#Insidious Purr

[notexactlywonderland]

Much happier with this build for @clustercraft's buildtober

[undiscovered-horizon]

[Mihawk prefers to keep work and his private life separate. On one rare occasion when these two have to comingle, Mihawk is rather upset at the attention you attract.]

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When Mihawk said "It will be just a moment, my dear", you didn't think the issue would take more than half an hour. Yet here you are, two hours after he had left you in a fussy lounge in the back of Midnight Grove...

...and not a Dracule Mihawk in sight.

You let out an exasperated sigh and take another sip of your mai tai. The band is playing yet another song that sounds vaguely identical to the previous one. Similarly, the mob of other patrons seems to be merging into one, murky background of blurry figures in your eyes. Being used to the peaceful yet refined companionship of Mihawk, the aura of Midnight Grove is beyond unbearable.

Mindlessly playing with a coaster featuring a howling wolf, you don't notice a Marine cadet approaching you.

"I'm afraid I have to arrest you, my lady."

The unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome comment makes you look up from the devilishly fascinating coaster. Your eyes fall on a well-built man with long hair and a smug expression. The glint in his brown eyes makes you tense up in discomfort.

"Excuse me?" you ask him, not understanding the meaning behind his words.

The cadet gives you a bad parody of a flirtatious smile. "You look too beautiful," he purrs out.

You can't help but laugh. Somehow, you're undecided whether his pick-up disgusts or amuses you or maybe both. Perhaps his audacity forced a laugh out of you - the ring on your fourth finger is neither modest nor simple. Considering how the large gem in the golden band shone in the low light of the Midnight Grove, even a blind man could tell from a mile away that you are anything but single.

"Anyone waiting for you at home?" he continues his rather poor attempt at flirting.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you toss the coaster on the table. Feeling both curious and entertained, you decide to play along - for now, at least. "Why are you asking, sailor boy?" you question before taking another sip of your drink. The ice has melted and the diluted drink now tastes mostly of old freezer.

"He must be mighty jealous about you. And considering the gold you're wearing," he makes a point of staring at your cleavage, "a millionaire, too."

"Oh, this?" You look down at the necklace of jewels and pearls. A memory flashes before your eyes, suddenly remembering Mihawk's face, barely visible in candlelight as he clasps the jewellery around your neck, telling you sweet things only men in romance novels tend to say. "Yes, it's a gift from someone. I'm sure you know him," you tell the Marine cadet in a casual tone, already imagining how hilarious his face of terror will be when he realizes whose spouse he's been trying to woo. "Tall, yellow eyes, a rather large sword and...

"Awfully annoyed at your impertinence, boy."

The low, guttural voice laced with withheld anger makes both of you look away. There, standing right behind the cadet, is Mihawk himself. Part of his large physique blocks the scarce lighting, making him look significantly more insidious. In the twilight of the Midnight Grove, with fury burning in his eyes, Mihawk appears closer to a demon than a man.

Although the room is dark, you can clearly see the way the cadet's blood draws from his face and the way his eyes are suddenly bigger than an owl's. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling off his chair. Then, muttering apologies and promises of better behaviour, the young Marine runs off only to disappear in the crowd of Midnight Grove's patrons.

Mihawk's eyes follow the youngling for a moment.

"I should have him strung up and killed," he says more to himself than you.

"Or," you speak up, a playful smile curling your lips, "you could sit down, have a drink with your beautiful wife and gloat about the fact that you're the only man to undress her."

You might just be a witch because the change in his demeanour is instant. There is still something wild in his bright, yellow eyes but it's not bloodthirst or anger anymore. You notice how he glances at the ring and the necklace, admiring his own signs of "ownership". One would think they're big enough to send the message. Alas, some people just refuse to receive it.

"You have me convinced," Mihawk says as he sits down next to you.

[s0fter-sin]

idk why it wouldn’t let me answer this @kissmesharman but i absolutely love this, ghost not knowing how to process his omegan traits, to allow himself to be the one who is vulnerable and be protected instead of protecting is so ‼️ being soft, being open and accepting always came with consequences; it was always met with pain and betrayal and you only have to learn a lesson so many times before it sticks

the insidious ways roba and his ilk tried to force him into complacency, using their pheromones and rumbling and scruffing to trick his instincts into submitting- all they did was make ghost bury his omega so deep inside, he almost laughed at the irony of his own burial. even after he’s exhumed, he doesn’t hear it for years; naturally doesn’t heat even without suppressants, doesn’t purr, doesn’t feel that innate safety an alpha’s presence is supposed to bring

just being near other designations calms you down, whether they’re family, pack or even strangers thrown together in too-cramped barracks. it levels out your hormones, gives you people to act your instincts out on, and it’s never a surprise to walk into the cherries’ barracks and find them all tucked inside the resident omega’s nest; discordant purrs and chuffs layering over each other, too-big feet tangled together, still young enough for the milky smell of pup to cling to the edges of their scent especially clumped together like this. a lot of them won’t make it through selection, won’t find pack in each other but it’d be cruel to strip them of this simple comfort

ghost hasn’t stepped inside a nest in almost a decade

hasn’t felt the desire to build up softness and safety, to spread that feeling of home to the 141 even after he admits to himself that they’re pack. even after months of rejection - growling at soap’s happy chuffs whenever he saw him, pumping off bitterly aggressive pheromones to drown out gaz’s pack?home?safe?good? scent until he knew the beta felt sick with the sour poison, avoiding price whenever he was in pre-rut despite it being the most tempting and warm time of year for an omega to be near an alpha, those days before the terrible need when alphas are all affection, rut drunk with the happiness and safety of pack - they still welcomed him with open arms and bared necks as if he were a second pack alpha and not an omega

he’ll posture and loom over any unfamiliar presence, anyone that could potentially be a threat to his pack; his growls a thunderous undercurrent that shakes the very ground and makes anyone who hears it submit on instinct. soap and gaz happily submit to him; almost vibrating in place when he scents them, enduring their appeasing nibbles and licks at his hidden mouth, falling to heel whenever he decides to take over a situation. price shows it in other ways; nose blind after too many breaks and too many cigars, he lets ghost gentle him when his stress reaches its peak, hangs his head and just breathes as ghost threads his fingers together and cups them around his neck, squeezing his scent glands with his palms. ghost bumps their temples together and they’ll just stand there until the burnt scent of tension leaks out of the air

they’re not shy with their submission until most people just assume ghost’s an alpha based purely on the actions of his pack

they’ll never point it out, but the 141 has never suffered for lack of a pack nest. bc ghost unknowingly makes individual nests wherever they go

he’ll push soap into the comfiest sofa cushion after scoping out a safe house, tug gaz’s jacket straight when he uses it as a pillow and eye mask in one, pace in front of the bedroom price claimed to ensure his pack alpha is safe inside his den. he divies out rations, always opens them and switches the desserts so gaz and soap don’t argue over who got the better one; takes the instinctual first bite of anything scavenged or hunted to know it’s safe just to wait until everyone’s done eating and full before taking his own portion. they all present themselves for ghost’s inspection after missions; lets him run his hands and nose over them to check for injuries and it’s ghost who more often than not ends up taking care of them instead of sending them down to medical

they’ll never tell him, never make him face his own behaviour before he’s ready to come to terms with it himself. as much as ghost’s convinced himself otherwise, his omega is alive and well and his pack will welcome his shy return whenever he feels ready to step back into the light

[yuri-is-online]

Hi!

I saw the 300 followers event, and I'd like to request prompt 9 with Leona, Ace, and Jamil

9. Jealousy pt. 2- someone from a rival school asks for your number

Hi hi! Thank you for your request, I hope you like this friend.

notes: they/them pronouns used for Yuu, Check out the rest of the event requests on my masterlist here.

