Only darkness lies ahead

hi, this is just a blog I made to post the smut I write.

I do not take requests, please don't ask. I don't have a Patreon and I don't make any money off of what I write. I just made this for fun. Please be respectful and I hope you enjoy my writing.

I write about very dark themes incest, Noncon, teratophilia, yanderes, hypnosis, kidnapping, oviposition etc

MAPS, TERFS, Misogynists, RADFEMS, Zoophiles, Minors, Feeders DNI you will be blocked.

Do not solicit me. I'm not interested in role-playing, or having a sexual relationship over the internet. This blog is a creative outlet not someplace to hookup

Masterlist

Monster smut

Spinneret-chapter-1-drider

Spinneret-chapter-2-drider

Ophidian-6 nagas

Incest/hypnosis smut

Daddys-fairy-chapter-1

Daddys-fairy-chapter-2

Daddys-fairy-chapter-3

Yandere/noncon

Scrubbed- Yandere slob x MMA fem reader

nagas "6" x fem reader

You get lost in a blizzard and fall into a naga hibernaculum.

Cw teratophilia, double penetration, anal, venom as an aphrodisiac, gangbang, cunnilingus.

The map had been useless for the last hour.

Your fingers—stiff, clumsy inside your gloves—fumbled the folded paper back into your parka pocket. The compass swung drunkenly. North kept moving. You knew the blizzard was coming. You’d checked the forecast three times before lacing your boots that morning, smug with your layers, your emergency bivvy, your satellite phone with a fresh charge.

Smug didn’t matter anymore.

The snow came sideways now, not falling so much as attacking. Every pine looked identical. Every ridge folded into the next. Your breath crystallized on your balaclava. The cold had stopped feeling cold a while ago. Now it just felt… quiet. Seductive. Like it wanted you to sit down and rest.

That’s the hypothermia talking.

Your boot punched through something.

Not snow. Not earth. The ground gave way with a wet, splintering crack, and you were falling—branches snapping against your pack, your shoulder, your cheek—before you slammed into a floor that wasn’t frozen. It was soft. Spongy. Warm.

Darkness swallowed you. The wind’s howl became muffled, distant. You were underground.

You groaned, rolling onto your side. Your headlamp flickered, then steadied. The beam swept across a chamber—walls of packed earth threaded with roots, a ceiling low enough to touch. And movement.

Slithering.

A sound like heavy rope dragged across dry leaves.

Your beam caught a torso first. Broad. Scaled. The scales caught the light in iridescent greens and golds. Then another torso behind it. And another. Six massive forms uncoiling from what you’d assumed was a pile of decorative boulders.

The hibernaculum.

The Nagas.

They rose. Human from the hips up—faces sharp, cheekbones high, hair in shades you’d never seen on any salon head. Copper. Silver. One had hair the color of a bruise, deep indigo falling past his shoulders. Their eyes weren’t human. Vertical pupils dilated in the sudden light, then narrowed to slits.

Below the waist, serpentine bodies coiled and shifted. Scales whispered against scales. The chamber filled with the musk of them—earth and something sweeter, almost floral.

“What,” said the copper-haired one, his voice a low rumble, “disturbs our rest?”

You scrambled backward. your shoulder blades hit the earthen wall. “I—I’m sorry. I was hiking. The blizzard. I fell through—”

“You fell.” The indigo-haired one tilted his head. His tongue—forked, black—flickered out. Tasting the air. “She’s cold.”

“Obviously she’s cold, Aziel. She’s human and she’s been wandering in a blizzard.” This from a naga with scales the color of aged bronze. He was the largest, his coils spanning the chamber’s far wall in layered loops.

Aziel didn’t stop staring at you. “I’m tasting her fear. It’s… bright.”

They all began to move closer. Not fast. Deliberate. The sound of their approach was a constant soft susurrus.

Your heart hammered against your chest. “I don’t want any trouble. I just need shelter until the storm passes.”

The copper-haired naga reached you first. His hand lifted. You flinched, but his palm settled on your forehead with surprising gentleness. His skin was warm. Warmer than human. It made you realize how cold you actually were.

“Her temperature is dangerously low,” he murmured. “Sorin.”

The bronze-scaled one—Sorin, apparently—nodded slowly. “Then we warm her.”

Your breath caught. “How—how are you going to do that?”

Sorin’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. You’ll enjoy the experience.”

Hands found you. Six pairs. They peeled away your frozen jacket, your soaked base layers, your thermal leggings. Not rough. Patient. Fingers spread across your bare stomach, your thighs, your shoulders. Each touch left a trail of heat that sunk into your muscles.

You made a sound—small, involuntary“There,” someone breathed against your ear. “Her body remembers what warmth feels like.”

The hands kept moving. Palms sliding up your spine. Thumbs pressing into the arches of your feet. Knuckles tracing the curve of your hip. You were naked now, steam rising faintly from your skin as the cold evaporated. Your nipples tightened—from the air, you told yourself, just the air.

Then the coils began to wrap around you.

Smooth scales. Not cold like you expected, but heated, living. They encircled your ankles first, then your calves, spiraling upward with exquisite slowness. The pressure was firm but not crushing. Supporting. Embracing. A coil slipped around your waist, another across your ribs just beneath your breasts.

Your head fell back. A moan escaped you.

“There we go.” The copper-haired naga—his name, you’d learn later, was Caspian—had positioned himself below you. His hands gripped your thighs, parting them gently. “Let me help you warm up properly.”

His tongue was not human.

It was longer. Darker. Forked at the tip, and when it touched you—when the twin points flickered against your clit—your hips bucked so hard you nearly broke free of the coils. They tightened, holding you steady.

“Oh—oh—”

Caspian hummed against you. The vibration traveled straight through you. His tongue wrapped. It curled around your clit like a living thing, squeezing,

rolling. The forked tips stroked either side simultaneously—a sensation you had no framework for, no comparison. Your vision blurred.

Then the tongue slid lower. Dipped inside you. Kept going.

You gasped, fingers scrabbling at the coils around you. “That’s—you’re—”

He was licking at your cervix.

Long, slow laps that made your entire abdomen clench. The tongue coiled and uncoiled inside you, exploring depths no human partner had ever touched. Your thighs shook. The scales against your skin caught every tremor and amplified it back to you.

You came with a sound that wasn’t a scream, wasn’t a sob—something in between. Your body arched. Caspian drank you down, his eyes closed, his expression almost reverent. When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened.

He smiled.

Around you, the other nagas shifted. You heard a sound—wet, sliding—and looked down.

They were unsheathing.

Two. Each of them had two. Rows of paired cocks emerging from slits in their scales, curved slightly, ridged along the undersides. Six nagas. Twelve cocks. All of them erect. All of them aimed at you.

Your mouth went dry. “What—”

“Snakes have two,” Sorin said, as if discussing the weather. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? How am I supposed to not worry about—”

Aziel was suddenly close. His indigo hair brushed your shoulder. His fangs—you hadn’t noticed them before, retractable—gleamed in the lamplight.

“Because,” he murmured, “you’re about to feel very, very good.”

His fangs sank into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

The bite was sharp but brief. A pinch, then a spreading heat entirely different from the coils. It moved through your bloodstream like honey laced with electricity. Your pulse quickened. Your skin grew hypersensitive. Every place the coils touched you became a point of burning pleasure.

“Naga venom,” Aziel whispered against your ear, “has certain… aphrodisiac properties. On particular prey. Humans are one such species.”

Panic flickered through the building heat. “Prey?”

He kissed your temple. His voice turned gentle, almost fond. “Not you, sweetheart. We’re going to prey on you in a very different way.”

The coils shifted. Repositioned you. You found yourself suspended, legs spread, arms held above your head by loops of warm scales. The venom sang in your veins. You were wetter than you’d ever been. Empty. Aching.

Sorin moved forward first.

His dual cocks pressed against your entrance—one aligned with you, the other sliding upward to rest between the cleft of your slick folds. Both ridged. Both pulsing with heat.

“Ready?” he asked.

You weren't  sure if you nodded or if your body just arched toward him. Either way, he answered by pushing inside.

Both at once.

Sorin’s cocks drove deep, the ridged undersides dragging against walls that clamped and fluttered around him. Your cry was swallowed by the earthy air. The coils cradled you, adjusted you just slightly so the angle shifted and each thrust scraped a spot behind your navel that sent bolts of white light through your vision.

Not enough. Never enough.

The venom made it that way. Aziel’s gift curled in your blood like a second heartbeat, amplifying every stroke into a cascade. You couldn’t tell where one

shaft ended and the other began—only that you were being filled in ways your body had no language for.

“Look at you,” Sorin rumbled, his bronze scales catching the lamplight. “Taking both so well.” His hips rolled in a slow, relentless rhythm. The coils squeezed your breasts gently, lifted them, presented them to his gaze. He lowered his mouth to one nipple and sucked—hard—just as his cocks ground against your cervix.

