Sex pest Johnny who doesn’t get why you keep shoving him off when he’s humping your leg and trying to get you hot and bothered. Is it him? Is he not attractive enough? Why else would you not be willing to let him eat you out for hours?
The only solution is to enlist the help of his LT, who sits you squirming and squealing on his lap before his huge hands and low, rumbling voice melts you against him. You try and protest but every noise that comes out is more of a stifled moan than anything else, and soon Ghost’s gloves are coated with the arousal dripping out of you.
Soap can’t help but be jealous, but it’s hard to decide whether he wants to be Ghost, or be you, squirming and mewling as Ghost looks half-lidded down at the Scot and rumbles a dark and pleased: “Behave, puppy.”
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NOTES: First new thing I’ve posted all year, I think. Just a smutty drabble. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work. Ty for everything here, it means a lot to me. I haven’t forgotten you, I’ve just been living out a bad movie that requires all my brain. Love y’all 🫶🫶
NW 3.5, I think. Did not re-read AU to confirm unhinged numbering scheme.
Masterlist | where did my fics go?
I have to say the NW crew always shows up for democracy, every event I’ve done 🙏
And ILY NW FAM @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @ppascalrain @ellasinnombre @xdaddysprincessxx @selfproclaimed-moviecritic @rifflovesjoey @lunitawrites @tateypots idk where my list is tbh I’m winging it here.
“Wanna know what I was thinkin’ ‘bout today?” Joel asked after joining your walk. Uninvited. Again.
“Not really,” you answered .
“Ouch,” he laughed. “Alright, I won't tell ya then.”
“Okay,” you shrugged.
“But I’ll tell ya I got hard as fuck thinkin’ ‘bout it.”
“Doesn’t seem to take much,” you replied.
“That's all you, baby,” he said at a lower, hornier pitch. “You’re somethin’ else.”
Your cheeks warmed, and as you passed the next few houses, the only sound was your sneakers and Joel’s leather flip flops on the asphalt.
As the two of you neared Joel’s house, you couldn’t help but glance at him. Your gaze lingered on his face. At first, it was just to keep your eyes from falling to the inevitable bulge in his gray pj pants. But then, your eyes got caught in the silver bits of his scruff, and when the corner of his mouth twitched into that lethal, little smirk of his, a bolt of desire zapped you right between the thighs.
Right where you wanted him.
Right where he wanted to be.
In one swift move, he stepped ahead, then turned around to face you, blocking your path.
You didn’t try to step around him. You stopped.
His eyes sparkled as he admired your face. He lifted your chin, and his thumb gently brushed your bottom lip.
Your tummy fluttered, and blood rushed to your core.
He let go of your face, and slowly stepped away, inching toward his house without taking his eyes off yours. He nodded toward his basement door as he slid his hands into his pockets.
“C’mon, let's have a drink or somethin’. Lady's choice.”
“I kinda wanna go to sleep,” you replied, fighting the urge to fold instantly.
He offered in a low, sing-song tease, “I can make ya sleep better.”
You smiled, and he murmured, “Ain't that right.”
“I should get home,” you mumbled.
He bent his knees in exaggerated disappointment, then recovered. “At least lemme walk ya there.”
-
The sizzle of the heat between you felt loud as you approached your house in silence. He was going to walk you all the way to the door, and neither of you could stand in that doorframe without thinking about what had happened there.
As you both slowed down in your side yard, he lightly stroked your inner elbow, then trailed his fingers down to your wrist. It was dangerously close to holding hands. Instead, his hand found your ass, and he pivoted to face you.
“Mm,” he grunted and pulled you into a hug with a slow grid of his hips. “Sure ya don’t wanna know what I was thinkin’ bout earlier?”
A quiet sigh slipped from your lips. His breath was heavy above your ear. Your arms wrapped loosely around his broad trunk, and your fingers spread across his massive back muscles as he hugged you with all his filth and charm.
“You know you want this,” he breathed.
No lies detected.
“Good night, Joel.” You insisted, and it might have been convincing if you weren’t melting into his arms at the same time.
“That don’t sound like a ‘no’ to me,” he murmured with a forward push of his hips.
You didn’t reply. Your nostrils flared with a deep breath. That special mix of weed, deodorant, and man… it intoxicated you.
His package had hardened from vague arousal into that perfect, inviting shape that he could just spear you on, if he wanted.
He could just shove himself right in. Your pussy twitched for it.
He pulled his head back to search your eyes and was satisfied to see your pupils wide and your lips parted. His face closed in on yours, and his hand cupped the back of your head. His lips brushed against your mouth, and he stole a bit of your breath. Your lips reached for his, but he wouldn’t seal the kiss. He brushed the tip of his tongue against your lower lip ever so briefly, followed by his teeth. Then he stopped with the side of his mouth against yours.
“Night, pumpkin,” he whispered, and his breath filled your lungs with filthy memories that tingled all over. The hand on your ass relaxed into an affectionate palm. His hips pulled away, and he looked at you deadpan.
“I’m gonna keep walkin’,” he said, then took a deep breath as he adjusted the crotch of his pj pants. “I’ll be around,” he added with a wink.
Really?
He took no for an answer?
Your heart sank a little, and you brushed it off as how badly you needed to get off. He had you all wound up, but you’d finish the job yourself.
—
After getting ready for bed, in a big tshirt with nothing else, you took your vibrator under the covers.
No smut, no audio, no gifs of your go-to actors in sleazy roles.
Nothing could do it for you but Joel after all that heat.
What was he thinking about earlier?
You knew what you were thinking about.
Your body was re-experiencing little flickers of that time he broke in while you were doing yoga. How he put his hand over your mouth. How dominant he was. How forceful, but careful. He indulged in you like a sin and wouldn’t let you deny yourself.
You felt it in your chest. God, it was hot.
HE was hot.
God damn it.
You were thinking about his big cock, about it shoving into you from the back, about him pushing you down on the floor.
With A Good One one building in your depths, you turned the vibe up to max. Your thighs trembled as that memory ripped through your body.
You should’ve been coming on his cock.
—
After you drifted to sleep, your covers were slowly pulled down, just a little at first. Your nipples hardened through your thin t-shirt.
Then, the covers slid down a little more, then further, and the air hit the slick between your thighs. A chill settled over your exposed body, then your heart jumped as you woke up.
Someone was in your bed.
The thought of someone being in your bed took a few seconds process, and by then, he had pinned you with his weight and his hand clamped over your mouth. His cock throbbed against you like it owned your body, like you were it’s personal sheath to fuck and fill.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he whispered, glancing at the toy on your night stand. Then his gaze returned to your face.
Just as you made eye contact, he took his hand off your mouth so he could put it between your legs. “Bet ya were thinkin’ ‘bout that time over there… that little yoga workout I….ugh,” he groaned softly as his skilled fingers found the mess you’d made of yourself.
He slid his digits up and down your slit just twice before shoving two of them into you, just to see the look on your face and hear your breath change.
He cooed, “Oh, you're gonna sleep so good, baby” as his fingers fucked you better than any other man’s cock. His hand moved in powerful thrusts, not too fast. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg for it,” he breathed, massive arm flexing.
His smooth digits made an obscene wet smack with each thrust of his hand. Then he stopped with his fingers fully inside you and palmed your mound, holding your cunt with a possessive grab.
“Don’t even gotta ask,” he whispered with a squeeze, then pulled his soaked fingers out. “I’m just gonna give it to ya….real good.”
He grunted as he got his cock out and into position.
Hot and smooth, his arousal hit your thigh, making your insides throb with greed. “Here we go, baby. Nice n hard, just how ya like it.”
His tip teased your clit, and you teased him back, “How do you know how I-“
“Oh fuck yeah, baby, put up a fight,” he encouraged under his breath, with his eyes coming to life.
You tried to get up on your elbows, and he let you struggle for a few seconds, with his tip nudging between your folds.
“Gonna make me make you? Fuck yeah”
Then his forearm pinned you down, just as his stiff cock pushed into you, spreading your insides with ease.
“God damn, you can take a dick,” he chuckled.
With his cock seated fully inside your warmth, he paused to read your face, then urgently pulled your T-shirt up over your tits, and his mouth fell open as his hips began to move.
He became more aggressive, bottoming out with each punch of his hips, like he'd finally broken into somewhere he needed to be.
Through two slams of his hips, he panted, “You’re so fuckin’ hot, pumpkin.”
“Oh, God,” you closed your eyes and caught yourself tensing as you got close. You took a deep breath and relaxed with a vocal sigh. Your pussy fluttered.
“Attagirl,” he growled, keeping the rhythm steady, snapping his hips a little harder.
You let out a whimper, so close to the edge, not feeling quite safe enough to tumble over it.
“Look at me,” he demanded, and your breath hitched.
You opened your eyes.
“I got you,” he said, eyes darting between yours as he buried himself in you. “Let go, baby. Let go.” He nodded.
You nodded back.
“Yeah,” he breathed. His face darkened with desire. He looked down and palmed a breast as he watched his length slam into you. “Love the way you take this cock.
He lowered himself, and the damp gray tee stretched across his chest grazed your nipples. He brought his face to yours.
Breathing each other’s heavy breaths, you were so close.
You spasmed, then he grabbed your jaw, and his lips captured yours. His tongue plunged into your mouth as he held your jaw like you might pull away. He thrust deeper, stayed deep, and rocked his hips like he couldn’t get deep enough inside. And that did it for you, the tension burst. He let your mouth break away to moan, and he watched you unravel before capturing your lips again, softer, for just a moment.
