Feefee's fanfics!!

Liminal spaces/ Backrooms dividers

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ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ ⧽ 𝐿𝐴𝐶𝐸 ◞ ◞ ◞

ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ ⧽ 𝐵𝑂𝑊𝑆 ◞ ◞ ◞

ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ ⧽ 𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑆 ◞ ◞ ◞

"You won't live to see the next day!"

Mafioso banner + pfp

Chance x Bunny Hybrid!Mafioso

RATING 18+ | bunnies—those fluffy little cotton balls with bright, wide, saucer eyes and twitching button noses are far more deceiving than they seem. in truth, they are vigorously horny creatures. and this is no exception for one unfortunate man: mafioso... ( 4.0K )

✉️ ~ MDNI | AO3 | art by @sonadiee

✧ chapter contents - mating cycles/in heat, omega verse, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, creampie, begging, service submission, dominance, shameless smut, scenting, primal sex, dirty talk, masturbation, multiple orgasms, mpreg | male pregnancy, fingerfucking, penetrative, moaning, whining, mating press, dry humping, sexual overstimulation

Bunnies—those fluffy little cotton balls with bright, wide, saucer eyes and twitching button noses are far more deceiving than they seem. In truth, they are vigorously horny creatures. And this is no exception for one unfortunate man: Mafioso. The all-powerful boss is at the peak of his heat—burning, restless, and unbearably needy. Desperate, even. The urge to mate gnaws at his insides, each pulse driving him closer to the brink of sanity. His usually sharp, clean-cut rational thoughts are nowhere to be found as his mind is overshadowed by desire, making it impossible to focus on anything besides mating. Grinding his rock-hard cock against anything that could mimic the natural mating instinct is almost irresistible at this moment, and that’s exactly what he sets out to do.

Mafioso wants it badly.

Plump, scorching hormones surge through his bloodstream like a potent toxin, compelling him to do things he normally would resist, especially with Chance gone.

“I swear, your scent’s still hangin’ in the air, tryin’ to make me go feral.” No matter how much he urges himself not to give in, restraint is impossible.

Mafioso’s ears flicker in rhythm with his heightened urges, each impulse more tempting than the last. His lustful gaze lingered on the plush, irresistible pillow pressing lazily against the headboard, still carrying the faint lingering scent of his lover. He can’t afford to draw his attention anywhere else; his adorable nose twitches eagerly, sniffing the air, inching him closer and closer like a heat-driven predator who has marked its target.

He tries to hold back, tries not to let these careless instincts drive him to do something stupid—but fuck, it gets harder and harder to resist.

His long, calloused palm reaches out and grips the soft, yielding fabric of the pillow, fingers tightening around it until small holes threaten to form under the tension. He hugs the pillow firmly to his chest, arms tense and trembling slightly. His flushed, burning face presses deeply against the cool, smooth surface, eyes squeezed shut as if seeking comfort in the plush touch.

Mafioso pants heavily, burying his nose deeper and deeper into the pillow, drinking up the intoxicating scent of his lover. An almost euphoric high spirals through him—sweet, mouthwatering, suffocating—overwhelming his senses. He claws and kneads at the feeble surface, every movement driving his arousal higher as his hips begin to rock, setting their own pace. Even the slightest brush against his weeping cock sends shivers creeping across his entire body, leaving him trembling with a blissful need. Leaking from his touch-starved tip, globs of precum streak across the grey fabric, leaving noticeable snail trails behind.

Damn—he’s going to be in so much trouble when Chance finds his favorite pillow like this. But even knowing that, Mafioso, ever the horny bunny, doesn’t stop. No, he can’t.

“Haa—You got no fuckin’ idea what you do to me…” Chance will never know; he’ll never come close to understanding just how much this insatiable, scorching, oppressive heat has been slowly devouring him alive. How it leaves his lover helplessly curled up on their shared bedding, whining and rutting his hips into a random pillow like some kind of sex-driven, wild beast.

Mafioso’s lover—the only one who can calm the emptiness boiling inside his loins—has been gone since the crack of dawn. By the time the morning haze finally settled, he realized Chance had already disappeared without a peep. The only thing remaining at his side is a singular pillow.

While he’s left all alone—desperate, hungry, aching—Chance is out having the time of his life, chatting, laughing, and smiling with people who aren’t him. Mafioso winces at the thought.

That’s not fair.

He’s the only one who should hear that laugh, the only one who should see those flushed dimples—no one else. Chance belongs to him—his scent, his love, everything—every part claimed solely by him. The thought alone makes Mafioso’s hips jerk forward, breath hitching as his painfully erect cock slides along the satin sheets; the tip wears a flushed, rosy hue, angry and pent up from days of neglect.

“You don’t even gotta be here to—mmnh—to mess m’up.” Fuck. Mafioso is in a losing battle with the need to breed.

And he needs to badly.

This is wrong, and he knows that. But the very thought alone doesn’t stop him; his body doesn’t care. His floppy ears twitch, betraying every pulse of heat running beneath his skin. Every pathetic rock of his hips, every heartsick little whine that escapes him, edges him closer.

The air feels heavy, thick with the fading scent of Chance—a reminder and a curse all at once. Each shallow breath scrapes against his delicate throat, his movements jerky and unsteady, caught between guilt and desire. He gnaws on his bottom lip, causing small dents to appear in the tender flesh.

He’s desperate, yearning; it’s too late to turn back now.

Mafioso’s thrusts are frantic, sloppy, and relentless, as lewd huffs barrage the bedroom, desperate to reach his much-needed high. And even as his mind whispers stop, instinct roars louder: find him, have him, make the ache end.

One hand skillfully slips beneath the loose fabric of his pants, tracing its way around and leaving a trail of coolness in its wake. The chill against his flushed skin makes him shiver, goosebumps blooming like wildfire across his body. His mouth hangs open, gasping, making soft sounds that could tempt even the strongest of predators. His finger pads twiddle around the rim of his overly sensitive hole. His entire body jerks with longing, spine arching off the mattress as his head snaps back against the supportive pillow.

“Ahh—ahh—ahh!” Mafioso’s tiny, beautiful squeaks pepper the air like pellets, panting alongside soft, pleading whimpers. His tail fluff brushes against his hand, twitching and flicking with each shiver that runs through him. With one daring motion, he slides two fingers inside his cock-starved hole. Every muscle in his ass tenses and clenches in response to the sudden surge of sensation, his hole contracting and bunching muscles as instinct takes over. His ears twitch, his breath hitches, and he mewls softly, lost in the overwhelming need pulsing through his veins.