You shattered. The orgasm ripped a sound from your throat, a ragged, broken version of his name. Your inner muscles convulsed around his shafts. Sorin groaned, his composure cracking for the first time. He drove deep once more, held, and hot pulses of seed flooded your channel. Both cocks spilled at once, a spreading warmth that made you gasp.

When he pulled out, semen trailed down your thighs. You were still trembling when Aziel’s voice slithered closer.

“My turn, little human.”

The coils reformed your position without your input. You found yourself on all fours, knees and palms pressed into the plush, root-laced floor. Aziel’s lithe form curved behind you, his indigo hair brushing your bare back. You felt the twin tips of his cocks nudging your entrance—one lower, one higher—the upper one tracing a wet line up between the cheeks of your ass.

A warning. Or a promise.

“Not yet there,” he murmured. “First, I want to hear you.”

Both speared into your cunt. Stretched you wide again. Your elbows buckled, but the coils caught you, kept you presented. Aziel fucked you with savage precision, each snap of his hips angled to make you sob. His forked tongue flickered against your ear, tasting your sweat, your sounds.

“Tell me your name,” he said, the words a hot whisper.

“Y/n,” you choked out, as another orgasm twisted through you. He didn’t stop. Just rode you through it, the ridges catching on hypersensitive flesh until you were nearly screaming.

He pulled out before he came. Left you empty and gasping. “I want you to remember mine. Aziel. Say it.”

“Aziel,” you breathed.

He bit your shoulder again—no venom this time, just a sharp, claiming sting—and then his spend hit your lower back in warm ropes. He smeared it into your skin with his cocks, a final degradation that felt anything but.

Caspian was there before you could slump. His copper hair fell around you like a curtain. “She still needs warming here,” he said, one hand sliding down your spine to cup your ass. His fingers pressed, parting you. “May I?”

The question was for you, you realized. You nodded, words lost.

His tongue returned. That impossibly long, forked muscle that had wracked you apart earlier now lapped at the tight ring of your anus. The twin tips flicked independently, probing, wetting. Then one forked point pushed inside—a slender, squirming intrusion that made your thighs shake.

“Shh,” Caspian soothed, even as his tongue worked deeper. The venom heightened every texture: the slick muscle, the gentle stretch, the way he withdrew and pushed in again until you were open and slick and begging without sound.

“Ophion,” a new voice said. One of the three you hadn’t yet met stepped forward. His scales were obsidian, shot through with silver veins. “I’ll go next.”

The coils lifted you upright, folding your legs, spreading them wide. Ophion’s dual cocks aligned—one with your sopping pussy, one with your prepared, waiting ass. Both pressed at once.

The initial breach stole your breath. Pain, bright and sharp, dissolving into white-hot pleasure as the venom transmuted it. Ophion sank home incrementally, your body giving way around his girth. You’d never felt so full. So utterly invaded.

“Ophion” he grunted, his forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my name. Remember it.”

You came the moment his cocks were fully seated. Came and came, your body a sustained seizure of ecstasy while Ophion began to move—shallow thrusts at first, then longer, plunging, filling you from both directions until you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began.

He spilled inside you, a molten flood that marked you deeper than before.

After him, the remaining two took you in tandem. Riven—with hair like moonlight and scales of pearl—laid you on your side on a bed of coils and entered you from behind, his other cock rubbing against your clit. Thorne, broad and scarred with rust-colored scales, positioned himself in front of your face. His paired shafts twitched near your lips.

“Open,” Thorne rasped.

You did. He fed you one cock while the other rested along your cheek. The taste was salt and musk and something faintly sweet. Riven moved behind you, grinding into your pussy. The rhythm synced—Thorne pushing into your mouth as Riven withdrew, and vice versa—until you were just a vessel, a conduit of pleasure, your mind quiet at last.

You learned their names in the gasps between thrusts. Riven. Thorne. They all told you, whispered them against your skin like offerings.

Hours? Minutes? Time had no meaning anymore. The venom burned through you in waves, cresting and receding. You lost count of your orgasms after the tenth. Maybe more. Your body was a landscape of spent heat and pooling semen. Your womb ached with it. Your ass was slick and loose. And yet, impossibly, you were warm. So warm.

When the last of them finished—Thorne, with a stuttered groan that vibrated through his cocks and into your throat—the coils gentled. They withdrew from your limbs and then reformed, a soft nest of scaled warmth. Hands lifted you, turned you. A warm, damp tongue traced between your legs, cleaning you with a reverence that made your eyes sting.

You blinked sleepily. Sorin’s voice rumbled overhead, softer now. “Rest, little one.”

Caspian curved around your left side. Aziel wound along your back. Ophion and Riven bracketed your legs, and Thorne pillowed your head on his broad chest. Sorin’s massive coils encircled them all, a living wall against the cold.

Yandere kidnapper x FEM darling reader

Cw dark content, kidnapping, noncon, punishment, cockwarming, fluff at the end.

You try to escape your kidnapper only to be caught and given a frozen punishment.

The window latch gave way with a soft click.

Frigid night air kissed your cheeks as you shouldered the sash upward. Your heartbeat hammered so loud you were certain it would wake him. You threw one leg over the sill, then the other, your bare feet finding the shingles of the sloped roof below. The cold bit into your soles. You didn’t care.

Three steps. That’s all you managed.

A hand closed around your ankle and yanked.

Your stomach dropped. Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at the shingles as you slid backward, dragged through the open window and onto the bedroom carpet. You twisted onto your back, gasping, and found him standing over you in the sliver of moonlight.

"Y/N.”

Just your name. Soft. Almost tender. But his grip on your ankle hadn’t loosened.

"Lucien, please—"

"Please what?" His thumb pressed into the tendon above your heel, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold traveled up your calf. "Please let you go? Please pretend you weren't just climbing out the window at two in the morning?"

You couldn't read his face in the dark, but the tension in his shoulders told you everything. The patient, careful anger of a man who had given you everything—everything he thought you needed—and found you ungrateful.

"I just wanted some air."

"Barefoot? In December?" A quiet laugh. No humor in it. "You're a terrible liar, baby."

He pulled you across the carpet by your ankle and you let him, because fighting right now would only make it worse. You knew that. You'd learned that over the past three months in this house—this beautiful, secluded, inescapable house with its reinforced doors and windows that only opened from the outside and the way he looked at me like you were something precious

he'd found and would never, ever surrender.

He lifted me onto the bed. Not thrown, not shoved. Placed. Arranged. Your back against the mattress, your wrists guided above your head and secured to the wrought-iron headboard with a length of silk you recognized from the drawer where he kept things you tried not to think about.

"Lucien."

"Shh."

Your ankles next, spread apart and bound to the footboard posts with the same practiced efficiency. Your cotton sleep shorts and underwear he peeled away without ceremony, leaving you exposed in just your tank top. The position stretched your thighs wide, opened you to the cool bedroom air, and you felt your face flush hot despite everything.

He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. The faucet ran. The freezer door opened and closed.

When he returned, he held something in his palm.

Your breath caught.

It was shaped like a slim cylinder, clear and slick with a sheen of meltwater already beginning to bead on its surface. A column of ice, rounded at the tip, impossibly cold even from where you lay. Steam didn't rise from it so much as the air around it seemed to shrink away.

"Lucien, don't. Please don't."

He knelt between your spread legs, studying the ice with the detached appreciation of a craftsman examining his tool. "You scared me tonight. Waking up and finding you gone?" His jaw tightened. "Three months together and you still try to leave. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I won't—I swear I won't try again."

"You said that last time."

Your fingers curled around the silk restraints. The ice had begun to drip steadily now, droplets falling onto the duvet between your thighs. You watched one land and darken the fabric.

"This is going to be unpleasant," he said, and his voice actually held something like regret. "But you need to learn. Otherwise we'll just keep doing this forever, baby, and I don't want that. I don't think you do either."

The tip of the ice pressed against your entrance and the shock of it ripped a sound from your throat that wasn't a word. Your hips jerked involuntarily but the restraints held you open, held you still, held you exactly where he wanted you.

"Shh, shh. I know." He pushed, slowly, and the ice slid in an inch. Two inches. "I know it's cold. Poor baby."

The scream that escaped you was thin and broken. The cold was so intense it crossed some wire in your brain, blurring the line between pain and something else entirely. Your inner walls clenched desperately around the intrusion, trying to expel it, and the involuntary grip only made you more aware of every frozen inch.

"You're doing so well." He sank it deeper, past the point where you thought you could bear it. Your back arched off the mattress. Meltwater trickled down the cleft of your ass, shockingly warm compared to the column of ice seated inside you. "You need to be punished, Y/N. You know that, right? You understand why I have to do this?"

You couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The ice was a presence, a demand, a cold that radiated outward until you couldn't tell where the cold ended and you began. Your thighs trembled violently, muscles jumping and twitching beyond your control.

His thumb found your clit.

The contact was almost too much. The ice inside you and the warm pad of his finger circling, pressing, working slow spirals over that bundle of nerves—your head thrashed side to side on the pillow.

