- a lil thing to get to know the first anons! lore about anons <3, more lore!! -> FUC (free use complex) lore! here’s a list of all the anons and some facts!
- TO FILTER OUT THE FLIRTING USE THE ‘flirting’ TAG, i’ll be putting that in the flirting asks!!!
DO write:
dark themes (stalking, murder, kidnapping, gore, wound fucking, necrophilia, etc.) but i also write stuff that’s less dark sometimes, i love hybrids, i love monsters, ageplay/regression, almost anything tbh
DON’T write:
NO vomit, scat, cheating, pregnancy (it’s a maybe, has to be very specific or connected to a lactation kink) ((ill add more when i remember)) NO RELIGION/correlated asks, thank you
(also flirting is platonic but like go crazy with it/i can go crazy if you want, the wilder, the more fun)
FUUUCCCKKKKKK that simon fauxcest is genuinely awakening something in me but in the wrong way.
im imaginging single parent reader being the pinnacle perfect parent to simon, and him EATING IT UP (mainly because of the instability of his childhood)
i wanna coddle that freak.
- Ecto
single parent reader who’s presence is so soothing for simon, you’re always so kind and thoughtful to your kid and it has something wrong in his brain firing up anytime he sees you interact with your child
you notice, of course, after all it’s not so hard to notice a massive brooding man watching you like a hawk whenever you coo at your baby and use that high pitched tone usually reserved for small kids and pets
you take the chance to sit next to him one time, the room empty except for the two of you, and you talk to him about the day, about how sunny it’s gotten lately and how exhausted it made you but also about how tiring it must be for someone as buff as him, after all, his mask and black clothes can’t possibly let his body process heat as other people
you fan yourself with a piece of hard paper, leaning back on the couch and spreading your thighs slightly, your free hand lifting to pull at the loose sleeveless shirt you’re wearing to make some air pass between the fabric and your skin
his eyes glue to your perky nipples, hard beneath the fabric and when you lift it he gets a peek at your boobs, and they look so soft and plush and so full
he knows you’re lactating, has seen you with those milk pumps on your tits a few times, and the sight of your boobs so close to him has his blood rushing to his cock, pants getting suddenly tighter on his crotch
“will you help me? the pumps make me overheat but i need to empty my tits”
his mouth dries out instantly and he feels parched, following your lead when you pull him until he’s laying his head on your lap, face turned up towards your own face and chest, and finds himself eye to eye with your covered nipples
“you’ll be a good boy for mommy, right?”
you ask quietly, tone gentle and soft as you lift up your shirt, exposing your tits and gently moving a hand under simon’s neck and the back of his head, pulling him up gently towards your nipple
he whimpers, quickly latching onto the closest nipple and immediately starting to suck, tongue lapping at it, licking and moaning at the taste of your milk coats his tongue
he keeps whining when you rub a hand over his face, soft fingers smoothing over his cheek and cooing at him, humming yourself when one of his hands comes up to clutch at your other tit, squeezing gently at the fat of it, nipple catching in the space between his fingers
“mommy’s here now, you don’t have to worry about a thing sweet boy, there you go” your words go straight to his cock, brain turned to mush by now from the taste of your milk, the feeling of being coddled, the softness of your tits and the comfort he feels in your arms
In response to your request for Konig thoughts - i went horny bc...idk
I want to be sandwiched between Konig and...someone (idk who, maybe ghost, or nik, or literally any of the 141/ale/rudy...maybe kortac but idk any of them lmao)
ANYWAYS sandwiched between two of them, in a tight enclosed space, hiding from an enemy, or maybe just playing horny hide and seek if we go entirely ooc, trying to stay quiet with someone's fingers in my mouth to shut me up and konigs knee jammed between my legs pressed against me as they tease me gently but mercilessly🤤🤤🤤🤤
-🐇
hehehhe
being sandwiched between him and ghost (yeah basic whatever who cares) and the only thing you can feel around your face are their fucking tits
feeling ghosts cock (half hard) pressing against your back and könig’s cock pressing against your front, against the bottom of your sternum and top of your tummy, and it’s making you squirm between the two of them and you can’t help complain and tell them to fucking let you breathe, it’s like you’re suffocating and drowning in tits and ghost gets annoyed and just sticks his fingers in your mouth, tells you to be a good little soldier and shut up while they try to survive this shitty situation hehehhehe
Sweety-pie, 🍰, you still have whole month to do something dumb and exiting! For example, you can contact me and we can do something dumb together. How you see that? ;)
heheheh see? still a lot of time to do silly stuff and adventures!
