this might piss some people off but I don’t think some of you actually ever tried to unlearn your hatefulness. you just came out as queer and decided your new targets really truly deserve it this time.
Sirens that over the years have adapted and can come on land for short amounts of time, but only on like coastal regions unless they are lake or swamp dwelling ones, that can still sing and beguile like traditional ones do but now its more complex. Sirens that are those people on the beach or beachside that easily slip into group activities, somehow getting involved and managing to have people want them around despite being a stranger, just another face or body to play whatever game is going on.
Being in one of those groups and noticing the new face, seeing the slight oddity of their face or form, how heavy they breath when next to someone, how they haven't been near or in the water but their hair still looks damp or at least towel dried.
Losing track of what game or such you are meant to be playing as you had been staring, tuning back in only to miss as the newcomer turned their attention to you, staring at you and smiling with teeth just a bit too sharp to be human. Finding yourself on their team and having to wander away from the group to find something or other, you can't really recall what it was you needed.
Ending up by the shallows with them, looking at the small tide pools and puddles in the sea smoothed rocks, watching small fish and crabs swim and scuttle around as if you aren't a giant threat to them if you stepped into their little world.
If only you knew how similar a situation you were in, only you're in the same position as the small fish and crabs and the newcomer, the hidden siren is the looming threat but as you kneel down and watch with awe at the marine life a different thought than food passes through the sirens head.
Perhaps you were just their type, perfect for them to make a mate out of, rather than a meal.
No gaudy explanation for this, suck some ghost dick, simple.
Note this wasn't meant to be out until Monday but I fat fingered the queue button and hit post instead.
It was originally a passing curiosity, something you had been wondering about and never thought real, and now here you are deeply attached and befriended to a wandering ghost.
Offering the touch of the living whenever it tilts it's ghostly head at you, just a gentle caress and offer for something more, something to make him feel unlike he ever had since he had long woken again, ghostly and pale, undead and living in the same breath.
Something that had kept you awake some nights watching as he floated beyond your window, leaving to go be with other spirits unseen as if he had not been so debauched and defiled meer moments ago, you wanted, no, maybe craved to see him unravel again to see his ghostly pallor shine through your skin as you swallowed him to the root and let him flood your throat with his cum.
It was time to settle in and wait for the moment you had him again, the moment you could enjoy the chilled skin burning with your stolen heat, the moment a dream could become reality.
It took months before your dear wandering spirit came back to you, head tilted and a question on his lips, the word of your dreams in a question that had you eager to lead him back to your room.
It is almost ungodly how eager you are, pulling him into your room and tugging down his pants, light giggles filling the air as he watches you, something in the back of your mind knows he knows what this is, what you are about to do to him and you don't care, mischief and laughter is all well and good but tonight you would silence those giggles and fill your room with the doubled echos of his pleasure.
The mirror in your room has sat perfectly since the day you dreamed of this, angled just so that the moment your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, you would be able to watch yourself as you work.
To be able to admire the faint light against your cheeks as you hallow them out, sucking and laving against this specters cock, suckling and easing him deeper and deeper into your mouth, watching and waiting for the moment you could see it.
That faint outline and slight illumination, the vision of his cock buried in your throat his hands tangled in your hair keeping you exactly where both of you longed to be, air be damned as a need, there was nothing but his hands stopping you as you pulled back panting and smiling up at those shuttered eyes.
His lips were bitten and flushed with glowing blood, and his panting seemed more akin to a hiss as he tugged you back, whining through his teeth at the need for the warmth of your throat wrapped around his cock again.
You know this will be something he asks for again and again, and you will give it to him at every request and demand, the sight of him glowing under your skin, shimmering through your throat as he cums, forearms tensed and shining as whatever he calls blood rushed and thunders to the beat of his dead heart.
You had taken him into your throat, felt him cum and coat your mouth in his spend, now all you need is for him to hold you steady, dig his fingers into your scalp and fuck your mouth in desperation…
Mmm why not mix a few categories together? A ghost of a vampire past, he still haunts the town he once lived and hunted in, becoming attached to the one person in this little back water place that can see him now.
