Sleep Tight

You got ready for bed that evening the same way you always do. Brushed your teeth, shed your clothes and slipped on some loose-fitting pajamas before sliding beneath the sheets. Body sinking into the mattress and your eyes sliding closed so peacefully. Of course you didn’t bother to look underneath your bedframe that evening. Why would you?

Well, because of the tentacle that slithered up from the base of the bed once you had fallen into that blissfully unaware state. It glided up the corner of the frame until it reached the blanket and burrowed under it. All the while your chest rising and falling calmly as your sleep continued undisturbed. Even as the slender appendage began to curl around your ankle, twisting and constricting as it went, until its grip was firm, even still you slumbered. So vulnerable.

Another, similar tentacle made its journey upwards from below, likewise encircling its prey. Your other ankle was soon ensnared. You subconsciously adjusted your foot, but the tentacle held firm, pulling it back into place. Then it kept pulling. Both ankles began to feel a pull as they were slowly dragged away from each other. Your legs splayed open as inch by inch you were spread apart.

But you didn’t wake. Didn’t stir or open your eyes to see the third tentacle rise and stand proudly at the foot of the bed for a few moments as it seemed to size up it target. This one was larger than the others. Bulbous and intimidating. Not that poor, defenseless you had any notion of that. After twisting and hovering for several seconds, the huge tentacle began to dig under the blanket and approach its prize.

As the tip of it slowly teased your pussy through your pajamas, you finally began to groan and shift. This was the time you were roused, though it was much too late now. As your eyes fluttered open and you began to squirm and cry out at the sensation of your ankles being squeezed and your lips being caressed, more tentacles darted up from the sides of the bed. Those around your ankles slithered up your pajama legs, tickling your bare skin as their grip of your legs became firmer and harder to struggle against. The additional tentacles wasted no time in wrapping around your wrists and neck.

Before you could fully wake up, your whole body was entangled within the slick but firm grip of whatever horror was underneath your bed. The more you fought, the more they coiled and writhed as they gained territory along your body and ultimately subdued you completely.

Once you were helplessly wrapped and controlled by the powerful tentacles, the blanket was cast aside. Your entire body was gently raised up and you pajamas, soft and weak, began to tear as the tentacles thickened and pressed against the seems. As the useless material fell from your body, your eyes were finally adjusting to the dark of your room and you could make out the tentacles better. Not that that was of any help to you.

All it meant was that you could now watch as the massive appendage between your legs began to split along its seems. Opening up like flower petals, the different parts of the tentacle wrapped around your crotch as the tentacle itself pushed forward. Slowly your waist and lower body were consumed by the unfolding tentacle, the base of which stayed fixed on your crotch as it opened further and almost looked to be swallowing you. Each component moved on its own, writhing and gripping your abs and lower back, before they pushed higher to embrace your chest and shoulders. Once most of your torso was consumed by the split tentacle, you felt it.

Deep inside the blossoming tentacle was some kind of phallus. The tip of which was now exposed and rubbing up against your now exposed slit. You gasped as it began to slide inside, but your voice was quickly stifled as the tip of the tentacle which had ensnared your throat slipped inside your mouth. As this tentacle buried itself down your throat, stifling all noise just as your motions had been so effectively stopped, the phallus inside the larger tentacle was still pushing further inside you. Every inch made your body thrash and shake. But the tentacles held you firmly. All you could do was writhe in the air alongside the tentacles as the phallus filled your tight, aching slit up completely. It was warm and slick with some kind of lubricant, but it was still thick enough that the stretching hurt as it invaded you. Until you were skewered and it had embedded itself inside you.

Once this happened, the main tentacle began to hum slightly. You could feel the vibrations traveling along it, up from your crotch to your chest as each of the petals carried them along your skin. Slowly, the vibrations increased in intensity, and they seemed to be concentrated around the phallus. It began to pulse and twirl inside you. Expanding and contracting without warning.

Quickly your muffled screams turned to guttural moans as you slowly lost your mind. Restrained and tormented by sinister tentacles, there was nothing for you to do but accept it. Enjoy it. The pleasure welling up inside. The heat spreading from your slick and slit all the way up to your quivering lips as you began to absentmindedly suck on the tentacle in your mouth. Deepthroating this strange creature as it broke in your pathetic and needy cunt.

