#First with her milk then with her flesh!

[runabout-river]

Sukuna: Uraume, do you know what's a fun thing to do?

Uraume: Cooking?

Sukuna: Half correct! It's

Cannibalism.

[sysig]

Hunger Pangs (Patreon)

[thegreatcrowdragon]

I have an idea for a (short) Shadow Milk fic but I have no idea what to call it augh help

[alnilaem]

bury me beneath the basswood tree

pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]

rating: 18+ only. minors don’t interact.

tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au

Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.

all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3

AO3 MIRROR

The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose. 

It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges. 

Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry. 

The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it. 

She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes. 

Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it. 

A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.  

Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards. 

It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would. 

And listen, they did.

When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body. 

The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.

It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first. 

A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack. 

She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention. 

A plume of smoke curling in the air. 

Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.

She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.

The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray. 

There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.

She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food. 

There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel. 

It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner. 

There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.

The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings. 

She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.

It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs. 

The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid. 

It can’t be human. 

It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.

She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.

It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows. 

It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck. 

“I’m sorry…”

The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.

She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by. 

He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.

“What’re you doin’ in my home?”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”

A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room. 

“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”

The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.

A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence. 

Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent. 

He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.

He coos. “Who’s this?”

“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”

“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”

She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.

Johnny bristles. 

“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”

They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.

Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes. 

He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”

“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside. 

She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises. 

Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches. 

Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt. 

(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)

Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain. 

He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap. 

“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”

Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes. 

She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring. 

She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds. 

The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean. 

Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.

It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.

He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.

He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.” 

“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”

Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.

Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.

Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.

“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”

Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles. 

The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”

Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit. 

Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.

“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”

She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself. 

But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle. 

It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.

“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.

Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”

She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.

“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”

“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”

She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications. 

“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”

He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”

Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”

Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.

“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”

“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”

Clemently, she shakes her head.

Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”

Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks. 

“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”

The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk. 

“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”

Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”

“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”

He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.

“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”

She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp. 

Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.

“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”

She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs. 

Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes. 

He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.

———

She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.

She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.

There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts. 

Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail. 

“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”

A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch. 

“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”

The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.

“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”

It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy. 

A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.

“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”

She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.

It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.

“Good.”

———

She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching. 

She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.

It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–

“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”

She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet. 

She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs. 

“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”

Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”

Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning. 

“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”

He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.

“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair. 

She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.

Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.

However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.

She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her. 

“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”

He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away. 

He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.” 

She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment. 

When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up. 

She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”

“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.” 

She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.

“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.

She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge. 

“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”

Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible. 

“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”

She swallows thickly. 

“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”

“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”

He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.

Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.

“... When can you drive me into town?”

Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”

She feels bile crawl up her throat.

“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”

“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?” 

Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it. 

“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge. 

“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”

She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight. 

“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.

Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer. 

He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”

Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.

“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”

She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be. 

But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.

So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”

“Floors need scrubbin’.”

He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.

“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts. 

Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty. 

She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards. 

She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors. 

Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt. 

Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?” 

She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand. 

“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.” 

She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”

“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”

She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. 

Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”

She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here. 

Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning. 

She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”

She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard. 

It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.

“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”

He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.

“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”

She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.

Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.

All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body. 

Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash. 

Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.

“I have to pee.”

She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning. 

“I can come with–”

“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”

Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage. 

It’s now or never, she decides. 

She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.

She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here. 

The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus. 

It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt. 

She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch. 

But something else catches her attention. 

A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.

MISSING PERSON

Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.

LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL

$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.

FIRST NAME: J-

The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.

MACTAVISH.

“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”

Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer. 

“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”

“Johnny, I–”

“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.

“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”

She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.

However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.

“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”

A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs. 

“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?” 

She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.

“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”

She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.

They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside. 

“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”

She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.

“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”

He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her. 

With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.

She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible. 

“I wanna go… home…”

Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”

He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.

She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.

That’s how she falls asleep. 

With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.

———

She wakes with a start. 

It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.

The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily. 

She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself. 

She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her. 

It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons. 

At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate. 

She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.

Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.

So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.

She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip. 

“You just dinnae listen, do you?”

He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.

She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”

She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip. 

He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.

A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.

It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.

Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.

Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession. 

She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”

Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts. 

He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.

She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms. 

“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”

She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.

She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that. 

He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape. 

Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.

She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open. 

Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.

Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.

“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”

Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.

It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk. 

She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck. 

She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.

Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.

She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh. 

She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess. 

Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal. 

“Hold her down, Johnny.”

Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.

“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”

“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.

He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.

He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one. 

She wails.

They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs. 

Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.

He deeply inhales.

His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.

Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.

“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”

Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.

Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.

“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”

“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”

Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube. 

The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her. 

“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.” 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock. 

Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.

She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.

He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring. 

“She bit me.” 

Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside. 

His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers. 

“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”

He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks. 

“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”

She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat. 

She whimpers. “No–“

A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek. 

She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling. 

“Yes,” he says. 

He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.  

She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him. 

“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”

The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy. 

“Stop…” 

“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”

That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.

Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.

“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”

Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.

She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.

Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.

“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”

His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.

Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.

The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.

Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.

He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.

“Say thank you, kitty.”

It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.

Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.

Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.

“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”

Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take. 

Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.

Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.

He laps it up before letting her go. 

He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.

He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.

Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.

She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.

Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity. 

He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them. 

The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips. 

“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest. 

He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”

Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.

Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”

———

She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.

She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.

The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.

“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies. 

“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”

Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two. 

She grins. 

She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.

Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.

She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.

But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.

She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.

None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.

[fictionalmenxyn]

✬𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲✬

Pairing: dad!rafe x mom!thorton!reader

Baby is a girl, her name is Riley, she’s three months old, (if you see two months old, my bad, it’s supposed to be three)

Warnings: language (one word)

✬✬✬

Today was the first day of your girls weekend. It was only a one of your friend’s boats. Not too far away, since this was your first full weekend away from Rafe and Riley.

Rafe was currently on the couch, Riley in her bouncer. Content and happy. The occasional blabber or smacking of her gummy mouth, Rafe would look over, checking on her.

He was waiting for his wingmen to arrive, Topper and Kelce. The golf tournament started today, so he called them over to come watch it. Since he couldn’t exactly go out to the country club to go watch it. It wouldn’t exactly be the place for a three month old to go to.

When he heard the knock on the front door. He smiled softly walking over and licking Riley up. He spoke “that’ll be your uncles, baby.”

He walked over to the foyer with her in his arms. She tried grabbing for hair, like she would with you. But Rafe chuckled “baby, I haven’t got hair like mama, and I think I’m very grateful for it…”

He opened the door, greeted by his two friends. Kelce holding a case of beers while Topper held a grocery bag of formal. Rafe had texted Topper to ask your mom to have some of the formula at their place as he forgot to ask you to give some milk for the weekend.

He greeted the two, Rafe took the grocery bag. While Topper took his niece into his arms “hey, sweetheart! You miss uncle Top?? I bet ya did, huh?” He gently blew raspberries into her cheek. Causing her to squeal and giggle.

Topper placed Riley into her pack and play. While Rafe put away the formula and put the spare beers in the fridge. Holding three as he walked back into the living room. He handed the two, the guys thanking him as he took a seat on the couch.

Riley squealing and patting her hands in the mesh of the pack & play. The boys chuckling at the sight. She then smushed her face against the mesh. Her chubby cheek getting squished. Rafe leaned over, still sitting on the couch. He gently poked her cheek through the mesh “you being a silly girl in front of the boys, baby? Tryna make them laugh?” Her response was her attempt to clap. The boys all clapping, trying to encourage her. Rafe praised “smart girl! Get that from your mama, huh?”

Kelce joked “of course she does, Y/n’s the smart one in the relationship.” Topper laughed as Rafe playfully shot a quick glare at him. Knowing it wasn’t an actual statement.

As time moved on, Kelce now had Riley on his lap. He was holding the remote. He felt Riley’s small fingers grip onto his hand. Tugging his hand towards her open mouth, he chuckled “I don’t think so, Riles, don’t think your daddy would be happy with you drooling over the tv remote.” Rafe looked over. He smirked, playfully calling out to Riley as if she knew she was in the conversation “hey missy! Don’t you go eating the remote, momma’s milk and formula tastes better than plastic!” The guys laughed.

Riley was now lying on Topper’s chest. Topper was laying on the end of the L shaped couch. Riley started to become fussy. Her baby smacks hitting Topper’s chest, not really hurting him. Topper chuckled “someone’s getting fussy, huh?”

Rafe looked at his Rolex “it’s feeding time, hand her over.” Topper lifted her up. Making an aeroplane noise causing her to smile at her uncle.

Rafe held her as he walked over to the kitchen and started to prepare the formula. He gently bounced her as they waited. He booped her nose “you’re so cute, ya know that?” He asked as if she could answer him. She just shoved her fist into her mouth. Causing him to chuckle “let’s not eat your hand, Riles… milk tastes nicer than flesh… I hope at least..”

Once the bottle was warmed up and prepped. He took them back into the living room. Handing Riley over to Topper, since he was more experienced and confident to feed and burp Riley. Kelce was also to sucked into the golf on tv. Rafe handed the bottle over to Topper “check if it’s too hot or not.”

Topper took the lid off and dabbed some milk onto his hand. He cursed “ah fuck, still hot.” He soon felt a dull whack to the side of the head. Topper asked “what’s that for?!” Rafe answered “for swearing in front of my daughter, idiot.” Topper remarked “she’s three months old, man! She ain’t gonna know what it means…” Rafe replied “so? If I get a smack from your sister cause I accidentally swore, you get one from me, simple.” Topper rolled his eyes. Rafe responded “take it up with your sister, dude, not my issue.”

Rafe sat back down after cooling the bottle. Handing it back to Topper. As Top fed Riley. Rafe would take occasional sips of his beer, resting the bottom of the bottle on his thigh. Watching the golf on the tv that was mounted to the wall. Occasionally glancing over to Topper and his daughter.

Once Top had fed and burped Riley. He held her out to Rafe “all yours, man.” Rafe took Riley into his arms. Putting the beer bottle onto the coffee table.

He stood up, taking her behind the couch. A little further from the two gossiping and the sound of the tv. She could sleep through anything, but that’s after she’s fallen asleep. If it’s loud as they try to get her to sleep, it won’t work.

