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Ron Kamonohashi's Forbidden Deductions Belly Sighting
So a great new series called Ron Kamonohashi's Forbidden Deductions (Though the other version of the title is Ron Kamonohashi: Deranged Detective which I think just sounds cooler) is a new anime based on the manga by Akira Amano. She's created some other great series like Reborn and élDLIVE and has done the designs for characters in Psycho Pass. But this marks at least the third time that series she's associated with have had great belly content like here and here.
Ron Kamonohashi is a disgraced detective, forbidden from actually solving crimes due to an incident in his past. He uses his friend and police officer Totomaru Isshiki to help him solve crimes for...reasons.
Anyway, Ron loves brown sugar syrup and here he is after he ate extremely well at a buffet. It's even canon to the manga too!
I love this clip and it came out of nowhere. Plus I love him hola hooping and making himself sick here because he's a doof and had this on his wish list of things to do. He definitely should and probably could eat more. Since there's only one video per post I'll post this with the clip showing his spread right before too.
#The reasons are really good vore reasons#belly kink#stuffing#male stuffing#is this considered sickness or emeto?#Sick yes though he's just dumb#ron kamonohashi#Ron Kamononohash's Forbidden Deductions#Ron Kamonohashi: Deranged Detective#Feed him#He could eat enough to get stuck in that hola hoop#It sounds like he could have more#I know a spoiler that makes it sound like his food coma was unnatural so he could have more#burp#there's a small burp in the manga panel#burp kink#Man I also love that aerial view in the manga shot#bloated belly
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For the one word prompts: caught?
For you, anon, you get Rodimus being a well-intentioned asshole! How fun!
WARNING: THIS STORY INCLUDES SAFE VORE. THIS THIS IS SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, THEN PLEASE DO NOT READ.
The night is dark, and you are alone. Sitting at the bar, voices and music mingle together and create a despondent melody which does nothing to ease your aching heart. You stare into the drink you are nursing; the amber liquid makes your lip curl with a grimace. Shaking your head, you push it away.
The bar is lively, yet lonely. You aren’t the only one here who is by themselves, yet the company of solitude isn’t one you wished for or anticipated. Gnawing resentment hollows out your gut. This is the last time you ever trust one of those stupid matchmaking apps. Stood up on the fifth date, and you don’t even know what you’ve done wrong. Is it your clothes? Does your breath smell? What about your hair? Is your personality shitty? You’ve spiraled through the panic and sadness, but now is time for the stage of dull anger. If they didn’t want to be with you, they at least could have told you properly. It’s a whole lot better than being completely left in the unknown.
Someone slides up into the stool next to you. No mind is paid on your part until they speak. “Rough night, huh?”
You lift your eyes to the man and take him in. He’s slouched forward with his arms crossed on the counter, head lowered a bit so he can see your face. His hair is held up by an orange headband, and he has a massive black flame tattoo rippling down his right arm. His eyes are curious and kind. His smile, though soft and without teeth, somehow dazzles you. He’s sort of dressed like he’s ready to go to an 80’s-themed Halloween party…but you can’t deny that he is quite handsome.
You huff and look back at your drink. “I’ll say.”
“It’s fine.” The man’s voice is smooth, practiced. You have a feeling he’s spoken to others in this exact same scenario before. “Plenty of people here are goin’ through it. But you…you seem more defeated than upset.”
You don’t appreciate this stranger butting into your private life while you’re wallowing in your misery. Shooting him a glare, you spit venom from your lips. “I didn’t ask for your pity, and I certainly don’t want it. Who even are you, and why the hell are you trying to talk to me?”
He holds up his hands placatingly. “Woah, woah. I’m not trying to start anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just…I saw you, alright? I saw you, and you looked…really down. Kinda tugged at my sparkstrings-uh, heartstrings-to see someone so sad like this. I thought…maybe I can help cheer you up.”
You give him an incredulous look. “Are you trying to hit on me by telling me you’re sad to see me alone at a bar?”
“What? No! Did you not hear a word I just said? You look like you could use some company, that’s all!”
“Well, I don’t want company. I want to be alone.” Your voice cracks a little. I feel like I’ll be alone for the rest of my life.
The man is silent, searching your features with those soulful auburn eyes. His voice is nearly a whisper. “Date chickened out on you?”
“...I guess it’s pretty apparent, isn’t it?”
“Not to be an asshole, but I kinda guess that’s the main reason why I see miserable people drinking alone at a bar.”
You laugh. It’s not a bitter sound, yet it isn’t totally happy either. It’s simply a sign of minor relief to be laughing at all. To feel your heart do that funny little jump that comes with being around someone who doesn’t make you feel totally lost. Despite only having met him a few minutes ago, this man has a charismatic aura about him that naturally pulls you in.
He grins. “Look at that. I got a laugh outta you. That’s a good start. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t tend to reveal just anything to strangers I’ve only known for less than 24 hours,” you reply.
“Touché. So why don’t we become more than strangers? I believe the term is…acquiescence?”
“Acquaintance.”
“Ah, right.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry. English…isn’t my first language. Anyway, what’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you answer. “What’s yours?”
Panic crosses his face fleetingly. “Um…m-my friends call me…Roddy.”
“Roddy?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s…interesting.”
“I know, I know, not ideal by people's terms. But it’s just what stuck.” He shrugs. “I like your name better. It’s pretty.”
“You think so?” you ask, unable to hide a genuine smile.
He nods. You are caught in his gaze, and there’s something distinctly captivating. His eyes make you want to believe every word he says. “Why would I lie? It’s a whole lot better than ‘Roddy.’ It’s…nice. I like saying it.”
“I’d hope you’d know better than to try and seduce someone who just got their heart broken.”
“Who says I’m trying to seduce you? Maybe I’m just trying to be your friend.” He laughs, then scoots towards you and dips his head down to peer at you through his lashes. “What, do you think I’m trying to seduce you?”
There it is. You know you’ve lost this battle. “God,” you grumble, ducking away to hide how red your cheeks are. “You are incorrigible.”
“C’mon, it’s making you feel better! You need to get your mind off what happened, right? Hanging out with a friend is exactly how to solve the problem!”
“We aren’t friends. We literally just met.”
He pauses and pouts, leaning back and crossing his arms. You think he almost looks hurt by your claim. “Don’t be like that. We could be friends. This is how humans get to know each other, right? Talking and laughing and bonding?”
You wrinkle your nose in a short chuckle. This guy has the weirdest ways of talking, but you don’t really mind it. You find it endearing. “All of that takes time. I’m not going to trust you instantly. Relationships always need to grow, platonic or not.”
He’s listening with a serious expression. He goes along with what you say, and you genuinely think he’s listening to you. When you’re done, he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so forwardly, if I did. I…I’d like to be your friend. You seem like you could use one right now. And…I’m here to find one, too.”
“Finding friends in a bar? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” you ask.
He smiles. “I found you, didn’t I? You fit the bill. I can tell you’re kind…sweet. I think we’d be really good friends.” He reaches forward and brushes his fingers against the top of your hand. Something strange happens; there’s a jolt of static that makes your skin tingle, and a shiver goes down your spine. For a moment, your vision seems to swim, and you think you see flashes of red and orange and Roddy’s eyes turning a bright, alien blue. You blink, disoriented, shaking your head in a vain attempt to clear the sudden fog clouding your mind.
“So, what do you think?” Roddy asks, silky smooth. “Will you let me keep you?”
“Keep me…?” you echo.
“Keep as in…befriend. I want to show you there’s more to this universe than the sadness you’re experiencing. This world…Earth…is so small. Wonderful, but…tiny compared to what else is out there. So much to see, so much to do. So much to find. And guess what? I’m gonna find it all. You wanna come with me?”
“You’re confusing me,” you whisper. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He interlocks his fingers with yours. “Let me show you.”
He leads you out the back door into the bar’s parking lot. You feel like you are walking through a daze. You don’t know what’s happening to you, but you want to put your trust in this man. The way he looks back and gives you such a radiant grin, like the sun itself shining upon you, melts your heart.
In the back of the lot, a car awaits. It looks…retro, like him. Sleek, yet exceedingly loud, it’s some sort of muscle car with a host of red, orange, and yellow. Flame decals are painted across the hood. As the two of you draw closer, the lights turn on and the engine rumbles, growling with a pulse that runs through your bones and makes your heart stutter.
Something feels wrong.
It didn’t before. Roddy exudes no sense of danger. Yet this car…it’s off. Not normal. Alarm bells begin going off in your brain. Your feet drag you to a halt.
Roddy gives you an inquisitive look. “What’s wrong?”
You can’t take your eyes off of the car. “I…I don’t want to go near that thing.”
He winces, worrying at his bottom lip as he glances at the car with a concerning amount of confliction. He squeezes your hand.
“It’ll be okay,” he says. And then, his entire body ripples with a burst of static, and he disappears.
You don’t know what’s happened. Staring at your hand, you blink in shock. You can still feel the warmth of the man’s fingers pressed between yours. Was…was he even there at all? Did you imagine it? No, you couldn’t have. The car is still there. What the hell is going on?!
The car moves.
An alien sound emits from it as you watch it begin to shift in on itself before your very eyes. The mass of metal expands and grows, forming a pair of arms and legs, a torso twisting and snapping into place, massive shoulder blades heaving upward with a head rising up with sharp finials extending like dragon horns. Twin pairs of bright cyan optics open and immediately focus on you. You feel your heart drop straight into the pit of your stomach. It’s a robot. A car-turned-robot. You think you might have ingested too much alcohol, but the way the robot’s body whirs with the smooth sound of machinery as it takes a step towards you, the way you can feel the vibration of its feet hitting the pavement is so, so real, you know this is happening. This isn’t a hallucination.
You still don’t know where Roddy went.
The robot makes a purring noise, squatting down and extending a hand. Panic rips through you, and you stumble back, avoiding the reaching fingers. “No!” you shriek. “Stop! Don’t!”
It pauses and frowns, making a low whining noise. It shuffles closer and gestures for you to get closer. You wish to do no such thing; you want to get as far away from this monster as possible. What does it want with you? To kill you? Eat you? No, robots can’t eat. Is it going to abduct you?
Letting out a huff of exhaust, the robot’s eyes narrow resolvingly. It inches closer, and you continue to move back. There is nowhere to go. You can’t make a run for it. It’s faster. You can tell. There is no chance of escaping.
Your eyes flash to the bar’s back door. Not thinking about the possible consequences, you act only upon pure, desperate instinct. Like a deer bolting from a wolf, you whirl and pelt for the door, pushing every ounce of strength into your legs to propel yourself as quickly as possible. Get away. You need to get away.
You aren’t fast enough.
The robot slams its hand down on top of you. The breath is knocked from your lungs as metal presses you into the pavement. Fingers tightly cage you in, pinning your arms to your sides. Everything spins when you are lifted into the air, slowly, gradually. You cry out and struggle with all of your might, screaming bloody murder at the thing. “No! No! Stop! Stop it! Put me down!”
The robot warbles loudly. Is…Is this fucking thing laughing at you?
Well, all of your bravado goes out the door when it brings you close to its face. Bright optics study you with unsubdued excitement while huge metallic lips part. It grins triumphantly, making a multitude of loud purrs and hums while it turns you side to side like you’re some sort of exotic creature. Fear grips you; there’s so much terror in your soul, you can barely breathe. Too much. This is too much for one night. It’s been tumultuous, and now there’s a giant robot holding you and you might die, you might be-
The robot’s mouth opens wider. There’s a blue pulse deep within it that is the same color as its eyes. You see teeth bigger than your head loom closer as it draws you near, segmented tongue reaching to meet you.
Ah. So you’re going to be eaten, then.
Your scream is cut off when the robot carefully tosses you in. Jaws slam shut and artificial saliva soaks you as you are turned over and tasted again and again and again. Your mind reels with the overstimulation. Everything is happening at once and your brain isn’t keeping up with it. And when you feel the robot tilt its head back and begin pushing you backwards towards its awaiting throat, you can only think of one thing: doom.
Your fingers dig into the plush tongue, searching for any hold that will prevent you from going down. But it is to no avail; the robot simply raises the unbelievable muscle and gives you one last coaxing nudge. With a shriek, you are caught. The throat bobs and gives out a squelching glk. Blue light completely envelops you as you are squeezed and kneaded at all angles. It’s a long journey, one you are hardly conscious of since you nearly pass out from your terror. And when you make it to your final destination, there is no letting up in the embrace. Walls of muscle made out of strange, squishy cables filled with pumping pink liquid force you to sink into their warmth. By god, you are so warm. The robot’s stomach gurgles happily, giving you long repetitive squeezes. You aren’t in any pain. But you are exhausted from the mental and physical strain being eaten alive has exposed you to.
Lying on your stomach, you try to push yourself up in order to fight. The stomach senses this and hugs you even tighter. Your arms shake with fatigue, and you fall back down into the puddle of saliva you landed in. There’s no use fighting. You can’t get out.
Somewhere above you, the robot is purring. A steady hand presses against you from the outside and begins lightly massaging your little form. You let out a weak groan that is meant to be words; perhaps a plea for mercy, or maybe a string of curses. Whatever the intention might be, you don’t have the energy to properly form it. Right now, all you want to do is sleep.
So you do. You are out like a light, pink being the last thing you see. All the while, Roddy’s words repeat themselves to you, over and over and over again. “Will you let me keep you?”
It seems he’s decided not to give you a choice.
#gator writes#rodimus x reader#rodimus prime#idw rodimus#transformers x human reader#tf idw x reader#transformers first contact au#soft vore#safe vore#extreme cuddling#sfw vore#giant tiny#sfw g/t
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i eat your skin - f.megumi
part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection … warnings - cunnilingus (fem reader), title sounds like vore smut but it isn't i promise word count - 3.7 K / rating - R
Megumi braces his hands on his knees, brows pinched tight in preemptive annoyance. Satoru spindles over him, shadowing the younger man almost completely - and it only serves to irritate Megumi that he’d refused to sit down. Furiously determined to forever humiliate his former pupil, Megumi assumes.
Or, he would, if Satoru hadn’t actually agreed to give him advice about a little… situation.
“Alright, now when you see her, look at me- seriously, look at me, Megumi,” Satoru’s face is lethally drawn, usual bright grin tugged low and serious with furrowed brows to match, “Megumi, you cannot let her intimidate you,” Megumi opens his mouth, a vile retort slithers back down his throat when Satoru interrupts, “No, I know you, and you’ll feel all sick,” he mocks a frown, even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, “You’ll get all nervous. But you cannot let her intimidate you out of it.”
“I’ll hardly die asking her out,” Megumi rolls his eyes, one hand lathering the sweat in his palms against his sweatpants and the other scratching the back of his neck, “Maybe this just isn’t a good idea…”
“And what? Be a miserable wimp the rest of your life?” Satoru folds his arms across his chest, “You’ve liked her since you were first years.”
“And?”
“You’re graduates now!”
“So?”
“‘So,’” Satoru mimics Megumi’s sulking nature, voice deep and neanderthal-ish in nature, “Be greedier, kid!” he flicks the younger man’s forehead, “You’ll die one day. You’ll die. Whether it be on a mission, or in your hospital bed as a diseased old man - you can’t stop it. So, why deprive yourself of something you really want when it all ends the same?”
Megumi can’t exactly pinpoint the reason he even came to his old legal guardian for help over, say, Nanami. He definitely should’ve gone to Nanami, at least he could’ve given Megumi genuine advice that isn’t some children’s show morale of “just tell her how you feel!” - he could’ve done that any day.
