#entity! reader

[ananiel]

Imagine being able to see spirits. You are able to see animals and humans walking (or floating) around, hearing how they talk and how they speak, talking about how they wish they could see their family or talking about how they want nothing more but justice

You are able to touch and pet, to speak and to interact with any of them, and when people touch your bare skin, they can see spirits too, which caused You to always wear gloves and long sleaves, as well as a mask

Now, the basic answear for this Power would be to become an oracle or some crazy witch of the Town. But what if You become a Detective. Yep, a young Detective that suddenly rised into the favour of the people for being able to solve cases that are a century old (mainly because the beheaded victim cries in Your bathroom at 3:36 am sharp every night)

So You live like this, in a happy way with your gift

Logical would be to keep your gift hidden too, so that people don't try to kill You for knowing to much

You met him on a random day, thinking nothing of him while a dog spirit was hiding behind your leg. He seemed friendly, and eager to befriend You as well, almost honored to be in your presence

Now spirits upon spirits whisper his name, talk about how deranged and how he was the one who killed them, or played part into their death. Spirits that got very fond of You would tell You to stay away from that man

You clearly followed their advice, and distanced yourself from him. But he isn't dumb, he caught up to it, and now, he tries to figure out what has gotten You to hate him so much

Surely... He has been studing You for ages, talking You day and night to figure out the best personality to just steal You away only for himself. What failed in his plan?

He asked himself, oh well, guess he'd have to take You in a more forcefull attempt

[bunnis-monsters]

Silly the clown has been a bit annoying today.

Since it’s April 1st, the clown has decided pranking you every chance he got was his top priority.

Already, you’ve been jumpscared, tricked, and teased. If he asked you to smell a flower just to get water sprayed in your face one more time, you’d lose it!

Fortunately, you had an idea on how to get him back.

As the day went on, you slowly dropped hints that you were feeling hot and bothered. You left a pair of your used panties in the hamper, knowing your scent would get him in the mood.

By the time he was done playing pranks, Silly was ready to play something else.

“Got all pretty for me, hmm?”

You were waiting in the bedroom, in a set of lacy lingerie. “Mhm. Stop playing around and come here…”

The clown entity stepped forward, and suddenly chains made of light shot out of the ground, wrapping around his body. His eyes widened, and he struggled against his restraints before looking up at you.

“You’ve been teasing and pranking me all day. I hope you’re ready for your punishment, it’s payback time.”

Silly wasn’t just a clown, he was an unwieldy being confined to the amusement park. It took a long time for you to find a way to restrain him, but you did.

Originally, it was going to be only for emergencies, but you couldn’t help yourself.

As he growled and stretched, his form flickering between the clown and his true self, you slowly lowered your body down and settled onto his lap.

He was already hard, his inhuman cock bulging against his pants. You rubbed yourself against him, listening to the strangled moans he let out.

“F-fuck, when I’m out of these chains I swear to god-“

You silenced him with a kiss. “Hush, just enjoy your punishment.”

His eyes stayed on your plump hips as you slipped your panties to the side, letting his tentacle-like cock slither into you.

But you stayed completely still, cooing and teasing him as he begged for you to ride him. “F-fuck, please, just a little… move, damn it!”

He bucked his hips up, and you helped as he started fucking into you. Silly was a lot stronger than you though, easily able to hold your weight against him as he kept you steady with the upwards thrust of his hips.

“That’s my girl, fuck…”

It seemed being restrained was a new, yet pleasant experience for him. Being mostly powerless against you was pretty hot, because you easily lifted yourself up and off of his cock, instead stroking it in your hand.

Silly whimpered, wanting so desperately to be inside of you instead… but this was a punishment, and he was lucky you were letting him get off at all.

Sticky goo spurted out onto your chest and face, and you pouted. “Come on, clean this up…”

His cheeks reddened, but he leaned forward and licked your cheek, then moved to sucking and lapping at your breasts.