ive been good. this summer has been boring though :(
-🍰
pick up a new hobby! watch a new show! go out and touch grass! (in the least warm hours otherwise i will get cooked and dry like a small raisin) definitely keep hydrated 💔💔
Chapter 3 of 'Rotwood'
Part of The 'Eyes of Lilith' collaboration
König x Afab!Reader || 4.6k
CW: This chapter contains Body horror, post-apocalyptic setting, environmental horror, existential horror, monsters/creatures, societal collapse, disturbing imagery, themes of survival, gore, claustrophobic environments, protectiveness, threat of death, loneliness, shared bed, uncanny valley, description of monsters, kissing, thigh grinding, manhandling, sexual tension, insulting, biting with blood, aggression, fear.
Dawn hadn’t quite crept across the clearing yet and your eyes had decided that now was the time to open anyway. The rotten wood of the roof moaned under the weight of morning, and you’d chalked up the scurrying you’d heard to the one living rodent left in here - a comforting thought, in a skin-crawling sort of way. At least it was something as small and explicable as a mouse, and nothing like the Host you’d seen the day before.
But there was another noise beneath König’s snoring, something that originated past these rotting walls. It sat heavier than the arm draped across your midsection, and you eased yourself out from under it without rousing him. Socked feet found cold floorboards before you worked your boots on without lacing them, the loose tongues flopping forward.
Then it came again: branches giving way in an almost-human sequence, the deliberate snap of something navigating rather than fleeing. And then a voice. . . Unfamiliar, at least to you. Coming from outside, not from inside your own head for once.
You think.
You approach one of the windows and drag your sleeve across the glass before squinting out into the gray of the clearing. Figures. Three, at least of them. People, in clothes and shoes, bandages wrapped around shins and a baseball cap slouched over greasy hair. For one off-balance, desperate second, you felt the flinch of hope: settlers, refugees, anyone with a face and purpose other than hunting you. They plucked mushrooms from fallen logs, not like foragers, but with the obsessive hunger of crows: picking, sniffing, discarding, stuffing handfuls into slack, panting mouths. The tallest cradled a splintered branch like a cudgel, and the brief flash of exposed skin along its forearm showed a tatter of wounds knitted shut with a crust of what König had told you was Bloom.
The one with the baseball cap cocked its head, turning an ear toward the shack. You ducked, your fingers tightening around the window sill. You looked back at König, but he was facing the wall, one arm thrown over his chest in a posture of spectacular unhelpfulness. The boots by the bed. You risked one step back and then another and jerked the laces of your boots tight with a nervous speed. The floorboard groaned and you eased up the weight of your foot.
If these really were just people, just hungry, ruined settlers, you would have to help them. Rules, duties, all the Council’s old bullshit came crowding back, but it wasn’t morality that pulled you toward the door, it was the sense that last night’s voices had primed you for something much, much worse than a trio of ragged foragers. Besides, you were less than a day from Dornau, if you could get them there, even limping, maybe they’d have a shot.
You crept back to the window and peeked once more. The foragers hadn’t noticed you; they had gone back to their foraging, heads down, pulling at clusters of mushroom with such intensity and confusion it looked like they might eat the dirt itself. You nodded to yourself and got to work on the barricade at the door. ‘No noise, no risk’ is what you told yourself, and you did as such, not even the rattle of wood on wood as you unwedged the chair from the door handle. Every muscle in your forearms throbbed from the effort to stay silent, and you only allowed yourself to breathe once the last bit of table had been eased back and the door hung unlatched in the frame.