Leona

"Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer." Leona has heard you say that more than once, always in a tone that suggests you are mimicking something or someone; from your world he assumes. Not that he really minds, it's a nice quote. Snappy. And the first time he heard you say it you had been critiquing Azul, not him. Not him, even though it could easily apply.

That's why it is thundering in his skull right now, needling at that knot in his forehead that refuses to leave, twitching in his snarl as he watches some RSA brat wind his way around your shoulders.

Slow.

"I've got to say," purrs the stranger, lightly resting a hand on your shoulder as you consider what power you need to invoke to get him gone "I was surprised to find someone so nice attending NRC." You can't really think of a good reply, the awkward laughter that stutters out of you doesn't seem to count.

Insidious.

"It would be a real shame to let such a chance encounter go unsavored." He could have chosen a less suggestive tone of voice, or maybe it's just Leona's previous comments about how you should try to avoid "getting eaten" that are working double time on your nerves. "Perhaps you could give me your-"

Killer.

"Oi." Leona's voice rumbles, you swear there was an actual roar before he spoke. The RSA student certainly jumps back from you like there was. "You are making them uncomfortable." The student apologizes, to you or Leona you have no idea, as Leona settles a comforting hand onto your shoulder.

"Thank you, sorry for-"

"Don't." Leona is surprisingly calm. "'s my job to scare off bottom feeders like that anyway."

Well now. That is news to you.

Ace

There is something of a disadvantage in always being around the person you like when you aren't quite sure how much it is you like them just yet. The full realization tends to come at an inconvenient time, making ordinary situations into ones of great annoyance. For example, a casual walk through Craneport where you run into some kid from RSA who is also casually enjoying his day of with a friend.

"Cute, right?" A great big dog is happily panting as you scratch her ears, a smile just as shiny as her owners beaming up at you.

"Super cute!" You resist the urge to kiss her all over her massively cute face while Ace tries to fight off an existential crisis. That is a dog, he is feeling jealousy over a dog. What's going to make him insecure next, a tooth brush?

"Her name's Ginger." The stranger says with clear pride. "She really likes you, I'm almost sad to see you go."

"Only almost?" You laugh and give a final head pat to the very good girl while Ace swallows. Anger, jealousy, general annoyance at your obliviousness? Who knows.

"Could I get your number then?" Asks the stranger. "I'm sure she'd love to get to know you."

"I'm sure she would!" Ace's heart skinks, hand going behind his head to awkwardly soothe his wounded heart. "But I think I'll have to pass." You don't give a reason and the stranger doesn't ask, just takes his loss on the chin as you begin to walk again.

"So why'd you say no?" His voice is surprisingly even even if the question feels like it stumbles out of him.

"Oh well you know..." You shuffle along, as eager to let the topic die as he is to press it. "I've already got a favorite ginger." He snorts, threatening to break into a full blown laugh. "I do!" You protest, oddly serious and extremely embarrassed. "And he's enough of a handful already."

"I'm sure Cay-kun will be happy to hear it." Ace laughs, winking back at you as he prepares to run back towards the bus, shouts of protest somehow falling on deaf ears and stroking his ego.

Jamil

Sometimes Jamil is envious of Floyd. His reputation wouldn't take a dive if someone from the other team accidentally ran into a missed shot fifteen times. Nobody would even blink. But if the ball came from his hands... well then people would start asking questions.

"Are you jealous?"

No. A lie. Jamil is jealous of the air you breathe for its closeness to your lips, and this sniveling Nobel Bell brat can actually speak. Not that he knows exactly what he is asking for, but Jamil has an active imagination. And feet, he somehow seems to be stalking his way towards you even though none of what is happening is any of his business.

"Are you dating?"

Why would I want that? I've already got enough on my plate as is, I don't need a partner. Only true on the surface. Jamil has no idea why he wants you (Kalim assures him he doesn't need a reason but why would he want to listen to that advice) he just does. You make him feel a bunch of inconvenient and ridiculous things, he does not need a partner but he does want one.

"Um... I was wondering..." Seven the kid was pathetic from across the court but now that he was actually here he is even worse. Jamil is surprised he hasn't fainted yet. "I was wondering... um if you wouldn't mind could I get your number?" He seems genuinely hopeful and Jamil has got to look just as genuinely disgusted with how far back the kid jumps.

"I'm sorry..." you turn him down so gently it hurts (for Jamil, not the kid, he wants to see the little bitch run away crying) "You've been very nice I'm just not interested right now." You let out a relived sigh as the kid walks away normally as Jamil considers talking to and is not given a chance to think better of it before you turn around. "Oh hey Jamil." Why do you have to look so happy to see him? It hurts. "Sorry you had to see that, I was just trying to turn in the team registratio-"

"Do you find that attractive?" You both look shocked Jamil even asked that, but now that he has, he finds that he is too stubborn to back down.

"No?" And then with a bit more certainty you add. "No. No I think I would like someone with a bit more... mindful" You say with an admiral degree of confidence for someone who is no longer looking him in the eyes.

[sadhours]

Harringrove at Tina’s party pleaseeeeee. Steve is a sobbing mess over nancy and just wants to forget and who better than to assist him with that than Billy???? Also Billy just leaving Steve covered in his cum and crying over his new conflicted feelings like ughhhh

Hi I love you. This was fun to write. It uh, gets a lil sad at the end.

Cw: 18+ minors dni, Billy using Steve. Some degradation. Smut and angst?

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

The words repeated heavy in Steve’s head, over and over and over until his stomach churned with dread and disgust. Nancy thought they were bullshit? While Steve thought they were what? In love? He feels like a fool but what the fuck else is new. The eyes on him as he stalked after her and her stupid punch stained shirt tell him he’s gonna hear about this all week at school. Guaranteed to be blame of the punch spill anyways.

He had fully intended to stay relatively sober at this party when he arrived but now the slice in his heart needs mending and ya know what, that bottle of Jack he earlier denied is calling his name. So he goes to find it, eyes scanning the crowd until it falls on that annoying man, pecks peeking out behind a leather jacket and of course, the stupid fingerless gloves he’s wearing are wrapped around that bottle of whiskey Steve is suddenly desperate for. Fuck it. He’s King Steve, this beautiful asshole called him that earlier, when he puffed his chest and glared into Steve’s soul. He can fucking take the whiskey from him. In fact, he has to. Pushing through the crowd, Steve gets his fingers around the neck of the bottle and tugs. Hargrove raises his eyebrows, lips turning up into a smirk but he doesn’t give, grips the shaft of the bottle tighter.

“Need something, King Steve?” his honeyed voice purrs and it boils Steve’s blood.

With a curl of his upper lip, he growls back, “Yeah, fork it over, prick.”

“Oh,” Billy cackles, “Yes, your majesty. Here.”

Steve rips the bottle from Billy’s hand and takes a dangerous swig of it, the amber liquid burning down his throat. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the blue ones glued to his face, something insidious behind them. Steve doesn’t care, chokes down another fiery swig and exhales, his stomach swirling with heat from the booze. Hargrove keeps eying him with intrigue, a playful tilt to his smirk that makes Steve weary. He goes to stomp off, then fingers are wrapping around his wrist.

“Something bothering you?” Billy asks with a duck of his head, shining teeth bared in a smile Steve doesn’t exactly trust.

“Yeah, you.”

“Feisty, nice. I’ve heard that about you,” Hargrove beams, keeps his grip firm on Steve’s wrist and tugs him into the bathroom he’d just been told he was bullshit in.

He locks the door behind him, leans against the door and looks at Steve differently. Almost hungry?

“What’s this about? Let me out,” Steve seethes and moves for the doorknob but Billy blocks him.

“C’mon,” he pouts, “something’s bothering you, what is it?” Hargrove tilts his head, “Something to do with your stuck up girlfriend?”

“Shut up,” Steve hates the way his eyes well up with tears, hates the way his stomach drops at the mention of Nancy.

