just a thought but eddie is def a chronic biter on many occasions you’d suddenly get chomped on the arm bc eddie’s just wanting ur attention or he’ll get cuteness aggression and its an unbeatable urge
Yes, yes, he's a chronic biter and has cuteness aggression—I agree. However...my brain is only thinking about sexy times rn....
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, biting, PiV unprotected sex, cream pie, one throw-away line with catholic imagery
Eddie's so drunk on the feel of your wet heat choking his cock, his thrusts can no longer qualify as full movements. He’s not drawing out any further than a few centimeters—only enough to press his hips into the backs of your thighs with force.
It’s rabid and uncoordinated. Rutting. That’s what it is. He’s rutting into you like a needy little thing, running on pure desperation and an intoxicating urge to be close—closer than your body currently allows. But he'll keep trying. Keep rutting. Keep his weight bearing down onto you until you take him exactly how he wants.
The slide is easy, made easier by every rhythmic pulse of your cunt. He's slipping. Drowning. His mind is missing and all he can hear is you. Your moans. The punch of breath escaping your parted lips.
His skin hums, warms under your touch, and he feels like he's burning up. Like you're setting him ablaze with every drag of your nails down his back. Pretty ruby streaks that he'll look for in every mirror.
Sweat beads at his hairline and he can't bring himself to leave the crook of your neck, no matter how suffocating his own panting breaths are. And his eyelids droop low as you stretch, digging your head into the pillow.
Something takes over him then. Something raw and undomesticated. His tongue is gliding along your neck before he can even think about it. And his teeth sink into the delicate skin before he even gets the chance to savor the taste of salt.
You gasp, arching into him, but he doesn't let go. And there's something wrong with him. He's sure of it. Because your pained cry only makes him bite down harder.
But then you pull him closer, threading your fingers into his hair until he can't back away. And he realizes you're just the same as him.
Whatever's wrong with him—whatever rotted, selfish need that tightens the coil in his stomach—it's in you, too.
It's in the way you press his head down, the way your walls practically trap him in a vice grip. It's in the way your moans grow louder, more strained. It's in the way he can feel you tip over the edge.
And it's that rot in you that speaks to the rot in him. Whispers and pleas. A million little pulsing cries, drawing out his basest desires. Not just the need to be close or the need to be inside you, but rather the need to stay. To burrow. To mark.
And he's never been strong. Never been known for his willpower. So he yields to the rot. He lets his body get pulled under, lets the tremors overtake him as the coil finally snaps.
His blunt nails leave faint half-moon shapes in your shoulders as he secures his grip, hips pistoning into you. Fast. Too fast for a single breath to catch.
Drool slides down your neck, dripping onto the sweaty sheets below; his teeth live in the indents in your skin now. He uses the last of his strength to burrow as deep as he can. As deep as you'll take him.
And then his cock twitches, flexing almost desperately as he paints your walls in his seed. Marking you.
He feels it. Every spurt, every responding pulse. You crave him just as he craves you. And you'll let him stay, too. Because he's not leaving this warmth. Not now that he's had it.
Would Adam ever choose to leave the garden?
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Extra extra: He also likes biting the fat of your thighs. It calls to him every time he's down there. He's just a man. He's not strong enough to deny the siren call of your supple flesh.
A/N: It's almost 3 a.m. as I'm writing this (it'll be scheduled to post at a normal time), so sorry if there's any mistakes or weird wording. I'm sleepy and horny. And when I get particularly horny, I get weirdly preachy lmfao.
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Y'all want to know what I love about Tumblr? I lileave for years and pop in for a spin and everything is still the same. It's like coming back home after a long trip This may be a hell site but it's a consistent hell site.
when you find a friends oc hot thats literally it for you. they practically own your soul. youve entered a fail state in which they can put on a sockpuppet and do a silly voice and make you swoon like youve locked eyes with a gorgeous fortysomething dyke at the bar
A year after leaving your old life behind, you finally get your happy ending.
Content warning: If you've read the rest of the story there's really nothing I can actually think of to put here that would surprise you. Sex happens :3c
“You torture me,” he sighed, tracing two fingers along the rim of his wine glass. “Why must you be such a tease?”
You smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I really do have to work, Guido.”
“I'll only ever turn thirty once.” He was grinning. A dimple in his left cheek threatened to turn your heart his way. “How can I celebrate without my little kitten?”
Heat flushed through your cheeks. “I warned you about calling me that-”
“But it always works on you,” he said knowingly, watching your embarrassment through devastatingly long lashes. “Please, come with me.”
It was hard to refuse Guido anything; he was so annoyingly handsome and charming and persistent. When you'd first arrived in Italy, you were lost in a wave of anger and grief, faced for the first time with navigating life for the sake of your own pleasure. No rulebook to follow, no ladder to climb. It was terrifying. You'd spent two months in Rome working as a cleaner while you picked up the basics of the language, before you'd found Guido's address tucked away on a scrap of paper in your old recipe book. Of course, he'd only given it to you so that you'd write. Instead, you showed up on his doorstep.
“I have an assignment due,” you argued. “And I'm working in the morning.”
“Excuses, excuses. We shall all be having a fine time in the Alps, skiing and laughing and drinking champagne while you slave away in the archives.” His pretty face scrunched up in disapproval. “Everyone wants you at the party, bella.”
“I know.”
Guido's friends had been unceasingly welcoming and supportive. Through him, you'd found a circle of like-minded comrades, who valued art and history and most importantly, human kindness. People you could laugh with and be yourself around. A network with its own little dramas and secrets and jokes – and you were a part of it all, and you were yourself in it all.
You didn't know why, at first, you'd introduced yourself to this new group as Kitty. It wasn't your legal name, obviously. But it felt like a more authentic introduction. In this new place, surrounded by new people, who knew nothing of who you were before, or how you'd been raised to behave, or the pieces of yourself you'd chiselled away to fit acceptably into your old life... In this new place, you could be your true self.
Guido sipped his wine in a dainty, thoughtful way. “I suppose I am worried for you.”
“Oh?”
“Tomorrow will be one year since you left America, no?”
Sweet and handsome and attentive to a fault. You tried to look disinterested. “Will it? I wasn't keeping track.”
“I worry to think of you all alone for the weekend.” He reached across the small, pink table where you sat together on your apartment's sunny veranda, and took your hand. “Come and be with friends.”
You smiled, and squeezed his hand back. “You know, Camille is very excited to spend this weekend with you.”
His eyes lit up with new eagerness. “Did she say something about me?”
“My lips are sealed. But...” You raised an innocent eyebrow, “if you ever mean to ask her out, this would be the ski trip to do it.”
Guido flushed with equal parts embarrassment and glee. When you'd first arrived in Florence, there had been some romantic stirrings between you and him. But you could not earnestly reciprocate his interest, and he was happy to just be friends. Back then, you thought you simply weren't ready; that your heart was too raw, that you could not yet move on. You'd hoped that in time, when the heartbreak had healed, you and Guido may perhaps make something of a couple. It was an empty hope, really. A thing you only thought you wanted, because the loneliness of leaving everything behind was so sudden and heavy. Now that enough time had passed, you knew the truth for what it was: you could love Guido, but you could never desire him. He was just too sweet for you.
“And,” you diverted cheekily, “I do believe you'll find a specially made birthday cake waiting for you when you get back to your apartment.”
“You spoil me!” He stood, and planted a kiss on the top of your head. “I really will miss you this weekend, Kitty.”
Working in the Uffizi archives was far from glamorous, but it was endlessly interesting. Guido had helped you enroll in a university course, through which you'd gained your weekend job. You had to work twice as hard as the other students, for whom the Italian and Latin documents were little obstacle. But you were fiercely determined to excel, and the lecturers were impressed by your passion. It was especially unusual for a foreigner – and more especially a foreign woman – to be granted such an illustrious placement. Sometimes you could scarcely believe your good luck.
