#my-fiction — Public Fediverse posts

Promptober 2025 Day 20: Claw Marks

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

Slip is a Chicago Spirit OC who belongs to diristine and clefrot. David is mine, some kind of god/horror/thing who belongs to Ira’s crew.

CWs for drowning, choking, mind/body/something-control, mindfuck, suicidal ideation, hubris

***

Slip realizes he might be in over his head about the time the claws start sinking through the back of his neck into his hindbrain.

David’s grip is crushing—David? his frantic brain flits to, who names a nightmare god ‘David?’—and Slip feels his whole body losing its ability to coordinate itself under the pressure. His knees buckle, dropping him slowly to the floor.

Oh. He might die here, actually.

“After all, Filip,” David’s voice murmurs, “isn’t that the real reason your lungs fill with water when you work magic?” Slip hears that like it’s coming from his own chest, echoing through his bones. “Wasn’t there a moment when the water poured into you, when you felt it pouring into your men, and you were so very much one with them? Hovering with them in the liminal moment between life and death?”

Slip’s breath hitches in his chest. No.

But. But yes. The memory comes back to him, the swirling blue-white at the surface of the water as he sank into the depths. The vibration of the water as they tried to shout for help, with no air to shout into. The sensation of it sweeping down into his lungs, the sensation of the water not just surrounding him but becoming him. He’d become it, as his consciousness had diffused into that world, and he’d flooded into them, and they’d gone down together—

His magic stirs. He stirs it, or the claws puncturing his mind do, and he can’t tell the difference. The water begins to pour into his lungs, and it tastes like life and death, and when he tries to cough it out, it shoves upward, into his sinuses, and then back down, leaving him choking and gasping for air like he had that night, like they all had even as he’d coveted every space inside them.

“Didn’t it feel so terrifying, so good? You were like a god in that moment. ” Slip’s body reverberates like he’d spoken the words himself around this growing column of water that’s fucking his trachea. He moans and it dribbles from his nose. “The moment you seek again now out of fear and hubris, each time your magic begins to pour through you.”

He claws at his own throat. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to, if it means he has to let the magic go. It’s running wild now, and he can’t tell if he’s calling it or if David is, somehow, but he can feel the tides seething through him, he can feel the Moon, is it even possible to die when he’s not a human body at all, he’s a force, a substance, thrumming invisible in the air and plunging into these lungs—

His lungs convulse, grabbing desperately for any tiny gulps of air he can, and informs him very clearly that yes, he absolutely can.

#bodyHorror #chicagoSpirit #choking #drowning #eldritchHorror #horror #hubris #mindfuck #monsterfuck #myFanfiction #myFiction #nsfw #objectPenetration #suicidalIdeation

Promptober 2025 Days 18-19: Waking Nightmares and Cold Spots

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

I skipped the past couple of days so I’m catching up by merging a couple. We’re with Griffin again–he’s quickly becoming a favorite sexy punching bag for me.

CWs: Rape, explicit sex, clothed sex, ghosts/incorporeality, ice play, monsterfucking

***

Griffin knows he’s in trouble the minute he picks up the old wedding ring. Its curse locks around him like invisible bands. His hands move on their own, as if he weren’t shaking with how hard he’s fighting it, to slip the band around his left ring finger.

He can’t remove it, after. His body is his again, all except for how it won’t obey him when he tries to reach for it to take it off.

He rubs a hand over his face when he tells the concerned homeowners, dry as the desert, “Well, the ghost won’t bother you anymore.”

Hands seem to reach under his shirt to cup his pecs. He shivers at their touch; they’re frigid. When invisible fingers pinch and roll his nipples, he purses his lips and puts his hat on and gets out.

Being out of there doesn’t help. The ghost has him now. It continues groping him as he makes for the subway station. One cold hand flattens against his abs and slides down and he makes a muffled noise as it takes hold of his cock. Fondling it, slipping downwards to curl around his balls.

“Stop it!” he hisses when there’s a break in the crowd around him.

Up ahead there’s an alleyway. He swings in there, out of the public eye, and begins conjuring an abjuration.

And then screams and falls to his knees when it squeezes and yanks on his balls.

Its grip tightens when he doesn’t immediately release the magic. Folded over his knees, elbows on the pavement, he pants through the pain and waits for his vision to clear.

An ice cold knob presses at his asshole.

“Oh no,” he groans to himself. And then, louder and more firmly. “No. Stop.”

It begins to push in.

He keens softly through his nose as he feels his rim stretch around it. It’s so thick. And so cold. He can’t stop his body from clenching on it. He tries to push to his feet but the other hand twists his nipples hard enough to make him gasp and crumple again between the two assaults.