“She dump you in here?” Billy asks with this shit eating grin that makes Steve’s skin crawl.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Steve tries, ashamed of the way his voice cracks when he says it.

Hargrove pouts again, snatches the bottle from Steve’s grip and swallows some down before setting it on the counter, “C’mon, you’re King Steve, right? Bitches come and go.”

“Stop,” Steve whimpers out, bringing his hands up to his face in shame as the tears trickle down his cheeks.

Billy crowds him then, presses the small of his back against the counter and gets real close to his face. It’s threatening at first but something about Billy’s whiskey and nicotine tinged breath on his face is… hot? Oh, god. What the fuck is wrong with him? It’s the whiskey, even though he hasn’t really had much. It’s the rejection doing it. He’s not even into guys. Why the hell is Billy Hargrove of all people making his dick twitch? It makes such little sense that he’s full on crying now, sobbing into the minuscule space between them. And Hargrove’s hands grip his waist, and then he… he fucking licks the tears off of Steve’s cheek and Jesus Christ, he’s hard in his jeans from it. Steve chokes out another pathetic sob before he shoves Billy back, glaring down at him fiercely.

“The fuck is wrong with you, faggot?” Steve seethes out, pushing down another sob.

Billy scoffs, raises a brow and moves his hand to cup Steve through his jeans, “I’m not often wrong. And I’m not wrong this time, faggot.”

Steve closes his eyes as he whimpers, the warmth and firmness of Billy’s palm against his pulsing erection confirms it for the both of ‘em. Steve likes this. He actually fucking likes this. And it’s definitely because the whiskey and Nancy breaking his heart and not actually because he’s attracted to Hargrove. He thinks for a brief moment before he’s reaching back for the bottle of Jack and downs some more. He sets it back down and rolls his hips into Billy’s hand, letting another slew of tears escape his eyes. Hargrove presses into his strained erection and licks his cheek again. And it’s the oddest thing. Steve feels heat pooling in his stomach from it. Maybe it’s the whiskey. The safer thing to think is it’s from the whiskey and not from the weird, gay degradation happening.

“Poor King Steve,” Hargrove whispers in his ear, “Crying over some mediocre pussy.”

Steve can’t even fight back anymore, he’s over the fight and all he can is welcome the pleasure erupting over his body from Hargrove fondling his cock and balls over his jeans. It’s pathetic, he knows that but it feels too good and he wants more. No, he needs more. Tells Billy as much with a whimper and another roll of his hips.

“I’ll make you cry like a bitch, too,” Hargrove mumbles into the shell of his ear before dipping down to bite his lobe and tug.

The cries turn into moans as Billy bites down Steve’s neck and undoes his jeans, shoving them down his thighs and wrapping his fingers around Steve’s aching cock. The leather from the gloves is an interesting sensation, Steve likes it a lot. It’s obvious by the way he’s thrusting up into Billy’s fist and whining.

“God, you’re whiny,” Billy observes, jerking Steve’s cock dry in his palm, “That why the princess dumped you? She get fed up with how much of a bitch you are?”

“Shut up,” Steve says behind gritted teeth, fingers moving to grip the counter behind him.

“I haven’t even done anything,” Billy comments? pulling back as he scoops the precum bubbling from Steve’s dick on his fingertip and brings it up eye level, “Even your dick is weeping.”

Billy apparently thinks he’s hilarious by the way he cackles, but then he’s licking the slick from his finger and Steve’s knees almost buckle from the sight. He thinks this might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, and that’s alarming but something for him to consider after he’s blown his load. Hargrove drops to his knees and squeezes the base of Steve’s cock, looking up at him under thick lashes. He’s so pretty, Steve wants to touch his face, drag his thumb along Billy’s cheekbone but he doesn’t let himself. His leaking, pulsing hard on is proof enough he thinks Billy is pretty, doesn’t need to push his luck anyway. He thinks Hargrove might bite his fingers if he does so, or maybe worse, his dick.

Plush, pink lips circle the head of Steve’s cock and he’s letting out a gasp, shocked by just how much he likes the sight. He wants so desperately to touch the boy before him but he won’t let himself, no matter how much those dirty blonde curls are begging to have Steve’s fingers in them. Hargrove’s mouth is so warm and so wet as he takes Steve down. Better than any hole he’s ever been in and that’s… another thought for later. His cock twitches in Billy’s mouth, and he smirks around it, letting Steve know he felt it.

“Fuuuck,” he whines out, lips parting in ecstasy. The arousal he feels now is white hot, intoxicating more than any swig of whiskey. If he’s not careful, he’s libel to fall in love with Billy Hargrove this instant and nobody needs that. Pupils blown, Billy looks into Steve’s eyes while he sucks him down deep, so deep. Steve can feel his tip hitting the back of Hargrove’s throat and the fucker swallows. Steve’s seeing stars for a second, forgetting that he was trying not to touch Billy as he slips his fingers into that dumb fucking mullet. Tugs while he moans lowly, earning another smile around his cock. God damn, this idiot is pretty and Steve hates him and loves him all at once. Wants to punch his dumb face and kiss it at the same time.

Hargrove moves a hand up and cradles Steve’s balls in his palm, bobbing his head up and down like he was fucking born to do this. How did he get so good at sucking cock? Steve suddenly feels excited at the prospect of knowing this secret about Billy, maybe he can use this against him. But then again, it’s his dick down Hargrove’s throat. One of these might be gayer but Steve can’t even finish these thoughts because Billy’s giving him the blowjob of a lifetime and Steve’s pathetically on the brink of orgasm. Can’t even warn Billy before he’s shooting down his throat.

“Christ,” he chokes out, bucking his hips into Billy’s face as he chases the pleasure and this guy is a champ. Billy grabs a hold of Steve’s thighs and takes the face fucking, then leans back on his haunches as he grins up at him.

Steve’s panting against the counter, coming back down to earth when Billy opens the cabinet to the left of his leg and starts rifling through it.

“What are you doing?” Steve wonders, voice wrecked.

“Said I was gonna make you cry like a bitch, didn’t I?” Billy quips around a dangerous smirk, holding up a bottle of baby oil.

“What?” Steve asks, eyes wide. What the hell is Hargrove gonna do with that oil?

“Turn around,” Billy rises to his feet, eyebrow lifted like he dares Steve to disobey.

“Dude— no,” Steve gapes, “I—“

“Pretty boy, I said turn around,” Billy levels, eyes dark and Steve does, in spite of everything telling him not to. Hargrove’s lips are on his ear, “Lemme show you something that priss never could.”

Suddenly, there’s a slickness pressing to his asshole and Steve chokes out a gasp, looks at himself in the mirror and his face shows the shock he feels. Billy hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder and meets his eyes in the mirror as his fingers rub circles against Steve’s hole. It feels nice despite the panic rising in his chest, and Steve doesn’t tear his eyes away from the reflection of Billy’s.

“I’m gonna make you feel better than that bitch ever could,” Billy tells him, voice low and raspy which causes another stir to Steve’s softening cock. Then Billy’s finger pushes past the tight ring of Steve’s asshole and it’s a sharp pain but at the same time it’s overwhelmingly pleasant. Punches a moan out of Steve’s throat and he drops his head, eyes on the sink but immediately, Billy’s hands on his throat and urging his head upright again.

“Look at yourself,” he insists, curling his finger and then bites Steve’s jaw. “Such a pretty boy.”

Steve whines, not recognizing himself in the mirror. Billy’s sliding in another finger as his tongue soothes the tender skin his teeth assaulted, eyes trained on Steve’s flushed face. Billy’s fingers twist and prod until they hit a spot inside of Steve he didn’t know existed and he cries out, vision blurring as Billy continuously rubs at the spot. The stupidly gorgeous face he sees in the mirror looks smug, but Steve’s a little too preoccupied to be mad at it. Hell, he barely notices when Billy’s adding a third digit to his hole. Steve whimpers out, knuckles turning white where he’s gripping tightly onto the countertop.

