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bigwishes · 2 months ago

Text

Forced Freak

Tyson was a uni drop out, nothing special about him other than his pretty face and dedication to his diet. He had no real hobbies and no real friends. The only reason people paid him any real attention was because of his body. However guys got pretty turned off after a one night stand with him when they'd wake up and Tyson would have written them critiques about how to improve their bodies and performance in the bedroom.

Tyson was the worst kind of gym bro, not because he had no real personality, but because he was an asshole with no real personality, in fact when he wasn't coming home from the gym, taking selfies in the mirror or scrolling on grinder for someone to bounce on his waist he spent a large portion of his time staring in the mirror admiring his own perfection.

"fuck yeah, I'm probably the hottest guy alive" he'd say as he rubbed his own crotch.

His arrogant attitude had essentially transformed him into a self obsessed autosexual, whilst he enjoyed sex and having a guy put in all the work whilst he laid back in pleasure he still preferred a night to himself and his mirror.

Tyson flexed his arm one last time, admiring the perfection before him before he turned off his alarm and got up to go to the gym.

"well, I'll see you when I get home handsome" he said winking at his own reflection and snapping his underwear band.

He threw on the folded red tank top and black gym shorts he had lying on his dresser, the ones he had steamed the night before. As he walked out the door he picked up his glass from his morning water and placed it neatly in the dishwasher before turning it on and leaving for the gym.

Upon arriving at the gym Tyson walked into the welcome area where he found 3 tall bodybuilders lined up at the key scanner. Tyson rolled his eyes and tried to avoid contact with them, he hated those freaks. The guys who willingly chose to inflate themselves with disgusting amounts of muscle. Who could barely fit in their cars and he huffed and sweat like bovine beasts when they got on the treadmill.

Tyson quickly got impatient and began tapping his foot as the 3 meatheads were holding up the line.

"are you beasts gonna scan in or am I just waiting here all day"

The three turned their heads to them almost in unison

"yoo you think we are beasts huhu" one flexed his enormous bicep that dwarfed Tyson's head

"hey Ty, what up lil dude. Wanna hit bench with us today? we we can help you grow that chest"

Tyson was disgusted at the thought of working out with the three of them and smelling their terrible stench or listening to them heaving for air.

"no thanks, its hard to improve upon perfection" Tyson said with a smirk

"aw come on dude, you can always improve and get bigger, you aint even close to your limit"

"and I dont want to be" Tyson said with a disgusted frown and one raised eyebrow

There was a loud ding and the three bodybuilders began waddling and shuffling their way through the electronic gate into the gym, having to turn sideways slightly to get their hulking frames in the turn gate.

"This is what I mean" laughed Tyson

"haha, can't blame us for being absolute units man"

"But doesn't it annoy the fuck out of you being like that?"

"no way bro, being this big is fucking awesome"

the three bodybuilders all began laughing and flexing

"I'm sorry I really dont see how turning myself into a...freak would be awesome"

There was a dead silence as the three bodybuilders stopped laughing and turned to him.

"that's a bit of a harsh word bro"

"yeah man don't diss the hobby coz you aint into it"

Tyson smirked flicking as he polished his fitness watch with the edge of his jumper "dude I dont think anyone is into it"

"what the fuck is that supposed to mean"

"umm being so big you have no style because you cant fit into anything, constantly covered in sweat marks, you reek after just a few minutes of exercise, you gulp down water like an elephant who hasn't drunk in a year, can barely fit in your cars and take up so much space, plus I like when guys find me attractive and aren't grossed out by my monstrous body" Tyson turned his back placing his gym bag in the locker completely unaware that the three men he had just insulted looked so red their heads could pop with anger.

"I'LL LET YOU KNOW MY HUSBAND LOOOOVVVEEESSS MY SIZE" the bodybuilder in the middle yelled through his teeth

"whoooaa jayce" the two others said in unison as they grabbed him by the chest and stopped him taking a step forward

"don't shoot the messenger buddy but Im pretty sure your husband wouldn't be disappointed if you lost 30-40lsb of muscle, pretty sure he'd enjoy date night without sitting across from a behemoth stuffing himself so full of protein like a slob"

Jayce threw his arms up in the air and pushed his two friends off of him turning around and walking away.

Tyson ignored the interaction implying pulling his towel and drink bottle out of his gym bag.

"You know what you need Ty..."

"and what's that Mark?" Tyson tiredly asked rolling his eyes

"A real good bulk, make ya real big, that'll change your mind" Mark smirked looking at his friend who was smiling back.

"whatever" Tyson groaned as he walked off into the gym.

---

A few hours had passed and Tyson was in the changing room admiring himself after his workout. It was enough to pump him to that perfect spot where he looked just slightly bigger and was a little sore, but not enough to make him sweat or stimulate the sort of growth a lot of gym guys were after.

Tyson flexed one bicep and ran his other hand down his thigh feeling himself get hard.

"Oh yeah handsome, just wait till I get you in my bed" He smirked at his own reflection.

Just then he heard the sound to the changing rooms open, his hand quickly shot up from his thigh, not wanting anyone to see his moment of lust.

He watched in the mirror as Jayce rounded the corner, his massive and wide shoulders causing him to bump into subway tiled wall. A massive smile lit up on Jayce's face as he saw Tyson standing there.

"Yep" Jayce yelled out

Dylan quickly followed behind and began walking towards Tyson, not that he thought much of it.

"Grab his left Dylan?"

"No worried Jayce"

Tyson was shocked as the two hulking bodybuilders suddenly grabbed hold of his arms and used what felt like all of their strength to sandwich him between them.

"h-HEY WHAT THE FUCK GET OFF" Tyson struggled and squirmed to get out of there grip but it felt like he was being pressed between two stone walls, he was unable to do anything other than pathetically kick his legs.

Just then Tyson heard the door to the changing rooms lock as Mark rounded the corner.

"Mark!, tell your fucking boys to let me go!"

The three bodybuilder's laughed as Mark walked closer holding a strange metal container in his hand that resembled a protein shaker.

"Hey lil dude" Said Mark with a big smirk across his face

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THREE WANT" Tyson snapped.

"to prove you wrong man" Jayce whispered

'w-what" Tyson continued to flounder and squirm to no avail

"you said being a bodybuilder sucked, well we are gonna prove you wrong" Dylan smirked tightly squeezing Tyson's arms

"h-how, Im not gonna start bodybuilding because you three threaten me"

"oh there is no threat bud, we have got something we want to try but dont know about the side effects wanna test it"

"ARE YOU GONNA JAB MY ASS FULL OF ROIDS" Tyson squeaked pathetically

"no dude, of course not" Said Mark

"we already know the side effects to roids" laughed Jayce

Mark grabbed onto Tyson's perfect hair and forcefully pulled his head back, Tyson couldn't see but he felt Jayce wrap his giant muscular arm around his pinning his between Jayce's bulky bicep and forearm and grabbing his cheeks forcing his jaw open.

"bottoms up pretty boy" Mark said as he flicked the cap off the contained with his thumb and shoved the mouth piece into Tyson's mouth.

"MMMMM -MMMM -MMMMMMM!!!!!!" Tyson tried to yell but his mouth was full of a strange thick liquid.

Mark dropped the contained and grabbed Tyson's nose still forcing the container to his lips

"gotta drink if you wanna breathe buddy"

Tyson couldn't hold it any longer

GULP...GULP...GULP.....GULP

Tyson sucked down what was in his mouth and what continued to pour from the container, when the last drop was drunk and all he could taste was air the three bodybuilders all let go in unison and Tyson dropped to the ground gasping for air.

"How long does it take to work Mark?"

"errr container says a few minutes for a start and a week for full effects"

Tyson couldn't concentrate on what the three were talking about, his body began to feel like it was being super heated, like his muscles and bones were being fried into pudy.

Tyson's hand began to tremble, as he looked at it pressed against the cold tiled floor he noticed his thumb enlarging, getting longer and thicker, it spread to all his fingers and his hand, at first he thought it was an allergic reaction but it wasn't puffy or fat, it was hard solid and defined, like all the muscles in his hands were suddenly expanding, he watched as his handed swelled up to the size of dinner plates as veins in his arms and forearms pumped in sync with his heart beat.

His forearms stared growing outwards and he felt his already tight and pumped biceps ache as they swelled even bigger. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he looked like a bad art project as different parts of his body were swelling with size and different times, his shoulders got wider as his calves got bigger, his pecs inflated as his feet grew out of his shoes, his abs bloated into a semi roid gut as his quads quickly filled with blood, and his ass pumped up into a big meaty globe as his traps crept up his back swallowing his necks.

after just a few minutes the three bodybuilders were stunned looking down at the sweaty bulky mess that was Tyson on the floor of the changing room.

Tyson had watched the whole thing in the mirror but still he couldn't recognise himself, what had happened, what they did to him.

He looked like one of them, a bodybuilder.

"w-what did you do to me" Tyson moaned, out of breath and out of energy

"damn, he got huge so quick, and he still has a week to go?"

"please, no, no bigger, turn me back"

the three bodybuilders began to have a conversation around Tyson like he wasn't even there as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. A few minutes passed and Tyson finally stood up. He felt uncomfortable, muscles he didn't even know where near each other rubbed up against each other like every aspect of his body was fighting for space.

Tyson looked at himself horrified in the mirror at the big bulky freak he had become.

"oh fuck..m..my perfect body" he turned to the three men behind him "please, please you gotta turn me back"

"you still got a week of growin left bud" Mark replied

"PLEASE I CAN'T GET BIGGER"

Jayce smirked trying to contain his laughter

"Look dude, we said we were gonna show you how being a bodybuilder is awesome, let it go for a week and we'll check back in and if you still hate it, we'll turn you back"

Tyson turned back to his reflection and flexed, freaked out by his bicep being larger than his own head.

"see, its already awesome, see you later dude"

The three bodybuilders started walking out of the changing room

"no WAIT!!"

Tyson ran over to his bag feeling the weight of his new body with every step and feeling his hard muscles bounce. He leant over and swung his bag over his shoulder. He watched as the door closed behind the three and he ran to catch up. Every step was a chore, it was like an entire workout for just one leg to hold up the weight of his new massive body.

