#tdv shane | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

threadsun · 3 months

Text

Anonymous Asks: "Hi!!! I wanted to send an ask for TDV because I literally love your blog and just noticed you started posting stuff for S.DV!!

I was wondering if we could get a Sebastian, Shane, or Elliot (or whoever you want) scenario/HC for them eating something absolutely LACED with aphrodisiacs. Like they ate a berry they passed by while walking or saw some food on the farmer’s table when they were visiting not knowing what it was.

And then after like 5 minutes of eating they’re red, sweaty, and in a new realm of horny (if you’d be willing I feel like some dubcon or whatever of them pouncing on the farmer would be really hot too 🫣🫣).

This is sorta based on another blog I saw that posts these kinds of ideas but I’d love to see how you write this !! 🫶"

I absolutely adore this idea!! I love aphrodisiacs >:3c This ended up being noncon rather than dubcon, and it got more emotional than horny especially at the end, but it felt like it fit better for the story

Content: noncon, aphrodisiac, drugging, accusations of bullying/cheating, Shane is depressed and self-loathing as usual, painful sex, vague implication of Harvey being a creep, hurt/comfort

Shane -

Thanks for bringing the chickens, they're doing really well in the new coop! Maybe you could come by for dinner and see them tonight? I should be home by 5.

"Home by five." Shane sighs, eyeing the clock as the hands slowly tick over to six pm. "Bullshit."

Patience is something his therapist has been trying to help him with, but... really, anyone would feel pretty blown off at this point. It's hard not to feel undervalued. Ignored. Worthless. Hard not to spiral into those self-loathing thought patterns. Into that misanthropic feeling that dealing with people just isn't fucking worth it.

He's trying to be good, he really is! He runs through the list of coping mechanisms and techniques his therapist has taught him to ground in the current moment rather than getting swept away by his thought spirals. He settles on mindful eating, glancing around to see what you've got. He can't go to the fridge. Not because he cares about being rude, just because the last time he'd opened it he'd been absolutely disgusted by how many jars of pickles you'd had in there. He knew you mostly kept them around for Harvey and to sell to Pierre, but that didn't stop his stomach from turning every time he thought about all those jars of pickled vegetables.

There's chocolates on your table. He hasn't been able to keep his eyes off them since he first sat down in your kitchen, waiting for you to get home. The box is light pink and shaped like a heart, topped with a neat little ribbon. The horrible little voice in the back of his head whispers cruel things to him. Someone else is sending you chocolates. Someone else wants your attention, your affection. And why shouldn't they get it? Why shouldn't you be with someone else? He's got nothing to offer you. He's just a depressed alcoholic, you should be with someone more... more. Someone better. It's probably good that someone's sending you chocolates. Giving you a better option than him.

It's not quite a devil on his shoulder that makes him do it. It's just his own lack of impulse control. That self loathing spiral manifesting as destructive tendencies, or whatever bullshit his therapist would call it. He doesn't want you dating him, he doesn't want you debasing yourself like that. But he doesn't want you dating anyone else either. And given that the chocolates are still closed, and a note is neatly folded up on top of it, you haven't even seen it yet...

The chocolates are gone before he realises what he's doing. So much for "mindful eating." It was more jamming chocolate into his mouth angrily and then tossing the empty box vaguely in the direction of the trash. A small part of him is worried you'll be upset, but a much bigger part of him bitterly wonders how you'd even know. You're clearly not going to show up any time soon, he'll be back in bed before you even get home. You won't know it was him who trashed the box of chocolates. He's not even sure why he's still here, waiting, when you're obviously not coming back.

Seriously, why is he still here? Your house isn't even that nice. It's too bright and busy and hot. It's so fucking hot in here. Far more stifling than the cool fall night should be. He can feel the heat sinking into his skin. The sweat making his hands sticky and his shirt damp. Your stupid house is too damned hot. Why did you invite him here anyway? Just to humiliate him? To stand him up? He doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay until you get back. Demand answers. Find out who else you're messing around like this. Is it just him? Is he really so pathetic? Or are you doing this to the other guys in town too? Is he not even special enough to be your only target?