You were about to tease him some more, but the sound of something cracking made you pause. The chains were fading and chipping away much faster than they were supposed to!

Before you could even think, you were being pinned to the ground, your cunt stuffed full of his cock and being stretched out more than usual as Silly’s face shifted.

“You thought those chains could hold a creature like me for long? I’ve been alive since the beginning of time, I outdate them.”

Your stomach bulged, his cock swelling up inside of you.

“I think you were right, love. It’s time for a little payback.”

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

[allimili]

Warm !

[looseyjuicy]

“You’re married?!” Is the hot topic of the room as everyone shows varying expressions of despair, panic, incredulousness and encouragement.

thanks, Lyds.

“E’yup!” He elongates the first syllable as he flips open a wallet that seemingly appears out of thin air, unraveling a couple feet worth of pictures. “A real keeper, if I do say so myself.”

They’re all taken at different locations with multiple poses, some risqué enough that prompts Barbara into shielding Lydia’s eyes with a scowl directed at the giddy demon.

outside of a few random ghouls, there’s only two repeating subjects. Beetlejuice, in all his disgusting, decomposed glory.

and You.

an undead man’s dream all wrapped up in various outfits that do well to accentuate your assets. upon further inspection, you don’t seem to be in any distress or making any attempts to flee.

In fact, minus the ones where you’re.. unfocused, you’re grinning from ear to ear with an arm wrapped around your ‘husband’s’ shoulders. among those are a few of you in a wedding dress and him in some ratty tux in what seems to be a Las Vegas style wedding chapel; there’s even an Elvis officiating.

it would seem that, for once, he wasn’t lying. the ghost with the most actually did get married. however, one small detail still has the Maitlands unconvinced.

“But you’re still.. you?” Adam motions to his entire form; still not alive and with even more moss that seemed to have grown on him.

Beetlejuice snickers, as if it were an inside joke only he was in on, “it wasn’t the most ‘holiest’ of unions, if you catch my drift.”

Barbara gives him a grossed-out look, mumbling a ‘really wish we didn’t.’ under her breath.

“Where’s the missus?” Lydia pipes up after prying off the cold hands still covering her face.

“Gettin’ a snack. Said she was feelin’ a bit peckish.”

the teen looks at him questionably, “we probably could’ve given her something here.”

“‘preciate the warm hospitality, kid,” he ruffles her already messy hair, earning him a smack on the hand as she tries to bat him away, “but trust me, you would not want her to eat something here.”

“What does that mean?” Barbara questions him, already sensing a trick about to unfold.

Beetlejuice just grins, answering with a simple, “she has a slight aversion to food.”

all this does is confuse the couple even more. deciding that the demon was an unreliable source, they take a closer look at the pictures to get any sort of hint.

which comes alarmingly fast when they narrow in on one with your widest smile.

a pair of sharp, pearly white fangs somehow glimmers right back at them.

[ozzgin]

An yandere entity that has something to do with the forest x a reader with allergies. Just like imagine the entity comes over to romance reader. And they just sneeze, their eyes watery and nose stuffy just cause the entity is around

I'm thinking of Forest Entity who sprouts and blooms in spring. To your great dismay, you quickly discover that you're allergic to the pollen it releases. To the entity's even greater dismay, it works as a mating mechanism and causes it to be particularly aroused during this period. So you're stuck romancing at a safe distance with a pent-up ancient creature who is obsessed with you.

"You don't have to stand that far", you mention over the radio, looking out your watchtower.

"I'd rather not take any risks. My self-control is rather bankrupt around this time", the creature sighs at the other end of the connection.

[More Monster Doodles]

[monstersflashlight]

Tentacle-monster masterlist

This masterlist includes tentcle-monsters and all monsters with tentacle-like appendages including slimes and forest entities with vines.