By the time he reached the door Tyson doubled over gasping for air, he placed his giant meaty hand on the wall and slid down the the floor, he had only run a few feet but it felt like he had just done and three hours of cardio without a break, he felt the sweat running down his back and struggled to come up with a reason anyone would want to be this big, why guys would dedicate their lives to become titans.

it took 15 minutes, for Tyson to catch his breath and stand up again and by the time that happened the three he was after were already gone, he walked through the gym defeated hoping nobody would recognise him. He made it to the turn gate and as he went to go through he felt a hard pressing against his shoulders. Not at all used to his new size Tyson hadn't adjusted the angle that he approached the gate and found himself stuck between the two steel bars. Tyson pushed with his back leg but didn't realise the power behind his colossal quads as he easily pushed himself out but he couldn't stop the moment and he came tumbling forward face first onto the floor in front and multiple gym attendants.

"woah, you okay big guy" one of them asked,

Tyson looked up and saw the other two doing their best not to laugh.

"yeah I'm fine!" Tyson tried to get up as fast as he could but the sheer weight of his frame meant it was an awkward step by step process that took almost a whole minute.

Tyson quickly raced out the doors as fast as his could but once again misjudged his giant muscles and his two shoulders slammed into the automatic doors not realising they weren't wide enough for him. A loud bang rang out and Tyson looked back as the glass automatic doors wobbled and shook, and ounce more pressure and they would have surely crashed down around him.

Tyson waddled through the car park desperate to get to his car. Swinging open the door he quickly realised why he had never seen a bodybuilder in a sleek sports car, he didn't fit, just one leg stepped in and there wasn't any more room for him to squeeze in. He tried everything, moving the seat back, moving the wheel up, but still he didn't fit. After about 10 minutes of doing everything he could think of to get in he just decided to force his way in.

Sliding into the car he felt cramped, and when he closed the driver's door it bounced off his arm and swung back open denting the car next to him. Tyson tried again leaning all the way into his car and shutting the door. It shut but as he sat back up he found himself on an awkward angle to the wheel, he tried to adjust himself to roll down the window so he could stick his arm out and get more space but as he placed his arm down on the leather seat to push his own body out the way he heard a loud tearing. His clothes didn't feel loser and he couldn't see what had torn but it sounded bad...

When Tyson arrived home he squeezed himself out of his car, it felt like being freed from a sardine can but as he turned around to shut his door he had found the source of the tearing noise from earlier, in the centre of the seat, directly under where he was, was now a large split right down the leather, seats that cost over a thousand dollars to fix split apart like paper, and that wasn't the worst of it, he looked at the lower back of the seat to see how the leather had warped and swollen from the amount of sweat that had been pressed against it.

"AW MAN" Tyson moaned slammed his car door, not realising the force his arms were able to put behind it and as the door lodged into place his hand carried the momentum behind it straight into the metal of the car leaving a large dent from his palm.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME"

Tyson stormed over to his front door just wanting the day to end. He pulled up his keys to the front door and fumbled for a few minutes as he struggled to sort though them with his massive meaty fingers, finally he got in the door and shut it behind him as gently as he could which still resulted in a slam.

His stomach let out a loud groan, he had never felt so hungry so sudden in his life, Tyson tried to walk to the kitchen but realised it was more of a waddle has his massive muscular thighs slammed into each other. Arriving in front of his fridge he opened it up and grabbed one of his already made meals out and placed it in the microwave to heat up. He watched in spinning round and heard his stomach grumble as the 2 minutes felt like an entirety. Finally he heard the beep and opened up the microwave to devour his meal. What normally would have left him feeling full for hours didn't even make a dent in his hunger. Tyson opened up his fridge and moved on to his next meal without even heating it up, then another, then a protein shake to wash it down, then another meal and a couple apples, along with a banana or two, and of course he had to pull some of the muffins out of the freezer to defrost to have a bit later.

Tyson sat on his couch, feeling groggy and finally full. He looked around him, plates, protein shakers, wrappers and plastic containers were spread out all over his lounge room from the floor to the coffee table. He felt so heavy he didn't want to get up, he just wanted to pass out on his couch and go to sleep. As his eyes began to drift close...

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

The loudest belch he had ever heard forced him to jolt awake.

"aw fuc-uuuuUUURRPPP, this place is a mess"

Tyson finally realised he had trashed his lounge room in his feeding frenzy, he got up to try and clean but he didn't get very far. His body was so massive it was hard to move between his furniture and it was hard for him to constantly bend down to pick stuff up. On his second trip back from the kitchen to clean the last of the mess he finally noticed where he had been sitting, and the enormous sweat patch pressed into the fabric.

He pulled his tight tank top out from his body realising it looked like he had never washed it in his life.

"god, I need a fucking shower"

He made his way down the hall to the bathroom where he was shocked by his own reflection. He knew he had been turned into a hulking behemoth but, he looked like a completely different person now. His tank top was tight and clung to his body as his pecs hung out the sides. It was covered in sweat patches and strains from spilt protein shakes and food. His face was covered in a coat of sweat and his hair was oiler than he'd ever seen before. Tyson's gut churned as he let out another belch. He suddenly felt a tightness in his pants and he got hard.

"what the fuck..."

Tyson lifted up one arm to flex his bicep, he watched the sweat running down from his pits to his lats, he swallowed a quick gulp of air expecting maybe a small burp but was greeted with a massive room shaking belch. Tyson couldn't help it, he got rock solid staring at his sweaty body and hearing his own manly belching.

He worked his hand down awkwardly to his dick and started to pleasure himself.

He couldn't work it out, he missed his perfect body, he missed his old self, he was grossed out by being such a freak but god he was too horny to not please himself.

Right before his big moment he felt a wave of heat surge out into his body, his clothes felt tighter and suddenly the left strap of his tank top snapped as his shoulder, pec and arm practically doubled in size.

"AAH NO, NO NOT AGAIN"

Tyson watched as his dirty tank was torn to shreds by his growing body. His shorts felt tighter and tighter, soon he felt the sound of ripping fabric. As he turned to the side to inspect his growing legs he saw as his muscled ass split his pants in the back and the fabric quickly tore through making his shorts look like a bad loin clothe prop from a Halloween costume.

"OH FUCK NO, STOP, STOP AHHHH"

Tyson could only watch as his body continued to rapidly grow in the mirror...

--------------

3 weeks later

Tyson leant back on the workout bench groaning and gasping for air. It was the most he had ever lifted, not that he wanted to get bigger but it was the only thing he could do with his day at this point.

He heard the noise of 3 guys cheering as Mark, Jayce and Dyaln approached him.

"HEY BIG MAN" Said Mark

"oh great, what do you guys want"

"relax big guy, just wanted to bring you a snack" Dylan laughed as he pulled out a paper bag of drive through crispy chicken and handed it to Tyson.

"Dont forget to wash it down" said Jayce handing him a protein shake

Tyson didn't have the will power to hold back, his new muscle and size burnt so much fuel from simple existing he was practically starving constantly. He immediately reached into the bag and started eating as much as he could as fast as he could, washing it down with a swig of the protein shake, only taking breaks to gasp for air.

A river of chocolate protein ran down his cheek and dripped onto his XXXL tank top, which looked more like a medium crop top on him.

A young handsome gym attendant walked over to the group with a smile on his face.

"hey guys, just a reminder, you can't eat like that in here save it for outside okay" He smiled as he looked straight into Tyson's eyes.

Tyson's mind was racing, this guy was the most handsome guy he had ever seen in his life, we wanted to apologise for being such a slob, hell, he wanted to ask the guy on a date.

Tyson rubbed the crumbs and protein from his mouth away with the back of his hand and opened his mouth. Immediately he gritted his teeth and almost by instinct at this point cocked the side of his mouth open.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPP!!

Tyson couldn't help but belch and burp as he struggled to get a word out.

"bro..that's nasty" the gym attendant laughed as he walked away.

Mark, Jayce and Dylan all erupted with laughter.

"DUUUUUUDDEEEE" yelled Dylan

"You aren't gonna get a date like that dude I tell you that" laughed Jayce

"They probably wouldn't date him even if he didn't burp every couple of minutes, I mean who wants to date a bodybuilder freak right guys" Mark laughed as he rubbed Tyson's shoulders

"Yeah, you're right Mark, nobody wants a freak like Tyson" Dylan chuckled.

Tyson couldn't control it, the sound of their laughter, the way the three called him a freak and a slob. His dick got hard and he felt as a mixture of pre and cum leaked into his underwear.

They were never going to change him back, he was going to be stuck as this good for nothing muscle pig, forever....

he threw himself back down on the bench..

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP

#male transformation #muscle #muscle transformation #male tf #tf story #transformation #gay transformation #musk #muscle morph

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cerastes · 9 months ago

Note

I saw there are a lot of forest fire in chile right now. are you gonna be okay?

Three days after the fact, yeah, I'll be fine, personally and physically, but it's dire, I'm not going to lie. I've never seen so much fire in my life. When you think about a big fire, your impression might be two or three buildings on fire with some firefighter trucks spraying water at it. This was kilometers upon kilometers of raging blazes. Kilometers. Heads up if you are sensitive to these kinds of posts, this isn't a happy one.

Entire hills on fire. Lush green hills reduced to ash and smoke.

Not to mention the urban parts that got hit badly

The official death toll keeps increasing each passing hour as they clear up the rubble and ruins and find more corpses. People I know lost everything. Some people I know lost their loved ones. Dogs are eating corpses on the street because they haven't picked them up yet, so you have neighbors warding off said dogs. Bodies get picked up too badly burned, eaten, decomposed, or a mix thereof to be identified.

It's a tragedy. It all reeks of smoke, there's ash everywhere.

It was sudden, it was brutal. Seeing elderly survivors wondering "what's next for me? I don't have enough years left among the living to rebuild all I lost, all I worked for throughout my life, gone like that" breaks my heart. The government is offering all sorts of aid, but there's also people whose documents, like ID and other identifying documentation, was lost in the fire, so they have to get re-issued an ID before they can actually start filing for aid. The SML (Servicio Médico Legal) is oversaturated with all that's suddenly on their plate and can't return the bodies of people to their families yet, and these are all people that still need food, shelter, hygiene, and so on after the fact. Seeing the logistical nightmare that becomes life after you lose everything firsthand from other people is sobering and painful. Yeah, they survived, but what comes next? It's a sense of uncertainty that is smothering and asphyxiating, it's hopelessness.