“I look forward to hearing all the gossip on Monday.”
--‐------------------------------
Reading the old letters of painters or their relatives or their patrons, establishing the timelines and chain of custody of the different art pieces, unearthing the human element behind each perfect brushstroke... It was better than you could have dreamed.
You waved down the senior archivist as he passed by your modest desk. “Signore Rossi, I am just finished transcribing the Bianchi letters. What should I move onto now?”
Mr Rossi balked. “Already?” He made a little performance of blessing himself. “You work like a demon. Do you know that?”
You shrugged innocently.
“Let me see.” He rifled through the papers on your desk with quick expertise. Rossi was a thin and dignified man, who had been particularly skeptical about an American meddling in his archive. “You are ahead of your quota.”
“I can take on additional work, if there is any.”
He tutted. “You will put the boys out of a job.”
You pursed your lips. The other students in the archive were all male, and a little less intense about their commitment than yourself.
“Have you any assignments for your classes to finish?”
You shrugged again, bashful. It had been one of the excuses you'd given Guido, but... “I completed them last night.”
Mr Rossi regarded you with a somewhat parental disapproval. “You work too hard,” he scolded. “I have nothing more for you until next week.”
“But-”
“The sun in shining. Listen to the bees at the window. They are telling you this is a fine day for leisure.” He shooed you out of your chair. “Go and enjoy it! Meet your friends!”
“But-”
“I insist. You are young and clever and pretty, so you must get out of my sight at once.” He waved you off, only half joking. “The letters will be here when you return. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
You were shuffled out of the archive room, protesting impotently all the way, until the door was shut decisively behind you and you were left in the back corridors of the museum.
Sighing, you wandered glumly into the gallery proper. You could not tell Mr Rossi that there was a reason you were over-working this weekend. That you needed every second of your day to be pre-occupied. That the last thing you could bear was an idle mind.
You were walking through the Raphaello room when you faltered to a stop.
That smell. Smoke, and Earth. You stood frozen in place for a moment, then turned covertly to the person you had just passed.
The man had his back to you. He was tall, and muscular, in a casual white shirt. His hair was ashy blond and tussled. He stood in front of the huge, wooden canvas you always avoided when you arrived into work each weekend. It was Raphael's last painting. The Transfiguration.
You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Still, you couldn't move from the spot. You told yourself it was just sentimentality. Like Guido said, it was a year ago today you left everything behind. You told yourself it was just a ghost – a familiar scent that tricked your mind into seeing a person who wasn't really there.
The man admiring the painting was just a stranger. A local, or a tourist, or a scholar.
But you couldn't resist. You stepped closer. Found yourself standing at his side. Staring at the painting, trying to see what he saw.
He glanced sideways at you when you joined him. That could be nothing, you supposed. The natural response to a stranger standing next to you.
To Hell with it. “Excuse me.”
The man turned his head then, looking at you properly. His expression was patient, if surprised. His face was peppered with freckles. His eyes were hazel green.
You swallowed your pride. “Have we... Do we know each other?”
His brow furrowed. He stared at you, wordless, and you realised all at once that you were wrong. It wasn't him. This poor man was a simple tourist – perhaps he didn't even speak English – and you were encroaching on his quiet visit to an art gallery.
You ducked your head in apology, and began to step away. “Scusi-”
“That's incredible,” the man said in a deep, gravelly voice. “I've never been clocked by a human before.”
You stopped, startled.
He cocked his head, a playful smirk on his face. “What gave me away? I thought this disguise was airtight.”
It's not him. You weren't sure how exactly you knew. What miniscule details didn't match, what mannerisms were wrong. But it wasn't him. You frowned. “...Heely?”
His face burst into a toothy smile. “Bring it in, you little pest!” He engulfed you in a forceful, bone cracking hug, lifting you clean off the ground. You squeaked in objection. Other people were staring.
“Down- put me down!”
He obligingly dropped you. You just about caught yourself on his shirt. God, you hadn't missed being tossed about by demons.
“You look well!” His voice boomed, drawing yet more attention from the gallery patrons. “For a human-”
“What are you doing here?” You hissed. “How did you find me?”
“Puppy wanted to come!” He looked over your head suddenly, waving with theatricality. “Look! I found her first!”
You turned, seeing a handsome young man jogging towards you, and softened. “Puppy!”
You met each other in the centre of the room, rushing into a grateful hug. Puppy was warm, and he greeted you with gentle enthusiasm. And it was so good to put your arms around him. To be able to physically touch him, to have that assurance. To feel all the concern and regret and confusion that had hovered over his fate for a year melting away.
When you pulled back, you saw his eyes – bright, and kind, but... Golden. Molten gold, that caught the light in slivers of moving colour. Inhuman eyes. You touched his cheek in sympathy.
“I've gotten used to them,” he assured. “I know they look super freaky. I don't mind if you stare.”
“I'm sorry,” you whispered. “Puppy, I'm so sorry that I left you there that day-”
“Woah, woah, woah!” He objected in a carefree laugh. “I think we might remember that day a little differently – Heely and I only got away thanks to you.”
“The details are a still a bit fuzzy,” Heely grumbled over your shoulder. “But yeah. Obviously. Thanks and shit.”
“You look so good,” Puppy gushed. “I love what you've done with your hair – and wow, Florence is amazing! This is where you've been the whole time? Your skin is glowing! And that dress-”
You laughed, “It's so wonderful to see you – what are you guys doing here?”
“We're shopping,” Heely supplied. “For a nice painting to put above our mantel. We just moved into a new place.”
“We're experimenting,” Puppy agreed. “It's so hard to find a decent year to settle down in. We're trying to live on an ocean colony in 2042-”
“A what?”
“But it's full of the most insufferable humans,” Heely lamented. “Anyway, we're redecorating our pod, and Puppy's in a classical mood-”
“You know these works aren't for sale?” You asked.
The men gave you a lighthearted, sympathetic look.
You felt the colour drain from your cheeks. “Please don't steal anything from my workplace.”
“Of course not!” Puppy assured. “We'll steal it from the future, when you don't work here anymore.”
“But enough about us. How the Hell are you?” Heely gave you a painful smack on the back, that you supposed he meant in a brotherly way. “You really landed on your feet here on Earth, huh?”
“Well I...” You didn't know why, but the way he said it gave you pause. “I've been doing okay.”
“Let's go for coffee!” Puppy suggested suddenly. “We have so much catching up to do!”
It was odd, seeing them again. Simultaneously foreign and familiar. While you walked to your favourite cafe, you and Puppy chatted about meaningless, every day things. It felt so natural that you might've fooled yourself into believing you'd talked every day for the past year. At the same time, there was a tense undercurrent between you and Heely. An unspoken and obvious elephant in the room. You found the most private seat available at the cafe; a booth, away from other occupied tables, and ordered yourselves coffee.
“... And after that, I started working part time in the archives,” you concluded your account of the last year. “I know it's not as exciting as an ocean colony, whatever that is-”
“Things couldn't have worked out better,” Heely agreed. Again, his words were harmless, but you couldn't help but sense an edge to them.
“So... What have I missed on your end?” You asked.
The men exchanged a quick look. Heely opened his mouth to answer, but Puppy jumped in first. “We stayed with Heely's moms for a few months, and they were super nice, but intense. It was great to get a place of our own. I've taken up baking!” He announced it brightly. “You inspired me, actually. Your food was always so much better than what I manifested. Yesterday I made Devil's Food cake!”
“Nothing devilish about it,” Heely teased. “No demon would ever eat that much sugar.”
