#spicy writing

[love-toxin]

MEAT - thomas hewitt (leatherface)

a/n: i had to be a little silly ehe <- delusional

(cws: fem!reader, DDDNE, extreme violence, blood, gore, broken bones, a whole array of weaponry, domestic abuse, forced relationship, evolution of victim -> perpetrator, psychological torture, mentions of very dubious consent, breeding, huge size difference, ownership marking, protective tommy, implied cannibalism, unnamed victims of the tcm.)

wc: 10.7k

Lungs burning in your chest with the humid Texas heat, you forced the corn stalks aside as you stumbled through them in a frantic sprint. Each leathery pod whacked against your shoulders, your hands, your chest, and your bruised-up legs, but you wouldn't stop for nothing.

You couldn't stop. The people you'd hitchhiked with were all dead, or at least very well on their way to being so–they had been hunted one by one, by bear traps and shotguns and hay hooks, and you were sure you were the only one the family were left hunting. It'd taken all night to spread you thin and weaken you all with sadistic tortures of every kind. Now your group was down to one. You. Hauling ass was not enough to describe how frantically you were tumbling through the crop field, practically hand-over-foot crawling with how dizzy you'd gotten. Blood loss and a few hits to the head would do that to you.

Finally, the maize parted one last time to spit you out into the dewy grass, the labyrinth of sameness finally coming to an end. But when you tilted your head up to the starry night sky, your heart dropped into your feet at what laid before you. The farmhouse. You'd run in the wrong direction. Warm light glowed from within the drapery behind the windows and you spotted the older woman standing on the porch, a rag tucked between her hands as she called out a name. Terrified and hoping for the blessing of going unseen you army crawled your way right back to the corn–

Thunk. Only halfway there, the grass split with the force of a sledgehammer dropping into it. A boot stepped into view right by your head; attached to it was an enormous calf, and your eyes trailed upwards slowly to reveal the whole of that crazed maniac you'd seen manhandling the others into that house of horrors across the lawn.

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

forever

[mrsbsmooth]

Smut writing 101: What I wish someone had told me when I first started.

So a conversation with @queen-of-boops and @longbobmckenzie sparked this post. Sarah already wrote a list of tips for writing a villa fic which was really helpful and people expanded on it a lot, so we thought it might be helpful to share a few tips for writing smut from some of the writers that do it a lot.

This is a long-ass post, because I've learned a lot over the years. So right at the end, there's a mini how-to guide for how to turn your smut from IKEA instruction manual into an explosion of sexual tension.

In addition, I would love for others to add on to this. This fandom is horrifically talented especially in writing brain-melting smut, and this is just what I could come up with in a few hours. But I'd love to hear from other people and have them add on extra bits!

A few resources before we begin:

The Smut Writer's Dictionary

The Ultimate Guide to Writing Smut Fic [HIGHLY recommend sections ii (Reaction words), iv (sexy alternatives to 'said'), xii (generally acceptable slang terms) and xvi (Some do's and don'ts of smut writing).]

OneLook Thesaurus is much better than other thesauruses at suggesting words for smut (I've found).

Now, on to the advice!

Tip #1 - It's normal to find it difficult and cringe to write. Own it.

Smut can be intimidating. It can feel really cringe and awkward and you might feel like people are judging you for it, and you know what? Sometimes they are. Smut isn't for everyone, and not everyone wants to read it, and that's why ratings and tags exist on Archive of Our Own. But you shouldn't be ashamed of writing it. Smut is fun and awesome and people who do like reading smut often love reading it, and will absolutely eat up whatever you give them. So go nuts. Write what you want to see, write what you want to read. That's advice for everything, but it's especially relevant for writing smut. Because if you feel awkward, it can sometimes show through. Lean into it. Let it happen. If you make yourself blush, you’re doing a fucking awesome job.

Tip #2 - Writer’s block.

I've written hundreds of thousands of words of pure, unadulterated filth, and I still struggle to push into it sometimes. The leadup comes so naturally, the tension builds, they're kissing, they're starting to touch each other, and then-- writer's block. I stare at the page and tap my fingers and go... huh. Same with writing really effectual kisses, or writing orgasms. There's all this pressure to make it the best written orgasm that's ever existed in the English language and it really doesn't need to be. Just put something down. 

If your doc looks like this:She clawed at the wall, knowing she was coming apart at the seams, the pressure building inside her. He didn’t let up. [orgasm bla bla bla]. She took a deep breath. She drew herself off him. She turned around. And she fell to her knees. [blowjob and he's loving it].

Then your doc looks just like mine.

Tip #3 - Pick the right words for everyone’s bits. 

See the resource above for suggestions! People have very different preferences when it comes to what to call a cock or whether or not to use the word ‘cunt’. Adjectives, adverbs– there are so many different opinions. Like personally, I have to physically restrain myself from throwing a fic across the room if it uses the word hole but that is my personal preference, and I am massively in the minority there. But my advice is threefold:

Read widely to find out what you like,

Write what you like,

Know your characters. 

Language will vary by fandom, by character, and by setting, and it’s an opportunity to really solidify their characterisation by carrying this into smut. An arrogant fuckwit who’s bedding his mortal enemy in a fit of hate-sex might use ‘into her slick cunt’, whereas a sweet, wholesome guy who’s desperately in love might say ‘pushed inside her’. But the more you read, and the more you write, the more you’ll find certain words or phrases you’re more comfortable with. 

The more smut you read, the better understanding you’ll have of what you like. The better understanding you have of what you like, the easier it will be to write. 

Tip #4 - POV can help you

Picking the right POV can make your life easier. For example, I once wrote a M/M/M threesome. That fic ended up being my very first ever 'first person POV' fic. Why? Because it turned one set of ‘his hand’ into ‘my hand’. Made it easier to understand the logistics of ‘his hand on his waist’, etc. Maybe it's lazy, maybe it's genius. I thought it was a bit of both. 

Consider whose POV is going to be the most impactful. If you’re not sure, try writing a paragraph from each. You’ll figure it out quite quickly. 

Tip #5 - Dialogue

You don’t have to include dialogue in your smut, but it can really help with pacing things and showing when the ‘end’ is approaching. Anyone who’s ever read any of my smut ever knows I’m a huge fan of cutting people off mid sentence in smut dialogue. 

They start out with “Oh yeah? You think you can make me X?” And the other person goes “Sweetheart, I’m going to make you X so hard you don’t Y for a Z.” 

But then by the end it’s “You feel–” and everyone’s gasping “Oh, fuck–” and sobbing out “I’m so– I’m gonna–” 

To me, this helps to build pacing and tension and show without telling that the end is approaching. But honestly, that’s just me– I enjoy reading people being very vocal in smut, so that’s how I write them. If that’s not your thing, then don’t do it. Simple as that. 

Tip #6 - Don’t skimp on the finale

Orgasms are hard to write. We all know that. There’s all this pressure to write the best most explosive monumental earth-shattering orgasm that’s ever existed in fiction, and honestly, it probably won’t be. But you still need to give it the time it deserves. 

As an avid consumer of smut, there is nothing more frustrating than five pages of buildup, incredible smut, tension rising, rising, rising– and then the orgasm happens in two lines and they’re immediately having a conversation afterwards. This is, no pun intended, the climax of your scene. Give it a paragraph. Hell, give it two paragraphs. Give it four. The climax is something you can write in excruciating detail and it will almost always be better for it. You can decide whether they come at the same time, or whether one comes immediately after the other (personal fav so we get to read two orgasms. Yay! Two cakes!) You can hyper-focus on every single sense. Here are some examples for writing orgasms:

Feel/Touch

The feeling travelling through the character’s body/ zones: up their spine, through their thighs, ‘deep inside them’

Their partner continuing to thrust/move

Their partner’s grip on their body, or maybe a kiss

Fingernails digging into shoulder or raking down a back

Legs squeezing

Smell

Personally I think this works better for the leadup and afterwards, but if you want this in here you absolutely can. Pheremones, cologne, aftershave, perfume, sweat, hair gel– whatever makes them smell like them. 

Sight

Their partner’s face and get detailed! Lips parting, brow scrunched, eyes closed, face in beautiful agony, wax poetic as fuck about their partner's face! What is hotter than making someone come and watching their face while you do it!??!!?

Darkness (blindfolded 👀)

‘White light behind their eyes’ is a cliche for a reason (fucking love this one)

Seeing stars/heaven see above lol

Taste

Harder to put into an orgasm but salty skin, lipgloss/lipstick? Whatever you want really

Sound

Big one. Their partner’s breath or moan as they watch/feel character’s peak

Their own breath/moans (or lack thereof can be just as effective, a ‘sudden silence’ as their breath catches in their throat can work WONDERS)

Bodies slapping together (doesn’t always work but when it does it does)

External sounds, especially rhythmic ones. A train clacking or a club baseline could simulate a heartbeat/shockwaves that you could lean into.

Pick multiple senses and focus on them. This will fill up a good bit of your climax writing. 

But you should also let them come down from it! DON’T SKIMP AFTERCARE (or after-hate??)

Tip #7 - Aftercare!

I missed this so often when I was new to writing smut and I didn’t realise how effective it could be! I always just faded to black immediately afterwards because I didn’t want to deal with the ‘cleanup’. And you don’t have to go into detail, but at the very least, give them a few minutes– a paragraph or so after the sex. The immediate aftermath of the act itself when you can really focus on the relationship. 