He can’t relax as it forces into him, a fraction of an inch at a time. It hurts, like splitting him open, and the angry stimulation spikes up his vagus nerve and his lower spine to set his body tense and tingling with the assault.

The frozen hardness of it drags over his prostate and his hips pump against his will. “No, please,” he whimpers.

But it’s found him now. It presses there again, a stiff little thrust in and then a drag out, and his hips jerk each time, forcing little moans out of him. Another hand is still on his dick, refusing to grab him fully but drawing loose, lightly cupped strokes and tracing teasing patterns along his length. He’s fully hard and the restriction of his pants is another unsettlingly erotic restraint.

He reaches around behind him with one hand, but there’s nothing there except the fabric of his clothes is pulled tight across his ass from the extra pressure in front. But beneath them when he presses, he can feel his ass opened wide around something. It thrusts a little deeper into him, hard and angry, punishing him for his exploration.

He lets his hand fall.

It keeps going, these little thrusts splitting his tense body around them in increments, spiking something like an electrical jolt through his body with each one. It takes all his control, but finally he manages to control his breath and push himself to his feet.

Each thrust still sends a jolt through him that makes his body twitch and his knees quiver, but he squares his shoulders and puts one foot in front of the other, heading to the city bus. The ghost has made it clear it doesn’t intend to stop. He won’t be able to escape this till he gets somewhere he can do a lot more than just throw magic around.

On the bus he supports himself with his hands on the backs of the seats as each step he takes drives that frigid cock back up into him. He drops into a seat in an empty row toward the back, by the window, and heaves a sigh of relief that becomes a shuddery gasp as for the first time, it draws all the way out of him and then thrusts all the way back in.

He crosses his arms against the seat in front of him and hides his face so he can heave a silent sob. It’s pain and it’s pleasure, a masochisstic cocktail of both that overwhelms his brain’s ability to sort them, like being electrocuted or pressed against a block of ice till his body burns with it. His back arches now, ass pressing back into each thrust as they rock his body forward against the seat back. He braces to keep it from being visible to the other passengers.

What’s he going to say, that he’s being raped by a ghost? And that he can’t stop his body from being into it?

He’s pretty sure he couldn’t make it if he had to walk home.

#clothedSex #explicitSex #ghosts #griffinTheMage #incorporeality #monsterfuck #myFiction #myOriginalFiction #noncon #nsfw #promptober #promptober2025 #publicSex

Promptober 2025 Day 17: Demons

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

Ira Carpenter, having more sexy eldritch horror hijinks. Sexy but not sexual, if you get me.

CWs: eldritch horror, body horror, tentacles, eye trauma, penetration of eyes, ears & nose (not gory), possession

***

Standing at the railing of the elevated balcony, Ira admires the attendees of the winter masquerade swirling below and the really good wine they’re serving while he watches some kind of quiet drama happening near the far doors of the ball room.

It’s not his problem tonight. He’s not here to work. But it has been, plenty of times before, so he recognizes the dignified hustle and the veiled alarm in the hosts and a few staff members—somebody’s trying to quietly manage a crisis without disturbing the party.

For a moment, his curiosity almost sways him to go and ask. He could get away with it; he solved a case for the family last year.

But someone else catches his eye instead. In a swirling crowd of winter masquerade costumes, the woman in the harlequin ball gown stands out because her mask doesn’t match. Her gown makes her look like the queen of hearts; all bold red and black panels and gold tracing. Her mask is one of those Venetian-style full-face ones, with delicate seashell pinks and blues with silver filigree across the pearly white porcelain.

Her face is tipped up, and his notion that she’s watching him is confirmed when she raises a hand to give him the come-hither.

After a moment, he tosses back the rest of his wine and follows. Who is he to turn down serendipity?

She seems beautiful, at least from what he can tell. That’s one of the joys of a masquerade; anybody could be anything, really, if you just let them be. But it’s easy enough with her; she’s graceful and petite, with a nipped waist and an attractive sway to her hips.

She lets him catch up to her in a wood-paneled hall to the side of the library. She’s waiting for him when he comes acround the corner—stops him with a dainty gloved hand against his chest, close enough for her skirts to brush against his lower legs. Is he imagining the coquettish tilt of her head? It’s hard to tell with that mask.

Feeling cheeky, he lowers his head to delicately kiss the porcelain rosebud lips of her mask.

It seems to encourage her, because she steps forward and reaches up to pull his domino mask off. There’s something erotically hungry in the way she lets it drop, and he isn’t about to complain about the small price.

She reaches up to pull her mask off in return. Buzzing pleasantly with anticipation, it takes Ira a second to process the gagging sound he hears as it comes away.

