#domestiphilia

[hardcoreprocess]

[KO-FI REWARD] BATCH 1 // SLOT 4: An extremely secluded vampire coven has an unexpected visitor. Though unplanned, the Lalondes are nothing if not the most gracious of hosts.

Snow is an age-old motivation for the lost and those prone to trespassing. It sticks to fabrics of all types, heavy and digging needle-sharp cold into bones. Joints, primarily. The weight is unbearable after a mile, worse after five, mountainous when the count is lost. But like a moth, helplessly bewitched by flame…

This is something meant to be seen through, to the end.

A small town once offered shelter. Not far, but further than realized, from this perilous destination. “There are women up that way,” said one adventurous local, who claimed the journey was almost forgettable. Insistent on that detail, in fact.

Yet even now, disparagement slips away. Like water, sand, through trembling frostbitten fingers. A glazing of ease, a balm that soothes away any want for warmth, unless provided by the sprawling mansion ahead.

“Strange women,” the local had said, eyes half-lidded in listless recall, “—Taller than trees, with spidery hands. They are firm, but soft. Eager, son. They are so eager.”

That word will not unstick. Burned, branded onto a lonely mind, unlikely to be forgotten. Company is rare for a traveler, and much-wanted. Yearning is a beast, hungry, clawing, bearing a battered body through a gate barely cracked open. Just wide enough, just inviting enough.

Come in. Out of the cold.

Doors older than familiar foundations creak, opening on the first of desperate presses. An entryway, devoid of light but lingering with heat. Seeking the source is mindless, guiding every step deeper despite unsightly stains or evidence of…

As before, the thoughts are slipping away. Mesmerized, taken, downright spellbound. Snow and ice are stomped from trudging boots with ease, forgotten in clumps that lead from half-wide entrance to flickering hearth. Collapsing there is easier than any other action ‘til this moment. Here, it is time to bask. Aches are tended by flickering kisses of—

Touch?

“What is it,” comes the murmur, “—so small and frail?”

“A man-thing, Mother calls them. Shaped like us, but malleable. See how it shakes?” And shakes does not begin to cover the bone-deep terror that lives within. Chest heaving, beset by palms unburdened by things like mortality or the whimsical passage of seasons. Fear is king, but not in the hosts that gather around, crowd close.

They are jewel-eyed. Brilliant white fangs flicker in bloodless faces, curiosity or something more lurking. Thankfully, one seems keen to make a fine impression. Her tousling of sweat-soaked hair is almost gentle, barring the scrape of nails too long— too sharp —to be natural.

Her hands are… warmer now. “Poor little beast. No wonder it heeds our invitation. You were caught in the rain?” Forgetfulness is not a familiar thing, but it must have been what happened. Outside, there is no snow. On the rug, only puddles. The damp is beginning to lift from feverish flesh, and the girls are crowding ever closer.

No words come. But the hosts, the ladies, see no fault in that.

“You must be tired, little thing. Come. You will see yourself to a warmer place, better than our dirty hearthspace.”

Better? Is that even possible, cradled to her bosom this way, lost in her amethyst eyes?

“My nieces will tend your scrapes.”

When did the injuries appear? Cuts and bruises, from climbing or slipping?

“Rosalind.”

The eldest, besides the gentle one. Stout, round, impishly smirking at the state of undress. Clothes are being tugged free from every direction. Impossibly safe. No concern for one’s own safety, wrapped in forgiving embrace.

“Roxanne.”

Taller. The tallest, maybe. Sharp features but a soft composition, hips nearly as wide as her sisters’ collective. She is tending to the boots, left behind, set on a tray beside the fire to dry. A cotton weave pulls tight over her body when she stoops, bringing to mind… many things. Wanting, desirous things.

“Jasmina.”

Smallest, roundest, youngest. Bouncing with energy, practically alight. Mischief is afoot, because this one pulls. At hair, fingers, toes, and— south of the belt. Gasps are escaping, unable to be stifled. Is it meant to feel this good, laid back in a bed that smells of copper aftertaste and perfume too expensive to conceptualize?

“Stay a while, little beast. We would be honored to have you for supper.”

#batch process #writing process #homesmut #alpha mom x anon #rose x anon #roxy x anon #jasprose x anon #hcp alpha mom lalonde #hcp rose lalonde #hcp roxy lalonde #hcp jasprosesprite^2 #hcp anonymous insert #naphephilia #domestiphilia #submission #blacklist

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: can we get a deaf dave or bro being blindfolded with an emphasis on the deep trust between the two of them?