It went on like this for hours. Your orgasms didn’t seem to matter to the creature. It wouldn’t let up just because you were cumming your stupid brains out. It just kept drilling and throbbing and vibrating your tender pussy into oblivion. There even seemed to be a small indent just above the phallus that cupped your clit and delivered those intense vibrations there too. Ensuring that you would become nothing more than a leaking, incoherent mess as your clit and g-spot were simultaneously assaulted by the flexible and forceful creature.

When morning came, you woke up a mess. Soaking and aching. The blanket was discarded on the floor and your pajamas were in a state. Sweat and arousal stained the sheets and your mind felt light and floaty as you recalled endless pleasure tearing your mind apart as it ripped through your body.

You peered under the bed slowly. Nothing there. No monster. No tentacles. Was it a wet dream perhaps? Nothing more than a fantasy concocted by your sloppy little pussy whilst you were asleep?

Tell yourself whatever you like. It won’t matter when you fall asleep again. You will be easy prey. Sleep tight!

I found something worse than a fanfiction in first person. An original fiction in first AND second person. The writer is dating the reader. I can’t make this up.

I once again think that I should write and sell my own work. She bit her lip at least 3 times in the first 4 pages. Please don’t write anything like this

Of Bloodied Lips and Bloodier Lust

Word Count: 5200

Rating: Mature

Contains: depictions of upsetting imagery, consensual sex, blood kink, pain kink, sadism and masochism, cussing, enemies to enemies with benefits

Summary: You get hired to hunt down a demon. And you hate the man who hired you to help him do it.

Once, a long time ago, you joked that you’d rather have a rival instead of a lover. “A beloathed,” one of your friends laughed— and well, so did you—, and with a mocking-serious expression said, “Be careful, a nemesis is as much a commitment as a partner. You’ll have to be prepared to hate them till death do you part.”

You only laughed harder, “Sounds like a marriage! I’ll stick with a casual enemy, thanks.” You could never imagine yourself loving someone romantically. It sounds exhausting, too much of a commitment, and difficult to imagine. You just don’t think you can love people like that, so imagining someone you can hate? That’s easy, that’s realistic, that’s possible.

You just didn’t anticipate the cruel reality of your joke becoming real.

‘It is a huge fucking hassle’, you think, sideeyeing the man next to you, ‘To truly loathe someone’. But you’re nothing if not committed to this toxic relationship. Besides, he’s only paying you to work with him, not be nice to and tolerate him. He could, but you think he’d rather not piss you off the quitting. You’re his only option. You’re the only mage in this little refuge. The last one, at this point. He’s stuck with you.

The job pays well, as well as you can get in this stupid apocalypse. Your little village has long since stopped using actual money. Nowadays pay comes in jewelry, clothes, food, and the like. Everyone uses anything tradable. The world won’t be able to use money for many years to come. From what you’ve heard from your parents growing up, though, you think that’s for the better.

Your trade is valuable, as you’re the only one who can reliably use magic on this stupid oversized island. So a lot of people are willing to offer their best riches for your magic. It’s the only reason you tolerate the wide variety of strangers who come asking for help. Through them, it was how you found out that you were not only the only mage available, you were also one of few competent monster hunters.

So your present partner has to work with you if he doesn’t want to work with some ‘wannabe witch’, as he put it. He actually pissed you off the moment you met him, because he had the audacity to say you weren’t skilled at all. Said you were probably some phony who only makes bank through trickery and above average fighting skills. And then he compared you to those stupid cultists who think that some fake god gives them powers. They’re delusional, thinking the gods love them— the gods abandoned everyone years ago.

You wanted to reject his job offer, but well… Your pride didn’t matter when more goods became involved. Arcane rings, magic tomes, and other valuable items— it wasn’t until he showed you proof that yes he did own everything he said that you agreed to the job.

“Bet someone could buy you as their whore with enough money, huh?” he mused. He wasn’t even talking to you, and pissed you off all the more. So the only dignified response to that was to punch him in the face as hard as possible, hopefully knock out a few teeth, but thankfully knocking him back and onto the ground.

When you saw his bloodied face, you scoffed and walked away.