"Oh god. Oh god oh god—"

"You're going to come for me." Not a question. A command delivered in that gentle, reasonable voice. "You're going to come, and then your punishment is over. Can you do that?"

A small, cylindrical vibrator materialized in his other hand. He pressed it against your clit, nestling it into the exact spot his thumb had been warming, and switched it on.

The buzzing filled the room.

You shattered.

The orgasm slammed through you with the force of a wave breaking, except no—no wave metaphors, that's too easy. This was more like the ice inside you cracked open some secret door and everything behind it flooded out at once. Your vision went white. Your vocal cords produced a sound you'd never made before, something between a sob and a wail, and your bound wrists strained so hard against the silk that the headboard rattled.

He worked you through it, keeping the vibrator steady, murmuring words you couldn't hear over the roar of blood in your ears. When the convulsions finally ebbed, he clicked the toy off and set it aside.

The ice had mostly melted. He withdrew the remaining sliver—what was left of it was barely as thick as his finger now—and tossed it toward the bathroom. You lay limp and gasping, your internal muscles still fluttering around nothing.

The restraints loosened. One ankle, then the other. Your wrists last.

"Cold," you managed to whisper. You were shaking uncontrollably now, your teeth chattering.

"I know, baby. I know you are." He was undressing, shedding his t-shirt and sweatpants with quick, efficient movements. His cock rose from a dark thatch of hair, fully hard, and you understood what was coming before he even positioned himself between your legs again. "Let me warm you up."

He pushed inside in one long, steady thrust and you cried out—not from cold this time, but from the overwhelming contrast of his heat after the ice. He was so warm. Feverishly, impossibly warm, and your chilled flesh seemed to suck him deeper, clinging to the heat source like a body pressed to a fire after too long in the snow.

"Oh," you breathed. "Oh, that's—"

"Yeah." His forehead dropped to yours. "Fuck, you're tight. You're so tight right now."

He didn't thrust. Not yet. He let you adjust, let your body remember what warmth felt like, and when the shivering finally began to subside, he gathered you into his arms.

Then he lifted you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist automatically, your arms looping his neck, and he cradled your weight like it was nothing. Like you were a child woken from a nightmare.

The shift in position drove him deeper—not a thrust, just gravity and the angle of your hips settling onto his lap of muscle and bone. A choked whimper leaked from your throat. Your inner walls, still spasming with aftershocks from the ice, clenched around his shaft in a rolling grip that made his breath catch.

"Easy." His voice rumbled against your ear. "I've got you."

He carried you away from the bed, away from the cooling damp spot on the duvet and the discarded silk restraints still dangling from the headboard. Each step jostled you together, a minute rocking that kept the head of his cock pressing against a spot high inside you that made your toes curl. Your bare feet hung limp, ankles crossed at the small of his back.

The room blurred past. Moonlight fell in silver slabs across the floor. The armchair in the corner—the one you usually curled up in to read, the one he'd dragged from the thrift store because it was ugly and comfortable and you'd said it reminded you of something from before—rose up to meet you.

Liam sat down.

The movement was slow, controlled, but the descent still shifted everything. You gasped as your weight settled fully onto his lap, his cock sinking that last impossible fraction. Your clit pressed against the rough thatch of hair at his base. The pressure was exquisite, a dull throb that made your inner muscles flutter.

"Look at you," he murmured, and one hand came up to cup the back of your head, guiding your face into the crook of his neck. "Shaking like a leaf."

You were. Your whole body hummed with fine tremors, the cold still lodged in your bones despite the furnace of him beneath you. Your teeth chattered once, twice, before you clamped your jaw shut.

His other hand splayed across your lower back, fingers spanning the dip above your tailbone. He didn't move inside you. Just held you there, impaled and trembling, while his thumb traced lazy circles into your skin through the thin tank top.

"Breathe," he said. "Slow. Match mine."

His chest rose against your cheek. Fell. Rose again. You tried to follow, but every inhale came in shallow sips, your diaphragm still hiccuping from the punishment.

 His lips brushed your temple. "I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere. Just breathe."

This time you managed a deeper breath. The air smelled of him—clean sweat, the cedar soap he used, something else underneath that was just Lucien. Your thighs relaxed a fraction where they bracketed his hips.

"There you go."

The cock inside you twitched. Not a thrust, just a pulse of life, and your body answered with a clench that drew a soft groan from his throat. His fingers pressed harder into your spine.

"God, you feel incredible like this." His voice had dropped to something rougher, the careful patience fraying at the edges. "All soft and open and wrapped around me."

You didn't answer. Couldn't. The fullness was becoming something else now—not discomfort, not the shocking intrusion of before, but a steady, grounding weight. An anchor. The cold

receded inch by inch, replaced by a spreading heat that radiated from the place where we joined and seeped into your belly, your thighs, the soles of your feet.

Lucien's hand left your back and found your hair. He worked his fingers through the tangles, gentle, unhurried, the way you'd soothe a spooked horse. You let your head grow heavy against his shoulder.

"You scared the hell out of me tonight." The words were quiet. Not angry now. Tired, maybe. "Waking up and reaching for you and finding cold sheets." His fingers paused in your hair. "Don't do that again. Please."

You're the one who keeps me here.

You didn't say it. The words lodged somewhere behind your breastbone and wouldn't come loose. Instead, you shifted your hips—just a tiny adjustment, a search for a more comfortable angle—and the head of his cock nudged that spot again. A shudder rippled up your spine.

"That's it," he breathed. "Get comfortable."

Your inner muscles fluttered around him, involuntary little grips that had nothing to do with intention and everything to do with the way your body was learning to accommodate him. Learning to want the stretch. The chill had faded to a distant memory. What remained was heat and pressure and the slow, hypnotic beat of his heart against your cheek.

"There we go," he whispered. "There we go, baby."

Time slipped into something viscous and strange. You couldn't tell how long we sat like

minutes, maybe longer. The tremors in your limbs subsided to occasional twitches. Your breathing evened out until it matched his, ribcage to ribcage. The cock inside you softened slightly, then firmed again when you clenched around it in your half-drowse.

He chuckled. The sound vibrated through his chest and into yours.

"Still awake?"

"Mmm." You couldn't muster more than that. Your eyelids had grown heavy as stones.

His hand resumed its slow stroking through your hair. The other came to rest on your thigh, palm warm and broad and possessive. He didn't squeeze. Didn't move you. Just held.

"You're going to stay right here," he said. Not a question. Not a command either—something in between. A statement of fact, as immutable as gravity. "Warm me while you sleep."

The phrase cockwarming drifted through your mind, a clinical term for something that felt anything but clinical. He was still hard inside you, still throbbing with the slow beat of his pulse, and you were softening around him like wax near a flame. The ache had become something you could carry. Something you might even—

No. You weren't going to finish that thought.

His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh, tracing a vein toward your center but stopping just short. Teasing. Reassuring. A reminder that he could take more if he wanted, but right now he was choosing to be gentle.

"Poor baby," he murmured, and the echo of his earlier words made something twist in your chest. "You needed this, didn't you? Needed to be reminded."

You didn't nod. Didn't shake your head. Just let the words wash over you and sink into the spaces between your ribs.

"You try so hard to fight it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, the voice of someone narrating a bedtime story. "But you always come back to me. Even when you run, you're still here." His hand pressed flat against your belly, above where you joined. "Right here."

The intimacy of the gesture made your throat tighten. You could feel him through your skin—not just the press of his palm but the presence of his cock, a column of heat that seemed to reach all the way into your core. Your body had stopped distinguishing between the boundary of him and the boundary of you.

Sleep crept in at the edges, blurring the moonlight into soft halos. Your thoughts grew slow and syrupy. The last of the cold drained away, leaving only the steady, rhythmic fullness and the sound of his breathing and the slow sweep of his thumb along your thigh.

"I won't let you go," he said. Or maybe you dreamt it. "Not ever."

The words followed you down into the dark, a tether you couldn't sever. Your last conscious impression was of his lips pressing against your forehead, his cock still buried deep inside you, and the terrible, tender certainty that he meant every syllable.

"Sleep, Y/N."

Your name, spoken like a promise.

Yandere slob x MMA fem reader

A yandere slob has been stalking you for weeks. On the night he tries to abduct you he finds out too late that you're an MMA fighter.

Cw dark content, femdom, bd/sm, noncon that becomes consensual, abduction, cunnilingus, slight torture.

The stench hit you first.

Not the man himself—you sensed him before you smelled him, a displacement of air in the alley behind The Iron Den, a scuff of boot on wet asphalt—but the smell followed half a heartbeat later. Sour sweat layered over older sweat. Rotting food. Something fungal. The kind of reek that doesn't just coat the inside of your nostrils but seems to cling there, greasy and insistent. He had been following you for weeks. Intent on finally making you his.

You slowed your walk. Didn't tense your shoulders. Didn't alter your breathing.

