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johannestevans · 11 months

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The Lighthouse Keeper's Selkie

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Note warnings for non-graphic violence and butchery, themes of captivity, and cannibalism.

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Dún has been watching the man in the white tower since he arrived.

The white tower has been there at the end of the peninsula for some decades now – the surfacers call it a “lighthouse”, because there is a great fire burning at the top of the tower, and at night time, or when it storms and it is very dark, a mirror spins to send out that light in a wide beam, that ships are not dashed upon the nearby reefs and rocks.

He is a bad man, the lighthouse keeper.

Dún considers himself no expert in the morality of surfacers, but he knows that they look unkindly upon the killing of their own, and as any species does, look even less kindly upon killing without reason, indiscriminately, which it seems to Dún this one does.

Now and then people become lost, and they wander up and down the beaches before they make their way to the lighthouse. They knock on its door on dark and foggy nights, and never does the lighthouse keeper permit them entry, or give them solace within – he gives them directions, and sends them wandering out into the fog, sometimes out onto the reefs themselves.

They fall from outcrops and hurt themselves, or sometimes are simply swept up in the waves – Dún has feasted on their corpses, and shared them out amongst his people.

It is the suspicion of the selkies, and of the mermen too, that this man is perhaps imprisoned here for some crime or other beyond those he now kills, because up ‘til now, the lighthouse has run on magic, with no keeper to attend it.

He is thin and bony, as many surfacers are – he has a hard jaw and deep sunken eyes, and sunken cheeks, and hair that is black with streaks of rocky grey.

One morning, as the sun is dawning, Dún creeps up the rocky embankment to the head of the peninsula, and he pauses on the rock, staring at the keeper. He is sitting on the step of the lighthouse, the door open behind him, and he is holding a metal cup, is drinking from it.

Steam rises from the cup, and Dún looks through the steam to the lighthouse keeper’s face.

Dún is very close to him. Some fifteen or twenty paces away, he is, perched on one of the larger, more stable stones – in the summer time, this is a very nice place to sit and warm oneself, enjoying the heat absorbed by it, but it is still winter, and the spring thaw has yet to arrive.

The keeper does not reach out for him, or speak to him. He does not compliment Dún’s fine hair or his handsome whiskers, nor the beautiful dark shine of his eyes, or the sharpness of his teeth – he does not ask Dún to give him his pelt, or even compliment it.

Instead, the keeper simply stares at him warily, saying nothing.

Dún pushes back his head, revealing the other he wears underneath, to make it entirely clear that yes, he is a selkie, and a very beautiful one. He doesn’t say anything – it’s only proper that the keeper should greet himfirst, when Dún is of much higher social status than a prisoner such as he is, and thin and ugly besides, and a surfacer.

He steps even closer, and the keeper casts a glance around, then rather than say anything, offers out his mug.

Dún takes it from him, sniffs it, tilts his head. It is no longer steaming, the two of them have been sitting and staring at one another for so long, but it is still warm inside the metal cup, and Dún takes a sip. The warmth is strange where the liquid slides down his throat, and he is unused to the taste.

“It’s tea,” says the lighthouse keeper. His voice has a hoarse quality.

“Is it poison?”

“A sensible young man might have asked that before he drank it.”

“I’m not any of those things,” Dún points out.

The keeper nods, then stands and turns back inside, closing the door behind him. Dún stands there with his skin about his shoulders, finishes the mug, and sets it down on the step before he goes back into the water.

* * *

Now and then, in the weeks following this, Dún will come back and the keeper will share something from his plate each time – a biscuit, a piece of rabbit, a piece of fish, a vegetable Dún doesn’t know the name of. Dún returns the favour in kind, of course – the keeper eats penguin meat when it is offered him, and fish, and seal meat, too.

“Do you like it?” asks the selkie as he chews on a piece of the blubber.

“No,” says the keeper.

“Why eat it, then?”

“You gave it to me.”

Dún smiles, because for a human, this is remarkably sound thinking.

