.
“I'll make you cum in five, then we'll get back to work. I promise.”
Aries is a winner. And you? You’re a fucking loser if there ever was one—dumb dweeb in dweeb clothing, looking like you’re asking to get picked on.
Yeah, Aries is a bully.
Or no, it’s just that he’s convinced he’s better than everyone around him. But who can blame him? It’s not his fault everyone’s so goddamn incompetent. That’s how he sees it, at least. And what he thinks is the only thing that matters, so you better thank him and all the stars he pities you enough to hang out with you.
He might still bully you a little, though, but it’s the fun kind—the kind where he’s in your dorm room, sucking your neck full of bruises and fucking you with your face buried in your plushies, paying no mind to how you whine about them being collectibles.
“You’re such a geek,” is all he’ll groan. “I don’t give a fuck about any toys. Not unless I can put ‘em inside you.”
And you’ll moan, unable to do much else with how he has you face down, ass up—gripping your waist so tight, you’re sure he’ll leave indents. Rutting against you from the back—mean cock punching your lights out, speed-driving inside you, ramming into your cervix each and every time—making such lewd noises, you can't help but cower into the belly of your teddy bear with a whimper.
He’s got two sleeves' worth of tattoos—a dragon on one side and roses on the other, intercepted by a bunch of smaller marks you’d have to study to notice—and spends all his time at the gym.
Or no, that’s just what he wants people to think, but you know better. He gets better grades than you—in fact, he gets the best grades out of everyone in class. And still, he has no idea what he wants from life. He’s always got some new type of plan, telling you about it as if he has it all figured out, but a month later, he’s onto something else.
Aries is a little rough around the edges, but it’s just because he feels he’s got the world on his shoulders all the time. You don’t know why, and you don’t ask—because you’re sure he doesn’t know the answer himself.
But you think he’ll figure it out. He always does after all. Besides, he’d be properly pissed off if he ever thought you were worrying about it. Any amount of sympathy is seen like you're underestimating him, which would be an offense of the highest regard.
So, you try your best to ease his worries in other ways he might enjoy…
Because even though poor Aries thinks he needs to conquer the world, sometimes, he’ll settle for just conquering you instead. And you think that’s a little cute…
♡ TW: noncon, hybrid au, bunny ! reader x wolf hybrid, black market, sex worker ! reader, debt, mentions of bad parenting, threats, thoughts of death
♡ FEM reader
There’s no point sugarcoating it. You’ve always had it rough.
As with all other rabbits living in the black market. Stuck at the very bottom of the food chain. Stripped for cash with death lurking behind every corner, trapped in the same club your mom used to work at before she ran away and left you to pay off her debts.
Despite all the valid reasons you could have, you don’t really blame her. You don’t see what good it would do. After all, she probably got herself killed in the process anyway. Mourning her instead of cursing her is better for your soul.
Or, at least that’s what you tell yourself. But deep down, you know the real truth. And that truth says that you don’t really think about her in any meaningful way at all. To you, she’s nothing more than a concept. A path you can decide to either follow or reject.
Should you take your chances and run like she did, or do you decide on the almost equally risky choice of staying put...
Like that, you couldn't curse or mourn her any more than you could a choice between food and water. You can only battle the indecision she's left you with for what it’s worth. In the end, it's just a matter of what you decide for yourself. She's got nothing to do with it.
But you suppose indifference is just what your mother's betrayal taught you. And for that, you’re grateful. Others would sooner use it as a source of blame and frustration. Or, at least, that’s the common trend among your fellow workers.
Out of the many, you might call just one of them an actual friend. Just like you, her mother also left her here to repay her debts—and perhaps that’s the only reason for your friendship. Solidarity.
She likes to regard herself as thick-skinned, but you’re not so convinced, cocking a brow at her as she acknowledges how any day might be her last and swears she’s not afraid of it—brave-faced, behaving like every little thing is worth the fight because there wouldn't be anything left otherwise.
You, on the other hand, dream of running away every single passing second just like your mother.
Though, unlike her, you let the dreams suffice. You’re more practical in that regard. You can only ever chase such things, never catch them. And so, your thoughts of escape are nothing you’d ever dare actually do. They’re just tiny nothings to pass the time.
Some might call that cowardly, but you’ve always had mixed feelings about the concept of courage. Some part of you admires it and wishes to have some of the same strength your friend has, but at the same time, you can’t help but think it’s foolish. After all, if you say you can handle worse, you’re basically inviting it to come.