You took one last look at König’s resting form and slinked out into the pre-dawn of the clearing.
•·················•·················•
The air slapped you with the cold, heavy weight of dew and the taste of Bloom was immediate. The three figures in the clearing hadn’t moved from the log, their heads bowed in concentration. You skirted the edge of the shack and moved toward them, your boots sinking into the moss and detritus. No words yet. You wanted to try to summon something that would pass for neighborliness or authority, but everything stuck in your throat and you had to hack it out a little before the sound of your own voice startled even you.
“H-Hey! You need food? Water?” Your voice was thin and wavered, but landed.
One of them looked up. Not the tallest, but the one with the hat, and you realized with a flinch that the left side of their face had been infected it seemed, by some slow, insistent disease. The eye on that side was cloudy, but the other fixed on you with the intensity of a slow starvation. Suddenly, they dropped their handfuls of mushrooms and turned fully towards you, slow and unhurried.
They didn’t answer, they simply stared with a patience so blunt it was almost brutal, and for a moment the four of you inhabited the same raw quiet. The two smaller shapes, closer to your age, might once have been the kind who passed you on a settlement road without so much as a nod; now, their faces were stripped of affect, their expressions worn and tired and stilled by lines of crusted dirt while shallow scratches laddered up their bare arms and throats. A rash crawled from the edge of one’s shirt cuff to the soft spot beneath her chin, angry and glistening, and she scratched at it once until it bled. You noticed the twigs in her hair, braided in with the same deliberateness as a child’s hair for church, except these were black, slick, and absolutely still, as if their roots had set inside her skull.
“H-Hello?”
You tried again, but the third, taller than the rest and thin to the point of absence, turned to finally curse your sight. They were worse, gods, they were so much worse. It became instantly clear this was only a suggestion of a person: Their scalp was a thicket of matted hair and living root, each strand slicked flat against gray skin, the new growth emerging in a monstrous crown from brow to occiput. There were places where the scalp itself had split and the roots forced their way out, holes puckered raw and then crusted with the same Bloom that feathered the clearing. Their face was pallid, the mouth set in a permanent snarl that displayed teeth blackened to the gumline. And then you saw the wounds; wrists, forearms, the delicate skin of the inner elbow, all carefully incised with patterns you hadn’t recognized - a sigil, or a series of them, almost, but now rendered in keloided tissue and blood that seemed to never stop scabbing. Not self-harm, not exactly: more like a cult, an initiation, an art performed by and against the body at the same time.
You shuddered and forced your eyes up, refusing to let the horror dominate. They watched you right back, their own eyes flicking over you with appraisal. You realized they were weighing you, like a beast scanning for threat or kin. You didn’t try another word, for this was not an encounter for language, no. The edge of the clearing felt like a membrane, and you realized that you were on the wrong side of it.
Before you could take another breath, there was a crash from the shack behind you, and König’s voice cracked the air, guttural and full of violence. “Kleine!” You heard his boots on the ground and the clatter of his gear. He was out the door in a flash, his gun up, posture a hot iron of threat and warning. You could see the moment he clocked the foragers - saw the roots, the teeth, the way their bodies had surrendered or adapted or both. His jaw set, and he raised the rifle, sighted in on the tallest, froze, and lowered the barrel just as fast. He was calculating.
The three figures stopped as one, their attention snapping to him with a predatory, almost canine alertness. The one with the baseball cap let its mouth hang open in something like a grin, but the lips didn’t move. The thin one squared its ruined shoulders and took a step forward, it’s arms swinging wide, almost theatrical. A line of blood trailed from the crook of its arm, fresh and larval pink. The scent of Bloom was so strong in the damp air that your tongue went numb.