He is an unkind man, Dún has no doubts about that.

He is cruel and unkind to the humans that come too close – Dún comes to listen the next time one comes along, hears the keeper’s stony, cold demeanour with her, a woman lost in the rain and confused by the mist, hears him bid her go the wrong direction.

He and the others eat of her corpse the following day.

But he shares his paltry meals with Dún, and he politely eats that which Dún gives him in return.

* * *

The first morning Dún creeps to the lighthouse’s door and comes inside, the keeper startles. It is a sunny day and the lighthouse’s fire is running without his supervision – there are windows, but they are shuttered, and it is dark inside.

The keeper does not move as Dún lays his pelt over the chair and clambers into the keeper’s bed. He doesn’t touch Dún right away, just lays still beneath him as Dún straddles his waist and arranges himself on his chest.

“I am not for you,” murmurs the lighthouse keeper.

“I don’t see anybody else laying claim,” replies Dún.

The keeper’s hands land not on his back but at his sides, thumbs touching the edges of Dún’s waist. It is comforting, to curl into a male and not be caged by it – Dún’s body is thick with muscle and layered over with fat, and while the keeper has some of the one, he has almost none of the other. Dún’s flesh flows over his, and he is glad for the padding he is, else surely the keeper would cut him with the knife-sharp edges of his hips, his knees, his ribs.

“My heat will come soon,” says Dún, and leans back enough that he can tug the keeper’s hand beneath the swell of his belly and the paunchy flesh over his cunt. He tugs the keeper’s fingers to feel where Dún is wet and warm, and he shudders.

His pale, grey-drawn cheeks have darkened to something almost like red, and his body has gone stiff – as has his cock.

“You will aid me with it,” says Dún.

“Will I?” asks the keeper faintly, and although his voice is soft, there is a note of challenge in it. In his eyes is a spark of power, of burgeoning command – before he was sentenced here, what was his status? Was he valuable, amongst the surfacers he was born of? Was he rich, or influential?

“Your cock works, doesn’t it?” asks Dún.

“It certainly seems to right this moment.”

“You will fuck me now,” Dún tells him imperiously.

The keeper laughs – there is a jaggedness to the hoarse sound. “Take what you wish.” His cock is hard, and thick, which is good. “Ride me, if you want to. I don’t see why you would.”

“There are surfacers uglier than you.”

“Are there?”

“Probably. I can hardly name an example.”

The keeper looks up at him, his lips pulled into a small, haggard smile. His deep sunken eyes are shadowed heavily, but up close like this, Dún can see the colour in them, a paler grey than the grey of his hair.

“May I kiss you?”

“Kiss me?” Dún repeats, uncomprehending. “What is that?”

The keeper reaches up for him, gently cupping Dún’s face with the hand not trapped between their bodies. One of his fingertips curls about the back of Dún’s neck, pulling him down, and Dún allows himself to be coaxed closer.

The keeper presses his lips to Dún’s, softly, and his tongue swipes at Dún’s lower lip – when Dún’s lips part in surprise, the keeper slides his tongue inside, touches Dún’s own. Dún is surprised by the heat of it, the pleasure of the sensation, the messiness of it, before he pulls back.

The keeper is breathing heavily, so much so that Dún wonders idly if his weight is too much for him, but the keeper keeps hold of Dún when he tries to lean back, keeping him close.

“That was a kiss?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Again,” Dún commands him, and the keeper nods, and obeys.

* * *

The lighthouse keeper’s name is Carnell.

He reaches for Dún’s pelt once, and only once, several months after the first time Dún removes it before him – he brushes his fingers over it, feels the skin, and then pulls back his hand.

“Do you like how it feels?” asks Dún.

“Yes,” says Carnell.

“Why don’t you take it? You might keep me here – you might bind me, such that I will obey your word, and you need not obey mine.”

Carnell smiles at him thinly. There are many lines around his eyes. “There are some things better not stolen,” he says.

