As stated above. 26. They/He mlm/nblm This is a blog for my non consensual fantasies (I do NOT post misgendering content). This is OBVIOUSLY nsfw and only for 18+. The fake name I use here is Rex, if that's a thing you're curious about.
You’re just trying to take the subway. Unfortunately, the guys riding with you have different plans, and they’re not taking ‘No’ for an answer.
Click under the cut for fingering, groping, praise, being stripped and fucked in public, nasty kissing, and impending public gang rape. Transmasc protag who gets called a slut and has their hole referred to as a pussy.
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I've been having this insane fantasy about being cast in a trashy movie opposite this like, devastating hot movie star and having to do a very voyeuristic rape scene with them. And my costar's all nervous and flustered, cuz they don't wanna make me uncomfortable! They haven't done a scene like this before!
So they ask me into their trailer, just to talk and get to know each other...and maybe rehearse the blocking in private? Figure out what isn't working there and get more comfortable with it.
And I'm kinda egging them on, telling them that "it's supposed to be a rape scene. Don’t be gentle, don't hesitate. Grab me like you own me, you're about to force yourself on me!"
And now their grip is getting firmer, they're saying their lines in a growl, and they improvise a bit. Start pulling off my clothes and groping between my legs. Biting my neck. Saying how sexy I am.
"I know one way I can get comfortable with molesting you," they say, as I gladly hump their hand. "If I sink my dick inside you enough times, I'll get a lot less bashful."
"Why are you still asking permission?"
"I'm not."
Basically I wanna get play-raped in a movie trailer by a hottie while pretending it's just for work, is that too much too ask???
Ronan's having a rough week. The latest love-of-his-life has left him rather unexpectedly; if that wasn't bad enough, his extracurricular activities are catching the attention of some pesky outsiders with equally pesky badges. And Caelum's being a complete jerk about the whole thing. Zero empathy, really.
But things are always darkest before the dawn, and fresh graves can grow pretty flowers.
Click under the cut for: Ronan shenanigans, trespassing, mopey werewolves, worldbuilding, and the complexities of polyamory. Trigger warnings for some gory flashbacks.
Takes place after Teeth and Karma, so Pike is the current Omega. Sequel to Love Addict.
Like this story? It was a commission! Part two is in production!
Word Count: 5,591
“What,” Caelum gritted out, “have I said about the hospital?”
Ronan didn’t answer right away. His list of possible responses was pretty limited, but that made choosing right even more crucial. Sarcasm was right out: only the bittens got away with that, and only when Caelum was in a far better mood than he currently was. He could try going straight for the ‘apologize and grovel’ portion of the event, but that was barely safer than mouthing off: an apology offered too quickly and easily could read as insincere, and in his inexperience, Caelum believed sincerity was something that you could physically beat into a person. Finally, he said, as contritely as possible, “to not go there unless I had a very good reason.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “which I did! I had a very, very good reason.”
Caelum grimaced. Drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, each strike making Ronan cringe just a little. They were in Caelum’s office, on opposite sides of the massive slab of white oak he called a desk. Blinding 3pm sunlight glared in through the window, the shaft falling directly across Ronan’s chair, which both smaller and more rickety than the one Caelum was looming in. “Legitimate, Ro. I said only go there if you have a legitimate reason, which you should have known meant only go there if I tell you to!” When Ronan said nothing, he huffed, eyes hard and bright with unspoken reprimands. “What was this very good reason? I’m absolutely dying to know what was important enough to disobey me over–”
Ronan sucked his teeth and scratched restlessly at the knee of his pants. “I did not,” he said, voice heavy with objection. “Not on purpose, Alpha, I didn’t know I was breaking a rule! I didn’t know legitimate meant that! How was I supposed to?” He resisted the urge to sulk. Not yet, at least. Save it for something really worth pitching a fit over. Kase was free to sulk over things as minor as the weather or a bad dream he had, and Asher existed in a state of permanent semi-sulk, but the rest of them had to be choosier about their forays into brattiness. So he kept his tone appeasing and innocent, tried to make his eyes look like windows into an empty house: no thoughts in here, boss, just a bunch of dead moths and dusty closets. Why attribute to malice that which can be explained by stupidity?
Caelum shook his head, expression somewhere between sour and stormy. “Did I ask you to defend your actions, or did I ask you to explain your motives? My head is throbbing too much for me to recall!”
Once again, his options for possible responses were limited. Obviously, Caelum wanted the truth. But the truth wouldn’t exactly make him happy. Nor would he understand it. After all, Ronan had never met Sam before he died. Had never gotten far enough along in his ritual to make contact, let alone feel his body or touch his soul. Three weeks into following Sam to and from work, an accidental exposure to cashews had killed him in the middle of a parking garage. The one afternoon Ronan hadn’t been tailing him, and now he was gone, as was any potential future they might have had together.
Ronan had just wanted to see his body. Read his autopsy report. Maybe steal him, if he seemed like he could be eaten. That, at least, would have given him some comfort, maybe even soothed the sharp new ache in his heart.
But he’d been caught, which was rare for him. Exceptionally rare. Forced to flee before the human police arrived, he’d taken a goblin path out of the basement. Shaken by the near-miss with the pathologist and the security guard, Ronan had been running through the half-real, twilit pathways far more blindly than usual, and found himself dumped out three counties away. Unable to find another path, he’d been forced to hike back, and had come home in the wee hours of the morning to find Jasper pacing in the front hall and Pike throwing a tantrum in the basement. That later issue was thankfully unrelated to Ronan’s night, but it hadn’t really helped Jasper’s mood, or Caelum’s.