If they’re mortal enemies who’ve just fucked and are now horrified? Have them panting into each others’ skin. Their breaths suddenly become sharper and more reserved. They pull back from each other. Someone glares or someone says something snarky or awful. Someone showing aftercare or affection here (or being particularly cruel) reveals a lot about their character.

If they’re deeply in love and it’s comfortable for them to do so, maybe let them just lay there for a second, enjoying the feeling of each others’ bodies and letting breaths fall warmly and smiles tug at cheeks. Soft kisses, laying in silence, affection, etc. 

If they’re best mates who just fucked by accident, have the silence be awkward and have no one breathe at all. It’s tense and awkward and one has to ask the other to go get a towel or something and the other is like ‘oh, yeah, um, right’. 

Don’t skip this! It can be so impactful!

Overall Tip - Beware the ‘IKEA Instruction manual’!

The #1 most common mistake, in my opinion, in writing smut is ‘Insert Tab A into Slot B’. It’s things like, 

He moved his leg A, she touched B. He lifted her arm to C, holding her D’s, before slipping down to cup E. She ran her hands up F, touching his G, feeling his Hs caressing her I as she lifted her J and draped it over his K.

When I read this, I’m not focusing on the smut. I’m doing mental gymnastics trying to keep track of what position they’re in in my head because I’m assuming that it’s important. If you feel yourself doing this, stop. Refocus. Remember whose POV you’re in. This isn’t to say you should never tell the reader what’s happening. Just make sure to break it up a little!

Balance actions with senses. 

Let’s say you start with a basic action. (The example is buildup to smut, not actual smut, but the idea is the same)

“His hand moved from her knee to her thigh.”

-> Instead of writing what they’re doing, write what they can sense.

“His hand moved from her knee to her thigh” becomes “She felt his warm hand slide from her knee to her thigh.”

-> Now, make the phrase active. Instead of ‘she felt’, make it a description.

‘She felt his warm hand slide from her knee to her thigh’ becomes ‘Warmth erupted on her skin as his hand slid from her knee to her thigh’.

-> Give it details, and draw focus to them.

His fingertips skimmed her inner thigh as his hand slipped from her knee and moved higher. The silk of her skirt gave way to the warmth of a coarse, rough palm. Her skin seared beneath it. But every other inch of her shivered with anticipation.

In three steps, you’ve gone from IKEA tab A to slot B to a pretty good section for building tension. 

Examples of writing senses:

What can they feel? - ‘She’d never been so pent up, so wired, so on edge, and every flit of his practiced fingers on her waist had goosebumps shooting up her spine’.

What can they taste? - ‘She could taste the sweat on his skin, the coconut suncream on his shoulders, the salt of the ocean on the hints of stubble at his jawline.’

What can they smell? - ‘Her forehead pressed to his, that smokey, heady cologne engulfing her; curling her closer in time with his arms around her.’

What can they hear? - ‘He watched her every move, breathing quickly, so she looked him directly in the eyes as she undid his belt. Belt. Button. Zip purring as she tugged it down towards her.’

What can they see? - “Then, they opened, and he was treated to the sight of her looking up at him from her knees. Her eyes said fuck me. Her mouth said fuck me. Everything about her. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

I hope this was helpful in some way. I really would love to hear any other tips and tricks that writers would like to add to this. Obviously Mo and Sarah are already tagged, but this is a full and open free-for-all.

Add your thoughts! Add what you've learned! Add what you wish you knew!

I'd love to hear it <3

[monstercampus]

Ellie, spare some crumbs about the Headless Horseman pwease 👉👈 is he mean mean or mean 🥺

(cws: dub/noncon)

Oh, he is mean. You'd think a mascot whose likeness has been chibi-fied and cartooned into adorable stickers for the book store to sell would be cute, right? Nice? Friendly?

Nah! The Horseman is mean as hell, and he's fucking nasty. He's old as shit and crotchety too, riding around on his horse like he owns the place and swiping at students who trample on the freshly-demon-horse-mowed lawns. Hundreds of years ago he was a renowned duke, known for both his prowess in battle and his beast-taming skills for miles and miles around. But being beheaded cut that career a bit short, and after his soul wandered aimlessly for decades looking for it, he finally settled on campus grounds and the student body adopted him as their mascot. Since then, he's begrudgingly worked for his "room and board" so to speak as a fixture on the sports field, often trotting around keeping students in line or tending the lawns and the vegetable gardens. He's mostly active at night as a patrol for naughty students breaking curfew or potential intruders, several of which he's caught over the last century and.....helpfully dismantled.

Your best hope is to just avoid him, not gonna lie. He's not giving you special treatment just cause you're a human. In fact, he can be even more brutal than he would be towards a monster student that he's caught outside after dark, because if he catches you.....well, it's been a long time since he felt any warmth, and humans are much more fragile than monsters. If he can't fight you properly and he knows you won't be able to run fast enough for him to give you a scare, then he'll have to resort to other means.

'Other' meaning he'll just have to sit you on his lap and see if he can fit inside. You dumb humans are so easy to rewire--you can be trained to take monster cock, it just takes practice. And when he yanks you up and keeps riding around with you settled there, squirming and blubbering in his lap for anyone to stop by and watch, it won't take very long to get you used to it. If you can somehow make him cum you should count yourself as one of the lucky ones, but a sloppy mess spilling down your legs doesn't mean he's gonna pull out any earlier. You're staying there until he's done, until you've received adept punishment, and only then will his apparition finally disappear as dawn breaks and you're left pitched over in the grass--weak, a little drunk off his musky smell, and totally wet, soaked in your own fluids and his. Good luck running back to your dorm without anyone spotting you on their way to class!

[yanverse]

Good Morning - Morgan Lane

plot: morgan doesn't want you to go to work <3

(cws: gn! darling, lazy sex, anal, unprotected, fingering, dirty talk, begging, quickie, lil jealousy factor, slight size difference, established relationship)

word count: 2.1k

It was the sun rays peeking through the curtains that had first woken you up, but the rumbling of Morgan's light snores against your back was the second. He had passed out on top of you, holding you like a teddy bear in his sleep, and although he was soft it didn't mean he wasn't strong enough to keep you there. Morgan had always been a big guy, and without some decent leverage or just a convincing argument for him to let you up, you'd watch the minutes on the alarm clock pass by on his bedside until you were late.

“Gotta go to work, baby.” You tried to wiggle out from under him, but Morgan's hefty frame kept you pinned, as did his thick arms around your waist. He whined and mumbled something incoherent into your hair, though it was clear enough that he wasn't intent on letting you leave the bed. “Morgan, c'mon. Can't be late again.”

“Yes you can.” He huffed softly into your ear as he shifted around, finally pulling his head up to reach it so you could hear his sweet, hoarse voice, and feel his chapped lips press kisses to your jaw. You both were a bit raspy from the night before, but from the way your boyfriend had exerted himself he was a lot worse off than you were. Your scalp was sore, your back ached, but aside from that and a smattering of bruises all across your body you at least had some energy to spare. Morgan might as well have been dead weight on top of you–well, except for one not-so-small part that was a bit more excited.

“Morgan.” You warned with a stern tone. He rubbed lazy circles into your hip, the spot where your underwear didn't quite reach and it was just bare, smooth skin.

“‘m not doing anything.” He shifted his hips, but the distinct stiffness digging into your thigh didn't let up. It only moved to align more with your cheeks as he ground it gently against you.

“Yes you are.”

“No ‘m not.”

“Yes you are, Morgan Lane.”

“Can't help it.” Morgan finally moaned, his breath a flutter of air as his hips stuttered. As much as you used it to be firm with him, you knew good and well how much he liked it when you pulled out the “government name” as he called it. Probably just because he really liked bugging you. “Feels so nice…I bet you look so pretty.”

“I need to go to work.”

“Work can go to hell,” He panted, moving up all of a sudden to sit up on his knees. “I'm sick of missing time with you.” The calluses on his huge, warm hands rubbed against your skin as he lifted your shirt up, and squeezed soft handfuls of your ass in his palms as he started playing with it. Your butt had such a hold on him that it drove you crazy, you'd rarely seen such an ass man in your life–although maybe that was in part because he had to feel it to see it, or maybe just because your boyfriend was a deplorable freak in bed.

“Morgan-”

“Pleeeease,” He begged selfishly. “Please, baby, I'll be so good if you give it to me. Promise! I want you so bad…I can't survive the day without a part of you with me..” He put on that false, whiney tone while his whimpers hit your ears like a weak spot and the low, soft rasp of his voice sent tingles down your spine. Morgan knew exactly what he was doing as he groped you, there was no playing innocent with him.

You felt him tug on the waist of your underwear–not enough to yank it down, just to plead silently with you for permission–and just like you always ended up doing, you let out a sigh and a “be quick, then” and he grinned into a kiss on the back of your neck.

“Ultra-speed service, I promise.” He chuckled, tugging the fabric down to your knees.

“That's not something to brag about.” You rolled your eyes, but Morgan had his tongue on your thigh in seconds and you just sort of forgot about it. He liked the tease of inching up closer and closer to your sex, sometimes he'd start at your knees or he'd even kiss his way up from your calves if he had the time. This morning it was quick though, and he spread your cheeks apart with little ceremony as he sucked his two fingers into his mouth. Slowly, he eased the tips of them against your tight rim, but chuckled hoarsely when he felt them wiggle in with more immediate acceptance than he anticipated.

“You like it, huh?”

“Don't start.” You warned, but your tone was undeniably cheeky. You could only hide your small, prideful smile by burying your face in his pillow.

