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furrbbyx · 1 year

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M👹NSTER March Day 10: Gargoyle

Quick smut of amab!Gargolyexcis!woman reader

cw: talk of churches, defiling religious statues, hetero monster sex

Do not reproduce, do not copy

Approx 700 words

You didn't think you would be so moved by visiting the hallowed ground on which the grand cathedral's ruins rested.

It seemed to have been placed so thoughtfully in the glen, cleared fo tall trees so that the light of heaven could shine down through the stone lintel windows.

Immaculate, you thought to yourself and shivered. Walking slowly you made your way outside through a back door. Caressing the mossy stone walls and pew you passed by seemed to arouse you and add headiness to your growing euphoria. Your nipples pricked when you stopped to lean against one of the statues perched beside the door. Looking up you noticed that it's a gargolla. A weathered carving of a snarling protector demon.

You couldn't stop yourself from running your hands over the cool smooth stone as if it were your lover. Your fingers tips traced the groves in the wings until they met his shoulders and you flattened your palms to rub up over the massive sculpted muscled of its back. If it were not squatting the statue would tower over you.

You giggled to your self as you stick your fingers in its nostrils. This place made you feel uninhibited and a bit heedless.

You leaned in and give the statue's cheek a sweet little kiss because you can't help it. You want to share this feeling, even if it's only with a lump of stone. Leaning against it like this, your lush breasts are pressed against its hunched shoulders, and you can use both hands to explore the carving front and back.

You are a little surprised to find the swell of a phallus and a smooth ballsack between the creatures legs.

This might well frighten off an intruder, you thought cheekily and grab the member firmly without shame. You positioned yourself in front of the statue and leaned over slightly to grasp and rub the obscene cock in both palms. Looking directly into the carved, blank eyes as if in challenge.

Your heart rate increased, your brown skin seemed to glow refracting the late afternoon sunlight, you sighed as your perverse sense of pleasure became heightened by this unholy act.

In a moment you dropped to your knees and enveloped the shaft in a kiss. Your plush lips felt indecent and soon puffy as you continued to kiss, then lick, and finally start swallowing the length bit by bit.

If anyone were to come upon you, what would they do?

Your arousal sparked painfully sharp between your legs, insistent.

Unable to resist you turned, raised your skirt, and settled yourself over the cockhead using its massive thighs to brace. Though you'd been impatient you slid your wet aching slit over the length of the protruding dildo. A rapturous sense of wickedness filled you while you took this pleasure. Soon, feeling the nudge of the creature's cock was not enough.

Arching your back you grasped the statues neck and pressed your hips back. The slow work of stretching around the thing had you sweating in no time, yet your eyes were closed tight in concentration and ecstasy.

You hastily slipped a hand beneath your skirt to rub your clit. With a gasp your felt yourself being filled past the loosening muscles of your pussy's entrance and it became easy to slide down over the thing with your slickened hungry cunt.

You canted your hips, rolled them over the rigid stone column in your guts with a strangled groan. Your engorged little clit pulsed in time with your grinding as you edged yourself on the statue. You had no care for the social contracts you might be breaking, all that mattered was reveling in this blissful act. Copulating in the open with demon trapped and held by the will of ancient monks.

Your mind reeled with lustful imaginings. Flashes of images of the creature awakening, taking control of your body and claiming its own satisfaction; caught up in your euphoria.

Oh how the creature would grasp at you like a desperate beast. Its cock now struck with the vigor of life and the act of rutting, would feel as a warm throb, timed with unforgiving thrusts. You could almost hear the wet slap of your bodies meeting as it hold you and straightens and fucks into your greedy little cunt like a man possessed.

That image and the well known rhythm of your hand stimulating your clit had you stiffening in orgasm in no time. You tried to force every last inch of the statue's fat dick into your pussy as your shuddered and huffed.

You wouldn't have a chance to relax or let your heart rate slow because without warning the great stone arms of the statue moved to swiftly capture you in an embrace. One tightly clasped around your torso the other at your breast claws jabbing into the taught flesh.

A hot breath like molten rock scorched the air near your cheek and hissed:

"Now it's my turn"

#terato #demon lover #monster lover #monster smut #monster march #writing practice #monster fucker #r yall into these cover images?#the ranch house

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scribbling-dragon · 2 years

Note

If you are still taking prompts, how about one that can be either light hearted or angst: when he died his final death during the first death game, something went wrong and Jimmy lost an eye. He wasn't there for any after game meeting saying he had to take care of something. For all of Empires he wore his mask and only Pix and Fwhip ever saw his face. He wore his mask for all of the second season, to embarrassed and ashamed of what happened to tell anyone. Now he feels he must keep it on and the ruse up because at this point it would just be awkward and people would definitely laugh at him for being so silly about it. However, Jimmy now shares a bed with Tango and sleeping with a mask on can be quite uncomfortable.

