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jinkieswouldyoulookatthis · 8 months

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Make a Wish

This fic was inspired by The Time Dean was Sam’s Girlfriend by fleshflutter on LiveJournal

This is it! The thing I've been working on writing all year. It's finally done!

Dean and Jessica share a birthday, so what would happen if they both made birthday wishes at the same time that caused them to swap bodies? The inspiration story was fluffy and silly and adorable, but what if things were more explicit? Like, way more explicit?

This is a gender-bending body swap fic were the characters' sexual partners do not know who is actually inhabiting the body they are having sex with, so it's non-con. It's a bit of a dead dove, so if you don't think you'd be okay with the tags, please don't read. If you do read, I hope you enjoy it!

Relationships: Dean/Sam, Sam/Jessica, Jessica/omc

Warnings: Non-Con resulting from body swap situation and characters not making good choices

Read on AO3

Words: 14,476

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 24th, 2004

If anyone had ever tried to tell Dean that he would be spending his 25th birthday alone in some dive bar off the highway somewhere between Bumfuck and Podunk, middle America, he would have said that sounded about right. Especially after the last few years. Being alone had become, more and more, par for the course.

His dad, increasingly absent, which was fucking saying something when you considered John Winchester’s stellar trackrecord in that particular department, had been off on a solo hunt for a week now. Before heading out, he’d tasked Dean with a simple salt ‘n’ burn, a milk run that had taken all of a day and a half to complete. So now Dean was expected to just sit here, in this rest stop that was pretending to be a town, and fucking wait.

Dean hated waiting. Waiting gave you too much time to think, even though he had nothing good to think about, and thinking like that got you into trouble.

It was a Saturday night and, other than Dean, there were only four other people in the bar, three other patrons who all looked to be well into their fifties and the bartender, who was a decently handsome guy, probably did well enough with the ladies, but he had a beard and skinny jeans that gave off hipster vibes that made Dean decide right off the bat that he didn’t particularly like the guy.

He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and flipped it open with his thumb. The screen lit up, his thumb hovered over the button that would pull up his contacts. Once again, Sam hadn’t bothered to call him on his birthday and the urge to give his brother shit about it was strong.

Eight months.

He flipped the phone shut and sat it on the surface of the bar to the right of his beer, and tapped his ring against it twice, the silver making a satisfying clink against the hard plastic. It’d been eight months since they’d spoken.

Dean had called on Sam’s birthday, no answer, so he’d left a message, “Happy Birthday, Bitch. Call sometime, let me know you’re still alive.”

It’d taken almost another month before he’d worked up the nerve, which was almost entirely worry-fueled anger at that point, to call again. It only rang twice.

“Dean?”

Fear that had been slowly choking him from the inside let go all at once, replaced just as suddenly by irritation. “So you are alive.”

“Yeah, sorry I haven’t called you back. I’ve been drowning in finals.”

“Yeah right, you know you aced ‘em.” He could hear Sam smile, without him saying anything, and that should have made things better but it really didn’t. But they’d shot the shit for a bit, conversation light and barely surface deep, a shallow script whose only consolation was the reassurance that Sam was okay, better even, he sounded like he was thriving. A weird lump suddenly formed in Dean’s throat. “Hey, I gotta go, but happy belated.”

“Oh? Okay, thanks.”

“Later. Hey? Pick up the damn phone sometime.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

That had been in June. Neither of them had reached out since. He gave the phone a spin on the heavily varnished wood, set it twirling in place like a top before reaching for his beer. One long pull and it was drained.

“‘Nother one?” The bartender asked as Dean sat the empty bottle down.

“You know what? Fuck it, it’s my birthday, let’s step it up to bourbon.”

“Birthday, huh? And you’re lucky enough to be drinking here?” There was a barely restrained chuckle at the end.

“Yep.” Dean said with a little extra pop at the end of the word.

“Damn.” The bartender said as he turned and selected a bottle, grabbed a glass, and was back pouring two fingers of amber liquid with practiced ease. “This one’s on the house, birthday boy.”

Dean’s face lit up in a genuine, if somewhat rueful smile, “Thanks.”

The bartender nodded and busied himself further down the bar.

Dean slowly swirled the glass a few times. “Yeah.” he said, quietly, “Happy birthday.” Looking down at his phone again, he raised the glass to his lips and took a drink. He closed his eyes as the smokey, thick burn chased a wish for something out of reach down his throat.

A wave of vertigo crashed over him, so sudden and hard that he was glad he’d been sitting down. Even though he’d watched him pour the drink, the idea that maybe the bartender had drugged him suddenly seemed like a very real possibility.

Wait, why did he smell candle smoke? Shit, was he having a stroke or something?

He opened his eyes and had to grab onto the edge of the table to steady himself as his legs threatened to give out. Bar and barstool were gone, replaced with a house and a small dining table. The room he was now in was full of people looking at him with bright smiles, who all started clapping and cheering as soon as he opened his eyes. Smoke curled up from a forest of little, thin candles sticking out of a flowery cake on the table right in front of him that had, “Happy Birthday, Jessica!” written on it in fancy, blue, cursive icing.

There was a flurry of movement to his left and a pair of pretty brunettes started cutting into the cake and passing slices around. Everyone was smiling and laughing and acting incredibly… normal, like nothing weird had just happened.

Something moved way too close to Dean’s face and he flinched and tried to swat it away. As he touched it, he froze, eyes fixed on his fingers and the lock of long, wavy, blonde hair that tugged on his scalp as he tried to get it away from him. Long blonde hair that was being held not by his own fingers but by delicate, slender, fingers with nails painted pale pink, all glossy and graceful and… soft.

To say it was disconcerting would have been the understatement of all time. He was looking at a hand that was very obviously not his own, but that moved and felt as if it were. He gave another tug to the lock of hair, harder this time, and although it didn’t exactly hurt, it was definitely attached to his head, not a wig or anything like that. He brushed it back and confirmed he now had a full head of hair that came down way past his shoulders.

Chick hands, chick hair… his eyes went wide and he looked down his chest and stared right into cleavage.

He had tits!?

“Oh fuck.” he said in a chick’s voice.

“Hey?” A warm touch to his upper arm caused Dean to turn and look right into the throat of a massive guy standing behind him. Tilting his head back to look up he was met with bright eyes and a dimpled smile that he knew better than his own reflection.

“Sam?”

“Happy Birthday, Jess.” That smile, still sweet but with a gleam, a glint that Dean hadn’t seen since they were both teenagers. One of Sam’s hands came up, jesus he had big hands, and gently brushed along Dean’s jawline, thumb sweeping his cheek as long fingers slipped into his hair behind his ear. Sam’s gaze held Dean’s focus as he leaned down.

Had Sam gotten even taller?

Everything was moving in slow motion, Dean couldn’t feel his heart beating, wasn’t breathing, but his mind was spinning, scrambling to sort through way too much information, too much change, just too much, way too fast. So perhaps it was understandable that he didn’t react in time to pull back.

Just a fleeting, Oh fuck, before their lips met and Dean’s heart leapt into action like he’d been shocked awake. Sam was warm and familiar, but the way he pressed and pulled at Dean’s bottom lip, just a promising hint of more, made a small noise escape Dean’s throat that didn’t sound at all like disgust, like it should have.

Someone wolf whistled loudly nearby, eliciting another round of clapping and cheers from the crowd and Sam pulled back, twin spots of red blazing on his cheeks. He laughed in a way that Dean hadn’t seen in ages, playful and easy and open, as he glanced around at these people who were obviously his friends. A spark of something anxious twisted up in his chest. Dean blinked a few times, licked his lips, and swallowed, winded like he’d just sprinted up a hill too fast.

“Get it, Winchester!” a guy hooted from somewhere behind Dean.

“That’s real mature, Brady.” Sam said, his hand sliding down Dean’s shoulder and the back of his arm, coming to rest low on his back, fingertips brushing against the strip of bare skin between his top and skirt. The skirt thing was weird… drafty, but the warm press of Sam’s fingers sent little static sparks through him and a blush heated his cheeks, spread down his chest, and he was once again very aware of the fact that he currently had boobs… and a pussy instead of a dick.

This was bad, his mind raced like a cartoon character running in place before his thoughts finally caught traction with the ground and lunged forward. He wasn’t him, wasn’t in his own body. He was somehow in the body of Sam’s girlfriend?

Of all the bodies in all the world, I had to end up in this one?

But Sam hadn’t kissed him, he’d kissed his girlfriend, who’s birthday just happened to be the same as Dean’s? Which was… okay, yeah, that was weird as fuck. But she’d obviously just blown out the candles on her cake, which would have been the same time that he’d had swallowed down his own wishful thoughts.

Shit. He swallowed again. Shit, shit, shit.

“I, uh,” he cleared his throat, “I’ll be right back.” He said, trying not to show how unsettled he was at sounding like a chick, reminding himself that he looked like a chick, sort of was one right now. He took a breath, and told himself to play it calm and poker face the situation.

“You okay?” Sam asked, his eyes squinting slightly the way they did when he was concerned, or getting suspicious, his thumb rubbing against Dean’s skin, sending those sparks flying all through him again.

Oh, so not good. This is bad.

“Yeah, good, I just need to go to the bathroom.” Dean smiled as he felt for pockets in the clothes he was wearing, but found none. Where would she keep her cellphone? “Did you see where I put my purse?”

“Yeah, it’s right over there.” Sam looked at an end table by the sofa in the adjoining room.

“Thanks!” Dean said as he broke away from Sam and grabbed the purse.

Taking stock of his surroundings, it looked like they were in a two-story house. It was a little worn and run down, but decorated in a way that practically screamed college kids lived here. Probably a rental near campus, it had that vibe. It was also older, which meant that the bathroom was likely upstairs. He unzipped the purse as he went up the stairs, and thanked whatever luck he had that there was a little flip phone tucked inside. He found the bathroom and was punching in his number as he closed the door.

~~~

“Happy Birthday, tooooooo, yooooouuuuuuuuu!!!!”

Jessica thought of a wish and blew out the candles on her cake, then blinked and started coughing at a sudden burning in her throat. She must have inhaled the candle smoke. While her eyes were closed the room gave a lurch and she was suddenly sitting down.

A loud solid thunk made her flinch as she opened her eyes. Dark amber liquid sloshed in a thick bottomed glass that had just dropped onto a heavily varnished wood bartop a few inches below an outstretched man’s hand in front of her. Whiskey and the lingering, stale ashtray smell of old cigarette smoke hit her all at once. Looking quickly to her right, to see who had dropped the glass, she found that the man's arm that was connected to the hand that’d dropped the glass, was attached to her?

“What the…?” The voice that came out was not hers. It wasn’t even close. It was a man’s voice, with a timbre that resonated deep in her chest. She covered her mouth with her hand but then immediately jerked her hand away at the feel of a man’s fingers touching her lips and the feel of scratchy stubble against her fingertips. Her mouth tasted like whiskey, that’s what was burning in her throat, like she’d just taken a drink from the glass in front of her.

She looked down at herself and saw a broad, flat chest filling out an oversized leather jacket with a thermal shirt underneath, and long, muscular, denim-clad legs. Her hands were thicker, wider, than they should be, with short-trimmed nails, and a few scrapes and scabbed cuts across the knuckles.

Over the sound of Guns ’n’ Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle she could hear a couple of voices talking not too far away. She looked around. She was in some ratty, hole-in-the-wall bar that smelled like a lifetime of regret and spilled beer. There were only a few other people. An older couple that looked like they’d probably gotten here on a Harley, were sitting down the bar to her left, they were the ones talking, but they weren’t close enough for Jess to hear what they were saying. And there was a middle-aged guy who looked like he might be a trucker way down off to her right. He was drinking a Budwiser and staring into space, lost in his own thoughts. There was also a bartender busying himself with restocking the bar. He was probably in his mid-20’s, with a neatly trimmed beard, blue plaid flannel shirt that was buttoned up but not tucked into his well-fitting, black jeans that were rolled into wide cuffs above hiking boots. She watched him move some bottles around on the shelf along the wall and realized that there was a mirror there that ran the entire length of the bar.

Slowly standing and looking ahead into the mirror, she watched as a guy stood up and stared back at her. He had short, sandy brown hair, spiked a little in the front, and big light colored eyes. The dim lighting and collection of various neon in the room made it hard to tell if they were blue, gray, or green, but they were wide. He looked like he was also in his 20’s, handsome, really handsome, but no one she’d ever seen before. She raised her hand and watched as the guy in the reflection did too. She touched her face… his face? He mirrored the movement.

“What the hell?” She said, in a voice that seemed to fit the reflection.

“Everything okay, man?”

It took a few seconds to realize that the bartender was looking at her, that he’d been speaking to her.

“Uh?” What in the hell was happening? Was she dreaming? Was this some weird hallucination? A byproduct of having a stroke? Had she somehow fallen and hit her head? “I don’t know…”

The bartender’s brow furrowed. “Something wrong with the drink?”

She looked down at the glass again. Should she say anything? Say something to get some help? What would she say? Her heart was racing. Maybe she should slow down, take a minute before letting the looming panic take over. “No, it’s uh, it’s fine, it’s good. I’m good. Um, how long have I been here?”

“I don’t know, maybe about an hour.” He poured water in a glass and sat it down in front of her, next to the whiskey. “I know the bourbon here isn’t that great,” he shrugged and gestured around as if that explained it, “maybe take it easy?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m okay. Just had a weird… um sort of deja vu thing for a minute there.”

He nodded at her and moved away down the bar again.

Okay, something is going on, but it’ll be okay, I can figure this out, she thought as she sat back down on the stool. That’s when she noticed the hard press of a wallet in one of her pockets. Pulling it out and flipping it open revealed a driver’s license with her reflection’s photo on it.

“James Page, huh?” She said quietly to herself as she looked through the rest of the wallet. There were a few credit cards, about a hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and a condom… classy. She looked at the ID again, it listed his birthday as 01-24-1979, “What?”

Okay, so today was also his birthday. That felt too coincidental to be a coincidence.

Absently, she took a drink of water. If this was a dream, it was the most mundanely detailed dream she’d ever had, the water tasted like chlorinated tap water. She started to pull one of the credit cards out when a cell phone sitting on the bar in front of her, had that been sitting there this whole time, started to ring with an obnoxious metal guitar riff. She grabbed it up and looked at the caller ID. It was her own cell number!

Quickly answering she said, “Hello?”

“Please tell me your name is Jessica.” a woman’s voice said.

“Um…”

“My name is De… uh… James Page, that’s my phone you’re talking on, please tell me that you’re Jessica Moore?”

It sounded weird when heard from the wrong end of a phone call, but she recognized her own voice speaking back to her.

“Yeah, yes, that’s me… what’s happening?”

The woman on the other end of the phone gave a loud sigh before continuing. “Thank god, it’s just a straight swap. Okay, so, this would normally sound really unbelievable, but you already seem kinda freaked so I’m guessing you’ve noticed that we seem to have switched bodies.”

“But, I mean how is that, how is this even possible?” Her heart was pounding in her ears. This is crazy, it’s crazy…

“Did you make a wish when you blew out your birthday candles, Jessica?”

“What? Why is that important?”

“Well, you see, today is my birthday too. Happy Birthday by the way. And I uh, I made a wish right before I opened my eyes in your body. So I’m wondering, since I know you’d just blown out the candles on your cake, did you make a wish too?”

“I… I did, yeah.”

“Okay, good. What did you wish for, exactly?”

She looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to her conversation before replying. “I wished I knew more about my boyfriend’s family.”

“Huh. Okay. Who’s, uh, who’s your boyfriend? What’s his name?”

“Sam… Winchester. Do you know him?”

There was a slight pause. “No. But I’m guessing he’s the really tall guy, soulful eyes, needs a haircut?”

“He doesn’t… I like his hair, but, yeah I guess that sounds like him.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

“Wait, what did you wish for?”

There was a longer pause before James continued, “To find someone I haven’t seen in a while. I dunno maybe they’re around here somewhere? Where am I?”

“Palo Alto. Uh, that’s in California. Sorry, maybe you already knew that. Where am I?”

“Missouri, kinda middle of nowhere honestly. Sorry about that. Look this may not have anything to do with our specific wishes, right? Maybe things just got mixed up because we both made wishes at the exact same time? I don’t really know how all this Freaky Friday stuff works. But with any luck it’s temporary and everything will be back to normal tomorrow.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her hand over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How is this even real?”

“I don’t know. Look, there’s a set of car keys in my right front pocket, they’re to a black ‘67 Chevy Impala parked out front. It’s an automatic, can you drive?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Okay, good. If you turn right out of the parking lot, go about a mile down the road to the Sleep EZ Motel, I’m checked into room 12. The room key is in my other pocket. My stuff is already inside and the room is paid up until the end of the week, so you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. Just don’t hurt my car and don’t get me killed, okay?”

“Wait, that’s it? I’m just supposed to wait?”

“Unless you’ve got any other bright ideas?”

“What about Sam? My friends? What are you going to do?”

“Hopefully? Nothing. I’ll pretend to be you, promise not to get you hurt or screw up your life, okay? And like I said, with any luck this’ll all sort itself out in the morning.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Well, I guess we’ll deal with that tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Hey, Jessica?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me a little about yourself.”

~~~

Dean hung up the call and deleted it from the phone’s call history. When this was all over, the last thing he wanted was for there to be any way for this to get traced back to him. He tucked the phone back in Jessica’s purse and looked in the mirror.

She was a hottie, Sammy had good taste. Long blonde hair, big blue eyes, full pouty lips, and with a body… Dean gave a quiet whistle. Then he looked around furtively, as if anyone else could see him in the bathroom and somehow suspect him of doing something pervy, but then he thought, fuck it, possession is 9/10ths of the law, right?

Biting his bottom lip and pulling his shirt up, exposing a lacy bra and a really nice set of tits. Cupping them with his hands, feeling their weight, massaging them a bit and feeling his nipples get hard in response was hot enough but looking in the mirror was almost too much, like watching porn that you could actually feel. Until he caught his own stare, the face of some girl that he’d just spoken to on the phone looking back at him, and it hit home that this was someone else’s body that he was a guest in.

“Ah, shit.” he said to the reflection and pulled the shirt back down, smoothed it into place. He looked down, thinking about how weird it felt to not have a dick. He looked at the toilet reflected behind him. Maybe he should at least try to pee while he was in here.

“Sorry, Jessica, but somehow I don’t think either of us is going to be able to avoid peeing all night.” It took him longer than he'd anticipated, what’s so hard about peeing after all, but there was the confusing clothing and then the wiping, and new sensations that came with that, which he definitely tried to not pay too much attention to, and then the readjustment of the clothing.

When he was done and verified in the mirror that he looked normal, you know, for being someone completely different, he took a step towards the door and froze with his hand on the doorknob.

Okay, you can do this. Just go downstairs and pretend to be a girl. How hard can that be? Just go pretend to be Sam’s girlfriend. He’s only, like, the smartest guy you’ve ever known, who’s been trained since he was a kid to notice when a situation isn’t right, when someone isn’t themselves, when they’re actually a monster… Fuck.

He took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door. No, it’s cool. You’re cool. You can do this. You��ve bluffed your way through more dangerous situations with less information to go off of. And Jessica told you enough to fake it for one night. It’s just one night…

“Jess,” Sam was looking at him when he came down the stairs, his face lit up despite a shadow of concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” Dean smiled and walked towards him.

