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mamayan · 1 year ago

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You up? Give us some delicious yandere stuff 🙏 let's say... Fae King yandere and changeling darling 😏✨

This turned into a full fic :3 ~★ In honor of some monster fucking!

Yandere! Dark Fae King x Darling! Changeling

tw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Non-Human Morality • Kidnapping • afab Reader • Dubcon • Oral (F) • Grooming (reader is of consenting adult age) • Forced Mating • Imprisonment • Violence (not toward reader) • Implied Murder • Rough Sex • Praise • Overstimulation • Dumbification • Belly Bulge • Size Kink

Part Two: Here

“…hic…sniff…”

Dark eyes glanced into the cool night, curious as to what creature was disturbing his evening.

“…hic…” it came again, much to his chagrin.

The still lake reflected the full moon like a mirror. To his left, not too far off, he honed in on the disturber. Something small and curled up. Shaking. The oddity enough to catch his full attention as he stood silently. The night his home and prison as he swiftly left in a puff of smoke over to the location of his intruder.

You.

His first instinct to end your miserable life, a human somehow entering his domain and crossing his barriers, but upon a closer look… he realized you were of his own kind.

A changeling at that. An abandoned fae left to die in the hands of mortals. Few if any live to maturity like this, but your short human stature led him to believe your growth was surely stunted due to neglect. Young fae needed abundant love and care in their infancy, the first 100 years of life incredibly crucial for their development. Least they end up like him and his kingdom. You were even younger than full maturity, though your physical body had completed it’s growth, your magic was weak and juvenile.

You were making odd noises which drew his curiosity, moving closer to your form, face buried in your lap as you hunched over your drawn up legs. Your feet were bare as the edges of the water lapped at them. Clothing sparse and tattered, rags unfit for even a human, let alone a Fae nearing maturity.

“Noisy little thing,” he hums aloud, startling you as you jolt and nearly throw yourself into the water. Your neck snaps up, pretty face swollen and blotchy from tears looking up and up until you saw a creature looming over you.

Your scream is cut off by a clawed dark hand, slapping over your mouth and muffling the cry as you try to jerk away in fear and panic. He watches in mild amusement, snickering as you realize your struggle is futile and efforts dying down. “Scream if you like, but none other than I will hear it out here.” He assures ominously, thin onyx colored lips pulling back to bare his razor sharp canines and pearly teeth at you. His grin savage and delighted in your terror.

He watches curiously as your wide doe eyes well up with tears, the crystalline droplets spilling up and over your cheeks, soft lips quivering beneath his palm. You reminded him of an animal imploring their predator for mercy by revealing their underbelly. There was a word for it…

Cute. His mind conjured at last. He found you cute, a changeling bold enough to intrude into the kingdom of the corrupted. You hadn’t even dropped the mirage covering you, old magic from your biological family still covering your natural appearance to mimic the human you parasitized off the life of.

“Why do you cry little one?” He asks softly, attempting not to terrify you further and avoid his questions.

You hesitate, but his molten gold eyes seem to melt through your defenses despite his dangerous and beautiful appearance. “I’m wrong,” you sniffle, grateful when he removes his enormous hand off your face, the sharp claws tipped in gold frightening against your soft breakable skin. “All wrong… and I don’t know what to do.” You curl back up around yourself, as if he too will cast judgement upon you.

He awkwardly mimics your stance, curiosity blazing as watches you in fascination. You find the way his monstrously large form contorts to sit like you somewhat baffling and amusing, less frightened now that he doesn’t seem to wish you harm.

“How are you wrong then?” He pries further, cupping his defined jaw and leaning into his hand as he observes.

“I’m not…I’m not human—I’m a—a—,” you stumble, unsure if this night is even real anymore. The shock so great you��re still trying to cope.

“A faery?” He supplies, amused by the way you gesture with your hands, expression so open and easy to read. “A changeling raised amongst humans to feed off their happiness?” His deep voice purrs it happily, as if he’s glad for it.

He is. His hatred of humans not something he feels the need to hide.

You appear devastated though, “I didn’t mean to—I don’t want to hurt or make anyone unhappy.” You mumble miserably, tugging at your hair and skin, as if that will dispel the magic which hides your true appearance.

“That’s just how our kind is, we need that happiness to grow properly.” He rubbles, eyeing your shocked expression. “We also happen to be fickle creatures ironically, and if a newborn is thought to need too much care, it is pawned off on humans who have more patience.” He clarifies, smiling as you seem to take him in with new eyes.

“You— are you a faery too? You just seem…” he chuckles as you awkwardly trail off.

“Evil? Centuries ago humans once called me the devil,” he laughs, his dark hair falling into his face like a waterfall as he shakes the loose fluffy curls, his pointed horns jutting from the top of his forehead jet black and smooth like ivory. He was too beautiful to call a devil, though you supposed it could be because of that which he was deemed so. His every feature seeming to catch your gaze with it’s beauty.

“I was going to say different…” you trail off shyly. “You don’t seem evil to me at least.”

He pauses, taking you in again as you regard him with those harmless eyes still wet with drying tears. It’d been centuries too since he’d left his kingdom, the entrance to the veil this lake he occasionally comes up to lounge by. He hasn’t seen a human since then, let alone a changeling or uncorrupted little faery like you.

He likes those pretty tears. He finds it annoying you shed them for humans you should guiltlessly take from.

His smile widens, eyes glittering mischievously and nearly glowing as he leans closer. The smell of sugar and cinnamon wafting off of him as you breathe in, nearly gasping as your mouth waters.

“How’s this little one? I’ll teach you how to be a faery, to show you there is nothing wrong with you.”

His eyes, where they should be white are entirely inky black, golden irises with reddened pupils framed by dark thick lashes, looked sincerely upon you.

He seemed genuine and kind despite his towering humanoid figure which looked to be capable of killing you easily.

It warmed you though, the thought of wanting to belong strong as you nod with a smile.

“I’d be eternally grateful.” You nod.

Sealing your fate.

“Tell me your name.” He asks sweetly, because despite his menacing size and sharp teeth and nails, your new friend was nothing but kind and gentle with you.

“Y/N” you reply easily, letting him playfully ruffle your hair as he picks out the leaves which got tangled in your locks from your travels here.