Masked Sight

Summary:

He flinches back as the pain blooms, the heat of it overwhelming the warmth of the desert as he loses his grip on the rung above his head, fingers slipping as he reaches to grasp at his face and the steadily growing ache in his skull.

He gasps awake into a white nothingness, pain still aching in his skull, throbbing deep in his eye. It shouldn't still be hurting, right? It’s meant to stop when he dies. Because that’s what this place is; somewhere between living and dead, a place of not-quite existence that he exists in anyway.

He’s alone when he pulls his hand back from his eye, his palm coming away sticky with it.

(AO3 Link)

(3,770 words)

did i get carried away with this? probably a little bit yeah. (daily reminder than reblogs help more than likes!!)

He’s alone when he pulls his hand back from his eye, his palm coming away sticky with it.

He tries not to gape too openly at the sight. He’s been here before, in this empty abyss that’s entirely too bright. The only colour available here is white. Nothing else. The red on his hand begs to differ, and it makes a sick feeling curdle in his stomach and try to clamber up his throat as he continues to stare at the red warmth on his palm.

His fingers are slick with blood when he raises a hand to his face again, tentatively poking around the eye socket. He can feel the warmth there too, he’s not stupid, and his fingers come back even more red.

He chokes on his next inhale, realising that the darkness from that side probably isn't from the blood. It’s probably not the magic of respawn stitching him back together either, seeing as he continues to bleed, even in the in-between state of life and death.

He wipes the red from around his eye as best as he can without seeing it, wiping until the skin is tender and irritated and his hands are covered in more blood than he has ever felt comfortable seeing. If he was alive right now, he’s certain he would be light-headed, if not dead entirely.

(He tries not to think about how he’s already dead, about how this is what had killed him. Not from blood loss, but from the sheer impact of that arrow, driving its way into his skull through his eye-)

He wipes his hands off next, the blood mixing with the already dried stains on his jeans, mixing so well that you wouldn't be able to tell what’s new and what’s old. He can still feel blood under his fingernails, tacky and dried, beginning to flake off as he sits there and contemplates what this means.

Technically, technically, he’s not respawned yet. He’s still in that in-between state meaning it could heal further once he’s actually alive again. Once he meets the others for a small chat to go “hey, no hard feelings. Right?” He’d laughed at that idea when Grian first suggested it, but he’s glad of it now. There are probably a few more hard feelings than can be sorted out with a quick chat, though.

There’s a small chiming sound in the air, and he glances up. The dark on one side unsettles him, like his vision’s partially faded out from lightheadedness. He brushes at his hair a little, pulling it in front of his face and leaning his cheek into his palm. The pain in his face protests at the action, but he tries to make it seem as though he’s been sat here for hours bored out of his mind rather than contemplating the injury that didn't disappear.

Cleo stumbles into the white with a growl, spinning around to face an enemy that doesn't exist anymore, clutching a weapon that’s dropped to the ground where her body disappeared upon impact.

He watches as she turns, apparently confused by this place she’s found herself in. It doesn't take long for her to spot him, sitting and watching her. She stares for a moment, before coming to sit beside him, copying his pose. He watches her, watching as she sighs.

They don't speak. He finds he doesn't particularly want to, even as the silence echoes loudly in his ears.

--- --- ---

The cod head is a blessing.

He finds it early on, pulling it over his head before anyone else on the server can find him and question him. He makes it a habit to not look in mirrors, entirely unwilling to see the empty socket leering at him from the glass, taunting him.

The cod head is weird, he realises that, and the others do too, commenting on it with glee, taunting him with threats to steal it away. He pretends not to notice the way those threats make him freeze up, gripping a little tighter at the sides of the mask as though that would prevent them from ripping it away if they really set their minds to it.

None of them seem interested in it, at least. Or, well, he thought none of them were interested in it.

fWhip stands in front of him now, cod head in hand, gaping openly at his face. He cringes away from the attention, turning his head to one side as though that can hide something he’s already seen. He’s just glad there’s no one else around to witness his humiliation.

“Jimmy,” fWhip gasps out, sounding utterly horrified. And he knew it was bad, that it was horrible, but fWhip makes it sound like it’s nothing short of horrific, gasping and gaping as his one barrier to this exact conversation hangs limply in his hand.