Of course, she argues the same, that acting cowardly like you also acts as an invitation. That, either way, whatever a rabbit does, it’ll always be prey—and so, having dignity in the face of death is better.
You see her point, and yet you still don’t think you can agree. Act like prey and you’re just waiting for trouble to find you. Act brave, however, and you’re out there looking for it. There’s a difference in that. And you think that difference is important. And every day is only a matter of waiting for that difference to show its face.
And it turns out, this might just be the day.
She’d been extra mouthy with some guests. You’d come to her aid, not to fight, but to apologize for her like always. Usually, it ends with a free lap dance, maybe something more—a few bite marks and an aching back and a really long shower.
Only this time, she’d done worse than just talk back—a drink was spilled, the glass was broken, and her dull claws had somehow managed to draw blood straight across a customer's face.
You know it then and there, that was it. This is the day you die. Predators will be buying your flesh in the market tomorrow—if they don’t feast on you today—bones and all.
You’re taken upstairs to that part of the building where people go and rarely return from.
It’s dark in the many turning hallways. You walk straight, and as you walk, you think about your short life, and how it was all coming to an end tonight. Spending your last moments treating the route like a dumb metaphor. How, maybe if you’d taken a different turn down another hallway, you might still be walking by this time tomorrow.
But it’s a silly thought, you decide. All hallways wind up at the same place in the end. And with that, you don’t regret trying to help your friend, despite it having pulled you into her mess. In all matters of eventuality, you might have been the one to fuck up with a customer today, and she the one coming to your aid. And so, you suppose, none of it really matters. It’s not as if you’d be losing all that much.
The room you enter is a little more lit. Not by much, but enough for you to see the wolfish pack members lining the walls. Even without it, you smell them. The air reeks of cigars and musk and blood and meat and other scents you’re more than used to. And yet, for some reason, it’s nearly enough to make you faint as you follow closely behind your friend, to the far end of the room, where, behind a red oak desk, death is sitting waiting.
There had been rumors going around down at the club recently, saying that the old boss had been killed by his juniors. You were never one to partake in such gossip—it didn’t concern you. But you could put the rumors to rest now, feeling the glare of the new leadership linger on you. Not one, but two.
Young wolves, both of them—brothers, by the looks of it—they couldn’t be that far off from your age if you had to guess. Still, they were full-grown with a strength that could rip you apart faster than you could blink.
You keep your eyes fixed on the ground instead of eyeing them. But your friend, brazen even now, looks on ahead, meeting their red gaze. How she approaches such things as a challenge instead of torture is beyond you. It’s so alien, you almost doubt you’re even the same species.
You probably don’t even look remotely akin in the way her ears stand at attention while yours droop down, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
The wolves start talking, your friend talks back, and you swallow thickly, not listening to a word being said—too much blood pounding in your head to focus. But you don’t think it matters much. After all, you’re going to die, and there isn’t much more to it than that, and so that’s the only thing you can think about. The small talk is only a game, anyway, and your friend doesn’t seem to understand she isn’t a player, but a pawn. You know well how predators like playing with their food. And the more fun the food is, the longer they spend eating it. And while your friend insists on making herself interesting, you plan on being boring. Boring and quick.
You hadn’t noticed his approach, but suddenly a clawed finger curls under your chin, lifting your round gaze from your feet, up to look into a pair of crimson eyes. Stock-still, you don’t move a muscle—you don’t even blink. In fact, you don’t even dare draw breath while waiting to have your throat ripped out.
Though, unfortunately for you, and with no regard to your efforts of being boring, it seems he plans on enjoying himself after all. Granting you time in which, despite not feeling inclined to, your eyes skitter nonetheless, taking him in.
His fur isn’t bristly like those other wolves you’d catered to down in the club, but fine-cut and kempt, and clean. The way he looks at you, you can’t see his fangs yet. It’s almost as if—well, you don’t know exactly, it wouldn’t be right to make assumptions—but it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to spook you just yet. Though you’re certain that’s only a fleeting objective. One soon to alter against your favor.
And still, his teeth remain hidden, even as he speaks. “This one is mine.”
His voice is deep like a rumbling, and yet, soft—or as soft as he can make it. So are his eyes, though red and glaring, not hungry—not like those you see look at you through the cage while you dance. These eyes are refined and controlled—tame, if a wolf could be such a thing.
