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mrchoppedslefthand · 3 days ago

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Homicipher Random Headcanons/Scenarios [NSFW]

Edit:11/07/2024

I desperately needed to post the random head canons and scenarios of our husbands that my brain kept cooking up (+ some from discord friends), so the list is not organized. Also, since we shape shift, I'm going to assume we can choose whenever we have a cock or pussy (because I want to be fucked and do the fucking) Anyways...enjoy the food thought.

Characters: Mr. Crawling, Mr. Chopped Mr. Silvair, Mr. Hood, Mr. Gap, Mr. Machete, Mr. Scarletella

Warnings: mentions of NSFW, mentions of some canon-typical violence, implications of dubcon, mentions of somnophilia, implied cuckold

Mr. Crawling

He can be submissive top. Constantly asking you if you love him during intimacy. He would ask if you enjoy playing with him as you pound yourself onto him. He would be a moaning mess and probably wouldn't know what to do about it as he clumsily places his hands around your waist.

He would definitely eat you out without you asking once intimacy had been initiated.

Afraid of hurting you, he wouldn't be too rough, instead he would be more tender and gentler when it comes to intimacy.

He definitely would love it when you play with his hair, allowing you to braid it or do whatever as long it doesn't involve cutting his precious hair.

He actually gets jealous easily, but he doesn't verbalize it, instead he shows it through his actions.

He is better with his hands, than his cock. So sometimes you prefer that over his cock. His cock is more on the average/smaller side and it's cute.

He definitely has a praise kink.

Mr. Chopped

He lacks a body, so to make up for it he is extremely expressive and open with his feelings. Which makes him a little fun to bully, to see all those cute expressions he could make.

He probably would be very good with his mouth and tongue, let him be your personal rose toy/fleshlight if you will. He can't fight back and have no choice but to whimper about it.

Imagine getting sick and fainting with him nearby, he can't move or do anything but helplessly cry for you to wake up and starts crying out help for Mr. Silvair to come help him and you.

Maybe one day, for a day of tricks and pranks. Mr. Stitch will allow Mr. Chopped a day in his body, so they swap places, stitching Mr. Chopped in place of Mr. Stitch's head. It had been a very long time since Mr. Chopped felt sensations beyond his head, so he happens to be very sensitive and clumsy with his hands. Everywhere you touch overwhelms him, he melts and becomes a moaning mess, but Mr. Chopped isn't the only one feeling all these sensations. Mr. Stitch can still feel it too. He is intrigued by today's type of play.

He definitely would be more on the whiny and needy side when it comes to pleasure, he lacks a body, but he can still feel lust. He can't do anything about it, which makes him extremely needy and extra pouty.

Mr. Silvair

Definitely would have had intimacy with other ghosts/humans before to research the body and performance during mid transformation if it differed.

Imagine one day he finds a mysterious liquid that fell from the 'other world' and feeds it to you, himself and the other ghosts in your crew. Only to find out it was an aphrodisiac. It was the first time he felt such a strong sensation of lust. At first, he mistakes this strong desire to be violence, so he starts to self-inflict wounds onto himself. You attempt to stop him, but soon find yourself to be underneath him as he bites into your neck, drawing blood. Surprised at seeing the often-composed man, turning into a ravage beast. You somehow manage to find something to tie him up and have your way with him.

He probably likes overstimulation on you...but also himself. He would love to research on how much his body can go and handle.

He would actually be a switch, for research purposes. To take and give he'd do anything for research. It had been long long ago since his body used to be human, and he often forgets about his own experiences if he doesn't write them down, but no worries, he has you by his side now to keep remembering.

Mr. Hood

He is quiet but speaks whenever he finds it suited for. But if you need him, he would be happy to talk with you.

He is a bit insecure about his body, he doesn't have arms or hands or even legs, he is an entity of nothing. The clothes are what shape his form, and well maybe he not entirely a entity of nothing. You had a glimpse before, a small glimpse and sensation of a squishy and somewhat slimy part that had belonged to him. You never mentioned though, but if it was you'd love him still anyways.

He realized that some words had been a bit harder for you to keep in mind and remember and so he thought of a special way to get you learning. Learning with what humans call pleasure. He fucks you and asks you what certain things are, and if you get it wrong, he denies you from coming. You have become determined to learn your words properly even more so now. Because if you remember you get rewarded with the most absolute fulfilling fuck of your life.

Since most of his body is invisible or nothing. If you mouth fucked him you would be able to see that real good, it is strangely erotic watching your cock move inside his mouth.

Mr. Gap

When you're sleeping, sometimes he might just cuddle against your leg or lower half. He loves the feeling of warmth, compared to his hollow darkness.

He definitely seems like the type of person to eat you out while you're asleep. Playing around and waiting for you to wake up to watch your reaction. Of course, he would only do this though if he knew you'd allow it. He values consent.

Imagine taking your backpack to school and you have to take out a pencil for a test. When you open your backpack, you realize it is just an empty void and hear a voice asking for your heart in exchange for the pencil. Yeah... you accepted your fate. You just failed your exam...

When you become a moaning mess under him, he can't understand but he knows that from your sweet voice, and moans, that it's a good thing. He knows to keep continuing.

One day Mr. Gap gathers his usual newspapers that fall from the rubble or somehow manages to grab one from the human realm. He notices a magazine that discusses about marriage and giving rings on the fourth finger. Intrigued about this idea, he asks you for your all four of your fingers, but you misunderstand and refuse to give him your fingers. He's sad but soon you later find out that he was asking for your hand in marriage, literally but also figuratively.

Mr. Machete

We would wonder aimlessly for an eternity together searching for his/your home. But eventually our subconscious would recognize each other as home instead.

He would definitely mock and laugh at how fast you would falter/melt under his touch. Calling you "weak" for coming so fast but would give kisses here and there after the mocking.

He'd probably be into throat fucking and laugh at you looking pathetic, he loves reactions that aren't boring, so seeing you choke on his cock seems like a great idea.

He definitely would come inside most of the time.

When he fucks you, his cock would probably bulge out a little from your stomach, fascinated by it he'd roughly press his hand down near that area.

He is our beefy dumb macho, perfect.

If you mouth/fucked him he would tell you he feels nothing, but his eyes would already be red and tearing. He's a pathetic coward.

Mr. Scarletella

He belongs to you, and you belong to him, together forever, in a hellish world. He loves the destruction you bring into his life and does the same for you.

Oh boy, he would absolutely devour you, his queen, in pleasure. Fuck you stupid to the point you're just a blabbering mess, hands on waist, and long fingers in your mouth, as he pounds deeply into you.

He seems like the type of guy to fuck you during your period.

Definitely gets jealous easily and he makes it know when he gets that way.

Imagine your fucked/fucking another ghost and you hear static within the distance, the sound slowly starts to come closer and closer until you hear the static in the room. Your crimson servant arrives and witnesses your fantastic display of intimacy. Jealous, he kills them and becomes extra possessive and quite terrifying, but you love it so much. How he seems so lost and pathetic without you.

You don't know his name, but neither does he know yours. Despite this disconnect, you still manage to give him some sort of other named to be called. It's connected to your name, but he knows it's not all of it, he can't fully whisk you away, but he's okay with that. You are still bound to him for an eternity anyway.

If Mr. Scarletella went back to the human world with you instead, he would appear to be the one most suited for fitting in. Just slack some foundation on his face, make him wear gloves and he would blend in quite well. Well...except for his odd habit of asking every stranger for their name and laughing and giggling crazily each time.

He would have a praise and degradation kink, he's not a whore. He's YOUR whore. He likes being YOURS.

#文字化化 #homicipher #homicipher headcanons #headcanon #my headcanons #mozibake #mojibake #horror games #horror vn #visual novel #mr crawling #mr chopped #mr chopped head #silvair #mr silvair #mr gap #mr machete #mr scarletella #mr hood

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pinessydr · 24 hours ago

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Thank @illumiera and @madam-whim for the almost simultaneous wip-wednesday tagging :3 I'm so excited! Here is a piece of writing about my Morokei. TW: violence

The flame comes predictably but abruptly. And there is nothing more: no sky, no earth, no wind on his cheeks, no cold in his bones, no world around him. Only pain, crimson and flaming, piercing and tedious, so much that he wants to run away, hide, beg or die, just to stop it. But not to give up, oh, no, not to give up. The taste of his own teeth fills his mouth, simultaneously with the smell of the burned hair touching his nose. It seems a little longer, and his eyelashes will burn, then his eyelids, and finally, his eyes will crack and run down his face. Crows like to take them, right? As from somebody far away, he hears his own scream and feels the staff drop out of his palms, destroyed by the other's power. But he does not resist it. Accepts it all as deeply as possible.

And then rips out what Ruvaak did not want to give away. After the heat comes ice and disappears, leaving only pure energy. Morokei drinks it greedily, as he once did with the water in the desert, devouring all without a shred of doubt, sip after sip until his head drives with euphoria. Ruvaak realizes what is happening too late: a whip of fluid flame slams into Morokei with a howl, just to disappear, consumed by hunger.

The air around him rumbles, unable to contain the raging power. Ruvaak doesn't have much left, and after emptying him to the bottom, Morokei takes up the life energy with a bit of disappointment. It doesn't taste like human flesh but nourishes his own: slowly but surely, he gets back to his feet. For the first time in a while, none of them hurt, and he can take a confident step. One.

“Fus!” a shout that could break down bastions comes at him with all the force of hidden despair. At the distance between them, even the weakest Voice could turn a body into a bloody pulp, but Morokei doesn't care. “Ro,” he answers with the Word of Balance, feeling it within. With a disgusting crackle, the night crumbles into shards of obsidian.

