#noncon groping

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Jesper: A drunk guy went up to Wylan at the bar and full on grabbed his ass, and based on the look Wy gave him I was expecting him to say the most rude things anyone has ever said only to watch Wylan deck him right in the face

Jesper: It was amazing

[bloodfreak-boyking]

i literally can't stop thinking about shifter!dean so i curse thee with a brain dump ficlet. cw for non-con groping & kissing

---

"See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends, you could have a life," the shifter said, Dean's stolen face barely visible in the dim sewer light. His eyes flicked between Sam's, hurt and something unidentifiable swimming in them. "Me?" He leaned in closer, the space between them growing hot and humid. Sam could feel the shifter's breath on his cheek. "I know I'm a freak."

Sam scowled, glaring the creature down. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean was a lot of things; a nerd, a jerk, disgustingly charming, but not a freak. That title was reserved for Sam.

A grin twitched across the shifter's lips. "Oh, you don't know, do you?" it said, amusement thick in his voice.

Sam knew he should ignore it, this impulse to get insight into his brother's mind, his thoughts and feelings that he kept held so closely to his chest. The thing would probably lie anyway. But Sam was never good at resisting temptation. "Know what?"

Not-Dean was suddenly straddling Sam's thighs, a lascivious smile on his face. Sam instinctively tried to move away, but the rope kept him from doing much more than squirming under the creature's weight. A low chuckle rumbled in its chest. "Dean here?" It shoved its hand between them, roughly palming Sam through worn denim. Sam tried to stifle a gasp, only half succeeding. "He wants you. Hell, he's wanted you since he was seventeen."

Sam felt frozen, shock making his limbs feel numb. Or maybe that was the rope cutting off his circulation, he couldn't really spare the brain power to tell. "Wh-what? No, you...you're lying."

The shifter leaned in closer, nipping at Sam's earlobe. "Oh, the things he wants to do to you." He ground his hips down against Sam's lap forcefully. "His sweet little Sammy."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam registered Not-Dean was hard. Another sharp bite, this time to the hinge of his jaw, had him letting out a startled yelp.

The shifter groaned against his skin. "God what he would give to hear you make noises like that." It grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking down on it hard. Sam, in an attempt to stifle a loud cry, let a pitiful whimper slip past his lips instead. The creature's eyelids fluttered shut. "Fuck, yeah, just like that."

Warm, plush lips were suddenly on him, sliding against his stock-still ones. Before his brain could send the message of no bad no, his own lips were moving. The shifter growled and pulled his head back further, drawing a gasp out of Sam and giving himself an opening to lick deep into Sam's mouth. A soft moan escaped Sam. What could he say? The thing could kiss. Dean could kiss.

It was like a bucket of ice water was dumped on him. He twisted his head away, forcibly breaking the kiss. His heart was hammering in his chest and his stomach flipped and the worst part was, Sam couldn't tell if it was disgust or...

The shifter slowly stood, still trying to catch its breath. It reached down and grabbed one of their duffel bags, swinging it over his shoulder. "Well, it's been great, y'know, shattering your worldview and all," he looked Sam up and down once more, predatory, "but I've got a hot date with lovely little Becky."

...

"Well that's 'cause you're a freak," Dean, the real Dean, teased from behind the wheel as Saint Louis disappeared behind them.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, thanks," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Well I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you, all the way."

"Yeah, I know you are." Sam looked down at his hands, twisting them nervously in his lap. The shifter's words bounced around his brain: He wants you. He shifted in his seat and bit his lip, the next part of the memory playing involuntarily.

Dean shot him a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Dean...um..." Sam readjusted in his seat again, the Impala suddenly feeling claustrophobically small. "Well, I, uh-"

"C'mon Sammy, spit it out."

"The...the, uh, shifter. It...well it...there's something..."

Dean shot him an annoyed glare "Sam," he admonished.

"Do you want me?" Sam blurted out, his face blooming scarlet and his skin too hot.

Dean's grip tightened on the wheel. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "What?" His voice was too calm, too measured.

"The shifter, it said you wanted me. It...it kissed me. Do...do you want me that way, Dean?"

Dean was clenching his teeth so hard that Sam could've sworn he heard his jaw creaking. His knuckles were white on the wheel and his face, where Sam expected to see fiery red skin, angry or embarrassed, was drained of all color. Dean didn't respond or even look at Sam, just turned up the radio so loud that neither could hear themselves think.

Sam's stomach was in knots again, and this time, it was worse: he knew it wasn't disgust.

[digenerate-trash]

GN PC | HE/HIM Kylar

Kidnapping | groping | drugging | noncon | rape |sickness non specific | vomit (not explicit) | force feeding?? | kylar stuff--

Nurse kylar-

It's dark when you wake up. The air is stale and the room is cold as you shift and stretch in your bed. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy as you reach over to your bedside to grab a tissue only to realize nothing is there...

Right... you weren't at home. This wasn't your bed but Kylars... or Kylar's guest bed? You don't remember what exactly he told you. The fog had settled in your head by the time he had led you back to his home. You explained to him that working jobs while running a fever was going to be a nightmare and he insisted on treating you himself He mentioned something about his parents being sick too... but again you couldn't remember the details.

Your skin felt cold as you sat up. It only took a moment of nausea before you were heaving over the side of the bed into a conveniently placed trash can. When you looked to the side of the can there was a water bottle and a small bowl containing some pills.

Kylar had thought of everything... it seemed he did care. The pills were easy to swallow and the water made you feel a bit better but as you laid back down you heard the door creek open-

Your body stiffened as he walked in. He looked over you carefully before he pressed a hand to your head feeling for your temperature. You weren't sure.