The smooth curve of a cheek, a jaw, the edge of an eyebrow. A swaying stumble of her skirts. Long glistening mucousy strands of…something translucent and jelly-like slithering from her mouth and nose that he doesn’t reel back from fast enough before she’s pressing the mask to his face.

And then she’s falling to her hands and knees to the side of him, retching. And those jelly-like things are swarming into him.

They cram into his mouth and up his nose. Worm into his ear canals. He tries to shout and manages only a muffled grunt around them as he feels them probing at his eyelids.

He can’t pull the mask off his face. When he tries, the things hook into him so he can’t tear it free.

He trips backwards, flailing, clawing at the fucking things, and feels his shoulders bang against the wall. Squirmy wormy sensations force in beneath his eyelids and writhe in his eye sockets, deeper and deeper, till he swears he can feel them fucking twining around his optical nerves—

He thinks he hears a shout down the hall—something about a thief—before his hearing goes tinny and muffled as they worm behind his ear drums.

Into his brain. He gasps and whimpers, and suddenly the horrific parasitic squirming feels…so, so damn good. Full, thrilling, sensual explorations seething through his body to invade and explore him in ways he’s never experienced before.

Muffled behind the mask and with his mouth crammed full of tentacles, he moans.

His body pulls itself up off its knees with a grip on the wall’s paneling. He shudders and moans again with their wriggling thrusts deeper into his brain, and his hands tug his clothing straight, fix his mussed hair and brush himself off.

Shudders that feel like orgasms wrack through him and his legs step forward. He can’t see where he’s going; he can’t hear. But the mask can.

it stoops for a moment, reaching down with his hand to fish around in warm folds of…clothing? Folds that twitch and jerk away. The woman. Her arm knocks against his as she tries to scramble further away. His hand closes around something small and knobby and hard, about the size of his palm.

Trapped in his mind with it, blind and deaf, Ira feels its laughter, amused and delighted at his baffled, pleasured fear. It strokes his mind again to send another wave of inescapable pleasure through him, writhing again in his eyes and his ears and sinuses, as it makes him stride, helpless under its power, out of the party, tucking its loot securely away inside his waistcoat.

#bodyControl #bodyHorror #demons #eldritchHorror #eyeHorror #eyeTrauma #horror #iraCarpenter #mindControl #myFiction #noncon #nsfw #originalFiction #possession #publicSex #puppeteering #tentacle

Promptober 2025 Day 15: A Broken Lock

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

This one is Malevolent fanfic, although only barely. Filthy shameless omegaverse Carcosa AU smut.

CWs: AU, id fic, omegaverse, monsterfucking, godfucking, explicit sex, breeding kink (but not human babies), tentacles, double penetration, clothed sex, chastity belts, OOC, rough draft

***

Arthur has been in heat ever since he was presented to the King in Yellow. It had begun to hit him even as he’d stood in the center of the throne room, with his sire and retainers flanking him.

The King’s presence had been so powerful. Everyone who looks upon the King in Yellow is maddened by desire, they say, and for Arthur it was true. He had felt the unbounded inspiration flowing from that great figure, the drowning possibilities that had swarmed from that godly flesh. Music had seeped through his ears and mouth and nose to colonize his mind, its perfection a choking mass in his throat that he’d swallowed and swallowed, trying to take it into himself. His eyes had played tricks of perspective on him, the distances receding and the King seeming to grow closer and closer in his view until He had felt close enough to reach out and touch, the crushing weight of His regard filling Arthur’s eyes. The god of dreams had burned as close and hot as a jungle, as consuming as an alpha’s grip.

A hot, trembling sweaty flush had erupted through him at the seething passion of it, with the first needy, cramping throbs and beginning of heat-slick between his legs. He’d been insensible of the interview or the words his sire had exchanged with the King. When it was over, it had been all he could do to stand straight and walk steadily out with his head held high.

His sire has kept him in a chastity belt ever since, to protect him from the well-known lusts of the Carcosans.

The belt is torment. It has a ball that fits into his ass, a little swollen nub inside him that teases him constantly with the most barely acceptable hint of a knot. And he can’t touch himself. The memory of the King seethes within him still, leaving him tossing and writhing in his sheets as he dreams. When he wakes, feverish with the god’s hunger, all he can think of is sating it. He teases and pinches his erect pink nipples on his heat-swollen breasts, grinds his hips against a pillow, his clit stimulated against the chastity belt and the small plug rocking and tugging at his ass. But no number of non-penetrative orgasms can sate an omega in heat, and he’s left sweaty and desperate by his own climaxes.