He glanced back and forth between Riley and the tv as he rocked her in his arms for a little while. The he moved her onto his one arm. Practically curling his own child in his forearm. Her cheek squished between his inner-elbow. He knows she falls asleep in this position. Rafe always would joke about how his biceps could magically help her fall asleep.

Once she was fast asleep. He held her to his chest. Walking over and sitting on the edge of the couch, then leaning back, practically laying down. He gently pressed a kiss to her temple “sweet dreams, girly.” He rubbed her back subconsciously. What he’d always done with you.

Topper took a quick and sneaky photo of Rafe with Riley. Sending it to you with a text below ‘one person love golf, the other doesn’t. Can u tell who’s who?? 😂’

It’s been around an hour, when Riley started to stir. Rafe cooed “ohh there she is… back in the real world, eh?” He pressed two kisses to the top of her head. He smiled softly at his little girl “hey sweetheart.” She tilted her head back a little. Following the sound of his deep voice. Her piercing blue eyes, one of Rafe’s doings, look up at him. He smirked softly “there you are, pretty girl, look at you moving your head.” He gently placed his palm on the back of her head.

His thumb gently brushing the top of her head. He feels his phone buzz, someone’s calling him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Seeming ‘Y/n/n ❤️’ pop up, he quickly answered. “Hey, babe, having fun?”

You replied “yeah, just got back onto the boat now, how’s it going over there?” He smiled “good, good… she’s just woke up from her nap.” You smiled “yeah? Good, glad to hear… how’re you? How’re the boys??” Rafe chuckled “how’d you know they’re over?? I’m doing good.” You laughed “cause Topper is being a good uncle and sending baby updates!”

Rafe smiled “yeah, yeah, hey! I’ve managed to feed all of us! Not just Riles…” you playfully gasped while mocking him “no way?! It’s almost as if you’re actually being an adult!” You could feel his eyes roll at the comment. There was a two second pause, he spoke “shut up..” you laughed “couldn’t think of anything to say? Aww poor Rafey…” he chuckled “you’re lucky I love you..” “waa waa, you just suck and comebacks, but I love you too. I’m gonna go now, okay? Take care I’ll see you both Monday. Sending my love, give Riley extra kisses f’me. I love you!” He smiled “I love you too! Have fun and be safe!”

It’s now eight pm, and yes… Topper and Kelce are staying over for the night… maybe the weekend, but hey?! That’s alright… extra help isn’t bad.

✬✬✬

[littleprinces]

Day 5: Sex Slave

Sullyoon x Male Reader

Day 5

Sullyoon lay naked on the bed, her smooth skin glowing in the soft light of the room. The collar around her neck, a symbol of her submission, was a stark contrast to her delicate features. She had been waiting for hours, her body quivering with anticipation. She heard the door creak open and knew instantly that he had arrived.

"You're here," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes met his, a mix of fear and longing in her gaze.

"Yes, I am," I replied. I walked towards her, my eyes scanning her body. "You look beautiful like this, Sullyoon."

She blushed, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "Thank you, sir."

I reached out, my fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "Tell me what you want, Sullyoon."

She hesitated, her breath hitching in her throat. "I want you to... to use me."

A smirk played on my lips. "Use you? How?"

Her eyes fluttered closed, her voice barely a whisper. "I want you to fuck me, sir. I want you to make me scream."

I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers. "And what makes you think you deserve such pleasure?"

She opened her eyes, her gaze steady. "Because I am yours, sir. I exist for your pleasure."

I nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Very well. But first, you must prove your worth."

I pushed her back onto the bed, my hands exploring her body. He started with her lips, his tongue teasing hers, tasting her. She moaned softly, her body arching against me. I moved lower, my lips lingering on her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. I sucked on her nipples, my teeth gently nipping at the sensitive flesh.

She gasped, her hands clenching the sheets beneath her. "Please, sir," she begged. "Please, I need more."

I chuckled, ny hands moving lower, tracing the curve of her hips, her thighs. I parted her legs, my fingers exploring her wetness. "You're ready for me, aren't you, Sullyoon?"

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. "Yes, master. I'm ready."

I positioned himself between her legs, my cock poised at her entrance. He looked into her eyes, his voice firm. "Say it, Sullyoon. Tell me what you want."

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with desire. "I want you to fuck me, sir. I want you to make me scream."

I pushed into her, my cock filling her completely. She cried out, her back arching off the bed. I began to move, my thrusts slow and deliberate. "Is this what you want, Sullyoon?" I asked, his voice a low growl.

"Yes, sir," she gasped. "More."

I increased his pace, my cock pounding into her. She moaned, her body writhing beneath him. "Harder, sir," she begged. "Faster."

I complied, my body slamming into hers. The sound of our bodies colliding filled the room, our moans and gasps a symphony of pleasure. "Yes, sir," she screamed. "Yes, right there."

I flipped her over, positioning her on her hands and knees. I entered her from behind, his hands gripping her hips. He pounded into her, his cock filling her completely. She cried out, her body shaking with each thrust.

"You feel so good, Sullyoon," i groaned. "Your pussy is so tight."

She looked back at me, her eyes wild with pleasure. "Fuck master, Make me come."

I reached around, ny fingers finding her clit. I rubbed it in time with his thrusts, my cock filling her completely. She moaned, her body tensing. "Yes, sir," she gasped. "I'm close."

I increased my pace, my fingers working her clit. She cried out, her body convulsing as she came. I continued to pound into her, my own release imminent.

"Come with me, Sullyoon," i growled. "Come with me now."

She moaned, her body shaking as she came again, her orgasm milking his cock. I groaned, my body shuddering as I came, my cock pulsing inside her.

We collapsed onto the bed, our bodies slick with sweat. I pulled her into his arms, my fingers tracing the line of her collar. "You were amazing, Sullyoon," I whispered. "You were exactly what I needed."

She smiled, her eyes filled with contentment. "I'm yours, sir. Always."

[latenightdaydreams]

Jason/Masked Killer!Konig who’s been watching camp counselor reader tend to the kids. She’s so motherly and perfect, and all he wants is her with her stomach swelled up. So he takes what he wants (reader dont mind cause she a freak). Anyways, He’s seen the way her fingers reach deep and deep but never hit that spot when she’s in her private bunk.

JasonAU!König x Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 2

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, stalking, mommy issues, breast milk, p in v, breeding kink, voyeurism

1.1k word count

🏕️

.

.

There is something about you that is different from all of the other camp counselors he’s come in contact with over the years. You have a certain light that emanates from your eyes and the way you smile. The children all flock to you and feel secure when you’re near, like a natural mother figure. It’s something König himself has always craved.

Typically, the camp counselors are hyper sexual and negligent; drinking and smoking while having unprotected sex. Yet here you are in your bunk, a little after midnight watching a video on your phone. You have the blankets kicked off because it is so hot. Your legs are spread open, revealing you aren’t wearing any underwear underneath your nightgown.

You have dainty little fingers that you do desperately slip in and out, but you never cum. König watches with his cock out in his hands, vigorously, stroking his cock as he watches you. It’s sad to watch how… unfulfilled you look when he knows he can give you everything you need.

König is up early the next morning, waiting on you. You are always the first one up and the only one cooking breakfast. The thought of you in a home with him, cooking for him and your large family drives him wild. He closes his eyes and listens to your soft little hums, letting his mind run wild with the thought.

He envisions you in a tight house dress with a big belly and milk stains from your leaking breasts. You serve him his breakfast and sit on his lap, cutting up his food for him and feeding him. When he’s thirsty he pulls down the front of your dress, suckling in your breast and drinking from you.

The sound of other voices snaps him from his thoughts. Other counselors have woken up so he backs off, keeping a close eye on you throughout the day. Tonight is the night; he can’t wait any longer for you.

 As the sun sets over the lake you walk into the kitchen to gather items for smores. You hum the same tune as earlier as the sound of children and counselors enjoying themselves in the water is in the background. König slowly stalks behind you with steady steps to not cause the old wooden floors to creak.

You stop humming and the small break causes you to hear a light thump of someone’s footstep. Assuming that it is just one of the other workers, you ignore the footsteps and continue to hum. As you lean forward to reach the box of graham crackers on the top shelf, an arm wraps around your waist. The box goes flying into the air as you react with shock. A scream leaves your lips but is quickly muffled by his large hand covering your mouth.

König effortlessly lifts you into the air and walks you across the way to your cabin. His shoulder slams the door open. He then tosses you onto your bed, watching as you scramble and turn to look at him. A mask covering his face, only his piercing blue eyes visible. His body is muscular, towering over your smaller frame.

“Please don’t kill me.” Your voice trembles with fear.

“You’re mine.” König growls.

König turns to shut the door before marching over to you on the bed, grabbing you by your hair and yanking you down to the bed. His eyes meet yours, there is a fearful look, but also something else. He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. With his free hand he lifts up your shirt and looks down at your soft looking flesh.

His eyes dart back up to yours as he slowly releases your hair, making sure you wouldn’t try to run. You don’t move, instead you watch him closely as he pulls up more of your shirt to expose your bra. He wastes no time in pulling down your bra to expose yourself to him.

There is a sparkle in his eyes as he’s finally seeing your breasts. He lifts his mask slightly to expose his badly scarred lips. His tongue comes out and lightly flicks back and forth over your nipple before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

It’s just like in his imagination, except there is no sweet milk filling his mouth- yet. His cock twitches in his pants and leaks precum from the excitement of having you like this. He looks up at you to see you watching him while he enjoys himself, biting your lower lip as you hold back your small moans.

Your eyes follow him as he sits up, he grabs the waistband of your pants and pulls them down. The soft fabric of your cotton panties came into view, driving him insane. Between your legs is a small wet spot forming on the light-colored fabric. Instantly his eyes dart up to yours; you’re actually enjoying this.

König wastes no time in pulling them off, exposing the sweet little pussy that he’s been watching you rub for the last two weeks. His fingers finally get to graze across the soft texture of your public hair before letting his fingers caress your wet folds. A low groan leaves him as he feels how wet he made you. All of this for him.

“I’m going to fuck until you’re full with my seed.” He whispers to you as he pulls down his pants to let his cock spring free.

You say nothing, simply nod your head in submission. Internally, you’re dying to be a mother… to be fucked. His hand wraps around one leg, allowing himself more room between them. He rubs his cock up and down between your folds to cover himself if your sweet creamy cunt; pressing against your clit with each swipe making your legs tremble.