When Megumi opens his mouth to protest, Satoru flicks him again.
“You think your special one,” Megumi gags loudly at the title, and Satoru pays it no mind, “is gonna sit around her entire life not having fun and being young? Getting dates?” Satoru nods to himself when Megumi doesn’t reply, “Duh.”
“I want this to be special,” Megumi insists, both hands coming to rest in his lap now, he squeezes them together, lacing his fingers and imagining how yours would look with him instead, “I want- “
He wants and wants and wants and does nothing.
He needs to be someone you simply can’t fathom saying no to, he needs it so bad his stomach churns just like Satoru said it would.
“Alright, I know it can be difficult for you - not being me, after all,” a large hand claps on Megumi’s shoulders and he looks up to see the beaming face attached, “But trust me, kid, this whole idea of a ‘special’ confession is archaic bullshit compared to just being yourself.”
“I thought girls liked special confessions?”
“Sexist: not all girls automatically like the same things,” his former teacher shakes his head, sighing out each disappointed fiber trapped in his soul, “And if she doesn’t accept a plain, Megumi-style date proposition, then her shock and awe over a sick-as-hell graphic novel confession isn’t going to make for a healthy relationship.”
“Hm,” Megumi bites back frustrated curses, taking the words and molding them into a more conventional way that actually makes sense. He nods, “Okay.”
“Exactly,” Satoru stands back, giving Megumi room to rise from his bed, “Oh, but one thing that does help?” the older man grins wickedly, “Eat her out. Direct line to a woman’s heart is through eating her pussy.”
“Shut up,” Megumi huffs, pointing at his wide-open bedroom door, “Shut up. Shut up and get the hell out.”
“Jeez,” Satoru yanks at the already loose collar of his plain black shirt, “I thought we left teen angst behind. Just give it some thought! And also, I wanted to ask- “
Megumi huffs, falling back onto his bed, still pointing at the door.
“If,” and in true fashion, Satoru continues, maybe even a little louder (just to prove a point), “you wanted to watch a movie?”
“No,” Megumi immediately answers.
“C’mon! It’s this or paperwork I have to do.”
Megumi’s eye roll gives Satoru no more room for pleading, and so he stalks back to the living room. Dragging his socked feet over a shaggy black rug towards the door, he takes a final peek over his shoulder at the boy on his bed. Stupid mouth in a stupid pout and stupid nose forcing stupid crocodile sniffles, Satoru acts out a picturesque performance. And if his blindfold were off, Megumi is certain he’d catch big blue eyes framed by batting white lashes.
“No, “ Megumi rolls his eyes again, “‘m going out.”
…
Blushy top with faded blue bell bottoms and a shiny, thin chain that dangles across your chest, Megumi’s eyes flit away from your figure just as quick as they’d found you. Everything’s a little murky under the purple LEDs, but he thinks you’ve worn that before. He thinks you’re somehow more beautiful now. He looks away, snaking through a narrow, picture-framed hallway at Yuuji’s back to this house’s kitchen. There are no light strips strapped across the kitchen walls, simple and plain and unflattering fluorescent bulbs send a gentle cream wash over the walls.
With only a handful of straggling bodies leaning against peeling-edged faux wood cabinets and spotted countertops, there’s more room to breathe than in the hall. Red Solo cups from every teen movie nightmare decorate hands and unnerving corners. Some more anxious part of him wants to reach out and push every precarious ruby further back into secure landing, but he doesn’t.
Two women in complimentary spaghetti strap dresses flounce out of the kitchen with looped arms. They’re sunk into the plum tank until Megumi can’t see them at all anymore.
“Oh, like that!” you muse, nudging your chin towards a pair in matching floral print dresses that reach about mid-thigh, “Exactly my point.”
“That’s hardly 70s influenced,” the man in front of you - Jirou? Junto? Jouji? you don’t really recall - shakes his head, “Just flowers.”
“No, no, look at the trim,” you’re trying your hardest not to point but this guy just cannot pinpoint the details in your mind to save his life, “It’s flowy and mesh. Sort of. That’s a little more flower child era, right?”
“I guess, if your only experience in that fashion was movies,” you huff at the response and he laughs in the face of such exasperation.
“Whatever! You’re so difficult.”
“Hobby,” it’s so plain out of his lips. Like you should somehow be expecting that snark.
“Oh my God…” you can hardly believe someone could be so obtuse. A contrarian just for the fun of it, “And are you normally invited to parties for that?”
“Oh, no,” his tone, again, betrays some delusion that you should already know the answer, but this time you do already know. Who invites a conversation killer to an event? “I got dragged here by a friend. Don’t even know who the host is.”
You snicker, one hand smothering the sight of your mouth, “That makes more sense.”
Megumi can see the hand that binds, you usually don’t string it up around those you’re close with. Like Yuuji and Nobara and Maki and Miwa from Kyoto and your friends that live closer to the coast and the friends that don’t and your parents and him. So you’d think he’d know better than to let a big, gangly, clawed, green beast sprout and grow and suck away at his gut.
Even though that hand is a sign of some rising desire to be out of that conversation, he still hates being across the room when it happens. Because that’s still some semblance of a shining star behind the flesh. Some laugh or smile he’s not next to.
And it isn’t like he hates when you’re out with others. What he hates is being in the same room with someone potentially more captivating than he is.
He hopes you like him best because he’s the most familiar and drawing, and it’s disturbing when someone else might be more homely and more charming and more absorbing. He hates the curdling illness of jealousy and he hates to be this way when you two aren’t even together, but most of all he hates that maybe you’ll prefer someone else simply because they’re better at his craft than he is.
So Megumi watches and rots quietly with thick, spindling vines spreading and tangling him to the kitchen doorway as you talk to a guy whose name he doesn’t know. It’s pathetic and waning most unbearably.
“Stop staring, it’s weird,” Yuuji chastises, chunking part of his weight against Megumi’s side, an elbow shelved on Megumi’s shoulder, “Just go up and say something, if you wanna talk to her.”
“Yeah, it’s that easy,” Megumi jerks through the vines and into the hungry waters of a living room party with a snapping, starved crowd before finding the optimal spot: a plain wall with no posters or pictures to snag and smack down.
Yuuji trails after, his white shirt reflecting a blinding shade of lavender from beneath his puffer jacket. Much easier to track down than Megumi’s gloomy, funeral-grade attire. Yuuji capitalizes on the empty space so ugly at Megumi’s side, staking claim to the wall with a huff, “It is, by the way. You two are friends. Go tell her you’re here.”
“But then I’d have to,” Megumi’s mouth zips shut, head tilting as he snakes a hand through some imaginary crowd.
“I guess,” Yuuji wants to shake Megumi at times like this. He wants to shake you too, sometimes. But mostly he imagines squeezing Megumi’s shoulders and smacking him around, but he never does.
Maybe just the first part.
All out of love.
“Okay,” so Yuuji pivots, swerving in front of his best friend and taking one shoulder in each hand, “You need to do something or you’re going to sit here and be pouty, dude.”
“I’m not pouty.”
“Biggest lie in Tokyo, brother,” Yuuji purses his lips, eyes flitting to where you are, “I’ll get her over here if you really don’t want to.”
“Hm?” Megumi’s brows furrow, neck craning closer as if he could somehow mishear the man.
“Just pretend to be busy or some shit and I’ll brave the crowd,” Yuuji goes to walk away, suddenly pausing and placing a hand over Megumi’s heart, “And if I don’t return, sing songs for me by a nice lake every anniversary.”
“Whatever,” Megumi knocks away the hand but is already pulling out his phone to perform the charade. His eyes lock onto the screen and he soldiers on to not rip them away and give slight that this was planned.
…
“Do you think I could maybe get your number?”
“Oh!” no, God no - you wish you were better at saying that, “Uh,” it’s not even as if you dislike this guy, you just don’t think any conversation with him could amount past what it has.
Wow, you’re a pain in the ass! Yeah but it’s funny, right? Not if it’s on purpose. Especially if it’s on purpose! Sure, if that’s what you think. You do think it’s funny, right? Sure. Come on, it is! Sure.
And dry replies make you want to claw your eyes out more when you have to give them than when you receive them.
So when the bony fingers of Yuuji creep upon your side, it’s like the first drink of water after sifting through thick bowls and hills of sandy desert. He leans his head down into your peripheral, grinning brightly, “Miss me?”
“Yuuji!” you cheer, turning to… Junsei? and laying a flat palm under Yuuji’s chin, “This is my buddy, who I didn’t know was coming.”
“I texted you,” he pinches your side, “Fushiguro’s busy, so I’m fetching you for the night,” and you wonder if he might feel the stiffness of your muscles and the rigid air, “Sorry, man, but she’s got serious business tonight!”
“Oh,” Junzo! Junzo’s forehead crinkles, nose wrinkling at the bluntness of this cocky new stranger, “Uh…”
“See you around,” maybe it’s a lie, maybe it isn’t. You wave and let Yuuji keep you pressed to his side. You wait until you’re certain the surrounding affairs of other people drown whatever you could say to Yuuji, “Thank you for that. He was asking for my number and I just didn’t know what to say…”
“No,’” he shrugs.
“Oh, like you could’ve done that.”
“I could’ve!”
But Yuuji can do anything, so that isn’t fair.
“‘gumi!” you cheer upon getting close to the boy, arms splaying wide before wringing yourself around his neck, “I was worried you weren’t coming!”
He hesitates before having the misfortune to hear Satoru’s words once again. Be greedier. Be greedier. So he gently settles both hands on your back, pushing you chest-to-chest, “Yeah, well, Itadori wouldn’t let me stay in.”
“Poor baby,” you step back, and Megumi takes notice in how you maintain your hands’ position over his shoulders, nails picking at fluff on his shirt.
Megumi, regrettably, can still hear Satoru in the back of his head. Greedier, greedier, greedier. It chokes him up, the idea of selfishly taking you for himself. But what really grips him is the terrible way your gaze flits from his face to other men - unintentionally, he’s sure. But it drives him wild all the same.
“I hate big parties,” Megumi boldly cradles the bend of your waist with his hand, fingers splaying wide over the curve. He tugs you closer, thighs nearly brushing, “Crowd’s a pain in the ass.”
“Ah, no, c’mon, what’s that Great Gatsby quote?” who’s to say, he hasn't read that book, “‘I like large parties. They’re so intimate…’” you shrug, bottom lip tugging between your teeth when he doesn’t show any recognition, “‘At small parties there isn’t any privacy.’”
“You actually remembered that shit?”
You titter coyly, “Maybe I saw it on one of those book quotes videos. Maybe I remembered it.”
“Well, it’s a stupid quote. There’s too much noise at big parties, it’s hard to hear people.”
“You hear me just fine,” that’s just because he’s leaning closer and trying harder than he does for most people, “Besides, I like it. At big parties you can just fuck off and do your own thing, you know? At small parties there’s this expectation to be around everyone and interact with everyone and be having fun with the group.”
Finally, it seems to click, he nods slowly, “You like to get away from the crowd?”
“Yeah,” you scratch the side of your arm, then your neck, and it’s so odd how just thinking about how uncomfortable your skin is that you can get so itchy, “Hard to do that when the crowd’s five people and a dog.”
“Well,” Megumi can feel Yuuji’s stare, and it takes everything in him to not knock the kid up his skull, “If you wanna get away, I’m sure - uh,” he’s suddenly humiliated by his own hubris, “I’m sure there’s room… upstairs…”
You grace him with a patient nod, hands lowering from his shoulders to lace your fingers together, “I’m sure there is.”
…
“So…”
“So…”
Megumi nods, head slowly tilting so he’s staring up at you through his long lashes, “So.”
You lean closer, shoulder pressing and nose bumping against his, “So?”
The heat from Megumi’s cheeks wavers over you, his flesh ripe with crimson. You want to bite him. Leave a terrible mark that he couldn’t possibly cover up; maybe he’d let it bleed through his dark shirt. Maybe he’d let you lick it clean.
“You look nice,” he tucks his face down, heated skin now flush against your top. His brows furrow, uncertain, “Really nice.”
Megumi wonders what Satoru or Yuuji would do. They’re greedier than him by nature. More outgoing.
They would’ve done something years ago.
Suddenly, you grin. All sharp teeth and nails pricking over his thigh, through his pants. Your eyes stare down at him over the bridge of your nose, and you lean closer - smothering any space he’d initially put between your bodies.
“Are you gonna do something about it?”
Megumi’s eyes widen, warmth beating over his face and the back of his neck. He flails for a response, trapped under your piercing gaze, before finally settling on a response that he hopes pleases you.
“Do you want me to?”
You frown; something in his chest stings, a chord pulled awry. The tug of your lips is all a ploy, a mesmerizing color to disguise venom, “Don’t you want to, ‘gumi?” you pull away, leaning back with your hands pressed to the mattress below, “Don’t you want me?”
A cold breeze from this stranger’s open window takes up residence across Megumi’s sweltering skin. He hates it. He wants to get up from the bed altogether and slam the window shut. He wants to take you in both hands and sink himself into the softness of your skin. He thinks you’d be savory.
He wants to be certain.
So both of his hands mold to your hips, melting his exposed skin to yours.
Fingers dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, he bats his eyelashes and tucks his lower lip between fangs. He may draw blood. He cares not.
The oxygen is thin; hardly refreshing.
Megumi swallows the pooling want on his tongue, his fingers twitch against you, “Can I- “
“‘gumi…” you flatten yourself onto your back, hips tilting up into his palms, “Show me you want me.”
“Okay,” Megumi nods, air forced out of his throat through swollen hunger, “Okay.”
Once he’s gotten your pants off, Megumi presses open kisses against the inside of your thighs, following the swell to its natural apex. He digs the jab of his nose into you, lips impolitely fluttering against the seat of your panties before dipping his tongue out. Lolling the soft, soaked muscle over the clinging fabric, he feels his chest clench at how you rock your hips down into his face.
He feels one of your hands wind into his messy hair, carding through the softness. He wants to make you tug it - pull cruelly and grind against his face. Take what he gives and selfishly demand more.
Megumi groans heartily into your clothed cunt when the slickness of his saliva pulls your wetness from the cloth; when the unabashed taste of you meets his tongue.
He nearly rips your panties down your legs, settling it in a ball at his side. Heart leaping up into his jaw at the mere thought of getting his tongue into you.
Laving his tongue between your folds, Megumi licks up to your clit and circles the bud - his hips jerking down into the plush mattress when you jolt up and tug his hair. He pulls his head back only to pucker his lips and drool onto your hole, adding to the sloshing wetness before steadying his shaky fingers against you.
Sucking your clit into his mouth, Megumi begins softly. Caressing the bundle of nerves with his warm tongue, blending flat, broad strokes with precision dances of the muscle over you. Meanwhile, he slicks his middle finger into your hole and moans in response to your gasp.
When he’s sure you’re wet and stretched enough, he adds a second finger and curls them both upwards. The muscles in his arm will be aching tomorrow, but he shoves that to the back of his mind. He presses and scissors and dips inside you until the pads of his fingers find sponge, and he hits there, and there again. And again. And again. And again.
He hits there until you’re fully babbling, gushing against his swollen, pink lips and chin. And he’s starting to babble back.