That’s all it took to start up this ugly partnership. It was tolerable at first, except each passing moment added fuel to the fire— more akin to tossing a container of gasoline into fire and then more.

“Shut up,” you hear, pulling you out of your thoughts and earning your automatic response.

“I ain’t said nothing, asshole.”

“Well damn! You’re thinking too loud, I guess,” he harshly retorts. You want nothing more to punch like you always do, but he’s driving right now and that is, unfortunately, a very bad idea.

“Oh I’ll be sure to accommodate you,” you sarcastically say.

“Please do, babe, it would do wonders for—” he starts, only to cut himself off as slams on the breaks and curses, “Son of a bitch!”

“In front of the car, you see a dead-looking humanoid. Their eyes show no sign of life or intelligence, and their arms are covered in gooey black tendrils. As it stares blankly at the car, you feel a heavy presence surrounding it. Wordlessly, you and your partner step out of the car, ready for a fight. Immediately, you notice a black fog encasing the area.

This must be the anomaly the locals had directed you to, the one causing travelers to go missing. However, observing all of the large hoard monsters, you disappointedly realize that this is not the lead you two were hoping for.

You don’t have to point it out either, because one quick glance at your partner shows that he came to the same conclusion and is upset about it. You roll your eyes, pull out a knife, and use your magic to quickly create shadow copies of the monsters. They only serve to be a distraction so that you may conjure up a tanky shadow clone of your partner.

As it fights as brutishly as your partner, you spear the monsters with low effort spikes. You keep an eye on the whole situation, and aid your partner when need be. You of course, take advantage of opportunities to laugh at and taunt your partner, which serves its purpose of insulting him and encouraging him to fight harder.

“Fuck you!” he yells at you from across the street, to which you laugh at him bitterly. You wish you didn’t have to help him, but his magical artifacts could make you so powerful. You could use the new knowledge to maybe conjure up some giant sea beast. You could maybe some day be off this stupid hunk of rock and see the world. You could maybe finally know if the rest of the world is worse or better off than the people here.

You could maybe find a better thrill than this sad shitty life you hav.

‘Cause the massacred monstrous bodies in front of you are not the intense thrill you’re looking for. That is despite being an already wonderful thrill in their own right. You just can’t help but want more and more and more. The carnage, the chaos, it’s your one true love and you lay awake at nights thinking of what more you could have. You lay awake at nights thinking of how the only thing you need in life is blood at your feet and a heap of treasures in your hands.

But for now, you watch your shadows rip the monsters’ limbs off, churning within you a sick sensation you never can get enough of. Your partner seems to get high off this, too, more than you in every aspect— more perverse. It’s gross; it’s fascinating.

You bare witness to it after each fight. And the conclusion to this one is no different. When the fog pulls away, you turn to watch him slice open the last monster. When the finality kicks in, he turns to you with a dazed and dizzy look and then goes to the passenger side of the car. Yeah, you don;t trust him to drive either.

You want to tease him. Insult him for fighting instinctually, for cabin into a bloodlust that is more lust than blood. But you’re n0ot a hypocrite and while your bloodlust is more blood, you’re not so different from him anyways.

You don’t even want to comment on his breathy little fucks (not when you like hearing them). If you didn’t hate this man so much, you would’ve fucking this kindred spirit the moment you realized you wanted to.

Pulling into the motel parking lot, you fish out the room key from your bag in the backseat and exit the car. On your way to the room, you think about the anomaly that was a total miss. You don’t know what the fuck it is, or where it sources from, but it’s got nothing to do with your investigation, so it’s not your problem.

“Take a shower, you stinky fuck, and then we’ll talk,” you tell him right before you toss a bag beside the bed and flop right to it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growls out. He glares at you, pissed because sometimes he lets the idea of being your boss get to his head.

“Fucking shower, Antillon,” you growl, reaching above you to toss his pillow off the bed, “or you’re sleeping in the car.”

You hear a faint bastard when he concedes, reminding you of when you first threatened to make him sleep in the car. He called you bastard and many other expletives, whore being his favorite. In the end, you use your shadows to send him out of the room and immediately you had locked the door. So now, he knows better than to challenge your threats.

When the water turns on, you lull into a light sleep. Truthfully, you expect him to take a while. Especially because of how pent up the fight left him, but you did not expect him to be noisy about it tonight.