With a small push forward, the tip of his cock slips into your tiny little cunt. Your eyes widen as he slowly leans his weight on to you, sinking himself deeper. A loud pathetic moan comes from König. His hips pull back and he slams himself into your again with more force. He watches as your face contorts with a mixture of heavenly bliss and immense pain.

“Oh fuck—” You cry out.

One of his hands snakes around your neck and squeezes lightly as he positions himself to get deeper, attempting to shove every single inch of himself inside of you; even if you struggle. With slow and hard thrust, he repeats that you’re his. It’s been so long since his cock has felt the delicious feeling of a tight wet gummy pussy swallowing him.

Outside, everyone continues to enjoy the warm day. None of the adults seem to realize that you’re even gone so no one is looking for you. If they were to, they would only find you sweating with König’s warm sticky cum dripping from your pussy.

Part 2

[jesuistrestriste]

dilf!art donaldson and saltnpepper!patrick zweig..

art is divorced from tashi, and has been for about a year now, but they still obviously have a kid together. he gets her every other week, and hired you to be her pseudo-nanny when he has to meet with trainers or students at stanford from time to time (he coaches tennis now after retiring from the sport)

and sometimes, when he comes home after it gets dark, he'll bring patrick.

you'll be sitting on the couch after having put his child to bed, and these two tall, toned, older men will laugh softly with one another (about something you couldn't be expected to know) as they walk in the door.

and.. sometimes.. they'll join you on the couch.

art on your left, patrick on your right.

they were a little tipsy the first time they considered doing it, but now they come up to you completely sober and will put their hands all over you. teasing touches at first, and then it'll escalate.

it always does, and it always get you all warm and eager.

art will kiss and suckle at your neck; one of his calloused hands reaching up to turn your head towards his friend so that he can get better access to your flesh, and patrick will bully his tongue into your mouth as soon as your lips are in front of his.

the brunette will groan into your mouth and push his greedy fingers down into your waistband while art licks over your pulse. slips them right into your panties too, the pads of them slicking over your folds.

"mmm, god... sometimes i forget how quick you get wet..."

and you'll whimper and squirm until patrick finally starts to give you what you want (but not without a few good bits of begging first). art actually has to pull back and remind him to be nice to you.

tells his former doubles partner to "take it easy” because you're sweet, and you’re soft, and you’re also the best babysitter he's found in nyc.

he can't lose you.

the two of them grope and knead and lick and fuck you quietly (pat's guiding hand under your jaw + art's digits filling your mouth) until you're a sticky mess of their come and your drool.

patrick will usually apologize for being too rough—while art moves to get you water—and will pawn over $40 for plan b.

(it's plan a, really.)

art will roll his eyes, saying something about how taking plan b so frequently can disrupt your body's hormones, but he's all talk.

could he go out and buy extra-thin condoms for when him and his buddy wanna spill their loads up against your cervix? sure! but he wont. the feeling of you squeezing around him, milking him without a stupid latex barrier between your bodies, never fails to knock the wind out of his chest. it’s too damn good to pass up.

he gets major cognitive dissonance from this shit, but he can't help it.

he'll scold patrick for continuing to fund your purchases, but he'll encourage you with his eyes to go out and buy the pill anyways.

youre young and cute and bright and impressionable. he would hate for him or patrick to get you pregnant, because that would mean that you'd be stuck here with one of them in the city instead of going out into the world and exploring.

...but maybe that wouldn't be so bad..

one of them would be able to keep you forever; hold you whenever they want, kiss you whenever they want, stuff you whenever they want.

hmm.

maybe next time art'll tell you to skip the contraceptive.

[atheneum-of-you]

Libations

As a Hellenic polytheist, one of our most important duties to our gods would be to give libations. Libations are liquid offerings to our gods, not only in recognition of them and their importance but as an invitation into our lives for them.

When it comes to giving libations, it can be difficult for those of us practicing and worshipping in secret. So in this post I'll go over typical libations and how they're given, and then some methods I believe would be helpful for those that can't give openly! Please keep in mind that the suggested methods (for those practicing in secret) come from someone who is still navigating and learning her own religion. As always, do your own research where needed and do methods that make you most comfortable in your practices.

Typical Libations

Wine (typically red)

Symbolic of the divine ether, and Zeus's influence on the soul. Additionally, dark red wine represents the blood of Dionysus/Zagreus. We drink his blood as reflectance for his sacrifice by the titans and the eating of his flesh. It represents his metamorphosis, and in turn, our own cycle of birth.

Milk

Representative of Hera and Ira, whose breast milk formed the galaxies and cosmos. Milk also represents the earth.

Honey

Honey is golden which is incredibly symbolic of the gods, particularly their ichor (the blood of the gods). Honey is also a powerful preservative representing the immortality of the gods.

Fine oil (typically olive)

Oil historically symbolizes life, prosperity, and the divine spirit.

Milk and honey together are also a considerable libations but is particularly good for death related gods and the honoring of the dead. Milk and honey libations for them should NOT be consumed.

Giving Libations

To give libations, you would first pick up the offering bowl full of whatever you are giving with your right hand, then hold it with both and recite a dedication. The dedication itself is up to you but the example I saw is as follows:

"We dedicate this libation to khrismôdós Apóllôn and aithǽrios Diónysos and to all the happy, deathless Gods!"

Libations can be made to a singular god or multiple at once. Just ensure you have enough for them equally. Dedications can also be to a singular god or you can name the ones you are dedicating to.

Once you've made your dedication, you'll transfer the bowl to your left hand and pour your offering on the ground or into whatever reservoir you have dedicated to it on your altar. This is your libation, and the offering now belongs to them. Once you've made your libations, you may sip from the remaining contents of the bowl as communion. Before doing so, you may recite a prayer. Here is an example:

"We drink the blood of Diónysos! May the Aithír of Zefs intoxicate our souls and transform us!"

Please be aware that you should NOT drink libations to the dead or to death gods.

When sipping from the remainder of your libations, do NOT sip from the part where you poured. You should drink from the opposite end of the bowl.

Libations in Secret

When you're practicing in secret, this method of libations can be incredibly difficult. So with that, here are a few ways that I think could be helpful!

Can't access or drink wine/milk/honey? Substitute them for water or better yet, flavored juices!

Pomegranate juice can make a good libation for Underworld gods and goddesses, apple juice would be good for Zeus, etc. Research your deity's associations and try working with them. Water is also life-giving and integral to life.

Can't pour your libations outside or in a dedicated offering bowl? Use cups!

Pour your libations directly from the bottle to a cup and sit it on a shelf or desk or wherever you've dedicated to your god. You can recite your prayers and dedications in your head as well.

Worried about wasting drinks? Offer a smaller amount!

Typically what you give should be more than you keep, but your gods understand your struggles and would be understanding of your intentions. Offer a small amount of your drink, honey, etc and inform them of your reasonings and intentions. Your gods love you, they'll be happy with your efforts regardless.

Can't do your libations during the day? Do them at night!

Give your libations while everyone is asleep. You can even hide it under your bed or behind something to keep it for the time you want. (Please be careful of doing this with honey and be mindful of possible insects, pets, pests, spills, etc)

A minor? Do your libations at school!

You can do your libations while at school by making them during a PE class, during lunch, or any period of time where you can take a moment to do so! (I'm not condoning using your bathroom breaks to sneak off and do them, I'm just saying you definitely could do that)

Regardless of how you do your libations and with what, your practice is your own as is your relationship with your god(s). Do what feels right for you ♡

[monstersholygrail]

Okay for the birds. Since you asked so nicely. (And because I am on my knees BEGGING for crumbs of this!!!) How would they react to reader living in a run down apartment? Like it takes a lot of money to keep a studio going, even with such... passionate attendees. Yeah they spoil reader at the studio, but what about seeing reader out and about? At home, out shopping?

For Scarlet Macaw Bird Hybrids the colony keeps coming at you like they’re vultures. They’re greedy for your cum, needy for the tight clench of your fat cunt milking their cocks dry, desperate for your cries of pleasure and who can force them out of you, and they crave the feel of your pliable flesh in their loving hands as they take you over and over again.

They’ve all lost themselves in you, as if you’ve pulled a veil of lust over their eyes and they are nothing but mindless machines set for your pleasure. It’s all they want. To feel that deep connection with you, their precious mate.

One after the other they fuck you dumb, bringing you release after release. Even as your body grows more tired they can see the need in your eyes and they won’t stop until their mate is fully satisfied.

As your next orgasm crashes into you, your eyes roll back, your body no longer having the strength to fully seize and shudder with the sheer force of your pleasure.

Your mates currently taking care of you each unload a hefty amount of cum inside your gushing walls. It isn’t until they slip out of you to lightly peck kisses along your face that they realized they fucked you till you passed out.

All the bird hybrids coo at you in worry, their wings flapping as they surround your plush fucked out form. All limp and beautiful. Their hands lovingly caress every inch of your body, making sure you’re alright.

“I’ll take her to her human apartment. Make sure she gets there safe,” one of the bird hybrids speak up.

Instantly a chorus of over bird hybrids chirp out their disagreement. All of them wanting to be the one who takes you home and tucks you into bed. Anything just to be with you for a little bit longer and to take care of you. But the first bird hybrid stands his ground and insists.

Taking you into his arms he begins to fly you home. You had never shown any of the bird hybrids in the colony where you lived but a few started following you home after your night class with them and soon after everyone knew where you lived and would follow you to make sure you got home safe after that class.

Silly humans would call it stalking. But they were only looking after you! They made sure you never got hurt and hurt anyone who dared try.

You didn’t live in a very good neighborhood after all, putting most of your money into your studio, so they had to take care of you. Even if that meant scaring off anyone who looked at you funny or with any interest.

But none of the birds had ever been inside your apartment before. As the bird hybrid uses your key to enter, his eyes widen in horror at the sight of your run down apartment. Their mate could not live like this. Not under their watch.

After tucking you into bed, the bird hybrid gets out his phone and enters their colony group chat dedicated specifically to talking about you.

“OUR MATE IS LIVING IN SHAMBLES!” The bird hybrid texts into the chat to convey his panic. Seconds later and the group chat is blowing up.

“I knew we didn't pay ‘nough for her classes!"

"Should demand she raise them…"

"Do dance teachers get random bonuses?"

“Would she feel insulted if we gave her money at the end of classes after we’ve fucked her raw?”