Mafioso, still trying to evade his instinct-induced rapture, swears up and down that all this rubbing is beginning to result in a sore friction burn on his groin. Still, despite this new knowledge, that doesn’t stop him. It burns—fuck, it hurts so good.

His hips position in frantic, sloppy bucks, each motion straining to chase a relief that won’t come. Every muscle tenses, every nerve screams, his tail lashes, and his ears twitch with the intensity coursing through him. His fingers curl deep within the crevice of his ass, pumping in and out of the tight cavity with each thrust, needing to find that sweet spot. Mafioso grunts with annoyance, inserting a third finger that still isn’t enough to satisfy him. No matter how he shifts or yearns, the persistent ache remains unfazed, a relentless pulse demanding satisfaction. Desperate—desperate for Chance—he can’t quite null the yearning that consumes every part of him. Leaving him trembling, lost in the ache of wanting more than he can have.

“You drive me fuckin’ insane—and you ain’t even in the damn room.” Mafioso huffs, nostrils flaring, desperate to bury himself in the intoxicating scent as his grip tightens on the already-compressed pillow. Right now, he needs to feel close to Chance, to trick his animalistic intuition into believing he’s here, even if just for a second. He imagines him—the presence, the warmth, the soft, familiar touch guiding him—and a breathy mewl escapes his lips, tumbling out like a silent prayer.

Every nerve in his body aches with unretained longing. His ears sporadically twitch while his tail flicks side to side, fueled only by the craving to be fucked senseless. He imagines Chance whispering sweet nothings in his perky ear, hands guiding and grounding him, all the while his engorged cock slipping inside Mafioso’s tight little hole. The thought drives him further into the frenzy of want.

Mating isn’t enough anymore. Now, stuck in this endless spiral of need and want, his mind drifts to something impossible, something forbidden—and it consumes him. He doesn’t just want to be used; no, he wants to be bred. To settle down, to carry Chance’s kits, to have a litter that’s his own. With this new desire, Mafioso drools slightly, unable to hold back. He clenches desperately around the three probing fingers stretching his hole, hips rising and settling against the pillow without thinking, every nerve screaming to pull semen from nothing, to be filled in a way that exists only in the depths of his mind, drowning in the impossible need for more.

Then, in hindsight, he should’ve paid more attention to the soft, deliberate grunt of the floorboard—the faint sound that makes his ears twitch for just a fraction of a second. But he’s too caught up in the chase, too lost in his desperate need to notice the man stationed at the entrance of their shared bedroom.

“Havin’ fun without me, hm?”

Mafioso’s furious humps against his lover’s pillow falter, shallow before coming to a complete stop. His oversized ears perk up, shifting like satellite dishes toward the sound he both dreads and craves. And there he is—cocky grin, freshly tailored suit, arms crossed snugly over his chest, leaning casually against the doorframe, expecting a clear answer that never comes.

One question cuts through the rest, pounding in Mafioso’s ribcage like a drum, threatening to tear his little bunny heart free: how long has he been standing there?

His once-perky, lively ears droop, flattening against his head, and no words capture the scorching pit of shame bubbling in his stomach. Mafioso thinks about shying away—he really does—retreating under a blanket that would do nothing but highlight how exposed he already is. He’s caught.

His body betrays him, instincts kicking in at the worst moment, stiffening instinctively as he freezes in place, staring like a rabbit caught in headlights. His eyes are wide, saucer-like, brimming with something unbearably raw.

“By all means—don’t stop on my account,” Chance teases, his small, deliberate strides forward stretching time itself. Each step makes Mafioso’s pulse quicken, anticipation slicing through his shame. Chance leans over the damp sheets, his warm, embracive palm cupping Mafioso’s chin with a gentle yet possessive pressure.

“Hidin’ that you’ve been in heat from me? My, what a naughty little bunny you’ve been.”

Mafioso thumps his foot against the bedding, unable to deny the truth staring back at him. A frustrated little sigh escapes, eyes locking onto those tinted glasses, silently begging, please notice me… He wants him—here, now, without hesitation.

Chance leans in, that cocky grin tugging at the corner of his plush lips. “Don’t worry, my precious bunny,” he purrs, voice teasing, warm against Mafioso’s ear. His free hand slides to the center of Mafioso’s chest, causing his jaw to slack, a small gasp escaping before he can stop it. “I’ll take real good care of you… you ready for that?”

Yes!—oh, fuck—yes. This is what he’s been craving, needing, begging for all along.

Mafioso surges forward instinctively, drawn in by the intoxicating scent of Chance. The faint trace of cologne, the raw edge of musk wrapping around him, dizzying, making him shiver as he buries his face in the fabric of Chance’s blazer; which is so much better than a pillow. Every nerve fires at once, the line between desire and desperation blurs to nothing, smudged beyond recognition. Nothing—absolutely nothing—can tear him away now. Not when that pulsing need courses through his veins like fire, searing, consuming, unstoppable.

“Look at you… This worked up over a little attention.”

Mafioso looks utterly vulnerable, pathetic almost. Who would have guessed the all-powerful mob boss could be so adhesive in heat? Every nerve in his body quivers with need, every pulse and every brush of sensation magnified, impossible to ignore.

“Mnhh… I’ve jus’… missed you… need to feel close,” he whispers, voice trembling. A shiver of heat courses through him, igniting every taut muscle and nerve, spreading like untamed wildfire from his core to the tips of his fingers, leaving him trembling.

Chance knows leaving this morning was a mistake. The heat radiating from Mafioso’s body is alarming, almost palpable, seeping through the fabric of his dress shirt like spilled coffee. He is burning alive, every inch of him taut and restless.

A cool, refreshing hand finds the nape of Mafioso’s neck, pressing gently. Patches of goosebumps rise under the chill, the contrast only sharpening his craze.

“Breathe, bunny,” Chance murmurs, tone low and steady. “You’re shaking.”

The springs creak beneath Mafioso as he inches back on the mattress, only slightly. For the first time that morning, Chance finds himself speechless. The reflection in those saucers gazing upwards into his very soul—wide-eyed, radiant, and utterly vulnerable—makes his chest tighten in a way he’s never felt before.

Mafioso reaches out, gripping Chance’s hand on his own, guiding it with trembling fingers before placing it against his swollen groin. A soft whine escapes him.

“Haa… please… jus’… jus’ touch me,” he whines, voice shaking, chest rising fast with shallow, desperate breaths.