Now, @asianbutnotjapanese @pelinalblancserpent @starrythroat @darling-leech @bougainvillea-and-saltwater, would you like to share something? Of course, you are welcome to bring a piece of art into this world, too!

#dragon cult #tes #skyrim #dragon priest #morokei #oc #ruvaak

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melit0n · 1 year ago

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Madame Genesis

- Oneshot

- OC related work (no pairing: gen.)

- Word count: 6.8k

- Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore

Notes:

- This is narrated from the perspective of a God of Knowledge; the appearance is left up to the reader asides from a few minor details

- Many names are written in traditional Latin, when they are, they will be written in bold, and then translations and additional details will be added at the bottom of the chapter

It is quiet in The Library. Quieter than usual. Although, not silent; for here even the exhale of a breath can be heard. The familiar rustle of thousands of book pages echoes throughout the endless aisles of The Library, ink forever being sewn into their flaking pages. It is a constant hushed noise that holds a sense of comfort in this place.

Other than the customary flit of yellowed paper, other noises can be heard. Sometimes, it’s a giggle; one of pure joy and innocent pleasure. Pleasure of a child playing gleefully with their friends. They’ll whirl playfully among the bookcases and dance to music from forgotten empires; even in death so joyful for the life they had been given.

Yet, constantly, the moans and screams of the dead will reverberate through the halls, their pain and agony cooked into the leather books that the souls reside in. Typically, these sounds are unending; anguish stalking through the halls – tied to the Earth – and groveling at my feet for redemption. Pathetic, in Death’s own words, but understandable. I can do nothing but hold the human remains of their frigid faces in my own unfeeling hands and offer sympathy. When some die they wear a frown, others a smile. But then, then there are those that die with their mouths wide open and screaming in terror, yet, they all end here.

Here forevermore.

To distract myself, I gaze bordedly at the ageing tapestries that hang dutifully on the limestone and marble walls. I see these tapestries each waking day, yet I manage to spot a new detail each time I look. Some are torn, ripped apart by anger-ridden claws, swords and spears; hanging onto the brass rods by mere ribbons of fabric. However, others are new; bright with freshly dyed wool. Each tells a different story. I do not care much for any of them, especially the ones that depict me. I do not like being showered with crimson, liquid life, nor being depicted on every battlefield and funeral as if I had caused them myself.

I am not fond of the Churches, nor the people who crawl to them each early morning and deadly night. They bow down to statues and paintings and pray endlessly for absolution to a God who cares more for their sacrifices than them.

Naturally, they show the famous stories The Fabulatores tell of; war heroes praised as deities for mass murder, and lovers whom Death and Life decide will never be able to hold one another again. Cruel, in my eyes, but to Death’s; humbling. Death isn’t unfeeling, but with the way they speak of their own stories, they seem to take great entertainment in mortal’s suffering.

I continue to wander forward, peering into darkened corners and listening for anything but the wisp of the dying and dead. Someone will be here today, wandering these halls with a bow, battle-axe, or broadsword; seeking my blood. When they will arrive, Time refuses to say; I suspect it’s in the mood for a fight. I am happy, at least, Death wasn’t the one to greet me with information.

The spirits that flit past eye me with disdain, even those with joyful smiles printed onto their translucent corpses. From their temperament, I think they know when this mortal will arrive. Maybe he’ll bring an army with him, maybe he’ll try to burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, maybe he’ll aim to drain my veins of golden ichor, maybe he’ll seek information in exchange for his soul. I am unsure.

I think, sometimes, I wait for mortals to harm me. I have hope in their pacifism, but what an idiotic hope it is to pray that humans of all creatures will react to me with sympathy. I wait for the pain, and I receive it with arrows in my back and spears through my ribs. When I do, I feel a certain smugness at being right, for I am always right, but then? Then I just feel pain. And I wallow in it.

Too many thoughts today. I find a need to distract myself, and my eyes find themselves dawdling on the many bookshelves.

Considerately, my clawed hands graze through a shelf, feeling each dip in the spines of the books. I am gentle, as gentle as I can be with the ageing books, and close my eyes as the soft scraping soothes me. Yet, my hands catch on the raised bands of one, and my eyes slowly open in mild annoyance. The spine reads ‘Isaac Ryder’ in shining gold leaf, bright against the blood red of the leather. Pulling it out of its designated space, a space it must not have left for decades, a cloud of thick, yellow dust –almost like the mustard gas spread in the plague-ridden streets of Aqua Regia- rises into the cool air. The pages are yellowed, as to be expected with most books here. It is old and will soon fall to pieces; the dust lingering in The Library forever.

Not a single soul will remember ‘Isaac Ryder’ soon. No one but me.

It is a thought that lingers when I carefully open the book. It is short, barely containing more than twenty pages with nothing decorating them but scribbled drawings. What a short life, I muse, eying the chicken scratch drawings with mild amusement. Yet, a thought appears.

A child. This was but a child.

I am hesitant now, as I flick to the end of this young one’s short life. There is nothing but a measly five words sitting in the middle of the page; the sun is bright here. I contemplate its meaning for a moment, just a moment, when the scent of ash and smoke creeps into my frigid lungs and I feel myself choke on the warm embers.

A deep sadness settles in my chest along with the ash, and the sound of burning wood temps, dares me to look up from the ending page. Bravely, my eyes wander upward, and I am met with a cradle. It is carefully carved with what could have only been the adoration of a new-found father. I can almost see the splinters stuck just underneath his skin as he carves. The loving details are lost to the flame that holds it tightly, rocking it back and forth as if to calm the screaming child that lies choking on smoke inside it. It echoes, as all agony does, yet nobody but myself hears it.

I slam the book shut. Shut it with a sad sense of grief for the life that ended much too quickly. I come to the conclusion that although Death is not unfeeling nor cruel, but they are most definitely senseless when it comes to premature passing.

Turning, I place the book back on the shelf and make a symbol with my fingers across my chest; rest in peace.

Someone is looking at me. I worry for a moment that this mortal has arrived, without my knowing, but, turning, I find a spirit waiting, fidgeting, behind me; wide eyes and all. It stares at me unblinkingly. Its hands tremble ever so slightly as it reaches for my own. Confusion settles quietly in my stomach along with sorrow, yet, I allow it to hold my hands.

Its hands are cold. Colder than mine.

Tender palms leech the little warmth from my own and I’m sure the spirit itself doesn’t understand it’s actions. I see my hands through its blue-tinged fingers, and, if I wished, I could engulf both their hands in one of mine.

Maybe crush their wrists.

Gently, it lifts my hands near its cold face and whispers to me. Whispers words I don’t understand, words I wish to understand, words I should understand. It feels as if a strange, garbled muffle keeps me from understanding them properly. Yet, before I can question their child-like actions, it quickly let’s go of my hands and flits softly behind one of the bookcases.

I stand still in the aisle, and everything seems to still with me. Calmly, I bring my hands near to my face. They’re steady and unmoving; my fingers do not tremor with life nor do my palms shake with each pulse of a heartbeat. I call them hands, but they look closer to claws; malnourished, blackened skin hung tightly to bones to form them. Even in death, mortals hold onto their humanity; living and dying as a perfect image of Milia Susurros. There is salt on my tongue as I think this. Perfect image.

However, before I can dwell on my thoughts, the suffocating stillness and silence elevates itself from The Library; interrupted by the sudden collective whisper of the spirits. I watch as many of them, almost excitedly, flit by the passage I stand in and head towards what must be the mortal.

Huffing out a tired sigh, I begin to follow the spirits, peering into each corner as I stalk the halls. I keep one eye on the darkened corners, other eye on the upper layer’s rails, while the other eye follows the scarlet trail of spirits.

Eventually, I find the man, yet, he is not what I was expecting. He is clad in simple leather, for he must know the rustle of chainmail is never best for when one wishes to be silent, along with an iron breastplate and forearm cuffs. They shine in the low light of The Library, only covered by his woven cape and hood, yet still beacon-like in this place of death and dying. A longbow rests, tense, in his arm; arrow nocked and seconds from being fired.

Mortals call the bow to be the weapon of cowards. Cowards who fight from a distance; afraid of the glint of their enemy’s sword. Maybe this man is a coward of a fighter, or maybe just a farmer not too fond of foxes. Too many maybes.

He whispers questions to the spirits as they stare at him from afar with awe and sorrow; for it is not usual for a creature with a beating heart to wander into this place, let alone leave it with blood still pumping in its veins.

He has not brought an army with him, nor a torch to burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, and he certainly doesn’t look the type to seek holy information in exchange for his soul.

For the second time today, I am confused. I know when someone is here other than myself. I always know. I know when a Fabulatores decides to prance through my marble palisade and I know when a mortal seeking absolution arrives in my halls. Yet this man is unknown. I did not see his woven cloak in the back of my mind’s eye, nor the bow nocked in his calloused hands. Too many unknowns. For all I know, should know and don’t know; I wonder if Death holds an audience with me today, skulking in the shadows of the carefully carved pillars and eyeing my body with amusement.

I continue walking forward, to a point where I am but an arm's reach from the man. His eyes dedicate themselves to focusing on the gaggle of spirits eyeing him curiously, talking in quiet, comforting tones; as if he’s trying to calm a wild deer or a scared child. He wants information.

As I stand just behind his turned back, I wait a moment; I hesitate. The tip of my claws grazes the hilt of the dagger tucked in the belt of my robes, and I tap on the pommel in contemplation. My claws slowly wrap around the leather-swaddled hilt and grasp the dagger firmly. Yet, a memory reaches my mind; a conversation with Death itself.

"You let them run. Run around your little maze as they lose their mind and call out to you for mercy, yet, you still can’t simply pierce their heart and grant them death. That is what makes you good.”

Good…that, that is what makes me good? The definition of it is that which is morally right; righteousness. Good is the doctors who heal the broken’s wounds. Good are the farmers who provide food for the poor. I am not good.