Kylars hands are cold... if you didn't know any better you'd assume he was as sick as you were.

"You look better today-" he says sitting on the edge of your bed. You could feel his weight pressing down. It's not too much but it's noticeable... you grunt a bit as you curl back up in the bed Kylar seems to understand as he gets up again

"I'll get you dinner in a couple of hours-" he says petting your head one last time, he lingers for a bit as if silently hoping for you to stop him before he exits the room again.

You're relieved has taken his hands off you. You don't feel like entertaining him while your stomach is in knots and you've got a headache that could kill a bear.

Within minutes you are asleep again. Blissful comfortable sleep. It almost seems rude when Kylar shakes you awake. Your head is pounding and your body aches like nothing else. Still, Kylar sits you up and presses a spoonful of soup toward your mouth.

He makes you drink down the soup he made. It's not good... you don't know if that's because you're not feeling good or because of years of lack of culinary experience.

He doesn't speak much as he forces the bowl of soup on you. He watches your throat as you swallow and if he's feeling daring he'll trace his fingers down your throat to feel you swallow every spoonful.

When you're done he seems pleased and he picks up the bowl and spoon and finally lets you rest.

You're startled awake a little later when you feel ice-cold hands groping you. Your body feels stiff all over and you've been stripped of your clothes blankets and sheets. You can hear Kylar panting against your neck as his thumbs scrape your nipples.

You squirm under him. Your limbs feel heavy and your head is thick with fog. You barely know what's happening as Kylar ruts against you.

"Close-" he whimpers into your neck he licks at you like a dog that hasn't seen its owner in years. His breathing gets more erratic as his body rocks against you.

You feel strange- even through the haze of fog you feel some amount of pleasure but nowhere near enough to get off. Kylar lets out a loud moan and you feel warm cum splatter your lower stomach.

Kylar pants as he sits up admiring his handy work. His eyes are crazed as his gaze meets yours. You can't move. Every part of you is too heavy for that.

"M-my love! You're a-awake!" Kylar says he sounds surprised but makes no move to get off of you instead he massages your body gently as if to soothe you before he scoops up some of his cum with his fingers.

"I thought the meds would last longer-" he remarks as you lay there. "I was worried about the dosage but you seem to be handling it well." Kylar smiles to himself as he fingers you gently with cum soaked fingers

you make a muffled sound but Kylar covers your mouth quickly. "No no- don't panic... you won't remember this tomorrow morning. You never remember the things I do to you- you're going to be okay"

still, you squirm and try to fight but whatever Kylar has been giving you has made you weak and compliant. You're no match for him in this state...

But soon you drift off again. Your body to tired to fight off anything...

When the morning light streams in through the window you stretch and yawn taking in your surroundings, The air is stale and the room is cold you aren't at home... you're in years' home... you think.

You can't remember...

[quoththe-ravenn]

Tidal Wave

So I said I was gonna do it, and I did it! I wrote a short about Sydney the Fallen. I was having the hardest time writing this because I haven't had a second to myself to really write, so the fact that I finished this makes me so proud, even though it is really short. TW: drugging, dub-con, groping, probably some other stuff that I'm forgetting about

***************************

Library.

You stumble, pressing your hand against a wall you don’t entirely feel. I need to get to the library.

Colors wave in front of your eyes, making everything even harder to see.

How did this happen? Where were you before this? What were you doing? The memories are hard to make sense of, blurry as they are. You remember Whitney… and, a drink? Your head throbs trying to catch the memory that’s as slippery as water.

What were you doing again?

The library.

Right! There it is, across the hall! You.. just.. need.. to.. get there… A leg slips out and trips you just as you’re about to reach the doors. You land, hardly even feeling the impact. You’re just so tired

Laughter opens your eyes, and you can just make out a face above you. They’re talking- what are they saying? You feel hands on your chest- no, please don’t touch me!

But.. wait..

What’s happening?

They’re… running away?

An angel appears above you, silhouetted by the light above them. Who are you angel? Why did you save me?

A smile appears as you at last close your heavy eyes.

*************************************** ”... you… me…”

“Can… hear…”

“Can you hear me?”

Your eyes open at last, and you sit up in a panic. Where are you? What happened? Are you being molested again?

Looking around, you see Sydney, smiling at you smugly, his black hair tied loosely back in a ponytail, though the short strands are falling out at the sides. Though much better, you still see the edges of his body waving from the effects of the drug you must have been slipped.

“Sydney?” You slur, struggling to keep your eyes on him. “Where… are we?”

“The library,” he purrs, leaning forward and placing his hand lightly on your shoulder. The lightest push takes you to your back once more. “It is all you were talking about, after all.” His smug smile stays in place as he hovers over you. 

The hand on your shoulder now moves down, over your chest, lingering on your nipple. “Now that I have you here, what should I do with you, hm?” He teases, before pinching the bud in between his fingers.

You gasp, your back rising off the floor at the flurry of sensations this brings you. Your body sings, and you swear the colors in your vision are being controlled by this boy who usually brings you safety.

“Please, don’t-” you try to plead, only to be cut off by a moan.

Sydney only smirks, letting his hand wander lower, stopping at the hem of your school uniform. “Why should I? It sure sounds like you want me to keep going.”

A whimper meets him when his hand slips even further, your tongue unsure what to say as your mind fights itself for what it wants. When he gropes your sex, you mewl. “N-no, wait, I don’t know!” Are you sure you even said those words out loud? With the way Sydney’s movements increase in pace, you don’t think you did.