But he doesn’t try to escape. He lets his sire keep him safe within the cloistered courtyards of the omega’s harem, even if he thinks he might go mad before his heat ends. Like this, he can wear only the most gossamer clothing, his skin too sensitive for more. When he rises from his bed to eat or drink or bathe, he pads through the halls all but naked, in nothing but a transparent silken drape clasped around his waist, and wafting a scent that would incite even the most stolid beta to push him to the floor and mount him.

The denizens of Carcosa are infamous for their perversions. What they might do to an omega made yielding with heat makes his stomach twist with lust and terror.

He’s making for the private baths of the inner court, when the Lord of Carcosa Himself sweeps across the hall in front of him.

Arthur stops in his tracks.

Just looking at Him, Arthur feels the fever returning to his skin and his mind. Unspeakably perfect music blooms again inside him, and somehow it feels exactly the same as the welling slick from his tortuously empty womb. A panicked though passes through him that the music fills him there too, surging into that vacancy within him.

Maybe the King won’t notice him, he manages to think with a sane part of his mind. He’s just a small mortal thing to a living deity. He edges toward the wall, to take shelter behind a tall ornamental plant.

But the King does not progress. It’s difficult to tell where He’s looking, His face hidden in the shadows of the mantle that drapes His head and shoulders like a glorious, dripping crown. But instead of progressing in the direction He came, He turns toward Arthur’s direction.

The music peaks, and Arthur twitches with a whimper at the sensation of it spearing his womb and mind together when the King in Yellow stops before him.

He’s regarding Arthur. Arthur can’t see His face, but that attention is physical, traveling over his exposed body. Under its demanding caress—the imperious insistence of a king—he becomes dreadfully aware of his rounded, bare breasts, peaked nipples pressing out against the sheer fabric. His softly rounded belly, trim waist and slim, curved hips, swaying with desire he can’t stop. His naked thighs, wet and gleaming with slick in the terrible starlit radiance that illuminates the King’s presence, and the straps of the chastity belt that lock him away.

One hand, huge and spidery with six fingers and too many knuckles, reaches out to grasp his face. Its grace fascinates him. He can’t think to move until it takes hold of his chin, and then his gasps at the touch of a god shudders in his chest. A clawed thumb strokes over his flushed cheekbone and he can feel the crystalline music and distant starlight that across his skin in its wake.

“Arthur.”

When the King says his name, he can’t stop his head from lolling back or his mouth falling open. His knees would buckle then, if they could, to spill him onto the ground with his ass in the air, presented and ready for the taking.

But the King takes his waist in His other hand, preventing that. Arthur makes a little noise in his throat at the realization those long fingers wrap more than halfway around him. One long finger slips downward and grazes over the curve of his ass. He loses track of the touch, where it leaves his skin to stroke over the chastity belt, but his back arches a little, pushing his rear into the touch. The King’s thumb stretches upward over the under-curve of his breast to his nipple, where He teases it with the bony pad of His thumb and the point of His claw.

Arthur wriggles and moans to the pricking touch. “Please,” he pants, and pushes his chest forward.

Humiliating. Naked before this great beast, reduced to this mewling pathetic thing beneath a god’s touch. He feels so vulnerable, so alluring.

His mouth, though, is controlled by the music filling his head. “Please, let me submit to you.”

From the folds of the King’s robes, slithering golden tendrils emerge.

Arthur flinches away automatically at the sight, jerking in the King’s firm grip, but the King’s voice captures his attention away from them. “I can hear the music taking root inside you,” says that deep, rich voice that sounds like the echos of many voices. “I knew you were meant as a vessel for me, when I first saw you in court. I’ve been waiting for you to come to me, Arthur. But you’ve resisted.”

His entire body yearns forward at that voice. That demand. To come to the King—! The music thrusts again up into his womb, and he jerks, arching, with a grunt.

The King’s thumb-claws pierce his nipples. The pain sings through him. He cries out in response with a beautiful note.

The golden tentacles snake up his legs, beneath the gossamer veil, and silther in beneath the chastity belt. “Yesssss,” he moans, his hips jutting forward as he feels one lick at the shielded sensitized slip of him. Then his eyes fly open. “No—!”

He hears a click and a clattering, and the clasp of the chastity belt around his hips loosens. The King pulls it away, the plug tugging at his ass as it’s pulled out.

“You are ready for me, Arthur,” He says. And Arthur finds himself lifted off his feet, those hands wrapping beneath his thighs so that he’s sitting in their palms, fingers wrapped around his legs to hold them spread wide.

He’s exposed. He can feel the cool air on the wet lips of his cunt. It tingles on them, and they throb, and his slick drips into the King’s palms.

The tendrils that teased at his opening move on. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or upset. Instead they follow his body upward, slipping beneath under sheer drape and coiling around and around his breasts, squeezing. This close, he sees for the first time that their ends have tiny maws. He watches them open, and they’re lined with little pinprick teeth, like leeches.

