filthy, for sure

One night, about two months ago, he stalked your flight home with, in his mind, an intention to kill. When he first skulked through the shadows of your apartment, slithering inside your bedroom, he creaked open your door, watching as a thin stream of gray-blue light dimly illuminated your sleeping form, with a needle at the ready. He loomed over your unconscious body, staring down at you through falling strands of black hair masking his expressionless face. For quite a while, he silently observed you, as cold and still as stone. Your fist clutching your covers close to your chest, rising, falling, soft and slow, and your lips faintly parted, a small shine of drool dribbling out the corner, pooling on your pillow.

Pangs of heat, unlike anything else he had experienced, followed; a sudden surge of exhilaration, almost akin to a battle's beginning, flooded his veins and swelled in his crotch. Illumi nearly lost control of his aura, briefly confusing the new feeling with blood-lust; however, well disciplined in impassivity, he remained a statue at your side. Now, the notes read wrong rang clearly, and they rang loud, nigh deafening in his ears.

Today, Illumi awaits your presence, hidden underneath your bed frame. You arrive in your apartment a quarter past seven in the evening. He hears you hang your keys and slide your shoes off, and shortly after, the bedroom door squeaks open as you enter behind. Your feet drag lethargically across the carpeted floor. You peel your socks off; your belt, pants, and shirt follow, thrown haphazardly to the other side of the room. Last of all, your underwear joins the pile of tossed clothes, hitting the wall with a soft thud. You sigh, presumably from exhaustion, and flump onto the mattress.

He is right below you, your heat radiating off the dip of the mattress onto his skin. The hill your weight creates on the underside comes close to touching his face. A thought floats in his head of tracing your body shape across the curve, but although his fingers twitch at his side, he resists. You are at your most exquisite when you think you are alone.

The sag undulates like waves as you readjust yourself. He envisions how you must look above him, nude, lying on your back, shifting in hopeless pursuit of comfort. He sees you clearly; he sees the faint pulsing on the soft, hollow groove along your trachea; he sees the hairs on your body bristle up from the follicles, and he sees your fingers crawling down your sternum toward your pelvis.

"Hah…," you exhale. The faint sound submerges deep within Illumi's ears, tickling the cochlear hairs and sending frisson-flutters all over his skin. Goosebumps… fear response. The lightning sensation striking him, it feels like danger, accelerates his heart like danger, flows his blood like danger. Despite his internal reactions, he remains stiff as a board below you. A Pollock within; a blank canvas without. You, the abstract artist, scramble his insides into indistinct shapes, into splotches, curves, and knots crossing over and over each other.

Tremors run through you, echoed to Illumi via rippling in the mattress. He feels your blissful shiver in his flesh, slithering so sweltering in his body, surrounding and constricting his heart. You roll your hips in a crawling, convulsing manner, sweet sighs spilling from your lips, and he feels you coiling tighter. Heat seeps like a second skin around him, sinking to the swelling bulge pitching in his trousers—the only external reaction he cannot swallow down.

"Uugh-hah," you moan, coiling him tighter still.

Illumi wonders how far he must push himself before he can no longer resist. The balance is tipping, teetering on the edge, a mere breeze away from shattering. He knows this when he decides he needs to see you, see you come undone, and see you now.

Illumi doesn't have to wonder what you will do when you see him. He knows this, he's known this since the first night he followed you to this very room.

Slim fingers curling around the side rails, black hair gliding across the carpet, Illumi slowly slides from the dark shade beneath your bed. His own shadow rises like a monolith from your floor, climbing as he does, creeping all the way up your wall. Together, they watch over your writhing. They watch the beads of sweat that drip like pearls down your neck. Their eyes devour the sight of your trembling jaw, your bitten lips, your lashes fluttering up, and up, and your pupils inching towards him.

Your half-lidded eyes blow open and your mouth spreads wide to scream.

"You can't move. You can't scream."

But nothing comes out.

Miasma replaces the air you breathe, heavy as metal in your lungs. When you gasp all you swallow is his voice, and you have no choice but to obey. Your entire body shakes as if in the middle of a storm, staring glossy-eyed, aghast, at the strange man before you. Illumi tilts his head as you let out a sudden burst of En, the sensation little more than the tickle of a feather to him, but he knows you're not trying to scare him—you're searching for something.

"You won't find it."

The corners of your lips twitch, snagged on the faintest trace of mirth beneath his otherwise flat tone.

"Will you continue?" he asks.

"Con… continue…?" you sputter, staring unwaveringly toward your lap.

"Yes."

A tremendous shudder floods you as if suddenly splashed by cold water. Your gaze, in slow, stuttering spasms, pulls upward to his face. His eyes, as dark and viscous as tar, seem to ooze from their sockets, swelling, swirling like a whirlpool pulling you into his vortex. He sticks to the walls, drips from the ceiling, and surges from the floor as great black waves of pitch. You are helpless against the undertow, dragged down into the thick, clinging dark, his will flooding every hollow of you until his voice drowns out everything else.

