#flayed!tom

Imagine the Mind Flayer loving to have sex with you, without your knowledge, via Tom Holloway. You have no idea your superior’s body and mind have been invaded. By what an anthropocentric viewpoint would call an abomination, the Flayer mused. It’s time you’ve been brought to his nest.

Once you see what the former steel mill houses, you stare in awe. Tom’s hands grasp your own and lead you towards the monster. His second time becoming acquainted with a tentacle will be much more pleasurable than his first.

Imagine accidentally stumbling on the Mind Flayer just after he’s possessed the Holloways. He thinks you’re pretty cute for a human. Way too cute to infest. You can’t go running off now. Luckily, Billy both knows you and knows about your crush on Heather’s dad. 

Seducing you into a three/some is shockingly easy. 

Imagine dazedly staring up at your boss from the cold hospital floor. Lying in a vulnerable position while Tom Holloway smiled down at you wasn’t an uncommon daydream. 

This isn’t your employer right now.

Hopefully there was a way to remove the parasite implanted by the Mind Flayer. But you needed to get out of this room and find-

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business,” you answered flatly. His jovial smile widened as he watched you start to creep away. 

“It is my business…” He bent down. “You’re my underling, so you should be under me.” Just as you were about to spring to your feet, Tom grabbed you by the ankles. You fell on your hands, fake out failed. The possessed man rested his hips on your back/side, and you felt something squirm between the layers of fabric separating you two. 

Not enough layers, you realized, craning your neck. You hadn’t realized his fly was down. All that separated you from a slick, writhing appendage was your own clothing. To your amazement, you felt a slight wetness pool in your pant/ies. Another tentacle seemed to sense your dismayed curiosity and poked out of his drawers. 

“______.” 

You winced as Tom pressed on your back, forcing your cleav/age against the floor. Tearing your gaze away from his c/r/o/t/c/h, you’re treated to the sight of the Flayed lifting his shirt, exposing tendrils growing from abs. But it’s a couple fingertips that assess your soaked pant/ies.