“Not if she’s too blissed out to notice us slipping the money in her bag.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t like. I think the humans call it Pros— Pollution? Or Hook— something to do with fishing, I don’t know. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not the point! What are we going to do about this? We can’t allow this to continue,” the bird hybrid types, interrupting their rambling.

“Could always take her back to the nest…” one hybrid suggests. He thinks about it for a moment before he shakes his head.

“An idea for another day. She wouldn’t go for it now. We need to fix up her place until she’s ready.” The bird hybrid with you concludes.

As you sleep the bird hybrid plans for everything. He sends for a whole bunch of them to head over to your apartment. A team of them flying around and taking what they need to help fix up your apartment while another team prepares the place for work.

When everyone arrives at your apartment things quickly dissolve into chaos. Of course, all the Bird Hybrids want to see you first sleeping all pretty and fucked out in your bed. The Hybrids at that night class immediately start boasting about how good they fucked you and others immediately raise their voices, pleading their own case.

It’s only when you shift on the bed that the Bird Hybrid that brought you home immediately shushes them.

“Stop, stop, stop! We can’t wake her,” he whispers.

Their eyes all fall back onto you, silently watching your plush figure squirm and settle back on the bed. The small action alone causing them to get a little hard and they have to force themselves not to clamber onto the bed and wake you up.

No, instead they get to work. Upgrading your apartment in every possible way they know how. Cleaning it up and making it into a real home. While also enforcing it and making sure you’re the safest person in the neighborhood.

Creating the near perfect nest. Only second to their own they hope to bring you to someday.

They can’t wait for you to finally wake up. They all imagine the look on your face when you rouse from your slumber to see them all there and your apartment completely changed. But most of all… they can’t wait for the thank you gifts you’re bound to give them all.

You have to break in your new apartment somehow, don’t you?

[starkeysprincess]

stepsister!reader remembers to use her big girl words with rafe but he doesn’t give in so easy “y’gotta tell me what you want, kid. my fingers? mouth? cock? I’m not using one of your stupid little toys either. took em and hid em for a reason. you want me, it’s me first.”

once he’s finally giving you what you want, he’s making you feel dirty, asking you why you had to come to him, (even though he wants and told you to) your stepbrother. couldn’t you have gone to your friend JJ? “you won’t let me see JJ!!” he’d gaslight you “nothing’s stopping you from going and seeing your little pogue boy toy, but it just won’t end well for you once I find out and you’re home with me.”

“please, rafey,” you whined pathetically, squirming in his lap causing his grip to tighten around your waist.

“jesus christ, please what? and quit fuckin’ whining” he scoffed, reaching to grab your jaw, turning your head to face him as he’s squishing your cheeks together.

“i need you,” you mumble, words just barely incoherent from how much he’s squeezing your face.

“yeah? you need me? what exactly do you need, hm? what’d i tell ya, huh?” his eyes locked onto yours, pressing your cheeks together further.

“t-to use my big girl words,” you stammered, “uh huh, and why aren’t you using them then?”

“y’gotta tell me what you want. my fingers? mouth? cock? and don’t you dare fuckin’ say one of your toys, i hid all of ‘em for a reason because as long as ‘m here, ‘m all you need, got it?”

the second you’re telling him you need his cock, he’s pulling his sweatpants down, his hard length springing and slapping against his stomach. he lifts your hips, earning a small squeak from your lips when he pulls you down onto his cock, burying himself deep in your cunt.

rafe’s hands tightly gripping your waist, fingers digging into the flesh of your tummy, and bouncing you on his dick as if you were nothing but a little fuckdoll.

“see? if you wanted me to stuff this cunt full, all you had to do was use your big girl words,” he rasps, relentlessly thrusting up into your sopping cunt, wrapping his arm around you while his other hand slides up your body to grab and squeeze your neck.

your body shakes, crying out as you cum all over his cock. he groans as your walls squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth, his hips stuttering, pushing himself deep inside you, painting your walls white.

“couldn’t have gone to your friend, JJ? or were you just that desperate for cock that it didn’t matter where it was comin’ from?” he taunts, pulling out before tucking himself into his sweats.

“s’not true, besides, you won’t even let me see JJ!” you frown. Rafe couldn’t help but snort, “hey, ‘m not stopping you from seeing your little pogue boy toy, alright? but it won’t end well for you once i find out, so you better hope i don’t or ‘m dragging your ass back home to deal with you”

[1800titz]

WOOO second part to the pornstar!au (Tiger Harry). Find the first part here

If you'd like to read more goodies from me (including a RIDETHET!GER threesome, already up!), my patreon is HERE :)

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, anal sex, Sir kink, choking-ish, light dom-sub dynamics

WC: 4K

“They’re both just such pretty holes,” Harry coos, and he thumbs apart her lips before folding over her to reach for his priorly discarded smartphone. His confession is mottled by a sigh, “…I simply cannot decide.” 

Tiger has perfected the art of edging. 

Not even in a literal, tethered-from-the-sweet-peak-of-precipice with an iron hand wrenching backwards sense — though, she’s seen plenty of that through his camera work. It’s a finely formulated craft, making her skin itchy and her cunt weepy before he’s even really touched her. And he hasn’t. She thinks, maybe he’ll nip at her clit with the pads of a forefinger and thumb, but he doesn’t even do that. Instead, he takes a step back. The phone pings. Action. 

“Spread,” Harry tells her. Light. Easy. Pats at one cheek, “Here.” 

Y/N obliges. She rolls onto her shoulders and tucks her arms behind her, splaying her fingers and pulling the flesh apart there. There’s a hiss like a breath coming in through little nooks between his bare teeth. It feels absolutely glorious. 

And lewd. A torrid kind of heat climbs up her neck. Lingers in the apples of her cheeks when Tiger pets at her thigh — probably taping a close-up vista of her oozing pussy — and comments, “Look at that pretty, little cunt.” 

Her digits jolt over her flesh, squeezing it apart almost desperately when he traces the back of a finger beside her clit, and then meanders up to her leaky entrance, prodding with the tips of two fingers. Not quite breaching. Tiger slinks one — a forefinger— up the short trail of her taint and nudges at the hilt of her plug, tracing the petals. Stuffed with silicone flora. Pretty. 

“Fuck. Fucking gorgeous.”

He sighs all soft behind her, and trails lower.

“I think—“

Harry scopes the hood of her clit with a thumb and then pulls it back to scrape with the pad of his middle finger — a motion that makes her jerk and wrests a soft sound from the back of her throat. A deviously mirthy hum comes from behind. 

“I’ll fuck you here—“

The tip of a finger brushes her weepy, pulsing seam.

“—first. Stretch you out a bit before. Sound good?”

She hums against the sheets. Please. Tiger traces the rim and sinks in to the second knuckle with paltry notice. His fingers are long, fill up more space than her own. Lengthier than hers. Girthier. They prod at the nooks and crannies that yearn to be grazed with little effort on his part, and by the time he’s sunk to the base of his chilled ring bands and added a third digit, Y/N is nearly drooling into the sheets. 

“You are such a tight, little thing, sweetheart,” Harry hums. Enunciates his speech with the wet squelch of his fingers plunging, cradled warm and wet by her sloppy pussy.

A mewl gets muffled in linen when he scissors the pair, stretching the seam taut, and rolls his thumb in slippery circles where her slick has trickled. There’s heat swelling in the trench of her tummy; a warm tide pool sloshing in waves that crest. Higher and higher. Building. It overcomes her — this tsunami, blighting her ataraxy until she’s a slobbering mess at the foot of his bed, keeled over. 

“Gonna—“ Y/N warns, brows pleated and mouth pried apart, tongue brushing bunched fabric with little couth. 

Tiger milks her through it, rigid fingers pumping and thumb swirling clusters of spheres into her pulsing flesh, until all that’s left of her are melty shambles with a weakly fluttering cunt. And it does flutter, throbbing emptily as his digits withdraw. Sucks onto them like it doesn’t want to let go, and then spasms around bare atoms like it needs to be corked back up. 

“Good girl,” Tiger praises. He sounds soft and pleased. Concentrated as his cockhead prods at her hole— “Got my fingers all wet, too. That’s two for two.” 

He swipes them at the back of her thigh, so she feels how slick. The pink border of his mouth is probably twitchy. Traces of a smile scratch at his dialogue the way something claws in the pit of her tummy as he nudges with the fat tip. She feels melty. Frozen fudge on a summer day dribbling down the handle. She thinks, for a moment, with her knees and her shoulders seeping into the mattress, that English has slipped her mind. Nothing plucks at her vocal cords, almost as if they’ve been snipped entirely.  A high sound crawls from the back of her mouth, though, when Harry tucks his cock into her. 

He’d been big in her palms — the pads of her digits hadn’t quite kissed around his shaft when she was kneeling, sweeping her tongue at the slit of his ruddy head, and her jaw had strained wide apart to fit him in and swallow him down. Even still, Y/N hadn’t anticipated the stretch. He bullies his cock into her — just about halfway — forcing against her spongy walls in a way that’s nearly too much. Like a paw wriggling into a glove that’s two sizes too small. She feels him in her belly, deep, as he sinks in, inch by inch (hisses escaping the cracks of his bared teeth and scraping at the edges), and bottoms out. She tastes clean cotton on her tongue, mouth wide and muted dumb, eyes screwed. 

A gasp shatters the lull, like one sucked in bobbing to the surface of a sea that’s going to ripple and kick her back under. It thaws in her achy lungs as a soft, dreamy moan when Harry fetters her wrists with one hand at the small of her back, rocks out, and pumps back in. 

“There you go, little bird. Nice and—“

She cries out as his hips snap. 

“Full?”

He rolls out slow, and her fingers twitch when he pummels in to the hilt. Ragged, little noises scarper from her mouth like he’s punched them from her from the inside. The ping of the phone sundering its video doesn’t register, but she realizes he’s tossed the phone again when he pets his free hand over her ass and stamps a sharp, stinging blow to it. Harry sets a brutal pace, then. Soft strokes that strain her rim taut and give her room to adjust simmer off when something scathing boils in the trench of his belly. He grapples her joints in his palm firmly, and the tempo of his hips smacking into her morphs merciless. Used and abused. 

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Y/N whines when his thumb presses at the hilt of petals stretching her littlest hole. 

“Fuck, yeah,” He mirrors, snarling, and twists at the plug to siphon a whimper. 