Three years of Krav Maga before you ever stepped into an octagon. Five years of MMA after that. You learn to read footfalls the way musicians read sheet music. His were heavy, untrained, the gait of someone who'd never thrown a proper punch in his life.

He closed the distance. Twelve feet. Eight. Four.

The crowbar never made contact with your skull. You pivoted off yourleft foot, dropped low, and drove an elbow backward into the soft cave of his solar plexus. Air left him in a wet cough. Before he could fold, you caught his wrist—the one holding the weapon—torqued it until something popped, and swept his legs. The concrete did the rest.

His head cracked against the pavement with a sound like a dropped melon.

You stood over him, breathing evenly, waiting. He didn't move.

"Fucking amateur," You muttered.

---

The basement light buzzed when you flicked it on. Fluorescent. Harsh. It made everything look like a crime scene photo, which you supposed this was, in a technical sense. The man lay

where you'd deposited him two hours ago, wrists bound with zip ties behind his back, ankles the same. A canvas drop cloth beneath him to catch whatever might seep out.

You'd tugged on two pairs of nitrile gloves before you touched him. The heavy-duty kind, chemical resistant. His skin had a patina—that's the only word for it—a yellowish-gray film that transferred itself to everything it contacted. When you'd wrestled him into your truck, a smear of it stayed on the passenger seat.

He stirred.

A low grunt vibrated in his throat. His eyes opened, small and dark, set too close together in a face buried under a beard that hadn't known a comb—or soap—in years. The beard was its own ecosystem. Tangled. Matted with things you didn't want to name.

"Morning, sunshine," you said.

He stared. His mouth worked, but no words came. Just another grunt, thick and phlegmy.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or is that just your default setting?" You crouched a few feet away, forearms resting on your knees. "Let me guess. You saw me leaving the gym. Small woman. Walking alone. Easy target." I tilted my head. "You were going to abduct me, weren't you? Drag me back to whatever hovel you crawled out of and turn me into your personal fuck toy."

He stared.

"That was the plan?"

The silence stretched. He snorted—a quick, contemptuous burst of air through nostrils caked with something crusted.

You stood up. "Well, hate to break it to you, but your little plan failed." You gestured around the basement. "As you may have noticed."

You walked to the utility sink and retrieved what you'd prepared. A half-gallon jug of blue dish soap. A power washer with a fifteen-foot hose. And a scrubbing pad meant for cast iron pans—the kind that could scour carbonized grease off a skillet.

His eyes tracked the items.

"I could've killed you," You said, setting them down. "Right there in the alley. Could've snapped your neck and tossed your worthless carcass into the ravine off Route 19. Nobody would've found you. Nobody would've looked." You unscrewed the dish soap cap. "But I decided to give you a chance. See how you clean up."

You upended the jug over him.

The soap came out thick, viscous, a turquoise cascade that splattered across his chest and shoulders and the tangle of his beard. He sputtered. Jerked against the zip ties. The soap pooled in the hollows of his collarbones and ran in rivulets down his torso.

"Jesus Christ," You said, watching it bead on the surface of his filth, refusing to penetrate. "That's impressive. In a disgusting sort of way."

You knelt behind him and snipped the zip ties binding his wrists.

He didn't move.

"I said," and you nudged the scrubbing pad toward him with the toe of your boot, "start washing.

Every inch. I want to see what's actually under there."

He turned his head. Glared at you with an expression that could've curdled milk.

"You're still breathing," You said. "That's more than you deserve. Start scrubbing or I'll do it for you, and you won't enjoy that."

Reluctance hung in every line of his body. But he picked up the pad.

Years of accumulated grime began to slough off in gray-brown curls. Dead skin. Dandruff in flakes the size of corn kernels. Sebum oxidized to a waxy yellow. He worked the pad across his arms first, then his chest, the soap finally beginning to lather as it reached actual skin. The drain in the center of the concrete floor swallowed the runoff—a slurry of filth that swirled and disappeared.

"Behind the ears," You said. "And under the arms. Don't get lazy on me."

When he'd worked his way down to his groin, you saw him hesitate.

"I won't look," You said, and didn't.

The scrubbing continued. More runoff. More filth draining away.

After ten minutes, you'd seen enough. You cranked the power washer dial to its lowest setting and pulled the trigger. Water blasted out in a wide fan. He flinched when it hit him, but the low pressure was gentle enough to rinse the soap without hurting him. Suds sheeted off his body, leaving behind pink, scrubbed skin.

You adjusted the dial. Turned it higher.

"This is going to sting," You said.

He screamed when the water hit him. A real scream, high and startled, his stoic grunting abandoned. The stream carved through the last of the soap, through whatever microscopic residue remained. You were thorough. When you released the trigger, he was gasping, trembling, whimpering like a kicked dog.

The drain gurgled, swallowing the final evidence.

You tossed him a towel. "Dry off."

He fumbled with it. His coordination, already poor, had been shaken loose by the cold and the pain. But he managed. When he was dry, you made him sit on the drop cloth while you rebound his wrists.

Then you brought out the scissors and clippers.

"Beard first," you said.

Clipping through it was like cutting rope. It resisted. You had to saw in places. But hank by hank, it fell to the concrete, and beneath it, a jawline emerged. Cheekbones. A face that, against all expectations, was not entirely unfortunate.

The pubic hair took less time.

You sat back on your heels and surveyed your work. "Well, would you look at that. There's actually a face under all that shit." You tilted his chin with one gloved finger. "A face I could almost imagine sitting on."

His breath caught.

You smiled. "Don't get excited. You've still got a lot to make up for."

The cattle prod was in a cabinet near the water heater. A precaution you'd bought years ago and never used. You pulled it out, tested the charge, watched the arc jump between the prongs with an audible crackle.

He gasped. Shrank back.

"Oh, don't worry," you said. "It's not nearly as powerful as what you see on TV. More of a sharp reminder than actual incapacitation." You brought it close to his thigh. "Just a little sting."

You pulled the trigger.

He bucked, a strangled yelp tearing from his throat.

"See?" You said. "Not so bad." You set the prod aside and hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your leggings. Peeling them down. Stepping out. Your underwear followed—black cotton, unremarkable, but his eyes fixed on it like it was a revelation.

"Now," you said, moving toward him, feeling the cold concrete under your bare feet, "you're going to put that mouth to good use."

You lowered yourself onto his face.

His tongue was hesitant at first, uncoordinated, and then—something clicked. He found a rhythm. The flat of his tongue pressing up, dragging slow, learning the topography of you. You braced your hands on the concrete wall and let your hips roll.

"Not bad," you breathed. "You're actually pretty good at this."

His tongue circled your clit. Once. Twice. A third time, more confident.

"That's it. Right there. Good boy."

The syllables hung in the air. Good boy. You felt him twitch at that—a full-body response.

The orgasm built low and tight, muscles locking in sequence, your thighs clamping against his ears. When it hit, you ground down hard, a guttural sound escaping you that you didn't bother to restrain. You shuddered through it, clenching, releasing, the pleasure sharp and bright and utterly self-centered.

You stood. Stripped off your shirt and sports bra. Looked down at him.

He was fully erect. The scrubbing had revealed a body that, beneath the neglect, was solid. Lean but not thin. And the erection curving up toward his belly was thick enough to make you pause.

"Oh, so you enjoyed that," you said. "Well, then you're going to like this even more."

The lubricant was in your gym bag—pure coincidence, but a useful one. You slicked it over him with one hand, watching his jaw tighten, watching him fight not to thrust into your grip. Then you positioned yourself above him, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and sank down.

You gasped.

He filled you completely. Every inch. Your inner walls stretched to accommodate him, the sensation so full it bordered on too much.

You started to move. Slow at first, then faster, using him. He moaned beneath you, a broken sound, and his hips began to meet yours.

"Look at you," you said, breathless. "All it took was a little soap and water and you're just a desperate little thing, aren't you?"

He whimpered.

Your hand found the cattle prod. You pressed it to his ribs and pulled the trigger.

He spasmed. And inside you, the convulsion was electric—his cock jerking, his whole body clenching, the shock translated into something that made you gasp.

"Oh," you said, a grin spreading across your face. "So you like that. You little masochist."

The next orgasm coiled tighter, hotter than the first. You rode him harder, chasing it, your breath coming in sharp bursts. When you felt it cresting, you grabbed his chin, tilted his face up.

"Open your mouth."

He obeyed.

You lifted yourself off him just as the first pulse hit, and you squirted—a hot, clear stream that arced and splashed across his tongue, his lips, his chin. He swallowed. Coughed. Swallowed again.

You dropped back down onto him, your orgasm still rippling, and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, stroking where you could no longer take him inside. Three pumps. Four. He cried out, and then he was coming, thick white stripes across his own stomach, across your fingers, his whole body bowing with the force of it.

You sat there, breathing hard, letting the aftershocks fade.

"Good boy," you said. "See? You behave, and you get a treat."