Maybe you're with one of them now. He can already picture it. Maybe you're drinking some wine with Elliott on the beach, laughing together about what a fool he is, waiting for you at home. He can picture it. Elliott's lips on your neck as you laugh about how pathetic he is. Elliott pressing you into the sand, the two of you stripping each other frantically, Elliott pounding into you as the two of you laugh at the mere idea that you would be into him. Or maybe you're in Sebastian's room, getting smoked out, his tongue down your throat, you riding him. Maybe Harvey's pinning you to one of the exam tables in the clinic while you scream his name. Or are you giggling under the covers in Sam's room, trying not to let his family hear what you two are up to? Maybe you and Alex—

His thoughts have strayed from the idea of you mocking him to the idea of you getting fucked by everyone but him. It's startling and uncomfortable when he realises he's hard. His cock is aching, straining against his pants. The thought of you with other men... it shouldn't be this fucking hot. His blood feels like it's boiling in his veins, jealousy and anger and self-loathing and lust all bubbling away beneath his skin. And it's all your fault. Every part of this is your fault. Your stupid note. Your stupid lateness. Your stupid box of chocolates from your stupid admirer. Your stupid smile and stupid laugh that make his heart pound.

The door opens just as his emotions reach their peak. The sight of you standing there with an apologetic smile, one hand held behind your back, does nothing to soothe him. No, it only makes everything worse. He scans you for signs that you've been with someone else, something to betray the fact that you've just been fucked sensless by another guy while he was waiting around for you like an idiot. A lingering trace of a smirk, a hickey barely poking out from under your collar, something, anything.

There's nothing.

"Sorry I'm late." Your smile wavers a bit and his thoughts begin to spiral even more. "Pierre was being a hardass about closing hours, it took a lot of persuading and... maybe a little blackmail... to get him to sell me, uh... this."

Your hand shoots out in front of you, clutching a bouquet. The frantic motion sends a couple of petals to the floor. But the heat under Shane's collar doesn't let up at your explanation. Of course you don't mean it. How could you possibly mean it? Someone else must've given you the bouquet today. You're mocking him with it. Like a preteen, pretending to ask someone out as a joke. He's the joke here. You're making fun of him, pretending to be interested. Why would you be interested in him?

And you're standing there, smiling that smile that makes his heart flip. Looking as perfect as always. Those fantasies of you getting fucked are still playing on loop in his mind as he looks at you. The way you'd look, sweaty and blissful, moaning and screaming and cumming. His fists clench and he's not sure if he wants to hit you or fuck you, but he needs to do something before all this heat finally bubbles over and destroys everything in its path.

He only gets flashes of his own actions. He blinks and his hand is wrapped bruisingly around your wrist. He blinks and he's pulling you towards your room as the bouquet falls to the floor. He blinks and your voice, hitched and teary, begs to know what's going on. He blinks and he's pushing you onto the bed with a painful sounding thud. He blinks and he's on top of you, teeth digging into your lips and hands tearing desperately at your clothes.

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, the heat soothed and stoked by the feeling of your skin on his. His lips settle into a hot, sloppy kiss. It's frantic and desperate and full of tongue and teeth. Even as you try to push against him, crying out for him to stop, he swallows each sound with a groan of desperate need. The bulge that grinds against you as he strips you both bare is hard and throbbing, hot and thick. The thought of him forcing it into you—you doubt he'll bother to prep you in this state—makes you whimper and clench your thighs.

"No."

It's barely a growl, his shockingly strong hands shoving your legs apart. One hand holds your hips down. The other fumbles to shove a few clumsy fingers into your hole. Even in his dizzying haze of rage and desire, he's trying to prep you. He's like a virgin. He doesn't seem to know how to touch you, how to kiss you, how to make you feel good. But he's trying, and you hate it. Because it makes you think about how much nicer this night could have gone had you just come home on time. Between his hissed accusations, you can pick up on what happened. At least some of it.

"—course you wouldn't like me—"

"—some other guy—"

"—making fun of me—"

"—pretending you're interested—"

His self-loathing, his suspicion, his fear that all your kindness and affection is an elaborate joke. It all comes out in a flood of grunts and growls. It almost feels like your fault when he lays it all out for you like this. Like none of this would've happened if you'd been better. Had you just gotten to Pierre's on time. Gotten home when you'd promised, given him the bouquet, had time to explain yourself...