Inferno spumes her arteries when he wriggles the plug out, groaning, and replaces it with two wet, blunt fingertips. Three. They stuff her fuller than the plug had and have her wheezing for oxygen to mingle with the scorch that permeates her veins. 

Her knees shuffle over the sheets, she squirms when he drills into her again and again and again, and he grapples at a love handle to keep her tight in place, “You asked for this— and you’re gonna take it, baby.”

Y/N does. There’s not any alternative when he hammers into her and burrows half-moons into her flesh with the ends of his short nails, but she doesn’t want there to be. She scrapes at the side of his palm with crooked fingers — the one that cuffs her wrists together and pants into the sheets. 

She’s seen Tiger fuck. She’s watched the videos — a little redhead clawing at the stair-railing with wet eyes as he coiled her hair tight over his knuckles from behind, or a brunette keening under his frame as he tucked her calves over his shoulders, pounding in from the tip to the hilt and all the way back out. The ones with a curvy blonde clawing at the sheets, whimpering as he pummeled between her thighs, and the one where the woman with the pixie juddered helplessly over his lap, crying out as he stippled a slick trail of open-mouthed kisses up her jugular and manually bounced her over his cock with a firm grip at her hips that dwarfed her size. Y/N has seen so much of the impact in screen captures — slobbered chins, streaming eyes with mucked kohl and smudged liner. Tips of noses hued cerise or pinky and lips swollen and sloppy with spit. Still, she’s somewhat surprised to feel mirrored evidence over her own face as tears drip in rivulets over the apples of her cheeks, as she gnaws at her bottom lip and drools onto his expensive mattress. It’s not the aftermath yet, and Y/N is sure she’s going to be a disheveled mess by the time the camera on the dresser shuts off. 

His cock spits ribbon after ribbon into her with little warning. He pounds into her, something cruel and brutal, husking growls. A groan slides up from the depths of his chest, and he slurs a string of curses, fingers twitching in her other hole when he empties into her pulsing cunt. Y/N absolutely milks him through it. Her slick walls spasm over his cock, and she whines like the same effects curdle her bloodstream and erupt across neurons. 

When Harry pulls out, fisting at the base and gruffing a hum, he thumbs a bead of cum that leaks out to coat her clit. She absolutely sings, at that. 

He lets go of her wrists. Twisting his fingers gently from between her cheeks, Harry blows out a breath and—

Y/N keens like he’s slapped her when Tiger splays his palms over the globes of her ass, spreads, and spits where he’d been fingering her apart. It’s glorious. Harry presses his cockhead to the glob of saliva smearing, still manhandling apart one cheek, and tells her, “Spread,” voice worn and mottled with pants like his heartbeat is thundering ichor in his ears. 

She does. Her own heart hammers behind the caging of her ribs when he makes a lewd sound, breathy and awed as he smacks over her asshole with the head. He slides against her perineum when she jolts, spine zagging, and hums. 

“Is it gonna fit?” Y/N beckons. Her cheek smushes to the wet spot she’s made against the sheets. It’s the most gloriously humiliating revelation.

He winds around the room to the nightstand, where, through tear smeared peripherals (like a bleary windshield coated with condensation), she watches him cull a bottle of lube. The cap clicks. Harry sets a knee up, and the bed creaks, meshing with a sound of amusement and a slick hand working lubricant over his shaft. Her lashes flutter as Tiger works two wet fingers into her, to the hilt, unceremoniously, scissoring. He pulls them out. 

“F’course—“

Y/N gnaws into the smooth, slicky flesh beside her molars. 

Tiger grunts. She’s forced to arch at the palm over the dimples at the base of her spine. As if to test the theory, the slippery head of his cock nudges to the puckering seam. 

“…We’ll make it fit.” 

Taking anal from Tiger, Y/N learns, is a feat. 

A pornographically debauched sort of rite of passage. She’s seen the pictures, too. The teasers he’ll post on X with only the pink tip of his cock in frame, a ringed, vibrantly lacquered hand cradling the back of his partner’s thigh to tuck up and showcase an asshole oozing cum. And the videos; the ones where the girls rake their nails into his tri’s, knuckles bleached, necks strained as garbled moans climb up their throats as he burrows in. They’re always blissed out, after; their visages melty and the lines where their foreheads and hair meet teemed with sweat. She has to wonder, though, as he prods in, how they quite make it fit. 

A high sound and a tight squeeze part-way over the tip has him petting his fingertips over the metacarpals spiking through the skin at the back of her hand. 

“Just breathe for me, baby,” Harry tells her, soft unlike the seat of his jawbone and the grit of his ivory teeth, after, “I’ll go— slow.”

Y/N inhales. It’s stolen from her lungs in the form of a long, low groan when he stuffs the tip past and the rim rides over the ridge. 

“Is that too much, baby? Yeah?” 

She suckles a bit of the sheet between her teeth when he mends the stretch of his sloppy, wet cockhead with a thumb that swipes from her leaky slit and meshes cum against his cock and the taut rim of her other hole.

“…That’s okay, we’ll get you there,” Harry coos, “That’s the hard bit all done, yeah?”

It’s all hard. Hard, vascular flesh like a rock spearing her open, sinking in, sedate and measured. Viciously careful and slick, accompanied by a vicious stretch, despite the lengthy preparation. He’s measured in the way he stuffs in, nearly centimeter by centimeter, pausing along the way down his shaft. Even still, it’s an ache that settles deep the further he sheathes — the kind she feels down to the marrow in the little bones constructing her spine, her pelvis, her ribs when they refuse to expand for her lungs. 

“Relax, sweetheart, relax. Squeezing me so snug.”

It’s just advice, but it’s strained; filthy. It makes her cunt twitch. 

“Push out a little for me. It’ll— yeah, slide in nice an’ easy if you do,” Harry coaxes, pausing the leisure roll forward of his hips. Her hole flutters over him. He makes it another inch.

“Just like that, little bird.”

She’s been holding her breath for twenty-three seconds by the time Harry pats at one of her hands and instructs, “Play with your pretty clit.”

It’s sore, but not in the way that it aches as he presses into her. The pads of her fingers brush milky cum that’s managed to seep out with the flex of her muscles, and they draw a circle over the sensitively overstimulated bud that droplets have leaked over. Her lips pry apart that way her fingertips pry bliss into the outstretched palms of her neurons, grappling for pleasure. 

“Oh.”

“S’it sore?” 

“Mm-Mhm.”

“But it feels good,” Harry states. 

It’s just that — a statement, no inquiry to the borderline prideful cadence of his words when he sinks in three-quarters of the way. It’s enough to have her breathlessly wheezing over her noises, digits stuttering in their shapes as she pinches at the hood. 

“Breathe,” Tiger chastises. 

For the first time, his voice is whetted, like the edge of a cutlass, and she imagines his dark eyebrows creasing. The tattoo of a ruddy handprint — a smack — gleans a loud cry enmeshed from the sheer sting of it and the way Y/N jolts, bouncing forward and back on unanticipated inches. It’s cruel. Mean with his peal of laughter.

He’s soft again. Mirthy. “You did that, not me.” 

“You startled me,” she argues. Her chortles flux into another, blunt, “Oh,” when Harry rocks out a little and back in, cooing in feigned ruth. 

“Oh, did I?” Harry murmurs, trailing a wide palm up the indent of her arched spine with shallow plunges, “Poor baby.”

She squirms when his fingertips wind to the vale of her waist, scrabbling up the ladder of her ribcage lightly. It’s only for a split second, but it draws a squawk and a string of giggles; in turn, a low hiss from him. 

“Fuck,” Harry grapples onto her hips, craning his neck, a grin lining his syllables when he admits, “Every time you laugh, s’like, squeezing me.” 

It’s devious — the way his palm scopes the cinched flesh in the same area it had the first time, reveling in the squeal the wriggling pads pry. Her jaw clinches and she nearly bites through her tongue when her teeth latch together. Despite the stretch, her hips lurch forward on their own volition and her knees shamber towards the headboard, the circles over her clit all but forgotten as her arms outstretch for freedom. It only gives him a wider canvas. 

A soft huff seeps from his nostrils, like the view of her hectically sprawling is entertainment. He pins her bones in place by the hips and lugs her back, sharply enough for her to groan at the pump into her. 

“No,” Harry scolds, tacking an ankle with his hand. He bends one of her knees back and keeps a grip over a love handle on the opposite side. “Where d’you think you’re going? I wasn’t done.” 

He’s polite enough to cease the tickle torture. Considerate, on his part, she supposes, since he’s got the sole of her foot aimed to the Rough sawn oak beamed ceiling. The gunge of kindling lust spumes, and it clogs the sharp anticipation of his thumb pressing to the tender spot between her heel and the ball of her foot, like cruor. Instead, Tiger hones on jabbing into her fluttery asshole, drawing a slew of progressively humiliating sounds. Her top teeth seal over the sheet and she gnaws the fabric in between her incisors like a feral dog. 

She doesn’t really get it until his balls are slapping against her flesh with the fervor of his tempo; what it’s like to be used and abused by Tiger. Mostly, it entails being glazed with cum, inside and out; utilizing the same loads to swipe over her clit that leaks from her sloppy cunt as he pounds into her ass with little mercy. No intent to give. And still, he gives plenty. She feels him deep, spearing somewhere between the knobs of her spine and the soft flesh sheathing her tummy. She can’t recall a time she’s felt so full, vena thrumming something sanguine mottled by him. The ache spurs the bliss building at her pulsing clit, and she retires to chew at the back of her free hand, tucked under her wet face. 

Just up until the point when he yanks at her hair from behind, spiking tingles at the crown of her head, and directs through husky breaths, “Sit up. Up. On your hands.” 

Y/N clambers. An inky forearm hitches over the column of her throat from behind. A sharper arch, a muscular bind over her neck, a palm that dwarfs the knob of her shoulder, and hammering at her backside with no remorse. His nails claw into her love handle, and in turn, Y/N scrapes at the tits of his mermaid, her flowy tendrils, her tail. 

“You really— are a little anal whore, aren’t you, little bird?” 

She slobbers over his forearm, “Yes, Sir— oh— shit, oh, fuck,” so he spiles her mouth with a couple of his fingers. She nips at his knuckles, and he digs green into her deltoid. 

“Fhuh—“ Y/N slurs around the digits. 

He strokes a stuttery whimper from her taste buds. 