“Can I have it back,” he tries, extending his hand and pointedly not meeting fWhip’s eyes, even as he desperately tries to capture them, “Please.”

“Your eye,” fWhip manages, head still hanging limply from his hand. He snatches it back, shoving it over his head so fWhip can't continue to gawk at him like he’s some horrible mystery to be solved.

“Yeah, I know.” He snaps, turning to face fWhip with a glare he can't see. A glare fWhip can definitely sense if the way he shrinks back is anything to go off of. “I know, fWhip, alright? Kinda fucking hard to miss the fact that I'm missing a goddamn eye, yeah?”

“I didn't mean to-”

“I don't care.” He steps closer, gets in his space, wishing that he had his sword on him so his threat would have some merit. “You breathe a word of this to anyone I’ll kill you dead. And I’ll make sure you stay dead, got it?”

fWhip nods.

“Run along then.” He flaps a hand at him, watching as fWhip only spares him a singular backwards glance before taking off for his own empire, shooting over the Mythland wall and away into the clouds.

He’s not sure why he said that. The cod head feels heavy on him, claustrophobic around his face. He turns to return home, the feeling only growing as he marches there until he has to sit down and do breathing exercises Scott had taught him in what feels like another lifetime.

--- --- ---

He’s beginning to regret agreeing to a round two of these games. His first five minutes on the server had been a mad scramble to find anything he could use as a mask. Being short on time led him to another cod head, easily obtained and fitting like a familiar glove over his head.

“You do realise this isn't empires, right?” Scott laughs at his own joke, eyes crinkling at the corners. He shrugs the joke off, turning to walk in the opposite direction to the man. He hears Pearl murmur something to him as he leaves.

He almost feels like he’s left a part of himself with Scott and that poppy. He probably got the hint, at least.

No one calls out after him, and he doesn't turn back to look. He doesn't do much looking anymore, it’s a little harder when half of your vision doesn't exist like it had never been there to begin with. He can't remember what it was like to see with both of his eyes anymore.

The Southlanders question it less, but he can still hear their whispers, the short glances they spare him when he refuses to take it off and look them in the eyes as the Boogeyman counter ticks steadily downwards, all of them gathered in a huddle together.

It’s not a surprise when they exile him. It’s more of a surprise when they accept him back. They don't ask him to take the mask off, and Grian looks slightly pained when Mumbo asks why they don't even attempt, subtly shaking his head and aiming a glance at him, as though he won't see it. If he wanted him to remain ignorant to that he should have stood on his other side. He wouldn't have been any the wiser if that was the case.

--- --- ---

Red stains his palms when he awakens in the white nothingness again. The pain seems to attempt to split his back open as he hunches there, gasping for breath until the soft feeling of feathers brushes his skin.

The yellow is a joke. He’s sure the beings watching over their game find it amusing. Even the yellow is a warning, the song of a canary only an added bonus.

A goddamn canary in a goddamn mine. A canary missing an eye.

The universe must fucking hate him.

--- --- ---

He stares at Tango, and Tango stares back. The oak branch above his head creaks ominously and he side steps out from beneath its shadow. He’s died once today already, he’s not planning on repeating that. His wings ache a little, small and barely those of a fledgling as he stands there.

Tango can't see his eye on him. He’d found a cod head again, and people had been clever enough to keep their mouths shut this time, at least remaining silent while he’s in their vicinity.

“Good to see you keep things consistent.” Tango laughs. He laughs too, not entirely sure why the cod head stuck with him through death when nothing else did. It’s probably some sick, twisted game to the beings watching them. They're probably laughing as they watch him right now, gossiping about when they think he’s going to break.

“I am nothing if not consistent,” he flares his wings out for emphasis, tiny as they are, “First dead, as always.” Tango’s face shutters at that, and he immediately feels guilty for joking about it so soon. The burns on his shoulder still twinge as he moves his arm, reaching out for Tango. “Not like that, man.” He reassures, “I don't blame you. It was practically fated to happen.”

“Still feel guilty ‘bout it.” Tango’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer, “You should probably get going if you don't want people to have stolen your stuff, we can meet back here once we’re done, yeah?”

He nods, even though he’s sure Grian has already ransacked the site of his death. He could hear him while he was trying to find a goat’s horn. He turns away anyway, the heart beating next to his feeling oddly out of sync. Unnatural.