“Well?” Caelum ground out, and Ronan fought the urge to shrug. Like his mother before him, Caelum Harrowick despised shrugging in the place of an answer, and might lose his temper and simply give Ronan the back of his hand. Last time Caelum had slapped him, the blow had been hard enough to earn a heavy gush of blood from his nose; in the present, it was hard not to glance at the faint stain it had left from dripping onto the olive-green carpet. “Were you following someone?” Caelum asked, in a tone that encouraged the answer to be No, absolutely not, why would I be doing that, Alpha?
Now might be the time to skip to the “apologize and grovel” part. “It won’t happen again,” he said, mostly truthfully. Up until Sam’s death, he’d been avoiding the squat, yellowish-gray box altogether. This had been his first time venturing into the morgue, and could easily be his last. Other than as food, corpses didn’t hold much interest for him, and that only really included ones the pack had hunted. Hadn’t ever prowled the halls to terrorize patients, either. He wasn’t some stinking vampire, hunting weak prey out of laziness or for the perverse pleasure of feeding on the nearly-dead. His previous field trips there had been for other reasons: tailing Dr. Tinubu, for example, but that was only a few times before Ronan had been forced to end that particular romance. Yes, something similar had happened with that ambulance driver, but that was exactly once. Ronan had lost interest, which was also rare thing for him: but Pike had just gotten there, and he’d somehow needed even more attention than Kase had. Asher had already had to stop him from running away twice–
Caelum snapped his fingers, and Ronan blinked himself back to the conversation. “Who was it this time?” He demanded, and Ronan fidgeted with his own thumbs, weighing his answers just as carefully as before. Someone I saw in a dream would not go over well. I thought this one was different wouldn’t either: Caelum would probably shout at him, and spend a long time reminding him that he always thought this one was different.
The truth of those statements wouldn’t make it any nicer to hear, so he choose to shift focus to Caelum’s actual concerns. “He’s already dead, but not because of me,” he said, and Caelum growled through his teeth, a wordless but perfectly clear warning. “No, no, really, I didn’t DO anything! He was killed by a nut allergy. That’s why I didn’t HAVE his body, that’s why I had to go visit him!” By the time Ronan had gotten to him, Sam had no longer been fit to eat, and seeing him like that, rigid and waxy and oddly sterile, empty of whatever used to fill him up, had brought Ronan no comfort.
Despite this perfectly good explanation, Caelum remained pissed. “Stay away from the hospital!” He ordered in his loudest, sharpest bark, and planted both of his round, pillowy hands on the glossy surface of his desk. One pale eyebrow was twitching, as was a prominent vein in his left temple, and Ronan tried to look extra sorry as he nodded.
“I will only go to the hospital if I have a legitimate reason!” He agreed, and Caelum heaved a sigh.
“This cannot keep happening,” he said, as though Ronan had any real control over how fate unfolded day-to-day. “That pathologist saw you standing over an open drawer, caressing a corpse! She also knows there’s no earthly explanation for you vanishing from a room you were cornered in–when she was talking to the police, she called you a demon!”
“I already said I’d–”
“Ronan. It is not just the hospital. I think we’re past that, frankly.”
Unease rippled at the back of his mind. “What? What do you mean past that?”
Shaking his head, Caelum leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over the curve of stomach, too-green eyes skeptical and unsympathetic. Guts going cold, Ronan moved his hands to the arms of his chair and gripped them hard enough to make the old wood creak. “Every time, Ro,” Caelum said, voice as stern as his face, and Ronan felt his own eyes trying to roll over into hard, black mirrors, felt his own fingertips trying to sprout claws. “Every single time you, as you put it, follow that exceptionally slutty heart of yours, we end up with a corpse–”
If he got angry, he’d start hissing and whining like a cub, which wouldn’t help him at all. Shutting up and letting Caelum lecture him as much as he liked was the only good option in front of him. But swallowing down the urge to pitch a fit was harder than he’d expected it to be, and he couldn’t fully stop himself from talking back. “A corpse that we almost always EAT,” he said, voice barely above a defiant mumble. Caelum growled, eyes brightening like they’d had their dying bulbs replaced, but Ronan refused to be cowed the warning. Sitting up straighter, he raised his voice enough to be heard clearly but not nearly high enough to be called shouting. “It’s not that big of a deal! WE’re right by a big city, a big city with crime, a lot of crime! Alpha, nobody is going to notice what I’m doing, so who cares about a few more dead humans?” Caelum still wouldn’t budge, and kept staring at him like he’d just suggested they painted WE’RE WEREWOLVES, PLEASE KILL US WITH SILVER on the side of their mailbox. “Aren’t we predators?” Ronan half-asked, half-pleaded. “I’m not doing anything wrong, Alpha, I’m just hunting!”
“Do not play that card with me,” Caelum snapped, and for a half second he sounded raw and upset in a completely different way; across from him, Ronan felt his own mouth twisting up with something that was too moldy and brittle to be grief. Taking a second to collect himself, Caelum cleared his throat and then pressed his fingertips to the throbbing vein in his temple. “I am the last person you ever need to lecture about our nature and our position in the food chain!”
And don’t change the damn subject either, Ro. It is more than a few, and you know that!” He said it like few was a fixed, objective number that Ronan had long since surpassed, and a vague measurement that was mostly up to personal interpretation. The Harrowick family crested flashed on Caelum’s heavy signet ring as he rapped one finger on the desk’s surface, nail clicking harshly off the varnished wood. “There are investigations being launched. Not exclusively local ones, either.” Eyebrows quirking, Ronan tried to ask what he meant, but Caelum talked past him. “Sasha warned me! The police think they have a…I think she said they call it a “serial”? As in, serial killer, as in, they are speaking to other nearby departments to compare notes!”