Long-ish stories

Lake day (tentacle monster x fem!reader)

The tree-hole debacle (forest entity x fem!reader)

[Patreon Commission] Monster-tale (tentacle monster x fem!OC x fem!reader)

[Patreon Commission] After clossing (tentacle monster x orc x warlock fem!reader)

Tentacled (gn!tentacle-monster x fem!reader)

Requests

Plant toy (forest entity x fem!reader) [part 2 of The tree-hole debacle]

Plant-trapped (plant-monster x witch fem!reader)

Good monster (tentacle monster x fem!reader)

Helping-tentacles (tentacle-monster x transmasc!reader)

Underwater court (kraken x fem!siren)

Short Txt/Imagines

Pleasure slime

I do not consent to have any form of reproduction, replication, or translation of my stories without my explicit consent. This includes reposting my stories on other websites, platforms, etc.

[yeyinde]

PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories. 

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness. 

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black. 

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism. 

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm. 

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories. 

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab. 

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted. 

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?” 

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting. 

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin. 

Taking them in. Their shape. Then: 

“Why Coyote?” 

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.” 

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck. 

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.” 

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it. 

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout. 

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger. 

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe. 

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby. 

“What d’you want?” 

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab. 

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.” 

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp. 

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time. 

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway. 

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command. 

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat. 

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size. 

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth. 

“Ain't real moose.” 

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above. 

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?” 

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?” 

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers. 

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im. 

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes. 

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good. 

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty. 

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest. 

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell. 

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom. 

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat. 

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue. 

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted. 

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later. 

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement. 

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle. 

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse. 

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault. 

The problem is you don't think that's true. 

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he? 

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat. 

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run. 

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night. 

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom. 

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm. 

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island. 

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound. 

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism. 

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore. 

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. ���Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.” 

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you. 

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool. 

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong. 

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out. 

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.” 

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead. 

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach. 

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys. 

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together. 

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known. 

You're not sure what to make of it. 

What to make of any of this. 

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size. 

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown. 

Inside is simple in design, too. 

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest. 

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around. 

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove. 

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.  

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really. 

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military. 

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar. 

“Loft or bedroom?” 

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell. 

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.” 

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take. 

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam. 

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight. 

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty. 

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead. 

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command. 

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm. 

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for. 

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks. 

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted. 

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything. 

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck. 

A life-changing, mind-melting thing. 

You—

A mother. 

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't. 

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head. 

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote. 

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin. 

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window. 

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising. 

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says. 

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes. 

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done. 

And that's where you come in. 

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs. 

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always. 

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later. 

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.” 

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman. 

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through. 

Or watching him. 

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works. 

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats. 

But it's not seamless. 

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur. 

Bearish. 

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry. 

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work. 

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself. 

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent. 

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands. 

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at? 

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door. 

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good. 

Most of the noise is in your head. 

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind. 

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable. 

Inevitable. 

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together. 

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave! 

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better. 

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy. 

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust. 

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing. 

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it. 

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity. 

His charity. 

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues. 

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry. 

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less. 

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke. 

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle. 

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you. 

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins. 

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.” 

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.” 

“I'll pass on the message.” 

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.” 

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.” 

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.” 

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.” 

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.” 

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh. 

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.” 

You tend to hurt people like that. 

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.” 

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta. 

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him. 

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that. 

Something has to break, you think. 

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance. 

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit. 

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life. 

Stalemate, maybe. 

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare. 

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?” 

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby. 

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow. 

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother. 

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better. 

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.” 

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice. 

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist. 

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away. 

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain. 

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.” 

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice. 

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks. 

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws. 

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered. 

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice. 

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

[honehonn3honey]

What happens to this empty place, waiting for my arrival...

