#Maws Open Wide

[senkamikakushi]

I’m curious if you’ve come across this pic of chihiro and lin before!! A couple months ago I found it on Pinterest and was so confused and excited cus i had never seen it before. Came to find out it was part of a ghibli merch calendar someone was selling. But it looks straight out of the movie! I wonder if it was from a deleted scene. (The movie was supposed to be around like three hours I think)

I saw that image on Pinterest too! I was so excited because I thought it was a deleted scene or extra official art.

So it's from a merch calendar! That's really cool, actually. I know the Ghibli team had to cut out a lot of extra scenes just to keep the movie short enough (and even then it's really quite long), which always made me really curious about the scenes we never got to see. This would fit perfectly as one of them! It's honestly so warm and endearing.... Maybe we could've seen more interaction between Lin and the other worker girls, or even some development between them and Chihiro. Especially since the girls in this image look suprisingly young! Anyway, it's nice to see Lin and Chihiro making up for the food that was spoiled by the river spirit.

This seems quite random, but while we're on the topic of "Spirited Away images that seem official but are suprisingly not as well known as they feel like they should be",

Would anyone happen to know about the origin of these two images?

I've heard they're from the Japanese Studio Ghibli Twitter, but whenever I follow the source links, nothing comes up. Did they delete the posts or the whole account? It's honestly a bummer because these are such sweet and adorable images and I was really excited to read through all the reactions to it. If anyone knows what happened to these posts or the original source of the images, I'd be really grateful to hear about it!

[totheecore]

furiously typing words on a keyboard isn't enough i need to bite someone for real

[fagrackham]

the real truth of it is that part of me has a feeling that when i go abroad next year i might just never come back

[dmitriene]

cw: visions of predator prey, innocence kink?

halloween with simon riley where you dress like an adorable red riding hood, it was a quick enough choice of costume, especially since simon doesn't really like to dress up, his work in the army is enough for him, so when you offered him to transform into a werewolf, which only requires a simple outfit, as well as already buyed ears and a tail, he didn't refuse.

he ain't a man that needs to play the role of a predator, he is one himself, the acting of a big, bad wolf coming to him naturally, greedy, opaque darkness of his eyes hides behind the mask and the sweep of his framing eyelashes, glancing at the flutter the little hem of your dress does, gentle, autumn breeze outside seems to be playing with your outfit under simon's gaze.

simon acts patiently in front of the public, clawed hands tugging at the fabric of his trousers all the time he's behind you, watching you just enjoy an easy walk, handing out sweets from a couple of bags that you just recently bought to the kids running by, smiling at them wide and sweet, giggling when they look warily behind your back, whispering about a scary man that stands there.

you lean a little lower to whisper in their ears that he's not a danger to them, because you were able to tame this wolf, and you're right, because all simon is focusing on right now is the way your breasts are squished together, visible from behind the round neckline decorated with ruffles, giving you an even more innocent look, and this time, his cock does throbs in the confiness of the pants, straining against his muscular, bulging thigh.

simon shows you exactly what a good wolf he is, pressing his sharp, drooling maw in the crook of your neck, huffing in your scent, a real dog, pounding in your pussy with deep, deliberate pumps of hips, filling you full, tummy bloating as you squeak hoarsely, pinned down splaying over the sheets, your ass bruised from his sloppy movements, fueled by lustfull ache that makes his fangs close around your pulse point, skin sensitive and thrumming wild, your gooey walls clutching his engorged cock tight.

you open your mouth obediently for him when he sticks a tongue in, licking over your teeth's, enjoying every little mewl and keen that pours out from your slack lips, his vulnerable, innocent girl, soppy hole stuffed full of him, milking the pulsing girth that jams against your spongy spot precisely, trembling legs giving out beneath you, leaving you jolting on the bed and accepting everything simon gives you.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 3; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

“What is this anyway—‘bring your girlfriend to work’ day?”

She’s snarky as ever, but with an agitated edge. Nerves prickling when Johnny holds her jacket out for her to slip her arms into. Even that makes her snap—something about not being a toddler that Johnny needs to help dress, but by then his head is in the clouds. In another place altogether. 

The prospect of getting to parade his new girl around leaves him giddy, fox-like grin hard to squash. He doesn’t suppress anything, finds it hard to push things down. When he does, it’s often unconscious. 

She doesn’t like the way he savours her anxiety like a fine wine, sniffs it from the top of her head and groans out his breath, cackling when she tries to stomp on his foot to make him go away. He dances away with her coat, light and nimble on his feet because he’s used to ducking and weaving for her affection. 

“The guys wanna meet ye,” he repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s surprising how many times he’s had to say it. 

“Why? Haven’t they ever met a girl before?” she gripes, swallowing now, her stomach probably cramping and poor bonnie lass, Johnny thinks. His poor, pretty girl is trying to put on a brave face when he knows she prefers being in the backroom of her little flower shop, snipping off stalks and tying pretty bows around pretty bouquets. He wishes he could keep her back there forever—put a lock on the door and come only to smother her in kisses and gorge himself on every inch of her—but there’s a whole wide world demanding his attention. 

“Aye, hen, never a lass as cute and sweet as ye,” he crows, ducking a hand that punches through the sleeve of her jacket in his direction. 

In the car, he drops the facade. Loses his teasing edge. It’s a violent removal, like jolting awake to the sound of someone sawing away at a catalytic converter. If his smile is saccharine, it’s really only a smokescreen concealing the apprehension bubbling away in his belly. 

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the drive back to base. Heart in his throat, choking his words and rendering him quiet for once in his life. He hears Ghost’s voice in his head, a low rumbling laugh, tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. These days, his voice acts as a lodestar, the thing steering Johnny home. 

Months ago, it was the only thing between him and annihilation, the ice cold maelstrom dragging him deeper into its maw. Guiding him through the valley of death. The wound in his arm still aches in the first light of day. His sleep is still wracked by dreams of running down alleys and ducking into houses, the rain pattering against the window panes ominous, a ticking clock, each step having to be precise, calculated, each movement quieter than quiet, fading into the shadows, a cool heart and mind bested by agony from the bulletwound in his shoulder.

And then—Ghost’s voice, low and soothing in his ear, shattering the pain. Ghost’s voice in his ear telling him where to go, how to survive. 

It’s hard to explain. Johnny’s tried. It’s like talking in circles when he opens his mouth and tries to get it out. I trust him with everything in me. He could do anything to me, anything. 

He is no less capable, no less competent. His rank demands respect, and he takes what’s due to him. Since Las Almas, he’s worked across a medley of other teams, even solo a time or two. It changes nothing. He still wakes in a sweat, chasing that voice. It takes him back into the real world. The days burn into the fringes of a memory that he is always living.

“Should I know anyone’s name before we get there?”

Her voice breaks through the noise in his head this time. It’s every bit as precious. 

“What d’ye mean, hen?” he asks, clucking his tongue. Sweats a bit when he realizes how far down the motorway they are now, how long it’s been since he checked out, lost in his thoughts. One hand rests loose on her leg, fingers spread wide and thumb gliding up and down her outer thigh, the other still holding the wheel. 

The pinched look has mostly fallen off from her face, but there’s still a tremble in her lower lip when she says, “Well, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t introduce you to my friends without telling you their names first.”

“No’ my friends, hen—we’re coworkers.”

She looks over at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m friends with my coworkers.”

Johnny shrugs. “It’s no’ the same with guys. Couldnae tell you fuck all about any of them except their names, to be honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that—you’re not friends with a single one of them? No one?”

No hunger without resistance. His mouth goes bone dry. He’d be wise to learn that. 

He swallows. “Maybe a few.”

No transaction without accountability. Ghost saves his life and now Johnny has to pay that debt back tenfold. Sinking into the crease of Simon’s voice late at night, clutching it to his chest. Breathing it out. Maybe they are friends. 

He’s a bit show-offy at the base gates, dangling his ID card out the window pinched between two fingers. The civilian guard on duty just waves him on, scanning it only for the sake of the logs. His tires spin in the dirt when he guns it down the stretch of road leading into the base, windows still all the way down. Her hair whips around in the wind until she gathers it all up in her fist and shrieks at him to roll the windows up. 