Hargrove bites at his jaw again, thrusting his fingers in quick succession and each time they poke Steve’s prostate he moans, feeling his eyes cross as his cock springs back to life. He scissors his fingers, stretching Steve’s hole as he groans lowly and rolls his hips.

“Think you’re ready?” Billy asks, voice teetering on desperation and it’s really nice to hear. Steve’s nodding his head, all the panic from before evaporated at this point.

Billy pulls his fingers out and Steve fucking whines, more pathetic than he’s sounded all night. It’s short lived, Billy’s quick with slathering his cock in the oil and pressing his head to Steve’s eager hole. Obviously, his cock is thicker than his fingers and Steve’s feeling that panic return but Billy pushes the head through and Steve cries out, tears prickling his eyes at the sensation because it is painful but his balls tighten from it and his eyes roll back. It’s painful in the delicious kind of way. He couldn’t even remember Nancy’s name in this moment if he tried. Heads empty, nobodies home. Just clouds of God, that’s nice and oh, wow there’s a cock in my ass. Billy’s hand meets his throat again and he purrs in Steve’s ear, “Look at me.”

Steve didn’t even realize he’d closed his eyes, but he opens them and his vision is flooded with the reflection of himself, Billy’s face pressed next to his and that leather clad hand around his neck. He looks to Billy’s eyes in the mirror, a little upset with how much it makes his heart swell. Steve’s easy. Billy saw he was upset and did something to make him forget about it. Fuck, he might be in love. Nope. Steve, stop it.

Billy sinks in a little deeper, draining the air of Steve’s lungs as he does so, “Fuck!”

“I was right, huh?” Billy says, breathless as his face contorts in pleasure.

“Uh huh,” Steve breathes, would agree with anything the blonde says at this point. His heads all warm and fuzzy and Billy’s really pretty. The angles of his face irritated Steve before, got a hint of jealousy in his gut but now he just wants to touch them.

Hargrove groans, digging his nails into Steve’s hips as he drives deeper into the brunette, “So fucking tight.”

And then the head of his cock meets with Steve’s prostate and Steve’s eye roll back in his head. He would’ve collapsed to the floor if it wasn’t for the grip Billy has on him. Doesn’t realize he’s crying again until Billy licks his cheeks again, hips still as he allows Steve to adjust to his length. Hargrove’s breath is heavy on his face, fanning across his sticky cheek in waves. Billy starts rolling his hips, languid and deep and each stroke makes Steve feel like he’s floating higher and higher away. His reflection looks as fucked out as he feels, his eyes glazed over and wide, lips parted in an O and his cheeks are wildly flushed. But this sensation is fucking otherworldly and his cocks at full attention, begging to be touched even though he just came. His chest feels tight while he spews out these breathless and high pitched moans. Hargrove looks as smug as can be, cheek pressed against Steve’s with this fucking grin on his face, like he’s so proud of himself.

“When I heard about you,” Billy grunts, “I didn’t think you’d be this fucking easy.” He punctuates the last word with a particularly rough thrust that’s got Steve’s toes curling in his shoes.

Steve couldn’t talk if he tried, brains too fuzzy with euphoria and fuck, is he drooling? Yep, he is. A string of saliva drips from his lips down onto the bathroom counter but he can’t be bothered to wipe his face, he can’t fucking move at all besides his hips. They keep pushing back to meet Billy’s thrusts.

Hargrove wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock and strokes him at the same pace he’s drilling into him. And fuck, fuck, oh fuck. Steve cries out, eyes squeezing shut as he spills spunk all over Billy’s fist. He’s never cum that quick in his life. He’s out to lunch, man. Seeing stars, seeing God. When he’s coming back to earth, Hargrove’s laughing, clearly pleased with himself. He bends Steve over the counter and hammers into him, hard and quick. The roughness of his hips slamming into the counter launch sharp pain down his legs and he’s crying out again, gripping onto the counter for dear fucking life. And then a totally new sensation has him babbling and moaning as Billy fills him with spunk, a guttural grunt falling on Steve’s ears. But as quick as he feels it, it’s gone. Billy’s pulling out of him and he feels a little pat on his head before he hears the door open and close. Steve sinks down to the floor, curling up in the fetal position as he processes what the fuck just happened. And he’s sobbing some more, his heart twisting with a pain he’s never felt before. His thighs are slick and sticky and his ass is fucking sore but worse than that, he’s alone. Steve feels used up, stupid and more confused than he’s ever been.

[fishyvamp]

Day 1 of Kinktober 2024

Something Soft

Dead by Daylight Pairings: Max Thompson Jr. | The Hillbilly X GN!Reader Rating: M | Mature | NSFW 18+ Word count: 1.7k+ CW: Dubious consent-ish, written accent, Thigh fucking Summary: The Hillbilly finds you looking through his things and offers you a deal. Prompt: Intercrural sex (thigh fucking) | “Just relax for me, I’ll make it feel good.” Ao3

The Hillbilly snarled as he revved up his chainsaw chasing after the survivors the entity had blessed him to play with, hooking them with the tiniest hint of glee. When from the corner of his eye he noticed you. Your form ducked into the doorway that was always only opened just a crack, an entrance to the secret room of the fractured cow shed. ‘Well gosh darn it, that ain’t allowed, now is it?’ He chuckled as he limped to the door.

The chainsaw and hammer heavy in his hands as he watched you callously trounce around the hidden room, climbing onto the old cot. He had been watching you for ages, trial after trial. Intrigued by you and that barely hidden thirst for knowledge. He offered mercy on more than one occasion, letting you escape chase, going after someone else if he saw them, or even dropping you if he happened to walk by hatch “accidentally” if only in the hope that you might notice him.

Was this you noticing him? If only silently. He was thankful for his filthy slippers and that perk Evan had lent him. Insidious or something. Just something to keep your heart quiet while he stood at the door and watched the old cot creak under your weight, you reaching for something, something on the wall, A crude carving made by that of a child. ‘Max Thompson Jr.’, that was his name, the name he was supposed to have. That his father was supposed to give to him. Not Boy or Billy or whatever the survivors called him out of trials. Max Jr . that’s who he is. “Well, ain’t ya sneaky little critter. Climbing all over mah stuff.” He chuckled

Max watched you practically jumping out of your skin as he moved in towering over you. He tsked silently as he shook his head. “I reckon ya need a punishment for bein’ a naughty little rascal, but I’m willin’ to offer ya a choice.” The Hillbilly holstered his hammer setting the chainsaw down. His body blocking your only means of escape. You looked up at him silently a tiny look of worry and something else written on your face. “Well, I can hook ya, easy enough basements not too far.” Hillbilly chuckled darkly walking closer, his arms caging you against the creaky dirty cot as he leaned forward. His twisted face inches from your own, “That’d make Her ‘appy an’ all that, but if yer feelin’ like makin’ me ‘appy. Well I could put those pretty thighs ta good use. I’m sure yer team might ‘ppreciate my distraction.” his voice raspy as he cooed in your ear, breath ghosting the shell of it.

You had always been especially curious about the killers of the realm snapping up what bit of knowledge you could get. The Hillbilly knew this. He hoped that curiosity would be enough to draw you in.

“It ain’t gonna be much, just let me put my--” he paused for a moment as if trying to think of the proper word, “--trouser snake between those soft thighs.” an almost purr escaped his lips. “Ya don’t need ta take anything off, I swear.”