You don’t know why, but somehow, it’s more unsettling than anything you’ve ever seen before…
“Fine by me,” the other one answers in a rasp. Only then does your vision snap to see your friend bent over the red oak desk, struggling against the wolf at her back. He, contrary to the other, licks his canines with a grating laugh, full of growl and bark, “The feisty one’s more my type anyway.”
Funny enough, when all’s said and done, your friend is the one who screams. And for odder reasons still, you don’t voice a single sound. It’s as if the roles reverse for a moment. She, terrified and swivel-eyed, begging and pleading and apologizing. And you, taking a deep breath, calm, peaceful, smiling, saying, soft-toned, one last time, “See you soon,” before you’re both taken opposite ways.
You can still hear her screaming even as she disappears from view and you’re led somewhere even darker, a big paw placed on the small of your back, guiding you forward with a steady push you don’t even think to fight against.
The room you arrive at has a bed—but that was to be expected. You refrain from conjuring any images of your impending last night, insisting on holding onto this feeling of strange peace in knowing the very simple truth of your death.
“Are you listening?” the wolf says, possibly for a numbered time as he snaps his fingers before your eyes, holding your cheeks with black claws dipping into the fat.
You blink, and for the first time feel some of that never-had bravery appear within. It’s a pity this is where and how you use it, but better in your last moments than never at all, you think.
“I won’t struggle,” you announce. “So, you can just get it over with.”
You don’t look for his reaction. You don’t look for anything. You just wait for him to heed your offer and do just that—get it over with.
But he doesn’t seem inclined to. Rather, his tail piques behind him and starts ever-so-softly wafting from side to side—unfortunately still intrigued by your effort of being unintriguing. Smiling at you, when asking, “Get what over with exactly?”
He then topples down in the plume of the bed, sitting there, widespread, inspecting you where you stand as if you’re some odd creature he’s never seen before. And you suppose you can’t blame him. You feel just as odd as you most likely seem, but right now, though you know you’re supposed to act like prey, you just can’t help but want to drop the theatrics and skip to the end.
You sigh, deeply, with a type of exhaustion like you haven’t ever had a proper rest. “Eating me, fucking me, whatever it is…”
He scoffs at that, offering a small laugh and a real smile where he finally flashes those great big teeth you’re sure are going to plant themselves in your neck some time tonight.
“You’re funny, you know that?” You’re not sure if it’s meant as praise, but you also don’t care to think about it enough to find out before he keeps going, “I can tell you actually mean it. Your heart’s beating out of your chest, but it’s strangely calm.”
You don’t indulge him with an answer. You just continue waiting for it, knowing it could come at any moment. Even though you know it’s best to be oblivious when it finally happens, for some reason, you really don’t want to practice ignorance is bliss in your final moment. No, for your final moment, you want to be able to say that you faced it head on.
“Come, sit. Why don’t we talk a little first? It might help you feel a little more comfortable.”
If you were on the clock, you would thank him for the offer. And he’d get a good little rush thinking about what a hero he is, unknowing of how you really feel. But the truth is, out of all the guests you get in the club, his type is truly the worst. The nice ones. Gentle predators who dare talk to you as if you’re the same, who praise your intellect and charm, as if you’re anything but a toy to them.
But you’re not on the clock. So this time, you won’t be doing anyone any such favors, replying to him with a short and bitter, “No thanks.”
You expect him to try it again, coo at you for a little bit longer, see if he can’t persuade you into coming willingly into his clutches. But no. As if he can see his act isn’t fooling you, he decides to drop it just like that.
“Alright then. As you wish.” He removes his suit jacket, tossing it aside along with his tie shortly after as he cuts right to the chase, “Take off your clothes.”
You do as prompted. Glad to finally be getting somewhere. You unclothe as unceremoniously as you would as if you were alone.
“Thought you were a stripper.” He complains at your lack of tact, a brow raised at your now naked body and the little heap of clothing at your feet.
But, as you thought you’d already made clear, you haven’t any desire to cater to the man. And so, withholding your apologies for once, all you say is, “You didn’t tell me to put on a show.” Hoping you’re making yourself better understood this time, wanting him to know that his disapproval means nothing to you, and hoping it incites a little more rage out of him.