As he got within reach, Sam wrapped one arm around Dean and pulled him in snug against his side. Then Sam leaned in and kissed the top of his head, just like Dean used to do before Sam had the audacity to get taller than him. Dean didn’t need to fake his smile but then a wave of guilt threatened to well up, he thinks you’re her, and he had to look down, swallowing thickly. Sam gently squeezed him in a one armed hug.

When they were kids, Sam had been very touchy-feely, clingy, always in close contact with Dean, casual, almost unconscious, but now, unlike then, it seemed a lot less casual. Heat, of a sort that wasn’t just physical, flared up with every touch. And Dean could have convinced himself that it was just Jessica’s body responding in a sort of pavlovian way to a still newish lover. But the problem was, Dean knew better.

Sam’s hands were huge and gentle and warm, so fucking warm, against his side, Jessica’s side, his arm, her arm, his back, not his, his hip… It was maddening but he just needed to play along, like it wasn’t destroying him. Over the years Dean had fine tuned his resolve to push all of this away and shut it up behind a door marked “Stuff You Don’t Get to Have", and now, with a series of simple touches, Sam had unknowingly jimmied the lock and opened the door. Sam was always so good at opening doors.

The summer between Sam’s junior and senior years of high school, before the Stanford bomb had been dropped on their lives, John had been chasing down yet another lead on what had killed mom. Dean had no idea what it was, where he went, because he’d given him practically no information, which was beyond frustrating, but kinda par for the course. But John had left them with Bobby because it had been on his way, apparently.

While they were there, Dean helped Bobby fix cars, and what they couldn’t fix, they’d strip down for parts. Sam had gotten a job at a restaurant washing dishes. It was grueling in the heat and he’d be reeking of garbage from taking out the trash at the end of the night. But Dean would always be there, waiting to drive him back to Bobby’s. He’d have a cold beer open and waiting for Sam when he was showered and in clean clothes. More often than not, they’d watch a movie on the tv, choosing from Bobby’s collection of vhs tapes. They’d take over Bobby’s couch, sprawling and slowly gravitating towards each other, leaning together and laughing over what they were watching. They kept their voices quiet so as to not wake Bobby, who inevitably fell asleep in his armchair or was already up in bed. Sam had been more relaxed and at ease than he had been in a couple of years.

Life was simple and Dean felt just about as free as he could ever remember feeling, without the weight of expectations, there in that safe place and time.

When John came back he was short-tempered and easily bristled. Things between John and Sam, always rough, had gotten steadily worse. John was harder on them both, trying to establish his authority, which only made Sam withdraw when dad was around.

Sam started talking about leaving together, just going somewhere and getting real jobs, the kind that paid in cash instead of scars. But Dean wouldn’t think about it, well, he wouldn’t let Sam think that he was thinking about it. Kept putting it off, until it was too late and Sam was leaving for real, full ride to fucking Stanford, and one last attempt to get Dean to come with him. He’d pulled Dean aside while he was packing, held onto his hand like they were still little kids, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to stay here, you can come to California…”

“I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because Dad…”

“Dad is going to self-destruct, Dean, this life is going to kill him and if you stay… if you stay,” Sam’s eyes were swimming in unshed tears that he swallowed back before continuing, “You don’t have to stay. You can do anything, Dean, anything.”

And Dean almost believed that, for one long torturous moment, looking at his brother, the only person that stood any chance of convincing him to break away from his dad, from this life, Dean could almost see it. Sam pulled him closer, slid his hands behind Dean’s neck and rested their foreheads together, silently begging. And that door in Dean’s mind cracked a bit and threatened to break open. Sam didn’t want all that, didn’t want… no. Dean slammed the door closed and locked it.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Dean took a deep breath and placing his hands on Sam’s shoulders did the hardest thing he’d ever done, he pushed Sam back enough so he could clearly see his face and said, “I’m not going.”

Shock, grief, embarrassment, hurt and anger all seemed to flash across Sam’s face at once, but it was the anger that stayed long after the others had been packed away. The anger was what Dean had seen when he closed his eyes that night, thinking about Sam on a Greyhound to California.

But here, now, he leaned in and closed his eyes, drinking in the feel of being next to his brother for the first time in years. He breathed in and could smell Sam,even though his mind was having trouble processing the scent. It was Sam, he smelled just like he always did, but it was like this body, which didn’t have the same sensory memory of a childhood spent together in the Impala and rundown motels, processed the scent through different filters, all of which were good, all of which lit up like fireworks with each breath, and shot that giddy, new love/lust feeling through him mixing with his memories.

Sam’s hand was curled loosely around Dean’s, Jessica’s, hip, his thumb resting on the waistband of his skirt again, long fingers flexing in and gently pressing into the hollow of his hip bone, and it was doing things that were steadily eroding what tenuous self-respect Dean had.

Sam would kill him if he found out that this was him and not Jessica. Shit, maybe he should have said something right away.

“Wait, so if the wish is what switched you then that means that when I kissed… Dean, you kissed me back!”

Yeah, no, too late for that now, he just needs to make sure that Sam never finds out.

They made small talk and drank. Jessica was a lightweight, which Dean found out as he was finishing off his third beer. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a room lurch that hard on three beers. He stumbled slightly as he stood up to get another. Sam reached out a steadying hand.

“Whoa. Easy there.”

Dean laughed it off, “I got it, I’m good.. Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” Dean said, softening it with a smile that may have been a bit more shmoopy than he’d intended, but it seemed to do the trick as Sam held up his hand in an “I give up” sort of gesture and let Dean duck into the kitchen.

There were photos stuck all over the fridge, and Dean recognized several of the people from tonight, including Sam. He studied them all while he drank a glass of water before grabbing a couple more beers from the fridge. There was a bottle opener on the coffee table and, sitting back down next to Sam on the sofa, Dean popped the top off one beer and sat it in front of Sam before popping the top of the other for himself.

Sam huffed an amused breath through his nose. Dean looked at him, took in the bemused look and asked, “What?”

“It’s nothing, just,” Sam laughed and shook his head, “you just reminded me of someone.”

Shit. “Oh? Who?”

Before Sam could answer, the conversation in the room reached shrill levels when Bria announced that her boyfriend Brad had proposed to her.

“Jess, I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to say anything because tonight’s your night, but…” the bottle blonde held out her left hand to show off a glittering diamond.

Everyone spent the next half an hour or so congratulating Bria and Dean tried his best to play at being interested. He was worried that that somehow he’d given himself away but Sam was smiling at him again, all dimples and teeth and just pure fucking sunshine, and Dean inwardly breathed a sigh of relief and smiled back. He was simultaneously too drunk and way too sober for this situation.

~~~

Jess should have left and found the motel, but what was she going to do in some guy’s random motel room until morning? Pace around and worry? Staying put seemed like an easier option, doing nothing usually was, at least for now. Absentmindedly she picked up the glass of bourbon and took a sip. It burned a bit but tasted surprisingly okay. She thought that James obviously drank the stuff and his taste buds must be used to it. She kept sipping at it.

This couldn’t be happening, it had to be a dream.

She realized that she had to pee. She’d had to for a little while now but had been unconsciously putting off dealing with it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be ignored forever. Looking around, she spotted the restrooms. She turned around on the stool and stood up, ready to be wobbly after drinking and being in someone else’s skin. But she felt solid, and strong. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar again it occurred to her that she was going to have to use the men’s room.

This was most likely just a dream, she could do this.

Luckily, since the bar was practically empty, the bathroom was too. Stall or urinal, that was the question. She opted for a stall, just in case someone came in, it felt less weird that way. Closing the door behind her, she stared down at the toilet before looking at the front of the jeans she was wearing. For the first time she thought about the fact that some guy was in her body and would probably have to pee at some point too. Ugh.

Well, she could do this, it was just peeing, everyone does it, right? She unbuckled, unbuttoned and unzipped, then pulled the waistband of the boxer briefs away and down with her left hand while reaching in with her right.

Okay, yeah, weird.

A couple moments later, she was washing her hands at the sink. That was definitely an experience, odd but kinda fun in a rather intrusive feeling way.

She looked at her reflection, really studied it since she wasn’t being watched. She smiled, frowned, and tried a whole range of emotions. Damn, this guy was attractive. Big green eyes with lashes she would have killed for, freckles, perfect lips, and he was tall too, although not as tall as Sam. And he was in great condition, not like one of those guys that works out in a gym all the time, but strong and lean, solid. His hands were callused, knuckles scarred, like he worked with his hands.

“Who are you?” She asked as she looked in the mirror again before leaving the bathroom.

Sitting back down on the barstool, she caught the bartender’s attention. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Jeremy.”

She nodded. “Can I get another, Jeremy?” and she tapped the empty bourbon glass with the silver ring on her right hand before sliding it forward.

He nodded, grabbed a bottle and poured a generous amount in the glass. “You feeling better?” he asked as he slid the glass back towards her.

She nodded, “Eh. It’s been a weird night.”

“Not the best birthday?”

“No. I was supposed to spend it with my boyf…” she stopped herself suddenly and tried to switch gears, “I had plans, that, no offense, didn’t include this fine establishment.” Shit, she’d almost outed this guy that she didn’t even know. Maybe he was into guys, but maybe not, how would she know, and it was always better to be safe than sorry when literally walking in someone else’s shoes.

Jeremy, if he noticed the slip, didn’t give any indication of being bothered by it. He leaned on one elbow against his side of the bar. “Are you traveling for work or something?”

She looked at him, honestly not sure how to answer that question. She knew she had a room at a motel nearby, but why?

Before she could answer, Jeremy continued, “I mean, there’s not a whole lot of here here, you know? This is not really a destination. And,“ he leaned a little closer and spoke in a more conspiratorial tone, “you’re like an eleven compared to the locals.” He nodded at the few other patrons and cracked a smile.

Okay, so maybe he had picked up on her little slip, but she didn’t think he was a threat, so she just laughed it off and took a sip of her drink.

~~~

Later, standing in the kitchen trying to follow some random friend group drama that could have almost been a telenovela storyline, Sam had come up behind Dean and wrapped him in a hug, hands crossed over his waist, his face nuzzled into his hair behind his ear. Dean’s eyes closed as a delightful shiver ran through him and settled between his legs.

“Ugh, get a room, you two!” Sam’s friend Brady said, teasingly.

Without looking, Sam grabbed a handful of chips out of the open bag on the counter and threw them right at the guy’s face, who actually managed to catch one in his mouth to raucous applause.

“Come on.” Sam breathed, low and quiet in Dean’s ear, and threading their fingers together, steered him out of the room.

“What? Where?”

“It’s getting late and I promised, didn’t I?”

Dean didn’t know how to respond because he had no idea what Sam was talking about.

~~~

Jessica sipped at the bourbon, not sure if she enjoyed the taste or not but the smooth burn was sort of growing on her. She sipped and she thought about what she should, or even could, do. Trapped in a stranger’s body, in an unknown town, states away from anyone she knows, what were her options? She could go find the motel room that matched the key in her pocket, and what? Watch crappy motel tv until she falls asleep in some stranger’s bed, hoping that she wakes up in her own body in the morning? That honestly sounded depressing as fuck. So she stalled, and sipped, and sat, and tried not to completely freak out.

~~~

His little brother was all hands, huge, long, spidery, gentle hands. Hands that covered so much, especially on Jessica’s smaller body. He smoothed over his… her long hair, down his… dammit, her arms, down her back. Eyes shining and bright, open as if to not miss anything, to catch every reaction as he walked backwards into a room to the right of the bathroom, Sam finally stepped back out of Dean’s space enough to let the warm flickering glow light up his face. The room was lit by half a dozen candles, on the dresser, the nightstand, on top of the bookshelf. Dean’s eyes went wide. Oh.

Oh no. This was, shit, this was… he looked at Sam. This was bad, he told himself. He couldn’t, it was too much, too far.

Sam, still smiling, was now a little unsure, a little embarrassed, “Too much?” His hand was rubbing gently up and down on Dean’s back, Jessica’s back, fuck, like he just couldn’t stop touching her.

Dean tried to say something, screaming internally at himself to find a way out of this, screwing things up between Jessica and Sam would be better than… He swallowed and opened his mouth, piecing together some sort of excuse, but all thought evaporated as Sam bit his bottom lip, all dimples and glinting eyes, and leaned in. Dean didn’t mean to smile, it was a reflex, a reaction to the extreme absurdity of the situation, that’s all, it wasn’t because his heart fucking swelled at seeing Sam all lit up and happy, looking at him like that.

Oh, I’m a bad, bad person.

He couldn’t look away from Sam’s mouth. And then Sam was too close to see and he nosed into his hair, speaking right into his ear, warm breath sending shivers through him, “I promised you, tonight is all about you. I want to make you feel so good, see how many times I can make you come.”

And Dean felt hellfire flare up through him, burning his cheeks, making his thighs and inner muscles clench around a deep needful longing. A gasp escaped, unbidden, from his open mouth.

You do this and you really are the scumbag you’ve always felt like. This is the line, right here, right now.

But this was something that he would never get to have normally, only this freaky occurrence giving him an impossible chance to have everything he’d ever wanted, even if just for one night, even if under duplicitous circumstances, in someone else’s body, even if it meant burning in Hell eternally for it.

One of Sam’s thumbs brushed lightly over Dean’s lips, as his fingers curled into his hair, turning his head and mouthing at his ear, nipping at and rolling his earlobe between his teeth before tracing kisses along the underside of his jaw. Dean breathed out a shiver that went all the way down to his knees. Sam kissed right up to the corner of his open mouth.

Dean didn’t believe Hell was real, not really, not an actual place like the bible thumpers would have you believe, but this, even ignoring every other horrible thing he’d ever done, this would surely damn him… but maybe it would be worth it. He could have this, and Sam never needed to know.

He turned his head just a little and caught Sam’s lips with his own.

~~~

With the bar being as quiet as it was, Jeremy took to making small talk as the evening wore on, nothing heavy, nothing too personal, just talking about sports teams (luckily a topic she knew a fair amount about) and cars (which she didn’t but luckily most guys didn’t take much encouragement to go on about that sort of thing without much more than a few interested prompts), but he was nice and kind of funny. It was better than stewing alone in her thoughts.

By the time Jess had had another bourbon, man did this James guy have a higher tolerance than she did, she had loosened up a lot.

So what if she’d probably experienced a psychotic break or something and was now trapped in this weird-ass dream, or maybe worse that she was really stuck in some dude’s body on her birthday and was now drinking alone in some shitty bar. She blinked, god was this what James’ life was like? Hopefully this was just a bad day or something. She at least had a party with all her college friends and Sam… Sam. Shit, James better be playing it cool, like he’d said he would, and not be doing anything to fuck things up between her and Sam.

~~~

For a moment, when he kissed Sam, SammySam oh fuck SAM, he’d forgotten all about his hands, like they didn’t even exist, like nothing existed outside of the bursts of confused chaos in his mind and how kissing Sam seemed to short circuit everything.

Good! No, no! I can’t. Stop. Ohhh god, right, this is right. Can’t. Fuck, finally!

Every part of his borrowed body felt like it was blushing, like he should be legit glowing, and there was this warm, aching, wetness that he was suddenly very aware of between his legs. It was a lot like how he normally felt when turned on, just not as focused, deeper inside and suffused throughout his body. He also found that he was very, very aware of his tits, every move, each breath as they lifted and fell, the way the fabric of the bra and shirt moved, every touch against Sam, he could feel all of it, and was aware of it all at once, and yet craved more. Sam’s hands were in his hair, cradling his head as they kissed. His lips tasted like home.

You can touch him!

And just like that, a lifetime of suppressed impulses and denied wants let loose as he placed his hands on Sam’s sides. Lightning-like desire, in all its terrifying glory, zapped through him, along his fingers and up his arms at the contact. Sam was solid, still lean and lanky with youth, but no longer a kid, not his little brother. Big.

It wasn’t like Dean never touched him, hell, he’d probably touched him more than anyone else. But that was different, it was checking on him, cleaning him up, bandaging and mending, little kid snuggles and hugs, holding his hand as they crossed the street, shoulders leaning together as they sat and joked quietly, just the two of them. This, though, this, was the edge of the map. Here, there be monsters, and his pulse pounded like he was on a hunt.

He ran his hands up over Sam’s chest, feeling the lines of the muscles beneath his shirt as Sam slid one of his hands down Dean’s back, pulling him closer, pressing them together. He didn’t stop at his waist this time, his hand continuing down over Dean’s ass to cup and squeeze. Dean moaned, just a little and in a way that he hadn’t expected, and his hands moved up across Sam’s shoulders and neck and into his hair, fingers tangling in his nape and pulling Sam down, or himself up, it didn’t matter which as long as they somehow got closer. Dean instinctively wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips when he lifted him up, one hand under Dean’s ass, across the back of his thighs, the other still cradling the back of his head. Sam shifted, holding Jessica’s weight easily and Dean wondered if Sam had gotten strong enough to lift his own actual body the same way. That thought made his breath hitch.

Sam pushed the door shut with one foot and then took three strides to cross the room before he dropped them both down onto the bed. Sam caught himself with his elbows, so his weight didn’t come down on Dean all at once as he bounced, a laugh bubbling out of Dean, met with a smile from Sam.

Sam looked at him for a moment, brushing hair from Dean’s face, Jessica’s face, Dean reminded himself. Sam was looking at Jessica like that, like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and like he wanted to eat her up. Jealousy at the realization sparked in Dean, but it was quickly quelled because Sam looking at Jessica like that meant that Dean could look back through her in a way he never could through his own eyes.

He took in Sam’s bright, clever, magic-colored eyes, and his pointed nose that made him look fox-like and clever. That mole beside his nose, that Dean always wanted poke or to kiss, depending on the day. His hair that, from this angle, spread around his face like a dark halo and reminded Dean of that photo of Jim Morrison, the one where his arms were spread and his chest was bare. He looked like the hero of some Greek myth and he was painfully beautiful.

Then Sam was kissing him again, little nibbling kisses that wandered along his jaw, sending delicious shivers through him. Sam’s hand found the bare skin at his waist, fingers spread out across his stomach, up under his shirt to his ribs as he kissed his way down Dean’s throat.

Dean leaned his head to the side, stretching his neck as he arched up into Sam’s touch. Sam’s fingertips traced along the bottom of his bra, brushed the underside of his breast. Holy shit.

He’d gotten so caught up in the fact that this was Sam, SamSammy, that he’d almost completely glossed over the fact that he was in a woman’s body and was going to experience sex, with Sam, in a body with girl parts! What was, possibly, most disturbing was how onboard he was for this ride. Like, if he was completely honest with himself, the Sam thing had always been there, usually it was forcibly shoved into the furthest, deepest, darkest corner of his brain, and locked down tight, but sometimes it escaped and made it almost to the surface before he’s wrestle it back down again and did his best to ignore it. But beyond an occasional fleeting thought about what the woman he was with was feeling as he went down on her, thrust into her, well, he’d never actually fantasized about actually feeling whatever they felt. The prospect was surprisingly thrilling.

And this isn’t gay (or incest) if it’s Jessica’s body. That thought sent a cold shiver through him, followed very closely by a rancid tendril of self-disgust. What the hell was the matter with him?

But then Sam was cupping his breast, warm hand giving a massaging little squeeze, the nipple genty pinched in the V between his thumb and index finger, sending sparks of pleasure through him and distracting him from his thoughts. Dean had always liked having his nipples played with during sex, well, he really liked having everything played with during sex, but now, though? It was just so much more.