I cannot kill in mercy like the other Dii Minores; hesitate to give death to those who deserve it. My fatal flaw seems to be my lingering sympathy, from where it developed, I am unsure. I cannot fight, even if the adrenaline flows through my soul, I cannot. When met with the slash of a broadsword, I dodge and don’t dare to swing back. In my sympathy, I drive mortals to a maddening death in which they pray for a mercy I can’t bring myself to grant.

Mortals say it is cowardice to stab a man when he is not looking anyways.

My claw eases and, now, simply rests on the pommel of the dagger. I stare at this martyr of a man; older than most who arrive here. Most seeking my blood are young and reckless; losing their life here, and for what? Knowledge? To better themselves? What do they expect but death at the hands of Milia Susurros’ Dii Minores?

His age is shown through the grey strands that loop their way through his bark-brown hair, and the wrinkles that rest by his eyes. Maybe…40, in human years. His build is as steady as an old oak, with arms shaped by hauling weapons and legs by running through bush after his prize. A ‘hero’ of some sorts. An old one, but a hero, nonetheless.

I open my jaws for but a moment to say something, yet, shut them as I whirl quickly around the corner of a bookcase as he turns with speed, pointing the nocked bow at where I had once stood. He does not call out like most do. There is no idiotic and echoing call of ‘Who goes there?’, nor does he fire his arrow out of fear. He knows what lies in these halls, the creature that haunts each page.

He stalks, fox-like, through the bookcases, checking each corner before he enters an aisle. I mirror his actions. He does not hear the breath I never exhale, nor the pulse of my frigid veins filling with adrenaline.

I may not kill, but the hunt always interests me.

After many minutes of waiting, watching and following, I notice, while staying completely observant of his surroundings, he is searching through the names in the books of the dead. So that’s it; he’s looking for a lost loved one. I have no doubt in my mind he was searching the spirit’s faces for one familiar to him.

I hope he is humbled. I hope it comes to mind the fact he is glimpsing thousands of lifetimes and glossing over them as if they are mere footnotes in a textbook. He enters my domain and prowls like a fox in a chicken coop, walks on these tiles as if he owns them, as if he carved each one. Even with all this watching, I cannot catch a glimpse of his face; hidden by his woven cloak and hood.

My claws, yet again, graze the dagger on my hip and stays lifted millimetres above it. They do not tremble, but they do contemplate. Again. He stands, again, unknowing in front of me.

I must do it.

But he has caused no harm to me, he is nothing but a subtle annoyance; a small rock in my shoe. Bearable.

If I don’t, he’ll end up like the others. Tears soaking into the cold stone as they wither to dust.

A scowl forms on my face. I am not fond of how this mortal makes me think.

Be quick, end him with a slash to his neck. It will cause him no pain.

Who would I be to murder an innocent man? A coward. As much of a coward as a bowman. My hand leaves the blade and a sigh escapes my mouth.

Pathetic.

I do not wish to fight nor maim, so, I speak.

“What do you seek, mortal? An ale to cure sickness? A lost loved one? Immortality?” I accuse him. He has not nocked another arrow and stands, tense, in the silence. I let out a laugh.

“You’re an unwise creature.” The salt of annoyance still lingers on my tongue, I cannot help but degrade him.

He shakes his head back and forth, and I watch as his eyes fill with a blaze. The type of blaze that wrecks havoc on forests; unstoppable and bright. In the sky inked over in black, his glaring eyes burn brightly with all the fury of an inferno.

"How dare you,” He places his bow on his back, string crossing over his chest and wood resting just out of my eyesight. “How dare you use her voice.”

There is the deepest sense of anger in his tone as he charges forward with a broadsword I did not see. I am surprised; I judged this man as a coward, yet I find myself wrong when I dodge each strategic strike of his sword. I am never wrong.

I do not like this man.

He strikes through the stagnant air with such vigour I can almost feel my eternal bones breaking under the force. When he makes the realisation I have but nothing to defend myself, he stops and screams;

“You cretin of Hell!” There is no reason in this man. There is nothing but pure, in every sense of the word, unadulterated rage. The forest fire burns on.

With each swift, cutting movement of his sword, he gets much too close to where my heart resides in its cage of bones for my liking, and I swiftly take out my dagger and swipe out against his sword. He scoffs, he knows this is an unfair fight, but he is determined to win.

I balance his slashes with my smaller blade, watching as sparks seem to fly as the blades collide. Each spark seems to be mirrored in his wrathful eyes. Maybe he will burn this place to ash and sorrowful dust, if even with nothing but his eyes.

I do not get tired, nor do I lose my breath (for how am I to lose a breath that never existed?), but there is an odd feeling in my stomach. It isn’t anger, sorrow, or peacefulness. It is as if his sword has already pierced my stomach and is twisting the blade in my innards. Maybe this is fear. I have never felt this before. I do not like this.

I do not like this man. I do not like the way he makes me think. I do not like the way he makes me feel. I think he is more than a small stone in my shoe.

I catch his sword with my hand, gripping it just in front of my face. The cold blade digs into my darkened skin with the force of his forearms.

Maybe I will bleed today.

"What-” I wince slightly as he attempts to tug the sword out of my claws, but I hold him there firmly. If I am to die today, if Death watches my form with amusement from the shadows, I wish to know what caused the eternal flame in this man’s eyes. “-What have I done.” I realise it is more of a statement than a question. It has been a while since I have talked to mortals and needed my own information out of them.

He tugs again at his sword, lungs inhaling and exhaling air quickly. I realise I am giving his raging soul a rest he did not know he needed. Maybe the adrenaline will evaporate from his veins. Maybe I will not die today.

"Open your jaws and speak, mortal. Or I’ll rip them open for you.” I growl out. I sound less God and more hungry animal.

"You know what you have done, Scientia," He calls me by my Holy name. The name they use in the Churches. “You are knowledge, after all, are you not? You are residue of thought, the silence on sacred shores and the stillness before a battle. Do not pretend to be sanctimonious.” He mocks, quoting one of The Fabulatores’ fables. Those eyes seething with a lifetime of pure anger look into me, rip past layers of muscle and bone, and leave me bare as a new-born babe. I wonder if this is even a fraction of the burn Issac felt. He looks at me with nothing but hatred, and under the heat of his glare, I feel as if I have brought death to whomever he seeks.

He makes me feel as if I truly am at fault.

He laughs sarcastically, mocking smile turning into a scowl at an instant; “You murdered her. Ripped her into ribbons of flesh all because she took one of your stupid leather books.”

By ‘stupid leather book’ I conclude he must be speaking of Life and Death’s books; Immortality and Resurrection. They’re what most come here for. However, what I find odd is that I have no memory of anyone, let alone a human woman, succeeding to steal one of Life and Death’s books. I am the God of Knowledge for a reason, and that is certainly something I would remember. The martyr is not only a coward, I surmise, but a liar.

“Liar.” It is a childish response, nonetheless.

He looks at me incredulously. The fire burns close to my fingertips.

"I am known as Scientia for a reason, mortal; such a mission as successfully stealing one of Life or Death’s books would hold a golden pedestal in my eternal mind.”

“You are truly as the fables say,” He speaks slowly now, as if to try and calm the annoyance he himself feels bubbling in my hollow chest, “an unfeeling creature hiding in its lair; a Deathbringer of the most ludicrous kind.”

Nevermind.

I move my jaws to speak, but, he interrupts me.

"Have you no heart?”

I have to contemplate my answer before responding in the same cold, slow, mocking tone.

“The drum that beats in my chest is nothing more than a reminder that I am killable. Immortal, yes, but killable. It does not pump liquid life through my frigid veins; it simply waits to be pierced. Milia Susurros’ creations are holy and pure, a sin above all else to deface them, but War forgive if they don’t have a drop of similarity to Milia Susurros’ perfect creations.”

“Then I’ll certainly make you bleed. I’ll enjoy the golden ichor on my hands.” He snarls. He bears his canines and I can almost sense the animalistic urge to dig his teeth into my carotid. He wants me to bleed. Bleed out like a lamb to slaughter.

“I may be heartless, martyr, but you are naive.”

"I may be naive in your eyes, but I’ll certainly take a pound of your flesh before you take a piece of my soul.”

Abruptly, fuled by anger, he tugs the sword from my grip, and I am surprised I do not bleed. With the way he glances expectantly to my palm, he is as well.

Quickly, he begins his stabbing and swiping motions, slightly sloppier than before but still holding the same amount of strategic skill in each swipe. I am back to stepping backwards decisively as he comes centimetres away from tearing my skin.

He fights well, but I am displeased. Annoyed. Perhaps even bored of his claims. I am built on sympathy and pacifism, but I am done trying to convince someone so utterly blind with anger and grief.

“How dare you act as if you do not remember! Act as if she never existed!”

I gain the confidence the grab onto his sword again. I feel it pinch against my inky skin as I mimic his heavy breathing. Mortals do it when they are angry; I think they think it makes them look bigger.

"Remember.” I growl. How ignorant. “You are asking if I remember? I remember every drop of blood spilt-”

I fully tug the sword from his hands, holding tightly onto the blade as I shove my dagger back into its placeholder. I have surprised him.

"-Every blooming flower-” I feel the strain in my vocal cords as I talk louder. I flip the sword in my claws as to hold it by the hilt. He realises the danger and I hope he silently curses his obvious idiocy in his head.

“-And every mortal there is and ever will be.” I punctuate each syllable with a footstep forward. He mirrors my actions; a careful step back for each inhuman one I take forward. “You call me coward and cretin, and by the West winds I know what mortals see me as, what I am; the mouth of a wolf with the eyes of a lamb. But, for Paradises’ sake, do not doubt a God, creature.”