With a groan, you get up to peruse the unused movie selection the owners left in this room. You pick at random, but you luckily seem to pull out a gorey movie you think you’ve seen posters for before. Even better is when the movie does manage to drown out your partner’s fucking moans.

The movie isn’t finished when he steps out, but you mute the T.V. as your partner steps out of the shower (eyes strictly on the T.V. because he never seems to take in clothes with him).

“So today was a bust, but we still got that other lead. Happens in the area surrounding some cemetery, private, I think,” you explain.

“Great. We’ll go tomorrow after we eat. If we go on schedule, we should make it in early daylight.”

“Good. We’ll have an easier time investigating,” you shrug. Boredly, you turn off the T.V. and get ready to sleep. Your partner is already trying to sleep. As you lay down beside him, you have a brief moment of rage. You wish the motel owners would let you negotiate two separate rooms, or a room with separate beds, but they decided efficiency paid well in the long run.

You deal with it though, because in the long run, you too will be paid well.

The next day starts early. The both of you get up and eat before sunrise, and head out a few hours before the sun rises. It’s earlier than either of you wanted, so it’ll be one hell of a bitchy day. That never bodes well. And matters are made worse when neither of you can agree on directions.

“You keep taking a wrong turn, shithead,” you grumble, head held in your hands in annoyance. Your partner makes a u-turn on the road to try again.

“Your directions are wrong, sweets—”

“I ain’t your ‘sweets’!” you yell, “and make a turn on the third entrance.

“That’s still a deadend!” he snaps.

“No it ain’t— wait stop!” As he’s driving, you spot a metal glint amidst some foliage. It occurs to you that while driving, there was one less road to turn into. Could have been that the map was faulty, but a cemetery should be here anyways.

You step out when the car comes to a stop to find what you thought you saw. As you discover a fence, the air starts to feel tenser and your chest tightens. But you ignore it to inspect the fence.

Each bar of the metal fence is wrapped up in vines and is very well covered by bushes. You follow the fence to a gate, which opens astoundingly easy for an overtaken fence— it occurs to you that it was easy because all of this was intentionally hidden. The vines are in a specific pattern on each barn. The ground beneath the gate looks like an attempt at covering up where the entrance meets the road. At a quick glance, it’s effective, but a close look makes it all seem superficial.

“Look, dickface, I found it,” you yell, feeling smug that you found it before. He takes a moment to try to line the car up with the entrance so you pull out your knife from your jacket pocket. You doubt it’ll be effective, but you don’t quite know what this anomaly has to offer yet. After brief consideration, you use your magic to customize your knife.

For some reason, the car won’t cooperate now, and in a moment of annoyed impatience, you step through the gate. Immediately, you hear a loud, pained scream. Behind you, you hear the door open. Together, you run through the gate and follow the dirt path in a rush.

Beyond the gate, you feel uneasy, but chalk it up to paranoia— ‘It’s just the response to a familiar situation’, you tell yourself, remembering this feeling from long before.

‘You’re worked up’, you tell yourself, remembering what it’s like to have investigated demons before. A lot of monsters crop up, but few earn the title of demons. They’re the most dangerous monsters. Your last encounter with one still haunts you. Your dreams are sometimes still plagued by the hallucinations and very real sensations you experience that day. You don’t expect anything of that sort here, but you still feel a sinking sensation in your stomach.

Another scream, different from the first, is heard— closer this time. It sounds like someone is being murder. But without accompanying sounds of snarls, you wonder if it even is a monster. But then a fog, much like the one from the night before, surrounds you, separating you from your partner. You wonder if this is the same anomaly, briefly, amongst all the internal cursing you’re doing.

A third scream, this time behind you and it shakes you to your core. Swiping behind you with your knife, you’re too distracted by cloaked person you’re attacking to do anything about the other person there. They knock you to the ground, but without realizing, you had been summoning the berserk copy of your partner. Winded, you stay on the ground a moment before getting up. Your shadow spills the blood of your attackers.

You take a fighting stance when more cloaked people emerge from the fog, and you summon shadow copies of them to help you fight. These people are trickier than the monsters from yesternight, so you use your magic to impale them and your knife to attack anyone tricky enough to avoid your shadows.