You untied him. Tossed a pillow and a thin blanket from the storage shelf onto the drop cloth.

"Get some rest."

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and rusty from disuse. "I... I don't..."

"Rest," you said.

You climbed the stairs. At the top, you turned back. He was sitting on the floor, the blanket clutched in his fists, looking up at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"If you continue to be a good boy for me," you said, "you may one day even get to sleep upstairs."

Yandere slob x Female MMA reader

A yandere slob has been stalking you for weeks. On the night he tries to abduct you he finds out too late that you're an MMA fighter.

The stench hit you first.

Not the man himself—you sensed him before you smelled him, a displacement of air in the alley behind The Iron Den, a scuff of boot on wet asphalt—but the smell followed half a heartbeat later. Sour sweat layered over older sweat. Rotting food. Something fungal. The kind of reek that doesn't just coat the inside of your nostrils but seems to cling there, greasy and insistent. He had been following you for weeks. Intent on finally making you his.

You slowed your walk. Didn't tense your shoulders. Didn't alter your breathing.

Three years of Krav Maga before you ever stepped into an octagon. Five years of MMA after that. You learn to read footfalls the way musicians read sheet music. His were heavy, untrained, the gait of someone who'd never thrown a proper punch in his life.

He closed the distance. Twelve feet. Eight. Four.

The crowbar never made contact with your skull. You pivoted off yourleft foot, dropped low, and drove an elbow backward into the soft cave of his solar plexus. Air left him in a wet cough. Before he could fold, you caught his wrist—the one holding the weapon—torqued it until something popped, and swept his legs. The concrete did the rest.

His head cracked against the pavement with a sound like a dropped melon.

You stood over him, breathing evenly, waiting. He didn't move.

"Fucking amateur," You muttered.

---

The basement light buzzed when you flicked it on. Fluorescent. Harsh. It made everything look like a crime scene photo, which you supposed this was, in a technical sense. The man lay where you'd deposited him two hours ago, wrists bound with zip ties behind his back, ankles the same. A canvas drop cloth beneath him to catch whatever might seep out.

You'd tugged on two pairs of nitrile gloves before you touched him. The heavy-duty kind, chemical resistant. His skin had a patina—that's the only word for it—a yellowish-gray film that transferred itself to everything it contacted. When you'd wrestled him into your truck, a smear of it stayed on the passenger seat.

He stirred.

A low grunt vibrated in his throat. His eyes opened, small and dark, set too close together in a face buried under a beard that hadn't known a comb—or soap—in years. The beard was its own ecosystem. Tangled. Matted with things you didn't want to name.

"Morning, sunshine," you said.

He stared. His mouth worked, but no words came. Just another grunt, thick and phlegmy.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or is that just your default setting?" You crouched a few feet away, forearms resting on your knees. "Let me guess. You saw me leaving the gym. Small woman. Walking alone. Easy target." I tilted my head. "You were going to abduct me, weren't you? Drag me back to whatever hovel you crawled out of and turn me into your personal fuck toy."

He stared.

"That was the plan?"

The silence stretched. He snorted—a quick, contemptuous burst of air through nostrils caked with something crusted.

You stood up. "Well, hate to break it to you, but your little plan failed." You gestured around the basement. "As you may have noticed."

You walked to the utility sink and retrieved what you'd prepared. A half-gallon jug of blue dish soap. A power washer with a fifteen-foot hose. And a scrubbing pad meant for cast iron pans—the kind that could scour carbonized grease off a skillet.

His eyes tracked the items.

"I could've killed you," You said, setting them down. "Right there in the alley. Could've snapped your neck and tossed your worthless carcass into the ravine off Route 19. Nobody would've found you. Nobody would've looked." You unscrewed the dish soap cap. "But I decided to give you a chance. See how you clean up."

You upended the jug over him.

The soap came out thick, viscous, a turquoise cascade that splattered across his chest and shoulders and the tangle of his beard. He sputtered. Jerked against the zip ties. The soap pooled in the hollows of his collarbones and ran in rivulets down his torso.

"Jesus Christ," You said, watching it bead on the surface of his filth, refusing to penetrate. "That's impressive. In a disgusting sort of way."

You knelt behind him and snipped the zip ties binding his wrists.

He didn't move.

"I said," and you nudged the scrubbing pad toward him with the toe of your boot, "start washing. Every inch. I want to see what's actually under there."

He turned his head. Glared at you with an expression that could've curdled milk.

"You're still breathing," You said. "That's more than you deserve. Start scrubbing or I'll do it for you, and you won't enjoy that."

Reluctance hung in every line of his body. But he picked up the pad.

Years of accumulated grime began to slough off in gray-brown curls. Dead skin. Dandruff in flakes the size of corn kernels. Sebum oxidized to a waxy yellow. He worked the pad across his arms first, then his chest, the soap finally beginning to lather as it reached actual skin. The drain in the center of the concrete floor swallowed the runoff—a slurry of filth that swirled and disappeared.

"Behind the ears," You said. "And under the arms. Don't get lazy on me."

When he'd worked his way down to his groin, you saw him hesitate.

"I won't look," You said, and didn't.

The scrubbing continued. More runoff. More filth draining away.

After ten minutes, you'd seen enough. You cranked the power washer dial to its lowest setting and pulled the trigger. Water blasted out in a wide fan. He flinched when it hit him, but the low pressure was gentle enough to rinse the soap without hurting him. Suds sheeted off his body, leaving behind pink, scrubbed skin.

You adjusted the dial. Turned it higher.

"This is going to sting," You said.

He screamed when the water hit him. A real scream, high and startled, his stoic grunting abandoned. The stream carved through the last of the soap, through whatever microscopic residue remained. You were thorough. When you released the trigger, he was gasping, trembling, whimpering like a kicked dog.

The drain gurgled, swallowing the final evidence.

You tossed him a towel. "Dry off."

He fumbled with it. His coordination, already poor, had been shaken loose by the cold and the pain. But he managed. When he was dry, you made him sit on the drop cloth while you rebound his wrists.

Then you brought out the scissors and clippers.

"Beard first," you said.

Clipping through it was like cutting rope. It resisted. You had to saw in places. But hank by hank, it fell to the concrete, and beneath it, a jawline emerged. Cheekbones. A face that, against all expectations, was not entirely unfortunate.

The pubic hair took less time.

You sat back on your heels and surveyed your work. "Well, would you look at that. There's actually a face under all that shit." You tilted his chin with one gloved finger. "A face I could almost imagine sitting on."

His breath caught.

You smiled. "Don't get excited. You've still got a lot to make up for."

The cattle prod was in a cabinet near the water heater. A precaution you'd bought years ago and never used. You pulled it out, tested the charge, watched the arc jump between the prongs with an audible crackle.

He gasped. Shrank back.

"Oh, don't worry," you said. "It's not nearly as powerful as what you see on TV. More of a sharp reminder than actual incapacitation." You brought it close to his thigh. "Just a little sting."

You pulled the trigger.

He bucked, a strangled yelp tearing from his throat.

"See?" You said. "Not so bad." You set the prod aside and hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your leggings. Peeling them down. Stepping out. Your underwear followed—black cotton, unremarkable, but his eyes fixed on it like it was a revelation.

"Now," you said, moving toward him, feeling the cold concrete under your bare feet, "you're going to put that mouth to good use."

You lowered yourself onto his face.

His tongue was hesitant at first, uncoordinated, and then—something clicked. He found a rhythm. The flat of his tongue pressing up, dragging slow, learning the topography of you. You braced your hands on the concrete wall and let your hips roll.

"Not bad," you breathed. "You're actually pretty good at this."

His tongue circled your clit. Once. Twice. A third time, more confident.

"That's it. Right there. Good boy."

The syllables hung in the air. Good boy. You felt him twitch at that—a full-body response.

The orgasm built low and tight, muscles locking in sequence, your thighs clamping against his ears. When it hit, you ground down hard, a guttural sound escaping you that you didn't bother to restrain. You shuddered through it, clenching, releasing, the pleasure sharp and bright and utterly self-centered.

You stood. Stripped off your shirt and sports bra. Looked down at him.

He was fully erect. The scrubbing had revealed a body that, beneath the neglect, was solid. Lean but not thin. And the erection curving up toward his belly was thick enough to make you pause.

"Oh, so you enjoyed that," you said. "Well, then you're going to like this even more."

The lubricant was in your gym bag—pure coincidence, but a useful one. You slicked it over him with one hand, watching his jaw tighten, watching him fight not to thrust into your grip. Then you positioned yourself above him, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and sank down.

You gasped.

He filled you completely. Every inch. Your inner walls stretched to accommodate him, the sensation so full it bordered on too much.

You started to move. Slow at first, then faster, using him. He moaned beneath you, a broken sound, and his hips began to meet yours.

"Look at you," you said, breathless. "All it took was a little soap and water and you're just a desperate little thing, aren't you?"

He whimpered.

Your hand found the cattle prod. You pressed it to his ribs and pulled the trigger.