Sam pushed his shirt up, kissed him through the fabric of the bra, before giving a little, demanding “Off.” and worked both the shirt and bra off, undoing the back clasp one handed, that’s my boy. And then his mouth was on him again. Dean’s hands were on Sam’s shoulders, then in his hair as he lavished attention on his tits. And, yeah, definitely an area deserving of all the attention Dean was prone to give because it felt fucking awesome. Before the sensations could become too much, Sam would shift his focus to the other side, kissing and sucking, biting (which felt amazing) and pulling little gasps out of Dean.

Dean squirmed a bit, suddenly desperate for some sort of friction between his legs. Like he’d sensed it, Sam ran one hand down, using little more than the weight of his hand, over the fabric of his skirt, and rubbed, pushing a bit more with his middle and ring fingers, curving with his body, right down between Dean’s legs. It wasn’t quite like having his dick rubbed, the feeling a little more muted, more spread out. But the warmth that spread through him felt familiar as did the desire it inflamed. And he pushed his hips against Sam’s hand seeking more pressure.

The biggest difference Dean felt was where he normally would have wanted to push into his partner, to thrust into them, all he wanted now, the desire that consumed his mind, was that he needed something inside him, stretching him, filling him. This hollow, wanting, ache was new but made him unbearably warm and desperate. And he wondered, not for the first time, about how much of it was coming from Jessica’s muscle memory, because while it was new to him, it felt so perfectly right and natural in this body.

With a final playful pull on one of his nipples, sucking hard before letting it drop and the weight of the breast bounce back against Dean’s chest, Sam kissed his way down across his stomach. Jessica was a bit ticklish, it would seem, because the light scrape of Sam’s stubble sent delightful tremors through Dean. Not enough to make him laugh or pull away, but enough to make him smile.

This is crazy. This is crazy. This can’t be real. I must be dreaming. This is some weirdass fever dream. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sam reached the waistband of Jessica’s skirt, kissing and tonguing over Dean’s belly button as he worked loose the zipper and slid the fabric down, chasing it with his mouth. Dean lifted his hips so Sam could slide it the rest of the way down and off his legs, leaving him in just delicate, barely there, panties. They were silky and pink and Dean flashed back hard to six years ago, to Rhonda Hurley looking at him wearing her panties like she wanted to eat him alive, a look that was mirrored now in Sam’s eyes as he slowly looked up his… Jessica’s body. Dammit.

That look wasn’t Dean’s, it wasn’t for him. Sam was looking at Jessica like that. Fuck he shouldn’t do this. He needed to say something, stop this somehow.

“Sam…” He pleaded, but it came out too breathless and wanting, needing, and Sam smiled and leaned down, placed a kiss right on the silky pink stretched over the center of all the warmth Dean was feeling and hummed against him.

“Hmm?” and then he kissed a little lower and looked up from under his bangs as he gently stroked one hand up Dean’s thigh, fingers spreading so wide, hot and thrilling. He placed another kiss, this time below the curve of where Dean could see, so he couldn’t see Sam’s mouth as it pressed the fabric right into the wetness between his legs. Sam nosed in then and breathed deep. “All this for me?”

Dean bit down on his bottom lip, part of his mind still desperately trying to get control of this situation, to somehow, miraculously pull back before it was too late, when Sam looked up and locked eyes with him as he slowly, gently, bit the fabric covered mound, worrying it so slowly with his teeth before saying, in a voice deeper than Dean had ever heard him use, “God I want to eat you up. Will you let me? Let me just,” he licked, his tongue spread wide, right up over the now sodden crotch of those pink panties, “devour you?”

And the last vestiges of Dean’s attempts to be a better person crumbled. If he was going to hell, and he was definitely going, then he was going to make damn sure that he got the maximum value out of the trip.

“Yeah.” he said as he reached out and ran his fingers down Sam’s hair, his thumb brushing Sam’s cheek as Sam, SamMySammyMine, smiled his sharp, clever, mischievous smile and pulled the panties off and settled back between Dean’s legs, bending Dean’s knees up and over Sam’s shoulders. One hand going up Dean’s side, his long arm easily allowing him to cup around one breast, while the other spread, fingers splayed, across the tight skin below Dean’s navel, pressing down with gentle pressure to still the squirming Dean hadn’t even realized he was doing.

~~~

The last of the other customers paid up his tab and left. Jessica threw back the rest of her drink.

“What do I owe you?” she asked as she stood up to pull James’ wallet out of his pocket. The gravity in the room lurched violently to the left and she had to catch herself by clutching the edge of the bar. She barked out a laugh and sat back down on the stool. “Whoa.”

“Easy there.” Jeremy said. “No rush.”

He slid another glass of water over to her with a smile. She nodded and gratefully took a drink. It was cold and even though it still tasted a little too much like chlorine to be called good, she knew it would help.

“It’s cool, take your time, I’ve got a bunch of things to do to close up so you don’t have to leave just yet.” He said with a smile.

~~~

Sam’s attention focused between Dean’s spread legs, nosing into the trimmed little bush before licking along the folds of his pussy. His tongue, a wide and warm pressure, different from anything Dean had experienced before. It wasn’t like having his dick licked, which felt good right from the start. But the act was insanely intimate and definitely felt good, and the fact that it was Sam, samsamsam, made him shiver. And then the tip of Sam’s tongue dipped in and flicked across Dean’s clit and there it was! A burst of pleasure followed immediately by a desire for more.

A keening slipped from Dean’s throat, so much higher pitched than felt right to him. Looking down, all he could see was Sam’s shaggy brown hair and his fox-like eyes, pupils wide in the darkened room, looking back at him. Sam slid his hand down, long fingers spreading Dean open. Dean felt the air stir between his legs, cooling around the edges, and he realized just how wet he was. Sam licked again, taking his time, dipping in and flicking across before gently kissing that swollen bud of nerves and then doing it again, and again. Dean gasped when he used his teeth, normally something, as a guy, that would be a complete no-go, but the nipping and nibbling here felt good, really good, primal and hungry, and Dean wanted more.

Sam pushed his tongue in, deeper each time, as he rubbed Dean’s clit, pressing and circling, circling and pressing, sucking, biting, again and again until Dean’s hands had to move because Sam was holding his hips still, so he reached down and brushed Sam’s hair back, so he could see him better, then stayed in his hair, just holding, trying not pull. And his other hand went to his breast, kneading and then pinching the sensitive nipple. Everything combined and built up like a wave swelling, growing more and more, frantic, urgent, faster, and then he was pulling on Sam’s hair, which made him groan into Dean, the vibrations sending Dean crashing over. Sam continued to gently massage Dean’s clit, while fucking into him with his tongue, as wave after wave rolled through Dean.

Just as Dean was able to breathe again, Sam shifted around a bit so that he had both hands working, the one still spreading Dean open and working his clit in slow circles, while he pressed first one finger then two into him.

There was a punk rock girl out near Salt Lake, what was her name? Brenda something, shit he couldn’t think, but she’d had a thing for sticking her finger in her partner’s ass when they fucked her, and while she’d been enthusiastically into it, and it hadn’t been bad, it was weird, kinda good weird, but weird. It was nothing like this.

Sam leaned back in as he worked up a steady rhythm, and started tonguing and sucking his clit again. Dean was so sensitive it didn’t take long for him to feel everything building again. Sam had worked another finger in and curled them forward. It was a tried and true move that Dean had used on many, many occasions, and now he knew why it always worked so well, as he gasped and came hard, muscles fluttering hard around Sam’s hand.

“Samm… Sam,” remembering just in time, “please, oh fuck, mmm, I…”

“Hmm?”

“I need,” but he hesitated before voicing the rest, bit his bottom lip, was he really going to ask for it? From Sam?

“What? What do you need, baby?” Sam asked, his voice lower than Dean had ever heard it, deep but tender and pressed right between his legs, and damn if that didn’t light something up on the switchboard in Dean’s head.

No one but Dean would ever know if he just asked for what he wanted.

“Fuck me?” he said, quiet and unsure.

“Hmm, thought I’d stay here for a little longer, make you scream my name.” Sam slowly nosed in again and licked. “You taste so good.”

“Sam.”

Bright eyes staring up at him. “Mmm?”

“Are you really going to make me beg… on my birthday?”

Sam nodded as he nipped at the inner crease of Dean’s hip.

Dean let out a frustrated groan, “Please? Get up here and fuck me, Sam.”

Sam smiled, “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He sat back, pulled his shirt off and used it to wipe his hand and face before tossing it onto the floor. Shit, Sammy had filled out since the last time Dean had seen him and, reminding himself that he could look, he let his eyes linger on his brother’s torso. He realized he was mentally inventorying the scars he could see, there were no new ones, which was good. Sam’s belt buckle jangled a little as it came undone and he unbuttoned his jeans. Sam stood and pushed them down along with his underwear, black boxer briefs, and then was kicking them off to the side and slowly crawling back onto the bed.

Holy shit! HIs baby brother was built like a Greek god! How often was he working out? He was all slick, cut muscle, long limbs, and… In what universe was it even remotely fair that his little (no longer the operative word) brother had gotten bigger than him, apparently in every way? Dean was not a small guy, over six feet and packing a generously sized dick that he’d never, not once, gotten any complaints about. In fact, he’d received more than enough compliments to give him a, possibly, over-inflated sense of pride. Dean had an amazing cock, that he knew how to use. It was a source of great joy for him. And, he soothed his ego, it was hard to get a proper sense of scale, not having access to his own hands. But then Sam was grinning at him with his wickedly clever eyes and bright, dimpled smile again and Dean felt himself smiling back, his cheeks flushing as Jessica’s body responded to a new wave of want.

Sam crawled up over Dean, stretching his long body and skimming, not quite touching, over him, supporting his weight on his knees and hands. Just as Sam zeroed in on his lips and when Dean anticipated he would kiss him, Sam kept stretching past, reaching over and easily sliding open then closing the nightstand drawer. When he pulled back, a condom packet held by a corner in his mouth, he dragged it lightly across Dean’s skin, tickling slightly and forcing a giggle out of him that Dean would cringe over later when he replayed the moment. Sam sat back on his heels and tore open the packet. A wild thought, a desire, flashed through Dean, causing his cheeks to burn.

“Wait,” he said breathlessly.

Sam stopped and looked at him, concern overriding some of the confidence he’d shown just seconds before. But Dean was sitting up and reaching out, running his hand down Sam’s thigh as he smiled Jessica’s wide smile.

“Just, let me…” and he slid his hand up, his gaze meeting his grasp as he stroked Sam’s length. Hot, velvety soft skin twitched in the circle of Jessica’s manicured fingers. Dean blinked slowly, his eyes threatening to close, to block out such a transgression, but he made himself look, burning the image into his memory. He licked his lips as he shifted so he could lean forward. He just needed to know… if he was here, if he was doing this, then he needed it all, there’d never be another chance. He rubbed his thumb through the drop of precum beaded up on the head of Sam’s cock, spreading it slick across the head, and then kissed there. He looked up to find Sam staring down, eyes dark, mouth open, a blush high on his cheeks like he was drunk, and Dean licked slowly, tasting as he stared up at him.

Dean had never gone down on a guy before, although he’d received plenty of propositions over the years. But he’d eaten out more than his fair share of women and every one had tasted different, each one unique and special and divine, and this really wasn’t much different from that. Salty, a little bitter, not bad, just intimate. And he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a deep satisfaction to sucking the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth. Sam’s fingers slipped into Jessica’s hair, fingers spanning the width of her head and gently holding there, not pressing, not pulling, as he let out a slow breath.

Dean reached up with his free hand and took the opened condom packet from Sam as he swirled his tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock. And then he pulled back and slid the condom down and gave it a couple slow pumps with his fist to make sure it was rolled all the way down.

He sat up and crawled forward, capturing Sam’s bottom lip as he pressed against him. Sam’s hand let go of his hair and like earlier, he pulled Dean in like he weighed nothing, hands engulfing his hips as he settled Dean on his lap. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck, reveling in the feel of his tits crushed up against Sam’s chest and Sam’s erection hot and hard between them. His hips rubbed forward, like they were seeking friction on autopilot.

“Sam,” he keened.

Sam lifted him again and lined himself up and lowered Dean onto him. Dean’s eyes rolled closed as he stretched and was filled in a way he’d never even dreamed. He’d never be able to claim that again, he was sure he’d never get the perfect feeling of them fitting together like this out of his mind. And as his hips once again seemed more in control of things than he was, he gave some experimental grinds, and looked at Sam whose eyes were closed, his brow furrowed a little in concentration, and he looked… beautiful.

“Sam?”

Sam opened his eyes, his pupils blown wide in the candlelight and a look of pure want on his face, and he was the most gorgeous thing that Dean had ever seen. He circled his hips, trying to find the leverage to do more when Sam lifted him again, easily taking Jessica’s weight in his arms and began to thrust up. As he repeated the movement, again and again, Dean let his head fall back, his eyes closing, Sam’s mouth kissing hungrily along his jaw and down his neck, teeth nipping, stubble on his chin rough, but never hurting, never bruising, no it was just enough to feel all the way down through to where they were connected.

With his eyes closed and head tipped back, the weight of Jessica’s hair hanging down, bouncing with every forceful thrust, Dean could only hold on, losing himself in the sensations. Sam ran a hand up Dean’s back, his hand tangling in and gently but insistently pulling, causing Dean to arch further back. Sam kissed down, captured one of his nipples, his other hand sliding low across Dean hips, thumb finding and pressing into his clit and the combination of all those sensations pushed him up and over that cliff again. Being so full, having something… his brother’s cock, a thought that he really shouldn’t be so completely good with… inside him, for his muscles to squeeze, and with so much skin-on-skin contact for him to clutch onto, pushed everything up, and up, and over.

When Dean could focus again, he lifted his head, eyes meeting Sam’s, Sam who was still fucking him, and holy hell if his (not so) little brother wasn’t a goddamn freight train. The thought brought a ridiculous swelling of pride with it, some misguided feeling that he’d had a hand in raising this absolute god of a man. Dean smiled, his mouth open with every breath that Sam pushed out of him, and he traced his fingers across Sam’s face, thumb dragging across his bottom lip before Dean leaned in and kissed him.

“Come on, Baby. Come for me? I want to feel you, come on.” he said in between kisses. Sam’s arms tightened around him, his pace speeding up. “ Come on, Sammy.” Dean breathed and he felt Sam’s body tense. He leaned back enough to see Sam’s face as he climaxed. Little aftershocks from Dean’s last orgasm were still pulsing through him as Sam twitched inside him.

When their heavy breaths slowed down to contented sighs, Sam pulled out, removed the condom and tossed it in a small trash can by the nightstand and twisted the two of them so they could fall onto their sides on the bed, his arms still around Dean, facing each other.

Sam brushed a thick lock of hair out of Dean’s face, his eyes alight with reflected, flickering candlelight. He was sweaty and his cheeks were still flushed and he looked contentedly fucked out and Dean couldn’t stop staring at him.

A bemused smile flashed across Sam’s face after a moment. “What?”

Dean didn’t have the words, so he just smiled with his borrowed face, hoping it conveyed the best part of the crazed tangle of things he was feeling. When Sam returned the smile, Dean leaned in and kissed him one last time before snuggling into his brother’s broad chest, his eyelids growing heavy.

Sam placed a kiss on the top of his head. “Happy birthday, Jess.”

Dean was glad that Sam couldn’t see his face because he knew the smile wasn’t reaching his eyes anymore.

