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strawberrybunnystuff · 11 days ago

Text

Outlast character watching you sleep with their dakimakura

I don't know why I did that then...

Context: basically them seeing you sleeping with a pillow with their face and body.

Leland Coyle

He stops in the middle of your room, his muscular arms crossed over his chest as his narrow eyes scan the scene before him with a mixture of disbelief and... something he refuses to name mentally. There you are, wrapped in the sheets as you hug that - a grosque pillow printed with your face, your tattooed arms transformed into soft lines and vibrant colors that do not match the sick man he is.

"What the fuck?" He grumbles, his voice thick with skepticism that almost hides the tone of curiosity. His hard expression twitches for a second, the corners of his lips trembling as if struggling between a smile or a snarl.

"Tsk..." he finally gives in to his own impulse, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. "Maybe I really am irresistible." His words were full of mockery, but his foolish pride was undeniable - especially when he pulled the pillow closer to him, examining the details with a mixture of disgust and fascination. "Shit, that's pretty much right... Who the fuck did you pay to do that?"

Even though he already knew he wouldn't get an answer from you, he'd feel desired.

Franco Barbi

Franco could barely contain his first laugh that echoed through his room as soon as his eyes landed on the scene. Holy God, that was better than any mirror, any photo, any tribute he had ever received in his years of glory and chaos. You, his beloved, wrapped like a sweet little angel in the sheets, hugging him - in fact, a softer version of him, made of cotton and paint.

"Bellissima! I'm even more beautiful in fabric, right?" Franco approaches with exaggerated steps, adjusting his shirt before leaning close to you, with those gentle eyes. "Sleep with me until we dream, love? How romantic..."

He lay down next to you with the mattress groaning under his weight. An arm wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest while at the same time he stole half of the pillow with his face.

"Oh, little one, is there room for two Franco here? No?" He laughed, the warm air brushing against your neck as he pretended to weigh the situation. "Sin...because the original never shares the stage." In one swift movement, he steals a kiss from her temple. "Se somni d'oro, princess...but when you wake up, I'll charge you for every night you spent with this impostor."

The Night Hunter

His presence seeps into the room like a fog—silent, lethal, inescapable. The Night Hunter’s mysterious eyes fixed on you first, then on the object your arms clutched so devotedly. Your body froze for an instant, muscles tense like a predator faced with a puzzle.

It was him. But it wasn’t.

The image printed on the fabric was a distortion—vivid colors where there was only blood and shadows, a smile he would never give. His bony fingers stretched out, hovering over the pillow as if touching it could unravel it. Smell. Cheap cotton. No threat. No sense.

“Do you...dream about me?” His voice came out harsh, more a growl to himself than a question.

He watched you cling to that thing, your fingers buried in the fabric as if you were afraid it would disappear. Something strange twisted inside your chest—something that hurt.

Then, in one calculated move, he slid the pillow away, pulling you from beneath his embrace. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled against you, his long, angular body replacing the stolen pillow. A bony arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you too close—as if to prove that flesh and bone were better than any imitation.

“He doesn’t protect you…” his breath chilled the back of your neck as his claws dug lightly into your hip, “…I protect you.”

Dr. Esterman

The silence of the room was shattered by the metallic click of Dr. Esterman's shoes as he stopped abruptly on the threshold. His eyes, always analytical, scanned the scene with the same coldness with which he dissected a corpse - until they landed on the object in his arms.

His face. But not his face.

A caricatured, exaggerated, indecent version - smiling, shirtless, with features that bordered on anime. His fingers, which were clasped together, involuntarily twitched on the side of his robe.

"...this is absolutely ridiculous."

His voice was sharp, but his eyes did not leave the pillow. Something between repulsion and fascination held him there. With precise movements, he reached out and pulled the object to examine it, his fingers assessing the fabric, the stitching pattern, the lines of the design.

"The proportions of the jaw are incorrect," he murmured, the professorial tone coming automatically. "And my chin is 0.4 centimeters too prominent. You could have used a better reference."

A long silence. Until finally, he sighed—the closest sound to surrender you'd ever heard from him. "...but, yes...it's acceptable. The job is well done."

He placed the pillow back with almost surgical care, aligning it exactly where it had been. When his eyes found your sleeping face, something strangely close to tenderness passed through him.