And in that instant, Chance snaps. Mafioso flinches, heart hammering, and before he can even think, he is on his back, pinned. Chance’s gaze is sharp, predatory, burning with a quiet intensity that makes every nerve in Mafioso’s body flare alive. Heat pools low, coiling tightly, and his swollen cock twitches and flicks with anticipation, betraying the ache that has been building all morning. Every subtle shift of Chance’s weight presses against him, every expression sets his body trembling, chest rising and falling too fast, lips parting in a soft gasp as he shivers under the undeniable pull.

Mafioso lifts his own thighs in one fluent, lewd gesture, fingers digging into the plush flesh as his legs spread apart from each other, tempting the man to do something about this heat.

“’m so fuckin’ hot—mmph—hurry. I wanna feel your cock inside me…” Mafioso pants out, not needing to ask twice.

“That desperate for my cock, are we?” Chance murmurs even while knowing the answer. A smug grin plays across his lips as his fingers toy with the latch of his belt. He can feel his throbbing length responding instantly, pulsing with need from the very start.

“Seeing you like this… It’s so fuckin’ hot,” he adds, leaning in to press a tender, deliberate kiss to Mafioso’s lips—a soft, irresistible distraction as he positions himself into a mating press.

Mafioso moans at the ever-so enticing sensation, voice escaping despite himself, lost in the intensity of the kiss. Every brush of lips, every shared gasp, sends heat rippling through him, scorching every nerve. Their bodies move together, a dangerous, intoxicating rhythm—tangoing, blending, fusing. Mafioso swears the kiss is laced with some kind of potent drug, because no matter how much he drinks it in, it is never enough.

When the kiss finally breaks, Mafioso can’t think straight. His face is a beautiful flush mess—lips parted, tongue peeking out like a panting dog, utterly begging for something to suck on. His half-lidded eyes shimmer with a haze, and thin strands of drool roll down his chin. There is no denying it—he is completely and utterly drunk on lust.

Mafioso squeaks as a thick finger presses against his puckered hole, clenching instinctively, but it isn’t enough. No—this isn’t what he wants. He needs something longer, thicker, something that can reach further than fingers alone. Frustration flares, his foot thumping against the mattress.

Mafioso’s hands paw at Chance’s blazer, fingers digging into the fabric, pulling him closer. “Please… please, just—fuckin’ put it in me…” His voice trembles, barely above a whisper, but every word drips with hunger.

He gasps, body coiling with bittersweet need, voice trembling.

He’s desperate—a desperate little bunny willing and able to do whatever it takes to be bred, even if that means parting its ass cheeks, exposing that flaring, needy hole, to beg for a load of cum. With two skillful fingers, he spreads his own rim and swishes his little cotton tail as if to entice Chance back into touching him.

And in the end, Mafioso got his wish. 

“That’s my bunny… gonna make you feel so good,” Chance hums, sliding the umbrella tip of his flushed cock inside slowly, letting the bunny stretch, letting him adjust, every inch igniting a new ripple of bliss.

Mafioso arches instinctively, moaning, hips rolling to meet Chance, desperate to take more. “Ahh… oh god… fuck—yes, just like that… don’t stop…” His voice breaks, breath hitching, and every nerve pulses, every muscle tensed, as he rides the tides of pure, unrestrained bliss.

The room swelters with their shared gasps, whispered names, and the heat of skin pressing against skin. The feel of Chance's engorged cock sliding along his tight, sensitive walls is like the gates of heaven opening the moment it sinks in—something he’s craved for far too long. Mafioso bottoms out with a shuddering gasp.

“Fuck—fuck yes—!” His breath comes in ragged little pants, one jagged gasp after another, fingers curling into the satin sheets for dear life. His body convulses uncontrollably as deep, throaty moans spill into the air. His hips writhe, rolling desperately to draw more of the throbbing length inside, pushing himself down with feverish urgency.

Then, with one final, frantic jerk, he spills over—again and again—like he has no control. His bright, bobbing cock releases string after string, coating his stomach, chest, and face. Every inch of his midsection is slick with his own heated, desperate release.

Mafioso’s body collapses limp against the mattress, trembling and panting, mouth slack, eyelashes dewy with unshed tears. Every shiver, every gasped breath betrays how long he’s been holding back, and he spills instantly as Chance slides in.

Chance grunts, hips pressing and rocking with deliberate slowness, savoring the tight, hot resistance enveloping him. 

“Fuck… you’re so tight, so ready for me,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “You’ve already made such a mess for me… and it’s only the beginning. Imagine what’ll happen when I’m all the way in.”

The low, raw rumble of his voice makes the bunny’s ears twitch uncontrollably. He wants it—needs it—more than words could ever convey. Every nerve in him burns to be bred, to be filled, to feel the heat sinking deep inside his guts. He aches for it, for the warmth to flood him, coat him, claim him utterly, leaving nothing of himself unclaimed.

“Haa… ’m all wet, dripping for you… I want every inch.” Mafioso whines, hips arching, every nerve screaming for more. “I can’t take it… I need all of you inside me,” he gasps, trembling. Desire swells like fire in his veins as he wraps his legs around Chance’s waist, urging him closer, needing to be filled, inch by burning inch.

Mafioso clings to Chance, utterly consumed by lust. “...breed me properly.”

It's almost like those words flick a switch inside Chance. Gazing down at his desperate hybrid lover, he slowly retracts his length from the tight, needy cavity—exactly the last thing Mafioso wants. He whines sharply, voice trembling with disappointment, loins pulsing uncontrollably, aching for more.

Then, with deliberate cruelty, Chance pulls back just enough for the umbrella-shaped tip of his cock to peek from the entrance. No warning follows—he plunges back in, fast, rough, and hunger-driven, making Mafioso cry out, every nerve igniting with a blissful mix of pain and pleasure.

He has an almost feral look in his eyes, a look so primal that Mafioso felt himself slip into submission naturally. The raw burn of Chance’s girth stretched his hole out, making him cock drunk beyond words, not that he could say much anyway.

Chance leans over him, cock throbbing inside with each plap, eyes dark with hunger. “You’re mine, bunny,” he murmurs, voice low and raw, dragging out each word. 

“You like that, don’t you? Wantin’ me to breed you… want me to make you mine, to feel me bury deep inside, to take everythin’ I’ve got?” His hips jerk forward slightly, letting the tip brush against him, pulling back, then thrusting again—rough, calculated, deliberate.

“You’re gonna carry my litter,” Chance hisses, lips brushing the fluff of Mafioso’s ear, “every drop… every part of me inside you. You’re made for this, for me, for the way I want to breed you.”

The dominance had worn Mafioso thin—his eyes glossy, brimming with unshed tears, rolling back into his skull. Too fucked out to form words, he could only nod, praying Chance understood. Soon, his body began to writhe, squirming as the warning signs of another impending orgasm coiled in his stomach. Mafioso didn’t need to speak—he didn’t even have to. Chance knew, savoring every tremor, every subtle clench of the overly sensitive hole that gripped his cock and refused to relent.