When he repeats it though, wonderful shivers shoot down your spine. He smiles, cooing at you like one might a baby as a he teases, “Such a cute name for a cute faery.”

You weakly protest, but fall into easy laughter as he swiftly changes the subject.

He was discussing proper fae etiquette. The basics, to not say please or thank you or I’m sorry. They all meant you expected more from the other or wouldn’t reciprocate, and that was just bad manners.

His soft hands, which could easily cover your entire face, were settled on your upper arms, having sat you in the grass against his chest.

He liked holding you close. Your little figure so soft, and from the dark circles beneath your human appearance, he assumed the neglect from the humans you resided amongst was growing worse. It was bad for your development.

“You should come live out here, they are vile creatures you know.” He comments every time you visit, though he never forces you to stay with him.

“It’s because I make them unhappy…” you explain sheepishly.

He shakes his head, thick brow arching as he rolls his eyes. “You are nearly completely mature now, you suck no happiness from your surroundings anymore silly girl.” Your confusion was palpable as he sighs and further explains, enjoying the squish of your tender flesh as he lightly squeezes you.

“While it is true fae infants are quite the hassle to raise, it isn’t as tortuous as humans make it out to be. In fact, most fae will take their child back if not treated well by their human surrogates.”

You hum, relaxing back against his warm chest and breathing in his sugary scent.

“So why wasn’t I—,” you stop short, brows furrowed but no longer speaking.

He doesn’t pry further, leaning his chin atop your head as he looks out at the lake.

“You won’t tell me?” You push, annoyed how he dances around your question endlessly. Your companion close enough that you feel insulted he won’t reveal it.

“My name is not to be uttered aloud, least calamity befall this land~” he’s teasing, you know he is, but still he refuses to divulge his name. “I gave you mine,” you argue again, huffing as he chuckles and lightly shoves you to your back on the grass, leaning over you and caging you in beneath him.

The moon is bright like the first time you’d met, illuminating his other worldly beauty.

“If you wish to call me something, call me Master,” he laughs, his sharp teeth no longer scaring you, but making your thighs squeeze together whenever he flashes them. He acts nothing like an immortal being, too immature and jovial to resemble someone having lived for thousands of years.

“So why do you get my name, but I don’t get yours?” You question in annoyance, avoiding his kiss to your cheek by jerking your face away. He huffs, sharp gaze daring you to dodge again.

You do. Earning yourself a warning nip to your collarbone as you yelp.

“Mean!” You cry, pushing at his chest as he snickers.

“Yes little flower, I am very, very, mean.” He rumbles, chest literally vibrating much like a cat does to purr.

“You give me weird nicknames…” you mutter, giving up as he licks your cheek. You don’t fight it, even as it feels foreign to you, trying to accept this side of your culture.

He licks your neck, lavishing the point where your pulse races with wet kisses and you tremble and struggle to act unaffected beneath him.

His smile is dangerous outside your view.

“Star!” You giggle, his rumble of irritation not the least intimidating to you as you roll away.

“That is an awful nickname.” He hisses, face twisted in disgust as you throw out the most horrendous names you could conjure in your pretty head at him.

“Lumi!” He growls.

“Then… Kitty?” He nearly bites you, careful not to play too roughly as he lightly tackles you down.

“If I give you a nickname, will you cease your little game?” He feels his anger fade as he wraps his arms around your smaller figure, easily pulling you into his lap. You don’t even flinch, too engrossed in your amusement to care where he handles you. You nod happily, your wish finally being fulfilled.

“Very well you stubborn creature,” he chides, “In addition to Master, you may also call me King.”

You frown. Clearly displeased by the lack of intimacy in the name. He laughs, amused by your obvious dislike. He kisses your puffed cheeks, over your pouty lips, and down to your vulnerable neck. Snickering as he goes, adoring how you so easily become pliant for him.

“I am teasing pretty flower, there was a time long ago I was called Ava, will you settle now?” He asks, voice husky as he sucks a mark into your skin, your little whine flaring his desires.

A strong urge to press you down and mate you nearly overpowers his control, but he merely holds you close and breathes your floral scent in to calm himself.

“I still prefer Kitty…” His eye twitches.

“Ava… this feels weird…” he pauses, looking down at your small form still cloaked like a human. Weak beneath him, partially nude as your skirt is pulled up to your soft belly. Your thighs are spread and shaking, his lips sucking another mark onto the thin skin of your inner thigh while you writhe.

He had your wet dripping slit open to the night air and his lustful gaze, begging for his tongue to taste.

“You don’t want to please me?” He asks, purring as you pout but deny. You were such a good little girl for him after all, so eager to learn and soak up his attention.

He resumes, licking down your thigh until his face rested above the warm mound you so sweetly offered him.

“You’re being so good for me petal, can you keep your legs open or should I help you?” He doesn’t need to look up to know you’re shaking in arousal and embarrassment. He can feel the tremors through the air as you struggle to keep your thighs spread as he asked.

“I-I need help…” you admit, feeling terribly hot as he keeps licking you, except where you seem to ache for him to lick.

He easily shifts forward, arms wrapping around you and letting your legs rest over his shoulders as he finally lets his tongue slip out to taste you.

You glance down, choking at the sight and feeling as he lets his entire tongue come out, the appendage inhumanly long and colored purple. It feels strange, the wet slimy feeling of his tongue slithering through your folds, but when he nudges the tiny nub hidden above your slit, you moan.

It sends jolts of electricity through you, hips canting up so he can to lick there again, earning you a hearty chuckle as he obliges. Licking and even curling his tongue around it, riling you up as your tiny hole leaks arousal and drips down your ass to the earth below.

“You’re making a mess petal, do you feel good? Should I stick my tongue inside you this time?” You moan, feeling the muscle prod at your unused vaginal entrance, too hazy to bother responding. He doesn’t wait for your answer, letting the thin tip of his tongue lap and taste your heady desire before poking and wiggling inside you.

It has your legs shooting straight, back arching as he holds you down with one large hand placed over your belly and chest. He groans as he feels the molten texture of your insides struggling against his intrusion, trying to force him out of your tight heat as he surges forward.

The tip of his tongue curls, swirling up and knocking the air from your lungs as a rush of hot liquid spills from your insides for him to drink down.