Dean lay there until Sam’s breathing evened out into sleep. And then he steadfastly refused to give into the looming tidal wave of guilt that was threatening to drown him, closing his eyes, he breathed in the smell of Sam, letting all the memories it triggered carry him, finally, to sleep.

~~~

“So, I’m curious,” she asked, “you don’t seem too enthused about… wait, where are we again?”

Jeremy laughed, “Eastfield.”

“Right, right. You don’t seem too enthused about Eastfield. And you’re young, seem intelligent, so why…” she gestured around the bar. “You from here? Got family or something?”

“Nah, I mean, not exactly. I grew up near here. Went to college. While I was there, my dad got sick, cancer, so I came home to take care of him. And, I don’t know, after he passed I just didn’t go right back and now,” he shrugged as he moved glasses around, “I don’t know. I’m just sort of here because here feels as good as anywhere to be.”

Jessica nodded and took a sip of water.

“What about you? You’ve been here all night and haven’t mentioned what you do for a living once.” Jeremy carried a crate of glasses into the back, Jessica could hear it being set down, and then he was back again, leaning up against the bar across from her. “Most people don’t shut up about their jobs when they get talking here. It’s just a safe topic, you know? Not too personal but something that eats up most of their lives. But you?”

Jessica shrugged and smiled, taking another drink of water. Jeremy squinted his eyes a bit, pursed his lips.

“What if I guess?” He looked her up and down, clucking his tongue quietly. “A hit man for the Mafia? Is the Mafia still a thing?” He smiled.

She laughed, “I don’t know. But no, I’m not in the Mafia.” I think, she added internally.

Jeremy looked at her, watched her mouth as she smiled. “Are you a model or something… which as I’m saying it, sounds super cheesy.” he said with a bit of a blush rising high on his cheeks above his beard. He was flirting and she suddenly remembered that she wasn’t herself. He was flirting with the gorgeous guy who’d been drinking alone at his bar all evening.

“I don’t really want to talk about what I do, it’s just not…” she shrugged and took another drink of water, licking her lips. The room was still spinning a bit and she felt all warm and fuzzy, like this was all a weird but pleasant dream.

Jeremy leaned forward onto his elbows, only a foot or so of distance between them now. “SInce I’m already kinda making a fool of myself… you are, you know… really hot and it seems like a crime against humanity for you to be alone on your birthday.”

He had nice brown eyes, wide and clear and kind, and what should have been an overdone line came across as genuine. The only other guy she knew that could have pulled that off was Sam. Thinking of him caused a heavy lump of guilt to form in her stomach.

“And yet, here I am.”

He slid one hand closer, fingertips just brushing the backs of her knuckles where her hand was still curled around the glass.

She stared at his hand and thought about Sam, who was the best man she’d ever known, smart, sweet, funny, weirdly mysterious, how did he even know half the shit he knew? And she knew so little about his life, his childhood, just enough to know that it had been nomadic and traumatic. His mom had died when he was a baby, his dad hadn’t handled that well, and he had a brother, but he never wanted to talk about them. He was home, thinking he was with her (hopefully) if James wasn’t screwing everything up. But at the same time, the idea that Sam might not be able to tell that it wasn’t her… well, it rankled.

She looked over Jeremy’s shoulder and saw James’ reflection looking back. Maybe it was the drinks, she thought as she shifted her gaze back to Jeremy, or the dream-like unrealness of the entire evening, but she slowly licked her lips thinking about what it would feel like to kiss a guy using someone else’s mouth, a man’s mouth? Would it feel different?

There was only one way to find out.

She pushed up and forward slightly as Jeremy leaned further across the bar. They both hesitated when there were only a couple of inches of space between them, giving the other a chance to back out. Shyness was never something that Jessica suffered from. Quite the opposite. Throughout her life she’d been accused of being too forward, too bold and daring, too aggressive when she wanted something. She knew she was impulsive, but YOLO, right? She slid her hand around the back of Jeremy’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.

The beard was something new to her. It was scratchy-soft and tickly in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. His lips were soft though and he knew what to do with them. After a moment, they broke apart.

“Hey, come around. I, uh, I want to give you something.”

When she stood up this time she was steady. Walking around the bar, she felt a flush of excitement, like a spreading fire flowing from her cheeks, down her chest, and into her gut. She followed him through the doorway and into the back room where Jeremy turned and pushed her up against a wall with a big, laminated, OSHA poster taped to it.

He was a couple inches shorter, so she had to tip her head down to meet his lips, a feeling so opposite of what she was used to that it added to the overall surrealness of the situation. And then he stepped even closer, one leg wedging between hers, pressing against her, his hands cupping her head, fingers rubbing into her scalp, such a different experience with James’ short hair, but pulling a pleased noise from somewhere deep in her chest. When his hips ground against hers, she was startled at the sensation. All that pooling warmth in her gut was suddenly rushing to her groin, focusing with growing insistence. She could feel Jeremy, already so hard, pressing back and the sensation left her breathless.

“Can I?” He tipped his head down as his hand skated over the front of her jeans, lightly tracing the bulge of her cock. Shit, she had a cock and this guy wanted to…

Okay, so she didn’t know if James was gay, or into guys at all, and she was seriously dating Sam, she was, but when would she ever be given the chance to experience this from this side of the equation again?

“Yeah.” she said.

Jeremy kissed her again as he undid her belt and jeans, sliding his hand down to feel her through her briefs. Her hips pressed forward, chasing the warmth and touch of his hand. And then his mouth was gone. He sank to his knees as he pulled the waistband of her briefs down and freed her straining cock. And it was like watching porn that she could feel, looking down the long stretch of her borrowed body, flat stomach and hard on, flushed dark pink with short, dark curls around the base. And then Jeremy’s tongue licked slowly up along the bottom of her shaft before flicking across the tip. Oh! That felt… good! One hand gently held the base, angling the length for better access, while his other hand cupped warm around her balls, lifting and squeezing in a way that made a small gasp escape her lips. Jeremy stared up at her as his tongue darted out again and swirled around the head of her cock, like he was trying to burn the image into his memory. But when he sucked her into his mouth and she groaned and placed a hand gently in his hair, her mouth falling open, his eyes sank closed and he got to work.

Jessica had given head, she knew her way around a blowjob and took pride in the responses she got, but to feel it, oh it added an entire other level. She couldn’t help but note what worked vs. what didn’t work vs. what really worked. She had also been on the receiving end of oral in her own body many times, something that Sam was particularly fond of (and extremely good at), but while this was similar, it was also so completely different, everything sort of flipped around in a delightful way. Her head tipped back against the wall as she let the feelings take over. Despite having no direct experience on this side of a blowjob, she felt confident that Jeremy seemed to know what he was doing. She didn’t hold back her responses and he picked them up and ran with them.

She was still tipsy enough and this was all still so new and weird, she had no idea how long it lasted before she felt herself tensing up, everything building as he worked at an increasingly frantic pace. As if he could sense how close she was, and he probably knew better than she did, he pulled back just enough to look up and say, “Come on” before swallowing as much of her as he could. A couple more pumps and the pressure in her burst, flooding out of her in deliciously violent spurts, all of which Jeremy greedily took.

When she could focus again, and looked down, he had his own dick out and was coming in his hand, his forehead resting against her thigh, still on his knees. She ran her hand through his hair, unconsciously petting him as they both came down.

When he sat back and fixed himself back into his pants, she did the same. She offered him a hand and pulled him back up to his feet. Awkwardness threatening to set in, she just smiled at him, “Thanks seems like a bit of an understatement.”

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for hot birthday boys.” He laughed, cheeks glowing with a deep flush. “No pun intended.”

Her smile spread wider.

Walking out of the bar a few minutes later, Jeremy’s number written on the receipt in her pocket, only feeling a little awkward at how quickly the whole interaction wrapped up because he seemed honestly content, Jessica looked around the parking lot. James had said it was a classic car, but she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. The long, shiny, sleek lines of the absolute beast of a vehicle that was waiting for her was a surprise though.

She fished the keys out of her pocket and opened the door with a creaking squeak that spoke of old joints formed from heavy, solid, metal. She slid in behind the wheel and pulled the door shut.

“Okay. Just an easy drive over to the motel. You can do this.” Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life. Nothing quiet or subtle about this car, but it felt right on a weird, deep level that she wasn’t sure was coming from her. She eased out of the bar’s parking lot and onto the blessedly deserted street, keeping it a bit below the speed limit, even though she could feel the car practically begging to go faster.

Then there was the motel, and she parked outside room 12, locked the car and went inside. The place was… well it wasn’t going to ever earn even three stars on any travel guide ever again, but it was sorta clean and had the basics covered, a bed, nightstand, little desk with a chair next to a dresser with a tv on it, open closet, and a dingy bathroom. She dropped the keys onto the nightstand, along with James’s wallet and phone, as she sat heavily on the side of the bed.

Exhaustion settled heavily on her and she felt like she was made of lead, but still managed to pull off her boots and started to lay down before stopping herself and grabbing the cheap pen with the motel name on it. She scribbled a quick note on the receipt, under Jeremy’s name and number. And then was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

~~~

The distinctive smell of stale, decades old, cigarette smoke and bleach hit him as Dean woke with a start. Sitting up and taking immediate stock of himself and his surroundings. Sunlight streamed in around the curtains, lighting up copious dust motes. The distant sound of a door banging shut reverberated through the walls.

He was still wearing what he’d been wearing when he’d left his body last night and had been sleeping stretched out on top of the covers on the bed in his motel room. His duffle bag lay seemingly untouched on the floor at the foot of the bed.

He rubbed his hands over his face and scrubbed at his hair a few times.

His wallet, keys, and phone were on the nightstand next to a note, which he picked up and read. The handwriting wasn’t his. And as he looked he realized it was likely written by two different people.

Jeremy 555-823-3467 was written in one hand, while the rest was another, messy and unsure.

You may not want to go back to that bar.