Morgan inched his fingers deeper, taking time not to strain you but keeping a steady pace to make sure he didn't make you too late. You'd already be limping into work anyways with how hard his cock was as it stirred in his boxers.

“Always knew you were fuckin’ dirty.” He murmured under his breath, and when he took that tone with you your legs buckled and started shaking with the intensity of your moans. Morgan liked talking dirty but he always had some anxiety that you didn't, so it was rare that he'd let it go completely and just say whatever came to mind. But he had no idea just how hot it was and how good he was at it, especially with his voice all low and raspy from a night of sleep. God knows how you did any work around him when he was sick. “You like it back here, huh? You like getting your ass played with?”

“Morgan-” You cried out, but only finished with a squeal as he brought his palm down on your behind. He could leave welts if he really tried, but usually some swelling and a bit of soreness was the norm. If you were good, that was.

“Want your coworkers to find out you like this?” He muttered as he straddled himself over you, your thighs pinned to the bed as you listened to the shlick of him freeing his cock and stroking it into readiness. He spit into his palm to work some slickness into it, but obviously realized that wasn't enough as you caught his hand in your peripheral reaching to the nightstand to crack open your bottle of lube. A bit of patting around led him right to it. “Bet they'd think you're a whore. Wouldn't they?” You listened to the squirt of fluid splashing into his hand. With your nails digging into the sheets and gripping them shakily, you nodded into the pillow.

“Good.” He huffed, guiding his sticky, slick tip between your cheeks to nestle in against that tight, rough spot. “Then they'll know I fuck you too good to take you away from me.”

“Morgan–nngh-!” A squeal erupted from your lips, not quite caught by your hands as you clapped them over your mouth, as the bed suddenly dipped and pressure spread you open in an instant. Morgan gasped himself as he slid in too quickly and paused with just the tip inside, his hands planted on either side of your head to grip the sheets in earnest.

“Oh my god, oh my…fffuuck sorry, shit, didn’ mean to–” Your walls pulsed around him and he froze, but his lungs seized to push out an airy moan that was so high you weren't sure he could ever copy it. “Ooohh, honey, are you looking at me? No, right?” He gasped out like he'd just been holding his breath. His hand slid over to thread through your hair, and he felt you shake your head with your face in the pillows. “Mmnh…okay, I got a good picture in my head. Jesus-” Morgan thrusted forwards, burying himself entirely in that impossibly tight space, and his grip on your hair jolted pain through you as he yanked it back. “-fucking christ! Shh-hit-”

It wasn't abnormal for Morgan to get a little lost in the thick of it when he was getting off, but things only grew more intense the longer you spent together. Somehow the honeymoon phase wasn't just a phase, but more like a transitional period; with every mundane effort Morgan got more sensitive to you, he liked you more, he was satisfied easier. You weren't sure what it was about him or you or both of you as a couple, but it seemed like every time you came together your boyfriend grew more attached to you. In fact, it felt like he nearly wanted to be a part of you–especially once he hit a good rhythm, and bucked his hips down with the aim of getting as deep into you as he could possibly manage.

“Feel it in your belly? Yeah?” He moaned from behind, lips flush to the back of your neck. “Ohhh, fuck, fuck–”

“M-Morgan-!” You spluttered out, having finally found your voice. You hissed at him to quiet down, to not wake up your neighbours so early in the morning, but he only bit down on your shoulder and his cries still thrummed muffledly throughout the apartment. You'd just have to accept your fate at this point. Morgan snaked a hand around your waist and pressed his huge, warm palm to your belly. The sensation of him sheathed inside you, whether imagined or really felt, had his hips pinned to your backside as he barely pulled back out to thrust. Every shlick, shluck, shluck vibrated through your body as he let your sweet walls suck him in closer.

His fingertips grazed your scalp to remind you he was there, to ensure his grip on you wasn't forgotten as he rutted against you with moans wasted against your skin. I love you, I love you, I love you. Those words would be his if his teeth weren't sunk into your flesh as he grunted them, humping feverishly to claim that end he wanted so badly. Morgan pitched you forward further into the blankets, weight pinning you completely under him; and with your nails dug into the crisp sheets you'd just washed this week, you felt a cord inside you snap with need that awashed you, suddenly, with an all-encompassing sense of bliss to block out the ache of Morgan's depth. He shuddered, stilled, and your woeful spasming rendered him utterly speechless–he stiffened and blew out each burst of love he'd kept locked up, and only as he did so did he finally melt into your sweat-soaked back like his bones had turned to jelly. His teeth finally unlatched as he shivered out a deep sigh, a kiss placed to your broken skin before he laid his cheek to your spine and puffed out each low, laborious breath in time with your heartbeat.

As the peace slowly returned, your high coming down with relative ease, you shifted slightly only to feel a dribble of hot, sticky warmth pulse downwards. Like glue, it stuck the two of you together, but you nudged at Morgan to move himself apart so you could clean up from the aftermath. For once, he agreed without complaint and slid off of your tired body to roll over on his back beside you. The expression on his face could be described as nothing less than complete, serene bliss as he caught his breath, one of those huge hands perched on his chest.

“See?” He panted, eyes blankly staring up at the ceiling. “Super…fast.”

“You made a mess,” You hushed dryly, slipping out of his loose grip on your thigh to head into his bathroom. You wobbled, caught yourself on the nightstand, and although he called out in worry if you were okay, you certainly were. A bit of stumbling was nothing new when Morgan and the bedroom were involved. “I'm taking a shower.”

“Me too?” His face lit up, he heaved himself up on one elbow to face the bathroom door, and before you could stop him with an absolutely not, you mongrel he was already feeling his way along the wall to slip inside. Joining you would almost certainly lead to something even messier, but…it was Morgan. That boyish charm, messy curls, bright, freckled smile as he patted your face and lifted it up to kiss it–the soft rasp of his voice as he let you know how good you were, how nice you felt, how beautiful he knew you were, the hand on your lower back as he steadied you and nudged the dial to spray a hail of fresh, warm water to soothe your aches…and how could you ever, ever say no to that?

[salubriwrites-blog]

You Chose Barbatos (Pt1)

Aaayyee we're back with more "You Chose" one shots. I actually came up with this concept a while ago, but didn't have a Leviathan devil in mind for it. Until I got to Ch5 and the answer became apparent. Will be posting Part 2 uuuhhh later!

“Do you understand the terms?” He asked, cold but urgent as he rose from his desk. His pale eyes twinkled and watched you with the same danger of a faustian devil, not of the King of Envy. 

You didn’t answer right away, not because you didn’t understand, but to keep Leviathan in suspense. Solomon had told you that the more arrogant you seemed, the more cowed the devil would be. Doing as suggested, you finished your wine slowly and allowed Leviathan to wait. Those big eyes never left you, waiting for your answer as you quietly smacked your lips to enjoy the last scent of wine. 

“I do, but I have a question.”

Tilting his head only, he looked willing to answer. 

“Are you going to be one of the devils for me to choose from?” 

Under the desk you balled your hands into anxious fists as Leviathan smiled thinly before shaking his head. “That would be unfair to everyone else, don’t you think?” He smirked as you sighed with relief, accepting his help to get out of your seat. Was this a ploy to make you reconsider? To bait you into throwing aside everything and lay yourself in his coffin, begging for his attention?

You had already been in Hades for a week as a guest to the King of Hades and Devil of Envy. Before leaving Gehenna, Satan pulled you into an alley and pushed you against a building wall as he gave you an energy transference. He didn’t allow you to bury your face in his shoulder, only letting you scream into the open air as he pumped his hips with violent precision.

“You better not strain yourself while you’re there,” he growled, leaving purple bruises shaped like his fingers in your hips as he covered you in bite marks. “No one else is allowed to do this with you. Not. Even. Leviathan.” 

Dripping and trembling from your combined orgasms, Satan left you in the care of one of the King’s generals. A pink haired devil with a purple noose around his neck smiled politely and offered you his arm for silent support as you passed into Hades. The King of Gehenna’s eyes burnt into the back of your ponytail, you know that he stood and watched until you were completely out of sight. 

Despite your best efforts, the King of Hades had worn you down. Taking you out on day trips, never spending a day in the castle as you were forced to tour and admire his kingdom. Keeping you up at night in his office reading up on the history of the Hells, he wore your social and physical battery down. You weren’t allowed to have much privacy in Hades, and those few precious times you did there was always an underlying paranoia as his attendants were everywhere. Not to mention the arms of the abyss; black, white, and silver tentacles that emerged from corners and underneath beds to help you dress, tuck you in, and wake you up. Extensions of Leviathan, you grew wear quickly of the novelty. There were only two places in Hades where you had found peace and quiet without prying gazes.

The first had been in none other than Leviathan’s coffin, where not even the King himself could wriggle his way between the cracks. It was claustrophobic and the quiet it wrought reminded you of Sitri’s bedroom, where your heartbeat sounded so loud and the rushing of your blood through your body made you lightheaded. The second was a place you had found, run into it while trying to escape Glasya who had been tasked with giving you a tour of the King’s prized gardens. Unexpectedly still, it felt like all time had stopped as you ran your fingers over the leaves of the hedge maze that swallowed you up. Whenever you needed that much sought after peace, you would pretend to play hide and seek with your attendants and slip away within the refuge. Though you were never truly alone there either, the attention that waited for you there was warm, welcoming and nurturing. You always came out of the maze with fresh flowers that Leviathan would wither under his poisonous gaze.