This is wise indeed, for an unkind man.

* * *

Dún abhors his heats, and always has. He cannot be impregnated – or at the least, in his two hundred years, it hasn’t happened yet – and yet still they plague him thrice or four times a year, a burning heat lighting beneath his layers of skin, his cunt hungry, his whole body throbbing with the ache of his need.

The others are too rough, touch him too greedily and too eagerly when his heats come – he is very beautiful, and ordinarily does not allow his brethren to touch him, particular as he is about the ways he likes to be touched. When his heats come, he has no choice, and they squeeze and pull and tug at him, bite him, fuck him between them.

Carnell only touches him where Dún guides his hands, where the pain is too much to go without them. His cock is not as large as Dún would like, but big enough to satisfy.

“You can touch me where you please,” Dún tells him after they fuck, on one of the occasions between his heats, still lounging in the keeper’s bed.

“I like to touch you where you want it,” murmurs Carnell. He is running water over one of his plates, cleaning crumbs from it. “It seems to me that my touch is an agony you need at times, but I would not have it harm more than it helped.”

“I like it when you touch me,” says Dún.

“Not always,” says Carnell. “Not everywhere. Not without warning.”

Dún examines his fingernails. His claws are attached to his skin – his fingernails without it on are the same black as his claws are, but more similar in shape to Carnell’s, short and blunt, finishing the tips of his human-like fingers.

“I could stand it,” says Dún generously.

“I couldn’t,” is Carnell’s reply.

* * *

Dún does not visit the keeper every morning. Sometimes he stays the whole of the day, but when the keeper attends his work, it bores him, and so he goes out and he hunts, or swims about, or travels, or weaves, or carves, or does the ordinary things that would entertain him.

One heat, perhaps the sixth or seventh he’s spent with Carnell, is particularly awful, has Dún in the most terrible grip. Carnell abandons his work to fuck him instead, and allows his hands to be puppeted as Dún requires.

When Dún sobs, frustrated and pained and exhausted, fucking himself on Carnell’s cock for hours upon hours, Carnell soothes him.

His hands do not roam Dún’s body, do not grasp or grab unless Dún arranges his hands and pushes them to squeeze – he soothes with his voice alone. His taciturnity gives way to soft, sweet whispers, hoarse assurances that the storm will soon be over, that Carnell has him, that this too will end.

“Do you?” asks Dún blearily afterwards, when he is laid, exhausted, in the keeper’s bed beside him.

“Do I?” repeats Carnell.

“Have me?”

“As I might have a book from a library,” says Carnell. “Borrowed, but not forever.”

Dún is familiar with books, but, “I do not know what a library is.”

“I have you while you’re here,” Carnell elucidates. “When you’re not, I have no claim over you.”

“Why not stake your claim?”

“Fuck you?”

“Not like that. Forever.”

“I am not forever,” says Carnell. He sounds as though he’s already done his grieving over the fact.

“But you could take me in the meantime,” says Dún. “Take my skin. Make a wife of me.”

“Why would I? What would it benefit me, holding you hostage in my lighthouse as I work the light, instead of letting you swim and wander as you choose?”

“You would know I was waiting for you.”

“I know that now.”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes.”

“You like to touch me?”

“I do. I like to soothe your pain,” says Carnell. “It is not something ordinarily in my nature.”

“Why don’t you hold me?”

“Because you don’t want to be held.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“Perhaps you think you should.”

“Other selkie males would hold me.”

“You don’t let them, though, do you?”

“Other menwould hold me.”

Carnell, who had been mild in tone and seemingly in good humour, comes over very grave, and gives Dún a hard look. “I kill other men,” is his reminder.

Dún falls back onto the bed, and opens his arms in invitation.

* * *

His next heat, his last of the summer, is too hot by far, too long, too demanding. When Dún cries into Carnell’s neck, overwhelmed by it as it ravages his body, Carnell folds his arms around the base of his back, holds him gently without gripping at him, without wholly caging him in.