Rook in my heart. You can read the monster list here @lustlovehart

[Alt under the cut]

This is the original version but God, I don’t see anything else and I didn’t want others to get hurt watching

Now here I put my thoughts as I drew him:

I think our beautiful creature doesn't really have a human anatomy, his limbs are long and with very little muscle covering. Their bones could click together if it fully manifested. Claws replacing part of the bony fingers and nails. You could feel the long ribs behind that thick sack

He doesn’t need beyond his big and cool gothic sack to cover his abnormal appearance, after all the is no more shadows and fog for everyone’s eyes

The darkness consumes you from the pores, in each puff of lungs, you could become one with him and he would be delighted

I feel that it is detached from all worldly, but I would keep a thing or two of those who most appreciate... like the feathers of Neige or a brooch of Vil

[thecloudsaremyhome]

☆Yandere platonic dbd various x teen reader☆

Concept

Image this you get transported into the entity’s realm through let’s say your going through the loss of your mother the entity takes this opportunity through your grief to allow itself into your world and successfully capture you and take you to the trials.

So great now you’re stuck here with no hope to get back home and a cycle of endless torture and pain perfect for a teen like you haha….by why are you the only child here? The other survivors or that’s what you call them are mostly adults so why the hell are you here…?

Well let’s just say the survivors are confused as you are about your prescene in the realm why would the entity bring a harmless child nonetheless into the trials? It baffles the majority of the survivors some feeling concerned for your well being others being protective and coddling you.

One thing all the survivors agree on is they can’t let anything happen to you EVER.

When you start to trials it’s less than concerning on how the killers act and interact with you it’s confusing to the survivors and the entity they don’t hook or hunt you down for their sadistic pleasure no no quite the opposite really some killers for example the huntress diligently watches you work on one of the generators with two other survivors getting ready to swing her hatchet at the two lowly survivors that dare to be in her child’s presence. No one’s aloud to be near you no one is aloud to protect you but her. And it the same view point for some of the silent killers others have their own respective viewpoints on you and how to protect you but one thing the killers can all agree on is they will always protect you.

Oh and don’t even think I’m trying to leave because sadly for you the entity may have gotten a little attached to you as well! So good luck! And let your journey begin….

Authors note: okay y’all if this gets really popular I will gladly make a series off of it! And don’t worry I’m not abandoning my pity party series I promise it’s my main priority! I just don’t see any series or concepts of anyone writing for Yandere platonic dead by daylight and I want to give the dead by daylight fans something to actually read! So I hope you like this I love dbd I’ve loved it for like 6 months now

[jealousofmydreams]

mean!price who was a mercenary but gained the title of a baron when he aided the king during the war. with the lack of man power, the group of bandits were seen as saviors from the common people. therefore the king had no choice but to reward them, much to his dismay.

but price, who knew the ploys of powerful rich men, wanted more than a title which had no guarantee of safety for him and his men. he wanted a noble wife fron a distinguished lineage who will give him heirs and a name that will remain untouchable.

the king, having no daughters, procured the daughter of a marquis. much to the chagrin of the marquis who had to send his one and only daughter, renowned as the flower of spring, to a mercenary.

however, upon the wedding night, the veiled bride turned out to be the marquis hidden illegitimate child who bore no reassemble or sophistication of a noble woman.

instead, a scrawny woman who couldn't even hold her head up high was his bride. nothing like the infamous woman he was promised.

furious, price could not even retaliate as he was given the daughter of a marquis as promised, even if it was an illegitimate child.

price returned to the battlefield instead of residing with his new bride. leaving her to fend for herself in a castle where she held no true name. the servants and the maids paid her no mind.

she was a baroness in name only and remained a ghost within the foreign walls of her new home.

the years passed by until her husband finally returned, only in a coffin. a battle taking his life after playing with death for so many years.

however, on the day of his burial the once dead man came back to life, with only her name on his lips.

the hateful man who detested her so intensely clung to her as if she was his lifeline.

as she took care of him, a man who lost his memories but only she remained, she slowly realized the man who came back to her wasn't her husband, but a being that did not belong in this realm.

even so, she could not bear to let him go. the lonely girl craved the warmth that only he gave to her.

however, it wasn't long before the unknown entity and the soul of the dead man clashed and both vied for her affection.