I snarl and bare my own teeth, sharpened by aeons of arguments and evangelical pain.

I do not notice the stars that still burn to black holes in his eyes; I believe I have subdued him.

I am not good, and I truly know this when I realise I will find pleasure in his tortured cries as he withers away. Withers away and becomes a part of the dust like Isaac Ryder.

“You are angry, mortal, and that is plain to see. But no amount of self-sought fury will bring back the glory of whomever you lost.”

It is quiet now. He heaves breaths like a dying man.

"Wander, child,” I let the broadsword rest at my side, the tip of the blade hovering just above the carefully carved marble like branches to a river, “seek your friend, lover, or sister and pray.”

I turn slowly and walk along the aisle, walk as if I am floating, yet my feet feel heavier than usual. The odd feeling is gone from my stomach and I feel oddly numb. The heavy stillness rests around me again, and I feel my brain go oddly blank. The library feels like a meat freezer, the type butchers prize themselves in, and I dangle in it like cold cuts. The spirit’s cold, pale eyes watch the interaction intently.

I seem to forget the martyr is not only a liar, but a coward as well.

And by the cold winds of the North, it is a horrible mistake.

It hits in between my shoulder blade and the tender muscle and stays there. By Milia Susurros, it is a terrible pain. It is a sharp, piercing type of pain that penetrates deep in my muscle. It is a type of pain I haven’t felt in a while. My shoulder is pushed forward in hurt as my claws immediately reach up to put pressure on it, to ease any of the aching throbbing. I can feel as my muscles convulse around the arrowhead and a noise of agony escapes my mouth. I feel the ichor of life seep into my robes and trail down my skin like sweat.

I am sure it's a symphony to the martyr.

When I pull my claw back from the wound, I am horrified at what I see. Blood. Crimson blood, crimson liquid life painted, like the old tapestries, on my blackened claws. It should not be like that. Mortals bleed this colour, mortals bleed in red.

Yet here I am, bleeding a pool of scarlet. I wip my head around to glare at the mortal, to bear by teeth, to growl like a rabid animal for how he has defaced me. The unwise, coward of a creature seems just as surprised as I am to see me bleed in red, bleed like a human. The inferno still burns, but there is…pity there, now.

Stop looking at me like that, with pity in your darkened eyes. What do you see in me? Tragedy?

Stop it.

Stop looking at me like that.

Do you hear me?

"That is for Aelia."

A jolt of pain runs from my core and it is excruciating, my vision flashes bold reds and quiet whites. I have been struck by arrows before, I am sure arrowheads are still stuck inbetween my bones, but at that name my whole being seems to tremble.

He takes a step forward. He nocks his arrow again as I hunch like wounded animal. He shoots another arrow, this time in between my ribs. More pain. Endless pain. I am struck to the floor. I feel, no, I am, pathetic.

Is this what it feels like to be mortal? To be a perfect creation?

“I hope you feel even a fraction of the pain Aelia felt when you ripped her to shreds.” Another flash of reds and whites, and as I look forward into the endless aisles of The library, into the eyes of all the spirits, I see something.

A hound, although, not like those that Death keeps, sits happily in the middle of the aisles. It rests next to a large satchel, a carefully sharpened axe resting against it. I can almost feel the rough leather of the handle in my claws, hear the chink of the metal as I sharpen it. The canine barks loudly, yet only I seem to hear it, and bounds forward to my crumpled form, followed by a young woman calling the name ‘Duke’ happily. They disappear in a blink. I glance quickly behind me to check his hands for an open book, but he holds nothing but his Hell damning bow.

“I hope you feel the pain she felt when you left her to nothing but chunks of flesh. When you sat there in her home staring at me in the dark covered in her blood.” His voice cracks in what is either sorrow or unyielding anger at the end of his sentence.

More flashes of colours, and I think I am having what humans call an epiphany. I feel the odd pain of blunt nails crawling and scratching just underneath my withered skin. It feels like there are hands under it trying to rip their way out.

Standing behind me, he whispers, “I hope you go to Hell for what you did, Scientia.”

Taking the broadsword from next to me, he raises it upwards, he aims for my heart. I cannot tell if fear digs deep in my chest, or if that is just the pain of the arrows. I want to move, I want to run, run away and hide from possible death like I always do, but I cannot bring myself to move. I feel painfully human with all this fear.

“What gives you the right?”

He pauses. He hesitates.

"What gives you the right to deal a pain so deep?”

He has no answer. I remember a name. His name. The flashing reds and quiet whites mould into kind chestnuts and calming greens.

I...I see him.

I see him, I see this martyr sitting next to me, and he talks to me as if I am a friend; as if he has known me all his life.

“Don’t you know you the pain you sow is pain you reap, Brutus?"

It fits him. Fits him and all his raging anger.

He pauses, and, obviously, he is slightly surprised by the fact I am not mocking him, instead, using a name I had shown to not even had known. Yet, my eternal existence of Knowledge gives me the under-hand. Even so, I continue.

“Brutus of Mallowkeep, son… son of Fabricus. Hunter of the Leviathan and friend of King Paulinuis the III.” I speak, almost desperately. The name is a sin I breathe like Oxygen.

“You do nothing to save yourself by calling my titles, Knowledge.” Says he. I find small peace that he is still idiotic enough to engage in conversation to buy me time to find an excuse, no matter my pain and odd visions.

“My name is Brutus, and my name means heavy; so with a heavy heart I’ll guide this sword into the heart of my enemy.” He encourages himself, as the tip of the sword reaches closer to my aching chest. However, words slowly conjure themselves in my mind as he continues on with his angered matra.

“Know my actions are motivated by my grief and agony. Agony you caused her. I too have a destiny, and your death will be art. My people will speak of this day from near and afar; this event will be history, written in the same damning leather book as Aelia. You’ll rot in endless suffering for your sins, Excetra." He accentuates each final word in his sentences, almost sounding poetic.

I open my jaws again to rebuttal, but a phrase comes to mind. As well as a memory, a voice. My own voice, but…less eternal. I speak with less sanctification in my mind than I do now. I speak with mortal words with ideas so simple-minded that I wonder if it is a memory of a child.

“Golden child, lion boy, when the West winds bring you home, tell me what it’s like to conquer.” It is simple, as I have said, but it is something. It is not a moment of a mortal’s words coming to mind, but my own.

My own, simple voice with scarlet blood, peachy skin, soft hands and a heart. A heart that beats and pumps blood through warm, thumping veins that protrude out of my skin on my hands. I see it. I see myself. I see humanity.

And I think Brutus sees it too. I think Brutus sees, with dilated pupils and a face shimmering with sweat, the soul he is searching for. I think he sees that soul in the curve of my jaw, in the pallid of my skin, in the eyes that float in and out of existence.

“Fearless child, gracious girl, when you spear the heart of the divine serpent, tell me what it is like to burn.” He mutters out. He has to contemplate what he has said for a moment before he staggers backwards.

Scared, he shakes his head back and forth in disbelief, broad sword slipping out of his hands and clattering onto the marble of the floor. The sound echoes loudly in The Library of endless longing. The Library haunted by a human playing God.

He steps back from me, fear holding place on his face. He mumbles a mantra of ‘no’s as saline solution builds steadily in his eyes.

I do not like this man. I do not like the way he makes me think. I do not like the way he makes me feel. I do not like the things he has brought to my eternal existence.

For what am I but a God? What am I but the ruler of this black-lit paradise? What am I but Knowledge in its purest form? Who am I but a bad omen that haunts the unknown crevices of humanity’s minds?

There is a sense of impurity that digs a hole in my soul and moulds a place for itself in my hollow body. I am the apple of Milia Susurros’ eye; a creation of utmost holiness. Yet as I stand here with my human heart, I feel insufficient.

I am Milia Susurros’ adjutant, I hold the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of empires to come and long past. I am a God; a thing of utmost glory and holiness. My vessel is meant to be a sacred note, sung between the flesh and hope of philosophers. I am creation, both haunted and holy, but made in glory. Yet, I seem to be a defiant act of the rule of creation. I am a whole solar system placed in a mortal body.

It comes in the form of a revelation that I was…am, human. Do I have friends? Do I have a family? Do I have a lover? Do I have friends, friends like the hunters who arrive in Spring laughing and jovial, who carefully choose their prey, and send the animals off painlessly and with a prayer? Do I have family, family like those who traverse each winter to and from the mountains in search of food, who ride their steeds with care and laugh at each other's jokes? Do I have a lover, lovers like the man who sits by the wise Maple tree through all the seasons by the flat, armorial, well-kept headstone and plays tunes of love and better places?

There is human under this pallid skin. The sympathy and pacifism placed in my veins holds a place of reason.

Carefully, I look up at Brutus, look into his glassy eyes and watch intently as tears slip down his cheeks. The fire is quenched. Sparks and ash fly upwards from time to time, trying to reach the Gods. He is angry, wrathful, still, but not at me.

We sit adjacent to each other; the same but different. Both cowards, both cretins, both creatures; both humans.

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1 - Latin; 'A Thousand Whispers'. This is the main God of this planet. Endlessly large and beyond mortal description. Think of something very eldritch, draped in whites and golds speaking with thousands of voices with an ensemble of whispers following behind it. Its face is constantly changing; it doesn't really hold any true form unless it's appearing (for whatever reason) to mortals. Seeing its Godly form would drive anyone mad from its staggering existence.

2 - Latin; 'Narrators' or 'Storytellers'. Their purpose is in their name; they tell the fables of the world (some true, some made up for the purpose of teaching mortals lessons).

3 - Latin; 'Royal Water'. A King made a deal with the sister Gods Life and Death to save his ill (and dying) son in exchange for his own life. Making a deal with another minor God, the king hid himself from immortal eyes. Unable to reap his soul, angry at the betrayal, the sister Gods sent plagues into the waters of the city. To combat the plagues, a form of mustard gas was spread in the city. Some say, even to this day, the streets still stink of death.