After a week passed, Leviathan’s scheme had worked and your fatigue set in. The need for energy, you had gotten so used to it now that you could feel when it was coming on. It started as a tingling in your toes, followed by lightheadedness that left you confused and needing to be held as you walked through the halls of the estate. Which led to now, with Leviathan offering you his hand as he walked you from his office. You were nervous, and for once he expressed something akin to gentleness and patience as you walked into the throne room one shaky step at a time. 

Explaining your needs to Leviathan, the King had gotten a thoughtful expression on his face, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers together. You didn’t like one bit the way he looked when he thought deeply like that. Unlike the other, more emotionally driven Kings of Hell, Leviathan was a scheming and provocative devil who actually exhibited meticulous planning in everything he did.  

Iridescent tendrils emerged from the walls to pull the doors open for the pair of you as Leviathan ushered you into the black and silver room. All the devils were lined up, all looking dashing and composed though you couldn’t imagine they were feeling calm. Dozens of eyes snapped to you, and the pressure of those gazes made your head pound. 

“I need to sit,” you uttered, almost falling out of Leviathan’s hands as you half staggered, half crawled to sit on the steps leading to the throne. Before you could though, creeping vines slithered across the ground and caught you, cradling you to sit as you caught your breath. Your eyes stole a glance from him before he was forced to stare his King in the face. 

The noose around the devil’s neck twitched as Leviathan’s eyes tightened at the gesture, but he was not yanked from his place in the lineup. 

“As you can see,” the King began, gesturing to you as the soft tendrils shaped themselves into a lounge for you. “The Daughter of Solomon has grown weak. As she continues to adjust to Hell and Hades, she will be in need of an attendant capable of providing for her. Her condition is fragile and will require the utmost, immediate care. Being available to the Daughter’s every beck and call, prepared to die for her if necessary.” 

No one in the hall spoke, just a sea of eyes that watched Leviathan as he stepped aside to let them watch you struggle. 

“However, due to the unique nature of her needs, she will choose only one of you to be hers.”

Now the devils were showing a reaction, they all seemed to check themselves, straightening out their regalia and preening for you. Not him, though. His eyes remained steadfast on His Majesty, never once fidgeting with his suit or feeling the chain on his horns. 

Leviathan’s plan was nasty, forcing you to publicly reject all other devils in favor of one. His gratification was going to come from watching the hope drain out of their eyes and faces as you walked down the line telling each of them no. If only you could walk now, as you looked out at the neat lineup. You were dreading having to make a choice, because who knew what kind of retaliation you might face for rejecting any of them. Time was of the essence though, you would just have to get your energy back quickly before facing the repercussions of your decision. 

Rising to your feet and taking small sips of air, you started at the left end closest to Leviathan. In a hurry to get it over with, you approached the first devil. 

Orias was standing still, hands behind his back with his shoulders square, staring at you flirtatiously as you approached. You hadn’t thought about how you were going to do it, but you were certain that Leviathan would have notes on your process. Maintaining a respectful distance back, out of arm’s reach, you leveled your gaze against the petite devil. “No,” you said simply, a lump forming in your stomach at the heartbreak in his smile. 

Behind you, Leviathan let out a noise that sounded almost like a snicker. 

A few more rejections down, you came to stand face to face with Foras. You and he had developed a friendship that included finding places to hide from Leviathan. “No,” you said with a little more difficulty, wishing that you could grab the word and swallow it as his shoulders fell. His rejection tasted bitter in the back of your throat as you moved hurriedly past him. All the while, Leviathan walked parallel to you, reading the faces of his subordinates and reveling in their emotions. Occasionally he would make little sounds and comments that would dare the devils to act out of anger. 

“Oh, that’s a surprise.”

“I thought you two had something.” 

“Shame.”

His spiteful commentary followed you down the line as you started just ignoring the faces that you walked past, eager to reach the end. Ready to make your choice, you kept your eyes forward and didn’t even look at most of them. His Majesty’s snarky observations stopped when he saw you moving with purpose, your weakened state temporarily abating as your choice drove you. Leviathan’s eyes started searching the devils that were lined up ahead of you, trying to predict to whom your stride took you. 

Perhaps it was the devil’s own ego that made him wait at the very end of the line, he was a subordinate to the Perfect Devil of Envy, after all. What a way to stroke his ego as he watched you rush past the devils who were now stepping out of line to watch and see where you’d go. However your strength was failing you, the dew drops of sweat trickled down your neck and under your dress as you neared the end of the line. Just how many devils had Leviathan summoned for this public humiliation? Most of them you didn’t even recognize as you brushed through. 

You collapsed before getting to the end, where a strong pair of arms caught you as you stumbled. Relieved, you smiled upward, prepared to touch his face and make your choice-

“Your Majesty, the Most High, the Greatest, and the Most Beautiful,” a deep voice announced, the bass in Glasya’s voice stirred adrenaline into your system. “I’m afraid that the Daughter of Solomon is too weak to continue.” 

That wasn’t true, you thought but your limbs felt too heavy to pull yourself upright and out of his hold. Hanging your head backward, from your upside down perspective you saw a pair of golden boots approaching. 

“She has worn herself out from coming all this way, please excuse us so I may tend to her as the one she chose,” speaking smoothly and confidently, Glasya stood with you in his arms. 

No, no. You thought, rolling your head away from his chest, trying to open your mouth to speak. Your jaw felt heavy and your limbs weighed down, this had to be some sort of spell he had cast on you. Or was it actually the exhaustion? You couldn’t tell because you found your throat and chest tightening, lungs aching and bones sagging.

Leviathan was looking at you, seeming to wait for you to confirm that Glasya Labolas was indeed your choice. When you didn’t show an outward sign, he shrugged and waved his hand. 

“Very well-”

“I apologize for interrupting, Your Majesty.” A cool voice butted in, and the room went still as you found the strength to yank your arm out of your lap as if by marionette strings.

Rolling your head, you peeled your sealed lips into a smile as he winked knowingly at you. “I believe that she just needs a little bit of a pick me up before she continues.” 

His lips felt warm on your skin, tickling and tanning your cheeks with a flush as the devil had the audacity to kiss you in Glasya’s arms. Maybe it was the butterflies stirred to life in your stomach, or maybe it was the little bit of strength he lent you, but you wrapped your arm around his shoulder and kissed Barbatos back. 

Whatever trick Glasya had pulled was no match, like a flower before the dawn you found your strength and opened for the sunny devil. Wriggling with new found power, you fell out of the devil’s arms and Barbatos caught you easily. A tsunami of disappointed murmurs threatened to crash over the pair of you, disgusted and envious of the unabashed affection the devil took from you. 

“Barbatos,” you gasped though, clinging to his shoulders, knees weak and barely to hold yourself up as you turned your focus onto Glasya. “I choose Barbatos, not you.” 

The dark devil did not respond, just stared wondering if you would tear into him for what trick he had used to manipulate your silence. You didn’t give him another glance, turning to give Barbatos a softer, more appropriate peck on the lips. 

“So be it,” Leviathan said stiffly, it was clear to you that even he was annoyed that whatever scheme he had planned backfired. That you grabbed the blonde devil’s hands excited, pulling him eagerly out of the room. “Well, Barbatos, I temporarily release you from your duties. The Daughter of Solomon has a need for you, do not make me regret her decision.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty, the Most High, the Greatest, and the Most Beautiful.” Barbatos replied, bowing deeply before letting you pull him from the throne room. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw him flash Glasya a rude gesture just before the doors closed on you both.

[himbo-in-limbo]

BONNIE WOULD WEAR THAT DADDYS BOY SHIRT HE WOULD

Bonnie: *Wearing shirt.*

Freddy: Bonnie! You cannot wear that!

Bonnie: But why daddy?

Freddy: I-

Me and You also wearing said shirt: Yeah, why not?

-🐦‍⬛

Tw daddy kink LMAO n raunchy topics so kiddies be gone!! 🔥

Just standing next to my wife makes me very happy…

Anyways yes he very much would 😏 maybe Freddie stutters bc he’s used to being called that in private hur hur hur

We’re all mostly surprised that they made the shirt in his size…

[leoandbeholdclark]

🥀 MDNI 🥀

Kylo Ren is far more submissive than he likes to let on. And wouldn't it be his luck that Y/N enjoys this side of their commander.

Kylo likes to present himself as intimidating and deserving of unyielding respect. Much like his grandfather before him.

Yet he lacks the tact and emotional strength to be so. Not to mention the fact he's an omega.

Which there isn't anything inherently wrong with omegas. Yet, society tends to class them as subservient. Only good for laying on their backs and being pretty. Whining and pleading for an alpha to keep them. To make a nest and rear pups who will follow in line with the world.

Which, in turn, is only perpetuated by those who buy into such nonsense.

And yet...Kylo has fallen there while being one.

He doesn't have ruts, he has heats. He makes nests in his chambers. Collecting little trinkets to make it more inviting. To allure and keep a nice alpha. Make a family-

D I S G U S T I N G

His own biology attempting to demean his fate? To make a mockery of what his grandfather carved out? Not without a fight.

Any alpha who dares to court him will have their head bitten off. Or better yet made an example to the rest of the fleet; That biology be damned, he is their commander. He is the one who will lead them all to their greater potential!

Even when he slinks off to share a heat or two with another commanding officer. He still calls the shots.

None of it would even happen if Kylo deemed the whole ordeal a waste. So what if Hux got off to him being on his back? He was the one with control here. Kylo had the connection to Snoke, he was the one blessed to lead a new generation in the ways of the force, to show the strength of the Sith and the failings of the Jedi. He was was the one who was needed.