Vibrations are loosely strewn together as ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘cum on me’ are bound against your clit as he nuzzles closer into your heat. Burying himself between your thighs and finding himself releasing a moan into your cunt when your thighs clenched tightly around his head. The fat of your thighs snug over his ears.
Releasing your clit from between his lips with a soft ‘pop’, Megumi flays his tongue onto the exposed nerve. Hot puffs of air leave him with each groan and whimper as his desperation to make you cum hammers over him.
Finally, you yank his hair again and snap your hips into his tongue; cunt sucking his fingers in even deeper. You squeeze around him, back arching, and his name singing from your lips.
Megumi unfurls his fingers as your cum splashes out onto his waiting tongue and chin, riding you through the hurls of pleasure until your twitching legs crash back onto the mattress. Slowly, he slides his fingers out of you before licking up your excess release from the divots in your thighs and your cunt.
Unwinding your fingers, you settle for soothing his stinging scalp with gentle pets.
Eventually sitting up, Megumi gasps for air as you do, staring down at his fingers. Shining with your wetness.
“Still hungry?” you tease, voice ripped at the edges.
“Actually?” Megumi shrugs, “A little.”
The cocky air has dissipated from your body. Once tense and lively limbs were now useless against the bed.
Megumi jams both fingers into his mouth and sucks off your cum.
“Insatiable!” you huff.
Rouge has overtaken Megumi’s cheeks - worse than before - and he can’t meet your eyes after having swallowed what remained of your soak. He leans over onto his elbow to avoid crushing you, “Only when it’s you… I don’t,” he waves his hand around, “do this often…”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
Megumi has to hide his grin, almost embarrassed to enjoy being praised, choosing to take up time looking around the room you’d shoved him into.
Idol posters with one constant member litter the walls. Pink concert tickets cover the desk. And many pictures with the same two people overwhelm Megumi’s sight. He feels an unsettled chill scrawl over his skin.
“Todo is going to kill me,” he grimaces.
“Was it worth it?”
Megumi doesn’t take long to respond, already trying to think of where and when he can get you under him again, “Definitely.”
Megumi’s proper death is drowning via punani tsunami *thumbs up emoji*
#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#megumi x reader#megumi fushiguro#megumi smut#megumi x you#megumi fluff#fushiguro smut#fushiguro x reader#megumi fushiguro x reader#jujutsu kaisen movie marathon event
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I have the forcefem meme blog blocked but someone I follow put a post of her's on my dash and she's just straight up saying "this isn't a kink blog, the way I do forcefem isn't kinky" and I swear my brain stopped working entirely for a second. I don't think there's anything wrong with kinks changing with a subculture or community or becoming memes but like. Come on. Forcefem is a kink, that's what it is. I try not to get too worked up about this blog because it's not good for me and my judgement does get clouded by the dysphoria it triggers but like, it really does genuinely worry me the way the meme-ification of forcefem has completely divorced the kink element from what is still very fucking clearly a kink. This whole "I'm not doing it in a kink way" is not a get out of kink free card, and it's a piss poor excuse for going around and flooding this website with kink stuff that now essentially cannot be avoided in trans spaces. No other kink that has like, a potentially sfw angle has a community that acts like this about it, people who do like bootblacking performances where no explicitly sexual acts take place still make it clear this is a kink thing so people can avoid it if they want, and there are huge arguments in furry communities over if you can even do "sfw" vore because vore is a kink even when no traditional sex acts are being depicted. Every other kink community gets that even when no one is fucking, a kink is still a kink and should be treated as such for the safety of everyone, why should THIS be the exception??
Ugh anyway sorry didn't want this to turn into a rant, I really don't think there's anything wrong with doing a fun sfw kind of forcefem with people who consent but like, as a kinky person who cares a lot about kink and BDSM history and communities the blatant refusal to consider forcefem a kink AT ALL is concerning. You cannot un-kink-ify it, this is a kink goddamn it and when you stop treating it as such you open up a LOT of unsafe grey areas on top of making it borderline impossible for people who are squicked out by it to avoid it because no one is going to tag for something they think is a harmless, gender-affirming, tgirl approved meme.
Idk tho maybe I'm letting my own dysphoria get in the way, feel free to check me if that's the case I will take the L with grace, but I just feel like this "It's not a kink when I do it" thing is...in poor taste, at the very least. I don't think it's intentionally malicious either I just don't like it when we stop recognizing that a kink is a kink.
I advocate tirelessly for being able to live BDSM relationships in public to the extent that "normal" relationships are allowed, but what I do not do is say I should get to snap a collar around a random girl's neck and drag her off because it's just a lifestyle. Like fuck off with "it's not a kink," IT IS, and it is NON-CON.
My biggest fan can't shut up about me supposedly calling trans women groomers because I think it's bad for trans men to say they want to cure trans women's "comphet," but you know what's also sexually coercive? Shoving your non-con fetish at people, many of whom are going to have reasons to be outright triggered by it, and then call it fine because it's so totally non-sexual.
SATIRE BEGIN
Well, okay, fine, start making indiscriminate forcemasc jokes at women. It's not a kink! There's nothing wrong with being a trans man! How could they possibly complain?
SATIRE END
That's a rhetorical question too, the answer is that they'd be massive hypocrites about it and say some dumbass shit like "transmascs just invented forcemasc to gentrify our fet I MEAN NOT A FETISH" or "trans men shouldn't care about being forcefemmed because there's nothing wrong with it but being a man is Bad."
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T A K E M E B A C K T O E D E N
Choke Hold - Part 1 - (Fluff/Angst)
“You keep me sharp and test my worth in blood”
You and Nayeon wake up on a cool fall morning and go about your day until...
Granite - Part 2 - (Angst)
“You gave me nothing what so ever but a reason to leave”
Reader is struggling with the emotions that come with uncovering some uncomfortable truths about their relationship with Nayeon.
Aqua Regia - Part 3 - (Angst/Angry Fluff)
“Putting down the roses, picking up the sword”
Reader has the name of the person who wrote the note and decides it's time to let the culprits know how they feel.
Ascensionism - Part 4 - (Angst/Angst/Smut)
“Who made you like this? Who encrypted your dark gospel and body language?”
Reader finds out the truth behind what J and Nayeon have been up to, she takes the steps to become more independent and heal her grief, only to fall back into old habits.
The Summoning - Part 5 - (Fluff/Angst/Suggestive)
“A taste of the divine. You’ve got my body, flesh, and bone.”
Reader leaves Nayeon's apartment and gets a phone call from an unexpected person, resulting in a hang out session that quickly develops into a series of unexpected events.
The Apparition - Part 5.5 - (Angst/Suggestive/Smut)
“Why are you never real? Whenever you appear you leave me with that grace, I am trembling in fear.”
This takes places at the end of Part 4 and goes through the end of Part 5! Following around Jihyo and Nayeon as they discover what Reader has been doing since they left the shared apartment, and who Reader has been hanging out with.
Vore - Part 6 - (Fluff/Smut/Angst)
“Are you in pain like I am?”
Reader and Mina spend some lovely quality time together but are confronted with the possessive Nayeon.
Are You Really Okay? - Part 6.5 - (Angst/Fluff/???)
“Don’t you know I could see it in you even then?”
Mina’s perspective of the end of Vore and into Euclid.
Euclid - Part 7 - (Angst/Fluffy Moments)
"You are all my symmetry. A parallel I would lay my life on, so if your wings won't find you heaven I will bring it down like an ancient by gone."
Reader wakes up and learns of the events that happened once they passed out and who was responsible for saving them.
DYWTYLM - Part 8 - (Angst/Fluff)
“And it’s been so long that I’m forgetting what it feels like but I’d rather not remind myself and leave it all behind. Do you with that you loved me?”
Reader cooperates with authorities to trap Nayeon so they can lock her away for good but nayeon has other plans. Mina shows up for you in ways you never thought possible, solidifying your relationship and giving you reinforcement for the idea you already had.
More to come...
Choke Hold - Part One - Original
Granite - Part Two - Original
Aqua Regis - Part Three - Original
#twice imagines#kpop x reader#twice x reader#nayeon x fem!reader#twice angst#wlw#twice fic#twice nayeon#Nayeon x you#nayeon imagines#jihyo x nayeon#nayeon x reader#nayeon smut#im nayeon#nayeon x fem reader#myoui mina x reader#twice smut#twice mina x reader#mina x fem!reader#mina x reader#kpop imagines#twice
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someone is stealing my identity on rule.34
I'm just making a post about this to nip it in the bud before anybody sees this and tries to ask me about it. There's someone on rule.34 using my username and posting edited versions of my art.
(and just to keep things especially clear, I didn't find this out because I frequently look at the ghost and pals tag on rule.34. I was reverse image searching my art just because sometimes I like to see if anyone has reposted it lol)
Basically, like a week or so ago I drew a funny little drawing and sent it to Veeeffvee's inbox. I was just doing a bit of trolling, you know. It was a drawing of Christopher Pierre voring her and had "Vefve x Chris" written on it. I did not draw it with sexual intent. I am not into vore. I just thought it was very funny. I also did not post it anywhere; it was only shared in Vefve's asks. Somehow someone saw this image and removed all of the parts that had Veeeffvee attached to it, and then posted it to the site under my username.
This person also made several comments under my name.
The interesting thing about these comments you may notice is that they follow a certain unique writing style that someone in this fandom uses. Another interesting note to add is that Vefve never answered this ask publicly, meaning only she and anyone who she possibly shared it to could have seen it.
Something else that is a little interesting is that Veeeffvee has been namedropping me on her blog. Specifically under the idea that I'm the only person criticizing her for having a creepy relationship with her (majority) underage fans.
(also, just for the record I did not send this ask. I wouldn't have had a reason to be on anon since vefve already knows how I feel about her.)
What I'm saying, is that to me, it looks like vefve is annoyed by my criticism of her and is impersonating my identity to try and create some sort of blackmail or leverage against me so that my criticism looks less valid. Which is interesting because I know for a fact that I'm not the only one who's criticized her for her creepy relationship with her fans. What is also interesting, is that I am 17. Christopher Pierre may not be a real person, but I am. And if this really is Vefve or one of her friends doing this, then it means that she's impersonating a minor in order to post on porn sites and make sexually explicit comments as well as post fetish material. Which definitely wouldn't help her case against the accusations of being a creep. If this isn't you, Vee, I really think you should find some good evidence that this wasn't you or someone in your posse. You are literally the only person who would have seen that image.
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If Sol is an anxiety-riddled cheetah, what sort of person or thing or addition to her (un)life would have the same effect on her that an emotional support puppy has on a cheetah?
ive been thinking about this and not getting anywhere j and im pretty sure it’s meant as no nuance but we’ve established im an overthinker v_v so i rambled for a while below, hopefully it’s entertaining LOL. i focused way too much on the relationships. tbh it could be her brother if she ever reunited with him
it’s so hard to pick out one particular thing or person or addition and keep it realistic!!! i’d otherwise say it was Julian during the fledgling years, but she didn’t have much in the way of anxiety then, not like it is now, and he was also partially responsible for what brought about triggering/exacerbating it in the first place. but initially what they had, if you could lift that younger slightly less bold Julian to replace present Julian, might have that effect on her
in some weird way i think Sol subconsciously likes being kept on the fringe or razors edge of her nerves in some twisted strain of excitement; ive been toying with this as a manifestation of her beast. so maybe she would vore a traditional therapy dog and sit there shaking and whimpering like she’s the victim 🧐
i’ve mentioned before she gets on really well with Elena and enjoys her dry presence and quiet competence and absolute loyalty, but the fact of what’s unnaturally behind that loyalty spikes anxiety if Sol dwells on it — Sol is also VERY protective and worries about everyone she has a connection with. she would develop feelings for the therapy dog. whatever it might be in this analogy, it would have to be some sort of stronger kindred/supernatural for her to have any peace of mind
so… Lettow comes closest in that regard, but i still don’t think Sol would be happy for other reasons. his demeanor, strength and reliability has the most inwardly calming effect on her — like a truly strange solid steadying comfort over a period of months that grow insanely chaotic. he offers comfort, forgiveness, acceptance, support — all the things she thinks she wants or needs. it’s interesting to me that in the base text a lot of his touches and embraces are described as being either ‘grounding’, ‘protective’ or ‘lingering’ because Sol often feels like she’s drowning — in guilt, in Aila’s memories, in loneliness, in purposelessness, in her own maddeningly unsatisfied hunger. like meeting earth after years at sea. he has big taurus energy to her underdeveloped scorpio. (contrastingly Julian’s are described as unexpected or split-second and leaving her off-balance… but again i think Sol actually likes that)
maybe Lettow could help her heal past Aila but i don’t think Sol would give herself that chance for forgiveness. and while she comes to really love and care for him despite the confusion Aila’s stirring brings, and her own impulsive feelings and actions, i don’t think she’s IN love with Lettow :( he doesn’t inspire or excite or wildly frustrate her like Julian does. so maybe that does make Lettow a good emotional support puppy… Sol needs a pet elder kindred just chilling in the background with a panama hat being extremely accepting of her stupidity to feel normal i guess. im thinking his willingness to forgive what she’s done would eat at her forever though, to a point that’s just utterly dissociative. and that’s not fair to Lettow; he doesn’t deserve another gf tapping out on him
present-and-post-night road Julian…sigh
Julian has this constant dichotomy of idealism and hypocrisy, patience and cool calculative manipulation. he would be that one therapy dog that wasn’t screened for occasionally barking unexpectedly and roughhousing. so like he’s very good for her in some ways and terribly triggering in others but now the cheetah is attached to him so everyone (me) is hesitant to take him out of the enclosure
more than anything Julian offers her assurance in his intelligence, adaptability, his purpose — and the purpose he gives her, which Sol can’t put to words. it’s less about providing a calming presence and more about inspiring and challenging her. he’s like enrichment LOL. more akin to a partner in adventure and crime rather than strictly emotional support, but i think Sol would end up heading in Aila’s direction without Julian stirring shit up for her
as for the emotional support… ok this is where i retreat to my fanfic but Marquis definitely threw a big bone at the end of Julian’s romance. they have a very deep connection; the sire-childe bond, were best friends/lovers/attached at the hip for a decade, he brings out the best (and worst) in her but he helps her discover herself… i think it’s special and could work as a foundation. of course ultimately the effectiveness depends on the progression of their relationship and the trust rebuilding between them post-night road, but i see that as a possibility. when Sol tentatively decides to help with Julian’s plan for the SI and 2100 long term instead of Lettow, something big is bridged there — in the ending scene with romanced Julian he in turn offers Sol half of the reigns on the program and lets her call the shots with whatever happens with the death cult in Monterrey, as well as joining her in the field. i love Kyle for doing that lmao… it’s a really nice moment that hints at Julian being willing to work to rebuild the relationship and trust between them instead of what you get in night road when neither of them wholly trust each other and are loathe to keep it 100. once Julian knows she’s in, he’s down, no holds barred. i think they'd both be for the long haul, in good and probably still some bad and very imperfect ways but that keeps it interesting
THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK <3333 THANK YOU J <333
#ask#oc: soledad#x: exit wounds#since thats what i started talking about im sorry.....#vtm night road#codex: sol
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BARK! BITE! BLEED! (PART I) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader
summary: being without is always easier when you don't know what it is to be 'with'.
a note from Lucy: heyyyy! hows it going? yes...im back with another series. Those of you waiting for cherub, its coming. I promise. hand over my heart and the other on the bible. but words have a funny habit of not wording so...tale please take the humble peace offering of slutty fwb!frankie and please dont bite my fingers off.
playlist | moodboard
wc: 5742 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, slight noncon voyeurism, thin appartment walls, mentions of cheating, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, heavy religious imagry (come on, is this even a surpise when it comes to my writing?), age gap but not bombastic sorry chloe (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, could be considered dubcon, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (do i need to spell it out to you not to do this?), creampie, biting, its not vore!!!! but there is something inherrently sexual in the themes of metaphorical consumption, softdom!frankie, scratching, gore imagry in the sense of a hunter prey type of thing? More of lu being dell, batshit insane, blurting words onto a google doc and praying ot makes ense when being blasted out into the void.
series m.list | m.list
“At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is merely a bitch. True power lies in those who don't just bare their teeth, but make you bleed when they sink in.”