This kind of thing is typically Dave's idea. A suggestion he makes when they're sat down to dinner, while Bro's hands are otherwise engaged. But somewhere between this morning and this evening, he's been convinced to facilitate... this. Red silk stretches taut between fists, keeping the worst of his confusion at bay. This was Bro's idea. That part is really sinking in, contradicting a natural order of things, an aversion to relinquishing control.

Maybe it's ironic; the biggest fucking bit of the century, localized entirely to his messily-made four-poster, originating from the hottest motherfucker to grace the sexy spectrum. Fuck, he's getting ahead of himself. Dave should be preparing for a masterful dunk, but those abs are— distracting. Everything about this is taking him for a goddamn spin, caught in piercing citrine and the idle curves those heavy hands make above Bro's head.

They've been staring at each other for a fucking minute, assessing, or just internally panicking. How much time has passed escapes the younger Strider, shelved as a tertiary priority in the face of Bro's chest visibly shivering between breaths. Nervousness, maybe, but anticipation is more likely. They both feel it. The blood pounding in Dave's throat makes it hard to swallow.

Communication. Should be checking in here. Fuck, right. Left hand upright, forefinger hooking the air towards his palm, face scrunched to ask: "Are you sure?" He offers out the blindfold, still quizzical, "About this."

Out of his depth, but in a good way. His trust in Bro's ability to whoop ass and take prisoners overrides the weirdness behind being Mister Daddy for once. Side-lines the awkward until all that's left is the boner soaking right the fuck through his briefs. It's embarrassing to be this excited for silent stares, lax posture, lips curved slightly in amusement. Vague, but arousing as hell. The audacity on this dude.

One nod, simple. It's a head jerk, a come-hither too firm to be polite. "C'mon, Dave," he's urging wordlessly, "—wrap me up like a present."

No time to waste, lose, otherwise squander. His dick's an impossible-to-ignore reality, seeping pre onto his bare thighs as he leans forward. Crimson silk smooths over a crooked bridge, high cheekbones, blond-going-silver sideburns. Bro lifts his head, downright gentlemanly of him, to let the blindfold be secured. That acceptance is... doing something.

Moreso than the rest of this anticipation, being given control by— him feels out-of-touch with reality. Good, but strange. Hot, but with an anxious desire to over-perform. A white hot knife twists in Dave's gut, arousal and want and need at the sight of Bro. Restricted. Unable to see the hand wafting in front of his face slowly; he doesn't even twitch. The realization pulses in his cock, somehow going thicker despite not feeding into that unsuspecting mouth yet.

Fuck, he wants plow Bro's face.

Shuddering out the impulses, one palm gently connects with taut skin just below his ribcage. Every fucking muscle in his body goes tense, strong hands balling into tight fists. White-knuckling with the exertion of— not interfering. Letting Dave take the reins and slip his touch down to his aching cock, groaning outright when he squeezes. The younger hunches forward to press wanting kisses against the thudding pulse beating a tattoo in Bro's throat.

Whispering. Yearning. "You're doing all of this for me?"

Yeah, Bro can't hear him. Can't see his mouth to decipher the mumble. But he moans, wet and honest, hips jolting up for more stimulation. That's all the urging Dave needs.

#homesmut #beta bro x dave #hcp beta bro strider #hcp dave strider #hcp disability pride month #domestiphilia #submission #power dynamics #sensory deprivation #cummunication #answer process #typing process #blacklist

[hardcoreprocess]

assurances. — Beta Bro, Beta Mom, Dualscar. — 295 words. 4 images. — A gift for a Polyswap event on AO3. Focuses on submission, mommy/daddy kinks, virginity.

She leans over his shy form, fingers meeting with the slight swell of his chest, rising and falling with nervousness. Dark lips part around the question, and it's an honest one to ask, if he's really never been with anyone before. Not even Mindfang. He's honest, because she asks him to be while leaning closer, and he admits it.

Never once. Not with anyone, never.

Her bra cuts into her full figure, fabric warm to the touch, soft hands spreading over his shoulders as his chin tucks down in nervous awareness. It feels good.

Warm thighs spread over his waist, hips to hips, belly hung over the waistband of her silken panties. But he can't focus on that, when a hand spreads over the beat of his pusher. Leather-covered palm to one pectoral, squeezing and assessing as though he's meat.

