Work Text:
Rose Lalonde was never one for small talk.
Any time you and your ecto-daughter would speak, she always did make conversation through small talk, but she would quickly graze through that, as if she wanted to ease into the questions she really wanted to ask. She always had some sort of drive to what she was doing, and the more she wanted something, the stronger her motive. That’s why whenever she messaged you, which was frequently, you had to brace yourself.
It’s not like you didn't enjoy talking to her, but she’s the one person who fully understands your thoughts. You never told her anything of this sort, you wouldn’t want to trouble her more than necessary, of course, but she had that way about her. That way she can read you like an open book as much as you close yourself off from the world. That way she understands the motive of your own behind your actions, despite you not fully understanding her. It would be therapeutic if you didn't find it so concerning due to your own paranoia.
How did she know? She was a Seer, but that didn’t mean she could see through your mind, like it seems she does. The way she can be so clear with what’s happening does intimidate you. Her mannerisms are so precise and thorough, along with her appearance and even the way she walks. Everything about Rose intimidates you in one form or another. Your clarity is so much different than hers. You recognize yourself and why you can be as miserable as you are, but self awareness kills you. And self recognition hurts when you don't know a cure.
You glance back at the Pesterchum window that you have stared at for around thirty minutes. You haven't messaged anyone but Rose and Roxy in a couple of weeks. Rose again. She was a phenomenon that you can’t get enough of. Your hand inches down your body slowly to rest on your leg. She probably knew the solution to your hyper-awareness of your self deprecation. But deep down, you knew that you didn’t want her to solve it for you. You can only be fulfilled by solving yourself. If Rose spoonfed the ingredients of a happy life to you, you aren’t sure you would stay full. The thought of her saving you though, is like a fresh breath of air.
Rose in general is more like sunshine. The light that creeps through your blinds when you feel like the walls of your room are too confining. Your hand moved closer up onto your thigh. Are you really doing this? Her skin is always glowy and radiant, her voice is soothing and deep… Her voice. Oh my god, you are doing this. You’ve never heard her cry, you’ve never heard her scream, but something about imagining how her little whimpers of agony and pain intrigues you. Your hand moves up to the waistband of your pants, and reaches down. This is happening. You pull down your pants and underwear together, letting them pool at your knees, exposing your erect dick.
Holy shit, you're hard already. Just from thinking about the mannerisms of your daughter. She isn’t technically your daughter, but for some reason, you make the subconscious decision to think of her as your daughter. You're filthy for that. Disgusting, which just makes you throb more. Aren’t you gay? No time to think about that actually, you are harder than a diamond right now (Thanks, Dave, for putting that analogy in your raps) and if you don't get to work right now you will spontaneously combust. So you spit on your hand once, and twice for good measure, and it eventually works itself up and down your length.
You imagine Rose under you, squirming. She isn’t quite ready to take you yet, due to her only getting action from other girls or troll bulges, but that’s no problem for you, as you have the kindness in your heart to ease her into this. You would spread her legs, collecting some of the wetness from the inside crevices of her folds, and ease two of your fingers up to her clit, where you would then gently rub. She might struggle, or whine, or whimper, or maybe even moan, but for the sake of your arousal, you imagine her doing all four, as she bucks her hips forward towards the source of pleasure subconsciously. Disobedience from her, such as her struggling away from you too hard, would earn her a slap on the thigh, just hard enough to leave a red mark.
Up and down. You are one hundred percent getting off to this, better than you ever had gotten off to Jake, or Dave, or anyone else who has randomly popped up into your head while you were choking the chicken. But Rose was no accident. Your hand works itself faster, as you imagine her whining against your fingers once more. Just as she is about to climax, you pull your fingers away from the nub, feeling the wetness that has pooled onto the sheets. She’s definitely ready enough for you. You collect some of the slick on her folds and rub it on your own length, and you then thrust into her.
Your hand develops a steady and quicker pace around your cock to imagine this scenario better. Rose clamped down on your shaft, whimpering at every new sensation she felt. You thrusted halfway into her, easing her into it, but still being harsh enough to chase your own gratification. The way she squeezed down, due to the unfamiliar sensation and the dubious consent she was giving you, definitely pleasured you enough. The sheer thought of this made you insatiable, nobody could compare to your imaginary version of Rose. Not Jake, not Dave, not Jane, not Roxy, not anyone else who popped up into your head.
Anything else other than jacking off to your daughter seemed unfulfilling. You were in whatever heaven exists on Earth C, Rose was an angel, you couldn't be harder, every feeling that your hand and thoughts gave you sent a shiver down your spine, and a sensation through your whole body. The depravity of the situation is what you're getting off on the most. Your hand squeezes gently as it moves up and down from your balls to the top of your dick, as you almost buck your hips into your hand. Desperation is a strong word, but it just so happens to exactly describe your feelings for this situation.
You longed, ached, to get your hands on Rose, your dick in her mouth, cunt, between her thighs, her ass, your cum on her face, her thighs red from you slapping them, her wrists sore from being tied up, her voice hoarse from moaning, everything and anything you could do to her, in your fantasies and reality, is something you would get off on. Your hand moves up and down one last time, as your hips buck into it, and you cum. All on your thighs. You look back up at the Pesterchum window. Rose was online. You manage one last whimper out. God, you just jacked off to Rose Lalonde. When will you finally kill yourself?