“K-Köni-”
“Get inside. Jetzt.” He never took his eyes off the trio as he addressed you and you moved, not fast, not running, but backing away as if suddenly repelled. The figures watched, their heads tilting in unison, but didn’t follow. For a moment you thought it might be over, until the thin one flicked a hand in your direction.
It shrieked, and the sounds came like a paper cut to the eardrum, an overlapping chorus of vowels whetted against the edge of language, a violence of longing that made your knees try to buckle and your mouth clamp shut against involuntary sympathy. The rush of it sucked the air from your lungs and made you stumble, hands to ears, but it was too late for that. The noises were not only in the air, they were in your jaw, your teeth, as if the bones of your face had become a membrane for this intrusion. You reeled back and grunted, the world contracted to a pinhole about the doorway, and only in crossing back over the shack’s threshold did you sense the pitch ease, just enough to hear the crackle of the trio’s feet as they churned forward in a grotesque half-run.
They moved straight for König, who stood halfway between you and them, his bulk a deliberate wall before rushing towards the door. He shouldered in behind you, the door slamming so hard the frame groaned. He threw his weight against it, his boots bracing the floorboards, and for one infinite second you listened to the pounding of your own pulse as the trio’s claws and fists began to hammer the other side. The force of it rocked the walls, kicking up dust from every crack and crevice. König snatched the chair and rammed it under the knob, then added the table. All of this was done with the practiced fury of a man who’d barricaded a thousand doors before.
He whirled on you, the heat in his now-bare face erasing any sense of safety you’d had from his presence. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he snarled, the accent slicing your ears sharper than any cry from outside. “Bist du verdammt noch mal bescheuert? You see what they are? You want to join them? Is that it, Kleine?” He grabbed your arm, shaking you once, twice, harder than the situation probably called for, and only let go when you tried to twist away.
The noise outside was horrific, the three of them shrieking and slapping at the shack, their entreaties dissolving into a disgusting moan that made you shiver. You pressed your back against the far wall, away from the window, and König stalked between you and the perimeter, his presence a one-man blockade. It was then that you realized you were shaking, every muscle in your legs gone soft.
His eyes, when they found yours, were lethal, and you felt every instinct that had guided you to the door twist in on itself and shrivel. König stalked the circumference of the one-room shack, dragging whatever furniture he could pile against the door. Outside, the voices guttered into a wet, laughing bark, and then a silence so sharp you knew they’d finally given up for now. He tilted his head toward the remaining window, squinting through the warped glass, and then spun towards you.
“You listen,” he hissed, the words barely withholding violence, “I told you what the Bloom does. I told you not to let them talk to you - what do you do? You walk into their arms, Kleine, like a lamb to the fucking slaughter.” He was so close the spit almost hit your face. “You want to leave a piece of yourself out there? You want to come back with roots for a spine and half a mind? Because that’s what happens. It doesn’t stop at the skin.”
You felt yourself shrinking, every fiber of will curling into the place where a child hides after a parent’s rage has stripped the world of its logic.
“I thought-” you tried, but he cut you off and grabs the front of your shirt, tugging you closer.
“You don’t think. You follow. That’s how you live in here.” His jaw worked, and for a moment you thought he might actually hit you. But instead his hands found the sides of your throat, thumbs pressing at the hinge of your jaw. He shook you again, but less with violence and more with desperation, as if to remind himself you were not a hallucination, that you were not already gone and you felt the tremor in his grip.
“I lose one more,” he whispered, his breath hot and burning with the tang of panic, “Rotwood wins. I am all that is left in here. You understand?” The words were barely words, more like the gravel churn of a man too long at war with himself. “Don’t do that. Don’t leave me with nothing to bring home.. bitte.”