“What about you?” You asked Heely. “How are things going?”
He watched you thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Work's busy, but you know me. I take it easy. Unlike some.”
There was a little pause. Awkward, and charged. You could see the gears turning in Puppy's head as he searched for the next neutral, trivial topic to dive into. To keep the conversation firmly rooted in pleasantries.
You jumped in before him. “What brought you guys here?”
They hesitated. Puppy said, “Well, we wanted to look at the paintings-”
“In 1954?” You probed. “It's not a coincidence that you chose my year, right?”
Puppy deflated, sheepish. “Actually, Kitty... I've been looking for you for a long time.”
“He's been a pain in my ass about it,” Heely added.
“For a few months after what happened... Well, I wasn't in a good headspace,” Puppy explained. That was perfectly understandable, you thought. The man's eyes had melted. “But when I started feeling better, I wanted to find you again. We didn't get a lot of detail into what happened – just that you went back to Earth...”
“We wanted to say thanks,” Heely clarified. “And check that you were doing okay.”
“And obviously, just to spend time with you again, too. Because we like you.”
You smiled. “I'm glad you guys came, then. I missed you both.”
“We'd have been here sooner, but Sid didn't make it easy,” Heely said. “He wouldn't tell us anything.”
Hearing his name for the first time, so casually, so indifferently... It squeezed your stomach into a nervous knot. You stirred your coffee, trying to occupy your hands.
“All we knew is you went back to your own time,” Puppy said. “We looked for you in America – I remembered the name of the town you mentioned, so we started there and moved outward. It was real detective work – we had to piece things together from just the tiny details you and I talked about. It was actually kind of fun,” he admitted, laughing. “Like a treasure hunt.”
“My money was on Florida,” Heely muttered. “That's where all the batshit-bananas headcase humans end up, so I figured it was perfect for you. Puppy thought you'd go to Europe.”
You smiled. “I'm predictable, I suppose.”
“Not really,” Puppy said. “Actually, it never occurred to me that you'd return to Florence, until Sid let slip about the art gallery.”
Your smile faltered. You stopped stirring. “... What about the gallery?”
“That you were working in one,” Puppy supplied, oblivious to the wave of unease curling through you. “Then I put two and two together. It's all so obvious in retrospect.”
Your throat was dry, but you couldn't bring yourself to take a drink. You stared at the white foam on your cappuccino in disassociative dread, feeling nothing but cold.
“Obsidian knows where I work?”
Heely let out a warning grumble at the use of the name. Puppy took too long to answer, and when he did, he sounded unsteady.
“You... You didn't know that?”
“No, I didn't.”
Another uncomfortable pause. Now Puppy spoke cautiously. “He, um... He only told us that you were doing really well, and that we shouldn't bother you. That we shouldn't interfere with your life, now that you're happy.”
What a fucking hypocrite.
Anger was good. A good, sturdy anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions flooding over you. You'd assumed that he was as oblivious to your life now as you were to his. That when you'd left him, you'd left him. That he never reached out to you because he couldn't. Now though, that absence was recontextualised. He knew where you were. He knew how you were doing. And he chose not to contact you. He had the audacity-
“We didn't mean to upset you,” Puppy hurried. “I only- I just really wanted to see you again, Kitty. Maybe he was right, I should have left you alone.”
“No,” you answered quickly. Making a concerted effort, you took a deep breath and exhaled your annoyance away. “I'm really glad you're here, Puppy. I don't want to lose touch with you again. Just- while we're on the topic, I mean... How is he doing?”
“Oh, he's-” Puppy stopped suddenly, glancing to Heely as if for guidance. “You know. We don't see much of him, if I'm honest. He works, like, every second of the day.”
You frowned. “He still works?”
“What else would he do?” Heely scoffed.
“He didn't retire?”
Heely rolled his eyes. “He's always threatening to retire, but he never actually does it. You've met him, he lives for work.”
Your anger began to mellow into something dangerously akin to sympathy. You pointedly tried to counter-act that. “What did you mean by me landing on my feet?”
Puppy laughed nervously. “He only meant that-”
“Things are going so well for you,” Heely said.
You watched him, suspicious. “And that's noteworthy?”
“No!” Puppy rushed. “You see, Heely and I have been worried about you-”
“I haven't been worried,” Heely corrected.
“We've been worried about you, since you left so abruptly and we didn't really know why- so it's just a big relief that you're so happy now-”
“All the dominos have lined up really nicely for you, that's all,” Heely opened his arms, as though the point was self explanatory. “Here you are in a nice city, with a nice job, nice friends – I bet you have a nice apartment too, right?”
Your eyes narrowed. “Yes,” you agreed. It was a one bedroom place all to yourself. In the city center. With a beautiful view...
“And that's affordable on a part-time woman's salary in 1954?”
“I don't know what you...” You frowned at him. True, your apartment was cheap, for such an excellent location and high quality finish...
Heely cocked his head to the side. “Does the Uffizi hire many women, Kitty?”
No. You weren't the first, of course, but like most academic spaces, it was overwhelmingly male. “I got my placement because my lecturers like me.”
Heely held up his hands, as if in defense. “I'm just saying. A lot of lucky strokes are moving in your favour. Most humans don't have that kind of luck, without a little help.”
“Baby,” Puppy warned him quietly. “You don't know that.”
“'Course, that kind of help usually isn't free. We have a little policy about that. Y'know. Give nothing for free.”
“Just what are you implying?” You demanded.
“Nothing,” Puppy said, patting Heely's arm. “He just needs a smoke, is all. Why don't you go for a walk?” He gave his husband a little shove out of the cafe booth. “I'll meet you later.”
You watched Heely sulk out of the cafe, the mood now permanently damaged. When he was gone, you looked to Puppy for answers.
“He really is glad to see you,” he promised. “But you know what it's like. He's protective of his brother.”
“I don't see what that has to do with me.”
“Kitty,” Puppy winced, “Heely and I don't know anything about why you left. Sid never talks about it. The last time I talked to you, you said you'd stay with him even if your contract broke. The next thing I hear is you've gone back to Earth and you never want to see any of us again.”
“I never said that,” you objected.
“Sure, but you didn't exactly leave a forwarding address, either.”
“Did Heely tell you about the manifestation?” You challenged. “In my eyes?”
Puppy made an apologetic face. “Yeah. That maybe you were under some magical influence every time you looked at Sid. But he didn't know if it was even there or not. And I think you saw Sid pretty clearly-”
“None of it was real,” you told him. “Not my feelings for Alice, not my feelings for him. It was all a con. I know they didn't plan it together, but they both did exactly the same thing. They manipulated me into giving myself up so that they could both get whatever they wanted for their lives. Ultimately, I was just a service to them. I deserve better than that.”
He didn't say anything. You could tell from his expression that he hadn't known the full truth. You doubted Heely knew it either; but you wondered if he would even see Obsidian's actions as problematic, being a demon himself.
“You do deserve better,” Puppy agreed. “For what it's worth, I know you weren't just a service to Sid.”
“How?”
He sighed. “You don't mourn a service for a year. You just find another one.”
You swallowed the sting of regret that rose in your throat. “I'm really glad you found me,” you said softly. “But I... I have a lot of work to do today. You know, I'm... I'm just swamped.”
He smiled understandingly. “Yeah, of course. I'm sorry we landed on you with no warning.”
“No, that's okay. But maybe you could visit next weekend? I'll be more prepared – I'll make dinner.”
“That sounds great,” he grinned, his usual peppiness returning. “And the next week you could come to us! You can swim, right?”
“Is that required, in an ocean colony?”