Layers of implications were lying beneath Caelum’s concerns. Implications that were threatening to piss him off even more, but he couldn’t lose his temper, didn’t have that luxury just then. Still, he leaned on it to help even out the odd, mind-clouding sorrow of decades-old loss and grief. “Boss,” he said, voice full of brightly colored, tangy sauces to mask the metallic tang of hidden razorblades, “I promise, you really don’t have to worry. I’m not being sloppy!” Not that he should even have had to say that. Never, not once in his whole life had he ever been sloppy, and it hurt more than a little to find out that Caelum doubted this. “You know how much practice I’ve had at this. You know how seriously I take our safety. I’m covering every single track and hiding every trace–”
“Not. Possible.” Caelum said, because passing up a chance to twist the knife might physically kill him. “No one in this reality or any other can cover themselves that well, not once the FBI gets involved.”
Good thing I’m not No One sat expectantly behind his gritted teeth, waiting to be spat into the air between them. Kase would have said it. Asher, too: more sardonically, delivered in a deadpan instead of a snarl, and Avery would have flat-out sneered it. But he wasn’t them. He was Ronan, so, he couldn’t answer like them and expect the same result. “...FBI, huh?” Cool. At least they thought he warranted calling in federal resources, like he was a terrorist or a natural disaster or something. Better to focus on that than his alpha’s unfair criticism or the jumpy, edgy energy that was now crawling around under his skin like an army of pissy, defensive worms.
When said alpha once again snapped his fingers to pull him back to the real world, he only briefly thought about biting Caelum’s hand hard enough to hit bone. “Yes, the FBI! They’re not directly involved yet, but it’s possible that will change in the next few weeks. Do I need to explain why that is bad?” No, he did not. Federal law enforcement, implied compliment or not, weren’t the sort of people you wanted around when you were of a non-human persuasion. “Seeing as you basically admitted to not being able to control yourself, I have to control you instead! Time for a break, Ro!”
“No!” He whined, the word coming out sharp and childish, like he was twelve years old and threatening to tattle. “No, Caelum, that isn’t–” This particular prohibition was something Caelum had threatened to enforce a few times before, but he’d never once followed through. Maybe he’d known there was no point, that Ronan would disobey any such order if he did try to issue it, which in turn would cause even more tension and arguing.“I had a crush. It was one rough night, I made one mistake! Don’t tell me not to follow my heart! Please?”
A gruff, wordless bark silenced him, and he slumped in his chair. “My mind is made up! No crushes, no stalking anyone, no late night mourning pilgrimages to public buildings! You’re going to take some time to, I don’t know, focus on yourself, or whatever people say to–” He paused, one hand frozen mid-gesture as he searched for the word he wanted. Giving up, he snapped, “–to people with your particular problem! And don’t give me that about-to-be-hanged look! I obviously don’t mean forever! What am I to you, the Devil Incarnate? Just, give it a year–”
“A YEAR?” Ronan shot to his feet, so obviously Caelum did too. Trembling with tightly restrained anger, but knowing he was expected to remain appropriately meek and obedient, Ronan sank back into his chair. Even hunched his shoulders down, and forced his eyes away from Caelum’s, trying to be the very picture of remorse. Not good enough, apparently. Looming over him, Caelum glowered, and impatiently snapped his fingers, beckoned him to share every syllable of his insolent little thought. A terribly efficient judge, he had a policy of handing his pack members just enough rope to hang themselves with. “Boss,” Ronan pleaded, as if the noose wasn’t already looped under his chin and tightening fast. “Please, come on, that’s not just unfair, that’s impossible!” Unfair was Caelum’s middle name, but he was desperate enough to keep trying, keep grasping for any possible reprieve. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right, I don’t control what I feel or when I feel it! Turning my heart off for a YEAR?” Both of his hands went to his own chest, folding over his thumping heart almost protectively. “How can I possibly do that?!” As far as he could tell, his heart relied on this beautiful, painful cycle every bit as much as it relied on blood and salt and oxygen: without it, he might just keel over dead. But Caelum wouldn’t believe him if he said that, and wasn’t in a good enough mood to humor him, so he kept it to himself and settled for looking miserable and sorry.
Something that wasn’t really sympathy flickered in those chilly green eyes, but it didn’t stay there long; Caelum was rubbing his temple again, now in slower, former circles, and the effort it took to unclench his jaw was visible. “Do you think I enjoy making these kinds of INSANE rules?” Caelum hissed, but Ronan wasn’t sure how much of his tone was annoyance and how much was discomfort. “In case you’ve gotten the wrong impression, I don’t! I am, in fact, very aware of how much trouble these ultimatums can cause! For god’s sake, do you remember how Avery reacted when I had to forbid him from starting a literal gang war?!”
“You didn’t answer my question!” With more emphasis, Ronan slapped the left side of his chest. Under his ribs, his heart pattered away, kept printing out stacks and stacks of longing, stacks that Caelum wanted to ignore and allow to pile up until they caught fire and burned him down to ash. Fingers digging painfully into his left pec, he almost whined again when he spoke. “How am I supposed to–to–it’s not a switch, Caelum! I can’t just stop!”
