#collaboween
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Foxes and Minxes: Collabo'ween Day 21
GN!AFAB!Reader/M!Teacher!Bailey
Warnings: Me being very British with everything referenced here (sorry); Alcohol; Gloryhole; Hints of Yandere Reader; References to bullying; Condoms; Bailey POV and he feeling guilty; Only pronouns for reader are they/you.
Word Count: 4010
Notes: This is the telepathy mixed with teacher prompt! Bailey is not the telepathic one, though, and I kept it subtle methinks. It's also just fun to think of where Bailey might have ended up if he hadn't become the caretaker.
His paycheck is late. Again. Leighton has been holed up in his office all day yelling at delinquents, telling Bailey to come back later every time he'd popped his head in. The first round of students had set a bin on fire in the cafeteria. The second had been encouraging someone to moon passing cars at the gates. The third had popped River's tires.
Sure, the kids here were usually shitheads, but to this level? It had to have something to do with graduation coming soon - they were all in their final year of Sixth Form afterall. Most of them being 18, but not fully grasping that they were adults yet and that they could be arrested for what they had been up to.
Some of them were in his class: economics. Or rather, missing from his class today. They'd been put in the isolation room to write out lines at desks with screens on them so they couldn't talk to each other. Bailey had been in there once or twice as a kid, hell, Winter had been the one to put him in there a few times. Strange that they were now colleagues. Strange that Winter hadn't applied to be head of the school (or at least deputy) after all these years.
As it was, with the shitheads mostly missing, his class was quiet. Sixth Form classes were smaller than the secondary education classes, the other teachers who had to handle both levels had it worse. Typically UK schools have all of the desks pushed into larger tables to facilitate group work and to make larger use of the room's space, but with how bad the students are here all of the desks had to be separated to discourage certain behaviours.
Right up front was his favourite. A shy kid, huddled up with their notebook. He couldn't tell whether or not they were doing the work or absently doodling while their mind wandered. He didn't care either way. They'd finished their exams, the only reason they were still here in class was because they all had to be until they walked out with their grades or failed and were pushed out anyway. School policy. One that severely annoyed everyone who wanted a free period to wander around.
His favourite kept mostly to themself, barely interacting with the others even though they were silently chatting amongst themselves or watching the documentary he had put on to keep some of them occupied. Only educational programmings allowed. Yet another school policy. God, it was miserable here. He'd be watching Breaking Bad otherwise, all of these students had hit 18 so he wouldn't get in trouble from parents about it. But no, instead he'd had to throw on some bullshit scaremongering thing about the dangers of ecstasy pills he'd found on YouTube.
Funny thing, growth. Back when he was their age, he'd have bullied his favourite. He was as much of a little shit as the rest of them are today. Now he finds solace that at least one of them paid attention. And they'd be gone soon, replaced by another bout of insufferable 16 year olds who would be eager to push him to his limits - only to find that he knew their games and wouldn't be putting up with them. Same old song and dance every new year.
Which is why he wanted his fucking paycheck. He goes home bordering on having an aneurysm every night, the least he can have in return is his rent money. He's not late, not yet, he'd saved up enough to have reserves, but it still felt better to have it. Plus, he'd be able to get himself a takeaway tonight. That Chinese place he likes is open on a Tuesdays. Some egg fried rice, noodles, chicken curry, those salt and peppered chips. A lovely break in his recent health kick he'd been on.
Bailey sinks into his seat, sighing at the thought as he chews on a pen cap. His favourite looks up from their notebook, their eyes passing over him quickly before going back down. Not a new thing. They're a jumpy little thing like that. He'd bumped into them once and they'd whimpered as though he'd struck them. Kinda reminds him of all of those videos of foxes just squealing because they can - so he'd nicknamed them after the animal.
He's not a stranger to the signs of an abusive upbringing - the bullying couldn't have helped either. But he's not the one to offer support beyond letting them use his classroom instead of the library. They could go to Doren if they wanted a shoulder to cry on.
The bell rang then, the students mostly springing up and rushing out to head to the cafeteria. His favourite was stayed put until everyone else left.
"What you got today?" Bailey reaches under his desk, fetching a box from his bag and his homemade panini with it. Ham, lettuce, and tomatoes filled it up.
"Same as usual," you respond with a small smile. Which means…
Bailey catches the Yorkie when you throw it over to him, and in return he tosses a bag of Maltesers. That's your usual deal. You bring the Yorkie, Bailey exchanges it for whatever sweet snacks he has that day. Whichever parent it is that always packs the bars for you clearly hasn't clued in to the fact that you've grown sick of the chocolate. Luckily for you, though, Bailey could inhale a whole four-pack in ten minutes.
And with it not being a class, that also means he doesn't have to abide by the 'educational' videos only rule. At least, that's the excuse he'll tell Leighton if he's caught putting on fucking Hannibal.
But it's a nice time, eating with his favourite as they watch the show over the lunch hour. Sure beats the fucking staff rooms. Bailey might just quit if he has to hear River complain about that Whitney kid again.
It's quiet again (save the chewing), but this time it's a comfortable quiet rather than the eternally tense silence of a classroom full of kids a moment away from doing a crime to lull the boredom.
Little Foxie relaxes now that they're alone, your shoulders sloping and your eyes focused rather than shifting. Poor damn kid. But, not his circus, not his monkeys. He won't see you again after next week anyway.
"Which exam do you have left?"
"Just physics. I'm dreading it, though. Sirris kinda does best with biology, so I've had to teach myself quite a bit. Just wish Leighton would hire more teachers - Winter's started nodding off in class apparently."
Yeah, you aren't wrong there. Overworked, underpaid. And that's what separates you from the other student. That empathy you have for others. How you've held onto it for this long despite the torment of your peers never fails to amaze him.
"I'm excited to head off to uni, though. It'll be way different than here and I won't have to be around people I don't want to see." There's hope I'm your tone.
"What'd you pick again?" Bailey can barely speak intelligibly with all that chocolate stuffed in his mouth. Like he's ever been one for good manners though - and it seems to entertain you enough when you smile at him.
"I'm still not sure. Psychology's an option, but creative writing or even zoology sound cool, too."
"Zoology? Didn't know animals were your thing."
"I started thinking about that after that field trip to the forest last month. You know how Winter is trying to find all of those ruins but there's the bears and stuff that could hurt him? It would be good to work to keep people who work there safe by taking care of the animals. Oh, and the fact that they're extinct everywhere else in the UK. They're important."
Eden would disagree, but his old friend would keep to himself so long as he was left alone out there.
"That, and well… animals are honest, you know? I don't have to worry if they'll be bad like people. They'll let me know what they want, I just have to learn the body language."
Bailey snorts, finishing his Yorkie as he nods. "Aye, good point there. They say never work with kids or animals, but I used to work at the dog pound when I was your age and wrestling screaming huskies into the bath tub was easier than these lot."
You return to being pensive, head cooking to the side. "How many of them do you think will go to uni?"
How many of them will you have to avoid, you mean, judging by the nervousness that eases back into your voice.
"Not many. They'll be the better ones who do anyway."
No more chatting after that. There's not much more to say - you don't exactly go into personal stuff with your students. You've covered what was appropriate to talk about, and that was enough. That's how it always is. It's how it continues in the week to follow, until you graduate.
He'll miss you. Just a little bit. The chocolate coated apple you leave on his desk with a thank-you note with a voucher for the local Chinese place is a nice touch, too. Did he even tell you he liked that place? He can't remember, but probably.
Bailey knows why he harbours such feelings toward you. You're the kind of kid he'd hope to have if he was ever unlucky enough to spawn.
"Good luck, Foxie," he whispers to himself as he eats the apple - and what do you know - it's melted Yorkie chocolate. Maybe you should have added confectionary to your list of things to study.
A bittersweet heaviness settles in his chest, causing Bailey to rub the area as he frowns. Your note didn't have a social media handle, and now that you'd graduated you could add him on there. He'd like to keep an eye on your progress, but if you'd rather not then he understands. It's a new start for you, and he was a part of a difficult past even if he'd tried to offer safety in the storm.
He still couldn't help but feel left behind. And not for the first time, he thinks.
Dwelling on his sorrows won't do, though. It's better to get your demons out before they dig dens: so to Darryl's club it'll be tonight.
Bailey stays to fix his classroom up and get everything he needs for the summer. The kids left screaming for joy - his work hasn't stopped just because it's a holiday. He'll have to check his units and adjust all of his educational bullshit.
His flat is small, just a single bedroom and a joint kitchen and living room, but it's enough. He guesses. Bailey's younger self would kick him in the balls for ending up here instead of as some big-shot lawyer or whatever he'd had in his head back then.
Chucking his box of work shit onto his coffee table, Bailey pushes his dark hair back out of his eyes and heads to the shower. He can afford to spend half an hour in there, Leighton had sent the paycheck over. Its just what he needs, the scalding water loosening his muscles up and getting any sweat off of him from the summer heat.
The outfit he chooses to wear is simple, but it's tailored just right to make his body look it's best. Dress shirt in white, black slacks, Italian loafers, his woolen long coat. He doesn't put it on until he's eaten, though, opting to shovel pasta into his mouth with his towel around his hips.
It's still bright when he heads to the club even though the hour is late. Bailey finds himself thankful for it, the setting sun keeping some warmth as he waits for the bouncer to thin the line out and let him in.
The environment inside is energetic, music pulsing through the building as lights are focused on various dancers performing on the stages in various stages of undress. People sit around watching with drinks in one hand and money in the other, ready to throw the cash when they find a dancer that gets them going enough.
Bailey didn't bring change. Instead, he's off to the bar, taking an empty spot and ordering a whiskey. Then, he waits. Tourists come to this town for the beach (and the underground sex industry), many of them in the club tonight. Many of them good looking and looking for a fuck without ties. Luckily for one of them tonight, so is Bailey.
His eyes scan the crowd, trying to scope out some cute thing he can make eye contact with and smile at so they'll either come to him or he can go to them. Sadly, the club's occupants tonight seem to be mostly local. And he isn't paying for one of the dancers either - Bailey likes it here and he'd rather not end up banned and have to venture over to Briar's seedy little hole.
With no luck, Bailey settles for watching the dancers and listening to the conversations of groups around him for a while as he sips his drinks. Yes, multiple. If he can't fuck, he'll get a buzz and go home feeling merry at least.
That time closes in, his eyes feeling heavy before it even reaches one in the morning. Fucking hell, he's feeling his age these days. He's not fourty yet, but it's coming, and his back especially is feeling it.
Placing his latest empty glass on the bar, Bailey goes to get up when something catches his eye. Red hair, pretty face, young. Someone he doesn't recognise. He thinks. He's had enough to drink at this point that he can't see the best - but what he can see he likes.
Now it's just about getting their attention.
Another drink is ordered - this time a virgin cocktail. He's had enough alcohol, he'd like to be able to walk home without falling over. Then it's back to lounging against the bar, staring at the pretty red-head and willing them to look his way.
And willing. And willing. And… shit. Yeah, they're not interested. Plus, Bailey needs to piss.
The crowd goes up in cheers as one of the favourite dancers comes onto center stage, everyone glued to their spots as the music switches to their routine's soundtrack. It fades away as the door to the toilets swings shut behind the dark haired man. There's barely anyone else in there, and the two that are hurry to get out to watch.
Not wanting to risk having some creep take a photo of his dick while he pisses, Bailey stumbles into a stall rather than over to the urinals. He's surprised to notice a gloryhole in the side of the stall; the owners here don't like that shit happening in the open. And it's a bug fucking hole, too.
A deep sigh leaves his lungs when he relieves himself, his head falling back and his eyelids closing.
The door squeaks open, footsteps echoing as they make their way over to the stall right beside his own. Swearing under his breath, Bailey keeps an eye out for a phone coming under or above the stall. The stalls don't save you from pervs with cameras, but it does mean you can trap them in the stall and threaten them until they hand the phone over and you can delete what they took.
"Hey, sorry, I couldn't hear you out there."
Bailey's eyebrows crease as he shakes his dick and puts it away. Are they talking to him?
"Yeah, no, I'm in the bathroom now. What did you call for?"
Nope, not for him. Nice voice though, bit of an accent. Definitely not from around here. Could be his tourist.
"I- really? Really? You promised I'd be able to stay out the full night! You always do this, you always-"
Oh, yikes. Controlling partner, it sounds like. Bailey knows he should go, but to leave now while they're arguing? To interrupt it? That feels more awkward than to hide and pretend he isn't there until they leave first.
That accented voice only gets more upset, causing Bailey to cringe and hold his breath.
"No! No, I'm not doing this anymore. We're done, you fucking freak! Yeah? Yeah? Go ahead, burn my shit, like I care."
Oh, good for them, he guesses. He can still hear the tears in their voice. Tears that evolve into sobs when they hang up and, by the sound of things, sit down on the toilet seat. Time to go, Bailey thinks. He'll be really quiet about it, though.
Which he fails at. Immediately. His loafers slip against the tile and his fist flies into the wall. Bailey doesn't hurt himself, but those sobs cease immediately.
There's some flashes of movement beyond the glory hole, flashes of red hair going past while Bailey remains completely frozen.
"Are you okay in there?"
"I should be asking you the same thing," he shoots back. "But yeah, I'm good. Caught myself."
"Guy from the bar, right? You were looking at me."
Ah, so they're avoiding the question. Fair enough. He can't blame them for not wanting to tell a stranger about the partner they just broke up with.
"Yeah, sorry, didn't know you were taken." He grunts as he finally stands back up right, smoothing out his shirt and working on tucking it back in.
"Were." It's whispered, accompanied by the shuffle of clothes. He'll leave them to it, he supposes.
"I, ah. Good luck with your-"
They weren't pulling their pants down to take a piss. They were pulling them down to press their pussy against the glory hole, giving Bailey a good view of it.
"You have a condom? I'm free now so…"
Bold little minx, aren't they? Forward with what they want, but responsible enough to ask for a condom. Which Bailey would have forgotten if they hadn't mentioned.
"Yup," is all he says, the 'p' popping as his pants come down again. Fishing out the condom from his wallet, Bailey keeps the packet held between his teeth as his hands get to work. One wraps around his cock, the other pressing against their pussy and thumbing their clit.
Such a cute giggle they have, such a cute little cunt they have. Just what he needs to keep make his day after all of the goddamn stress. He's clumsy though, the drink and the two different movements of his hands making his ministrations rough. Not that the minx next door seems to mind.
He's quick to harden, ripping the condom packet open before rolling it down on himself.
"Just spit on me, I don't want to wait longer."
Fucking hell, yeah he can do that. Leaning down, Bailey rolls his tongue around in his mouth, gathering spit before drooling it all over their cunt. And he just can't resist giving it a lick when he picks up how good it smells.
They laugh again, wiggling their hips so that his tongue teases their clit for a few seconds before he pulls away. Then it's right to what they both want.
The angle is awkward, standing up so straight his back leans away from the wall as he presses himself in. Completely worth it when he feels how tight and warm it is - even around the condom they feel like heaven.
Reaching up, Bailey tightly grips the top of the stall dividing wall to keep himself steady while he pumps in and out. Nice and slow to start, nice and slow to find the angle he likes and a rhythm that makes sense. He keeps his head down, watching himself sink in. Such a good sight to commit to memory.
The minx starts whimpering, gyrating their hips to demand more from Bailey. Strange that the whimper seems familiar, flashing images of a certain fox-like ex-student through his head. And a flash of heat through his lower belly.
"Fuck," Bailey hisses, shaking his head and trying to focus on the here and now. Completely inappropriate to think of you right now. He's never thought of you that way, and he won't start now.
But then the minx whimpers again, leaving Bailey with the thought of his little Foxie bent over his desk, taking him rough and hard while they both watch the door from fear of being caught.
You're gone. He won't see you again. It's not like he'll have to look you in the eye on Monday and face the shame of having had these thoughts. What's the harm in indulging in them when they make his skin feel so aflame?
"Yes, Sir, more!"
Oh that fucking helps. Sends his mind reeling about how nice you always were, how you knew what he wanted from you whether it was your behaviour, work, or conversation. It would translate into the bedroom, Bailey knew that much. You'd be such a good little one for him, on your back with your knees held to your chest so he could get a good view of what's between your legs. What he'd be tasting, savouring.
"So good, Sir, so good," the minx whines, that one fucking title the sweet spot in it all.
Bailey snarls, pumping hard and fast right into them, right into you, his brain stuck in a world where you're in his apartment, laying in his bed and clinging tightly to him while he makes your anxiety seem out of your body with every hit against the slick, gummy walls of your sweet cunt.