It’s a weird feeling, having someone else’s life tied to your own. He watches as Tango reaches up to rub at his eye, muttering something about dirt getting in and irritating it. He carefully remains silent until Tango wanders off.

He still doesn't know why the cod head stuck with him. Maybe he’s worn it so much that it’s part of his code now. Intrinsically linked with his essence with the sole purpose of protecting something that he now feels too embarrassed to reveal.

It happened months ago, he’s done with it now which means he can move on because it’s not that big of a deal. People suffer from long-lasting injuries all the time, and people would only make fun of him for feeling the need to keep up this ruse for as long as he has now.

He turns towards the site of his death, hoping to at least gather together the few items that haven't been stolen or destroyed.

--- --- ---

He manages to collect barely anything, their house looking as though it might fall flat any second. There’s holes in the walls that let draughts of cold air in. It’s small too, barely large enough for two people living in the same space and definitely not big enough to have several rooms.

Tango had returned with similarly little items even though he had no hopes of retrieving his own, simply returning to the cave system and hoping to find some resources that hadn't already been collected. Of which there were none, or, not quite none but just bordering on none. So little that it’s barely worth collecting.

This all ends in his current problem: their sleeping situation. He stands across from Tango, both of them staring down at the bed hardly big enough for one person, let alone two. Neither of them offer to sleep on the floor, they're tired and the bed might look rickety but it’s better than the floor.

He watches as Tango rubs his eye again, muttering something about there being a persistent bit of dirt in his eye. He carefully does not comment on it, instead continuing to watch as he scrubs at his eye, in the exact spot that Jimmy doesn't have one.

He wonders what it feels like; to have an eye and feel like it shouldn't be there.

The bed sits between them, and it feels like a yawning chasm that’s entirely too small for two people to peacefully coexist in. His mask feels claustrophobically small, clinging where it fits neatly around his face, leaving the space above his mouth free for breathing.

It feels like it’s getting smaller, closing in as he considers actually sleeping with the mask on. He’s never actually slept with it on, simply taking it off before he slept and leaving it within reaching distance so he can grab it at a moment's notice.

He’s never slept with it on before because there hadn't been a need. There was no necessity when there was no one around and no mirrors to see his own reflection in.

Tango bridges the chasm first, pulling the bedsheets back and sitting on the edge. He sits on the opposite side, their backs already pressing together, Tango’s tail flicking against his leg, a slight brush of movement he probably shouldn't have felt. But he did, because he’s paying far too much attention to everything right now.

“Are you okay?” Tango’s voice startles him a little and he jolts. Tango startles too, pulling back, red eyes almost luminous in the gloom. He blinks, and the light shutters before reappearing again when he opens his eyes.

He nods. Tango’s face twists into an expression of slight concern, but he doesn't push, simply toeing his shoes off, an action that he quickly follows, and setting his glasses-goggles (he’s not entirely sure what they actually are) on the floor beside the bed.

His own hands linger at the gills of the cod head, considering taking it off, fingers curling ever-so-slightly inwards to do just that. Tango shifts beside him and he wrenches his hands away as though the scales have burned him, placing them on his legs instead and inhaling sharply.

“Are you sure?” Tango tries, and he nods again, ignoring the way Tango’s eyes continue to bore into the side of his head rather than looking away like he did before. He doesn't blame him, he’s not exactly acting the most believable currently. “Jimmy.”

“What?” He snaps, immediately clenching his mouth shut afterwards, feeling guilty for the hurt that flashes across Tango’s face and doesn't disappear, just…fades. “Sorry.” He sighs. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I’d hope not.” Tango laughs, though it sounds distinctly forced. Not quite comedic. “Are you okay? Don't lie this time, yeah? I'm not that stupid.”

“It’s nothing, something dumb that I've just let…fester,” he looks at Tango, who’s still watching him eyes concerned. “I've left it too long and it feels dumb now.”

“Nothing’s dumb. That’d be like telling me that I’m dumb for feeling guilty over our death- which, before you even say anything that was a stupid death and even you can't deny it.”

“I can, because I've suffered stupider. It happens.”

Tango regards him, and he turns to face him fully. “You're deflecting.” He accuses, but it’s gentle, not accusatory. “Deflection is fun and all, but it gets tiring, like you're holding up a mirror in front of you and just, bouncing everything off of it.”

“I hate mirrors.”

“Don't we all.” Tango laughs. “Seriously, whatever’s bothering you is going to keep me awake because I'm pretty sure if you're,” he emphasises it by poking him in the chest, “Not tired, then I won't be either. Tell me, it can be like we’re gossiping about the other server members.”