4 - Latin; 'Minor Gods'. Knowledge is as much of a God as Milias Susurros, but they are only fractions of M.S's power. Knowledge is M.S's knowledge; it just needs a vessel to channel that into.

5 - Latin; 'Knowledge'.

6 - Latin; 'Sun'.

7 - Latin; 'heavy' or 'dull'. Chosen for the fact that it fits his character, but also for the fact he is named after Brutus of Rome, the man who stabbed and killed his best friend (which is what almost happens here).

8 - Latin; 'craftsman'. From humble beginnings comes a God killer.

9 - Latin; 'tiny' or 'puny'. Ironic that a king would be called this, no?

10 - Latin; 'water snake'. This has multiple points. 1: Aelia's killing of the 'divine serpent'. 2: This is the fancy Latin way of calling a woman (what Knowledge is seen as) wicked and malicious, this was basically a massive 'screw you go to hell' to whomever you were speaking about. 3: Capitalisation makes the insult named, which, instead of calling Knowledge wicked as an insult, he's calling her the embodiment of wickedness.

Thank you to anybody who sat down and read this. Again, this isn't fanfic related so I don't expect this to get much traction. But, if you enjoyed it, I'm completely open to constructive criticism as well as compliments (lol) and or questions on any lore if you have any to ask. Thank you for reading, whoever you are <3.

#ocs #my ocs my beloved #oc writing #fantasy #original writing #angst #What does it take to feel human in my own body #Inhuman narrator #friends to strangers to enemies to strangers again #action #mel's musings

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demidevildonnie · 1 year ago

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were not gods

#my art #trigun #trigun maximum #trigun 98 #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #vashwood #ive been haunted by the idea for months that #vash willingly bears humanity's sins #even stuff that isnt his fault #his body is littered with scars to show how humans treat him #wolfwood takes vials to heal his body #he is mortal yet he rids of the evidence of whats been done to his body #but he still bears a lot of pain and responsibility on his own as well #wolfwood's feelings towards why vash does this to himself #vash's feelings towards wolfwood trying to take on this role of being a devil #aughh i could go on #also vash has red bursting from his chest to represent blood and death #the literal death he has seen but also metaphorical bleeding heart #because red has positive connotations such as love and determination #but its painful for him

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sysig · 8 months ago

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But would you tho (Patreon)

#Doodles #SCII #Damned #Schuldig #ZEX #And again the Captain implied from offscreen lol #Two little things ♪ One that Actually happened and one speculation lol #I really like Schuldig :D He's the likeable asshole type and his quirk is very well written :)#I love how he gets on Zelnick's case about his wishy-washy-ness in regards to xenophilia generally and ZEX specifically hehe #Zelnick has no good answer for him! It's so cute hehe <3 #But then he turns right around and is wishy-washy himself!! I get the feeling his frustration stems a bit from relating hahaha #Or maybe Zelnick's uncertainty influenced him! It's not such an easy decision to make when you're staring down the barrel is it now :)#Openly attracted to Max's body and flattered by ZEX's personality and outright attraction to him in turn but the alien aspect is too much pf #Sure right okay lol - I have no skin in this game so I'll have to take his word for it haha #Secondarily speculating around ZEX's attraction and standards lol it sounds like an oxymoron but no he is actually a bit picky!#Yes he loves humans generally but he is actually tempered by what mind inhabits what body! It's so interesting to me!#I think it's especially funny how his various desires are in conflict with each other haha #Like it makes sense that he controls himself around Fwiffo - poor thing would have a heart attack - but he genuinely seems less attracted!#Which makes sense to me as well ♪ Spathi and VUX share several traits and were on the same side during the War so he's familiar with them #And he's specifically attracted to differences and novelty - it all lines up!#And then there's also his pride lol he tries to make more friends than enemies of course but he still gets petty and patronizing <3 #If he's actually upset with someone /he's/ the one who would need convincing! It's all very interesting :3c #And then there's the matter of his own body vs. Max's body - he's so upset at the metaphysical implications of cloning his consciousness #I've never thought of ZEX in the context of the ''Would you fuck your clone'' questionnaire but I guess I know his answer now haha #Though I still wonder what his reaction would be to Max :0 He's probably not close enough to be ZEX but he is /a/ ZEX - of a sort #All his introspection about the body he's in has my mental ears perked haha - pity and worry for the potential life he's replacing #Discomfort at possibly being Max in some capacity including continuing to be in his body but also of overtaking his life entirely #And of being backed into a corner - Max is pitiful as well as pitiable! Neither of them want to be Max Vyer really #He loves humans but how far does that extend when push comes to shove ♪ It's been interesting watching him fumble through it :)

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ruvviks · 16 days ago

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having an idea for a game but it's miles above your skill level

#personal #elevator pitch: point and click 2d art-heavy narrative driven game. mc is a scientist in a closed off laboratory in a post apocalyptic worl #player plays as the mc going through a daily routine consisting of taking care of a few patients that are dying of #the zombie plant esque disease that has wiped out humanity. working towards breakthrough day. on which they should #hopefully have managed to recreate the exact circumstances in which patient zero got turned #in hopes to reverse engineer it into a cure #solving puzzles along the way to open up new locations within the labs to piece together what exactly went wrong in the first place #and like!!!!!!!! i know i could do this. realistically i know i could put a game like this together but it's just #the dev heavy stuff that is stopping me because well i am just a game artist JHDGJFDKGJDFGKFDG #all the patients are in different stages of infection and it's all affecting them differently because of different variables #only one of the patients is actually fully lucid and can be spoken to on the daily #but then on breakthrough day they end up taking their own life JUST like patient zero did exactly a year ago #and it turns out that despite showing little symptoms on the outside the plants were taking root inside of them #which has been foreshadowed through earlier gameplay with the patient feeling itchy but not being able to scratch the itch #and on breakthrough day the flowers inside of them bloomed... and it was unbearable so they used the gun that they took #a year ago from patient zero's body (their colleague) to end it all. and THAT is what ends up turning them into a plant zombie #and the player has been working towards getting into the labs where it all started to find patient zero's body and like #get access to the logs of their last few days. and after the patient in the present has passed they listen to the logs #while the credits roll. and patient zero describes very similar symptoms in the logs. and they also couldn't have been saved #ig the patients in this could be some sort of metaphor for like. how illness doesn't always come with (the same) symptoms for everyone #and how even if it's not visible on the outside someone might be struggling a lot etc etc. something in that direction #anyway hi does anyone here see my vision. do you understand what i'm going for. anyway yes i hope i can make it reality one day

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outlying-hyppocrate · 1 year ago

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positively despising how my consistent personality is leaving me and how i resort to such strange lies

#random thoughts #i write this on the cold tile floor of a place that has yet to hear my wailing screams. this is a lie. i am in bed #if my writing were anywhere near kafkaesque i don't think i'd be doing very well. but how i do admire his work #i read quite a bit. my bookshelves one day shall be piled with the works of authors such as anne rice. oscar wilde (and franz kafka himself #though this is the 21st century. what of modern fiction ? what of modern nonfiction ? i've made myself into someone #whose vocabulary is strangely extensive. we could argue that i've been this person all along #a sort of “gifted child” perhaps. except. i don't fucking use words like perhaps #as. not as. because this is a mockery of the self #how to put it less concisely ? i sound so old. “so mature for [my] age.”#i'm a very strange sort of person and when i stand alone in the water my screaming takes the form of beautiful song. but #how i long to stop the sound and choke it out into something strangled with my very own fingers. my essence is poetry #and therefore all that i am is poetry. i am so beautiful #my face and my body and everything we are made of #to spill the essence of poetry in the form of something more human. blood or spit or tears or vomit #i am so very interested in human function. what am i saying i'm being strange on purpose? but i like being strange #and this is how you see me now. my eccentric persona(lity) does not make me special at all. i'm not doing very well #i never am to tell the truth. it is getting so hard to prove my humanity and i'm starting to feel rather artificial #i have nothing to show proof of humanity such as blood or spit or tears or vomit #but then again i am simply being dramatic. i'm just being dramatic. that's it #i am just a boy and just a puppet and just how i present to others #i am pleasant. i am charming. i am robotic. i am awkward. i am cultured. i am weird. i am almost a person #my fingers are so thin. i've always been inhuman. they have their blood and spit and tears and vomit #and i have nothing but i think i like those words quite a bit. and i am watching the numbers raise higher. notifications. pretty things #i'm sorry i'm acting like this. acting. acting. actingactingactingidon't know what's brought it on #i speak so strangely. maybe i should try something else. i shall go to sleep and pretend that nothing happened. which it did. let me #bstvlpeooiamotridst . you have the words. i've been purposely alternating every three tags to write blood and spit and tears and vomit #i like patterns very much what else can i say. patterns are. pretty. though pretty isn't a word that fits into my extensive vocabulary #it should be buried at the bottom rather. what's a nicer way. i'm not actually sure #if you've made it this far please kindly say hello. otherwise that's alright #we've arrived to form our pattern again and i don't actually feel very much. bloodspit tearsvomit

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ananke-xiii · 4 months ago

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cas practising (en/forced) exo-/endo-cannibalism will always be important to me.