You shook and twitched, moaning and curling your hands around his curved horns like a handle.

The touch sends blood racing to his cock, as he moans and loudly slurps your cum down with audible squelching, enjoying the cries you released into the quiet night.

He lets you rest as he pulls back for just a moment, your body limp and panting as your high comes down.

“Good girl~” he praises, leaning over you to kiss softly at your sweaty skin, licking that too and tasting the sweet and salty mixture.

Then he’s pressing his lips against yours, forcing them open to sneak his long tongue inside your mouth, filling it and claiming that space too as his own. You’re helpless to resist, delirious on pleasure as he devours you, wiggling muscle curling and rubbing erotically around your own.

He tastes like sugar and something heavier, more musky, as you come to realize it as your own taste.

“Is this… really normal…?” You can help but ask as he pulls away, his lips still sticking close to trail kisses across your skin.

“It’s quite normal little flower, are you shy still?” He asks curiously, lifting one of your small hands and bringing it to his face, his size dwarfing you considerably. He lightly nibbles on your fingers, making a giggle bubble up as you smile and then squirm when he grins and licks your hand instead.

“A little…” you admit honestly. Always so honest and open.

He nods, as if completely understanding.

“That’s alright, we’re in no rush, I’ll teach you slowly…” there’s something else not said in his words, and you’re left drunk on his pheromones and lips as he distracts you. Then he’s kissing down, discarding your clothing and leaving you naked for his mouth and curious fingers.

Your breasts are lavished in his saliva, pebbled nipples sucked until standing upright before poked down with the tip of his tongue playfully. Always so playful, Ava nips and teases your skin, blinking innocently when you moan and glare accusingly.

“It’s not my fault you enjoy this so much petal~” he pouts, looking comical and so harmless, his glittery gold wings, almost translucent behind him, fluttering as if indignant to your silent accusation.

The golden tattoos which marked his skin more visible tonight, his clothing more minimal in his wish to feel more of you as he explores and plays.

Then he’s parting your thighs and throwing you into ecstasy again.

“Who did it?”

You sat curled around yourself, terror and dread swirling inside of you at the new side of Ava you’d never been graced with before.

The side you supposed was reserved for his enemies, but now showed to you.

Despite your fear, the tears spilling down your cheeks, and the injuries you bore, you still remained stubbornly silent.

He was going insane with rage and anguish.

You truly were a flower. So delicate and easily destroyed.

“Y/N… while I am being reasonable…Tell. Me. Who. Did. It.”

For all the times he’d made himself smaller, less alarming and more charming than his true nature called for, it made this time more appallingly. He stood to his full height, like an unwavering tree he did not budge or allow you to leave, golden eyes flaring and mixing with his red pupils to create something alarming. Even the markings which covered his dark skin seemed to glow and match his eyes, magic crackling in the air and silencing the night further.

As if the stars and moon were frightened too.

Still, still, you did not speak, even as he closed in on you, your fear so strong it almost choked him. Almost. He was too angry, too furious with the humans he liked to cast out of his mind. They needed to be taught a lesson it seemed. Their fear of the Fae renewed. They were becoming arrogant, as if their species was even in the same standing as them.

Your pretty injured face and form, battered from abuse and humiliation, was all the information he truly needed.

If you wanted to protect them, and not tell him, then he’d just punish them all as if they were the culprits.

It soothed him finally, his decision made as the ominous energy around him faded slowly. He let his rage dissipate, worry and concern bleeding through now as he crouched and shuffled towards you, claws spread and outstretched towards you.

“Come here Y/N, keep your secrets, but allow me to hold and comfort you…” his eyes darkened, the glow leaving behind almost a copper color, somber as he looks at you. There’s not pity in his eyes though, as you swallow and sigh in relief, grateful to crawl into his warm embrace where it feels safe.

He’s gentle as he wraps you in his arms, lips and tongue soothing as he tastes your tears and blood.

He grits his teeth, focusing on your scent and the feel of you to calm himself again, before letting his magic seep into your skin. You easily absorbed it, soaking it up like a sponge as your pain and injuries heal.

“Ava—?” Your eyes widen, amazement in their depths which stroke his ego as he taps his forehead against your own. His horns slightly tangling in your hair.

“Do you not want to drop the illusion on yourself?” He asks softly, staring at the human image your portray. He didn’t want to admit it, but it enraged him to see you still trying to live amongst them.

You seem surprised, before looking away nervously.

“It just feels strange… to not see myself anymore,” you confess, burrowing deeper into his chest while enjoying his ability to heal and soothe you. His sugary smell lightening your heavy heart.

He nods slowly, eyes staring at nothing over the still lake.

He holds you a little tighter.

Then you’re asleep.

The burns and screams of the people echo, the night come to life with flames and chaos.

Ava stands leisurely, smile filled with fondness as he watches the human village he’d followed and found to be your residence burn.

He’d spent all night playing with them, listening to them confess the awful things they’d done to you, said to you, and tried to do to you. They even thought of sacrificing you to some nonexistent deity, which only prolonged the nightmare he’d turned the populace into.

He laughed as the sounds swirled into music for his ears, the sharp points curling in delight as he hummed a tune older than the trees towering in this forest.

The night was still coming to an end sadly, and he’d need to return to your unconscious body still where he’d left it.

He didn’t want to let you wake in your new home alone after all.

His body covered in the blood of mortals he’d torn into and feasted on, Ava left them to perish.

Alone you woke. In a bed four times the size of any normal one, within the walls of a palace you’d only ever seen depicted in stories told by faraway travelers.

You glanced down, at hands unlike ones you were accustomed to seeing. You were nude, unable to hide from yourself as you felt tears begin to sprout. The illusion magic wasn’t working, and you couldn’t understand why.

This body was your true form, not that of the human you continuously tried to convince yourself you were. You hadn’t showed Ava, too afraid he’d see your appearance and dislike you for it.

While he was magnificent, you felt puny and odd.

A hiss snatches you from your self loathing, eyes flicking up to land on the one you’d just been thinking of.

He was covered in something, though you weren’t entirely sure what until he moved closer. The pearls lining his chambers glowed softly, his appearance more vibrant as he closed the distance between himself and the bed you laid on.