(price making a deal with an unknown entity as he was on the verge of death, he wanted fame of his name. he gave his body so he could return and gain what was rightfully his, glory.

however, caged in his own body, his soul forced down to the deepest and darkness part of his being, price gained affection as he watched the play of romance between the entity wearing his face and the wife he neglected.

for once price desired something beyond greatness, but what was once rightfully his, was given away by his own hands, to the beast who refused to give it back)

[suiana]

(yandere! french fry chef entity x gn! reader)

"it's too salty!"

"it's too bland!"

"these are so soggy!"

you were always complaining about fries. no matter how good or bad they were, you always had something to say about them.

especially to his fries. that weird french fry chef at this new restaurant near you.

it's not that his fries were bad. it's that they were too good. and you were suspicious of it. i mean what could he have possibly put in them to make them so delicious?

"you! where's your fry chef?!"

"dearest customer please-"

"i need to talk to you fry chef now!"

the cashier sighs, disappointed that you weren't looking for her. however, she goes and calls for the chef, desperate to meet your demands.

you wait impatiently, tapping your foot against the floor as the cashier slowly returns with a tall figure dressed in white. your grimace returns as you point an accusing finger at the french fry chef.

"you! what did you put in your fries!"

the chef looks down at you, neck tilting in a weird angle before he answers in an oddly deep voice.

"cum."

[ananiel]

Okay, I know and I'm very sorry that I am bothering you again. I just thought about something crazy.... What if Sherlock and William baby traped Obanai!Reader? And she can't bring herself to kill the babies because it's not babies's fault? It's twins by the way. Girl and Boy.

And if you are writing NSFW can you do it too?

And I am very sorry again for bothering you with my requests😭

I just like how you write about it and how you are imagining it. I have plenty scenarios but I don't know how to write them🥲

Yes, i am not the best at writing nsfw but i can certainly try, and do not worry, You are of no bother at all, i like taking requests, and that is a very good idea!

Yandere sherlock holmes x reader x yandere William james moriarty

Tw : mentions of killing intent, non con, yandere themes, baby trapping, drugging, dark content, read at your own risk!

Nsfw!

--------------------------------------------------

IT had been days since they saw your scars... Days since they started making side comments, side comments that became more and more disturbing for You

"do You think that the child Will have your beautifull eyes?"

Or

"... Ha, you'd look so good round, full with children, my darling"

You weren't dumb either. You knew what they were hinting at, all the soft touches, sugestive looks and most importantly, on the rarely ocasions that they let You go outside... The way they would stare at pregnant or mother's with their children, especially if the Young ones were still babies. Every time, You would see at least one of them stare long, with a small smile as his hand went to your stomach, holding it tight (and You in place)

Of course, You expected what came next, a talk with them, over tea, which, as a fool, You took, in which they wanted to prepare You, and say that You are at a Point in your relathionship in which the time for kids is right... They were old enough, and so were You for that.

You protested, screaming at them as You told them that You would never want to raise children, or have sex, with either one... And they took that... Smirking?

When your vision got slightly blury You understood why, of course, they planned this, they knew You, they knew You wouldn't accept it in no way posible. But drugging? This was low even for them, You wanted to say, but do You truly know them both so well to say that? Can You even say that, knowing You were talking about your kiddnappers and possible rapists?

.

.

.

"no... No...." You breath out, trying to pull yourself togheter as You saw them inch closer.

Maybe it was your tired mind, but You could swear that You saw their faces twisted in that awfull smirks of theirs.

Sherlock was the one to grab You to your feet and making You grind against his erected cock while he let out a shaky breath of pleasure.

"now sherlock... Be patient Will You? Your turn Will come"

William says wraping his arms around your waist and holding your ass against his pants.

"it is easy for You, Liam, You will be the first to take her"

You shooks your head, your ears ringing as sherlock comented, and his rough hands adictinvly went and unbottined your shirt, giving them acces to your bare skin.