Your meeting with Puppy and Heely buzzed in the front of your mind all evening. You paced your little apartment, trying uselessly to find something to occupy your thoughts and your hands. You started a cake, but barely finished the batter before you threw the lot in the trash. You tried to sew, but ended up hacking the fabric to ribbons in a fit of frustration. You cleaned, and you cleaned, and you cleaned-
He laughed, and finished up his coffee. “We can manifest the cutest bathing suits! I have a whole sketchbook of designs I've been dying to share with somebody.”
--‐------------------------------
But your apartment was just too damn spotless.
Huffing, you glared at the spacious pink room. Golden light streamed in through the south facing windows. Your colourful furniture filled the atmosphere with warmth and homeliness. The ceilings were high, the floors were original – and in excellent condition.
How do I afford this?
It was priced at a steal. And that made you angry. The white shuttered windows and the classical doors. The beautiful veranda that opened into a small private garden. The perfectly working appliances. The great water pressure in the shower. The fact that your landlord was an absentee old lady who never bothered you.
A lot of lucky strokes, indeed.
You thought about going out and buying a sledgehammer and tearing a wall down, just to have to deal with the consequences. Just to get evicted and prove Heely wrong. What did he know, anyway? Sometimes, humans got lucky. Not everything was a demon's trick. Obsidian had nothing to do with the success of your new life.
...Or does he?
The more you paced, the more the simmering anger inside boiled into a rage. How dare he stick his grubby demon fingers into the delicious life pie you'd made yourself? How much of it was you, and how much was him? How long had it been going on? How little had you accomplished on your own?
It was an objectively terrible idea to call your ex. It was always a terrible idea to call your ex. If any of your girlfriends were in your position, you would tell them the same. And he knew where you were, apparently. He could have reached out at any time with an apology, or a romantic gesture, or an increasingly desperate parade of begs and pleas to take him back.
The bastard.
You couldn't believe he had the damn cheek to leave you alone.
Except he may not be leaving me alone, you fumed, turning to pace another circle around the living room. He may be manipulating everything in my life, even now.
Alright. Fine. That was surely grounds to call your ex. That was a perfectly justified, rational, reasonable precursor to calling your ex. And the only reason you were having doubts about your own judgement is that it just happened to be the one year anniversary of leaving him.
You pushed your pink couch and armchair set to the wall. Dragged your cute coffee table with all its lace doilies to the spot below the window. And finally, rolled up the large, plush rug in the center of the room, revealing the chalk Pentagram beneath.
Okay. Sure. You had drawn a Pentagram there a few months ago – but you had never used it. It was a purely therapeutic exercise, you'd told yourself, copying the design from your recipe book to the most exacting detail. It was a catharsis – a way of purging the past from your system.
A way of testing your own resolve. And you had passed that test, over and over and over again, on every night you thought of him. Every time you felt lonely. Every time you arrived home to an empty apartment and a bed full of plushies and an overwhelming temptation to touch and be touched – you had faced temptation and refused to succumb. What an irritatingly strong resolve you had.
And this, tonight, was not a failure in willpower, you told yourself. This time, you had a real purpose. A real reason to do the one thing you had forbidden yourself to do.
Your hands were shaking when you took the knife from its tidy block in your spotless kitchen. Your stomach churned in violent anxiety. Your heart raced so fast, it was making you giddy. Maybe even a little delirious.
You dumped the entire contents of your salt shaker in an unceremonious circle. And, okay. Did you maybe have an oversupply of salt in your apartment? Yes! But not because you'd been planning to call your ex. It was simply a precaution, you'd told yourself. A cooking-related precaution. It was an entirely normal, not pathetic thing to do.
You were panting now, in equal parts anger and self-loathing. God, it was like breaking an addictive habit. How often had you been in that exact spot, standing in the Pentagram, with a knife poised against the palm of your hand? And every time, you always talked yourself down. You walked it back. You did not let yourself be the weak, mewling fool who couldn't live without her stupid, selfish man.
Your hands were still shaking. You stared at the knife, gleaming up at you like a little taunt. Your breaths slowed to small, shaky sighs. You let your head loll back, and your eyes squeeze closed to keep the tears at bay.
“I don't want to see him,” you lied to yourself, desperate to sound convincing. “I don't need to see him. I don't want to. I don't need to.”
It wasn't fair. The fake-it-til-you-believe-it method had worked just fine for Alice. At the start, of course there had been the temptation to re-connect. The loneliness and the longing to recapture all those happy years again. To have a future where there was a past. But your desire to see and speak to her had waned steadily with time. The more you talked yourself out of contacting her, the more contacting her felt like a joyless and unworthy pursuit to begin with. You'd lost interest. Perhaps even grown actively content with her absence.
But that had not happened with Obsidian. Alice, who you'd known and loved for far longer than him, faded into a dull and disinterested memory. But Obsidian was present, and raw, and fervent. An itch that you couldn't let yourself scratch. It never ceased in its agitation. You never stopped wanting to see him.
“But I don't need to,” you whispered to yourself, letting the knife drop to the floor. “I don't need to.”
You kicked up the salt, and put the knife away, and retreated with your proverbial tail between your legs. You couldn't even let yourself clean up the mess you'd made. You couldn't trust yourself to stay so close to the pentagram. You left the living room as it was and went straight to the bathroom. A hot, lengthy bath. That would help. That would lower your heartrate, and make you sleepy, and in the morning you would feel cold and clinical and distant again.
It did help, a little. In a way, it felt like scrubbing the momentary insanity out of your skin. No, obviously you were not going to call your ex. Obviously that would be a calamitous decision. You were permitted a brief lapse in critical thinking every now and then, provided it remained secret, in the privacy of your own home. You were allowed to miss him, provided he never found out about it. It didn't matter that his absence made you miserable, it only mattered that he could never know that.
Because if he knew, then it would feel like he was getting away with what he'd done. If he really knew that you loved him, even after all the bullshit he'd put your through, then he would win the game.
So you gritted your teeth, and stayed steadfast. Even if it meant you lost, too.
Maybe it was good that he'd kept tabs on you, you thought as you dried yourself for bed. Maybe he would see you happy and flourishing and independent, and surrounded by friends that weren't him, and he would simply have to conclude that your life was perfect as it was. And maybe he would think you never even missed him at all.
Sadness panged in your chest. Maybe he hadn't missed you, either. Puppy said he mourned me. But Puppy was your friend. He wouldn't want to tell you a heartbreaking truth.
You opened the bottom drawer of your dresser, where you kept the clothes that you never really wore. Obsidian's shirts were folded neatly into the corner. You didn't have the heart to throw them away when you found them in your duffel bag. Permitting yourself the indulgence of self pity, you put one of them on, as a nightdress. That would scratch the itch for tonight, you hoped.
You crawled into bed, pulled the duvet over your head, and tried to sleep.
You were tired, but it didn't work. You lay there, silent in the perfect dark, counting the minutes into hours, and begging your body to just let you rest. Let it be tomorrow. Let the anniversary be over. Let yourself wake to a new day with new distractions.
The longer the night stretched into early morning, the quieter the city outside grew. The sounds of people returning late from clubs and bars fizzled into soft wind and the distant slosh of the Arno river. Your breath felt louder in the absence of other sounds. Your heartbeat. And something else.
A miniscule, almost imperceptible shuffle. The sound of clothes in quiet motion. You stayed very still, and held your breath. Perhaps you'd imagined it. Perhaps...
The bed dipped suddenly. A gargantuan weight pressing down, close to your feet. You stifled a gasp and feigned sleep.
“I really thought you'd call tonight.”
You released the breath you were holding. The duvet cover was still pulled over your head, and good, because you did not want to see him. Your voice was husky and tired, but you tried your best to sound annoyed. “You broke into my home?”
“Tell me to leave.”
