Repository of Accursed Texts

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#Accursed Text All Original Works

#Infernal Text Erotica

#Paratext Asks, Lore(?), and other paratextual miscellany

#Preview Preview Snippets / Early Release Announcements

Series Tags:

#Devil Hunter Clara [Ongoing]

#One-Off [Complete]

Current PFP is by 浅葱_ＮＥＯＮ on Picrew

(Full size PFP under cut)

Featured this chapter:

Two new girls!

A protracted flashback

Yearning

Violence

A very good boy

Featured this chapter:

Self(?)-cest

Forced TF

Girl who's dreamscape is so normal

Dommy-mommy demon queen?

So so soooo much dissociation

CHECK THE TAGS, THEY'VE BEEN UPDATED

I prepared two releases today :) How magnanimous am I?

A little bit of a horny palate cleanser (assuming you have sufficiently fucked up tastes)

Featured this chapter:

Non-Con

(Near) Instant Loss

Intox/Aphrodisiac

Blackmail

Bnueygirls :)

Foxgirl Shenanigans 🦊

Featured this chapter:

Sword Lesbians?

More forcefem?

It's secret. Read it and find out : )

: ) Smiles so screepy

More worldbuilding than should probably be put into smut

Even as the big-name announcer's voice was piped in over the arena, you didn't really think anyone was going to die. Not even when you saw someone pick up a weapon, and spray their fellow human's brains into a pink mist with it. Practical effects had fallen out of fashion for a while there, but they hadn't stopped developing. Some pretty wicked looking stuff had been churned out lately. It was all the latest fad.

You knew about keyfabe, of course. Wrestler's ettiquete and the like. But you weren't an actor, not the kind that got paid, anyway. You just tried to keep a level head and push for the big prize. Once you got a weapon in hand, it was almost like a big game of tag. Everyone else was doing such a good job playing up their fear. Young adults and teens, mostly. Kids who still had the sense of whimsy to enjoy this type of slop.

Once you caught up to one, you finally started to question.

You swung the blade down with some force. You didn't want to be seen limp-wristing it in front of the cameras. There were drones from every angle, but it was best to give them all a good shot. You aimed for the back. These jackets everyone was in were a little thick, to hold the blood packs you assumed. You expected the machete to deform in on itself, like a professional grade version of those gag knives.

It didn't.

The gore splattered up your front to the accompanyment of the announcer's souless glee, merilly proclaiming you as killer number thirty two.

Distantly, you recognized the reality before you. You understood, on some level, the depths of depravity of the people you'd agreed to work for, the sheer disregard for human suffering. They showed it off with a proud smile.

Distantly, you understood exactly what it would take to earn your paycheck.

You didn't bother to check the body for a pulse. You already knew the answer, and it would look bad for the camera. So you loped along the underbrush, in search of your next victim.

You found one, and then two, and soon half a dozen had died screaming by your hands. The announcer was singing your praises, and eventually addressed you directly as you climbed the leaderboard. You plastered on a dead eyed smile, and blathered the inane braying for blood that was expected of you. There was nothing they wanted out of you more than a good show.

You felt bad for your victims, but they were all idiots just like you. Should've read the contract. It's not even like you could feel that bad about killing people. It was here, or some other soulless corporation poisoning the planet. So what if you got your hands literally dirty instead of blindly signing off the slow death warrant of extraction and pollution and out-of-the news death squads, like all the other cogs. It didn't matter, not really.

If it wasn't you, then there was always some other cog.

The announcer's voice was an unwelcomed annoyance, and largely a hinderance. It was hard to sneak up on someone when the canned sound of a waterphone's anxious warbling was piped in upon your arrival. You shoved down your annoyance, and played the hand you were dealt. You smiled, and butchered.

You heard, distantly, the hint of boredom in the announcer's voice at the persistance of some kind of 'team'. You wondered if they were friends who joined the deathmatch together, or if they were mere opprotunists. It didn't matter. They'd be forced to turn on eachother sooner or later.

Teamwork was generally quite efficient for one's long-term survival, but it was also very very boring for the camera. At least, that's what the announcer's sighed "and another spike pit kill from the murderbros, real original guys" seemed to imply.

You might not be a good actor, but you were an excellent worker. You stalked your prey, gave chase when they spotted you, but let them 'lose you' once they got tired. Only then did you emerge from a bush right behind.

You learned fast just how long the announcer liked the screams to last. He didn't have to say explicitly, but you could tell.

Eventually it was just down to you and the murderbros.

The announcer distantly asked the group what they would like to defend against "Wicked number thirty two". Predictably, they asked for a gun.

You, with an eye for what the editing room would need, asked for karma; in the form of meat hooks and enough spikes to fill an open grave.

The murderbros didn't survive long enough for you to go through all of your meat hooks. You counted the shots. Apparently the last survivor did not. His gun clicked uselessly in his hand as you approached twirling your gristle-soaked chain.

Once you were finally done, the announcer came down to meet you in person. His teeth were bright enough you suspected it threw off the white balance of the whole shot.

You smiled, and glad handed for the camera; and when he brought you the big novelty check, you found yourself laughing, as you unhooked the chain from your hip, and dragged the souless man down into the hell of his own making.

Enough spikes to fill an open grave was not, apparently, enough to ensure a swift or painless death.

But they were enough that when the camera drones panned back in to one final face-on interview, you found yourself drowning out the screams by signing off the end of the season, and reminding the viewers to tune in next time. The old announcer certainly wasn't going to, and there was always another season.

Featured this chapter (in no particular order):

Clara going full villain monologue

Long awaited Forcefem/Eggbreaking

Mindbreak (more-so the sad kind than the horny kind)

Secret sex with while an uninvolved named character is in the room