He stayed deep, rocking his hips, only pulling back every few seconds. He shuddered, and you found yourself craving the feeling of his seed throbbing into you, until the moment it started. Coming to your senses, you squirmed with a half-hearted effort to get him to pull out. “Joel,” you complained, and his hand moved to your hip, firmly holding you in place to shoot his load as deep as he could get.
After the first warm burst, it was a lost cause, you reasoned. You relaxed, and your hips rocked into his as he finished.
The post-nut clarity was unforgiving this time. There was a creep in your bed. In your bed. Your sheets were going to smell like him. And these encounters were becoming regular. You tapped his hip, signaling him to pull out. He grumbled and you said you had to pee.
When you returned, he was still in your bed.
“You should go,” you told him.
“God damn,,” he chuckled. “Still catchin’ my breath here. Give an old man a break.”
“Sorry,” you muttered. “Ten minutes, max.”
-
You fell asleep faster than that.
He left, eventually, but not in ten minutes. Watching you sleep felt too good. And no, he didn’t pick your lock. He didn’t have to.
-
-
-
Ty for reading! 💚💚💚 Please comment / rb if you enjoy my fics 🧎♀️ngl I need all the love i can get.
summary james sunderland is a good man. a good, good man.
warnings fem afab reader, college au, age gap (20's-40's), teacher-student relationship, infidelity, dubcon bc of coercion, manipulation, oral (reader receiving), very light feet action, creampie, james' madonna-whore complex sorta, at least 2 billion mentions of mary, james' unreliable narration and rumination deserve a mention, both reader and james are shitty people
a/n tfw you've had writers' block for four entire years and some pathetic sopping wet loser is what brings you out of it. crazy. anyway my thought w this au was kinda along the lines of 'what if silent hill was a person instead of a place' but like. in the context of smut 😭 VERY SPECIFIC I KNOW but it was something i wanted to experiment with. anyway, hope you enjoy! and it goes without saying but minors please don't interact
read it on ao3 !!
The knock at his door breaks James out of the self-inflicted loop of checking emails and grading papers he's created for himself. One quick look at the screen to his left confirms that yes, office hours are still in effect for the next five minutes so he, albeit a bit begrudgingly because he really needs to get these grades in, offers a polite, "come in," and takes a sip of the now too-cold tea he had forgotten about somewhere within the hour.
"Hiya, Doc," you greet with a smile and eagerness in your gait that frankly he doesn't understand where you get the energy for given the hour. But then, you've always had too much spring in your step than perhaps is warranted. So lively, blazing like the sun and impossible for him to look away from.
Which is a detriment to him considering you're somehow in almost every single one of his lectures this semester. And if that wasn't bad enough, you inexplicably decide to attend said lectures wearing outfits that James can only describe as some kind of test of his will. This one is no exception—form fitting jeans that hug your hips and plush thighs with a cropped t-shirt that rides up just enough for him to catch the briefest flashes of invitingly supple flesh.
"Um, hey. Take a—have a seat," he gestures to the chair facing his, hoping you don't notice his sudden lack of a grasp on the English language. He at least has enough sense remaining to remind you that office hours are about to come to a close.
You wave your hand as you sit, an array of silver chains and charms chiming as you do. "Don't worry, I'll be super quick. Pinky promise." There's a disarmingly sweet smile on your face as you reach a pinky out in jest, one that widens when he finds himself reaching out to link with his own without even thinking. "Awww! That was so cute!"
The rational part of his mind knows that he really should shut down these little comments of yours. You've given him more than enough chances, lingering around after his lectures are over and popping into his office with a list of questions you'd written down in endearingly rounded lettering. All he'd have to do is set that boundary, gently remind you both that he is, at the end of the day, your professor and that your playful flirtations aren't appropriate. Say that he has a wife who he's wholly dedicated to and would never want to disrespect, which is true. He loves Mary more than he could ever put into words. She's been the love of his life for 20 or so odd years and that's never going to change, he's certain.
But you're everything he's been craving wrapped up with a pretty little bow.
You're young; a third-year in a major outside of his department and it'd be a lie to say that your youth wasn't at least part of the draw of you, as much as he tries to tell himself it isn't. It wasn't just that you were young, either. You were...full of vitality. You smiled and laughed and spoke so freely and so openly, unafraid to take up space and James couldn't help but feel himself becoming increasingly more drawn to you as the days of afternoons spent together stretched into weeks. It's gotten to a point where he now sees his classes less as lectures and as time he's able to spend in your presence, coveting your warmth and imagining what it would be like to swallow your laugh into his mouth.
At least the guilt drives him insane. That must make up for it in some way. It has to be punishment enough to visit Mary at the hospital and see her withering away during his visits and feel a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he knows he must accept as a companion. He feels it deepening every time he catches himself being short with her on her bad days, hating himself for being angry with her when he knows she's only scared. But knowing that does nothing to alleviate the tension neither of them want to acknowledge. Nor does it doesn't help that there's a different tension, one of his own making, building between the two of you.
He deserves this guilt. Hell, he deserves far worse for wanting to fuck someone half his age alone, the fact that he's also married with a sick wife warrants some kind of eternal torture somewhere lower and hotter than whenever run-of-the-mill sinners end up.
(A small part of him hopes that before then, he finds out what your skin feels like under his hands.)
"So," he manages to awkwardly choke out after a moment, "what did you want to talk about? If it's the midterm on Monday, you really don't need to be worried. I'm pretty sure you're one of the only ones actually doing the homework."
"Well, you did choose some pretty solid readings," you reply easily, shoulders straightened as if preening from his light praise which James doesn't let himself think too long about, "but no, it's not about the midterm."
James' brows furrow. There's a cryptic tone to your voice, like you're inviting him to guess the purpose of your visit which, upon looking at the time again, really should be ending soon. "Well...what, uh, is this about?"
The slight cock of your head jostles your hair enough that he can smell the mixture of your perfume and shampoo even from where he sits. Apples and sandalwood mixed with something so undeniably you. His mouth waters. "C'mon, Doc. You know."
Does he? You have this look in your eyes that all at once playful and mischievous, almost feline, and it gives absolutely nothing away. All he can do is laugh a bit incredulously. "Ah, I can't say that I do? But hey, it's almost six so maybe we could pick thi—"
"Should I give you a hint, then?"
If this were any of his other students, he wouldn't have entertained this. Honestly, he wouldn't have even let them get this far into his office, just turned them away at the door and told them to come back tomorrow when he's got more time. But it's you. And he has nothing but time for you.
"Sure," he hears himself saying before he's able to think better of it.
You smile like you'd been expecting this, leaning forward on folded arms. There's a moment where he considers asking you what you're doing but he finds himself unable to think of anything at all when he feels you hook your foot under the base of his chair and tug him forward. Whatever confusion he feels is short-lived, however, as you leave him with little ambiguity the second your foot slides along the length of his leg.
Not for the first time, he thinks that he should say something, do something, to stop this before it starts but all he's able to manage is a half-hearted, "don't," that you both know doesn't hold any weight.
"You wanted a hint," you say in that same voice he's heard so many times over the semester, light and full of mirth. "I'm giving it to you."
"I'm married," he splutters out, setting the boundary he should have all those weeks ago.
The toe of your shoe presses into the side of his knee. "Well duh," you say with a conversational flippancy that makes his head spin. "But it's not like you care." It stings like a slap to hear out loud but what can he do? Disagree? Act like he hasn't been wanting to fuck you for almost as long as he's known you? Like he hasn't been hoping for this?
James looks at you desperately, pleadingly, says your name like a prayer. "You're my student, I—Look, I'm flattered but this is extremely inappropriate. We could both get into trouble for this."
"You could."
He blinks. "What?"
A manicured nail points in his direction. "You could get into trouble for this," you correct matter-of-factly. When he doesn't respond, you trace along his inner thigh, stopping just short of where he fears you touching the most. He hopes you miss the sharp exhale you get in return. "All I'd have to do is say you came onto me and that'd be that. It'd be your word against mine and I mean, honestly, what's more believable? A 20-something-year-old college student accosting her professor ooor a however-old-you-are professor trying to fuck his student?"
A wry smile works its way onto your face at the absolutely the look of absolute dread he gives you. "Oh, don't look so scared. I'd never actually tell the department. I just think you need to remember the optics here. 'Specially since you're not exactly subtle."
This all feels like a nightmare he very much would like to wake up from, one that's taken the desires he's kept so close to his heart and given it to him in the most twisted and terrible way. James studies you, searching for answers in the face he's come to be so achingly familiar with. Nothing's changed; your smile is still bright and sunny as ever, eyes still sparkling. It's not as if a mask has come off and he's been duped by this secret version of you that's been in hiding all along. You've never been hiding. You've always been this. This is you. He's just been too caught up in his own feelings, too blind to see that while he was looking at you, you'd been looking back.
And now he's on the precipice of something he's sure he's not going to be able to come back from.
"Why?" he asks, voice strained. "What do you want?"
You give him a cute pout that's laughably at odds with the energy in the room. "Isn't it obvious? I want you."
There's a number of things James could say to that but they all get lost on his tongue, leaving him to stare at you with an expression on his face that's one part repressed hunger and one part pain. He wishes he could say that he only cares about Mary, that he spends his days thinking of her face, that he eagerly anticipates their meetings and counts down the seconds until he's able to see her again but that's a lie. Thinking about Mary, what she is now, not his Mary; the one he fell in love with all those years ago, it only makes him feel defeated. She hasn't been that person in a long time and he doesn't know who he resents more for it.
Still, this isn't right. Mary is his wife and he made a commitment to her. One that he hopes is made of steady enough stuff to withstand the force of nature sitting before him. "You need to leave." His hand comes to rest at your ankle, awkward and unsure like he doesn't know if he can touch you. "We can just...put this behind us, okay?"