This makes Dún sob louder.

His touches are featherlight as they land on his body, only pressing harder when directed, and Dún does not command, but begs him to move faster, move harder, no, slower now, deeper, yes, please, like that.

Carnell obeys without hesitation.

“Drink,” he says when it is over – this heat had lasted days, and Dún is too exhausted to refuse the order. Carnell is even paler than usual, though he has been eating and resting as Dún has fitfully slept between their sessions – now he brings the cup to Dún’s mouth and does not draw it away until Dún has finished it.

“I keep you from your duties,” says Dún. He does not regret it, nor really care, but he thinks it should be said.

“I could not care less what men dash themselves on these accursed rocks,” growls Carnell. “My duty first and foremost is you.”

Dún likes that, but he is too tired to show his approval.

* * *

Some nights, while Carnell works the light, Dún chooses to linger in his quarters. He lies in his bed, examines the pictures in his books, listens to the surfacer music that can be played from a complex machine. He packs a plate, a supper of meats, to greet Carnell when he descends the stairs., as though Carnell has stolen his pelt, and made a wife of him after all.

Carnell always smiles when Dún does this, though still, he leaves Dún’s pelt untouched.

* * *

One night, observing from the water, Dún sees another man come to the keeper’s door. He wants for no directions, no assistance.

His destination is here.

Dún does not approach until the man departs again, when the sun is setting the following day – only then does he crawl up the rock and slip inside.

Carnell is lying on his side in his bed, barely covered by one of his thin sheets. It is a balmy night, and Carnell has sweat on his skin.

“You are not to tend the light this evening?” asks Dún.

“Fuck it,” is Carnell’s muffled reply.

Dún slips forward, delicately arranges himself against the keeper’s back, and lingers there. He spreads one palm on Carnell’s naked back, and feels for new marks, but there are none.

Carnell remains still. His cheeks shine in the dim light, Dún doesn’t know whether with sweat or also with tears, and he wipes a thumb over the wet skin, then brings it to his mouth. Salty.

“He has your pelt?”

“He has me.”

“I will kill him.”

Carnell reaches back, brushes his knuckles over Dún’s shoulder. The touch is very delicate, as though he thinks Dún is a fragile thing.

“It’s not forever,” says Carnell. “Two years more, and my sentence ends.”

“He touched you?”

“No.”

“He hurt you?”

“No.”

“He did something.”

“He did.”

“He talked?”

“Yes.”

“And other things?”

“Yes.”

“Sentences are given for crimes,” says Dún, feeling that this mode of conversation might lead him somewhere better.

“Yes,” agrees Carnell.

“What crime did you commit?”

“Thievery.”

“Oh. Was it worth stealing?”

“Not so far.”

“My sympathies.”

“Yes.”

“What happens when your sentence is finished?”

“I give it back.”

“You have it now?”

“In a way.”

“Is it the light?”

“No.”

“Your music device?”

“No.”

“Is it—”

Carnell turns in bed to look at him, his grey eyes gentle in the dim light. “Hush, would you?” he asks.

It is phrased as a request, not an order. Dún allows it, and is silent.

* * *

Dún swims further afield for some time, exploring the coastal changes as summer gives way to autumn. Weeks have passed when he returns to the lighthouse.

Carnell looks surprised to see him, stands to his feet from his supper table – his hands twitch as though to reach for him, but they do not dare until Dún catches his wrists and brings his palms to land on his body, gently holding Dún by the waist.

“I am sorry,” says Dún, “for leaving you.”

Carnell replies, “I would have you swim all the world’s seas, if you wished it. But I am grateful that you return to tell me of them.”

“I didn’t swim quite that far,” says Dún. “But I can tell you all I saw.”

He does. Tells Carnell of the changing sands and the changing currents, the shift in the temperatures in the waters, the different movements of fish, the changes in plant and animal alike.

“What did you see?” he asks, when he is finished.