It creeps up on him, electricity sparking up his spine as his balls tighten. Bailey hasn't come this close to finishing so quickly in years, a realisation that sobers him for a second. His teeth dig into his lower lip, but it doesn't slow down the building explosion that hits him.
He loses control of his hips, feeling like they're being pushed forward by an unseen force as he buries himself into the minx, spilling spurt after spurt of his seed into the condom. It drains that burst of energy he'd had, his cock slipping out of the minx as he struggles to stay standing.
"You okay in there, handsome?" There's no mocking in their voice, just amusement.
"Shit - sorry. I'll finish you off, here-"
"Nah, it's all good. My phone won't stop going off and if I don't answer that bastard really will burn my shit. I left my mother's necklace over there so I should head over."
"Don't go alone if you can help it," Bailey grunts, putting his clothes to right again and disposing of his condom in the bin. Next door, he hears the minx putting their clothes to right as well.
"Yeah, I'll grab my friend on the way out. She's probably out of money at this point anyway."
Their stall opens, footsteps heading off. Bailey isn't long behind.
Two seconds. Two seconds of seeing them clearly in the mirrors above the sink as he passes. Two seconds where he sees them fixing their hair - an obviously fake wig that he can make out clearly since the drunkenness has faded. Two seconds where he can make out their face in the bright light of the bathroom.
One extra second when you turn back, panic in your eyes at the knowledge that he'd realised who you are. The panic fades though. Instead, you're smiling in a way he's never seen you smile before. It's confident. Fox-like.
"Or maybe I'll just head back home since there's no ex-boyfriend. Could go back to yours. Bet you'd like more of a taste, Sir. I'll even hold my legs apart for you."
Bailey can't move. Can't chase after you and demand answers as you scurry off, your hips swaying in that outfit. Can't believe his cock is hardening again, and that you'd know just what he wants. Just like he'd thought you would.
Why do you always know what he wants?
#collaboween#spill my guts#necro's fics#bailey the caretaker#gn reader#afab reader#cw alcohol#yandere reader#degrees of lewdity
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08: Trick or Treatin’ Daddio (Part 1)
characters. Bailey. Featuring a hint of Robin.
cw. Nothing yet, it's the first part to Bailey being the absolute worst to the reader. Mentions of bullying from Bailey and creepy behavior from Eden. Robin being a little guy. Next part will feature noncon, anal, and very very very mean Bailey, but that's for the actual Spooky Day.
Halloween was always one of your favorite times of year. Ever since you were young, you had looked forward to October more than any other month, more than your own birthday. Your parents always found that adorable, how at the start of August, you were already planning your costume and the decorations, the same way people prepared for Christmas.
You remembered also being teased for this, especially by a pointed face boy who openly mocked you whenever you were in earshot, to his gargantuan friend who just watched you closely and creepily. When you got older and remained in love with the holiday, he went from mocking you for being childish to snapping at your waistbands and your ribs, sneering that you could at least dress slutty if you were going to be an eyesore. His tall friend just continued to watch. One of your blessings these days was that you never ever saw Bailey around that much, too swept up in God knows what. That and Eden disappeared a few years after graduating, no longer around to suddenly appear behind you when you turned around, or staring at you from across the room, or, you swear, following you home.
Now you could just thrive, known as the best person on the block to go for the actual fun sized chocolates and sweets, the funnest decorations, everything. Hell, that’s how you met the kid.
Robin was practically herding some of the younger orphans around, shyly talking to their friend the entire time but they brightened at the sight of you. Hell, he liked to hang out with you just normally, happily staying for dinner and asking your advice on crushes. It was adorable, and some parental instincts you never knew you had kicked in. To the point he shyly asked if you would ever think about adopting him, maybe even their friend, who always seemed so much busier and constantly on the move.
You promised him that you’d think about it and he in turn said he’d bring it up to his caretaker.
Speaking of Robin, you were eagerly awaiting him to swing by, having promised to set up some of the extra decorations. He was always so timely, so you didn’t care that he was so late when the knock finally came, but your smile was wiped from your face when you finally did open the door.
Bailey. Standing right before you. With his tattooed hand clamped onto Robin’s shoulder, so tight you could see the crinkles of his shirt pulled taut. Worst of all, Bailey looked great. He had grown into his pointy rat face, muscles pressing against the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, tattoos stark against his skin. You even wish you could call his slicked back hair greasy looking but it just didn’t.
“Hey, stranger.” Bailey’s thin lips spread into a sneer, similar to the ones he would shoot you so long ago.
Underneath his grip, Robin swallowed, looking up at you with bloodshot eyes. His eyes flickered to the door again and again, specifically focusing on where your hand rested on the handle. Beseeching you, but for what? You already knew Bailey was just a bully, but he couldn’t be that bad.
“Hey Bailey.” You finally greeted back, opening the door a bit more. “What’s-”
“Our little Robin mentioned you to me the other day. Almost couldn’t believe that you were still hanging around this dump.” Bailey interjected, his grip tightening on the orphan’s shoulder. “Thought we could have a sit down and discuss our next few steps, hm?”
You brightened and the caretaker’s grin sharpened before glancing down at Robin once more.
“Go back to the others.” He loosened his grip and jerked his head down the street, where a small group of children were waiting, wide eyed.
Robin looked between you two, his breaths coming fast and in shaky puffs before he jutted his chin out, as if defiant.
“I wanna stay. It’s important to me too, right?”
Bailey stared down at him before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, and something darkened in his eyes. He leaned down, almost nose to nose with the boy and whispered, low, just to him.
“Fuck. Off.”
That’s all it took for the orphan’s courage to crumble down into dust and he turned on his heel, heading back towards the group. Meanwhile, Bailey straightened up and smiled at you again, nasty and off putting.
“Now, shall we?”
#remember! part 1 of 2#and part 2 will be my 31st entry#cuz its fitting and im eepy rn#dol#bailey the caretaker#collaboween#degrees of lewdity
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Doppelganger in the Mirror: Collab'oween Day 2
GN!Reader/....somethin that looks like you uwu
Warnings: Dubcon; compulsion; you're making horror movie level decisions, I'm sorry; they look like you; bad end
The buzz of the overhead lights burn in your brain, somehow too loud as you stare, transfixed, into the bank of full length mirrors. Your reflection gazes back at you, and you can’t bring yourself to look away.
It was a silly advertisement that had you in an abandoned building in the dead of night, one you wouldn’t have normally taken if it wasn’t for the reward: money. Plain and simple. Enough money to pay off your rent for the next month, maybe even two if you played your cards right. The flier had promised extra if you filmed your night, and you’d jumped at the chance, checking out a shitty go pro from the tech department of your university that you hadn’t even known existed until now.
As sketchy as the premise was, it seemed legit. The flier had been old, paper made soft by time and frayed around the edges. It’d been nearly buried on the bulletin board, obscured by other notices of upcoming classes and offers of tutoring. But the offer was high and the phone number attached still worked. A bland sounding woman had answered, one you couldn’t put a face to no matter how hard you tired, and told you what to do, about the bonus for filming and how to acquire the go pro now strapped to your chest.
Now here you were, in the weird building. And…there was a room. A, well, normal room. A room that looked like it’d been just built, shiny and new, inside the near crumbling building. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled when you first saw it, the clean white walls nearly glowing in the filth of a neglected building left to rot. A strange anxiety settled in your bones, dread gnawing at your gut as you approached. Some part of you wanted to run, to forfeit any money you would have earned by staying in the building. Adrenaline raced up your spine as you got closer, almost compelled to enter the room, metal door knob strangely warm in your hand as it turned soundlessly.
Silly, it was silly of you. Why had you acted like that? Nothing was wrong now, as you stood in the enclosed room. Maybe it was part of the study this group was running? You guessed it was. Why else would there an empty room set up in an otherwise empty and ignored building? An empty room with lights and…mirrors. Mirrors. Only mirrors.
Your reflection gazed out at you, mimicking you as you slowly crept closer to the wall of mirrors. Something in the back of your brain reminded you of a trick to tell if a mirror was really a mirror or…well…not. Two way glass hanged in a mirror's place. But, that didn't make much sense either but, well, maybe? Why have two way glass? Why have a mirror, either? Why any of it?
None of it made sense. None of it. You shouldn't have answered the advertisement, shouldn't have gone to the building, shouldn't have opened the door to this weird ass room. Every cell in your body screamed at you to turn around, to leave.
You could leave. You could go back to your tiny apartment, cramped as it was, cluttered with books and papers. You could change into softer clothes and curl up under your blankets and sleep in a soft bed. You could figure out another way to earn some extra money, to keep your head above water as you juggled your school work and your job and your dwindling social life.
Eyes bored unblinking into yours, your own eyes, your mirror image.
You could leave.
The overhead lights were bright, harsh, every speck of your face illuminated and reflected back at you.
You should leave.
It was a simple trick. Press your finger to the glass and see if there was a space between the image and reality.
You wanted to leave.
Simple and easy and quick. The room full of the buzzing light, head full of buzzing light. Mirror full. Was it a mirror? You needed to know.
You needed to leave.
Hesitating, your hand hovers, reflected back, so close yet not touching, a miniscule amount of space between skin and glass.
Were there tears in your eyes? Your vision felt fuzzy but you can't tell why. Blinking it away didn't help. Your reflection mimicking the blinks back at you.
You press your finger to the glass.
Warmth.
Warmth of a fingertip pressed to yours, of another body tumbling against you, taking you to the ground.
It’s you. Your body on top of you, your hair and eyes and face. Your reflection. You, but not. There’s small differences, miniscule. A freckle where you could have sworn there was none, a brightness in the eyes that bore mania, a sharpness to the smile that made you shudder to have focused on you and to see on your own face.
“Finally,” you- they sigh. It’s your voice too, made strange in the other’s mouth. There’s a second tone to it, like someone speaking in time with them, their voice almost hidden under your own. It’s soft, breathy. You want to hate it, hate the person on top of you pinning you to the ground and their voice, but you can’t find it in you. Something about them makes you crave more. More of their voice, more of their touch.
But…you shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. Something was wrong, very incredibly wrong.
You try to move, to wiggle out from underneath them, but your limbs feel heavy, leaden. Even blinking becomes a monumental effort. Their body is heavy on top of yours but it shouldn't do this to you, shouldn't make breathing feel like it’s more effort than it’s worth.
“Oh, how long I’ve been waiting,” they groan, bending to nuzzle their, your, face into the side of your neck. “I don’t remember though, how does this work? Oh, wait.” Their lips brush over the tender skin of your neck, hands trailing down your sides, stopping at the waistband of your pants. “I think…”
Scorching hot hands slip under your clothes, pulling a gasp from you, body jerking of its own accord.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” they coo, equally hot tongue trailing up the side of your throat. “It gets better, I promise.”
It’s too hot, you almost think you can smell your flesh cooking but there’s no pain, only a mild discomfort. A building discomfort. A discomfort that was seated in the pit of your stomach, in the joint between your thighs. Thighs that blistering hands were currently groping.
“I’ll find out every little thing about you.”
Their hand cups your groin and your brain goes blank. Hips jerking up without thought, you grind into their palm, pleasure washing over you, discomfort lessening. It’s euphoric, the way their fingers brush over you, a hand pinning your hip so you can’t keep mindlessly bucking into them as they laugh at your eagerness.
“I’ll be the perfect you.”
Their fingers travel down, prodding gently at your entrance. You tense at the unexpected feeling and, for a moment, you come back to yourself, try to shuffle back to no avail. Their fingers sink in with ease, curling and scissoring as your mouth drops open. A sound escapes you but you’re not even sure what it was. A groan of defeat? A moan of pleasure? A plea for a moment to think, to get your bearings, to stop? You don’t know, thoughts once again banished as their fingers hone in on a particular bundle of nerves inside you that made everything bright and brilliant. Like nothing you’d ever felt before, would never feel again.
“No one will know, no one will ever know.”
The lights spin above you, their buzzing becoming louder, almost drawing out the figure above you. Nasua mixes in with the pleasure and you let your eyes close. Their breath fans over your neck, their words murmured in your ear, their fingers still working your body as if they know all its secrets. The hand on your hip slides up your side, pushing your shirt up as they seek more skin. They make a tutting sound as they seem to notice the go pro on your chest for the first time. It seems they care about the camera’s view, abandoning caressing your torso to instead cup your lower back, helping you arch into their touch as their fingers assault you.
“All you have to do is let go, let me take care of everything.”
Something in their-your voice brings you back up from the fog of pleasure for a moment. Just enough time for fear to twist in the heat of your gut. Wrong. Everything is wrong and there’s something more to their words that you can’t even begin to puzzle out. Maybe if your head was clearer, if the lights were dimmer, if the buzzing stopped, if they stopped, you’d have a fighting chance to understand what was happening. You don’t, though. Not the faintest thought of a fighting chance. Your brain sinks back down into the fog and you do the only thing you can do: you let go.
You cum on your copy’s fingers, an almost inaudible sound escaping from the back of your throat. All the strength in your body seems to leave you as their fingers slip from your hole. If you could, you’re sure you’d be a puddle on the floor. As it is, you lay limp, boneless as they pull back.
There’s a licking sound. Loud, almost obnoxious. Like they want you to hear them, as if they’re putting on a show. Licking your fluids from their hand. You don’t move, can’t even open your eyes. Everything feels light: your body, your head, your breath. All your attempts to move are in vain, to the point where you give up trying at all.
Slowly, you start to feel more stable, more grounded. To the point you realize you’re standing. How did that happen? Did your reflection help you up at some point? Just how blissed out had you been?
Opening your eyes almost hurts, but you do it anyway. You’d gotten this far, after all.
You’re in the room, the all white room with its buzzing overhead lights. They don’t seem as loud now, not as bright. The first thing you see is the go pro, laying on the middle of the floor. Then, the person next to it. Eyes meet yours. Your eyes.
Your reflection, free from the mirror.
Moving is impossible, no matter how hard you try. It’s only as they give you a cheeky wave they move, your arm coping theirs.
A scream bounces in your skull, trapped in your throat, as you realize you’re trapped on the wrong side of the glass.
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ATTENTION!!!
A Special Crossover with @heck-damn-so-i-draw is currently in the works right now. We are setting it up to celebrate spooky month so it is going to be a fun little combination of the Ouija Board au/Asylum au and Dawn's Ghost Adventures au.
I am also working on the second chapter to Never Play Alone, but due to my current work schedule I don't get a lot of time to work on it. I'm going to set up my next day off and focus only on the chapter so I can get it out to you guys. ^^
ANYWAYS!!! Thats all for this announcement. You guys can look forward to the crossover in October and hopefully a new chapter up with the next week or so. If you have any questions or just want to chat my DMs and asks are always open.
#ohmwrecker#ohmie#ohm#vanossgaming#th#bbs terroriser#the gaming terroriser#ouija board au#ouija!au#asylum au#asylum!au#bbs ghost adventures au#ghost adventures au#art for mun dawn#friend collab#spooktober#collaboween
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~~ BBS GHOST ADVENTURES AU + NEVER PLAY ALONE AU~~ Part 2
Little did they know, Marcel had been researching and looking into places that had yet to be investigated by any sort of paranormal studies. He's come across one name a few too many times to be considered a fake question by his standards. He's seen it on yahoo, on wiki answers, and even seen a few books checked out by the same person. A demon problem, huh? Well, it's this man's lucky day. He's written down a number he hopes will work in getting into contact with this fellow, then he stands up from the computer, stretches, and goes off to find Evan, who is currently in the living room on the treadmill. They all share a house so it's easier to pay for with their t.v show-earnings, and to bond as a group. Marcel walked over and leaned over the edge of the treadmill's control panel, grabbing Evan's attention and making him pop an earphone out as he continued to jog. The Canadian was sweaty and about ready to stop anyway, so he pressed the button to stop the machine. "What's up, man?" He asked as Marcel boredly tapped the plastic on the machine before stopping as Evan slowed to a stop. "I was looking for stuff to investigate, and found a guy who's been having a bit of trouble with a demon. I was thinking of giving him a call, just wanted to run it by the group first, you know?" Evan nodded along and popped his other earphone out to listen better to what Marcel was saying. "Yeah, okay. That's cool with me. You know how Brian feels about demons and demonology though." He warned the man in front of him, who responded with a shrug. "I know. I'm gonna talk to Tyler about it first since Brian's in the shower. Do you know where the big guy is?"
"I think he's making biscuits or something? Check the kitchen."