She sits heavy.

The other man leans over him to ask what he wants, cut off by her plea to be gentle. Unable to bring himself to answer, the Alternian stares up at his human partners and flares his fins.

But he has to use his words; he's commanded to.

So he confesses. He admits it. He only wants them. He's only ever wanted them, in this moment, more than anything in the world.

The reward is well worth it. Hands cradle his face, grip the base of his horns, soothe him from every upset. His eyes fall shut in bliss, brows pinched tight in a horrific piteous display.

Oh, they assure him.

They tell him he's safe, loved, that they're here. Mommy's here, Daddy's here, and it's all going to be okay. So he sucks in a breath at their orders, he leans into their beautiful touches, and he is so grateful for it.

[Original comic & alt text available in assurances. on AO3.]

#homesmut #beta bro x beta mom #beta bro x beta mom x dualscar #beta bro x dualscar #beta mom x dualscar #hcp beta bro strider #hcp beta mom lalonde #hcp orphaner dualscar #partialism #hand partialism #weight partialism #power dynamics #dominance #submission #subspace #domestiphilia #drawing process #writing process

[hardcoreprocess]

Anons have requested June x Jade. Here’s a sketch. Tagged for #homesmut due to tit fondling.

#homesmut #june x jade #hcp june egbert #hcp jade harley #domestiphilia #partialism #chest partialism #blacklist #drawing process

[hardcoreprocess]

I appreciate the JuneJade with all of my heart, it has always been an extremely wholesome ship but add them figuring out gendery things together and 🥺

Thank you much.

Fully agree that it's a wholesome ship. Prospitcest gets put aside for Dersecest pretty often, despite being a solid relationship to examine. Gender stuff, the semi-complete isolation of the Prospitian Cruiser, and a couple gals getting it on. Hard to beat that, you know?

Though it'd be nice to explore trans masc John x Jade too. Hmm.

Back to June x Jade. Maximum appeal: June is put in positions of realization by OP Space Player Powers. We've all seen the tit-embiggening trope, but consider the dick shrinkage. Something Jade did for a joke. Surprise: it scratched the euphoria itch. Now June's eagerly palming at soft little tits, borrowing her sister's bras, and trying on her panties without that uncomfortable cramped feeling.

Might write that one out later.

#homesmut #june x jade #hcp june egbert #hcp jade harley #blacklist #body euphoria #domestiphilia #answer process #typing process

[hardcoreprocess]

@broromantic asked: Oh oh, mayhaps if you're doing prompts, BroMomDave with Daves ultimate mommy/daddy fantasy?

"I can't sleep." Muttered, softly, from the doorway with one hand still gripping the doorknob. Yellow pools from the hall, shadowing and highlighting the occupied bed.

Looking into the room, decked as it is in equal measure with puppets and wizards, he feels a sense of comfort. Most people would call it creepy as shit, maybe feel watched. Dave isn’t a little bitch— about that, at least —and ignores the lurking peanut gallery in favor of being acknowledged.

Predictably, Bro sits up first. The lightest sleeper known to man blinks, focuses, puffs mussed blond hair out of his heavy eyes. One hand comes up, the other still planted on the bed. Beckoning, quiet, confident that Dave will nearly trip over the threshold to get closer. Which, yeah. Of course he does, of course he moves as quickly as he can, until that sleep-warm palm cups the side of his face.

On the other side of the bed, Mom slowly rises onto one elbow. She’s rubbing the heel of her palm into her eyes until Dave registers. Immediately, her face crinkles into a smile that makes his heart fucking soar. He can’t climb over Bro fast enough, nearly falling into the cleavage her cheesy nightgown creates. Actually, he does, planting his face between her tits with a soft groan. 

Mom asks him, sweet and soft, “Do you need to talk?” A shake of his head, a turn of his face, Dave snuffles against one breast until his eyes stop fucking watering. “Just need some snuggles with Mommy?” Does she even need to ask, he wonders, before throwing one leg over the swell of her hip. Bro smirks, obvious in the low huff-laugh that washes over Dave’s nape. It’s too fucking hot. Their bodies press together, bracketing him between soft and firm, hips to hips to hips.