You wanted to spit at the insult - lamb to the slaughter - but the air had collapsed in your throat and you grunted. König’s words splintered something in your chest, and it took a full ten seconds before your heart remembered itself and pumped. Your face burned, and your hands curled into pathetic fists, more to keep them from shaking than anything else. You wanted to punch back: I was trying to help, I was doing what I was sent to do, you asshole. But the only sound that came out was a ragged, furious half-yell that pivoted immediately into a sob. Not the pretty, dignified kind, but the ugly, traitorous kid-noise, wet and humiliating.
You hated yourself for it. Hated him more.
“You don’t get it,” you managed, your teeth grit and tears refusing to fall but pooling anyway. “They’re not monsters. They’re people. I saw their faces, König. They looked at me like they remembered being-”
He didn’t let go of you, but his hands loosened, sliding from your jaw to your cheeks, his rough palms anchoring either side of your head. And then his mouth was on yours, hard enough your teeth clicked, hard enough to grind the taste of blood into your gums. He kissed like he fought: absolutely, his hands crushing your jaw to hold you still, as if he could will every threat inside you back to quiescence just by touching you enough, deep enough, long enough.
It was not gentle, but it was what you needed. You bit him and he kissed you harder, the flat of his tongue driving the apology back down your throat before you could ever give it voice. He let go of your jaw just long enough to clutch you by the back of the neck, his thumb digging so deep along the base of your skull you saw stars. It hurt, it was wonderful, and you responded in kind, your hands clawing into the waistband of his fatigues, yanking him forward until you collided, chest to chest, heat to heat. You felt the world spiral out, an axis of violence and hunger and terrible, honest need.
You bit down on his lip hard enough to taste bitterness and spat, “I hate you, König, I hate you,” and he exhaled a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl, inhaling the words as if they were the only thing that let him breathe. Your hands found anchorage at his hair and when you broke for air, your foreheads pressed together and you felt his pulse through your entire skull. You hated him for making you small, for making you need, for making it so that every fiber in your arms and jaw wanted only to break him or be broken by him.
He was inside all your boundaries, rearranging them like sandbags before a flood. And you, traitor to yourself, let him.
“You’re a bastard, you know that?”
“Ja, and-”
There was another sound outside. You both froze, your hands moving instantly to the nearest tool: his to the knife strapped to his hip, yours to your own. The noise was different now, more like a whimper, moving along the wall behind the shack. König raised his finger and you held your breath. You could feel it out there: not violence, exactly, but something with intention, searching for the crack in your defenses. You waited, listening for return footsteps, but there was none and silence filled the space between you once again.
•·················•·················•
The moment came and went, and you pulled yourself together, wiping the wet from your cheeks with the heel of your hand, and gave him a look that you hoped landed somewhere between ‘fuck off’ and ‘thank you.’
He caught it and, for the first time in the long, rotten history of your acquaintance, König didn’t look away or weaponize your shame. Instead, he moved to the battered counter and, without a word, started rooting through his pack. He produced a canteen, two protein bars, and a crumpled zip bag of dried fruit, the sight of it so unremarkable that you almost wept at the ordinariness.
You chewed slow, ignoring the taste, however König ate with the focus of a man who’d been unfed too often, every bite deliberate; and when he caught you watching him, he raised the bar in a mute, sardonic toast before taking another bite. You looked at the lines in his jaw, the way his cheeks hollowed and flexed, and suddenly you were embarrassingly, acutely aware of how necessary he’d become – not just for survival but as some kind of ballast for all the desperate, ugly feeling in your chest. It suffused you so hot and sudden that you bit down on the inside of your cheek, just to prove you could still own this body, still regulate what happened to it. When you uncapped his canteen and drank, the lukewarm water tasted of iron, but it grounded you.
You made the mistake of lifting your eyes to his again. This time, the look was different. There was no disdain, no teacher-pupil separation; König’s gaze was raw, hollowed out in a way that made plain how badly he wanted the myth of being untouchable to be true. When he spoke, the sound was almost gentle. “You’re shaking.”
You gripped the canteen tighter, as if it that alone could anchor your bones. “Everyone has to get something out of fear. Otherwise it’s just… waste.”