Damn him. You should tell him to leave. This was a total violation of privacy, and respect, and boundaries. You should tell him to slither back to his ugly white world and never think about you again.
Frustrated and petty, you kicked at the weight near your feet.
There was a growl rumbling through the little laugh he exhaled. “You know how summoning works?”
“I didn't summon you.”
“Most humans think it's the pentagram that calls us. A bit like dialing a phone number. The symbols are really just different demon languages, saying some equivalent of I want you, come here now.”
“I didn't summon you.”
“But you know by now,” he very nearly sounded teasing, “demons are creatures of will, and desire. Summoning is just willing us to come to you. The pentagram is a tool, sure, and blood is an offering of energy – a bit like you paying the charges on a long distance call. But it's the will of the human that actually summons us.”
You clenched your teeth, irate by his implication. “I didn't.”
Very gently, over the covers, you felt the heat and weight of one huge hand lay gingerly over your knee. “I felt you call for me months ago. Probably the first time you drew that Pentagram.”
Your throat swelled closed. Tears suddenly stung your eyes. You wished your voice didn't sound so overwhelmed with disappointment when you whimpered, “then why didn't you come?”
His thumb rubbed circles over your knee. “You didn't go through with the summoning. You willed me here, but you didn't offer any blood. I thought you'd changed your mind.”
You sniffled and wiped your cheeks furiously, trying to quiet your sobs. “You've been spying on me,” you accused pitifully.
“... I've visited Earth a few times, yeah. After that first call, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
You kicked him again, and again. Stupid, stupid man. “You never came to apologise!”
He was quiet for a moment. The only sound in the room was your soft, blubbering breaths.
Then, “I'm so sorry, Kitten.”
“I don't forgive you!”
He laughed. It was a rasping, humourless sound. “I'm sorry all the same.”
You couldn't stomach that. Him sounding so sincere, so honest. You threw back the duvet covers and shot upright, glaring at him, determined to catch him in a lie. Determined to see the evidence of his insincerity.
Obsidian was in his true form, big and grey and pristinely dressed, but he didn't look devilish, or smug, or like the calculated, prowling fiend you knew him to be. He only looked tired. The lines in his face were deeper. His knotted brow was pulling upwards, in an expression of gentle concern. His broken horn caught the light of the street lamp outside your window in its jagged, broken facets. And his eyes glinted in warm tones of liquid amber.
You clung to your anger. You needed it, clawed at it. It was the only fuel you had, now. “Sorry isn't good enough!”
“I know.”
“You don't even respect me enough to leave me alone!”
“I've really tried.”
“You couldn't even let me earn something for myself!” You sobbed, a little hysterical.
His forehead creased even more. “What?”
“The college accepting me – my placement! This apartment! My friends – none of it is real, is it? You knew I couldn't achieve any of it on my own so you Manifested-”
“Kitten- stop- hold on!” Obsidian's expression had morphed from somber concern to outright alarm. His hand moved from your knee to your shoulder. “I don't know what you're talking about-”
“Just stop lying, please!” You begged. “Just tell me the truth for once!”
“I haven't Manifested anything for you,” he insisted, shifting to face you more directly. Both hands were on your shoulders, then on your neck, then cupping your face. His thumbs stroked the tears from your cheeks. “Look at me, I'm not lying. I haven't interfered, I promise.”
You hiccuped yourself a little calmer. “You... Haven't?”
“I haven't,” he vowed. “I bended to temptation a few times and looked in on you, I admit that. But I never altered anything in your life. I wouldn't do that to you again.”
You frowned. “But... Heely said everything was going a little too well-”
His eyes fizzled in annoyance. “When did you see Heely?”
“He... He and Puppy were here today...”
Obsidian clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Heely is a moron. I told him not to bother you. And he has no clue what he's talking about – if things are going well here, that's your manifestation, not mine.”
The words brought a surprising and immediate comfort. Your breath steadied. Your shoulders untensed. You leaned your cheek into the warm, engulfing palm of his hand.
Heely was a moron. And you weren't just lucky. You'd worked really hard for what you had. People liked you because you were charming, and responsible, and determined. And it was unfair to reduce that to magic or Manifestation.
“I'm glad things are going well for you,” Obsidian said quietly. “But I'm not surprised. I knew you'd stab your way to the top.”
You blubbered out a laugh. “Heely said you didn't retire.”
“Yeah, well. I like that work keeps me busy.”
That was something you had in common. “Why tonight?” You sniffled. “If you really felt me calling you all those times... Why only come tonight?”
“I thought you'd appreciate if I actually waited for an invitation,” he grumbled. “But unfortunately you're the most stubborn, masochistic woman alive-”
“This is supposed to be an apology, isn't it?”
His expression softened into a fond smile. “Your willpower outmatches mine. I couldn't stay away anymore.”
You watched his changing eyes. The little sparks of yellow dappling the orange. The silken shades of red around the edges. They were so warm, and welcoming, and you ached with how much you'd missed them.
But there had to be more than missing one another, now. More than trying to recapture a false past. What you wanted more than anything was a future. A little timidly, you asked, “how's everything else going for you? Besides work, I mean.”
“I'm not seeing anybody.” He purred, deliberately embarrassing you. “That is what you're asking, isn't it?”
“On the contrary,” you tried to turn your face away in a pout, in spite of his grip. “I couldn't care less.”
He laughed. “I've been alive a long, long time, Kitten. I've had plenty of lovers. And I knew it from our first conversation; there's no getting over you.”
Your face felt hot, and simultaneously, a chill seeped down your back. “And what if I'm over you?”
His hands gave your cheeks a gentle squeeze. “Then I'll leave, and never return unless you summon me properly.”
You turned back to stare at him, shocked that he would surrender so willingly. Obsidian's face was patient, and so uncommonly soft for all its hard features. “Truly?”
He nodded, amber eyes never leaving yours. “I've spent the last year wondering if you'd ever be willing to see me again. Or if the me you'd see is the same me you'd remember. I've had time to accept that the answer may be no.”
You studied his face hard, searching for something that misalligned with your memory. Searching for any hint that your eyes had deceived you before – that all your fondness for him was Manifested and untrue.
“You look like yourself to me,” you concluded.
His lips parted in a relieved smile. “You haven't told me to go, yet. Should I have hope?”
“... Things can't go back to how they were,” you whispered.
“I know that.”
“I can't just waste my days in your ugly house, waiting for you to get back from work.”
“You made a shitty stay-at-home girlfriend, anyway.” He smirked, ignoring your squawk of offense. “Every time I got home, there was some new pink monstrosity on my furniture-”
“I brought character into the space-”
“Maybe it's my turn to bring a little character into the space,” he teased, looking around your warm, cozy bedroom. “A splash of white on these walls would really cheer it up-”
“Don't you dare.”
He laughed, sliding his hands from your face to your hair, brushing it gently behind your ears. You smiled, too, though it was hesitant.
“It's more than just our living arrangements,” you said.
He nodded, and removed his hands from you altogether. “We can negotiate whatever terms you want.”
“Sid,” you winced, shaking your head. “I don't want terms.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don't want a contract.” You stared at him like you hoped it would be obvious. “I don't want us to be bound together by some enchanted paper. I want us to be together because we love... Because we love being close to each other.”
He looked suddenly out of his depths. “But... How will I know your expectations-”
“We can still negotiate ground rules,” you assured him, “and preferences, and boundaries. But I want us to do things together because we enjoy each other. Not because we're contractually obligated.”
He withdrew a little, looking dubious. You supposed Obsidian's entire existence had been mandated by contracts. He'd even made a formal deal out of helping his brother. Thoughtfully, he ran his large, pink tongue along the rim of his jagged teeth. “I just... I don't know how we'll keep track of how much we're getting and giving. How we'll keep it balanced, so that we're both satisfied.”