For a moment, he swears it seems like you look confused. Like you'd honestly expected to walk into his office, strongarm him into having an affair and that would be that. Your eyes go from him, to his hand, before going back to him as if you're trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle before you. Then you're nudging your foot free of his grasp, pressing into the forming bulge he'd been trying to avoid acknowledging.
"I don't think I made myself clear. Your voice drowns out his wince of what he tells himself is agonizing pain. "I'm not going anywhere until I get what I want. And you know what I want."
James can't think. If he thought it was hard to get himself to do something—anything—before, this was leaving him forgetting he ever had any thoughts to begin with. There's no way for him to pretend like he's not getting hard from this now, no way to feign nonchalance when the sole of your shoe is rubbing slow and dangerous against him. He could push your foot away. His hand is close enough to do it, gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that bone threatens to tear through skin—but he doesn't make a single move to stop this. You're regrettably aware of this too, cheek resting in the cup of your palm as you watch him. There's no challenge in your eyes, no dare for him to struggle. It's as if you already know that you've won.
"Puh-Please," he begs, voice no more than a punched-out gasp. "Just-just stop and I promise, I won't say anything to anyone, I won't touch your grades—" A firm press has him cutting his own sentence short with a groan he muffles into his hand.
"But you know that's not what I want, silly." You rub along his shaft, soothing, languid strokes that apply just enough pressure for a haze to settle over his mind and tightness to begin forming in his gut. "And I know it's not what you want either so why deny yourself?"
He could move his chair back. He could stand up right now and end this entire thing if he wanted to. "Why...why would I ever want this?"
"Because you've been spending the better half of the semester fantasizing about cheating on your sick wife with one of your students." You straighten your head to face him properly. "How is Mary, by the way? Doing any better?"
His heart drops. "How do you know her name?"
You smile, all sweetness and sunshine. "I know a lot of things about you, silly. Like that you always drop by the hospital to see her on your way home. Or like how bring her flowers every Thursday on your lunch break," you say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh and I know which floor she's on. Still haven't figured out her room number though—"
"I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone." He's aware of how pathetic he sounds, that the wet spot in his pants only makes it doubly so.
"No, I said I wouldn't tell the department. Which I won't," you correct, half-smiling when his hips unwillingly buck against you. "I don't want to get you fired."
"But you have no problem destroying my marriage?" he asks, breathless and flushed but incredulous all the same.
"Don't be so dramatic," you tut. "You're the one about to blow a load in your pants just from being stepped on. If anyone's destroying your marriage, it's you."
James stills. "I...I'm not—"
You give him a look. "Oh, please. If I wanted to, I bet I could finish you off right now." A soft hum, thoughtful. "But that would be no fun."
It's the disorientation, he tells himself. It's the shock of your words that leaves him paralyzed, helpless as he watches you slide out of your chair and circle around his desk. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, his ears, his bones, as you reach out to cup his face in your hands. Now that you're this close, he can see every particle of glitter at the inner corners of your eyes, smell every single note of your perfume and, oh, feel how soft your hands are. He doesn't even remember the last time he's been touched like this, like he's wanted—desired. The scratch of your nails against the stubble scattered across his jaw has his eyes falling shut, brows furrowed and head heavy with cotton.
"Just say you want this, James. That's all you have to do. You can do that for me, right?"
Distantly, he registers that this is the first time you've said his name. You make it sound sweet, sweeter than perhaps he's gotten used to hearing in these past few years. His name had been soured into something awful and bitter like bile that he forgets that there was once honey in its syllables. That, before his life became what it is now, there was a time where all he knew was nectar and fresh morning dew. What you're offering isn't that, he's not delusional enough to believe otherwise. But you offer something. A salve, a bandaid, a temporary fix, whatever it is; it is real and tangible and he can feel it beneath his fingers.
(When did his hands end up at your thighs? When did his head fall to rest against your stomach? Why do your nails running along his scalp make it so hard to think?)
James is holding you like he's unsure of whether to push you away or pull you in closer, hands shaking with a cocktail of repulsion and want. There's no going back if he lets himself have this. No way that he could ever convince himself that, in spite of it all, he's still the man he promised Mary he'd be. If he gives in, what does that make him? He could tell himself that any other man—any other human—in his position would face the same conundrum, that this was simply a losing battle he was forced into playing. Though, he knows this is all his doing. That this hellish game is of his own making, the rules and limits set by him. You've simply bent them to your advantage. Worst part is, he can't even be mad at you. There would be nothing for you to leverage against him with had he been the husband he tells himself he is, one who doesn't let the first pretty thing that comes his way get under his skin.
He deserves this, he finally concludes. This must be the punishment he deserves: well and truly condemning himself past the point of no return, leaving there no room to pretend anymore.
His breath comes out in a shaky sigh, blood rushing in his ears he turns his face to press his lips against your sternum, just under your breasts. He's already dizzy, drunk despite only having a paltry sip, but he needs more. So he repeats the motion, a touch lower this time, urged on by your hands in his hair and your soft sounds of encouragement. Again, this time landing in the in-between of your shirt and your jeans—on bare skin, he realizes belatedly. On the bare skin that's been teasing him, occupying far too much space in his head. He has to stop himself from moaning from how soft you are, how your flesh gives so eagerly under his touch. There's going to be a wet spot in his pants, if there isn't one already, but he can't seem to find it in himself to care when he's face-to-face with the top button of your jeans.
Wordlessly, he looks up at you through hazy eyes and you get the message immediately, smiling to yourself as you undo the button and zipper. The reality of what exactly he's doing threatens to set in but James finds that he can easily distract himself by pushing forward, closer to you, until you have no choice but to back up into his desk. He thinks he hears the clinking of your bracelets again, this time intermingling with the rustling of his long forgotten papers, but it's all static to him now that he can see the beginnings of deep pink lace. The groan that comes out of him is a pained thing, wrought with everything he's been holding back for all this time.
Your responding laugh is bright, cheery. "I figured you'd like 'em."
You'll be the death of him, he's certain.
His mouth waters when your hands guide his to your hips, cock twitching in its confines when you hook his thumbs into your waistband and tug and—
"Oh."
The lace is sheer, enough that there may as well not be any fabric there to begin with. Making matters worse, you've clearly waxed yourself clean and left him little room for ambiguity. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth when he notices the wetness glinting in the low light of the room, inviting.
Slow, as if he's wading through water, he slides out of his chair and onto the ground on his knees. You make a noise, something like hungered approval, and let him pull your jeans off the rest of the way down your legs. Neither of you see where it ends up after you kick it along with your shoes into some corner of his office but it matters very little when he's shouldering your legs apart, pressing his face into your cunt and breathing you in like he needs it.
God, you're so fucking warm. Warmer than Mary is, maybe warmer than she ever was. He hates himself for thinking it, hates himself more for lapping at you through the thin barrier of lace and moaning at your taste on his tongue. You taste like stolen bites of apple pie and you leave his lips just as sticky, just as sweet with residue as any syrupy filling could. It makes it hard to think, to regret. The feeling still lingers somewhere in his chest but it's a dull thing that is easy to suffocate with the louder, more urgent voice in his head wondering how long he'll be left smelling like you, if your scent would last throughout the evening. Does he want it to? To take the evidence of the death of his marriage home and let you linger there? His cock twitches in response, so hard now that it hurts. Doesn't really want to think about the implications.
Right now, all he can think of is how soaked your panties are with his saliva, the fabric slick and wet and almost scratchy to an uncomfortable degree. But you look so beautiful above him. An angel, a goddess; eyelids heavy, hair falling over your face, the sounds of hymns on your lips when his tongue swipes along the parting of your centre, coaxing more of your ambrosia out for him to swallow down greedily. How benevolent you are, to take pity on this sinner's heart.
"Need m-more," you decide, brows pinched and voice reedy. "Gimme more?"
It's a miracle that he isn't immediately undone by you right then and there. "Yeah," he rasps, voice ragged, "yeah, c'mere."
From where he's knelt on the floor, he urges you up onto his desk somewhere between his pens and papers and a framed picture of Mary that your elbow knocks into when you situate yourself properly. She's smiling in it. It's genuine too, unguarded. Like she knew she could be her most vulnerable self with him. Like...like she trusted him with her most fragile parts.
You pull him in closer with your heel at his back and he chooses to forget.
This new position opens you up more than before, as unbelievable as that may be for him to comprehend. Your legs are stretched out as far as his desk permits, one of which you've decided to hook over his shoulder to guide him as you please. Not that he needs much of it as all it takes for him to venture back between the absolution-damnation of your thighs is the sight of your hardened clit through your panties.
"I've never—mmph—I've never been with a guy who liked eating pussy as much as you do," you muse. "Your wife's a real lucky lady."
"Don't talk about her." It comes out more as a whimpering plea than anything else but thankfully, having your clit sucked on gets you lax and jelly-boned enough that you drop the topic anyway.
You're so accessible like this—thick folds parted to give way to the inviting twitch of your hole, the perfect pearl of your clit. It's addicting to watch, even more to taste. He can tell by how sensitive you are that you need more, that you need him to tug the lace aside and touch you properly, but a part of him enjoys seeing you writhe like this; chasing after his tongue and squirming when you get it. Maybe it's his own way of getting back at you. Maybe he just thinks it's endearing to see your face screwed up into a little pout, all spoilt princess throwing a tantrum.