Marcel nodded and stood up straight to go off and look for him. "Thanks Ev, make sure to shower after Brian so ya don't get all stinky, you stinky stinky man." He teased, to which Evan scoffed. "I'll stink if I want to." They both laughed and went their separate ways.
"Ey, Tyler? You in here-?" Marcel called as he entered the kitchen, immediately finding the answer when he's met with a face full of flour. "What do you need?" Tyler answered, making Marcel laugh. "What happened to you? You're... Whiter than usual." "Oh hah hah. Biscuits is what happened to me. What do you want?" Tyler replied with a salty tone, taking a towel he had in his hands and wiping the flour off his face.
"Just your opinion. I already talked to Evan about it but, while I was investigating places to go look for paranormal shit I found this guy, his name is Ryan and he's been dealing with a demon problem for a little while. Figured we could go help him out."
Tyler raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Talk to Brian about it yet?"
"Not yet… he's in the shower." Marcel answered, walking over to the kitchen table and sitting down in one of the chairs.
"I'm fine with it. But you know how-" Tyler started before being interrupted by Marcel's groan. "I know. Brian and demons don't mix well, Jesus y'all act like I dont know the guy. It's either this or I keep looking for some fucking haunted hospital, and I know you ain't down for that." Tyler gave him a look of disgust at the mention of his fear of hospitals, not even to mention a haunted one. "Get Brian on board with this or you're gonna get a knuckle fucking sandwich for lunch."
Marcel nodded. "Got it."
Then he stood up and left the kitchen, one, before he got too hungry, and two, to see if Brian was out of the shower yet.
Lucky for Marcel, Brian had just opened the door to the bathroom and was leaving it, a towel wrapped around his waist snugly as he scrubbed the water out of his hair with another. "Hey Brian! When you get dressed, I need to talk to you."
Brian stopped and turned towards Marcel and tilted his head, stepping towards his friend instead of heading to his room. "What is it?"
"Just- we'll talk about it when you're not.. Naked." Marcel said, coughing a bit at the last part to avoid looking at Brian's toned chest as water droplets fell from his hair to his skin.
"Just tell me, Marcel." Brian folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Marcel, who seemed just uncomfortable with talking to a half naked man. "'s not like me dick is out." Brian scoffed, which made Marcel roll his eyes.
"Fine fine I just- I was looking for things for us to investigate, right? And well, uh. I found a guy who's been having a problem with a demon. He seemed pretty sure it was-" Brian stopped him by holding his hand up and closing his eyes, shaking his head and turning the other way to walk to his room. "Ye're right. I'll talk to ye about this when I'm dressed so I can fuckin' hit ya."
"Brian.." Marcel started, then Brian turned back to his friend with a scowl. "You know how I feel about this demon shite, Marcel. Wha'appened ta that hospital ye found?"
"Tyler isn't-"
"Tyler can suck my dick, alright? I'm not doing this."
"Brian, come on, the guy is still living so obviously it isn't too bad-"
"'Isn't too bad'? Are you fucking me right now, Marcel? You've no idea what them damn things are capable of. Ye've never even fockin' seen one. I'm not doing this."
"Brian please, come on. You're the only one who can see them. We need you. He needs us. Who knows how bad it's gonna get if we don't step in? After we do this, we can make Tyler suck it up and investigate the hospital. We can't pass this up, Brian. Please." Marcel practically begged, making Brian huff and shake his head in annoyance before turning around to go back to his room and get dressed. "Fine. Whatever. You owe me f'er this, Marcel."
This made Marcel sigh and nod. "I know. Thank you Brian."
The Irishman grumbled and slammed his door shut behind him, making Marcel flinch a bit and sigh, before looking back at Evan, who'd been watching from afar. Marcel shook the argument off and went back into the set up office to call this guy. Hoping he didn't argue with Brian for nothing and can get a hold of this Ryan guy.
#bbs ghost adventures au#bbs terroriser#vanossgaming#vanoss#i am wildcat#basicallyidowrk#ouija board au#never play alone au#ohmwrecker#cartoonz#ghost adventures au#friend collab#spooktober#collaboween#part 2
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Today we will be setup at the Collaboween Fest... We will be back at TJ Maxx tomorrow ⠀ ____________________________________________________________⠀ Join The Smooth N Groove Community and text us at 404-737-1135 📍 Follow @smoothngroove⠀ .⠀ .⠀ .⠀ #smoothngroove #smoothiegang #fitnessjourney #foodie #healthylifestyle #fitnessaddict #blackmen #blackbusiness #blackowned #healthyliving #fitnesslifestyle #atlantabusiness #atlfood #atlantafood #atlantaga #downtownatl #foodtruck #hbcugrad #kappaalphapsi #smoothies
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Collaboween: DIY Hair Snood inspired by Da Vinci's La Bella Principessa.
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A Ritual of Blood and Sweat: Collabo'ween Day 11
AFAB!Reader/M!God (Who he is is a surprise, don't check the tags you'll ruin it).
Warnings: AFAB reader but You is the only pronoun; non-con turned very enthusiastic con; biting and marking; bloodplay; a tad of breeding kink; rumours of cannibalism and incest happening in the world but they're not at all shown; a little bit of angst but its okay, they're alright; predator/prey elements.
Word Count: 4898.
Notes: Sorry again that it was a day late! Also Google docs can suck my dick, the grammar is wrong on purpose stop being blue at me. Also also the god is inspired by Hircine from the Elder Scrolls because I've been back in the lore pit, but it isn't him, just inspired.
It was the night the clan had been praying for. The crimson moon hung overhead, its bloody rays piercing between even the heaviest of foliage and bathing the world in its colour. The Hunt was upon them.
People all around the encampment were energised by the happenstance; drums beating in tune to the Wise Crone's song; red paint being applied in intricate patterns on all of those who would be running through the trees; those who would stay behind preparing a huge firepit to cook what was caught; the children running and screaming or dancing to the music.
And then there was you. Your woven basket knocked against your hip as you wandered through the camp, weaving through the crowds and responding to the blessed words that would be uttered to you by the rest of the Crones with their falcon-feathered brushes. It was your own great aunt who met you at the edge of camp, brushing your face, hands and the tops of your feet to afford you luck as you stepped into the night.
She couldn't let you leave without receiving your own painted blessing. The red dye was made up of the blood from the mightiest of beasts the hunters had brought down this year, its colour kept by the berries it was mixed with and the consistency by a clay found on the banks of the White River. Two swirls on your cheeks to bless your eyes, so that you might never miss what you seek. Two more on the back of your hands so that your strength never leaves you. The final two swirls on the tops of your feet so that your pathing remains sure. Your people weren't the only ones hunting tonight. The blessings ensured safety.
The Father of the Hunt would watch over you as you foraged for the mushrooms his crimson moon sprouted. Your duty was a sacred one. As the youngest trainee of the Crones, still virginal due to your devotion, it was you who would find the mushrooms and bring them back for the feast that would take place at dawn. For every hunter who made it back, the mushrooms granted further strength and cunning to hunt through the year. For those who remained it provided innovation and wisdom, to guide the clan to prosperity. For the little ones it warded against sickness, so that they may reach adulthood.
The final marking was made on your chest, right in the centre. An arrow, the Father's arrow. So that your heart would stay as true as his aim. Only you would receive this mark tonight. You see, it was a test as well as an honour. In order to progress in your training, your faith would need to be confirmed. Your love for the god who made your people who they are had to be strong. To prove that you'd decided the path of Crone not to avoid marriage, pregnancy, hunting, crafting or any other duty you were relieved of. Should you succeed and ascend, the arrow would be tattooed onto your chest permanently.
It made you curious how she then pressed her hand to your stomach, leaving a bloody handprint on your skin. "A family blessing," she'd explained, "kept only for first trials as Crones."
You know the truth of your faith. It is as full as the moon overhead and it keeps your head held high as you step into the forest. The commotion of the clan fades the further you go, but the smile gracing your lips never wanes. Why would it when you knew exactly where to go to find the mushrooms? It was as though the Father himself guided your steps - and perhaps he was. The hunters hadn't left quite yet. He had time to nudge you in the right direction while he also gave strength to the beasts of the forest.
Bears. Wolves. Boars. Very angry badgers. Foxes. Very… virulent bucks. Just a small list of things to watch out for as you travel. The Father was a fair god. What use was there in making hunts easy? In making them easy, the clan would become weak. Prey had to fight back in some way. His worshippers had to prove their worth by virtue of strength, fleetness or intelligence. That way, the next generation would be even better.
You are no exception to these tests. While you know where to go, you would have to make yourself scarce. The same beasts your clansman sought would hunt you tonight.
Weasel. That's what the clan called trainees of your stock. Little weasels. Because you had to be the most cunning of all to survive. Should you succeed, they'd begin calling you a fox. And when you stopped bleeding every moon, you'd be represented by an owl. Wise in your old age. The hunters had such monikers themselves, as did the other folk but their names were more flora based. For the prey you ate and the bounty of the forest you made your clothes, homes, tools and sacred items from were just as important to honour as the Father himself.
With everything bathed in red, the forest appeared so alien. Shapes blended together, odd shadows being cast as your ears listened for the slightest indication that a beast had found your scent. A branch cracking, or the soft patters of paws on the ground. You could only hear your own footprints and your own breathing for now. Not even an owl hooting in the night. The poor owl didn't do so well during the crimson moon. Its prey was able to see it coming better due to how bright the moon made the night. Hence why the Crones that honoured the creature left skinned rodents hanging from the trees so that they would not go hungry.
Your solitude was broken by the rushing of the White River. Its rapids were deafening the closer you got, but at this distance it was a gentle hum in the background. A comfort, letting you know exactly where you were and where to go. An ancient grove, with trees older than your people's songs. It was on the rotting bark of the fallen trees that you'd find the mushrooms. You were sure of it.
By now the hunt would be underway. Spears and bows would bring down many beasts this night. Claws and fangs would see the end for hunters that were unworthy. And yourself, should the Father find you to be lacklustre. It wouldn't be wise to sing and draw attention to yourself, but in your head you heard it. The song of worship you sang for him, detailing his achievements and tales. It kept your bones warm as a gust of wind whooshed past.
It couldn't keep your hackles from rising when you felt the eyes on your back.
Something had found you, but you couldn't judge what. You saw no creature when you surveyed the forest. No tracks left by it, either. That didn't stop the feeling from growing evermore the closer you got to the ancient grove.
A test, you reminded yourself. The Father was simply prodding at your nerves, seeing if you'd run back home like a coward. You wouldn't. You'd take everything he would throw your way. Even as an arrow sailed by your head and landed in a tree to your right. An arrow from a bow who's string you hadn't heard twang.
Your steps quickened, body going from tree to tree to break up the line of sight of whoever sought you out. Other clans lived in these woods. While your people were friendly with many, trading not only goods but healthy people of breeding age to keep the blood-pools strong, some clans were expelled from the larger community. Cannibal clans, the rumours spoke. Or those who were headed by a single male, breeding with his own spawn and treating them like slaves. Both were outlawed under the Father's guidance.
No doubt it was one of those cannibals seeking your flesh right now - wishing to feast on you in mockery of your devotion to your god. If only they could understand how He would not allow that.
Another arrow thunked into a tree, this one many steps behind you. A poor shot, but again you heard no bowstring. An impossibility. No bow, no matter how well crafted, could be completely silent when the arrow was released. It kept the hunt fair, so that a deer could have one last moment to avoid their incoming doom. Had dark spirits granted this hunter a weapon born of their evil? They'd given it to the wrong bearer if they were this bad of a marksman.
Blessed by the Father, your body danced through the forest, your feet never tripping despite the fear in your heart. His song remained in your mind, quelling every urge to run home and forget the mushrooms. The other clan's weasels would be meeting you at the grove, together you'd have the strength to bring down this cannibal. To let their blood feed the trees that resided there.
Another arrow, closer this time. Barely missing your leg, sticking in the ground with such force that it broke in two. No bowstring sang. It was too late, though. You'd found where you were looking for.
Taller and taller the trees became, thicker in body until they were so large a clan could hollow one out and live inside. One clan used to, its remains right in the centre of the grove. That clan is gone now. No one knew why. But it was their home you sprinted to, prancing over the rocks in the clear spring pool that surrounded it. Right in the middle it stood proud, still growing and flowering despite the emptiness of its core.
The mushrooms were indeed growing on fallen logs as you rushed past, but they'd have to wait until you could harvest them in peace.
Scrambling inside, your hands gripped the carved bark so that you could climb to a higher floor and wait for your cannibal to come after you. You could drop down on them from above, could pierce their neck with the bear-bone dagger you unclasped from your belt. Your basket was left behind, bait to draw the cannibal closer.
No other weasel had made it here yet. You were early, a point that filled you with pride. The Father truly did favour you tonight.
You found a ledge hidden in shadow. Everywhere else in the forest, you could not escape the red light of the moon. This ancient tree was the one exception, as though it was imbued with magic that kept it from even the Father's sight. Perhaps another spirit was worshipped here. Perhaps the clan died out because they did not see the wisdom of the Father. Apt that your cannibal would join them.
Shivers danced along your skin as you waited, knife clutched tightly as your eyes carefully watched over the entrance. Silence returned to the night, a curious companion for the anticipation that bubbled within.
They did not come. Not for what felt like hours. Your fingers fatigued in their grip, your legs begging for you to move as they grew numb from being still for so long. A smart cannibal, then. They knew you were waiting. They knew a fight would come should they step foot in the tree. You had patience, though. You would wait.
Even when the scream pierced the air, you did not move. A horrific scream, likely that of another weasel who had fallen to the wretched cannibal. They were not worthy to complete their ascent. Nor was the next you heard wailing for the Father to save them.
Their mistakes would not be your own. They felt safe here, surrounded by the sacred mushrooms. They forgot that the Father granted no breaks. You would wait until the first crack of dawn if you had to. You'd go home with the smallest bounty. Everyone knew that surviving was the true goal.
What use was a Crone if they could not apply His wisdom practically, as well as in spirit? How would they guide the people with only thoughts that lacked experience? It was a marvellous test, indeed. The smartest hunter sent to make the smartest Crones.
Something you were not, apparently. A heartbreaking realisation that sank like a blade in your heart as a real blade pressed to your neck.
"Here you are," a deep voice rang by your ear. "I didn't think one so devout would tread in this place. Everyone else fears it."
Your cannibal urged you to stand, still keeping his knife to your throat as you struggled to your feet on weary legs. They ached dearly from your stillness, those lightening-like pricks fluttering through your skin. You should have moved just a little to keep them strong.
How had he gotten behind you? There was only one way into the tree. Had the same dark spirits that had granted his bow given him other gifts?
Your knife was taken from you easily despite how tightly you held on. His strength was far greater than your own. Your mother had made you that blade. She made the basket that it was tossed into, too. The basket that would be left there, no mushrooms filling it.
"You're the only one left, little weasel. Your cousins all fell. A bad stock this year, hm?"
'What a boar's ass,' you thought. Gloating in his depravity, amused that he was the superior hunter despite his banishment from His favour. Such a wretched man, indeed.
"It isn't honourable to play with your prey. Slit my throat and have it be over. I'll be with the Father in his hunting realm." You hoped. Dearly, you hoped that He wouldn't cast you aside for falling prey to this man.
Tears pricked at your eyes, water welling further when your cannibal laughed. His forehead pressed to the back of your skull, a deep sniff cutting off his joy as his free hand came to press to your belly. Right against your familial mark. Right against your aunt's blessing. His hand was so much larger, eclipsing the paint and your hope along with it.
"You're already with the Father, little weasel."
That hand tore at your furs, hiking them up your thighs and diving between your legs to violate your core. A thick finger plunged into your cunt as you screamed in frustration, pulling at his blade hand with all of your might.
More laughter. More mocking as he willingly took the blade away and tossed it down to lay with your own.
"My body belongs to my god!" A wail that betrayed your heartbreak. A wail that was as feral as your fighting, body contorting and flailing as you aimed to kick, hit and scratch whatever you could reach.
"I know, little weasel. That's why I'm taking it." His smugness refused to subside. What reason would he have to be humble when he so easily kept you in his grip?
When your head reared back, aiming to smash into his nose, you met only the hard muscles of his chest. He was tall - tall and possessed by the strength of a bear.
With one arm pressing against your own chest like a fallen tree pinning you to the ground, the cannibal had no issue controlling your body while his fingers corrupted your core. He was like the wind, reaching everywhere and leaving no part untouched. Leaving a chill in your bones where there had once been warmth.