She keens, shrill, when Tiger slips his fingers out and smears her own spit over her cheek, “Oh, fuck— you’re so deep—“

Her eyes are screwed, and even still she feels the pant of his grin against the opposite cheek. The way his lips ghost and graze her skin wetly with a low murmur, “Fuck, yeah.” 

He twists his head and siphons the same fingers to his own mouth, gets them wetter, and bats the hand between her legs away to pinch at her clit. To fuse saliva, and cum, and desperation, working ardent over her bud. 

“Such a fucking mess. S’leaking all over my balls, you know that?” Harry purrs, nipping at her earlobe when she whines, trembling, “M’gonna fuck it back into you, after.”

Y/N erupts. It spalls into flinders with sharp borders, somewhere between his cockhead burrowing deep in her tummy, the stretch around him, the pads swiping at her clit, and the filth he muzzles into her hair. She shakes like a waving bract, torn apart in his palms, spewing cries. The tight spasm over his cock has Harry chasing his own release, shuddering behind her and doubling down in a brutal tempo that draws soft whimpers from her mouth. The sharpest one comes when his chest rumbles flush with her back on a long groan, and he twitches in her as he presses deep and empties every bit that he can manage. 

Rough sex, even with a borderline stranger, merits a soft touch to meld the jagged edges of the shards back together. When he seeps out, hissing softly and bobbing, slicked with cum and lubricant, Y/N crumples into the sheets like the junctions of her joints have unfused, slipping from their sockets to melt away into a puddle. It provides an optimal view of her abused holes, one puckering at the air and dripping fresh cum. Just as he’d promised, Harry spoons a rill that trickles out with the pad of his thumb and brushes it back over the slick hole he’d just been tucked into. Feeds it back in to coax a mewl.

“Two for two,” Tiger parrots, dragging the backs of his knuckles up her thigh. It’s an obvious reference to two orgasms each, now, and wears a smile. 

If Y/N wasn’t so melty, she’d probably snort. She manages something like a grunt with her face planted to the mattress. She’s probably losing brain cells. The bed doesn’t feel breathable. 

Harry nudges at her hips until her pelvis sinks flush against the sheets and her feet dangle over the edge of the mattress. Then, he crawls up over her, cock brushing her clean skin soiled along the way. She rolls over against her will. Gets bracketed by his arms as he looms over, mussed, damp coils of his hair pendulous. 

“Hello.” 

She swallows. Her ass is going to absolutely ache tomorrow. Y/N finds she doesn’t mind. 

“…Hello.”   

“You took that well,” Harry tells her, head cocked and talc glinting. 

The boundaries of his ruddy mouth tick upwards into a lax smile, and even still, there’s an eagerly …awake mien to his composition. She wonders how, after that, and how his cock hasn’t gone down, a plurry in shade and sloppily oiled. It prods against the bone at the side of her pelvis. 

“You …gave it well,” she responds, forming the words despite the way they feel garbled in her mouth, between her parted teeth, off her lips like the crevices of her gums have been numbed with lidocaine. 

He ducks his chin and laughs. 

Y/N ends up lodged by his armpit, tangled by the firm muscle of his arms, thighs flush together, with her cheek squished to the plush of his pec; a cushion over where his heartbeat is clattering. 

“I’m all sticky.” 

“You like it,” Tiger sighs, raking a palm back through his tendrils, off his forehead, and musses the tousled curls there further. 

It feels nice when his fingertips graze up her nape, sliding into the forestry of her roots. They tug lightly at the follicles at the back of her skull in a way that makes euphoria seep down her nape. It settles in the first knob of her spine and slink through to the next. She rolls her shoulders. 

“D’you wanna shower? I’ve got one of those rain showerheads on the ceiling.”

If her inner thighs weren’t crusting over, the suggestion would probably feel like a much more intimate dyadic. Especially because she’s well aware he’ll slide in alongside her, slippery. Soapy froth sluicing down his abdomen, sudsy palms cupping at her backside, trailing between her thighs, and rinsing the evidence of their collaboration down the drain. It tastes like another sex tape altogether. 

Harry has grapefruit musk body wash and a citrusy shampoo in his shower. They’re the same ones she’ll lather into her own matted bird’s nest. 

He notes, from the sink, twisting the silvery band and thumbing over the center, where a tetragonal, incarnadine stone is seated, “You got my rings all sticky.” 

Y/N stretches her arms over her head. There’s semen spilling down the insides of her legs. She twists her head and meets him in the mirror just in time to see his eyes crest, his mouth purse and carve into a simper. 

“D’you wanna polish them off with your tongue?” 

[nebulaafterdark]

The Succession (Pt 5)

Summary: After the battle of Rook’s Rest, Queen Y/N is forced to rule alongside Prince Regent Aemond, in an attempt to keep her children safe and eventually seat her mother, Rhaenyra, on the throne. While attending her husband, on what appears to be his deathbed, she begins to unravel the dark truth of his near passing.

Warning: Suggestive language

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon (Strong!Reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You do not understand,” Y/N protests. “I need to see my brother, he must be tended first. If he dies, my mother will kill me.”

“If you die, the King shall kill us.” The grand maester taps her chin. “Let’s see the damage.”

Y/N moves her hand from her shoulder. “How bad is it?”

The maester begins cutting away surrounding fabric to reveal the extent of her wound. An open, oozing gash, torn clean from one side through the another.

Alicent rushes in, “what have you done?” She demands.

“Aemond is dead.” Y/N whispers, “I killed him.”

“I meant to yourself, what have you done to yourself?” Alicent demands.

“He stabbed me, and he fell.”

“What of the dragons?”

“Baela and Moondancer are searching for Jaecerys and Vermax. Vhagar is dead, as best I can tell.”

Alicent holds a hand to her head.

“Mayhaps you might look in on my husband?” Y/N says, “tell him I am well and that I love him.”

“You expect me to lie to my injured son?”

“Only the first part would be untrue.” Y/N arches a brow.

“Drink this, your grace. For the pain.” The maester presents her a black vile, milk of the poppy. “We’re going to pack the wound.”

Y/N’s eyes widen, “why?”

“I fear the blade must’ve twisted, your grace. The area has been gouged clean. There is not enough flesh for a stitch to hold.”

“Seven hells,” Y/N grimaces, chugging it down.

Even milk of the poppy does little to dull the pain as they begin pressing against the wound. Her screams can be heard echoing the Red Keep for less than a minute, before she faints.

————————————————————————-

“And now I need you to wake, sister.” A voice says, reaching Y/N in her dreamless sleep.

“Jace, she needs time.”

“There is no time.”

Y/N groans, willing her eyes to open.

Jacaerys pats the side of her face, “there you are.”

“You’re alive?” Y/N croaks out, blinking at him in the dim light.

“As are you.” Her brother says, simply, “at present Daemon’s army is marching on us from Harrenhal and mother is on her way for the throne.”

“That is no matter,” Y/N says, “we were only ever holding it for her.”

Baela looks to her betrothed.

“Sister,” he takes her hand, “what is expected of our mother now…to truly seize power, you understand what it would cost?”

“Aegon is in no state to bend the knee, I’m sure if I could speak with her-”

“I fear there may be no chance, if you, yourself, do not provide a show of strength.”

“Helaena has Dreamfyre and I have Stormborn, my children’s dragons are small. Sunfyre is gone.” Y/N reminds them.

“You’ve Vermax and Moondancer.”

Y/N looks to her brother.

“We will stand with you.” Baela assures her.

“Against our mother, you will stand with me?”

“Surely you have not done this for a crown, which would’ve been yours in time. You have done it for Aegon.” Jace sighs, “he is an idiot, but from what I understand, he loves and cares for you.”

“He does,” Y/N nods.

“He has been in talks with our mother for some time, attempting to make terms. That is why he lies injured.” Jace tells her, “his raven did not arrive in time and Rhaenys thought it an attack levied against her. Still I do not wish for his head.”

“Do you think she would do it?” Y/N wonders, “kill him in front of me?”

“You have not seen her these past weeks, since Luce’s death, I cannot say what she’ll do.” Jace loves his mother, fiercely, but he loves his sister too.

“We can anticipate even less of my father’s movements,” Baela admits. “He’s not returned to Dragonstone in nearly as long.”

“I hope to resolve this peacefully.”

“I do not believe our mother thirsts for Aegon’s blood, this is merely a precaution.” Jacaerys tells her. “You must dress, prepare the dragons and the King’s Guard, we do not have much time.”

“We will also raise the smallfolk, they will stand with us.” Y/N says, crying out as she sits upright. “And Aemond’s body, make sure it’s found. I plan to make a gift of it to our mother.”

Jacaerys nods, taking Baela’s hand and setting off to their tasks.

Chérie comes to dress her, pulling out the red dress Rhaenyra gifted her daughter as a symbol of solidarity on the day of Lucerys’ petition. A show of force against the Hightowers, even as she stood beside them.

Y/N shakes her head. “Bring me the green dress.”

Chérie swallows hard, “at once, your grace.”

The green dress is arguably the most beautiful gown she owns. A gold hand embroidered tapestry over emerald green satin. A wedding gift from Aegon. She’s never worn it, save for his rooms upon request, or to have it fitted after the births of their children. This day she stands for her husband and his house. This day she wears Hightower green.

She passes her husband’s apartments on her way to the throne room, turning the knob with familiarity. “Where are the children?”

Aegon looks to her, “in with the maids, shrouded by guards, my darling. I’ve just had the wounds dressed, I did not want them to see.”

Y/N nods, “of course.”

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Aegon smiles.

Y/N shifts between feet. “Thank you, my love. I am headed to the throne room to meet with my mother and discuss terms of the succession.”

Aegon holds a hand out to her, “come.”

Y/N closes the distance between them, lacing their fingers together as she stands at the side of his bed.

“If her only want is my head, let her have it.”

“What?” Y/N reels back, “no.”

“Hush now and listen,” he insists. “My body is broken, the maesters say I will never be whole. You will be free to remarry-”

“Stop it.”

“A fitting father for our children.” Aegon continues, “so long as I live, I will only stand in your way.”

“No,” Y/N tears her hand away from him, “you’re wrong.”

“I say this out of love,” he insists.

“No harm will come to you. Those are my terms, I present my mother with the throne, and the body of the man who killed her child. I offer her the peace I have made and all the good with it. It is nonnegotiable.”

“It needn’t be this way,” Aegon tells her.

“You’re mine, Aegon.” Y/N insists, “my husband, my confidant, my dearest friend. You are still all of those things to me, however many times I need say it, however many years it takes for you to believe me, I have time. We have time.”

