#deadlockxreader

His lines about breaking minds, his sadistic streak, interest in human behavior.

Being overstimulated by Doorman though…would not be the most pleasant experience after a while.

What makes it so unnerving is how detached he is during the whole thing—however long it lasts (could potentially never end depending on the scenario).

You could be shaking like a leaf, pleading, crying, and the only reaction from him is that ever-present smile that never quite reaches his eyes—you’d say it was clinical if his amusement wasn’t so apparent.

It’ll start out banging, though, don’t get me wrong. Doorman can see people’s deepest fears and aspirations—of course he can see where and how you like to be touched. He can also see what bothers you, makes you uncomfortable, or is just too much.

Trying to think of a runner-up, this might be controversial, but Dynamo is speaking to me! Feel free to imagine his wife, or you’re his spouse in her place

Dynamo’s approach is the antithesis of Doorman’s. There’s a mutual interest in your reactions, yes, but Dynamo’s would come from a place of pure love & affection—his curiosity about his lover as fierce as his curiosity for the universe. Doorman may be physically pleasing (or tormenting) you, but it’s all to satiate his curiosity, or a sadistic urge. Dynamo is doing it because he wants you to feel good. Doorman already knows, Dynamo wants to discover.

He has endless questions: how many times can you come in thirty minutes, what methods are most effective? What methods do you enjoy most?

One wouldn’t think him to be pleasant company–and nine times out of ten, he isn’t–but if someone is a good bar hopping buddy, it’s Billy. 

Most people don’t know when to ditch a spot to move onto the next, but you can’t overstay your welcome if you get kicked out first. 

Billy pulls himself to his feet with a grumble, wiping off dirt and inspecting his precious jacket. It’s a wonder he’s allowed in—he’s not exactly easy to forget. But you suppose there are seedier characters who pose more of a problem than the guy with a goat head and big mouth. 

“Was the comment about his mother necessary?”

He scoffs and pushes past you to retrieve his bat with exaggerated swagger, as if a group of men hadn’t just dragged him out and thrown him on his ass. 

“If she popped out that dipshit, absolutely.” 

You don’t tease; it’s too early in the night for him to sulk. Instead, you head to the next bar, and he follows—ranting about everything, from the dickwad at the bar to the OSIC to the shitty music they had to endure.

The alleyway is empty despite its being a Friday night. Fluorescent lights reflect in puddles, accompanied by the rare smell of clean air.

Something sticks to your boot—you try to shake it loose, but it clings. Irritated, you lift your foot and peel it off. It’s a magazine, half-melted from the recent rain.

The cover makes your eyebrows raise to your hairline. Your expression must be dramatic, because Billy stops to peer over your shoulder. 

Bizarre #13

Giant women with exaggerated curves wield weapons and step on men in sky-high heels; others lie flat, bound with rope.

You open the magazine: a woman with her arms tied behind her back greets you. 

You swallow. Billy shifts his weight from one leg to the other. 

Neither of you says anything as you flip through the pages. 

The illustrations and photographs never venture past unusual tools and clothing—the only way it got published, you figure—but heat pools in your cheeks, nonetheless.

Something all-too familiar pokes you, and you don’t blame him for reacting that way.

A smiling woman’s wrists fixed to a metal bar behind her head stares back at you. After some shuffling, you nearly drop the magazine when you feel him lift up your skirt. 

“Keep going.”

By the tone of his voice, he’s more worked up than you imagined. It makes you shiver as you hear him prop his bat against the brick wall.

Cool hands skim your ass and hips, but his focus is not on you. 

The clink of his belt coming undone makes his intentions clear, so when he spits in his hand, then presses his cock between your thighs, you aren’t surprised. 

Pins press against your back, his chin rests on your shoulder, and hands wander; squeezing a breast, your belly, hips—like playing with a stress ball as you contemplate other, more important things.

Captivated by the pictures, he moves leisurely. The metal of his piercings has already warmed, digging into your flesh and taunting you with their reminder that they could dig into other, much more pleasurable places.

His humping quickly frustrates you; so close to where you want him, yet far enough it does absolutely nothing for you. The magazine is so fragile you have to be mindful, even though you’re tempted to tear it in half, wad it up into a ball, toss it down the street and jump his bones.

Being used to masturbate would feel a lot less degrading if he just aimed a little higher—but for whatever reason, it’s turning you on, so you allow it.

A woman kneels in a leather corset, gagged and bound. The light catches the trickle of saliva running down her chin.

Billy groans and moves faster, gripping your hips tighter. As you have on the past several pages, you wait for a few moments before turning the page. His hand moves to your shoulder, giving it a squeeze. 

“No, no—go back.” His voice is strained, and he’s panting. 

There’s a glimpse of an unusual leather mask on the next page before you flip back. 

“This is really doing it for you, huh,” you observe, the envy hard to miss.