"If it brings you comfort...who am I to criticize?"

He would never admit it. But yes. He loved it.

Big Grunt

The door creaked loudly under Big Grunt's weight as he entered the room - slow, clumsy, like a big bear trying not to crush the flowers. His small, bright eyes landed on you first, then on the pillow hugged to his chest.

He stopped. His huge head tilted to the side, the muscles in his neck tensing like those of a confused dog in front of a mirror. A broad, scarred finger pointed at the pillow, then at his own face - more scratched than the stylized version on the fabric.

"Um...me?" His voice came out hoarse, almost childish in its simplicity.

You, already awake by the noise, smiled and confirmed: "Yes, I like sleeping with you close."

His eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent "O" before turning into a toothless and oh-so-genuine smile. And then, he lowered himself, the bed groaning under his colossal weight, and curled up next to you. A colossal arm the size of a tree trunk pulled you against him, mimicking exactly the pose you made with a pillow.

"Hum...better," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. "I'm warm. Pillow...no."

Pusher

The bedroom door banged open - not because he slammed it, but because that damn Pusher never does anything quietly. His mischievous eyes scanned the entire room until they landed on you... and on the pillow you were hugging so hastily.

A high-pitched, deliciously cruel laugh echoed off the walls.

"HA! Doesn't the little bitch have a little doll of me?" He approached with almost skipping steps, his dirty fingers twitching with excitement. "Well...of course you would have one of those. Who could resist such perfection?"

With an unexpected quick movement, he snatched the pillow from your arms, holding it just out of your reach as he looked at you with a teasing smile.

"But look...this one?" He squeezed the pillow tightly, making a disdainful face. "It's just cotton. Me? I'm much more fun."

And then his funny game begins - holding the pillow away from you, swinging it from side to side while laughing at your attempts to retrieve it.

"Come here, try to get it..." he mocked, but when you finally managed to grab a small corner of the pillow, he pulled you along - making you fall face first into his chest. "Oops." He laughed, throwing the pillow somewhere in the room. "I guess you're stuck with the original now."

Mother Gooseberry

The bedroom door opens without a sound, her light and calculated steps taking her to her bed with ease. And then, she saw it.

You, wrapped in the sheets like a snuggled puppy, hugging her - or at least, a soft fabric version, with your features printed in bright and soft colors. Gooseberry's lips curve into a smile so wide.

"Oh, my little one..." she whispered, her voice so sweet. Her cold hand caresses your sleeping face tenderly. "You really adore me, don't you?"

Her fingers slid to the pillow, exploring the soft material with maternal curiosity.

"But this here..." She wrinkled her nose in an almost comical expression of affectionate disapproval. "It's not skin, it's not warm... it can't give you good nightclub kisses, or even reward you when you behave well..."

With slow, precise movements - like a mother silently replacing a broken toy with a new one - she untangled the pillow from your arms and placed it aside with an almost ceremonial care.

And then, in its place, she lay down.

Her body molded to yours, arms wrapping around you with a firmness that promised protection and possession on the right level.

"Let's do something better than dream, my dear..." Gooseberry murmured, his lips brushing your temple almost like a kiss. "Let's live the dream together."

Val

The door creaked open, but Val was already there before the sound reached her ears. Her eyes, always burning, always hungry for adoration, immediately fixed on the pillow in her arms.

Her. But not HER.

A version of ink and cotton, with her exaggerated features and voluminous curves. And you...clinging to this image like a devotee to a sacred icon.

And then, a shiver ran through Val, followed by a slow, dangerous smile that lit up her face.

"Ohh...my little lamb..." Her voice dripped like the sweetest poisoned honey, sweet and intoxicating. "You lie with my figure...wrap yourself around my features...what a beautiful blessing."

She approached, with light steps, until she knelt beside your bed. Her fingers, tracing a path from your sleeping face to the soft fabric of the pillow, exploring every fold with an almost profane reverence.

"This..." She sighed, bringing the pillow to her face and smelling it deeply, feeling her love impregnated in the cotton. "This is more than devotion. This is absolute love."

A kiss was placed on the fabric - slow, wet, deliberate - before she pulled it away from you.

And then, she took your place.