So why did Hux insist on keeping a frail joke of an alpha close by?

And why did he start opting out of sharing their heats together? Why entertain such a dull creature, when his future lies before him?

To say Kylo despised Y/N would be an understatement.

So color Ren surprised when one day his heat grows so strong, so rapidly, that he's forced to leave a meeting.

One with his master nonetheless...How cruel.

And how it would be his horrid luck that he runs into you nearby his chambers.

Paperwork in hand with that stupid smile plastered against your face. Greeting him with respect as you claim Hux wanted you to relay a message.

So the bastard couldn't see him now was it? And he sent his little dog to do his bidding?

And your face falters at his words...But then that egregious smile finds it's way back. Your grating voice waving his insults off as you nod towards his chambers. Saying that it's a private matter.

How Kylo wishes to tear you limb from limb. So deliberately and in such a detailed manner no one would be able to put you back together again.

But against his better judgement (damn this heat), he lets you into his chambers.

🔞 NSFW INCOMING 🔞

How did this happen?

How did it go from him growling at you, to you cooing at him, to him being arched underneath your touch?

Grunting and snapping at you to hurry. To touch him more roughly and use him to your heart's content. That he wasn't those omegas you've seen on the HoloNet late at night.

He didn't need a gentle hand. He wanted a rough one.

So, even though you're scared of the repercussions, you do as you're told. As your body tells you to do anyway...

You drag your claws along Kylo's skin. Leaving little, rough welts everywhere you touch. Digging them in, while one hand works it's way around his entrance. Finding home around a ring of muscle. Gently working it open with your fingers despite Kylo's inpatient growls.

Meeting little resistance the further you go. Yet it all seems in vain as he pushes back on your fingers and whines. Grunting as he starts to fuck himself back on you. Claiming you move far too slow for an alpha, while starting a quick and brutal pace for himself.

You can only somewhat watch in awe as your commander practically loses himself. Clawing at the black sheets underneath you both, while his thick thighs barely strain with the pace he's set. His cock, flushed deep red all the way down, jutting and throbbing right in front of you. Looking almost angry, despite the sounds that leave Ren.

You decide to help. It's the least you can do. You use your free hand and slowly run it along his length. Squeezing at the base and thrusting your fingers a little deeper. Curling them just a little-

You almost mistake the sound that leaves Kylo as a wounded animal.

Long, almost feral moans begin to leave him. Deep, needy growls mixing in as he moves even faster. Threatening to force choke you if you even think about pulling away.

But why would you? When your commanding officer looks so pretty being fucked out by your fingers. The lights in the room buzzing as his whines become dragged out. His tail thumping back on your wrist, when items around the room begin to float.

You almost don't notice them as you feel your own self grow hot in anticipation. Slick running down your thighs, as you give a little more attention to his hole.

As you curl your fingers deeper...Maybe Kylo feels another appendage enter the mix. Something wet as he feels more of your skin against his...Maybe a tongue?

Your tongue lapping at his greedy hole, while he rides the feeling. Flushed straight from his face all the way down to his chest. His body feeling so hot and full of energy just buzzing to be released.

And then you bite him. Not roughly enough for his liking, but with enough force to pull his attention.

He loses it and you feel it coming.

So you do what an assistant does best. You help.

You help as the lights shatter and you drag a firm hold up and down his shaft. Repeatedly squeezing as you match the thrusts of your fingers. Speaking of which, they move even faster, while your tongue attacks that same delicious spot for Ren.

If he screamed he'll deny it.

But he remembers when he comes down from his high. How could he not?

Your dazed, almost fucked out expression was something worth remembering.

Tags: @starlightsearches and @thembohux

Again, I know abo dynamics aren't your things respectively, but you're also the only people I know who might enjoy this 😭 If anyone wants to be tagged in future things, please let me know.

[love-toxin]

would yandere Charles Xavier...baby trap his beloved?

OH......YEAH!!!! <3

(cws: DDDNE, fem!reader, crazy fucked up n-con, babytrapping, drunk sex, drugging, pregnancy talk, jealousy, dirty talk, super manipulative yandere charles)

I'm thinking Days of Future Past Charles again....the yearning. The loving glimpses of the life with you he let slip through his fingers. Every day that he's without you is painful, but when he finds you again, he's complete.

There's no way he can let that happen again. Ever. You belong to him. You're part of him. He's become so disillusioned by your reappearance in his life that he can't focus on anything but you. If you let him, all he would do is make love to you every day, kiss you, hold you in his arms, sweep your feet out from under you and carry you wherever you wanted to go. Even when you plead with him to stop taking the drugs, he's just so hooked on the feeling of being there for you that he wants his legs more than his powers. Plus, the sex is incredible when his mind isn't filled with thoughts and worries, and he can move around as freely as he wants. And part of it is perhaps willful ignorance--there's a quiet part of him that doesn't want to hear any negative thoughts in your head. He wants to live in the blissful delusion that you're just as obsessed with him as he is with you, that you want all the same things he does.

And one of those is, well...home. Charles is tired of the people he loves cycling in and out--he's sick of losing people and watching everything he cares about slip away slowly. He has a place to call home, but nothing to fill it with that's distinctly his. It's been a shelter for so long, for Raven, for the X Men, for his students, but he craves something more. Family.

But you can give him that. It would be a blessing, wouldn't it? On good days he watches the way you move, how your eyes light up with your laughter, the sun setting a glow over your skin. It's crude, but he can't help it; you would look so good pregnant. You'd get a cute waddle in your walk, a bump, and you'd have to rely on him so much more to help you when you're far along. He could put a ring on your finger and try for your first the very same night--nobody has to know you haven't had the wedding yet, and who would even care?

When you start having sex regularly, on the daily now that Charles has his muse back, it's obvious he's being risky. Coaxing you into letting him slip the rubber off, so sincere as he promises you he'll pull out...but each time he gets close, so close, that you have to keep your wits about you just to make sure you cry for him to slow down before he lets it get out of hand. The twitching and pulsing and throbbing inside you is so good, but you know Charles is acting strange about doing it unprotected. You gain a sense that he's hiding something but you want to trust your beloved, so you neglect to insist on using condoms again.

That's your own mistake. Charles tries to convince you to let him cum in you, at least once, but he gets more insistent around the time you should be ovulating. It's even harder for you to resist him at that time, but you manage to hold your ground--until he resorts to truly dirty tactics, and gets the two of you drunk while you've got the mansion all to yourselves. As usual, he's handsy right off the bat, kissing you while his belt buckle digs into your soft thigh. He just barely manages to guide you upstairs while he stumbles himself, laughing and cackling along with you as you lean on each other and teeter about the corridor like the drunken fools you are.

As it turns out, Charles is a pretty good actor. And as badly as he feels about it initially, mixing that powder into your drink really did make it easier for him to get his way--you're already fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and when you trip and fall back against the floor as you stumble into his bedroom, all you can do is giggle dazedly with your eyes closed like you're floating on cloud nine. As he crawls on top of you to help you up (with no intention of actually doing so) he's deft in hiking up your skirt, and though in your drunken state you're conscious enough to tease about him not being as wasted as he seemed, your addled mind has no idea just how true that turns out to be.

When his buckle finally comes loose and he's slowly sliding it in, it's paradise. Your body is willing and your mind is void of common sense; you're barely staying awake as he takes you right there on the floor, skirt pooled around your hips as Charles mutters praises under his breath. "Right there, so tight--such a good mother, you'll make such a good mother, darling-" He can't stop, he might just be addicted to your drugged pussy from that moment on. It's foul, it's disgusting, it's wrong, but when he hitches his hips right up against yours and sucks in a deep breath, knowing you can't say no to what he's about to do, he feels more at peace than he has in years. His shoes squeak against the hardwood as he struggles to pin you down, your limbs twitching and flailing erroneously while he's working on making you a sweet little baby to take care of in the future. Charles eventually resorts to holding your head down with his palm, your cheek pressed to the floor that vibrates with the strength of his thrusts into your pliant body.

"You need this," he mutters under his breath, fighting the guilt settling in his chest at your growing whimpers for mercy. "Last time you ever fucking leave me, whore."

Mmh. Well, maybe he's a little drunk after all. The anger at your disappearance still simmers near the surface, and that betrayal isn't one so easily forgiven. You should be trained out of it so you never make that mistake again. Perhaps becoming a doting mom will fix that defect in you, just as he hopes it fixes the deranged, vile forces inside of him that would have him lure you into something as debased as this. With every plap of his hips growing sticky with your slick, Charles can sense those urges screaming out for him to make you his.

In a haze, he orders you to shut up, to stop that incessant whining and try to enjoy what he's giving you. When you try wiggling your hips away, feebly attempting to escape the pleasure growing harder to resist, he yanks you back on his length and bruises your tits in his rough hands as recompense. If he wasn't intent on impregnating you, he would flip you over and show you how mean he can really get--but he has a job to do first, and he won't let you out from under him until you can't walk without spilling his seed. Even if Erik never laid a hand on you during these long years apart, you still chose another man to scamper off with, and that will never happen again....not if you're all swollen with his baby.

"I-I'll swallow it, Ch-Charlie-" You slur, trailing off into mindless blabber as he bends your knees back to your chest. So cute. You think you can talk yourself out of it, but he's already there--already bursting at the seams with the promise of new life, already biting down on your neck like a hound as the heat overwhelms him and fills you with ropes of thick, virile cum. So potent your body already eases to welcome him in, and your walls tighten and clench when he pulls out, like you don't want to spill even a drop.