Your hips lift to meet his surprisingly skilled fingers, whining when he starts to slow. “No, wait-” 

“What was that, my sweet?” Sydney asks, working you slowly, sensually. “I thought you wanted me to stop?”

I do. Don’t I?

No, that can’t be right. The colors are singing to you in your head, moving to a rhythm that Sydney is playing with your body, and you’re not sure just what it is you want anymore.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes. You pretend not to notice how he was already undressing you before you had even spoken the words.

“Oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t going to.” His smile is sweet when his body moves to engulf yours.

[shortstaque]

kinda wanna go to a movie theatre and my seat be in between two much bigger guys, who keep finding excuses to touch me and brush past my skin until im a little flustered and then they take turns hugging and kissing me on the lips while I try to push them away to no avail, cooing at me to stick my tongue out for them and just squeezing me and tugging at my clothes until my tits fall out of my top ☹️☹️

[bulimiaknuckles]

💭 need to see him get groped until hes a crying, squirming mess, pleading to stop despite how much he secretly wants it ✧.*

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2023 Day 01: But Now This Room Is Spinning While I'm Trying Just To Fill In All The Gaps

Look at these canines, man.

---

IT'S THIS TIME OF THE YEAR AGAIN EVERYONE

When I first read the prompt, my mind IMMEDIATELY went "spinning. dizziness. vertigo. drugged. drugged out of his mind trying to make sense of it all and VERY much not able to fight back." Gods, I just LOVE me some good drugging. :D From there I just went with things I also absolutely love: the horrific invasiveness of someone TOUCHING IN YOUR MOUTH UGH and also the hot huge pointy canines I decided to give all the half-elves for no reason other than that I like drawing them. Also drooling hehehehe.

I warned for forced stripping etc., too, because while that was NOT planned, I was just SO THIRSTY for Botta's exposed belly lol. So when I was done the entire piece had this "wait, this DOES have a groping component oh damn" vibe?? So I'm warning for what it turned into even though it was not in my initial plan lol. I guess they're checking out just what they've got there...?????

[giallogigan]

It's much too late to get away or turn on the light the spider man is having you for dinner tonight based on an au shared with a friend where the twins were Shamura's vassals with Baal still very hung up on Shamura even after they escape (While Allocer grows fascinated with the defiant twin)

[lesinquietes]

Might I propose clit spanking and blackmail/video recording for the Shigaraki fic🧐

Noted 📝 here’s the list so far:

Recording sex (delicious)

Blackmailing (very delicious)

Mind break (has to happen eventually y’all)

Leash and collar games

Somnophilia (🤤)

Choking

Clit spanking

For this ficlet

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, dubcon/noncon, captive reader

gn reader

Thinking about poly yanderes… 

Being held still by one of them, forced to sit between his thick thighs – getting so sick of being outnumbered – feeling so weak, stuck in his muscle-swelled arms keeping you tight against him, wrapped snugly around your torso with your back to his chest while his hands grope your front, locking your own to your sides.

He rests his chin off your shoulder – whispering sweet words laced with mockery as you’re left to quake on his lap, struggling to keep your own pathetic sounds to yourself, having grown tired of screaming to be freed some time ago.

"You're shaking so much, sweetie~” He teases while licking your neck – smirking at how the fight in you, once so wild and untamed, had turned into you trying to restrain yourself in favor of breaking free. Fighting, now instead, to hold yourself back from spiraling until coming undone by the heat surging in your belly. 

Your face, dewy with a thin sheen of sweat, is held steadily in your other captor’s hand, keeping your misty hooded eyes looking up at him, where he leans over you while his other hand plays an eager one-sided game of war between your thighs. 

His mouth ghosts yours with small kisses, and everything smells of his breath as he pours sweet unwanted nothings down your throat. "Oh, y'so sweet in my hand~ so soft on my fingers~" 

It’s as though you can see the sickness in his eyes – leering at you like you're something he wants to devour.

“Don’t be shy~ show us how pretty you are when you cum~” He continued cooing.

“You know you want to~” The other accomplice added hot and damp right at your ear – just as amused as his partner. “Come on, baby~ show us~”

You whined, pathetically trying to wrench your face away from their pestering – overheated and overwhelmed – thighs shuddering around the stimulation, wherein the distress you wanted nothing more but to close your legs.

But the one behind you had them both hooked and spread beneath his, keeping you still and accepting of the one in front’s brazen touches.

You pinch your eyes close and bite your lip, not wanting it but feeling it take you nonetheless.

“No, no, no~” One of them tuts then, his mouth on your cheek catching tears. “Don’t look away, Angelface~ Keep your eyes on me~” He begs with fingers curled around your jaw, nuzzling your nose with his while pressing his forehead flat against your sweaty one. 

You whimper, and his thumb swirls over that place you're most sensitive. Cracking a splitting smile when you buck your hips in response.

“So close, buttercup~” He simpers before dragging his hot tongue from your chin to your temple. And you sob, thinking it’s just too cruel how your body decides to react to it. 

The knot within you seizes up, coiled so tight and stretched so thin it snaps – leaving you to throw your head back against the chest behind you – moaning out while they watch you gush for them with a shared smile on both their faces.

BNHA – DabiHawks, ShinKami, BakuDeku, ShigaDabi, TodoDeku, KiriBaku

JJK – SatoSugu, Toji x Shiu, MahiJaku, YujiKuna

HQ – Miya twins, IwaOi,

BLLK – NagiReo

HxH – KuraKuro, HisoIllu

[yolelejiju]

Since Mom left…..

Toji’s unable to cope with your Mothers passing so he finds comfort between his step daughter’s legs.