He spasmed. And inside you, the convulsion was electric—his cock jerking, his whole body clenching, the shock translated into something that made you gasp.

"Oh," you said, a grin spreading across your face. "So you like that. You little masochist."

The next orgasm coiled tighter, hotter than the first. You rode him harder, chasing it, your breath coming in sharp bursts. When you felt it cresting, you grabbed his chin, tilted his face up.

"Open your mouth."

He obeyed.

You lifted yourself off him just as the first pulse hit, and you squirted—a hot, clear stream that arced and splashed across his tongue, his lips, his chin. He swallowed. Coughed. Swallowed again.

You dropped back down onto him, your orgasm still rippling, and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, stroking where you could no longer take him inside. Three pumps. Four. He cried out, and then he was coming, thick white stripes across his own stomach, across your fingers, his whole body bowing with the force of it.

You sat there, breathing hard, letting the aftershocks fade.

"Good boy," you said. "See? You behave, and you get a treat."

You untied him. Tossed a pillow and a thin blanket from the storage shelf onto the drop cloth.

"Get some rest."

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and rusty from disuse. "I... I don't..."

"Rest," you said.

You climbed the stairs. At the top, you turned back. He was sitting on the floor, the blanket clutched in his fists, looking up at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"If you continue to be a good boy for me," you said, "you may one day even get to sleep upstairs."

The smile that broke across his face was bashful. Almost sweet.

Adoptive drider father x adoptive daughter reader

Cw dark content, incest, oviposition, slight body horror, bondage, aftercare.

Your body knows what to do, baby. I've made certain of it."

"Will it—"

"Hurt?" He lined himself up, the head nudging your entrance. "Pressure. Fullness. But you'll come through every clutch. I promise you that."

Then he pushed inside.

You gasped. He was thick, thicker than his fingers, filling you in one long, unbroken slide until your bodies met flush. Your inner walls stretched to accommodate him, and the ridges you'd glimpsed caught against your most sensitive places, dragging pleasure out of every inch.

"There you go." His voice roughened, that careful gentleness fraying at the edges. "Perfect fit. Eighteen years to grow you into this body, and you take me like you were built for it."

He started to move. Slow at first—deep, grinding thrusts that rolled you against the mattress, that rubbed the ridges across your g-spot in waves. The silk bonds creaked. Your head fell back, mouth open, and the sound escaping you was a moan you didn't recognize as your own.

Perfect. He filled every inch of you, and the heat of him—the heat of his human flesh wrapped in something ancient and arachnid—made you sob. Not from pain. From completion.

"I love you," you gasped as he began to move. "I love you, I love you, I'll take care of them, I'll take care of our babies—"

His mouth found yours. His spider legs wrapped around you both, cocooning you in darkness and silk and the rhythmic, endless pulse of his body driving into yours.

The first clutch came twenty minutes later. You felt it—a sudden pressure, a warmth spreading through your abdomen, and then the sensation of something small and round and alive settling into your womb.

You screamed his name.

He kept thrusting.

The orgasm detonated.

No warning. No build. Just the instant of being filled and then white-hot obliteration. You screamed, raw-throated, and your cunt milked him through it, drawing the rest of the clutch faster. Two. Three. Four eggs. Each one triggered a fresh spasm, a fresh wave crashing over the last before the first had even receded. You counted them in the clench of your own body—five, six, seven—until ten had settled inside you, a gentle weight low in your belly.

Your father shuddered above you. "Good. So good. One down, baby."

He didn't stop. His hips kept rolling, slower now, letting you ride out the aftershocks while the eggs settled. Your mind floated somewhere near the ceiling. You were dimly aware of your stomach, there was a heaviness now, a suggestion of fullness that hadn't been there before.

The second clutch came 30 minutes in.

He'd been fucking you steadily, varying pace and depth, keeping you on an edge so sharp it had become its own kind of torment. His hand pressed flat against your lower belly, feeling for something. "There," he said, and ground deep. "Ready for more?"

This time you felt the eggs move through him—a peristaltic ripple along his shaft—before the first one breached you. The sensation was obscene. Too much. Not enough. Your body opened for it greedily, and the orgasm that followed rolled through you in long, dragging pulses, less violent than the first but deeper, pulling sounds from your chest you didn't have breath to support.

"You're swelling," he murmured, palm still on your belly. "The eggs are getting comfortable. Making room."

You looked down. Your stomach was no longer flat—a soft curve rose above your hips, subtle but unmistakable. When your father pressed gently, you felt the eggs shift inside you.

A moan broke loose. Not pain. Something far more complicated.

"Beautiful," he said. "My beautiful, fertile girl."

By the end of the first hour, thirty eggs rested inside you. Her thighs shone with slick. The silk restraints had softened further, adjusting to every jerk and writhe, but never loosening enough for you to close your legs.

He paused to give you water from the pitcher on the table. Held the cup to your lips while you gulped, throat parched from moaning.

"Halfway," he said, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. "You're doing so well. Can you keep going?"

"Yes." The word came out raw but certain. "Don't stop, Daddy. Don't—please don't stop."

His eyes flared. "Never. I'll never stop."

The second hour brought you to sixty eggs.

Your belly had grown round and taut, the skin stretched glossy across a curve that rose well above your hipbones. When his hand cupped the swell, you could feel every egg inside you—a constellation of firm little spheres nestled together, shifting when he pressed. Each clutch now triggered an orgasm that seemed to originate inside the mass, radiating outward until you sobbed with the intensity of it.

"Look at you," he said, rearing back. His pace had grown rougher, more desperate, the veneer of control cracking. "Look at what your body can do. What I made you for. My daughter. My mate. My—"

He broke off, thrusting deep, and the next clutch came faster, eggs pushing into already-crowded space. Your vision whited out. You came so hard your ears rang.

By the third hour, you had lost count.

The eggs kept coming—clutch after clutch—until your belly was a massive, taut sphere that rose from your frame like pregnancy accelerated into impossibility. Your skin hummed with sensation. Every shift of the eggs sent ripples of pleasure through your exhausted nerves. You were crying, tears streaming into your hair, but you were smiling too, mouth shaping words you couldn't voice.

"Last one," he gasped. His thrusts were erratic now, his own release building. "Last clutch, baby girl. You're so full. You took them all."

His hand spanned your belly—couldn't cover even a fraction of it anymore—and pressed. The eggs rolled. Your climax struck from inside, radiating from the packed mass of eggs outward, turning your body into a single raw nerve. You arched, the silk snapping taut, and he buried himself to the hilt as the final ten eggs joined the rest.

He came with you. His roar vibrated through the chamber, through your bones, through the eggs themselves. Hot pulses of his seed flooded the spaces between each sphere, sealing them, bathing them, and you felt your body accept it all with a final, fluttering clench.

Silence.

Then the silk bonds dissolved. Fell away from your wrists and ankles in soft coils.

You couldn't move. Your belly rose above you like a second body, domed and heavy and so full you could feel the eggs settled in layers. Ninety. Maybe a hundred. You'd lost count somewhere around seventy-five.

Your father gathered you up—carefully, so carefully—and you sagged against his chest, belly pressed against him. A damp cloth trailed over your thighs, your stomach, your cheeks. Cool water. Gentle hands.

"There," he murmured. "All done. You were perfect."

The bed dipped as he lay beside you, still in drider form, legs curling around you both in a protective cage. His lips pressed to your temple. Then your mouth—soft, lingering, achingly tender.

"Sleep now. I'll watch over you."

Your eyes closed. Your hands rested on the impossible curve of your belly, where your children waited.

The light hypnosis your father used on you starts to wear off so daddy ensures that it won't happen ever again.

Cw incest, noncon through hypnosis, age regression if you squint, yandere, submission

Something shifts on the third morning.

Or maybe it's the fourth. The light in the pink room never changes—that soft, sourceless glow that makes time feel like a rumor. But your body knows. Your body keeps count in the ache between your legs, in the tenderness of your nipples, in the hollow of your stomach that fills three times a day with food he brings on a tray decorated with edible flowers.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, wearing a new dress, blush chiffon this time, it whispers when you breathe, and you catch yourself staring in the mirror. Thoughts begin to arise, what are you wearing? Why are you not attending classes at the college you had worked so hard to get into?

  You make your way into the living room, you dads sitting in his favorite chair drinking bourbon out of a crystal tumbler reading the newspaper. He hears the sound of your footsteps “ hello princess”, he says it catches you off guard. You smile timidly. You make your way to the window gazing longingly at the world outside, the world you should still be a part of. How do I get out of here? You whisper to yourself. “What was that baby?” You hear behind you, you turn around to face your father who is now right in front of you. 

His voice is still warm. Still milk and honey. But there's something underneath it now. A wire. A warning.

"Nothing daddy." The lie tastes strange in my mouth. Metallic. "I was just..." “Just what sweetheart.” He begins to gently stroke your face. “Nothing daddy really.” “Oh sweetheart, you shouldn't lie to your daddy.”