I apologize if I come across as dramatic, especially so as someone who was luckily not affected, but it really, really has been heartbreaking to witness, especially from very up close, as I was there, and it's one thing to know of a tragedy that happened elsewhere, maybe even in your own country, but elsewhere, and it's a whole other beast to have seen it directly as it unfolded.

Keep Chile in your thoughts. If you are able to, please consider donating to Desafío Levantemos Chile, to my knowledge the only drive that accepts Paypal, thus, foreign donations, to help the various efforts to rebuild and aid those affected. Desafío Levantemos Chile dates back to 2010, when Chile got hit by a devastating earthquake, and is an NGO that bases its continued existence in being able to provide aid during catastrophes such as this one.

#chile #fefeman

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changeling-droneco · 3 months ago

Text

Hi I'm that person who made the original post about "no doesn mean no" when a small bit of the mr beast company document was leaked, well, now we have the full document (thanks rosanna) so I'm going to go over it. Please note I am not a lawyer or a business man, I'm in college for psychology, so I might misunderstand some things or make the wrong conclusion. However, if this is a document made for the average mr. beast employee, if I cannot understand it properly, then im sure some employees also struggled

First of all, the opening paragraph. Like I get it's supposed to be like, to put people at ease, but

This is so strange? Like, first of all, this is your EMPLOYEE MANUAL, you should have run it through like, a spell check? Or had someone edit it? This is already incredibly unprofessional. Also the promising of a thousand dollars if you pass a quiz on it? It's bizarre and I'd love to see if it's an actual quiz.

Jimmy, hun, please god get an editor for this you're already trying my patience.

YOU SHOULD, you genuinely should, while interconnected these are all COMPLETELY different jobs, if you think you could write a separate manual for each branch you SHOULD

I'm sure I'm about to get an answer but what the fuck is the best YOUTUBE video then? If it's not comedy, its not production, its not quality, its not look, then what the hell is left? (monetization, it's monetization)

First of all, Jimmy, why are you using internet lingo in this, it's not a text message, this is not a place for, idc, and lol, and not capitalizing your headers correctly??? Also like I said, he's chasing trends for monetization, and also he's just wrong, there are plenty of hollywood level shows and the like on youtube. You fully admit you do not care about trends and actively rush things?

This is just fucked??? Like of COURSE IT MATTERS??? Results based company is bullshit, your employees that worked for five weeks and failed aren't "lesser" then James, it's a structural failure! They still worked for HOURS to try and succeed?? That shows merit and loyalty??? What the fuck???

Rosanna covers this one in her video but it's worth restating that this is FUCKED??? It's clear overwork "your job is your family" culture. Especially the use of the word obsessive? If you do not OBSESS over your work, you are considered poisonous. NO WONDER we have so many reports of employees doing things they feel is dangerous or unsafe, if they don't they're considered POISON to the company.

The formatting in this doc continues to fucking kill me, what are you DOING man GET AN EDITOR

This feels like such an easy fix of just...make the thumbnail after the fact? Or only make a rough draft of one first? Like if production makes a red bouncy castle instead of a yellow one, that feels like an easy fix to the thumbnail OR a communication error, and again, that's on management

A lot of the next stuff is like analytics stuff that for the most part I can't really speak on as someone who does not do any of this stuff. There are a few things though

Which like???? what??? a lull??? what do you mean "watching a video without even realizing they are watching a video??" That doesn't scream good or even mediocre content to me. If I'm actively tuning out as I watch a video, that's bad. Especially because there have been plenty of times I've been like half way through a video i go "hey this sucks actually" and click off. They actively want their audience to not be paying attention to the video so it runs all the way through, that's kinda pathetic.

I don't actually know if this is common or not in this industry, but as an outsider this seems INCREDIBLY micromanaging to me, to an immense degree.

Jimmy why are you putting swears in your employee manual?? sir??? and also something about this whole thing icks me out, I don't quite have the words but the whole emphasis on "im different im special no one else can be me" just reeks of something kind of manipulative

Why is production changing so much Jimmy??? Infinite growth is the mindset of a cancer cell Jimmy! This is incredibly unstable working conditions! Also again with the word obsession, if you take time out of your own day on your own time to watch hulu, that's seen as not being obsessed enough for the company. This is nonsensical!

Again, this is INSANELY micromanaging, and also so fucking unhinged??? "God himself couldn't stop you from making this video on time" is NOT a healthy work mindset, things HAPPEN!!!

In this segment he's actually talking normal things but I did just want to highlight his use of "freaken" who the hell puts that in an EMPLOYEE MANUEL

Again with the micromanaging, and the immense pressure on employees for problems OTHER people do. While he's not fully wrong that you should be in more contact with the contractor then the example, this is too much in the other direction. How much time in the day does he think people have?!

My kingdom for a fucking paragraph break dude, my fucking eyes. Also this is a lot of "im so great and do everything and you should do more for me and if i dont know something that's your fault" for something titled "I am not always right"

I'm getting lazy with my highlighting, but again, the micromanaging? If you're SOOO busy, the first question should be the ideal? it's quick and makes a quick decision, while the second one meanders and meanders

Again, Jimmy is pushing blame for HIS mistakes on OTHER PEOPLE. For again, a section called "i am not always right" hes taking NO accountability for that and just making the SAME excuses he's berating in other places.

I can't even tell what he means here AN EDITOR JIMMY

Autism Hell tm, PLEASE email me so I can DOUBLE CHECK IT, things in writing are SO useful

Again the language towards "C-Players" which as mr beast has said, are the people who y'know, are NORMAL employees who DON'T live and breathe this company

Okay first of all, a Lamborghini is like 300k so that's already A REALLY hard task, and i sure hope don't usually put typos in the tasks. SECOND of all the fact he thinks its okay to go "hey if the studio is literally on fire around you and you stop working to get the Lamborghini, you're not doing good enough" even if he claims it as a joke is NOT OKAY what the FUCK

We've covered this before, but to reiterate this segment is named after a sexual assault reference when it could have been named ANYTHING ELSE and harasses employees and pressures them to break rules, don't do that.

I'm not an editor, so maybe this is normal, but as someone from the outside it seems strange to put this much emphasis on dividing focus between so many videos at once.

Jimmy, hun, are you paying extra for this? Because if I'm an editor and you want me FILMING stuff then i want to be paid more for doing TWO jobs and I probably still wont be as skilled a TRAINED CAMERA MAN

First of all now THAT'S a type, consteatants. Also the fact they are aware that leaving contestants out in the sun is bad, why are you not doing MORE TO STOP IT BEYOND "hey maybe giving them three hours of heatstroke is bad, try only two next time"

Don't we love favoritism, more shitty unprofessional writings, and a completely unstable work environment?

If your people have to pull all nighters period something is wrong, and if something happens to an employees car that could have seriously hurt someone, i sure hope you care more then just "LOL FUNNY" Who's picking up the broken glass? Who's reimbursing the car owner? That one meme of "your first care should be commitment to the bit" is a MEME jimmy, it's not ACTUAL ADVICE

Ah shit I hit image limit, well, you've seen enough screenshots to know these are screenshots, we're almost done I'll put them in as quotes

"Let’s say you are tasked with finding us a castle to live in for 50 hours and while doing research you find a castle and a number to call for the owner. So you do call, and he answers. Only problem is he says he quit the castle renting business to pursue his dream of building a 100 foot tall lego catapult. You can obviously tell where i’m going with this. Ideally you’d recognize that’s badass as fuck and try to convince him to let us use it when we do find a castle. This is a bad example because it’s so obvious but if you’re doing your job right you will be doing an absurd amounts of calls and data collecting. While trying to complete your prios and prepare for the video you should always be on the lookout for new things you can bring to your creative team to inspire them. Because just like me, they don’t know what they don’t know and you can’t just say “i’m in production and i’m not very creative” because that’s literally the equivalent of saying I suck at what I do. You also need to apply this same mindset when problem solving because many people lose sight of this stuff when in the weeds. If a problem appears, always always always ask yourself if your new plan is whats best for creative, not just the easiest bandaid."

First of all it's really funny seeing all the red lines pop up, second of all this insistent blurring of everyone's job seems so strange? Again maybe this is normal, but it really feels like Jimmy wants everyone working every job, instead on focusing on what they are actually hired to do.

"What is the goal of our content?

To excite me. The goal of our content is to excite me. That may sound weird to some of you, especially if you’re new but to me it’s what’s most important. If I'm not excited to get in front of that camera and film the video, it’s just simply not going to happen."

That's fucking weirddddd, like I get that he's trying to be like "im authentic" but it always feels like a bad sign when the goal of a company is literally just "What amuses the boss" like...bad sign

"this is youtube and there are constraints. You know the video can’t be a minute so you’re obviously going to need a story to hold the viewers and there are rules to storytelling. Our audience is massive and because of that you have to be simple, for 50 million people to understand something it must be simple. Content can be anything but there is structure and rules that we must mold it into that I want to teach you about, because virality doesn’t just happen. Every frame of our videos will be seen by 10s of millions of people"

Gross

"I'd say the average MrBeast viewer is a teenage memer that likes video games."

Mr Beast is completely aware of his demographic and puts screen shots of it, he is very aware his stuff is aimed at kids, even when its about gambling or hiring people not around near minors

"I feel silly for having to write this but all the time I talk to 32 new people that have at most seen like 5 or 6 of our videos and it’s mind blowing that they don’t see a problem with that lol."

It's almost like your audience is teenage memer and that people who working here are not in fact, teenage memers.

"What you consume on social media, when you watch youtube, tv, the games you play, etc. are what I like to call your information diet.

How do you stay up to date on the latest memes? How do you know what’s going on with celebrities? What’s trending on youtube? What other creators are doing? What’s popping on tik tok? Your information diet. Consume things on a daily basis that help you write better content."