Johnny enjoys showing off. That’s a core aspect of who he is, his charm. Braggadocious, confident in the way he looks, his physical prowess, his lot in life—so why would that change with his girl? He holds her close with an arm around her waist when he drags her through the rec centre, the building closest to where they parked. 

He gets lost in conversation for longer than expected. Pure gloating about the girl he’s managed to bag. Cooing in her ear when he feels her get a bit uneasy, still timid around the other guys despite having him at her side. He supposes that’s fair. She’s more comfortable around the women on base, a bit freer with her greeting and questions, but there’s still a pinch in her brow that never smooths all the way over.

It takes a while to find anyone that he knows. There are plenty of sergeants and corporals that he’s worked with before, familiar faces and names, but Johnny still glances around the room while they make light conversation with his girl, searching. Looking for something familiar, something that’ll reel him in, make him perk up like a dog catching a scent. 

They cross Gaz in a random hallway on the way to the comm centre, hardly recognizable at first with the darker stubble of his beard grown out. He must’ve just come back from wherever he’d been shipped off to the month previous, no time to shave or clean up. He even smells of old sweat when Johnny leans in for a hug. 

“Is this—?” Gaz glances over at her just once while the question dangles in the air. He looks back over at Johnny. 

They lock eyes. A silent exchange of meaning. 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, steering her in front of him with both hands on her shoulders, showing his girl off like a kid with a new toy. Eyes glinting like, don’t say a word. “Brought her in to meet everyone.”

A molasses slow smile spreads across Gaz’s face. It’s clear why men like him always get the girl. Johnny’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “Nice to meet you—thought John would hide you away forever.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. “You talked about me?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Took Ghost ages to get it out of him.”

Johnny flushes. “Did no’. Jus’ ‘cause I don’ blab about everything under the fuckin’ sun doesnae mean—”

“John says you’re a florist,” Gaz interrupts, turning the conversation back to her. Her lips split up into a mischievous little grin, delighted at the turnabout, probably delighted at seeing Johnny stumble over his words.

Something about her teasing grin gets his dick hard. More points to the rapidly disintegrating belief that he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. He leans forward, pressing it into her ass, delighted himself when she shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t pull away. 

“So, where’s everybody?” Johnny asks casually, trying not to make it too obvious who he’s referring to. The look Gaz gives him is unimpressed. He keeps running into that brick wall, his thoughts written out on his forehead, obvious to everyone around him. 

“Everyone?” Gaz repeats sceptically. 

“Aye.” His voice is tight, warning. “Everyone.”

“Ghost’s actually on his way here now, I think. We got called over to HQ—s’where I was headed, actually.”

“I dinnae say anything about Ghost, now did I—,” Johnny grumbles, but the words dissolve in his mouth when the man in question comes into the room. 

Sometimes, Johnny has the pleasure of seeing Ghost round a corner. The split second pleasure of being the observer, of dragging his eyes up and over, his chest bursting with a light like dawn cresting behind mountains and splitting the sky. In the field, he’s often deprived of that; becomes used to experiencing the phenomenon of Ghost melting out of the shadows, sometimes scaring the daylights out of him. 

It’s what happens now though. Glancing up on a whim only to see a man round the corner of the hallway leading out of the rec centre, shirt stretched out maddeningly over his arms and chest, muscles bulging like he just came from the gym, still pumped. The shirt’s a little threadbare, something old and worn, and Johnny’s seen it a million and a half times he figures; it leaves so little to the imagination that he’s joked about Ghost busting it at the seams from time to time, only to be met with a steady, aloof stare. 

There’s something to be said about how he’s drawn to people who refuse to scratch him behind the ears until he’s more than proven himself. He works tirelessly for Ghost’s approval, for his girl’s approval. Dogs with their bones, tigers with their stripes. 

He has a balaclava pulled over his face, just a simple black one this time, the underside of his eyes darkened by eyeblack hastily scrubbed off the night before, probably. His eyes scan the crowd, locking on Johnny and Gaz almost instantly. It’s the mark of a good soldier—he doesn’t flounder in the dark. Always finds his target, like a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being watched. 

Ghost course-corrects upon noticing them, crossing the room in a handful of seconds. The curt, “Johnny,” he gets is a bounty, a treasure. He grins back when Ghost glances down at the girl at his side. “That your bird?” 

“Told ye I’d bring her in—s’long as everyone’s on their best behaviour, of course.”

Gaz snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Ghost must cock an eyebrow because he can see the fabric of his mask shift. “Pretty.”

He can’t help the way he preens at that. Tucked away by his side again, Johnny can feel his girl squirm, but he pays it no mind. She’s shy—he’s known that from day one, from the first time she stumbled out from the back of the flower shop and scrunched her nose up at his attempts at flirting. 

Admiration is a smooth, buttery feeling. It keeps him aloft while another couple of servicemen take interest in their conversation and come over, Johnny’s girl at the centre of everyone’s attention. He’d be pricklier about it if he didn’t have a firm hand on her waist, keeping her pressed to his side. 

He soaks up the attention. Drinks it up when someone asks his girl a question and Johnny answers for her or pinches her cheek when she manages to pipe up before him. He knows he’ll get read the riot act when he takes her back home later, but he might be able to convince her to ride him while berating him for talking over her. Might beg her to slap him and spit in his mouth—say it’s the only way he’ll learn his lesson.

Dirty dog.

It strikes him that maybe he’s picked up some bad habits in recent months. He’s never been one to overthink, to worry and fret. Yet, he toils in it now, shovels coals into the furnace of it and gives it life. 

His shoulders go slack, the tension finally ebbing out of him. No longer dogged by the incessant fear that his girl is going to run away, bolt at the first loud noise, or that someone’s going to pluck her up out of his arms. She seems comfortable if anything. 

He’s been overthinking all of this, wrapped up in his head. He can breathe out, unclench. 

When Ghost shifts to stand closer to them, he glances over because that’s where his gaze always goes these days. Seeking Ghost out, finding him in a crowd; looking for his North Star wherever he is, wherever he goes. 

Only to watch in mute horror as, in plain sight, not trying to be discreet or hide it from anyone, Ghost gropes his girlfriend’s ass in front of everyone on base. Just reaches out a big hand and fondles her ass, digging his fingers into the cheek. She freezes, back ramrod straight as she stares ahead, eyes going a bit blank. 

He fails whatever test this is, mouth too dry for any words to come out. Humiliation burns him from the inside out. Another sergeant that he’s worked with before frowns, glancing over at Johnny. Neither of them say a word. 

Ghost tilts his head, staring down at his hand on her ass like he’s contemplating its plushness. Admiring it. With how Johnny stands on one side and Ghost the other, the two of them bracket her, like the soft centre of their trio; nowhere for her to go, a handler on either side. That’s wrong though. Ghost is not her handler—Johnny hardly is, more of a self-appointed one. 

Still he—

He lets it happen.

Contention dies a bloody death in his mouth, massacred. Mangled. He lets Ghost sink his fingers into his girlfriend’s backside and hum a little under his breath before finally pulling his hand away. The others look at him, waiting for Johnny’s reaction with bated breath. A reaction that never comes because it gets strangled in Johnny’s throat. 

“Nice meeting the bird,” Ghost finally says, voice a decibel lower, rough enough to scrape. “Gaz and I’ve got shit to do now. Be ready on the tarmac by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, Johnny.” 

He grips Johnny by the shoulder before heading off, like he didn’t just grope Johnny’s girlfriend. Like he didn’t just reach down and grab a handful of her ass like it was his to feel up. And Johnny just nods. A placid, docile thing under Ghost’s hand, bobbing his head like a doll. 

Then Ghost leaves, Gaz trailing after him, looking back about a half dozen times to see if Johnny will suddenly follow them until he’s forced to job to catch up to Ghost, the man already yards away, longer legs carrying him fast out of the building. 

They don’t talk on the drive back to her apartment, the inside of the car tense and uncertain. Johnny walks her to the door when he lets her off, but it’s a formality, a chaste kiss at the door instead of the rough fuck that he’d envisioned to send her off. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she doesn’t lambast him like Johnny expected. The silence is worse though, haunting when she shuts the door in his face. 