TW: Stepcest, noncon, addiction mention

CW: facials, groping, somno, thighjob, choking/gagging

- If you don’t like then don’t read

Toji was a good man and he loved your mother with all of his heart. So when she was taken from him, the loss affected him harder than anyone else. He struggled constantly to cope without turning to some new destructive habit. He’d be gone from home for days at a time, spend all the money on gambling, and at times you’d even find stains of blood on his clothes when you would do laundry.

Your mother loved him, he’s not your real dad but he’s all you know and now all you have. Megumi left the house and his eldest girl tsumiki has yet to wake from her coma.

Nights he went to the bar were nights he made you most uncomfortable.

You remember the first night he touched you..he reeked of cheap sake. He called you by your mother's name

Before you felt his hands wrap around your waist from behind and felt the firm press of his groin to your behind. He traced kisses up your neck saying how plump your ass is and how much better it was compared to your moms

You were frozen in place but you fought through the fear and murmured “Daddy…daddy pleases stop you’re making me uncomfortable”

And just like that it seemed he came to his senses. He removed his hands from you and stepped back silently.

“Goodnight” is all he said before he scurried off somewhere that night.

You try to recall how you got to the point you’re at now with your step-father.

He started off small, walking around the house in sweatpants, his dickprint very much visible and very much erect.

You tried your best to ignore it not making the situation awkward but with how big he was it was impossible to not notice.

Next, there were the days he made dinner.

His meals were always heavy with lots of meat and carbs they always made you so sleepy. You even fell asleep at the table once but when you woke up you found yourself in his bed with his arms wrapped around your waist. You could feel his large chest pressed against your back, feeling it rise and lower slowly with each breath he takes. He sounds like he’s snoring but you don’t feel confident he’s sleeping. You do feel something pocking you. You feel something hard and warm poking between your thighs slightly teasing your core.

Eventually, you’d wake up from a tight grip squeezing together your thighs and to the feeling of him thrusting his cock between your legs. Your panties stick to your soaked folds as the head of his cock grazes between your pussy lips over and over again. you fight to steady your breathing so he doesn’t know you’re awake but it’s hard as you start to feel something build and tighten in your stomach.

His hips speed up and his thrust becomes sloppy, the tip occasionally pushing your panties deeper between your folds and teasing your neglected hole. Before the knot in your stomach can come undone you’ll feel a sharp thrust but this time his cock wouldn’t go between your legs but get caught between your pussy lips as his deep thrust shoves part of your panties and his tip into your hole as you feel his member pulsate and shoot spurts of warm thick fluids almost inside you. Only for him to pull your shorts back up and roll over as though nothing happened. Able to fall back asleep quickly after soiling your panties and getting his fix.

Unbeknownst to you this wasn’t the first or only time he had his ways with you in your sleep. The first time was during the summer, when you snuck out and went drinking when your friends. By the time you got home, you were out cold, drool staining your pillow, and low snores echoing from your room.

That evening he found you lying on your stomach, with your head turned to the side while you were fast asleep on your pillow.

He called your name a few times and you didn’t move at all. He grabbed your shoulder and shook you and you were still out cold.

He stared at your resting face and your plump lips. So many vile thoughts filled his mind. That night he decided to play with your lips. First by touching them with his fingers then by shoving two fingers into your mouth. As he did this you instinctively sucked on his digits. Feeling your lips wrap around his finger made him painfully hard and he knew what he had to do to help himself.

Using his hand that was previously groping his hard-on through his pants, he pulled his cock out and then slid his fingers out your mouth. He pressed his tip to your lips, letting you give it a light kiss before he moved forward to push himself in. He moved in shallow thrust fucking his dick deeper into you until he felt himself hit the back of your throat. With his cock only halfway in he couldn’t stop there but the excitement he got from seeing how deep he was made a good amount of precum gush out. Your sleeping body, unaware of its predicament tried to fight the intrusion. It sucked air into your lungs unaware that it was making things worse for itself.

Despite seeing your struggling body something came over him. When you started choking on his member he couldn’t hold back anymore. He fucked himself into your throat with no worries of waking you up. You wouldn’t be able to escape his grip while he abused your soft warm mouth. Your head would rock every time he thrust forward and hit the back of your throat, with your brows furrowed and your nose scrunching from the pain and discomfort. growing impatient the greedy man gripped your face and held your head still as he started rapidly fucking up into hit. Sounds of gagging could be heard by anyone awake at the house. Maybe even the neighbors in the apartment next door. He felt his orgasm shoot through him and came down your throat. And of course, like a good girl, your unconscious form instinctively swallowed as much of his load as it could handle. He pulled out and some more cum gushed from his tip and dripped down your cheek mixing himself with the earlier drool that had escaped your mouth.

Somewhere in him, he knew what he was doing was wrong but each day it was getting harder and harder to care. His desire to have all of you only grew more by the day.

————————————————————————————-

Let me know if you have ideas for what to add for the next chapter.

[yawnderu]

Pervy Ghost fucking you in your sleep and you wake up. Him convincing you it's just a wet dream. 🤍

Using my Pervert!Roommate!Simon AU for this one efbhjhbjfe<3 anon u just made the hottest fucking request holy shit

CW: noncon, gaslighting, somnophilia, creampie.

His hips thrust slowly into yours, not wanting you to wake up as he takes you, thick cock hitting every single inch of your gummy walls, hands busy keeping your legs open, brown eyes fully focused on your peaceful expression. You look so pretty like this, your body betraying you even when you're fast asleep, his cock glistening with your wetness every single time he pulls out only to slam himself all the way back inside.