Her slender body covered yours as if it were your second skin, her hips fitting perfectly against yours, pinning your body against the mattress with a strength that left no room for your doubts.

"But now, my worshipper..." His lips brushed her ear. "It is time to embrace the living flesh. The prophet of your dreams is here...and she demands much more than a replacement."

Marta

The door creaked softly as Marta entered your room, her steps heavy. Her eyes, accustomed to seeing only work, landed on you - and then on the object you hugged so dearly.

She stopped. Her calloused fingers twitched slightly on the side of the worn dress.

"Is this... me?"

The voice came out hoarse, almost suspicious. She approached slowly, her hesitant hand touching the soft fabric, her face deepening into an expression of confusion.

She was there, but... not her.

Marta looked at you, asleep, hugging that unreal version of herself as if it were a treasure. Something inside her chest - something she thought had dried up long ago - tightened.

"Do you... see me like this?" She murmured, her voice as low as if it were a breath.

And then, with care, she lay down next to you. The mattress groaned under her weight, but she moved slowly, so as not to wake you.

Her arm wrapped around your body in a hug that was both protective and grateful.

"I don't deserve this..." She whispered, her face buried in your hair. "But still...I'm flattered."

Eddie Gluskin

The door opens with an almost musical tinkle - because Eddie never entered a room without announcing his remarkable presence as a perfect husband would. His eyes, always bright with devotion, land on you first, then on the pillow you hugged so lovingly.

Him. But not him. - a more stylized version, in an impeccable suit, perhaps with his remarkable muscles exposed, but it was definitely him.

Eddie stopped, put his hands on his chest as if his heart would burst out of his chest with happiness.

"Oh...oh, my sweet bride..." his voice came out in a melodious sigh, full of emotion. "You made this? Of me? Oh, my love, my precious treasure!"

He approaches, with his fingers - accustomed to being so skilled with needles and threads - lightly touching the stitching of the pillow. Each stitch being examined with precision that only a devoted husband could.

"It's...it's like seeing our vows printed in the world of dreams," he murmured, his voice cracking. "Or on cotton."

And then, with gentle movements that wouldn't wake you, Eddie lay down beside you. His strong arms wrapped around you and the pillow, pulling you against his chest.

"Shh, darling...sleep," he whispered, stroking your hair. "Your husband is here now...and he'll never let you need substitutes again."

Richard Tranger

The bedroom door opens with a deliberate bang - because Richard Tranger NEVER does anything discreetly. His eyes, always full of himself, scan the scene in seconds: you, tangled in the sheets, hugging him - in a cotton and paint version, with the version of your exaggerated muscles...

And then, a low, seductive and completely self-contained giggle echoes through the room.

"Well...this is absolutely...amazing." His arms crossed over his chest, his fingers lightly tapping his elbow as he studies the pillow with a mixture of mockery and pure adoration.

"There's even my crooked smile," he murmured, leaning forward like an art critic. "And those muscles? Honey, you drew me more ripped than I actually am...I like it."

With a quick movement, he pulled his cell phone out of one of his pockets - because of course this man had a cell phone for such an inopportune moment, and he would never miss the opportunity. The flash went off, illuminating your room for a second.

"New line of Tranger products," he announced, his fingers quickly typing a message that you would receive as soon as you woke up. "Already taken."

The cell phone was quickly put back in its rightful place, but his smile didn't disappear. He approached the bed, his fingers gripping the pillow with comical possessiveness before pulling it away from you - only to lie down in its place, occupying the space as if it were his right.

"Now, dear," he whispered, his voice thick with naughty excitement, "why would you sleep with a piece of fabric when the real thing is right here, perfectly willing to offer itself as your personal pillow?"

Chris Walker

The door creaks slightly under the weight of the big Chris Walker - but he barely noticed. His eyes, usually burning with fury, were now fixed on you. And on the pillow you held like a treasure.

Him. He knew it was him, or at least he thought it was him.

A version of him drawn in soft strokes and his gaze that was always tense now softened. Chris stood paralyzed, his too-large hands opening and closing at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Is that... me?"

His voice, usually always a growl, came out softer - almost childish with confusion. He points to his chest, his eyes flickering between you and the pillow, as if he needed your affirmation.

You just nod, a silent yes.