“Men in boats,” says Carnell dispassionately. “Men on foot. Men on horseback. Women, too, but they’re not ordinarily sent toward the lighthouse.”

“You don’t like them.”

“No. Other surfacers.”

“Why?”

“Why should I?”

Dún is on top of him, his hands folded over Carnell’s chest, his chin rested on top of his hands. His body blankets Carnell’s entirely as it always does – he is surprisingly comfortable to lie on top of, and Dún finds he has missed this, how easily he eclipses this hard, hard man.

“I like you,” says Dún. “You are trustworthy.”

“No,” says Carnell.

“Why do you kill?” asks Dún. “Send the surfacers to their deaths?”

“Because it breaks the monotony,” says Carnell dully. “Because it means something happens. Because it no doubt frustrates the man who put me here.”

“Where will you go when your sentence ends?”

“Back to where I came from.”

“I don’t want you to. I would like you to stay.”

“It isn’t for me to decide.”

“This is your prison.”

“Not the lighthouse. The peninsula.”

“And if I kill your gaoler?”

“My sentence goes on forever.”

“I’ll kill him,” Dún offers. “If you want to stay.”

“Don’t kill on my account.”

Dún touches his fingers through Carnell’s hair, feels its texture under his fingertips. “Where is back?” he asks.

“Where I came from.”

“Where is that?”

Carnell is quiet.

Dún sits back, and spreads his legs apart. “You don’t have heats,” he observes aloud.

“No,” agrees Carnell.

“Would you fuck at all, if not for me?”

“I don’t expect I would, no.”

“If I denied you, would that frustrate you?”

“Somewhat, perhaps, but I would make no demands.”

“I wouldn’t deny you,” says Dún. “I wouldn’t deny myself – a heat would be too painful without you, and your body gives me pleasure as mine does yours. Your cock is convenient.”

“Is it?”

“It sows no seed.”

“Seems too messy to be the case.”

Dún sees no reason to explain to a surfacer that he is barren – best he thinks it is his fault. He wonders if Carnell sees the importance of the matter at all. Dún sticks his tongue out, and Carnell smiles up at him.

“I have come to you three years now, and bear no children,” Dún explains. “This is good.”

“I’m glad to provide such service.”

“I like your body.”

“I like yours too.”

“It’s not really the same,” says Dún. “My body is good.”

Carnell laughs at that, but he makes no argument. “It is good,” he agrees.

“You would freeze in winter without me,” says Dún.

Were he the sort of man to keep score, Carnell would say, “You would suffer in summer, without me.” Because he is not – or if he is, he does not voice it in Dún’s presence – he says, “A kind service you do me.”

“Your gaoler doesn’t fuck you, does he?”

“No.”

“Do you fuck where you came from?”

“No.”

“I couldn’t beat that,” says Dún. “What do you do there?”

“Labour.”

“You are indentured?”

“Yes.”

“What didyou steal?”

“Me.”

“Oh,” says Dún softly. “Do you miss liberty?”

“Yes.”

“It has been a long time, I suppose, since you were free.”

“Decades.”

“I will kill your gaoler,” Dún decides. “And free you from your bonds.”

Carnell doesn’t seem to be listening. He leans up for a kiss.

* * *

Dún takes the gaoler by surprise, the next time he arrives on the peninsula. There is a sort of wooden box where people leave offerings for the lighthouse keeper as they pass by – biscuits and trinkets and teas, that sort of thing. Dún launches himself from his place hidden behind it, and tears into the man’s throat before he can approach the tower.

The flesh is lean, salty, too tough to be good – the man is old.

It is polite to share, though, and Carnell takes the strip of flesh offered him, and swallows it without chewing.

“He tastes bad,” says Dún.

“I expect all men taste like that.”

“No,” says Dún. If to be told this fact disturbs him, Carnell makes no indication.

Dún pulls the body down into the water with him, and shares the flesh about for others to use. It is bad eating, but a worthy bait.

* * *

That night, he crawls into Carnell’s bed.