''Mmh...'' You mumble softly, slowly waking up as your eyes focus on Simon. His hand comes up to run over the length of your hair, the other one cradling your head as he buries his bare face on the crook of your neck, planting gentle kisses in hopes of soothing you.

''Si...?'' You whisper softly, so drowsy you don't even hear the sound of the bed rocking and his hips slamming into yours, barely even able to register an awkward feeling on your crotch.

'''S just a dream, baby.'' His deep voice whispers into your ears, trying to be as soothing as possible to get you back to sleep. His lips plant gentle kisses all over your jaw and cheeks, tracing up to your lips. You're so confused all you can do is try to keep up, sloppily kissing back before turning your head away from him, eyes closing again.

''There we go, love. Just enjoy...'' You want to go back to sleep, but if it's all a dream, there's no shame in enjoying yourself with your roommate, is there? One of his hands is now groping your tit, squeezing your nipple between his fingers and pulling on it before he goes back to simply enjoying the way the fat feels on his palm.

You're now more aware of what he's doing, feeling every single inch of his thick cock ramming in and out of your sopping cunt, not even realizing how wet your pussy is until you hear the lewd sounds filling the room, soft moaning mixing in with Simon's low growls from above you. Your arms wrap around his neck, weakly trying to pull him closer to you. He gets the message, leaning down until his lips crash into yours, thrusts getting more brutal now that he doesn't have to worry about waking you up.

Simon is a messy kisser, saliva exchanged and dripping down the corners of your lips as his tongue wraps around yours, hands exploring your perfect body all over as he thrusts into you, cunt tightening around him even more now that you're awake.

He doesn't want to mess up, though, and he thanks whatever it is out there that gave him the skills to seem convincing even when he's close to the edge.

''It's a nice dream, isn't it? I bet you've been wanting this for a while.'' His voice is warm and friendly, a total contrast to the way he's fucking you like he hates you. All you can do is nod, legs opening slightly wider to give more space for his burly body to fit as he rams into you. A small whine leaves your lips after he becomes too rough, making him slow down slightly to avoid hurting you.

''You can take it, yeah?'' You manage to give him a lethargic nod, eyes closing again as your head turns away from him, sleepiness taking over you again despite the way your body is responding for you. Your sleeping medication makes it harder to stay awake, even when the perfect dream is going on. He's now fucking you nice and slow, hips rolling against yours while he plants gentle pecks all over your face, not minding that you're going back to sleep. If anything, it makes this easier for him.

''Rest, baby. You'll dream about me more often.'' His promise is the last thing you hear as you drift off to sleep again. He doesn't even bother being rough anymore, simply enjoying the way your cunt wraps around his cock, lips gripping it tightly as he whispers promises of everything he's going to do to you, ranging from sweet to downright nasty. He picks up the pace, looking down at your sleeping face with a warm look in his eyes as he fills your womb with his thick seed, not bothering to clean you up as he slowly pulls out, putting your panties back on your sleeping body.

[glossysoap]

What are your thoughts on showering with the 141 boys? Those massive lads just towering over you, all slick skin and soapy bubbles. Who would be the most into getting freaky instead of getting clean? I can just imagine taking three times as long in the shower because you need to get dirty first before you can get clean when you're in there with Soap!

my mind instantly went to dubcon 😭 to answer your question, i think soap would be the horniest rat (still gross don’t get me wrong) but like always i think price has first pick. first taste. the captain always pulls rank for whatever sweet cunt he has his eyes on.

tw 18+, afab and fem reader, dubcon/noncon. groping. use filtered content and not just filtered tags.

“come on, lass. don’t hide yer tits.”

you’re just stuffed in the middle of the 4 big, hairy, hung men.

you try and cover yourself up, you’re even desperate enough to use suds to cover your tits. not that that would stop any of them from groping your tits to their hearts content.

at least one of them would pull something like “oh, i’m just rinsing you off, doll. quit your whining.” that screams kyle actually.

doesn’t matter what any of them say, what excuse they casually murmur (if they even do that), their hands are gonna be lingering and their fingers will be toying with your nipples. when your nipples harden to a peak, they’ll all laugh and mock you for “being cold”.

maybe you’re lucky enough to have a bush?

though that just lures your captain’s perverted gaze even more. you know he’s weak for it. he’d make some offhand comment like “knew you’d have a good bush.” sooo gross. and he’s saying it all while he’s leaning in close to your ear, his beard brushing up against your neck. his cock brushes up against your ass.

they’d be saying shit like this the whole time.

“yeah, yeah. keep trying to cover yourself up.” kyle. it’s said with a roll of his eyes, such a switch from the warm and welcoming personality you’ve grown used to.

“look at yer tits bonnie, just cannae keep my hands of em. ye should be grateful ah haven’t fucked em while yer sleepin.” soap. you shiver even more, the biting cold of the water long forgotten, thinking of all the times he’s forced you to bunk with him.

“fuck her, cap. y’ know her cunts just beggin for it.” ghost. so cruel and booming, leaning against the shower wall as his hands fisting his cock just like the rest of them.

the rest of them are watching the whole thing, watching their captain take first pick. jerking off as they watch their captain press you against the tile wall and force his cock inside your already slick cunt. your own juices and his seed soon meddle with the suds trailing along your thighs.

your reluctant moans bounce off the shower walls as the captain bottoms out every time, his strong arms wrapped around you to keep you from squirming.

the three other men reach out and grope your tits and spank your ass all throughout price breaking you in. while one of their hands work on squeezing your tit, their other hand is still jerking themselves off.

when they quickly cum, price doesn’t need to tell them twice in order for them to let their seed spurt all over you. doesn’t matter if theirs goes to waste as it’s splattered across your skin. price’s spend wouldn’t be going to waste as it’s filling you up, claiming your cunt from the inside.