#that guy has done it all #however I must say that this show truly thinks everybody's just a vessel and I'm not sure how I feel about that #for instance: Cas without grace is still not human to me. no matter how the show wants to tell me otherwise. I ain't buying that.#he's having human experiences sure. but. like. that's it. and I'm totally fine with that. You go eat burritos darling.#and I like my own take better tbh. 'Cause the show doesn't take a stand to the point that eventually even God is *just* transferable power.#meeeeeeeeh.#And this is the result of the post-kripke-seasons'perversion of the original story about sam and demon blood but it's still NOT the same.#cause angels and demons are not humans. even the idea of injecting human blood to turn a demon.#hypothetically: cool. if you think about it: mmmmh a demon is still an entity possessing somebody.#even if that somebody has been dead for centuries. the demon's been colonizing a corpse. he might experience human stuff again #but the demon is still a demon with a human (resurrected? reincarnated? what happens to the the possesed's soul???) body #(i don't really think that angels and demon can resurrect but they can reincarnate. or not? can they die when they are not in a body?)#so does this mean that being human means having human experiences? eeeeeeeehhhh the show seems to say: bleargh #cause apparently humans too are just vessels for the soul #no soul? not sure you're fully human.cause you can't experience stuff anymore.it's quite complicated as the jack's storyline debacle shows #what i mean is that sometimes I've got the feeling that the show uses its characters like recipes #a little bit of that and you're an angel. a little less of this and you're a monster #it's very quantity-oriented #and i'm like: MEEEEEEEEEEEEEH.#SO ANYWAY #Cas eating a little bit of his siblings to become an angel really seems to boil down to: you are what you eat.#spn s9 #castiel #character of all time #supernatural

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moondirti · 5 months ago

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MDNI. dubcon. objectification. degradation. humiliation. guys being gross. female reader. fingering. cunnilingus. pussy slapping. brief aftercare. an absurd amount of filth for something so short.

price helping you get over your fear of humiliation by inviting the guys over and prying your pussy open for them, half-slouched on his lap with your legs held up in the air :( they’re so mean about it, too. cooing condescending compliments, curling their nasty hands around your jaw to keep your head in place as they pet your most vulnerable places, like you’re the winning pup at a dog show and not a whole human—entitled to any boundary you set, regardless of how your husband feels.

they pay no heed to your protests, though. actually, the men avoid addressing you at all. rather, all their personal, invasive questions are directed to price, who answers them with his own self-satisfied grin.

‘keeps clenchin’ around nothing, desperate thing. hole this willing deserves to be gaped. how often d'you stuff her?’ depends on if she's been good.

‘fookin’ drooched, cap. does she taste as guid as she looks?’ mm, better. smells like nectar too. take a whiff, son. don’ wash my beard afterward on the occasion, jus to keep her under my nose.

‘think i can thaw a winter’s worth of ice with this cunt alone. heat’s practically radiating off ‘er. pathetic slut.’ y’should see how much worse it gets after a good beating, lieutenant. swells up, and damn well sears my palm.

and of course they take it upon themselves to test the validity of his answers. kyle works four fingers into you, then his thumb, stretching you open for his probing, angling your hips up to the light so that your insides are illuminated for his curious eye. if price didn’t have his rough hands anchored to the underside of your knees, you would have kicked his prized sergeant off.

embarrassment washes your neck in warmth, lashes droopy with fat tears. all your husband does to comfort you is place a scratchy kiss to your shoulder, soft hushes tickling your skin.

then, soap intercedes to shove his nose to your mons. he doesn’t just take a whiff — rather, he sucks in the sweet-sour tang your slick provides, testing it in both scent and taste. his hot tongue laves over where kyle’s fingers had been, incisors nibbling at the ripe bud of your clit. mortifying pleasure sinks low, sloshing in your belly’s bed. though you did not expect him to be, he isn’t modest about it. soap presses completely into your pussy, muzzle lacquered with wetness that rivals yours.

your whimpers devolve into moans. loud, a little unhinged. you’ve always played at dressing them up around price, worried that he’d turn away if your face screwed too tight, or your pleasure made itself known beyond what directly serves him. it’s exactly the habit that got you into this mess; and as you lose yourself to the scene, you can feel his delight blossoming against your back.

ghost scares you the most. he lets you have your orgasm, towering behind the man between your legs, but does not let him revel in it, yanking him back by his mohawk at the first twitch of your toes. in the fervour, you have hard time remembering what you should expect. especially when he doesn’t get to it immediately, wiping the gloss off your plush cunt. his callouses rash you, gritty, abrading the soft surface of your skin. it is only when you wince do his eyes crinkle in a manner cruel enough to evoke what’s to come.

but it’s too late to prime yourself. his hand flies back, coming back twice as fast to strike dead centre between your legs. it hurts. hurts so much more than it ever has before, your body unused to unrestrained strength. you scream, throat mangling around the rough cut of it, fighting wildly against price until you manage to escape his hold. immediately, instead of running away, you twist backwards, burying your face into his neck, calming yourself by taking deep breaths of his cologne. something heady — leather, tobacco, sandalwood — bridges the synapses in your brain, numbs the pain, if only a little.

“shhh, little one. you’re alright. it’s okay. doing so good for us.” he soothes, rubbing your sweaty back. the world narrows to just you and him, his men reduced to mere afterthoughts. to be dealt with later — though you doubt the conversation will be anywhere near reprimanding, more likely to end with a bottle of scotch split between four, approving slaps to the captain’s back, than it ever will in your defence.

“n-ne- never a-ga…”

“come, now. let’s not be brash, mm. i promised them a pump each. ‘n’ what kind of host would i be if i didn’t make good on that?”

#i got halfway through this before i realised it’s almost exactly how another wip of mine will end #time to accept im a one trick pony 🤧#141 x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #ghost #gaz #price #soap #x reader #x f!reader #x you #cod #mw #fanfiction

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fanaroff · 4 months ago

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Dp x DC Prompt: Space Like An Ocean

An alien had taken up residence outside of the Watchtower. Its first appearance immediately started a panic with most of the heroes that could survive in space converging on the station to see whether it was friend or foe. In the end, it did not seem either.

In fact, it seemed fine with just basking and napping wrapped around parts of the Watchtower that made up the outside. It wasn’t the size of the Watchtower, but off and on it was a very near thing.

Humanoid, yet distinctly inhuman. White whispy hair sat atop its head, pointed ears, and the only feature that could be made out of its face were two bright green glowing eyes. A color that sent Batman into a research frenzy. Its skin was void-dark. Almost looking as if a piece of space itself had separated from the cosmos and took and almost snake-like form. Or maybe an eel?

The most notable thing about the creature were its injuries. Multiple lacerations covered it, leaking a green that never touched the Watchtower and seemed to evaporate not long after leaving its body. Any silent attempts to collect it for study and to figure out what it was were met with emotionless green eyes and a bare hint of fang. They backed off quickly.

Flash liked to call it a mer-eel. “Cause it’s got an almost human torso, two arms, and the rest just kind of curls up!”

Wonder Woman was unimpressed with this. “That would suggest it is more like a naga.”

To which Green Lantern replied, “No, no, he’s right. There’s an almost white fin-like bit that goes down the tail like an eel’s does.”

Any more attempts to identify the creature led to nothing and soon the “eel” became a silent fixture of the Watchtower.

It was ages later when Zatanna entered the Watchtower to discuss a completely non-connected case when she stumbled immediately upon leaving the Zeta Tube and had to lean against a wall, breathing heavily.

“Something feels like Death.” Was all she could get out before her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she dropped to the ground. She wouldn’t wake up, dead asleep. Immediate worry all around lead to Justice League Dark being contacted in full.

Constantine with Deadman in tow were ultimately the ones to solve the mystery. It took but a moment for Deadman to be seen thanks to Constantine’s “magic” and awe was the first thing apparent on his face. Deadman didn’t even need to leave the Watchtower to know what it was.

“Oh,” he whispered like a prayer. “So that’s where he goes when he takes a break.”

Queue questioning.

“He” turned out to be Phantom, the Ghost King who had apparently decided the Watchtower was a perfect basking spot. Confusion was abound at this.

“No, see,” Deadman tried to explain. “He has two Obsessions and the Watchtower feeds into both. Heroes who protect, as he is a protector spirit himself and probably feels a kinship, and space.”

Constantine and Deadman explained as best as they could, but when the questions finally settled, the last was “Why isn’t Constantine affected like Zatanna? Why aren’t the rest of them affected like Zatanna?”

“That’s easy!” Deadman piped. “None of you are attuned to death magic! I’m a ghost, he’s my King. Zatanna is a magician with experience in most magics. And Constantine doesn’t own enough of his soul to feel the death!”

In the end, a request from Deadman was all it took for things to change. With barely a rumble, Phantom pulled himself from the Watchtower and drifted far enough away for his aura to no longer affect Zatanna. The heroes could only watch in awe as the eel-like god returned to the open ocean of space.

Addition:

There were a giant green eyes observing the conference room. Every hero inside was frozen in place, staring back at the eyes and trying their best not to move a muscle. Phantom had moved from atop the station. Phantom had acknowledged them. Phantom was staring at them from a window of the Watchtower.

No one knew why he was there. Just that suddenly he was. The bright green lighting the entire room with its shine was the only warning they got. They stared. He stared.

Slowly, he moved. A hand-shape pointed with a claw. They were confused. The hand made a pointing motion again.

The table?

Ah. Several shards of kryptonite sat on the table. The topic of the discussion as someone had somehow gotten ahold of the shards and used them against Superman. They needed to know who supplied them.

The hand pointed again.

Why did Phantom want the shards?

Apparently, it wasn’t up to them to question as the pointing hand phased into the room, palm up. Waiting. No one moved for a moment until a white narrowed slit formed in Phantom’s eyes.

Green Lantern was quick to grab the shards (Batman made a token protest, those were his damn it) and placed them in the palm. He shivered as his finger brushed the skin, ice cold washing up and down his spine.

The hand closed, retracted and approached the face. The eyes stared as a large mouth opened (fangs, sharp sharp fangs laid in green) and a tongue popped out. The shards were placed on the tongue and the mouth closed with a sharp crunch.