He teases you a bit more, flicking the tip of his tongue across your clit just to see you jolt and fastening his mouth over you in your entirety and humming deep and low, wringing a sound out of you that he can only describe as primal. There's a deep satisfaction he finds in that. Both in the righteous sense and in that of his own primality, though at this point he figures there's no point in separating the two with you. It excites him, it scares him. He doesn't know how far you'll go or what lines you'd be willing to cross to get what you want but honestly, he's not sure if he'd put up much of a fight anymore. Not when giving in, letting you have your way, means he gets to feel you arch up off the desk and wail.
"Wait, wait, wait—" you're pushing him back, sole on his shoulder, out of breath, "—I don't—I didn't—" a beat, an inhale to collect yourself, "I wanna cum with you inside me."
"Jesus Christ." He has to take a second; breathes in, then out. "You...you have a condom?"
The curl of your lip is all mischief. "No."
James starts to say your name before you cut him off. "I don't, like, have anything. 'M clean."
He has no idea why he's even considering this. Has even less of an idea of why his body is screaming at him to just fuck you already. "Are you on birth control at least?" Another smile, this time accompanied with a tilt of your head, that he knows to take as a no.
"It'll be fine," you reassure him. "You can just pull out."
"I don't kno—"
"Oh, c'mooon. I'll let you cum on my face if you want to. Just don't get it in my hair, obviously."
He has no idea how you're able to be so casual about all this, like you aren't an accessory in his infidelity asking him to risk knocking you up—knocking one of his students up. He could lose his job—hell, he could never get a job again if he isn't careful. And that's not even considering what it'll do to Mary. They've been in a bad place for a while now but still, this goes beyond retribution for cold shoulders and words you don't mean. This is a betrayal. A backstabbing, unwarranted betrayal to the highest level.
And yet.
"Fine. Fine, okay, just..." He shuts his eyes, swallows. "We need to be careful, okay?"
You smile, pushing yourself up off your elbows to wiggle your pinky in his face. "Pinky promise."
For the second time today, he finds himself unable to resist giving into this little habit of yours.
"Still so cute," you say, fond and warm. "Now get up here."
He has no idea how long he'd been kneeling but judging by the ache in his joints when he stands, it had been far too long. You don't give him long to dwell on that though, winding your arms around his neck with a pleased little sound. Those hands don't stay for long, sliding down his chest, down his stomach, down further still until you reach his slacks. You don't need to wait for his assent to start unbuttoning them, taking the painfully hard outline of his cock and the accompanying wet spot as enough of a reason to make haste in pulling him out of his pants.
"'S all for me?" you ask softly. James doesn't know what to do about the genuine awe in your voice, mind too focused on not cumming from your hand—soft, smaller than his own—around him.
Foreheads touch, an incidental thing he doesn't rectify. "Yeah." His voice is far away, not his own. "All for you."
You shiver, pumping him slowly. "It's so thick," you sigh airily. Your head tilts up a fraction, nose brushing against his. Any closer and you'd be sharing breath. "Put it in me?"
He grits his teeth with the effort it takes to stave off his orgasm.
He takes himself in a single hand, half-dazed as he watches you roll your panties off your hips and down to the floor where it lays in a pile at his feet. Then, it somehow becomes very different. Real. The lace wasn't doing much for your decency in the first place but still, it was a barrier. A safety precaution. It gave him enough that he could feign enough denial at what he was allowing himself to do. Now, he must confront it; slick (because of him), twitching (for him) and radiating heat like a furnace (inviting him).
(All for him.)
It's almost too much, almost enough to scare him in the ways that matter. This is the moment where he realizes this is the point where a good man could just…stop. That, if he were ever the man he had been convincing himself he was, he could end this now and still have enough lines left uncrossed that he'd be able to be at peace with himself. But you're there, hand on his wrist in what is both a demand and a request, and he can't find it in himself to do much else than comply.
Mary flashes in his head again; cold, alone, angry, waiting for him to visit—
The head of his cock is guided to your entrance, testing. You bite your lower lip between your teeth, brows furrowed as it pushes in only a fraction.
"D-does it hurt?"
You shake your head, grip his wrist tighter; begging.
He makes a sound of acknowledgement, one he hopes is assuring. Then he's pushing in further, lips parted when he's enveloped by the sheer heat of you. All he can think of is wetness and softness and heat like he's never known heat before and—the tightness. You're got a grip on him like you never want to let go, like you want him inside you forever and oh, isn't that a thought? And he's not even all the way in, he realizes with a pang to the gut.
Singleminded in his goals now, he places his free hand on your hip to steady you as he pushes in more, more, more until—
"Oh, fuck—"
Your voice is breathy and pitched, chest heaving with laboured breaths when he bottoms out. He's not faring much better; collapsed against you, face pressed into the side of your neck, one hand pressed to your back to keep you steady and the other braced on the desk near your thigh. It's all he can do to keep himself upright, groaning at just how you fit around his cock. Like you were made for this, made to be exactly what he needs. The thought alone has him twitching inside you, exhaling hotly against your skin.
There are hands against his back, under his shirt. "James," you say, all but into his ear at this angle He shudders when he feels the bite of nails. "James, kiss me, please."
The last time he's kissed a woman was back before Mary got sick. Back before she'd turn her head away from him where she used to dive back in for more, frowns where there were once smiles. He debates it for a moment, considers telling you that this would be too intimate, a step too far.
"I shouldn't..."
He turns his face, inadvertently nosing against your jaw.
"A little late to play shy now, doncha think?" A whisper; your face turns, too. Close. Too close? Not close enough? Your lips brush against his when you speak. "You're already breaking Mary's heart, might as well enjoy yourself."
James kisses you like a man starved. Ravenous, wrought with latent energy that threatens to tear you both apart. There is no room for you to make your quips, tongue preoccupied in his mouth after he coaxes it in with his own. It's sloppy, unpracticed; he's certain your teeth have knocked together more times than is probably appropriate and it's glaringly obvious he hasn't done this in a while. But you're more than happy to take the lead. You hold his face in your hands, slow the pace to something more manageable and smile when he moans into your mouth. He lets you run your nails across his back in slow whirling motions that go straight to his cock and remind him he's yet to actually start moving.
Between kisses, he manages, "c-can I—did you want me to-?"
"Please."
He groans, panting when you press your nails into his back. "How? Tell me how you want it."
"Hard, please, need it hard, James. Need you to fuck me ha—fuck, yes, yes, yes, like that, just like that, fuck—"
He pulls out almost completely half of the way and slams back in, spurn on by your begging. Sex with Mary was never like this, always gentle and tender and slow. It really was making love, he thinks. Intimately vulnerable in a way you can't replicate with just anyone. Something reserved for the most devout of lovers.
What he's doing to you now, what he's been wanting to do to you since you walked into his office—since you walked into his life—is anything but. He pulls out almost half of the way before slamming back in and jostling you so hard that your godforsaken bracelets clink together in time with the smack of skin-on-skin. This carnality, this basal need to hear your whimpers and feel your body twitch and shake, insides squeezing around him just as tightly as your arms do around his neck, it's all new to him. It's something he'd long desired, of course. A vice he never would have thought to bring up with Mary. Even back when they first got married and things were new and fresh, the thought of doing this to her, of fucking her like she's something to be fucked rather than someone to hold and pleasure—he could never do it.
But you bring out the worst in him, ask the worst of him which he gives to you freely. The force of his thrusts send you falling back against the desk with him on top of you, face buried into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he pounds into you at this new angle. It's a good one, he figures, if your gasps and choked-out noises are of any indication. You hold him to you like you need him to keep fucking you, like you need this craving sated just as much as he does. It spurns him on, makes him fuck into you harder, makes him want to embed himself into you. He loves Mary, he does, he loves her more than anything in the world but God, you make him feel like he's alive.
He pulls back, he has to pull back, has to look at you and he's glad he does. Your lipstick is smeared across your face with barely any leftover on your pretty lips, mascara smudged from sweat and what he can only assume are tears beaded at your waterline but what gets him, what makes his stomach twist with vicious desire, is the look you give him. Half-crazed, half-desperate, you look at him like you know. Like you can read his mind, like you can read him like the back of your hand and know which buttons to press, what his deepest wants and are and how to use them to get what you want.
He'd give you the world, he wants to see you cry, he wants to tear you to bits, he never wants you to stop saying his name, he wants you to get out of his fucking class, he wants, he wants, he wants—
"I'm close," you gasp.
Though he doesn't say it, he's not too far behind you, thrusts growing more and more erratic.
You moan openly now, hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit with equally erratic swipes of your fingers. God, he can't take his eyes off of you. You're all desperation wound tight and waiting to burst, so close you can almost taste it but motions too frantic to reach that peak. It's something to behold, something James can't tear his eyes away from.
He's still entranced when your eyes go wide, brows pinched together and—there it is.
"Cumming, cumming, 'm cumming—kiss, need to k-kiss, please—"
James swallows down all of your noises, every last stuttered out gasp and moan and whine of his name before you're kissing back with fervour, licking along the seam of his lips and urging him to follow suit with sweet words spoken into his mouth.
"Let go, James. 'S okay, just give in. Don't think too hard about it, yeah? Yeah, oh, fuck yeah, yeah, baby. That's it, cum for me. Give it to me."
The telltale tingle starts at the top of his spine and zips down throughout his fingers, his toes. When he can tell he's right on the edge, he shifts to move away but finds that you've locked your arms and legs around him.
"Want it, want it inside," you say through heavy breaths.
That's what does it, as ashamed as it makes him to admit.
He stares at you in dumbfounded horror as he feels himself flood hot, thick liquid into your insides, a sound somewhere between euphoric and afraid wrenched out of him when you clench around him to drain out every last drop.
"Oopsie," you say into the silence, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.