Frankie was a quiet man. He would always keep to himself. Never usually stuck his nose in anyone's business unless it was for their own good. Stayed in the four walls of his own apartment he rented close to the barracks. He’d made one friend in the entire complex. You. His next-door neighbour. The only thing he knew before prying was your last name on the buzzer out front. From there it was waiting. And watching. Frankie had an obsession with observing you from his kitchen window every time you came home from work at the bar. Stood in the shroud of shadow and sheer curtain. He dug his claws in and clung to each passing conversation in the hallway, or the laundromat down the street whenever coincidence let you pop up there too. Stored each part of you that you trusted him with in his mind for safekeeping. Often caught himself staring at a particular pair of red lace panties whenever you did your laundry.
There was one small, tiny little problem in all of this, however. Lisa. He supposed he should thank her really, because without her, he would have never moved out of the barracks in the hope of starting a life for them. He would have never met you. It was convenient, reasonably priced and he could excuse poor plumbing and heating for the fact it was close enough to his work that he didn't have to wake up any earlier than 5:30. But Lisa…oh, Lisa was Machiavelian. A conniving woman, with her heart set in thick ice, and a cold, unforgiving grip over what was hers. It made him wonder what he saw in her in the first place. Maybe he was blinded to everything but the curve of her face, or the pout of her mouth and the pant of his name as it passed her parted lips. Or there was some morbid fascination he had with her teeth as they bared to his skin and bit down. Tearing him to shreds. Either way, there was something to live for when being ripped apart by her. Something to distract from the sounds of pleasure that seeped through paper thin walls at night. Your pleasure. At the hands of a man he felt nothing compared to and knew nothing about. So he’d roll over and fuck out his frustration on the woman he hated but chose to stay with until she left him for another.
Another day, another ache. Another pain cramping in his lower back as Frankie inched closer to thirty and still no happier. Twenty-seven, a stable-ish job…and what else in life to show for it? He was bitter. In no place to want the company of another unless only for the night. Except tonight he was alone again, pressing his key into the lock, twisting it open, closing the door behind him. And then waiting…listening. Anticipating the drag of his hand south over the plane of his abdomen to under his boxers where he’d tease himself to the sound of you with another man. The pretty whimpers you’d let slip under the weight of another man's skin and bone, and the pleasure flooding the gaps of your synapses.
Only this time there were no cries for more. No whimpers, or moans. No. These sounds were shouts. And anger ignited you as you rampaged through your apartment on the other side of the wall, getting dressed as Mark, the man you’d wasted months on, chased after you in pursuit of your forgiveness.
“Who do you think I am?’ Frankie heard through the wall, pressing his ear to cold plaster with bated breath. Your voice was shrill, seething with the intent to carve into Mark’s skin with an onslaught of verbal mutilation. Have the words mark him with bleeding, weeping shame. “No, really? You think I’d never figure it out, Mark? Am I naïve to you?”
He slipped out of bed with careful stealth: Followed the sound of your voice through the wall, walking with his ear pressed to it before the sound of your front door opening made him jump, stepping back for a second. He blinked, once, twice…then raised his hands to plaster again and leaned closer, ears straining to hear what was now distance shrieking from the hallway outside. Which he followed to his front door. Listening intently behind the wood.
As he held his breath until his lungs burned in his chest, something flared up in Frankie. A desperate, wanting, starving need to swoop in. Be your knight in shining armour. The words were stuck in his throat, and if he wasn’t careful, they would choke him blue. But if he knew even a shred about you, it was that you’d hate that just as much as whatever it was Mark had done to you to have you tossing him out in the early evening. You were a private person. A woman who never appreciated prying ears or eyes. You avoided all his questions about your past whenever he asked. Swerved him off topic and into the hedgerow before he had a chance to blink and realise he had the backhand of whiplash. And if he let it slip once that the walls were thin, there was no telling where your quick mind would jump to next. Frankie never knew why or what made you so guarded. But he imagined one day you bit the hand of god and he stopped feeding you.
Frankie’s heart was thumping to the beat of his anxiety in his throat, making it harder to swallow the lump it formed, clammy palms pressed to the cool wood with the rest of him.
“You’re a sick man!” He heard, followed by a thumping of something being thrown, then a yelp out of Mark as Frankie guessed he was dodging whatever it was you threw his way. Shoes, maybe? Something else? “A coward! So get out. Don't call. Don’t come knocking. And tell your fucking wife!”
A shuffling of ashamed feet. A slam of your front door. Clattering around behind shared walls. Then silence.
It was five minutes of silence. But it felt like the seconds within those intervals were put on the rack and stretched in torture. Five minutes that he should have used to step back from his door but didn't. He just prayed there was more of you to have to himself for a second.
Then the descent of knuckles came beating down on his door. Causing his heart to jolt out in his chest then plummet into his stomach. Twisting his insides into knots that made him sick with intrigue. He took a step back. And a breath. Then waited a second before opening the door to find you stood there in a silly little lace hemmed tank top and sleep shorts. Your hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, but found the words stuck to the backs of his teeth and the roof of his mouth like soggy, claggy toffee. So he shut up, grateful you cut him off first.
“We’re having a bonfire. So whatever shit Lisa left here, bring it with you. My door will be open. I’ll be on my balcony.” And you left him with nothing but that. Stomping back down the hall in a flurry of your anger.
Frankie stood there, feet practically glued to the floor, fingers curling in on his palms as his blunt nails pressed into already calloused flesh. And an image of you, teeth bared to him like Lisa’s once were, appeared in his mind. An apparition of hurt, torment and his own vulnerability. But it was too late. His feet moved before his mind could and he was already collecting the things of his ex-girlfriend who had wronged him time and time again, stuffing them into his arms in a bundle of broken memory, anguish and lingering hurt.
He found you standing by a metal bin of a man's belongings. The odd t-shirt, pictures of your face next to his, smiles happy and bright with the joy of a relationship you never expected to cave in. In your hand was a packet of cigarettes you'd told him in the passing of a hallway’s conversation that you’d quit, but evidently not. And a crumpled, misshapen box of matches. In the other was a bottle of Whiskey. The brand Mark insisted on liking and you’d bought him for a birthday present. A present he’d never receive because he was as dead to you as the day was long.
“I thought you quit.” He said, trying to start a conversation that hit a dead end pitifully quickly.
“Toss it on.” You mumbled dismissively with a jerk of your head to the pile, eyes glued to Mark’s belongings, washing down your bitter words with an even more bitter swig of drink.
Frankie complied wordlessly from there, dumping the contents of his arms on top of the photos and clothes, stepping back while you poured a generous amount of the liquor on top. A seasoning of fuck you not farewell to the people you’d shared your life with and would thankfully never cross paths with again. He took the bottle from you when you pressed it into his chest, taking a drink and grimacing at the taste. It wasn't smooth. It was almost sour, with a kickback that burned too much to be pleasurable as it passed down the column of his throat in a thick swallow. His thoughts trickled in from there as he read the label and glanced at you. He wanted to get you drunk. Get you to slip up. Let yourself be taken for once.
You both watched, deadfaced, as you struck a match, used it to light a cigarette and then tossed it in the bin as memories curled up under heat. The alcohol setting the blaze up in a satisfying roar of good riddance.
He thought it was a little strange. How you’d come to him. Yes, you were friends. But the type of friend that only ever conversed between life events. In the empty limbo of hallways and laundromats. Not burning things on your balcony in the hope the heat will melt your heart back together, It was a little late for that. Stone doesn’t melt. And the two of you had hearts of set concrete from the turn of events you’d experienced. Encased in the cage of bone that would no longer open to another unless broken in two and forced apart. So you slid down the brick wall, knees bent to your chest while you smoked. The flame flickering a violent xanthous, ochre and scarlet.
He joined you on the floor, passing back the bottle. The two of you side by side, and it only just occurred to Frankie how lonely he was now. But how terrified of intimacy he was. Intimacy of a level deeper than skin/ The both of you wordless, silent as the decaying dead of night. Only the crackle of fire between you and a sniff for your nose as the evening air nipped it and made it run. So to distract yourself, you condemned your tongue to bad liquor, chasing it with a drag of your cigarette and a grimace,
“God, this is shit.” You scoffed.
“Not a hard liquor gal?” He chuckled, turning his head to glance at you out the corner of his eyes before the flame had his eyes attention again.
“More of a wine person, really. But even I can tell this is shit.” And you gestured to the bottle in your hand, reading over the label and sighing.
“Yeah,” he sighed, inflicting another taste upon himself when he took it out of your grasp. “It is.”
Silence again. Not awkward for you who preferred your own company to others, but for him, who had been watching you begging for an in, it was clawing at his insides like a starved animal would at the walls of its enclosure.
“So…” He drew out, and you had to bite back an amused smile.
“What?”
Frankie found himself staring in trance at your side profile, with the same fascination you honed in on the flickering flame. He thought in silence for a second. Asking himself the same question.
"How long did you date Mark for?" He asked. The name made him grimace as if it tasted sour in his mouth. Like he had to spit it out with disgust in every syllable for fear of it burning.
"Six months." Another awkward, off beat pause followed as he nodded. Then asked again.
“Did you love him?”
"No." You said flat out. But your words were honest and brutal to the man you let in then kicked out.
Frankie found himself suffocating a sigh of relief in his own ribs. They pinched slightly with an attempt of something profound to be felt. Like a child who had stumbled upon a strangely twisted shell at the beach. "Have you ever loved anyone?"
You turned to him, tilting your head. But Frankie couldn't tell if it was annoyance or respect for the bravery he had on asking you such personal questions. "What is this? Keeping Up With The Kardashians?"He held up his hands in quick defence, backing down.
“I’m just trying to get to know you.”
"There isn't anything to know except for the fact I'm pissed off." You muttered. “And I figured you would be too, considering the argument I heard a couple nights ago through the wall of my kitchen."
Frankie felt his face go pale, then heat up in the apples of his cheeks. "Oh. So you heard that?" The way your cigarette smouldered as you spoke was the only movement on the narrow balcony. So you did know the walls were thin. It made him wonder what else you knew. If you knew how he strained to listen through plaster and drywall each night.
"Oh, I heard it alright.” You smirked, finding sick pleasure in the way he seemed to squirm. “Something about Lisa finding you...'dull behind the eyes'." Frankie watched as you rolled your eyes and doubled back on your standing in the argument, "If you're going to insult someone, at least be creative about it. ``Give them a good reason to cut it loose." You were like a pendulum to him. But one that spun in clockwise, then anticlockwise circles, instead of oscillating back and forth. Unpredictable in a way that both horrified and intrigued him.
"Dull?" He had to laugh in disbelief, "I am not dull."
You smiled to yourself at that, leaning your head back against the brickwork. Ready to shatter his lie with a flick of your sharp tongue. "You are dull, Frankie. You get up. Go to work. Come back. You do your laundry every Sunday— and I know that because so do I. Your car is always in the exact same spot next to mine. Without fail. Now, you can put all down to ‘strict military regime’, but the bitter truth is," You looked him in the eye, your cig hanging from your lips as you showed him the satisfied grin pulling at your mouth, "you are dull. We all are. We work, we grind, we cry because we work. You ache to the marrow and you get stabbed in the back. And you're begging on your damn knees to bite the hand that feeds you. But if you do, then you starve.”
Frankie had never had his own fear served to him by such a beautiful devil before. And he wished, with all he had left in him that Lisa hadn’t taken or ruined, that you were wrong. It made him want to cave into himself to protect what little he had left. Snarl like a wounded bitch as he held back from others to lick his wounds. Maybe offer it to you and beg you to take it off his hands. But how could he argue when you were practically holding up a mirror to his own eyes? "I hate that you're right." He said in solemn downcast bereavement. And watched the cloud of smoke float silently in front of your face to obscure the very mouth that let him have it in such careful, exact slicing words. The blade of your knife was sharpened to a paper thin point. Now stained with his body’s red.
"There are very few things I'm wrong about. Regardless of that, it's a simple formula and easy to understand.”
“And what is it?” He asked, but regretted it for he knew his heart might not be able to take much more. Not that he showed it. This whole exchange his brow hadn’t folded into a single crease.
“Two things in life are certain: Death. And taxes. You work to pay your taxes, and you die from working."
"That's a pretty pessimistic way of looking at things."
"Life is pessimistic." You shot back with amusement, intently staring in a fixed trance at the pile of burning memories. The last warmth it offered was metaphorically and literally its own destruction. Irony, as Frankie pointed out to himself in his crawling mind. "It crucifies you, and burns you...until you curl in on yourself at the corners and turn to ash."
The conversation had reached a level of solemnity he hadn’t expected, but he’d be a liar if he didn't admit to sinking his claws in yet again. His teeth might come next if you gave him the sweet chance.
You were quiet after that. Both of you were. The remnants of a fire that symbolised how Mark was no longer relevant in your life, and neither Lisa in his. If he thought Lisa was machiavellian, the word had new meaning now. But like with her, it drew him in and snared him into blissful trance. It was the type of blind faith you pin to a deity in the sky. The type that you never see but are forced and gaslit into believing because it's shoved down your throat from a young age. You were not his savour. He knew that in the pit of his very existence, the eye of the storm in his gut.
He would be crucified by you.
“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”
"Aw." You pouted in mock appreciation, pressing a hand to your chest. "Thank you."
Frankie afforded himself the pleasure of laughing at that. As cynical as it all was, it was real. You had just dared to say the quiet hushed parts out loud for him to digest. Though he felt like he was choking on it more than swallowing it. Regardless, he pushed it down to find confidence in himself and prod further.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?” “That.” Frankie pointed to all of you with a gesture absent of any direction, as if it was obvious. He watched as you tilted your head and scrunched your face a little. That crease in your brow…how it would haunt him in future. He felt like the prey. He was torn between wanting you to hunt him slowly so he could feel something at your hand, agony or not. Or asking you to do it quickly so he doesn't have to pursue through the bitter aftertaste.
“I’m not following.”
“You do this thing…where you turn conversations on their head. I feel like I'm getting whiplash.” He forced out a chuckle to make it seem like he was playing through with humour. But his words were genuine under the lace disguise of jest. You really did confuse him. You had his string of thought in knots. Complicated ones. “Why?”
Your eyes narrowed at the question. “You’re trying to figure me out.”
“Why shouldn’t i?”
"Because I'm not the distraction you need." You bit, almost like a warning. And Frankie would have listened if he wasn't so hellbent on breaking in. No matter how hostile, how feral, he'd take the time to tame the caged, battered, abused animal.