“There you go, baby.” She cups his head, holding it against her chest, and God does his mouth water. Mom smells clean, almost powdery. She smells like her favorite discount body lotion. The blankets are pulled high, Bro’s fingers slipping down to push past the waistband of Dave’s sleep shorts. “Just let Daddy take care of everything, okay? You can snuggle all you want.”

There are lips on his forehead. Tender, brief exchanges, touches slipping into his awareness just as fast as they disappear. He shudders, he grips tighter, pulls her gown down to put his tongue to work. The heat melts Dave into blissful, dozing sleep, lulled between fingers stroking his cock and hair just out of sync.

#homesmut #beta bro x dave #beta mom x dave #beta bro x beta mom #beta bro x beta mom x dave #hcp beta mom lalonde #hcp beta bro strider #hcp dave strider #naphephilia #domestiphilia #partialism #chest partialism #submission #somnophilia #writing process #answer process #blacklist

[hardcoreprocess]

ILLUSTRATIONS: The stand-alone album of the images showcased in assurances. [on AO3] and this post.

View the [IMAGE SET].

#homesmut #beta bro x beta mom #beta bro x beta mom x dualscar #beta bro x dualscar #beta mom x dualscar #hcp beta bro strider #hcp beta mom lalonde #hcp orphaner dualscar #partialism #hand partialism #weight partialism #power dynamics #dominance #submission #subspace #domestiphilia #drawing process

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked:

Happy disability pride month! thoughts on Rose with arthritis/joint pain?

In all honesty, Rose has absolutely nobody to blame for this concerned ambushing but herself. Ever since that mortifying ordeal just the other night, isolation has been her old friend and companion. A wrench exists, thwarting the very tactical retreat to her cozy study in the form of one Aradia Megido.

Many hiccups exist when dating a troll, but hidden beneath the cons are yet more pros. The very same enormous strength that prevents her maroonblood from being dragged anywhere is now bearing Rose's body effortlessly into their bedroom. She would be impressed by the bulge of muscle pressed to her silken nightgown, if she wasn't currently putting on a pout for being disturbed.

"Really. An intervention."

"Well, yeah! I was thinking, after last night..."

Ugh. Even the appreciation of her lover's burly arms isn't enough to assuage the scarlet shame bubbling up in Rose's chest. Last night, a turbulent attempt at intimacy ended abruptly by her hips locking. Subsequent back spasms didn't help matters. Even now her legs throb with dull pain, clouding her thoughts until—

Overpowering. The smell is unmistakable, not cloying or unpleasant, but noticeable. Lavender? Between residual aches, and everything else, all she can manage is a wordless noise of question. Blurry at the edges, mired in mental mist.

Aradia, thankfully, is quick on the uptake. Off comes the nightgown and underwear, all without protest. "Pan fog?" she asks, searchingly, beaming when Rose nods once to confirm. "That's okay! It's just epsom salts, for your aches. Haven't seen you have a good soak in a while, so it's just— something I can do for you."

Warm tingles fill her to the core, eyes blinking just this side of wet. This is still new, being noticed, being acknowledged. "Aradia," she whispers, full of some soft emotion, "—it isn't your fault."

"I know it isn't. But I'm pretty flushed for you, and I'd like to think that means I can help a little bit. Putting you down now, okay?"

The water is warm, not too hot, already aromatic with a couple rose petals thrown in for effect. She idly swishes her hands around to disturb them, melting into soothing heat. A soft towel cushions her head. She feels better already. Bliss, Rose decides, is a goddess well worth worshipping.

Distantly, the sound of medicated lotion uncapping, too far away to care about. Until... her left wrist is retrieved, beset by strong thumbs intent on working into the knots of each finger. Aradia is perched on their shower stool, a cloud of humidified dark masquerading as hair framing her face, teeth on cheerful display. Smitten, one might say.

"Just relax, okay? And maybe we can do this a little more often, before you flare up."

#homesmut #rose x aradia #hcp aradia megido #hcp rose lalonde #hcp disability pride month #chronic pain & disability #domestiphilia #partialism #sthenolagnia #answer process #writing process

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: roxy taking advantage of dave's mommy kink/issues

I’m putting Dave’s head in Roxy’s shirt. You’re welcome.

Dave is easily overwhelmed. Anything from open spaces, to heights, to people clamoring for his attention. It builds, water pressure against a barely-patched dam. Head ducking down, low enough to tuck his ears behind raised shoulders, fingers clenched up in fists where no one can see them. Stuffed in his jeans, behind his back, between his legs. A discerning eye knows to leave him alone. Let him resettle— find his footing again, amidst chaos.