Maybe the re-appearance of that pubescent snivelling triggered some moldy, brittle feelings in Caelum’s sterile, automated heart: for half a second, his expression softened, shifted into something that was more sad and weary than judgemental. “Oh, Ro…” On impulse, Ronan lowered himself to his knees, folded his arms on Caelum’s desk and stared up him, plead his case again, and it seemed like Caelum was tempted to waver. The hand rubbing his temple dropped to the top of Ronan’s head, scratched his scalp in a way that was more reassuring than anything verbal could have been. “Your happiness is something that’s very important to me; don’t you know how much it pains me when your heart gets broken? I know how much you want a…a mate…but…” When he trailed off, he also took his hand back, looked away from Ronan to stare at the corner of desk, where afternoon sun bounced off of the facets of cut-glass bowl and the polished, colorfully dyed surfaces on the stones it held. After a few heartbeats of silence, he looked back at Ronan, most of the tenderness scrubbed away. “Can we agree you change your mind a lot? None of these targets of yours have turned out to be the one–”
“Don’t give me this speech again,” he groaned, feeling more and more of his own anger ebbing away, replaced bit by bit with despair. “Please, Alpha. We have the same argument every time you do.” Basically, Caelum thought Ronan’s lack of success in finding a mate was–somehow–his own fault. That Ronan needed to do something differently, other than stay optimistic and keep trying. That his many, many heartbreaks were the harvest of seeds he himself had sown, not the natural stumbles of a life still being lived.
With a sigh of frustration, Caelum paced behind his desk. Outside, the forest rustled. Ronan wanted to go to the window, try to see the garden, try to see the patio where Kase was probably smoking while he listened to Avery chatter about soccer scores and underworld gossip. Anything to not be stuck in this room, choking on Caelum’s ever-deepening disappointment. “Do you know why we have the same argument every time? Because no matter how many times I ask you to make me understand, you can’t!” And no matter how much I ask you to understand, you can’t. “This, this FIXATION you have with finding someone to bite, and only considering that, instead of any other option, simply baffles me!” Of course it baffled him. From the way Caelum told it, every aspect of Ronan’s desire for a specific mate baffled him, which made sense: Caelum, upon his soul’s creation, hadn’t ever been nicked or pierced by Cupid’s arrow. Certain kinds of love didn’t come naturally to him, and he’d never experienced the sort of longing that was baked into the very foundations of Ronan’s life.
Not that that had stopped the universe from giving Caelum a mate anyway. A mate he’d never asked for or even wanted, since apparently nothing on earth could be the slightest bit fair. Many years ago, tears might have blurred his eyes at that kind of thought, but crying had gotten harder since the night his mother had died and their whole world had burned to ash.
“Kase is your favorite,” Ronan mumbled, as he glared at the same polished dish of stones that Caelum had. “And you’re his favorite, too.” Across the desk, Caelum fumbled to half-deny it, but gave up without forming a real sentence. “Avery and Jasper…it’s the same thing! The bite bonded you to Kase, and Jasper to Avery. It made what you have together more permanent, it made it more…real. I want that sort of real, Caelum. I want…I want a favorite, too.” And to be that person’s favorite in return. To be looked at the way Kase sometimes looked at Caelum, awe-struck and delighted, or the way Jasper sometimes looked at Avery, eyes full of soft affection. Hell, the Darrow siblings practically worshipped each other, you could see it in every movement of their bodies and every flicker of emotion on their faces.
He’d have loved to have a sibling to mate with. At least then someone might miss his mother as much as he did.
“And I want that for you, too! But, the bite doesn’t guarantee you’re getting a soulmate. Kase and Pike–”
“That was different!” Ronan whined. “Like Asher and his sire were different!” He’d do it right. If it took him a hundred-thousand tries, he’d get it right.
Leather and wheels squeaked as Caelum returned to his chair and gingerly reached across the desk to stroke the top of his wrist. Ronan looked at him sadly, and Caelum seemed genuinely sorry for a moment or two. Then he pulled a heavy shade of indifference back over his eyes and his tone, and said, “Regardless of all that, we can’t keep letting corpses pile up around you. Firstly, if you get arrested, I will need to massacre many, many law enforcement agents, and that will get the Institute’s attention. Secondly, I sincerely think you need to take a break. A deliberate, purposeful, break, and maybe…I don’t know, reflect on some things. Like your priorities, and whether or not they’re all in the correct order.” With that, he took his hand back, and gestured for Ronan to leave.
Arguing with him was futile. Didn’t make leaving without another word any easier, and he resolved to sulk for as long as physically possible. Maybe he could keep it up for the entire year he was about to spend in emotional hell. Even if he disobeyed the order, which was far from out of the question, sneaking around on the Pack was much less fun than sneaking around on his various sweethearts. With Caelum already this upset, he was virtually guaranteed to use the whole situation as an excuse to lose his temper in a truly historic fashion. The absolute last thing Ronan needed was a beat-down at the hands of his entire pack: Pike getting the chance to bloody him up at this stage of his training would give him a very wrong idea about the power dynamic in the house.
At the end of the hallway, there was a massive bay window; through it, he could see down into the eastern part of the yard, could see Asher and Kase chasing Pike through the tall, swaying grass. Black fur flashed in the sunlight, Kase shifted into a four-footed, mundane wolf’s body; Asher was upright and mostly humanoid, but was running like his claws were out, and when Pike tried scrambling up a tree to escape their bullying, he snapped at the omega’s bare foot with a mouthful of fangs.
Pike continued climbing, and Asher sunk his finger-claws into the trunk to begin following him. Kase stayed on the ground, pacing in excited circles: Ronan guessed that the plan was for Asher to pry Pike from whatever branch he got cornered on and then toss him down for Kase to maul. A common game for cubs and particularly bored adults to play, and was mostly meant to remind somebody that they were weaker than everyone else.