However, you hear a fourth scream, soul-piercing and deafening. You search for the source amidst the chaos, but you realize, when it’s repeated, that it isn’t a real sound.—-

You remember what your partner had told you in his briefing:

“I’m hunting a demon,” he said plainly.

You scoffed, “So that’s why I had to agree first? You already know I have a history with demons.” History was putting it nicely. After a demon had brutally murdered one of your employers in the only mission you ever failed, you soon became obsessed. It had presented itself to you all as the employer’s dead sister and you found that so curious. You spent ages trying to find out more about demons, demons that take the forms of others.

“Yeah. See, this one’s a reality demon. It’s been terrorizing my town for a while now. People are concerned now more than ever, because we think it’s begun preying on children. They’ve been going missing lately,” he explained.

“Anything more about the demon itself?” you asked. You know it’s a stretch, but no one credible has reported reality demons around here, no one besides your dead employer. You think she may have been from the same town as this.

“Not much, but it’s got to do with some cult, I think? Reclaimers of Space or some pseudo-deep shit like that,” he tells you.

‘Oh,’ you thought, ‘There’s no way it isn’t the same demon’. Everytime you tried investigating local demons, it always had to do with the Reclaimers of Space cult. But you never sat down and read their books to the end. Too packed with false visions of gods and the idea that they can save the world, separating its halves to begin reformations. You hated those books.

“So a cult-worshiped reality demon? You’ve really hit the jackpot of all bad decisions, huh?” you had questioned bitterly. This man will die, but you don’t think that will ever bother you. “You got a deathwish.”

“You do, too,” he said, pointing out your hypocrisy. “Maybe it’ll even use that against us. That’s what it does, you know? Takes your memories, your traumas, and warps them into something real and fucked up.” You don’t say anything. You know full well how this demon works.—

A sixth scream and you realize that you wereplayed. In front of you, the demon presents itself as your failed employer. It takes the form of how you last saw, mangled and bloodied and dead— except it’s worse, somehow more intensely terrifying. You remember that day. She had wanted to kill the demon that tricked her sister, killed her and took her form. It tormented your employer, Mariposa, her name was, to the point where she reached out to you for help. In the end, she sacrificed her life so that you could get away. That day still haunts you; the demon still haunts you.

A seventh scream and this time it’s your own. Hands hold you down, offering you to the demon. But it doesn’t move towards you, but does not hurt you.

An eighth scream, a war cry overpowering the sounds of startled cultists around you. Their blood spills around you, but you do not break eye contact with the demon. Slowly, it moves away from you. It watches the cultists die, and it does not hurt you.

When it’s gone, you let out the final, ninth scream. It’s more of a hysterical sob, and you can’t stop it. When a single pair of hands grab you, you thrash about (terrified, worried that the demon was toying with you and come back to finish the job).

Someone is speaking to you, but you don’t know who. Their arms trap you in a hug and sit you on the floor, slowly rocking you.

‘It’s the demon,’ your mind tells you. How cruel it must be to shush you gently. You can’t help the bitter and wet laugh at the realization that the demon has been toying with you. ‘For how long?’

As you accept your fate— death at the hands of a being that once captivated you— the fog veins to dissipate. Slowly, a faint light reaches you. It’s almost sundown, and you can’t help but wonder if it truly has been that long, or you’re still being fucked with. How long has the demon held you? What’s it waiting for anyways?

Taking a shuddering breath, you take note of a hand that’s petting your hair and the voice whispering to you, trying to soothe you. You look up to see that it’s actually Antillon, who you bitterly remind yourself is the whole reason you’re involved in this all over again. You’ve been marked by a demon this whole time, but your partner is the whole reason things are horrible again. Irrationally pissed at him, you get up in a hurry, taking in a shaky breath.

You are shaky— light headed and emotionally drained, too. Blood has soaked into your clothes, none of it yours. And for once, the blood makes you feel gross. Nothing about this was satisfying.

“Let’s leave,” you tell your partner, your voice small and wavering, even as you try to feign confidence. Wordlessly, he follows you.