“Maybe not.” He agreed, twisting his upper body to face you. It’s important to understand that what Frankie felt wasn’t love. At least, not how he’d experienced it in the past. This was an infatuation birthed by the fruit of lust forbidden to act upon until now. “But you’re the one I want.” With those words came a darkness in his eyes. The kind that reminded you of floods and tempests in biblical art. You were that tempest, with swollen grey clouds and a hammering of thunder ringing in his ears. Laughing as you crashed him onto rocks while he swam helplessly with little energy to the shore. Only to be shoved back with another crushing wave that cut through flesh and met bone with a chill like ice. “Just because we’re sad and miserable, doesn’t mean we have to give up a good time.” His instincts were buried before. Rolling in their grave at the chance to touch you. So he pressed his palms to the lid of the coffin and pushed. Reaching out to trace a delicate line along the angle of your jaw. His eyes were drawn to the soft plush of your lips and how they parted ever so slightly. “I want a distraction, baby.”
He had you where he wanted you. And the liquor mixing thick with your blood had inhibition slipping through your fingers. His breath was hot on your lips. Needy to be paid attention to.
“Would it be worth my while?” You challenged, ignoring eye contact for now. Instead looking to his lips for the lies.
“You don’t think I could satisfy you?” He smirked, lifting your chin with a single thick finger curled underneath and the pad of his thumb swiping slowly over your bottom lip. “I’ll do better than anyone else could.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of confidence you have there. At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is just a bitch.”
Frankie chuckled at that. A deep rumble that rattled the bones that protect the hollow hole in his chest. “Come on…let me have a taste.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He took the silence and the glimmer of ‘i dare you’ in your eyes, pressing his lips to yours to consume you. Devour you whole. They took their time in sinking together and suctioning your lower lip into his mouth. Then his tongue dared to venture forward past parted lips to lick into your mouth and taste the backs of your teeth.
First, you let go of trepidation to take a hold of him. The roots of his hair and the back of his neck, fingers curled like talons. After, you let go of all else. The thoughts scratching the back of your skull, the headache that blistered before by the inferno calmed down and you were forced to focus on him alone as he took a handful of your hips and lifted you up to his lap to roll into him like a steady tide.
You pulled him by the collar of his shirt to your room, clothes left in a scattered flurry along the way. Breadcrumbs to pick up later and either regret or laugh at. He unhinged your jaw to let slip your airy moan as his hands travelled south to meet the seam of your cunt. All else fell into place when he circled your clit with two fingers to start the first loop of the knot in your belly. A warmup for the act of sin, and need, and wanting. Whatever god there was should have never been prayed to in the first place. And Frankie knew it now that he was damned to hell from the first parting of your thighs for his wandering hand. His teeth were ready for sinking as he gathered your legs and hooked them over his shoulders to walk open mouthed, spit decorated kisses down the trunk of your navel. Pressing his nose into your mound. The must of your cunt making his eyes light up as he stared at the bob of your throat when you swallowed sharply. Head rolled back to the pillow. His tongue glided into your folds for the first lick. Making a hot wet stripe of a path from your asshole to your clit. He used the tip of his tongue to circle it and glide lover to curl into your quivering hole. Drawing out the taste. The beckoning gesture of his tongue gathering your taste in his senses. A thumb following suit to roll the bud of your clit under it, his nose clumsy as it bumped into it too. Obsessing over the tang of your arousal, thick in shine over his lips the scruff of his chin.
Your thighs clamped over his ears that were red. The heat made your own skin burn. Dark curls of his hair whispering against their insides as he continued to devour you from the seam. And your orgasm– it burned bright after the first fizzle. Made your eyes scrunch closed as he pulled it from you with hand and tongue. What was used for his words had yours spilling from parted lips like a puppet. A vessel for him to carry pleasure through. It had you toppling over into oblivion. The abyss.
With bones brittle and hollowed like a bird you were fine to be dead weight as he ascended your body again. Folding you in half with your legs still bent over his shoulders. He traced the jut of your collarbone with the blunt edges of his teeth. How he wished they’d be sharp to sink deeper. But you were grateful as it would be easier for him to not draw blood and see the inside of you ran red like all the others. It was easy to not be human. It was easy to not show emotion and weakness.
“Feel that?’ he panted against your goosebump pebbled skin, and you nodded. You did. It was the promise to feel desired and not broken. And not maimed beyond repair by another person you let in. Another person you built yourself up to prepare to love, to only have the rug pulled from under your feet and the brickwork clatter to the ground. It was the same promise to him. And the desire that ran thick in his blood made his pulse thrum heavy under its weight. Its intrusion hot under his lust scorched skin.
“Yeah.”
“Imma make it go away for you, baby.” he promised with a kiss to the hollow of your throat below its column, between your clavicle. And it was anything but empty. It was full. And round, and swollen with something deeper in his ribs that ached to be let loose. Breathed to fill you too. “I’ll make it all go away.”
His hips pressed flush to yours and the drag of neatly groomed hair sent a shockwave through your clit and up your rattling spine. Vertebrae by vertebrae. Setting off blazing fireworks in your mind for just a second before he started a slow drag. It was a stretch that stung. But pain was comfort if it had pleasure hot on its heels like an obedient dog. Ironic how you feared men like him, who seemed so eager to please and let themselves in uninvited. But you took it willingly this time because you needed to forget for a single second about the heart that bled under flesh and bone in the cage of your ribs.
His cock was thick, full and curved up into the part of you that you couldn't have reached even if you tried. He slotted into your heat like he was meant to stay there. And that alone made you want to scream for him to give in and not relent so you could be ignorant to the way it seemed divine. The roll of his hips kicked up in pace and soon he was hunched over you. Strong arms rippled with muscle from brutal training since the age of eighteen bracing himself on either side of your head. The feeling of him curling his hips into you made you burn. It sent a tumble of a moan from your lips through the breathless pant of his name. A name he never thought you'd call in the tangle of your sheets. But the burning need to give you what he had wanted all this time ate at him. It ripped the flesh fresh off his bone and left him bleeding into you.
Frankie’s eyes misted over when the chain that hung from his neck slipped over your chin and you bought the metal of his dog tags between your teeth. Biting down. It feels better biting down anyway. And the cool of the metal on your hot tongue made your head swim. Looking him in his eyes and daring him deeper. So his lips pressed into a firm line, and your nails raked down his back to leave raised red lines in their wake. Tracing new paths over the old map of scar tissue. Marking new land and territory. The air between you hung heavy with the heat of exhales. And blew with the shared moan you indulged in when it coiled in your belly. The cradle of your hips accommodated his cock as it stretched the tightness of your walls. Your slick arousal giving way to fluidity of otherwise rabid motion. Starving.
When on his tongue, you were alive. Inside you he breathed again with the clutch of your cunt around him. Warm and beating, and thrumming quickly like a hummingbird's wings. A squatter temporarily camped up in the crack between two ribs. Where thick muscle shuddered with breath. You believed something in you was worth loving. But you also knew for it to be found you'd have to be flayed alive.
The crash of his hips into yours aided in the symphony of sex, and filled the four walls painted but void of personal belongings. If he were on the other side of them he'd be jealous. But now he was here, he was alive. Beating hearted and thriving. And any god, saint, angel or divinity could watch and weep as he finally had what he wanted. What he might have needed in order to restore his humanity that lay dormant for so long. He was trying to crack you open so he could lick up what lay inside you. Gather it up in his arms like the greedy wolf, lambs gore, blood and flesh, between fangs of his lower jaw. Have the muscle pulsing between his teeth. But he wouldn't. So for now he'd settle for the flesh on show. The mound of your panting breast that he pressed into his open mouth. The flat of his tongue pressing greedily to your nipple. Before his lips pinched together and pulled the left pert. Switching to do the same for the right. Not leaving an inch of you untouched. Because he had his chance now. And who knew when he'd get another. So he relished in what he was spared and he would take it with him to the grave. Dream of it on his deathbed if this killed him. Or if something else did. Regardless. This would run through his mind until his last heavy and troubled breath.
“That's it.” he murmured into your breast. “Take it. Take it, baby. Take me..”
Your back arched, strung tight like a bow ready to fire. Spine curled up into the heat of his mouth and he bit down again on the swell of your breast. Wanting to take its entire weight into his mouth and have it rot and smear into his tongue. The fizzle of nerve endings reached the tips of your curling toes. The heels of your feet digging into the planes of his scapula to press him closer in the burning of your young orgasm.
“Come on. Let me see you come.” Frankie demanded in a breathless growl as he stared you down with his eyes. The hue of his irises almost devoured by black of pupil. Your jaw unhinged to let rip a silent scream. Feeling that sharp coil snap, and a numbness fill your aching core before your toes curl in pleasure. He helped you ride it out with his cock fucking into your tight weeping cunt while you sang out his name in a chorus of moans, whimpers and cries. Letting go utterly as a rush filled you, lighting you up like dry kindling under your skin. The pulsating of your walls around his length had his hips faltering for just a moment, twitching within your sopping cunt. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he let out a deep guttural groan, closing in on skin with teeth again. Spilling inside you, the mix of your slick with his cum painting you white like the searing heat of pleasure between you. He leaves the last of his load with you by fucking it deeper. Three, sharp, punctuated thrusts.
He lay flat above you while he awaited the comedown from his catharsis. The tingle down his spine sputtered out in a haze of slowburn afterglow. Eyes closed and face buried into the crook of your perspiring neck. Panting together. Hit tongue forgot for a second to shape your name the way it sounded, but with a sharp inhale, the air surged his mind.
“I suppose this is the part where I leave?” He mumbled, pulling back from your skin. His time had come and ended. The two of you now sat back to the world of hallway and laundromat limbo. He sighed through his nose when you nodded. And he did the same, pressing his lips into a thin line.
Frankie gathered his clothes up, putting them on slowly one by one. Drawing out the ache of being alone again by lingering in your presence.
“Come back tomorrow.” You said. Not asked. He nodded, still facing the door. Then twisted the handle and left an empty space in your apartment where he had once been.
#pedro pascal#triple frontier#frankie morales#frankie catfish morales#francisco morales#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x female reader#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fic#frankie morales smut#frankie triple frontier#frankie morales fanfic#bark!bite!bleed!
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You think you can write a short of Apollo nomming on Percy sometime after the biting incident? I’d really like to see that they’re on good terms and Percy deserves as many comfort spaces as he can get
Love the au you’ve built up, I might take some inspiration for my own writing. Thank you so much!🤗
OO please do take inspiration!! I am living on pure spite atm and would live to revive PJO vore!!! and Of course-))
It had been weeks after the biting incident, and even more since A schedule of being eaten or sat with had been put in place. As much as it was embarrassing the sleep was too good to be truly upset. It was still gross, and half the time he felt like kicking Hermes teeth when he made a weird joke or teased him, but things weren't horrible.
Percy grimaces and stretches, trying to soothe the aches that came with practicing with the newcomers. Some of those wooden swords hurt, and the metal ones even more, thank you. He sighs glancing towards the beach wondering if that would take some of the odd aches away, it usually did, sometimes. Water healing got weird when it came to bodies, sicknesses and colds? Nothing. Cuts? Perfect, which seemed mildly unfair. He groans and leans again on a tree closing his eyes to soak up the warmth of the day. Maybe he should just go kill some monster, blow off some steam and get the adrenaline pumping.
Perfect day for it after all, it was bright, sunny, and-
He narrows his eyes cautiously glancing around the wood.
"I know you're there." He calls out, scowling when nothing happens. So, he brought out Riptide. It had to be Apollo; the warmth was undeniable. He could've stabbed a tree in frustration when he didn't get a response.
"What do you want to hear that I won't bite you again?" He snaps eyeing the trees like Apollo would morph out of one. That apparently was the issue considering the God appeared, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Serious? You were afraid I'd bite?" he asks with a scowl. Then again Triton had fully held him away like someone would with a naughty cat. Or a lizard- well Annabeth and a lizard at least.
"Not afraid! Just- well biting usually means big ole' seaweed beard shows up and last time he was not happy about the whole, trying to get you to take a nap thing."
Percy scoffs and caps his sword, pocketing it. "Well, you deserved it, I said no." He points out crossing his arms. At least Apollo had the decency to look somewhat ashamed.
"I thought you were...ya know cranky?" The god says with a shrug, Percy very much scowling at the comment. Maybe he had been, but the fact Apollo was calling him out to that wasn't thrilling. "Or at least, Hermes says you're all squirmy and rude at first, so I thought it was just part of the process." Apollo continues not looking Percy in the eye.
Of course. Percy let an exhausted sigh out a hand running through his hair. 12-year-old him would've flipped if this is what the future looked like. "I've seen you like, 5 times, and we don't have that whole directly related thing going on." He starts off. Sure, he had seen his dad about the same, but the sea god was *his* dad. Apollo might be his cousin or something, but he didn't *know* him like he did Hermes.
"I've seen Hermes more than my own dad, talked with him too, so he's familiar I guess...I just... You're not."
That didn't sound too brutal, did it? Oh. Apollo's gaze was hard, serious. It was weird considering he had only seen the god acting goofy half the time. He looked...godly almost. The silence was awkward, and Percy hated it, about to open his mouth to fill the silence but Apollo beat him to it.
"I'd never hurt you. You know that right?"
"What?"
"I said I'd never hurt you. You're the reason half my kids are alive. They pray to me about you, about what you've done for them." Apollo continues with a bittersweet smile on his face. "And it kills me that you're not taking care of yourself. Hero of Olympus, title bearers of heroes of old, it doesn't matter. You're still just a kid under that."
Percy swallows thickly not moving an inch as the god approached him, much like a stray horse, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. It was a different warmth than his dad's or Triton's. It was pure soul bringing warmth opposed to the gentle cooling his sea families brought.
"Just a kid huh?" He laughs bitterly, closing his eyes, soaking in the soothing warmth. It washed over his soreness much like the waves did. The air feeling crisp in his lungs as he drew a breath. "Where was that thinking when I was 12."
The silence that settled over them wasn't comfortable, though Apollo had a sorrowful expression on his face. "Gods don't change, not truly. But you, Percy Jackson, have certainly demanded we try."
It was an honesty he swore he couldn't get from his father half the time...then again truth fell within Apollos domain. He wasn't sure why the sudden honesty, well partly. He crosses his arms and steps away from the warm weight on his shoulder. "Someone's gotta try for a better future." He grumbles.
And it was getting better. From what he heard God spent more time with their kids than just eating them. He knew for sure Poseidon was, Nico literally had a room and Apollo dropped by fairly often to see his kids now. Especially Will.
Apollo chuckles ruffling his hair with a grin. "You're a good kid, and I know Uncle P is proud of you." The god continues a fond look twinkling in his eyes.
"Yeah, mmhm." He laughs barely trying to tame the wild mess that Apollo had created. He knew exactly what the God was seeking now but...funnily enough it was better, like a slow drawn-out permission. Comforting, like Hermes would do it. A small chat before getting to business.
He was...feeling a bit drawn out and exhausted. The training took more out of him than he had been expecting. He sighs heavily leaning against a tree looking back to Apollo. The god stood there silently, his gaze watching him intently. Taking in each movement and any expression he made. Clearly waiting to see his response.
"It's better." He says suddenly, hiding a smile when the god jolted at his voice, like he wasn't expecting it. "What is?"
"This." He says gesturing vaguely. "Small talk, no taunting. I don't like cat and mouse games."
"I wasn't- "
"You are. You guys stand weird when you're thinking about it." Percy points out raising a brow. It was a stance, a slightly arched one, tense like a predator stalking its prey though, it felt...oddly relaxing.