If my job as a creative writer had my boss tell me to have to see whats "popping on tik tok" as part of my job i'd quit also again, the micromanaging of someone's life as well pops up again, it's weirddd

"It’s okay for the boys to be childish

If talent wants to draw a dick on the white board in the video or do something stupid, let them. (assuming they know all the risks and arn’t missing context on why it’s not safe) People like when we are in our natural element of stupidity. Really do everything you can to empower the boys when filming and help them make content. Help them be idiots"

More favoritism

"If you’ve made it this far you are probably at least semi interested in this being your career. So I wanted to chat about it. Because if you're ambitious and want to dedicate your life to work, you picked the best company in America to do it at. I really don’t care to hoard a bunch of money and I deeply believe in rewarding the people that help this business get where it needs to be. But before I get into that, let’s talk about the future. As I write this we have 2 teams, that will grow to 4 in the next year. (and possibly 8 in the next 2 years but I can’t talk about that cause james will kill me haha). We need more leaders in the company. Weneed hard working, obsessive, coachable, intelligent, grinders that can step up and take some of these leadership spots over the next 2 years. Every single department has an opportunity for you to grow in and you’re in luck because we don’t do yearly reviews. We do whenever the fuck you want reviewes"

Lack of communication from management, and more emphasis on grinding and crunch culture, goodie, all while riddled with typos! God.

"I see a world where this company is worth billions and one day 10s of billions. And those of you that help build this will be rewarded. I want nothing more then for you to go all in, obsessive all day everyday, and become so god dam valuable this company can’t operate without you. And in return for becoming so valuable I hope to give you incredible experiences, a fun place to work, and of course, more money then you could ever dream of making at any other company."

I feel like I'm reading a fucking pyramid scheme document here, "youre so so valuable spend literally every minute of every day on this company haha" good GOD man

#mr beast #rosanna pansino #dogpack404 #jake weddle #this has been three am thoughts

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wraithdance · 3 months ago

Text

Price who grew up with a cold, bourgeois father who used his money and sharp words to keep his family under his thumb. John enlisted as soon as he could and pushed himself through to the top because he’s never liked being the nameless body under anyone’s foot

Price who finds it natural to be a Dom and doesn’t enjoy brat taming. He said what he said the first time, he’s not repeating twice. Don’t even ask him to switch. he’s not giving up that control ever, he’ll hold it in his jowls and claws even in the after life

Price who hates the uptight, by the book captain whose auditing his base. Hates her to his core, the feeling puckers and burns like his cigar on flesh. He hates the smell of blue blood reeking off of her, the way she tilts her chin up and snarls right back with words meant to cut through to the viscera. He’s livid that his team respects her and she’s begrudgingly competent

Price who may posture like a well trained house dog but when it comes down to it, he’ll always be the circling wolf waiting in the dead of night. He’ll lie in wait for the lamb who arrogantly grew teeth for as long as it takes. And when she least expects it-

he’ll show her why you shouldn’t taunt beasts with empty bellies

#news flash he’s gonna fuck her #might come back to this and make it something #cuz it’s got my brain itching #captain john price #john price #big daddy

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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

Text

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell.

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you.

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself.

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out.

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you.

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin.

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls.

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me!

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise.

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies.

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

“I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress.

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight.

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring.

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water. You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips.

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip.

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone.

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all.

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement.

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release.

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt.

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are. He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly, shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you. You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab.

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation.

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm.

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure. “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

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gallusrostromegalus · 4 months ago

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A Miracle In The Night

Sometimes, you get an idea for a lightly fucked up short story. TW: Death, mild gore, Plot Twist :)

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She travels through the night And listens

Some might call her home dark and cold and akin to the lowest levels of hell, But their heaven burns her eyes and skin and her very breath To her, The Endless Night is Paradise

The whole world was like this once, in the very beginning The Divine Darkness which contains the potential for every tragedy and miracle and everything in between, and she is blessed to travel through the gardens of creation.

The Night created everything, even God, who lives in the burning world and blesses the sinless beings of the night with the very force of life.

But not even Paradise is free of suffering.

It should be this way, of course- nothing would ever happen otherwise. Everything that happens is a miracle. It’s just a question of who the Miracle is for.

There will be a Miracle tonight. She can feel it- the tension is electric across her skin, gut tightening, every sense on edge.

Starvation leads to such peculiar sensitivity.

She’s on the verge of death- It should be this way, otherwise nothing could be alive. But she’s closer to the edge than usual.

It’s been so long since she felt the Burning Love of God within her. The delicious taste of good fortune in the night Chasing ecstasy with a racing heart and feeling her body fly The heat in her belly, seeping out through her until it filled her with the Divine Warmth of God’s Love.

It’s been so, so long since she’s eaten.

It’s been uneasy- the breathing of the world has been unsteady of late- too early and too late, out of time like it has become ill and all things suffer for it. There is nothing to partake of in her usual hunting grounds, so she has traveled far, far from home, into a brighter and hotter part of the night.

Here, the protective wall between her and the burning world exists only in scattered fragments, and strange and monstrous things traverse the thin veil between their worlds.

Here, the eternal night has been invaded by noxious, screaming beasts from the burning world above. They race with their bodies straddling the barrier between their worlds, far faster than anything has the right to fly, howling with a deafening voice that can be heard for hundreds of miles.

It’s a problem because she cannot hear the songs of her prey.

Everything sings, if one will listen. The high, chiming pings of the smallest stars flashing with bioluminescence around her. The long, low songs of the fire-breathers, who hunt here in the abyss for one of her oldest brothers, but return to the barrier and briefly cross it to breathe before they return. Even the earth sings- the moan and crack of her body as she shifts her weight, the almost invisible inhale and exhale of her seasons. She even builds great musical instruments of ash and smoke and an even hotter burning than the world above, singing the tale of the first days of creation in honor of the endless night.

But the behemoths do not sing.

They scream and scream and scream and their piss reeks of vile poison and overexertion. Almost like the way an injured animal can put on a miraculous turn of speed to escape pursuit. What might be pursuing such behemoths is an awful but intriguing consideration. Perhaps the behemoths are the little darting beings of the burning world, and the thing they flee the equivalent of herself. She’s seen it before, when the moon is high and she travels up to the barrier, and the little dancing bodies leap across the barrier to avoid her.

To that end, she can only wish her counterpart good hunting- both in the sympathy between one apex predator and another, and the hope that maybe it will get better at catching the behemoths before they come into her world.

Still, Where there is disturbance, There is also opportunity.

There are rumors from those that live closer to the barrier that the behemoths piss poison but shit out bounties- the wastes of these things are food direct from the burning world, where God lives, and that waste is full of The Divine Warmth of Life. The direct waste is devoured by the smallest and fastest things first, but when they are clustered at their feast, they are easier for the larger beings to partake in, and so too larger things than they until even her most beautiful borderland sister with the belly pale as the moon is now as round as it, fat with the blessing of pups.

So she has ventured as close as she dares to the world of her sisters in hopes of finding the rumored prey so full of the Burning Love of God.

She needs it. She can’t live without it.

A Miracle will happen tonight.

Whether for her or the crawling lives of the deepest night remains to be seen.

She follows the terrible screaming song of the behemoth in silence and prays for a miracle. She does not sing praise when she prays. She preys when she prays.

The highest reverence to The Divine Night is to Listen. To travel in silence, and take in all the songs of The Night.

So she makes herself silent and listens and listens and listens to the screaming song, hoping that somewhere in the noise, she can hear the soft voice of God.

This time God answers with a voice like thunder.

It really is like being too close to a lightning strike, the way the noise viscerally passes through her and lights up every nerve, teeth gritting and body thrashing as she feels the voice of God the same way she feels the body of a lover against her own.

The scream of the behemoth changes. It sputters, then pitches wildly, low visceral injury and high keening pain, like the fire-breathers when they try to hunt the largest of her brothers and become prey themselves.

Oh, what a beautiful song to something like her.

She aches, weak and tired, but hope and joy surge through her and she forces herself to move at speed, even for all the energy it takes, because perhaps the miracle is for her tonight-

She flies as fast as she can towards the dying behemoth, as does every brother and sister and ancestor and descendant, all as desperate to feast upon God’s Love as she- all of them race forward but then up, and up and up up to where the Behemoth is sinking into their world- It has run upon a fragment of the protective barrier hard enough to tear it's side and break it's back. There is the terrible acrid scent of it’s noxious piss and if she were not on the verge of starvation it might be enough to put her off the feast.

But she flies on and up- even weak with hunger she is one of the largest and fastest of her family when she needs to be, so she is the first to smell other strange things from the behemoth- burning flavors that sting her nose and mouth, as well as sweet things that confuse intrigue, and-

Oh. Oh, GOD!

It’s blood but nothing like any blood she’s tasted before- it’s actually HOT in the night, burning with the warmth of the other world even this far from it’s origin, rich and fatty and metallic like the flesh of a fallen fire-breather but even more so. She spreads her wings and sways her hips and spine to fly as fast as she can, the way a lover pursues her- full of nothing but adoration and a desire to make their bodies as one.

Then in a beam of moonlight, she sees the first of the bodies from the burning world.

The frenzy at the behemoth is a feast for the ages, from the exultant chorus above, and the fact that even with every member of her family for a hundred miles around at the feast, there are so many bodies to feast upon that a body is falling past the festivities to her, uneaten and whole.

What a strange and beautiful body it is.

She pauses, circling it even as her mouth and gut ache for it, studying the being from the burning world.

It’s hot, hotter than any body she’s ever felt before, even though it is very definitely dead, as unsuited to breathe the night as she is to breathe fire. Its wings are long and twist strangely, like the tentacles of her brothers that are hunted by the fire-breathers. It’s awkwardly shaped, like the crawling five-winged creatures of the mud, but not quite. There is an almost unsettling familiarity to its symmetry.

The fire-breathers say they used to live in the burning world, but returned to the night, and that all the beasts of the burning world had too once come from the night. It had sounded absurd, but looking upon the form of this being now, she wondered.

Well. Only the one thing to do, really.

Gently, she approaches the being, opens her mouth to embrace it, and welcomes it home to the night.

There is no love like the love the predator feels for its prey. It is reverence made flesh- O holy being, oh virtue to pursue and make one’s own.It is the flesh made reverent- Please, little being of the burning world, let her love you as she loves her own children, the weight of your body deep within her own.