You sucked in a breath, realization dawning as the red contrasts against his skin. His lower face completely smeared in it, but his lips seemed clean. Until he grinned, red stained sharp teeth with chunks of dark meat stuck in between.

You remembered briefly him mentioning being mistaken for a demon.

You finally understood as a strange fear blossomed in your gut and you scooted away. Confusion and terror consuming you, but your body not catching up with your mind, because it recognized his scent and touch. You didn’t move quick enough, a clawed hand easily curling around your ankle and tugging you close. You slid smoothly over the cool silk, brought close to his body radiating heat. He only wore trousers, his taloned feet bare and ankles revealed as he’d cuffed them up to avoid bloody human fingers trying to grip them.

“Oh my little flower, look at you,” his eyes are swirling melted gold, enchanting and so disorienting. His beauty becoming savage with the blood and human flesh he adorned.

“A-Ava…” you want to ask, but you also don’t want the answer.

Did he find out who hurt you? Or was it unrelated? It seemed too coincidental.

Your chest constricted painfully as he stared down at you in wonder. Your true form so lovely it took his breath away, your image so fitting for you it was a wonder why you didn’t prefer this over your human mirage. Your ears, pointed like his own, were curled down a little with your emotions, as his eyes traced your face.

The shape was the same, your body still so small, and your eyes still expressed every little thought without fail.

He hated to admit it was even cuter, though he mused it was likely because he was the first to see your true form.

An abandoned young changeling, one he only took mild interest in, had him so thoroughly ravenous for all of you now.

“Isn’t this more comfortable petal? Instead of masquerading as a filthy human, aren’t you happier to just be you now?” His callous words seem off, but you can’t quite fathom it all as the shock settles in.

“My precious flower faery, are you scared?” Yes, you wanted to scream, as his bloody face and body near you, his sugary scent over powered by the scent of iron and death. Fae hated iron. He shouldn’t be comfortable.

You choked, jerking back and trying to crawl away from him, but he still had your ankle caged in his hand.

He laughs, but it’s empty and devoid of any true humor as he stares down at you with something dark in his gaze.

He yanks you back, harshly and sending a jolt of pain up your leg as you cry out, pulled back beneath him as he crawls onto the bed over you.

He’s too close, nausea consuming you as you smell and see the gore adorning him.

He finds your useless fear amusing and annoying all at once.

“I asked you a question little flower.” He grips your face, smushing your cheeks and making you look at him.

He rolls his eyes as the tears you so love to shed spill down your cheeks.

“Yes… I-I’m scared…” his smile softens, almost becoming sweet and familiar.

“Good. You should be.” Your blood runs cold.

He has the mercy to bathe, but not alone. You watch as the spray of water from some sort of piping turns pink as it disappears through tiny holes in the marble floor.

He’s nude, like you, and even though you cower and try to turn away, he easily stops any and all retreats with hardly any effort.

“I thought you didn’t like the blood? I’m still not clean petal.” His fluffy curls are flattened by the water falling above, the warm spray soaking you both as you try not to wonder why the sticky redness won’t just wash away with the water. The dried portions difficult to get off without physically touching and rubbing him with your soapy hands. You wanted to know why he was doing this, being so mean.

His ears look more distinct with his hair flat, onyx horns prominent against his forehead as his lashes hold droplets of water to frame his golden eyes.

You try not to show it, but as the blood clears and his dark smooth gold lined skin is revealed, you notice the hard lines of muscle and purple veins which protrude.

You only come up just below his chest, and you can’t look down, least you see it again.

He was making you nervous and scared on purpose, but you couldn’t understand why.

Like a coward you didn’t ask either, because you feared the answer even more.

Ava shifts, fingers coming up to cup your face in his hands and tilt your head up as he leans over you and blocks the water falling. His claws jut out beside your head, one lightly tickling your pointed little ear.

He licks his lips, loving the sight of you soaked and naked, your pretty form so enthralling to his eyes he struggles to contain himself.

“Do you want my help…?” His tone is condescending, eyes uncaring in the least about your inner turmoil.

“Here,” he drops one hand, engulfing your wrist and forcing you to plant your hand against his abdomen. “You have to wash like this—,” he teaches patiently, like none of this was happening and everything was fine. He moves your soft little hand back and forth, the soap quick to wash away as the water continues to fall. “You need more soap petal.” He informs gently, moving to stop the warm spray and letting you both stand in silence now, drops of water falling the only noise besides your breathing.

He sighs when you don’t move, your eyes trained on the corner of the spacious bathing room, where an in ground bath rests. He would take you to the hot springs later.

He fills the hand he has control of with soap, and amuses himself with using it like a washcloth, your little fingers curling as your lips tilt down into a frown.

“Since you need the help,” he goads, watching as those sweet familiar doe eyes flash up a glare from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, a nasty grin filled with something sinister as he chuckles darkly. “Don’t want to be my good girl anymore?” It’s a loaded question you’re unsure of how to answer.

It hardly matters as he forces your hand down, until you jolt at the change in body part you were touching. He forces your fingers to close around his throbbing length, unable to touch or fully wrap around it as your head jerks instinctively to look at what he was making you do.

“A-Ava—,” you try to pull away, but to no avail. He only hums, the soap like lube as he uses your hand to jerk his cock, amused as you stare in shock. He won’t let you go, not when the sight of your smaller form holding his leaking rod is so arousing he comes a minute a later. Hips thrusting with the timing of the squeeze he forces your hand to hold, hot ropes of his seed shooting out onto your chest and belly as he cages you with his free arm from moving away. He allows his purple tapered tip to smear the remaining pearls of his seed on your skin, ignoring your whine of protest as he paints you.

“Fuck, that’s it, be good for me pretty girl,” he growls lightly, chest rattling as he releases his pent up frustration on your confused form.

Really, you couldn’t be more adorable covered in his release looking dazed.

His golden eyes heavy lidded as he crouches down to catch your lips in a heated kiss.

You swallow nervously, staring at Ava as he stares at you from across his bed chambers.

You’d fallen asleep after… after bathing, if you could even call it that, and awoken later to find yourself alone again. Ava missing and your body covered by fine silk sheets while you slept.