He smiled, but his mouth held a history of things unsaid. “No waste in how you live through it,” he said, the accent soft and slurring the ‘w’ into a ‘v.’
You snorted, had to, just to keep from melting right off the battered chair. “So what’s your survival mechanism, König? Machismo? Or is it just never sleeping?”
He considered it, chewing a stubborn apricot. “Maybe it is habit,” he said. “Or maybe just what is needed: watching, waiting, keeping something alive in the space fear might otherwise fill.” König chewed the last of his bar then let silence build again, this time not as a rebuke, but as a dare.
You felt the challenge in your tongue. He watched you, the corners of his mouth ticked up just a sliver, and you recognized the drift of his eyes, lower, then back to yours, as if checking to see if this was really happening and not just another of the Rotwood’s hallucinations.
So you called him on it. “Are you trying to flirt with me right now, or do you just have a head injury?”
He shrugged, and it was damn near elegant, the motion. “Maybe. Maybe not. But the world is ending, why not try to make it end on better terms?” He punctuated the thought with a grin - a real one, lopsided and unsettling in its suddenness.
It was irresistible, and you hated how much. You felt your own mouth twist, the battle between a scowl and a smile locked in bitter stalemate. But you lost, and the laugh slipped out. A little bit wild, a little bit hysterical, but real all the same.
“Don’t be gross,” you said, but it was already too late for that, and he damn well knew it.
•·················•·················•
It was only a matter of time before you both gave in. Not from any kind of romantic sweep, not from tenderness, gods no, there wasn’t any of that left in either of you, but because you needed it like extra blood in a wound, an outlet for the spate of everything too raw and real. So when you finished your last bite and set the wrapper aside, König simply reached for you and pulled you, fitting your body between his thighs as if you’d practiced this a thousand times.
And you let him do it.
The press of his hands was a relief, their squeeze a pain that left you gasping. You raked your nails down his sides and then pulled his shirt free at the back, slamming your mouth into his as if you could excise the last hour with pure id. He responded instantly, opening his mouth over yours, his tongue slick and alive in the way that startled you - it was a hunger you recognized, a wound that needed a thousand tongues to ever heal over. And you rode the wave of it, grinding down on him and letting the world collapse to the radius of his legs and your heart beating like a fist on a drum.
There was no time for slow, not now. It was never going to be slow anyways. You clawed at each other, fumbling and desperate, shoving clothing aside where you could, tearing buttons out of their holes, metal and wood pinging against the floor in the dark, damp interior of the hut. His hands bracketed your jaw until it ached, his thumbs pressing your face up as if to check the eye color of what he was about to kiss.
It shocked you, the way your body wanted this, this human heat and animal certainty. You didn’t care about the stink of the room or the monsters outside these four walls. You cared only about his hands making you one solid thing instead of a hundred shattered ones, his mouth anchoring the now. You hitched yourself higher on his thigh and rode, shoving his hand down, needing him to understand that your need was a noose.
“I said I hate you,” you growled, and he grinned.
“Lie to me again, Kleine” he said, a challenge.
You let out a noise, the sound digging itself out of your chest as you nipped at the underside of his jaw. He rumbled at it, his hands coiling up your spine, mapping knots and muscle, then pinning you in place to grind down until you were shaking. His breath turned ragged, and you inhaled it, opened yourself to the thrum of his pulse at your mouth. And for a split second you couldn’t decide if you wanted to kiss him or tear something free from beneath his skin.
Perhaps both.
His fingers dug in tighter, and you registered that under every layer of aggression there was the insistent undercurrent of want, pure and animal. It shocked you to realize you’d missed the feel of him, even from just hours ago. So you pressed harder, rutting against his thigh, the friction bruising and necessary, and he took it, giving up control just enough for you to feel the power in your hips. He hissed a curse in German and his mouth found yours once more. You molded yourself to his body, letting him manhandle you, craving it, and when his hands found your ass and hauled you up to straddle his lap, you let it happen.