There is no gratitude like the gratitude a predator feels for its prey. She owes you her life tonight, little being of the burning world. She lives from the mercy of your body alone. It is already a kindness she can never repay to live by your generosity, but oh, you made it so sweet- Your blood intoxicates her senses, your body thrillingly warm- as agonizing as the fire of the burning world is to breathe in, it’s just as wonderful to swallow.

You are so sweet, so sweet, she will remember this favor forever.

There is no miracle like the divine connection between predator and prey. Oh child of the burning world, you who brings the Warmth of God into The Endless Night, You burning being of God’s Love. She is blessed by you, messenger of God. Through you she receives the miracle of life.

Welcome, little burning being Welcome home to the night from whence you came Welcome inside her deepest self, and receive her hospitality.

She swallows the little burning being up with adoration, feeling it settle within her. Relief, ecstasy and satisfaction swirl but are interrupted by the appearance of another body. And another And another And another

The Behemoth itself falls, it’s body still curiously dynamic even torn in half- one end dives for the bottom of the night with somewhat alarming speed, where the other glides along to the depths on an angled path, the distant motion still visible with the bioluminescence it stirs up along it’s path. It is massive beyond anything she's seen before, more like a piece of geography than a living organism.

And all along its wake, hundreds of bodies spill forth from inside.

What a strange miracle this is. But she’s not one to refuse God’s Love. And if the beings of the burning world travel in huge schools with their behemoth, the peculiar notion that the little being within her might be lonely occurs to her. …Wow, she’s REALLY drunk.

Still, she eats three more of the burning beings before her guts are almost bursting with fullness, a bizarre sensation she’d only heard about from those who had been fortunate enough to feast on the fallen body of a fire-breather and had to leave the excess to the crawling beings of the bottom. So too, does she watch more bodies descend deep into the night as she returns to her world of darkness and song, the behemoth’s terrible screams now silent with rest, and the choir of the night rejoicing in this miracle.

---

Two miles above the revelry of God’s Favorite Greenland Shark, the survivors of the Titanic prayed into the endless night for a miracle, unaware it had already been granted.

#Long Post under the cut #short fiction #tw death #tw description of a dead body #tw plot twist #I am intensely curious to know when people realize what's going on in the story :)

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elfchaos · 9 months ago

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Just coming over here to remind everyone

If something happens with a content creator you bought merch from and you can’t support them anymore you DONT have to throw it away. You can…

1. Donate it!

-someone could benefit from an article of clothing. Especially if it has a genuine good design and isn’t just “CREATOR’s NAME AND LOGO”

2. Alter it!

-transform it to fit your personal aesthetic and preferences. If someone still recognizes it you can always act confused and say you found it at goodwill, liked the design, and altered it. Trust me it works.

3. Scrap fabric

-if you like cosplay or just sewing having extra fabric around is nice. You never know what you could do with it

4. Shirt blankets

-there are ton of companies out there that you can cut all your old shirts up, send them off, and d they’ll transform it to wonderful cozy memory blanket.

5. Give it to your dog

-if you believe it’s safe to do so, perhaps bless your dog (or other cuddly beast) with a cozy sweater shirt that reeks of you. If your pet is anything like mine they’ll treasure it, nibble, and snuggle your gift. Or they’ll rip it shreds but hey… you tried (Note: don’t do this your dog is a fabric eater)

Let me know if you know more ways to avoid unneeded waste

#dream smp #Wilbur soot #dreamwastaken #Tommyinnit #quackity #SBI #shubble #mcyt #YouTubers #lovejoy #lovejoy band #georgenotfound #punz #eret

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thefunkfactory · 4 months ago

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Biker Breath

Zane was riding home from work on his bicycle when he passed a pile of stuff sitting on the curb with a sign attached saying “For Free”. Zane stopped to inspect what all was left out on the street and saw a super nice looking biker helmet, carefully picking it up he noticed some scratches and dings on the helmet but besides that it was still in perfect working condition. While he was examining it Zane noticed the rancid scent emanating out of the helmet. Holding his nose, Zane began to put the helmet back onto the curb when he heard a voice in his head that wasn’t his, it was a deeper, more masculine voice demanding him to put the helmet on. Wanting to resist, Zane set the helmet down and turned his back to it and the other stuff on the curb when the voice again demanded “Put on the helmet”, Zane was overcome with the need to put the helmet on. As he lifted the helmet up over his head Zane pleaded with the voice “Please…No…It reeks”. Feeling the voice command him to lower the helmet on his head, Zane’s mind and body obediently obeyed as he lost control of both. Upon lowering the helmet onto his head Zane could smell the reeking stench of the helmet. It reeked of sweat and B.O., the previous owner had obviously never even attempted to clean it.

Regaining consciousness and control of his body, Zane tried to take the helmet off, but quickly he heard the voice command “Breath in deep wimp” Zane once again obediently followed orders and took in a deep whiff of the helmet’s noxious stench. Zane would have normally been disgusted but he wasn’t, in fact he loved the rancid stench of sweat trapped in the helmet. Zane heard another command echo through his head, “Get on your puny bike loser”. Zane sat on his metal bicycle and began to pedal away. With every pedal, he bike became more akin to what a real man would ride. It slowly transformed into a fast and slick motorcycle.

Zane revved the bike instinctually and he felt his dick shoot to life at the same time, it was weird, Zane never was interested in motorcycles but his body was aching for more. Zane’s puny body was sitting atop a nice expensive motorcycle now but his body and face were still that of a wimpy nerd. That was soon to change, the voice started describing what a biker boy should be like. “Biker boys are unhygienic beasts who never wear deodorant, shower once a week, and never brush their teeth, all of that is for weak pussies” Zane could suddenly remember why the helmet smelled so bad, it was HIS stench that was infused into the helmet. Zane breathed in another deep whiff of the stink HE cultivated and let out a pleasurable sigh, breathing out a torrent of funky smelling breath, Zane added to the stench and made himself more loopy. Feeling his weak body get light and tingly Zane kept riding his newly minted motorcycle, he stopped at a red light and looked over at the car next to him, “Had I always had such big muscles?” Zane thought to himself as he saw his reflection in the car’s window. “No…can’t be I…” he took a breath in and inhaled more of his noxious B.O. and bad breath, “…I have always been this buff duhhh” Zane pulled off and sped home away from the stop light. Arriving home his brother was getting out of his car in the driveway, pulling up was surprised when he saw the man on the motorcycle, he looked like a stranger to him. “Hey man I think you got the wrong address” Zane’s brother told the now insanely ripped Zane, “Whatchu mean bro this my crashpad!” Zane said loudly. “Nah my brother lives here with me and my dad not you” Zanes brother remarked. Zane got off his bike and walked up to his little bro, “Heeeeeeeeeeey man chillax…no need to get your pantiessssss in a bunch” Zane drew out certain syllables on words so that he could breathe out his nasty breath that smelled like he had just eaten garlic, and fish, and hadn’t brushed his teeth in weeks. Zane’s brother’s eyes glazed over upon smelling his older brother’s stale and stinky breath, “Oh hey bro welcome home” Zane reached an arm around his brother’s shoulder and they walked to the house together. “Yeaaaaaaahhh you love your big bro’s stinking breath dont cha lil man” Zane laughed and purposely let out a blast of his funky breath into his brother’s face, “Yea…bro I- I love how…stinky…your breath i- is…I wish I was m-more like you”His brother said mindlessly as if in a trance. “Well in that case lil bro I wanna take you on a ride tonight okay? You can wear my helmet I jusssssst got it” Zane breathed out more of his rank breath while he spoke. “Yea…uhh like…totally bro…” His lil bro responded not knowing that the ride would seal his fate just how his brother’s was.

#dumber #stink #jock tf #musk #bad breath #ttf

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yandere-sins · 6 months ago

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I played Jiyan's quest today and I can't stop thinking about being Yandere!Jiyan's dirty little secret...

[Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content (dub-con), Dragon Behavior (a little bit like fangs, biting and snarling), Mention of war and all that comes with it, Stockholm Syndrom Reader]

Everyone got one of those, right? Some people overindulge in sweets, and some gamble 'just one more game' while their pockets are empty. But for someone like Jiyan, who is seen as great and respectable in the public eyes—a person who can do no wrong—it's you.

You are the dirtiest secret one could hope to never uncover behind the beloved general. It would be hard to turn a blind eye to your situation, so he does his very best so that no one finds out about it. You are only destined for his eyes, a splendid gift of Jué for sure. Why else would your paths have crossed, your fates intertwining as cruelly yet beautifully as they did?

You are hidden away in his mansion, locked up, and put through a very different hell than what he goes through. He loves you; he really does. That's why you can't leave. Never. You're the one thing that keeps him grounded in this world, the last spark of hope that keeps his sanity from accidentally killing himself on the battlefield as he realizes there's nothing more to fight for.

Jiyan doesn't return to his mansion to live in splendor and the luxuries of life. He only comes home to you.

You are not a willing participant in this secret of his. Not even the few servants he permits around him know of you. Everything must be under wraps and he used his salary as a general wisely to build you a palace that can house his madness in a beautifully twisted way. It's an illusion of the outside world, with technology and science providing the idea of being a little less captured and a little more free. And Jiyan doesn't regret spending every penny to keep up the illusion of being your lover, not your captor.

This way, he can ensure your safety and well-being far away from other people despite him being outside, fighting dangerous threats, and risking his life daily. He can ensure that you'll be fed and entertained for a long time after his death, and no one finding out long after your passing either. But he doesn't even think of this possibility. Not when he's the only one you can cling to.

Being isolated does something to one's psyche, and that's the one thing Jiyan cannot improve for you—and at this point, he doesn't want to anymore. Everyone outside the underground palace is a foe when it comes to you. They'd try to take you away from him. And after just shy of a couple of years of being imprisoned, he finally has you broken down enough that you won't fight his love constantly anymore.

Instead, you walk up to him as he finally returns, weeks having turned into months. But with no one else to give you attention and love, you open your arms to him, worn-out and bloody as he is. Your body is tense and wary, with a frown on your face, but when he moves forward, so are you. Both of you are so desperate for what only the other can give.

