Scarl bf

It hadn't been that long since you broke Mr. Scarletella's "heart" and made him into your loyal pet. At first, you thought he had forgotten about the whole name ordeal and his weirdly obsessive, creepy and sometimes downright perverted behavior. One thing was clear, though: leaving the ghost apartments was a bad idea. You doubted you would have been able to take your brand new pet to the overworld with you, or entertain him enough to keep him inside your house permanently. Even so, in this place you could release some stress without consequences - earthquakes would ruin the layout anyways, so who cares?!

As a last resort, you decided to wander around the eerie space, with Mr. Scareletella tied to your wrist with a leash. Sometimes you had to walk long distances before discovering a safe haven without intruding into another spirit's home. The both of you found yourselves in a similar situation today. The tall man had stamina for days, but you kept some of your human characteristics, such as the perpetual state of tiredness you were born with. When you found a room which contained a chair, dirty bed, and a table, after what you believed was at least a day of wandering, you instantly collapsed on the bed, Mr. Scarletella following obediently, the collar around his neck tightening slightly. He leaned over you, staring straight into your soul as you tried to rest. He put a cold hand on your cheek, poking your skin.

"Give name?"

Fuck. Your eye twitched in annoyance as you sat up suddenly.

"Go away."

He didn't seem to understand what you wanted, as he repeated the word "name" over and over. As a last resort, you grabbed his umbrella and gripped it tightly. Mr. Scarletella fell at your feet, his thighs clenched together, hands covering what was obviously a bulge. But wasn't the umbrella supposed to be his... heart? Perhaps it was linked to the rest of his body as well? To test the waters, you rubbed the top of the umbrella gently, watching as Scarletella squirmed pathetically. After a particularly hard squeeze, he fell on his back, curled up into a fetal position as whines left his trembling lips. A pleased smile was plastered on your face as you got closer to him and unbuckled your belt. You gave your cock a few strokes to lubricate it.

"Get up," you order the ghost, enjoying seeing him scramble to you. Without needing any explanation, his fingers sank into your hips as he took your cock into his mouth, sucking enthusiastically. One of your hands held the umbrella as the other rubbed it, indirectly teasing Mr. Scarletella. Out of the blue, he hugged your leg, taking advantage of his position to grind his leaky bulge on your shoe like a dog in heat. You tug on the leash, shoving your cock deeper inside the tall man's throat. His moans sent pleasurable vibrations throughout your shaft, making you groan in response. Scarletella's eyes seemed to light up at your reaction, and he doubled his efforts in hopes to make his master feel good. His tongue was gliding along the underside of your cock, his hands having left his bulge long ago, now focused on rubbing the base of your length. His cheeks hollowed out, the soft tissue on the inside of his mouth pressing up against the sensitive sides of your dick.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more stained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.