“Huh.” he tossed the note onto the bed, got up and walked to the window. A quick check outside verified that his car was there and seemed in one piece.

~~~

Jessica woke up slowly, warm and comfortable. She stretched and felt the familiar feel of her own body and smiled. The smile dropped entirely as she realized that she was naked and not alone. Sam, also naked, stirred next to her as she moved.

The night before settling like a brick in her stomach. She knew what she’d done, and would carry the guilt of cheating on Sam, but if she was honest with herself, which she tried hard to be, she believed that the extraordinary circumstances were something that she would have regretted not taking advantage of. Right or wrong, she’d made her choice and she’d live with that. But the idea that some random guy had used her body the same way, with her boyfriend, and that it turned out that Sam hadn’t noticed anything wrong, which either said a lot about how poorly he knew her, or about how good James was at pretending to be someone he didn’t really know, well, that weighed on her in a much more unpleasant way.

It wouldn’t be for another year and a half before that strange, surreal night would come sneaking back into her life in a fittingly bizarre and unexpected way.

Looking at that too handsome face again standing so close to Sam as she flipped on the light in their living room, made the floor feel like it was going to drop out from under her.

“Sam?”

“Jess. Hey. Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.” Sam said, still slightly out of breath.

She blinked in surprise, “Wait, your brother Dean?”

Sam had never shown her any pictures of his brother, had only spoken about him a few times, and had made it sound like they were distant, estranged. She hadn’t ever questioned… why would she have questioned? This, what the hell was this? But before she could form any of her swirling thoughts into words, Dean stepped forward, an over-the-top leering grin on his face.

“Oh, I love the Smurfs. You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league.”

There wasn’t even a hint of recognition in his eyes, but she still felt the hairs on her arms rise with a sense of danger at the aggressive eye contact he’d fixed on her.

Later, as she watched Sam pack and assure her that he would be back in time for his interview on Monday, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was looming nearby. But she’d never told Sam about that night, it was insane, how could she have even begun to explain it? So she didn’t know now how to articulate why she didn’t want Sam to go. The idea that James was actually Sam’s brother, that he’d… that they’d…

Sam kissed her goodbye with promises of seeing her soon and then was out the door. A familiar rumble of an engine starting up outside, and then they were gone.

#wincest #wincest fanfiction #non con #extremely dubious consent #body swap #gender swap #sam/jessica #dean/sam #long post

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vi-does-stuff · 2 years

Text

It Always Comes Around

Sith!Obi-Wan Kenobi x f!reader

Tags mind control / brainwashing, the extremely dubious consent that comes with that, no y/n

Word count 1.2k

During a meeting, your ship is boarded by someone you haven't seen in a long time. And he's determined to take you with him. For Kinktober day 29: mind control

ao3

Nobody realised that your ship was about to be boarded until it was too late. You’re in the middle of an officers’ meeting when a clone bursts into the room, looking more panicked than any of your men typically do.

“Sir, there’s- we’ve been boarded, couldn’t tell- he just-” You furrow your brows as he takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “A man wielding a red lightsaber boarded the ship, sir. He- he killed anyone who stopped him. I barely managed to get away, he-”

He stops suddenly, a choking noise wrenching itself from his throat before he can finish his sentence. Your heart sinks as his hands jump helplessly to his throat, clawing at the invisible pressure there as though he’d be able to do anything. A few seconds pass, and he’s thrown carelessly against the wall as your hand goes to where your lightsaber is clipped at your waist.

“How cruel of him to ruin my surprise…” a voice that makes your heart leap in your chest says. And then- and then- a dead man calmly steps through the door. “But yes. Here I am.”

The hand at the hilt of your lightsaber freezes. “Obi-Wan?”

It can’t be. Obi-Wan died, three years ago at the Battle of Geonosis, and surely he would’ve told you sooner than this if he survived. And- though this man looks and sounds like Obi-Wan, there is no way that Obi-Wan would ever carelessly kill someone — dress in stark white robes, nothing like the usual clothing of the Jedi — look across at you with burning yellow eyes and an unfamiliar expression.

“Have you missed me?”

There’s some kind of wave in the Force that washes over you, one tainted with a deep feeling of wrongness, and you watch as everyone else in the meeting quickly falls unconscious.

“What are you doing here?”

He grins, stepping closer. “Coming to pick you up, of course.” You stand, seeming to remember that you were in the middle of unclipping your saber. You hold it out in front of you, trying to stop your hands from shaking, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Is there really any need for that?”

“Was there really any need to kill my men?” you say, taking your stance.

He sighs. “If this is what you want,” he says, and pulls out his own lightsaber. You want to tell him that of course this isn’t what you want, who wants to fight with their best friend-turned lover-turned dead man-turned very much alive Sith, but you need to protect your ship and the people on it. And any resemblance this man has to the one you grew up alongside is appearance-only.

You attack first, and are blocked with ease. He doesn’t even attempt to return the blow, just waits for you to strike again. He does so over and over again, a ridiculous display of arrogance, and it pisses you off. There’s a smirk on his face as he pushes you back several metres, and as you charge forward again, he only says stop.

There’s a power behind those words that catches you off guard, and you find yourself coming to a halt before you can attempt to hit him again. Satisfaction emanates from his Force signature, and you hate that the feeling is beginning to spread to you too — he’s everywhere, and you can’t escape the feeling of him pressing against your own signature. “Good,” he says, and he steps forward, until your faces are closer together than they’ve been in years. “You don’t really want to fight me, do you?”

You take a deep breath. He smells the same, you realise, after all this time, and then you’re slowly shaking your head — no, you don’t want to fight him.

“I didn’t think so.” His voice is softer now, and his hand reaches for yours. It takes hold of your lightsaber hilt, which you hadn’t realised is no longer ignited, and you let him take it. Some deep part of you rebels against the acceptance, you shouldn’t give your only weapon to a Sith, but he seems pleased again when he holds the hilt, and you like when he feels pleased. “I’ll look after that, don’t worry,” he says, tucking it away inside his robes along with his own, and you don’t worry — why would you, when he’s going to look after it for you?

When his hand reaches for yours again, he just holds it in his, and the familiarity of it makes your chest ache. It’s been three years but it’s been no time at all but it’s been a lifetime, and you don’t even consider wrenching your hand away. His other hand comes up to rest at your jaw, and his eyes which were previously looking into yours — the gold of the irises no longer seeming so repulsive to you — drop to your lips. You copy the motion, and are reminded of how soft his beard looks, even after all this time, how much you miss the feeling of it against your skin, how much you want to feel it again.

He obliges. He starts slowly, as though simply reminding himself of how it feels to be so close to you, but he soon grows impatient. His tongue runs across your lower lip, and you open your mouth obediently, and the good feeling in his Force signature only increases. It’s getting hard to think, but you don’t need to think when you have this, the intoxicating feeling of Obi-Wan re-learning your mouth with his tongue, the pleasure that he pushes towards you in the Force.

He bites at your lower lip before pulling away, looking you in the eyes again. His lips are red, slightly swollen, and when you look up into his gaze you can see the need there. You’re sure the expression is reflected on your own face — it’s ridiculous to finally have the years-long absence of this man filled once more — and the whole galaxy narrows down to this miniscule space containing just the two of you.

You feel his fingers take a firmer hold of your hand, and he begins to move. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go back to my ship. We should get out of here.”

“I-” you hesitate for a second, suddenly sure that leaving this room is the wrong thing to do. The sureness lasts only for a second, however, when the pressure on your mind focuses again, and if you couldn’t remember why you should stay before you definitely can’t now. “Yes,” you say, and follow him out of the room.

Walking through the corridor is weird. Through the haze of Obi-Wan, there’s something wholly wrong that he subtly urges you to ignore, and the two of you just keep walking, hand in hand. Every so often, you pass someone lying unconscious on the floor, but your curiosity isn’t enough to make you stop and take a proper look. Obi-Wan is calm, so you are too.

Eventually, you’re led to where his ship has been waiting. It’s small, but should have room for you, and looks ideal for secretive manoeuvres. You’re led up the ramp and into the ship, guided over to sit in the co-pilot’s chair, and Obi-Wan quickly takes off.

You don’t look back at the Star Destroyer once.

thank you for reading! this is the end of kinktober for me, i hope you enjoyed everything i've written for it :)

also i actually rather enjoyed writing this one so please expect a part two at some point

kinktober masterlist » main masterlist

#obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi #kinktober 2022 #extremely dubious consent #star wars fic #vi does writing

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evilwriter37 · 1 year

Text

Commission for @ashleybenlove!

Rated: explicit

Warnings: drug use, hard drugs, extremely dubious consent

Pairings: Viggo/Hiccup, Hiccup/original characters

Word Count: 2,380

Summary: If chapter 30 of Scholar's Mate had gone a different route. Eva and Ambrose have some fun with Hiccup while Viggo's gone.

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dionysus2xborn · 9 months

Text

Chapter 4: I’ll never be your lover, I only bring the heat. Company under covers, filling space in your sheets.

Next chapter out, probs will get the next out soon too. Really tryin to just get this one done asap to move onto the crossover for you guys. (check tags for warning!)

I really am loving writing this one.

#the secret history #pov richard papen #henry winter #the secret history fic #the secret history fanfic #richard papen #richard papen/henry winter #dubcon #extremely dubious consent #non con #tw rape #rape tw #tw noncon #check tags

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augment-techs · 1 year

Note

KIMBERLY/SKULL fuck or die kink PLEASE

Because I refuse to reference the OG series for this, I'm afraid you're stuck with the Comics. World of the Coinless AU at that.

Hickies on her skin were against the rules.

Leaving semen inside of her as well.

Putting a cock in her mouth or ass without being told, too.

Fucking her in a position that Drakkon didn't get to observe every moment of was absolutely against the rules.

Really, it was amazing how much stuff was forbidden to happen to the Ranger Slayer in Drakkon's private rooms that went unsaid and unmentioned until it was too late.

The monster could do whatever he wanted, it was just that he was completely incapable of doing so to her with his own hands and cock. He needed someone else to do it while he watched on a throne of cushions and generally had his Huntsman service him orally until somebody messed up.

Then he'd cut off their heads and have Billy get rid of the corpse while he ordered Kim to finish herself off while he watched; usually coming only after she'd been made to say filthy, pathetic things to him from her place on the bed.

The noise he made was a grotesque animal cry that usually ran circles through her head from the moment she fell asleep until she woke up in the morning with Billy's back to her and Drakkon leaving them with orders to imbibe in each other or to just bathe until he called for them.

This was tedious and seemed neverending.

Until he found someone familiar that could actually play the game as well, if not better, than the whole lot of them.

If Kimberly was still capable of expressing joy beyond sneering at the dead bodies of Coinless she'd caught alone, or in battle with aliens that still thought Earth was an easy target, she might have laughed in joy when Drakkon put a fast-tracking soldier into the Red Sentries and had him come to his rooms after he'd passed his own test of pleasuring the tyrant. * *

Eugene Skullovitch had filled out remarkably well since high school. Lean muscle and so much black hair and fingers made for playing music that was no longer allowed inside the palace because Drakkon knew it gave people ideas and hope.

It was a little funny that Drakkon wasn't jealous that when he had Skull strip and start in on her, she was already wet and her mouth was smiling for real. Or he just didn't notice.

Skull was good at this. Scheherazade of the bedroom, he kept going and going and wasn't killed the next morning.

Fingers stroked through her hair, "I kind of miss the length, but you still look lovely."

Pads of his fingers traced the length of her neck, the insides of her arms, counted her ribs and skimmed her sex, "Oh, she's getting goosebumps, Sir. Shall I continue?"

When Drakkon showed all of his teeth in a smile, Skull knew to continue; to do more.

When Skull kissed her, it wasn't rough or possessive, just the light kissing that turned into making out that Kim had wanted much and often at sixteen; her legs on either side of his hips, breasts sliding up and down a muscled chest, her tongue going deeper into his until she had to pull back and breathe and he moved his tongue down her throat.

He never left marks on her, even if she eventually would have wanted him to.

He always had a condom, despite not needing one since brought in among the Red Sentries and Drakkon deciding he was better off without the chance to perpetuate his line. The best he could manage was some clear fluid that looked like crystal water--unless and until she looked closer and saw the little wisps of blood.

Still, Kim in her obedience and internal self-hatred of the act and acting was grateful that the boy she knew was still deep down inside Skull thought ahead, thought of her best interests and put them ahead of his possible wants or comfort.

(Her gratitude and the magic cloying to her--that was all that kept her from crying when he asked for permission to ease into her, voice level and calm and hiding how she could feel him shaking under her as he watched Drakkon use Billy to get himself off without asking.

Oil and rough hands and bruises like black butterfly wings on Billy's pale skin; how Drakkon wanted to treat his favorite doll, always, but had to settle for the one that didn't make him feel something he didn't want to in a way that allowed him to keep his erection.

Billy never could say anything afterwards in disgust for Drakkon, in empathy and jealousy for Kim; in his desperation for the boy he'd known almost as long as they'd been alive performing in the room like a rare show animal. Deer among wolves, fox among hounds, unicorn among lions.

It was really amazing neither of them vomited as often as they would have liked.)

She always came within the hour, always clawed at his wide (hideously scarred) back with a frenzy, legs tight around him and so grateful for the warmth Eugene gave off that she could almost forget about the spell or the room or Drakkon and everything when she screamed towards the ceiling and went tight as a bowstring.

When she was lowered back among the covers, still giddy with endorphins, getting rocked gently until she stopped pulsing, and grateful at being cleaned up with a warm cloth and kind grey eyes looking at her, she really did love this man.

(Even after, when her cover was blown amongst the Coinless and she opened her mouth to suggest the name that had doubtlessly lead to her old friends surviving her programmed attack, she believed that this was the only thing that let her fight this horrible magic enough to suggest interrogation and the Deadlock rather than an instant death.

It had cost Eugene almost two years of his life in agony, but at least he still had a life.)

#ask fill #prompt fill #mature | sexy times #world of the coinless #Red Sentry Eugene Skull Skullovitch #Ranger Slayer Kimberly Hart #Billy Cranston #Lord Drakkon #boom! comics power rangers #shattered grid #MMPR #mighty morphin comics #assault #extremely dubious consent #Mind Control #Huntsman AU

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izzyferal · 1 year

Text

Two more chapters have been added to Creep, my parasocial stalker AU!

Please remember to mind the tags!

#izzy hands #edward teach/izzy hands #edward teach #edward teach/stede bonnet #blackhands #edizzy #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #dead dove do not eat #ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd fanfic #dubcon #extremely dubious consent #suicide #mental health issues #neglect #starvation

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 2 years

Link

Things never turn out well when goddesses fall in love with girls.

Day 21: Fairy Circle

___

Title taken from the song Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums by A Perfect Circle.

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

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cowardly--throwaway · 4 months

Text

A Well-Placed Gift Chapter 3: Home

Rated: Explicit ***WARNING: NON-CON, FUCKED-UP MANIPULATIVE POWER DYNAMICS/FORCED RELATIONSHIPS!***

a.k.a. more of the problematic Bandit Hob/Nuala smut you didn't ask for.

Ao3 link — Chapter 1 on Tumblr — Chapter 2 on Tumblr

"You're bringing her home?" The voice of Hob's friend — she thought it was the one called Charlie — was hushed, but the shock in it woke Nuala.

"When it's safe," Hob said. "I'll meet you later. There'll be plenty of wreckage to pick through."

"Hob," the one named Harry spoke up cautiously, "this isn't our usual…"

"Yeah, I don't think I want anything to do with this," the third friend, Artie, agreed strenuously. "Even if she has people who'll pay."

"I'm not asking you to do anything!" Hob said. "I'm staying! And then taking her back with me when the way's clear."

"It'd be better to move on and find somewhere to leave her," Charlie suggested reasonably.

"I'm not leaving her!" Hob said. "You all go on."

"Hobsie…" Artie went on in a worried whisper, "even if her people are dead, she looks like she has someone who'll come looking. If you've so much as frightened her, let alone spoiled her, you'll go to the gallows for sure!"

Nuala sat up. She blinked innocently up at the men and smiled. "Are you off to the war today?"

"We are," Artie said. "After a fashion." He was standing closest to Hob and had one hand on his shoulder as if physically pleading with him to abandon this particular course of action. He spoke to Hob in a low voice that Nuala probably wasn't supposed to hear. "Come with us. She'll bring you more grief than both Their Majesties Edward and Henry together! It's not worth it!"

Hob shook off his friend's hand and came to help Nuala up. "They'll be off. We can rest here a day or so longer, then make our way home if things have quieted a bit." He unwrapped a loaf of apparently very tough bread and wrestled with it for a moment before a big chunk tore off. He handed it to Nuala and shot a defiant look at his friends. "Go on. Before all the best bits are taken."

Charlie gave a halfhearted shrug and shuffled off. Harry hesitated, looking nervous, then he offered Nuala an awkward wave; then with a shake of his head, he left. Artie lingered.

"Hob—"

"Go on!"

Nuala smiled at the man and waved as though nothing in the world was wrong. This did not seem to calm him, but finally he heaved a sigh and turned away.

Then they were alone.

"I've got food for a couple of days," Hob said, "but we'll likely be able to go back soon enough. These skirmishes have been moving all up and down the country."

"I can forage for berries," Nuala said.

"Not alone you won't."

Nuala turned away to hide her derisive glare. "Is it really so dangerous?"

"You've no idea."

A little later, Nuala was able to whisper a message to an amiable robin while Hob was relieving himself in the bushes. She said nothing of the war — the peril certainly wouldn't move Queen Titania — but she emphasized how banal and mundane Hob Gadling was, how uninteresting he must be to the Lord of Dreams, and how little threat he posed to anyone not traveling along a mortal road with glittering jewels.

In the light of day, she felt more in command of her emotions, but she did not forget the feeling of being cut adrift. The raw wound of losing everything lingered in her heart. And when Hob prompted her with questions, she surprised herself by answering openly.

"So you haven't got anyone?" Hob asked.

"I've got a brother, but he's… off playing games."

"Games?"

"Games of power." Too late she realized that this might make it sound like Cluracan was an influential man who might indeed come looking for an abducted sister. "He does not particularly care for me, unless it is convenient. He will not even notice that I am gone for some time I am sure. And he… he cannot help me. Even if he wished to."

She stared at the ground as horrified tears stung her eyes. What was she saying! If Hob Gadling wished to slit her throat and sell her fine clothes and whatever baubles he found in her pockets, she was only showing him how easy it would be! Oh, what a frustrating line she must walk — to make him think her a silly girl but not so worthless that he might as well cast her into a ditch himself! She had to choose her words more carefully. What was it about this Hob that made her want to speak so freely?

Well, she would not let him kill her.

She was a loyal enough faerie and would carry out her task as ordered — unless it meant only her destruction. What purpose would that serve? No, if it came to it, she would throw all her fae magic at this mortal and flee — and damn Queen Titania's orders!

She shivered just thinking it. But resolve hardened in her, and she raised her chin and her eyes were steely when they met Hob's.

He was frowning. "Sorry about that. Family's tough, isn't it? Plague carried off most of mine. The rest weren't worth sticking around for."

"Oh. Yes," she replied, baffled by the sympathy in his words. "They can be… confounding. At times." But I would save Cluracan, Nuala thought, if he were trapped, even if he were on a mission from the queen herself.

Thinking back, she was pretty sure she had gotten him out of some pretty tough spots. But she'd never had the faith that he would do the same in return. Indeed, if he'd been ordered to, Cluracan surely would've delivered Nuala to the Nightmare King himself!

She fell back into her own morose thoughts as her eyes scanned the greenery for returning messengers. But the forest remained resolutely quiet on the subject of Queen Titania's orders.

Later in the day, Nuala and Hob hiked together through the woods. They gathered some early spring berries and a few handfuls of young herbs. Hob caught a rabbit with his bare hands (after Nuala had silently lulled it to sleep in the bushes.) Hob seemed to watch and listen as keenly as possible for a human. He moved constantly to keep Nuala in his sights. Any time she strayed even a little from his side, his head snapped towards her. His hand often drifted to the heavy dagger at his side.

Nuala was glad she wasn't a mere human girl hoping for a chance of escape.

At one point, Nuala stopped to listen to some movement far, far down the road. Hob's sharp eyes watched her, then roved the forest, then suddenly he was pressing her down under a bush. Some moments later, they listened to the tromp of heavy boots and the clink of armor. As the noise approached, Nuala's heart thrashed against her insides. Hob's dagger gleamed in a sliver of sunlight. Silently, without moving a muscle, Nuala flung a thin glamour over them.

The soldiers plodded past for what seemed like an age. Finally, they were gone. Hob held her down under the bushes for a long while, though Nuala could hear there were no more stragglers. The road was empty.

"Hopefully, that's them leaving this place," Hob said as he finally stood and helped her out of the bushes. "But we'd best stay far from the road till tomorrow."

Nuala's heart was still beating like a drum in her chest. And as she and Hob cautiously moved on, her ears remained perked for any distant sound — and not just the rumor of soldier's boots. She couldn't help straining her ears toward every passing bird, every bee, every squirrel, in case one was bringing news from Faerie.

But the forest was busy with its own news. And no word from Queen Titania arrived.

Back at the hidden camp, Hob passed the evening sharpening weapons and cooking rabbit. Nuala remained under his sharp eye nearly constantly as she kept her eyes and ears open for word from home. She should, perhaps, send another message — after all, the message she'd sent back to Faerie with the amiable robin could've gone astray, or arrived but been drowned out in the chaos of a revel, or perhaps her quick message hadn't been enough to convince the queen of the banality of Hob Gadling and the uselessness of this mission. Sending another would show that Nuala was still dutifully at work on the task but also emphasize the reality of the situation.

Finally, she managed to beg a few minutes of privacy.

"Not further than a shout can travel," Hob warned her. "And I'll come looking after a few minutes."

Nuala didn't have to go far. She found a somewhat antisocial but sympathetic starling and sent another message off to Titania. This one emphasized that Hob and his companions were only interested in ransacking mortal lands — not even the magical strongholds of this world! They'd only spoken of trinkets. Jewels and coins and metals scavenged from the human battlefields or stolen from poor mortals along the roads. Hob seemed, from all Nuala could discern, to have no interest in anything of relevance, intrigue, or threat to either Faerie or the King of Nightmares.

When the starling had flown off, Nuala hurried back to Hob before he could worry.

As his gaze found her in the darkening shadows at the edge of the clearing, she stilled, lingering outside the circle of firelight. Hob sat on the mossy log beside the blaze and turned the spitted rabbit as he watched her. Hunger stared blatantly out of his eyes. Nuala worked to smooth the coldness from her glance before she stepped into the light.

A small part of the despair that had overwhelmed her last night shifted inside her now. Perhaps there was something about the dancing flames and the scent of food and the bright moon above that reminded Nuala acutely of how she could be dancing at a revel now if she hadn't been thrust out of her home.