You’d scrambled about the room looking for escape, finding nothing but a single exit locked, which Ava now stood before.

He wore a pair of silken sleep pants, tailored to his enormous figure as well as a matching robe left loose and revealing a majority of his chest and abdomen. His wings weren’t physical but a magic which naturally formed behind him, you’d learned.

The gold markings on his body were duller than earlier, his eyes less vibrant and more cool as he looks at you.

He seems more… familiar. Less of the Ava covered in blood and flesh of humans and more of the one you’ve befriended.

He’s silent, unmoving as he stands still in the doorway.

You don’t want to make the first move, unsure in this new environment, but you similarly disliked all of this distance and miscommunication between you both.

You moved cautiously, much like the skittish animal he likens you to in his mind, off the bed. You’d wrapped yourself in one of his sheets, his scent clinging to you the only thing stopping him from tearing it off you in annoyance. He stays put, muscles taunt and jaw clenched as you approach him like he might harm you.

He debated it.

Briefly showing you why you should be obedient and just listen, but dismissing it in favor of you liking him at least to some degree.

When you reach him, he merely stares down at you, face impassive unlike your nervous and awkward expression.

“Ava…?” He finally shifts, leaning down to close the distance a little but still not touching you. It’s you who initiates, because he’s certain he’s trained you well enough in your past touch starved state that you can’t resist the comfort and warmth he provides. You wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your figure to his while looking up with those honest eyes he adores.

He finally relaxes, your touch so addicting he was unable to resist wrapping you further into his embrace while lifting you up. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, warm bare cunt now pressed against his abdomen while your arms come around his neck. The sheet loosening and falling down to pool at his feet. He finally smiles at your flustered state, not letting you climb down to grab it, instead moving you both towards his—your—bed and easily laying you down to drape over you.

“You’re calmer than I imagined you’d be…” he murmurs against the skin of your neck, kissing up to your jaw. “Should I prepare for your wrath later little flower?” He muses, lifting up to look at your expression.

“Was that blood… from a human?” You look guarded but he isn’t surprised.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill them?” He affirms again.

“Was it because of… me?” Those sweet eyes looked so haunted as you asked, as if you knew what he was going to say.

“No. It wasn’t because of you.”

You check his face, as if he were a human and would lie to you as they do.

“Then why did you do it?” You breathed, sagging in relief beneath him. His lips twitch, molten eyes shining with adoration as he looks upon you.

“They greatly offended me.” He answers vaguely, but it was the truth. They offended him by breathing and walking the earth. It was a direct insult to him. They only met misfortune because they caught his attention.

You seemed happy to accept whatever rid you of any guilt, looking up at him less fearfully now that he was clean and not being mean to you. Though, you both shared very different definitions of being “mean”.

“Am I staying the night?” You asked him curiously. You had thought he’d brought you here as he didn’t know where your home in the village was when you’d fallen asleep.

He shook his head, lips curling higher.

“You’re staying forever.” He declares, sweet scent filling your senses as he comes close enough to kiss you.

Then he does.

You thought his teasing was funny, lips tilting up finally as the awkwardness dissipates and familiarity rises.

This is your Ava, warm sweet Ava that smells so good it makes you crave sweets you cannot afford.

He presses you further into the unfathomably soft bed, his lips demanding as you open for him.

“Ava,” you break the kiss, breathing heavier as he growls and nips at your bottom lip, a shiver wracking you as he leans back enough to meet your gaze. “What we’re doing… it’s what lovers and spouses do isn’t it? At least, this is what human lovers do…” your voice becomes smaller as he stares down as you with an expression you couldn’t name.

“And?” He encourages.

You look away for a moment, gathering your thoughts before remembering out of all the cruelty in the world, Ava was the outlier.

“Is that what we’re doing? Like lovers?” You felt too embarrassed to directly state it, to say it aloud, and equally scared this isn’t anything different than exchanging a handshake with another faery to him. It was different to you.

“Do you want it to be?” He leans down, placing a feather soft kiss against your temple so you couldn’t see his eyes glowing bright. “Do you want us to be like lovers little flower?” His voice is deeper than usual, strained almost as he holds himself perfectly still above you.

You take the time to think, much to his displeasure, but when you answer it was everything for him.

“I do.”

He places a chaste kiss to your lips, his own tilting higher and higher until he’s grinning gleefully.

“Then that’s what we’ll be.” He confirms, and you miss it.

You miss every little trap he’d laid, each tiny piece of the puzzle forming around you like a cage. You miss everything and it’s too late to go back now. Ava muses wickedly, as he kisses you more sensually, lets his claws drag so delicately down your soft skin, he thinks how stupid you are.

“I’ll be all yours if you ask for it Y/N,” he speaks directly into your pointed ear, hot breath making the tips curl as you whine. The way he says your name is different than usual, more serious and seductive. You realize this seems wrong somehow, the way he’s making you melt so easily like this, how your panic and fear evaporated so quickly. You aren’t given time to think further, when he shifts and sits up. He sneers when you attempt to cover yourself again, gripping your wrist and lightly pulling you up too. On your knees, you face his chest, eyes looking up to see his heated expression.

Ava cups your jaw with one hand, and pokes at your lip with the other.

He doesn’t ask before his thumb invades your mouth, and you fight not to bite down or jerk away with his pointed claw inside.

He’s exploring, squeezing your cheeks until you open wide so he can playfully run over your sharpened canines. Curiously playing with your tongue until he leans down licks it with his own. It felt strange and erotic, your body vibrating with nerves and budding arousal as he explores you.

“Ava…” you wanted to touch him too, but he didn’t seem to be listening as he lets his hands trail down to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples as your back arches into them.

So you let your own hands wander, bolder than usual as you feel his solid form beneath you. His skin is much softer than it appears, strange markings and golden symbols flat. He had no softer points aside from that, muscles like stone and occasionally uncomfortable to lounge against due to it.

He squeezes your waist, smiling mischievous as you yelp and glare at him. He does it again, finally chuckling as he lets his hands slip to your ass.

This time his squeeze makes you gasp, as he parts your ass cheeks and allows your heated core to be exposed to the air. His claws so careful not to tear your skin open as he drags you taunt against him, rutting his hardened cock against your soft belly.