[dark-fics-4-you]

Thinking about an younger reader calling Dark!Dilf Rafe old and that’s he needs some viagra 😭LOL

Imagining his reaction 🤬

Softcore

Dark!Dad’sBestFriend/DILF!Rafe x f!Reader

Warnings: noncon (rape), ignoring safe words, smut, large age gap (20-30 years), spanking, choking, unprotected sex, unwanted creampie, breeding kink, degradation, secret relationship, manipulation, daddy kink, Rafe uses ‘kid’ to refer to reader a couple times, Rafe wants to get reader pregnant against her will

A/N: In my mind Rafe is in his late 40s/early 50s in this and Reader is 19/early-mid 20s

⚠️CHECK ALL CONTENT WARNINGS BEFORE READING‼️⚠️

“Y’know, maybe I didn’t hear you correctly kid, would you mind repeating yourself?”

You could tell by the edge in his voice that you had succeeded in getting a reaction out of him, but the way his blue eyes darkened as he glared at you led you to swallow down your cockiness.

Your boyfriend’s tall frame crowded your vision as he approached the bed you were lounging on as he removed his boxers.

Glancing away didn’t help, as the older man’s large hand came to your chin, redirecting your attention back up to him as he towered above you. Still you found your eyes fixed on the spots where his dark blond hair had begun turning silver.

“What did you just say to me, Y/N?” He spoke slowly, as if you were child who was acting up.

Despite knowing that this was his way of giving you a chance to retract what you had just said, you huffed in annoyance, rolling your eyes at the man who was older than your own father, before repeating yourself with a small laugh, “I said, I’m getting you viagra for your birthday since you’re getting so old.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened in frustration, eyebrows furrowing together before suddenly moving the hand on your cheek to your throat, applying a light pressure that had your eyes widening in surprise.

“You think this is fucking funny?” Rafe growled before pinning you to the bed you were sitting on by your throat.

The back of your head hit the soft mattress, the force at which Rafe had grabbed you made your pink lingerie slip ride up, exposing your matching panties underneath and some of the soft skin of your tummy. He licked his lips as he watched your nipples harden beneath the thin material.

“Rafe-” you eeked in surprise, your hand reaching up to grab the one at your throat.

“Still think this is a joke?”

It took almost no effort for him to grab you again, climbing onto the bed as he manhandled you into laying across his lap face down.

“Rafe! Stop it! I’m sorry, okay?!” Your desperate pleas for him to release you went unfulfilled, and as you thrashed on his lap, trying to break free, you already knew what was coming next in return for your careless joke, and you couldn’t tell if the pit in your stomach came from excitement or fear.

“Nah, I don’t think I am gonna stop,” goosebumps erupted across your skin when you felt him pull the material of your slip up your back, exposing your round ass to him.

You shivered when he placed his hand flat on your ass, rubbing your skin and lightly groping the fat of your butt.

The blond drew his hand back and your tensed in anticipation before he spanked you hard. The extra sting from his rings made you whine and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

“What do you say?” His expectant voice reminded you of your rules.

“… thank you, daddy,” you reluctantly forced through gritted teeth.

This second strike was harder this time, on the same place he had hit you last and you cried out louder this time.

“Mm- thank you, daddy. I’m sorry,” you added at the end, stupidly hoping that niceties could get your through this punishment faster.

He spanked you again, this time smacking the untouched cheek, and you moaned at the sharp pain.

“Y’really think sucking up to me now is gonna help you out, sweetheart?” He said mockingly, as if he was reading your mind.

You were slower to answer him, his words taking longer to register as your body tried to numb the pain.

“N-no. And thank you, daddy.” You didn’t want to forget to thank him again, he only ever gave you one warning.

Rafe was clearly enjoying toying with you, you could feel his stiff cock poking against your thigh, further proof no viagra was needed.

After 4 more spanks, your eyes were leaking tears, lip wobbling as you mumbled out appreciations each time he struck your now bright red ass.

“Rafe! Please, I said I’m sorry, okay?! It was-” you hiccuped through tears, “it was just a stupid joke.”

You swore you felt his dick throb against you at the sound of your pleading voice.

He ignored you, however, instead striking your ass three times quickly and rough enough that you almost screamed from the pain and shock.

“Red light! Rafe please,” you sobbed out the safe word that you and Rafe always used, but the sound of him chuckling darkly in response made your blood run cold.

Pain bloomed across your already sore ass again and you whimpered. You were crying heavily now, and you brought your own hand to your mouth to muffle your weeping when he spanked you again.

“Have you learned your fucking lesson?” His stern voice came from above and you nodded immediately.

“Yes daddy, please! I’m so sorry.” You cried desperately.

You winced when you sensed his hand nearing you again, but this time, his thumb slipped between your legs and traced over your barely clothed slit.

You squirmed in his lap as his lazily thumbed your clit over your panties, whining when he applied pressure.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, you know that, kid? Pretty sick of you to be so goddamn drenched for an ‘old man’ like me.” Rafe mocked you, and to your embarrassment, you could feel yourself growing wetter when he slid your panties to the side and slowly pushed his thick middle finger into your slick cunt.

A whimper escaped your lips when he curled his finger inside you, and your hips twitched as you tried to make more friction between the two of you.

“Shut up,” you moaned before he finally started thrusting the digit into you.

“Please, we both know you get off on the fact that your father has no clue his little princess is sleeping with his best friend.” You didn’t have to see him to know the triumphant, jeering smirk he had playing across his lips.