He felt so utterly trapped, helpless beneath the weight of the other man’s body.

Each thrust drives him closer to the edge, every soft hum, every teasing whisper locking him into a feverish, unrelenting desire he can’t, and doesn’t want to, escape.

Chance fucks him senseless, leaving him nothing more than a moaning, babbling mess, tears streaking down his face from the overwhelming pleasure. Even as he shook beneath him, Chance didn’t stop—he drove deeper, filling him so completely it felt like he was reaching into his very diaphragm, leaving him so utterly full.

“You wanna cum… hm? Wanna cum from my cock pounding into you?” Chance growls, teeth clenching, his own orgasm threatening to spill over. He yanks roughly at Mafioso’s sensitive ears—the soft stalks, the smooth fluff all twitching under his touch—while Mafioso’s control unravels, desperate whines and whimpers spilling out as Chance continues to hammer into the exposed bundle of nerves.

Mafioso nods repetitively, but Chance wasn’t satisfied this time. “Words, bunny… use your words. Tell me how badly you want it.”

“Mmph—Please… breed me… fuck me full… I need your cum,” Mafioso whimpers, voice breaking as he ground against Chance, ears twitching under his touch. “I want your cock inside me… I want all of it… don’t stop—!”

His thrusts grew sloppy, rutting messily like he was the one in heat. Mafioso would be sliding across the satin sheets if not for the rough hands gripping his waist, forcing him down, pressing him deeper into submission.

“’m gonna fill you with my seed…you want that, don't you? You wanna have my kits?” Chance asks between harsh thrusts.

Mafioso nods frantically, body trembling. “Ahh… yes—yes, fuck—yes!” he cries out, moans spilling out as his body shook, fluids spraying uncontrollably. Chance didn’t stop, driving into him harder, letting Mafioso ride out his orgasm before spilling himself moments later. With a harsh, untamed growl, he pumps all that slick, sticky goodness deep inside of Mafioso, stuffing him full of cum just like he’d asked, leaving them both gasping and slick in the aftermath.

Mafioso could feel it inside—each spurt painting his walls a creamy white, each harsh buck driving more of Chance inside his gaping hole, filling him until there was nothing left to give. Every pulse, every throb, pushed him further past reason.

It felt… fucking incredible.

The emptiness in his loins finally cooled, his ears twitching from the release, every nerve tingling with overstimulation. And oh god… was it perfect.

fanfic that I like

p2 dude with a baker s/o ; headcanons

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Postal (2) Dude x Reader

NOTE: Thank you for sending this request! It was really fun imagining this. I hope you enjoyed the headcanons as much as I did writing them.

Fandom: Postal Games

Relationship: Postal Dude/Female Reader

Rating: 18+ / Explicit

Warnings: NSFW, explicit sexual content, toxic dynamics, unhealthy relationship themes, strong language, car sex, semi-public sex, PIV sex, mating press, light choking/asphyxiation play

Tags: postal dude x reader, postal 3, toxic romance, danger kink, chaotic energy, postal vibes, reader POV, no use of y/n, dude is a asshole, penis in vagina sex

Word Count: 4113

Author's Notes: First time writing an explicit scene fully in English, hope you guys enjoy! Please mind the warnings, this one gets rough

Summary: After days of silence, you finally hear from Dude again… and he’s not in the mood to wait.

“Dude?” you ask, just to be sure.

His voice crackles through the phone, low, rough, soaked in arrogance.

“Ohhh. So you do remember me.” He drags the words out like he 's tasting your hesitation. "Thought you’d ghosted me after those quiet days"

A pause. You hear a lighter flick, then the slow exhale of smoke.

“Nah. Don’t answer that,” he says, amused. “I already know… You got some free time today or what?”

“No. I have a job, Dude. I’m on my lunch break.”

He snorts.

“Yeah? Well, unless you wanna explain to mall security why there’s about to be an incident near the food court, you’d better meet me outside in five minutes. And make it quick. I don’t like waiting.”

You roll your eyes. Is he dense, or just ignoring you on purpose?

“Yeah? I’ve got forty minutes, Dude. That’s it. Make it quick or I’m hanging up.”

There’s a brief silence. Then the soft sound of him exhaling smoke.

“Forty minutes?” He sounds almost offended. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.” The edge in his voice is sharp now. “Do I look like the kinda man who waits? ’Cause let me tell you right now—I ain’t the waitin’ type.”

You hesitate for a second. Days of silence, and now he calls out of nowhere, demanding your time like he owns it. Still… the memory of his grip makes it hard to say no outright.

“Sorry, but you’ll have to—”

You stop yourself. There’s no point arguing. You finish your last bite of food, barely tasting it, your mind drifting—work, spreadsheets, emails, the staff shortage, reports you still needed to finish… and, annoyingly, the memory of his hands invades your mind.

“Where can I find you?” You ask, too direct. 

There’s a pause on his end. Nobody tells this man no. The silence stretches before he finally says:

“There’s a gas station on the corner of Lincoln and Maple. You know it?”

“That’s too far. I’m in office clothes and heels, I’d be late even driving.”

He sighs, long and irritated. You hear him take another drag.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really gonna make me come all the way there?”

You scoff.

“No problem. If you don't want to, my shift ends at ten p.m.”

Another exhale. Slower. Tighter.

“Oh, for—” He cuts himself off, then: “Ten p.m.? Damn, doll. You really gonna make me wait that long?”

“You’ve got thirty-eight minutes before my lunch break ends” you say casually, glancing at your nails.

A low, dangerous chuckle rolls through the line.

“Thirty-eight minutes, huh?” His voice drops, slow and rough, like gravel under tires. “Cute. Real cute” You hear him inhale again, deliberate. “You always play hard to get?”

The line crackles. When he speaks again, his voice is closer. Darker.

“Listen to me. You felt what I do to walls when I’m bored. Now imagine that against your throat.”

He sighs. 

“Now picture me walkin’ into that little mall like Judgment fuckin’ Day, with a boot fulla lead and zero patience… all ’cause some pastel princess decided her lunch break was more important”

He lets the silence stretch.

Then, a smirk in his tone: “So here’s how this goes: You get your cute ass outside right now, or I come in there and carry you out over my shoulder like stolen property”

Gunshot sounds faintly in the distance on his end. His voice doesn’t flinch.

“Just say the word, sweetheart…” His voice drops to almost a whisper: “And we find out which one of us is really callin’ the shots.”