As he watched Kase howl and snap his jaws like he hadn’t been fed in days, he decided that he deserved a medal for not throwing Kase in Caelum’s face any more than he had. He’d found Kase, not Caelum. He’d loved Kase first, had wanted so badly to be the one to bring him into the pack, to bite him and change him. But Caelum had seen Kase’s picture and had gotten a look in his eyes that Ronan had never seen before, and then he’d muscled in, had stolen the privilege of taking Kase’s humanity. Sure, he no longer thought Kase was made for him: during his first years in the pack, Caelum had nursed Kase back to semi-sanity in a way Ronan didn’t think he ever could have, had helped him learn to love the rest of the pack too and accept the love they offered in return. Clearly, the bond that had formed there had been the stars’ plan from the beginning, and his heartache was mere fallout. But his acceptance of the outcome didn’t exactly erase the disappointment of how it all went down, and at times like these, the wound seemed to open back up.
Pike hit the ground and tried to lurch to his feet: he was faster than any human could be, had better reflexes too, and could take far more physical punishment and keep right on going, but he couldn’t shift worth a damn yet, and Kase was still much quicker. Thus, Pike was tackled back to the dirt almost immediately, pinned in place by Kase’s paws and body weight; faintly, Ronan could hear Kase’s loud, angry barking. Asher leapt down from the tree, and as soon as he did, Kase sprang off Pike. Both of barked and snapped at the omega until he scrambled to his feet and started running again; the other two hung back until roughly the count of 15, and then took off after him. To Ronan’s brief delight, Asher dropped to all fours and his form rippled. For the next several yards, he ran beside Kase as a semi-accurate looking wolf, before surging back into a bipedal shape. Pretty good for Asher, given the sun was up and tonight was only a half-moon.
FBI, he reminded himself, as the three of them rounded the end of a crumbling garden wall and were blocked from sight. Sasha’s people had told Caelum that he was being investigated, that dangerous people with dangerous weapons had caught his scent. Sasha was not in the habit of giving them false information, so he needed to assume that was real. This sort of attention could put the pack at risk. He had a duty to the frailer members of the household, and to his beta and alpha. Obedience was part of that duty. Self-control was probably another, if he really thought about it.
So he choked down his hurt and his loneliness, and shuffled off to the stairs. With Asher playing outside, he could make himself busy in the laundry, catch up on the sheets Pike had been neglecting. Or maybe Jasper would want to wrestle with him until he felt less restless and growly and sad. Anything was better than his big, empty room, right across from the one Jasper and Avery shared full-time.
***
Even late at night, when the majority of the pack was asleep, the mansion wasn’t ever silent. A relic of the Gilded Age, Highbriar Hall was host to a healthy population of creaks and moans and twangs. Pipes rumbled and tiny cracks in the walls hissed, and the windows gossiped in warbly whispers. Plus, there were the mice in the walls and the birds in the attics (all three of them) and rabbits breeding in warrens beside the basement. Finally, you had the sounds of the pack sleeping: Kase’s teeth grinding and Caelum’s muttering and Asher’s deep, heavy breaths; Avery jerking awake every few hours from dreams or sleep paralysis, only to sag back asleep; all sounds that Ronan subconsciously listened for as he slept.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Asher to guard the den. Compared to Kase and Avery, he’d done great so far. His traps were brilliant: Pike’s repeated failure to escape the manor grounds were evidence of that. And he’d strong-armed Caelum into coughing up the money necessary for the local Cunning Woman to cook up nearly thirty charmbags to scatter around and ward off any invasion from the less-than-physical, which Ronan himself had failed to do multiple times. He just couldn’t help listening: it was an old habit, from back when his mother was flesh and blood. No matter how late it was, or deeply asleep he was, the sound of her coming home from a bonfire or a night singing in the nearest human town would snap him awake and send him careening down the stairs, into her arms.
He was dreaming about his mother, in fact. Not fully lucidly, but most of the way there. She was stringing a cláirseach that kept breaking itself out of spite. “Ro,” she said abruptly, and he blinked up at her from his hiding place under the sofa. “Yes, I can see you down there.” She chuckled, and the sound made all the glass things in their house break. Made his heart break too, and he crawled partway out to hear what she wanted to tell him. “There’s somebody in your room,” she said, and told the clairsearch to get with the program, or she’d burn its frame to ash and start over from scratch.
“Don’t bother,” he told her, not rising from the floor, preferring instead to look up at her. From this angle, he couldn’t see the hole the bullets had blown in the side of her head. “It gets burnt, mama, but not by you. I couldn’t get anything out of our house before the humans burned it down.” He’d been so surprised by how loud it was. Their house burning, that is. Sharp, almost spiteful pops had come from the wood as it was warped and blackened beyond all repair or salvage. When the windows blew apart, it had made the strangest noise, one he hadn’t heard replicated since. “No one’s in my room,” he assured her, as she scolded the harp again. The wires had cut her fingers, and blood drooled from the slashes in her flesh. Ronan stared at the dark red drops pattering onto the surface of her worktable, noted the lack of salt and copper in the air. He couldn’t smell in dreams, and that was how he usually got himself fully lucid. “My room’s gone, mama. Everything is.”
“Not that room,” she said, voice distracted. Her uninjured hand had found a sewing needle, and she threaded it with a length of the clairsearch’s wire. As casual as could be, she stitched her wounds with the wire. More blood rained onto her ankle-length skirt, not all of it falling from her fingers. “Your new one. With the tall window and the dresser full treasures.” Gore dripped from the far side of her face, mercifully unscented. “The one Mayflower’s boy got for you, with his father’s money. There’s someone there; do you hear the creaking?”
Yes. He did. Fingers tightening against the carpet whose color he was starting to forget, he asked, “is that really you? Or did I just need help noticing the creak?”
In answer, she turned her head to look him head-on, instead of from one side. “If I was really me, would my face look the way it does?” Asked the half-pulverized, brain-splattered remains of his mother. Broken teeth and a bloody tongue showed past her maimed, blackened cheek.