As you get closer to the gate, however, you can’t help but get increasingly angry. This whole situation is fucked. You’re overwhelmed by range so much that you want to hurt something. ‘Him,’ you think, sideeyeing the man next to you, ‘I want to hurt him.’ But you know you’re not in the right state of mind to do anything. Besides, as much as you hate him, he just did his best to comfort you during one of your lowest lows. As the need to hurt intensifies, though, you try to reason with yourself that it would do less damage to thank him.

With the gate in view, your fingers twitch, an itch within you wanting to pull out your knife and stab something. But you dropped your knife during the fight. The fight that left you worse than unsatisfied, something your partner seems to agree on, if his clearheadedness is anything to go by.

The sight of gore, the smell of metal, and the sound of flesh tearing— none of it felt good.

All you want to do is feel good.

You snap when you pass through the gate, and you shove your partner.

“I told you you had a deathwish messing with this demon, huh?! Fucking dumbass,” you yell, getting close to him and shoving him again. You watch his hand make an aborted motion to his sword, but instead he punches you. Without thinking, you punch him back, and the two of you devolve into a feral fight. You kick, bite, scratch, punch, pull, push; he does the same.

It’s the first time this has happened. You’ve both managed to be civil, somehow (aside from that first time hit him). Only biting words have been said. But it was about time you stopped baring your teeth and finally lashed out. You sort of wish you’d done this sooner.

The way fresh blood pours out of his nose and split lips— a look you must surely mirror. The way your knuckles burn and bleed from the impact of hitting. It feels good.

Back when you imagined having a rival, you always felt short of the truth. This is what it feels like to have an enemy. No way you could conjure up the truth without experience. You want him dead, and fuck the feelings seem to be mutual.

Pure hate. Antillon is your beloathed.

And there’s something there about hating someone that feels so right. The sight of his blood is just so fucking captivating.

There’s something about kissing the blood on his lips that feels so right, too. You don’t know who did it first. Kissing him is such a disgusting feeling, but his blood overrules your sense— you want more. You bite his lips and pull him closer. Guess maybe you should have done this sooner, too.

“Fuck,” he moans into your mouth with so much emotion. Distracted, you almost didn’t hear him. But you did, and by that sound alone that you can tell his bloodlust, just like yours, is equal parts blood and lust.

You growl near animalistically and push him against the side of the car. As soon as his back meets the solid surface, his hands grip your hips with a bruising strength. Roughly, he grinds you against his crotch—

andfuck. You’ve seen the shape of his bomber after many fights, but feeling it leaves you impressed. And fuck you’ve heard him moan when he jerks off, but hearing him whimper feels too godsdamn intimate.

Breathless, you pull away and leave a bleeding bite on his neck. His head titles bak and something about that seems so submissive— it sends a scorching heat to your core. You give him another bite to reward him and his pathetic moan leaves you wanting more.

You want to ruin this man.

You grip his wrists tightly and force them away from you, but you don’t stop pressing against him. Not until you ease your hands into his pants, giving him enough time to stop you (he doesn’t). You were impressed when you felt his dick against you, but now you feel blessed holding him in your hands, squeezing out the filthiest whine from his bloodied lips.

“What’s wrong, boss?” you taunt. Your tone is sarcastic and unkind— you need this man to break, and you won’t be sweet on him. You give him a rough jerk and ask, “Do you need help with something—?”

Unexpectedly, his hands grab your head and force you into a kiss. You moan at the taste of blood and the feeling of your lips gushing blood again. You pull away though, to chastise him with a firm “Behave.”

You pump him slowly, a teasing pace, and press your forehead against his cheek. You’re not as horny as he seems to be, but he’s doing wonders to you no less.

Hesitantly, his hands try to snake their way into your pants, but you grunt and bite him. “No,” you tell him, “Anywhere else, not there.” He listens and wraps his calloused hands around your waist. He presses his thumbs painfully into your pelvis before he slides his hands under your blood-soaked shirt.

“Please,” he moans, “faster?” And well, he did ask nicely. You move to bite his shoulder and pick up the pace. Your hands wrap around him tightly, dry, and you’re sure the drag might hurt. But when he moans so prettily for you? It matters to neither of you.

“Look at you, boss,” you laugh, licking your lips, “Being so good for me. Sounding like a whore and I didn’t have to pay for you.”

