homeorashi

W8. --A TaVris Omorashi Fanfic--

((Sorry for the lack of updates–I’ve been working on this baby! It’s not a part of the main adventure, just a pesterlog I’ve had on my mind for quiet some time.

Contains dubcon, mind control, wetting, and a whole lot of desperation.))


–arachnidsGrip [AG] began trolling adiosToreador [AT]


AG: Puuuuuuuupa.

AT: oH,

AT: oK, uHH,

AT: hEY,

AG: Wow, sorry, is this a 8ad time?

Keep reading

==>

You shove your hand into your pockets–for some weird reason, that always seems to help–and leave your room, heading off down the hall. The door of the ablution chamber is open, and the sight of the load gaper serves to tease your bladder even more. You’re biting at your lip by the time you’re standing in front of it, shifting your weight from foot to foot again as you reach to flip the seat up–stupid Tinkerbull and his stupid house rules–open the button of your fly as quickly as possible and tug, a little jerkily, at your zipper, more than ready for a nice, relieving pee.

Your zipper, unfortunately, does not comply.

You tug harder. No luck.

You grip your waistband in one hand and yank as hard as you can at the zipper. It doesn’t give even a millimeter.

You give a little gasp and both hands shoot to your crotch. Your bladder was expecting momentary release and the complaints it’s sending you at being denied are enough to make you have to squirm in place, clutching yourself, just to keep everything in. You let your head flop down, whining softly in the back of your throat.

Tavros: Watch a scary movie.

Your eyes fall on the meager collection of movies squeezed in next to all the Pupa Pan books on your bookshelf. Intriguing. You walk over and stand in front of it, scanning titles with your eyes.

After a moment, you start shifting your weight just slightly from side to side. After another few moments, you shift all your to your right leg and wrap your left ankle around behind your right one, putting a hand out on the shelf for balance. You know, just to get a little more comfortable.

Romance? No, not feeling sharp enough to keep up with all the n-drangles. Pupa? You almost reach for it, then remember how Tinkerbull was treating you earlier and retract your hand. You’re not a wriggler.

Horror?

Huh. You haven’t watched one in a really long time, not since that Rainbow Drinker one that came out when you were 4 and a half sweeps old. It has that scene where the little brownblood kid is wandering through the abandoned hive, and when the Rainbow Drinker jumped out at him you got so scared that you…

You turn sharply away from the movies,  as if trying to hide the deep embarrassed blush you can feel spreading across your own face even thought there’s no one else there to see it. Nope, no need to think about that particular event, none at all. The sense of humiliation and the specifics of the memory seem to send a sharp squeeze to your bladder, one that almost propels you forward across the room towards other things to do.