"Why would you try to run away?” “Arnt you happy here?” 

 His thumb circles. The pressure is steady, hypnotic. "Your job is to be my fairy. To be soft and beautiful and loved. That's all. That's everything. Isn't it enough?"

"It's enough."

But it comes out wrong. It comes out hollow.

His eyes—grey and mysterious—narrow almost imperceptibly. His hand cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice is sad now. Genuinely sad. Mourning something he's watching you do. "You're fighting it. You don't even know you're fighting it, but you are. That clever little mind of yours, still trying to solve problems that don't exist anymore."

"I'm not—"

"Shhhh."

He presses a finger to your lips. Then he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out something you've never seen before. A pendant on a silver chain. Not expensive-looking—no gems, no filigree—just a disc of polished crystal that catches the chandelier light and scatters it into rainbows across your legs.

"I didn't want to do this." His voice catches. Breaks on the last word. "I wanted you to come to it on your own. To choose me freely. But I can't lose you to your own confusion. I won't."

"Dad, what is that?"

"A tool. "A small one. Just a little help to quiet the noise. You want the noise to stop, don't you?"

The noise.

The sadness. 

He backs you into the corner of the room. “Just look at the pretty pendant princess.” “No daddy, you don't have to do this.” “But I do sweetheart”. “Otherwise you’ll continue to try to leave and I can't have that.” He begins to swing the pendant back and forth, you close your eyes tightly. But he prys the eyelids on your left eye open. Leaving you no choice but to watch the pretty colors move back and forth. You slowly begin to open your right eye. Now both your eyes are wide open. “Good girl.”   

 The crystal catches that sourceless pink light and bends it. Splits it. Throws fractured rainbows across the ceiling, across his face, across the backs of your hands.

"I want you to watch." His voice drops into a register you've never heard before. Lower. Slower. A river stone rolling to rest on a riverbed. "Just watch the light. Don't think about anything. Don't try to understand. Just let your eyes follow."

The pendant swings.

Left. Right. Left again. A metronome of fractured pink.

"Breathe with it. In when it swings left. Out when it swings right."

Left. Inhale. The air tastes like him. Laundry soap and warm skin.

Right. Exhale. Something loosens behind your eyes.

"That's it. You're already so good at this. You were made for this. Made to follow. Made to let go."

The pendant swings. It's hypnotic. No—he's hypnotic. The word blurs. The distinction blurs. Everything blurs except the light fracturing off the crystal, kaleidoscoping across your vision until the pink room is just a suggestion at the edges.

"Every swing takes you deeper. Every breath empties you out. You've been carrying so much, sweetheart. So many thoughts. So many worries. So many little responsibilities that were never meant for someone as precious as you."

Left. Inhale.

"Daddy's got all of that now."

Right. Exhale. My shoulders slump.

"Daddy's got the bills and the schedules and the big scary decisions. Daddy's got the world with all its sharp edges. And what do you have?"

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Words feel very far away.

"Nothing," he answers. "You have nothing to carry. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Mmm." It's not a word. It's a sound from somewhere behind your sternum.

"Say it properly, sweetheart. What do you have to carry?"

"Nothing." The word drifts out of you.

"Good girl. Now drop."

The word hits you like gravity doubling.

You don't fall. He catches you. His hands are under your arms, he picks you up carrying you like a new bride. “My perfect little fairy.” He kisses you on your forehead. You enter your bedroom, all pink and perfect. Your father walks over to the bed parting the pink curtains and lowering you back onto the bed, and the mattress receives you like it's been waiting. Like it was shaped for the curve of your spine. The pillow cradles your head. The pendant keeps swinging above you, a silver chain pendulum with his hand at the other end.

"That's it. Deeper. Softer. You're not a person right now. You're just... floating. Just sensation. Just warmth and weight and the sound of my voice."

His voice is the whole world. The only part of the world that matters. The pink room has dissolved into peripheral suggestions. The fairy figurines could be watching or they could be melting into the walls—you can't tell. You can't find the border between what's you and what's the room and what's him.

"There's a place inside you," he murmurs, "a soft place. A place that remembers. Before school. Before algebra and gossip and boys who didn't call. Before you learned to brace yourself against the world. Do you remember?"

You do. The memory surfaces without your permission. Being small. Being carried. Damp hair after bath time wrapped in a towel that smelled like the dryer. His voice reading Goodnight Moon from somewhere above your head, his chest rumbling with each word

"What do you want, then?"

"Soft." The word comes from that buried place. The bath-time place. The Goodnight Moon place. "Want to be soft."

"That's right." His voice breaks with something like joy. Something like relief. "You just want to be soft and warm and wonderful. My little fairy princess. Fairy princesses don't have responsibilities. Do they?"

You shake your head. The motion feels underwater. Beautifully slow.

"Fairy princesses don't make decisions," he continues. "They don't budget or schedule or calculate. They don't wonder. They just... glow. They just exist in their enchanted rooms and let themselves be adored. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Then return to it. Return to the soft. Sink all the way down. Let the last little bits of the other girl—the worried girl, the doubting girl—just dissolve like sugar in warm water."

Something inside you does dissolve. You feel it go. A tension you'd been holding for ten years maybe longer. A clenching in your jaw, your shoulders, your pelvis. It all releases at once.

The sound that escapes you is not dignified.

It's a giggle. High and loose and spilling. Then another. Then you’re giggling without knowing why, without needing to know, because knowing isn't your job anymore. The sound fills the pink room like bubbles rising through champagne.

"There she is." He's smiling. You can hear the smile shaping his voice even if you can't focus your eyes. "There's my fairy. There's my princess. You're so beautiful when you let go."

Your mouth is open. You realize it distantly, the way you realize you've left a light on in a room you're no longer in. Something warm and wet is trickling from the corner of your lips. Drool. You’re drooling. The knowledge should horrify you. It doesn't. It's just another thing you've let go of. Just another contraction you don't have to make.

"Look at you." His thumb catches the drool, spreads it across your chin with something like reverence. "So far gone. So empty. So perfect. Princess doesn't need to hold onto her dignity. Princess doesn't even need to close her mouth. Is that right, sweetheart?"

"Mmm-hmm." The affirmation hums against his thumb.

"Daddy will take care of everything. Daddy will clean you up. Daddy will feed you and dress you and worship every inch of you. And all you have to do is float here in your soft pink world and let it happen. Let me in. Let me have you. Over and over. Whenever I want. However I want. Do you agree?"

The pendant has stopped swinging. You notice this only because the fractured light has stopped moving. It's just hanging now. Just a crystal disc resting against his palm. The show is over. The lesson is complete.

"Yes, Daddy." The words are syrup. Slow and sweet and gold. "Whatever you want. Whenever you want."

"Good girl." He presses the words into your forehead with his lips. "Such a good, good girl."

The bed shifts as he stands. The loss of his weight, his heat, his nearness—it's physical pain. A cold draft where warmth should be. A whimper escapes before you can catch it, though your not supposed to catch anything anymore.

"Shhhh." He's at the side of the bed now. You track him through slitted eyes. "Daddy's not going far. Daddy just needs to get something."

The drawer of the nightstand opens. The one on his side. I've never looked inside. Looking isn't your job.

He turns back, and in his hand is a bottle. Glass. Dark amber. A dropper top. He unscrews it with a soft click.

"What's..." The question dies on my tongue. Questions aren't my job either.

"This?" He lifts the bottle to the light. The liquid inside is clear. Innocent as water. "This is just a helper. Something to make the soft place even softer. Something to make sure that noisy little mind of yours stays quiet. “It will make this perfect little girl stays, and the troublesome girl that you were will fade away”. You want it to stay quiet, don't you?"”You want this to be permanent?”

"Yes, Daddy."

"Open."

Your mouth is already open. Drool still glistening on your chin. He doesn't wipe it this time. Just positions the dropper above your tongue.

"Sweet dreams, my little fairy."

end of chapter 3

Writers note-

Adoptive drider father x adoptive daughter reader

You find out that your adoptive father is a drider that has been raising you to carry his eggs.

Cw teratophilia, incest, age gap, planned oviposition, being held captive until you give birth, cunnilingus, fingering.

The basement stairs were colder than they should have been.

You pressed your bare foot onto the next wooden step and held your breath, waiting for a creak that never came. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of Don't go down there, sweetheart and It's not safe and that particular softness in her father's voice that made disobedience feel like betrayal.

But you were nineteen now. And secrets had a weight you couldn't carry anymore.

The air thickened as you descended. Damp stone, old earth, something faintly metallic beneath it all.Your fingers trailed along the concrete wall, leaving tracks in condensation. At the bottom, a single bare bulb buzzed overhead, painting everything in sickly yellow.

And there it was.

A hole. Not a crack or a fissure but a hole, perfectly circular, nearly ten feet across, swallowing the center of the concrete floor. The edges looked melted. Silk-thin strands—cobwebs but wrong, too thick, too deliberate—glistened along its rim.