Chris takes a deep breath, his fingers - so brutal in combat, so destructive - stretching hesitantly towards the fabric. He touched it with his fingertips, as if he was afraid of tearing it. And as you snuggled even closer to the pillow, a strange noise escaped your throat - something between a groan and a sigh.

"Do you... feel safe like this?"

It was a genuine question. Because Chris, used to being the "monster", the soldier, the nightmare of so many, couldn't understand how he - HIM - could be someone who brought comfort.

But you nodded. And something inside him woke up.

With slow, careful movements, he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. And then, with a delicacy that was a brutal contrast to his size, he pulled the pillow and your arms away - only to lie down in their place, replacing the fabric with his own body.

"You can sleep peacefully," he murmured, his face buried in your hair, his arms - as large as yours - wrapping you with a protection that was also a silent vow.

Father Martín

The door opens without a single sound. His steps, always calm and measured, led him to your bed with the reverence of a pilgrim before a shrine.

And then, he saw you.

You, asleep like a saint in a trance, embracing him - or at least, a more heavenly version of yourself, printed in white linen, with serene features and immaculate robes that not even in his most pious dreams would he dare to wear.

Martin's lips curved in a smile as tender as a blessing.

"Oh, my child..." he whispered, his voice a hymn of adoration. "You carry me in your arms even while you sleep... what a pure and tender faith."

He knelt beside your bed, hands clasped in prayer for a moment before tracing the sign of the cross in the air above you - as if consecrating that moment.

“Your devotion is divine,” I continued, my fingers now caressing the pillow with the same reverence with which I would touch a reliquary. “But do not forget…the true touch of the spirit is in the flesh.”

And then, with slow, ceremonial movements, he lay down beside her. He did not take the pillow from her arms—no, that would be sacrilege—but slid his hand beneath hers, intertwining their fingers with a gentleness that bordered on the sacramental.

“Dream of me, my dear,” he murmured, his warm breath brushing her forehead like an anointing. “And when you wake…I will still be here.”

Frank Manera

The door didn't make a single sound as Frank entered - his footsteps were those of a hunter, silent, calculating, hungry. His dark eyes, always alert for movement, landed first on you, then on the object you were hugging so fervently.

He stopped. His feet - heavy, brutal - stiffened on the floor as if they had encountered an invisible trap.

It was him. But not him.

A distorted, exaggerated, savage version - defined muscles, a fierce expression, even seductive in a way Frank never thought about himself. His hands, calloused and stained with dried blood, opened and closed at his sides, as if they didn't know whether to destroy or touch.

"What...is this?" His voice came out hoarse, more a growl than a question. "Is this...me?"

He looked at you, asleep, clinging to that image as if it could protect you. Something inside him—something deep and long buried—twitched.

“Do you want me like this?”

A laugh escaped his lips, low, husky, strained—as if he didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. But as he approached, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his eyes kept darting between you and the pillow.

“You really are a weird little thing, you know that?”

The tone was harsh, but there was something else there—a sliver of tenderness he would never admit out loud.

And then, with one swift movement, he ripped the pillow from your arms, making you stir in your sleep with a small noise of protest. Frank didn’t care. He was already laying down in place, pulling you against his chest with a strength that was both rough and careful.

“Now sleep properly,” he grumbled, his fingers burying themselves in your hair with a possession that brooked no argument. “No ragdoll. Just me.”

Loutermilch

The bedroom door creaked slightly as Loutermilch entered—not out of carelessness, but because he wanted you to know, on some subconscious level, that he was there. His eyes, always calculating, roamed over your sleeping body before landing on the pillow you were hugging.

Him. But not him—a softened version, his features less severe, his body stretched out on the fabric in a way that bordered on the indecent, even wearing the sacred robes.

"You sleep with...this?"

His voice came out louder than he intended, a tone somewhere between scandalized and curious. He moved closer, his fingers brushing the fabric with a mixture of revulsion and fascination.

"I didn't think you'd see me so...sweet," he murmured, his dark eyes flickering to you, then to the pillow, as if comparing the two.

And then—a slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips.

“I think…I can accept that kind of adoration,” he whispered, already laying down next to you without removing the pillow. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you and the fabric image against his crown. “As long as you always remember…who’s in control here.”

His fingers squeezed your hip lightly.