The drive back to base after the drop off is agonizing in a whole new way. Still pent up, cock heavy in his pants, and fingers drumming over the steering wheel twice as fast now. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? What he wants to do is turn around at the closest gap between both sides of the motorway and speed all the way back, knock on her door until his knuckles blister and bleed, until she opens the door and lets him in, lets Johnny push her to the floor in the entryway and spread her legs, welcoming him in. 

Until she lets him fit his fingers into the marks left behind by Ghost’s hand. 

Cold fire rising up off his bones, and then something hot. And wet. 

The next day at breakfast in the mess, one of the guys says something like, “If Ghost was into my girl, that’s the last you’d see of me and her,” and his mind goes blank and he goes over the table.

[yeyinde]

ghoapxreader in the baby trapping series IM BEGGING 🧎‍♀️

i think i've exhausted the whole "tampering with contraceptives" thing to death by now so i would probably do something different with them. like a surrogate situation or something, but awful lmao

maybe down on her luck reader is in desperate need of cash, and these two men swoop in to save you from this horrible pit you've fallen into.

you need money. they need a baby.

simple, right?

except the simplicity falls apart when they blatantly tell you they want a natural insemination—as in, a threesome.

multiple, the pretty Scot tells you. after all, it has tae take, hen.

(and this is the part where you should have run. the moment when you'd be screaming at the television at the hapless protagonist as they walk mindlessly into danger despite the warning signs hanging overhead. but like the oblivious hero, you're too blinded by pretty, gleaming white to realise that the thing you're marveling over is a maw. cracked open wide and full of jagged, deadly teeth rearing up to sink inside of you.

but the problem with making shady deals when you're desperate is that no one really bothers to read the fine print, do they? and by the time you see past their crooked charm, you're waving your child off as they skip up the stairs to school, standing like a prisoner between them as they lean down and ask if you're ready for another—)

but that comes later.

what comes first is message on Craiglist.

one that you spend less time considering it than you should have. desperation, you find, clouds your judgement. blots out common sense. makes you susceptible to manipulation. and oh, how susceptible you are. despite priding yourself on your common sense and keen self-awareness, the overarching issues hanging over your head like an idling guillotine seem to erase that instructive need for self-preservation.

so, when the message itself pops up, you're already primed for making bad choices. ones out of malformed desperation. the barrage of texts from your landlord demanding rent, the ones sent to your family in moments of dire need asking for fruitless aid that will never come in time if the read receipts mean anything at all. the package from HR apologising for the inconvenience, but this was, regrettably, the only feasible option for the company at present, and too bad you didn't sign up for that union, huh? student loans. credit cards.

the measureable calamity of your life manifests itself in the shape of a black cloud hanging onto your aching shoulder, wrapping long, inkstained fingers around your jugular as it hisses the insurmountable figure needed to climb out of this pit in your ear.

sleepless, of course, hasn't helped.

and in that bog you can't swim through, their offer sounds far more appealing than it should.

let's meet up somewhere, comes the next message at half past three in the morning as you talk yourself in (and out) of this mess. talk about things more.

what else are you supposed to do?

job hunting sites mock you with their generic emails, thanking you for applying, and saying they'll reach out within a few business days for an interview if you're a good fit. ones sent off weeks ago. hundreds of them to no avail. it's almost like you're being plagued. blacklisted from the city.

even the fast food chain down the street refused your application when you sent it in, and the help wanted sign has been taped on the drive-thru window since you were sixteen.

it all pushes you closer and closer to making stupid choices, like replying with a simple (nervous, shaky, bile-tinged) sure to the message they sent. i'm down—

(—and drowning)

but you're smart enough to know better, so you act like it, too.

ping your location to your friends. tell them where you're going. clutch your keys so tightly in your fist that your knuckles just out through thin skin. layers upon layers of safety measures glimpsed through the various articles about how to stay alive.

but all the tremulous air is siphoned from your lungs when you see them for the first time.

something magnetic thrums through your chest. copper sutures running lines from their skin to yours until touching just seems like the most natural thing in the world. and you suppose it is when the pretty Scot folds you into a tight hug, cinching you close to his chest as if he's known you his whole life instead of just several seconds.

he's a thing of beauty. chiselled from marble, almost; David made human when he runs his tanned hand through the tumble of uneven hair along his crown. eyes the same varicoloured palette of a boscage in autumn framed in the setting sun's golden halo.

there's a distinct ruggedness about his beauty, too. one that reminds of you a lion's mane. the sleek fur of a stallion. pretty in a wild way. and as his eyes list towards you again and again, like he can't quite manage his fill of staring at you, taking you in, you think about that wildness again. the hunger in his eyes so similiar to the desperation of a predator fattening up for the encroaching chill of winter. it makes you shiver, but you can't look away

(because you know what's waiting for you when you do)

and when you finally pluck up the courage to glance at the shape devouring the light with his intimidating bulk, you come to quick realisation that if Johnny is the personification of an autumn evening, then the man standing next to him is the tried and true testament that bad things happen after dark.

he's a strange figure, one who veers almost comically into the uncanny valley with his hood pulled over the plain, black ballcap hanging low over his brow. a balaclava covering every inch of his face with the exception of a small, ovaled hole for his eyes. remnants of something ashy smear into the corners, running up the crooked bend of his nose.

he doesn't look like a real man—not with those liquid, haunting eyes—but at the same time, there's something preternaturally human about him. a stereotypical sense of masculinity—just one warped around the edges.

with his worn jeans pulled tight over thick, bulging thighs, and the silver zipper of his hoodie resting at the base of his throat, you could easily think he was just another man in the crowd, but it's off. a glitch. a skip.

like mistaking a coat rack for a man in the dead of night.

eerie.

dangerous.

if the man beside him is playfully carnivorous, a basking lion rolling onto his belly at the zoo, separated by thick glass, then he (Simon, Johnny supplies readily when the silence lingers; Simon Riley), Simon, is what it feels like to be followed home at night.

but—

there's something about fear and desire that are almost inseparable when broken down into a physiological response.

and when he steps up behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body soaking into the drying sweat on your back, you liken the way your heart climbs up your throat to same as it would seeing a dorsal fin cutting above the waves in open water.

desire, you think, and then catching the white-hot burn of the stare, you add, in a thin whisper: fear.

when they sit you down, and begin to spin a story about how they just want a baby—no strings attached—you stay seated in the chair even as an itch in the back of your head starts, nails scraping at your skull.

their reluctance toward traditional methods makes sense when they explain that with their lifestyle, it's impossible—or the Scottish man does; the other one with a marbled skin of thick, ugly scars on his hands just stares, pinning you down with the weight of his gaze—and this arrangement is the only way they'll get the baby they've been hoping for.

and even though the scratching in your head sounds suspiciously like why you and run, you eat the food they bought for you in the fancy restaurant where appetisers start at $30, and a glass of water is priced at $6. volcanic spring water, the waiter explains as he pours it from a marbled glass pitcher.

you haven't eaten a real meal that wasn't microwavable or cup noodles in weeks.

maybe that's why you find yourself thinking why not instead of no.

they're attractive men. it's not the worst situation you could have found yourself in, even if the idea of parenthood—however brief it's supposed to be—has bile clawing up the back of your throat, and the bones housing your trembling heart feeling laden, heavy like iron, and starts to cinch your chest shut each day, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and—

they drop off the first the installment to you the moment your doctor starts to talk about boerhaave syndrome, as if they know the doubts that plague your head when they leave your apartment and the silence starts to mock you.

and that leads you here.

guilt for their situation. desperation over your own. an overarching need to please. it's all a dangerous cocktail that douses over rationality until you're nodding along, accepting their words as gospel until sleeping with them—multiple times—doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

until it happens. until you have Johnny and Simon actively working to knock you up. a marathon of intense sex with the single-minded goal of putting their baby in you.