Max shifted standing up straight hands in the air as if to give you space. he watched as you swallowed thickly, throat bobbing, breathing seemingly getting shallow as you took in his words. “We can stop at any time. Just say the word Critter and I’ll stop.” He did his best to reassure you that you had a genuine choice in this. However, that didn't stop the pounding in his ears though as he waited for the answer. He wanted this so badly, he wanted you so badly. Through a piece of him, the logical piece he called it, said you would reject him. That you’d rather get hooked than humor a disfigured man monster. 

Max watched as you silently gave a nod accepting the advance. Max finally letting out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding settles onto the cot next to you. Calmly undoing the front of his pants, licking his lips, his mouth suddenly felt too dry. His cock was only half hard as he picked you up effortlessly, ‘lighter than the cows and pigs I slaughter between trials,’ He thought silently, setting you in his lap, he manipulated you like a doll slotting the heavy cock between your legs. feeling the warmth between them already making quick work of his arousal, a groan escaping him as he leaned forward caging you tightly against his chest. You felt so warm, so soft, If you’d let him, he’d keep you.

Calloused scarred hands dug into the fabric of your pants as he began to thrust between your plush thighs grunting heavily in your ears. “That’s a good Critter. Just relax for me, I’ll make it feel good.” He promised, hands drifting up your thighs rubbing the fabric. He was practically purring as he traced the heat of your sex hidden by the fabric. He wanted to touch it directly. To feel it. To cover his hands with your juices and see how soft the tender flesh would feel under his rough fingers. He wondered if he could make you louder. To make you scream his name, not in fear, but in ecstasy. The thought made his dick twitch between your thighs. He hopelessly wanted to own you. To claim you as his and only his.

Another time he reminded himself. his pace steady as he continued to use your thighs pressing them tighter together to get more friction. He could get lost in this feeling. Hearing your soft quiet moans and shallow breaths as he dirtied you. Made you filthy like him. No, that’s not possible, you could never be filthy like him. “You like that?” Max grunted hoarsely as he continued his pace getting more aggressive with each thrust. the noises you were making just for him were a symphony to his ears it made him almost feel human. Made him feel something that he hadn't felt before. It felt good to feel and to touch you. to hear you make such pretty sounds. To feel your soft thighs as he fucked into you. Three gens popping at the same time. No doubt the fifth and final one was almost complete. He was okay with this, he would take The Entity's punishment. He was getting exactly what he wanted, what he needed.

The killer was starting to feel desperate as his stomach clenched to an almost uncomfortable degree, cock twitch, balls tightening the closer he came to the edge. He was desperate to mark you. To cover you with him. To let others know that you were his. After all, who else would be stupid enough to let a killer like him feel such things? “Critter, I’m gonna--” the words stifled as a wave of ecstasy, the world feeling fuzzy, just like it felt after he killed his Pa. It felt like there was nothing in the realm except for you and him. As he caged you as close as humanly possible pressing you hard to his chest. Whines and grunts escaped him as he bucked up into you feeling his member twitching and shooting strings of cum that stained your pants. Finally coming down his grip loosened one hand reaching up to cup your face as he pressed his own against yours feeling the warm flesh like a balm to his withered chest.

“Thank ya and I’m mighty sorry fer yer pants Critter. I’ll make it up to ya I swear.” Max huffed listening as the exit doors opened. The chime screamed out as the floor cracked beneath them pools of bright red light streaming up. The end game collapse was upon them and the other three fled. The cowards probably didn’t even look for you. ‘Worthless,’ He thought to himself. 

Leaving his precious Critter in the hands of a killer. They should know better. He’d make it up to them too. Already making mental notes of which survivors were there. He pushed the thought aside refocusing on you. He allowed the two of you a moment to breathe before The Hillbilly picked you up carrying you outside the secret room, the smell of decaying flesh and corn lingering in the air. The Fog of The Entity clawing at the walls of the map. Max couldn’t help, but notice how calm you were, so soft in his arms. and you deserve a reward for letting him use you. That’s when he heard the familiar hum, the hatch not even two meters from him. Maybe The Entity wasn’t so mad with this. Maybe She even approved. Though a selfish filthy part of him wanted nothing more than to keep you, no doubt that would anger The Entitiy more. He'd have to ask for you as a reward one of these days. Ask to have you spend his days off in his home. Maybe do one of those things that couples do. sit on the couch watching TV. he'd love to show you all his favorite shows. He wondered if you'd like Beaver.

Whatever the case may be he set you down, knowing he needed to let you go. He needed to play by the rules if he ever wanted to do that someday. In a strange way, it was giving him something to look forward to. “Thanks again Critter.” Max hummed giving a toothy smile trying to seem friendly watching as you crawled into the hatch and disappearing from his sight. He did hope you’d look for him. Survivors and killers did wander around the fog and he had seen on more than one occasion a survivor sneaking into a killer's realms. He’d like to hope you wanted the same things as him to just have something soft to hold in this realm of roughness. Of course, that could just be his TV dreams talking. It didn’t matter much the delusion was enough for him. He watched as the fog curled in finally stripping the map of its features, reclaiming the pieces to use later, and for the first time The Hillbilly left the Trial to his own realm without a single kill, but a smile on his face. He may have lost, but he got something far more precious to him. You.

[panur]

Radskier snippet

Snippet for a fic that’s so far into the future I may as well share as its own thing until I decide to use it (if it ever happens). dedicated to @flootzavut as most Jask tit-centric chats are.

-----

“I missed this.”

“My tits?”

Radovid makes a thoughtful noise, rubs his cheek against the other man’s chest like a contented cat. Blame it on being spread over a beautifully bare (and somewhat sticky) bard.

“If I say yes, would you kindly pretend I said something suave, mayhaps even romantic? I’m afraid you’ve left me too spent for much else.”

He can feel Jaskier chuckle under his ear, which is somehow just as lovely as the rest of him. “You’re in luck. As it happens, I've always considered compliments to my cleavage a pivotal part of the whole romancing process.”

“Is that why you wear your shirts open halfway to your navel?”

Radovid tries to lean away so less of his weight is on the other man, but his hair gets caught on one of Jaskier’s necklaces. The bards’ deft fingers untangle it before he can try to do so himself. He tucks the traitorous strand back in place.

“And why should I deprive the continent of one of my many charms?” His hand moves from Radovid’s hair and to his jaw, stroking gently

“Oh, trust me, I felt many things the first time I saw you,” Radovid pauses, for both effect and to steal a kiss “- ‘deprived’ was not one of them.”

It might as well have happened in another lifetime, but that did not mean the former prince could forget the first time he’d set eyes on a man he’d so deeply admired and hoped to meet– only to find him only half dressed and in the process of having most of his worldly possessions thrown at him out of an irate lover’s flat.

After so long, Philippa’s insidious presence is almost easy to drown out by other, far more pleasant parts of these memories. The shock of catching a flying instrument before it brained him. Realizing what he was holding and who it belonged to. The most outstanding eyes he’d ever seen, turning to look into his. 

And of course, the bard's barely-covered—how had he put it?— charms. 

Jaskier eyebrows waggle. He seems to have a sixth sense for the carnal musings of others, particularly the ones where he was the lead. “Hmm, should we try for ‘depraved’?”

“I think you should try ‘dreadful'.” Radovid sighs, moving to lay next to him “Considering that was quite so.”

The waggle intensifies, somehow.

“I can’t help but notice a suspicious lack of denials coming from your end, my dear,” the bard purrs, leaning to face him.

“Remind me why I find you charming?” Radovid asks, trying not to blush.

“The decolletage is very persuasive.” Jaskier points, traces an entrancing path down his clavicle to the center of his chest with a finger, then flicking at Radovid’s nose when his eyes predictably follow the path.

“Among other things, yes,” he agrees, meeting Jaskier halfway when he leans to kiss the smile on his lips.

[wri0thesley]

omg nat this game looks so fun! how about geto with E?