“Yeah, no shit.” 

A rise of indignation bubbles in your chest when he dismisses you, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Spit on ‘em,” he says, presenting his ring and middle finger. Caught off guard, your first attempt results in a glob on your cheek; the second lands on his fingers.

There’s a lapse in his rhythm, gaze fixed on the spittle.

Billy hesitates, then licks the mistake away, dragging his tongue from your cheek to your mouth, where it slides in with a hum. 

You weave an arm around his thick neck and grab the base of his horn for stability. He groans and allows you to tilt his head, deepening the kiss further while his pace resumes.

He tastes like the cheap beer and the single shot of whiskey he had downed, with a faint metallic edge that’s ever-present—one you choose not to think about.

Instead of worming its way into your skirt like you expect, one spit-slicked finger traces the corner of your lip, and after a moment of consideration, joins. Confused, you drop the magazine and pull back, but he grips your jaw to keep you in place. 

It becomes less of a kiss and more of an assault on your mouth; tongue reaching as far back as it can go, interchanging with a finger that brushes over your teeth and toys with your tongue. The sensation is so foreign and overwhelming you barely register the cock still rocking against you.

Drool wets your chin from the constant prodding and shove of his tongue. As you adjust, you suck and nip when you get the chance, a mischievous impulse driving you to try taking off one of his rings with your lips.

The spell breaks when you gag.

He pulls back to lap up the mess, which is about as effective as cleaning a spill with a soaked handkerchief. Before he can continue tongue-fucking your mouth, you push him away with a palm to his wet muzzle. 

“Jesus, Billy,” you breathe, wiping spit from your mouth. “Feel like I’m making out with a dog.”

Billy ignores the jab and grabs your wrist, distracting you with another kiss—a normal one, thank god. Before you can come to your senses, the soaked fingers finally disappear beneath your skirt, and slide in your panties.  

Even though you hate to admit it, you’re drenched—but when those slippery finger pads glide over your clit, you can’t find it in yourself to be ashamed. 

Your head falls back against his shoulder, too lost in the pleasant buzz to care that his shoulder spikes are poking your skull. Need makes you cry out and rock against his hand; squishing his cock as you rub your thighs together, smirking when he hisses a swear.

The reprieve doesn’t last long as he releases your jaw in favor of sticking his fingers in your mouth—again—and pinches your tongue.

You squawk, but the sound is garbled. Objections become a cry when the fingers that had been idly tracing rest on either side of your clit and stroke. 

“You like that?” 

You don’t respond, even though the answer is a resounding yes. 

“C’mon, speak up,” he taunts, tugging on your tongue. 

“Fuck awf,” you struggle to say, cheeks blazing from how ridiculous you sound.

This earns you a small smack to your clit, making you yelp.

To your surprise, he releases you with a puff of laughter. But you soon realize it’s because he wants to reposition himself, not sympathy. 

Pulling back to wet his cock with the mess you made on his hand, he pumps it three times before pushing your panties aside. He slides against your pussy, and you both groan. 

It’s slick to near-obscenity, with your excitement, his pre-cum, and the copious saliva. The tip grazes your hole with each pass, and you pray he’ll stop playing around and just fuck you. 

He grips the soft of your lower belly as his thrusts ramp up in intensity.

Two fingers become one, circling your clit directly. After being neglected, you’re more sensitive than usual, and the sound you make is just shy of a shout. 

“You gonna come?” He asks, lips pressed against your ear, fingers working to get you off. 

Your breathing becomes choppy as you make a noise of agreement, burying your face in his neck. The tension snaps—you come with a muffled whine buried in his hair, thighs locking around him. He murmurs something encouraging as he strokes you through it, making you jerk and gasp with sensitivity. 

When he finally decides you’ve had enough—or more likely loses his patience—he stops.

His hand remains, fingers pressing against your cunt as he glides through your folds; the pitch of his panting rises with each thrust. 

With a sharp grunt, he grabs hard enough to bruise, teeth clenched to stifle any animalistic sounds as warm cum trickles down your thighs. He slinks back against the wall, adjusting the angle so the gusset of your panties catches what remains. 

All the commotion from mere moments ago falls silent as you both catch your breath, the sounds of the rowdy bar in the distance keeping awkwardness at bay. 

He peels away from the wall, fixing your panties with a pat–not because he’s a gentleman, of course; he just wants to make sure you feel the present he left. 

“Thanks,” you deadpan, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve.

“You’re welcome.” He’s smug, snatching the magazine from the ground and stuffing it in his pocket like it’s a twenty-dollar bill. “Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.”

Notes: This is the first thing i've written in years so please be nice to ya girl. Honestly, I'm feeling a bit cringe posting this, so, be EXTRA nice to me i beg. if you made it this far, hope you had fun!

Cred: Divider