'I'm still fighting, Father. Please grant me the means to make it home." Would he hear you tonight? Would he grant you your own twang of the bowstring, your own last chance?
The wet shlucking noises from between your thighs betrayed His answer. He wasn't coming for you. He had left you as he had the other weasels. Your body was no longer deemed as worthy. Your spirit was too weak.
Bile scoured your throat, not easing the painful burn that had already made its home there from your wailing. Your cannibal had staked his claim with his hands alone. He had brought you a pleasure you were never supposed to feel. One you had forsaken to serve the Father.
Your cunt grew as wet as your tear-stained cheeks, the fight seeping from your body with every flick your cannibal made over that little button at the top of your cunt. The markings on your cheeks were ruined by your crying. The arrow on your chest smudged by his arm. At least the markings on your feet stayed, keeping you upright instead of collapsing like a frail dry sapling in a storm.
"You belong to me, little weasel. You always have, and you always will," he whispered before his teeth sank into the flesh of your neck. Such sharp teeth, breaking the skin and marking you in his perversion of the Father's ways.
When couples would marry, two kisses would be placed on either side of the bride's neck, the locations tattooed by the Wise Crone with the animal that the husband's family held dearest. Then the bride did the same back, and her animal was placed on her husband. From then on, their hair would always be tied up or cut short so that everyone could see their love.
The animal on your skin was just a beast of a man.
"You'll always belong to me." A snarled declaration, your blood smeared against your skin where his lips and tongue trailed.
When he moved you to the floor of the ledge, you expected him to take you from behind like the wild beast that he is. That your knees would scrape against the bark and bleed as your neck does under his brutality. He did not.
Your back hit the bark as he climbed on top of you; his impossibly strong hands ripping through your furs and throwing them away until you lay bare and frozen. What was there left to fight for?
The glaze in your eyes made him hazy, his face still a mystery you refused to unravel. Even as he lifted his loincloth, drawing out his cock and coming to press it into you.
Waiting for it to be done, you let your head fall to the side, finally blinking the tears away. The red rays of the moon still bathed the forest outside. A lone mushroom could be seen just waiting to be plucked on the carcass of a tree. It was the biggest mushroom you'd ever seen. They all would have been so proud if you'd brought it back.
"Look at me, little weasel. I'd have my bride look at me when I take them."
You don't. You keep looking at the mushroom, and in your mind your spirit is lifting from your body and reaching out to collect it.
His hand grips your jaw, pulling your face to his. Your pupils stay locked on to the outside world, locked on to that tiniest slither of hope. What if the hunting party came through the grove? What if someone braved a glance into the ancient tree and saved you from your cannibal? Would the Father let you stay then?
"Look. At. Me."
No one was coming. Even if they ventured into the glade, your cannibal was right. Everyone feared the tree. They feared that dark spirits would curse them if they came too close. They must have cursed you tonight.
You looked. He didn't give you the chance to look away again before he sank deep into your cunt with a single, splitting thrust. It burned like your throat did, only sharper and more painful. The pain couldn't distract you from what you saw. It couldn't stop a song surfacing in your head about the Father.
Dark hair, left long and wild. Green eyes, that would shine through the brightest light. Sharp fangs, a predator true. Patterns swirling in skin, to hide from view.
"There we go, little weasel. You see who claims you? You see what your devotion brought?"
A staggering breath escapes from your lungs as the tears well once more. His hand caresses your stomach again as he leans down to nip at the other side of your neck. You let your head fall back, exposing the skin for him to feel. To place his mark where he would like.
The pain feels like a gift when he bites, your whimper a thank you when he licks your blood and continues peppering your skin with his affections until his lips meet yours. Such a sweet taste, such a deep, strong bouquet that blesses your taste buds and sends you into a heady spiral.
Where there was once a burn at your core, a throbbing need takes place. Where the energy had drained from your body it came back tenfold, urging your hips to buck against his own.
"Sweet little one, what do you think this means?" His words are spoken against your mouth before he pulls away, head nodding down to your stomach where the hand print has been smeared all over your skin.
Your throat catches as you speak. "I- I was told it was a family blessing."
The Father of the Hunt chuckles, forehead coming to rest against your own as he takes your scent in again.
"Your aunt always was one for tricks and lies."
Elaboration is forgone for the thrust of his hips, pulling back and delving deep enough to have your lungs seize working for but a moment. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, the pleasure so great you may just faint.
"I paid your Wise Crone a visit last night. I told her to place this mark upon your belly so that you'd know what would await you on this Hunt. That you'd come to be my bride."
His movements continued, stealing your voice from you as you listened to his words. You could barely think, so deep in his spell had you sank.
"I heard your every prayer. Every poem you dedicated to me, I cherished. Every dance you performed in my name I saw."
His fingers swiped the blood from your neck, taking the ichor and painting his own blessings on your skin. But there were more symbols, far more intricate than those of your clan or any other. His touch was so warm.
"I've hungered for you since I first saw your beauty on the day your maturity was celebrated. For I knew then that your soul had been reborn."
Biting into the flesh of his forearm, the Father let his own life force trickle down his arm. It was taken, used to paint more blessings on your belly and over your heart.
"Reborn?" How difficult it was to speak when he made you soar so high, your back lifting from the bark as you yelled out when his cock pressed forward. Tightly, you held onto his shoulders, needing to feel his warmth to keep you from passing above the clouds.
With a wave of his palm, the wounds on your neck healed. You could feel how the scars were left when he traced each print of his teeth. There was no need to do so again with his own bite, the openings knitting closed in front of your very eyes.
"The songs know nothing of this place. Of how I lived here, with you, so long ago. Of how you were taken away from me by jealous spirits, kept from my realm - our realm. But I always knew your soul was too strong to be held forever."
Kisses come again, desperate and longing. His tongue dances with your own, that lovely taste chasing away the pain you felt in your heart at his tale.
"My love," he sighs it like a prayer. "The darkness that hides me as I hunt. The moon that guides my way. The very blood that keeps me alive."
Overwhelmed in the best possible way, your bite down on your lip, surprised to feel the pricks of sharp fangs piercing the flesh. Running your tongue over them, you find that they have somehow changed. That they have somehow become like his.
Lifting from the bark, you meet him as he comes down again, your legs wrapping around his waist as your own teeth aim for his neck. His blood tastes even better than his tongue, filling your very being with a strength that no mortal ever should experience. You don't wait to mark the other side. You have to do it now, you have to show him the love you feel bursting in your heart.
The way he moans when you mark him is animalistic, his pace quickening and his grip on your waist harsh. As though you'd slip through his fingers.
"Say my name, love. You know what it is, please. Please say it."
No other being would ever hear him plead to them. This, you knew. His softness was for you alone.
"Please, love. Let me hear it."
The blessings he'd painted into your skin had been absorbed, the forms moving to resemble the camouflaged coats of animals. Just like his. Your truth being restored by his blood.
"Eden," you sob as a wave crashes through your body, your muscles spasming as your cunt clenches down on his cock, wanting to milk him for every drop of seed he'll give.
Hearing his name spoken for the first time in several lifetimes must have been too much for him, as Eden follows your fall right in the middle of your own. Your name is spoken, it is repeated over and over again as he gives you what you want.
Still, he moves. Ensuring that every last drop is emptied inside before he stops to peer down at you with those bright, loving eyes. Eyes that say they almost can't believe what they're seeing.
"I came home." You never wanted to leave it ever again.
"You came home." He held your palm against his cheek, his eyelashes tickling a finger tip when he blinked.
The crimson rays of the moon began to creep into the hollow tree, bathing you both in the warmth up on the ledge. You used to keep a shelf of herbs on this ledge. You remember that, as you remember other things. Like the fire you kept below on a bed of rocks, warming your home. How pelts of fur had been draped over the entrance to offer protection against the elements. A few ledges up it led to a grander overlook, where the furs of your bedding had been.
"You certainly let the place go," you giggle as you look around.
Eden huffs, holding his body up on his forearms so that he is no longer crushing you. Not that he needs to, you love to feel his weight on you. Your marking bites that you'd left on him are still healing, the new overlapping with old, old scars you'd left in a previous lifetime.
"Been living out in the forest. Didn't like living here alone."
With the light, you can see him properly. He's mostly as he was back then, though non-mating scars litter his skin now. One crosses his nose. And his beard has grown quite a bit. He's handsome with his beard. How come he'd never grown it out back then?
"They're from avenging you."
Humming, you trace each scar, thinking of all of the spirits that had seen to your downfall. How many of them had he killed? How long had he hunted them? How close had he come to joining you?
How much had you missed?
"Don't think about them, love. They're dealt with. You're safe with me now. We'll get back everything we lost, I promise."
"Starting with cleaning this place up, I should think."
Your Eden was always so serious, a grounding force, while you brought the lightness he needed. A perfect balance.
"And you'll apologise for killing those poor weasels. And give the clans the mushrooms personally. Your sense of mercy has waned in my absence." You finish the sentence with a tap on the tip of his nose.
Your hunter growls, hiding his face against your chest. "Back for less than a day and you're already whipping me into shape. And I didn't kill the weasels, that was those cannibal twats. Who I did kill."
"I thought you said you were happy to get back all that we lost? That includes my bossiness, I think. And thank you, for killing the cannibals."
"Should have killed the one hunting you quicker, but the fucker had these pelts on him that my arrows bounced right off of. Nearly hit you a couple of times thanks to that. Got him in the end, though. Drowned him in the river and sent those cursed pelts down with him."
Chuckling, you twist Eden's hair between your fingers, carding through the locks with your nails and scratching his scalp until his body melted against your own. Most of his body, that is. One certain part stiffened at your attention - that part still inside of you.
Eden's head lifts from your chest, his gaze predatory. "The people can wait till the sun rises. You've been worshipping me all these years. Now it's my turn to worship you."
#spill my guts#collaboween#necro's fics#cw noncon#cw biting#cw blood#cw pred prey#cw breeding#for everyone in the tags trying to find out who the god is before reading hi#naughty little rascals#its#eden the hunter#who else would it be this is my blog of course its him
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03. Summoning circle gone wrong
characters. Harleep. Mentioned Raphael shenanigans.
cw. harleep being a nasty. pseudoincest cuz raphael ya devil daddy, congratulations, you're a tiefling reader. gn reader at that. kinda dubcon?
note. DAY THREE, AND ITS INKY'S DAY ON THE COLLABOWEEEEEEN. check out the other sluts doing the collab, @necros-writing-stuff @angrelysimpping @letstalktea @undead-merman. also cuz inky is INKY theres a mention of gortash ehe. Also yeah, I'm only doing my own prompts instead of any of the others lol sorry guys
You needed to talk to your father.
That was a thought that never would have ever crossed your mind three days ago. No, you had been having such a good time, away from the Hells and your devil of a father, that he had never even crossed your mind.
Not until he appeared before you, his wide smirk catching for just a moment at the sight of you, before returning full force. Of course. Raphael didn’t even realize it was you until you were right in front of him, a spitting image of your other parent, but still his blood nonetheless. Your world you were slowly building with your new companions, that you were just like them, that you could have a future, came crashing down as he grinned, wide and loving and fake.
“My child.” He mused, reaching a hand out to trace along your cheek. “What a predicament you got yourself into.”
His false concern tasted like salt on an open wound, metallic and stinging. You knew he didn’t care about you. Hells, you were the only one of his children kept in the House of Hope because your mother was one of the few who tricked him into keeping the Tiefling offspring she had after laying with the Devil who had no interest in her. Of course, she paid dearly for that. Sometimes you wandered past the room where she was kept to this day, her screams switching between begging and wrathful.
The only reason that she was locked away was because Korilla was the one who made the plea on your behalf to not see whatever was happening to her.
But your mother made the deal, and the deal was for him to look after you as a child. So the minute you turned eighteen, you snuck out the House of Hope and never looked back. Did Raphael even notice? You doubted it.
But now here you were, actively seeking him out, just to demand answers and also help. Your father could help you all out, you knew it, and you were willing to engage with him enough to squeeze some solutions out of him and hopefully have him fuck off long enough for you and your companions to do something about it.
You knew how to make the portal ritual to the Hells, but the messaging one was simpler, and would need quite a bit of energy for someone to decide to suddenly hop through. The type of energy that would definitely burn you up almost instantly if you were, say, dragged through. Better to be crisped to death than back in the House of Hope with your father and his weirdos.
The ritual circle burst into dark flames, reaching up, over your head but no smoke emanated up. Hellfire was annoyingly unique like that. You waited, the flames embers spitting and crackling as the blaze raged on, but your father had yet to appear. You felt like you were being put on fucking hold, as he filed his nails all pointy and looked at the corresponding circle in his boudoir with that annoying smirk of his.
Mother should have just asked for child support.
A dark figure slowly formed behind the walled inferno and you sighed, putting your hands on your hips, feeling suddenly a lot like Korilla whenever she caught you doing something you were forbidden from. Like asking for permission before doing something.
“Finally! Did you get your fancy shoes on- Oh.” You paused in your angry tirade as the flames lessened, revealing…. Your father’s lover.
He seemed to have perfected your father’s smirk.
“Oh, little lost lamb,” Harleep purred, hands on his hips as he showed off his scant body. You felt a bit unwell at the sight. “Your father stepped out, he’s very busy these days. But I’ll gladly take a message for him.”
You were never allowed near the incubus. Not that anyone thought that he’d be anything but a shit of an… Uncle? to you, but Raphael was spoiled and didn’t like when his favorite playthings would hang out without him.
“He’s not doing anything. He's sitting around with his thumb up his ass and giggling.” You snapped and Harleep smiled, just enough for the fire to glint against his pearly teeth, the canine digging into his lip.
“Oh darling, he does nothing with that ass without me-”
“Yeah yeah yeah, way too much information, that’s my father you know.” You grumbled, fighting the urge to cover your ears, or… Maybe duel him for your dad’s honor, you didn’t know.
Harleep gazed at you, his eyes burning low and hungry…
“You seem different little lamb.”
“The last time you saw me was when I was thirteen, Harleep.” You grumbled, suddenly feeling a bit squeamish. “You tried your hand at babysitting me and Father came home to find us having a tea party with his favorite bottle of wine.”
“Ah, I remember.” Harleep didn’t break his gaze from you, slowly stepping closer and closer to you. “In my defense, I filled your cup with the pool water. Not a drop of alcohol.”
“...Just your spent jizz water.”
“It was refreshed just that morning.” Harleep murmured, his eyes twinkling. “But, if you still so wish for a taste, I don’t mind.”
“Don’t be fucking gross-”
“Twas in earnest.” Harleep sighed, his gaze dragging over your body, lingering on any exposed skin he could see. “If you have the same appetites as your father… I could-”
“No, nope, nope, no-” You stepped away but he simply took a step forward, until his bare feet touched the edge of the burning sigils, a small hop away from exiting the circle.
Harleep suddenly stilled, leaning his head back and sniffing the air, like when you came across those gnolls, panting and salivating at the scent of your flesh. You froze up. You know what he was doing. He did it every time your father came home, and smirked, sauntering over to their boudoir. Did it when Korilla came home, flushed and pink and Harleep would tease her about visiting Elminster’s library, whatever that meant. Did it when you were seventeen and you were caught with the boy the caretaker loved to hit, with his coarse hand pressed against your belly. You two were found, and Harleep came across you two being chewed out and he just smirked, looking at the dark haired boy with such deeply intense knowing that he flushed.
“Oh, little lamb. You smell so ripe.” He murmured. “Unlike your father. Never noticed before, your scent… Is that of a pretty little bitch that deserves to be on their back while delicious things are done to them.”
“H-Harleep…” You stammered, unable to form any words other than his name, which apparently he liked, given the sudden strain against his leather ass shorts.
“You shouldn’t have scampered off so quick all that time ago.” He murmured. Then he stepped forward.
His body shimmered as he stepped through the lowered blaze. You could feel the energy pulsate from the circle, as he forcibly crossed the realms, with such force that it made you stumble and fall unceremoniously on your ass. You hoped someone, like Gale, would feel the Weave pulsate with magic, the earth shake just a bit for people to notice. You blindly cursed yourself for deciding to do this so far away from the camp, so you wouldn’t be witnessed whining at your father.
Harleep took advantage of your prone state and sank down, his thighs straddling your sides.
“It’s been so long since I’ve had such a cute thing under me… And from what I’ve heard, you might last a while, even with two fingers inside of your hole. A pretty hole too.”
You had no idea if you should feel flattered by the comparisons to your… Father and his… Lackings, or deeply grossed out, given he was saying all this with your own bloodkin’s face sewed onto his skull.