Meanwhile. Roxy's eye knows to intervene, immediately.

One touch catches his attention, because Dave can see it coming. Braced for the open palm on his chest, their inhales synchronize for that split second. Roxy pushes gently; he accepts and turns at her quiet demand. Following her lead, away from the sights or sounds or people. They walk at her command, fingers curving against his broad— hiked up —shoulder or around a tense wrist.

Dave tucks into a corner, behind a wall, just beyond an open door. Hidden away, backed against the firm surface, no panic to be seen. His knees buckle slightly, head tipping up with the most expectant expression. Patiently waiting, her good little boy, with his fingers laced together in front of his stomach and twitching. Aching to touch, to hold, to have. Comfort is so close.

But he waits.

Roxy takes her time freeing the hem of her shirt. His eyes flick to her hands, then lower— her skirt's waistband cuts slightly into her belly. Dave's breathing hitches, wanting. Carefully, she pulls his shades off while distraction manages his attention. It's part of things. Easing him in, setting the stage until he's malleable, until he’s ready. Roxy's lifting her shirt up until his head and shoulders disappear beneath it.

Here, the tension bleeds out. Dave holds her hips and sighs out, mouth falling open against sweet-smelling cleavage. Her tits press warm and full to his face, swelling with every inhale. "It's okay, baby," she whispers, throat tight with emotion, "—you're okay. You're safe. Mommy's got you, baby."

#homesmut #dave x roxy #hcp dave strider #hcp roxy lalonde #domestiphilia #subspace #endytophilia #distraction #naphephilia #partialism #chest partialism #blacklist #writing process #answer process

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: Perhaps a bit cliche, but could I request Karkat with some good, snotty, cathartic crying kink? <3

It hadn't seemed all that bad, a few sweeps ago. It was the mark of a true Alternian, to find satisfaction and pleasure in crying. Not committing it, fuck that. But watching a sorry motherfucker snivel and whine about their lot in life? Talk about a fucking power trip.

He's realizing it might be a little— different now.

Choked up and shivering, wrapped in Kanaya's arms, sprawling atop a pile of novels and sleek fabrics. Maybe he’s talking about the humans, his failures, Sollux half-dying in his fucking arms. It doesn't matter, because she holds his shuddering shoulders, her lips against his forehead in soothing kisses. Cool against feverish skin.

It's a good position. Entwined as they are, there's no way in hell she can see how taut his pants are. Subsequent writhes of his bulge push the fabric in uneven waves, synchronized with every hiccuping sob. The mutant forces himself to breathe, managing a shuddery inhale that lances though his ribs. There's pain, exhaustion— fuck. Crying takes so much effort.

Snot dribbles out of his nose, which is disgusting, but she's patiently wiping at the mess every few seconds with something overwhelmingly soft. A handkerchief? Karkat's thankful, and so fucked up for being into that too. What is it? The care, the appreciation, the fact that he’s still crying?

Instead of something appreciatively pale, his mind floods with thoughts of her dark lips around the tip of his bulge. Nursing there on candy red pre, while he sobs himself stupid, until he's wracking with gasps and moans between fat tears. His knees press together in pointed want, fingers turned to claws at the back of her overshirt.

Kanaya shifts, to get comfortable as he clings tighter. At first, he thinks nothing of it— just an innocent repositioning —until her hand rests right over Karkat’s soaked crotch. He chokes. But her voice is warm, sweet, accommodating when she speaks.

"Oh, Karkat. Again?"

#homesmut #karkat x kanaya #hcp karkat vantas #hcp kanaya maryam #dacryphilia #domestiphilia #distraction #hurt / cumfort #exophilia #naphephilia #writing process #answer process

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: bi june crushing bad on bro strider

He keeps puppets, mostly. Marionettes dominate, but they’re assorted beyond that, lining shelves between gaudy sword displays. Peppered among them are dolls, the real ones with porcelain faces and immaculate clothing. All those glass eyes seem to shift in whatever light filters into the apartment. Or... maybe he built some stupid mechanism that actually make them roll around, motion-activated. That seems like something Bro Strider would do.