Seeing that, William's lips made contact with your neck and shoulders, whispering sweet nothings about how You will see that this is the best for You, that You were made to be a mother and that You will thank them for impregnating You when You would see the beautifull baby that will come out of you all.

You fall on the sofa, them soon following and taking their positions, with William behind You and Sherlock in front of You, Sherlock captured your lips in a pasionate kiss, his hands going to your hips as his toungue plays around your mouth, his hands guiding Your hips to meet William's, earning a few moans from the blond as he continued to pree open mouthed Kisses to your neck, making You unconsciouly moan against Sherlock's mouth, which grew his need dor You.

They continued to whisper sweet nothings here and there, but that didn't help, didn't help at all, as tears weild up in your eyes and their hands opened up your pants.

You were too weak to fight, and the combination of sherlock's roughness and the way William softly rubs his hands all over your skin... It was getting good, as much as you hated to admit it, as much as you hated the fact that they did make You wet.

William smiles mischevously as he felt the wetness from your panties, bring to of his fingers to tease your entrace before inserting them slowly, making You yelp weakly against Sherlock's mouth.

William started thrusting his fingers, making small pauses that had You embarassingly trying to meet his thrusts.

"see? Told ya she's gonna come around eventually, now hurry up Liam, am getting impatient... "

William playfully rolls his eyes as sherlock Kisses down your chest, ending up sucking on one of your nipples as his hand massages the other one.

William continues to thrust his fingers up, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, but before You can come, he removes his fingers, making You grown.

You left soft moans spill out of your lips from sherlock's actions as your eyes widen when You heard the William's pants falling down.

"easy now..." he shushes as he gives himself a pump before guiding You on himself, making You take him inch by inch. Not giving You time to get used to him before he bottoms out

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as You felt him slowly snap his hips back in you, earning a very loud moan from you, followed by more small muffle ones.

"hey... I'm getting jealous, pay attention to me too... " sherlock whispers, his hands playing with your clit as William thrusted his hips fast, making You reach your High that was denied earlier

"oh... This is... Better than i could've ever dreamed" he says in between groans and pants, his motions continuing for what felt like hours, as he continued to thrust, not giving You time to come down from your High

You moaned louder.

"we talked that after cumming we Switched William" sherlock bites into your shoulder, as if to show that he is very serious, not that William could seem to care less

"Said about switch ing after coming, she did, i didn't, wait till i finish and have your turn, it's not like she is going anywhere"

William rests his head against your shoulder, shotting his load inside you.

Panting, he gives one more thrust before pulling away.

"finally!" sherlock exclaims as pushes inside you, causing You to yelp, thinking that ha wasn't prepared, and that You would get a small break.

But no, the overstimulation was making You even more lightheaded than You already were because of the druged Tea. And jesus, You didn't know if You liked sherlock's aproach more, or William's. William was more calculated, having a rythm that he trusted in, while at sherlock it felt like every single thrust was difrent from the other, making your stomach twist and turn. You were close again, and if they fucked You thought this orgasm again, You are more than sure that You will pass out

"forgeting about me?" William asks as he presses down on your stomach, making You moan as he could feel sherlock's dick against his finger. You let out a loud moan as You came, William kissing your neck whole smiling as sherlock seemed to lost in his pleasure tto give a reaction other than a moan from the aditional squeze "you'll see my darling, once this children are born, You will thank us"

Sherlock nods, too lost into his pleasure to respond properly as he chases his high, bitting down on the opposite shoulder that is planting the Kisses.

His movements get more sloppy, and after 2 more thrusts, he cums. You fall against his chest, breathing in deeply as tears start pooling from your eyes again, but You don't know what they are. Maybe fear, maybe overstimulation, hatred .

"your turn now, Liam" Your eyes widen at that

"let her rest a minute, she needs it if we want her to not pass out and remember everything"

.

.

.