Phantom grinned almost smugly before he drifted away from the window and back to the top of the Watchtower.

“Did- Did Phantom just ask for a snack?”

#danny phantom #dp x dc #ghost king danny #danny phantom fic #fanfic #mer danny #eel danny #mer eel danny #kryptonite is catnip to ghosts #kryptonite ghost snack #I’m not good at titles

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sweet-as-an-angel · 10 months ago

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Giant! König Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Creep! König, Perverted! König, König Owns a Cum Jar, Size Difference, Giant! König, Size Kink, Sadistic! König, Abuse of Power, Dub-Con, Cum Soaking, Attempts at Forced Impregnation, Implied Pregnancy, Voyeurism, Hostage Situation, Human Pet! Reader, Physical Violence, Human! Reader, Fem! Reader.

Giant! König captures you after he catches you sneaking around his castle, trying to loot something of value to take back to your impoverished village.

Giant! König immediately jumps at the opportunity to take you as his human pet, throwing you into a nearby jar and closing the lid, observing you like a spider beneath a glass.

Giant! König who, after deciding he wants to keep you long-term instead of turning your body into the sprinkles atop his ice cream, creates a more sustainable living space for you after discovering you’re not as durable as he thought (almost suffocating, dehydrating, and starving to death whilst being held in that damn jar).

Giant! König surprises you with a dollhouse of his own design: a door that locks from the outside, windows too small for you to crawl through, and walls made of a material too strong for your tiny utensils to burrow through.

Giant! König doesn’t take long to start using you for his own pleasure �� almost like he has no other outlet; like he was just waiting for this opportunity to come.

Giant! König who, whenever he feels like punishing you, puts you in The Jar and stares you down whilst stroking his cock, gigantic even in comparison to other giants’. He grunts, berating you, telling you how he’d “Fill you with my cock if you weren’t so small – bet I could crush you with it if I wanted to.”

When he’s ready, he cums into the jar – all over you – thick and heavy, almost drowning you with just one spurt of his load.

He loves watching you struggle to keep your head above the viscous pool he’s trapped you in as you literally swim in his semen, looking up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to “Get me out, please!”.

He’ll often leave you in there without clothes to try and teach you a lesson. Until it turns into another reason – to breed you – which you accidentally sparked in him when you told him to be careful! You’ll end up getting me pregnant!

Giant! König can’t get your words out of his head, the primal urges he’s suppressed for so long unearthed by your pleas for him to spare you, if only once.

Giant! König knows he’s way too big to fit inside you, so this – cumming profusely into a jar he’s encased you in whilst giving you no means of refusing his attempts – is the next best thing.

Giant! König gets off on the sheer size difference between the two of you – the fact that you’re entirely dependent on him for your survival. Makes him feel like the kind of giant he’s supposed to be; strong and well-seeded.

Giant! König lays awake at night and fantasises about having a family, a far-off dream until you came along. It’s all he can think about as the image of you, his tiny wife, swollen to an almost painful degree as you bear his children, floods his mind, makes his cock twitch – harden. He resists the urge to relieve himself of this burden, preferring to save every ounce of his seed for you rather than wasting even a drop of it.

Giant! König who, despite his…questionable treatment of you, does try to treat you well. He lets you eat as much as you want, both because he knows you come from a poor background and because he has to keep you healthy to bear his offspring — especially since he knows they’ll be quite big compared to you.

Giant! König enjoys questioning you about your life before him, how humans work, what they do all day, whether the stereotypes of them all being lustful, pride-driven, creatures are true.

If you validate any part of this stereotype, he’ll use that as an excuse to sink you in even more of his cum, to subject you to the task of sitting on his cock (horizontally, might I add) while he commands you to get yourself off by humping the shaft.

Man’s had no outlet for basicall all his life – he’s feral.

Giant! König loves to watch you while you’re tucked up in your dollhouse, observing everything you do. Humans are a rarity in the Giant Lands, so to have one in his home is a mythic occurrence.

Giant! König loves showing you off; he thrives on the reaction he gets when his friends see you. You’re, as stated before, a rarity in their parts, often used as a delicacy rather than a pet since humans aren’t particularly sturdy compared to giants, so managing to keep one alive is something of a status symbol in itself; the mark of a truly capable mate (hence captive humans are often given as courting gifts between giants).

However, König is also highly protective of you – especially after he caught Horangi (another giant he’d been showing you off to) goading you – harassing you – stroking his cock, telling you to “Lick the tip. Never felt a human tongue before.”

Needless to say, König never invited him around again after that.

Giant! König is, obviously, good with his hands and technical know-how. Thus, if his method of soaking you in his semen doesn’t work when trying to knock you up, he’ll create some unlawful contraption to make it inevitable.

Despite his size, König has managed to make a tiny glass syringe that he’s packed with his cum, holding you down easily with one hand as he presses the tip to your entrance, pumping you full of his seed.

He struggles to contain how the scene – the feeling – of you trying desperately to fight him off, to stop him from filling you, makes him feel. You have to watch the bulge between his legs grow as the feeling of being filled past full overcome you.

Giant! König does this as many times as he likes until he knows his seed’s taken, when you start showing. Which, considering how big his offspring will be, is pretty early on.

He definitely makes maternity clothes for you – comfortable garments that show the swell of your stomach as the weeks crawl by into months.

Giant! König loves bathing you, too. Especially after he’s covered you in his cum.

There’s something so intimate and gentle about it – a scarcity in the Giant Lands. Having something so small and fragile in his hands, knowing that he can crush you in his grip at any moment, makes him feel…responsible. Trustworthy.

Giant! König will never let you go, btw. You can try to run as much as you want, but he’ll always catch up to you, his human pet.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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sneakygreenbean · 1 year ago

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personal observations made by a new cane user:

you do not need to be in constant pain to own a cane.

folding canes have a clasp or band to keep them folded. losing the band is a pain in the ass.

you will get dirty looks

it does not matter what age you are. you will get dirty looks.

you have to hold it in the opposite hand as the disabled leg. this is fortunate, as I am right handed, so i hold it in my left hand to support my right leg.

people will try to steal your cane from you.

when standing still, I hold it in my right hand unless i need to do something right handedly. this does not work as well as i thought it would.

being visibly physically disabled is difficult. having a mobility aid will help with pain and movement, but some people don't get them because visible disability is treated with disgust.

if someone meets you for the first time, and you don't have your cane, then they will like you more, but they will not believe you are actually disabled.

if someone meets you for the first time, and you have your cane, they will not treat you the same.

the majority of other cane and mobility aid users I have met are homeless. I live close to a big city.

People do not want to see you being disabled.

you will not hear of the benefits of using a cane from anyone who does not use a cane.

no one will prepare you for the world of being visibly physically disabled. however bad you think we have it is usually not from the disability at all. I can deal with pain and I can deal with an indisposed left hand.

the hardest part of being disabled is the fact that no one will care until you make them care.

the disabled seats on trains are a suggestion

the disabled seats on buses are a suggestion.

you will have a different experience with using a cane than I have had.

your hand will become tired. you are using it as a leg.

your cane is legally a part of your body. this will not stop some people.

you are not your disability. but it will affect you.

i love you

theres always an invisible someone who has it worse. that person will not be affected or offended by your use of a cane. take the damn ibuprofen. put the folded cane in your bag. ask your friends for help. gd knows they need help sometimes too.

you will have to learn that things will be impossible to you. you may not run as fast anymore. you may not become a skater, like you always wanted to be. you may be left behind when everyone else runs ahead.

you deserve better.

your cane handle gets dirty. wash it.

some days pain is worse. some days you will feel it the moment you wake up.

no one deserves pain. the human condition is not to suffer. we deserve better. we deserve to be loved and not tolerated. we deserve to be seen better than from the corners of eyes. we deserve to be heard better than an afterthought at a meeting.

be quick to care for yourself. I love you.

#disability #if you clown on this i will kill you with my teeth.#personal #disabled #cane user #mobility aid #physical disability #this is about physical disability do not derail. i understand that mental disability is treated badly as well. this post isnt about that.#this post is also not about invisible disabilities because i have a very visible disability.#please be patient with me. i am young and new to the use of canes. most of these revelations are shockingly new.

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chastiefoul · 1 month ago

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toji didn’t the remember the last time he had to take care of someone who’s sick. perhaps once or maybe twice, but that was practically an ancient tale from the past.

seeing your frail body tucked under the cover as you breath raggedly, your face flushed red not in the usual way that he loves, no, it only looked like you’re in a lot of pain and he hated that. he put his palm on your forehead, and even an idiot like him knew that no normal human should be this warm.

the coolness of his calloused hand refreshed you a little as you leaned into his touch, chasing it like it’s your only source of comfort. the black-haired man noticed how you clinged to him, keeping his hand there as his thumb rubbed the corner of your eyebrow ever-so-softly. if you decide that his hand that’s so used to killing and doing rough works is helping you, then it’s yours. damn it, he wanted to helpful, even just a little bit.

“head hurts, toji,” you frowned, wanting the incessant pounding in your head to be gone already. “bet it does, pretty girl. what you need?” he kissed your eyelid softly, desperate in needing guidance — some kind of instructions on how he can make you feel better. he lost all confidence in himself at that moment, afraid that his unwarranted clumsy action will upset you. “i don’t know,” you muttered, telling the truth.

“let’s get some food in you, hm? i’ll cook something,” he said as he stroke your hair. “but i don’t wanna get sicker,” you said playfully with whatever energy you had left. toji chuckled, leave it to you to always keep him on his toes. “i make a mean scrambled egg, even you and your bratty ass can’t deny that.”

