Indy: Drabbles - Tumblr Posts
MINORS DNI 18+
“My beautiful lover,” DRUIG breathes his condescending tone. That affectionate nickname he’s come to adore calling you has been sullied with his churlish attitude. He makes fun of how you look now, lying underneath him.
Exceptionally trusting, he does not pin your hands, instead he lets you fight him. Fists grab at his clothes, the lapel of his leather jacket your most common purchase as his lithe middle finger swipes against your clit. You writhe and you cry and you bitch and you moan, but he keeps you right where he wants you with his forearm under your torso. It arches you into him, and you throw your head back when he dips the tip of his finger into your slit, stroking through the line of slick. “You want this, my pet?” he murmurs, and he scoffs in response to your indignant whine, a cruel curl tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, you know I like to play with you. Like a little toy.” Abruptly, he plunges the entire length of his finger into you to the knuckle, and you cry out, clutching onto his jacket to yank him to you but he remains resolute. All you do is raise yourself to him, brushing your lips against his. He nuzzles you, inhaling your breath. “Yeah, you’re my little toy.”
He pulls out, only to add another finger, but your walls are already so raw. Your clit is overly sensitive, throbbing when he twists his thumb to flick at it. Your hips jerk in reply, and he snickers through his nose, pecking your unresponsive lips. “Humans are so funny, aren’t they?” he muses, but you can barely hear him. He curls his digits in a beckoning motion inside you, stroking that spot that sends electricity up your spine until you fall limp. “Touch on their pleasure centers a bit and they go fucking stupid. You know how easy it would be to-“ The arm locked around your torso squeezes you to him, and it aches but you can only moan. As if you like the pain, when in reality it’s the way his fingers lodge themselves up in your guts and fiddle with your insides. “-break you? Could do it. Could do it easy.” There’s a growling edge to his voice as he threatens you, bringing his teeth to your exposed neck shiny with sweat. He relieves you, the ache dissipates, and the pad of his thumb curiously nudges your clit.
You buck, and he scans your entire bare form. “How many is that, by the way?” he asks, as if he’s asking about the fucking weather. His thumb drives in with more purpose, wiggling with just enough pressure to make you howl from another incoming orgasm. “Have you lost count?”
hip to be square.
MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: themes similar to the movie | allusions to violence and murder | sexual content | sexism | fiancée!reader | dumbification | degradation | rough sex | anal play references | anal fisting reference | drug references | allusions to asphyxiation.
“You’ve worked up quite a sweat.” PATRICK BATEMAN notes in thinly veiled repulsion. Those cruel hands on your hips restrain themselves, and you can feel that tension against you. Instead, he pours his ample strength into yanking you back on him, choked sounds emit from your gaping mouth. In a way, this is an obligation, he can't really enjoy the way your cunt squeezes him, or how his thumbs fit those perfect back dimples—not in the way he wants to. If it were up to him, he'd squeeze the life out of you while he screwed those lifeless brains to pieces. Finally a bitch like you would be put to good use, eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen grows black dots in your vision. You'd claw at his grip around your neck, easing in to crushing your windpipe, the light would die as he watched, and he wouldn't even falter in his pace. Those hips would still be fucking you, like he is now.
Hard and rough, it hurts. Abusing your cervix as you're bent over the perfect white covers of his California King. You bounce on him like you want more, but in reality you're limp as he directs your body the way he wants it to move. An irrefutable force against you that you are powerless to soothe, unbeknownst to you your only line of defense to protect you from his wrath is the ring on your finger.
You're engaged to him.
In his eyes it was an unavoidable tragedy. All his friends are your friends, you live in his area, and you're a ten minute commute from work. If he's looking to blow off steam during lunch, he'll pop in for a visit and use you up with a pillow covering your head. You don't catch on to the fact he doesn't want to look at you while he ravages you, never question why he insists on hitting it from the back if he can help it. It aids that you've got a nice ass, plump and round and fits in his palms when he handles it. When you aren't being a priss, sometimes you'll let him slip a finger into your asshole. At one point he managed to convince you to let him fist you, but he'd slipped you one to many things that night, narrowly avoiding a messy emergency room visit. There was no way he was going to wait up for you in such a place so late at night. What would he have told everybody? That his fiancée was some junkie? Absolutely not.
Nails dig into your skin at the memory, the salt of sweat burning that raw that makes you mewl. He steels himself from demanding you shut up, instead assuaging the urge by smacking your hand away when you reach back to hold his in a petty attempt to get him to let up. Cruelly, he drills you. Those pathetic noises release in pain, you don't even sound human. "What are you to me?" he spits, looming over your little body as his every muscle contracts fucking into you at a reckless pace. You're sore from his weight, but you can't do a thing about it when being treated like shit never felt so good. A ring of cream foams at his base, taken from you as your cunt confuses punishment for desperation, your expression twisting so hard you'll get wrinkles early. He'll have to divorce you before that happens, otherwise people will think him vain. "Answer me, you idiot, you're supposed to answer me."
Somehow, you don't notice how he's talking to you. How it's different than the cold and distant nature you're accustomed to in public. "Nothing." you breathe out. "I'm nothing." You chase whatever you can get your hands on, scrambling for whatever stupid response you can muster in this state. Apparently, it pleases him, a sea of moans flowing out through his deep voice as he satiates himself using you like a sock with your name on it in his room.