Apollo seemed stunned, before a rolling laugh poured from him. His eyes twinkle, his lips quirking upwards. "People should give you more credit. You're a rather observant little whirlpool."
A scoff draws from him, rolling his eyes as he looked the god over. "It's more common sense. Any god I've seen always does that before they snag someone."
He wasn't being snagged per say, Apollo was working up to it which he'd gladly take. Gave him more time to calm his nerves. "Anyway, get it over with, I've got another lesson in like two hours." he says with a dramatic sigh.
There was a pause before Apollo approached him cautiously, getting more confident when no teeth sunk into his arm this time. "I'm not gonna bite this time." Percy complains, half tempted to give a small shove.
"Well forgive me for being cautious, I can't tell if you're just sassy or genuinely feral." The god shoots back before his hand settles on his shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. Rather than his vision blurring and warm divine energy sinking into him, Apollos form twisted and grew right in front of him, his hand steadily covering his entire body.
He hums, going limp once massive fingers curl over his body lifting him up in a loose fist. It was a lot warmer than he was expecting. The ocean felt cool, soothing like aloe over a sunburn, Hermes felt breezy almost, a rush under his skin. Apollo was warm. Like incredibly warm. It was..comfortable actually.
"Still with me Perc?"
He hadn't even realized he had closed his eyes until the god spoke, jolting out of his thought. "Mm? Yeah. You're just warm." He mumbles. He stifles a yawn, scowling instead. He grumbles under his breath when it's met with a soft chuckle.
"I can still bite you." He warns, huffing as he'd brought up to the gods face, a cheeky smile spread across the lips. "So can I Mr. Piranha." Apollo teases, clacking his teeth together.
If it had been 3 months ago the tease probably would've terrified him, but Percy was more than used to the jabs by now. He rolls his eyes instead, half heartily kicking the gods cheek, sticking his tongue out when Apollo took his foot between his lip. The god was having way too much fun with this.
"Oh no I'm so terrified. Spare me." The monotone voice only seemed to spur more amusement from the god, a chuckle rumbling from him before his lips parted. The slick feeling of saliva soaking into him as he was eased further inside. Huh. It was more goopy sorta thick... Like honey almost. He must've made a face because a vibration of laughter ran through him. "Yeah, laugh it up, you have gross insides."
He scoffs trying to remain aloof as he slipped further inside the gods tongue safeguarding him from scraping against the bottom teeth. "You know one of these days you should be less gross and just magic me inside. Dad said you guys do that too." He points out closing his eyes as he let the warmth roll over him. It was comforting, soothing his aches and pains in ways water did.
The motions were familiar, his feet hitting the back of the gods throat, he tenses briefly, surprised when nothing happened. He cracks his eyes open a bit, waiting for a swallow to ripple over his feet but he sorta just laid there. He craned his neck the best he could, but he couldn't exactly see what expression was on the god's face. Fingers brushed against his head, like he was seconds from being pulled back out.
"Are you...waiting?" he asks slowly, a tad stunned. He hadn't expected that. All because he tensed a bit? Huh...that was oddly thoughtful. "I'm fine, it just gets weird with the sensation of falling." he admits after a second. A hum rolls over him before the familiar grasp of muscles tugs him downwards. The pressure and squeezing are almost comforting at this point. He sighs heavily closing his eyes again, not that it mattered considering the surrounding innards glowed.
The rippling of the muscles pulling him down was a motion that he had actually gotten used to. Mindlessly he counted the seconds, keeping his breathing as even as possible as he was squeezed and squished. The tight feeling at his feet giving way with the slight pressure.
Instead of a drop he was expecting it was more of a slide, the thick goopy insides making him scrunch his face up. "Ugh, why are you so goopy?" He grumbles. He shifted upwards, trying to push against the plush muscle, his hands sinking into it like putty. Different for sure.
"I'm not goopy! Literally none of my kids have ever complained."
"It's literally like putty in here!"
He makes face pulling his hand back, the thick mucus clinging to his hand as he did. "Actually at least putty doesn't stick to you." He grumbles, flopping back against the stomach, wall, grimacing when he sunk into the plush muscle.
"I'm sorry next time I'll tidy up, put some air fresheners inside, maybe add a rug." Apollo scoffed, Percy smirking when he felt a few very pointed pokes targeting his back.
"I feel like a rug would make this ten times worse." Percy laughs, closing his eyes with a sigh. He had two hours before his next lesson...that gave him some time for a night. "Might turning out the light? Man, you're like the worst to nap with." he teases, stretching out a bit. It was like being on a weird waterbed. He could get used to water, but this was like an oddly firm Jello.
A dramatic sigh caused the muscles to ripple all around him, the light fading from a bright light to a softer glow. "My kids never complain." the god grumbles, though the fond tone indicated he wasn't truly upset.
"Your kids sometimes actually glow in the dark, so doesn't surprise me- now shut it." Percy murmurs, not real heat in his voice as he relaxes further into the organ. It really was like sunbathing, a constant warmth enveloping him no matter how he moved or turned. His lips quirk up, more so when a steady pressure rubs against his back.
So, Apollo wasn't as bad as he first had thought that was good to know. He could live with this.
"Wake me up in two hours, I'm serious I have classes to teach." He grumbles, not even fighting the wave of exhaustion.
"Mmhm, we'll see if you're up for it then."
Percy scowls, letting an annoyed huff out. Well, there went the rest of his day.
#soft vore#safe vore#pjo vore#extreme cuddling#protective vore#endosoma#comfort vore#pjo soft vore#g/t vore
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Good day everyone!
I like thinking about protective vore scenarios where both involved are two absolute, unfixable sweethearts who care about the ones around them more than about themselves... But actually, a prey doesn't know that they'll be safe in a pred's stomach. Perhaps, there was not enough time for explanations or the pred didn't have an ability to tell the prey what they were going to do; but anyways, the big guy ends up struggling to swallow their panicking friend who is quite unhappy about the situation. The pred sincerely hopes that it'll be easier for everyone when the prey reaches the destination, but, unluckily, they are wrong; the little one continues wriggling and trashing around, mercilessly squeezing and scratching sensitive stomach, making their protector suffer in pain. The latter is too kind to make any attempts to stop their friend instantly, for example, punching their belly roughly or yelling at their friend; they just hug their sickly growling, aching middle, feeling tears flowing violently from their eyes and say: "Listen... You're safe, pal... Please... Don't. You're hurting m-me..."
The prey entirely ignores the first part of the sentence; however, they stop fighting right away as they hear the last words. Like... No doubt, they want out really bad, but...They didn't mean to harm anyone, their friend in particular! It appears that all this battling was completely instinctive. The prey goes brightly red of shame; they mumble apologies all the time, sobbing because of the thought they could cause irremediable damage and stroking, kneading tender walls they're sinking in, their hands tremor as the tiny remembers how hard they were beating their comrade a minute ago... And outside, the pred, blushing too, just coos at them, reassuring that the prey did nothing wrong and they don't need to reproach themselves for the fear which was nothing else but natural.
***
It can be a completely opposite variant as well; the prey has done something bad - they have committed a prank or made some mess... The pred gets extremely mad for some reason and, in spite of their kind soul, decides to punish the guilty one by trapping the latter away in their stomach. With a heavy heart, they gulp small, trembling body of the prey down. The pred expects threats, screams and furious banging on their insides from the consumed friend, and they emotionally prepare for that. But instead... Their ears catch faint crying. The little one curls up tightly in noisy, wet environment, completely giving up on the all joys of life and a possibility to see daylight again. As far as it's discovered, the pred is hit so hard by this, that they immediately forget their irritation and hide their face in hands, paralysed by shame and horror of what they've done. The giant begs the tiny to forgive them for the giant's dared to scare their precious little friend with such cruelty. Meanwhile, the prey comforts their big friend, rubbing the flesh moving around which gently embraces them - and insisting that they are the only one who should be sorry for showing poor behaviour.
***
These small ideas are connected to Skyfire from G1 (I've finally begun to watch it, this show is literally mind-blowing!) He is one of my favourite characters from this series; and whenever I see him, I can't get a thought out of my head about what a compassionate, and soft, and loving being he is (when it doesn't come to decepticons, of course). In order to that, I think he would fit perfectly for the situations I described.
#extreme cuddling#safe vore#soft vore#transformers vore#transvoremers#g1 vore#unwilling prey#protective vore#skyfire vore#reluctant pred#vore thoughts#vore talk#vore ideas#g/t vore#size difference
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The Tiny (Chapter 2)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3
Content Warning: Vore themes
Word Count: 1956
------ Chapter 2: The Beginning ------
I’m lonely.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow. I should be happy, after all. I should be grateful for what I have, and pleased with my humble, peaceful little life. I’m blessed with a career with a good balance, that both pays reasonably well and allows me to pursue my passion. I don’t have to live a hateful existence in the crowded, grimy, bustling city. I’m lucky enough to inhabit a pleasant, rustic little cottage out in the woods. I’m surrounded by acres of fresh air, scenic hills, wildflowers, grass, trees—and solitude. A solitude that at one time I found blissful, but now cuts to my core like a knife.
I have friends and family, of course. I was never much of a social person, though, and I allowed all my relationships to lapse and languish. And my father—well. The gulf between us may never recover. I can’t forgive him for mistreating me, and he can’t forgive me for being a disappointment. He’s mellowed out a bit since I was a boy, but the frigid, condescending gaze that he always gives me, boring into me with that cyclopean eye of his, wounds deeper than any beatings he bestowed upon me in the past.
So now I lay here as I do every evening, in my lonely abode, struggling to hold back the tide of despair. Some days, I feel like giving up. I don’t know what I want, really. I suppose, just like everyone else, I want to be loved. I want to be valued, to be someone’s whole world, rather than being a worthless nobody, crumbling under expectations that I can never hope to fulfill. I want this terrible abyss inside me, this ceaseless hunger, to dissolve away. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I sigh as I stare out at the blackened sky, listening to the steady tapping of rain hitting the roof.
Just as my eyelids begin to droop with resigned fatigue, in the deepest hour of the night, a bolt of blinding blue streaks across the window. I jolt up in bed, as if electrified, while the ominous crash of thunder rolls overhead. That was no ordinary lightning. In a flash as sudden as the light, my need for sleep vanishes, and my hunting drive is awakened. The magical lightning is rare, but it invariably brings bounty. My skin prickles with excitement as I throw on some clothes and boots. I don’t care if it’s raining. I hastily slide into my raincoat as I head out into the storm.
I journey towards the general direction of where the lightning struck. It must’ve been close, judging by the timing of the thunder. I sniff the air, but all I can smell is water, mud, and vegetation. I huff with annoyance as I prowl through the trees. I didn’t bring a flashlight, for I wouldn’t want to scare off my timid and unwary prey, but I can see well enough through the misty haze. I’m a natural predator, after all.
My stomach growls with anticipation as I patiently search. I haven’t eaten any fresh human meat in a very long time, since humans are so rare to find in the Land of Giants. They only come with the lightning, transported from their world unaware and unprepared, so they don’t last long with so many hungry giants around. It’s been years since I’ve eaten one, but I’ll never forget their special flavors, unique to each individual. I lick my lips at the reminder and swallow with longing. No other food sates like a live human in your belly.
I’ve been walking for a long while now. Just as the sour tinge of disappointment begins to settle over me, I spot a faint light, hovering near the ground. I stop in my tracks and observe, not moving a muscle. My blood pulses faster as I recognize the familiar gait of a diminutive bipedal creature. A human. Oblivious to my presence, it walks towards me, the beam of light sweeping side to side. The human is lost and confused, as they always are upon entering our foreign lands. I take advantage of the cover of darkness and lie in wait, observing hungrily. My prey won’t escape my grasp.
The small figure stops, directing the light down to stare at an oversized leaf beneath its feet. After an extended pause, the flashlight makes another round, illuminating pebbles and sticks that must look like trees to such a tiny being. The beam is too weak to reach me through the sheets of rain, but the human appears to notice my silhouette against the backdrop of the night as its head, smaller than a pea, rotates up. I remain as motionless as a statue, heart beating harder. I watch with fascination as the human approaches closer and closer, failing to show any sign of fear. It doesn’t understand what it’s viewing; it doesn’t know I’m here.
I resist the compulsion to reach down, snatch up the miniscule being, and stuff it into my voracious maw. The minutest seed of doubt sprouts in my brain, dampening my enthusiasm. As much as I yearn to devour, to rip and tear and drink the blood of my victim and digest its flesh, I am myself torn. I recall the exquisite pleasure, the relief of finally scratching a ceaseless itch, but I know all too well that the satisfaction is fleeting. Such a luxurious and cruel indulgence leaves an aftertaste bitter with sorrow and regret. My father labored to eradicate those doubts from my mind, to raise me to be a proper man-eating giant as I should be, but my pesky conscience never departed. I was always too soft for him: soft and weak, yet not pliable enough to bend to his whims.
My eyes focus like a laser as the smaller person reaches my feet, its head not even reaching the height of my toe. I’m turbulent with indecision as I watch with fascination. The fearless little explorer holds out a hand and brushes microscopic fingers along the leather of my boot. I can’t feel the delicate touch, but my neurons fire with excited sparks nonetheless.
The human stiffens as understanding dawns like a sudden spotlight. The flashlight jerks upward, the narrow beam still failing to penetrate the darkness, obscured with drizzly mist, between us. A momentary flash of lightning, and the human bolts. My predatory instincts spring to life and I surge into action, dropping to my knees. The flashlight disappears into the mud while the human is swiftly mired in a murky puddle, with legs entangled in a web of fine roots. I scoop the person up into my hand and bring it up to my face to sate my curiosity.
It's a young woman: a tiny, helpless woman, drenched in water, trembling violently, and wriggling against the superior might of my fingers. She’s so small; her entire hand is dwarfed by my fingernail as she slides it along the slick surface. I can’t stop a drip of sympathy from dribbling into my center as I behold just how microscopic and helpless she is, less than the height of my pinky. As much as my stomach clamors to be filled, I freeze up.
I know I shouldn’t hesitate. My father taught me to be ruthless, to consume, to enjoy the hunt and the catch and the rare satiation of my bottomless appetite. I should eat and be fulfilled, and forgot my nagging, troubling qualms. I’m a giant; she’s a human, fit for a meal and nothing more, to be ingested, dissolved, and forgotten. I run my tongue along the inner curve of my teeth, imagining how she would feel inside my mouth, the delights of her flavor. Yet, I am paralyzed. I can’t do it, when I see her fighting for her life in my hand, tears streaming down her face to mix with the rain.
I decide to keep her. I’ll eat her later. Perhaps I’ll prepare her for my breakfast in the morning. I’ll fry up some bacon and roll her into an omelet with cheese. My salivary glands approve of the suggestion, and I find I’m able to move again as I tuck her under the lapel of my jacket, against the dry warmth of my chest. I wrap my hand firmly around her soggy, shivering form, careful not to squash her into jelly. Like a fruit, I wouldn’t want to bruise her succulent flesh.
I feel calmer, now that I’ve made my choice. I lumber back through the trees to my cottage, taking my time. The tiny woman squirms against my chest, but settles down as she seems to realize she has no chance of escape. I don’t allow the guilt to worm into my heart and rot it from the inside. No. None of that. She is mine to do with what I please, no longer her own person, merely a piece of meat that still draws breath. For now.