“May I hold you?” asks the keeper.

“Yes.”

“Show me how.”

Dún slides into his lap, knees tight against his waist, and lies on top of him, bringing Carnell’s hands to rest on his hips. His hands stay where they’re placed.

“You are free now,” says Dún smugly.

“No,” says Carnell, not impatiently. “I told you my sentence would go on. Without my gaoler to break the spell, I stay bonded to this place.”

“Oh,” says Dún, and frowns. He does not apologise. “I wasn’t really listening,” he says, which is true.

“It’s alright,” says Carnell softly. “I like this better than the alternative. You share your freedom with me, when you tell me where you go.”

“I’ve had my last heat of the summer.”

“Yes.”

“Soon, I will go far away. Bring you whatever you desire.”

“What do you think I desire, Dún, if not you?”

Dún smiles, and pulls Carnell’s hands slowly up and down his back, guiding him to rub the skin in a way that is pleasant, and not too much.

“I do not mean to hold you captive,” says Dún. “Perhaps I could find someone to set you free. Would that my skin could free you, as it could capture me.”

“Stay here with me a while first,” whispers Carnell. “Won’t you? I am most at liberty here beneath you.”

Dún kisses him, and stays until Carnell lets him go.

* * *

He leaves on foot, when the time comes, to go for help.

He wears old clothes of the last lighthouse keeper’s, and leaves his pelt at the lighthouse.

Carnell sleeps beneath it every night Dún is gone.

FIN.

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43 notes · View notes

domreader-headcannon-scenarios · 6 months

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so, we’ve seen Sebastian and Claude in pre-heat preparation and we’ve seen Sebastian when he’s in heat, but not Claude, soooo can I pretty please ask for a scenario or headcannons about what Claude in heat is like? With tying in his spider behavior and all?

Oh so I have a few of these! I combined these three since these seemed compatible to mix!

(Also Ty Anons I’m so glad you enjoyed em!

So far starters I don’t think he’d just come up to us like Sebastian, he’s the type to just lock himself in his room and try to jerk off until he’s satisfied. (Which doesn’t end the way he wants since his body is craving you know…a mate. He can ‘finish’ on his own just fine but it’s not as good) he leaves a majority of the work to the other servants and will avoid rooms your in unless, you’re alone.

(I got carried away!! Made it a lil weird while I took a break from kinktober! I hope it’s good!)

Claude (heat cycles, afab reader, demon forms, (demon form Claude has a weird flexible tentacle d!ck), Claude’s big flexible tongue, oviposposit!on, )

You were surprised to have Hannah greet you at the door to your bedroom. You expected it to be Claude, but she quickly informed you that Claude was ‘feeling under the weather’ which…only happens once a year for an entire week. You went on with your day, you were aware of what he goes through (thanks to the Triplets accidentally telling you while venting) and expected him to come to you if he needed ‘extra help’.

You’d slept with him before, there’s no reason for him to be shy when you’ve ridden his face and sucked his dick before, though it’s been three heats since you’ve first contracted him, you figure he knows what he’s doing. With Hannah you ended up ending the day early and you just went to your room, maybe you’ll sleep early tonight.

You heard the door click open without a knock, before you can say anything you distinctly feel eyes on you. Your desk faces away from the door so you don’t know whose watching you so…intently, you stand up ready to turn and confront them, but your instantly pushed against your desk.

You freeze and try to turn but the person doesn’t let you, arms wrap around your waist and your lifted up like you weigh nothing. You cant see the person but as soon as you feel them carrying you to the door, you kick, trying to get them to let go. “Drop me!” You yelled, hoping it was one of the triplets messing with you.

Whoever it is ignores you and you breathe to scream but a hand covers your mouth. “Please, Master, quiet. I’m t-taking you to my room.” It was Claude, his voice sounded strained and he wasn’t letting you turn to see him. “Sorry to grab you like this, just n-need you.”