Aegon sighs, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

“A punishment for something, surely.” Y/N lets out a laugh.

Aegon shakes his head, “a gift from the gods.”

Y/N presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll be back.”

“I will be here.”

Y/N closes the doors to her husband’s chambers behind her. “Stay with my husband.” She orders Cole, waiting to collect her in the hallway.

“Your grace, I am needed at your side.” He says.

“No, you will stay here and defend my fucking husband as though your life depends on it, and best believe it does.”

————————————————————————

Rhaenyra meets Daemon along the gates of the Red Keep. The streets are lined with smallfolk and the occasional yellow cloak, clearing a path for them.

Aegon the fourth begins to fuss in his grandsire’s arms.

“I’ll take him,” Rhaenyra offers. The babe quiets almost instantly.

“He well and truly does not like me.”

Rhaenyra only laughs. “It happens that way sometimes, I’m afraid. Though it may help if you smile.”

Daemon scoffs.

The line of bystanders continues down to the throne room, where Jacaerys and Baela stand on either side of Y/N, at the iron throne.

“This is quite the battalion you’ve assembled, daughter.” Rhaenyra remarks, “do you plan to challenge my claim?”

“Not in the least,” Y/N assures her. “I should like nothing more than to see you sit this throne. But I do have terms of my own.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“First and foremost, the guaranteed safety of Aegon and our children.”

“And what of Aemond?” Rhaenyra wonders.

“Bring him,” Y/N says, to the guards.

Daemon watches as a large black sack is carted in and laid at Rhaenyra’s feet.

“I slain him myself, with the help of my brother and his betrothed.” Y/N tells them, “you may see for yourself. Though I must warn you, he fell from the sky. The sight is not a pretty one.”

Daemon is the one to tear back the fabric and confirm that it is, in fact Aemond. Nodding to his wife.

“What other terms do you have?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Alicent, Helaena and her children.” Y/N swallows, “I wish for their safety as well.”

Rhaenyra pauses, as if to consider.

“You should also know that these guards and the smallfolk which line our halls are here for me. In my name, for my claim, not Aegon’s. The White Hart appeared for me; they follow me.”

“And who do you serve?”

“You, mother. Same as I always have.”

“You will bend the knee?” Rhaenyra purses her lips.

“Now, if it pleases you.” Y/N assures her, “so long as my terms are met.”

Rhaenyra nods, “very well. I should like to be crowned in the dragon pit, where I will reaffirm your title as my heir.”

Y/N takes a deep breath as she rises, approaching her mother and taking Aegon IV in her arms. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“Mother.” Rhaenyra corrects her, gently.

————————————————————————

Over the next weeks, Aegon grows tired of lying about. His unlikely budding friendship with Lord Larys seems to be the culprit.

Y/N is halfway to Aegon’s bedchamber when she hears his pained cries. Rushing in to find him collapsed on the floor.

“I can’t, I can’t.” Aegon protests as the grand maester attempts to bring him upright.

“I am so sorry, your grace.” Orwyle apologizes.

“Leave him.” Y/N shoos him away, “leave him.”

“Your grace,” the maester sighs, allowing Aegon to rest against the floor, “I must get him back to bed.”

“I will do it.” Y/N shakes her head.

“My Princess, surely with your injuries you cannot.”

“If I should need your assistance I will call upon you, Grand Maester. At present, I require a quiet word with my husband.”

The maester nods, “yes, your grace.”

Y/N waits until the doors close behind him to address her husband. “Aegon, I know how dearly you desire to walk again. But it has been but a moon turn since you arrived here in such a state they could not say if you would live. You must remain abed.”

“You did not marry a crippled man.” Aegon bites out, bitterly. “I did not father children as a crippled man.”

“You did not marry me with one arm that may never rise above my head or a scar across my face.” Y/N reminds him.

“My cock is ruined, did I tell you that?” Aegon laments, “it is burnt and disgusting, they do not believe it will rise.”

Y/N sighs, lying down at his side, “allow me to worry about that.”

“It is not you.” Aegon explains, “my love, I cannot bear to look upon my own reflection. I do not know the man staring back at me.”

“I hear your words, husband. You are entitled to this grief. But you needn’t punish yourself for it, nor face it alone. We will fight this battle together, as man and wife.”

“It is difficult for me, allowing you to see me in this state of disrepair, I am…they tell me I will never be whole.”

“My heart aches for you,” Y/N tells him, “but I do not pity you. I believe in you.”

Aegon nods, “you’ve no idea how much it pleases me to hear you say this.”

“You are different, I will not deny this. But different needn’t always be a bad thing. However different our circumstances, I can appreciate the distaste for one’s own reflection. I have felt it most my life, I do not look the part of a Targaryen Princess.”

Aegon exhales, looking to his wife. “You are devastatingly beautiful, the fact that you cannot see it is a tragedy all its own.”

“I love this body because you are in it, not the other way round. When you are no longer in pain, we’re going to train your cock, like a dragon to heel.” Y/N points a finger toward it. “Dohaeris, Rȳbās,” serve, obey.

“Ow, fuck,” Aegon protests clutching his side as he laughs.

Y/N covers her mouth to stop her own outburst.

By the time the Grand Maester rushes in, they are curled up on the floor, cackling like animals and holding their wounds. “Your graces!”

Aegon mutters to his wife, some form of gibberish, only she seems to understand.

Nodding as she chokes out, “lykiri.” Be calm. Sending them into such a state the Grand Maester simply excuses himself, without another word.

“Is everything alright?” Alicent asks, standing with a hand to her heart just beyond the door.

He smiles, “the road ahead is long and painful, but his grace laughs. He has joy.”

“And Y/N?” Alicent wonders, “how is she?”

“The wound is clean but slow to heal.”

“Is the arm lost to her?” Will it move?

“There will be pain, but it moves even now.” He rests a hand on Alicent’s shoulder, “better days in due time, your grace.”

Series Taglist: @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark @lovelyteenagebeard @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @callsignwidow @hyde-jpg @novelswithariana @klutzylaena @ynbutbetter @ravenqueen27 @danart501 @woodlandwrites @saraiadg @tempo-rary-fix @lxdyred @supernaturalstilinski @httpvomitello @dd122004dd @shadowrose13-blog1 @dracaryxzs @magictrump @vee-mage @mrs-starkgaryen @labellapeaky @multifandom-loser @minttea07 @blackdiamond2317 @baybaybear1 @tea-effect @heavenly1927 @sabyreads @champomiel @8812-342

[okwonyo]

﹙ ✉️ ﹚ ──MIDAS TOUCH. in which 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽.

엔하이픈 성훈 ⠀ ノ⠀ female reader 11OO non-idol au fluff established relationship ⠀⎯⠀⠀ not proof-read skinship making out⠀， recueil . . .

a/n. for @bywons’s on our love event and also to celebrate @cupidhoons & @sainns return ! 😚 for @atrirose because that picture showed a side of her i never saw ... read until the end i swear it’s worth it ^^

if you had to pick a favorite season, it would definitely be summer.

the sun shining bright as you wake up. the birds chirping heavenly at you window to welcome you in the morning. summer break starting. going shopping whenever you can, meeting your friends. finally stepping foot in the sand and greeting the sea after a long time being away from it. waiting for it during most of the year, there is just joy that fills your body when you can see the season peeking it’s nose — you already plan your summer’s hang outs at the end of spring.

it’s a perfect season, really. even the heat waves people tend to complain about are perfect. you always go through the most hot days of summer with a water bottle, your dear fan and the cold floor of your room you lay on during the whole day. curtains covering the window but not totally, you are almost in the dark for the entirety of your day— it’s not good for your eyes, your mom always scolds you, but you don’t care. during a weather like this, you barely do anything, anyway, if it’s not staring at the celling, though you can’t properly see it, and go to the kitchen when you need to.

this is the reason your back rest on the bare floor while you wear an oversized tee and a short right now.

today is the most hot day of the year and you doing fine, really fine even. the cold floor added to the fan hitting directly on your face prevent you from melting right then and there. you would be perfectly fine if your boyfriend didn’t erupt in your room without any sort of warnings. his tall and muscular frame appearing right in front of you, the light of the opened door he stands under showing off his biceps with his tank top perfectly, claiming that your parents let him in, before flopping right on top of you like he weighted nothing. which is far from the truth, those muscles made you let out a tiny ‘oof’ that he brushed off with a giggle.

the first ten minutes of it were fine. you fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair as his nose rested in the crook of your neck. barely any words were exchanged, too scared that your tongues would disappear into thin air if you even tried to talk. however, his weight added to the unbearable heat were threatening to be the end of you, and not in a good way.

“sunghoon,” you dare to speak, only to call your lover. he doesn’t respond entirely, only giving you a hum that vibrates on your skin. “get off of me.”

he lets out a groan. only moving to further put his nose in the crook of your neck, the tip of his nose seems to want to cut through your skin and makes a home for itself inside of your flesh. you can practically feel the sweat flooding all over your body. from your wet hair to your sticky body, the heat doesn’t spare you at all.

it is the same for sunghoon. his sweat is far from smelling bad, it reminds you of caramel and vanilla drowned in milk together. when your hands find his torso, with much difficulty, you can feel his white tank top being soaked against his pecs, can feel his muscles through the fabric, against your sweaty palms. the heat must be messing up with your brain, this feeling you feel in the pit of your stomach can’t be real. you stay still for a moment, his voice cuts through your trance like state.