There was something satisfying about watching Hob's greedy, smitten gaze follow her as she stepped around the blaze toward him. Nothing of her home or people remained in this forsaken forest. Nothing but her. She was still one of the fae, a shred of magic and beauty and fascination in this dull place. And though her own home might find her useless, Hob Gadling certainly did not.

Nuala sat on the dirty log beside Hob. So close that their legs touched. His heat penetrated her gossamer dress even more forcefully than the fire itself. Her heart thudded too hard in her chest, but it was preferable to that empty, adrift feeling of abandonment. Though she wasn't cold, she shivered and — keeping her eyes on the grubby man — stuck her hands out toward the fire. "It is good not to be all alone in the cold woods," she said. "I am grateful that you found me."

Hob shifted, his muscles tensing. He turned his head back toward the meal and poked at one of the rabbit's legs with a knife, but he watched Nuala out of the corner of his eye. "Aye. A cold forest is a hard place to be on your own."

"And now your friends are gone. Do you not wish you had accompanied them, seeking treasure?"

He let one shoulder rise and fall. "We've been seeking our fortunes all up and down the roads these last few months. It's been a fruitful time." His teeth gleamed as he grinned, and Nuala had very little doubt what kind of fruit these violent times had born for Hob and his friends. "Might as well take some well-earned rest."

He stabbed at a piece of meat, wrenching and tearing it off. He watched it for a moment as it cooled slightly and then handed it to Nuala.

She leaned slightly into him as she nibbled at the meat. Her eyes turned toward the fire. Her heart, which had leaped up into her throat, pounded against her voice as she said, "Is it not that you've already claimed your treasure?"

She looked at him steadily — or as steadily as possible with her heart pounding so — and he looked back, quietly chewing on his charred rabbit.

"What is your plan, Hob?" she asked, speaking more plainly than she had yet. "What if there are none who will pay?"

Something warred in his eyes, pity and desire perhaps. "Is there truly no one waiting?"

"There is not," she said. As it had earlier, instinct cautioned her not to speak so freely, but Nuala ignored it. Maybe something about the firelight and the fact that Hob was on his own now made her bold. But she might as well be frank and find out quickly what he meant to do with her — and if he planned to dispose of her if she weren't profitable. If that was his intention, then they could get this fight over with quickly and Nuala could inform Queen Titania that Hob Gadling was no longer any concern to anyone.

"No man waiting for you somewhere?" Hob asked.

Only Cluracan, and he probably hadn't even noticed she was gone yet. Nuala shook her head.

Hob narrowed his eyes. "Not even a promised one? Your sort are always promising their daughters and sons away."

Nuala almost laughed at the secret irony — that here she was promised, after a fashion, to him. "Perhaps that is the usual way of things, but I have never been committed to marry another," she said, which was true enough. Titania cared not for the specific rules of mortal relationships. "And now…" She did not speak a specific lie, but she remembered the way the men had made assumptions yesterday — filling in the lies themselves, fitting Nuala into the complex dramas of the mortal realm, their minds spinning tales of a family on the losing side without her even speaking a word. "I do not know that any man would wish for my commitment."

"Hey, you don't know that!" Hob said, his encouraging tone surprising Nuala. "It all depends on who prevails when Henry and Margaret get to London! And my money—" He cocked his head for a second and a smirk ghosted across his lips. "—maybe not my life, but my money's on this King Edward, even after that thrashing at St. Albans. He's a young thing, but maybe a kingly sort, from the sound of it. His father knew his way around a battle, and if this boy's got half his spirit and wit on the field, he just might pull ahead of His Formerly Anointed Majesty and that she-wolf."

"You are kind to say so," Nuala said. She had no idea whatsoever what Hob was talking about, but his fierce defense of her imagined father's imaginary alliances was touching. She laid aside a particularly burnt piece of meat and turned to face Hob fully. She lifted her chin slightly, met his eye, and banished the shadow of the naive girl that had first met this bandit upon the road. "But the truth is, I have none to pay for my safety and no wealth but what you have already taken."

Hob's eyes flickered away from hers for a heartbeat, perhaps the tiniest shred of shame visible in their depths. He did not speak.

"So if your intention is to slit my throat or otherwise and discard of that which is of no use to you, then I ask only for the kindness of a moment to…" To draw on her magic and send Hob Gadling himself to the Nightmare Realm or into whatever comparable horrors her fae powers could concoct. "…to make my peace."

His gaze lifted to her again. "Many would wish for the opposite," he said. "On the battlefield, a sudden end is a gift. Seeing death coming is a hard thing, milady."

"I would defer to your expertise were we on the battlefield. But this is not the war, and I am not your enemy." She kept her gaze steady on him. If he did have murder on the mind, then she would have it out in the open, and she would meet the danger head on. If he didn't seek to destroy her, then she would do what she had been sent here for. For the first time, she let magic creep into her words, "Can you speak truthfully and grant me the kindness I ask for?"

"I'll not kill you," he said swiftly, and Nuala could hear the truth vibrating against the threads of her magic. "I'd grant you anything in my power — including that kindness you ask for, if I intended to steal your life, but I don't, so such a boon can't be given."

It was, perhaps fittingly, a winding fae-like answer, but Nuala could hear the earnestness behind it. A smile crept onto her lips, and she relaxed slightly, her magic fading into the night.

She raised a hand to the rough whiskers on his cheek. "Thank you," she said, letting some shadow of the naive mortal girl creep back into her manner. "I've no wealth nor connection, but… I can make myself useful otherwise."

He made a soft animal sound deep in his throat, and she felt him swallow against her hand. "Don't tempt me, girl." His voice was nearly a growl. "I'll not slit your throat or any of that, but I'm not a restrained man."

But tempting Hob was exactly what Nuala was here to do. And how easy he seemed to tempt! Despite his protest, his eyes roved her body hungrily. And (letting her own glance wander) she could clearly see his desire was already aroused.

Perhaps she was simply clinging to her task as the one solid thing within reach — her purpose here the only remnant of the world from which she'd been cut adrift — and with no further word from Faerie, all she could do was carry on. Or perhaps Hob Gadling was just warm and there. Even in the dullest revel of Faerie, Nuala would have her choice of courtiers and free fae to find comfort in. Here, there was only Hob.

She peaked up at him and leaned closer, letting her fingers rake through the hair on his jawline and feeling his slight quiver in response.

"What need is there of restraint in a place like this?" she asked, looking around at the dark clearing.

Hob's eyes narrowed — a spark lighted in them, a look so keen that for a moment, Nuala was afraid she'd been found out as a spy. But Hob just grinned. "Oh, you are a temptress."

Yes, she was. Or she could be.

His hair ran like silk over her fingers as her hand brushed the back of his head, her nails scraping lightly. His breath quickened. His dark eyes flashed in the firelight and a muscle worked in his jaw.

And then he was on her.

In a second, with nearly fae speed, he'd crushed her against him. One rough hand grabbed a fistful of her dress at her back, the other groped the side of her breast. His rough whiskers scraped against her neck as his lips devoured her, his mouth finding the softest skin over her pulse point as unerringly as a hungry wolf.

It wasn't horrible. Hob's hands were inelegant but not bruising. His skin was calloused and his nails — slightly too long and ragged — pressed into her flesh, but the sensations were rough, not painful. His movements felt greedy — one hand had wandered downward to cling at her backside — but also almost careful. The muscles under Nuala's fingers spoke of strength that could easily hurt her soft form, but which was restraining his hungry groping movements so as not to harm. She found her own hands clinging to Hob's rough tunic, her head dropping back to allow his questing lips to move freely over her skin, her eyes drifting shut. The sensations that raced from his touch and through her body went some ways toward dispelling the pain of abandonment. Or at least distracting from it.

Suddenly she was lifted, and then Hob was pressing her down into the fresh spring grass.

And then his hands disappeared from her. He held himself up on his fists and his knees, looking down at her like a wolf hesitating over a meal.

Nuala wondered if it was concern for her or concern for himself — for the consequences his friend had warned him of, for "spoiling" her. She didn't care. She lifted her head and kissed him, one hand clutching the back of his neck and dragging him back down.

Hob's restraint shattered. His weight pressed into her, his cock was hard and leaking where it was trapped between them. His hand strayed between her legs, and those thick, calloused fingers pressed into the exact spot that that made her gasp.

And then, while his thumb quested mercilessly over that same spot, his fingers plunged deep inside her. She clenched around him, and he stilled.

He growled into her neck, then seemed to find his words. "You are… untouched?"

Well, this glamour was. She answered truthfully, "No mortal man has lain with me."

Hob was very still for a long moment. His hand began to move first, as if it could not tolerate whatever restraint his wiser parts might be trying to impose. He moved tentatively, and Nuala's hips responded, moving against him and seeking sensation to blot out the despair of exile.

"Wanton thing," he whispered as she writhed against his palm. "Just waiting for someone bold enough to come along, eh? Someone not frightened by that fine garb?"

She responded with a light moan, the only communication she could manage as she closed her eyes and threw back her head against the hard ground and sank into the feel of his fingers on and in her. She clutched at his hair, his shoulders, those hard-muscled arms, once again grabbing at him like the edge of a ship in a storm.

His hands were gentle, but the rough skin of his fingers moved against her nerves like nothing she'd ever felt before. She could feel his hardness against her hip, but he patiently worked his hands between her legs gathering her pleasure until she was panting with the weight of it. She vaguely thought how simple this seemed, for Nuala knew how to seduce and please a man, but Hob's enthusiasm required no coaxing and truly very little effort on her part. The thought, however, was a shred, floating away on the wisps of coherency as they fled her mind under his tireless ministrations.

"Hob!" she gasped his name, her back arching off the grass. Her eyes were still shut tight, and she was all sensation — Hob's hand drawing out her crest and the night breeze wicking sweat off her skin and the tension fleeing her body as she fell loosely back to the grass.

"You are the loveliest thing in the world like this," Hob growled above her.

She opened her eyes and had to admit there was something lovely about the man above her, too. The firelight danced in his silken hair, and his eyes were like endless, dark pools, the muscles of his chest moved gently with every breath, and he was focused on nothing but her. Hob Gadling didn't have the fine clothes or the soft hands of a courtier. But in this rough, forsaken place, he seemed as much a part of the night and the woods and the hungry, beating heart of humanity as the faeries were a part of their own magical homes.

He entered her slowly. Once again, she could feel the restraint in every movement, but also the need that drove him on despite it. Her body welcomed him in, clutching at him as if every fiber of her being needed to hold him tight. Fresh sparks of pleasure ignited deep inside her, and she urged him on with her hips and one hand straying gently to his arse.

His movements quickened as if he couldn't help it, and soon she was clenching harder around him, and then he stilled, spilling his seed deep in her.

And again, Hob fell asleep clutching her tight to him.

Under the sound of his deep, rhythmic breaths, Nuala whispered spells to clean his seed from her before it could take root.

Nuala woke to a bright sun and a chill breeze streaming into the clearing. The warm arms that had been wrapped around her middle through the cold night had disappeared, but a heavy wool blanket had been draped over her. She clutched at the rough material — a tiny kindness that gave her a disproportionate sense of comfort — and she lay still, watching Hob moving about the clearing. A delicate frost crusted the grass, and his heavy boots crunched over the ground as he packed things up, stuffing blankets and blades away. Some went into his pack and others into rough wooden boxes that he pushed under dense bushes.

He smiled when he noticed her looking. "Morning! Ready for a walk?" He tucked a chunk of his long hair behind one ear as he came to help her up. "It's a bit of a march back home and we'll have to go carefully, but we can be back by nightfall if things have quieted down a bit."

"I can walk far through the forest," Nuala said, still clutching the blanket around her shoulders. "You need not worry."

Hob gave her a speculating glance, then smiled. "You are a surprising thing."

For some utterly incomprehensible reason, Nuala smiled back as Hob handed her some cold rabbit and his own cup of water.

The roads were quiet, and Hob and Nuala made good time. Twice he pulled her aside into the undergrowth when they heard steps and hooves on the road. But they were only small groups of travelers passing with weary faces. By late afternoon, Nuala could see the trees thinning up ahead, making way for small, crude buildings. The smell of cooking fires and the clucking of chickens and the rise and fall of voices wove toward them through the forest's edge. A few flakes of snow had begun to breach the canopy.

But Hob drew her off the road again before they breached the tree line. He guided her along a thin, overgrown path that wound around a hill and into deeper woods. Under a particularly thick stand of trees stood a small shack.

"It used to be a nice little farm," Hob said. "Back when… erm, my grandfather lived here. But the plague left many spots around these parts empty and the forest took them back." He stuck his hands in his pockets. Some of the tension of the road seemed to ease from his body, but he watched Nuala cautiously out of the corner of his eye. "Well, I preferred soldiering to faming anyway. But we could get a little garden going there by the stoop if you'd like."

He pointed to a patch of dirt between the tree roots and the door of the shack. Then he opened the door and ushered her inside.

It truly was a shack. There was a little space for a fire in the center. Gaps at the top of the walls would let the smoke out and the chill in, but they (mostly) stopped the snow. There was a table with two stools in one corner and a bed with a lively patchwork quilt in another.

It was sparser than all but the lowest free fae hovels, but it was a home. A lump rose in Nuala's throat at the reminder of the very thing she'd lost.

Feeling suddenly shy, she turned to Hob and smiled kindly. "You are generous to share your home with me. I would happily sow and tend a garden."

Hob beamed, and his cheeks went a little ruddy. The smile faded as he shifted his hands in his pockets. He hesitated for a moment then drew out Queen Titania's jeweled necklace and the fine broach he'd taken two days before.

His gaze flashed with just a hint of guilt as he peaked up at her. "I know where to get a pretty penny for these. We could fix this place up a bit. Give you a comfortable place to rest while I'm off fighting. If we buried some of the coin, you could save it for the lean times or if… Well, you'd have it in case one day I didn't come back."

Nuala blinked at him. She wondered what his plan was. Did he still think he could be killed? Or that the devil might return to collect his soul for whatever deal he'd struck? Or was he just planning to disappear one day and let her think he'd been cut down on some distant battlefield? None of this, however, mattered to the feeling of warmth that crept through her at his words.

Hob Gadling might be a rogue, a bandit, a mercenary, and who knows what else. But Nuala couldn't remember the last time someone gave thought to her care — even in the moment, let alone along possible future paths. At the Court of Faerie, the pleasure and desires of the moment ruled. Political plots could be meticulous and run through the ages, but the whims of daily life could change like the wind. Despite their long lives, the fae — herself included — weren't known for developing responsibility and commitment. She hadn't thought humans were much better.

"Sell them," Nuala said. And why not? Queen Titania had handed the jewels — and her — over to Hob as if they were nothing. Why shouldn't he use them to make her time here more bearable? "A home is worth a hundred jewels."

Hob's smile at the word home was as blinding as the sun.

#Hob/Nuala #Soon to be Hob/Nuala/Dream #immortal sandflower #hob gadling #nuala of the faerie #sandman #cw: dubcon #extremely dubious consent #nsft #Fucked up stories that probably shouldn't exist — a.k.a. My Fanfic

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imnova · 8 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Additional Tags: Demon Dean Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester/Human Sam Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Sam Winchester Drinks Demon Blood From Dean Winchester, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Withdrawal, Cock Cages, Dry Orgasm, Cock & Ball Torture, Sounding, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Neglect, Nipple Clamps, Pet Play (Kinda), overuse of the word bitch, POV Dean Winchester, Victim Blaming, Extremely Dubious Consent, checked rape anyway in case you don't think Sam can consent in the situation, I see it more as, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped Sam Winchester, sorta - Freeform, Abusive Relationships, Abusive Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, No Lube, Sex Without Prep, Humiliation, Verbal Humiliation, tell me if I forgot to tag something please Summary:

Demon Dean knew that Sam would relapse if only given a chance to. He's been enjoying the results since. Sam...less so.

#wincest #wincest wednesday #all prompts combined #extremely dubious consent #blood addict Sam Winchester/Demon Dean #this ain't pretty #check the tags

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calibraptor · 5 months

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You insisted you were fine, that you didn't need help. Your gaze flickering down to my hands and feet -- to the implements meant to carve through meat at the end of each and every one of my digits.

You were shaking like a leaf, whether more from fear or cold? I couldn't tell. You apprehensively step back, eyes flitting about for any escape you could find. Warning me to stay back.

Nothing I could say would really put you at ease, not in these below freezing temperatures, not with this creature full of claws and fangs standing before you. My keen ears pick up the snapping of a branch some ways away, I wasn't the only sharp and dangerous thing in these woods.

I couldn't risk you running away from me and straight into the jaws of another, so I did the only thing I could. It all happens so fast from your perspective, I imagine. An enigmatic creature standing utterly still some distance away, then a sudden blur of fur, teeth, and then a jarring embrace of hot crimson flesh sheathing it's way over your body as I hurriedly swallow you whole.

You struggled, you thrashed, you whimpered and begged as I took your head into my jaws... your pleas quickly muffled away as I swiftly engulf you, unmolested by tooth or talon as your feet lift and lose contact with the snow packed earth. Your surroundings are slimy, snug, yet unyieldingly warm. You can't help but shudder in a morbid combination of horror and relief as you're liberated from the unforgiving cold by waves of rippling peristalsis as you're dragged into this creature's body... Soon curled up into a snug ball within the sauna-like confines of my stomach, you can feel my thighs bump you as I begin to walk, the indentation of one of my mitts pressing into and feeling at you every so often.

It's almost... comfortable, the gentle swaying, your predator's steady heartbeat drumming in your ears, and the gastric ambiance of groans and gurgles. At the very least -- you figure to yourself -- you'll perish somewhere warm...

That is, until I finally stop moving and flop onto my side somewhere... eliciting a little 'oof' from yourself at the unexpected impact. My muzzle pressing in against your curled up form within my middle.

The reassurance that no harm would come to you inside my stomach was a welcome bit of news, the part where I explain you'll be staying inside me until the blizzard dies down? Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of good/bad news, doesn't it?

#rappwriting #soft vore #extreme cuddling #dubious consent #unwilling #nonfatal #endosoma

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karatekels · 6 months

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All’s Fair: Chapter 3

Happy Halloween, everybody! I hope you enjoy the tricks and treats that this dark and twisty Terry provides in this chapter...

Previous Parts:

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

TW: Teasing, coercion, gaslighting, threats, violence, PTSD being triggered, dubcon, probably noncon if we're being honest, groping, fingering, graphic sex, Terry Silver being manipulative and hot about it

Terry’s POV:

Terry is over the moon with what you have allowed him to get away with tonight. He leads you out of the Hall of Mirrors gently, rubbing his thumb in reassuring circles on your skin as he holds your hand; he has to make sure you aren’t going to be overwhelmed by the experience after the fact. You seem shaky, and shy, but overall you’re glowing with satisfaction and an endearing sense of pride, like you had overcome a significant obstacle. He supposes, in a way, you have. Hopefully the mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of yours-truly has knocked away a significant chunk of your remaining anxieties and hesitation about going all the way tonight. It would make things easier for him, at any rate.

As you walk through the fair you enter a path lined by booths largely filled with other couples, the people staffing them outright heckling the men walking through with their girlfriends and intimidating them into paying for a chance to win their partner a plush toy. It’s clearly a cash grab; he can spot some of the illusions set up to trick people from here, and appreciates the hustle.

“Hey hey, Big Man! How ‘bout you come on over and try to win something for that lovely lady of yours?” a man throws out, trying to bait him.

He can appreciate a hustle, but not at his expense.

Terry immediately starts to steer you both towards the booth, but you squeeze his hand to try to stop him.

“Just ignore him, Terry. Those games are all rigged anyway,” you say with a roll of your eyes directed at the man goading them from his booth.

“It’ll only take a minute,” he tells you with confidence, pulling you into his side as he walks over. Do you really still underestimate him this much?

He hands a couple bills to the carnie in exchange for a few balls that feel like they’re from a billiards table.

“So, what? I just throw these at some bottles?” he asks skeptically.

“That’s right,” the man says with a broad grin that Terry sees right through.

“How can I be sure that the bottles aren’t attached to the table?” he asks with an innocent smile. The carnie lifts a bottle up to demonstrate, and Terry shakes his head.

“Why don’t you let me back there to see for myself?” he asks with a soft, dangerous voice that has the other man paling slightly, before his eyes turn to land on you with a slight smirk.

“No dice, buddy. I could let the lady back here with me on your behalf,” he offers, raising a challenging eyebrow. Terry is not concerned for a minute about letting you near this man. He is certain of your loyalty and devotion to him, and doesn’t think that the man is stupid enough to try to lay a finger on you in his presence.

Still, he plays up his insecurities, pulling you close and laying a kiss on your lips before releasing you.

“Whaddaya say, doll?” he asks you, giving you your favourite lopsided grin. “Want to go check that everything’s on the up-and-up for me?”

You give him a shy smile and a nod, moving away from him and slipping into the back of the booth as the carnie lifts the counter up on its hinge, closing it after you.

“You want me to lift them all?” you ask Terry, paying no mind to the man next to you, he notes with satisfaction as he nods at you.

“You can touch anything you want back here, doll,” the carnie says in a husky voice, leering at your back as he repeats one of Terry’s petnames for you.

He’ll be out of a job by this time tomorrow.

He watches you pick up all the bottles individually before you restack them, nodding with approval and nimbly hopping over the counter and back to him, tucking yourself into his side immediately. Yes, you are most assuredly his now.

“There’s no magnets or anything, but they’re all weighted at the bottom,” you report back to him, wrapping your arms around his middle as you turn to look at the carnie, your face unimpressed.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he purrs at you with affection, kissing your cheek. Taking a step away from you, he fires off two balls in quick succession, aiming for the bottoms of the bottles that formed the base of the pyramid, sending them all toppling over. You hop up and down, clapping for him while the other man scowls.

“We’ll take the big snake,” you tell the carnie with a cheeky smile, pointing to a large red and yellow plushie that hung across the ceiling of the booth. “For Cobra Kai!” you announce to Terry, raising your fist in the air as you both watch the man struggle to take the toy off of its hooks. He kisses the top of your head, charmed as always by your sweetness. He hopes it doesn’t disappear along with the loss of your innocence after tonight.

Terry takes the gigantic toy from the man, draping it over your shoulders; it’s still close to dragging on the ground as you walk away from the games.

“Well, it’s getting late, babygirl, and I doubt that they’ll let us take your new friend with us on rides. Is there anything else you want to do before we go home?” he asks, wondering if you’ll pick up on his wording. You’ll both be going to his home tonight.

“Can we do the ferris wheel?” you ask, looking up at him with wide eyes and a hopeful smile. Of course he’ll indulge you; you’ll be doing the same for him tonight, spread out on his sheets and giving yourself to him.

“That sounds great, babygirl. Let’s go,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist and mirroring the snake across your shoulders. With his free hand he pulls out his mobile phone, calling the chauffeur while you lead them to the line for the ride. He has a quick conversation with the man, who assures Terry that he is on his way, and hangs up as you approach the line.