You also didn’t deny what he said, because you couldn’t. No matter how completely fucked up it was, you did find sneaking behind your parents’ back to see an older man to be thrilling in the sickest way possible.

Not to mention how hard you had came on the several occasions the two of you had gotten close to being discovered (every time, his hand had slapped over your mouth to stifle your moans, but he didn’t stop fucking you until he emptied himself into the condom, no matter how high the risk of being caught).

Part of you suspected he was so careless at times because he wanted the two of you to get caught, a thought that was so unbelievable at first that you completely dismissed it, but when two times became three, and then three times became an almost weekly occurrence, you found it hard to deny that he seemed to enjoy putting you in situations where you could be discovered.

You felt him pull his finger out of you before grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back onto the bed, and you protested as he climbed over you, caging you beneath him with his big, veiny arms.

“How mad do ya think he’d be if I put a baby in you, huh, Y/N?” Your eyes widened as he looked down at you hungrily.

“Rafe-” you said warily, trying to sit up and get out from under him, but the older man easily grabbed your shoulder and pushed you back on the bed.

“I bet he’d kick you out of the house if you got knocked up.” Despite your kicking, his strong hands grabbed the straps of your panties, ripping them past your legs and tossing them behind him.

“But imagine how disappointed with you he’d be if he knew you let me do it,” Rafe chuckled, and more tears formed at your waterline as his words sunk in.

“Stop it, Rafe. I’m serious, this isn’t funny, it’s sick,” you couldn’t stop your voice from wavering as you looked up at him.

When one of his hands locked tight around your wrist, you whimpered, struggling against him to free yourself.

You froze when you felt the head of his thick cock rubbing against your slit, and Rafe’s grip on your wrist tightened as he started to push his tip inside of you.

“Stop fucking moving around, Y/N,” his gruff voice commanded.

Resisting did nothing to help you, and you were almost disgusted by how wet you felt as he forced himself deeper.

Taking all of Rafe’s cock was never a painless process for you, he was so thick it always felt like he was splitting you in half, even more-so now.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as he stretched you out slowly. Rafe groaned when his dick nudged your cervix, dropping his head to your neck and trailing sloppy kisses along the tender skin.

You moaned loudly, tensing at first when his lips found your throat, making the older man curse under his breath when you tightened around him.

“Shit, kid. You feel fucking amazing.” His breath tickled at your neck and you squirmed beneath him as you tried to adjust to the pressure between your legs.

Rafe’s free hand came to your throat, squeezing tight as he tilted his hips back and then slammed into you.

You whined, closing your eyes in surprise, pain outweighing the pleasure at first. His fingers twitched around your throat as he felt your walls grow slicker and he was able to fuck you faster.

Delirious waves of ecstasy clouded your mind, his thick cock stretched you out in a way that made your head spin.

Rafe’s grip on your throat tightened and you reached for his wrist, hoping that his hold on you would relent, but the older man just took it as a sign to rut into you harder.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, losing yourself in the rhythm of his pace, greedily grinding your hips to bring yourself closer to the edge.

When his free hand crept between your legs and his thumb began rubbing circles over your clit, you whined, opening your legs for him more so he could fuck you deeper and massage your clit easier.

“Daddy- I’m- fuck-” you mindlessly babbled between moans, already feeling your mind go blank with each snap of his hips.

“Yeah?” He groaned when he felt you pulse around him. “Gonna cum on this dick like daddy’s good girl?”

Alarm bells should have been sounding in your head, but in the moment, you cared too much about chasing pleasure rather than facing consequences to resist.

So you obeyed him.

You whimpered as you came undone, the wave of pleasure washing over you again and again as the blond pushed his cock into you relentlessly. Your body sagged against the bed, head lolling back as you rode out your orgasm.

Rafe could feel your walls pulsing and constricting around him, squeezing his cock so tight it almost hurt him.

He bit back a curse before reaching one of his strong arms behind your back, staying inside you the entire time as he pulled you up off the bed and onto his lap. Your legs fell to the side of his as he rutted into you from below.

The new position had your quaking thighs squeezing against him, and you wrapped an arm over his shoulder and around his back in an attempt to steady yourself. The change of angle made your head spin and you whimpered in pain as he split you open with his dick.

Rafe’s lips hungrily captured yours and your stomach flipped when he forced his tongue into your mouth, holding your head in place to kiss you deeper as he fucked you up and down on his cock.

When he broke the kiss, you both gasped for air, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten, “Fuck, kid. How’d I get so lucky?”

You couldn’t answer him, so lost in matching the movement of his hips that you couldn’t think about anything else.

His lips found your neck, nipping and kissing the tender skin to pull more moans from you.

“So perfect, sweetheart. M’ gonna fill you up,” he whispered into your throat between kisses.

At his words, you remembered why you had resisted in the first place, eyes widening as you squirmed in his lap. Rafe’s pace only increased as he locked his arm around your waist, pressing you against his bare chest and stopping you from pulling away as he pounded into you.

“Rafe- red light-!” you were cut off when his big hand covered your mouth, and you helplessly squealed against him.

“Shut the fuck up and take it, kid,” he snapped and you felt yourself unconsciously clench around him.

The older man drilled into you, stretching you out with each punishing thrust.

“Fuck- fuck!” He groaned, squeezing you against his chest as his hips stuttered and he came undone inside you.

You whined as you felt his hot seed flood your walls. Trying to get off of him proved fruitless when he held you in place and forced you to milk his cock of every drop.

The sticky feeling of his cum dripping down his cock deep inside of you was inescapable and you shuddered when he lightly bucked his hips to thrust himself up inside you again.

“Still think I need viagra, you fucking brat?”