You let him sack into your embrace and allow him to reciprocate your hug, always just a little too tight for your comfort. It feels revolting to hold him even after all this time. Still, you claw your fingers into his clothes as if he were going to disappear again any second. He reeks of sweat, blood, and dirt, but you tolerate it, and he is ever so thankful for you loosening his hair tie and combing through his hair. It's the end of stress and despair for Jiyan. You are ringing in the peace into his life, and he wants to stay like this forever, but another part is threatening to take him over.

He had to hold back for so long, yearning and exercising patience. Now, the beast inside of him is starving.

He can't help but lose his composure a little, burying his face in your chest and smelling you like an animal. His snarls reverberate throughout your whole body, like the purrs of a cat, the need for you building rapidly inside of him. Fangs protrude from his lips as he drags them over your shoulder, searching for the taut skin above your collarbone to sink them into you. Your blood tastes sweet and exciting instead of the bitter and impure blood on his lips whenever he worries them in the barracks, thinking of you. You squirm, complain, wiggle—a part of you still resisting. But if he wants to have a taste of you, then there's nothing you can do unless you want him to accidentally rip your throat out. He's proving you're real—not another damn hallucination—and he licks up the wounds with fervor, knowing you are alive and well after having your taste spread over his tongue.

Jiyan loves the pouty look on your face when he topples you over, catching your arms with his hands. He chuckles as you resist vainly, his grip leaving the prettiest of bracelets made of bruises on your wrists. The last ones have already faded and tears well up in your eyes as he replaces them dutifully. He knows you don't want to spread your legs for him, your body resisting that until the bitter end, so he picks you up instead, carrying you to the bath to ease the tension you're feeling. He needs it, too, and Jiyan licks his lips as the sweet release of all his pent-up feelings draws near.

Your moans resemble a song of healing as they echo through the bathroom, filling the space with all the love and adoration he gives you. Jiyan worships the way your body twists in his grip, tightens around his cock, and lets him know the extent of how good he is making you feel. His thrust may be harsh, and your mouth may be begging for him to stop mistreating both your lips and body as he mauls you like a Spearback, water splashing everywhere as you two get rowdy in the bath, but you can't resist orgasm after orgasm shaking through you, your belly full of his warm seed. It takes a while to satiate Jiyan, but just like you took care of him when he returned, he washes your exhausted body afterward and takes you to bed to pepper you in kisses and to stroke you some more until you are a bawling, beautiful mess coming completely undone in front of him. There need to be no secrets, no shame between you two, and your beauty is unrivaled, especially after seeing you again after so many nights imagining this very sight in front of him.

It solidifies his life's worth when he can watch you sleep, bundled up and frowning since you are so sore. He wipes the tears from your face as you have nightmares of being alone and being with Jiyan. But hearing you say his name in your sleep—regardless in which context—is enough for him to finally settle into the soft pillows too. One arm around you, the other one for you to rest your head on. Because just like you'll never escape this prison, Jiyan won't let you be anywhere but next to him as long as he's home.

He falls asleep with dreams of domesticity. Cooking with you, feeding you dessert, taking walks in a park he'll never take you to. Massaging you, sharing your woes, and cuddling in front of the fireplace. A life he will never ever have with you, but which has kept him from death so many times. Knowing you were at home, waiting for him, angry, pouty, trying to scratch his eyes out, but you were safe and healthy, saved him from the despair of losing everyone he ever cared about in this cruel war. Your blood reminds him of life rather than death, and the warmth of your body in his arms is the comfort he needs after the endless cold nights outside of this dream he built for you.

So Jiyan doesn't even think about everything of yours that he sacrificed to get to this point. You'll be his dirty little secret forever, and he'll make sure of it no matter how many discords or people he has to kill or how much he needs to break you to make this possible. He can't continue living like the hero people make him out to be if he can't have you to compensate for his madness. Isn't it a fair price? Jiyan wouldn't know what to do with all the despair and anguish if he couldn't turn it into love. Jiyan isn't sure he could stop himself from and fight against becoming what he fears most—a mad monster.

He has yet to realize that, beneath his mansion, sleeping peacefully next to you, he has long lost that battle.

But it's his dirty little secret no one on the outside needs to know.

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gay-dorito-dust · 5 months ago

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This can be consisted the prologue of the series, a little taste test or something…

Warning: men being men and not listening and paying the price for their stupidity.

You didn’t know how you did it.

You really didn’t, and it currently wasn’t as if you were actively trying either! You had been running for a while now after catching the unwanted gaze of some unsavoury characters before running as fast as your legs could to get out of sight, only to find yourself somewhere and staring into the large eye of a dragon.

This was no ordinary dragon because from just it’s eyes alone you could tell that this one was a lot bigger than most, possibly as large as Vaghar but the cave had been proven far too dark to get a good look of the rest of its body.

Or the reason you can’t see the rest of its body is because its head is so large it’s all you can see. That little voice in your head told you as the cold feeling of dread crept up your back, thought of standing in front of something far larger than you didn’t sit right with your feeble human mind as you swallowed thickly.

One thing that you were for certain about and that was the potent stench of rotting corpses however and blood that stung your eyes with how horrid the smell was the moment you had rushed into the massive cavern on impulse to find safety. It wasn’t until your eyes has caught a glimpse of the skeleton of a dragon, one of which that was far, far smaller than the one you in front of you, followed by a skeleton of a human did realisation hit you.

You had found Cannibal, one of the largest dragon to ever exist, the very same dragon you’ve heard plenty stories about as a kid. Stories of how many people tried to claim the behemoth, only to end up within the dragon’s stomach and even more stories of how Cannibal would even hunt and kill other dragons for sustenance.

You didn’t understand why people would still try to claim him, knowing well enough of the fate that awaits them, but still pressing on regardless in hopes that one of them would be lucky enough to make history by becoming Cannibal’s first ever rider. It was stupid to think such a thing when it had been proven time and time again that Cannibal simply didn’t wish to be ridden and left alone in peace but kept having it being disrespected by people fuelled by their own personal agendas.

Cannibals eye remained on you the entire time, watching you as though trying to read your next move. The behemoth of a dragon seemed to recognise that you knew of him and his reputation, but didn’t dare move to attack you like you thought he would. The question on your mind were between him trying to lure you into a false sense of security or was he trying to gauge whether you’d break first and run?

You respected dragons becuase they were far smarter then you’ve been lead to believe, beings that harboured endless fires within their bellies, and have lived long enough to recognise the changes within Westeros from the one they’ve arrived to a long time ago. They fascinated you all the same but something about Cannibal has fascinated you the most, however you valued yourself in knowing that it was better to admire the beast from afar rather then up close; much like you were right now.

‘I’m sorry.’ Were the first words that came out of your mouth in a flurry as you bowed lowly before the dragon, tensing when you felt Cannibal’s hot breath wash over you, it reeked badly of blood but your fought your urge to gag as the scent as though your life depended on it because it did. ‘I didn’t- I wasn’t aware that you resided here. I’ll leave.’ You told the dragon as it merely watched you back away with a peculiar look in its eye, all the while you tried to prevent yourself from stepping and tripping on old bones of both human and dragon, not once ever breaking eye contact with Cannibal for a single second.

However once you were close enough to the entrance of the cavern, you heard the voices of the very people you had ran away from in the first place and felt yourself as though trapped between a rock and a hard place; either die by dragonfire or by the hands of fellow humans?

‘Where did they go?’ A voice sounded close by the entrance of the cave, causing your breath to catch in your throat as you found yourself frozen in place.

‘They ran off into this cave, the stupid cunt.’ Another voice called, cocky and arrogant as two men appeared in your only way out, their faces were casted in shadows but you could feel their stares and their growing smirks once they saw you.

‘There you are.’ One sang, steeling forward but you immediately took a step back, feeling Cannibal’s hot breath at your back once more.

‘I wouldn’t come closer if I were you.’ You tried warning them as you could sense that Cannibal was getting annoyed, you didn’t know Joe you knew what Cannibal was feeling but you just assumed that the dragon wouldn’t like the additional company of two men who reeked of piss.

‘Oh? And why’s that?’ The other said as he too stepped into the cave, causing you to take another step back.

‘There’s a dragon in this cave.’ You said and the two men stopped their advances to look at each other for a moment before bursting out into a fit of laughter. ‘A dragon? Here? You’re having a laugh!’ They were crying tears of laughter now and you’ve never felt more helpless in that moment. ‘I’m serious! There’s a dragon in this cave and he’s going to kill you!’ You cried as you could feel Cannibal practically hovering over you now as you internally begged the beast for mercy and forgiveness for being these men into his home.

‘Oh I’m so scared!’ One of the men said, nudging his friend. ‘You hear that? We’re going to die according to this little cunt.’

His friend snorts. ‘They’re lying, let’s grab them before they attract anymore attention.’ He said before bringing his attention back towards you as he and his friend began to advance on you once more. ‘Come here you lying little-‘ before he could finish his sentence, a wave of dragonfire consumed both men in their entirety until there was nothing more then charred corpses.

You looked over your shoulder towards Cannibal who huffs at you as if to say you’re welcome.

‘Thank you.’ You told him, only for the dragon to huff again, leaning his head down to nudge you with his snout towards the entrance of the cave, urging you to take your leave before wandering back further into his cave until you couldn’t see him anymore.

This wasn’t what you at all had expected from this outcome, not one bit.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd imagines #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon imagine

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chuuyascumsock · 2 months ago

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Bury Beneath this Filth they Call Skin and Turn it into a Garden || MINORS DNI

Summary: I made a hurt/comfort fic for Chuuya, I might as well make a comfort fic for Dazai too cause he’s my soft spot.

Tags: Dazai Osamu/Reader, GN reader, Angst, Comfort, No One Is Safe, Mentions Of Self Sabotaging, Self-deprecating Thoughts, Mentions Of Dehumanization, Mentions Of Suicide Attempt, Dazai Highkey Has Bad Hygiene Because I Know He Canonically Reeks Of Liquid Ass (I Still Love Him But Honey—), Brief Description Of Self Harm Scars, He Takes Off His Bandages, Non-Sexual Nudity For A Bit.

Dazai doesn’t remember when you started to keep an extra pair of clothes in your bottom drawer just for him.