“Harleep, this isn’t funn-”
“Hush, little lamb. It's such a pleasure to have my favorite little lost creature back in my reach. To be the one to see you get tended to. And-” He pressed a clawed finger against your lips, dragging it down over your throat. ”If you promise to be good while we play, I’ll see what I can tease out of your father, to help with your little… Tadpole.”
You fell silent, as he continued to stroke over your bare neck and shoulders. You mulled over the proposition as Harleep’s hands traveled down, settling on your chest and giving an appreciative squeeze.
“Should have stayed at our lovely House, little devil.” He murmured, his cock pressing against your stomach as he rolled his hips. “Anytime your father left, I could have come and kept you company. Made up for our lovely lost time.”
Harleep’s ministrations stopped for just a moment as he looked down at you, his gropes almost becoming soft, sweet touches as his finger tips trailed over your collarbone.
“He wouldn’t have let me look after my little lamb. You were so small and I wanted to sit with you in your room while you cried. He didn’t let me. I asked…. I asked if I could become your uncle, or some sort of parent. I wanted to so badly. He wouldn’t let me.” He shook himself out of his reverie. “But no. You’re not my little lamb anymore. You’re not my little anything anymore…”
He leaned down, one hand digging into the dirt by your head and pressed his scorching lips against yours, groaning softly into your mouth, utterly desperate.
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to be mine. All mine.” Harleep murmured, his fingers dragging back down, this time to yank at your trousers. “In a way even your Father won’t have you.”
He had his hand fully down your trousers, greedily groping you with two fingers grazing your hole over your underwear. You whined against his tongue dragging itself over your teeth, utterly muffling any sounds you were making, instead just drinking them all down.
“Let me make you cum.” He growled softly, his fingers pressing deeper inside of you, his claws slicing right through your underwear and curling inside of you. “Then you can treat me when you come home and I get you all to myself.”
You fought down both waves of pleasure, his fingers burning with a delightful tingle inside of you, but also nausea, seeing your own father’s face against yours. You wonder if Harleep liked it like this. A familiar connection but also getting to touch and fuck one of the few people he… Had some sort of emotional feelings for.
“All mine, aren’t you?” He murmured thickly, his lips beginning to suck hickeys into your neck. “Give me all of you, and I’ll look after you so well.”
It didn’t matter how many times you tightened around his fingers, cum staining his skin, it didn’t matter how he ravaged your neck completely until it looked like Astarion had a midnight snack on your arteries, it didn’t matter that you were sore and twitching by the end of it. Harleep couldn’t seem to get enough of his little lamb.
Hells, you were walking sore for such a long time afterwards, you didn’t even notice the pleasurable tingles shooting along your spine and shoulders, as if someone was wearing your skin and getting fucked nasty in it.
#collaboween#happy third day of the spooky month#raphael bg3#harleep#bg3#baldurs gate 3#nsft#quincewrites#collab
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Sleep Paralysis: Collab'oween Day 1
GN!Reader/Male!Unspecified Creature.
Warnings: Rape/Non-con; Maybe feeings of claustrophobia and references to the ocean; Fear of death but no physical harm to reader; Utter helplessness; Cunnilingus/Analingus (you can read as either, I don't specify genitals for reader); Penetrative sex; Creature man has a prehensile pp; 3rd person POV.
Word Count: 2080.
Notes: I'm not doing all of the days, just the six prompts I wrote! Please make sure to check out all of us doing this together: @undead-merman @letstalktea @inkyquince @angrelysimpping Also big thanks to Merman for making the banner and divider and all of their wonderful work on this project.
It gets closer each night. They know as the sun fades, as their eyes shutter closed and the warm fingers of Hypnos keep their lids heavy that it's only a matter of time before the personification of sleep partially releases his hold on them and that reality will blend with their nightmares.
For months it's happened every night. They awaken without control of their body, not even able to blink, as eyes watch from the darkest corner of their room. It's just a trick of the mind, they know this, but it doesn't make it any less terrifying.
They'd gone to their doctor. Been referred to get a brain scan by a specialist to ensure it wasn't anything malicious causing the paralysis. All tests came back fine. They were sent home with pills and a regiment to follow. None of it had helped. The only time it ever left was when the dawn broke. Winter was on the horizon. Shorter days. Later dawns.
Then, they'd thought that it wouldn't be able to hide in the dark if there was no darkness. They'd filled their room with nightlights in every corner, left them on as they went to sleep, confident that they'd finally be able to get through the night. They hadn't. The creature cared not for the lights strewn about the room. It was a void of blackness, sucking in the light and refusing to let any stray ray out of its grasp.
Fine then, it's sunlight it doesn't approve of. UV lamps were bought and installed. Their electricity bill would suffer, so they tried to stay away from electronics during the day to compensate. There was a pile of unread books just begging to be read, afterall. Yet, as night fell and sleep abandoned them once more, the creature remained in its corner. The blue hue of the UV lamps only made it more threatening. Cold, sterile. Dead.
They couldn’t even sleep through the day. Something pulled at them, keeping them awake even as they lay with their eyes closed in their bed with the room made as dark as they could for the day. Only when the moon was out could they find a fraction of rest.
After months, they found themself getting used to the creature. It was a black blob with (admittedly creepy) eyes - no discernable features, no intent of ill-will it would seem. It just wanted to watch them through the night.
It just had to move, didn't it? It had to reach a clawed hand it had never seemed to possess before out toward them, its frozen form a threat again for the first time in a long while. The skin (If it had skin) was a black as the void it made; it was hazy due to the smoke that rose from the flesh. The only part of it that continued to move. The smoke.
Perhaps it was the home. The place they lived was haunted, wanting to torment the poor soul living within. With little money left due to the lamp expenses, they desperately pushed every new lamp into a large box and took it to a car-boot sale. They were all new, but half price anyway. They just needed enough for one night in a local hotel. Just one. To see if it would work.
Each night that passed as they sold the lamps, the creature got closer. Like it knew. More limbs came out from the haze; the other clawed hand, long seemingly muscled legs, the torso unfurling and appearing to be as large as the rest of it. A beast. A tall beast that could rip someone apart just by strength alone. Still it's face remained shadowed, the smoke dripping down like hair.
Not every lamp was taken, but enough so over the weekend event that they had the money to stay in a hotel. A single bed, no TV, shitty water pressure in the shower. It was only on the first floor but the windows were painted just all the same. At least it smelled clean.
Hope sent them to sleep that night - a tentative hope that was on the verge of snapping as each second ticked by on the old clock on the wall.
That hope snapped the second their eyes opened with the street lights sneaking through the curtains. It was here. Worst of all, it was closer than it had ever been. Crouched on the edge of the bed, tall frame leaning over so that it looked down at them with those bright white eyes. This close it was easy to see that there was no pupil. No iris. Just white.
Tears welled that they could not blink away, blurring their vision and making the creature even harder to make it. Panic grasped them tightly, their heart hammering in a chest that refused to twitch. They needed to breathe more, to take in deep, filling breaths. But they could only take in standard breaths as their head began to swim. It felt like being suffocated.
If they could scream, they would. Especially when it moved right in front of them. It never moved when they could see. Never. It was now. That elongated hand reaching down, a claw tracing the path of the tears as they fell down their face into their hairline. Some of the tears fell into their ears. It made them itchy.
The creature didn't keep its attention to their face. Its claw wandered down their body, pulling the blanket with it as it exposed them to the cold air of the hotel room. Their pyjamas were lifted, their tummy exposed. Would it start there? Rip of their innards and eat them as they could do nothing to watch?
Slowly, it pressed its hand flat to their skin. The warmth was a surprise. A creature of such darkness should emanate frost, but its flesh bordered on burning as it pressed down. Would it crush them? Would it contribute to the suffocation that felt it was taking hold?
It would not. At least, it wouldn't yet. Every touch was gentle as it flipped them over, every adjustment it made of their body made for their comfort as their head was turned to the side so that they could breath with their body laying on their front. It didn't feel right. It shouldn't be so gentle.
The tears from their left eye now fell over the bridge of their nose and into the eyeline of the other. It merged with the other falling tears as they wet the pillow.
Beside from the ruffling of clothes and the creaking of the old mattress, the room had been silent. As had the creature. No neighbouring rooms made bangs or bumps in the night. A harsh ripping broke the silence. Their clothes. The creature was removing their clothes. Tearing it to shreds with its knife-like claws and discarding the fabric on the carpeted floor below.
Goosebumps rippled over their skin as the night's air fell on it. The creature's flesh was the only warmth they could wish for - and they couldn't only wish that it would stop and leave them alone.
It was a coward. Turning them over so that it didn't have to look in their wide eyes as it tore them apart from behind. Taking their clothes as a butcher would a pelt. Taking advantage of their sleep condition, or perhaps causing it itself so that they couldn't run or fight back.
Such a strange thing, to feel anger after all of that fear. If creatures like this beast could wander the earth, then perhaps their anger would fuel their spirit enough to find a second life after death and seek vengeance on the wretched thing.
Despite the feeling that they couldn't breathe, they did not pass out. They wished they would, that they could drift off into nothing before they would feel the beast's claws in their back. This mercy would not be for them.
And neither would the claws. Not as the creature lowered itself, the bed shifting as its long legs came to sit on the floor and its hidden face lowered to the back of their thighs.
A tongue, long and thick, teased up their thigh until sharp fangs nipped at the flesh of their ass. The tongue returned quickly, flickering as it found its way to their hole.
More anger. More rage filling their heart as they desperately plead with their libs to just move. Just the littlest amount of movement - a twitch, anything! Nothing would come.
It kept poking, prodding, lapping away at their exposed hole while disgusting pleasure whispered up their spine and choked their breaths. ‘Stop,’ they tried to beg. To scream it until their throat would bleed. But what was the use? They’d been begging for months and yet no one was listening. If there was a god or even multiple of them, they’d long since been forsaken to this demonic presence.
There’s a strength to the beast. It lifts them as if it were nothing, their limp body folding as it hoists their hips up and presses it’s face even deeper into their core; that damned tongue flattening and giving a smooth, languid lick that has their eyes rolling back in their head. It should have stopped at this indignity. Why didn’t it just stop there?
It took its fill of their hole, still following with its tongue as it lowered their body back onto the mattress. As if it couldn’t bear to part with them. And sure enough, its stocky form rose over them again, that red-hot skin pressing to their back as something new wriggled and writhed against their saliva-dripping core. It meant to mount them.
One last push. One last demand for a finger to curl, to prove that they weren’t locked away inside of their own body. Underneath its body. A wall of flesh pressing down, closing in and taking away all of the air in the room as their anger slowly drained into sorrow.
That tentacle-like cock of the creature burrowed its way into them, spreading them open and penetrating deep. Strange guttural noises were snarled by their head, the beast having its pleasure while their tears returned. Every thrust of the hips was more like a roll, like a wave coming in toward the beach and retreating once more. It was graceful, powerful, threatening to take them away with it into the depths below.
How could they swim against the tide without the ability to move? How could they possibly stop the water from encasing each and every part of them, leaving not a single inch of skin dry?
Their mind refused to wander away, instead it focused on the smell of burning the creature emanated. It grasped onto every touch and grab the creature made at their skin. It couldn’t kick or scream anymore. Just like the body it inhabited. God, they were so tired.
Sweat gathered on their skin, the heat from their creature making it feel like a sauna in the cheap room. Sharp nips were given to their neck and shoulders, fanged teeth having a taste or maybe even marking what belonged to it. Its tongue came back to clean their cheeks of tears.
Why did it have to feel so sweet? The slow build to the orgasms that hit in waves matching its hips pulling in and out. Its cock moved by itself while it would thrust, slowly undulating, causing their throat to seize from how intensely their nerves lit on fire for it.
Almost. Almost they were freed from being there. It was exhausting being used so thoroughly, their eyelids were heavy and promised the sweet release of unconsciousness. It never came.
Who's to say how long it stayed on top of them that night. They couldn’t see the clock, couldn’t say when the beast woke them from peace. It stayed until the sun’s rays peaked through the cheap old curtains. But it left with a promise, a lingering hand on the back of their neck as it rose up, thumb rubbing over the freshest bite. It would be back.
They still felt numb when control returned to their limbs. Felt numb for the rest of the day until night fell once more and that fear built. All they could focus on was the fact that the semen dripping from their hole never cooled in their frigid winter air seeping into the room.
#spill my guts#collaboween#cw terato#cw noncon#not dol#cw claustrophobia#cw thalassophobia#cw sleep paralysis#gn reader#necro's fics
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The Horrors of Humanity: Collabo'ween Day 6.
Gn!Journalist!Reader/Darius Radner.
Warnings: Serial Murders; Kidnapping; Obsessive thoughts; Someone gets skinned but it's only mentions of it having happened. That's right, no smut in this one. Just dread. He do be playing mind games.
Word Count: 2366.
Notes: Might continue this later through smaller prompts. It's a good au for Dare.
His closed fist tapped against the cold metal of the table he sat at. His tongue trailed at the back of his teeth as he sucked in his lips and rolled his jaw. People sat around him, laughing or simply taking in their drinks as they watched the crowd float on by the window.
You were late. Meant to be here 10 minutes ago. It's how you always met, grabbing your warm drinks before walking around the local park and discussing the case you were following like a bloodhound.
'I'm starting to feel your absence in my heart when you aren't here,' he wrote in his journal. 'It feels leaden heavy, yet beats quicker than ever from the anxious thought that you'll never come back. How did you worm your way into my heart so fast? Was it because I wasn't looking at you when I should have had my guard up? Was that how you found the missing link in the fence that let you crawl through?'
It was true, he never meant to find your company so magnetic. People weren't his forte; a low social battery and a grumpy disposition can only handle so much before the man had to retreat back to his home to recuperate. Yet, when you left after your evening walks together, he couldn't help but yearn for more. When you were around he found himself smiling, snapping less when bumped into, hell, he even paid for that lady's baby food the other week.
'Your infectious kindness makes me feel like a new man. It was a newness I rejected at first, but I think I might like to try and be good. If it'll make you see me and not your work, I want to be good. But I still find myself playing the devil to keep you in my grasp.'
The Devil always got the contracts signed and the souls as his own in the end, didn't he?
"Hi, Dare!" You plop yourself into the seat across from him, a whoosh of air escaping your lungs as you sank into the frame. "Fucking traffic. Sorry for being so late."
You sip your drink, he closes his journal and hides it away before your instincts kick in and you try to pry it from him. Everything. You had a thirst for knowing everything. And most of the time you found it, but Darius kept you at an arm's length. He had to. To keep you safe.
" 's all good. You look knackered, love."
Dark circles under your eyes crease as you give a half-hearted smile. Your hair looks like you had your hands bothering it all day. "I haven't been sleeping the best - too busy looking over everything."
His eyes roll, already seeing that you're wasting no time on small talk today. You want straight into your little hyperfixation. Something must have really worked you up.
"Come here," you lean forward, chest touching the table top as you whisper. Darius follows with a deep sigh, his eyes shifting around the room and he feels like a toddler playing spies.
"Would be nice for you to ask me how I am, y'know?" It's bad manners for you to forget.
"Right- how are you?" Your eyes are so pretty. Your lips deserve his on them.
"Just fab, not considering skinning my employee for blunting all of my chisels."
Your face falls for a split second. Just a little bit before your eyebrows shoot up and that smile is back. "Funny you should mention skinning - that's what our friend's done."
A one track mind, truly. "Oh? Do tell me more."
It's like pulling the cord on a chainsaw. Four simple words, but he'll hear the buzz of you talking for hours now. He likes hearing you talk. He could sit and listen to you instead of being at home, watching the same old shows as he got drunk enough to pass out. Or out in the woods, in his workshop, listening to birds screech and bucks bugle.
Your excitement should be strange. It should put him off. It never has.
"Well I was talking with that constable again, you know, the tall lady? Yeah, well, there's been another body found. They don't think it's his because it's different from the others, but I know it just has to be."
What a rat. Darius never would have let shit leak like that back when he was on the force. He'd kept a tight grip on his underlings. At least this one leaks things to you; for that he could forgive her.
"How do you know?" Another sip of his coffee as you just keep fiddling with the lid of your drink.
"There's signs that he's been escalating, Dare. More violent and slow as he's killing, but an increased number of deaths. He's getting bored, so he's trying new things to bring back the magic of the first time."
The greying man considers it for a moment, his head tilting. "You should be careful, love. All this attention you give him might have him chasing you. You're well known enough that you'd end up in the news more so than the others - especially with how pretty you are. You know how the media likes a sleeping beauty sob story."