E - Evening primrose (fickleness): “Now, you know it’s cruel to play with other people’s feelings, don’t you?”

cw: not sfw, dub-con/non-con, breeding mention

Suguru's voice only pretends to be casual; much like the long fingers on your thigh, the ones that have pushed up the fabric of the robe you wear so that he touches bare skin. The other cult members who are here, party to your humiliation and discipline, do not say anything at all. Suguru has not bid them to, and they are loyal to a fault.

"You know it's cruel to play with other people's feelings, don't you?" He repeats, his voice like black silk. His fingers inch higher, tantalisingly close to the space between your thighs, and you have to force yourself to breathe through the painful spasm of want that your body presses upon you. "You know how much you mean to us, hmm?"

You know, partly, what you mean to Suguru. You know that you mean a face pressed into cool pillows and a firm hand on your head and a purr about how well you're doing, how when all of this is over he will ensure that you help populate the world anew with only sorcerers. You mean a toy to him; a game, a distraction, and a plan when he has finished his delusions of grandeur and genocide.

Too, you mean a game won.

"I don't want this anymore," you hear yourself saying. "I think-- I think Satoru was right, Suguru--"

It's a slap; harsh, against the soft skin of your cheek. Suguru's teeth grit.

"You promised me," he whispers, an insidious hiss. "You chose me. You chose this." To punctuate his point, his fingers slide all the way up; resting over the seat of your underwear. One finger slides into the space between, pressing the fabric against wet slit with a pleased exhale. "You had your choice and you made it."

Your body pounds with want for him. You try and think about Satoru again - the cause of this argument. He almost always is. You try and imagine being somewhere else.

There's a murmur of disquiet around from the spectators, and Suguru seems to remember they're there.

"Out," he says, a firm command that is followed to the letter - the crowd disperse, and you are left with Suguru and the ghost of your past glimmering betwen you. The choices that either one of you could have made.

(When Satoru had kissed you, you could have kissed him back and shoved down your crush on Suguru. You could have let yourself love Satoru Gojo. Maybe then--)

"You're not leaving me," Suguru says, as much a threat as it is a statement. "Not now, darling. Not when we have a whole world to put back to rights."

Your throat is dry.

"And what if I do?" You whisper. "What if I don't love you?"

He barks out laughter. The hand that slapped you grabs your chin, yanking it roughly at the same time as he pries fingers beneath the gusset of your underwear and a calloused index finger finds the pulsing pearl of your clit. Traitorous; you're wet for him just from the briefest of touches.

"Your body already knows what you were made to do," he murmurs. "Loving me hardly matters, darling."

But you'd seen the steely flint in his eyes when Satoru's name had dropped from your lips; heard the ice in his tone when he realised that some of his underlings were about to see you despoiled. He cannot keep himself entirely under wraps.

Maybe he does love you.

In his way.

[shadow-of-the-eclipse]

what do you mean I have limited characters in a google keep note I want to write more in that format

is this a new story or is it just random ideas who knows, anyway role swap tomarry where tom is the only one who can see the dark lord who got stuck on the wrong side of the veil when trying to steal the gaunt ring when tom was a baby, now tom's the boy who defeated a dark lord and harry is absolutely not haunting a teenager

_____________________________

"You're not real," Tom says.

And like a switch being flicked fury flashes across the man's face. His green eyes have a sheen to them, almost silvery, like someone has spilled liquid mercery across the green. And Tom--

Tom can feel the magic in the air. Like an oncoming storm, like emotions made real and physical, he can feel the man's anger take a physical impression. His chest feels heavy and the air feels thin. "Oh," he croons, voice deceptively light, hiding a raging tornado, "I'm very real."

And like snow flakes falling onto his skin, the hint of cold before it melts, Tom can feel the fingerprints of the man before they fade. Not quite real. But definitely not a hallucination. Definitely not a ghost.

"You won't hurt me," he bluffs, "Nobody else can see you. You hurt me you're stuck. Forever."

The man draws back, fury still lining every muscle. "You are not that important, baby Slytherin," he snaps, but does not move to lay a hand on Tom. "I will find my way out of this cursed plane of existence and back to physicality without or without the help of an teenage boy."

_____________________

"Maybe you should kill them," Harry says. He's sitting perched on the stairs, hands clasped together, green eyed watching Tom and his irritating year mates.

"I can't just kill people," Tom says.

"Not in public," the wraith purrs. The insidious thought is too appealing to consider so Tom turns away from Harry.

"Oh don't ignore me. Tom. To-om."

[cuntasaurus-rex]

I bet on losing dogs

Word count: 569

Prompt: jealousy+hurt/comfort

Fandom: Predator

Relationship: F x M, gen

Harper can't breathe. It's as if she's had all of the air ripped from her lungs, a squeezing sensation in her chest making it feel like she’s dying. Her throat is tight, and bolts of heat race through her shaking body.

She curls up in the nest on the floor, uncaring that this is the common area and that anyone can walk in and see her. She cries freely, though her sobs are muffled by the furs she's buried her face in.

'It's not fair. It's not fair, not fair, not fair.'

'Why? Why am I not good enough? Why would Thwei-stei pick that female over me? After everything he’s said to me, everything that we have went through, and he does…. that. Why?'

The imagery of the two together is burned behind her eyes, and she presses her fingers to her eyelids, choking on another cry.

Despite Harper’s mental anguish, there's a smaller part of her that knows exactly why, whispering insidiously in the back of her mind.

She's not strong, she can't give him children, and, as some of the hunters in her clan have cruelly pointed out, humans are “ugly to look at.”

At the end of the day, she is not enough for him. She's not yautja. No matter how hard she tries, she will never be on the same level as her packmates, and will never obtain the same standing in the clan as anyone else.

And it hurts. She's so jealous that it physically hurts, the feeling making her head pound and her stomach churn.

She knows it's wrong. Thwei-stei doesn't belong to her. She's not entitled to his attention, his affections, to him at all.

The reality of it stings regardless. Even though she thought that she could've had a chance, no matter how small, deep down she knew better. That it would've never worked.

'Stupid. Stupid to tell him how I felt about him. Stupid to think he'd take any of it into consideration before running off with that woman.'

Of course, she knows it's not fair to him. Not to Dika, either. It's not either of their faults that she wants what she can never have. Doesn't deserve to have.

'It's my fault. I shouldn't have pushed him into that situation. I should have just kept my mouth shut.'

Dimly, she's aware that she's no longer alone.

That she's been so unaware of her surroundings, that she's been joined by another, a familiar sound rumbling in her ears, a warm body curling up against her back.

She doesn't have to look to know exactly who it is.

Betandche, one of the yautja who she can dare to call a friend. He's been here since the beginning, when she first arrived, and has never treated her unkindly simply because of her species.

Though he's never been one to talk much, and -much like his other brethren- comfort being something he is not very familiar with, he still chooses to sit with her.

Harper feels herself relax bit by bit as her friend continues to purr, the sound steady and soothing, her tears slowing as her breathing gradually returns to normal.

Eventually, she lets him wrap an arm around her middle, pulling her closer against him, the thrum of his purrs louder as his chin rests atop her head.

“Thank you,” Harper finally murmurs.

Betandche doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

[miiishra]

[Fic] The Witch of Thunder Junction - Episode 1

Ship: Oko x Rowan Kenrith

Genre: Dark Romance, Action/Adventure Fantasy

Rated: M for sexual themes, violence, and naughty words

Tags: Forced Relationship, Slow Burn, Wild West Themes, Fae Bullshit, Toxic Found Family

Summary: A retelling of Outlaws of Thunder Junction, in which Rowan seeks out Oko through the Omenpaths and it's probably the best worst idea she's ever had.

Snippet

When Oko first arrived in Thunder Junction some few months ago, trying to steer clear from the Phyrexian Invasion like everyone else with common sense, he noticed with nasty surprise that his magic had been reduced to a mere fraction of its potential. A mana-starved plane like this would have made the life of any fae miserable, and it was his planeswalker spark that kept him from struggling completely. 