You chuffed a laugh, a little disbelieving. Pushing your duvet away entirely, you crawled towards where he sat on your bed. He looked comically oversized in the human space, and truly out of his comfort zone.
“Let me simplify the equation, then.” You put your hands on his chest. Broad, and rising in slow, steady breaths. The fabric of his shirt was so perfectly ironed. You'd really missed that. How exacting he was, how precise. Running your fingers along the grooves of his huge pectorals, you looked up to meet his eyes. “You give nothing for free, and you only take what's freely given. Right?”
He relaxed a little under your hands. His own brushed against your thighs, wandering up to your hips. His eyes flashed ruby red in intrigue. “That's right.”
“Then this is the deal on offer.” You balled your hands to fists in the fabric of his shirt, and climbed onto his lap. Obsidian looked a little startled by your boldness, eyes wide and lips parted. “You are going to give me your heart. And in return, you get to have mine.”
His breath caught, and he licked his lips. “Just to be clear, our hearts can stay in our chests-”
“Don't be an idiot.”
“No, right. But the fine print matters-”
“Sid,” you warned, “this is the only deal on the table. It means we look after each other. We don't do anything we know will really hurt the other. We don't lie and manipulate. We do our best to make the other happy. Do you understand those terms?”
He watched you for a moment, thoughtful. Sitting clumsily in his huge lap, your face barely level with his throat, you felt like a kitten confronting a tiger. He cocked his head to the side in consideration. “An equal exchange, then. My heart for yours?”
“I'll belong to you. But you'll belong to me, too.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “So neither of us will be the Master?”
“Obviously I'm the Master.”
“Ha.” His hands slipped under the nightshirt to settle on your hips. They were so warm against your skin, and pleasantly heavy. Possessive. Deliciously so. “And all the other details-?”
“We'll figure it out as we go.” You shifted in your place, so that your body was flat against his. So that you could feel the solid mass of him against your stomach and chest, and inhale that comforting scent of a cosy cottage hearth. “I just need to know that you'll be honest with me.”
His expression faltered, from one of intrigue and adoration, to one of regret. “I know I broke your trust,” he whispered. “I'll do whatever I have to, to regain it.”
You relaxed forward, melting your chest against his. “That's enough for me, for now.”
“I can't promise that I'll be perfect-”
“I wouldn't want you if you were.”
His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Where do I sign?”
You smiled back, and tapped your lips with your index finger.
Obsidian snatched your hand away and descended on you. His lips smothered yours in a hungry kiss, his tongue probing eagerly into your mouth. You opened yourself to him gladly, long overdue being filled with something warm and wet and wriggling.
His huge, squeezing arms cradled you so completely that the world beyond him may as well not exist. It was snug and comfortable in the little sanctuary of his lap. You wrapped yourself around his massive form as best you could, hands knotting in his hair and legs spreading wide to straddle his waist. He raised you off his thighs and held you tight and trapped against his torso, kissing you with fast and feverish intensity; making extra sure your new deal was binding.
You relished that he could lift you and squeeze you and keep you there against his chest, but you wished you could access the friction of his lap, too. You wished you could feel him get hard – you wanted his intimacy, and his desire, and his need. But it simply wasn't possible to have your lips on his and sit fully in his lap simultaneously. His body was too big to allow it.
Whining at the inconvenience, you squirmed until he withdrew from the kiss, panting.
“Lie back,” you demanded, breathless. “I want you to lie back on the bed.”
Obsidian looked a little surprised by your order. He bared those dangerous teeth in an insubordinate smile. “My my... The Kitten's in a hunting mood.”
You pushed against his chest, as if you had any real chance of moving him. “I won't tell you again.”
He snarled a laugh, and lay back. Your queen-size bed creaked loudly under the weight of only half his body, his legs still sitting over the edge. It was ridiculous to see him in your apartment, so large and out of place. It made you feel powerful, in a way. Now it was his turn to comply with your domain.
You inspected him beneath you with heartsick admiration. You'd missed the colours and smells of him. His size, his solid presence. The way he moved, the mean expressions on his face. His eyes. God, you'd missed those burning eyes. It felt like you'd been starved of sunlight all year round. Now, sitting on his hips, appreciating those fine parts of him you'd longed for, you had a newfound energy and optimism.
You tugged his shirt out from where it was neatly tucked into his trousers and unbuttoned it from the bottom upwards. Obsidian, for his part, placed his hands behind his head and admired you with the same intensity.
“You kept my shirt,” he noticed.
You flushed. You'd forgotten you were wearing it – a wordless confirmation that you'd never really wanted to let him go, even in all your anger. He grinned, having the same realisation. Even that felt like a concession of too much of your power. An admission that you'd always been his.
“Don't pout,” he purred. “I kept your stupid cat painting up.”
“...You did?”
“And the floral abomination on my couch, and the flower bowl in the bathroom. I kept the whole infestation.”
Perhaps you weren't so embarrassed about keeping his shirts, then.
You finished unbuttoning and opened the fabric wide, splaying your hands over the bare expanse of his chest. You'd never gotten to experience him like this. Below you. Behaving for you. Giving you free license to explore.
You careened forward and planted a kiss over his heart. A low, happy rumble vibrated out of his chest. Your lips pecked down his solar plexis, to his naval, and then to the trail of manicured black hair that descended to the band of his trousers. You unbuttoned those, too.
“Be gentle with me,” he mocked.
“That's my intention,” you promised innocently, tugging the trousers down his hips. “It's going to be your punishment.”
A flash of concern, still somewhat playful, twitched through his face. “... What do you mean?”
“Sid,” you bat your eyelashes with performative innocence. “We're going to make love, aren't we?”
The discomfort in his face was immediate. “I thought we were going to fuck, actually.”
You bit back a laugh, finally pulling his trousers and underwear low enough that his cock sprang free. It was already hard, and you'd quite forgotten the size and true shape of it. In all your self indulgent longing over the last year, this was the part you'd never stooped to pining over. You'd missed the sex, of course, but admitting that to yourself had been a bridge too far for your fragile dignity – and consequently, you'd underestimated the girth you'd once so enjoyed.
“I don't think I want to fuck you,” you teased, testingly trailing your fingertips over the strange rows of barbs that wrapped around his shaft. They twitched and expanded minutely at your touch. “And you certainly haven't earned the right to fuck me, yet.”
“Kitten-”
“No, I think I'm going to make love to you instead.” You smiled wickedly at him. “It's going to be sweet, and slow, and most importantly, romantic.”
Now Obsidian looked both panicked and aroused, in equal measure. “I thought you didn't like it when I played the gentleman.”
“You'll just have to be more convincing, this time.”
With your hands planted firmly on his stomach, you positioned yourself above his cock. You had to spread your legs wide to sit your knees on either side of his hip bones. You wanted to be in a strong position; not splayed helplessly under him, nor held in his control like a ragdoll. This time, you wanted to be in control of all your movements.
You lowered yourself just enough that you felt the sharp tip of him brush against your folds. Obsidian relaxed back, watching you with idle amusement, like he half expected you would abandon your little performance and ask him to take charge as usual.
You took his confidence as a challenge.
“Say something romantic,” you demanded.
His assuredness cracked a little at the request. “Uh... You're very pretty?”
You smiled with mocking agreement, and sank down a little more. The tip of his cock nudged snugly against your entrance, which twitched wetly in anticipation. “And?”
More of a hesitation this time. “And...”
You tutted, and rose off his cock entirely. “What a pity,” you pretended to scold him, repositioning slightly so that you could gently tease yourself against the length of his shaft. The barbs bumped slowly against your slit as you rocked delicately back and forth.