Johnny drooling all over you as he ruts between your thighs, mindlessly driving himself into a frenzy as he slurres out his desires in an incomprehensible mess of English and Gaelic and animalistic grunts. barely pulling out in time before Simon is pressing your knee down to the mattress, cooing mockingly at the mess his boy made of you. cruelly taking bets as he slides into your sore, aching cunt about who will take first. his or Johnny's? and who do you want, birdie? who's baby do you want first?

fingers always shoving inside to cap the overflow when they exhaust themselves in a liquid-limbed stupor, barely conscious as you tapped out some three, four rounds ago. unable to keep your eyes open any longer as they both came to the same conclusion that cumming inside of you at the same time was the quickest way to knock you up together. ain't he a romantic, birdie?

and it's probably for the best that you passed out before it happened, drooling on Simon's scarred shoulder as he gripped the cheeks of your ass, pulling you wide open as Johnny shuffled forward between his spread legs, eyes riveted to the spot where Simon's cock split you open. the ache you felt the next morning, coming to on a broad chest with fingers stuffed inside of you—shush, shush, just keeping you nice an' plugged, sweetheart—was almost unbearable.

you expected them to clear out after getting what they want, but they stay. tend to you carefully like you're made of fine china.

or—Johnny does. bundles you up in his arms before setting off towards the bath, finally letting you wash the sticky, flaking grime from your skin, some awful mixture of drying cum, spit, and sweat, groaning in your ear as he pulls you to his damp, hairy chest about how sweet you are for them. how they're going to take care of you.

Simon caters to other things. packs your bags as Johnny scrubs thick fingers over your shoulders, pausing to grasp a sore, tender breast in his palm, hefting the weight up as he feverishly mutters about how hot it'll be to watch you feed their baby. an' maybe you'll let him have a little taste, too—

and when you finally emerge from the bath, sorer between the thighs than you were when you woke up, another mess pooling in the gusset of the panties he pulled up your legs, Simon's waiting, eyes riveted to your belly. staring at it with so much hunger, a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of your neck.

in the grand scheme of things, the threesome is the easy part. the hard part comes when they turn the arrangement into a prison, locking the shackles around your wrists when the pregnancy test comes back positive a few weeks later.

they're only doing what's best for their baby, they say, when they move you out of your apartment and into theirs. the cut lease was the only way to do it, Johnny says, shrugging. why make you pay for something you aren't using anymore?

and maybe if your head was thickened with a fog, you'd have questioned the phrasing, but as it stands, pregnancy, even as early as this one, adles you. leaves you a syrupy mess of emotions that they take turns exploiting. aren't you so lonely all by yourself, hen? don' ye want a family?

aren't they good enough for you?

it's less subliminal messaging and more overt coersion. what are you going to do after this? where will you go with your lease cut? and when the funds run dry? what then?

gonna find another couple to knock you up? Simon hisses, mangled hands mauling your belly, pinching and squeezing the flesh as if he could feel the fragile box their happiness is housed inside. should jus' stay with us if that's the case, birdie.

but it's all so sweet, in its own way—

(—sweet like a parasite nesting inside of it's host.

but at least you'll never be lonely.)

they stand by the fact that they're looking out for you. that they care. that they can't do much else but idle and watch your body evolve into something new (an' magnificent, Johnny breathes, kissing this unfamiliar shape you call home) and it grates at them because they're not used to feeling so useless, so can't you just let them do this for you? take care of you in all the ways they see fit? like cutting your lease and giving you a better place to stay. handing in your resignation from that shitty nine to five that wore you down to the bone. culling out the annoyances in your life—the friends and family—who kick up needless fits over your wellbeing, and just stress you out more than you need to be.

they're not good enough for you, is what Simon says when you ask why he blocked them from your phone, Johnny hovering by the doorway with his arms folded over his chest. barring the exits, you'll realise later. but what comes first is fear, is anger, is—

happiness. maybe. or some broken, fragile facsimile of it. a subpar humuliculus masquerading around as if it was realised flesh and bone.

"oh," you say, and think you should be touched by his care, his concern, and so you are. shape this emotion from the sludge that pools at the bottom of your chest, running fingers through the muck to find pieces of gold. and then: "thank you, Simon."

it's sweet. or it could have been if it didn't spiral out of your control when they systematically dismantle your entire life until all you're left with is loose sediment slipping through your fingers. the foundation itself soften clay they shape into the image they've been after with the whole time: you.

(or more specifically, a momma for their baby.)

and when they ask you, at the end of this thin, fraying tether, if you want to be with them—an equal, a mother—and be a mother again for them, there's nothing else you could say except yes.

nothing because they made it so.

[pricegouge]

cw: alcohol, intox, dub con/non con, unprotected sex, somno MDNI

About a month into your situationship with Simon, he invites you to a party. You go even though the two of you don't have much of a social relationship because you're horny and hoping for an after party. Except, when you get there, it's just him and two of his buddies. They're younger and maybe a little obnoxious, but funny and generous with the drinks they keep making for you so you hang out. Dont have any other plans, and the way Simon keeps eyeing you, you know he's gonna make it up to you for the evening being a bit of a wash

Except... you may be drunk, but that's not Simon's voice cooing in your ear later about how much fun he's had, how glad he is you came. And those aren't Simon's thick fingers working you open, the lips on your clit too pillowy soft to be his mangled maw. That is his phone propped up on the coffee table though, filming as his sergeants take his girl apart for him, leave her limp and loose and leaking just so he can finally fuck her without wasting his time working her open for an hour

It's just the two of you there when you wake in the morning. You slink out the door and make your way home, telling yourself the whole way it was just some drunken dream. In the shower, you tell yourself the mess you clean from between your thighs was just the result of the two week stretch you'd gone without seeing Simon, that he'd just been eager to see you. But then he sends you the video, and you watch with wide eyed horror as you cum on Kyle's lips and cock, beg Johnny not to pull out as he pistons into you from behind. You didn't remember Kyle getting another round after Simon at all, and feel your stomach twist with something like shame and embarrassment when you realize that's probably because he fucked you right to sleep. The boys laugh when they notice the same, joking about it right over your unconscious form

The mess between your thighs is harder to explain away this time.

[mawsopenwide]

Maxx ends up finding a poor loner at the club and decides to show them a good time~

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

*scuttles over to you* hey imagine how scared Childe must've been when you first found him as Foul Legacy.

the Harbinger stumbles home after a particularly difficult battle, his boots thumping along the darkened streets, the harbor city asleep under the black blanket of nighttime. labored breaths fall from his fanged maw, Foul Legacy's power barely hanging on so he can get them home, back to where it's safe, back to you. he pushes the door open and immediately doubles over, clutching the wall for support. it's fine, it's fine- he's home now. he'll patch himself up and slip into bed with your sleeping form, wrap his arms around you and drift off, nightmare-free. somehow you always chase away the memories of falling and falling and breaking on the way down.

it's past midnight. usually you're asleep by now, but the thumping noise of the door swinging shut, or perhaps the footsteps downstairs- something woke you. you sit up groggily in bed, following the shuffling and the quiet hisses of pain, not cautious in the slightest. Childe's taught you enough about combat for self-defense, a small sword in your hand as you make your way towards the door. but it clatters to the ground when your eyes land on an otherworldly beast, all violet and black and vivid crimson with sharp claws and two twin horns, hunched near the front door of your home.

you stare. Foul Legacy stares. then he scrambles back and presses himself against the way with a strangled screech.

you nearly jump back in fright, heart hammering in your chest as you grip your weapon. yet the creature merely shrinks away and grips its knees, letting out rasping sobs and whimpers. its blood drips onto the floor, dark and speckled with tiny lights, and your heart suddenly squeezes in a jolt of realization. gingerly you step forward, lowering your blade to the ground as you approach the weeping monster, placing a gentle hand into its thick, familiar coppery hair.

Foul Legacy's head snaps up towards you, his singular, faceted eye wide and filled with tears as he chokes out a faint, mournful whine.

I'm a monster. I'm terrifying. Please, please, please, don't be afraid.

you wrap your arms gently around the Abyssal half of your Harbinger, and Foul Legacy cries as he melts desperately into your embrace.

[luveline]

If you’re doing requests could you do KBD during Halloween?

uncle Eddie makes sure Steve has the perfect costume. mom!reader

Steve smiles at himself in the mirror. Wren, in his arms, smiles back. 

“We look handsome,” he says, lifting her so her face is level with his own. “I look handsome. You look beautiful.” 

“Hi,” she says. 

Steve turns down to her. “Hi, baby.” 

Avery climbs onto a chair and waves at the mirror. Her fairy princess dress is shiny blue. “Hello.” 