And it was already quite the struggle. His shapeshifting could only last him an hour, and the more complex and detailed the form, the shorter the duration. Healing magic was out of the question, much less healing another person. And mesmerizing glamours… well, he had to rely on ol’ fashioned mundane charm to get around that, but that suited him fine, anyway – it was far more satisfying whenever someone realized they had been lured by his charm of their own volition. 

Then Rowan Kenrith called out to him. 

Whether it was the magic of the Fae Pact or something else entirely, all Oko was sure of now was that he had access to his full potential again. He had spent this entire day as an elk running miles and miles across the desert carrying Rowan’s unconscious body. He thought that maybe this had been possible because, out of all the forms he had ever worn, the elk felt the most comfortable and natural to him. 

Now, he saw it was because of this girl. Something about her presence replenished his mana and amplified his magic in some way. Being able to heal her proved that now. 

Oh. That meant he could have healed her the moment he found her in the desert. Oops. 

Well, whatever. It all worked out, didn’t it? Besides, they needed a place to stay the night, because Oko certainly wasn’t going to run all the way back to his room in Rustwood, and the more helpless Rowan looked the better. No one can resist a pretty little thing in distress.   

He supposed he couldn’t either. Not that he had a choice, anymore, not while he was enslaved by the Fae Pact. 

The bed creaked as Oko braced himself on the mattress to lean over the princess who now slumbered peacefully. The warmth of her sent a shiver down his spine, and his lips brushed over her ear as he whispered in a seductive purr, “You had better make this worth it, Rowan Kenrith, or I will make you regret not killing me when you had the chance.” 

“Soup’s on!” Annie called from the kitchen. 

Oko straightened and his empty gaze brightened with warmth and gratitude. “Coming!” he called back. 

In the doorway, he stopped for a moment and looked back at her, and his face split into an insidious grin. “Sleep well, Rowan Kenrith. Work hard to show me something good for the days to come, yeah? I’ll be rooting for you.” 

[notexactlywonderland]

Here's another build for @clustercraft's buildtober. This one really challenged my interior decorating skills (which are not great) but it was fun to try and bring this build together. I wanted the interior to be dark so the pictures are a little hard to see. I'll add some with a night vision potion

[absent-enigma]

Tiny Tentacled Menace Acquired

Mermay 2023 au undertale fic (also on Ao3). T rating for canon-typical violence and Nightmare's gang bottling up emotions/ignoring them/bad coping. And baby meroctopus Nightmare, where no one in the castle knows how or why it happened/have to figure out how to fix it.

Ch 1-5

Ch 1

Dust had to be hallucinating during his late night wandering. His aching skull pounded as he struggled to puzzle out what was blocking his way in the middle of the hall.

Nightmare?

…sort of.

Nightmare was inches taller than him. What was on the floor was decidedly more…child-sized.

Dust blinked, mind slow to inform him that many tentacles extended down from said babybones waist.

A tiny skull and ribcage hunkered down atop partially curled wriggling tentacles, small arms wrapped around those. A solemn eye light stared up curiously.

Dust wasn’t participating in drinking games with the guys ever again.

Ch 2

The babybones didn’t vanish after blinking, so Dust apparently wasn’t dreaming.

“NOW’S YOUR CHANCE, SANS! KILL HIM WHILE HE CAN’T FIGHT BACK.”

Dust ignored phantom Papyrus’s terrible advice as he crouched, holding out a hand. Dust’s static grin became strained when the babybones lashed out. Minuscule suckers on teal-tinted black tentacles clung to bone, the limbs slowly wrapping up the length of Dust’s arm, in as crushing a grip as the child could manage.

Nightmare hissed a warning as the tiny half-and-half skeleton-octopus grasped and gnawed on Dust’s hand, tentacle tips wriggling furiously.

Dust watched Nightmare ‘attack’ him, completely baffled.

Ch 3

Itty-bitty sucker imprints were left behind once Dust gently removed the tentacles.

“No!” Little fists smacked him. “No! Leggo!” The babybones was barely a foot tall, minus the tentacles, which seemed over twice Nightmare’s body length.

Dust gave the tiny skull a scritch.

A grumpy purr sounded.

Cute.

“KILL IT WITH FIRE.”

“shut up, paps.”

Nightmare twisted, tentacles latching around Dust’s neck.

“time for bed, kid.”

“No!”

Tentacles smacked Dust in the face.

“YES! SUFFOCATE SANS’ USELESS COCCYX!”

Dust wrangled Nightmare off, zipping him up in his jacket. The babybones wriggled unhappily, glumly curling up once Dust began to walk.

Ch 4

The insidious whispers of his hallucinations kept Dust wide awake.

Already, a half-mad giggling fit had begun.

Dust violently twitched when tentacles firmly wrapped around his ribcage.

“I help you.” Nightmare informed Dust solemnly.

“…don’t gotta do that.” Dust eventually mumbled, reaching up to support the babybones.

Nightmare didn’t respond, focused on balancing Dust’s negativity via siphoning off the excess.

Phantom Papyrus was silent.

Nightmare soon let out a satisfied hum before sleepily snuggling into the crook of Dust’s arm, hands tucked up against his collarbone.

Dust couldn’t help but poke a goopy cheekbone.

A tentacle swatted him.

“heh. g’night.”

Ch 5

Dust felt numb, his mind mercifully silent; a side-effect of drained negativity.

“Cold.” Nightmare wormed his little skele-octopus self beneath Dust’s shirt and into his ribcage. Nightmare comfortably curled up, tentacles settling. The babybones hugged one to his chest.

“hey, m’ribs aren’t a hotel.”

“Warm.”

“you can’t sleep there.” Dust slipped a hand beneath the tentacles. “c’mon.” Something nipped him. “…why do you have a beak like an octopus?” Dust deadpanned, prodding a chubby cheekbone. “You already have a mouth.”

“Because!”

“not an answer.”

“Is too!”

“isn’t.”

”Is!”

”nah.”

Dust grimaced when Nightmare threw a temper tantrum inside his ribcage.

[coffeejerk]

JOSETTE.

that cursed name. oh, how she LOATHES it — how it plagues her troubled dreams and invades her waking nightmares. 

my dear josette. 

barnabas' voice echoes ceaselessly within her skull, triggering a maddening barrage of unwanted memories. so sweet and seductive, his sonorous purr; so quick to change to an animalistic growl as he throttled her throat. willie’s tearful pleas ringing in her ears as she screamed for her life, then choked and gasped for breath. how many hours did she sob in vain for her father, until despair rendered her cries hoarse and her spirit utterly broken? and consistent throughout it all, there was always the incessant droning of the music box, and the dumb, vacant stare of that fucking portrait. 

my dear josette, you are such a LOVELY creature. 

is that what he wanted her to be? a beautiful girl perpetually frozen in a moment of time — a snapshot of corrupted innocence? the resemblance was certainly there, although the girl in the portrait lacked the weeping wounds on her neck, the hideous bruises marring her skin, the hollowed-out cheeks and thousand-yard stare. no, his plans for her were far more insidious.

maggie evans is dead, he told her with unsuppressed glee, and my josette has come back to me. 

how could he possibly make her understand? with gentle praise and persistent reinforcement, or with cruel teeth and battering fists? she never knew which she would receive. her thoughts were obscured by the thickest of fogs, and everything was all so terribly confusing. she drifted around the house aimlessly in those early days, lost in the melody of the music box, a blank canvas upon which to project his sick fantasies. a ghost of a girl.

it pains me to have to PUNISH you, josette. 

her desperate wails would give way to voiceless screams that went unheard throughout the night, her nails cracked and split from clawing at the coffin lid in frantic agony. and for what offense? she cannot remember, nor could she make any sense of it if she tried. he put me in a coffin! — a COFFIN! — that’s where she belongs, isn’t it? maggie evans is dead, and josette collins is dead, and barnabas collins is dead, and she is trapped in the HELL that he has crafted for her. 