Obsidian hummed a note of pleasure. “Go a little harder-”
You feigned a gasp of offense, repositioning again. This time, you rose high enough that you could press against the sharpness of his tip. Angling yourself carefully, moving your hips from side to side, you found the divine exact position to press his tip into your clit. The miniscule pressure was exquisite. Tauntingly slow, just where you needed friction. A building titilation, no where near enough to rush yourself to ecstasy – and no where near enough to give Obsidian any relief, either.
A low growl shuddered through the air between you. You saw the edge of frustration in his eyes. He dislodged his hands from their cavalier position under his head, and reached to grab you by the hips again.
You slapped his knuckles, hard. “A gentleman asks, before he touches a lady,” you warned.
He scoffed, and you raised off his cock entirely once more.
With a huff of defeat, Obsidian retracted his hands. “Let me undress you,” he appealed, suppressing the growl rippling through his words.
You raised an eyebrow.
His tongue ran the length of his teeth, thoughtful. “Let me admire my girl,” he purred.
You smiled, and descended to that delicious friction again, rubbing yourself in slow circles using the tip of his cock. Using him as a toy. “You may.”
You liked having him so immobilised beneath you. While Obsidian unbuttoned your shirt – his shirt, technically – with precise, careful hands, you moved yourself back and forth, finding all the ways you could tease your little hole by using him. You slid yourself up and down the length of his shaft, relishing the texture of the barbs bumping between your folds. Then, pausing as you seated his tip just inside your opening, you used your hips to explore the feeling of that point from every angle. You deliberately clenched, puckering your hole around the point. Squeezing it. Obsidian tried to swallow a moan.
“Do you like that?” You cooed, clenching again. Giving him a little kiss, of sorts.
Obsidian finished with the shirt a little more hastily, pulling it down your shoulders to expose your bare breasts and stomach. For a moment, you felt the old stirrings of self consciousness rear its head – but the moment passed when Sid spread the tips of his fingers over your soft, round flesh with a reverance and delicacy you'd never witnessed in him before.
“Look at you,” he whispered. In the dim light of the dark room, with only the street lamp outside your window casting low orange light inside, you saw the flash of his grinning teeth. “You're a masterpiece.”
A greedy shiver ran through you. You saddled yourself firmly with the bulbous pointed tip of his cock now entirely inside you. It was a gentle, exquisite stretch – a perfect little plug, to keep your hole from clenching closed. To give you friction and simultaneously keep you open and wanting something bigger, thicker. Obsidian ran his hands up your torso, cupping your breasts in his massive hands. His thumbs massaged their way to your nipples, tweaking and teasing them in circles that matched the pace of your hips.
“Romance me,” you commanded.
In the darkness, Obsidian's eyes sparked yellow with mischief. “You're such a pretty little hole. So tight, squeezing me like that-”
You smacked his chest. “That's not romantic!”
Those dangerous teeth glinted at you in a grin. “But I felt you flutter just now, sweetheart. Didn't you like it?”
“How would you like me to stop altogether?”
He purred at the threat. “You tease me for as long as you like, Kitten. When you've tuckered yourself out, I'll take over.”
Damn him. Your body betrayed you – your muscles seized involuntarily at the filthy promise in his words, you squeezed yourself on the tip of his cock and let out a squeak of pleasure. Obsidian resumed thumbing your breasts with irritating patience.
Very well, then. If you couldn't torment him, you would simply indulge whole-heartedly in your own needs.
You rocked yourself back and forth at a steady, constant pace, inching yourself down on his cock with each gentle buck of your hips. You filled yourself with him slowly, and God, how you'd missed being full.
Taking your time let you work yourself up until you were good and wet – absolutely salivating. But still, you didn't let yourself fuck him. You rocked and lowered and stretched and rocked and lowered and – Mmf! The stretch was so good. You'd missed the unique structure of Obsidian's cock, the way it widened and widened and threatened to split you in two. When you finally slid low enough to feel the first set of undulating barbs, you whimpered at the sensation of them moving against your hole.
Pushing yourself down, they popped inside you and immediately a wave of pleasure swelled through your body. It was too soon, you'd been edging yourself into this state for so many minutes that it came upon you instantly and intensely – you tried to force yourself not to cum but at that moment, Obsidian's thumb left your breast and suddenly pressed hard on your clit.
You squealed in surprise and came in one clenching, gasping moment, legs spasming so abruptly that you almost lost control of yourself and careened forward onto his chest.
Obsidian laughed lowly, admiring your involuntary orgasm from below.
You refused to give him the satisfaction of thinking you were satisfied. Even before the twitching subsided, you made your legs move. Abandoning your slow, rhythmic rocking, you started to bounce on his cock. Yes – yes, that was what you needed. The bouncing popped the barbs out of you and pushed them back in, and that almost sent you into another orgasm altogether.
The rising tide of pleasure was only interrupted by Obsidian saying, “That feels good, doesn't it? Ride me 'til you're ready to be fucked.”
You swat him again, this time smacking his cheek. He laughed in delight at the assault.
“We're – making love!” You panted, still bouncing on his cock, still easing the little bumps of the barbs inside your hyper-sensitive walls.
Unable to control your baser instincts, you humped yourself down farther on his cock, desperate to have the second set of barbs inside you. They squeezed in with such intense girth that you actually sobbed in pain, but you couldn't stop yourself now – you could feel them rippling against your inner walls. You could feel the pointed tip applying pressure inside you. You could feel a second orgasm building, your heartbeat thumping, the squeeze and the rhythm and the sensation of those barbs starting to expand...
A noise of victory wailed out of your throat. That meant Obsidian was getting close, too. The way those barbs pressed against your inner walls, dragging brutally as you bounced yourself up and down, massaging you into a state of bliss – they were expanding because Obsidian was close, despite his cool facade of indifference. And the happiness that inspired in you, the thought that you would win this little battle your way, tipped you into a spasming, squirting orgasm. Your legs tensed and shot instinctively together, squeezing the most friction possible out of the monster cock engorged inside you. You sank your nails into his stomach and closed your eyes and milked those perfect seconds of pleasure, trying to catch your breath.
And when the wave passed, you were shaking all over. Your whole body was wet with sweat, and felt so heavy. Your legs wouldn't stop trembling. Your arms, the only thing supporting you upright, buckled at the elbows. You flopped face down onto Obsidian's torso, sighing and twitching and still cumming.
His cock was still inside you. Deep inside you. Your hole was stretched so wide, the barbs were still pushing against your insides, pulsing so forcefully you could feel it even through the haze of your orgasm. Vaguely, you were aware of Obsidian's hands moving to your hips.
“You want romance?” He growled playfully.
You felt his hands holding you firmly, pushing you down his body. You let out a choked whimper – he was pushing you further down his cock.
“I have thought of you every day.”
Those large, inescapable hands began moving you up and down the shaft of his cock. Forcing you to ride him, even as the barbs swelled and tried to arrest all movement. Obsidian dragged you up and down his cock, opening you wide on the girth, then lifting you off so you were gaping and empty – only to thrust you down again.
“I have dreamt of you – every – night –”
He was fucking you now. Or more accurately, forcing you to fuck him. You moaned and gasped helplessly, legs limp about his hips as you were bounced up and down at an increasing pace. The bed creaked and rocked under him, though he was trying to keep himself still. You were the thing that was moving. Fucking him, and getting fucked brutally.
“Your lips. Your laugh – ungh –” He squeezed you down hard, down so the second set of barbs were popped inside you once more, and you knew they were too far inflated to be dragged out again.
You thought he might hold you there. Let you wriggle and writhe on his cock, trapped in that perfect way by the swollen barbs that tormented your insides and made you want to cum and never stop cumming.