“Nn-no!” He wriggles in the King’s hands, legs tugging at the King’s secure grip as the tentacles rear back to strike at his nipples. “Hnn-NN!” They bite down and he cries out at the searing pain on the sensitive flesh—another beautiful, musical note, can’t he scream anymore? Has that been taken away from him?

He tugs at them with his hands, making the teeth pull at his nipples, and the pain extends. Against his will, he feels dominated by that pain. his body arches forward eagerly into it, cunt fluttering, knowing itself to be held fast in a mate’s grip, at His mercy to be taken and possessed.

From the King’s robes again emerges a thicker tentacle. This one has something that looks like a thickly-bushed bottle brush at its end, perhaps ten inches long. It sets itself to his vagina and pushes in.

He sings a long, loud note, and then another, a rising phrase of music as the King’s bottle brush cock penetrates him. The hairs drag in and out of his hole, drag along his inner walls as it pushes in and pulls back out, over and over. He feels another press at him from behind, against his asshole, and he has nowhere to go to escape it. Struggling only pushes him harder upon the one taking his cunt as he’s entered from behind. “It’s thick!” he cries. “So thick! Please—!” He stretches and bends at the waist, lower body unable to move, flexing beautifully in the King’s grip.

He can feel the King’s admiration of his lush, fecund beauty as He watches Arthur struggle. Watches the music take root in him and begin to spread through his veins.

They thrust, and thrust, in and out, sending sizzling choruses of pleasure beyond his ability to cope with up through his body, into his womb, up further until he feels them fucking into the base of his brain. His breasts are sore from being squeezed and kneaded, nipples bitten and pinched. Under the stinging, suckling ministrations of the King’s tentacles, he can feel them beginning to fill, stimulated to milk. The first trickles seep out around the mouths on him, down the curve of a breast into the valley of his solar plexus.

The King groans with pleasure. “Yesss, Arthur. You can feel me rooting in you. You know you were made to be mind. Now, be quickened with my seed.”

Arthur squeals a fluting, falling note as the cocks both thrust into him at once, harder and faster, grinding against his prostate from both sides and bumping his greedy cervix. “So deep,” he moans. “Please, it’s too much.”

“You will be filled by my seed. Gravid and heavy with my offspring.”

The King’s tentacle suckle at Arthur’s now-full, aching breasts, drawing the life-giving milk from the roots of them as if he were being made love to deep inside him. He arches, grasping frantically for anything in reach—the King’s robes, His hands, His tentacles—as an orgasm is forced up inside him, one hard rocking thrust after another. The King’s unbearable music clots his throat again so that he chokes on the pleasure as it wracks him.

The King shares with him the little pops of his ovaries, giving up their eggs. He can feel the gentle fellation of his fallopian tubes caressing them, coaxing them to further ripeness and ushering his eggs down toward his womb. Inescapable, now. He shudders, knowing his fate is sealed, to be bred by a god. To bear this magnificant monster’s offspring.

Music in all its rich, layered scents and colors swamps him with ecstasy when the King’s cocks begin to throb inside him. The pumps of that divine ejaculate, inspiration given form, burn inside him, burn up through his cunt, into his cervix and sear the inside of his womb with a glorious, blinding divine agony of fertility that feels like being born.

He gives birth to some of those songs as he’s bred, his voice rising and skirling through the halls like a siren. He feels the ears he finds, feels his voice slipping inside them to itself sear a haunting, inescapable path through their minds.

The King’s seed sniffs out his those eggs, surround and coating them, the tiny things nudging ruthless to penetrate him from every direction—surrounded, hopeless to escape. He writhes and moans at the sensation of being impregnated, even as he feels the King’s seed overcome and take a second egg.

He can hear the songs of each sperm. The creative force of each seed of life fills him to bursting with its music as it drives him to be fertilized with the Peacock King’s inspiration and give birth to it.

The King bundles Arthur up against his chest and carries him toward his chambers. Arthur orgasms again with an operatic note that shakes the crystal panes of the palace windows as he comes again, cocks still fucking into him with every step.

#arthurKingInYellow #breeding #carcosa #doublePenetration #eldritchHorror #explicitSex #kingInYellow #malevolentFanfic #malevolentPodcast #monsterfuck #myFanfictionHorror #myFiction #noncon #nsfw #omegaverse #tentacles

Promptober 2025 Day 14: Grave Dirt

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

Agatha’s second story! I’m honestly really proud of this one. Agatha is my OC for krakaheimr‘s Chicago Spirit setting. But honestly this story has very little to do with that. This is historical fiction about an NB person dealing with their baggage.