Beth climbs onto the chair after her, wrapping her arms around Avery’s shoulders. “Hi!” she says, force of her greeting sending her pirates hat careening to the floor. 

“Are you ready?” you call from upstairs. “Everyone still has their shoes on?” 

“Dove doesn’t,” Avery says. 

“Tattle!” Dove cries, a picture of fury in her kitty cat onesie, her glued-on whiskers twitching fiercely.

“Well, you don’t.” 

“My toes are warm,” Dove whines, thrusting herself at Steve’s legs. “Daddy, she’s telling on me.” 

“I know, and now you’re telling on her. You’re my little band of tattle-tales, I don’t love it.” Steve smooths along Wren’s face with his finger and takes in a breath big enough to fill his lungs. “Can you let Beth put your shoes back on?” 

“No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

You fit Dove into her shoes and get the kids to the car. Four car seats is tough work but nothing you can’t handle, and you’re still in chipper spirits when you arrive at the Munson house. It’s decked out in cobwebs and great big spiders made of tinsel and bendy framing, carved pumpkins leading up the steps with fleshy teeth and candles unburned in their maws. Wren gives a comical gasp when she sees it all, a tad scared but quickly soothed when you pretend to be scared too. 

Beth races up the steps first to knock. 

The door opens a slither. 

“Who goes there?” a dark voice asks. 

“Uncle Eddie, it’s me!” Beth says quickly. Her excitement again sends her hat to the stone patio beneath her cons, but she doesn’t notice it, vying to squeeze through the door and see her favourite uncle. 

“I don’t know any Me’s. You’ll have to come back another day, I’m waiting for my very favourite troupe of little girls.” 

“It’s BETH!” Beth shrieks, “Come on!”

“Bethany?” Eddie pushes the door open, unsurprised when Beth throws herself full force into his legs. “Why, you look dastardly. How very scary of you! You have a parrot!” 

The fake parrot glued to Beth’s shoulder waggles. 

“His name is Sherbet.” 

“Wow.” Eddie gives her a hug, his eyes blowing wide over her shoulder. “Oh, wow! Ave, you’re a princess with wings! And Dove, meow.” He grins at Steve. “And your dad is what, Frankenstein’s monster? A zombie?”

“Dad doesn’t have a costume,” Beth says happily. 

“Are you sure?” 

Steve encourages Dove over the threshold, four wrapped plates of sandwiches and finger foods balanced in the other hand. “That’s not funny. What are you supposed to be, anyways?” 

“I’m a vampire, duh.” Eddie slips a pair of fake fangs into his teeth. “I vant to suck your blood!” 

“Ew, Uncle Eddie,” you say. 

“Don’t think you’ve escaped me, second favourite Harrington,” Eddie says, frowning as you slip around him. “You owe me a hug.” 

“Creep,” Steve says. 

“With pride.” Eddie takes the plates from his arms and somehow, the Harrington troupe makes it safely indoors, no further costume parts fallen nor lost. 

There are more people here than Steve expected, Eddie’s friends, their kids, even Eddie’s elusive boyfriend sits out in the open. 

“What are you supposed to be?” Dove asks him with a grin. 

He turns his head to show a painted bite mark on his neck. “Victim.” 

“He’s a dead guy,” Eddie tells her, helping her where she’s struggling to sit in one of the barstools. “Alright, babe, dad said last year we partied too hard, so here are the ground rules. No pixie sticks, no soda, and no climbing on the kitchen counters. If you follow these rules, I am being allowed to give you a Hershey bar the size of your dad’s massive head. Deal?” 

“How big?” Dove questions suspiciously. 

Eddie goes to the cabinet. Inside, there’s more candy bars than one person should ever have purchased in one go. He pulls out a huge one and holds it nexts to Steve’s head, laughing when Steve bats it away. “Huge.” 

“Dad, dad, can I go play with Milly and Joe?” Avery asks. 

Steve was hoping she would. “Sure, baby. Good manners, okay?” 

Avery whizzes off to find Gareth’s kids. Beth stays by Steve’s side and he forces himself to believe that it’s him she wants to be with, not Eddie. “You don’t wanna go play?” Steve asks her. 

“Not yet.” 

You appear again where you’d been missing with Robin in tow. Steve grins at the sight of her, though he’d spoken to her on the phone last night, and seen her the day before at home. “Buckley!” 

She’s wearing a black dress with a belt and her hair is teased into a short cloud. “You aren’t wearing your costume?” 

Steve moves Beth around unthinkingly. “Yeah, it still smelled like vomit. Wren had too much yoghurt. Rob, you really look like Madonna. Your makeup is–”

“It’s trippy, right?” Eddie asks. 

“Mora did it. It’s like, face sculpting.” 

“It’s weird.” 

“I like it,” you say, Wren on your hip giving an agreeable gurgle. “I like your real face more, but this is cool.”

“And where’s your costume?” Eddie asks. 

You frown down at your nice dress. “You can’t tell?” 

Eddie falls for the trip in your voice and attempts to backtrack, only realising that you’re kidding when Steve laughs. 

“The baby got sick on both of us,” you say, turning Wren so everyone in the kitchen can see her face. “But that’s okay. She’s so cute, she’s forgiven. Aren’t you, gorgeous? You didn’t mean to eat all that yoghurt, daddy just kept feeding you.” 

Steve holds his hands up in surrender. “I feed her every day, I know how much yoghurt she can handle.” 

“Clearly not,” you croon, shooting him a loving smile. “You did save us from those awful costumes, though.” 

“Oh, worry not,” Eddie says, “I figured something like this would happen, and I’ve prepared.” 

Awesome, Steve thinks, groaning as Eddie takes his wrist into his hand and begins to pull on him. Knowing Eddie, Steve’s end up dressed as a demon with giant horns, or a fairy. 

The reality is much, much worse. 

“Hey, look at that! It still fits!” Robin laughs. 

Steve looks down at his little sailor’s uniform and sighs. “Barely,” he says. 

“Say the slogan!” you demand. 

If it were anyone else, Steve would refuse, but you’re sitting at the breakfast bar with Wren tucked under your chin, so he takes a deep breath and straightens his white hat. “Ahoy ladies,” he sighs. “Would you like to… uh, set sail on this ocean of flavour with me? I’ll be your captain, I’m…” —his voice drags reluctantly— “I’m Steve Harrington.”

[frogchiro]

In reference to your other post: Wolf Hybrid!Ghost taking the reader from behind, his mind clouded with lust as he mounts them, lining up his thick cock before stretching them open. He can't help but look down at where they connect, seeing their hole stretched thin over his cock and making him mutter a teasing "Awww... biiig stretch" under his breath, lips pulled into a pleased smirk as he goes to pound town.

I literally came tf did you put in this ask

Wolf dog hybrid!Simon who, if able to, would mount you all the time and not let you off of his dick, his large knot keeping you tied to him and the pointy tip of his lengthy cock leaking and spurting his fertile sperm deep in you :((

Remember that he's huge! Build like a shit brickhouse, broad, burly shoulders, bulky arms and legs, a nice healthy layer of fat on his tummy making him seem even larger and his fluffy tail and pointy, fuzzy dog ears on top of his head only complete the look. Whenever he drapes himself over your smaller, soft body and grinds hips strong hips against you you always loose your balance a bit and whine at him to please not put all his weight on you, you'll break under him!!

But Simon just snuffles and makes a chuffing noise as he pushes his nose right under your jaw to inhale your scent, his fluffy tail wagging like crazy behind him; he wouldn't admit it but he always gets so stupidly happy whenever you're near. His mate is close and all he wants to do is to nip and tease you, herd you away and then mount :((

Imagine Simon thrusting his hips without abandon, so fucking turned on and horny, low growls escaping his maw as he listens attentively to your whines and whimpers and he can't help but smirk at the delicious sight of your poor, swollen pussy stretched open so wide to accommodate his large, heavy cock, his swollen tip hitting against your battered cervix and he almost howls at the feeling of being so so deep in you :(

Si would smirk and slow down his insistent thrusts to a slow in and out and using his thumbs he'd spread your cunt open to see his length stretching you to your limits and it's then when he growls a nasty:

"Aahhh would you look at tha'...Biiig stretch lovie'

And you're both speechless and embarrassed at the same time :(( He threw your affectionate words you use when you find Si particularly cute back at you when you're stretched wide on his dick :(( He's so mean :((

[skittishpuppy]

M!Werewolf x

F!reader smut

18+

Warning- monsterfucking, obviously, lots of swearing, very very slight dubcon at the beginning, knotting, use of 'it' to refer to the werewolf.