“I’d love for you to carry me on your shoulder…” The smile in your voice is audible. 

A beat of silence. Then—

“Oh”

He finally realized he’s dealing with someone who wants to be caught.

“Damn,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Look at you. All prim and proper on the outside, beggin’ for a little public humiliation.” A dark chuckle rumbles through the line.

He shifts, boots thudding faintly against pavement on his end, and you swear the air crackles.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Ten p.m.? Be waitin’ by the employee exit like a good girl… or I’ll make sure every cop in Catharsis knows how their sweet lil’ witness likes it rough.”

Another pause. Then softer, filthy almost:

“Rest up, sweetheart. You’re gonna need it.”

Click. The line goes dead.

You’re still staring at the phone when your break ends. For the first time in days, the rest of your shift actually feels… bearable. The thought of leaving him waiting, pissed off and impatient, puts a small, secret smile on your face. By 9:30 p.m., the mall starts shutting down. You smooth out your white button-up and black skirt one last time, making sure everything is perfect, no wrinkles in sight.

Chatting with your coworkers was nice; they waved goodbye as they headed to their cars. You stayed behind, scanning the parking lot for the red-haired man. That’s when you noticed a dicycle on your right, and further ahead, to the right, rising on the other side of the mall exit: cigarette smoke.

Dude is there, just as he said he’d be, leaning casually against the wall with one foot propped against the brick, smoking. Even in the dark, his grin gleams like he just made one of his stupid jokes.

He gives you a slow once-over as you approach, from your buttoned-up blouse and skirt to your high heels, all the way down and back up again. Then he laughs.

A low, dark laugh that makes your stomach flutter.

He wasn’t in his officer uniform. Dude was wearing a t-shirt with a green alien on it and a big leather trench coat. It matched him perfectly.

Dude drops the cigarette and crushes it under his boot as you get closer, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. His eyes linger, sizing you up from head to toe.

“Well, damn.” He whistles softly. His voice is as rough as ever, but lower now, like it’s meant just for you. “You look good, sweetheart.”

He gives you another once-over; you can practically feel him undressing you with his eyes. You smile and do a slow 360° spin to show off the outfit.

“Just basic office clothes, but tried my best to look nice”

Dude lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. He pushes off the wall and takes a slow step forward, hands tucked into his trench coat pockets.

“Basic?” His voice drips with sarcasm. “You spin around in that little skirt like you’re tryin’ to hypnotize me.” He tilts his head, green eyes glinting under the dim parking lot light. “Newsflash: it’s workin’.”

He takes another step, close enough now that his heat hits you, that smoky gunpowder scent wrapping around your lungs. Then he reaches out with one finger and flicks the top button of your blouse — pop  — right at your collar.

“That’s two buttons away from professional,” he drawls, eyes locked on yours. “But three away from fun.”

His smirk widens.

“You wanna keep playin’ secretary? Or should I rip it off now and find out what’s underneath?”

You lean in slowly, then give in and kiss him, soft at first, desperate underneath. Leather, cigarettes, and something unmistakably him flood your senses.

For a split second, you can feel a cocky smile on his lips. But then you feel his tongue against your lips, demanding, greedy, like he can’t get enough. He backs you against the wall with force, one hand pinning your wrists above your head.

When he finally breaks away enough to look at you properly, the arrogant smirk has been replaced by something raw. Something predatory.

“Sweetheart…” he mutters, voice ragged, “you think this is a game?”

“Maybe… What kind of game are we playing?”

He leans in, hips pinning you in place with no escape. Your heart races, not just from fear, but from something else entirely.

“The kind of game that ends with you screamin’ my name”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes dark as shadows. With a single rough pull, he rips open the remaining buttons. Your blouse falls completely open, your stomach and bra now fully exposed to him.

He takes a deep breath, holding it between his teeth like he’s hanging on by a thread. Then, with a groan, he releases your wrists. His hands roam over your body like a man possessed. Before you know it, the shirt is off your shoulders completely.

“God DAMN,” he growls, voice low and almost hoarse. “You sure know how to be a tease.”

His eyes rake over the exposed skin, the curve of your neck, your pretty, clean shoulders, like he’s already planning all the ways he can mark you up. The fun starts there: another rough make-out session. After a few sharp bites down your neck and his fingers tugging at your skirt zipper, you pull back just enough to whisper, ‘Not here. My car.’

You unlock the car and open the back door. Right as you start to climb in, Dude shoves you forward, forcing you to brace your hands on the seat so you don’t face-plant.

“What the fuck, Dude?” you snap, irritated.

His hips slam against your ass, already grinding, letting you feel exactly how hard he is through the denim. Big hands clamp around your waist, pinning you in place.

“Just enjoyin’ the view, doll”

He rubs harder, more frantic, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against your skirt until it starts to hurt in the best way. Then one hand slides up, fingers twisting into the roots of your hair and yanking your head to the side.

A broken sigh spills out of you. You’re already melting.

He forces your face toward him for a filthy, messy kiss; teeth clashing, biting at lips, chin, even the tip of your nose like he can’t decide what part of you to devour first.

You don’t even realize you’re rocking back against him until you hear his low, ragged breathing.

With one sharp tug, he yanks your skirt zipper down and shoves the fabric over your hips. You shake it off your ankles, letting it pool on the asphalt, then close your thighs around his hips, heels digging into his lower back to drag him tighter against you.

Now you’re the one setting the pace, rolling your hips in slow, teasing grinds while he curses under his breath.

“Fuck, sweetheart… where’d all this attitude come from?”

You giggle, grinding even more deliberately, just to fuck with him. Of course he doesn’t let you stay in control for long.

One of his hands leaves your hip and…

Snap!

He hooks two fingers under one bra strap and yanks hard. The thin fabric stretches, then gives with a sharp snap against your skin, the strap sliding down your shoulder and exposing more of your breast.

You yelp, releasing him and dropping down to sit on the seat, rubbing the stinging spot on your shoulder.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“Just a reminder who’s in charge, doll ” he says, smirking, before tossing your skirt right into your face.

You groan and fling it to the floorboard. Dude shoves you deeper into the car, climbs in after you, and slams the door shut.

He wraps around you from behind, mouth hot on your neck and exposed back, while his other hand strips your blouse completely off and throws it somewhere in the dark.

You twist around to face him. Soft kisses on your end; rough, biting ones on his. He keeps pressing until your back hits the seat, trying to lay you down.

It… doesn’t really work.

You can bend your legs and kind of lie back, but Dude? Even with his knees bent, he has to duck his head awkwardly to keep eye contact. The faces he makes are almost comical.

You can’t help it, you laugh.