CW for passing reference to past underage sex work. Agatha is from the early 1900s and she’s had it rough.

+++

The soil of Flanders Fields seems to seethe beneath Agatha’s feet as she walks through the poppies and graves of Ypres.

She had thought she would never come back here again. Never wanted to. The earth of the continent where she was born is a mass grave, and one of the things buried here is the person she should have been.

But then that’s why she had to come back, isn’t it? She couldn’t run forever; she’s not that kind of coward. No, cowardice has little to do with it. You spend years running from the pain and then one day, you look into the mirror and you understand it’s either time to turn and fight or to allow the past to take control of you.

And that is exactly why she left the first time. She is her own. She has paid far too much to achieve that. She will allow no one else to control her; not even her own memories.

She’s worn a funeral suit to this place, as befits a man visiting his own grave. Her trousered legs brush and hiss through the poppies and with each step those memories well up from the blood-soaked earth that bore witness: of how she slowly shed her humanity like the soldiers here shed their lives. Drip by drip. When she stopped being a girl, and became a woman. A man. A spy. A prostitute. A liar. A killer. A traitor. A disembodied knife in the dark. A monster.

And there, finally, she finds peace. She’s proud of her monstrosity. It feels like the truth. She wouldn’t choose to go back.

The men who ran the German war effort, who used her as a tool in her tender adolescence and turned her into a whore and spy and assassin for the Fatherland…they’ve walked on this soil. These very poppy fields contain, somewhere, the imprints of their squalid feet. Perhaps if she finds them, she can drive some iron nails through them. It’s a long shot, but she pocketed some before she came here, just on the off chance.

She has her knives too, on the chance she should meet any of them in person.

#agatha #chicagoSpirit #genderFluidCharacter #historicalFiction #lgbt #myFanfiction #myFiction #myOriginalFiction #nonbinaryCharacter #promptober #promptober2025 #transCharacter #worldWarI

Promptober 2025 Day 11: Music from Nowhere

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

My OC Ira again, in his home setting in Boston. This one is pure self-indulgent kink. At last. Everything keeps coming out sfw on me this year.

August Castaigne is new. I’ve been meaning to populate Ira’s setting with more friends and foes.

CWs for force-femming, magical body alteration/shapeshifting (force-femming is very literal here), dubcon, a bit of breeding kink.

+++

Ira owes August Castaigne big for pulling his ass out of the fire on his last case and he knows it, so he can’t argue with how Castaigne wants to call in the marker.

Which is why he’s stripped naked on hands and knees on an altar in Castaigne’s garden under the full moon. Castaigne’s cock is buried in his ass, rutting inside him while Castaigne’s chanting rumbles through him from where his chest is pressed against Ira’s back.

Castaigne specializes in summonings. He used to belong to a cult here in Boston, but he’s rethought that lifestyle. These days he’s freelance. Fond of Ira though, for helping him shake loose of the cult. Maybe, Ira considers, more fond of Ira than is good for Ira.

Or maybe he’s just a sadist with a kink for degradation and a terrible sense of humor.

Either way, the full moon is cresting to the horizon, and as Castaigne’s chant picks up, Ira bites his lips together. He can feel Castaigne calling the moon into him. Its light makes a delicate music in his mind where it falls across his body.

The first thing he notices is his awareness of Castaigne’s cock. It makes him feel so full and ripe. He can’t stop noticing its size and hardness in him, how it penetrates and moulds him to fit it. How claimed he feels each time it thrusts into his body.

It’s like being mounted by a stag—which is a loopy thing to think, but he’s feeling pretty loopy all of a sudden. A moon goddess, being bent over and taken by the beast she hunts.

The next thing is how his flesh is turning malleable.

Castaigne’s arms wrap tight around him. His hands are glowing, spilling over with liquid light. One settles to knead at Ira’s chest. Ira’s back bows, arching into it, as his breasts grow, soft and tender, till the weight of them bounces as he’s rocked forward on Castaigne’s cock. The press of fingers into his yielding flesh comes with a frightening, delicious soreness that makes him squirm, press forward into that hand and back onto his cock.

The other slides downward to cup his groin. There was a cock there a few moments ago, but it’s receding, leaving behind a rounded mound and erect clit. The realization spikes terror through Ira—the reality of his body being changed like this, remade for another man’s enjoyment—and he sobs as he rocks against that cupping palm.

He grinds down on the fingers that are splitting him open, over-ripe, where they push into his dripping, hot flesh. It hurts, and it aches. The fear and need of it churn in in his gut and he whimpers like an animal.