“Larry is going to come and take this –” he squeezes the snake lightly with a large hand.

“Kiai,” you interrupt him, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?”

“His name is Kiai, I’ve just decided,” you inform him seriously, and he gives you an indulgent smile.

“Alright then, Larry is coming to take Kiai back to the car while we go on the ride. Why don’t you go wait for him by the entrance while I hold our place in line?” Terry suggests, his face giving nothing away. You beam up at him, and immediately head off to give your silly toy to the driver.

The moment that your back is turned, Terry walks to the front of the line to speak to the ride’s operator, ignoring the grumbling of complaints behind him.

“Sir, you’ll need to wait at the back of the –” the man starts to tell him in an exasperated voice, but Terry wraps a friendly arm around his shoulders, leaning down to speak with him privately, a wad of bills clenched in one fist.

“I’m not here to cut the line,” Terry informs him smoothly, feeling the man tense under his arm. “I want you to keep anyone else from getting on this thing after me and my girl, and I want you to keep us at the top for… about a half hour or so.”

The man looks about to protest, so he flashes the cash in his hand at the man, whose jaw quickly snaps shut.

“Tell them the ride is broken, closed, whatever – I don’t care. But we’re on that ride alone and at the top for a half hour, got it?”

The man nods mutely at him, and Terry gives him an approving pat on the shoulder, stuffing the money into his front shirt pocket before turning and heading back to the line without another word. You rejoin him several minutes later, sans-snake, and before long the two of you are seated in the ride, which slowly makes its way around until the two of you are perched at the very top, overlooking the fair grounds.

Time to see what else he can get out of you.

Reader’s POV:

The top of the ferris wheel is the perfect time and place to tell Terry that you love him. Sure, it’s a cliché, but seeing as you feel the way people only do in cheesy romantic comedies, it seems all the more appropriate.

Just as you approach the top, the ride stops, your pod swaying slightly. What an odd coincidence… but maybe perfect for what you want to do.

“I’m sure that it’ll start moving again in a minute,” you tell Terry reassuringly, though you’re not sure why. Not wanting to miss this golden opportunity, you take a deep breath, turning sideways to face him. He cocks his head to the side, surveying you with interest, and you bite your lip.

“Is everything okay, babygirl?” he asks, his eyes bright with concern as he takes your hand in his own. He was so kind and considerate…

“Everything is wonderful, Terry,” you tell him, squeezing his hand as you slide closer to him. “These past few months have been beyond my wildest dreams; I never thought that I would ever be with someone as incredible as you. You’ve been so kind, and patient, and considerate, and I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but… I love you, Terry.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Terry gives you a dazzling smile that takes your breath away, sliding towards you and pinning you against the side of the ride. You feel your heart thudding in your chest as he cradles your face in his large hands, staring down at you like you’re the only thing in the world to him. He bends down to connect his lips with yours, kissing you so passionately that you feel dizzy, your breath coming in short little gasps against his mouth as you try to stave off the feeling of a headrush.

“Y/N, my sweet girl,” he purrs against your lips, clutching you to him firmly. He’d been a lot more insistent with his need for physical touch today, not that you mind. He had been right, after all; you needed him to give you that little push outside of your comfort zone to help you realize that you were okay with all of the sexual things that had you feeling nervous.

With that in mind, you let him have his way with you, running his hands along your body beneath his jacket and kissing down your neck. You feel his tongue tracing patterns down your neck and across your collarbone, and take a deep breath, relaxing and trying to convert your anxieties into excitement. He made you feel so good…

There’s a series of loud pops, and the night sky erupts in bright colours as fireworks are set off above the funfair.

Terry completely freezes, his hands squeezing your waist tightly and not letting up for you to breathe. You try to lift his face from the crook of your neck but are unable to get him to budge as the banging continues all around you.

“Terry?” you ask quietly, your mouth dry. What is going on? “Terry?!”

He lets out a hot burst of air against your skin as he marginally comes back to himself; enough to start breathing again, at least.

“God damnit. God damnit!” he hisses, pushing away from you and sliding to the other side of the seat. He’s staring straight ahead, but you don’t get the sense that he’s seeing what’s in front of him.

“Terry, what is it? What’s wrong?” you ask, trying to keep your voice calm, though inside you’re panicking.

“The fireworks,” he says curtly, still not looking at you. “They take me back to a time and place that I don’t want to think about again.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you. Of course, the war. The fireworks must be triggering his PTSD.

Cautiously, you move towards him on the bench, not wanting to spook him.

“Okay, Terry,” you say in a clear but soothing voice, slowly reaching out to place a hand over one of his – both were currently gripping the railing that surrounded them tightly. “It’s okay. I’ll try to flag someone down and see if they can get us back to the ground,” you say, moving to lean over the railing, but he pulls you back from the edge firmly.

“No,” he snarls, pulling you into him and wrapping his long limbs against you, as though to shield you from some nonexistent danger. “Don’t yell,” he orders you, and you nod, not even wanting to risk speaking for the moment, simply stroking whatever parts of him your hands can reach.

“How can I help you, Terry?” you ask quietly after a moment. “I’ll do anything I can.”

Terry is quiet for a moment, considering the question. You hope that there’s something you can do to ease his suffering…

“Distract me.” He looks directly into your eyes with a tense, pained expression on his face, and you think back to the drive over here where you had tried to distract him from looking out the window. Biting your tongue, you slip out of his jacket, leaving it on your side of the bench and slowly moving to climb onto his lap, straddling him and twining your arms around his neck. Hesitantly, you lower yourself onto him, rolling your hips against him. Was this even going to help?

Terry’s hands come around your hips to your butt, squeezing it as he guides your body into repeating the motion, so you assume that it is helping.

“Focus on me, Terry,” you whisper in his ear in a breathless voice, feeling strangely exhilarated and not nearly as nervous or self-conscious as you had anticipated. “Let me make you feel good, and focus on that.”

With his hands guiding your hips, you start to grind against him, giving him a lap dance and peppering his face his kisses, cooing sweet nothings at him and doing your best to take his mind off of everything. Gradually, Terry loosens up beneath you, looking up into your eyes with an overwhelming degree of reverence, and his hands slide up your body.

He pulls you further against his chest, getting rougher with his hands kneading your flesh, his lips claiming yours in a ferocious kiss, like he was trying to consume you.

“My Y/N, my girl, my sweet thing, all mine,” he mutters to himself in a hoarse voice as he distracts himself with your body, and you can’t say that you’re upset with the treatment, though you wish it was under better circumstances.

Another round of fireworks goes off, and he grabs the neckline of your dress, tearing it down the middle and baring your chest, with only your bra between you. He immediately buries his face between your breasts, his hands at your back keeping you in place, as though he’s trying to hide away from everything. You run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with your fingernails, humming something between a song and a moan as you sit perched on his lap. After an indeterminate amount of time, you conclude that the fireworks have stopped.

“I think it’s over, Terry,” you tell him softly, laying a kiss to his temple before leaning back, moving to retake your seat beside him.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he asks firmly, his grip tightening on your waist as you try to climb off of him. His eyes are dark and focused on yours, but they still have an odd bright sheen to them.

“I… I thought…” you stammer, unsure of exactly what to say. Did he need to be distracted after the noises had stopped? For how long? You couldn’t very well stay on his lap like this, in public no less. “I thought you were doing better,” you say carefully, not wanting to offend him.

“Oh, sweetheart, I am,” he croons up at you, his hands still locked in their grip on your waist. “But I’m not done with you yet,” he says darkly, giving you a slightly wicked smile.

You start to fidget and squirm on his lap, trying to get out of this tactfully, clutching your torn dress to your chest to cover yourself.

“We’re in public, Terry. There are children around…” you trail off weakly.

“Not up here there aren’t.”

“I’m sure the ride will be moving soon; we shouldn’t risk it,” you say with more confidence, and he chuckles, the sound cold and hollow.

“You go to all this trouble for me tonight and then act like you don’t want it?” he hisses at you, lifting you off his lap and turning you around. You think maybe he’ll resettle you between his legs in a (marginally) more appropriate position, but instead he bends you slightly over the railing keeping you in the pod. You start to feel dizzy as you look down at the world far below you, and instinctively back up into him. Without warning, Terry lightly kicks your feet out from under you, keeping you secure with an arm around your waist, the other clamped over your mouth and nose to mask your scream of terror.

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?�� he purrs in your ear, keeping you tightly against him. “That’s what it’s going to feel like when I take you, Y/N, when I make you mine,” he growls, reaching a hand up under your skirt to your underwear, still damp from the orgasm he’d given you in the Hall of Mirrors. “You want to be mine, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp, still trying to worm your way out of his grip, but he’s got you just where he wants you. “But not here, not now!”

“This is what people do when they’re in love. You love me, don’t you?” he asks, seeming hurt at the mere insinuation that you don’t.

“I do, Terry, of course I do,” you tell him quickly, wanting to ease his worries, and he kisses your cheek, his hand tugging your underwear down your legs. Once they get to your knees, he tugs them, pulling you backwards with them until you’re sitting on the bench, letting him fully remove your underwear. He pockets them, giving you a wink, and you feel your face flush scarlet.

“Losing your virginity on a ferris wheel is pretty unique, just like you,” he teases, and you clamp your legs together more tightly, as though that would put an end to this discussion. “I want to make your first time something special,” he coaxes, bending down to stare into your eyes. “And then I’ll take you back to my place and treat you like a queen, like you deserve, okay?”

You don’t want to have sex for the first time in public, on a carnival ride; you’re not sure if you’re ready to have sex at all. You have done so much with Terry just in the past couple of hours that you had never done before, and it’s very overwhelming to you. Still, everything that he had pushed for tonight had you feeling amazing, and you don’t regret it… why does your brain always have to make things so muddled and complicated?

You shirk away from him reflexively as he leans down towards you, and a wounded look crosses his features.

“No, Terry, I didn’t mean to,” you say apologetically, wanting to keep him calm and happy. You always want him to be happy. “It was just a reflex, I’m sorry. I’m just nervous about all of this.”

“But you love me, you trust me, right?” he asks you fiercely, his voice hoarse, and you nod immediately.

“I do, Terry. Of course I do,” you tell him, repeating your words from earlier. He just needs reassurance, especially after his episode; the least you can do is make your feelings and devotion to him clear.

“Let me do this for you, baby,” he implores you in a desperate, needy voice. “Come sit on my lap again, and we’ll go at your pace.”

He sits down on his jacket across from you, giving you a warm smile and patting his thigh encouragingly. Timidly, you slide down the bench again and climb back on top of him. You’re standing on your knees, too nervous to fully sit on him, and he takes the opportunity to reach below you to unbuckle his belt and pull down his zipper, lifting his hips slightly to pull out his hard cock. Immediately, your breath starts coming hard and fast in your panic, and Terry shushes you softly, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your hipbones.

“Why don’t you give me another little lapdance, babygirl?” he asks, kissing your mouth firmly. “Get yourself used to the feel of me. It’ll help,” he coaxes. You start to look down, but he catches you with a finger under your chin, keeping your face up and your eyes looking into his.

“Don’t look down, sweetheart. Trust me,” he says with a slight chuckle.

“Why not?” you ask him shyly, biting your lip in concern.

“I don’t want you to panic, but let’s just say that I’m rather… proportionate,” he explains vaguely, but you get the gist. “I don’t want you to lose your nerve.”

Still nibbling your lip, you force yourself to lower your body onto his lap, jumping when you first feel him prodding your inner thigh. His cock is hard and warm, but the skin is incredibly soft, and you want to feel more. As you move your body around his length, you slowly start to map out just how large he is.

“You’re so big,” you whimper, your fingernails digging into his shoulders in your apprehension. “Terry, I… there’s no way.”

“I’ll fit, baby, I promise,” he swears, slipping his hands underneath your skirt and trailing them up your legs. “We’re meant to be together, right?” he says with a charming smile. “Let me help you,” he coos, running a hand up to your pussy and teasing your clit with a finger. You buck your hips, feeling yourself getting wetter, and he hums in approval, guiding you to lean on his shoulder.

“That’s right, just let me take care of you,” he hums encouragingly in your ear, coating two of his fingers in your slick juices before slipping one inside of you, this time as deep as he can go. You claw at his back, whining and mewling incoherently as you force yourself to stay still on his lap. He teases you with one finger, then two until you’re grinding your hips against his hand needily.

“Now, just relax baby, and let me in,” he murmurs coaxingly, removing his fingers and wrapping them around the base of his cock, lining himself up with your entrance.

“Terry wait, I –” you protest, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but he snarls, reversing your positions and pinning you against the back of the seat in one quick movement that makes you gasp.

“No,” he tells you in a soft, dangerous voice. “No, I’ve been patient for long enough. You’ve enjoyed everything that we’ve done tonight, and you want more; I know you do.” You shudder at his words and his tone, unable to close your legs as he holds them open, his hands grabbing your knees.

“And I’m going to give it to you, baby. Because you deserve it,” he says in a sweet voice that stands in stark contrast to what he just sounded like. Bending over you, he lays you on an angle along the bench, your head and most of your body on his jacket, lifting your legs up to wrap around his waist. You’re shaking like a leaf, your fingers bunched in the fabric of his jacket, and he leans over you, stroking the side of your face with the back of his hand gently.

You relax against him, and he takes the opportunity to thrust into you, the first few inches of his cock disappearing into your tight, wet heat. You feel like he’s knocked the breath out of you.

“T-Terry!” you cry out, still trying to be relatively quiet. “It’s too much!” you insist, tears leaking from your eyes.

“It gets better baby,” he promises, all bright eyes and a wide smile. He pulls out slightly before thrusting his hips forward again, moving deeper inside you, and you keen loudly. He slaps a hand over your mouth to quiet your screams, shushing you as he continues to open you up with his hard cock.

“I could be making you scream for me, so loud that the entire park would know that you’re up here getting the fucking of your life, but I wouldn’t do that to you, doll. You’re my sweet girl, and your pleasure belongs to me. Now let me have it.”

You’re not sure what Terry is feeling right now; if he’s still in the throes of a PTSD episode or if he’s angry at himself, feeling like he was weak or vulnerable because of his trigger response. Either way, you can’t exactly fault him for something so completely out of his control.

You are sure that deep down, he doesn’t want to hurt you, that he just needs to feel close and come back to himself through you. And you love him; surely this was the least you could do after everything he had done for you with your own mental health issues? It would probably feel good, if you loosen up and get into it. So that’s exactly what you try and force yourself to do, laying back obediently and digging your fingernails into your palms, trying to keep the rest of your body relaxed.

Terry fully makes his way inside of you after a minute or so, and you’re glad he told you not to look at him, because there’s no way you would’ve let this inside you if you had known what you were in for. He stills his hips, removing his hand from over top of your mouth and lightly brushing away your tears with a finger, looking down at you with an elated expression.

“You did it, babygirl. You took all of me,” he tells you in a pleased voice, stroking your cheek before moving his hand down to your chest, tugging at your bra until your breasts spill out. He licks his lips. “Now, I’m going to give you something you want in return…” he trails off, grinding his hips in a circle to help you adjust to the ache his intrusion is causing, while his hands move to distract you from the pain, just as you had done for him during the fireworks.

He first moves to your breasts, kneading them in circles, his long fingers plucking and pinching your nipples and causing little jolts of pleasure to run from them down to your belly and your clit. The sensation has you rocking your hips slightly, and you moan at the feeling. Terry looks down at you with a cocky, predatory smile, increasing the speed and intensity of his teasing, which in turn makes you move more in response.

“See, sweetheart? I know how to make you feel good, no matter what’s going on in that silly little head of yours. It’s my job to take care of you, to please you, just like you’ll do for me,” he tells you with a serene smile, and his words just make so much sense in this moment.

“Yes, Terry,” you agree, releasing one hand from his jacket beneath you to cover your mouth to muffle your cries of pleasure as one of his hands moves down your body to tease your clit insistently, his hips pumping his cock in and out in short thrusts, mostly staying buried inside of you. “You feel so good, so right…”

“That’s right, babygirl, you were made for this, made for me,” he purrs, picking up his pace and gradually pulling out further and further until every surge of his hips fills you completely, making your toes curl. It still hurts, and you’re still quite overwhelmed, tears pouring down your face as you try to stay quiet. But underneath that, you feel a bone-deep sense of satisfaction and completion, like Terry was claiming you so deeply and fully that you truly belong to him now. And now that you’re feeling this way, you realize that that’s exactly what you want.

“Mhnn, Terry! More, please!” you beg, watching Terry’s eyes darken with lust as you give yourself to him.

“You want more, baby?” he teases you, his tone almost mocking as he bends down, your legs parting for him easily. “We’re running out of time. You’ll have to come quickly if you want to come now,” he warns, his hand returning to where your hips are joined to rub your clit. “I’ll take my time with you when I get you home.”

You are arched up off the seat at this point, your shoulders and head the only things on the bench, and you’ve covered your mouth with both your hands, desperately trying to contain your moans as you start to clench against him, your legs squeezing around his hips as you orgasm. Terry is spurred on as you tighten around him, pumping into you hard and fast just a few more times before growling, coming hard inside you with a moan of your name.

He pulls out of you quickly, tucking himself back into his jeans before moving your legs to the side, giving him enough space to sit beside you. He gently gathers you into his lap, reaching onto your seat to grab his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. You’re trembling like a leaf, clearly overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. You don’t even know how to feel right now.

Terry moves to soothe as you burst into tears, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“Ssshhh, it’s okay babygirl,” he says, stroking your hair and clutching you tighter to his chest. “I know, your first time can be a lot. This is totally normal, and I’m here with you,” he coos, and you fight through your emotions, forcing yourself to look up at him.

“Really? It’s okay?” you ask him hopefully, glad he isn’t taking offence and incorrectly assuming that you regretted what you had just done together. It had just been so, so much…

“Of course it is, sweetheart. Unless you think you regret it?” he asks after a brief pause, and your heart drops.

“No, not at all!” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck and pressing yourself closer. “It was wonderful, Terry, I don’t regret it at all.”

He hums in agreement, kissing your forehead. “I’m glad to hear it, doll. I feel so much closer to you now,” he confesses to you in a low voice, nuzzling into your neck, and you giggle.

Suddenly, there’s a whirring noise of the ride turning back on, and you begin your slow descent to the ground. Immediately, you tense up on his lap, looking down at yourself with horror.

“Oh no! I’m a mess, what am I going to do?!” you gasp, looking at Terry with wide eyes. Calm as can be, he fastens the jacket around you, pulling it up to your neck. Now, the only part of your dress that was visible was your skirt, and it seemed normal enough. So that was that dealt with, at least.

He reaches into one of the jacket pockets next, pulling out a spare hair tie that he always kept on him just in case, gently taming your hair and pulling it back into a half-ponytail to keep the more stubborn locks out of your eyes and relatively in place.

“There, all better,” he tells you, cupping one hand under your chin.

“But I’ve been crying, and I… I can feel…” you trail off, embarrassed, not wanting to say it out loud. Biting your lip, you force yourself to be an adult and lean over to whisper in his ear, shy even though you were the only two people on this thing. “I can feel your come starting to leak down my legs,” you tell him in a whisper, and you swear he shudders before responding.

“Well, if anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll knock their lights out,” he tells you firmly, his jaw clenched just at the thought of someone looking at you. “We’ll be out of here as soon as possible, doll. Just walk normally, and then we can get you in the car and cleaned up, alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your breathing, and Terry gives you a pleased smile, like he’s proud of you. "That's my girl," he purrs approvingly, and you return his smile.

You complete your descent and Terry immediately hops out of the ride first to shield you from onlookers, reaching one hand behind himself that you can cling to for support as you disembark.

“She got a little frightened being stuck up there for so long, that’s all,” he explains to the small crowd surrounding you once you get off the ride. Several people have taken note of your tear-stained face, and how you’re shivering from inside his leather jacket, clinging to it to make sure that nobody notices your torn clothing. You accept Terry’s arm wrapping itself around your shoulders in an affectionate embrace as he kisses the top of your head comfortingly, and the crowd seems appeased, dispersing.

Thank goodness you have Terry, you think to yourself as you take his hand, letting him lead you back to the car, trying not to stumble. He was so good at talking you both out of situations that could get you into trouble.

“Come on, sweet thing,” he purrs in your ear, tugging you along and making you quicken your pace to keep up with him. “Let’s go home.”

---

He's mean. He's so mean! HOW CAN WE LOVE THIS MAN?! But we do.

#thomas ian griffith #terry silver #terry silver x reader #kk3 #karate kid #the karate kid 3 #dark desires october #extremely dark #smut #graphic smut #gaslighting #coercion #dubious consent #honestly probably noncon #threats of violence #maybe don't read if you're scared of heights

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prophetmutual · 2 months

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Bruh the rust maggie sex scene is so fucked up. I mean huge win for toxicity enjoyers but that one was rough boys

#many thoughts to ponder. that was messed up to the point of dubious consent. the way it was directed was fucking awful (complimentary)#i love to see women be evil on this show for once. noting that their only method of agency continues to be doing sex (not complimentary).#maggie getting her skylar white moment (extremely complimentary)#but mostly.... rust trying to hold her right after before she shrugs him off and then he Realises..........#i shall be walking into the ocean #ash.txt #true detective

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criticalrolo · 2 years

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be nice to your DM because their brain is trying to set itself on fire to help you have fun

#… is a sentiment im trying to extend to myself to douse the flames LOL #my DMs have been great for the most part and I love what they do!!#anyway.#this does nOT apply to DMs who did that weird extremely dubious consent stuff for my pc though #that shit was so weird and I’ve learned how to say ✨no since then #so now I can bitch in the tags KSJDJDKSKS

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astxrwar · 2 months

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your brain is sooooo sexy and huge pls never stop psychoanalyzing Characters and writing beautiful weird porn about it 🧎

teehee giggling and twirling my hair and blushing and things of such nature this fills my fucked up little heart with joy

i went temporarily insane in the tags but im better now. (lying)