You still cling to him, even as the stickiness of your bodies and the heat become too much. Neither of you move. He's still staring at you. "What?" you finally ask.
"You promised we'd be careful," he says slowly, like he's talking to a child.
And like a child, you roll your eyes. "Look, if it bothers you that much then I'll pop a Plan B in the morning, okay?"
"That's not the—"
"—not the point, yeah I know. It's the principle or whatever." You finally detach yourself, scoffing as you recline back onto your elbows. "You're so sensitive, Doc. Most guys would be over the moon about this, you know."
You both hiss when his cock slips free, trail of cum following along behind it. James has to look away, tucking himself back into his pants quickly. "Most guys aren't married," he counters bitterly, watching as you trot around in search of your jeans and your shoes. "Most guys aren't your goddamn professor. You just...you can't just..." he trails off, unsure of what it is he's trying to get across but still frustrated that you aren't understanding it.
He watches you slip your jeans on with nothing underneath, panties stuffed into the back pocket. The mental image of you holding his cum in as you make your commute home makes his fingers twitch. "Oh, I'm sorry—I guess I missed this week's reading on how to properly have extramarital affairs."
Princess throwing a tantrum.
He sighs, deep and long and patient. Doesn't bother replying, just focuses on redressing instead of letting you goad him into whatever back and forth he doesn't want to engage in.
But then you surprise him. "You're...mad at me."
He feels an inexplicable need to comfort you, like you're the one who's been violated. "I'm not mad," he says, voice softer than perhaps you deserve, "just...a little...I don't know."
"But you still like me, right?"
That catches him off-guard. "Um," he starts, brows furrowed. The longer he takes to finish his sentence, the more pained your expression becomes. "Well, yeah. I guess so."
You pin him in place with a bright smile. "Okay. Good." Then you're turning around to tie your laces.
James opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out, doesn't really know what he could say. He's always at a disadvantage with you. Where you're able to get under his skin and take up root there, he's still barely scratched your surface. Nothing you do makes sense to him, has no rhyme or reason that he's aware of. You seem to do whatever takes your fancy at that given moment and that...that makes him very afraid of you. He's not sure what you'll want next, what more you'll ask of him, who you'll involve next. What's worse is he's not sure if he'd be able to deny you. If he'd want to deny you.
You bound over to him once you're finished straightening your clothes, head tilted in question. "Kiss for the road?"
His heart warms against his will, stomach churning with unease as he lets you tug him down to your lips.
"Mm...still tastes like me," you say, pleased.
It takes him a touch longer than he'd like to realize you're talking about him. "Oh." He licks his lips and sure enough—"Guess you're, ah, right."
You trace a finger along the curve of his lower lip. "Mm...should probably grab a breath mint before heading over to the hospital, huh?"
The hospital?
A beat.
Realization dawns; it's Thursday.
It's Thursday. Mary's expecting him. Mary's expecting him and he reeks of sex and tastes of your cunt.
"Kinda inconvenient, huh?" Your arms twine around his neck, faux sympathy clear as day in your voice. "Guess you're gonna have to reschedule."
A second realization, creeping up the back of his neck like a phantom hand.
"You..." he swallows, feels like he's going to be sick, "you knew. You did this on purpose."
You shrug. "Maybe."
He should push you away. He wants to push you away. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—
But he doesn't. Instead, he just watches as you leave. Lets you go without so much as a protest or complaint. Lets you blow him a kiss before shutting the door behind you.
Then he's left alone, nothing but ungraded papers and cold tea to keep him company. Back where he'd started, back where he fears he will never leave.
thank you so much for reading! plssss send your feedback n thoughts here bc i have!! so many feelings and opinions abt this au i need let them out!!
being crossed is kind of like sex pollen. when you get too high megumi gets flashbacks to the time he had to take care of you after a curse struck you with a sex technique. he's soooo mean to you, scolding you about alcohol and drugs, punishing you about it with his cock rough and fast inside you even though he's secretly so pleased. he's tormenting you with empty words because he Loves when his baby is out of their mind and pliant and taking everything he gives them. but he'll play up being mean because he knows you're a little dumb and vulnerable, you'll cry and listen to him and get even wetter than you usually do.
𔓎 SUMMARY;
— ghost stories are meant to scare, they're meant to invite fear and wariness. choso has no interest in being that kind of ghost, though — all he wants is to strip you of pretense, to help you lay bare every desire you try to hide.
𔓎 WARNINGS; — mdni; please mind the content warning!
— dubcon; coercion; manipulation; monsterfucking (ghost); oral (f!receiving), fingering; p in v, reality manipulation; body manipulation (his); half-corruption kink (lightly); haunting (obviously); implied consumption
if i have forgotten a content tag, please let me know.
𔓎 WORD COUNT;
— 6167.
𔓎 AUTHOR'S NOTE;
— this is probably the weirdest fic i've written so far, and also the first time i'm posting anything dark fiction on here. if any of this triggers you, do NOT read it. i will have tagged this fic with content warning, so it will be your own responsibility to make sure you are not affected by anything on your time on the internet.
i honestly think this could have been better, but i'm just eager to stop working on it and think about it. that being said — have fun for whoever does want to read it!
a huge, huge, huge thank you to @/prettyiwa, @/tyga-lily and @/sodaneko for enduring my crashouts over this!
You hadn't meant to call the ghost in your house.
It was a careless thought, a half-formed wish at the ever-growing slick between your thighs, but from one second to the next, your chair tipped back slightly and the shadowed impressions of his knees appeared on the floor.
Choso was a very curious ghost, incredibly so — he lingered in the corners of your vision, the margins of your thoughts, the edges of your bed, the crack between your thighs.
At first, you were nothing to him, just somebody who wandered into his space, too warm for a cold house. It didn't feel strange when you first moved in; it was quiet, and you liked the quiet, you liked the peacefulness, even if the silence sometimes felt like there was weight in its atoms, like there was the faint weight of a gaze when you were in bed.
But then it started as little things that you thought were just a product of imagination: the shower steam would wind in strange ways sometimes, not rise the way hot air liked to escape, but rather towards you; tendrils that stretched and wanted. But who were you to question physics?
Patterns had a way to find you, though; the bathroom mirror would fog just enough for fingertips to appear having danced across it, despite being sure you hadn't touched it. The bedroom door would ease itself open when you were sure you had shut it.
Once, whilst reading, you had felt it — the tiniest flutter beneath your skin when the story turned heated, when its words set your cheeks aflame, and just then, the lamp flickered, and the room started to feel heavier when you touched yourself.
As curious as Choso was, he was demandingly greedy, too. The little things moved on from their subtlety: a brush of air that made your skin prickle when there were no windows and no draft, when there was the faintest press of something wet at the nape of your neck during the summer heat. You had lifted your hair, glanced around, fingers touching your skin only to find nothing there.
It could have been a coincidence, it could have been your imagination — maybe one of those quirks of living alone that creep up on somebody, a flicker of something unexplainable. So you tried to ignore it, tried to rationalise it.
But every time your pulse quickened, when your thoughts went someplace you didn't want to admit to anyone, you could swear that something in your surroundings changed. As if the air became so much more saturated with water, like there was something heavy dripping, like you felt somebody's breath, close, so very close, standing right behind you.
With that, it became more deliberate, stronger.
A phantom brush of air curling up around your thighs, a slick warmth against your lips when no one should have been there — the sudden impression of wetness on your panties that felt wholly foreign to your own arousal. Reaching for a glass in the kitchen, there would be a fleeting press at your slit, thick and heavy, making your breath hitch, drawing blood with the press of your teeth against your lips to keep from releasing a whimper.
Maybe you should have said something then. Maybe you should have gotten an exorcist, maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe then, he would not have lingered with you in the shower, unseen but tangible, the way a tongue lapped at your nipples, the way invisible fingers parted your folds and swiped the tip of them against your clit as you washed up.
Maybe then he would not have dragged the echo of your own wetness across your lips.
So when the call slipped from you, careless and unconscious, a thought born of unbearable frustration, Choso almost manifested in front of you; like calling him gave him a shape to imitate, like inviting him into your space fully gave him permission.
His hands rested in his lap, and you don't know what you had expected, only that the ghost in your home had never been more than a flicker at the edge of a vision. He had the kind of beauty that ached to look at, sorrowful and noble, like a statue carved to mourn. Pale face, almost porcelain with how sharp his cheekbones seemed to sit, with eyes so soft and heavy; dark marks that marred his face like a memory of how he died.
He was stunning, you registered with a dry throat, and terrible.
You stared, drinking in the fullness of his form, slightly flickering, slightly dissolving in something akin to ectoplasm at his feet. His hands were not solid as much as pressure, a suggestion as his hands braced on your thighs, sliding to the inside to spread them.
"Wha—"
Choso's gaze, the one you knew only as a whisper to your senses, burned into yours now with the hollow desperation of a starving man. It was like his translucence crept up on you, the way the heat spiked through you in retaliation, pooling heavy between your legs as it lost its privacy.
It belonged into the space between you both, and he tasted it in the air, wore it well in the way his lips parted greedily. Choso didn't just see you— actually, had been seeing you for months now, but he knew every angle of your body, too, knew every flicker of heat, every secret fold, every squeeze of your legs shut.
It was without your control that they opened again.
A cool touch slithered in between your thighs, prying at the seam of your thighs, his voice a whisper on itself that seemed to press against the inside of your skull as much as it touched your ears, deep in its baritone. Every word lingered, curled around your thoughts, brushed against the ache blooming low in your belly, making it impossible to tell where he ended and the sensation began.
You don't want to hide from me. You never have before, why would you now?