But Obsidian didn't hold you there. He squeezed you down, and raised his hips up, and you cried in shock and a little pain as the third and final set of barbs rubbed tauntingly against your sensitive folds.
“Your clothes – your smell – Hell, I've missed every inch, every detail of you, Kitty. I've wanted you every – fucking – day –” He punctuated each word with a forceful thrust, and your mind ceased to process all thought as you felt your body swell with that last set of barbs.
Obsidian made a grunting, animal sound, and you felt the hot, explosive gush of his cum filling your hole, your womb – every inch of your body felt full of him. You clawed at his stomach, latched your legs around his hips. You loved the feel of him rigid and twitching beneath you.
When the sticky stream inside you finally ceased, you clung to him even harder. You couldn't speak, but you willed him to understand: you didn't want him to pull out. You didn't want to be empty. You needed to feel him inside you a little longer. You needed to be entirely full of him a little longer.
Obsidian's body relaxed on the bed beneath you. One heavy, lazy hand came to rest on the back of your head, stroking your hair. You listened to him steadying his breath, and tried to steady your own. You thought you might cum again just from the sensation of his seed weighing you down from the inside out. Just from the privilege of having his massive cock stuffing you full, safe and secure, attached to him.
“I'm in love with you, by the way.” He said it breathlessly, and like he hoped it wouldn't be a big deal. “So every time I fuck you, it's technically love making.”
You wheezed out a laugh, and found the coherence to mumble, “how romantic.”
There was pleasant quiet then, as you listened to one another breathing, returning to your senses. You felt him softening inside you, the pressure in your hole alleviating to a simple, pleasant stretch. You weren't ready to give it up yet, though. You kept your legs locked tight around his hips to keep him where you needed him, and closed your eyes.
“Kitten?” He whispered in the darkness.
“Yes?”
“... Do you love me?”
You smiled at the ridiculousness of the question. “Yes, you nasty, silly demon. I love you.”
To anyone who has made it to the end of this story: WOW! It sure did take forever to get here 😅 thank you for your patience, support, and all the beautiful comments and asks I've received about this story. I think one of the reasons I found it so hard to write this part, is that even though this is always how I'd planned to end things, I felt like I could never do the rest of the story justice. What comes next for Kitty and Sid belongs to you, the reader, now - but I hope I did a reasonably decent job of tying everything up. Thanks for sticking with me this long, and I hope our paths cross again in the stories of the future.
In the aftermath of Mondy’s visit, you finally learn Alice’s terms.
Content Warning: Mentions of blood on the floor, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship.
Words: 6k~
Part 1 (sfw) Part 2 (nsfw) Part 3 (nsfw) Part 4 (nsfw) Part 5 (nsfw) [Part Six] (nsfw) [Part Seven] (nsfw) [Part 8.1] [Part 8.2] [part 8.3] [part 9.1] [part 9.2] [part 11] _________________________________________
You didn’t know how long you’d slept for, but you woke restless. Obsidian hadn’t moved from his position curled around you on the cold, slippery pebbles. He was so still that if it weren’t for the laboured rhythm of his slow breaths, you might have thought him dead.
Your body gave grievance at the terrible effort it took to peel yourself out of his embrace, your knees and rear were badly bruised from being dropped and thrown about, your back ached and made a disconcerting ‘pop’ as you tried to straighten it, and your head… God, you’d never had a headache like this. Dizzying and dreadful and a dam to any coherent thought. A little whimper escaped you when you tried to look around into the white, misty glare.
The sound roused Obsidian instantly. You felt his whole form jolt and clamber upright, breathing heavy, poised above you as if to lunge at some invisible foe in the fog.
“It’s okay!” You hurried to soothe him, rubbing his chest softly, assuring him you were together, safe. He untensed a fraction, easing back onto his haunches, but his fiery eyes still darted quickly about as if expecting an ambush.
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It starts to feel like the noose is tightening as Obsidian’s anxiety over an inevitable uninvited guest becomes more visible. You confront the demon about missing parts of your contract, and have to make a choice over what matters more: knowing the truth, or your connection to Obsidian…
Content Warning: Allusions to past domestic abuse, discussion of terminal illness/dementia, d/s dynamic, rough sex, improvised bondage, degradation, size difference, non-human genitalia, cockwarming. ALTHOUGH BOTH CHARACTERS ENTHUSIASTICALLY & EXPLICITLY CONSENT IN-TEXT, SOME ELEMENTS OF THIS CHAPTER SLIDE INTO CNC TERRITORY. If you’re especially sensitive to that kind of content, you may wish to skip this chapter. The sex scene is at the end if you want to read the plot but not the smut.
Words: 11k~
Part 1 (sfw) Part 2 (nsfw) Part 3 (nsfw) Part 4 (nsfw) Part 5 (nsfw) [Part Six] (nsfw) [Part Seven] (nsfw) [Part 8.1] [Part 8.2] [part 8.3] [part 9.1] [part 9.2]
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You woke up sore. The bedroom was dark with your new curtains drawn, but the white glare outside still filtered through the fabric and dimly illuminated the space.
A mammoth arm was heavy around your chest. You blinked yourself awake, seeing Obsidian’s unconscious face only inches from yours, exhaling low and deep against your shoulder.
You’d never seen him asleep before, and you admitted to yourself you expected him to look different. More peaceful maybe. More human. But his brow remained in that knotted scowl, his nose still flared as though snarling. Only his eyes seemed relaxed, closed and fluttering, completely hiding the spitting fire you knew they’d unleash when he woke.
You shuffled around to face him, glad that he was completely undisturbed by the movement. You were only a little creature next to him, after all, and he seemed a heavy enough sleeper. Mischievously, you wondered exactly how much stimulation it would take to wake him.
You and Puppy have a chance to bond, and he shares a troubling revelation about your contract with Obsidian… Also, nobody bothered to explain to the girl from the 1950′s what CGI is, or how real it can look 😤
Content Warning: Finally out of the 50′s! Parental death mention, war trauma mention (I wrote this part long before current events escalated, please note that some scenes describe to wartime conflict and death), panic attack, 50′s era internalised biphobia, I promise this chapter is way fluffier than the warnings make it seem xoxo
Words: 7k~
Part 1 (sfw) Part 2 (nsfw) Part 3 (nsfw) Part 4 (nsfw) Part 5 (nsfw) [Part Six] (nsfw) [Part Seven] (nsfw) [Part 8.1] [Part 8.2] [part 8.3] [part 9.1] [part 9.2]
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“This… Is Paris?”
“June, 2015. It’s a fabulous Parisian summer,” Puppy nodded with a dramatic sort of reverence, gesturing to the imposing gated archways directly ahead of the bustling train station. There was something very strange about the bricks that made up the stonework arches. They looked medieval, but inauthentic. Artificial, even. There was none of the raw European culture that emanated from the architecture of Florence.
But you’d visited Florence in 1953. Now you were half a century in the future – perhaps the original stonework had been replaced with a modern replica.
“Trust me,” Puppy took your hand and gave your knuckles an encouraging tap. “You are going to love it here.”
Obsidian had been gone when you’d awoken that morning. You told yourself it was just idle surprise that shot through your chest when you opened your eyes to see the vacant pile of pillows where he’d slept. Just surprise. Not disappointment. Not something more than disappointment, icy and anxious in the walls of your lungs.
No, you were just… Surprised. That someone as big as Obsidian could have slipped out of bed without waking you.
Puppy assured you that he’d been given strict directions on “your care” when he’d seen Heely and Sid off to work early in the morning. You resented the implications that you couldn’t care for yourself. But your anxiety was soothed slightly at knowing Obsidian wasn’t entirely indifferent to how you were feeling, even when he got nothing out of it.
Anyway, you were incredibly eager to see how Puppy made the pentagram work.
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