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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[iwaasfairy]

okok so so think bout older brother sukuna sticking his dick in you when you're drunk outta reaason and barely even talking. he thinks it's your fault tbh, who drinks that much liquor and not expect this? it's honestly your fault, clinging to him and looking up at him with those unfocused eyes because— idk, it's your big brother? you wouldn't expect him to be groping and kissing your skin at 3am while you weakly ask him "what're you doing, kuna nii? stop it... ):"

for hiMMMM my eyes are open thEY ARE SEEING IT BABE

tw. incest, somno, noncon, degradation, spit

Big, tattooed hands wrap around your thighs to pull them apart. You’re an absolute piece of work. Seriously. His larger body sinks into the mattress as he gets up onto his knees next to you, and you hum into an unintelligible mumble. “Mh-Kuna, sh-tp mn-” Even sleeping, you’re as bratty as you are big, pretty lips jutting out to make your displeasure known. You talk a lot, for someone who can’t lift a finger to stop him. His hands find the soft plush of your thighs to squeeze the skin tighter in his hands, when he lets out a breath.

“Stop your whinin’. You’re the one making me…” He trails off when his touch makes your back arch, pushing your ass up to show off your slutty fucking panties. Underwear is a word too nice for the scraps of string that are meant to cover you. “This is what you get for getting spit on my shirt.” Sukuna doesn’t bother trying to be quiet as he maneuvers you around him with spread legs and your ass up in the blankets— like you’re straddling a ghost with the way you wiggle around in the position.

He clicks his tongue, before rubbing all long fingers around you and cupping your heat. “This is why niisan doesn’t let you do nothin’, you fucking slut. Look at yourself right now.” His voice is low, squeezing your hot pussy in his palm. You’ll be awake anyway, once he’s done with you. You’re already hot between your thighs, bottom lips making a wet patch on the crotch.

He places one elbow next you your shoulders before getting down over you. He sort of wishes you’d learn your fucking lesson already. Remembering the way you pouted and slurred into his bicep when pulling you out of the car makes his brows furrow, the whined ‘Kuna nii~’ replaying between his ears. It isn’t the first time he’s pulled some shit. Really, you should know better. Learn a bit quicker. Any younger sister worth something would.

Instead you just resort to trusting him endlessly. No matter how often he presses you to the wall to force his tongue into your mouth. Or the way he makes you gyrate on his lap when he’s bored, glowing with embarrassment and whining for him to stop. His own fucking flesh and blood— you’re seriously sick in the head, aren’t you. He’ll show you what all that trust gets you. Your own fault, brat. If your brother’s a total pervert when you’re awake, what the hell possesses you to fall asleep in his bed all pretty and vulnerable?

He takes a few deep breaths before descending on your neck and lapping up your scent, as drunken moans make their way out of your half-parted mouth. “K-kuna nii~” His tongue and lips stick to your pulse for long enough to make an obvious mark. His hands pull the slicked up strings down the curve of your ass, only grunting in slight irritation when one side snaps. You twitch at the sting, but don’t wake. Only roll over halfway to click your tongue against your teeth in search of his warmth. “Su-k’na nii… no. Sta-hp.”

You’re drooling. He can’t help it, he laughs. “If you know it’s me, you should stop me already— shitty fucking sister.” His thumb slides into your mouth to push down on your tongue and open the way for his own tongue, dripping hot spit onto your lips as you whimper. “It’s big brother who’s gonna fuck you. You’re okay with that?” His other hand drags fingertips through your slick, pushing one finger inside into your soft, sloppy pussy. His tongue slides over your lips as he crawls over you fully, pushing his hard cock into your thigh close enough to make you mewl.

Your pussy clicks with the wetness when he pushes in with another, stretching you out further and further. His cock twitches in his pants, until he pushes that down and strokes himself, wet, drooling tip against your belly.  “You don’t wanna wake up. ‘Cus you love being mistreated like this, right bitch? Want ‘kuna niichan to make use of all you’re good for?” He takes the hand out of you to push your shirt up over your tits, and smears your wetness over your chest as he grips the softness.

His cock thumping against your pussy, he lets out a deep grunt, then squeezes his fat balls. “You’re just a little breeding bitch for me, aren’t ya.” His much larger body over you, muscles clenching as he covers you with his own limbs, he gets onto his knees just enough to let the tip push against your swollen, slick lips. His heavy cock looks much too big to fit, but looking at that sleeping, contorted little face— you’ll take it either way. “Wanna feel how your big brother loves you?”

When the tip grinds over your clit, your mouth cracks open with more moans, throwing your head back. “Oops, looks like that feels good? Feel good for big brother? Fucking cock slave.” Then he pushes the thick, drooling head in more, and your back starts to arch so your peeked nipples push against him. His hand winds around the top of your thigh, letting the head of his hot cock snap inside — and your desperate whispering turns hitched, and your eyelids flutter.

Your hot, tight little clutch around him is enough to have his shoulders flexing and his mouth pushing to yours. “Ah, fuck. That’s it.”

You’re such a sweet little thing that you even let him kiss you, as your eyes open. “Mh-mhhm- nii-dan.” Pushing in a few inches at once, he smiles into your mouth. “-K-kuna, st-oh fuuuck~ st-op.” Your arms wrap around him to dig your nails into his back, but it’s no use. He can feel your desperate clenching around him as he pushes you open, and tears spring into your eyes. “Please stop, I’m gonna- b- Kuna nii. Kuna nii. Stop it-”

But your hot, little clutch only feels better and better the deeper he pushes- until your eyes bulge and you go limp below him, giving yourself over to him. “Nuh uh. That’s a good cockslut sister. Take it all.”