By the time you realised the nudging of his will onto yours, your legs had loosened already, spread wide, so very shamefully pliant under his touch. Choso's own knees pushed against the floor with an impermeability, dark eyes greedy, eyebrows furrowed with a century long denial — carved into him, those decades of being unseen, of being untouched, of being condemned to watch without ever having.
And he did watch; silently, reverently, and now here you were, soft and warm and living whilst every instinct screamed that to not heed your call was a cruelty he could no longer endure. Choso was no thief; he responded to summons, the answer to a starvation that he hadn't been allowed to sate for years.
What was restraint when desire had been festering in him for so long it had become a part of his very existence?
So his mouth lowered toward the slick heat between your open legs. It didn't even feel like a wet touch at first; the drag of his tongue like coldness that warmed you up before he sank down completely, and then it was physical, the way his lips and tongue were so greedy, a last meal that he was intent on devouring, pressing in as though he wanted to consume every drop.
Your hips jolted and you felt it in your throat, the shocked cry that wanted to come out, but he held you down, his hands phasing in and out of existence at your knees.
Choso licked you like that was his only purpose, like no other thought existed for him, every shiver of his tongue translating into every twitch of your cunt; tight spirals on your clit, then the broad flattening through your folds, swallowing every sound you made.
His voice was not spoken; instead, it existed around you and within you, creeping through your body until it curled around your ears, deep and resonant, vibrating through your core though his mouth never parted from you, You can continue pretending if it makes you feel better.
The words struck you in ways you didn't want to, in ways you hadn't expected to be called out for — not by the ghost that haunted you, and your palms shot forward, desperate to push him back, to do something. But the instant your hands should have sunk against his chest, they found nothing solid.
With a shimmer, almost a trick of light, your fingers passed straight through his body. He had let himself go insubstantial, untouchable, except for the fact that he was still touching you—
Between your thighs, tongue thick and hot and relentless, drawing gasps from you, and then—
A slip of something incredibly cold. It parted you, slid between your folds into you without resistance, as if your body didn't get a choice of whether to let his fingers in. There was barely any stretch, no friction, just this aching sensation of suddenly being full, like Choso had bypassed this barrier so easily.
You cried out, the sound strangled, legs trembling against the command of his hands holding you wide.
He stroked you like he had been inside you a hundred times before, tongue latching onto your clit at the same time as two of his phantom fingers hooked forward, pressing up against the spot that made your whole body clench and betray you.
"I-I'm not—" your breath hitched, panic cutting through the haze of heat, "I-I never pretend—"
Choso's eyes drilled into you, heavy and glazed, his answer sliding through your bones, wrapping around your lungs until you could barely breathe, fingers spreading you open deliberately, Never?
Do you think it's necessary to press your cunt against the kitchen counter to reach for that high glass, when there was another one right in front of you?
Your breath broke into shards at the pull of Choso's tongue, wet smacks and sloppy squelches filling the air as he drew you closer, sank his fingers into you more, a sudden shocking stretch as they curled against that spot within your quivering walls.
When you ride the edge of the bathtub, reading the words I write onto the mirror for you, you pretend still?
Was it him that pressed heavy all around you? That pulled heat and saturated the air with need?
It was maddening, thrilling and a little terrifying: a mix of dread and want that twisted heavy inside you with every devouring touch that wrapped around your thighs. You had never truly been alone — not with the way the press of his tongue mapped out your folds, slick warmth coating you as it slipped right through you, as if its wetness soaked right into your nerves.
And it was without surprise that the pleasure built like a hum, that the pulse beating between your legs grew stronger, body betraying you as it arched up into Choso's mouth. Thighs clamping around his head, shaking, it was a futile attempt to push him off, but it didn't matter for he was inside you, anyway.
Maybe you don't pretend, his voice dark and cold, almost soothing to the hot burning of his words, but you ache. For me. When you rut against your sheets, it's me you're calling. Why else would I be here?
Your spine bowed off the chair as he sucked at your clit, hard, fingers pumping until the pressure burst and damp warmth clung to your skin, spilling messy as it dripped through his hand, faint splatter on the ground.
Legs quivering with aftershocks, Choso's mouth finally stilled against you, and it was with trembling hands that you reached down to try and cup your pussy from him, to shield yourself only to pass straight through his hand.
What curious sight, what curious feeling — the way your skin felt so warm and alive against your mound, pressed against the throbbing slickness of your lips, and the way that did nothing. His fingers, flickering in and out of sight, still moved inside you, through you, languidly, like there was no cover at all.
The way you still felt every unhurried curl, the obscene sensation of something cool and claiming you, and your breath stuttered, half a sob, half a moan, because what defence did you have when you could see your hand trying to protect you, trembling and useless?
It was inevitable, it was unbearable, it was—
Your thighs shuddered open further, and his voice coiled around you, soft and pleased, and if you didn't know he was not alive anymore, there might have been something akin to a glimmer in his eyes, Look at you, fighting me with one hand and begging me with the rest of you.
The second time you gushed around his fingers and the press of his slippery tongue on your clit, it struck you without warning once more. You felt him everywhere you had ever imagined, everywhere your body had ever called for him, every click fold and every secret tremble. Swallowing around another whimper, you dared look at him again, and for a dizzying second, your senses cleared, faltering.
That mournful beauty of Choso's flickered. His eyes, holding such deep desperation to remain, had hollowness clawing at them, and his dark hair shifted slightly as if brushed by wind that did not exist. With the ebbing of your orgasm, he had been disappearing — not completely, but his form was shimmering, edges blurring.
A harsh exhale left you, one that almost turned into horrible laughter if it hadn't been for the bite of your tongue, "You— you're slipping, but you're not leaving. W-Why are you not leaving?"
Choso's eyes snapped up to yours, and a low hum shuddered through the air, a vibration that you felt more than you heard, and his fading fingers flexed deep inside you like a reminder.
"You've always left—"
The words broke apart on your lips. It wasn't defiance in his eyes that you saw, not stubbornness to prove you wrong, no, he looked like he was straining, like every last threat of him was fighting just to stay connected to you.
He couldn't leave. Why not?
Your mind latched onto the question, desperate for an answer that wouldn't claw at your ribs. Fingers still hooked deep inside you, he was the one who refused to let go — that had to mean something, that had to mean you weren't the only one unravelling.
"You like this too much," you breathed out, barely audible. Your hips tilted; a small, deliberate grind against his hand, seeking confirmation, trying to test something, anything. "Don't you?"
And just like clockwork, his form solidified, his mouth — oh god, his mouth — shimmering briefly before pressing wet and cool against your clit again. Shame burned deeply within you at the realisation, but alongside it a reckless need. A confidence you rarely felt, if only now because you understood; this feral and grasping need to survive by using what little you had.
You choked on a cry, "A-all…this time—"
"…watching me…" — His fingers twitched inside you; an involuntary spasm, like he couldn't help himself.
"…touching me…" — This time on purpose, curling, dragging against that tender spot withing your walls.
"…starving for me." — They drove deeper and you could swear you almost felt him in your throat, as though his need was burrowing through you, trying to hinder you from speaking.
"All this ti-hime," you gasped, and your hips ground down, tethering him, a lifeline, "lurking, hah, jerking off to me whilst I slept—"
His body ceased being a silhouette, no longer just belonging to the darkness. When the air fractured around him, the light bending oddly and the temperature dropping, shadows slowly peeled off Choso, like the room was leaving him surrendered to you, leaving him there, there, body trying to knit itself together under your words.
"Like a dog at the door," you hissed, shaking, though you didn't know if from fear or the wild satisfaction curling hot in your gut, the words pulled from some raw, unguarded place inside you, "Is this all you can manage? J-Just a ghost in my, ngh, cunt?"
Choso stilled for the barest second, before he suddenly surged forward, more solid than he had been before, like your accusation had yanked him fully into this world. Your pulse spiked. The moment his focus narrowed, the moment his body lunged to cage you, your hand shot out to his wrist — solid now, incredibly so — and you shoved, nails biting into the flesh that hadn't existed minutes ago.
His fingers slipped free from you with a wet, obscene pop, and your legs almost buckled from the effort, heat receding as adrenaline rose. Choso halted in his movements, chest rising like he wanted to snarl, but no sound came, and his form stuttered and flickered in response, sheer furious desire unspent.
Your teeth sank into your lip as you half-stumbled out of the chair and away from him, bare feet slapping against the floor, trembling muscles screaming with restless urgency. The orgasm he had almost pulled from you moment ago hung incomplete, ripped away before it could bloom.
Blood pounded in your ears, a rush that drowned out all other sound, skin tingling from the traces and whispers of his touch, until you escaped to another room and slammed the door shut. No noise, except your heavy breathing. No vibration in the air, no pressure that engulfed you, nothing.
He wasn't following.
The house was empty and still, like nothing had ever been there at all, the space dimply lit, silence pressing in, and for a second you just breathed, lungs burning like you had sprinted for miles instead of across a few rooms. Your skin prickled with cooling sweat, the remnants of arousal still slick between your thighs.
Pressing the heel of your hand to your chest, you tried to steady the gallop of your heart beneath it, and a rasp escaped you in the empty room, "Coward."
You knew Choso heard you, though walls or doors were not a hindrance to him, not when he heard you through that tether that still vibrated in your lower stomach and in between your thighs, a pulse as invisible and intimate as his breath on the back of your neck.
He didn't answer, but the lamplight on your dresser flickered once, so subtle and faint you might have imagined it, and the thought of him in the dark somewhere, having gone back to an incorporeal state — in between your walls, beautiful and terrible, smiling faintly at your challenge — had your heart fluttering.