He doesn’t remember when you bought an extra toothbrush for him either, the item sitting in a small cup on your bathroom counter so intimately close to yours. He doesn’t remember when you started to stock your cabinets with canned crab or an occasional snack he had stolen from you before and said it tasted good. He doesn’t remember when you began preparing meals big enough for two. And he doesn’t remember when you started to look at him the way you do.

Those eyes that so fondly trace over every inch of his frame like he’s capable of being loved— like he’s not a silver-tongued beast of a man, his words filled with more teeth than his bite ever could. He doesn’t deserve it— he knows he doesn’t— so why does he find himself at your doorstep every time he fails his attempts in ending his miserable existence?

“You’re going to get sick if you keep this up,” You sigh out, stripping away Dazai’s soaked clothes until he’s shivering in his sopping wet bandages and boxers. “And you smell horrible every time…” Your nose slightly scrunches at the lingering smell of hydrogen sulfide and mucky water from the Yokohama canal.

“Whatever do you mean, dear? That’s just my natural musk,” Dazai gives a lopsided grin, attempting to lighten the mood. His grin falls into an uneasy look when he notices the brief side eye you give him as you toss his clothes into the washer.

“My water bills spike every month you do this, you know,” You point out blamelessly.

“Sorry,” Dazai mumbles with a weak smile. He always made a promise to try his hardest not to inconvenience anyone while making his attempts— making it up to those who he had done so with such as Atsushi. But he’s burdened you countless times, not realizing until now. Before he mentally promises himself to never return to you like a pathetic, mangy stray dog— you come into his view again.

“Don’t be sorry, but please come to me when you feel the urge to do these things, ‘Samu. I worry about you.” And Dazai can’t help but to immediately let his previous thoughts fly away. Who was he kidding? He’d never be able to stay away from you.

Your hands carefully reach to begin unwrapping the bandages sliding off Dazai’s body. Flinching, Dazai subconsciously moves a hand to stop you from taking his bandages off. There’s a momentary standstill between both of your movements as you look into his eyes with a reassuring gaze before his hand relaxes and falls to his side. It’s not the first time this has happened, but Dazai doesn’t think he’d ever get used to the feeling of having his protective cloth shed to reveal the myriad of scars that are engraved on this once blank canvas that humans call skin.

And when all is removed, you still look at him as you always had with an unwavering fondness that leaves him subconsciously leaning into you, yearning to be swallowed and drowned in your gentle affections. He doesn’t understand why you do the things that you do, such as loving him no matter how many times he tells you how much he doesn’t need you because it’s always been like that— lonely— or why you even put up with any of his shit for that matter. But you do. And he thinks he’ll never know why, because he’s terrible and doesn’t deserve what you do in return to his horrid behavior.

He slips into the tub without needing guidance, face tilting up to look at you without his usual charming grin, expression replaced with a quiet pleading, begging for any sliver of attention you can offer. And you give into his pleads, sitting by the tub while running a hand through his dark tangled hair before reaching for a washcloth to bathe him. There’s a lack of cheeky comments and flirting from Dazai as you rinse away the grime sticking to his tainted skin, his eyes flickering from distant to focused in a matter of minutes before glancing back over to you and melting further into your reverent touch.

Even after exiting the tub, he says nothing, allowing you to wrap a towel around his shoulders and place a tender kiss to his forehead. If this had been any other day, he would’ve teased you to no end about how you had to stand on your toes just to reach his face, but he merely softly smiles in mild amusement and lets you lead him into your room to get dressed.

He wears the extra pair of clothes you keep for him at the bottom of your drawer, shirt loosely hanging off his shoulders and pajama pants dragging along the floor each time he takes a step forward to follow you to your bed. He was used to sleeping on his futon, but he much preferred your bed and the comfort your body brought when he tangled his limbs in yours.

You don’t scold him either when he buries his face into your neck like you used to the first few times he had done so— complaining about his hot breath on your neck. Now, you reach a hand back to scratch your fingers through his damp hair in an affectionate manner, sighing out softly in what he can tell is contentment.

Even as Dazai drifts off, he can’t help but think about the irony of hating dogs as much as he does, yet he can’t help but love you like one.

#dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #yeah sex is cool but have you ever intimately gave your stinky comfort character a bath?#bsd dazai #I was going to make him a smut but I really needed a short fic

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fandomwritingbit · 1 year ago

Text

💀Hallowe'en Special💀

After Hours,

Springtrap x fem reader

Synop: Sneaking into a horror attraction after dark was really fucking stupid and you're about to find out just how much.

A/n: I totally get that this probably isn't everyone's cup of tea, so please be warned, also bare in mind writing for Springtrap is completely new for me.

Warnings: Springtrap/william afton. Explicit non-con/rape. Violence. Threat. Themes of kidnapping.

Credit to image creator.

It was everything you expected and more.

The building reeked of lack of care, practically falling apart with all its paint peeling and the half illuminated sign. It looks creepy as fuck. That's why you came.

You love to be scared. And this place has the potential to be truly terrifying.

You spoke to a friend of yours who told you they'd done exactly this a week or so ago. And it was soooo much better after hours, when you can go where you want to and do what you want to; which in your case is dick around with the animatronics. They were supposed to come along as well but flaked out last minute, leaving you standing in front of the place on your lonesome. But you’re not one to be defeated by a shit friend not showing, so you’re still going to go in.

And so, with your phone torch lighting your way you go to the back of the building. And unsurprisingly you're greeted with a high fence with its gate chained closed. That isn't going to stop you though. Smirking, you throw your backpack over the fence and then slide your phone under it, torch up so you can sort of see what you're doing.

One foot wedges in the metal, the toe of your shoe just able to fit through the diamond-shaped gap enough to give you purchase, letting you slot your other foot in the gap a little higher up. It was easy really, almost like they wanted you to hop over it, no anti-climb or spikes or anything. At the top of the fence you sit for a moment, wishing you kept hold of your phone for a photo here, illuminated by the solitary light of the building sign. Oh well, there's always the opportunity on the way out.

You jump down, careful to land with bended knees, if you hurt yourself you wouldn’t exactly be able to call an ambulance. From there you dust yourself off for a minute and grab all your stuff, wincing when the harsh light of your phone catches your eye.

"And now the fun begins." You whisper to yourself, as you slip around the building, quickly laying your eyes on the back door, which according to your mate was easy pickings, quite literally. Shoving your makeshift kit into the lock, it only takes a few moments of jiggling in before, hey presto, the bitch clicks open. It really was too easy.

Inside, you flash your torch around this hallway, thinking to yourself that it looks like a 'back-stage' area with all the clutter and, god, the dust, which now flitted through the air disturbed by your movement. Honestly, with the amount of it caked on everything you wouldn’t think that this place was operational. Box after box lay on the chequered tile floor and you follow them down the corridor, checking door handles along your way.

One opens to reveal a small cupboard filled with toilet roll and cleaning supplies. Another to one with stacks of papers, documents of some kind, probably accounts or some shit, but seriously who keeps paper copies nowadays? But the third one was the most interesting one.

The metal door was a labour to open, scraping into the floor over a mark from others doing the same thing, the room was dark but you can tell instantly that it’s much bigger than the previous two. You use your phone torch to scan through the pitch black, revealing the jackpot. Animatronic heads are mounted on the wall like the room belongs to some kind of a game hunter. Pointing the light down, you see the rest of the beasts, huge chest cases and clumpy-looking feet littered along the floor And in the corner the skeletons, light bouncing off them back at you, their eyes reflecting red.

“Ho-ly shit…” You say into the darkness, grinning from ear to ear. This place was fucking insane, in the absloute best way. You waste no time inserting yourself in the room, placing huge metal heads over your shoulders and snapping a few pics looking like some demonic purple rabbit. Then some more with your arm draped over these endo-skeleton things, these took you a bit longer to build the courage to touch because fuck, their eyes were staring right into the depths of your soul. But once you did touch them and they didn’t pounce on you, you felt reassured enough to tackle anything else this creepy attraction would throw at you.

After about ten minutes in your photoshoot, you leave the room wanting to see more than the behind the scenes stuff, you may as well see all the bits the normies get to see. Looking online earlier you knew all about the set up, creepy 80s looking corridors designed to mirror an old pizzeria chain, where apparently some kids had gone missing. Patrons could even sit inside the faux-security office taking shifts trying not to jump out of their skins as robotic creatures stalked them. Now that, you’re dying to see.

It takes you no time to find the corridors leading to the security office, on the way discovering the dormant animatronics. One a seven foot fucking teddy bear, another a beat up looking rabbit. Golden- or maybe green, it’s hard to tell in the absence of light. This one is particularly nerve-wracking, something about its stance, it’s head tilted to the side but its eyes looking up.

“Fuuuuck,” you giggle, angling your head to look into the creature’s mouth, open only slightly. “the designers did a good job on you, shit…” It’s only when your face gets very close to it, the robot shifts, its metallic body struggling loudly in the otherwise silent building. You flinch hard, body shoving itself away from it, thudding against the wall hard enough to wind yourself. It quickly halts, the movement dying when its head fully rears.

You breathe out shakily, laughing at your own stupidity, clearly you triggered some kind of motion sensor and paid the price for it. You shake your head at the beast, moving away from it down the corridor and into the office, careful not to get too close to anything else that could try to scare the shit out of you. You finally manage it, and step into the office through a doorway without the actual door part, an excited smile spreading across your face. This is so fucking cool, you think, crouching down to look at a monitor on the desk, then deciding to sit in the grimy swivel chair in front of it. You then notice that the desk has drawers in it and move to look through them, an eagerly curious part of you taking over. The top one is full of a tonne of random shit sellotape, paperclips, a computer mouse and its ancient cord. The one underneath though, sticks, you rive it hard to try and open it, even more intrigued that it wouldn’t open. You jiggle it hard, the rattle echoing in the large room, but your efforts amount to fuck all and it doesnt move an inch.

You sigh, calling the drawer a bastard under your breath and recline a little in the seat, closing your eyes for a moment. When you open them you nearly jump six feet in the air at the sight of that fucking animatronic from earlier, the yellow bunny, standing in the the doorway, it’s huge head peeking round the corner, staring directly at you. How in god’s name didn’t you hear the fucking thing move? It must weigh loads and it looks old, so there’s no way it can move silently.