Word count- 1903

This was written by me! Hope you enjoy <3

..................................................................................

You sighed to yourself as you took the steps up to your first floor apartment. It had been a hard day at work and you were already ready to turn in for the night, despite it only being 6:30 p.m. Your boss had been particularly dickish, and you really just needed to relax, maybe have a little bit of a self care evening, then fall asleep. It was your day off tomorrow, luckily, so you could get away with it.

You opened your door and broke the threshold of your home, but immediately stopped short when you heard a strange rustling noise behind you. You looked back nervously, somehow expecting to see some sort of axe murderer. What you saw was even worse.

Twenty feet away from you, and growing ever closer, there was a werewolf. An extremely large one, at nearly twelve feet tall.

You swallowed heavily, face turning a little pale with fright. You'd never encountered a werewolf before, but from what you'd heard, they weren't supposed to be out this early… And it wasn't even a full moon. But despite that, the creature was here, right in front of you, salivating like a rabid dog that was ready to go in for the kill.

You raised your hands in surrender and began backing up slowly, not really sure what else to do. What else was there to do? You didn't have anything to protect yourself; All you had was a brain that was capable of sending prayers to a god you weren't even sure existed.

In your panicked, fight or flight state, you forgot to shut the door, and that was your downfall. The beast sped up upon noticing your retreat. A fun game of chase, it probably presumed.

Your back hit the wall and your heart began pounding so fast and intensely that you were surprised it didn't explode from your chest like in that one episode of supernatural.

Seemingly unaware, or unbothered by, your absolute all-consuming, spine chilling terror, it continued to approach you, maw gaping open, revealing its razor sharp, two inch long canines that could easily tear you to shreds.

“Um,” you said weakly as it closed in on you. “Good dog?” It was a weak strategy, but it couldn't hurt to try, could it?

It just let out a low growl and you whimpered and screwed your eyes shut, unable to look the beast in the eye as it tore you apart and devoured you alive.

After a beat where nothing but it's hot breath on your neck could be felt, you dared to open your eyes. You saw its crimson red hungry gaze staring back at you.

You swallowed heavily. This was it. This was the day you died. You hadn't gotten to do even one of the things on your bucket list yet. You hadn't even experienced much of life! You were young still, you didn't deserve to die, much less in such a gruesome way as this. You were–

Your eyes snapped back open, this time wide as saucers.

Oh…?

Oh.

You'd been right; It did want to devour you, but not in an evil-shredding-destroying-murdering way. In a sexy way.

The werewolf's furry hand had slipped under your shirt and was now roaming around, gently feeling your slightly chubby stomach. It'd taken you years to feel ok with it, and you still weren't certain of your own body, but this creature was somehow making all those worries go away.

Nonetheless, ‘What the fuck?’ was the only thought your blanked out mind could supply as you simply allowed the werewolf to rid you of your button down by ripping it off you.

It did the same with your black lacy bra, the one that always made you feel good in your own skin, and tossed the shredded remains onto the floor. What a waste. But really, you couldn't bring yourself to care. You had better things to be focusing on. Like, how a goddamn werewolf was now licking and nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck while rubbing your perky nipples.

“Mmm…” you hummed softly, tilting your head to try and escape the advances. You weren't sure if you actually wanted to, but somehow it felt more shameful if you didn't.

It didn't seem to matter, either way. The werewolf just continued working its way down your body. When it reached your pencil skirt, you squirmed, but you couldn't wriggle out of its tight grasp. It was far, far stronger than you. Able to kill you with a single bite or swipe of its large paw. And somehow, deep in the darkest recesses of your mind, you really liked that.

It tore off your skirt, throwing it to the side, and ran a clawed finger along the waistband of your panties, while using the other hand to begin feeling you through the silk fabric.

You clenched your thighs together, but it was for naught. It began rubbing your clit sensually, clearly intending to make you feel good, and you couldn't stifle the small gasp that escaped your lips.

You spread your thighs, giving it full access, and it fully took advantage of that, discarding your panties and getting on its knees. It leaned in, nuzzling you with its wet nose, and you shivered. The cold feeling was new to you, but it wasn't bad.

The werewolf then stuck out its tongue and began licking your cunt enthusiastically, focusing on the clit.

“Oh, fuck…” you breathed out, throwing your head back against the wall. It was really good at this, far better than any human man you'd been with. It clearly knew what it was doing.

Its tail was wagging wildly as it treated you to the best cunnilingus you'd ever experienced, and you couldn't help but feel honored that you made this beast feel that happy.

It ate you out like it was what it lived to do, kissing and nipping at your thighs, lapping at your cunt, even using the pads of its fingers to rub you.

You didn't take long to come, entire body convulsing, and you cried out in pleasure, eyelids fluttering. It helped you through it, licking up your cum, and the aftershocks were just as pleasurable. Your thighs were shaking, and you were barely able to hold yourself up against the wall, but it didn't really matter.

Suddenly, you felt your feet get swept underneath you, and the ground grow farther away. You distantly realized, through the haze of your orgasm, that you were being carried by the werewolf across the room, and into your bedroom. It tossed you onto the bed and you sat up, staring directly at the new development.

The werewolf's cock had unsheathed, and it was long, thick, and dripping with precum.

You swallowed heavily, feeling your mouth turn dry. It was big. Really big. You'd never taken anything near that size, even in your personal time. But you'd be damned if you were going to back down from a challenge. So you stared into the wolf's eyes. “Fuck me,” you dared, not entirely sure how it'd react.

The wolf's gaze darkened, penetrating down to your very soul, and it leapt onto the bed, muscles rippling, and shoved you onto your back so harshly you yelped in surprise.

It had definitely responded properly, you thought, as it pinned your arms above your head, gripping your wrists tightly enough to leave bruises.

Without wasting any time, it positioned itself properly, tapping its cock on your cunt a few times. You wrapped your legs around its waist, both of your bodies falling naturally into place.

You briefly wondered why the hell you'd gone along with this in the first place, you knew it was going to hurt, but you simply couldn't resist. The allure of the taboo had plagued you all your life, and this was no different. You had to try everything at least once, and this was no different. You were torn from your thoughts abruptly when the werewolf lined up with your entrance.

Fuck. This was really happening.

“Fuck!” you shouted as it suddenly thrust in all the way, balls deep, sending you forward. It pulled out, then slammed back in, setting a rough, hard pace that had you gasping and whimpering pitifully with each thrust. It was painful, god it was painful, but the pleasure far outweighed the rest.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, your brain getting fully rewired. This was the best thing you'd ever experienced, the amazing feeling of its cock inside you, pushing your body and mind to the very limits.

It railed you, hard and fast, unrelenting and intense, holding you in place with ease. You felt tears well up in your eyes, and a sob make its way out of your throat, and holy fuck, you could hardly breathe.

It was growling, deep and low and animalistic as it fucked you with abandon, and it was a noise that sent shivers down your spine and butterflies in your stomach.

You were distantly aware you were just babbling now, unable to form any sort of coherent sentence, or even thought. The only thing you could think about was its cock ramming you, how full you felt, and how fucking amazing this was.

Eventually, its thrusts grew more stuttered and twitchy, its growls more high pitched and whiny, as it grew closer to its climax.

You let out a long, drawn out moan and shifted your hips to help him along, and it did the trick, as seconds later, you felt its cum fill you up to the brim. You gasped, surprised and extremely pleased with the warm, full feeling, and it let out a loud howl, consumed with pleasure, but continued thrusting into your pussy.

Finally, your own pleasure overtook you. You let out a string of incoherent curses that would make a sailor blush as your second orgasm rippled through you, cascading from your cunt to your stomach and your thighs, filling you with so much pure fucking ecstasy that you saw stars, your vision turning black at the edges.

The werewolf gave a few more weak thrusts, finally tiring out, but didn't pull out. Your eyes widened as you felt something grow inside you– its knot.