A scoff escapes your lips as you finally have a drink. "He's not dumb enough for that. Look at his targets. They're all people society ignores. He knows shit about how people work, he knows to be careful on who he picks. Since eyes would be on me, he'll stay away."
"Surprised you want him to stay away."
Oh, you don't appreciate that. A pitiful frown peers at him from across the table, your sweet face falling.
"I'm not like that, Dare. I've told you before." It's barely audible. He'd bet that your cheeks are feeling burned right about now.
A crack can be heard as he leans back and stretches his spine, his large hands combing through his hair and getting it out of his face. He's due a haircut.
"I know, love. Just teasing."
You arch a brow at him, a look that says you believe him as far as you could throw his giant frame. "Come on then. Give me your theory, what's he up to."
Ah, yes. The part of these meetings that caused them in the first place. Darius had seen your first article on your news site, your pretty little picture right there on the page. When he'd found you typing your next in this very café, he'd had to give his own two-cents. You'd been astonished and thankful that anyone was ready to hear you out (outside of degenerate threads on the internet full of strange people in love with the killer).
Bless your heart. You'd tried telling the police all of your theories, but they just wouldn't listen. Insisted they had a handle on things.
"He's lonely." A simple conclusion. A truth - not what the killings had started as. But very much what they'd turned into.
You know nothing. You never have. You know far more than anyone else but there's half of the picture you haven't filled in. And couldn't yet. That informant told you scraps of the details, but not everything about the bodies. About the messages left on them.
But you had guessed right on a few other things. Like his age range, his education or professional background - the fact that it was nine bodies so far, not six like the police believed. The fact that he is indeed a he.
"I doubt it. He shows all of the signs of a highly functioning person. He's probably well liked by people around him, probably-"
"But do any of the people around him understand him? Quite common now, no? Mental health pandemic and all that."
Your voice stutters as you find your response. "So he's… killing to feel connections? But he doesn't keep trophies. Not that we know of, anyway."
"Who says it's the victims he's vying for the love of?" Dare tips his nearly empty coffee at you.
Adorable, really. Watching the cogs in your brain turn as you recall everything you know. Watching how your tongue flicks out and wets your lips. You're a smart one. Surely you'll see what he's planting.
"He's killing to get the attention of someone else. They didn't start out like that, though. He's changed."
Darius nods along, proud. "How do you know he's changed?"
"Because of how slow and methodical he's getting. He used to just brutalise his victims, but now he's taking his time. Like he's… crafting messages?"
Bingo. You don't see the messages he makes for you, but you hear about them. And they bring you to him. The only time he gets to see you is right after he kills, when you can't wait to meet up and talk about your latest findings. But you're getting too close there.
"Or you were right the first time and he really is getting bored."
Now you're growling, rubbing your tired eyes. "Yeah… yeah… goddamn it."
Once again, you deflate. It's too easy, playing with your hopes and dreams like this. You want to catch him so bad, to know him inside and out. To know what makes him tick. But so long as you don't know, you'll come back to Dare to bounce your theories around.
Taking a final drink, Darius picks up his coat and heads to the bin to toss away the empty cardboard cup. Time for your evening walk together around the park. The cool air helped you both think.
Following suit, you chug what remains of your beverage while checking your phone. and thank him as he holds the door open even though you're enamoured by whatever is on the screen. You used to pay more attention to Darius himself, but his actions keeping your focus is close enough.
Your hand finds his, tugging him along as you rush to the park. A giddy laugh pulls from your chest. He's never touched you before. He can't think of words to say as he feels your skin against his own.
The first two killings had been out of curiosity. A need to know if they'd alleviate Darius' boredom. To know if it would shock some excitement within him. They hadn't been exciting at all until he'd found your article. You do such strange things to his head, love. All of those extra lives gone just because he needed to see you.
"Our friend managed to get some pictures for me! They're sending it over now, but they're messing around with emails to make sure it can't get back to them."
"Good news, that. You'll have more to think about." Ah. He wasn't exactly expecting this to happen so soon. Your room wasn't fully finished. "Are you sure you want to look, though? It'll be a real body. Not some movie prop. A real, skinned body."
"For better or worse, I'm very desensitised to blood and gore. I'll be fine. Are you sure you aren't the one scared to see it?" Your eyebrows waggle as you release his hand, having made it across the road and in through the gates of the park.
"I've seen this shit before. Ex-homicide department, remember?"
"Mmmm, but that was years ago, and we can go soft in our old age."
If you were anyone else he'd slap you upside your head. Despite himself, Darius laughs. "Not that old, love. I'm still in my prime."
There's a lot of trees in the park. And very little people at this time. He'd always think ahead and parked his car in a lot that just backed off into the foliage, in a blind spot from cameras, just in case. You walked to the café since it wasn't far from the office.
Your phone buzzes, your smile ceasing as you take in a deep breath and look over the photo. Your fingers pinch and you zoom in to examine every detail you can. A paleness crosses your skin.
"Fucking hell…"
Yeah, that's about right. Dare went the extra mile with this one.
"He really did take his time with this. It's. God, its smooth work. He knows how to butcher." The disgust is evident in your tone and the way your lip curls. What did he just tell you? You're biting off more than you can chew.
Darius' fingers snake their way into the deep pockets of his coat. They trace the rope he has hidden away. The capped needle he prepares before every meeting.
"He's-"
The gulp is audible as you scroll to the next photograph. Almost gag like as you zoom in as far as you can - your eyes blowing up as your expression blanks. You found it. His little note. A name, sewn onto the sole of the foot delicately. A nickname you barely tell anyone about because it embarrasses you. But you'd told Dare.
He can't hear anything over the sound of his blood rushing through his veins in his ears. Time seems to slow as your terrified gaze meets his own. The twitch of your muscles comes too late as you realise he's already moving - that he has something in his hand. Your scream dies as a gargle when Darius' free palm meets your throat, squeezing tightly as the needle goes in.
Oh, his poor little investigator. It was time to go home.
To Darius, you weigh little. Trussing you up is simple work, as is getting you in the boot of his car. There's a pillow in there for your head. Memory foam. He'd bring it inside to your new bed along with you, even if the room wasn't quite ready. He could make it work. Keep you bound, chained.
Driving past the café on the way home raises his curiosity. You wouldn't talk to him like you had in there. Not anymore. You'd be scared; feeling confused. Betrayed, maybe. He'd explain it all for you, though. His journal would tell you everything you ever wanted to know. Everything about how you became his muse.
The police wouldn't be hearing from him again. He had what he wanted.
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Sacrifice: Collab'oween Day 17
GN!Reader x GN!Tentacle Entity
Warnings: tentacles!; abduction; drugging; ritual sacrifice
Words: 2473
In the grand scheme of things, your town was only as important as a speck of flea shit. A proof of existence, but not much else. Not even the creature itself, but the waste of it. The waste of a blood sucking parasite. Yeah, that was your town.
Oh sure, you had lived there your whole life but, really, that wasn’t your fault. If you could, you’d have left ages ago. But you couldn’t. You’d been stuck, frustratingly and completely. For as long as you could remember, you’d been working towards a way out, scratching out an existence that was tolerable enough to justify staying alive.
Tiny little place, you’re not even sure how it survives. And you don’t care. Soon, you’ll finally escape this backwater town. There’s no reason to stay, the only thing keeping you back is a lack of funds.
Not even family kept you tied here.
Who knows where your parents had fucked off too, if they were even still alive. They’d gone out one night and just…never came back. That had been lovely to deal with at the tender age of 6. Shuffled from person to person, dealing with the name calling on the school yard. They called you “lucky” for getting to stay in your hometown, with your “community.” Yeah, no. You hated it, hated everything about it.
The “small town” branding that got pushed so goddamn hard. The old biddies that clucked their tongues and asked how you were holding up, words soft and caring yet judgment shining in their eyes as they raked over your body looking for anything they deemed “strange.” The way everyone expected you to still morn over your parent’s sudden leaving, as if they didn’t fucking abandon you, as if you even remembered them. God, you hated it all.
That didn’t matter anymore, though. Soon, soon, you’ll leave. By the time the new year rolls around, you’ll be out of this festering shit hole of a town. You’ll be free.
It’s Halloween now. A few more months of planning, that’s all that’s left. A few more months before everything is in place and you can leave.
Or, that’s how things should have gone.
The knock at the door makes you jump, popcorn spilling onto the floor. Laughing lightly at your own nerves, you pause the old horror movie you’d been watching. Well, more like staring the vague direction of as you thought of how nice your new life will be away from here. Shaking your head, you exchange your metal bowl of popcorn for another bowl. Garish orange plastic bowl with black bats dotted around the body and full to the brim with candy. Best bowl you owned, in your opinion. Yeah, you hated this place, but you weren’t some grinch that would forsake some kids their deserved Halloween treats just because they were as unlucky as you to be born here.
In your haste, you don’t notice the time: well past when any normal trick or treaters would visit.
Brisk October air rushes in as you open the door, swirling around your feet, a few stray leaves managing to sneak inside. Your wide smile freezes into place, the practiced “Happy Halloween” dying on your tongue.
No children dawned your doorstep. No happy trick or treaters with bright eyes. No harried parents. No, none of that. A group of stone faced men look back at you. Dimly, you recognize some of them. A man from the convenience store you liked to stop by after work for a snack, a guy who goes to the coffee shop at the same time as you. But, most of them you’ve never seen before in your life.
You don’t have time to dwell on how odd it is to see unfamiliar faces in this tiny town as the group rushes forward, pushing past you and into your home.
“Hey-!”
Your shout cuts off as you’re forced down to the floor, bowl of candy knocked out of your hands and sending the treats flying. Thrashing, you yell again, a wordless scream of fear and rage. It doesn’t matter. Firm hands latch onto your arms and shoulders, keeping you down. Wrenching up, you don’t get far before you’re slammed back down, pain blooming in your skull as your head bounces off the carpet.
Funny, you’d always liked the carpet here. Soft, easy enough to clean. Once upon a time, you’d thought of it as cozy. That was before your dead end job and the dying town embittered you to even the smallest of joys. That’s what you think of as your consciousness falters, drifts off. This tiny home you’d made for yourself, your first step towards getting yourself out of town and to better things, now maybe witness to your first steps out of this life.
-
A low groan leaves you as your consciousness slowly starts to filter back. Your cheek presses against something rough, body curled in on itself, arms throbbing with discomfort bordering on pain. Muffled voices surround you, hair on the back of your neck prickling as you catch the murmured sound of your name.
You recognize that voice, but you can’t place how. It takes you a moment, brain sluggish. Vague scraps of it in your memory, on the tv, on the radio, before it clicks. No wonder you struggled, you’d never spoken to the owner. What reason would you have to speak to the mayor, after all?
Eyes fluttering open, you find yourself lying on the floor of an unfamiliar room. Coarse rug scraping your face, you attempt to move only to find your arms bound behind your back, legs tied at your ankles and knees.
“Finally, you’re awake.”
The mayor himself kneels next to you, a warm smile on his face that he’d always wear in his television interviews you instinctively flipped past. Funny, you’re not sure you even remember his name. Q…something? Maybe? You’re not sure. You haven't paid attention to the town’s politics in ages. You didn’t need to if you were leaving, right?
“About time. Was starting to think that maybe they’d been too rough in…collecting you.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The longer you look at him, the less natural it seems. But maybe that had something to do with the strange clothes he was wearing, something out of a b-horror movie. Dark red robs, a golden sash around his waist, ornate silver mask on his head, ready to be pulled down. All of it juxtaposed harshly with how the robe was open enough for you to see he was wearing normal clothes underneath. Dress shirt and slacks that wouldn’t be out of place in an office setting, really.
There are others in the room, standing around you and the Mayor, dressed similarly. For a moment, you think it’s some elaborate prank. Why else would this be happening? Why else would these people be dressed like that? Some god awful prank or surreal dream. One of the two.
The dull ache in your body tells you otherwise, head throbbing from where it had connected with the floor during your abduction.
“You know,” the mayor says, snapping you out of your thoughts and bringing your attention back to him, “people don’t wanna stay in small places like this.” There’s an unspoken element, a snide “people like you” left unsaid as he stares you down with that same creepy smile. “They leave, the money goes, the town crumbles to dust.” He makes a small motion with his hand, mimicking an explosion, the town turning to dust you assume, and someone laughs lightly behind you. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Would…” he falters for a moment, smile dimming a fraction before growing wide again, “would make something mighty upset.” Another small laugh, this time from someone closer to your feet. “This ensures that everyone is nice and happy.”
He pulls his mask down, covering his face, and steps back into the circle of people around you. For a moment, you try to speak. The mayor’s words weren’t lost on you, the something catching your attention and making your skin prickle. But your tongue is too thick in your mouth, and nothing comes out besides a wheezing whine.
That’s when the chanting begins. The language is strange, unfamiliar to you. Every time you try to concentrate on their words, try to see if you can even vaguely recognize it, a blaring pain shoots through your head, making your very gums ache. Worse still, your body locks into place as they chant. Words slide off your brain, not a single thing sticking long enough for you to even hope to remember and look up later.
If there was a later.
Every town had their rumors. In your experience, small towns had more than most. Every year you’d hear the same one. School yard tales that would keep you up at night in your youth, jumping at every sound. Whispers at your fist shitty part-time retail job, checking out customers at the local grocery store, little old ladies giving each other knowing looks over the apples in produce.
But they were just that, rumors. Tales. Nothing real.
Or, so you’d thought.
Whispers in the dark of people disappearing every couple of years, never to be seen again, followed by a sudden burst in tourist traffic. Gawkers fascinated with the “simple life.” Folk fawning over handmade candies and the bright turning of the leaves. A revitalization of the community that you found annoying to deal with, but not something bought on by morbid rumors.
You’d thought nothing more of it. Maybe you should have. If you had, maybe you’d notice some truth to it all. The disappearances that were never talked about, loners with no family, no connections. People who wanted to leave, who left no impact when they did slip away in the night.
People like you.
It’s only a brief flash of understanding, that this was what fueled the rumors, before a loud scraping of metal against metal scatters your thoughts and splits the rhythmic chanting of the group. Purple tinged light fills the room that you have to squint against, refusing to fully close your eyes in such a fucked up situation. Nose scrunching, you’re assaulted with the scent of sulfur, a strange undercurrent of jasmine coiling through the room.
As the chanting stops, you’re able to move, and you take full advantage of that. Or, as much as you could. You writhe, only proving to tighten your bonds, but you do manage to flip onto your back. Above you a pulsating slit stretches out and widens. A rip in the very fabric of reality splitting open, called forth by the group around you.
“Shame,” the mayor says as a long, thick tentacle unfurls from the portal. Glancing away from the horror before you, you see a hard outline pressing against his trousers. “Would have quite liked it if it came through this time.”
You don’t get time to question his words before the tentacle wraps around your midsection, lifting you up effortlessly and bringing you back through the rip in the universe.
Being pulled through the portal feels like jumping into a pool, a cool pressure all over your body. Unlike being submerged in water, you can still breathe, though the air is just as chilly and you’re sure you’d be able to see your breath if you exhaled. If you could see at all, that was. Everything is dark, a pure true blackness that leaves your eyes straining to catch any scrap of light.
Nothing. Nothing at all. The chill fades and all you’re left is the feeling of the tentacle secured around your middle.
Squirming in its grip doesn’t help. It might even be the reason more tentacles join the first. They curl around you, slipping under your clothes. Skin smooth and cool, it’s almost a pleasant sensation. That doesn’t stop you from thrashing, trying to jerk away from every touch as the limb around your middle tightens.
One tentacle curls around your throat, and your movements become more frantic, whine building in the back of your throat. Yet, the appendage doesn’t squeeze around your neck like you assumed it would, instead a tapered tip pressing against your skin. It’s an almost imperceivable prick, barely anything at all. Less intrusive than any shot you’d ever received, yet you recognize it all the same. You’ve been injected with something.
The panic in you swells, only to quell almost instantly. The thought of being injected with some mystery substance…doesn't bother you, actually. Warmth seeps through your body as you relax, muscles loosen, the need to fight fading away as the tentacles squirm excitedly over you.
They find your bindings and the ropes snap with ease. With your limbs freed, you stretch, languid motion that allows the tentacles better access to your body. You hardly notice your clothes as they’re ripped away, mind hazy as you let out a delirious giggle.