“God, this place.” you say, to yourself, to the room, it doesn’t matter. You’ve had enough scares for tonight, it’s probably best if you bail before you trigger any other attractions. No longer smiling, you stand up hesitantly, moving slowly and consciously. Some kind of dread now hanging in the air because this fucking rabbit is really creepy.

You walk up to the door and carefully squeeze yourself through the gap, desperate to not touch the thing. Managing it, you outwardly sigh, that was a small mercy because some loud noise from the robot would probably give you a heart attack right now. You step away from it, ready to get yourself out of here. But the second your back is turned the most agonising sound makes you freeze.

Breathing. Raspy, pained, human, fucking breathing.

Your turning around is prevented by the cold grip on your throat, backing you up against its metal body, its lack of body heat making goosebumps spring over you instantly. Uselessly, you push against its hold, instinctively wanting to get away from it and the reality of what was happening. But your struggling just makes it grip you harder, thick plastic fingers tight on the base of your throat.

A deeply coarse sound vibrates from the creature, a breathy sound that takes you a while to realise is laughter. Laughter cold and mean, making your heart hammer in your chest. “What stupid little girl snoops around in the dark on her own?” Each word sounds painful, it must take the thing sheer will to push past such agony just to taunt you.

You tremble, “What- what are you?” the words so quietly terrified you can’t believe they’re your own. There’s no way this is part of the attraction. Just no way anyone would program this to grab patrons so violently. This was something all too wrong and all too real.

Without warning or hesitation the creature uses your throat as leverage to slam you against the wall, there’s no room for protest or struggling, it’s power is inhumanly strong. You cry out when your body hits the concrete, its unfeeling coolness stark contrast to the fretful heat coming from you. The robot’s head cranes down above yours, a subtle clicking alerting you to every slight movement. You’re winded, energy trickling down your face as tears when you’re dawned to the terrifying conclusion that you’re trapped.

It finally answers you, the raspy voice coiling your stomach in fear. “Your worst fucking nightmare.” The creature must hear you sob in response because again it- he laughs, it’s cold and mocking. Only stopping when he takes the time to parrot your desperate fearful noises back at you, making himself laugh again. It’s becoming clear to you that this must be a person, someone inside this awful thing, an employee gone rogue, trying to scare the living daylights out of people stupid enough to break in… maybe. But that voice…

“You’re hurting me.” You choke out, unsure of what you’re trying to accomplish. Internally reasoning that people have empathy and people can be talked down, you hope that he’ll let you go but it seems more and more unlikely by the second. The hand on the back of your head flexes, tangling in your hair and yanking your head upwards so you can glimpse him out of the corner of your eyes and the sight is just awful.

The inexpressive face comes close as the man inside hisses through the rabbit mask, “You don’t know the meaning of hurt.”

“Look,” you whimper, “I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have come here.” The words are near incomprehensible through your tears. “God, I shouldn’t have come here…” You repeat, body convulsing under the monster’s grip. Your crying is loud in the corridor, echoing off the hard floors and mirroring the heartbreaking sound back at you. You're lost in it for a couple of seconds whilst this thing seems to just enjoy the sound, before the air is knocked from your lungs by the creature’s hand trailing down the arch of your back, all the way down to your behind where he grabs a hard handful of your flesh. It’s so unexpected that you just stare at what you can see of him over your shoulder, now silently shaking. The action turns your stomach, it doesn’t hurt but it’s rough and riddled with intent.

His other hand moves, turning you around before again shoving you to the wall and caging you in with his massive frame, using that insane strength to push you down to your knees. “No,” He almost coos, “You shouldn’t have. But don’t worry… I won’t let you go to waste.”

Whilst you're still making sense of the words, the monster grabs itself at the waist, huge fingers prying between the metal plates and rummaging until he frees his very human and very real penis. You don't want this and the disdain is evident in your eyes, but a dark part of you thinks that to please him will make him let you go. He holds himself before you, there's no illusion even with the suit that he's huge and the thought scares you.

The metallic hand in your hair pulls your head towards him and you obey, fear making you compliant. He smears himself against your lips, precum already leaking from his tip and laying warm on your face. He doesn't have to tell you to open your mouth, the rough tilting of your head is enough, and you hesitantly part your lips, flinching when he yanks you towards him. Your eyes involuntarily close when he shoves his cock in your mouth, he doesn't hold back, pushing himself as far in your throat as he can before you gag, your hands frenzied grabbing at the creature's hips. He pulls back for a moment before shoving back in repeatedly, forcing your jaw open to accept him each time.

He grunts, burying himself inside your throat and holding you still. "You'll have to do better than that, if you're scared of me hurting you." The snarl in his voice makes your eyes wide with realisation of what he wants. You obey without question, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him as good as you can, his grip relenting enough to let you. Swirling your tongue on the underside of his shaft with only the goal of getting this over with as soon as possible. It’s like he knows and the huge hand in your hair slows your movement, forcing you to take him slow and deep, revelling in the feeling of your hot mouth and the frantic way your eyes dart around.

The salty taste of his big cock stirs you, and each time he uses your mouth it makes your heat betray the pain of his brutal hold. It’s instinctual and even though your mind is against it your body is reacting. Trying to push the conflicting feelings from your mind you continue sucking, an eagerness spurring you on when he groans, he’s close, you can tell from the leniency in his grip. But just as you’re getting your hopes up that he’s going to finish, he pulls your lips from him, making you look up at the terrifying form above you. The sudden dread that sizzles through you is inexplicable, it’s almost as though you forgot how horrifying this costume was and the reminder shocks your core.

You look so frightened kneeling there, your pupils tiny and your lips still parted, saliva dripping down your chin that underneath the mask he smirks cruelly, the action painful enough to make his cock twitch. With how warm and slick your mouth was, he can only imagine how tight your little cunt is going to be, fuck it’s been so long since he last broke a pretty thing like you. He’s going to savour it.

“Stand up.” The monster commands, the raspy voice insanely harsh. You obey without question your legs trembling as all trace of hope leaves you, all chance of this ending any time soon trickled between your legs. As soon as you reach your feet his large hand grabs your shoulder shoving you forwards, back towards that old guard’s office you left only minutes ago, but it felt like years. Stumbling through the doorway, the brief idea of running flashes through your mind, but you’re too scared, you don’t want to make what this man was going to do worse.

You don’t have the chance anyway, with crazy strength he catches your arm, forcing your body down onto the desk in front of you. A pathetic whimper leaves your lips at the rough action, your whole body still shaking. Once he has you where he wants you, the creature’s huge hands rake over your body, no gentleness or intimacy in his touch, just pure malicious lust. He gabs at your breasts, fingers digging harshly into the sensitive skin, then roughly pulling up the fabric of your shirt, so roughly the material tears. You’d be cold if not for the raging adrenaline in your veins. At the sight of your naked torso the mascot bears down on you, no emotion in its dead eyes, “Such a stupid girl, coming here, getting yourself in trouble. Is this what you wanted, huh?” To punctuate the question he takes hold of your face, squeezing your cheeks so that you let out a shaky gasp.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, pulling against the hold that was making your teeth hurt, but he doesn’t move an inch. At your silence he grabs your left tit pinching your nipple so hard your body raises from the desk to try and escape it. “Huh?” He snarls again. And you try to shake your head, but with no way to move you’re forced to speak.

“No-o.” Your voice cracks, your answer making the creature above you grind his cock against your thigh, the godforsaken suit preventing him from touching himself, his own unique fucking torture. His mocking spurs a sudden surge of fight and sees your legs rise and kick hard at his chest, the dull thud of striking metal echoing in the dark room. It’s useless, and his laughing is only proof. He holds your legs against his chest with one hand, using the other to tug down your legging and the panties you were wearing underneath, taking them completely from your body and discarding them on the dirty floor.

Looking down at your wet cunt he near growls, such a slick little fucktoy that walked right into his grasp. Cold metallic fingers trace over your entrance, pulling your folds apart to see the trembling of your hole, your unwanted wetness coating his fingers. You hate yourself for being aroused but maybe it’s for the best, maybe it’ll make this more bearable. You quiver when his digit pokes inside you the costume fingers large enough to stretch you open when he sinks in, you groan the invasion pressing against a coil in your core. Seeing how your pussy swallowed his finger so well, tight around him when he fucked it in and out made him pull away, needing his hands to hold your thighs down as he rubbed the head of his dick against your entrance. Desperate to feel the grip of your walls on one of the only parts of him that remained intact.

He shoves into you roughly, forcing your walls to accept him, all air in your lungs leaving in a suffered groan. He’s thick and long and pushing to the hilt you feel more than full, like he was taking you over, touching all of you at once. The stretch burned but the pain quickly dulled when he began rutting into you, a selfishly brutal pace that had you helplessly gasping. He fucks you as deep as the suit will allow him, the waist of the costume slamming into your hips so hard the desk thudded against the floor.

It’s like you’re outside of your body looking at the scene, feeling his hands move to lift your body from the desk, holding you and manipulating the angle of his pounding to suit him. Shoving into the part of you that makes you scream and your juices spill around the base of his cock. It doesn't feel real, but at the same time is brutally so an unwilling pleasure seizing hold of you and making you clench around his length. He groans,not stopping his pace as you begin to flutter around him, what a filthy fucking thing you are to enjoy this, he thinks, the thought making him fuck you harder. Forceful thrusts that quickly beginning to stutter as the monster nears his end, bursting inside you like an animal and stuffing you full of him. You’re dirty, used and broken, letting the cum seep around him, dripping down onto the desk.

He holds you still for what feels like hours before dropping you down onto the slick tabletop, leaving you to crumple on the floor. There’s no coherent thoughts in your mind, just a frightening emptiness as you get to your knees and crawl over to where he threw your clothes, hands shaking as you try to gather them up. He chuckles at your form, bruises already beginning to show on your hips and thighs, before slowly walking to you, a cold metal foot shoving you over, your body thudding into the floor.

“Now, where do you think you’re going?”

A/n: Here it is. My second Hallowe'en event, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I know this is very different to the kind of thing I usually write, but heck, why not try something new. X

Stay tuned for my third fic!

#fnaf #springtrap smut #springtrap x reader #springtrap x you #cw noncon #cw violence #cw murder #FWB's halloween event #william afton #william afton smut #william afton x reader #william afton x you

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