They're all so... perfect. Hand-sewn dresses beside tailored suits, with period-accurate frills or flaring petticoats. She’s witnessed the maintenance before, glancing out of the hallway between Dave's bedroom and the bathroom. Secretively watching him, his hands, gently running a cloth over fragile faces with impossible care. They’re cleaned so thoroughly, clothes mended or changed entirely, before they’re rearranged to new shelves. Never sat still, in familiar places, for long.

Curiosity consumed June until she mustered the gnads to ask Dave about it. "They need the exercise, duh. Keeps 'em from going sour— and haunting shit, probably. Bro's got it down to a fuckin' science." He certainly seems to, meticulously paying each doll equal mind, wearing an absent almost-smile. (And he minds the puppets too, but she is admittedly less interested in wooden jaw maintenance.)

It doesn't bother June— much. Having long since accepted the weird procession of uncanny faces, peering down at her with every visit and subsequent retreat into Dave’s room, makes her almost as blind to the weirdness as the Striders. But something... stirs in her when Bro cradles, or cleans, or adjusts, or fixes. Curdling her good mood, biting at the heels of a great visit, turning a see you on Monday into something gritted out between clenched teeth.

It takes her weeks to— accept her jealousy. Want and desire and envy, bottled up in her chest at the sight of him. Minding those porcelain gents, tending those ceramic ladies.

Bro could touch her like that. Bro should touch her like that.

Dreaming of how he might stroke soft cloths over her skin, dressing her in fine handmade things, is starting to consume her. Eagerness gnaws, urging her to walk out of the hall, into his arms. She’s soft, cute, chubby in the cheeks. If she just showed him how still she can be, how nicely she can sit, he could—

keep June. Settled, in his lap, like the dolls she suspects are his favorites. Gently doted on, hair braided with carefully picked ribbons. Praising the softness of her belly, the plumpness of her thighs, the way her arms drape loose around his shoulders...

Dave calls out, already impatient with this egregiously long bathroom break. "Just a second!" she calls back— not thinking, not accounting for her position —and Bro turns around. There’s a doll in his arms, with pretty blue eyes and dark hair and—

They both know he noticed from the start. Standing in the hallway to stare, practically unblinking, is a pretty conspicuous move. But he's acknowledging June now, arching one brow over his shades, waiting for her to speak. His thumb brushes perfectly pink porcelain lips. But when she swallows thickly, the moment is gone. He’s already turning to put the doll on a new shelf while June, flushed all the way to her collarbone, darts out of sight.

Her stomach flutters long after her visit concludes.

#homesmut #beta bro x june #hcp beta bro strider #hcp june egbert #dollification #plushophilia #naphephilia #pining #domestiphilia #dominance #writing process #answer process

[hardcoreprocess]

anonymous asked: ok someone makes a sex playlist on spotify to play and their partner loses their mind laughing abt it and it makes person A laugh too and they have a good time

"So it opens on Stacy's Mom."

Roxy's voice is very carefully flat, unable to betray a shred of emotion for fear of losing her shit as she confirms: "...Stacy's Mom."

If she even cracks a smile, it’s over. The giggles will escape. But Dave's nervous shifting says he's misunderstood, interpreting a lack of amusement as disappointment. Fucking dork. Immediately, hands smooth over his shoulders, eyes crinkling, "Hey, hey. It's— I mean, it's a song, it's about sex, it's on a playlist. It counts, right?"

"You hate it," he says, somewhat indignant. It's the final straw. He’s indignant, as though this is not the funniest shit in the world. Crumpling forward, until her forehead knocks against his shoulder, Roxy shakes with delighted laughter.

He blusters, but letting arms squeeze tight around his torso. "That's so cute," she manages between choked off wheezes, "But holy shit?"

"Look, I have some good ones too.” A largely subjective statement, but he stands firm, stating, “Personal Jesus, for fucking instance."

Roxy is giggling harder, so much so that it's chipping away at Dave’s stern mask of annoyance. He can't compose himself enough to answer her questions— largely "What the fuck else?" —because her laughter is actually contagious. They’re lost causes, shaking, hugging at one another until Dave gasps out, "—and Delta."

"The fucking pussy song!?”

"Fucking yeah."

Hands grip at the hem of his shirt, tugging it with little success around shouts of mirth. Still, she’s intent on getting him bare, to reward his— efforts.

#homesmut #dave x roxy #hcp dave strider #hcp roxy lalonde #domestiphilia #cummunication #writing process #answer process #blacklist

[hardcoreprocess]

[KO-FI REWARD] BATCH 1 // SLOT 1: Dave accidentally hops back in time and meets Mizz Mom Lalonde. Maybe he’s convinced to hang around despite the flub?