You were unceremoniously thrown onto a bed and it took you a second to realize you weee in Claude’s room and on his bed…but there were webs all over the floor and walls, it took you a second to realize the silky sheets you were on weren’t in fact blankets, but finely woven webs. You recoiled at the sight and tried to move backwards to get off the bed but Claude sits behind you and blocks your path.

“Claude this is gross, I don’t want to be surrounded by webs while we-“ You didn’t get to finish before he’s pressed against you with a kiss and his tongue shoved itself down your throat. You jerk under him and writhe away enough to breathe before he’s between your legs. Now that you can see him you can see just how disheveled he looks.

His hair is a mess, his tie is loose and he barely has his clothes on right, you cant help but notice he forgot to even put on an undershirt. He’s removing your pants without even asking so you give him a harsh slap, he doesn’t even flinch. “Claude! What the hell? Don’t you know to ask first! You cant just take me from my room and expect sex!”

Claude seemed taken aback by that, though he seemed to realize what he just did as he bows his head. “I-I’m sorry Master. I-I just need you now, I didn’t t-think you’d care-“ He whines out stopping to adjust the visible arousal he’s trying to hide. “It’s too much to handle on my own, even if you just let me use your hand please-“

He whimpers out more things you don’t catch before you sit up and glance around. His room…looks very different even without the webs, his normally neat room is a mess and there’s broken furniture and you cant help but wonder if he broke it in frustration while trying to avoid getting you.

You show him mercy and undress for him, he follows suit instantly and you can see just how bad his heat is getting him. His cock is dripping pre onto the silk as soon as it’s free. “Lay down.” You order, moving aside so he could. You turned away from him and seated yourself onto his face, leaning down so you could grab his cock.

He whines against you and you feel his tongue drag against your entrance before slipping inside of you. He purred feeling your walls constrict around his tongue. The vibrations gave you a surprise jolt of pleasure. You in turn take the head of his cock into your mouth, gently sucking it to coax a more noise from him.

He visibly flinched upon you taking his arousal into your mouth. You adjust yourself to practically ride his tongue, rolling your hips and stroking the rest of his cock with quick uneven strokes. He bucks up, only for you to completely move away from his cock. “Don’t choke me on your dick.”

Claude whines and his toungue retreats as he lifts you enough of his face to talk. “I-I need to be inside you.” You take it into consideration before lowering yourself onto his face again. He whines in protest but allows his tongue to lap at your clit before slipping into you once more.

“Maybe if you help me get off I’ll help you.” You respond. Claude’s tongue drags along your insides, seemingly twisting inside you in search of your sweet spot. You didn’t need to help him, his tongue can reach everything inside of you with ease, he’s just so excited he keeps missing.

You grab his cock, teasingly ghosting over the head and rubbing the base. He bucks forwards, cock trembling in your grip as pre swells at the head. You squeeze the base, grinding down on his face, feeling him hiss in response. His cock suddenly writhes out of your grip, when you look up, you can see a shadowy haze over Claude as his body shifts.

His cock is more tentacle like in this form, twisting and nearly tying itself in a not as it searches for stimulation. You can feel his firm under you, the warmth providing you comfort, after you had him ‘satiated’ you were definitely using him as a pillow (or maybe a blanket) while you rest.

You can feel him using his extra limbs to rub your breast, massage your clit and hold your hips close to his face. He purrs when your hands return to his cock, stroking it in tube with his own movements. He trembles with every few strokes, cock twisting in your grip causing you to tighten said grip.

“Good,like that.” You praise, earning a deep purr in response, his hips bucking forwards. Your thighs nearly snap shut on him when he finally finds your sweet spot. You don’t need to tell him, your moan lets him know instantly and he’s hitting it repeatedly. To reward him you swallow down his cock and before you can suck it, it wraps around your tongue causing you to gag.

You spat it out but Claude still mewled, hips trembling as he tried to stay still. You huff as you feel your own climax reaching you. His cock weeps as your hot breath teased it. You don’t touch him as causes you a blissful orgasm, you’re legs going limp as you collapse ontop of him.