The trek takes some time, but I finally make it home. The human hasn’t moved beneath my hand for a while, and I begin to worry. Did I hurt her without realizing? Snap her flimsy spine with a momentary pinch, or crush her skull under my thumb? My throat tightens. After I step through the threshold and close the door, I reach underneath my wet coat and cautiously wrap my fingers around her delicate form. She feels warm, yet fragile and small.
I open my hand so that she’s laying supine in my palm. I hold her close to my face to examine her. I exhale in relief once I perceive the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. I didn’t kill her. The revelation floods over me with an unexpected warmth. She appears to be unconscious—whether from exhaustion, fear, smothering, or a combination of the aforementioned, I cannot be certain. Either way, she is alive, albeit worse for wear: disheveled clothes, tangled hair, pale skin, and muddy shoes.
I attempt to quash any sympathy I have. I can’t allow myself to feel that way towards my food; my father would be disgusted with me for my weakness of character. A gnawing hunger grows in my core, like a black void. I’m torn apart by potent, conflicting feelings. I’ll sort it out in the morning, with clarity of mind, once I’m better rested. I shed my raincoat and gently wrap the human in a dry washcloth to sop up the excess moisture and mud. I undress, removing my boots and throwing on a light shirt and shorts to sleep in, before laying down in bed. I set the sleeping human down beside me, a safe distance away so I don’t roll over her in my sleep.
Before I close my eyes, I can’t help but stare at her, mesmerized. All I can see of her is her little head with her damp hair poking out of the cloth. Her fine features are untroubled, smoothed over in slumber. I wonder how she’ll react when she wakes up. Even if she runs away, or hides, she won’t be able to escape me. I imbibe her scent, subdued from the rain yet still potent enough to drive me wild. I will find her if she flees.
That last thought troubles me slightly. I don’t want her to run. I don’t want her to fear me, to gaze upon me like I’m some sort of monster, even though I’m an obvious danger, and I plan to eat her. It’s an irrational sentiment, perhaps rooted in my deep loneliness, but for some reason I want her to like me.
How absurd of me, to wish for something so impossible.
Chapter 3
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25: Waking Nightmare
art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises
if you sleep, you'll dream. if you dream, you'll see him. if you see him, you will never be free.
->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, hard vore, terato, non-human genitalia, mind-altering magic.
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You can feel him all the time now. Not just when you close your eyes.
But it’s fine. That’s normal. It’s just residual magic. You get the same sticky cobweb feeling when you work with infernal pigments or walk by a Fundamentals of Magical Writing class in the first few weeks when people are still knocking their Stygian ink bottles over. That’s just how it works. If you dunk your head in a pool, you’ll drip for a while. Nothing weird or worrying about it. It’ll go away on its own.
You stay out late a lot these days. Not for any real reason, honestly, you’re just busy. And why hole up in your dark, quiet, isolated apartment when you could hit the town instead? There’s no time like the present to start enjoying clubs, concerts and all the dazzling nightlife Obelos has to offer. Your final exhibition is coming up and you’ve been working hard on getting those pieces ready, of course, but you need a break. Anyone would. It’s fine that you’re at the bar until it closes. It’s fine.
“You look tired,” people have started to say.
Well, obviously. It’s grad school! Everyone’s tired. Someone pass the tube of crepuscular blue. You stand up straighter in front of your easel. If you focus, your hand will stop shaking. You yawn and it spreads like a virus. See? you say. How are those gallery applications coming along?
The goetia double-major brags that they’re going great, actually, thank you so much for asking. “I’m in contact with the director of Gallery Decadentia,” she says casually, savoring the jealous glares and chorus of seething “Woooow, congratulaaaaations.” She’s become almost tolerable since securing a Benefactor-Patron. A little less smugness and a lot less tainting the communal workshop paints with subtle poison and then acting shocked and heartbroken when a classmate is out for a week with the worst flu of their life.
“Have any tips for snagging a Patron?” somebody asks.
She shrugs. “Study goetia. Honestly, I don’t know how else people do it nowadays. You’re out of luck unless you get into one of those really big expos. It’s that or somnarium painting.”
“Didn’t you do that for a while?”
The room gets quiet and you glance up from the stormy swirls forming on your canvas. Oh. They’re asking you. And now they’re staring, because your eyes are bloodshot and you keep tapping one of your hands against your thigh in an irregular rhythm to keep yourself alert and awake. You shrug. “For a little bit, yeah. It was good practice, I guess.”
You sound dismissive and they’re all nodding. “It’s so kitsch. I don’t get it.”
“Ugh, I had to do a bunch in Dream Augury a couple years ago. Huge waste of time.”
“I think they’re great,” someone says, terse. “It depends how you do it. Some of the greatest masterpieces of the Renaissance were somnarium paintings.”
“That’s completely different.”
“Yeah, the term actually meant something back then. You didn’t just splash some watercolor on the closest surface first thing in the morning and say it came to you in a dream.”
“Expos are better anyway,” the double-major says. “You don’t want a mare for a patron.”
“Really? Why?”
She raises a brow. “What happened to all those great somnarium painters of the Renaissance?”
“They didn’t all go missing, though.”
“Sure,” she scoffs. “A few of them died in their sleep.” She watches you carefully for a while but you don’t care. You’re focused on your work. You have nothing to hide. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
You go out for a while. Enjoy the noise and lights, the lively ambience. You grab coffee. You window shop. You take the scenic route home. It’s well past midnight and you’re nodding while trying to find your keys in your pocket. You feel him. He’s there when your eyelids flutter. You jolt upright and shove your keys in the lock and it’s fine, all fine. You lock the door behind you. It’s dark. The lights don’t work right. You keep changing out the bulbs and they keep dying to a barely-there glow, weaker than little flickering candles.
Paper crumples under your shoe. That happens a lot. Kind of unavoidable when you’ve got sketches all over the floor and tables and chairs and stuffed in the drawers and pasted on the walls. Some are quick, frantic pencil scribbles, some ink, some hazy with watercolor, some sharp and acrylic. They’re of everything. Shapes. People. Plants. Animals. Corpses. Hungry castles. Seashell staircases and stained glass forests. And deer—lots of deer. Herds of deer, fractal deer, deer metamorphosis, deer saints. Close-ups of long lashes and bar pupils. Antlers that grasp.
You set an alarm for one hour from now. There are twelve more after that just in case. You might not even sleep. You might just lay down and rest your eyes for a second and—
You blink and there’s a house. A big one. A small one. It keeps changing. Cabin, cottage, courtyard full of butterflies. There’s a garden arch covered in clinging green tendrils and flowers that glow like the moon. Well, that’s alright, you tell yourself. It happens. Maybe you were just a little more tired than you thought. You set the alarms. You’ll be alright.
You step through the arch and into a rustic foyer; stone floor, wooden walls. Candles flicker. The hallway forks in three directions, each dark path lit only by a breadcrumb trail of flickering candles. You start walking. It doesn’t matter where. Open doorways line the hall, each room beckoning your attention with the beauty of full-bloom gardens, tranquil beaches and palatial bedchambers. Some are already occupied. The people inside sigh, and weep, and scream.
Here you are again, in the somnarium.
“Are you lost, sweetie?”
Someone peeks out of a room up ahead. A man. A mare, probably. He’s wearing a guise but there’s an unnatural, subtle luminescence around him, a soft haloing glow as though he’s standing in front of a light. He leans in the open doorway, an arm bent against the frame, head cocked and smile alluring. Light, silky robes hang from his body like a draped toga, the fabric translucent so you can see the subtle outline of his figure beneath.
“I’m not lost,” you insist. “I’m just…”
“Why don’t you come here? There’s always room for one more.” You see movement behind him. Squirming. Writhing. Bodies entangled, arched backs and thrusting hips; a shared dream of pleasure. Three humans kiss and caress one another. The glint of eyes in the dark tells you another mare is watching. The one at the door tilts your chin, returning your attention to his face. “Mm. What a sweet, sweet scent. But you’re a little too lucid for my tastes.” He sighs, patting your cheek. “Run along now. I’m sure someone will be very happy to see you.”
You keep walking. The hall never seems to end, splitting into even more maze-like paths. There are spiral staircases and cellar doors, windows to other worlds. You keep moving because that’s better than standing still. You looked it up. Mares prefer ambush to pursuit, but that doesn’t mean they won’t go on the hunt if they want something badly enough.
You see a nightmare of being lost in one room you pass. A man stumbles down a winding mountain path in hiking gear, shivering in the frigid wind. You just barely glimpse the mare—an elongated silhouette slinking through the trees. Across the hall, a woman dreams of a labyrinthine college campus and a classroom she can’t find and a mare follows closely behind her, nipping at her heels, hissing that she’s going to fail this class.
Further on, a shared nightmare of being chased has ended and the mares feast on their quarry. Your stomach churns at the sight and sound of gushing blood and cracking bone, the squelch of disembowelment. The dreamers struggle but they’ve already lost. They are always weaker than the hunters in their dreams, always too slow to outrun them. Some are shocked awake immediately, vanishing from the somnarium and leaving pouting mares behind.
But some linger, screaming for help and for mercy that’s never coming beneath their vicious attention. The mares wrench limbs from their sockets. They rip chunks of flesh from chests and thighs and lick the blood from their clawed fingers. They reach into the ragged, gaping wounds they make and shudder in delight at the fear their prey feels, the helplessness, the despair. Frenzied, their guises flicker and slip, revealing the wispy, protean strangeness beneath. They are ungulates—goats but not, caribou but wrong, spider-horses and centipede-deer. They move in ways they shouldn’t. Their bodies can’t decide how many legs to have and their faces are a constant shift of beauty and incomprehensible horror.
You see someone try to crawl away, shrieking in mindless terror when a mare pounces on their back. It stabs straight through their shoulder, staking them to the ground with a spear-like hoof. It rips at their clothes with its teeth and stomps their legs when they try to wriggle free, pummeling flesh and shattering bone. More legs—thin and spindly, sometimes hands, sometimes claws and pincers—emerge from its body to shove their head into the dirt and raise their hips. It makes itself a long, flat-headed cock already hard and drooling precum, grinding the grotesquely large organ against its prey’s backside.
“Hello, pet.”
You freeze when a hand seizes your shoulder and a warm, firm body presses against your back. Human, but only to the torso. You didn’t hear his hooves but you feel them now, knocking against your ankles. “Aelius,” you stammer. “I—”
“Do not speak.” He moves around you, his hand sliding from shoulder to the other as he circles around to stand between you and the doorway, his fingers hooking beneath your chin. He is calm and collected, unchanging in contrast to the constantly shifting nightmares gorging themselves behind him. You see a large deer-centaur, the lower body piebald with spots and patches of brown and white. Long white hair spills over one shoulder and down his back, the enormous antlers crowning his head tangled with climbing vines and pale blue flowers. Red eyes flick up and down, scrutinizing you.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Sounds of violence and lust—blood, hunger and ecstatic moans—emanate from the room behind him. When you start to squirm, he licks his lips.
“You have been avoiding me,” he says, low and dangerous. You start to insist that you weren’t, you’d never, you know better, and he squeezes your jaw. “Do. Not. Speak,” he hisses. “And do not ever lie to me again. Such impudence.” He drags you closer, his grip on your face forcing you onto your toes. He smirks in satisfaction at the small whimper you let out. “But that is part of your charm. Come.”
He lets go of you and steps over the threshold, his form rippling as he enters the room. He stops to look back over his shoulder, his cold gaze warning you that his patience is short tonight. You follow reluctantly, entering the nightmare of devouring. He walks slowly and through the center of the carnage, forcing you to walk through unwound ropes of intestine and splayed, partially skeletonized limbs. You know where Aelius is going. You see the rutting mare ahead, back legs spread as it thrusts wildly into the captive, impaled body in front of it. You don’t want to get any closer but he looks back sharply when you stop moving.
“Come here,” he growls. He’s appeased by your rush to obey but only slightly. He grabs your arm and drags you closer, forcing you to stand beside him. You’re right next to the other mare, so close that you could reach out and touch its flank. You can see the dreamer’s distend around its cock, abdomen bulging obscenely with every thrust. They shudder and moan weakly in pain, fingers tangled in the grass and dirt. Every time they start to sag and go limp, close to waking, the mare twists the dagger-like limb in their shoulder and makes them scream.
Aelius grabs you by the hair when you turn away, yanking until your scalp is burning and you let out a wounded noise.
“You may speak,” he says. “And you will tell me what drove you to such petty mischief. Do not look away.”
You inhale shakily. You do what he asks, even though the sights and sounds of the mare’s relentless thrusts make your stomach turn. “I…I want you to let me go.”
He chuckles, his grip loosening. He massages your scalp instead as a reward for your obedience. “Let you go?” he purrs. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
You swallow nervously. Is he going to try and deny it? Bored of the dreamer’s quiet resignation, the mare bends its front legs, the front of its body resting heavily on their back. Its thrusts slow to harder, deeper pounding, long pauses between movements leaving it fully hilted in the dreamer’s trembling body. You hear their breath turning to strained wheezes.
“I don’t dream about anything else anymore,” you say. “I always come here.”
“Such things aren’t unheard of. Many humans prefer my somnarium to aimless wandering, or the predations of other demons.”
He’s going to make you say it. Why? Because it scares you? Because you know, deep down, what’s been happening all along but didn’t want to believe it? You take a deep breath. “I can feel you. Even when I’m awake. I can feel your magic on me.”
The mare looks at you and your breath hitches. Its face is mostly human but there are flickers of other things, a fogginess to its features. It looks at you and in that moment it knows everything you want most and everything you’re afraid of. Its eyes narrow. It licks its lips. It keeps looking at you as it spills inside the dreamer, heavy balls pressed against their ass. A slow dribble of cum leaks from their abused entrance, dark blue and glittering like the night sky.
“Oh? Is that so?” Aelius asks, stroking your arm. “And why might that be?”
“Because…”
The mare pauses for a moment. It’s not resting. It doesn’t need to because it’s not tired. It waits for the human to go completely limp, to exhale finally, to close their eyes and try desperately to will themselves awake. That’s when it starts to pull, dragging itself inch by inch out of their body, all the way to the tip and letting a gush of thick, frothing cum gush down their thighs. Then it slams back in, savoring their hoarse, rasping scream, and starts to fuck them again.
“Because you’re Entrancing me,” you whisper.
You looked it up. It’s a slow, subtle thing, easy to miss until you’re in the throes of it. First, you’re tired. You want to sleep more often. Then sleep always brings you to the same somnarium, and your dreams always push you into the arms of the same mare. Then you feel it—intrusions in your mind. Whispers and suggestions, gentle nudges. Thoughts that feel like yours but aren’t. It takes a long time for a mare to get so far in your head that it starts to leak into your waking life, but once Entrancement has set in, it can take months or even years to fully break.
The more you see him and the more he feeds, the worse it’ll be. You already respond to his touch, unable to stop yourself from leaning into his hand stroking your cheek.
“The modern age is so vexing at times,” Aelius muses. “Once, you would have needed to consult an oracle or an experienced infernal scholar to even hear that word and understand what it entailed. It matters not. You are already mine. And is that not what you asked of me?”
You wanted security. You wanted to stop worrying about your bills and tuition and the staggering cost of infernal pigments. You wanted to know you would be alright in the end, no matter what happened. “I asked if you would be my Patron,” you say.