"Continue," he says.

It would be easier if your body betrayed you, if your limbs had softened to putty for his command to mold. It is so much worse when the surrender is yours, that when you recline, you feel yourself yielding, inch by inch. A laugh scratches up from the bottom of your throat, dry and bitter.

That first night, Illumi did stick a needle in your supple skin; he pushed through your cranium and dug deep into your brain. He rooted fear into your psyche, fear of him, so that you will always be too afraid to deny him. Now he watches with bated breath as that fear puppets you, spreading your legs. Your whole form vibrates with it, from your clenching toes to your hands, tentatively twitching down your torso.

Flames flick flesh as your fingers descend, goosebumps scorching in their wake. You are acutely aware of Illumi's gaze following with suffocating intensity. At a glance, you see no discernible delight nor dissatisfaction. For a moment, you tense, then rapidly spur back into action. You bring your dominant hand up to your mouth and slide two digits between your lips as your other hand shakily rubs at your groin. The friction is barely enough to make you swallow, little pin-pricks of heat tickling up your core, yet your motions are aimless, awkward—and you don’t attempt to correct yourself.

Spit coats your middle and index finger in a warm, wet sheen. Illumi's eyes trail a small blob of slobber spilling from the corner of your mouth as you pull your digits free. You prod at your hole with your hastily lubed extremities, yet halt when you peek a curtain of black hair in front of you. Completely silent, Illumi had moved from the side of your bed to being mere centimeters apart from the footboard. He looms, staring down at you with wide, unblinking eyes and slack, straight-lined lips.

"Uhm…" The sound vocalizes you before you even realize it has left you.

"Uhm…?" he repeats with a tilt of his head.

What were you going to say? Were you going to ask him to look away? Your stomach plummets.

"Uh, nevermind," you mumble.

Illumi exhales a short huff of air, and he smiles, although slight. A raging hot ball of indignation ignites in your chest, only to be swiftly smothered out when his expression drops back to nothing.

Maybe if you don't look at him, you can pretend he's not there. Your head lolls backward, and your eyes squeeze shut as you gradually push a finger into your hole, halting halfway; you're tensed taut, and your spit is not enough to ease the discomfort. Your muscles will not relax, no matter how much you internally scream for them to. Not wanting to keep the strange man waiting—you did not know the limits of his patience—you force through the tightness.

You thrust the digit in an irregular rhythm, poking around your inside with no real focus. Even in the dark beneath your eyelids, there is only an endless sea of tar, the sludge lapping at you in heavy, hungry waves as your body sinks. Slowly, you enter a second finger and open your eyes, choosing to stare at the ceiling instead. Your fingers jab erratically, picking up pace in an act of desperation to feel the discomforting drag turn to pleasure.

How much does he want from you? There is no way you can cum like this. The ceiling sags, circular strands of drywall eddying against a surging black current. Everywhere you try to avoid him, he poisons like a noxious mist. Your gaze drops, you get a single glance at the erection tenting in his trousers and dart back to the ceiling, ice frosting your heart.

"Do you need help?" he asks. Every muscle goes rigid, and your heart freezes entirely.

"No, no nuh-nuh-no," you immediately stammer out, vehemently shaking your head.

"I'm only teasing."

"…Oh."

The sigh of relief that escapes you sends warmth seeping back into your skin, thawing your heart back into motion. You can't read anything off him. All you do know is that he is getting some sort of sexual gratification from watching you masturbate. You don't know if this is where it ends or if he'll want more. There’s nothing left to do but finish this; anything else will just prolong it.

You push your fingers inside you to the knuckles, searching for the spot that will have you seeing stars. A few off-target jabs and then you find it, fingertips barely brushing by, sending shock waves through your nervous system. Illumi observes how you briefly curl into yourself, hips bucking up and legs trembling. He leans forward, brows raised as you angle your wrist to repeatedly hit that same spot. You try not to concern yourself with the sudden extra interest he exhibits at your show, rather repeatedly abusing your sensitive area. You push and rub and jab in hard, frantic movements, pure pressure forcing as much pleasure into your body as possible.

Climax comes barreling into you like an avalanche, engulfing you in an abrupt and violent quake. No forewarning—your orgasm hits you all at once—arching your back and dropping your jaw in an elongated "O". You stutter and hitch on, "Uh-uh-uh," while seized with a brutal, near painful pleasure boiling like lava through your veins. Convulsing in rapid contractions and relaxations, your back gradually lowers back to the mattress, and your muscles unknot, soothing in succession. Yet you cannot be calm now. After you pull your fingers free, you look to Illumi, hoping to see satisfaction.

He is smiling, though the sight brings you no comfort. Every time you see his grinning face, the expression appears more and more as if painted on.