"Whoops."

Understatement doesn't even begin to cover it. This goes far beyond a mere oops, and the gleaming lab equipment at every corner of his vision plays witness to his verbal blunder... along with the gaping maw of a Bengal tiger. Probably? Dave is, admittedly, a little hazy on the subfuckeries of big orange cats with stripes. Especially when the only thing keeping his head and shoulders friendly is hooking her fingers into a wide magenta collar, barely measuring half his height.

Alright, that's an exaggeration. She's only a head shorter, hair fluffed out around her soft jaw and clad in the snuggest labcoat known to man, leveling Dave with a grim expression like he's done something wrong. Which is just unfair. It's not like he knows where this lab actually is—

Fine. He's intruding. In an attempt to pacify this respectable homeowner, Dave flashes his raised palms in a "whoa there, Bessie" motion. Gritting into a strained smile, he does everything possible to seem like a lost teenager. She doesn't buy it.

Fuck.

Running through every possible conflict avoidance tactic hits him with a wall of nothing. Older women are, decidedly, not his specialty. But— before he can say anything to fuck this situation up further —she jabs an accusing finger into Dave's chest. "You shouldn't be here," the blonde lady says, already continuing— before he can process an answer —with, "It'll fuss up the timeline."

Dave flatlines there, just trying to mash the pieces together. How does she know him? Where does he know her? Something about the woman is familiar, like vanilla extract and really good soup broths, like the smell of Rose's house when he popped over and agreed to grab something from the past...

When he fails to respond quickly, she offers a wry smile with her comment, "Probably tired outta your mind." Pitying. Gentle. Somehow, he's already bundled up by the hospitable softness of her voice, barely noticing the way her hand comes loose on the shiny— bedazzled? —collar. Also known as the one tether keeping the tiger from rending his fucking flesh from bone. Dave tenses for a bite that never comes, watching the gigantic animal wander away at her order of: "Go on, Mags."

—She pulls him into a hug.

Warm. So warm. Sunlight and rich hot chocolate and his fingers instinctively curling against her lovehandles. Her lips, realized way too late, are pressed to his throat. Black lipstick smears there, the residue lingering, as this impossibly soft lady murmurs something. Fuck, he might actually be tired, because he can't parse what the hell her sweet twang breaks down to.

"What?" he offers, pedestrian and vaguely panicked. Her chest is pressing snug to his body, breath hot on his throat. Familiar, but not, and he never does well with— Lips on his throat, curving into a smile, right over the stutter of his pulse. Fingers tuck under the hem of his God Tier shirt, brushing sensitive skin.

Arching forward, breath short, lips parted. "It's alright, baby." And maybe it is, because she's pulling him even closer. One hand's migrated up the curve of Dave's back, nails scraping each ridge of his spine on the way up. "You can fetch whatever Rosie sent you back for in a bit. Just have a little sit down."

And he can't deny that it sounds nice. Temptation lurks, smelling mildly like everything a mom should be. Cradled like he's precious, like his hands have never known a thing about danger, like he's— shuddering out a sigh. The exhaustion catches up. Maybe it's fine, actually, to slowly collapse against her while lips pepper over his throat.

He'll— go back later.

#homesmut #beta mom x dave #hcp dave strider #hcp beta mom lalonde #sburb mechanics #domestiphilia #partialism #weight partialism #chest partialism #submission #naphephilia #blacklist #writing process #batch process

[hardcoreprocess]

Dave and Vriska numberjack a bar.

With absolute confidence and a hand pulling her hair over one shoulder to rake fingers through, Vriska smirks down at him. Ignoring the blatant tic, he refocuses. His shades don’t hide the dart from claws to face, but she doesn’t mention it. Probably out of the “goodness” of her heart.

Her words, not his.

"It’s pretty simple, Strider. Whoever gets the most numbers, wins! It’s like a silly little game, with practically no risk. Doesn’t that appeal to your delicate sensibilities?"

Dave doesn’t bite just yet. Instead, he prods for information: “Wins... what, exactly? Not even gonna sweeten the honeypot— or any regular pot— with a prize?” With loose fists stuffed well into his jeans, he refuses to cede ground here. During the negotiation process? Please. He has better things to do, like blistering her ass in this competitive binge.