He moans aloud as he sees the tip poke out between you, your breasts above a delicious sight as he does it again and again.

“You drive me wild pretty faery,” he smiles, licking your cheek as he easily lifts you up to toss you to the center of the bed. You sink in, huffing but giggling as he crawls over you, looking like a dark angel as he covers you completely to capture your lips in a much more filthy kiss.

“I want to devour you,” he purrs, licking and kissing down your neck and chest, spreading your legs. “Make you mine completely,” you moan, feeling delirious as he finally licks your sloppy pussy.

You moan when you feel his fingers prod your entrance, sharp claws gone and retracted as he pushes one inside you while he laps at your clit. It feels different and firmer than his tongue, able to rub and stretch you better as he begins sucking on your puffy nub and purring deep in his chest. “Your little nub is hard~ are you feeling good?” He teases, wiggling the tip of his tongue over your engorged clit.

Then he’s pressing a second finger in, a mild burn heating your core as you gasp and try to shift away to no avail. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, spearing them into you, your soft gummy walls forcefully spread around the two digits as he noisily slurps. He’s being messy and a bit rough, but your moans spur him on as he groans into your pussy when you begin clawing at his hair and whining.

“Ava! S’too much! Can’t—!” You squeak and almost bite your tongue when you cum, pussy sucking his fingers deep and massaging them as you soak his hand and face.

He doesn’t stop, eyes glowing bright molten gold as he watches you squirm and babble senselessly while he stuffs a third finger into your poor overstimulated cunt. Your little hole stretched wide around him, and he’s content to watch as your greedy lower mouth takes it as he pumps them into you.

You’re less amused though, body thrumming as the pleasure becomes overwhelming and you panic.

“Stop, I’m gonna make a mess, Ava stop—!” You cry out, eyes watering before tears fall as you struggle to stop the powerful pressure building in your core, hurting you with the intensity as he pushes you further and further. “Your insides are steadily swallowing and sucking my fingers in, aren’t you a little lewd?” He asks, unaffected by your dull nails digging into his forearm, eyes trained on your drooling hole below.

He’s got an iron grip on your hip with his other hand, nails digging into your flesh every time you try to squirm away. “You’re so lovely like this petal.”

He’s fascinated when you break again, clear fluid squirting up and out from your squelching pussy as he continues to shove his fingers in.

You cum so hard it nearly causes you to lose consciousness, eyes rolling back as you twitch and moan as the dam inside you bursts open.

You whine as he pulls free, hand dripping in gooey arousal as he brings it to his lips and slurps it up without any decorum, appearing almost starved as he gazes down at you with the eyes of a predator. “Messy girl~ I’ll teach you though,” his lips pull back to reveal his sharp teeth, “When you feel so good you think you’ll break, you’re supposed to say I’m coming, do you understand?” He asks darkly.

“No more…” your weak plea only makes him smirk, kissing you softly as he slides forward and uses both hands to cover your hips and lift your lower half up.

Your eyes feel heavy as you force them open, slow to realize that his enormous cock is now laid over your pussy, pulsing and dragging back and forth through your slick folds. The thick veiny appendage causes your trepidation to rise, realization dawning that he intends to fit that inside of you.

“It won’t fit—,” you weren’t being cute or coy, because while you may not be human, your form was still the same size as one. He was much, much bigger, and his cock certainly fit his proportions. You try to catch his attention, unable to close your legs with his body between them. “Ava,” He’s truly not hearing you at all, too enthralled and excited as he lubes his massive length up with your juices. He’s shaking a bit too, heart beating rapidly in his chest as he coos down at you mindlessly, golden orbs almost unseeing at this point as he lines up with your entrance.

“So good for me petal~ you’re all mine aren’t you?” He breathes, and you feel the weight and pressure begin as his tip breaches.

“Wait, stop Ava—!” You whine as the sting becomes a burn and then you’re being filled to the point of excess as you struggle to breathe anymore.

“Shh—♡,” he hushes you, pained as well due to the pressure around him, strangling him as he grimaces and drags back out a little before surging forward. “You’re mine now petal,” he groans.

You’re unable to form words as he works his cock into you like a piece which doesn’t quite fit, bullying and stretching you open to forcefully fit himself.

He leans more weight down onto you as you struggle and writhe, noisy cries falling on deaf ears as he feels himself slipping deeper as your body finally gives up on keeping him out. His tip touches your cervix, before shoving even further and smashing it up as your stomach aches in protest.

You lay limp as he finally bottoms out, twitching with your mouth open and drool pooling down your chin as you feel nothing but the feeling of him inside you. He huffs a laugh, the way you look ruined before he’s even gotten started.

You look like a doll in his grasp, his cock extending your stomach a little as it twitches inside you. Your thighs ache as they’re naturally forced up, unable to spread fully enough for him to settle so he’d merely folded you and pressed you down to prevent escape.

“You did it pretty girl, look at you~” he grins, one hand leaving your hip to press on your belly, making your eyes widen and roll back as you whine. “You took every inch of me in this cute cunt didn’t you?” This male over you isn’t familiar, even as his sugary scent seems to increase and smother you, he seems foreign in his words and actions.

The inconsistencies are difficult to track as he drags himself out of you, the fullness replaced by feeling each ridge and bump of veins decorating his cock as he slides out.

Then he’s pushing in again, stealing your breath and ability to think as he starts to fuck you.

“Don’t worry petal, I won’t hurt you,” you can’t quite understand as he pushes his thick rod inside you, brain shutting off as you go pliant in his hold. “I’ll go nice and slow so you never forget,” he moans as you tighten and jerk, “who owns you.” He’s holding back with all his might as you spasm and grip him in inside of you, walls sucking him back in as he moves to exit.

You make him forget.

As you slick his cock up with your juices, he begins to slip in easier, folding you down further into a mating press as he looks down at your teary face. You make him forget all the time he’s spent alone. Your moans increase as he picks up the pace, pounding nice and deep inside of you and ridding you of any thought beside him. He slips a hand down between you both, claws retracted completely as he softly presses on your swollen clit and throws you reeling into another orgasm around him. “Say it petal,” he grits out, the feeling of you tightening drawing his own end. He’s hardly able to move inside you, short thrusts all he can manage as he drags you over the edge.