"Is that… all?" you ask in between pants for air. His mouth levels back to its natural position, and his eyes wander to the corner of your room as if lost in thought.

"I have a problem now. Shouldn't something be done about that?"

His eyes, like bottomless pools, churn with a swelling tide of dread, rolling toward you. The tar is already on your skin, its slow ebb dragging you under. You want nothing more than to feel this fear go away. You want to be rid of it, to scrape it out, to breathe without it, but the tar only clings tighter, slick and sticky, spreading all over you.

"…What do I have to do?" you reply scarcely louder than a whisper.

Illumi's blank gaze wanders your sweat-glossed body, carving a drag path from head to toe, then creeping all the way back up. His sights seem to settle on your lips, still shiny with spit.

"Your mouth will do. Tonight."

"Tonight…?"

Before your mind can catch up to his words, he’s already pulling down his pants. You scoot back, barely an inch, and he stills, glaring darkly. You freeze—then, against every instinct, shift forward. Illumi's briefs pool at his feet atop his pants, and you do your best not to stare at the raging red erection, twitching, leaking clear beads of precum in front of you.

"Well?" he urges.

With quivering arms, you crawl toward him, one hand, one knee at a time. Once face-to-pelvis with him you spit in your palm and wrap your fist around his shaft. You give him a few hesitant tugs before you bring your lips to his tip, faltering, mouth opening and closing sporadically. The hairs on your neck bristle as Illumi rests his hand on the back of your head. He must be impelling you to act.

You swallow your reluctance and slowly part your lips, barely bringing his tip inside before he forces his cock down your throat. A gag chokes through you like a kettlebell trying to force its way out of your jaw, and you muster every bit of willpower within you to stop your teeth from clenching. You sputter and drool, his shaft not even halfway sheathed and it stabs your soft palate, and still he forces himself deeper into your esophagus.

Tears dew your lashline as you frantically grab at his hips for purchase, nails clawing into him. Your eyes snap up to plead for mercy, but you find only cruelty. For the third time, you catch him smiling, but this time he is positively beaming, lips stretched ear to ear, so wide, so jubilant, he looks like a jester's mask. You avert your gaze a second within the sight. Even the thought of it leaves a chill you cannot shake.

While you remain heaving around his dick, Illumi pushes you all the way to the hilt, no matter the angry red marks you leave on his skin. You strain against his hold, nose pressing on his pelvic bone, nails digging deeper, but the pain only seems to spur him on. He pistons his hips into your gagging mouth, the head of his cock sure to leave bruises in the back of your throat. Your jaw aches, and you can't help but let your teeth skim the shaft. You are, however, quick to correct yourself, widening for him in fear of retaliation.

"Your teeth…" he groans, the first noise you heard from him yet.

You whine as if to apologize, begging with your teary eyes.

"I want to feel your teeth."

For a brief second, your mind empties. Then thought returns in a dizzying reel, caught in the chaotic winds of a tempest. You acquiesce, though not without reservation. Carefully, you bring your teeth to scarcely graze him, anxiously watching him for satisfaction.

"More."

Whimpering, you do as he says. Your teeth come closer again, now scraping against his sensitive skin. You can't imagine how this feels good, and you dread hurting him—afraid of anger—yet he starts grunting for the first time since he entered your mouth, thrusting his hips harder, faster. Slobber slips from the corners of your lips, dripping down and splashing onto your comforter. Illumi grips one of your hands on his hip, pushing your nails further into his flesh, and picking up pace inside you.

He groans and drives his cock as deep in your throat as it will go. You smack his hip repeatedly, wheezing for air, yet you receive no reprieve. Illumi cums down your esophagus, leaving you no choice but to swallow or choke. He lingers, cock still sputtering out strands of semen directly to your stomach. He waits until he's sure you've gulped all he has to offer before he pulls his shaft from your lips.

You collapse, wracked by a fit of violent coughs, while Illumi clothes himself with ease. You feel so sticky, so horribly sticky and crusted with spit and tar. All you can do is stare at your blankets, waiting for your intruder to leave you now that he's had his fill.

"Would you like to get married?" he asks.

"What?" Incredulous, your spine snaps straight, and you desperately search him for signs of jest. You see nothing.

"You don't have a choice, but would you like it?"

Your shoulders shake, caught between weeping and laughter, the two blurring together until you can’t tell them apart. The tar flows again, pooling somewhere deep within your lungs, rising with every broken breath. It clings to the sound as it leaves you, drags it down, turns it heavy and slow. You try to separate the feelings—fear from disbelief, horror from whatever bitter humor still flickers—but it’s all the same now, swallowed and churned together. The more you feel it, the less distinct it becomes, until even the reaction itself doesn’t quite belong to you. It just happens, bubbling up through the dark, as inevitable as the tide pulling you under.

"…No," you breathe.

"You will."

Illumi walks to the corner of your room, picking up your stranded clothes and placing them next to you.