The silence stretched, and your breath calmed. You could almost convince yourself you had imagined having came on Choso's tongue, that he left you alone now, when the air shifted at last.
It wasn't noticeable, just the slightest weight settling against your skin until it grew thick, humid, your skin growing slick with how heavy it clung to you, and the half-filled glass on your desk toppled over, liquid dripping off the counter, slow and thick.
"You're pathetic," you whispered, and your mirror fogged up in response, very slow, crawling in from the sides until the glass was a pale blur.
And then, against that haze, broad at the base and growing narrower, he pressed himself with deliberate weight. The outline of his cock dragged upward along the glass as if he were grinding against the barrier, leaving a streak in the fog with every slow thrust.
His voice, seemingly everywhere and nowhere, curled through you like smoke, heavy and deliberate, Pathetic? Curious. Is that why you spread for anything that presses you hard enough?
The pressure on the mirror increased, and flushed against the foggy surface was a chest, the imprint of a big hand, fingers flexing, condensation droplets running down the mirror length.
"I don't—" you bit out, and your stomach flipped violently, heat surging, "I don't spread for you—"
Don't lie, the silhouette of him pushed closer until you swore you could feel it, You've been spreading for me for months.
His outline jerked once, hard and needy, before vanishing, leaving behind the fog and your reflection staring back at you. Ignoring his obvious taunt, forced your lips into something resembling a smile, your pulse thundering beneath your skin.
"Maybe," you whispered, and the light flickered again, "but it doesn't change a single thing, does it? No matter how much you wanna hump my mirror—"
Your bed frame gave a long, slow squeal, as if something heavy and relentless had just mounted it, and you spoke over it, "—you can't touch me. Not unless—"
Like a tantrum, he created sounds to reflect his whims; wet, rhythmic and obscene. The springs of your mattress started squeaking a steady, brutal rhythm, paired with low and guttural grunts. The whisper of your name, soft and coaxing, so impossibly close and just out of reach, as Choso mimicked the sounds of your own desire, the wet squelching he knew of your cunt, making you listen as he allowed the whole room to fuck around you, for you, because of you.
Your knees knocked together, breath coming fast again. Your wanted to hold still, to not give him what he wanted, but then the headboard slammed once, violently, as if somebody had driven hips into hips — you flinched so hard, you nearly moaned.
Should I let you listen to what I'm going to do to you?
The bed groaned harder, louder, wet noises intensifying until you couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, and he wouldn't stop, not when you pressed yourself deeper into the corner of the room, trying to anchor yourself to keep him out.
But what were you to do when your phone lit up on the nightstand? When your own voice spilled from it, breathless and broken, a perfect recording of your moans from earlier that you knew you didn't take, looping back at you with a clarity that had your cheeks set aflame?
Look at you, Choso's voice threaded through the playback, low and almost velvet, winding straight into your skull, This is what I hear and see when I watch you. Every night.
The air grew damp, suffocating, and the reflection in the mirror across the room flickered, once and twice, before it warped.
In it, you weren't pressed up against the corner anymore, you were on the bed, shaking legs spread wide to fit a shadowed body between them, bending over you, mouth on your throat.
Let me in, the mirror-version of him whispered against the image of your skin, his tongue dragging languidly up the hollow of your throat, leaving a trail of spit. When Choso's gaze lifted up, there was devotion in the dark of his eyes, feverish and unholy, looking right at you, You're already halfway there.
The you in the mirror arched of the bed, a shameless mimicry you hadn't given it permission for, and—
Your pulse stuttered against your will, and he felt it. He felt the tug of every little secret ache you tried to ignore, a magnetic pull as every pulse was mirrored back to you. The image dissolved, and the next second, long and pale fingers pierced first through the glass of the mirror like water.
Then a hand, veins dark like ink under his translucent skin, and the other followed, bracing against the frame as he began to pull himself through, inch by goddamn inch.
Not unless what?
At the reminder, you turned around to bolt through the door into another room, when suddenly all noise cut and your furniture came to a still, only for the only thing to hinder you, so incredibly loud in the sudden silence, to be the turn of the lock.
Barely any time to realise that when you tried to turn the door knob, it didn't budge. It wouldn't budge, why wouldn't it—
Choso's chest pressed flush to your back within an instant, the cold of him bleeding through your heated skin. His breath left gooseflesh in its wake, ghosting your ear as his arms caged you in place. Even when you tried to pull away, tried to meet the door to put some space between you and the phantom at your back, he followed you so very easily.
His hands, as terrifyingly solid as before, closed over the flesh of your hip with a strength that was inhumane, bruising.
Even as you breathed, it only left the wood beneath your mouth damp, and the room seemed to shrink until it was only him at your back, the iron band of his arms around you, the deep cold of his chest, something incredibly hard against your ass.
Even as you fought — or tried to, clawed at the hands holding you, kicked weakly, gasped out to let you go, he was not budging. Solid and immovable.
I've been so careful with you, Choso whispered, his voice fraying, the faintest echo of it in your mind, coaxing you to relax, I could have split you open a hundred times over. I could have owned you in every corner of this house. And I didn't. I waited.
A shiver ran through you, and you hadn't thought that ghosts could have a scent, you didn't think that Choso would, but there you smelt it — the air was heavy with the scent of wet stone and crushed leaves, and beneath it, a subtle musk, thick and intimate, pressed against your mind as if it were a part of him.
Your stomach tightened, a flutter between your thighs, a shiver running down your spine as his own manifested legs kicked yours open. Every rise and fall of him throbbed against your shoulder blades, the tense contour of him, yet at the same time, it was fleeting, like your nerves were trying to trace the outline of smoke.
It was vexing, the way he could switch between cold and warm and the way it seeped through you.
"And?" the wood tasted faint and earthy, muffled voice soft, almost tender, cooing, "So what if you did? No one asked you to, Choso."
The air behind you turned sharper, cold enough to sting as his breath brushed your ear.
No one asked me?
Low and incredulous, almost laughing, though no humour to be found, You think this—
A ghost touch flattened over your lower belly, something akin to fingers digging into your flesh, —isn't asking? Every night you ache for something you can't name, and you think it isn't me?
The door rattled violently once, as if struck from the other side, Why don't you say it again? Say that you don't want me here?
His mouth, real now, brushed your temple, your cheek, the line of your jaw as his fingers travelled down south, tender and possessive in a way that made it clear to you that he had memorised every curve and every hollow of your body, that he claimed them as his own without asking, reverent and all-consuming.
Your lips curled, breath trembling, "I don't. You're not even real, nothing but a trick of— of my body, some weird parasite that I can just get rid of whenever."
Heavy breathing against the shell of your ear and you watched the hand next to your door waver, a violent shimmer.
"That— that terrifies you, huh?" you pressed, daring to tilt your head just the slightest to catch his gaze. They were trained on you; a feverish hunger, swallowed up by his black irises. There was no blinking in the same way a human would, no faltering, just want that pinned you in pace, "That I can end you just by…closing my legs?"
Is that a challenge?
A low growl vibrated around you, and the shadow of him pushed closer, heavy, You think you can taunt me with restraint?
The pressure against your ass grew harder, more solid, aligned with your words as he ground against you, and like a murmur, Choso's voice licked your skin, Try closing them now. See how impossible it really is.
You didn't want to play his little games, yet you found your thighs trying to press shut, as hard as you could, a feeble attempt at control — but he didn't care. He existed still against you, molding against your flesh, and his cock slid against the slick seam of your thighs, nestling there as if claiming the space you had desperately tried to guard.
Your teeth sank into your lower lip, embarrassment getting comfortable sitting in your cheeks, and you tried again: pushing, clamping down, curling, your breath getting heavier with exertion, but Choso refused to falter.
Mirroring your movement, grinding closer, his weight a force you couldn't resist, as painfully tangible as it was only a suggestion. He was plastered against your back, a wet tongue against your pulse, and it was so terrifying, it was so intoxicating — an invasion that left your body shivering.
Why do you try still? Why don't you let go? His voice vibrated around you, soft and tender, almost pitiful, brushing against your nipples, tasting the sweat on your abdomen, collecting beads of your heat, You can. You can let me take you. Look at you, already allowing me in.
You did; each movement pushed him deeper, warmth spreading through your cunt despite the cold, body responding whether you willed it or not, and even as panic brushed at the edges of your mind, at the thought of opening up—
and you did; thick as he slid at your entrance, quivering, his tip pressing past the ring, willing, so willing as a sharp stretch bloomed through you. Your eyes fluttered shut. It was a strange mix, full and so impossible as he slid inch by inch, stretching you wider than you expected, filling you so deeply, you couldn't help the cry slipping past your restraints. You felt it in your pussy, in your spine, in your chest like a brand.
Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. You were aware of every sliver of skin, of how he could slip, how he could glide into the spaces you thought were yours alone. Opening you up with an obscene squelch, knee holding yours to the side, you tasted iron, teeth having found your tongue to bite into.
Your hand slammed against the door in a way to support yourself, and his own hand, transparent having turned solid gripped your fingers, caressed your knuckles, held it in a tender grip even as his hips met your ass, Won't you trust me? I'll take from you exactly how much you need me to.
There was no rhythm, no reprieve as your walls clamped down with a spasm, clenching tight around him, thick and aching. Every stroke was too much as he pulsed, thrusting and withdrawing, sending sparks up your spine. Your breath hitched with every movement, hips rolling back into him instinctively, chasing the friction that made your knees weak and breath stutter, moans spilling out despite yourself.