Ronan sighed heavily. No, he supposed not. His real mother would be a shade, glittering and fluid, at peace to the point of near euphoria. Or, if not, she’d be in another body by now, living a new childhood. She might not even be a werewolf anymore: she’d told him once or twice that she longed to know what sea urchins thought about, and aimed to find out firsthand. “Who’s in my room?” He asked the part of himself pretending to be her. It couldn’t be a member of the pack: why would his subconscious wake him over that?
“I’ll give you a hint: it’s not Sam.”
The next creak of the floor was loud enough to fully wake him, and he sat bolt upright in bed. Moonlight poured in through his window, and he blinked his real eyes into place, flat black replacing garnet-brown. Between the moonlight and the gift of his real vision, he could see the entire room clearly.
And could therefore clearly see Sam standing at the foot of his bed.
Sorry dude all the other gym showers are full, and we're bros so it's not weird if we see each other's junk haha.
Speaking of, you're getting pretty big on T huh? Let me see that shit. That's looking nice dude do you like, jerk it off? Wanna show me how? I'm just really curious. Don't worry about that haha it gets hard for like no reason.
Damn look at it grow that's crazy. Umm so I'm gonna get blue balls like a motherfucker if I don't take care of this so I'm gonna jerk off too. You can uhh turn around if you feel weird watching. Yeah you can just keep showering ignore me. Mmmm fuck honestly bro you got a tight ass can I just like, rub on it to help me cum faster? Fuuuck that's nice, can you just bend over a little- just like that, I get a way better angle this way.
What's wrong? Oh shit did I slip inside you? Sorry bro it's just all wet and slippery down there, and I know it isn't just the shower water. No I know but I'm already in, is it cool if I just- mmfuck you feel good dude. I'm not gonna lie I don't think I can stop at this point, you're gripping me fucking tight. Ohhh man that's good I'm just gonna have to bottom out bro, sorry if this hurts a little. Fuuuck that's tight.
Slap slap slap sorry man you just gotta slap slap let me finish i can't uuunnnhhhh stop now. You just have to let me cum dude I'm slapslapslapslp almost there bro fuuuuuuck. Thanks you're a real friend for that- what? Yeah of course I came inside dude you felt awesome. Oh my bad, I thought T worked like birth control. Live and learn! See you back at the gym tomorrow?
Collaring a guy while he’s asleep just for him to wake up all sleepy and embarrassed :(( Awww what’s wrong??? Don’t you know what happens when you fall asleep first at the sleepover??? Noooo you’re not confused, I know you’re really tired but I promise this is happening. I mean you were practically asking for it anyways after you spent all yesterday batting your pretty little eyes like a faggot, I know you like this. You like having a boy treat you like a dog, I mean just look at the little wet patch forming on your boxers. If you keep the collar on maybe we can take those boxers off, yeah?
the thought of being stalked is so fucking hot… i want a creepy loser stalker who knows every single thing about me and thinks about nothing more than all of the fucked up things he’d do to me… thinking of ways he could catch me alone and just have his way with me…
Click under the cut for a high school bully (cis guy) getting railed by three pumpkin headed monsters in a moonlit field. It is NOT romantic! Rape, vine bondage, demonic possession, pumpkin dicks! What else could you want???
Word Count 2.9k
Lynn Underwood is possessed by the Devil. Everybody knows that. Well, everybody who goes to Kettles Memorial High School knows that, at least. Lynn Underwood is possessed by the Devil, and her brother Felix is a warlock, and her mother is dead, and her father hasn't left the house in years. The house in question sat perched atop a steep hill, overlooking a shallow ravine and the dirty creek that ran through it, and its appearance did little to dissuade the rumors about the family inside. Every inch of the shuttered windows and an uneven roof and a wrap-around porch were covered in ivy and snarled rose vines, and, every Autumn, the property became dotted with pumpkins of every size and shade. If it wasn't for the pumpkins, the Underwoods might have been shunned entirely; but Halloween comes every year, and people need jack o lanterns, and the Underwoods barely charged a thing.
Gunnar Middleson had learned all of this after his family moved into the semi-rural township. Despite his mother's high hopes (and his father's grave warnings) Gunnar had not changed the "behavior" that got him kicked out of both school districts in their previous town. Had, in fact, picked it right back up on day three at Kettles, when he decided to see what, exactly, was in the creepy kid's back-pack.
"Gimmie that," he'd said, and grabbed the top handle of Felix's back-pack, bringing the gawky, droopy eyed freak to an abrupt stop. His free had had grabbed Felix by the scruff of his neck and shoved him forward, hard, while also yanking the bag backwards. With a strangled grunt, Felix had gone sprawling on the walk outside school, and several other students had gasped. Gunnar had ignored them as he unzipped the bag and dumped it out all over the ground and Felix's legs as he struggled to push himself off the filthy concrete.
Half a dozen books covered in strange words and stranger pictures, bundles of dried plants and flowers, weird rocks, jewelry, random things of twine and tape, and couple of leather bags on straps. "Delicate--" Felix spat over his shoulder, and Gunnar hadn't yet noticed his bloody nose or busted lips.
"Holy shit! They weren't lying, you're an actual whack job, huh?" Contemptuously, he kicked at the random shit, and watched Felix heave himself to his feet. "Oooooh. You gotta tie your shoes tighter, bro. Your face is all jacked up."
Hard gray eyes stared at him, and more blood had oozed from his hawkish (and rapidly swelling) nose. "Apologize," Felix had spat, before dropping to his knees to begin gathering his things. Gunnar had promptly kicked him in the gut, knocking him flat on his back, and then stepped over him to head inside. "Apologize, or I fucking swear--" Felix had shouted after him, as whispers swirled anxiously through the crowd.
Gunnar didn't apologize. Instead, he made Felix his new hobby, and, to their credit, the other students really did try to interfere.