He sobs, choking on a moan. His hands scratch at your back and his hips thrust forward. It throws you off your rhythm for a moment, but when you’re back on track you smile at the whine that escapes him.

You pull your hands away, if only to hear his disappointment. You kiss him, sweetly and soothingly (it disgust you), and you pull him close to you, off the car. Behind him, you open the backseat door. He gets the hint, and rushes inside, laying down on his back.

He’s too big to lay down comfortably, so you move him into a better position. His legs are spread and strewn about, but still cramped in the small space. You don’t usually know what he’s expecting, but it definitely doesn’t seem to be you sitting atop his dick, clothes still between you.

One of your knees pushes against his stomach and the other found support on the seat beneath your partner— boss, as you’re currently calling him (and there’s something about controlling the man who hired you that is just so good).— Your feet are tucked behind you and your hands rest atop his shoulders.

You press yourself firm against his crotch and laugh maliciously. You lean in close and gently bite his nose, giving a quick lick before moving towards his ear. “What’s the call, boss?” You hardly suck on his earlobe (you like having that done to you) and hum a sadistic tune.

He grabs you and tries to force you down (you let it happen, heat pooling in your gut). You watch as he tries to conjure up a facade, too, but his efforts have been long since fruitless. He realizes, eventually, and resorts to glaring at you. Thumbs squeeze into you again, pulling a pleased gasp from deep within you.

You’ve thought about this man like this, on occasion. About having this man beneath you. About riding him and hurting him (shame you don’t have a condom on you— and you wonder if he does, because now way would you let him in you without one).

You’ve thought about how he would submit, even if a fight must be fought. His dazed expression after a fight. His little noise while he masturbates. Oh he would submit (or you would make him).

You’ve thought about him as you have him now. As he fights for some semblance of control, but fails and fails and fails.

He shakily exhales, his hands settling on roaming under your shirt. “You should—,” you grind against him, testing the waters, “You should let me fuck you.” His hands dazedly trace the twin scars under your pecs, and then independently explore the vast expenses of your skin.

You laugh— sharply, incredulously, “No,” you tell him firmly. You grind against him roughly, an action that earns you a mewl. A mewl of all things.

You push yourself up and angle yourself so that this will be good for you, too. The pace you set is quick— after all, you’re done with the buildup. The adrenaline of blood, translated into and bloodier lust than is typical for you.

Your only goal now is to ruin this man, and with that in mind, you move even faster. Your breaths are labored, broken by hiccups of moans. He moans loudly, interrupted by a sharp intake of air. You’re leaving him breathless. ‘How cute.’

He finishes with a harsh gasp, his head thrown back and his hands gripping you tightly. You hate this man, but fuck if his blissed out expression— tears in his eyes, teeth ripping his lips again— doesn’t do wonders for you.

With a renewed vigor, you continue grinding, only slightly bothered when he humps into you, throwing you off balance. You’re your end, too, smug upon the realization that the stimulation is (maybe) too much for him. The way his hands leave you to paw at nothingness. The way he cries hard when you don’t stop—

Your orgasm racks through you, and to stop a shameful noise from leaving you, you bite your partner’s neck. Delightfully, you taste blood again.

After the high wears off, the both of you wordlessly separate. Contentment prevents either of you from speaking. For once, the drive isn’t unpleasant. You’re driving, as you always do after a fight, but this time your partner looks thoroughly debauched.

But you feel gross, blood drying in your clothes and proof of your orgasm leaving you sticky. And you feel drained. That demon left you in such a horrible state of mind. You most certainly are not coping well.

Wires were clearly crossed, and you hope it won’t turn into some serious problem. And you also hope that the demon won’t turn into an even more serious problem. It’s probably been watching you this whole time. Years lying in wait for you. It may be the paranoia, but the way it stared at you, you can’t shake the feeling that it was all intentional and it wanted you to know. ‘Great! Love letter from a demon, basically?’

Fuck who are you kidding. You’re not even sure what’s real. Not even as you drip the steering wheel as painfully as you can muster. You belong to this demon now (have belonged to this demon for years), and Antillon will probably be collateral. Or fuck maybe it’ll kill you and latch onto him. That seems to be on brand, anyways.

‘We’re dead,’ you think, sideeyeing the man next to you, ‘We’ve been dead the moment we decided to mess with a demon.’