I've been feeling very poetic and such with my longish works of late.
Since you had seen him the water had begun to taste like iron, shadows in the evening fall twice as dark and the voices of the towns choir ring louder and louder in your ears almost shaking the seats from their bolts and making you shake with fear.
Red eyes watching you from the space in front of you, white hair tinted pink falling around a haunting face and iron chains that took the place of his clothes, bare feet slapping against the floor with an almost wet sound.
Watching the path the thing had walked leaves deep red stains, sticky and drying in an instant into brown flaking messes, fingers caressing your cheeks as you try to watch the conductor and his sharp movements, hoping that the wet trails you can feel on your skin aren’t real and that the tang of blood that lingers around you from then on is a tick of your mind.
Not even weaving your fingers together as you recite silent mental prayers to whatever divine being would care to listen seemed to ward off the lingering feeling of the thick liquid as it dried on your skin, leaving you too shiver as more of the horrid staining touch trails down your clothes.
But even in despair and trying confession, you see it, him, kneeling at your feet, staining the already dark material of your pants with his endless rivers of gore.
The steady deep voice of the old pastor is lost as the clinking of chains echos in your mind, red eyes lidded as their owner sighs your name, your full and family given name, never once had you uttered it to this thing but here it is in a place it should not be, breathing it out like the very prayers you had thought could maybe keep you safe.
Nothing seems safe not even the wide streets of your home as you see him in the passing of every long-haired man, every person who walks with squared shoulders and a confident gait until you are sure it is not a false image before you.
Under the full light of the day, he stands waiting just barely outside the bounds of its usual haunt, hands outstretched as your legs carry you to him, your name once again a venerated sigh on his lips, the tang of iron-strong around him as you slip your hand in his.
“That’s it, just as you should, right here with me, so sweet for the bitter taste of blood that lives with me. Such soft hands that will be sullied soon, a sweet little mortal to clean my wounds and play my saviour.” His words echo as he dissipates, form fading out as a slow drizzle begins.
His disappearance is more a burden than a blessing for you, the visions of blood only briefly clearing as you rest with dreams of red-streaked paths trailing your form, sharp teeth buried in your flesh as claws carve his name into your sides, the phantom feeling of being stretched and defiled.
Waking in cold sweats, filled with an almost insatiable need for his touch, panting as you fall apart under your own hands shamefully. Sighs of want and pleas for him to return to you a loop as you bring yourself to the edge and over, finally cumming and sobbing into your pillow after, shame and confusion rolling in your gut as the sun rises.
And so when you see him in the crowd before you, it is no surprise that your body moves on its own, seeking out the thing that had burned and bled its way into your very soul with nothing but the lingering smell of death and the liting sighs of your name.
His hands are gentle as they guide you back into the dark with him, too enraptured by the feel of his skin under your fingertips to care for how the sidewalk of the street gives way to red stained rubble as his lips finally do more than sigh your name as he taunts you.
Drowning you in the tang of his tongue, tainted with the blood that follows him, a flavour now ingrained into your very form and bleeding as deep as it can, leaving you with the feeling as if it was washing away the mortal blood rushing through your veins and leaving only him and his control.
I've been thinking about cursed objects, something that a forever ago family member was given by a spiteful husband/wife to their spose, their marriage was simply for show and to have a few kids and once that was done it was loveless and sexless.
Like a cursed object that makes the person who owns it subject to unseen hands and mouths, unwanted pleasure day after day, and so many years after it was bought/came into the family it has been locked away in an attic or cupboard forgotten about.
Then it comes home with you, you had been curious and grabbed it from the space it had occupied for years, looking it over and thinking 'cool!' before taking it home with you completely unaware of what you have actually taken into your home.
The entity attached to the object having gone years without anyone to torment or touch is almost joyful as you set it down on your coffee table and start thinking of where it can live in your space, humming to yourself as you leave it on the table and amble off to the kitchen. Spending a few weeks haunting your home, learning about you in its unseen form, curious as the last owner was a much older and frail person, not exactly an enticing target for its fully cursed effects.