“you’re right, my boyfriend is really good at frying egg,” you said teasingly, loving the way his fingers kept weaving through your hair. he saw your grin, his lips stretched on his own. “having fun?” he raised an eyebrow, amused. “a little,” you replied, closing your eyes. toji raises the blanket all the way to your neck. his gentle touches made you sleepy despite the jarring headache.

“love it when you spoil me,” you mumbled, scooting closer to him. “don’t get used to it,” he replied with an easy tone, knowing damn well he will continue to spoil you rotten. his thumb brushed your cheek over and over, it felt blissful. when he was sure you’re off to dreamland he planted a kiss on the side of your head he muttered, “hurts me seeing you like this, baby.” he got up from the bed, already having many list of errand he needed to tick off, such as buying you food and some medicine for you to take.

he chuckled to himself, his legs was faster before any other thought entered his mind like they got will of their own.

“…got me all soft and shit,” he grumbled to no one exactly, an endearing smile loyal to his face as he had you on your mind.

yet, he didn’t think it was the worst feeling in the world. it’s up there. maybe next time you even will get him to admit that it’s one of the best.

#jjk fluff #jjk x reader #toji fluff #toji x you #jjk toji #toji x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you

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monstersholygrail · 3 months ago

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Bite Me Baby

Werewolf bf x fem!reader— rough sex, clawing, marking, biting, brief mentions of blood, edging, aftercare

You had been nervous when you told your Werewolf bf that you were a vampire. You knew there were all those legends about your species being ancient rivals and even worse how some still believed in them. You knew your bf wasn’t like that and yet you were still nervous.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for his reaction. Instead of apprehension or worry, your Werewolf bf’s eyes flooded with lust. About the same time yours overflowed with alarm at the sight of it.

Further alarm moving through you when Werewolf bf jumps to tackle you down onto your bed. Inhaling deeply at your scent he can now pinpoint where he previously couldn’t before he nuzzles into the flesh there, adding his own scent to yours. Tiny growls leaving him as he does. You’re frozen, eyes wide, not knowing what to make of this reaction.

“Do you know how hard it’s been trying to hold back from taking you as roughly as I’ve wanted? Not wanting to break my pretty mates human body,” Werewolf bf snarls.

His hands move down your shape with a new fascination. His love for your body, perfect as it is, grows even deeper. He no longer bothers to be gentle, claws scratching down your form, fingers digging into your flesh, weight leaning on you. All to see how much you can take.

You moan, finally feeling his touch on a higher level than ever before now that neither of you have to hide or hold back any longer. “I want everything you can give me,” you beg.

Werewolf bf snarls, hands rushing to rid you of your clothing. Trying to be respectful but eventually using his claws to simply tear through what left you had on. You cry out, only getting more aroused by his intensified dominance.

“I expect you to bite back,” Werewolf bf snaps cheekily, a feral smirk on his face.

You go to bite back, so to speak, when Werewolf slams his long length inside you in one thrust, turning your words in a fierce shriek. All speech is immediately forgotten as your bf begins pounding into you. Sharp claws digging into your soft hips as he helps slam you down on his cock with his every movement.

Your body curls unnaturally in around his and he chuckles, watching how you squirm for him. Arms wrapping around his neck you bring his warm body closer to yours, allowing his cock to sink in even deeper inside you. Mirroring moans leave you both and Werewolf bf nips at your throat.

While sex with your Werewolf was naturally mindblowing and out of this world, the connection you two manage to reach now is nothing like you’ve ever felt. The pleasure not only coming from your bodies but also from your hearts. Nothing else standing between you two, both of you free to be yourselves and basking in the freedom of it. The acceptance you’re both met with continues to intensify the actions between you.

Suddenly remembing his words you nip back, but being a vampire your fangs naturally happen to sink in even deeper. A load roar echos throughout the room. Your bond with him forming as you mark him brings an indescribable ecstasy. Shocked from the noise you lean back, your fangs leaving with it.

The feeling suddenly fades and Werewolf bf snaps his hips even harder into your weeping pussy as it contracts around his length, eagerly searching to get that sensation back. Your jaw drops, your mind momentarily losing itself as you think about how good he’s fucking you and how addictive the feel of his cock is. Shaking your head of all other thoughts you force yourself to focus on your bf.

“My love, W-what’s wrong?” you pant out, rolling your hips and trying to keep up with his furious speed. Your body practically moving on its own as it subconsciously searches for him.

Werewolf bf merely grunts, brows furrowing as he searches for an explanation. The only conclusion he can come to is that you’re a vampire. Marking someone of his species must be different. Follow different rules and needed different steps.

But in the meantime… until those rules were followed and those steps were taken… you could mark him as many times as you wanted. It would fade as soon as your fangs left him and he’d get to feel that ecstasy once more.

Overcome with a newfound urgency, Werewolf bfs pace gets impossibly faster, making a complete mess out of you as your pussy gushes with arousal. His stamina only achievable due to his werewolf genes. Your bf shakes his head, huffing loudly as he moves.

“Nothing. Nothing. ‘So good, baby. So good. Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t you dare stop,” Werewolf bf snaps in desperation, tiny whimpers and whines leaving him.

Your hips arch as a gasp rips from your throat. Eyes widening you can see just how deeply you’re affecting him. Satisfaction swirls through your gut. Time and time again your Werewolf bf has managed to reduce you to nothing but weak noises one-word responses. Now the tables are turning and he’s finally getting a taste of his own medicine.

Truly wanting to make him pay, you clench your tight cunt down on his cock and watch as he howls, his eyes growing hazy. You lean up and lap at the drops of blood trickling down his neck. Werewolf bf begins to pant, his cock driving into you as a force of which only two supernaturals could ever withstand. Your bf’s hair stands on end and your body buzzes at the nerves he ignites within you.

“What? Want my fangs in your pretty little neck? Would you like my mark?” You whisper slowly in his ear, fang grazing the lobe.

Werewolf bf’s hips jolt forward, slamming into your cervix and you cry out, the pain mixing with the pleasure in an addictive fashion. You both hold onto each other, squeezing tightly. Using each other to ground yourselves against the friction of your bodies. Neither of you caring to be gentle any longer knowing you can take it as if you were made for each other.

And history called you enemies? When there has never been a match more perfect.

“Yes. F-fuck, please! Mark me. Over and over again until I pass out!” Your boyfriend growls out, his words barely audible through the rumbling animal noises leaving him.

Your eyes widen, having never heard your bf beg before. You start meeting his rabid thrusts with even more vigor and you come to the conclusion that you quite like it. Making your boyfriend a slobbering mess of a pup. With that realization you don’t waste another second before sinking your fangs back inside your Werewolf bf.

He howls his delight, a mix of growls and purrs leaving him as he feels the mating bond form between you. His cock twitches inside of you and he continues the relentless pounding of his hips. The combined sensations clashing together in a way that has him feeling like he can’t even breathe.

But then you remove your fangs and your bf exhales heavily. His mind growing more foggy, eyes growing more glassy, but his pace remaining just as brutal as ever. Never stopping in his pursuit to chase the pleasure he’s certain only you can give him.

Over and over the cycle continues. Sinking your fangs into your bf’s neck, letting the bond form, and then promptly removing them. You feeling the repetitive motion of the bond forming only to have it ripped away just at the precipice. Seeing the way it impacts your boyfriend adds to your already immense pleasure even if you can’t feel it the same way he does.

When you feel your Werewolf bf drooling onto your shoulder you know you have him right where you want him. Throwing your head back with a moan as your bf grinds his cock against the happy spot along your walls, you can see just how deep he is.

“Wanna cum, baby?” She ask through heavy breaths.

Your bf immediately whines, head nodding eagerly. You hadn’t been known he was waiting for your order but you can feel his knot swelling and pushing against your opening. All this too brings a deep satisfaction through your stomach and straight to your tingling messy core.

“Go then. Cum inside me and make me yours. It’s your turn to claim me.”

With those words it’s like your Werewolf bf returns to himself in a snap. With a ferocious roar he’s pulling his hips back and slamming his entire length inside of you. Forcing his knot into your puffy and sopping pussy. Your screams join his own as you two erupt together, your orgasms clashing into each other as you two cum at the same time. The world flashes white as you feel his hot semen splash along your walls, the waves of pleasure more than you can handle.

You both continue your steady rocking, riding out the waves of your ecstasy and prolonging it for as long as possible. His knot and your squeezing pussy keeping you both tightly together. Werewolf bf purrs lowly and nuzzles into your neck, touching as much of you as possible. You reciprocate without even realizing it. The closeness helping you both calm down from what you two experienced together.

The smooth glide of Werewolf bf’s wet nose rubbing along your nose has you humming in content. Adding to the feeling that you’re on cloud nine. A moment later your bf leans back and his content gaze mirrors your own as you look deep into each other’s eyes.

“The mark didn’t stick, did it?” He croaks out the question, his voice holding a tinge of sadness.

You angle your head and look down at his already healed neck. Not even a scar mark left behind. An ache settles in your chest as a sadness overcomes you as well. All it takes is the slow shake of your head to give him a proper answer and your bf lets out a long wolfy whine. He leans back down and nuzzles into your pulse point again.

“I’m going to mark you properly and I’m going to do it soon. Sooner now that I know you’re not human, my sneaky little mate,” your bf rumbles out. He can feel the heat of your blush as it runs up your neck and to your cheeks.

“Now I’ll be able to mark you back…” you whisper in his ear, trying to shake off your embarrassment for having foolishly been nervous to tell your bf the truth about your nature.

Werewolf boyfriend playfully snarls and snaps his jaw near your neck, earning an exaggerated gasp from you. But as your bf’s cock twitches inside your sore cunt, already prepared for another round, you’re not sure how playful that nip was.

You bare your neck to him and your bf instantly grows harder at your submission. Looking into his eyes you issue the challenge and he has no issues meeting it. More than ready to be the one to bite you this time.

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