He smiles and leans in, bending down to be closer to eye level with your thumb caught between his fingers. “And I said I would,” he murmurs. “Gladly I would, to ensure your brush is ever wet with the finest paints, so long as you paint for me. Of course I Entranced you. You belong to me.”
You think he’s going to kiss you. You hold your breath, waiting for it. Hoping, despite everything. It frightens you to want him this much. But instead he chuckles and pulls away, straightening to his full height.
“Now, this is the scene you will paint for me when you wake.” He gestures to the smirking mare who arches seductively as though posing for you, its hips still snapping against its captive prey. “Look carefully,” Aelius says, grasping your shoulders. He stands right behind you, pressing his toned chest against your back. “Pay close attention. The light. The color. The movement. You will be rewarded for your attention to detail. Perhaps, someday…” He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. “Someday, I will ask you for a self-portrait in the same style.”
Loud, shrill noise makes you gasp and bolt upright. You wake up in bed, in the dark. You grope for your phone on the bedside table, stomach sinking when you see you slept through four of your alarms. You can feel him, even now. You can feel the weight of his gaze and the ghostly caress of his hands. You don’t know what you’re going to do. Is there someone you can tell? Someone who can help you? You know someone in the Goetia Studies Department. Maybe she—
Your heart skips a beat. You sit up slowly, pulling your leg back from the hard surface it just bumped into. There, at the foot of your bed, is a canvas and a collection of brand new infernal paint.
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I might be picky, but I honestly think common monsters just wouldn't be good at vore.
Vampires are wasteful, only sucking your blood and leaving the rest. It's like taking a pizza roll and sucking out all the sauce, not even eating the cheese!
Werewolves eat too fast and don't really savor you. Sure, they're eating you like any other piece of food which might be hot for some people, but if I'm going to be eaten I better be treated like a delicacy
Sphinixes aren't as commonly known to eat people. And for good reason! Because you have to answer their riddles wrong, and like my ego as a riddle master is too much to get any riddle wrong.
Mermaids and Mermen sing to you about how great being eaten by them will be, but we all know damn well they're just going to drown you without taking a single bite, they probably aren't even hungry.
Giants seem like a good option, until the entire point of in-human preds is that they're not human, and giants are too close to humans for me. Like, they're literally just human but big. Not to menton you'll have to share space with several sheep.
And finally, dragons seem perfect. They're big, they can easily swallow you down, and they don't take much convincing. That is until you realize; dragons typically live in mountains, and I am not climbing the fucking himalayas to get eaten.
It's all fucking bullshit
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I’m finding myself finally understanding robo vore/endo but in very niche situations.
Like imagine a daycare worker or an attendant of some kind to this entertainment animatronic. They work with kids so they’re always exhausted lol. The animatronic is like twice the size of them and sentient. They get along fine, though it’s not really understood how sentient the animatronic is.
The animatronic is nice to the worker and vice versa bc it’s in their nature but it’s really just assumed that the animatronic is following programming to keep kids content and all that jazz. the worker finds it uplifting none the less.
And like, for some reason or another, the attendant ends up in their stomach/chest hatch. Maybe for a safety lockdown, maybe to fix something, maybe because the kids were finally too damn much and they couldn’t take it that day, they were prone to falling asleep standing and the animatronic took charge.
And this was supposed to be a normal, albeit uncommon thing. It’s professional. It’s a safety procedure even.
But the worker finds themselves closed into the robot that has been kind to them, that is literally programmed to be charming, likeable. And they find themselves tuning into the whirrs and clicks of machinery, And they find it….. comforting??? Pleasant?? It might be freaky being at the mercy of machines but it was pleasant being so close. This was their co-worker… their friend? The more time they spend in there the more they realize that yes, these interactions are real and alive. Maybe the animatronic and worker are chatting while this is all going down, and that conversation really hammers it in. They’re inside a kind caring and strong robot who thinks highly of them. They’re the closest they can be.
And the robot, Who now currently has the only adult human that treats them like a person, is stunned. They’ve had other maintenance workers in there from time to time, and it didn’t really matter at all. Not good or bad. Now, this human, who they genuinely care about, is quite literally protected by the robot’s thick layers of metal and machine. The human is protected by something way way way more durable. it can feel it’s power have to work just a little harder to compensate for that weight, their joints moving just a bit slower. And the robot feels a sense of pride. The robot finds something that drives it outside of its programming. The worker.
#this totally didn’t stem from an AU with cy and her boyfriend#no#totally not self inserty at all#safe vore#soft vore#vore talk#extreme cuddling#vore prompts#endo#endosoma#robot vore#safe noms
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seeing your favorites (specifically scott howl bandit, bowser, and gumshoe), honestly each of them could put me through the most brutal digestion and i’d come back as a ghost to say thanks (i lean extremely in the safe direction)
(i have so many thoughts on them, though idk much about the werewolf, despite my attraction to him. out for them all, bowser is probs the most likely to happily follow through with digestion, despite any protests he hears. imo. —bandit though?? i wanna stuff him full of men till he’s round and unable to even move until he digests them all. also feel like he’d be the kindest pred/most understanding, but at the end of the day will get his prey digested no matter what. gumshoe though? i feel like he’d make a halfhearted attempt at letting me out (he “accidentally” vored) before just shrugging and moving on with his day, which is so unbelievably attractive for reasons i have not yet psychoanalyzed myself for yet (lol))
Oooh these are all really good headcanons for them. I definitely agree with these. If you want me to throw my hat into the ring for S.cott—he’d be really good natured about it, definitely the kind to offer lots of thanks or praise for being his food. Did you want to be food? Doesn’t really matter, food doesn’t get to choose that. But he’s real nice about it regardless! Even if he’s digesting you.
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how would it have goon if, when Tommy and dream were stuck in prison together dream shrunk and Tommy's instincts took a front seat ?
Well first things first, this really reminds me of something I read on here involving Tommy and Dream. I don't remember who made it or when I read it but I do remember it being an au with predators and such, Dream lets himself be eaten as a sign of trust to apologize to Tommy, and in the end, he is let go but not forgiven. It was also not g/t.
If I can find it, I'll link it later on but if someone else finds it feel free to @ me!
One last side note before we get into this, for simplicity's sake, Tommy has a storage for this short story.
Edit from Future Nomie: It's not.
Warnings: Vore, Unwilling Prey, Instinct Driven Pred, Fear, Cursing, Talking of a person as an It, Long as Fuck.
Tommy had grown used to the aching loneliness of his current life, but things were getting better. Yeah, he might have fucked things up with his family and Wilbur was dead... but he was learning to get out of the shitty programming in his brain.
Puffy made him understand how much had been done to his head, she helped him acknowledge the mental blocks and changes he'd built to protect himself and he was working on growing into a proper adult now that he was 17. He knew what Puffy had said, she had explained to him that he didn't need Dream's apology to heal.
It was described in a way he didn't want to admit he understood, even now, with the man who hurt him right in front of his face, he refused to listen to that tidbit of advice. "When a snake bites you, you run away and heal. You don't chase the snake and ask why it bit you."
He understands that Dream won't give him an answer, but that wasn't the reason he was here. He was here to talk and say goodbye, not ask him why. He was ready to put this part of his life in the past, he could only hope Dream would do the same. Tommy recognized that their relationship was unhealthy, he recognized that he wasn't good for him and he wanted to make sure they'd never have to be around each other again.
He was listening as the man began to say some random shit, speaking about something stupid. He was bringing up exile, trying to get in his head like he always did.
Tommy was on his final nerve, the man wouldn't shut his trap! He wanted Dream to just shut the fuck up! He wanted him to leave him alone for once in his life! He gave a glare as he felt his wings bristle behind his back, hands gripping the soft blue cardigan made of Friend's last shear. He could feel himself trembling as he stressed his still-healing leg and chewed the inside of his cheek.
Normally he'd yell. He'd scream and cry and beg until Dream finally forgave him or he hit him. Either way, both options felt bad. The avian could feel his brain scratching, wanting to slip into the mindset of a scared fledgling. The mindset he'd been in shortly after exile started when he was wung. But that was a story for another day as he stomped over towards the man.
Tommy knew how to handle himself, everyone knew this before the wars, during them, and even after. He could handle weapons, hand-to-hand, and even guns. So the look of surprise on Dream's face as Tommy shoved him against the obsidian wall and glared in his face. His arm was forced against his neck, pushing against him with a great amount of strength as he shifted his weight, they were in a position where if he moved his grip and threw him back he'd easily be thrown over his shoulder.
The man's mask had been confiscated when he'd first been locked up, but Tommy wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been given it back for... good behavior or some shit. Either way, he didn't really care about that right now. He wasn't used to having his eyes on him, he always knew they were watching but it was different without the mask. It was... empowering.
It was a reminder that Dream was human. Dream wasn't some god he couldn't even consider standing up to but now he knew he could.
"Shut, the fuck up." Tommy growled out, his wings flaring out behind him as the collage of black and red feathers. He knew some of them were crooked and he was well overdue for a preen but that didn't mean they weren't intimidating. He wanted him to just finally shut up and leave him alone. He was tempted to call out for Sam, to beg for another figure here to keep Dream in check, but right now he knew it wasn't an option. He's been trapped in here with the bastard for a few days now and he was at his limit.
"For once in your prime forsaken life, shut the fuck up and leave me alone." He snarled, pushing Dream's head up and forcing him to look up at the roof of their cell. He heard a choked noise slip past the ram's lips and Tommy dropped him.
The avian stepped back, lifting his hands and bringing them up to his face. He looked down at him, watching as the man slid down the wall. He was clearly being a little overdramatic but the wide grin that spread across his face told Tommy everything he needed to know. Dream had a sickening smile that seemed to just grow as he burst into cackling laughter.
He was laughing and seemed unable to stop as he spoke. "You're just like me, Tommy." He said ecstatically, "You've killed people, you've killed me. There is no difference between the two of us." The way these words left him sounded so matter-of-fact, like nothing Tommy could say or do would change his opinion.
All the avian could do was clench his teeth and dig his fingernails into his palms. He stepped back towards the opposite wall and let his weight slide into the farthest corner. He felt nervous and unsure as he covered his ears, wings wrapping over his limps and covering his body. He was shaking, partly rocking himself to feel a sense of security and safety as he closed his eyes.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁💿𐰁 𝗓 ᶻ𐰁 𝗓 ᶻ
By the time he'd finally opened his eyes, Tommy hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. The last two days he's been in here he hadn't managed to get a wink of sleep and he'd finally reached a point he couldn't help it anymore. Of course, it had to happen after such a huge argument. He let his wings unfurl, blinking at the glow of lava as he let his eyes drift over his surroundings.
The avian should have been happy that he was alone, honest, but... why would they take Dream out.. and not him.
It made no sense.
Panic swelled in his chest as he got to his feet, his tennis shoes squeaking as he scrambled from the floor. He ignored the crook in his neck and the soreness of his back to instead look around. He could feel his chest heave with each breath, panic swelling heavy and constricting his lungs like a snake.
Of course, it all went back to that fucking snake. He could feel anger bubbling where it wasn't before and such but he didn't really care...
He could feel himself spiraling, a panic attack like before. When Puffy had first explained what they were he'd felt.. angry. Angry that he couldn't control himself, he had to be in control or... or something would go wrong.
His breathing was hitching and he felt like he wouldn't be able to fix it before too much longer. He wanted to scream out and beg for someone to just take the pain and throw it into the deepest pit. A deep pit where his feelings of resentment, anger, fear, and sadness could live rent-free and not bother him. He needed to just feel nothing. His eyes drifted over everything examining the corners of the room and trying to find any signs of what could be going on. He needed to calm himself down.
He did what Puffy said, counting things and colors he could see. The lava popped around 6 times in a minute, the cauldron of water was a gross green, and he could...
He could see...
Were those small feet?!
His panic was quickly overturned by his confusion. He could see small socked feet, peaking out from behind the chest. He took a second, catching his breath and whipping his eyes, before crouching down. He reached over, pulling the wooden trunk towards his form. It scraped across the ground, sounding like chalk on a board. If he hated the sound, then the owner of those green eyes, probably despised it.
His eyes widened at the sight of blonde hair and an orange jumpsuit, he probably would be more careful if it wasn't for the fact he knew exactly who he was staring at.
Dream was small. Smaller than Skeppy who was barely over 2 feet. If he had to make an educated guess, he was probably around 6 or so inches tall. The teen found himself staring at him, unable to properly comprehend the fact he was so tiny.
A frightened face told him everything he needed to know before he saw orange skitter past his face and in the direction of... well nothing? There wasn't anywhere for him to hide, so Tommy didn't understand what he was doing. It wasn't like it really mattered since as he watched him run, something triggered in his brain. A fuzzy sensation overtook him, his pupils blowing wide as the desire to catch the small creature overwhelmed him.
Tommy bounded forward, his wings flaring behind him as he flapped them. The avian hadn't expected this but he felt a coo escape his throat as he trapped the small form down with his hands. The avian knew he was being too rough but right now he couldn't bring himself to care. He was happy with hunting after something so small, something he could easily catch.
He scooped him up, happy as he sat on his knees and lifted his treat up near his face. He let his eyes drift over the small form, taking in the details of his little meal.
When did he start thinking of him as a meal? He didn't hesitate to look over him, seeing frightened green eyes turn to rage as their owner began to yell something. He couldn't quite make it out as he lifted them to his face and eagerly slipped the small form into his mouth.
His wings flapped, shedding a few stray feathers as he pushed the squirming form deeper into his maw, able to feel as it slipped on his saliva and flailed in what he assumed was fear. He didn't feel bothered by it, cooing still as he closed his lips around his catch's waist. He wanted to feel this sensation in his stomach, knowing he did a good job and caught something!
Phil was gonna be so-
Why was he thinking of Phil right now- wait why was he doing any of-
A chirped, feeling something hit the back of his throat. This would normally trigger someone's gag reflex but Tommy can only throw things up once they're in his stomach. He grinned to himself, swallowing as he felt the form slip into his esophagus. He gave a happy warble as he swallowed again, feeling as his catch squirmed down his throat. Tommy didn't hesitate to sigh as the shape slid past his collarbone and into his chest, leaning back and supporting himself with a hand. He felt a weight slip into his abdomen, hunger bleeding away as he fluttered his wings.
He couldn't help the relief that washed over him, a feeling of safety and contentment he'd never considered before as he glanced around a tad. He wanted to make a nest but there wasn't really anything he could use in this cell. He gave a tired chip, curling back where he'd been just minutes prior, and placed his hands on his stomach as his wings wrapped over him. Tommy was cooing and chirping to himself, lost in a haze of his natural desire.
He could feel something moving inside of him, the small ram he'd managed to catch and he was eager to feel this until he let them out.. Tommy curled closer to the corner, gently pushing against where his little friend sat, eager to let them tire out. It's not like they actually in any harm, at least some part of him knew he was fine. Either way... the bird had some sleep to catch up on.
Oml. I wrote this all in one sitting and finished at 3 am. Didn't expect it to go this long so I'm gonna schedule the post. I've watched three movies since I started and I might write a part two of Dream's point of view if anyone wants that. Also, this is completely non-fatal. I do dabble in that side of the spectrum but I don't think I'll post any of it on my Tumblr. Anyways! I hope this is what you wanted~
#fanfic#mcyt fanfiction#mcyt vore#mcyt g/t#dsmp tommy#dsmp dream#tiny!dream#avian!tommy#ram!dream#answered asks#meant to be short#its not
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