His expression sours instantly.

“Real funny, idiot,” he mutters, still trying to find a position that doesn’t make him look like a contortionist.

“It’s kinda funny.”

You push up a little, bracing on his shoulders, then hook your legs around his hips.

“Hold on like this,” he says, pulling you closer.

He growls low in his throat, then flips you roughly onto your back. He follows immediately, crowding over you, forcing your knees up and back toward your chest with his hands behind your thighs.  

He has to hunch, shoulders brushing the roof, but he doesn’t care, just presses deeper, caging you in the cramped space. Your legs are folded almost in half, your covered pussy completely exposed and helpless beneath him as he settles his weight on top.

Your cunt is throbbing at this point. The way he fills your entire field of vision, the smell of leather and smoke, the sheer size of him, it’s overwhelming.

Dude notices the dazed way you’re staring and laughs low in his throat.

Then he hooks your ankles over his shoulders.

Mating press, your knees shoved back toward your chest. You whimper just from the position, brain short-circuiting at how deep he’s going to be able to go.

Hurried fingers yank his jeans open, no underwear, of course. His cock springs free, thick and heavy.

He doesn’t bother taking your panties off. Instead, he hooks one finger under the crotch and yanks them roughly to the side, exposing your slick folds to the cool air. The fabric stretches taut against your thigh as he drags the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself, nudging at your entrance, dipping just the tip inside… then pulling out.

Again. And again.

“Dude… Come on,” you whine.

He slaps the head of his cock against your clit, sharp and mean, then shushes you mockingly.

When he finally pushes in, the stretch burns in the best way. He doesn’t ease in slow, he sinks halfway, stops, then slams the rest of the way in one brutal thrust, hitting your cervix hard enough to make you scream. 

He sets a slow, punishing rhythm. You try to push at his chest, try to take back some control, but he doesn’t even budge, just laughs low and tells you to ‘take it like a good girl’.

Then he speeds up. Pulls out until only the tip is inside, waits a heartbeat, then slams back in, making you feel every inch stretching you open again.

Your eyes roll back, cheeks burning from the sound of your own obscene moans.

Suddenly he stops. Grabs the backs of your knees, forces them even further back, opening you wider.

“Mind if I rip these?” he asks, tugging at the side of your panties. 

You shake your head frantically. He growls low, satisfied. 

“I ain’t buyin’ you new ones” He tears them apart with one sharp yank and sinks back inside, slow again, lazy, almost cruel. 

Your cunt flutters desperately around him, begging for more. You try to rock your hips. He gets pissed.

“Stay fuckin’ still, cunt"

He stops moving completely. One hand wraps around your throat, choking hard, just enough to hold you down and make your head spin pleasantly light.

Then he starts again. Slow. Deep. Merciless. Punching against your cervix over and over while you bite your lip, trying not to scream.

When he finally picks up speed again, the orgasm builds fast, your toes curl, thighs shake, belly tightens.

“Please don’t stop— please, Dude”

He leans in and bites your earlobe.

It hits you like a freight train. You clamp down around him, crying out, shaking so hard your vision whites out for a second. Dude doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, harder, meaner, chasing his own release.

His sunglasses slide off completely. Those dark green eyes lock onto yours, focused, feral, almost too intimate.

You’re too exposed, moaning too loud, trembling too much.

After what feels like forever, he groans low, thrusts turning erratic. A few more brutal strokes and he buries himself deep, coming hard inside you, filling you up while his grip on your thighs bruises.

He stays there for long moments, breathing harsh, cock twitching inside you. Then finally pulls out and drops beside you, already reaching for a cigarette like nothing happened.

After all of that, you breathe slowly, trying to recover. Dude leans back against the seat, a fresh cigarette now dangling from his lips, because of course he’s already recovered, the bastard, watching you struggle like a woman who just survived a war.

You’re wrecked, sore, and still full of him. The car feels smaller now, air thick with the smell of sex, sweat, leather, and his smoke. You can still feel the pulse between your legs, the lingering warmth deep inside making your thighs clench involuntarily. He notices, of course he does, and his smirk turns almost fond, like he’s proud of the mess he made.

Dude leans back against the seat beside you, already lighting a fresh cigarette like nothing happened. The flame from his lighter briefly illuminates his face: sharp jaw, faint scar under the goatee, eyes half-lidded with lazy satisfaction. He exhales a long plume of smoke toward the cracked window and smirks. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, another night in Catharsis. Neither of you flinches.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice rough and amused. “And here I thought you’d be quiet.”

He flicks ash onto the floorboard without a care and turns to face you fully, dark eyes glinting with something dangerous and deeply pleased.  

“That was just round one.”

You laugh breathlessly, still half-dazed, and start gathering your scattered clothes from the floor and seats. Your blouse is wrinkled beyond saving, buttons missing; the skirt is crumpled in a heap near the door; the torn panties are a lost cause. You shimmy back into what’s left, tugging the skirt up over your hips and buttoning the blouse as best you can with shaky fingers. Every movement reminds you of him, sore thighs, a faint ache between your legs, the ghost of his grip on your wrists.

“Need to pay my bills, Dude…” you say, sliding into the driver’s seat and adjusting the rearview mirror. Your reflection stares back: hair messy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. You look thoroughly wrecked, and somehow that makes you smile.

“Now, would you like to go back home on that weird two-wheeled mall-cop thing of yours, or do you prefer to be my passenger princess and eat some pizza on my couch?”

At the word “princess,” his smirk stretches wider, but there’s a quick flicker of annoyance in his eyes, like he’s deciding whether to bite back with something sharp. Instead, he studies you for a long second, gaze slow and considering, a mix of curiosity and fresh hunger. Then he grunts, low and resigned.

“Well, guess pizza and a cozy couch ain’t the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

He stubs out the cigarette on the armrest (you wince internally) and swings his long legs over the center console with surprising ease for someone his size. The car rocks slightly as he settles into the passenger seat, stretching one tattooed arm along the backrest behind you, fingers brushing the nape of your neck in a casual, possessive way.

“But first,” he adds, voice dropping, “I need to feed my dog.”

“You have a pet?” Surprise colors your voice before you can hide it.

Dude snorts, rolling his eyes like you just asked if water is wet.  

“Yeah, I got a dog. His name’s Champ.” He says it like everyone should already know. “Smartest son of a bitch I know. Probably smarter than you.”

He leans back fully now, hands laced behind his head, posture lazy, like he wasn’t just fucking you senseless a few minutes ago.  

“Survived the nuke with me. Fought Tourette zombies side by side.” A short pause, then a smirk. “He bites cops on principle.” Another beat. “And lawyers.”