Once it is confident on when the best moments to act are when the fun begins, the feeling of hands ghosting across your arms and back when you shower, the smallest brush of lips against your collarbones when changing, feeling the ticklish sensation of someone dragging along your inner thighs when you lay on the couch.
Slowly it would ramp up, fleeting touches turning to hands grabbing your ass as you bend over to look in the fridge, warm showers turning cold as what is clearly a mouth sucks and licks its way down your back, and hickies and small bruises appearing in the mornings after intense wet dreams.
It wouldn't take long to figure out that it all started when you brought home that old but cool looking antique, sitting on the couch with it in your hands as you shiver and can clearly feel something or someone's mouth sucking marks into your thighs, able to see as the purple marks appear moving higher and higher up your inner thighs as you bite your lip and hold back a slew of desperate noises.
What were you meant to do? Throw it out? Give it away to some pervert online? Or... Maybe you could keep it, maybe it wasn't so bad to have such intense and dedicated attention from some unseen thing...
Yeah maybe this can stay just a little longer, or well at least until the feeling of something pushing you down on the couch and tugging your clothes off finishes this round of pleasure.
Ghosts. Roaming ghosts? Ones that become attached to a person that maybe shows respect after so long without acknowledgement or anything done for their place of rest?
Perhaps even one that follows you home after you find its long forgotten grave at the corner of your property?
AFAB anatomy is mentioned.
It starts with flowers, small bundles left on your doorstep, window stills and once even overflowing from your raggedy mailbox. Then came the notes, some short filled with what seemed like giddy descriptions of animals one could find in the wooded area near your home, others longer and full of questions about fun activities with people from over the days and if you would ever do them again, all signed with a scratchy 'A' as if the authors hands were perpetually shaking.
Shaking it off as someone sending letters to the person that used to live here or some bad attempts at a prank, you carry on as usual only stopping to read the letter in passing with a small smile and a shake of the head before putting them with the others.
Around the time that the letters started, so did some of the other...Occurrences.
Flashes of yellow in the corner of your eye, what looked like ink left in small droplets, the feeling of hands tracing soft circles against your back, and the feeling of eyes always watching you, always watching whether simply cooking or attempting to relax in the bath.
Earlier in the day, it was another letter with even more flowers, only this time left in your home, placed with care on the kitchen bench. This one had a few paragraphs all filled with longing for your touch, your attention, your everything if some of the messy words were to be guessed.
But the usual signature of 'A' was filled out, a name or an attempt at one with how smudged it was, trailed at the end almost an afterthought to the whole thing.
Altogether it was just a strange string of happenings with a somewhat unsettling but almost endearing undertone, all somehow leading to this point, a night that was meant to be simple self relief has turned into something completely different. Unseen hands pressing your hips into the bed, the feeling of lips and tongue pressed against your folds dragging noise after noise from your lips, leaving your hands to grasp at the sheets below you.
Haunted suits of armour that aren't possessed by the knights that wore them! Ooooo think about it!
Perhaps it was a blacksmith, having finished the last plate and joint of the armour as another kingdom besieged the castle his workshop was inside, listening as shouts and bellows filled the air. Swords, shields, axes and armour clamoring and clanking endlessly as the invaders surge forward, doing his best with nothing but his Hamer and a sword he knows nothing about using as a foreign knight cuts him down
The Smiths body knocking over the recently finished armour and as he bleeds out his soul binds to it as a final wish to have his work survive the siege!
Maybe a young noble lord is raised with the set in his room, from a young age he is told he will be a light like his brothers and his father before him, only to be sickly and palid. Having to spend his youth and squire days in a sick bed, only able to watch tourneys and duels from a padded chair with maids and attendants that hover around him.
The armour looms over him as he grows weaker and never gets to even try the platemail on, as death sets in he asks his maid to give him the helm cradling it as his eyes closed and his last thoughts are of wearing the armour and being a shining beacon of glory.