“Dornau,” you said against his mouth, and he made a sound that buried it.
“König-” You tried again and he flinched, his brow furrowing deep. For a fraction of a breath, his eyes narrowed, and he hauled you tighter in his lap, grinding you down against him with a calculated cruelty that made you clench your teeth.
“Now?” he growled, half-laughing, “now you remember that?” He pressed the words into your jaw with a kiss. “You learned this from the Council women, ja? Make a man wild, then pretend there is work left to do.” His hands pressed you against the shape of himself, hard and insistent through the fabric, and it took all of your petty rebellion not to gasp his name and let him roll you flat against the table. You made a show of pushing off his chest, though it cost you.
“König I’m serious-”
He stared you down and you caught the frustration braided into his want. “We’re not getting to Dornau with 2 ferals and a husk out there, Kleine.” he muttered, and before you could fire back, he responded by shoving his tongue into your mouth, silencing your objection. You let him because if nothing else, you wanted to find out if he could devour the Rotwood’s memory from your mouth. He throttled any thought of the outside world, and that was a mercy, a madness more honest than the day-to-day inside Waldheim’s walls.
His hands locked on your hips, steered you in a grind that made every muscle burn and then burst with ferocious, self-consuming want. At some point, he bit your collarbone and you gasped, because the pain was real, necessary, and so much more welcome than the fear that had haunted you since the Stag first showed itself. He consumed you, and you him. It was not the first time his hands made you feel want; but this was more: a panic, a hunger surging up from a place neither of you had confessed to owning. It was like fucking on a sinking ship, equal parts survival and salve, and you realized it at the very moment he’d picked you up and lay you flat on the bed that you needed it this bad only because you believed - insanely, truly - that you might not get another chance.
He sensed it, maybe. He broke the kiss and his hand fisted tight around the meat of your shoulder. “Can you feel it out there?” His words were heavy. “It’s… wanting of you.” He pressed you against the mattress, his body covering yours.
“It doesn’t get you. Not unless I let it.”
“Like you’re any less of a monster?” you said. The line was calculated, meant to provoke, but it only made him drag your hips to the edge of the mattress. He grunted at your taunt and in a single movement, he braced you at the hip and wrenched your bottoms down past your knees. Your calves caught briefly on the bunched fabric, your underwear half-mangled in his fist, and the chill of the room hit your skin. You tried to twist away, but he shoved you down with a palm splayed over your belly, and held you there, his eyes raking the length of your body with a hunger that made you squirm. He stripped away what was left, tossing it off the bed onto the filthy floorboard, then hooked your knees over his arms and forced your legs apart until your hips nearly ached at the stretch.
“Nnh-”
“You think I wouldn’t die for you?” His words were sincere in a way that made your bones want to crawl out of your body and hide. “You think I’d let the Rotwood take you, Kleine? Not even the choir will find you. You will be safe-” He yanked at your ankle, hard enough to bruise,
“-because you belong to me.”
been really horny lately and scrolling through the "ftm pet" and "ftm puppy" tags on tumblr aren't helping me 😞
need a big strong mama to come make me calm down, oh woe is me, if only there was a mommy who would take pity on a puppy like me
-🦴
me too!! been super horny the last few days and it’s been so annoying! why don’t i have a personal toy to use??? cute thing beneath me whimpering and begging me to be nice ugh
awww poor puppy needs a sweet mama to help soothe him, where could you ever get someone that holds you down and has you coming time and time again on her fingers
I crave someone playing with me (gently) like a toy however they please😍🤤🤤🤤
-🐇
hiiii! i’m doing okay! we’ve got another heat wave already and it’s soooo hot i wanna sleep in the coooollddddd uggghhhh
heheheh being a toy for someone bigger older and mean to be used as a little cocksleeve or just a stress toy hmmmm being groped and touched and teased for hours not for your pleasure but because it’s fun to touch you uggghhh