Castaigne pulls out of him—Ira opens his mouth to beg, he’s not done, he’s not ready yet—and the thick, hard head of him presses against the hungry lips of Ira’s new cunt. Ira’s head falls back, mouth hanging open, as he’s filled for the first time in this new, needy hole.

Castaigne groans and tips him forward so he can drive downward into him with more force. “That’s right.” His voice is an eager growl in counterpoint to Ira’s yelps and moans, higher and softer than usual. “Be a good girl. Don’t resist while I breed you.”

Ira’s head swims. He needs it. The moon that’s come to rest in him, full and round, opens up like a womb in his center and begs for Castaigne’s cock.

Sequel: Promptober Day 22: A Moonless Night

#augustCastaigne #breedingKink #dubcon #explicitSex #forcedShapeshifting #forcefem #genderfuckery #iraCarpenter #myFiction #myOriginalFiction #nsfw #ritualSex

Promptober 2025 Day 10: Cries on the Wind

Using thepromptfoundry’s Ominous October list.

First story for my mage, Griffin! No CWs for this one; just a lil old urban wizard having an adventure.

***

The hounds of the Wild Hunt are baying through the city streets. The unaware might think they’re the screams of racing motorcycles down the drag that cuts through the city. But Griffin and every other supernatural being in the area looks for shelter.

It’s not the High Hunt, thank every god Griffin can think of—the Rede, the great ritual marking the coming of the hungry dark, the one that blankets the sleeping earth in blood in sacred offering and calls forth the season of the restless dead.

But the sluagh sidhe run rampant at this time of year and they hunt where they like. And anything sane gets out of their way because the winter night belongs to them. Depending on where you are, their herald might be the lengthening hooked shadows of the forest sweeping down on you, the bay of hounds at midnight, the whirring wings of the migrating geese, or the howls of the late-night motorcycle races on the interstate.

Griffin unfortunately isn’t anywhere close to convenient light or a protective threshold. He’s ducking through a parking garage, hoping it’ll be enough, when he feels the plucking at him: the Wild Hunt has caught his scent.

Nothing for it now. He breaks into a run.

The bond of it solidifies as he runs. It hooks into his magic and his self. It’s not magic, it’s deeper than that: the pure, primal connection between hunter and hunted. There’s nothing so terrifying, or so alive, or so intimate.

With every thunk of his feet against the pavement, it pounds up through him, the drums of the dance of survival that’s been danced since long before humans existed. The sacred ancient relationship of predator and prey.

The claws of his hunters catch at his clothes and hair, rake across his skin and his magic. They aren’t in sight yet but the tie to them is inside him. They slow him down, make him stumble, tugging him back toward the savage promise of their arms and their teeth. His breath drags in his throat.

He leaps down the five steps that lead from the street to the promenade of Riverside Park and grabs at the air, pulling out the moisture drifting off the river to whip it into a dense fog. In the sheltering clouds of mist, the light poles stand out. He weaves the pools of hazy light into his cupped hands and blows them out again, sending them rolling off into different directions to try to confuse the path.

Then he bolts again, for the pedestrian bridge. A ways behind, he can hear the wheels of the hounds—shivers at the feel of their skidding tires bouncing down the stairs.

His misdirections work on one; water and the snarl of a revving, sodden motor splash across his mind where it mistook the river bank and went into the water. Its clutching grip releases from him, at least one pursuer accepting its prey has outsmarted it this time.

But there’s still the rest of the pack. The others lick at him, savoring their defeat of his trap and knowing they’re that much closer to taking their prize. He gasps at the phantom burn of hot saliva dripping down the back of his neck.

Focus, Griffin. Focus.

The entry to one of the subway stations is coming up. He pulls out his pen knife and slows a little, long enough to slash a few drips of blood from a finger and flick it down the street, slivering off an echo of himself that goes running for its life on past the entrance.

Then he reaches up to the clouds passing over the moon, the ones that hide its light in the same hollow blue-black as the dark sky, and pulls their veil around him, vanishing into the night to creep down the steps into the station.  There aren’t enough people there at this time of night to ward off the fae, but the mess of trails might be confusing enough to lose them.

There’s no train, and waiting for one would be insane. He slides through the shadows of the station as best he can, trying to keep the lights from burning away his veil of shadows, and ducks down into the tunnels.

Here the rats whisper secrets and directions to each other. Listening to them tells him where to go. A train is coming soon—they can feel the ground beginning to vibrate with its mammoth momentum—but up here there’s a side passage. It’s a service access, when Griffin reaches it: a towering cavern to a rat but small enough that Griffin has to duck a little to keep his hair from snagging on the grilles along the top.

From behind him, there’s a whine that could be an over-revved racing bike in low gear. And then it’s answered by another one up ahead in the tunnel. The Wild Hunt’s grip squeezes crushingly around him at the realization that he’s fucked, and he staggers.