But what were you to do when he could layer a phantom tongue over your clit? What were you to do when you tried to writhe away from his lapping, from his cock dragging against your pussy, from him reaching deeper in you than your body should allow, only for him to anchor you in place, holding you down whilst the thrusts grew faster, heavier?
When your body was an echo of his hunger, when he worshipped and desecrated you in the same breath?
I'm yours if you let me, your muscles seized up under the onslaught, voice breaking into raw cries as it ripped through you again, I'll keep you save. You'll let me in, every part of you, and I'll make it worth every second.
"Ohhh—" your voice cracked, cunt clenching as if on command, trying to milk him, every spasm wringing more pleasure out of your own body until you were sobbing, begging for mercy that never came.
He fucked you harder for it, faster, until you couldn't tell whether those were your moans, or low groans tearing from him; whether the shivers wracking your body were yours, or the tremors rolling down his spine; whether the heat pooling low and tight belonged to you, or radiated from him in waves that left you dizzy and trembling.
Every gasp, every cry, every pulse of pleasure felt shared, tangled, indistinguishable — and when he withdrew and surged inside, it was as if your pussy walls moulded tighter to him, like you were made to hold him.
"I can-han't take…more—"
The stretch was obscene already, and you were full, so full, when something inside you shifted — no, split.
A sharp inhale tore out of you, and it was instantly that your legs tried to close, to squeeze down and fight it. Choso's fingers curled around your sweaty ones, arms caging you in, knee forcing your legs apart again.
Shhh, you wanted all of me, didn't you?
The weight inside you thickened and thickened, stroking different angles of your quivering inner walls, and your whole body tried to lurch as the stretch turned unbearable, slick heat spilling down your thighs as you sobbed through it. Broken little gasps fell from your lips. He filled you past the point of sense, pressing your most tender spots with relentless hunger. It was too much, it should have been impossible — and yet. Yet your walls clenched and squeezed around him, desperate for every inch.
Your body can take more. I can make it take more.
You believed him.
Touching you with the certainty of someone who had handled your body more times than you could count, you believed him.
Clenching helplessly around Choso's touch, waves kept wracking you, and with every pulse you felt something being drawn out of you, like he was drinking the every peak of it straight into himself, dragging it out of you like a confession wrung from someone's throat.
Don't you feel how empty you've been? How I'm the only one who could ever fill you?
It was inevitable, not a choice, and in that surrender, in the trembling, he claimed the space between you both.
Let me have you. All of you. Every last part.
Shaking, you were — from the rolling of his hips, the thickness of his cock, the phantom lapping of his tongue on your clit, your nipples, your mouth, everywhere at once, folding you in on yourself, and from his words.
Were you the one reaching? Risking? Were you the one guilty of need, when it was him deciding and him choosing, taking from you all that you could offer?
His breath — was it cold anymore? Hot? His body solid and unyielding behind yours, his tongue leaving behind a burning trail and when your head tipped back against his shoulder, a realisation burned through you like fever.
You didn't have to confess to anything, didn't have to admit to anything, no explanations.
None for the nights you had parted your robe before the mirror; none for the ache you felt for months, for years, too ashamed to speak it into existence; none for the guilt of your own hunger you carried around.
You see it now, you don't have to beg. You don't have to pretend. I'll want enough for the both of us.
Your legs went weak under the weight of his words, under the ruthless stretch that seemed to spear right through your shame and lodge in some soft, untouched part of you. It rushed through your chest in a sudden, dizzying wave — like something finally broke loose, leaving your chest tight and your throat tight. Relief clawed up alongside it, sharp and overwhelming, and it never felt sweeter, never felt more inevitable.
I've taken them — every thought you try to bury, every ache you want to swallow, every filthy wish you're too scared to express. They're mine now.
A chill swept through you, biting and disorienting, leaving your skin burning in its absence. Your lips parted, trying to deny him, to say you're wrong, but nothing came out— because wasn't this what you wanted? To not have to hold it alone?
Choso's hips slowed down, a soft press of his hips to yours, mouth trailing your nape like a lover, and his fingers, unbearably real, squeezed around your hand, thumb swiping over your knuckles, Do you feel it? I've devoured it all. I'll keep taking it, again and again until—
"—there's nothing left of you but pleasure, and me."
Your breath hitched, and there was cold and heat, a strange duality; one moment like kissing a winter storm, the next like molten iron searing through your veins. You wished you could kiss him — what would he feel like under your hands? Would he feel like carved marble? Would his jaw be solid underneath your fingertips?
Would he kiss you with a terrible, wonderful patience?
"Do you want that?" Choso asked softly, almost tender, "To disappear into me?"
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WIP Wednesday, back at it again with the Alpha Price x Hunted Omega Reader oneshot:
“These pups don’t know their knot from their arse.” Price comments, and for that you almost crack a smile. “Pretty young omega like you needs an alpha who knows what he’s doing. Someone who can provide, protect.”
“What, someone like you?” You ask sardonically, turning back to look at him, and blinking in startled realization at just how close Price has suddenly gotten, stepping into your space with his hands loose at his sides, staring at you from under his brow with an intensity that feels almost bruising.
“Exactly like me.”
Deep down, there’s something that flutters inside you at that- instinctive hindbrain purring at the prospect of a capable, experienced mate offering himself up to you. For a moment you’re awash with the vision of Price working you open on his fingers as he presses you into his bed, coaxing endless slick out of your waiting, fluttering hole as you beg him to mount you. Husky, rasping murmurs of praise float through your mind unbidden, and you almost feel the urge to turn your neck up for his waiting fangs, offering it in a slow, trusting sign of submission.
“Noticed you the first time you went into heat, bunny.” Price murmurs, low and dulcet like velvet brushing against your mind. “Caught you by surprise over by the grocery, didn’t it? Needed a friend to help you back to your place- she asked me to follow to make sure there weren’t any suitors trying to take advantage of you.”
“I-” You try, mouth gaping, trying to remember past the feverish memories of your first heat.
“Sat outside for days, making sure no one got close. Parked my car right across the street, and it still wasn’t far enough to escape the scent of you, sweetheart.”
You remember the car outside, remember that no one came to your door to check on you, scared off by something lurking, waiting.
Someone.
“Thought I’d finally settled in my old years, but no. Knotted my hand too many times to count remembering that scent, couldn’t stop thinking about what it’d be like right under my nose.”
He leans in then, taking a long, slow breath as his scent bleeds with satisfaction. You feel pinned to the spot, senses hazy and warm even though the remnants of your logic blare with warning to get away.
“I could take you home.” He offers, lower. “We could skip this nonsense right now, let me bite you so I can take you nice and slow in my bed. Can be a good mate, can give you a good home, you wouldn’t have to lift a finger, bunny. I'd spoil you rotten, take good care of you, knot you every night the way you deserve.”
Price reaches in, fingers stroking with a the barest of touches over your throat as you gaze up at him, wide-eyed, stricken. You’re purring, you realize distantly, over the rush of blood in your ears, the scent of him blanketing you in, the warm clench between your legs. Your throat feels dry, heart racing against your ribs with the speed of a prey animal caught in the jaws of something with sharp teeth.
Are you still prey if you fling yourself into the jaws of a wolf?
yakuza!sae who you've tried to stab more than once, but he's deflected every time. you're with a rival family and he should make an example of you, but instead—he marries you. it effectively stays your hand and serves as a punishment.
it's a cold marriage, a bleak winter's day. your bed stays empty; sae keeps to his own rooms after the initial wedding night. he's aloof. unbothered by your bared teeth.
until the affair.
sae kills your lover with his bare hands.
he's ruthlessly efficient with it; he doesn't even tell you he's done it. that falls to one of your attendants. he waits until you know, and then he goes to you that night.
you're trembling when he enters. you throw yourself at him with something akin to a wail; he grapples you into submission. pins you under him.
when you start to cry, he sighs. he loops an arm under you and pulls you up to sit in his lap, cradling you to him. you're warm against him, your hands fisting in his haori.
"i hate you," you hiccup between sobs.
he cups a hand at the base of your skull. he uses the grip to tilt your face up to his. his teal eyes are sharp; they slip beneath your skin.
"that's fine," he says. "but you're mine."
"i'm—"
"mine."
"you don't even like me," you breathe, confusion painted across your face.
something flashes across his face, too quick for you to identify.
"you're too smart to be this stupid," he tells you.
he kisses you then, hard and possessive. his fingers tighten against you, pull you in closer still. his tongue is hot when it slips into your mouth.
you bite.
sae doesn't even flinch.
when he pulls back, there's a smear of crimson against his lips. he licks at it.
"little animal," he says, but there's almost something fond to it. "i suppose i should have expected that."
you bare your teeth at him. "i'm not yours," you say.
sae reaches down. he lifts your left hand into the air. your wedding ring glints in the low light.
abercaulay is sosososososososo dysfunctional i love them
i don't think it's as clean cut as either how francis frames it in canon or the common fandom interpretation that francis intentionally gets charles drunk to lower his inhibitions enough that he'll sleep with him and is therefore unilaterally at fault. it's something where they're both taking advantage of each other in different ways. francis is willing to provide alcohol to an alcoholic and sleep with someone who's drunk enough that they (claim to) have forgotten by the next morning. and charles, despite this, is willing to repeatedly drink alone with francis and nothing's off between them, which we could extrapolate means he probably does remember their encounters and uses alcohol as a convenient reason to deny his sexuality and/or keep sleeping with francis without having to have a proper conversation (stringing him along, as francis says).
if either of them were good people, they wouldn't have fucked (or at least not more than once). francis is okay with dubcon, charles is okay with emotional manipulation. but fortunately for me (the only real person in this scenario), they both suck, and so i can imagine them in various Situations and Dynamics.