The tentacles explore freely, seeking out every inch of skin to touch and taste. One of them prods at your entrance, and you attempt to spread your legs to help accommodate it, movements blunt and clumsy. Laughter sounds around you, thrums through your body as a lazy smile graces your lips. You let out another little giggle as the tip squirms against your hole.
Electricity tingles up your spine as you're slowly pressed into, back arching in the loving grasp of the tentacle that stays wrapped around your middle. It curls inside you, pressing deliciously against your nerves and a moan escapes you, a loud, lewd noise that hardly feels like it belongs to you at all. Moving deeper inside you, searching for every hidden spot, you couldn't keep quiet if you even tried as you’re fucked open.
A tentacle squirms up over your body, sliding across your chest and over your nipples, and twists around your jaw. It’s thinner than the one thrusting between your legs, but you still gag slightly when it slides into your mouth.
As it curls against your tongue, you groan, reveling in the way it quivers against you. There’s a certain delight in its action, a sense of approval in the air as you relax your throat for the tentacle in your mouth.
It’s not a sound, though that’s the best way your brain understands it. A deep, thrumming that reverberates in your bones, in your soul. Something from the being holding you, fucking you. The owner of the tentacle, of this space, of the deal with the leaders of the town you don’t even remember anymore. A wordless voice telling you not to worry as your guts get rearranged, fitted to its needs and whims.
Nothing to worry about, nothing to think about. Nothing to do but surrender to pleasure.
#collaboween#tw tentacles#cw tentacles#tw abduction#cw abduction#tw drugging#cw drugging#tw ritual sacrifice#cw ritual sacrifice#gn reader
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The (Night) Hunter: Collab'oween Day 25
Night Hunter x AFAB Reagent (they/them pronouns)
the only prompt that wasn't mine that i actually got a chance to write for ><"
Warnings: noncon; anal; piss; weird ear stuff (thanks inky); mentioned wound fucking; violence; off screen character death (two reagents enter the trial and…..its questionable if even one leaves, actually); he’s huntin’; mentioned cum eating; a lot of crying; set in program three
Words: 2239
“Run! Hide!” He laughs as the pair scamper back around the corner, sound bouncing off the tiled walls of the orphanage bathroom. “Make this fun for me.”
He lets them get a head start, smile curling across his lipless face, before taking off after them. The two have already made it through the laundry room, but they’re not fast enough. No one ever is. One of them makes it out of the room by just a hair before he enters. So close he can almost smell them, stale clean Murkoff soap and the metallic stench of fear.
They won’t make it to the courtyard.
They don’t even try.
The utility room is empty, doors untouched.
Hiding vermin, like rats.
“Oh, sure is dark in here.” He shuts the door behind him, the gas trap re-setting with a soft twang as he giggles. “What a shame.”
The air is dead still, almost unsettling silence. It lays thick on his skin, an oppressive blanket that would make anyone else squirm.
Not him, though.
“You can’t hide,” he half sighed, half sung. With heavy, sure strides, he makes his way across the room. “You sure can’t hide.” A soft, stifled sound - a sob - from under the desk. “From the man with the x-ray eyes.”
He reaches under the desk without warning, grabbing a fist full of hair and yanks. The fucker screams, sound mixing with his harsh laughter as he flings them across the room.
A man. He stares up with wide, unseeing eyes, night vision goggles knocked from his face. He’s dazed, sprawled out on the floor.
Glorious sight, the fear, the fucking terror.
“I’m gonna watch you bleed.” Almost delicately, he nestles the tip of his machete between the man’s thighs. Like any caught vermin, he tries to squirm back, but there’s nowhere to go, breath stuttering as he presses the blade against groin. “And then I’m gonna watch you die.”
The brick hits him in the face.
He topples to the floor with a thud, metal scraping against concrete as he tries and fails to keep his equipment from taking any damage. A whoop of delight echoing around the room as he crashes.
“LITTLE SHIT!”
Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he’s back on his fleet in a flash. He’s up faster than they expected. He can tell from the way they freeze, smile dropping and breath hitching as he lunges for them and, for a second, they seem to shine brighter for him than before.
The other little cunt running around in the dark, trying to save their dumb friend.
“That fucking hurt!”
Hand clamping around their forearm, they squeak, wrenching back. But his grip is iron, holding on as they scramble towards the light, the courtyard, safe haven from his x-ray eyes.
“No you don’t, slippery little glow worm.”
But they do, near falling into the light and dragging him along.
“Shit!”
Those damned lights were too much. Blinding, burning his eyes, scorching out his brain with their intensity. He couldn’t even blink thanks to the way those doctor fucks had made his goggles. ‘Great bird of prey,’ bah.
They don’t get far, stumbling, panic blinding them nearly as complete as the light blinds him. A desperate attempt to vault a crate is their folly as he fights to drag them back.
And it’s so easy to pin them over the edge of the crate.
“Got ya now, shiny worm.”
They writhe under him, bucking and twisting. Any other time, he’d gut them with his machete and move on. But, they’re squirming, their ass grinding against his dick, and god when was the last time he-
The whine of the gas trap triggering scatters his thoughts. Muffled thud of the spike impaling flesh, panicked sobs. Ah, the man from under the desk, the one they were trying to protect.
Now getting gassed out of their mind, having opted to run away instead of help.
“Looks like your little friend tried to sneak away.” Idly, he rocks his hips forward, letting them feel how hard their struggles made him. “Gonna just be you,” he grips his machete tight, bringing the tip to the hem of their pants. They freeze, a whimper building in their throat as he takes his time, cool metal kissing their skin. Hooking the blade into the ragged material, the cloth all but falls apart on contact. “And me,” he finishes, wild giggle bubbling up from his chest as their pathetic attempts to escape redouble.
“Aw, little glow worm, what’s with all the fuss?” With practiced hands, unseeing, he drags the waistband of his pants down, freeing his aching erection. They still again as his cock caresses the curve of their ass, hot and hard, before a small sob leaves them. “Oh, wanna play nice now, do ya?”
A broken, moaned no that he barely hears, too enthralled by grinding against their ass. Shifting his hips just enough, his cock angles down, sliding between sweat slicked thighs and-
“Ah, feels like you’re wet, like your cunt is starved for-fuck off!”
He should have expected the kick. Little fucker had put up a hell of a fight, much more than he’d ever expected from such a feeble looking worm. Why would they have stopped now? Just roll over and give up because he’d slid between their lips? Become a silent, submissive little pup because his tip had bumped into their clit?
No, and they wouldn't be nearly half as fun if they had.
Before they can kick out again, he grabs them by the back of their head, dirty nails digging into their scalp as he yanks them back. “Do that again,” his tongue lulls out from his destroyed mouth, hot muscle trailing up the side of their neck, “and I’ll take you apart piece by piece.” Caressing the shell of their ear, they squirm, but not there’s not as much fight as before. “Even those bastards won’t be able to put you back together again.” They go stiff as his tongue wiggles into their ear canal, a small sound of discomfort escaping them.
But, they don’t move.
Not even as he withdraws his tongue, gnarled teeth catching on their earlobe. Steadily adding pressure, they shudder under him, but they don’t try to squirm away like before.
"Good mousy."
Blinded still, he nearly impales their hand as he embeds his machete into the crate, a pathetic hiccuped whimper making his dick jump. Another tiny giggle leaves him as he press their head down with one hand, grabs their hip with the other, and starts to rut against them.
They don't move, don't try to stop him as precum smears against their skin. Good enough for him. He can't see their eyes dart around the courtyard, a group of white coated "doctors," or whatever they liked to call themselves, gathered at an observation window.
He wouldn't have cared if he had. Might have even gone on to put on more of a show, even. But, no, not right now, not this time. Right now, all he can think about, all he can care about, is the warm body beneath him. Of their soft grunts, their attempts to keep quiet and not attract any other attention. Of the way their body responds, even if they don't want it to, slick gathering on his cock, precum mixing with his own and making his movements easier.
Of the tight hole that the head of his cock catches against as he repositions himself.
They stiffen under him, rigid as he slows his thrusts, grinding the tip of his dick against the spot where their body fights to keep him out. “What we got here, huh?”
“D-don’t.” Their voice is so soft he almost doesn't hear it, lost in his heavy breathing and the buzzing of the lights. “N-not…not there. Don’t. P-please.”
“Not here?” He presses forward a fraction of an amount, fat head pressing against the tight ring of muscles. Their breath catches in their throat, and he can almost taste their desperation, thick like battery acid on his tongue. “Maybe if you'd been a good lil mouse from the start,” he pants, reveling in how their body is slowly succumbing to his will even as they beg for him to stop, “I’d be able to find the right hole.”
“Go back. W-we can g-go back. Into the d-dark.” Their voice is higher pitched than before, all broken, stuttered words and pleading tone. Not the same little shit who had the gall to smash his face in with a brick only moments ago. “I w-won’t r-run.” He can hear their suppressed sobs, leans down to swipe his tongue over their cheek. Salt, tears and sweat. They shudder as his tongue traces the curve of their neck, tucking his face into the joint between their neck and shoulder. Inhaling deep, he catches the same scent as before, chemicals and fear and, under it all, the faint trace of their own scent.
Delicious.
He doesn’t say anything, and maybe they know the answer from the way he smiles into their skin. They sob as his cock slowly pries open their rim, losing the fight to keep him out.
He can’t help himself after that, glorious tight heat enveloping him. Hips jerking forward, they scream as he impales their ass in one brutal thrust. Friction almost painful, he laughs into their neck, wild giggles and labored breaths as he starts to pull out. They’re still screaming, sound no longer ringing in his ears as much as before but still a persistent annoyance as he snaps forward again.
“Might wanna shut your yap, mousy,” he growls, teeth scraping over the tender skin of their neck, tongue flicking out to swipe over a pulse point. “Unless you want Goosberry to give you a new hole for me to fuck.”
They move, twisting under him. For a second, his hand goes for his machete, before they settle again. He can’t see them, can only feel them: tight around his cock, trembling back against his chest around his battery, wild hartbeat against his teeth, surprisingly soft skin of their hip in his scarred palm, head still pressed down and forcing their cheek against the harsh wood. He doesn’t know how they’ve moved to bite into their forearm, dampening the sounds of their sobs and screams as he starts another torturously slow withdrawal. But he notices the muffled sounds, their attempt, their promptness at his threat.
The cackle he lets out almost rivals their initial scream as he’d forced them open.
“Good mousy.” Punctuating the sentence with a particularly brutal thrust, he’s greeted with the smell of bleach.
He stays buried deep as a hot gush of liquid splashes against his thighs. His grins grows even wider, biting down into their shoulder lightly, almost teasingly, as he rocked forward, making sure his cock pressed hard against their insides as they pissed themself.
“Ay, watch the equipment.”
They only sob harder into their arm, body shaking and burning as he abandoned his slow, deliberate tempo and starts a punishing pace, fucking them into the rough suerface of the crate. “Filthy little thing, aren’t you?” The words are murmured into their skin where he keeps his face shielded from the light. If they respond, he doesn’t hear it, his own harsh breath loud in his ears as he pistons into them. It’s easier now, lewd squelch every time he slams home and the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the courtyard. “You bleeding sweetheart? Helping me fuck this ass open?” Another stifled sound of misery, and his cock twitches dangerously. “Bet it’d taste good. Wouldn’t have to carve you out with my tongue either. Loosened your ass up real good, wouldn't be able to keep it in, would ya? Messy little mousy I caught, huh?”
Their mouth leaves their arm. He can tell instantly, their sobs unfettered, copper tang of blood on their breath as they turn as much as they can to face him.
“P-please.” It’s a pathetic little whine, almost lost amongst sobs and broken up by the force of his hips meeting their’s. There’s a buzzing in his brain, balls tightening. “J-j-just cum. Please.”
Electricity races up his spine, and he rips out of them. Letting go of their hip, he takes his cock in hand, blood and precum smeared along the shaft and coating his palm as he pumps himself to completion. A small hiccup escapes them as his hot seed paints their abused ass.
“Don’t worry,” he pants, his own voice sounding harsh in his own ears, heavy with his accent and a barely restrained smile. “Don’t worry little mouse, my little glow worm.” They stiffen as his thumb hooks into their puffy asshole, tormenting the already tender muscles. “You were begging for me to fill you up, weren’t you nasty little worm.” They try to push back against him, try to scramble away, but their entire body shakes at the effort. Another one of his wild giggles escapes him as they collapse back against the crate.
That must be when they feel it, how he’s already hard again, leaking new precum against their thighs. It’s in the air, the renewed fear, the electric iron taste on his tongue.
Slipping his thumb free, he lines himself up, can feel their hole fluttering against the tip of his dick, begging for him to fill it again.
#collaboween#night hunter#outlast#outlast trials#tw noncon#tw piss#tw ear stuff#tw gross#HES *GROSS*#afab character#afab reagent#tw wound fucking#mentioned/threatened but tagged just in case#cw noncon#cw piss#cw ear stuff#cw gross
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Pet Zombie: Collab'oween Day 7 Bonus
Unnamed Man (tho it was written with the idea of being 💜@inkyquince ‘s💜 vtm PC, Zacarie de Fay uwu) (he/him) x GN!Zombie (they/them)
Warnings: undead; kinda implied that he’s gonna stick his dick in a zombie; implied past relationship; manipulation; dubcon; mild pet play; slapping
Words: 663
The scream is guttural, inhuman, and exactly what he wanted to hear as his darling pet thrashes against the bindings he’d secured them in.
“There’s no use struggling, you know.”
They don’t answer. He’s not sure they could answer. Once upon a time they’d spoken in full, if labored, sentences. Mostly cursing him, threatening to rip out his throat and rend him limb from limb. Not so much anymore. The last few weeks had only been growls and groans.
Until now.
They lunge forward again, bindings creaking as they try in vain to free themselves, to reach the meat he had placed just out of their reach. Another blood curdling screech rips from their throat, and he laughs.
“Becoming a zombie hasn’t much helped your intelligence, huh?”
Their eyes find his, wild and unfocused. Or, their gaze bores into the place where they think his eyes must be, hidden behind dark glasses.
“Poor dear,” he coos, mocking clear as day even to the undead. Reaching out, he cups their face with a gloved hand, thumb caressing their cheekbone. Carefully, he slips a digit under the strap of leather securing their muzzle in place, flexing his finger to give it a quick test of strength. It’s the only thing they’re really wearing. What use did a zombie have for clothes? “Poor silly fool,” he coos again, smiling as they growl. If they were more docile, he might have slipped the muzzle from their face, tucked his gloved thumb into the gash ripping open their jaw. Of course, they weren’t.
The crack of the slap echos in the room, his cool smile still present as their head naps to the side. If they still lived, their cheek would already be turning red. As it was, they stopped growling, turning back to look at him. Their eyes seem to grow clearer and his grin widens. “Oh, are you here? Can you see me again?”
They jerk towards him, teeth snapping as they try to bite him even muzzled. He moves back, laughter bouncing around the small room he designed just for these little play sessions with his pet.
Running a gloved hand through perfectly styled blond hair, the smile drops. If a living person has witnessed it, they'd find the shift disturbing. But, there isn't. Just his dear zombie. “Are you conscious in there, pet?”
They surge forward, bindings creaking but holding true.
“Think you remember how to do your tricks, pup?”
The zombie stills at the pet name, breathing becoming heavy as some recognition comes into their eyes.
“Oh, you do, don’t you?” He reaches behind him for the chair pushed into the corner, pulling it out and into the zombie's range of movement. It was a dangerous thing he was about to do, but one he was addicted to. This creature that, when he took care of it properly, would scream obscenities. Who would have taken pleasure in hunting him down and consuming his flesh, now reduced to its bassist instincts. Willing to do exactly what he wanted, debase themselves however he wished. Malleable, in a way. Just what he wanted.
Besides, no risk, no reward.
Sitting, he leans back, legs spread in a silent command. They hesitate, but only for a moment, shuffling forward.
“Good pup,” he hums in approval, deftly unbuckling the clasp of his belt. If this was a perfect world, he’d have them doing this. Would have them kneeling at his feet, face pressed against his thigh. Heel, paw, tongue, present. A simple routine. Heel at his feet. Give him their hand. Stick out their tongue, letting him press down on it with a gloved thumb. Present…present. Would they ever get to that stage. He’d thought so at one point, but things had backslid with the whole…zombification.
They gaze at him with hard eyes, breath ragged. Hate and hunger mixed together, reluctant obedience as they waited for their next command.
Well, they’d get back to that point of Present eventually.
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There's Something Scratching at the Door: Collabo'ween day 26
GN!Reader and M!Creature.