And remember everything you did, You felt disgusted at yourself, You looked into the mirror at your stomach almost 8 times a day, trying to see a difrence, trying to see if truly You were pregnant with their children.

You dreded the fact that You were late, that You were sleeping more, that You were more picky, and they couldn't seem to get enough of them.

They had, physician after physician come, but after the first one was killed right in front of You after You tried to tell him the truth, that You were forced into this. You weren't trying to take any risks now, You didn't want a poor man's blood on your hands.

Twins.

Twins, oh how happy they were at the sound of twins, how empty You felt, thinking that instead of one reminders of what happend, You had two. Two little beasts to resemble the bigger ones.

At month 5 You were already big enough to cause some disconfort, which they took grade pleasure in, helping and always holding your stomach... You considered more than once to fall down a fight of stairs, to end this pregnancy and posibly yourself, but something stopped You, the vow You made to be better than your parents.

You hated those kids, and it made You hate yourself more, that You couldn't love them, that You will end up maybe worse than your whole clan. What choice did the children have? It's not like they were at fault for who their fathers are...

You saw them put the cribs, You saw them react and tell everyone, and soon, You will see them hold the babies too. You saw the obbsesion, the need in their eyes more than enough to know that, that was the case now too. The children were a way too keep You close to them, but also, to have another piece of you.

They were obssesed with the kids too.

For You, they were the snake demon You had to cut your face for. They were the monster that your parents failed to protect You form, they were the demons You won't leave your children in the hands of those demons.

When they were born, You held them, You held one beautifull boy with blue hair and your striking eyes, and one girl, the spliting image of William, of it weren't for one colored eye that wasn't Red, her heterocromia made her somehow cuter, in the eyes of you, someone that was crytisized for them your whole life.

You were tired after birth, but You held strong, making sure that the two men have as little contact with the babies as posible that is until You heard one private discusion

"oh Liam, You genius, she doesn't even know that the children Will have our possesive traits!"

What? You looked at the baby in your arms, feeling lightheaded

"Who would expect a child being obssesed sherly, and You saw the babies' eyes, how they follow her... Our little copies. She can't escape now, and with the children, it's not like she wants to, the door has been opened and left unguared for a week, she won't ever escape now "

Door opened... You rushed to their cribs, putting each one of them in their respective cribs, looking at them for one last Time...

Not survivours like You... No... They were tiny baby demons... They were holding You out of fear for them in a Cage, only that it was opened, this time, the Cage is opened...

This time You can run...

You don't look back, You don't take anything... Foolled, You were tricked by the offsprings of demons.

And You won't accept it, won't accept being held hostage no more.

You were a better mother than your parents could ever be, and that made You proud, but after your past was hunted by snake people, You won't let another kind of those people control You any longer

(i am thinking to make a continuation of this, like, iguro obanai darling escapes without the children, and while sherliam are busy trying to find her, Louis and entity! Reader, that he didn't love at first, take care of the kids, but seeing her so motherly, he slowly starts to get obsesive, seeing the children as their own and the entity as his partner. What do You guys think?)

[gothgoblinbabe]

When I’m reading smut and the author uses “she/her” in reference to pussy

[allimili]

I know this is probably an awful idea, but what would happen if you showed affection to Mr. Eyes? Since he's so used to being seen as scary, would he be confused? Would he appreciate it? He just looks like he needs a forehead kiss, maybe some head pats.

-🍋

They'll be confused but slowly liking it so now they want more of it.

Now whenever mr eyes sees you, they'll cut off their head for you to headpat them :3

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Mirrors dont lie.

paranormal entity x reader smut monster fucking, non-con, invisible weird hypno shit idk how to explain, mirror Play, controlled masturbation, body control, Supernatural Voyeurism, ghost Lover, dubcon, sorry about my lack of posts ive been lazy

word count- 533 words

You were just brushing your teeth. Nothing strange. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet, late night routine under the buzzing fluorescent light of your too-small bathroom.

Until your reflection blinked — and you didn’t.