#if there is one thing abt me i WILL dream up freaky little psychosexual scenarios #and then put them out into the world and be like ‘🫣oh geez’#i was reading some stuff like ‘this would be hotter if he was believably fucked up’#and there’s so much to work with like he’s nuts. he literally shows abusive tendencies in tfatws #like psychologically he was using fear to control zemo. the breaking his cup thing? intentional. ppl don't do that by accident #he did nothing short of what he knew he could get away with.#he 100% disregarded sam’s consent in even letting zemo out.#if we want to interpret the list of reparations Correctly he fucking stalks WS victims and forces confrontations. manipulated one of them!#NO boundaries. NO issue with coercion. EXTREMELY dubious morality #they laid all this out and then tried to woobify him because nobody thinks deeply abt the psychological motivations #because (sorry im ranting i smoked weed and now. brainrot) of toxic masculinity culture unironically #none of this is seen as bad bc a certain level of abuse justification is embedded in society.#lundy bancroft's why does he do that. lifechanging experience #astxrwar.txt #ask

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inmephistophelesvents · 3 months

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An Artist’s eye-Ryoshu/Hong Lu(Horror)

Summary: Ryoshu had always had an eye for things she found beautiful, so it was no surprise she took an interest in the blue eye that was nestled in Hong Lu's left eye socket.

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The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, so thick and heavy Hong Lu could practically taste it on his tongue. No matter how much Hong Lu had visited this room nor how much he smelt it the scent always seemed far too harsh for his nose.

He squeezes his eyes shut as a hand firmly grips his chin and a glass cup is brought to his lips, a bitter poisonous taste not so dissimilar to floor cleaner coats his mouth. The first swallow leaves a harsh stinging burn dancing along his mouth and throat like pure fire.

So it’s no surprise when he begins coughing harshly, a sharp sting burning his airways as tears spring into his eyes. The cup disappears from his mouth as he continues coughing, a noise of irritation comes from the person who’d been holding the cup to his lips, a soft tch noise.

That hand that’d been gripping his chin firmly turns rough, painful. Slender, calloused fingers practically digging into his jaw as his face is wretched up, meeting sharp red eyes set in a glare.

Ryoshu scowled in distaste and annoyance, her lips twisted around the cigarette in her mouth. She takes a long drag and Hong Lu’s eyes slowly trace along it watching through slightly blurry vision as the paper turns to ash burning up to nothing. She lowers the cigarette from her lips and exhales softly, the thick smoke blown into Hong Lu’s face.

The effect is immediate with Hong Lu coughing once more as that heavy rich scent dances along his airways. Stealing the air from his lungs.

And yet the grip on his face doesn’t loosen even slightly. “Waste another drop and it’ll be your blood spilled on the floor.”

When Hong Lu doesn’t answer right away the grip on his face tightens painfully, and he can’t help but think he hears his jaw creak ever so slightly.

“D. Y. U.”

Hong Lu manages a small nod as he does his best to blink away the tears in his eyes, his slightly muddled mind managing to work out the woman’s acronym.

He wants to point out that she has already spilled his blood more than once, and that she’ll spill his blood once more soon but he doesn’t instead he looks up at Ryoshu from his spot on the wooden chair.

At the moment they were in her room aboard Mephistopheles, following their usual ritual each week. Hong Lu sat on a wooden chair, wrists bound tightly behind his back with a vibrant red rope twisted and tied in oddly beautiful knots.

The soft white glow of the moonlight illuminated the room, something that was odd to Hong Lu even in his own room considering they were aboard a bus. Although considering things he had a feeling that answer would forever allude him.

Ryoshu was in front of him, half standing and half kneeling one of her legs drawn up and resting between Hong Lu’s legs on the wooden chair as she leaned over him. Even though the two of them were the same height it almost felt as if she were towering over him.

“You people drink this,” Hong Lu exclaimed in alarm as well as confusion. It was the first time the woman had given him anything before starting her usual work, so Hong Lu had been rather surprised and curious when the woman had held a glass of copper-colored liquor that smelt strongly of medical rubbing alcohol to his lips.

When he’d asked what it was and she simply said liquor. Hong Lu however had never had any alcohol that tasted or even smelled like this. He’d had the world's finest wines created only once every hundred years and given a boost with K Corps medical technology to ensure longevity even when opened.

And yet despite that never once had he tasted liquor that was made from what seemed to be a mix of kerosene, rubbing alcohol, and brown food coloring at least from what Hong Lu could guess.

A soft snort of amusement leaves Ryoshu’s mouth, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “A delicate tongue may as well be left to rot,” she told him as her grip on his face loosened for a moment.

She cups his cheek for a moment, her thumb oddly gentle as she brushes it beneath his blue eye brushing away some of the tears there. If it had been another sinner, maybe Rodion or Gregor, maybe the actions would seem warm, comforting, and sweet; however having been through this a few times now, Hong Lu knows what she’s truly doing.

Appraising him.

“Up,” she orders and Hong Lu follows them silently, his eyes looking upward into her own. Her gaze is incredibly critical, and harsh as they search for any imperfections.

Her expression is rather neutral despite that, the cigarette dangling from her lips filling the air between them with the scent of rich heady smoke. The room is quiet save for their soft breathing, Ryoshu’s is calm and faint while Hong Lu’s carries a slight rasp to it from his coughing fit.

Hong Lu can’t help but stare into those red eyes looking at him so critically, so seriously as if he were a piece of artwork to be appraised or destroyed at the artist’s discretion, and truthfully to Ryoshu he was.

Her calloused thumb traces carefully along the area just beneath Hong Lu’s eye with a foreign gentleness that she usually didn’t carry, a harsh world produced even harsher people after all.

Hong Lu finds himself glancing away more out of reflex and habit than anything when she uses her thumb to pull down his lower eyelid but her words have his gaze snapping back to her as if locking on to her.

“L.A.M.”

Another acronym, this one easier to figure out than the last, ‘Look at me’, and just like the last one of ‘Do you understand’ Hong Lu complies with the order.

Ryoshu murmurs something he can’t hear despite their proximity before she pinches Hong Lu’s top eyelid between her fingers, it is at this moment that Hong Lu can feel it, the warm almost buzzing sensation of the alcohol in his veins springing to life.

It's strangely warm, comforting in a weird way despite the fact that it sets his veins alight like a fire to dry brush. When he grimaces he hears another soft snort leave Ryoshu’s mouth, and as his eyes look up at the woman once more he isn’t surprised at the look he sees in her gaze.

And Hong Lu recalls seeing the look once or twice on his brother’s face, right before he ripped the wings off of a few moths he’d captured because he could.

It was a gaze that never failed to send a strange sensation of fear dancing along his skin like needles of ice. His heart feeling as if it were suddenly in his throat, clogging it and causing it to ache. Truthfully it reminded Hong Lu faintly of the few times he’d been poisoned in the past both before he joined the Limbus Company as well as after when dealing with and suppressing abnormalities.

Each breath he takes seems to send fire dancing along his throat and swirling in his lungs, Hong Lu grits his teeth as Ryoshu releases his top eyelid, her hand returning to his chin, her expression neutral despite the pain clearly twisting at his features.

Her gaze carried that same morbid amusement and glee that had cold fear chasing the burning sting in his veins, but also something else as well.

Hong Lu swallows and thinks he can taste iron faintly in the back of his throat, the scent of it filling his nose alongside the sharp near scent of cigarette smoke and ash. Something warm trickles from his mouth and Hong Lu nearly jumps when Ryoshu’s thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth.

He can’t help but watch slightly mesmerized when she pulls her thumb back revealing a slight smear of red sitting on it which she brings to her mouth. The red smear disappears with a quick lick of her tongue, and Ryoshu gives a soft hum closing her eyes as if appraising his blood as well.

A soft chuckle leaves her mouth after a moment or so before she turns to look at him once more. “Burns right,” she asked despite knowing the obvious, clearly wanting to hear the answer from his own lips.

Hong Lu opened his mouth but closed it when more blood seemed to fill his throat, instead settling for a quick nod.

Which has a rather loud yet clearly amused chuckle leaving Ryoshu’s mouth, almost bordering on a low laugh before she turns grabbing the nearly finished glass of liquor, bringing it to Hong Lu’s lips once more.

“Drink then.”

It’s painful truthfully the alcohol stinging and burning his throat as if it were tearing it open, tears gathering in Hong Lu’s eyes as he sips at the liquid.

Bitter poison mixed with the heavy taste of iron coating his mouth and throat, this time he has the faint thought that it tastes slightly sweet in its own way.

There are no threats this time when more of the liquor spills from the corners of Hong Lu’s lips mixing with the blood as it trickles from his lips.

The mess of red and copper moves slowly and Ryoshu watches it glimmer like jewels beneath the moonlight before it drips onto the floor.

As Hong Lu drains the glass with one final sip he can’t help but notice a strange numbness spreading throughout his body, and yet despite that the burn remains intact in his lungs.

He slumps forward, blood and liquor dripping from his mouth onto his lap as Ryoshu draws back for a moment.

Each breath Hong Lu takes has him feeling as if the smell of cigarette smoke were tearing into his lungs allowing the heavy iron scent of his own blood to fill the air.

The rest of his body is numb though, the pins and needles dancing along every inch of his skin before slowly fading away leaving cold stillness in their wake.

If Hong Lu could have truthfully he would’ve been shivering, curling in on himself as a chill seemed to worm its way through his veins deep into his bones, and yet the heat in his lungs remains although it does little to keep him warm.

All he can do is sit there, paralyzed watching his blood drip lazily onto his lap and carpet, his vision blurry focusing and defocusing much like a camera.

It isn’t long before Ryoshu returns, this time though she cups his cheeks tilting his face up and Hong Lu’s body follows limp and listless. His harsh labored breathing filling the air between them.

At first, he thinks Ryoshu is about to start her usual work, expecting the sight of a knife or scalpel at his blue eye, but instead, the woman leans forward a bit, her tongue darting out to lick the blood and alcohol at the corner of his mouth. A satisfied hum leaving her mouth as she savored the taste for a moment.

However, unlike Hong Lu, she remained unaffected by the seemingly tainted alcohol. Maybe she truly was a monster.

A smirk twists at her lips, glee dancing in her eyes as she gazes down at him.

Hong Lu doesn’t remember closing his eyes for a moment, his consciousness attempting to drift away but he opens his eyes when the room seems to sway and it takes him a second to realize Ryoshu is carrying him or rather dragging him to the bed.

“H-hurts…” he manages to croak out his voice lower than a whisper, the words garbled due to the blood choking his throat and the numbness paralyzing his muscles.

This is the first time Hong Lu has complained about the pain, or rather the first time he truly felt the need to. Pain often didn’t matter much when you could be revived as the sinners could be, and to Hong Lu, it was something that mattered even less.

It wasn’t anything to complain about when you couldn’t change it, that was something Hong Lu had learned very early in life.

Pain for him was a familiarity and a sort of twisted comfort in his own right. Perhaps that’s why he had sought out Ryoshu weeks ago.

He could’ve chosen someone with a more medical-esque background for this Yi Sang or Faust perhaps although he had a feeling both would deny him his request. For a steady hand, he could’ve gone to Mersault or Outis although those two wouldn’t give him the chance to voice his request more than likely.

If he had gone to Heathcliff he would’ve gotten the brutality he sought so why did he go to Ryoshu? Then again Hong Lu knew exactly why.

The cruelty that danced in the woman’s eyes that often followed the precise slices of her weapon much like a brush to a canvas or a painter’s knife destroying a creation deemed unfit under criticism.

It was a warm cruelty that burned with a strange passion much like the flame that lit the woman’s cigarettes.

Hong Lu would be lying if he didn’t admit that that cruelty had brought with it a comforting sense of familiarity.

And yet some small part of him that he hadn’t burned away in that cruel flame as a child still remained.

That fear…

He looks up at Ryoshu when she returns to his side for a moment, carrying a medium-sized leather pouch, something that was spotless and in immaculate condition despite the rest of the room.

Much like her katana, Ryoshu seemed to take incredible care to keep that pouch in decent condition.

“Means it’s doing its job,” she snorted, rolling her eyes slightly as she removed her cigarette from her mouth.

She turned a bit, grinding the cigarette into Hong Lu’s clothed thigh to put it out. “Feel that?”

Surprisingly Hong Lu hadn’t, he couldn’t even feel himself breathing despite that searing burn in his lungs. If he could have he would’ve shook his head, instead he can only lay there like a doll, the rope still binding his wrists as he lay on his back.

The world around him has faded into a blurring smear of colors, but one singular thing stands out with startling clarity.

Ryoshu.

He can see her perfectly or rather nearly perfectly, her form is blurry around the edges as if she’s stepped out of an oil color painting.

He watches her as she readies her tools with a practiced hand, before eventually turning back to Hong Lu and reaching out. As usual, she removes his hair from its ponytail allowing the long black strands to fan out beneath him and spill over his shoulders.

For a moment he and Ryoshu merely stare at each other, and Hong Lu takes note of the look in her gaze like a painter staring at a blank canvas trying to decide where the first brushstrokes should go.

It isn’t long before Ryoshu seemingly makes a decision and Hong Lu’s gaze seem to snap into focus for a brief moment, eyes going to the scalpel being held up to his eye.

The shiny gray metal of the slim blade glints in the moonlight, hanging over his eye like a guillotine. If Hong Lu could have, he would’ve held his breath knowing the pain that was about to occur from the previous times Ryoshu had done this.

And yet strangely enough somewhere inside of him, the thought of that horrible unpleasurable pain excites him.

Comforting and familiar in its own right.

The urge to look away, to close his eyes on reflex practically thrashes in the back of his mind and yet he’s unable to, forced to stare down his fate without hesitation.

The first slice brings a strange incredibly faint pressure, but no pain and barely any sensation creating a strange sense of fear and disconnect in its own right.

He can see the blood coating the scalpel, the soft clumps of flesh clinging to the edge of the blade as Ryoshu worked, blood lightly splattering across Ryoshu’s face.

Her gaze is critical yet fierce, her expression serious and her lips missing their usual cigarette currently twisted into a scowl as she worked.

The heat in Hong Lu’s lungs feels as if it’s searing them into nothing, only pure ash remaining behind and a weak gurgling broken whine drifts from his bloodied lips.

The world feels like a blur around him, pale moonlight mixing and distorting everything it seemed to illuminate. He couldn’t tell if the scent of iron filling his nose was the blood running from it or his eye.

That blue eye that always sparkled like a jewel it was no wonder Ryoshu took an interest in it, to Hong Lu it was perhaps the most disgusting part of himself however. A deep-seated fear awakening whenever his eye seemed as if it would begin glowing.

Another reason he sought Ryoshu out, why each week or so when that eye seemed as if it was regrowing and reforming for some strange reason he would return here.

Ryoshu was an artist who valued beauty in the form of cruelty, it was an easy choice for Hong Lu. If she wished to have that horrible eye for whatever artwork she may create then he didn’t mind, and in exchange, he got to experience that familiar cruelty and pain that eluded him.

But most of all he got to feel that comforting yet horrible fear that was a rarity for him nowadays. He didn’t care what Ryoshu did with the eye once it was removed, as long as it was gone, if only for a little while.

As long as he was free.

Hong Lu feels as if he drifts slightly into unconsciousness for a moment, his thoughts scattering to the wind and as he looks up at Ryoshu he notices that the left side of his vision is black, merely a void.

A sign that the eye had been removed, he tries to smile when he sees Ryoshu holding the eyeball that she tore and carved from his skull up to the moonlight, a wide almost manic grin that was rarely if ever seen on her face.

For a moment she turns it this way and that, her movements extremely careful and hesitant, the cord of severed nerves attached to the back of the eyeball practically wrapping and dancing along her fingers as she moved.

Despite seeing the sight a few times at this moment, Ryoshu had a look of slight awe on her face and Hong Lu wished he could see what she saw, instead of the hatred and disgust that sat within in his heart at the moment.

Hong Lu slips into unconsciousness once more before he even realizes it, this time when he opens his eyes he can see Ryoshu carefully cutting into the eye she removed from him.

The organ has been cleaned apparently and now sits shimmering faintly with its signature blue glow as Ryoshu works at the nearby table.

Hong Lu reaches up with a shaky hand, pins and needles dancing along his skin as his fingers brush lightly across the bandages covering his eye. And he grits his teeth when pain shoots through his skull in the form of a violent throb as if a spike were being driven through his skull the empty socket throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

A soft broken hoarse giggle drifts from between his lips, a sharp stabbing sensation dancing along his abused throat as he forces it to work. Noting that his hands had been untied.

Ryoshu doesn’t look up at him as she carefully sticks the long pins into the spreading board, something even Hong Lu has seen before.

A display case that collectors often used to hold insects. Each time she removed his eye he would awaken hours or minutes later after passing out from the pain to her carefully carving and flaying it, as if she were a chef handling the world's finest one-of-a-kind meat.

She was always careful to make sure that the eye was persevered but mainly the iris, where that beautiful alluring blue glow was located.

Hong Lu attempts to move, to rise from the bed, or even sit up, and truthfully considering how many times he’s done this routine he should know better then again some things escaped even him.

Instead of sitting up like he intended to, he finds himself falling from the bed with a broken whimper raspy, landing in a heap on the floor on his side. His world spins and he sees stars burst before his eyes, his head throbbing as if Heathcliff had taken his signature bat to his skull.

Alongside the dizziness comes swirling nausea, and Hong Lu’s body shudders with a harsh retch, the man frantically doing his best to at least make sure none of his own stomach contents got in his hair.

The liquor he’d drank burning fiercely on the way back up as the vile liquid having lost its copper coloring now tainted with bile and the blood he’d swallowed as it splattered and splashed across the floor, nearly the color of coffee grounds. Red blotches of blood standing out rather colorfully in the mess.

He can feel Ryoshu’s eyes practically boring into him at the moment, witness to his humiliating disgusting display and Hong Lu can’t help but feel his face burn ever so slightly.

His humiliation only furthered when spares a shaky glance at the woman through his curtain of hair, noticing her mocking and amused sneer as she watched him from her chair, having momentarily paused her work to take a drag off of her cigarette that rested rather precariously on the pile of cigarette butts already in the ashtray.

“Weakling,” she snorted, and Hong Lu glances away when her words seem to sting unusually so, the words reminding him far too much of his brother’s.

Taking a deep breath simply trying to breathe through the nausea and pain swirling through his entire body as he manages to climb to his hands and knees. His limbs tremble beneath him, as if threatening to give out at a moments notice. And Hong Lu finds himself being faintly reminded of when he saw a small newborn deer one snowy morning at his family’s estate.

He’s sure he must look quite the mess at the moment, his clothing splatter with blood, the gauze and bandages taped over his missing eye, blood, and bile coating his lips, not to mention the dried blood on his face. His hair free from its usual careful ponytail and surrounding him like a long curtain.

He was sure if someone saw him at this moment they’d mistake him for some abnormality or common mongrel on the backstreets, a thought that left a bitter taste not unlike the poison he’d ingested dancing on his tongue.

Ryoshu didn’t seem angry at the fact that he’d vomited on her floor, then again Ryoshu seemed to decide what angered her based on the roll of a roulette. Many people would have an easier time predicting where an ant would place a single grain of sand.

Hong Lu’s eye widened when the woman raised two fingers and curled them, beckoning him over. “Come mutt,” she said as she tapped her thigh as if beckoning a dog to come rest its head on her lap.

Hong Lu frowned for a moment, while the thought of being referred to as an animal left a bad taste in his mouth he truly couldn’t protest when he was in such a humiliating and pitiful state.

And he could see the cruel glee flare to life in Ryoshu’s eyes as he slowly began making his way to her, crawling across the floor as he fought against the pain wracking his body.

Ryoshu crossed her legs, her work forgotten for a moment as she rested her chin on her hand watching Hong Lu with interest as he slowly crawled toward her.

Beauty found in cruelty could be a marvelous thing when done with clear thought and care, it was both a display of human self-indulgence and the rampant wish to create but also the malicious human wish for control and power.

Passion could be found behind cruelty when done from the flames in a person’s heart, their drive. It could be warm and searing hot like the flames of a candle or branding iron pressed to the flesh, or colder than ice callous and controlled.

Ryoshu was an artist who reveled in this crafted, mastering it the best she could, she didn’t do it carelessly as some thought she did.

No, she did it with purpose and care, but also passion.

A twisted passion but passion nonetheless.

Cruelty always had a reason after all, no matter how small and to her that made it beautiful.

She could feel a slight smile tugging at her lips as she watched Hong Lu crawl towards her on his hands and knees, his once graceful moments now clumsy and barely coordinated as he simply did his best to drag himself forward.

The blood dried on his pale face, the slight glaze to his eyes as he did his best to overcome the pain and weakness in his body. The gauze layered over his wound, and the bile and blood coating his lips.

His hair practically draped over his body like a blanket and finally, the shame and humiliation that burned in his grey eye.

A once perfect portrait with not a single blemish perfect to all who observed it, now beat and broken laying before the artist that had so critically judged it and destroyed it.

It was adorable in a strange way if Ryoshu had to admit it for some reason, although odd.

Hong Lu makes it to Ryoshu’s side, his entire body trembling as he practically slumped in front of her, resting his forehead on the leg she’d tapped when she’d beckoned him over.

A soft raspy chuckle came from the woman above him as she smirked down at him, causing Hong Lu to shakily raise his head slightly exhaustion wearing his body down like lead.

“Good mutt,” she simply told him her attention returning to the project she’d been working on on the table.

A hoarse raspy thready laugh, barely above a whisper escaped Hong Lu’s mouth a look of curiosity on his pale face. “How many…is that now?”

Forcing out each word seemed to squeeze the air from his lungs, making his head spin. And he can’t help but slump forward slightly when his strength seems to drain away bit by bit.

Ryoshu gives a soft hum as she continues working, not answering Hong Lu’s question as she works. That was normal the woman often being so engrossed in her creation that nothing else seemed to exist for her.

Hong Lu is only aware of the pain and dizziness, both working to disorient him, so it's no surprise when he finds himself drifting into unconsciousness the pungent scent of cigarette smoke drifting down into his nose.

A sharp thump against his bandaged wound has him jolting awake with a gasp, the pain caused by Ryoshu flicking the area with her fingers causing a jolt to his system like a live wire.

Ryoshu is silent as she carefully holds up the display case for him to see as she usually did. And there inside the display case, pinned down in the insect spreader is his eye.

The once spherical organ now flayed down paper thin under a careful hand, pieces removed with the precision of a surgeon all to create the paper-thin blue and white butterfly that now sat pinned in the case. It truly was a work of art, the pupil being used to create the insect’s head, while the irises had been carefully trimmed so that the blue would trace along the top of the wings, the white body.

“Five,” is all Ryoshu murmured not waiting for Hong Lu’s input as she began to examine her own craftsmanship.

Hong Lu gives a soft raspy strained giggle doing his best to fight off the drowsiness trying to take him. “Ahhh…so many~ After seven…more times they’ll be…one for each sinner,” he said his words slurring as he swayed slightly.

Ryoshu merely gives a soft hum her eyes still on the display case, although she does look at Hong Lu when he falls to the floor unconscious. A snort leaves her mouth as she places her cigarette off to the side as well as the display case, both treated with incredible care and gentleness.

“Weak brat,” she huffed as she rolled her eyes.

#my writing #horror fic #limbus company #ryoshu limbus company #hong lu limbus company #LCB46 #anime whump #male whump #tw eye trauma #tw eye gore #tw extremely dubious consent #tw blood and gore #tw implied past child abuse #Hong Lu is not okay #canon typical violence #tw poison #tw vomit

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