“I’m coming—!” Your head tips back, neck bared to his eyes as you cum for him obediently.

He fills you up right after, heavy engorged balls drawing up as he pumps his first load of the day into you. His thrusts not stopping as he rocks forward, expression relaxing as his magic swirls inside of you, his mating mark slowly sinking into your soul as he works to keep his seed deep within your womb. You’re too fucked out to notice, the pleasure and pressure overwhelming your senses as you try to rest now.

Except his cock doesn’t soften.

He thrusts hard once he’s sure his bond has settled, feeling you so much deeper in his soul as he drags his cock out almost all the way. “It’s like your little hole misses me already,” he smiles, watching as you flutter around his tip as if to tell him you don’t want him to leave. “Tell me petal,” he slides back inside, jolting you awake as you stare incredulously down at where you both connect. The slick sounds of him slipping into your sticky wet entrance haunting as you whine, hands digging into fine silk as you try to push away.

He only presses you down harder, cock burrowing deep as if to anchor you. His eyes are wild and swirling, the color so bright it’s almost blinding in the dim room. “How does it feel to lose?”

You blank. His question not making any sense as the room spins and you’re overcome again with pleasure so intense it makes your toes and feet curl in the air where they rest.

“How does it feel to be utterly mine for the rest of eternity?” You gasp, tearing at the sheets as he picks up the pace, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to truly fuck you now. Enormous cock working you into a frenzy as you yelp when two fingers pinch painfully around a nipple. “You’re not going back pretty girl,” he laughs, face wicked and beautiful as you look up through blurry eyes spilling tears. “You’ll not return to that filthy human village,” he releases your sore nipple in favor of loosely gripping your throat, feeling your pulse beneath his hand. “You are not in the land of Fae sweet flower,” he lets his lips ghost over yours, his tip bullying your cervix as you writhe and move to claw at his shoulders. “You are in my kingdom, ours, where the corrupted Fae separate themselves,” you’re lost, eyes crossing almost dumbly as you come again, choking as you cry out his name.

You can’t move even an inch, unable to even squirm as you’re forced to take each punishing inch of his cock and he ruts into you.

“Your pussy keeps tightening up when I tell you all the ways you’re mine. Do you like this?” He delights in your pathetic attempt to push at his chest, clearly finished despite his balls still being heavy with his seed he intends to spill into you.

“A-Av-Ava!” You struggle to form even his name, let alone any sentences as he keeps up his fast and brutal pace. Though, from his perspective he was still holding back as he moans and spills himself inside you again.

“Yes flower?” He coos, pushing your hair out of your sweaty face as he pulls out just enough to grip your thigh and turn you on your side, sliding back to the hilt again. He hugs your leg to his chest, working his cock at a new angle in your abused pussy still spilling cum from earlier. “I’m listening,” he chuckles, knowing you can’t speak, aware his cock was keeping you like this.

Words die down as he uses his hand not holding your leg up to grip your hip, holding you still while pushing his hips forward, railing himself inside your exhausted body. Your head rests against the bed, mouth open as your saliva soaks into the sheets, eyes staring at nothing as you feel another impending orgasm approaching.

Ava doesn’t mind, adoring the cute cock drunk expression as he uses you like a toy, filling you up over and over while you slowly lose your mind. “I’m sorry—Ava please, I’m sorry,” your slurred speech and delirious voice make him laugh. Genuinely amused by your rambling, “Why are you sorry petal? I’m not mad,” he catches your lips, tongue invading and swallowing your cries. He finds you so cute.

His cute, stupid little changeling, so trusting and unaware of his unsavory intentions.

You lose consciousness and count when he comes with his hips pressed deeply into your ass, pressing you belly first into his hand as he keeps you angled up to meet his thrusts. Your sensitive chest rubbing against the silk below, body limp as your world goes black and you convulse around him.

This time he lets you fall flat into the soaked bedding, taking his still hard cock out so he can pry apart your pussy lips and watch his release ooze out of your gaping hole.

His golden eyes flick up to your sleeping form, lips pulling as he coos, “Cute~♡” before he’s stuffing you full again, merciless as he leans on one arm to keep from crushing you as he continues to drill into you.

Even when you regain consciousness, trying to crawl away from his torturous pleasure, he only grips your arm and twists it gently behind you to hold. “You’re soaked and so hot inside, do you know how crazy you’re making me?” He groans, almost sounding like he’s in pain as you squeeze and come again. “I’m not letting you go, stop trying to run. You’ve already lost sweet girl.” As he lifts his hips, tip still encased by your wet hot heat, he eyes the slick mess which coats you both and connects you to him. “Go ahead and go crazy too, be good and listen.” He laughs, slamming back in and making your back arch as you nearly scream, feeling him so deep it makes you wonder if he’s going to break you. You really will go crazy, it’s a fleeting thought stolen by his cock once again, but you truly worry as he drowns you with euphoria and madness.

He’s hunched and leaning over your back, letting his tongue and teeth tease your ear so sweetly while he pounds you stupid, whispering to you things you won’t remember.

“You wanted my name so badly, didn’t you my lovely mate?” He knows you don’t understand, but it doesn’t stop him from speaking on, husky voice lulling you as you cry and lose yourself to pleasure. “I’ll tell you since you’re being so good, taking my seed so well~” he lets a little more weight settle on top of you, his cock nestling into your deepest parts with it.

“I am Avarice.”

Post dividers by @cafekitsune

#Dark Fae King x reader #Yandere Fae King x reader #Yandere Fae #monster smut #Greed x reader #Fae smut #faecore #yancore #yandere x reader #fae king #yandere smut #Dark Fae #kinktober fun #request filled #afab reader #Fae x reader smut #changeling #changeling reader

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just-some-user-hunny · 3 months ago

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The Cannibal dragon headcanons ...

(art credit for middle image, ig: dracalyss)

. Cannibal is a huge dragon, the largest of all wild-dragons, but I can't see him being any larger than Vhagar- let alone Balerian the black dread. I imagine he'd be a tad bit smaller than Vhagar- just about. His build is bulky and scarred, a thick neck of scarred obsidian scales, a set of jagged jet-black spikes that run along his spine, and covered in thick taut muscle and hardened flesh. His eyes are a blazing emerald green, teeth sharp and jagged like a shark.