Warnings: Not many for this one. Just a bit of angst, a bit of comfort.
Word Count: 1272.
Notes: I got in my feelings writing this one. It was meant to be horror, it became wholesome. This is my final entry too! Enjoy everyone, and thanks for reading my stuff!
“It’s best to always keep the bedroom door closed at night,” your grandma had said to you when you were young. “It keeps out any unwanted visitors.”
You’d always found yourself rapt to her attention whenever she’d speak to you, on the floor while she sat in her old armchair. Her old, crooked hands had clutched her mug full of coffee, the heat from the mug never once seeming too hot. Her eyes, clouding over with cataracts, were nevertheless all-seeing. She was more than life, even in her sunset age; her reedy voice confident and never stuttering. Such conviction, even in her wildest of tales.
Of course you believed them. You kept her warnings in mind and heart and lived by her lessons. Your bedroom door stayed closed, you never invited strangers inside but still gave them gifts at the door, you fed the corvids of the neighbourhood and slow-blinked at the cats as they strolled on by.
You kept the bedroom door closed. Even when the scratching began. At first it had been terrifying, an insistent presence never wavering in its determination to get into your room. Over time however, it became ambience at night that lulled you to sleep just as a white noise machine would. It still had a majour impact on your life - never were you able to invite friends over for the night nor partners when you’d grown older. Never could you go to the toilet at night, so you’d made sure to keep a strict regiment for food and water to ensure you’d be able to go before the door was sealed.
Even when grandma passed, you kept to her advice - and why shouldn’t you when the scratching continued beyond her life?
“Should I leave out some food for it?” An innocent question from an innocent young child.
“Oh, no, you mustn't,” she’d explained, “It will think that it belongs there and refuse to leave.”
You hadn’t fed it. Yet after all of these years, it remained. Grandma had underestimated its tenacity.
“Will it hurt me?” Said with your little hands clutching at your shirt, stretching out the material.
“Each one is different, chick, you shouldn’t find out.”
You hadn’t. Despite the building curiosity, the urge to at least whisper questions through the gap beneath the door. The gap where you saw the shadow of the creature, extending beyond the light from the hallway. An impossibility, just like the creature itself. When you’d moved out of your childhood home, you’d made sure to get a door with a gap again, just so that you could see it.
‘Spider logic,’ you’d thought, ‘if I know where it is then I feel no fear.’
Your roommates would get up at night and pass through the hall to the toilet, their shadows joining the creature’s - a being they couldn’t see. A being they couldn’t even sense, no raised hairs or shivers up their spines. They heard no scratching. The creature left no marks for proof. You were alone with it, and always would be it seems.
After years and years it had become routine, background noise in your life that left you in a constant cycle. Nothing ever changed. It was always there, policing you, even if it didn’t intend to do so. As grandma had pointed out, its intentions were always unknown.
Heartbeat steady, you’d clambered into bed, eyes drooping and ready to close for the night. The scratching had yet to begin, but the shadow was there. There was a delay sometimes for when it would do its job, but it always came. You couldn’t sleep properly without it.
Silence. No lullaby to sing you to sleep. Just the shadow beneath your door, frozen still.
“Please let me in.”
Heartbeat skipping, you’d shot up from bed, the covers flying everywhere. It never spoke, yet it had this night with the voice of a man you swore you recognised somewhere in the depths of your memory.
“I just need to see you, darling, please. Open the door.”
A thin veil of sweat covered your skin as your breath caught in your throat. Trepidatiously, one foot landed on the floor, your hands tightly clutching your sleep shirt.
It moved. Those shadowed feet moved, the legs kneeling to the floor as the head pressed down. One lone eye peaked out from the bottom of the door, flickering about the room until it pinpointed your location.
“Is that you, darling? You’ve grown so much. Won’t you let me see you properly?”
“Never,” your grandma’s words echoed through your head.
Your legs disobeyed, standing and floating over to the door. Your hands shook as they rose, clutching the handle so tightly the knuckles became pale.
It stood, a thump against the door causing you to jump. It was hard to swallow, throat feeling like shards of glass were lining the flesh as tears gathered in your eyes.
“That's it, darling. You just have to open it. I just need to see you.”
The hinges didn’t even creak when you pulled. That ringing silence screamed in your ears as your wide, teary eyes laser-focused in on the creature stood in your hallway. On the man you knew, from somewhere deep in your mind.
He smiled, a warm smile, his large hands coming to clutch your cheeks and wipe your tears away. He felt real. He felt like the sun on your face when you sat outside in the summer.
“You’re so beautiful now,” he whispered.
“Hi dad,” you sobbed, body falling forward into his embrace.
“I just needed to see that you were okay, darling. It’s been so long, I wasn’t even sure you’d recognise me.” Those hands rubbed your back, just as steady as they had been all of those years ago.
“Grandma told me not to open the door,” an explanation - an excuse. An apology, for not having done so sooner.
He chuckled, pulling you back so that he could see your face. “Yeah, she always was paranoid like that. Told me the same thing when my dad passed on - though she had good reason to. Old man was a bit of a cunt.”
The laugh you let out was loud enough to make you worry about raising your roommates, but the worry couldn’t shadow your joy. “You never swore in front of me when I was little.”
“You aren’t little anymore, are you? You’re all grown up, you wouldn’t even fit in those tiny shoes I bought you.” The shoes you still kept in a box beneath your bed.
“Are you going to stay?” Another innocent question, your mind and voice small as it was at the foot of your grandma.
He guided you into your room, heading for the bed where you sat down together. “Not after tonight, darling. I need to let you go. But that doesn’t mean you can’t catch me up on everything before I go.”
Sobs returning tenfold, you held his hands with an iron grip. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep without you watching over me.”
“You will - I promise. You’ll sleep just fine. Maybe someday someone else will sleep beside you, maybe someday you’ll have a little one of your own coming in and crawling between the two of you after a nightmare. But you’ll sleep just fine.”
He looked around at your things, at the photos and posters on the walls and the book you’d left forgotten on your desk.
“Now, come on. Tell me about you. And I’ll stay and watch over you as you sleep at the end when the sun starts coming up. Just this last time.”
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Anything: Collab'oween Day 22
GN!Reader x M!OC Jericho x M!OC Isaiah
I've literally only mentioned these guys once on this blog and but they've been stuck in my brain for ages now. so, uh, enjoy?
Warnings: noncon; multiple partners; fucked up relationship dynamics; nonconsentual scissor/knife play; somewhat implied serial killer; thoughts of gore and cannibalism; slight voyeurism; slapping
Words: 2045
Mist clings to the wet pavement, blue tinged street lights reflected off the dark street. The persistent drizzle is annoying but it’s easy to ignore as you are led through the night. Stumbling a bit, the hand on your arm tightens, low chuckle sending a shiver down your spine. Something about him made you skin prickle, and you weren’t sure if you liked it or not even if you did keep following him.
The bar had been crowded, fog creeping up the windows and lighting dimmer than you’d really like, straining your eyes. You’d been about to call it a night when a man had offered to buy you a drink. He’d looked odd in the poor lighting, more so than he should, because it had to be the lighting that was making him look like that. The strange golden hair that had to be some kind of dye, the jagged streak of pitch black definitely was. The red eyes, the whites of one of them faintly yellow, were probably just some weird contacts. And the sharp teeth? You’d seen body mods like that before. You’re pretty sure the lady in the corner had something similar, had flashed you a pointed toothed grin earlier in the night. The spiked ear piercings and notched eyebrow were almost obligatory. That was the kinda crowd this place attracted, and you suppose you were part of that crowd.
So you didn’t hesitate to accept his drink. When he’d told you his name was Jericho, you’d given your name in return. When he offered to take you back to his place, you followed him out into the rainy night. Perhaps you’d agreed a little too easily, a little too eagerly. But, this had been your plan at the start of the night anyway, to have an attractive stranger take you home and fuck you senseless.
Now here you were, stumbling through the door to a tiny little run down place that you would have never expected was someone’s home. Led right into what looks like a makeshift living room. A small sofa that you’d bet had been left on the side of the road, a shabby coffee table with a pair of scissors resting on a pile of haphazardly stacked papers. All lit by a bare lightbulb. Cramped, yet, clean. Better than some places you'd crashed in.
That’s when something shifts, changes. A slight tinge of something being off in the air, settling on your skin. The butterflies in your stomach are no longer just about hooking up with a cute guy, but about the way his grip tightened on you, the sharpness in his smile. The almost imperceivable way he moves, nudging you further into the room and away from the door.
Oh, and his apparent boyfriend?
“Jericho!” The voice was soft, excited, enthralled. He’s shorter than Jericho, a shock of murky purple hair made brighter by his unnaturally pale skin. Wide, somewhat manic, gray eyes zero in on the man next to you like he was the only thing that existed. He doesn’t even notice you, barreling into Jericho, pressing his face into the other’s chest.
“Hello, Isa.” Jericho sounds exasperated, but there’s a small smile on his face and a fondness in his voice that you can’t miss.
It feels like you’re intruding, somehow, but trying to back away only makes the grip on you tighter. Painful, even. It’s pure reflex, the small sound of pain that leaves you as Jericho’s grip starts to bruise.
And that’s when you’re finally noticed.
There’s an almost physical shift in the room as the smaller man - Isa? Odd name. Maybe a nickname? - notices you, eyes locking onto yours before sliding down to where Jericho’s hand touches you. The warmth in his gaze fades, eyes going blank and smile dropping as he regards you. You think he tries to press closer into Jericho’s chest, only to be pushed away.
“Isaiah.” The fondness has left Jericho’s voice, tone harsh, reprimanding. Isaiah steps back at his name, a sort of command that you can’t fully understand as Jericho begins to drag you further into the room.
A tightness starts to swell in your chest, throat constricting as the strangeness of the situation grates on you. Again you try to break the hold he has on you, only to find yourself forcibly yanked along.
“W-wait-” your words fall on deaf ears as you’re flung onto the sofa.
“Fuckin’ finally,” Jericho mutters as he straddles you, strong hands going to yank down your pants without ceremony. “Been dying for a new plaything.”
You remember his words at the bar, how he seemed so pleasant, nice, then. Honeyed words and soft promises. All lies, it seemed.
Tears prick at the corners of your vision as you try to push him off, but he’s stronger than you’d originally thought. Still, you refuse to make this easy for him, squirming under him as he tries to remove your underwear.
He sighs, reaching for the scissors on the table and you freeze as you feel metal against your thigh.
Your eyes flick to Isaiah, not sure if you’re looking for help, but whatever you’re hoping for isn’t there. He stares down at you over Jericho’s shoulder, expression stone. As if you’ve done something wrong.
“I don’t mind you wanna do it this way, but I really don’t feel like making a mess tonight.”
Your mind empties at the words, cold blades running up the inside of your thigh and pressing momentarily against your groin. He laughs as your breathing falters for a moment before sliding the tip of the scissors along the outline of your sex. He smiles then, the same lazy, sharp-toothed smile he’d worn at the bar that had made your heart flutter. Not now, though. Now that same grin makes you go cold as you realize how easy this all is for him.
Like he’s done this countless times before.
Metal hooks into the soft fabric of your underwear, the snip of the blades clinking together ringing in your ears.
“Are you gonna be good for me?”
Your eyes meet his. This close, you can tell their strange color, the slitted pupils, aren’t lent to him from special contacts like you’d assumed. They were his, a part of him.
Were….were the other things him too? The hair? The teeth? Actually his? Not dye or body mods, but him? What was he, then?
Metal kisses your neck, and maybe you’re imagining the scent of rust but you can’t stop your thoughts from running wild. Rust from poorly cared for scissors? They wouldn’t have cut so easily, sounded so smooth. But from blood? Metal stained with blood so often the scent still clung to the gleaming surface?
“Would hate to have to make a mess after Isa spent so long cleaning up the last one.”
The last ounce of fight leaves you with those words, at the confirmation of your wild thoughts. “Please,” your voice sounds weak even to your own ears, “I’ll…I’ll do anything.”
He laughs above you, sound making a cold sweat break out all over your body.
“Oh, I know you will.”
Something hot and hard presses against your hole, and you know it’s his cock even if you’d missed the part where he’d pulled it out. You try to relax, try to make everything as painless as possible, but it still burns as he starts to force himself into you dry. In an attempt at self preservation, you try to let your mind drift as he keeps going, bottoming out with a low groan.
Isaiah stands frozen to the side, hand twitching towards his pocket. It’d be easy, he knows it would. The knife is like an extension of himself, something he can’t live without. It’d be so, so, easy to gut you where you lay on the couch, with Jericho’s perfect cock still buried deep inside you. It’d be sublime, he thinks. He could be inside you at the same time as his savior, could reach in up to his elbow and fish out a kidney, hold it up to Jericho’s scarred lips and beg him to eat the offering out of his bloodied hand.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare look away from where Jericho’s fat cock bullies your hole open on their shared sofa. He hates it, hates that Jericho is looking at you, touching you, fucking you. But still, his dick swells, presses uncomfortably against his trousers.
He can’t help it. He’s never seen Jericho like this, never from this angle. He’s always been the one trapped under Jericho’s body, strong arms bracketing his head and fat cock splitting him open. This is…different. And good. So very good as Jericho pauses to strip his shirt off, back muscles flexing, a thin gleam of sweat reflecting in the dim light of their hideout.
Isaiah drifts closer, ignoring a pained whine from you, a half hearted plea for some kind of mercy that neither man feels inclined to grant you. He’s never seen Jericho’s back, the sharp shoulder blades, the smooth skin. The dusting of freckles that grace his face spreads over his shoulders, back, and down to his waist. On impulse, Isaiah leans in, pressing his nose into the junction between Jericho’s neck and shoulders, inhaling deep before giving a long lick trailing up to the other’s temple.
The hand that twists into Isaiah’s hair is expected, welcomed. It yanks him down, pleasant burn along his scalp as the roots are pulled, and his mouth forced to Jericho’s in a messy kiss. It’s more teeth than anything, exactly how Jericho’s kisses always are. Exactly how Isaiah needs to be kissed.
Even somewhat preoccupied with Isaiah, Jericho’s brutal fucking continues. It’s only as he yanks Isaiah back by the hair, breaking the kiss, that his thrusts slow.
He looks at Isaiah with half lidded eyes. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you puppy?”
Isaiah’s eyes go wide, panic lighting up in a blazing fire within them. “Anything,” he echoes, nodding frantically. “I’ll do anything.”
“Promise to play nice?” There’s a lighter note to his tone, a teasing that Isaiah, if he even notices, disregards.
“Promise,” Isaiah swears with a solemnness that makes your skin crawl.
Jericho keeps grinding his hips against yours, a dull pain that’s almost a blessing compared to the savagery of before. You try to collect yourself as much as you can as Jericho manhandles Isaiah until the smaller of the two is straddling your chest.
Plucking up all your courage, you catch Isaiah’s eyes. Maybe, if you could get one of them to like you, things might get better.
You try to give him a soft smile, though you’re not sure how successful you are. “I-Isa, right?”
Even as you stumble over his nickname, you know you’ve made a mistake as his eyes harden.The smack echoes in the small room, head wrenched to the side from the force of the slap and skin immediately smarting. Tears blur your vision as a pale hand grabs your jaw, nails digging into your skin as you’re forced to face Isaiah again.
“Don’t call me that,” he hisses, Jericho snickering behind him, and you nod weakly. The moment you agree, his hand darts away, as if touching you had burned him.
Jericho’s hands snake under the waistband of Isaiah’s pants, and it’s not long before you are presented with a freakishly pale cock. He guides it towards your mouth, precum smearing against your lips as Isaiah sighs, head tilted back to rest on Jericho’s shoulder.
Those strange red eyes meet yours, a feral light in them that wasn’t present before as he handles Isaiah’s cock. “Suck.”
It’s a command, one you don’t hesitate to follow. Lips wrapping around the oddly cool shaft, tongue swirling around the tip, you’re not given long before Isaiah starts fucking into your mouth. Tears run freely down your face now as Jericho resumes his own thrust. You’d promised to do anything, anything, if it allowed you to leave this place alive. So you’d do this, try to ignore the man ponding into you between your thighs and the one fucking your throat. As best you could, anyway. You just had to survive the night, after all.
#collaboween#quiet ocs#jericho#isaiah#tw noncon#cw noncon#tw multiple partners#cw multiple partners#tw knife play#cw knife play#tw gore#cw gore#tw cannibalism#cw cannibalism#tw voyeurism#cw voyeurism#tw slapping#cw slapping#gn reader
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