Oh! It could even have been a more modern person, a professor allowed to do the restoration and repair of the armour, having spent hours redoing the stitching in the leather and polishing the plate only to feel a tingling up their arm, static in their veins and the smell of toast in the air as they put the last piece of armour together.
Their life's work is finished but their heart races not with joy, it hurts, it's beyond painful as the armour clatters to the ground their phone out of reach as their heart gives out from some overlooked medical condition, dead at forty years old and having their body partially draped across now dented and unsightly armour, soul reaching blindly and ending up bound to the armour in the end.
I want to share what I'm thinking about, haunted suit of armour...
You lift the flap of the plate helm, and it's empty, always empty, nothing but shadows and the inside of the unpolished steel plate just as mundane as the last fifty times you leaned up and opened the hinged flap to the helm. It was hollow, empty, shadowed and smelled like dust as you closed the little flap, only to have the helm tilt and turn down to look at you in its own way.
Its hands are solid despite the empty gauntlets, the leather soft, and the metal always chilled as it brushes against your sides; the whole set is solid yet bends like a person, so unlike the metal it is made of.
The voice from inside the empty armour sounds like an auto-tuned person or speaking down a metal pipe, hollow and echoing in on itself as it asks why you keep checking if something was inside when it had very well explained that it was the armour and not inside of it.
Originally, it was a very expensive drunk purchase from a sketchy website, and then it was a nightmare that made you scream and faint as it came alive in your small home, but now...
Now it is almost a lover, almost, it helps as best it can in the kitchen, holds the basket of pegs for your clothesline, makes sure the home is cooled or warmed for the season when you get home and even tucks you in to bed with a gentle press of its helm against your forehead as if kissing you goodnight.
But in that, almost is so much yearning.
It holds your hand and rubs the leather of its gauntlet against your skin, pressed close to your face with the helm tilted as if it could kiss you properly, chestplate pressed to you back as it holds your hips in the kitchen, the quiet clanking of its shin guards as it kneels by your bed as you drift off yearning to have been able to live in something softer, something more human, something that you could touch and hold and love like it loves you.
It yearns to be more than the suit of armour it possesses.
A while back I wrote about finding out the rock in your backyard is a sunning spot for a Naga, and I've been thinking about that again.
But like settling into the sharing of space, using the rock in turns to enjoy the sun and warmth until you eventually become close enough to share it and build a lil friendship that becomes close enough that they let you help them shed.
Waking one humid spring afternoon, the air is warming slowly as summer is soon to set in, blinking groggily as you stumble to your back door groaning a 'hello?' as you open the screen door and spot your new unlikely friend, the Naga you had come to share your open backyard with is coiled on your back porch. Sheepishly playing with his fingers as he asks for your help, not having been able to fully find the right place to be able to shed fully and needing your help to finish the job.
Letting him into your home is a first, the naga clumsily slithering towards your living room as he looks around at how you had decorated your home, tongue flicking out as he tastes the air and tries to calm himself down some more.
After a round of questions and a furious google search on how snakes shed you help him towards your bathroom, happy that you had a shower tub combo and not just a plain stall shower, helping him into the tub so that his hips and part of his tail would be submerged you slowly begin to run the water.
Keeping the ceiling vent off as you run the water, making sure the air is warm and damp before stopping the water, looking back at the naga now settled in your tub you wet your hands and gently rest them against the small flaky section you can see rubbing and massaging in an attempt to help the shed naturally come away from his new scales.
This process takes a good twenty or so minutes of pure focus and gentle touch, only looking up when you feel his body jerk. Pulling your focus away from his shed to look up his body only to be greeted by his twin cocks slowly slipping free of his slit, pretty pink twin lengths that twitch in the humid air. Despite being cold blooded there is something like a flush to his cheeks, a slight tinting that you can just barely make out as he looks to the side.