Your stomach dropped.Your mind scrambled for explanations—sinkhole, construction project, anything rational—but your body already knew better. Your knees locked. Your pulse hammered in your throat.

The stairs creaked behind you.

You spun, heart seizing, and scrambled toward a stack of crates in the corner. Your shoulder knocked against rough wood as you wedged yourself behind them, pressing your palm over your own mouth to silence the ragged sound of your breathing.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured. The click of dress shoes on stone, then dirt.

“Sweetheart”

Dad’s voice. Not angry. Not even surprised. There was something almost sad in the way he said it, like he’d been expecting this and dreading it in equal measure.

You didn’t move. Maybe he’d think he imagined it. Maybe he’d turn around and go back upstairs and you could slip out and pretend this never—

“I know you’re behind the crates, sweetheart.”

Your stomach dropped.

He sighed. “Come out. Please.”

The please did it. That soft, familiar word he’d used a thousand times. It was the voice of the man who’d raised you, who’d taught you to ride a bike and braided your hair before school and stayed up late helping you with calculus.

You stepped out from behind the crates.

Your father stood on the bottom step, one hand resting on the railing. His silver hair caught the bulb's light, and his expression wasn't anger. It was something closer to relief.

"I was going to show you next week," he said, voice calm as still water. "I've been preparing. Making sure everything was right."

“Show me what?” Your voice came out thin, shaky. “Dad, what is that hole? What is all this stuff? What have you been hiding down here?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they glistened.

“I love you,” he said. “I need you to know that first. Before anything else. I love you more than anything in this world. You’re my daughter. My heart. That has never been a lie.”

A chill spread through your chest. “Why are you saying it like that? Like you’re saying goodbye?”

“Because after tonight, nothing will be the same.” He undid the top button of his shirt. Then the next. “I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

“Dad—”

“Can you?”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He stepped back, away from you, and the transformation began.

It wasn’t gradual. One moment he was your father—tall, broad-shouldered, human—and the next his body unfolded. His legs split and multiplied, the lower half of him swelling, reforming. Where his hips had been, a massive arachnid thorax emerged, sleek black and red, gleaming like polished obsidian. Eight legs extended from it, jointed and powerful, each tipped with a delicate claw that clicked softly against the dirt floor.

You stumbled backward, your spine hitting the crates. A sound escaped you—not a scream, something smaller, a whimper that you couldn’t swallow down.

His torso remained. His arms, his chest, his face. But his eyes—his kind, gray eyes—had multiplied. Six of them now, changed from the silver shade he’d always had, now black. His silver hair had changed to that of a darkened crimson.

“Please don’t be afraid,” he said, and his voice was still his. Still Dad. “I would never hurt you, darling. Never. You have to believe that.”

Your legs gave out. You sank to the dirt floor, staring up at him, your mind refusing to process what it was seeing. “What—what are you?”

“A drider.” He didn’t move closer. He stayed near the hole, giving you space, his eight legs folding slightly to lower his human torso closer to your eye level.

Your vision tunneled. lungs seized. Not possible. Not real.

"Breathe," he said, and his voice was exactly the same. That was the worst part. Exactly the same gentle tone he'd used to read you bedtime stories, to talk you through nightmares, to promise you were safe. "Breathe, look at me. Just me. Still me."

 He moved closer, and the soft click of his legs made you flinch. But he stopped short, not crowding you. Giving you space. "I know this is frightening. But I need you to listen now. Really listen."

You couldn't look away from his eyes. All six of them.

"I love you," he said. "More than anything in this world or any other. You are not just my daughter. You are the most precious thing I have ever guarded. Do you understand that?"

Tears slid down your cheeks. You didn't remember starting to cry. "Daddy."

"Do you love me?"

The question hung in the damp air. And you —nineteen years old, raised by this man, this creature, this father who had bandaged your scraped knees and taught you to read and never once let harm come near you—felt the answer rise from somewhere deeper than fear.

"Yes," you whispered. "I love you, Daddy."

His eyes softened. All six of them.

He stepped forward and lifted you. The chitin of his lower body was smooth and cool against your legs where they draped over his torso's junction with the spider half. You gripped his shoulders instinctively, and his hand cradled the back of your head the way it always had.

"There aren't many of us left," he murmured against your hair as he descended into the hole, legs finding holds you couldn't see. "My kind dwindled before humans learned to write. And I've been alone for so long, babygirl. So long."

Darkness swallowed you. The descent lasted minutes or hours—you couldn't track time with your face buried against his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him, cedar and coffee and something new, something earthy and ancient.

Then light bloomed.

The chamber was vast, walls woven from silk that shimmered like caught moonlight. A bed dominated the center—real sheets, real pillows, incongruously domestic. Bookshelves lined one curved wall. A small table held a pitcher of water and a plate of fruit. The web itself formed the architecture, but it was a room, designed for living.

Designed for you, you realized.

He set you on the bed, and the mattress dipped with comforting softness. He loomed above you and then sank down, bringing his face level with yours.

"I've been prepping you your whole life," he said. "The vitamins. The special teas. The salves I rubbed into your skin when you were small and told you it was for eczema." His hand cupped your cheek. "Your body is ready now. Ready to carry what I need to give you."

Your breath caught. "Carry?"

"Eggs." The word landed heavy. "Children. Our children. I've spent eighteen years making sure your body won't reject them. Making sure you'll be safe." His thumb traced your lower lip. "You'll stay here until the babies are born. Comfortable. Protected. Loved."

You should have been horrified. You knew that.

But the way he looked at you—the desperation beneath the tenderness, the centuries of loneliness pooling in his ebon gaze—undid something inside you.

"You want this," he said. Not a question but a plea.

You thought of every night he'd tucked you in. Every fever he'd soothed. Every monster he'd chased from your closet, never once letting you suspect the real monster was tucking you in.

But he wasn't a monster. He was yours.

"Yes," you said. "I want this."

He exhaled like a man released from drowning. His forehead pressed to yours. "Thank you.

Thank you, baby girl. I'll make it good for you. I'll make it so good."

Silk strands descended from the canopy above—responsive to some silent command—and wrapped gently around your wrists, drawing your arms above your head. More strands curled around your ankles, spreading your legs wide, holding you open to him. You tested the bonds and found them unbreakable but soft as velvet.

"Beautiful," he breathed, rearing back to look at you. "My beautiful girl. My perfect girl."

He lowered himself between your thighs, and his tongue—longer than it had been before, more agile—dragged up the seam of your cotton shorts. The fabric dampened instantly.

"Daddy—"

"I've wanted this." His voice vibrated against her inner thigh. "Every time you hugged me. Every time you fell asleep on my chest. I've ached." Teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your knee. "Let me take care of you now."

He pulled your shorts down and dove in.

His tongue flattened and rolled, painting broad stripes from your entrance to your clit. Your hips jerked, but the silk held you fast. A broken sound escaped your throat.

"That's it." He murmured the words directly into your cunt, and the vibration made you see stars. "Let me hear you."

Two fingers slipped inside you—thick and clever and curling just so. You were wet already, embarrassingly wet, obscenely wet, and he groaned at the taste of you like you were the first meal he'd had in decades.

"Sweet," he growled. "Sweeter than I imagined."

His tongue circled your clit while his fingers worked deeper, finding a spot that made your vision white out. You pulled against your bonds, not to escape but because your body didn't know what to do with this much sensation. The pressure built sharp and fast, no gradual climb, just a spike of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.

"Come for me," He said. "Give me the first one, baby. There'll be so many more."

Your climax hit like a fist—sudden, brutal, wrenching a scream from Your throat. You gushed against his mouth and he drank you down, fingers still pumping, tongue still flicking until you were writhing with oversensitivity.

"Good," he crooned, crawling up your body. His weight settled over you, chitin and warm skin. "So good. One more, sweetheart. Give me one more on my fingers, and then I'll give you what you were made for."

He slid three fingers into you, stretching you wide, and pressed his thumb to your clit.

"Don't look away from me," he commanded. "I want to see your eyes when you break."

His thumb circled. Pressed. Rolled against the swollen peak of your clit while three fingers curled and stroked that spot inside you that made the world dissolve to static.

You didn't climb so much as plummet.

The second orgasm ripped through you differently—deeper, a full-body clench that arched your spine off the mattress and pulled your wrists taut against silk. A garbled sound tore from your throat, not his name, not any word, just noise wrenched loose from somewhere primal. your cunt spasmed around his fingers, gripping in rhythmic pulses he worked through, coaxing every last ripple from you until you collapsed, chest heaving, thighs trembling against restraints.

"There." He withdrew his hand, glossy with you. "There's my girl."

You could barely see him through the blur. Six black eyes swam above you, unbearably tender.

"Stay with me," he murmured, positioning himself between your spread legs. The broad junction of his human torso and spider half pressed closer, and something emerged from a slit in the chitin—thick, ridged along the underside, tapered at the tip and glistening with his own slick. Not entirely human. But made for this.