Meaning that, over the next few weeks, Gunnar had gotten the story in chunks and snippets and a few dramatic re-enactments from particularly hyped-up students. When Felix and Lynn were in the second grade, their creepy ass mom had drowned herself in the creepy ass crick below their creepy ass house. Then in fourth grade, Lynn had started having fits. Violent outbursts. Would speak in tongues and kill animals and threaten other students. When she nearly stabbed her teacher to death, that was that. Off to kiddie version of the nuthouse for Lynn until she was stable enough for home-schooling.
Everybody had seemed oddly...obligated to tell him this, and when he'd impatiently ask what that had to do with him flushing Felix's phone down the shitter or hurling his lunch into busy traffic or whatever...things got even weirder.
"He can talk to it," one girl had hissed, glancing furtively around the library they'd both been confined to for in-school suspension.
"To WHAT?"
"The thing inside his sister! The Devil, or whatever, he can TALK TO IT and--" A teacher coming back had interrupted her, and after that, her nerve was gone and not coming back.
Another had said, "He's dangerous, he's unstable, don't fucking needle him."
And yet another had replied simply: "He's a warlock. He can hurt you much, much worse than you can hurt him."
"Oh? Yeah? Then, why the fuck hasn't he?"
Which brings us right up to the present, where Gunnar found himself waking up in the Underwood's pumpkin patch. Brilliant moonlight had bathed everything in eerie silver, and Gunnar looked around, trying to blink his bedroom back into existence. "Wha--" He cut himself off with a cough, his mouth and throat oddly dry. His feet, sockless and a tad sweaty, slid back and forth in his ratty boots, and he looked down, trying to remember why he'd gone outside and walked all this way in just his sweatpants and shoes. "Why--"
His head felt strange, and it took some effort to move his feet. He started walking towards the house, before abruptly realizing that was probably a bad idea. He felt his sagging pockets for his phone. No luck. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the ravine, a toothless maw of darkness, and couldn't stop himself from thinking of the boy in his chem class. Kieran had solemnly insisted that Mary-Beth Underwood haunted Shivering Creek, that he had seen her more than once, and that her spirit was far from peaceful. In the other direction lay the road. Not as dark, but long, and isolated, and that didn't seem particularly safe either. For the first time in a long time, Gunnar felt small and frightened.
Grass rustled behind him, and he whirled in place. Nothing. Nothing but pumpkins, and the house, which leered at him from the crown of the hill, looking more like a jack o lantern than a building. Gunnar warred with himself, trying to talk himself into walking up to the front door and banging on it until Andrew Underwood woke up and helped him. He had no idea what he'd do if Felix answered the door. If Lynn answered, he'd probably sprint downhill and take his chances with her mom's ghost.
He started to take a step towards the downright terrifying porch, but another rustle of grass and pumpkin vines had him freezing in place again. Heart racing, body cold with adrenaline, he looked around frantically, praying to spot a raccoon, a turkey, a goddamn coyote would be a welcome sight and...and where was the big one?
Confusion mixing itself up with the fear, Gunnar turned more fully towards the nearest clump of pumpkins, and approached them; there'd been a really big one in the middle, weighing at least ten pounds, as big as a watermelon, bright orange, and now it was gone--
And where was the white one? That had been off to the left? And the oddly mottled yellow-ish one, that had been in front of the main cluster of them. Both of those had been pretty big too, and all three were just...gone, all of a sudden.
Something was wrong.
He had to get to the house. He had to--
And then something heavy and leathery and too cool to be mammalian was wrapping itself around both of his ankles and yanking his feet out from under him. Gunnar screamed as he lost his balance, but managed to catch himself on his forearms. He looked back, kicking frantically, and then screamed again, much, much louder.
He'd found the missing pumpkins.
More vines came slithering forward, winding themselves around his calves and dragging him away from the Underwood house and towards the cluster of nightmares behind him. Three...things, that was the only way he could describe them, things, were crowded together, watching eagerly as he was dragged closer and closer to their greedy, viney claws and gap-toothed, leering mouths. They each stood six to eight feet tall, with bodies made of densely woven vines and tightly packed leaves, long legs and long arms branching off of their dark green torsos. But their heads were the worst. The gourds had been intact, pristine, when he'd seen them moments before. But now, their flesh had split in multiple places, giving them mouths and eyes and noses, all of which leaked pumpkin guts and shone with an unearthly orange light.
Gunnar wailed in horror and panic as the things lifted him from the ground and looked him over. Up close, the pumpkins rippled like human faces, twitching with expression as they inspected their wriggling, helpless catch. It was the white one that had him up in the air, suspended by the grip on his upper arms, and Gunnar thrashed even harder when the mottled yellow reached out and started to run its dirty vine-hands over his bare torso. "PUT ME DOWN."
All three made an odd sound. It was choked and thick and repetitive, and Gunnar had a sinking feeling that was laughter. The yellow one reached down and yanked off his boots, dropping them to the ground. Then it pulled down his pants, and Gunnar screamed again, so loudly it sent several birds fleeing from the nearest trees. Bare naked in the moonlight, Gunnar twisted in midair, trying to avoid the eager, unnatural hands that were roaming across his body. The orange one, the tallest by half a foot, looked at him over Yellow's shoulder, and made a long, heavy hissing sound.
"I'm sorry--" Gunnar babbled, barely realizing he was saying it, as the white one unspooled more vines and trussed him up even further. "Jesus I'm so fucking sorry, please, just let me go, Felix--"
The hands on his body forced him to the ground, on all fours, and the vines anchored into the dirt, binding him in place. He was positioned so he could see the house, could see the light shining through its upstairs windows, could see the silhouette watching him from the nearest one. "Felix--" He wailed again, and tried to crawl away, but the vines held him tight. Those awful hands had found his hips, were stroking them and his thighs indulgently, over and over, and he whimpered in terror. Whichever of the monsters was behind him slithered closer, and he screamed again as something hard and smooth and textured like an uncarved pumpkin slid between his spread and trembling thighs. The thing was huge and long and shaped...shaped like a...