He turns his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you start the engine.  

“You scared of dogs?”

“Too much energy for me…” you answer, shifting into drive. The car hums to life, headlights cutting through the dark parking lot. “And… wait, nuke? You’re from Paradise?”

You glance at him while pulling out of the spot. His face changes instantly, smirk gone, jaw tightening, eyes hardening as he stares straight ahead through the windshield.

“I was supposed to be promoted and work at the Paradise mall, but since everything blew… I was assigned here.”

“Yep. Paradise. Or whatever’s left of it.” He spits the name like it tastes bitter. “Your new assignment here was a blessing in disguise, sweetheart. That town was a shithole. And the people were even worse.”

A heavy silence settles between you for a moment. Then he asks, quieter:  

“You got family back there?”

“Nah. I’d be just as alone there as I am here.” You shrug, keeping your eyes on the road. “Maybe I should adopt a pet too. Something low-energy.”

Dude stays quiet while you pull into the pizza place drive-thru. His gaze sweeps the parking lot like he’s casing it for a robbery, head on a swivel, shoulders tense, never fully relaxed. Even sitting in a passenger seat with the windows down, he looks ready to bolt or fight at any second.

You order two large pizzas, pay, and hand him the boxes once they arrive. He balances them on his lap without complaint.

“A parked trailer downtown,” he finally says, voice gruff as you pull back onto the street. “Place ain’t much. But it’s got a couch and running water. Which is more than some can say in this shithole of a city.”

He glances at you sidelong, smirk flickering back for a second.  

“You don’t seem like the apartment or trailer type. I would’ve pegged you as a mansion-in-the-suburbs kinda girl.”

“Terrible guess,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. “I live in a cramped apartment. Buying a house around here? Too risky. One bad week and you’re out on the street with nothing.”

Dude shakes his head like the very idea offends him.  

“Yeah, that tracks.” His eyes roam over the interior of your car, the leather seats, the modern GPS screen, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging despite everything. “You really are a walking paradox, huh?”

He pauses, as if something just occurred to him, and a slow smirk curves his lips.  

“You a neat freak, though? Like one of those chicks who screams if your shoes are out of place?”

“Sure,” you shoot back without missing a beat. “And you’re the type to smoke crack just to cover the taste of cheap liquor in your mouth.”

He barks a genuine laugh.

The pizzas are still warm when you pull up to the trailer park downtown. The place is dim, chain-link fence sagging, a few flickering streetlights and the distant hum of a generator. Dude gets out first, boots crunching on gravel, and lets out a sharp whistle.

“Champ!”

He disappears inside the trailer for a moment, door creaking open and shut. You open your car door to let in some cool night air, the smell of asphalt and distant rain mixing with the lingering scent of pizza and smoke.

A brown-and-white pitbull terrier with a bright red collar trots out from the shadows, tail wagging. He’s stocky, ears up, eyes bright and curious. He heads straight for you, sniffing your legs and hands with focused interest, probably catching Dude’s scent all over you. Then he rears up a little, planting big paws on your thighs and giving you a few enthusiastic, slobbery kisses on your hands and knees before dropping back down.

Dude steps out of the trailer carrying a metal bowl, smirking as Champ immediately abandons you to circle him.

“See? Told ya he’s smart. Already knows who’s got the food.”

°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°☆°°°

A human's touch.

"Why do you always do that."

"Do what exactly, dear?"

Doppelgänger of your ginger boyfriend stares at you in silent confusion as he stops toying with his goatee. He has been rambling and gossiping about Dude for twenty minutes now..

"Whenever time you yapp–"

"Hey–"

"Whenever you yapp you always twist and stroke your beard. I would call it copy-catting but uh, not even Dude does it." You cut off the now-pouting alter as he pauses abruptly. As if now he realized that his hand were on his chin. Well, you have realized it. Anytime this guy yapps and rants he rubs his chin, scratches his chest, rubs his neck aaaaaand soooooo ooooon. He scoffs. Adjusting his trenchcoat like offended mistress from victorian era.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I do NOT."

"Yes you DO-"

"Iwillstrokesomethingelsesoonifyouwillnotshutup-"

"WOAH WOAH HEY?!"

You gag in disgust before chucking nearby pillow from your side on sofa, to other end of it. It barely dodges him. Ruining his hair more. He stops glaring and yelps patheticially. Yeah he zones out sometimes in fights...

"I would rather having Dude doing it, thank you very much." Seeing how you are sticking your tongue out at him, he does the same. Althought monotone voice only makes it look more childish. "Yeah whatever. Go to your daddy dearest. Blow him or something, no?" He scoffs, still busy with styling his hair back. "Since Dude is such a soft hearted pimp. Disgusting dog. A freak."

"A freak, alright." He groans loudly at your dreamy chuckle and sigh. Covering his ears with disgust as if hearing your misunderstanding alone made him sick.

"Ew. Ew. Ew. This is more disgusting than Dude's own dic-"

"It is awsome!"

"It is hazordous." He deadpans at your offence before slumps deeper into the sofa. Groping for any nearby pillow as he sighs.

And then he started it again. Staring into ceiling as he twirled and scratched at his beard. But pausing a moment when realization hit. Causing him to growl and drop his arms back down. Chuckling, you shuffle closer. Hiding a mocking laugh. "Awww is someone touch starveeeeed?~"

"Kill yourself."

Welp. There goes the comedy. He sneers before tries to kick at your thigh or something similar to keep you away. You giggle and scoot closer. "I will actually wear you guts like birthday-hats if you even think about touching me."

He glares at you sternly. You stare back. Unmoving. Silent. For a moment..it is a staring contest. Then you stare behind him at something. Surprised. He raises a brow and follows your sight. Got him. Using the distraction he fell for, you lunge at him and hug him tightly. Enjoying how he struggles like a fish out of water. "Get off me. Get off me. Get the fuck off of me-"

"-Boop!"

You giggle as he goes cross-eyed. Following your finger to where you booped him on the nose. Two red dots staring at your finger. Then he bites it. You wince and draw your hand back only for him to grab your arm and munch on it like it is a fine steak. "ODDZ!! YOU EDGELORD, THAT STINGS!!"

"Die, bug."

"I will give you Dude's weapons if you will!! Ow ow OW!?" Satisfied with the deal, he lets go off you suddenly. Making you slump into his chest with a loud thump.

"I hope you have gotten rabies shot."