His lips are on your neck, sucking bruises into your skin on just the wrong side of painful. His cock lines up with your hole and he forces it into you, your name leaving his lips in a pained whisper. You cry out. Tears sting your eyes as he bullies his cock into you. You beg him to stop in a broken voice that hardly sounds like your own. This all feels like a bad dream. Not only for you, pinned beneath the man you were planning to confess your feelings for, feeling his cock stretch you brutally. But also for him, unable to control his actions and thoughts, body shaking as the heat overtakes him.

"—stupid fucking chocolates—"

"—so fucking hot in here—"

"—need you need you need you—"

"—hurts. Like I'm fucking dying—"

Through the tears and the pain, your mind whirrs. Something about this sounds familiar. If only his blunt nails would stop digging into your hips, his cock stop pounding into you, his teeth stop marking up your skin for long enough for you to focus. Chocolates. Heat. Need. Pain. Chocolates. Heat. Need. Pain. It connects. Somehow, you know it all adds up. This isn't the man you know, the man you spent an hour arguing with Pierre to get a bouquet for. This isn't Shane. It's—

"Fuck." Your voice cracks, back arching as his clumsy fingers try to make you feel good too. "Shane, please!"

"Need you so bad. Always teasing me. Mocking me. Behind my back, with those other guys. Why is your house so fucking hot? Why are you so fucking hot? Teasing me. Taunting me. Wanted me to fuck you, huh? Bet you wanted this."

One look in his eyes confirms it to you. He's not here. They're clouded over with lust, face contorted into a grimacing mask. A devil wearing Shane's skin like a twisted puppet. His fingers manage to fumble their way towards something akin to pleasure, your nerves sparking in unwanted delight. You can tell he's close to his end, hips stuttering and growls becoming more and more incomprehensible. It's all you can do to hold onto him. Screw your eyes shut and wait for it to end. Wait for him to be done using you.

His voice and fever break at once. Cumming inside you, face buried in your neck, sobs wracking his body. Your nails find his scalp almost instinctively, remembering all the nights you've held him like this while he was too drunk and depressed to be trusted on his own. Your fingers in his thinning hair sends a shudder of self-loathing through him. The clarity is all too much at once. He knows what he's done to you. Not why, but what. And that's more than enough to wish you'd kill him. End his miserable life then and there for what he's done. But you're doing something far worse than that. Comforting him. Whispering gentle reassurances as you hold him close. A knife to the gut would hurt less.

"What have I done...?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounds small and fractured. Like he's a kid again.

Shane's sobs quiet to little whimpers and sniffles. You can feel his tears on your neck, his now-soft cock pressed against your thigh. He shrinks in on himself, clearly not comforted by your words. You know him. Know the train of thought he's riding. Blaming himself, finding reasons that this is his fault and not the fault of whoever spiked those chocolates. It's hard to pull him out of these spirals. Even harder when the actions were his, no matter how influenced by the plant. It may not be his fault, but it certainly feels that way when he was the one pinning you down and forcing himself on you.

"Cupido appetitus." Your voice is soft, understanding. "They're... a potent aphrodisiac. They cause a sensation of overheating, insatiable lust, and can cause paranoia and dissociation. Demetrius pointed them out to me when I first moved here, warned me all about them. Said there had been the occasional... incident where they got into people's food by accident. They grow up on the mountain, anyone could've picked the berries and put them in some chocolate. "

But he's not pulling away. He lets you cradle him to your chest. Lets you coo softly to him and try to reassure him that you're not mad. And that's a thousand steps above where he was only a few months ago. None of this is going to be easy. Not for either of you. Coming to terms with what happened, with your assault and his drugging. It won't be easy at all. But at least you still have him. In your arms. At least he still has you to hold onto.

On the kitchen floor, beside the discarded bouquet, sits the note that had once been on top of the box of chocolates.

Hope you enjoy! Come see me when you've eaten them. - Harvey

#sunshine #to do valley #tdv shane #gn!reader #18+ only #dark side of the sun

33 notes · View notes