Their laughter chitters and scrapes along the walls, raking him as they close in from either side till they come into view. Blurry, morphing figures, their shapes resolving differently every time he blinks Four-legged, glowing-eyed hounds with slashing, dripping teeth. Crouching, long-limbed beings in the general shape of human, with claws and long flowing black hair. Gleaming, fierce-looking motorcyles with  swept-back handlebars and headlights that glint red.

They’re inching closer, and he can feel them all around him. Inside him. Their claws and hands and hooves and tires and tongues dragging over his skin, his mouth, his mind, their grip sinking into him till he’s gasping for breath.

Griffin pulls all his magic tight, till it fills him to the brim, his body and shape a perfect vessel for it. Then he jams his hands upwards, into the thick power cables protected by the ceiling grilles, and calls the lightning.

The world goes blank in blinding white, agonizing sound. The concussion bounces off the walls and back to him, pummeling him from all sides. The last thing he hears is the hounds beginning to screech as they’re knocked away, the condensed shadow of their bodies evaporating in the totality of the lightning he’s summoned. The last thing he feels besides the purity of being swallowed by electricity is the grip of their claws slipping reluctantly from his mind.

When the world returns to his senses, he drags himself, groaning, back up onto his knees and huddles there. His clothes are shredded, and what’s left of them is smoking. Lichtenberg figures curve their delicate fractal lines over his exposed skin. The Wild Hunt is nowhere to be seen.

He’s gonna have to walk home like this.

#fantasy #griffinTheMage #myFiction #myOriginalFiction #promptober #promptober2025 #urbanFantasy #wildHunt

Promptober 2025: Master Fic Post

I’m trying to do Promptober this year to kickstart myself back into writing. The list I’m planning to tackle is PromptFoundry’s Ominous October set.

1. Something watching (Needleplay with friend’s OCs Roger, Nickel and Angel, sfw kink)
2. A stifled scream (Body horror with friend’s OC Wheels, gen)
3. Shattered glass (Mindbreak with friend’s OC Warren, gen)
4. Potent venom (Sex pollen & humiliation with Ira and a friend’s OC Chappell, kink but no sex)
5. Shades of the past (rough childhoods with my OC Ira & friends’ OCs Aloysha and Rosie, references to past child abuse, gen)
6. Dark premonitions (horror, gen)
7. The full moon (my OC Tempes meets his sexy octosiren boyfriend, sfw romance)
8. Dripping blood (my OC Ira indulges his flogging kink, nsfw)
9. Gleaming teeth (my OC Agatha commits a crime, nsfw offscreen sex)
10. Cries on the wind (my OC Griffin flees from the Wild Hunt, gen)
11. Music from nowhere (magical sex change with my OC Ira, genderfuckery & explicit sex, nsfw)
12. Change of plans, today we’re doing ‘slapping’ (sequel to day 4 with Ira and a friend’s OC Chappell, nsfw kink)
13. Rotting flesh (bumped from Day 12) (Body horror with my OC Zion, gen)
14. Grave dirt (my OC Agatha faces her past, gen)
15. A broken lock (Malevolent fanfic, Arthur/King in Yellow, chastity belts, breeding, omegaverse, nsfw explicit sex)
16. Ritual sacrifice (my OC Griffin runs an errand, spiders, bondage, kink but no sex)
17. Demons (my OC Ira gets possessed by a kinky mask, noncon, nsfw)
18. Waking nightmares
19. Cold spots (18 & 19 combined) (my OC Griffin gets railed by a ghost, noncon, incorporeal, public sex, nsfw explicit sex)
20. Claw marks (my OC David mindfucks a friend’s OC Slip, drowning, nsfw I don’t really know what to call this)
21. Ill omens
22. A moonless night (sequel to 11 with Ira, genderfuckery & explicit sex, nsfw)
23. Inhuman proportions
24. A boarded door (23 & 24 combined) (a friend’s OC Aloysha comes to a woman’s rescue, sfw)
25. Footsteps in the dark (my OC Ira and a friend’s OC Warren have a sweet romantic night, fluff, sfw)
26. An extra shadow (my OC Ira has an argument with the eldritch half of his brain, gen)
27. Shivers up the spine
28. Stairs to nowhere
29. Glowing eyes
30. Something missing
31. Guttering candles (28 & 31 combined) (my OC Ira’s eldritch side gets accosted by a monster, waxplay, noncon, nsfw I’m not really sure what to call this)
32. The veil wearing thin

#fiction #fictionMasterPost #myFiction #promptFest #promptList #promptober #promptober2025 #prompts #writing