You tried to twist yourself away from it, not particularly wanting to be stuck with the beast inside you for an hour, but you were immediately stopped by brute force, and you just gave into it.

The werewolf seemed pleased by your submission, and moved forward on the bed. It laid down beside you, despite not fitting on the mattress, and wrapped its legs and arms around you, cuddling you.

You could do nothing but fully embrace it with a soft, content sigh.

This definitely wasn't something you'd ever heard in the stories, but you weren't in the least bit displeased about it. Rather the opposite, in fact. This had been, by far, the best sexual encounter of your life. You just hoped the werewolf would stay for the night. And maybe more… You could totally go a dozen more rounds.

As you closed your eyes, you wondered if it was possible to have his pups. It was, oddly enough, an appearing idea. You then felt his grip tighten around you, and you relaxed, feeling safe and secure in his arms, and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

[werecreature-addicted]

I love half-snake men, from the waist up he is a handsome man with two long lines from the corners of his lips that make him open his mouth wide and show you his long, thin fangs that he loves to bury in you and a long forked tongue, from the waist down a huge and long snake tail with which he loves to surround and squeeze your legs and immobilize you to bury his long and slimy cock in you :3

(I got very excited, and I stopped myself from telling what else I had in mind 🤭)

You don't know why but you expect his skin to be damp. Maybe it's the way that his green scales glimmer like the surface of a lake, maybe it's the tropical climate he keeps his den at, all the moister in the air must cling to his skin. but his snake skin is dry, and warm, which surprises you too.

He holds you close and kisses your body, his mouth opens wide enough he could fit your whole shoulder in his maw if he wanted to, and that's without even unhinging his jaw. but of course, he doesn't. you're his favorite little pet, he doesn't want to hurt you. He wants to make you all his.

His fangs are just for show, he's a constrictor, but that just means he doesn't have to worry about accidentally hurting you when he playfully bites you. His forked tongue slipped over your pulse point, tasting the air to sense your mood, your arousal.

He coils his body around you, trapping you against his warm, dry, body, as his hot wet cock twitches out from its sheath. he ruts himself against your thigh until you take the initiative and pull him toward you, putting his length inside of yourself.

You're completely surrounded by him, his tail and his hands, his mouth and his cock. he's everywhere, no possible way to escape as he closes in around you, and honestly. you aren't sure you want to escape.

[zorosdimples]

mdni. cw: hybrids, oral fixations, spit. my (not so) long-awaited return to the tiger hybrid yuuji-verse.

Sunday afternoons are usually spent like this: lazing on the couch with your tiger hybrid, his broad frame curled around yours as he shields you from the stress of your impending work week. Your face is buried in his strong chest and his chin rests atop your head.

Yuuji chuffs in contentment when you reach up to scratch his rosy ears; the vocalization puffs against your hair as his soft tail gently bats your hip. When you try to withdraw your hand, he whines, chasing you with his nose. As you let him nuzzle into your touch, he begins lapping at your skin.

You chuckle; you’ve grown fond of his clinginess. “Hm?”

His affection dances from the center of your palm to the tip of your pointer finger, and he wraps his tongue around the digit before nipping the pad. He pulls away from your comforting scent and warmth—barely, as his breath ghosts your flesh—and his striped ears twitch.

“You know how you told me to come to you when I need anything?” Yuuji asks.

You hum. “Of course.”

“Well,” he gulps, cheeks blooming a ruddy color that matches his hair, “could you, um, play with my mouth?”

Unsure of where he’s headed with his request, you quirk an eyebrow.

“The vet said I had to stop chewing so much ice—remember?”

“Yeah. It’s bad for your teeth if you do it too often.”

He nods. “And I've chewed through all of my toys.”

“No new toys until next month, Yuu. They’re too expensive to replace on a weekly basis. Unfortunately, I’m not made of money.”

The hybrid’s ears flatten against his head. “I know. But my mouth feels so empty.” He shifts a little, now fidgeting with the fuzzy tip of his tail. “I—um, just need something to occupy it. My gums ache, and my jaw hurts because I keep clenching. I try to work everything out on my own, but I… I thought maybe you could help.”

Wide, sweet, earnest, Yuuji’s gaze is rich caramel. You feel a little flustered by his request—you aren’t exactly sure why—but you couldn’t possibly say no to him. You offer Yuuji a reassuring smile. “There’s no need for you to be embarrassed; I’m always happy to help. Now: open wide for me.”

Your willingness draws a pleased chuff from him, and he complies, baring his maw. Accentuated by glinting incisors, rows of honed teeth would be a frightening sight for an onlooker. But the hybrid would rather wither away than hurt a fly (unless the fly was trying to harm you). You begin by running a finger along his slick gums, gingerly massaging the pink tissue.

Garbled whines flutter past Yuuji’s drooling tongue; his eyes water, irises hazy with relief. By the time you reach his molars, you have to hold his tongue down with your middle and ring fingers, using your index to rub around his teeth. Spit pools at the bottom of his mouth and dribbles down his chin. A pleased sigh leaves his stretched lips, and his hips jerk forward, something firm brushing against your belly.

Blood rushes to your face. You swallow dryly, acutely aware of your intimate position. “Are you hard, Yuuji?”

The hybrid doesn’t try to deny it. “Thowy,” he pants with your fingers heavy on his tongue. Dew collects at his temples and his neck is blush. But instead of putting space between your bodies, he squirms closer—until his bulge presses against you, his syrupy gaze slowing your mind and seeping into your limbs.

Arousal knots itself deep in your core as you stare at your companion—hot, needy, eager. Against your better judgment, you grind against him. Losing focus, he roughly grabs your hips, mouth closing around your digits to lave and suck. He rolls onto his back and hoists you on top of him, angling you so that his throbbing length rubs you right where you need.

“Fuck,” you hiss, unable to do anything but roll your hips and chase pleasure. You extract your fingers from Yuuji’s mouth, cradling his burning face before melting into him, a heap of spit and teeth and tongue.

“I’m s-sorry,” he groans against your lips as he kneads your ass, tail grazing your ankle. “Gonna make it up to you—promise.”

[anantaru]

DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — dan heng

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, monsterfucking, dragon! cock dan heng, dragon features -> he has horns, size kink/size difference, established relationship

hurried inhales gush into your mouth and you can feel it fill the maw inside you— touching the ends of your soul. a reaction just as the one mentioned wasn't of an unusual kind when you spent the night with dan heng, precisely his ability to leave you in awe.

you feel how his large cock was pressing into your tight opening, a prolonged slide of warmth and need spreading around your walls when you raise your hips for him, shaky breathing taking off the pressure in your throat. although this wasn't the first time of you being intimate with dan heng, you never fail to notice the clear differences between your bodies— he's bigger, as well as stronger when he pins you against the bed, and one hand was large enough to envelop both your wrists and keep them up your head.

nonetheless, the real reason as to why you were struggling to keep yourself at the same energy levels as he was— surprisingly wasn't the fact that dan heng was able to overturn you with nothing but sheer strength, but on top of that, he'll make it his duty to crowd you with his heavy cock, his bulky shaft truly one of a kind when he slots himself inside, pressing up into your touch.

however, your boyfriend falters for a moment, and without pulling out of your dripping pussy, he lets himself get cockwarmed before enfolding his eyes to hold your gaze, his grip on your wrists loosening as he slants himself forward, the blue horns on his head brilliantly shining like the celestial bodies in the moonlight sky.