You're so fucking drunk, you can't even keep your head up. You look a right sloppy mess, laying there with your skirt pulled up and cum pooling underneath your hips, as if you're some used sex doll that's been kicked under the bed after serving your purpose. But Charles would never think of you that way, and he wants you to know that; Erik may have stolen you away and poisoned your mind against him, but he clearly abandoned you too once he'd taken everything he wanted from you. Yes, he may have taken advantage of you now in a sickening way, but it was for a good reason, wasn't it?

Yes, it was for all the right reasons. Charles has to tell himself that to stave off the guilt that follows, the tension in your shoulders when next he touches you and the fear of him that may never go away. Soon, you'll see that his efforts have borne fruit. And when you tear up and collapse in a panic at the result of the test in your hands, Charles, your Charlie, will be right there to soothe you with promises that everything will be alright.

[chaoswithinstars]

Breaking the ice [Zayne]

Tw: smutty

Ever since you first set your eyes on Zayne, there's nothing you've wanted more than to break that stoic facade of his. You weren't satisfied with the miniscule twitches of his lips or the furrow between his brows. You wanted to see more, make him feel more until he couldn't hold back.

 

And finally seeing him break? Seeing him throw his head back, pretty neck arched and face flushed as that deep voice of his turns higher pitched and whiney? It was priceless and you enjoyed every single moment of it, perhaps a little bit too much. You felt so proud of yourself because you've managed to lower his guard, to break that icy visage.

 

Zayne was magnificent in everything he did, even when he was breaking apart in your hands, green eyes almost closed as he watches you caress his body, trace his scars with your lips and tongue, gradually going lower and lower until your mouth wraps around his throbbing length. And he is so fucking cute when his hips twitch like he wants to push deep into your throat, brows furrowed as he tries to control himself because he is far too much of a gentleman to gag you with his cock. Not that you'd mind. You could take it, what's a moment of discomfort when you know how magnificent his groan will be once your throat squeezes around him?

 

So you do it yourself. You swallow his cock until it is at the back of your mouth, tip teasing your tonsils, passing them and you would have smiled at the sound Zayne made if your mouth wasn't busy. And you're throbbing, drenched beyond belief as he finally, finally, lets go of that iron grip on his self control and places his hands on your head, gentle fingers in your hair as he starts guiding you over him.

 

You refuse to break eye contact even as your eyes start to burn and tears stream down your flushed cheeks as he fucks your mouth, slowly and meticulously, almost gently. Zayne twitches on your tongue, bites down onto his lip and you moan softly, one hand on his balls, pushing him further and further until a guttural groan leaves his chest and he buries his cock in your throat, hips bucking as he spills his cum and holds you in place until he is certain that you have swallowed it all.

 

Panting, Zayne pulls you up, kissing you deeply, tongue sweeping over the top of your mouth, groaning softly as he tastes himself. His hands, usually steady, shake as they caress your body, mapping out the curves and drawing little sighs from you. You ache for him, for his touch and you're not afraid to show it with how eagerly you've straddled him, stroked him back to hardness and just pushed your panties to the side before guiding him into you, so wet and pliant that there's no prep needed.

 

Zayne watches, hands gripping your hips as you start to ride him, fingers clenching until you think you'll be decorated with bruises but you're aware that that is one line Zayne will never cross, not even if you beg, because that's not him. That's not the mark he would enjoy to leave on you. He mouths at the curve of your neck as you ride him, hands slipping to your ass and gently squeezing the flesh as he starts to guide your movements, helping you chase that sweet, sweet release.

 

That's when Zayne gets more vocal, urging you on to take what you need from him, to let go, take everything you want. Sweet praise falls from his lips like honey, thumb pressing gentle circles into your clit until you reach your own breaking point and all Zayne can do is encourage you with an avalanche of sweet girl, that's it, ride it out, that's my girl, you've done so well for me

[monstercampus]

...say the human wants to have a baby with the centipede stoner... how would we go about doing that?

babytrap him

But for real, that's a tough task! Efraim's still pretty chillaxed at this stage of life, lots of family drama/trauma, and drugs are more important than most things to him right now (present company excluded <3) so if you brought it up to him, he'd probably laugh and brush it off even if you make it clear you're being serious.

(cws: babytrapping, noncon, "tits")

"You don't want a baby with me, sweetheart," He'd say, a joint already lit up between his lips to calm the trembling of his hands. "Bad idea, I promise." But because you can't be deterred, he'll just find it cute and ruffle your hair or tease you about it here and there, never thinking it'll get more serious than that. Deep down, he's sure you'll change your mind on your own. Whether he wants them doesn't really matter, he knows that you'll be the one regretting it if you ask someone like him to give you a kid, and he can't even conceive of having to deal with that guilt when you eventually find where you left your common sense and leave him in the dust, as you should.

But at some point, you'll catch him off guard. Maybe get really stoned with him while his roommates are out for the night, maybe hang around him during breeding week and tease him all day. Maybe you even poke holes in his condoms, cause he won't believe you if you say you're on the pill. You'll find the perfect opportunity and Ef will be weak to resisting you, cause unfortunately for him, he's kinda got a thing for being held down by force--the self-loathing is so strong, he's so turned on by the thought of someone wanting him so much, especially you, that you'll pin his wrists down and make him give it to you. And when you get close, your skin squelching against each other and his bedframe bruising the wall, and that bubble starts to swell inside you from his leaky slit....when you throw your whole weight down and trap his hips against the mattress, that's when it'll finally clear up his mind and he'll realize what you're doing. His thighs will probably lift off the bed as he tries to throw you off, only to get your tits in his face as you hold his head and coo at him to just settle, just let it feel good in the moment.

Yet even after all that, he isn't mad. Not even a little bit. More impressed that you managed to carry out your little scheme after planning for so long. He'll call you crazy and some kinda freak for wanting bug cock that badly, but deep down he feels a swell in his heart as he numbly traces circles against your skin. You could have anybody, and you picked him. That's enough to have him on cloud nine for a long while....especially when he finally gives in to your wishes, and pitches in to help you properly breed that clutch of eggs of his you want so bad.

[yanverse]

i would let ilya do illegal things to my cervix, that man is so hot.

oh? :)

(cws: DDNE, gn!darling, noncon, hate sex, blood as lube, knives, impact play, choking, biting, degradation)

"Shut up, just shut up," he huffs in your ear. he says it like he's not half the problem; like the squeaking of the dense bedframe and the sloppy shluck shluck shluck shluck of his hips wetly kissing your ass isn't as noisy as you are. your plump lips swollen from hungry kisses and nips that aren't playful anymore, but possessive--they quiver between Ilya's fingers as his grip loosens somewhat, but when he forces his hand back hard over your mouth the cycle repeats all over again.

his eyes are redder than usual today. a rosy scarlet dyed to a crimson hue. they're dark and angry and they scare you but only a little bit, just a little, cause that pinprick of fear makes you clench harder around him when he bears down on you with that solemn glare. you're a pain in his ass.

so he wants to be a pain in yours.

"you're going to lick it when I'm done here," a growl rumbles through his pale throat, doused in scratches and bite marks. not from you, not today, but from the last inmate on death row who gave him more problems than satisfaction at execution. some of them can be wily, but few ever really manage to retaliate. "no teeth this time."

maybe he had his mind occupied by the stunt you'd pulled the night before. pretending to orgasm, in the hopes he wouldn't drag it out as long as usual? it was a new low for you. it pissed him off. but not quite as much as you biting his finger when he tries to grab your jaw open.

"ah-!" a gasp rips out of him, secondary only to the harsh, echoing smack of his open palm coming down on your cheek. you can barely get a squeak of breath out as his other hand clamps around your throat, which makes the sound of his next slap with a backhand ring torturously in your ears. "don't you ever pull that again!" Ilya yanks you up by the throat no more than an inch from his nose, seething. "you little shit."

still buried within you, he can no doubt feel the distant pulse of your heartbeat through his groin. it gets thicker when he sees blood, tastes it--there's beads of it bubbling at the teeth marks on his finger. Ilya sighs, groans quietly in the interim of silence. the blood smudges his lips as he sucks on the pulsing wound. something twitches inside you. when his smirk stretches wide and slow across his face, it's obvious that you're in for an even rougher time.

Ilya throws you over on your stomach, cock swollen and aching when he drags it out with a vile squelch. you can't quite see what he's doing from over your shoulder, you're so tuckered out, but you can hear it. the gradual slice of a blade across flesh, the soft hah, ah of pain as Ilya grits his teeth. the wet sliding of flesh on flesh when he brings his hand down and it's sticky, warm with fresh blood that he soaks his stiff length in before fingering into you as if he's performing some kind of demonic sacrifice. the knife clatters to the floor behind him like a ritualistic drumbeat.

"use your teeth if you want." he mutters against your ear as his lithe body slots up against your back, knees poised by your thighs for him to settle his weight down on top of you. no escape. his toned arm comes around and his bicep halts in front of your face--but the grip of his long fingers tightening in your hair is in no way comforting. it isn't a cushion, his body, but a barrier. a wall between you and escape. "you'll want more lube in a little bit anyways."

how ominous. but you couldn't be serene with the elf's dark smirk curving against your ear, and the confidence with which he presses your legs apart to slide in--because you don't get a break, and he doesn't care if you can't take it all. that's not an option for his little sex doll, despite you believing you seriously deserve any rights, which is just laughable. this is what you were made for, so you just have to shut up and take him like a good, obedient pet.