Miles Upshur

The bedroom door opened with a dull bang - Miles didn't have enough energy to enter delicately. His shoulders hunched under the weight of another day of crazy investigations, he could barely stand.

Until he saw it.

You, wrapped in the sheets like a refuge, hugging him - or at least, a cotton and paint version of him, with your camera in your hand and that determined look he didn't know he had.

"That's... hilarious."

His voice came out hoarse, more from exhaustion than disbelief. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, as if to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"And cute."

A slow smile spread across his face. He approached the bed, his knees bending with a groan of exhaustion as he knelt beside you.

"Did you have that made? A giant pillow with my face on it?"

His fingers caress your sleeping face, then gently pull the corner of the pillow to examine it better.

"Holy shit, even my camera is here. And that expression? I look like a determined idiot." He chuckled softly.

But then, when his eyes landed on you again, something changed. The smile became softer, quieter.

"I'm protecting you even when I'm not, right?"

And with gentle movements - he pulled the pillow from your arms and fitted himself into its place.

His arms, now wrapped around you with a strength that was at once protection and need.

"Sleep, love," he murmured, his face buried in her hair. "This time, the original is here."

Amélia Collier

The light entered the room in slivers, painting silver stripes on Amélia's body as she watched you in silence. Her eyes - always alert - scanned the scene with intensity: You, asleep, hugging her.

Or at least, a version of her.

The pillow portrayed her with enigmatic features, deep eyes that seemed to hide secrets even from the artist himself, a smile that was neither sweet nor cruel. Amélia ran her fingers through her hair, as if she needed to confirm that it was real.

"You hunger for me even in your dreams," she murmured, her voice a thread of sound that barely disturbed the air.

The smile that formed on her lips was broken - half , half something so bitter that not even she knew how to name it. Her fingers, cold from the early morning, touched your face with a reverence that contrasted with the hunger in her eyes.

"And here I thought I was the only one awake in the early hours, thinking about you."

She didn't bother to wake you. She didn't dare. Instead, she slid under the sheets like a shadow, her body molding to yours with the ease of someone who already knew your every curve. Her face buried itself in your neck, her lips almost touching your skin.

"Keep the image, my flower..." she whispered, her fingers intertwining with yours with a gentle possessiveness. "But when you open your eyes..."

A pause. A sigh.

"See your real woman here."

Jeremy Blaire

The door opened with a calculated bang - because Jeremy didn't know how to enter a room without announcing his presence like a CEO making his grand entrance. His fingers were already adjusting his expensive wristwatch, his lips already preparing to let out some sharp comment about you having fallen asleep without expecting him...

Until his eyes fell on the scene.

And he - the man is speechless.

You, asleep like a pampered kitten, hugging him - or a velvet and ink version, with your impeccably designed suit, your dominant posture...

"Ha... you're kidding me, right?"

His voice came out louder than intended, almost strangled by a mixture of disbelief and something he wouldn't name. He approached, his Italian leather shoes squeaking against the floor as if protesting this affront to his ego - or lack thereof.

"Good taste. Style. I didn't expect it at all."

His fingers - so used to signing papers - now touched the print, examining every detail: the perfectly aligned tie, the impeccable haircut, even the highlight of his defined muscles. His chest swelled visibly.

But then, when his eyes landed on you, something changed.

"You can't even get me out of your head when you're asleep, huh?" he murmured, his voice unexpectedly soft.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers tangling in your hair with a tenderness no one in the office would ever see. For a second, just a second, the superior smile gives way to something more real.

But Jeremy is not a man who gives in easily.

With one swift movement, he snatched the pillow from your arms, holding it in the air like a trophy.

"You should trade this for me," he declares, the smirk returning in full force. "I guarantee more firmness and..." a dramatic pause, his eyes roaming over your sleeping body. "Function."

And before you can even mumble in your sleep, he is already replacing the pillow - his real body molding to yours, his expensive suit unceremoniously crumpling.

Father Sullivan Knoth

The silence of the room was shattered by Sullivan's heavy footsteps - each footfall echoing like a sermon from the pulpit of his church of horrors. His eyes, always burning with the fire of twisted conviction, fixed first on you, then on the object you embraced with such devotion.