You’re panting, face centimeters away from his raging erection, panting directly onto it.

You do intend to help him with it but you need to catch your breath. You watched in amusement as it seemingly stiffened more with each breath until it was so swollen it couldn’t do anything but twitch. It brushed against your cheek, then Claude practically screamed, completely muffled by your sex.

He cums against your cheek, just short of your mouth as he trembles, body going completely stiff. You get off him, adjusting yo place your weight in his lap, getting his attention. Four pairs of eyes watch you grab his cock, taking it to your entrance and lowering yourself on his still orgasming cock.

He whines, his shaft sensitive as you used his knees to brace yourself before riding him with no care. Claude mewled happily, bucking up a few times before he’s limp under you, cock spilling the last of his mess into you. “T-th-ank you M-My Queen.”

“I’m not fucking done yet, I love it when your dick is like this!” You slam down with each thrust, squeezing his still hard shaft while he recovered. His heat kept him excited, allowing you to use his stiff cock like a dildo while he trembled and recovered from days of aching finally being taken care of.

He was thrilled you let him finish inside of you, he’d let you ride him till he’s unconscious if it meant he could finish inside of you. His swollen shaft ached with every stroke, feeling like it’s going to burst while stimulate him.

You pause open feeling what seemed like his cock expanding inside of you.

You jump off him quickly, startled, when you look down you see your suspicions confirmed. Claude desperately whimpered, cock bobbing as you undoubtedly ruined his second orgasm…

A small, circular swollen spot moved from the base of his cock to the tip, it seeming was stuck, as Claude quickly stroked himself, noticeably squeezing himself from base to tip to force his cum to push whatever it was out.

The entire time he’s sobbing and whining, if you didn’t know any better you’d think you broke something down there…

You finally get to see the object nearly a minute later, it finally emerges fro his swollen cock, popping out with a ‘squelch’ that made you cringe. The way it forced his cock open looked painful, though he continued stroking himself feverishly, bucking into his own hand.

You pick up the object an realize, it’s an egg.

You look up and see another small bump working it’s way up his still hard cock. You examine the egg in your hand, it’s maybe the size of a golf ball, a little pressure made it give, your certain you could crush it easily. You hold it in your hand, watching Claude continue to try to milk the rest of his clutch out, without the cum aiding his shaft, it was difficult, and you noticed, there were a few at the base of his cock.

You decide to experimentally help him, pulling the lotion (or lube you couldn’t really see) from the night stand, pouring it on the engourged head of his cock. You practically squeeze it into his shaft and your hand is suddenly stroking him, his own hands pushed out of the way.

“D-don’t stroke d-down!” He squeaked out, legs shaking as they were pressed together. “I-it hurts, just, stroke up, squeeze, like I-I-it’s..” He paused thinking of an example. “T-tooth paste? T-they are d-durable b-but there’s no room t-to push them d-down.”

“Even in your heat you wish to lecture me?” Nonetheless you do as advices and he melts. He’s purring, cock spitting out three more eggs, you are about to stop but he bucks up. “Wait, there’s more?”

Claude nods. “I c-cant tell how many, I-there was no p-pressure t-they are supposed t-to come f-faster…” You let the eggs pool on his stomach, the white eggs standing out against the black fur.

He’s whimpering and just shy of thrashing you off of him as another couple of eggs started working their way up his aching cock. They come out quite quickly as his cock has recovered enough to build up pre again.

You are left with eight eggs, you notice his cock still hasn’t softened but you put the eggs aside first. “Still got a few left in you?” You tease, getting ontop of him again. He nods, too tired to respond. “Tell me when you are close or I’m forcing every one of these eggs back into your cock.”

He shudders at the thought, cock jumping inside you.

#sub claude faustus #claude faustus #claude x reader #black butler #black butler x reader #heat cycles #mating cycles/in heat #dom reader #demon form #demon forms #ovipositor #ovi kink

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