[salubriwrites-blog]

My self indulgent fanfiction. You Chose Sitri

This is only the first half, I'm writing the 2nd half in a feverish haze. But I KNOW THAT THERE ARE SITRI ENJOYERS OUT THERE AND THIS IS FOR YOU BABY GIRLS UPDATED: Here is the full story, on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/59305870

ANOTHER UPDATE: My demons won and I wrote a part 2. It’s in the above AO3 link ^^^^^

“How long will you be gone?” 

His eyes, red like guilt, now smiled at you as Satan stepped back into your space. You thought you’d have gotten used to it by now, but it was like a string was tied to your naval, reeling you in as the devil placed his hand on the small of your back. An undeniable magnetism parted your lips as his breath poured down your face, close enough to kiss-

“Shorter than you think, longer than you’d like,” he laughed as he pulled away from you. Unsure if he was laughing at his own cleverness or the flush on your cheeks, you folded your arms to guard your heart. “I need to meet with the other Princes to form a union. We won’t be able to combat Heaven if we all fight as separate nations.”

“I understand, but what if,” you purse your lips, thinking of the best way to pose the question without blushing anymore. “What if I need more, you know.” Your body still felt tight from your first encounter with the devil. Throwing your legs over his shoulders, bending you in half as you gasped for air. Gasping for more pleasure than oxygen.

Face tightening with knowing, the devil laughed and pinched your chin endearingly. “The energy I transferred you is pretty potent, you shouldn’t need more for quite a while.” Satan’s eyes traveled from your face to the attendants who stood behind you. “As long as you don’t push yourself, you will be able to hold out until I get back.” Looking past you as he spoke, and in turn you could feel another pair of eyes on you. Softer ones that didn��t feel quite right on your shoulders, not yet anyway. 

“I-I could just, you know, get it from another devil, if necessary?” You asked, and his eyes snapped like a scope on you. Asking why you would want it from another devil.

“We will attend to Solomon’s every need with the utmost importance in your absence,” Sitri said, you didn’t have to look over your shoulder to see him bowing deeply. Those crimson eyes glared at the sharply dressed attendant, you were still standing close enough to see his jaw clench at Sitri’s words. Did he not trust Sitri with your care? 

Instead of contesting the devil’s promise, a great red wind swept over the cobbled streets and the King of Gehenna was out of sight. 

A part of you went with him when he vanished, you had no emotional attachment to His Majesty, but something felt amiss when his laughing eyes weren’t following you. Just as you were about to hold yourself as compensation, a foreign pair of fingers caressed your elbow to get your attention. 

“Shall we, Solomon?”

“That’s not my name,” you replied uselessly, knowing that he was going to reply with something quietly snarky like, “my apologies, Solomon”. To your surprise, he didn’t, just nodded in acknowledgement before ushering you from the ruins of the town square.

Together you returned to the palace that sat high at the valley’s edge, looking down on Gehenna as the city was already buzzing with reconstruction. Of all the places to find yourself relaxed, sitting in a layer of Hell, drinking tea on a balcony, and looking down on a nation of devils was not it. You were left to the quiet, replaying the mere hours that you’d been down there over and over. Has it really not even been a day? So much happened already, and you felt so at ease amongst the attendants who waited on you hand and foot, it was like you had always been here. It was less of a welcoming and more of a homecoming. 

All the while, waiting in the wings, Sitri patiently stood in preparation for your next breath. You knew that if you so much as whispered to yourself, he would be there, as if he could hear your thoughts even before they formed on your tongue. Once you wondered why he didn’t come to sit beside you, he had been so eager in Satan’s presence to always be walking on the other side of you. Now that the King was away, you had thought that Sitri would be at your elbow the whole day. Hells, you even hoped that he would badger you with stories of Hell, the history of Gehenna, the 72 devils. Any excuse to watch his eyes glimmer with life and his hands animate. Instead you settled for Ppyong’s attention, allowing him to massage your feet on the promise that he would not kiss or hump them.

“Are you content? May I get you anything?” The devil asked once, his voice a welcome interruption to your peace. It turned out, Ppyong had a firm grip that was good for working the balls of your feet. 

You pretended to think, though you knew exactly what you wanted. The answer was him, Sitri, to pull up a chair beside you and listen to how homesick you were. Maybe even to stroke your hair while he talked. What about? Anything, you would listen gladly. Instead you asked for a glass of wine, not having the confidence to ask him for his time. 

“Sit with me?” You asked when he returned though, rushing the words out before they could hide back in your belly. “I want your company.” 

Instead of yielding instantly to your request, Sitri hesitated while putting the empty glass on the table beside you. The tense silence as you watched him uncork the bottle and pour a sample for you made your stomach hurt. 

“I’m afraid I cannot, I have to see that your dinner preparations are underway.” He excused himself, hurrying off before you could find an excuse for him to stay. You drank the whole glass in one breath, and then hurriedly poured yourself another bottle. The wine was delicious, but it did not overpower the traces of vinegar and turpentine that sat at the back of your throat. Is this what rejection tasted like? 

It was worse that night. 

Of course it had to be Sitri who led you to your quarter that night. High ceilings with hand painted murals depicting galaxies, and stationed on a raised platform was a bed large enough to sleep all of Hell. Sheets made of velvet whispered seductive ideas as you dragged your fingers over them, feeling the draping tassels of the canopy that obscured it. 

“Is it to your liking?” Sitri asked from the doorway, filling it with his sharp figure instead of just coming in to follow you. You wondered if devils were like vampires and he could not enter unless invited. “All the amenities and pleasures you may desire have been provided.”

“It’s gorgeous,” you called back, feeling the satin that hung from the bed’s canopy like sweet dreams. “Big for just one person, though.” When you cast your gaze backward, Sitri wasn’t looking at you as if he anticipated your suggestion. Those pink eyes were scrutinizing his boots rather than watch you return to the doorway. “Sitri.”

“I’m glad that you like it, if that’s all I will retire for the evening, and bid you sweet dreams.” He said quickly, excusing himself before you could reach out to stop him. 

“Hold on, wait,” you called, but he walked with purpose out of sight. Closing the door behind you, you let out an exasperated sigh and stripped. You didn’t care if he heard your frustration, you wanted the devil to know that he had left you wanting. Maybe if you huffed and puffed enough he might come back to check on you.

Crawling between the sheets, you thought that you would be out in an instant. As you walked around the bedroom, sleep sounded exquisite. There would be time to go looking for all the pleasures that Sitri had alluded to later. Sleep had been calling your name since you were allowed to enjoy the peace that Satan’s absence bestowed on you. Now that the time had come though, sleep teased you. The sheets grazing over your nipples reminded you of a man’s tongue, and you caught the moan just as it was bubbling on your lips. 

You tossed and turned in the velvet embrace, your skin tantalized by the snagging of the fabric. You couldn’t sleep, because no matter how decadent and soft this bed was, it wasn’t really yours. No bed of yours was complete without company. Staring at the swirling stars and winking nebulas that watched over you, you thought about what you would paint on it instead. Satan, maybe, undressed and using one finger to hold up his erect member. Leapfrogging through all the devils you had met, you landed on Sitri last. Though perhaps not because he was the last on your list of devils you would touch.

Sitri, on his knees wearing only those gold and black boots, white leather squeezing his chest tight. Hair curling gently around his face, frizzy with sweat and slack jawed as he stared up at you. Soft Sitri, panting hot breath on your mound as his tongue lolled over your thighs. His pink eyes complimenting the flush on your belly as he watched you writhe at his technique.

A bolt of feeling struck your core and it was like a bubble had popped inside you. Your thighs coated with arousal as you squeezed them together, wondering if the devil could smell as well as he could hear. Wait- why were you thinking of him still?

The answer was simple, even though you were stubborn to realize it.

Satan was a perfect specimen, you fit perfectly in his arms and your legs landed nicely around his hips. Except he was too much, too intense. He had grabbed and thrown you around like a doll, pushing you against walls and bending you in half. Your pleasure wasn’t what he had been after in that comfortable place, it was your cries and your discomfort. 

An idea that boiled in your belly reached up and took control of your arms, forcing the blanket out of your way. The chamber floor was cold, but it only strengthened your resolve to do something about the heaviness in your belly and the tingle between your legs. You were horny, plain and simple. You spent some time navigating your room, looking in the furniture and admiring all the toys and clothes. Plotting out your plan. 

When Sitri had explained that this was your room, he hadn’t told you that this was Solomon’s room, but as you investigated the walk in closets full of sex toys and clothes, your epiphany took shape. Solomon had one whole walk-in room devoted to sex. Toys, harnesses and leashes, lubricants, clamps and leads of rope adorned all the space. Dragging your fingers over the leather, you wondered how many devils he had had in his bed. If all of the restraints were designated to different ones. Whether he had favorites. You certainly would, you thought as you admired a white harness with matching butt plugs adorned with exotic fevers and furs. 

You played dress up in the old wraps, the black and gold accentuated your lilac hair. Twirling like a princess in front of the mirror, you watched the way the togas trailed behind as you strutted. Beads to thread your locks into lay out perfect and uniform on the dresser, and you fed a few of them into the braids you weaved. It was pretty, you tilted your chin back and forth and admired how the gold and turquoise caught each other. It had been fun, you felt irresistible doing a slow turn in the mirror. Would it be enough though?

Outside the full moon shone so bright it didn’t feel like midnight at all. The breezeway of the palace was well lit, your naked feet slapping the marble and echoing off the walls. He didn’t tell you which room was his, but you followed the smell of dry tea leaves, the aroma curling its fingers for you to follow. The closer you got to his room, the bigger the rock in your stomach formed. Your thighs were soaked with excitement and your stomach was heavy with nerves. 