“don’t be shy,” he whispers against your skin, his warmth breath sends you into a spiral. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again, “you can go a little lower.”

the blush appearing all over your body must be ten times hotter than the weather out here, “w-what do you mea—” oh, his abs. you shut your mouth immediately. closing your eyes, biting your lower lip, you do everything to get yourself back on earth. this man is crashing your bones, making you melt with his body warmth and has the audacity to play with you. you push his chest, he barely budges, “get off of me.”

sunghoon stays still at your words. then, he licks his lower lips. the ghost of his tongue tickles your neck, you almost combust on the spot. another silence fills the room for a moment, only the sound of the electric fourniture sending you cold air reaches your ears. after a while, you simply accept your fate, but you swear if the summer heat wasn’t taking half of your energy, the man on top of you would already be sent flying through the window by now.

you sign, freeing your hands from between sunghoon’s chest and yours, “i’m so hot.”

these three words seem to be the only ones you needed to say for your boyfriend to finally get off of you. you can’t see him well, but the light escaping through the slightly opened curtains lets you see his face being colored by a red taint a little in the dark. he pins each of his palms next to a side of your head. he towers over you as you look at him, his wet hair hangs right above you, his breath is heavy, his face is sweaty.

still, he grins while he looks directly at you, “yes, you are.”

you want to say something back, anything. alas, your body heat gets ridiculously higher and your throat is too sore to spit out any sort of sound. the look in his gaze weights on your lips, you can’t really see is eyes properly, but you can feel lust, desire in them. a droplet of sweat lands on your cheek, you would have cringed normally, but you don’t mind this time. you can’t focus on such meaningless things when sunghoon is looking at you like that. like his whole body is craving for you.

the warmth breath you felt on your neck a moment ago gets warmer and warmer on your mouth as he leans in. he falls onto you slowly, carefully, “s’hot,” he mumbles against your lips before capturing them.

a salty feeling fills your mouths when you kiss, the sweat on your lips is somehow sweet on both of your tongues. he is soon to be all over you again, his chest meets yours as he makes a total mess of your mouth. the way his mouth moves against yours makes you go crazy, you feel yourself getting weaker and weaker, gripping onto his wet hair for dear life. somehow, the room gets even hotter and the van is only here for the fun of it. his tongue slips inside of your mouth when he tilts his head to the side slightly, it feels like he is devouring you whole, sucking your soul like a sort of vampire. it’s the first time he kisses you like that, dizzying lovesick, you surely hope it’s not the last.

suddenly, his hand finds the one of yours who is free, his skin is so hot against yours. you don’t know if it’s the summer or, just, him. he pulls away from the kiss, because, right, you have to breathe. he puts your palm against his chest, on his beating heart, the pulse is so loud that you can feel it vibrating in your entire body. he goes back to kissing you before any words can leave your mouth. his hands guides yours lower as the kiss goes, you are way too busy going crazy on him tilting his head again to put his tongue in your mouth to realize that you are now touching his abs. he lets out a shuddered sigh as your fingertips presses against his soaked top, his abs well sculpted under it, your touch captivates him, his body aches for you.

you love summer and whatever it’s heat waves makes to sunghoon’s mind.

ㅤㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open ⎯⎯ click

[muzansfangs]

OH! one in which muzan is the head of an agency and yn is his secretary but one day muzan is very stressed and knowingly yn enters his room to talk about the meeting and muzan takes out all his anger on her..😋 (pretty pls ☝️

Cock sleeve.

Starring: Muzan Kibutsuji x f!reader;

Format: drabble;

Warnings: nsfw, clothed sex, modern au, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, hair pulling, rough sex, unprotected sex, dom!Muzan, sub!reader, spanking, creampie, language, dirty talk, degradation kink;

Plot: You knew Muzan like the back of your hand. Working as his secretary, you witnessed to his mood swings and you knew damn well when it was better off to keep your distance from him. However, it was time for some tea and you honestly could not wait to serve your boss with a treat he liked to claim when he was upset.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Your scalp felt numb from the cruel grip on your hair. Tears streamed down your cheeks, some of the salty droplets violently splashing onto the mahogany desk of your boss’s office with each brutal thrust of his hips. Your glasses, the ones he had demanded you to wear, ignoring if you actually needed them to see or not, were sliding down your nose and you could not push them back up, or remove them. Your hands had been bounded by one of his hands, the grip so tight to bruise your wrists.

You should have expected him to react so ferally, when you waltzed into the room without knocking on the door, after some of his subordinates had clearly left him with a foul mood to deal with. To be honest, this was what you wanted. Asking him which blend of tea he preferred to sip on, stupidly standing on the threshold with that scanty dress of yours was nothing but your attempt to get under his skin. If getting fucked dry was what you were yearning for that afternoon, Muzan was more than compliant to satisfy your whim.

Mr. Kibutsuji grunted, head lolling back as your sappy cunt milked him up deliciously. His hands roughly spread your ass cheeks, hips moving slower now, his length dragging along your spongy walls to enjoy the sight of his cock disappearing between your slippery folds.

“Look at how wet you are, you whore! One wrong move and I might slip out” he scolded you, slamming his hips against yours harder this time. Your ass jiggled, a sob escaping your lips for the overstimulation he was forcing you to endure. It was not unusual of him to treat you so coldly, brutally, as if you were nothing but a piece of meat.

Muzan scoffed, the open palm of his hand landing harshly on the tender flesh of your right rear. Your cries and whimpers were a symphony he wished was recorded, so that he could play it on repeat even in the privacy of his bedroom, when he had no one to fuck to oblivion to alleviate his stress. Masturbating on you, though, was better than bringing home the first frivolous girl he met at the bar, or at social events. Those women could not quench his thirst as you did.

Now as he rotated his hips against yours, you clenched around him and slammed the open palm of your hand over the desk, teary eyes looking at the door anxiously. You were sure everyone knew what was going on between you two by now. You were uncapable to keep it loud. Yet, you also knew that staying silent, impossible anyway, would have not pleased your boss. You had learned to value his personal fulfillment more than your dignity and your sense of shame had been long gone since the first time he had bent you over that desk.

The elastic band of your panties was unforgivingly bruising your inner thigh, where it had been pushed by his deft fingers to expose you. He had not even bother undressing you two. Unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers and pushing your undergarment to the side was good enough for him.

“How does it feel knowing you are nothing by a cock sleeve?” he hissed suddenly, hand slipping underneath you to seek your clitoris.

You closed your eyes, cheek resting against the hard wood beneath you “G-Good. It feels good, Muzan” you breathed out, the extra pleasure engulfing your belly almost overwhelming you. It was too much. Fluids oozed out of you copiously, while the blissful, mind-blowing sensation of orgasming not even provided you some sort of relief. Exhausted, you soon regretted your words as he grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced you to strain your neck.

The warm breath escaping his lips in heavy pants wafted over your jawline “How did you call me?”.

You refused to answer. Swallowing thickly, the glimpse of his enraged expression made your insides twist in anticipation. You had not even thought about the rules he had set between you two. You were too drained to formulate a reasonable reply, or merely thinking before babbling out what he considered insults.

A harsh tug on your hair made you whimper, his cock still nestled deep into you “Answer me!”.

“Muzan! I called you Muzan!”.

“Is that how I told you to address me?” he thundered, mouth finding an exposed portion of skin between your neck and the shoulder, teeth leaving their mark behind.

You wept underneath him, tears falling from your lashes nonstop at this point. He had instructed you about your intercourses. You did not have a ‘safe word’, but you were well-aware that he would have let you go if you behaved. All you had to do was giving him what he wanted.

“No, it’s not! — you blurted out, pressing your hips up against his navel out of a reflex you could not control — I’m dismayed! K-Kibutsuji… Mr. Kibutsuji, please! I can’t hold on any longer” you whimpered out, this time striking a chord in his otherwise detached heart.

Muzan was a cold-blooded man. He did not pay any mind to the people around him. He only took decisions beneficial to him, without self-doubting at all. Despite that, when he began to gently thrust into you, lips leaving small kissed over your cheek you could not help yourself but esteem him a generous man.

You were not capable to climax again, but you were delighted when he finished deep inside you. A moment after he composed himself, he made it his problem to clean up the excess of seed seeping out of your abused hole. Fixing back your underwear and skirt, he left you a glass of water to drink beside you head, before going back home. Once again, it was your duty to close the office.

When you finally pushed yourself back up, legs shaky and ache in your private parts, you knew only one thing for sure: Muzan Kibutsuji was a devil of his word.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Sometimes, I just like to indulge into such requests because they simply remind me of my username and how deeply I love this man. Muzan, one of the most despicable fictional men to ever exist, yet here I am to defend him.

Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

Luce

[jarofstyles]

first time y/n rides Harry and he thinks he’s gonna pass out, everything is overwhelming… I wud like to read that 🤧

abso fucking lutely I can <3

Patreon

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“Fu-uuuck.” Harry groaned, panting out as he held her hips. The softness of them squished between his fingers, making his toes curl. Her hips swiveled, a heady moan leaving her mouth as she ground herself against his cock.

Y/N hadn’t even been one for riding cock in the past, but something had changed tonight. She requested it and Harry would never, ever tell her know. WHO would? What he didn’t expect, though, was to be pushed into a different mindset. Fuzzy, words slurring as he couldn’t handle how fucking good it felt.

Her head was back, hair flowing down her back as the elegant expanse of her throat was on display. The soft skin so bite-able, kissable, he mourned the loss of the ability to kiss it but it was soon distracted by her bouncing returning.

“Baby, baby, baby- fuck me.” He hissed, the slapping sound of her ass meeting his thighs and her wet cunt slipping up and down the length was almost too much, feeling her cunt dripping and wetting the patch of pubic hair neatly groomed at the base of his cock. She was making a fucking puddle, dripping down his cock and making him sticky. “Y-You’re so wet.” He whispered in awe.

“Y-you’re hitting something.” Y/N admitted, continuing the action over and over again as she got his dick more and more wet. Harry was living in a dream, eyes rolling back as her tightness continued to glide up and down. “It’s so good.”

Harry knew that. He was in rapture, helping her bounce as his fingertips dug into her hot flesh, urging her to move at the perfect pace. Not too fast, not too slow but nice and deep. Letting him dip all the way inside of her and feel it. He knew he was making a mess, precum dribbling inside of her and that too, made it even better. She asked for it raw, and Harry provided.

It just felt too good.

Overwhelming, almost, as the delicious squeeze made his legs shake slightly and his balls pulse, full and ready to empty into her whenever the right time came- but it was hard to control himself right now. It was hitting something, just as she had said, but for him too. How messy and wet her cunt was, how she made his cock and sac sticky and soaked, her face contorted in pleasure.

“Harry…. Harry, Harry, right there.” She adjusted just a bit and found her spot, but it was too late to warn him. He could feel the gush of her orgasm on his cock, a silent sob leaving her as he followed soon after. Load shooting up and filling her as he shook, thighs trembling as she tried to work out her orgasm. Milking him of every drop as she was greedy, continuing her bouncing with little noises. Primal and squeaky, like she was begging for more.

“S’too much.” He tried to say, but she wasn’t hearing him- so he lifted his hips and kept himself buried. It’s all it took for her to whine and collapse on him, taking him for a hungry kiss.

If she’d known how good it would feel, she would have tried this months ago.