how shall maggie evans die? 

it was more than relief she felt when she heard her name, her real name, spoken from his mouth, addressing her. maggie evans. i am maggie evans. her jubilant, cacophonous laughter echoed within the walls of her cell as tears of joy sprung to her bloodshot eyes.   ❝ yes! i’m maggie! you DO know my name. ❞   he called me maggie. MAGGIE!  an uncontrollable grin spread across her face, her eyes lighting up with joy for the first time in months.   ❝ see? i told you i wasn’t josette! ❞   her mad laughter followed him as he stalked away in anger, echoing through the damp basement and up past the dungeon stairs.

who is josette, maggie? 

the nearly-catatonic girl shot to life with a strangled cry, her hands pressed tight against her ears as she cowered against the wall in terror. her reaction was enough to shock even the perfectly composed dr. julia hoffman. the psychiatrist would raise her brow, lips pursed tight as she jotted down a note: acute psychological distress observed in patient at the mention of the name JOSETTE. her pen circles the name with vigor, her interest immediately piqued. 

do you know the legend of josette collins?

so many years have passed, but that name still haunts her. it infiltrates her dreams in an endless echo set to the music box’s tune, dredging up every horrible memory that she’s tried so hard to suppress. she can’t sleep because of that name. she wishes she could rip it clean from her mind, bleeding and screaming. she would give anything to scrub every last remnant of that hellish summer from her subconscious. any real progress she's accomplished, any small step toward attempting to heal, is all violently stripped away the second that name reaches her ears.

her regression is instantaneous, and obvious. a small whimper catches in the back of her throat, her jaw clenching painfully as she attempts to keep the flood of memories from overwhelming her. as is usually the case, she is only partially successful. but what else can she do but soldier on with a false smile?

after all, they'll never believe what happened to mad maggie evans.

[no-more-tales-tavern]

So, fearne Is in the courtyard of the paragons call being fucked by rattanish.

Imogen is now personal slut to the memeber that caught her.

All that's left is the fate of laundna, I imagine her cool body makes for a relieving fucktoy in the heat of the hellcatch

If there was one bright side to all of this, it was that Laudna hadn't felt Delilah's presence in her mind for some time now. Perhaps the wicked witch was too ashamed of what her vessel had become, or perhaps the pure euphoric pleasure had been enough to disconnect herself from her insidious hold. The pure passion and ecstasy too much for the vile spirit to exist alongside.

It was doubtful, but she couldn't help imagining it anyway as she writhed and moaned in ecstasy, her nails digging in and gripping the bedsheets tightly as she felt the steady smack of hips against her hips, her body arching off the bed in pure orgasmic bliss. Her lips parted in a cry as she stared up to the ceiling, before fingers tangled in her hair and guided her back to the one fucking her.

"I told you, bitch~ eyes on me~" the low, commanding purr of Otohan Thull rolled over her, the older woman smirking as she repeatedly pumped her fingers into the dead woman’s cool and wet folds, curling into her to tease her sweet spots as as she toyed with her new slut.

Laudna groaned and arched upwards again as she felt her body nearly shudder in release, eyes rolling back as she rocked into her hand. "Y-Yes, Mistress~!!" she moaned out, biting her lip as she felt her fingers rubbing more furiously—then gasping as she pinched her clit, making her writhe in total mind-numbing euphoria.

Otohan smirked as she continued pumping her fingers roughly into the half-dead girl's cunt, watching her writhe in pleasure under her. She had broken far more easily than she would've imagined, but she had no complaints—her cold body made for good company on these hot Hellcatch nights, and the lewd sounds she made only made the leader of Paragon's Call toy with her all the more cruelly.

Ensuring each night that nothing remained in that empty head of hers but her good and loyal fuckdoll.

[kuraikyu]

@digenvez : >:/

" Don't move. "

Saccharine timbre chimes in warning, evoking intrigue upon tip of tongue when bamboo monture of closed paper-fan taps its press, with reminiscent leniency, against Gojo's throat, softly, but like the edge of a knife aiming and capturing internal jugular vein. Just like a vile apparition of an elegant nightmare abusing moment of surprise ... masked individual magnifies prickings of conscience ten fold in the icy familiarity to haunt one of rare responders. Windblown apex of caligraphic brush comes to make its titillate landing upon the Honored One's cheek. A bunch of scattered children running wildly behind and all around them, peeping and calling with determination: punishment! Punishment! It was one of the unnamed rascals who incessantly brought in means of sentencing the moment Satoru stepped further onto the paved road. '' You heard that? The conquerors of this place have strict rules, '' in the meantime of his brief enlightenment about going ons, he starts glamorizing varnish across the margins of his personal prisoner while verbally pin-pointing toward kids, '' whoever wishes to attend ' 灯籠流し, ' Tōrō nagashi from this side of the bank without a mask ... gets punished. By getting face painted without the right to choose stencil. '' Like a story with lots of ink and plenty of air time; six eyes in mosaic cathedrals of misty surrealism scream out piercing laments of anger and grief under the scorching grasp of traitor. Skillfully with unique precision, his hand tightened the remaining coils and with exact veridicality and mirth in his poise, moving sensibly downward complexion then back to its ups, disseminating glittery ink of stricken garnish through delicate garden folds of ivory flesh. Subtly, almost too delicately like if every inch could crack under the heft of his markings, enough for one to relax and fall asleep under such caress. Something that should be rightfully done by him, a pattern of sort. Or? Judging by the ticklish sensation if movements perceived enough -- a symbol? So tense in his posture and bearing his hostage was, until relaxing just finely. Meanwhile, in the land where gods could find sanctuary, crowds of people gathered from all across the country to witness such remarkable extravaganza, a spectacle of true romanticism. To bask in elemental comfort of heart and soul in a glimpse of the eternal, serene divinity; lay prayers into the flickering flames, and send them burning brightly with the river steams in hopes for their wishes to come true. Even better because Geto knew well his old friend would not start a battling ruckus with so many people present. '' A bit up, '' in coincidental pitch of sound, he muttered nearly in a scolding frown because of reflective little vinces upon his countenance, then rekindled brush and cheekbone in unison. Insidious fan pressed some bit in motivation for shiro in blindfold to tilt head back and a little closer to him upward in better angle if appropriate. Like fail-safe brakes for use on steep gradients, there was imperceptible purr to one's satisfaction for such effortless acquiescence had a certain allure that may break like a mirror, sending spinning pieces toward direction of the onlooker. All the meanwhile he would sketch throughout the black expanse of the vessel to bring limitless colors inside him to the surface. Only colors? For Geto knew at certain extent whatever he was capable evoking within the Honored One's heart had nothing to do with purity at all and could be quite the opposite and very destructive; such thought would never cease to amuse him to no ends.

One must not be over-confident or it will be no lasting defeat. Beneath the traditional mask, the Curse user's half-smile still cunning and full of tricks said much the same whilst binding time for idle talk as long as Satoru willed to listen to his account closely. Much was encapsulated in aureate patterns carved into kuro superfice symbolizing harbinger of good harvests, smarts, and prosperity. The creative moment finally comes to the breaking point when a tantalizing tool of tribulation is no longer needed and a child rushes back to re-claim it. But something's amiss, the last detail ... The paper fan retracted, instead a hand clad in fine-drawn blackness sewn for traditional festivities rose to pale features. Thumb finds its way to lower dot and brushes across it, smudging and creating a visual oblique the brush could not. There ...

And he looked once again more contently, " All done. ~ ''

... you're not a prisoner anymore.

But what it was was a mysterious decor coating the right side of his face? Satoru Gojo will figure out only after looking in the mirror.