Standing in front of the tall, white wood you put your fingers through your hair, feeling that the accessories were secure. What exactly were you hoping for, you asked yourself as you smoothed down the folds of your ensemble. That, by presenting yourself as an echo of your great great great grandfather whom he had once greatly adored, he would fall to his knees before your irresistible silhouette? 

Yes. You thought with finality as you reached out to knock on his door. That’s exactly what you were hoping for. 

Before your knuckle could rap against the wood, it was opening for you. Had he been standing just on the other side of it? He had to have heard you coming, your heart was pounding in your throat, a siren song that he could not restrain against. He looked exhausted on the other side of the door, eyes cast down and looking weary, unable to recompose himself as he addressed you.

“What can I,” he began to say, but his voice trailed off as his eyes began at your feet, taking in the dark nail polish you had painted on your toes. It was an onyx black that twinkled against the moonlight. “What have you done?” Sitri choked on his own voice as he took in the rest of the outfit, the black and golds that embraced your hips, the twinkle of gold and precious gems in your hair like constellations. His expression was illegible, though his eyes had widened and you could hear his heartbeat for once. 

“Do you like it?” You asked, looping your hands behind your back. In all the poses you practiced in front of the mirror, you hadn’t rehearsed what to do with them if he didn’t immediately grab them to drag you into his room. Which he wasn’t doing, so this was the next best thing. Your heart raced the longer he just stared at you wordlessly, looking at you like you were out of your mind. “I thought that it might make you more… comfortable with me.” 

“You did this for me?” Sitri demanded, though his voice didn’t harshen as he leaned out of his bedroom. “You shouldn’t let anyone see you like this, let me walk you back to your room-”

“No,” you insisted, standing square in the threshold. At your new proximity, those big eyes of his stared down at your chest, which the toga did a wonderful job of accentuating your cleavage. “I won’t go back… unless you join me,” you added, remembering how you were trying to bully around a devil. A devil who lent his power to another, probably because he was an overwhelming font. That only made you wetter, and wetter still when he drew in a deep breath. Could he smell how much you wanted him?

“I should not be seen with you.”

“Why not?”

“Should Satan find out,” he stopped himself, biting his lip as if he had something he shouldn’t. “If His Majesty were to know about this, there would be consequences.” 

“Why would there be consequences? You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?” You asked, stomach churning at the break in his composure. 

“No, no, no,” he insisted, reaching out for you, but stopping himself short of your hips. “I would revere you, give you whatever you asked, hear your heart’s desires and do everything in my power to fulfill them.”

That sounded just fine to you, still he stepped back when you tried to advance. “Then what’s the problem? What consequences?”

“His Majesty has chosen you.” Sitri said, nearly shouting it like an incantation. He had squeezed his eyes shut when he spoke, as if afraid of your reaction. 

“Chosen me?” You echoed, thinking back to all of Satan’s behavior that day. His extreme possessiveness, literally beating away other devils when they tried to touch you, was all behavior you would expect from a romantic visual novel game. “But I don’t choose him.” 

Sitri didn’t seem to hear you though, too caught up in his own worry. “Satan has deemed that he is the only one to adore you. If he saw this, or heard about it, he would forbid me from ever seeing you again.” 

“Sitri,” you said softer, trying to be patient as the devil seemed to be scaring himself with something that would never happen. So caught up in his own fear that he didn’t notice you stepping closer, your toes pressing on top of his boots. 

“I could love you so much better than he, but he is the King of Gehenna and will have his way. He could make it that I never see you, or hear you, again. If I couldn’t… If I wasn’t… I might-”

“Sitri,” reaching to touch him, the devil’s eyes snapped to attention, pupils dilating at how close you were. “I don’t care, because I don’t choose Satan. I choose you.” What had begun as a hormone-fueled rash decision that you may regret later, was evaporating into your heart pounding so loud in your ears it might have deafened Sitri. You were starting to understand the significance of choosing Sitri. 

Before he could question you further, you leaned in to silence him. How soft his lips were, they trembled and a sound that started as a moan strangled itself into a cry in his throat. Unlocking your fingers from behind you, you pushed your way inside, and closed the bedroom door with your foot.

[rq-gift-exchange]

Ordered from most to least smutty

[femmefatalevibe]

Hi! What erotic novels would you recommend ?

Temptation by Ivy Smoak

The Rose by Tiffany Reisz

Power Exchange by A.J. Rose

The Ritual: A Dark College Romance by Shantel Tessier 

Darling Venom: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance by  Parker S. Huntington

Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

A Court of Thorns and Roses Series by Sarah J. Maas 

The Dark Love Box Set: A Complete Billionaire Romance Series by  Kat T. Masen 

Kings of Sin Series by Ana Huang

Fixed On You by Laurelin Paige 

[trigunwritings]

Might I have some NSFW headcanons for Vash?

When it comes to any form of intimacy, Vash is especially flighty—which makes it very difficult to get a proper read on his body language, even when you have been given otherwise very enthusiastic consent. This isn’t very noticeable when fully clothed, since Vash is a rather extroverted individual to begin with. But the moment that any skin is revealed (specifically his own) he clams up completely. He doesn’t reject advances after that persay, but simply freezes up like a deer in the headlights of a barreling truck.

It isn’t hard to understand why he’s like that, given the fact that he is covered in scars from head to toe—some of them are gruesome, injuries which would have killed any normal human, while others look light but are utterly numerous and leave most of his body a canvas of painful memories. Since his normal outfit covers almost all of the scars (which is probably the point) you wouldn’t even realize that he has any until you start to peel away his layers of clothing.

To put it simply, Vash is a deeply vulnerable man with a keen sense of keeping an emotional distance from others. While he is energetic and loud in most situations, it often hides the sense of loneliness and fear that lies just behind his happy-go-lucky attitude—but its impossible to wear the same mask when he’s intimate with another person. To be close, to be touched, to be seen and understood. He can’t hide his scars nor his insecurities when under the gaze of even most oblivious lover; but if someone has gotten to that point, then Vash must trust them a great deal.

In terms of intimacy itself (and assuming you’re a person who is able to get his clothes off in the first place) it’s hard to put Vash in any particular box. To call him a switch would be rather inaccurate, as it would imply that he’s confident in taking either role with a partner. Instead he simply enjoys pleasing his partner, shoving his own comfort and preferences aside in an odd sexual interpretation of his savior complex and hoping that they don’t notice or pay too much attention to him.

Vash utterly loathes having attention placed upon him, or at least in the romantic and sexual sense, as he isn’t above acting like a complete fool for even the smallest benefit of someone else. It’s the fear of being perceived, being known. There is some part of Vash that scarcely sees himself as a person given the decades upon decades of live he has spent alone; most people he gets to know either uses, betrays, or leaves him. The few that stick around are still at the mercy of No Man’s Land and the horribly short human life span it offers—so, in short, Vash has convinced himself, at least a little bit, that he doesn’t deserve the gift of a long-lasting relationship with another person. Vash the Stampede is a legend to some, a myth to others, and an individual to none.

[himbo-in-limbo]

I get that but honestly I love the idea of being poly, but Bons and Monty are trying so hard to show me that they’re better. Bonnie leaves me limping? Monty leaves me unable to walk.

Monty gives me hickeys? Bonnie gives me small scars.

And then there’s Freddy who I don’t think would be big on the idea. He’s already pretty vanilla imo (Aside from Praise and Degradation) so he just takes you shirt off, looks at you, looks at all the bites and scratches, and just is like “Superstar… did you get mauled by a wolf or-“

And do not get me started on the idea of those two (Bonnie and Monty) doing it at the same time.

But they better also give me some good aftercare. Idk if I’ve mentioned this but as kinky as I can be, I am a pillow price/princess/enby (Depending on the day yk).

Anyway long story short I want to have Bonnie, Freddy, or Monty to cuddle me after banging my brains out.

-🐦‍⬛

TW RAUNCHY N SPICY TOPICS!! KIDDIES KEEP SCROLLING OR ILL BLOCK YOU 🔥

DAWG

Don’t even get me started on poly ships cuz OOF (I decided to draw my more anthro vers for dis)

I have thought (and still do) think about how fuckin wholesome (and hot) it’d be in a poly relationship with fronnie

Those two would be the aftercare kings like they’ll do you raw and yeah sure you probably wouldn’t be able to walk the next day but

You don’t needa lift a finger. They got chu, they’ll pamper the hell outta ya and give you sweet kisses n stuff 😩❤️ Freddie will apologize sm if he left you any bruises n stuff (meanwhile Bonnie just kisses em while giving you a wink) like ugh just imagine waking up in the morning seeing these two bring u breakfast in bed n ughhfcgjgxcbnm,,…

-ahem-

Anyways the concept of Monty n Bonnie as a duo sounds…interesting

Your a toy for them I’d wager LMAO we know Bonnie would be a bit more gentle than Monty for sure but he can still get competitive…

I honestly don’t think Monty is any good at aftercare but If Bonnie’s there he’d def nag him to grab you anything you need 😭 he’ll grumble about it but he’d cuddle you post and after sexy time but he’s pretty lazy.

Monty can’t be held down forever like bros to strong. The way he’d pin you down so fast (also that leash as a belt thing is such a big brain thing omg) very hot, he’d be so annoying with his cocky comebacks 🙄

But yes Freddy they were mauled by a gator 😭 n it was hot ngl