He pauses. “Did you know Grian had to watch Scar say his Jellie pandas were his soulmates while he was stood less than six feet away each time?”

“I did not, but that’s not what I'm asking you about. You tell me this and I’ll tell you something embarrassing I’ve done before.” He grins, “C’mon, don't tell me you don't want to know what we talk about on Hermitcraft.”

“I do. You tell me and I tell you.”

“Not how this works,” Tango shakes his head, “Nice try though.”

He hadn't actually thought that would work, but it was worth a shot at the very least. “You can't laugh.”

“Only if you don't laugh at my story.”

“Deal.” He has to take a deep breath after agreeing, hands clenching and unclenching. He has to take a minute, or it might be two, as well before he can even think about opening his mouth again. “I died first in Third Life,” which is an amazing start, duh, of course he died first everyone was there to witness it. “As, as you all know.” Tango doesn't say anything when he looks at him, simply nodding.

“And I- I had some time alone in the Nothingness or whatever you want to call it, limbo, the place between life and death. But, something…happened?” He pauses again. “I don't really know what happened, at the time I just assumed it was Them meddling again, but now I think it was just pure luck. Like, I got shot, y’know? And it went straight through my eye, just like that.” Tango winces in sympathy, nodding a little.

“And I thought nothing of it,” he clenches and unclenches his hands again, reaching them up to the cod head then lowering them again. “I mean, why would you? People die all the time and respawn, perfectly fine. But I, I just didn't. I got to that Nothingness, the place that’s always perfectly white, like an infinity room that actually does go on forever, and there was another colour because I brought it with me.”

He allows his hands to reach up then, gripping at the sides of the cod head and slowly starting to pull it away from his face. It seems to cling on as he pulls it off, setting it carefully in his lap, face remaining carefully downturned.

Tango must see anyway because there’s a short inhale from him. A little sound of surprise that he can't quite catch before it escapes. “And I was still bleeding, and I just kept bleeding and when I touched where the wound, where my eye should be there was just nothing. Just blood and torn skin. Like it had never even existed in the first place.”

“You weren't at the meeting afterwards.” Tango realises aloud. “You said you had something else to attend to and disappeared.”

“I had to attend to making sure no one ever knew.” He laughs, and the joke doesn't stick its landing, stumbling in a horrendously embarrassing way as Tango just continues to stare at him, aghast.

“Why?”

“I don't know,” he shrugs. And he doesn't. He doesn't know why he felt the need to hide it and why he feels the need to keep hiding it now. “It stopped bleeding when we left the Nothingness, healed over. Old scar tissue as though it happened years ago rather than a few days.”

There’s a hand on his chin, sliding along his jaw and guiding him to look up. To look at Tango. He rests their heads together, faces almost uncomfortably close. But he isn't uncomfortable because Tango isn't looking at him with the pity he hadn't wanted to see from anyone, instead he just looks upset.

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?” Tango asks, repeats, and he shrugs.

“I'm the canary already, why betray a weakness that will only be exploited to keep that trend going? Why show that the title of Canary isn't unfounded?” He knows Tango hears the emphasis he puts on his second iteration of his title. He continues anyway, “Because if nothing proves that I'm not cursed, then this definitely proves that I am.”

“You're not cursed.” Tango murmurs, brushing a thumb beneath his eye. He continues to look Jimmy in the eye, despite one of them being missing, torn from his skull and leaving a gaping chasm that surely can't be pleasant to look at. Tango’s gaze doesn't waver, doesn't twitch into the poorly hidden disgust that he had expected. He continues to look at him as he had ten minutes ago, watching him with care and affection that he hopes he can be just as good at returning.

“How do you know that?”

“Because someone that was truly cursed would embrace it, typically.” Tango tips his head to the side. “People that are cursed normally let it swallow them whole rather than remaining a good person. And you are a good person, Jimmy.”

“You can't know that.”

“But I believe it.” Tango presses their foreheads a little closer for a second before pulling away entirely. “We’re both tired, this isn't the time to have an emotionally draining conversation. We can do that later.”

He finds himself agreeing, the chasm that was once their bed closing over and healing. He lets Tango pull the covers up over them, wraps his own arms around the other and allows him to return the embrace.

He’s colder than he would expect of someone born of the Nether, but he doesn't say anything, allowing himself a moment of comfort in games where his only purpose is to be the Herald. The Cursed One. The Canary.

Someone else helps a little with that burden. It doesn't feel so stiflingly lonely. He might be able to get used to the comfort.