"Your blood is just like you. Plain. Tasteless. Boring. All i tasted was cheap energy drinks. Do you even drink water?" He rolls eyes at your middle finger before drops his head back down. Using oppurnity, you press your ear into his chest. Listening carefully. You are greeted by absolute silence. No weird chrurring sounds, no guts wrenching and most important of all: Not a single heartbeat. After few seconds you do hear something. But all your hope crushes when you realize it is him snickering just. "Having fun digging around, sweetie?"

"Where the actuall hell is your insides?"

"They are right here! Allow me to show you." You immidietly grab and cage his hand that was going for his own krotchy gown's bottom. Glaring at him. "Tch..fine you ungratefull brat." "But where IS your heartbeat?" He pauses a moment before grabs your nape and forces you to rest your chin on his chest, stare at him. Then he sweetly, almost softly, smiles. "I am heartless, dear. Aren't I?" Smirking at your groan and his bad punchline, you tug at his goatee for punishment.

"Never open that mouth ever." 'Bet you like it more like this, don't you? ' you groaned as his voice echoed in your mind. Bastard. You always forget he can also speak to you telephaticially. "Certified yapper." Is what made him chuckle again. "Only to torment my most hatefull rival." He snarks as he nuzzles his chin to your hand. One where remained on his face. You pause for a moment. He doesn't realizes that he is doing so huh? Someone will have a field day and it will be NOT him..hehe.

He keeps his eyes closed as your hand starts to caress his chin. Lightly scratching at the stubble. It looks like it would crunch like bushes but it is rather...soft. He sighs softly, tilting his head up gently. Giving you more acsess. Almost purring. Slowly, just to test waters and mess with him. You reach to do the same to his jaw. Then cheek. And when you finally reach to the area behind his ear, he finally sighs like lazy cat and-wait, his ego, he forgot that exsisted.

He snaps his eyes open before glares at you with gritted theeth: "what are you on to?" But he did not push your hand away. Instead glared at it and back at your face like watching a tennis match. "You look like you never have got afffection."

"I can tell the same for you." He bites back but the way words came out, it sounded more like petulant child. Pouting at your laugh, he grumbles. "I do not need extra dopamine and chemical cliche to feel better. I am a mastermind. An anomaly that knows you better than you know yourself. I thrive on souls of the innocent and guilt mixed with violence—"

"Wrap it up."

He stares at your deadpan cut off in stunned state before you both turn your head to side. Watching Dude on recliner hugging his Krotchy doll closer before going back to sleep. Snoring and mumbling something before turns around and having another dream without Other Dude ruining it. You try to stand up and adjust his blanket before two snake like arms cage you. You glare at Other and try to tug yourself away. Only to be pulled fully down on him again. Your protests and yelps fall into deaf ears as he forcefully snuggles into you. You get sandwiched between backrest and the deadweight that is crushing you to it. You sigh before slowly, reluctantly, reach to caress his hair. In response red lights, his eyes, dim until the glasses look normal. You close your eyes and accept your fate.

Before snapping them open and staring down at the parasite.

[ gn reader; cw for stockholm situation and contains nsfw]

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

☣︎ Gonna be honest, if you manage to win him over you probably aren't leaving his house again. Ever.

☣︎ He's way too paranoid about you getting 'infected' too, and what better way to protect you than to keep you safe at home. It's sound logic, really. He can't trust that you're fully immune like he is, so he can't risk you going out where all the people are.

☣︎ The best you're ever gonna get is walking around the woods with him while wearing a gas mask.

☣︎ That being said, I think he would try to spoil you to the best of his abilities, but by no means is he gonna be good at it.

☣︎ He'd stockpile your favorite foods along with the rest of his supplies; you'll have to berate him to get you anything other than food, though.

☣︎ This man is also the worst cook in existence and he knows it. If you're able to cook he'd probably worship the ground that you walk on(not that he doesn't already, but you get the point)

☣︎ Sometimes comes home with blood on him. You know better than to question it at this point.

☣︎ Is either utterly repulsed by physical touch or is the most clingy being in existence with 0 in between.

☣︎ When he decides to be clingy, be prepared to have all of his delusions muttered in your ear. He'll ramble on and on about how he'll cleanse the world of the 'plague' and you'll just be forced to listen to him.

☣︎ He also smells bad and is greasy and you have to force him to shower so your eyes don't sting whenever he forces you into cuddling.

☣︎ That being said, by no means is he bad at cuddling. He's kind of stiff and bony, sure, but he is very good at laying down tangled up with you and talking your ear off. If you're lucky he'll even kiss you (on the cheek. Or the neck, specifically that spot below your ear. Not the lips. Never the lips.)

☣︎ Would 100% get you your own journal and read it when he thinks you aren't looking or paying attention to see you say nice things about him. Let him, he needs the ego boost.

☣︎ He's very weird about petnames. It jarrs him being referred to anything other than 'Dude' and even than it jarrs him being called a name at all. He applies the same logic to you, however when he refers to you he exclusively calls you 'sweetheart' or something to that effect. To him you don't have an identity beyond being his.

[nsfw below the cut]

Part X

How to show pleasure

dilated pupils

mouth half opened

increased heart rate

increased breath rate

increased blood flow

heightened sensitivity

body parts turning warm and flushed

body parts becoming engorged or wet

tension in the entire body

trembling

involuntary contractions

hard to speak, but incapable to be quiet

How to show tenderness

sincere, warm, and open smile

slow and soft movements

leaning in towards what they feel tender about

listening carefully, head held towards them

gentle tone of voice

softening of facial expressions

relaxed eyebrows

soft and relaxed eyes

a hint of a tear appearing

relaxed mouth with a little smile

gently touching or stroking who or what they feel tender about

calm breathing, not too shallow, not too deep

How to show guilt

avoiding eye contact or looking down

tightness in the shoulders, neck, and jaw

being hunched over, slumped shoulders, making themself small

turning their body away from who they feel guilty towards

sweaty palms

trembling hands

heart racing

fidgeting with their entire body

crossing and uncrossing one’s legs

shifting from one foot to the other

pacing around

knot in the stomache, not being able to eat or eating too much to compensate

a feeling of heaviness in their body

How to show curiosity

open, dilated eyes

holding eye contact

raised eyebrows

tilting of the head

leaning towards what they find curious

mouth slightly open

uncrossed arms

actively listening

holding still, so they don't miss anything

More: How to write emotions Masterpost

Dom reader x Sub male cow-hybrid character

Warnings: reader has a cock (otherwise no gender specified), (kinda) mean reader, top reader fucking bottom character, milking, breeding, orgasm denial, nipple play, sex toys, dacryphilia

One of your cows isn’t producing the minimum amount of milk required of him anymore… there seems to be some kind of problem?

Word count: ~2k

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updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!

PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!