Before Gunnar could look down his body to see what was rutting against his half-hard cock, the other two monsters shuffled into view in front of him, once again making that awful, inhuman laugh. The white pumpkin knelt on its knobbly plant-knees, and Gunnar found himself repeating "No" on a terrified, baffled loop, as it grabbed the back of his head and held it firmly in place. Because the thing had grown a new appendage.
A second, smaller pumpkin dangled between its thighs, shaped like a fucking dick. A dick that the creature was now trying to force into Gunnar's mouth as he fought to get away. The mottled yellow had one too, and it was presumably Orange's dick that was grinding against his own, getting hard despite his best efforts.
His jaw stretched uncomfortably and he moaned in despair as the fake gourd dick filled his mouth, and the pumpkin thing laughed at him again. Behind him, the orange dragged its cock up his taint and pressed the tip against his asshole, and Gunnar couldn't even scream; the white pumpkin had started fucking his mouth, and he couldn't scream past the girth. Not even when the orange one thrust past his rim, miraculously not tearing anything but causing him a shitton of serious discomfort. Gunnar squirmed and bucked but it got him nowhere, and the monsters kept laughing as they spit-roasted him in the dirt. The yellow one got impatient and shoved the white one away, but Gunnar didn't have time to do more than catch his breath before a second hard, inhuman cock was stuffed into his mouth.
The two in front passed his mouth back and forth while the third used his ass, and the vines holding his limbs in place only dug in tighter if he squirmed too much. Tears were running down his face and his dick throbbed between his thighs, completely ignored.
Up in his room, Felix Underwood watched, fairly certain he was in for a much more peaceful school-life, come Monday morning.
As a kid, my favorite holidays were Halloween and Easter. I know that's a slightly off-beat choice, but I fucking LOVED Easter. I have written Halloween porn at least twice that I can recall. I have never written Easter porn.
Do you guys dare me to fix that?
Yes obviously
No, fuck you and your egg holiday
Wait, is this why you get excited about Eggtober???
What does Easter porn look like? Explain yourself.
Panicking about the state of things? Wanna do something immediately but have limited mobility, time, or relevant skills?
Donate to the ACLU, who are fighting for gender affirming care in the federal prison system.
Or
Donate to the Transgender Law Center, a trans led legal advocacy group who work to end the criminalization of trans existence
Or
Donate to The Okra Project, a black trans mutual aid collective. Currently only their therapy fund is accepting applications, but the org still needs $$$
Or
Donate to the Black Trans Advocacy Coalition to support their efforts towards community education, poverty alleviation, policy work, and even direct services.
Or
Donate to Point of Pride, which operates multiple aid funds for gender affirming procedures and items.
Or
Donate to the Black Trans Travel Fund, which provides funding and other forms of support for black trans women seeking safe travel options.
Or
Donate to the Queer Trans Project, which distributes free gender affirmations kit and operates a flight assistance fund for those needing out-of-state care.
In the aftermath of Thanksgiving (day of mourning) I'd like to plug Indigenous Women Rising. They've been around since 2014 and operate both an abortion fund and a midwife fund, and provide period supplies and contraception, all with the goal of providing Indigenous peoples of all genders and sexes with reproductive support and freedom. Rain Fund is for abortion access, Emergence is for midwifery/labor and delivery, and the MoonPie fund is for contraception, menstrual products, and menopause support. If you're in Albuquerque New Mexico on the sixth of December, they're doing a flash tattoo fundraiser at Bow and Arrow brewing company (6pm to 8pm).
I've been having this insane fantasy about being cast in a trashy movie opposite this like, devastating hot movie star and having to do a very voyeuristic rape scene with them. And my costar's all nervous and flustered, cuz they don't wanna make me uncomfortable! They haven't done a scene like this before!
So they ask me into their trailer, just to talk and get to know each other...and maybe rehearse the blocking in private? Figure out what isn't working there and get more comfortable with it.
And I'm kinda egging them on, telling them that "it's supposed to be a rape scene. Don’t be gentle, don't hesitate. Grab me like you own me, you're about to force yourself on me!"
And now their grip is getting firmer, they're saying their lines in a growl, and they improvise a bit. Start pulling off my clothes and groping between my legs. Biting my neck. Saying how sexy I am.
"I know one way I can get comfortable with molesting you," they say, as I gladly hump their hand. "If I sink my dick inside you enough times, I'll get a lot less bashful."
"Why are you still asking permission?"
"I'm not."
Basically I wanna get play-raped in a movie trailer by a hottie while pretending it's just for work, is that too much too ask???
Stories of Rape, Ravishment, Sexual Slavery, Dubious Consent, and Heavy Kink. Trans and queer focused. | 30 Gay TransMasc White | Followers and Clients Must Be 18+ | Everything Will Be Tagged
My commission info is here! (limited slots open) You can tip me here! If the link isn’t working, it’s SavageRex on Ko-Fi.
Stories of Rape, Ravishment, Sexual Slavery, Dubious Consent, and Heavy Kink. Trans and queer focused. | 30 Gay TransMasc White | Followers and Clients Must Be 18+ | Everything Will Be Tagged
My commission info is here! (limited slots open) You can tip me here! If the link isn’t working, it’s SavageRex on Ko-Fi.
I have an AO3!
IHaveRapeFantasies @nonconfantasies - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