You froze. The toothbrush hung halfway to your mouth, but in the mirror? Your hand was already lowered. Your mirror-self looked calm. Collected. And it was watching you.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head. Your real body didn’t move — but in the mirror, your reflection tilted its chin, a smirk playing at the corner of its lips.

Your stomach tightened.

You knew this apartment had... history. Weird noises. Cold spots. That overwhelming pressure you felt every time you showered. But this — this was new.

The figure in the mirror — still you, technically — lifted their hand to their chest. Slid it over the swell of your breast like it was casual, like it had done it a hundred times. And maybe it had.

You took a step back. Your reflection didn’t follow. Instead, it pressed its palm harder against your chest. Your nipple stiffened, and you gasped — because you felt it. The pressure. The stroke of fingers, featherlight but real. Hungry.

“No,” you whispered, voice shaking.

The mirror-you tilted its head. A slow, almost amused shake. Like it was saying yes. And then its hand slid downward.

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. But nothing stopped the sensation from following. It wasn’t your hand. It didn’t feel like your hand. It was cooler. More deliberate. Bolder. Like someone who already knew your body better than you did — and didn’t give a damn about pretending otherwise.

In the mirror, your reflection bit its lip as it touched between your legs. In the real world, you whimpered.

Your knees buckled. Your back hit the sink counter. You gripped it to keep steady, but the ghost — or whatever it was — didn’t stop. It only grew firmer. More possessive.

You're mine, it said, even if there were no words. You've always known.

You couldn’t look away.

The mirror-you was breathing harder now. Mirroring the soft gasps slipping out of your lips. Your hips started moving without permission, grinding into invisible fingers that circled your clit in tight, calculated strokes.

You swallowed hard. “What do you want?” you asked, voice hoarse.

The mirror-you locked eyes with you. Then it leaned in. It pressed its hand flat between your legs, as if to say this. And smiled.

You weren’t sure when the fear stopped. Or when the arousal fully kicked in. But you were panting now. Bucking into a touch you couldn’t see — only feel. Your reflection moaned. So did you.

Your hand shot down to brace yourself against the edge of the sink. You were coming apart. Fast. Shamefully fast. Your ghost lover — your mirror — seemed to like that. It moaned your name. Not out loud. Not with lips. But you heard it. Inside you.

You came with a cry. Head thrown back. Knees trembling. Chest heaving. The mirror fogged up slightly, like someone on the other side was panting with you.

And then it was still.

Your reflection matched your movements again.

You stared at yourself. Disheveled. Sweaty. Shaken.

And then, across the glass, your reflection winked.

[ozzgin]

So I was reading Forest Entity, and was curious, do you like predator/prey dynamics in a horny way where one runs and the other basically chases them? Like the thrill of the chase yknow

- C

I think I've seen the trope mentioned before, though I never personally considered it. I have a big fear of being chased, which is why the horny version never crossed my mind. :')

Would it be something doable with the Forest Entity? Absolutely. You're stuck in the middle of nowhere with an ancient, creaky, old creature. Anything goes, as long as it entertains you.

I just had the funny thought of asking the Forest Entity if it could chase you down. Mind you, it's slow. Its heavy body groans across the shaded ground as it methodically traces your scent. You wonder if this was a good idea, after all. There's no way it'll ever catch up. How was it even planning on preventing your escape?

Then you suddenly feel it. You prepare to take another step, but your foot remains in place. Glancing down, you notice a thick vine slithering its way up your leg.

I thought you were supposed to run?

A deep, disembodied voice rumbles and echoes against the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. The trees hunch towards you, blocking the path and swallowing up the faint light that had been guiding you.

Ah. You seem to have forgotten one small, vital detail. You were running away from the monster, yet you never truly left its space. The entire forest sways in tandem to its orders.

Another mossy tendril tightens itself around your waist.

Perhaps I'll warm you up before my arrival, the harrowing voice announces.

[Forest Entity] | [More Monsters]