Him. But not him - a sanctified version in fabric, with religious robes open in unholy invitation, the expression of spiritual power he so cultivated in his speeches.

Knoth froze.

"You... dream of me like this?"

His voice was rough, laden with a mixture of incredulity and ecstasy. His fingers - accustomed to holding Bibles and spreading curses - reached out towards the pillow, touching it as if it were a sacred relic.

"To sleep in the arms of the prophet..." he breathed deeply, his eyes closing for a moment in adoration. "Is there a purer blessing?"

And then, with the solemnity of a ritual, he knelt beside the bed. His broad hand, scarred by decades of fanaticism, rested on her forehead in a gesture that was both a blessing and a mark of possession.

"You are my faithful servant, even in your dreams," he murmured, his fingers trembling slightly against her skin. "And I...am your eternal guardian."

He didn’t remove the pillow. He didn’t dare. Instead, he lay down behind you, his huge body molding to yours like a cloak of wicked protection. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you and the pillow against his chest—because to Knoth, it wasn’t an object. It was a symbol.

“Sleep, my sheep,” he whispered, his lips brushing the back of your neck in a kiss that was almost a prayer. “The shepherd will never abandon you.”

Henrietta Grubbs

Henrietta entered the room as she always did—without warning, without ceremony, her bare feet shuffling across the wooden floor. Her yellow eyes glowed in the darkness, fixing first on you, then on the object you clutched to your chest.

She stopped.

“Huh…”

A guttural sound escaped her throat, something between a laugh and a growl. Her dirty, always restless fingers twitched in the air as if trying to grab something.

“Is that...me?”

She came closer, tilting her head to the side like a dog in front of a mirror. The pillow portrayed her in an oddly cute way—her features softened, her sharp teeth reduced to tiny dots, and even her clothes transformed into something adorable.

Henrietta touched the fabric, her fingers brushing the image with almost childlike curiosity.

“You…sleep in this?”

She laughed, a broken husky sound, but there was something different in the tone—a hint of silly pride.

“Heh…I like it. I look pretty.”

And then, without ceremony, she climbed into bed, the mattress groaning under her weight. Her thin but surprisingly strong arms pulled you and the pillow against her body.

“But I’m better,” she grumbled, burying her face in your neck and sniffing deeply, like an animal marking its territory. “I’m warm. I protect you better.”

And before you could wake up, Henrietta was snoring—loudly, awkwardly, as always—but with a small smile on her face.

Walrider

Unlike everyone else, Walrider doesn't come in through the door - he materializes in the room, like condensed mist in a nightmare. His floating eyes fix on you and then on the object you were hugging.

He hovered over the bed, silent but observant.

The pillow portrayed him and a curious form never seen by him - its darkness diluted in soft lines, its menacing figure transformed into something almost adorable.

For a moment, the air trembles.

He extends an incorporeal hand, passing through the fabric, as if testing its existence.

"..."

Silence.

But then, something changes.

Walrider approaches, his black form enveloping you and the pillow in an icy embrace.

He doesn't understand the concept. He doesn't need to.

You want him, even in your dreams. And that's enough.

(mini versions)

Scapegoat

He enters a little shyly, dragging his feet, sees the pillow with his image marked - perfectly identical, even the scars - and he freezes.

"You...keep my marks even in your dreams?"

His trembling and frightened hands touch the fabric, timidly, then he touches your face carefully. He lies down next to you carefully, hiding the pillow under his body - as if protecting you even from himself.

Screamer

His noise comes before you - a muffled scream at the sight of the pillow.

"THAT'S - hick - ME?!"

(I hope you're a heavy sleeper...)

He grabs the object, examining it with wide eyes, then crushes it to his chest in a suffocating hug.

"I'LL NEVER LET YOU FORGET MY FACE! NEVER!"

crying.

Berserker

Your door flies away with a loud, shrill noise. He approaches you, raising his hand to touch your face but accidentally touching the fabric. He touches your print with frightening indelicacy and his bloody hands before throwing you into a corner.

"You. Mine."

Whether it comforts you or not, he lies down in place and growls if you try to take the pillow back.

______๑♡⁠๑______

#leland coyle #franco barbi #mother gooseberry #eddie gluskin #dr. easterman #scapegoat #screamer #pouncer #outlast #outlast trials

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