However, instead of rage, this time he starts laughing. “Guess so.”
He signals for you to come closer while the chuckles die down, and you obey, stepping up before him.
“No matter…” His rough paws dwarf your hips when you get close enough, pulling you onto his lap. “I think I actually prefer you this way.”
Regardless of how many times you’ve been in the exact position, instinctively, your fur poofs up under his claws anyway.
“Honest and raw,” he drawls. “I’ve never seen you quite like this before…”
Your brows curl at that. You didn't realize he was familiar with you.
“When you’re working the floor, you’re always so…” Smiling lazily, he looks you over with halfmast eyes of fondness. “Filtered, masked, polite to a fault. Like, you're somewhere else pulling your own strings.”
He chuckles again, finding fun in his own impressions—like the very idea of you is a wonderful joke.
“I already thought you were interesting then, but look at you know…” He licks his teeth and traces the outline of your body—a low growl in his chest, not threatening, but enjoying, like a purr. “For such a small thing, you’re full of surprises.”
You swallow thickly, even more disturbed now by his confessions. How long has he been watching you?
Again, you have to remind yourself of how it doesn’t matter. This is what they do. They play games. Make you run in circles all for their amusement so that it feels extra good when they finally sink their teeth in.
“You’re not one for small talk, are you?” he says then following your silence.
And again, you just give him that unapologetic look of fuck you, saying, “You didn’t tell me to talk.”
He doesn't laugh this time, but grins. Scoffing “Tch–” as he takes your insolence like a challenge. “Let’s get right down to business then.”
His claws dig deeper in an instant, making you gasp as he lifts and tosses you down beneath him. And then his hand’s around your throat—not squeezing, not hard at least, but enough to keep you pinned as he bears on top, full face of fangs and all, now with that playful spark in his eyes that all nice guys get when riled up.
“Care for a little wager?” he rasps, knee between your thighs, hiking your leg over his hip while his paw presses down flat on your lower stomach.
“All these years working here… and I’m willing to bet not a single guest has ever made you cum.”
You flinch once you realize what he’s up to, feeling his hand draw downward, cupping your cunt in a heated hold.
“I’m right aren’t I?” he raves on with another low snicker. “Some have tried, but you won’t give in to them. It’s your silent little rebellion.”
His fingers part, leaving just the middle to curl up, nuzzling your entrance with the tip, dipping against it until forcing its way in, making you keen with a whine.
“Yeah–it’s defiance like that that I love. We don’t fuck you, you fuck us. Is that right?”
Your hands circle around the one on your throat, and he watches on in delighted shudders while you struggle under his will.
Voice heated and raspy as he continues, “It’s so cute it makes my mouth water. Like you’re trying your best to be a carnivore. Hunting, chewing, and spitting us back out, and never letting anyone get a true taste of you in return.”
He pulls his digit back, maneuvering quicker than you can counter as he seizes both of your legs beneath the knees and folds you over—his clothed, fatted crotch rubbing against yours, as he hovers over you, wild haired and wild eyed.
“See, here’s what I’m thinking.” Bowing, he gets in close to your face—both of your breath’s heavy, caught in each other’s air as he lays forth the stakes, “If I get you to sing for me, you stay right here and be my cute little pet indefinitely.”
His tail, now wagging relentlessly behind him, is already a tell-tale sign that this is going to be far from fair.
“But…” he croons, continuing, “If you manage to hold out, I’m gonna let you leave the market with enough funds to set you up for life. Now, how’s that sound?”
Again, you swallow thick, getting caught up in the fantasy of it with eyes wide, before you’re reminded of what you know. Just another game… You wonder if this was the type your mother once played. Another awful game where they dangle hope in front of your eyes only to squeeze it free of life. Their idea of a fun time.
“Come on, what do you say?” he taunts—fangs practically dripping.
Still, you furl your brows and bite back with a, “Fuck you.”
And again, it only makes his grin broader. Simpering at you, “That’s what I like to hear.”
He’s on his knees in the next moment, before the bed, claws digging into the cake of your thighs, keeping them where he wants them as he lowers his mouth between them.
“Mmh, it's gonna feel so good to be the first one to ever make you truly yield.”
You squirm under the warmth of his words.
He only coos, “Don’t worry,” tongue not even a whisker away as he speaks, “If I win, which I will, I’ll let you challenge me with the same odds anytime you want.”