Embarrassed is a light term for what washes are over both of you, his from being unable to keep his cocks behind his slit till after you had helped him and yours from how close you were to his cocks. From his angle it looked almost like you were leaning towards his crotch, the warmth of your breath against such a sensitive and tender part of him making him jitter and twitch, everything felt too warm, too exposed just altogether too much.
Until curiosity takes a hold and as you look up at him, hand still dripping wet as you hover near one of his cocks, looking up at him with the silent question 'can I?' eyes flicking between both of the pink lengths and his face, slowly closing your hand around the second cock gently running your thumb across the smooth length and making a small noise of wonder as you feel him throb in your hand.
I like to do a little reading and so about the type of animal when I do hybrids and such, so did you know king cobras are thought to be the only snake that mates for life!
So have a king cobra Naga and his endless task of guarding his human mate!
Slowly blinking open his eyes and stretching himself out in his nest expecting to be able to touch his dear mate, only to find an empty but still warm nest. Scrambling to search the nest area before sliding out of the den and searching the rooms around for his mate, his spouse, his... You're in the kitchen making breakfast, you're not being stolen by another male, or running from him again, your just- just making breakfast.
Sighing with a soft hiss he slithers up behind you, coiling around you as he rests his head against your shoulder, hair a mess and sticking up in every direction like his pure snake counterparts hoods would when defensive, rubbing and nuzzling against your neck as he tongue tastes the air around you finding only his scent clinging to you.
He had put so much work in getting you to his nest, getting you pliant enough to let him close and he wasn't about to lose you on some off chance you slipped away or some other male came by and decided you'd be better off with them. No, his season was coming soon and then you'd be stuck in the nest, taking his eggs and letting him father a nice clutch of healthy little Nagas just like him.
Once you've made breakfast he is quick to scoop you up and drag you and the food back to the nest, almost broody in the way he keeps you in his coils, resting his upper body and letting you place your plate on his back. Anything to make sure you're still within reach, still with him and still his.
After all, you'd get to properly mate soon, and then you're his for life.
I know the reality of actually seeing one of these is next to impossible, rest in piss my love for seeing large jellyfish, but giant phantom jellyfish mermaid!
He's like 33 feet long, a massive man with slight red bioluminescence that definitely should not be in the marine ecosystem of an off shore area but if a black angler can dream of light I can dream of a giant phantom jellyfish!
Plus they are viviparous, meaning it gives birth to live young that develop inside the mother's body.
It's not uncommon to find jellyfish in and around your grandparents beach home, having bought the place forever ago when houses could be afforded and not cost you an arm and a leg, but now it's your 'duty' to your family to take care of the place when your grandparents aren't there.
So every autumn and winter you make the slog out too the house and settle in, picking a room for yourself and setting up your work laptop and stocking the empty fridge after turning on the old breaker.
Slinking out of the house not long after you had arrived to the water front, having been here enough times to know the sand of the bank only goes a few metres before dropping off sharply, the area surprisingly deep for such a coastal area but that little difference was what made these six month intervals worth it.
In those inky, cold depths is a childhood friend, a creature that you had grown up with, a giant jellyfish merman. He had started out around your size but each year had him grow bigger and bigger, around the middle of your teens he was fully grown, dwarfing you in every way possible and so now fully grown yourself you find it slightly funny how you had poured and huffed when he out grew you.
Wading into the water and calling for him you can only watch as a mess of short messy dark brown red hair surfaces from the water, dark black eyes and a flat face with a smile of too sharp teeth greet you before he is scooping you up and tugging you onto his chest, the lines of red-orange bioluminescence flaring and flashing at you as he coos happily at your return.
Every year he sulks and disappears into the depths when you have to leave him, trying to get you to stay but ultimately having to let you go. But this year would be different, this year he was ready and had been waiting for you to come back to him, this year he had figured out how to keep you around longer and maybe even forever.
This year he was fully mature and ready to mate, and how better to celebrate his full maturity that to have you his dear longtime friend and companion be his mate, to help the small number of his kind grow.
Sure he was much bigger than you but, he could make it work, he knows he can.