Naturally, she's rolling her eyes at him. Of course his first instinct is questioning her motivations! Vriska looks thoroughly annoyed, in part because they're hashing out silly details before entering the bar! She could be garnering an advantage here, inside, scoping out potential suckers for a head start. The bastard stands firm, watching her watch him until she folds.

Much to her chagrin, the hand is shown, arms folded defensively over her chest. "Ughhhhhhhh! Alright! Okay!!! Whoever has the most numbers by the end of our pub crawl... is treated to a super romantic dinner by the loser. And the loser has to do ANYTHING the winner wants!!!!!!"

He mulls over that, really considering his options. He could have Vriska out to a nice little mom and pop diner. Wearing that one silky blue dress, the one he’s nearly ripped off her body twice. His mouth thins into a line, trying to maintain his composure until Dave can look up again. Brows arching, self-assured.

"Sure. Game’s on, so long as you’re cool with the bitter-ass taste of defeat."

"In your dreeeeeeeeams!"

#homesmut #dave x vriska #hcp dave strider #hcp vriska serket #power dynamics #competittytion #weiner takes all #domestiphilia #writing process

[hardcoreprocess]

tender roseroxy?

Now it’s getting to the point where Rose is not sure where the lipstick kisses first started. Her shoulders are peppered in dark marks, threatening to connect around her throat like an erotic necklace, all varying in opacity. Roxy is already reapplying, looking smug as can be with Rose's flushed cheeks, leaning in to pepper both with warm, soft marks.

I love you, the phrase repeated over and over again with her arms loosely thrown around Roxy's shoulders. Their skin is soft, thighs squishing together pleasantly, chest to chest and barely able to breathe without sharing every exhale. She feels incredible. She feels beloved.

The twinkle in Roxy's eyes says it's true. A tangible, real thing. Rose returns her kisses, returns her affection, rolls her hips forward to feel the warm give of a thigh against her pussy. She forgets when she took hold of Roxy's hair, a lifeline, a safety blanket. It doesn't matter.

"I love you."

"I love you too, baby."

#homesmut #rose x roxy #hcp rose lalonde #hcp roxy lalonde #naphephilia #domestiphilia #partialism #mouth partialism #answer process #writing process #blacklist

[hardcoreprocess]

(quietly and politely asks for very loving and sweet rosemom?)

Brushing Rose's hair is one of her favorite parts of the evening. After a nice dinner together, a film they both think is terrible, and parting ways to change into their most comfortable pajamas, they reconvene in Rose's bedroom. She (that is, her sweet girl) has been lonely, and eager for any tenderness.

She'd be a horrible mother to not provide the gentlest, softest love she can.

It's easy. Mom can't think of anything in this world simpler than pampering her daughter. Pulling the brush through her beautiful hair, mindful of her tender head, calloused but lotion-smooth fingers smoothing her springy little bangs down. Rose's locks aren't long enough to flip up at the ends like her mother's, but her adorable bob curves in at the chin, accentuating her darling face.

She falls in love a little more with that face every day. There used to be many misunderstandings between them, many moments spent frustrated and angry. They've grown, close, and now Rose tips her face into her mother's kisses like it's all she wants. The hands gripping at Mom's blouse when they break apart say it is all she wants.

With freshly brushed hair, it's time for bed. The sheets are turned down, but not in her daughter's room. Rose sleeps best surrounded by the smell of her mother, tucked behind canopy curtains and hidden from the world. They walk to Mom's bedroom. Hand in hand, fingers laced, faces flushed at the way their sheer nightgowns match. The comforter is a warm creation, something they made together and christened the same day, requiring several thorough washes afterward.

It may need another in the morning, because Mom is pulling her darling girl into a hundred small kisses as their thighs lovingly twine together and knees bump against silken panties. Maybe one day she'll be satisfied with kissing her sweet Rose to sleep, but for now? She just can't resist that round little butt and her plump thighs and the full-throat groans of, "Mother, please."

"Mm. One more time, baby." Soft-spoken, fingers just itching to dip beneath her sweet girl's nightgown to feel her soft belly and pet her chubby back. She waits. It's not time just yet, not until her perfect girl says...

"Mommy, please."

#homesmut #beta mom x rose #hcp beta mom lalonde #hcp rose lalonde #domestiphilia #partialism #hair partialism #auralism #blacklist #answer process #writing process