"you know your safe word?" he whispers, wanting to make sure because you see— dan heng was aware that doing this with you, wouldn't be an easy task— good thing he always made sure to prep you up properly like flicking his tongue over your pussy while his face begins to redden from heightened blood flow the moment he listens to your begs telling him to fuck your cunt with the wet muscle, or what about pushing his digits so far up your hole that you're at least a little prepared for what's about to come.

your legs part slightly, just an inch more to ease your muscles from the position they were in before exhaling through your parted mouth, "I know my safe word." you affirm, "don't worry about me." and your hips are beginning to jerk forward every so slightly to signalize him that you really wanted this, not only that but that you needed it, so very much that the mere thought of losing the heaviness in your core was utterly mind shattering.

dan heng nips at your mouth, pressing his hips to find you rock yourself up at his groin— and his eyes, the intimate color of his irises, hidden beneath a beclouded shadow of lust, "o-okay." he understood now, idly gripping your wrists tighter before adding strength to his hips to slide out of you in one smooth, long-rooted drag before pushing himself back in again with a fast, sharp snap.

you yelp in surprise, a noise so desperate and fine that dan heng could see himself doing this all night long, drifting his length deeper and deeper until you believe you could somehow sense him in your lower belly, the energy of his blows expanding into a forming lump that held your climax hostage.

his body slides easily over yours while your tongues clash against each other, his wide-reaching cock desperately fucking you whilst he was inhaling your exhaled scent and shaking when it reaches the end of his senses, because;

it’s a miracle how you smell, feel and taste— it’s so intoxicating to him, how you accept him even in this form and aren’t frightened of the horns prancing on top of his scalp, and dan heng believes you must be some sort of aphrodisiac to him, because how else were you enforcing this much power on his entire psyche?

the lewd echo of both your needy noises combine inside the room and whirl around the humidity expelled by your sweaty, with perspiration webbed, skin— the need to please and make each other climax at the same time, ultimately crowned your bodies into one blissful release. 

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[crushribbons]

ʜʏᴘᴏᴄʀɪᴛᴇ

summary: Alicent Hightower, queen of the realm, cannot sin alone.

cw: 1.3k words, SMUT (18+ ONLY), takes place late s1ish, alicent x chambermaid!reader, fingering, oral (both f!receiving), kind of toxic power abuse, religious undertones (for the vibes), fem!reader/oc. based off a prompt from my love @wedonthaveawhile whose brain is magic. requests open.

a/n: no research we die like lesbian servants!! xx laney

Rhaenyra and Alicent are nose to nose.

“The supposed parentage of my children is nothing but a rumor designed to discredit me,” Rhaenyra says, her teeth gritted together. “Designed, I believe, with intention, by Your Grace.”

The snort slips out of you before you have time to consider that it could be your last. King Viserys’ chosen heir whips around, a streak of lighting running through her stormy eyes.

“Beg pardon, Princess, I was merely coughing.” You curtsy low, with your eyes fixed hard on the stone floor. In your periphery, Rhaenyra turns back to face her stepmother.

Alicent’s gaze never falters, never falls from Rhaenyra’s. Her regal chin is raised in defiance and the fire backlights her auburn hair, making her personage glow in a way not of this earth. Your breathing falters as you watch hers remain even, measured.

She takes in a breath through her nose. “I will not see my children passed over for the throne for the false offspring of a woman who flouts duty and honor as if they mean nothing.” You busy yourself with turning down the queen’s duvet and placing warming pans at the foot of it, all the while straining your ear to hear the low anger seeping out of Alicent. “You have needlessly tainted a bloodline ten thousand years strong, one that I was expected to uphold without question or complaint. I have never faltered in my duty to your father,” she continues, and you notice Rhaenyra’s nostrils flaring, her lips pressing into a bloodless line.

And you have been a good queen, a noble queen, to us all! Beloved forever by the people of Westeros, to be sure! you want to cry. You do not, however, bound by your station to stay ever silent and unnoticed by the occupants of the Red Keep. You shrink yourself smaller into the shadows beside Alicent’s bed, watching. Alicent’s hands are clasped together, and something stirs inside you as you watch her knuckles whiten. She is so lithe, so elegant, her posture impeccable. The green dressing gown she wears shows off her narrow shoulders and you can’t help but feel the heft of fabric, ghostly, in your hands as you imagine pulling it off her. Shame shoots through your chest at the thought, while arousal hits lower.

Rhaenyra is speaking again, but her voice has lost some of its glass-sharp edge. “I will not speak of this anymore, Alicent—” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from speaking out of turn and instructing the ingrate princess to address her lady queen as “Your Grace” “—certainly not in the presence of such attentive ears.” The attentive ears turn red. Rhaenyra turns to you once more and calls, “Leave us.”

“Stay.”

You freeze. Alicent’s hand is raised, her soft palm pointing at you, but her eyes stay fixed on Rhaenyra. For a moment, all three women are suspended in indignation, anger, fear, and the only sound is the crackle of the fire. It sounds like Syrax, opening her maw wide to summon a pillar of destruction.

“Perhaps sleep…” The queen’s voice is softer than the pillow you don’t realize until that instant that you’ve been clutching. “Would be the most productive course, for now. You have traveled long, Princess.”

Rhaenyra looks as though she wants to say something, anything, to have spoken the last words between the two of them. She does not, however. With a final, searching look into Alicent’s eyes, the Targaryen sweeps out of the room, the heavy door slamming behind her. The candelabra flickers. Its wicks have burned too low.

Alicent does not move for several seconds, staring after the departed princess. It seems she can smell something in Rhaenyra’s wake, and it is not altogether unpleasant to her. Blood is rushing in your ears, and your fingertips are strangely numb. You open your mouth to speak, but your tongue weighs too much.

“You forget yourself too often.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“We must be more careful. Do not be so quick to defend me.”

“I cannot help it, Your Grace. She tells lies and besmirches the name of House Targaryen.”

“How can you dare to make such indictments against your future queen?”

Your knees are made of water. It feels like a trap. “You are my queen. My only.” Alicent, at last, looks at you, and it makes you sag onto the bed.  

Her head tips to one side. She regards you. “Mm. Very good.” 

She murmurs it again, but the second time, it’s said into your neck, her breath hot against your skin while her fingers work their way inside you and her naked frame presses you to the mattress. The bed is heavenly soft, softer than anything you’ve ever been allowed to sleep on in your life, but it’s nothing compared to her lips on yours. Her tongue laves across your bottom lip, sweet as honey. 

It’s so rare that she takes you in her bed; you almost feel elated. You never mind being with her elsewhere, though. She makes it hard to care about anything other than the sheer her that fills the room every time she enters. While Alicent takes both of your wrists in her left hand and moves over you to pin them to her headboard, her other hand never stopping its pumping in, out, in, her tits brush against your face and you feel no remorse for the wail she lets fly as you bite down on the curve of one. Your teeth dig in, a ragged moan tears out of her, and her bare cunt grinds down on the thigh she is straddling. She’s unbearably wet, and you can feel her clench against your leg as she breathes, “Once again.”

In, out, in. Long, elegant fingers, soft from a lifetime of gentility. Endless locks of hair flow down over her shoulders and down to her waist. She’s an angel, you’re sure now. “The princess is a liar. She flaunts her indiscretions, her lack of care for this noble house. She is shameless.”

Allicent releases your hands so she can move down and suck your clit between her lips, pushing her tongue inside you alongside her fingers. You’re so full of her, so put on display and arousal dripping down onto the royal sheets, that it makes you cover your eyes and groan. “Your Grace,” you weep, grabbing a handful of her loose curls. “Please, keep going, please.”

“Tell me what you think of her bastards,” she murmurs, pulling her lips away from your heat. Her free hand moves to your clit and rubs it, alternating between circles and light pushes that have you keening your hips desperately. You realize that forming words has become near impossible. 

You huff as the coil of pleasure inside you compresses itself. “She fucks anything that looks at her. Any commoner, any pathetic servant in her employ,” you whine. Your head covering is tossed over Allicent’s vanity, your apron on the ground. “Who knows if her children are even Ser Harwin’s? What is to stop her from lying about that, as well?” The queen is as pleased as you’ve ever seen her.

She uses her hand like a sword, sinking into you, the very picture of a conqueror. “You do wonderfully, my sweet, sweet girl. Come for me.” The command is said so mildly, so disinterested, you almost miss it over the roar of ecstasy in your ears. That coil implodes, and you arch your back off the bed with a hollow scream that you should pray can’t be heard throughout the castle. The only thing you have room to pray for, though, is that Alicent never stops moving inside you. That she never stops bedding you. That she never stops needing you to be her mirror. 

Hypocrisy is a sin, a septa who you knew when you were no more than eight years old whispers in your ear. Those who do in the darkness what they rail against in daylight.

You know she will start to feel the wash of shame soon, so you fight through the haze that your orgasm leaves behind. “Please, let me fuck you, my queen.”

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