. I also love the idea of him having this 'grinning' look on his face, like a crocodile or the indoraptor from Jurassic world. (His personality screams indoraptor to me, just a mean guy with a nasty lil goblin grin). And with his torn jaw and exposed teeth, it makes him look even creepier and menacing. There's something way too...human about it. Expressive in both his grin and mannerisms.

He's definitely a stare-er too. Something about a monstrously big dragon being unnervingly quiet and observing is uncomfortable, which is exactly the vibes he gives off.

. I like to visualize him as a very 'wild' looking dragon, like how'd you imagine a stray feral cat. His scales are rough and weather-worn, covered in large claw-like scars from fighting and hunting other dragons throughout his life. There's also fanart of him missing a huge chunk of flesh around his jaw and mouth, baring his teeth, which I think looks really cool :) as a young dragon he probably picked off the small and easy dragons, ones that wouldn't put up much of a fight. But as he grew in age and size, he would probably grow cocky and try his luck with larger prey. Due to him being an absolute monster, I'd imagine he'd often come up on top- but not without earning a few disfiguring scars in return.

. Despite never being bonded to a rider before, nor being ridden before in his life (he'd scoff at the mere thought of some little measly human thinking that they could climb upon his back and treat him like a pony), once he bonded with you it was like an instant connection. He is still a little edgy and unpredictable, but there is one thing for certain and that is he is always as gentle as possible with you. He'll press his body into the dirt if it allows you to climb on and off safely, craning his claws and jaw for you to step upon.

. He wouldn't wear a saddle, so you'd have to learn to ride him bareback. Thankfully he has many jagged scales and spikes to cling onto, but to be on the safe side, you'd have special riding gear to wear to help cling on. Rougher gloves and boots and trousers, it certainly helps, even if it's just a little. If anything the fact you ride bareback is a testament of your bond, showing how close and in sync you both are.

. The biggest issue with him would be his... diet, and how he'd have to adapt once he begins to hang around dragonstone more often. I'd imagine he wouldn't eat much, adding to the unpredictability of him and when he would hunt, but as his rider you'd have to supply him at least livestock every week to keep him happy and saturated. Cows, horses, large livestock due to his sheer size.

. He flies quite similar to Vhagar. His form is heavy, and although strong, he is lumbering.

Although at his age now he'd be a rather ancient dragon, he wouldn't really show his age besides a few moments where he just wants to curl up in his little cave upon his ✨private island ✨ to take a nap. In his youth he was most likely a very quick dragon, like a stalking panther striking upon his food. (Being younger dragons and hatchlings). I've seen someone write about him being a silent hunter (I'll reblog and credit once I find them), but that's such a neat idea for his character! He's survived from hunting his own kind, so he's going to hunt differently. Smarter.

. His fire in the books is described as green, and that's just too cool to swap it out with normal fire. Blazing emerald flames that engulf earth and prey, unnatural and mystical. It'd be very distinctive as well, whoever finds their fields or flocks of trees burning and crackling in a blaze of green fire, they'd know that the cannibal had just been there.

. Personality wise, I feel like he'd be cruel and sadistic, but wise and grumpy. Probably cocky as well, for having survived on his for so long and through unconventional means.

He's not a hardheaded bully, he's very tactical when it comes to facing challenges, but at this point he's such a huge threat he may be blinded by his own ego and emotions. If something were to happen to his rider, he'd make sure you'd get avenged. He's ride or die, quite literally. He'll burn everything down for you, because he feels strongly for the one human he feels he can trust. His grief is not silent or tearful, it's angry.

#the cannibal dragon #the cannibal #hotd cannibal #house of the dragon cannibal #dragons #cannibal dragon #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #hotd headcanons

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

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Weinersmith and Boulet’s “Bea Wolf”

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Bea Wolf is Zach Weinersmith and Boulet's ferociously amazingly great illustrated kids' graphic novel adaptation of the Old English epic poem, which inspired Tolkien, who helped bring it to popularity after it had languished in obscurity for centuries:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250776297/beawolf

Boy is this a wildly improbable artifact. Weinersmith and Boulet set themselves the task of bringing Germanic heroic saga from more than a thousand years ago to modern children, while preserving the meter and the linguistic and literary tropes of the original. And they did it!

There are some changes, of course. Grendel – the boss monster that both Beowulf and Bea Wulf must defeat – is no longer obsessed with decapitating his foes and stealing their heads. In Bea Wulf, Grendel is a monstrously grown up and boring adult who watches cable news and flosses twice per day, and when he defeats the kids whose destruction he is bent upon, he does so by turning them into boring adults, too.

And Bea Wulf – and the kings that do battle with Grendel – are not interested in the gold and jewels that the kings of Beowulf hoard. In Bea Wulf, the treasure is toys, chocolate, soda, candy, food without fiber, television shows without redeeming educational content, water balloons, nerf swords and spears, and other stuff beloved of kids and hated by parents.

That substitution is key to transposing the thousand-year-old adult epic Beowulf for enjoyment by small children in the 21st century. After all, what makes Beowulf so epic is the sense that it is set in a time in which a primal valor still reigned, but it is narrated for an audience that has been tamed and domesticated. Beowulf makes you long for a never-was time of fierce and unwavering bravery. Bea Wulf beautifully conjures the years of early childhood when you and the kids in your group had your own little sealed-off world, which grownups could barely perceive and never understand.

Growing up, after all, is a process of repeating things that are brave the first time you do them, over and over again, until they become banal. That's what "coming of age" really boils down to: the slow and relentless transformation of the mythic, the epic, and the unknowable and unknown into the tame, the explained, the mastered. When you're just mastering balance and coordination, the playground climber is a challenge out of legend. A couple years later, it's just something you climb.

The correspondences between the leeching away of magic lamented in Beowulf and experienced by all of us as we grow out of childhood are obvious in hindsight and surprising and beautiful and bittersweet when you encounter them in Bea Wolf.

This effect owes a large debt to Boulet's stupendous artwork. Boulet brings a vibe rarely seen in American kids' illustration, owing quite a lot to France's bande dessinée tradition. Of course, this is a Firstsecond book, and they established themselves as an exciting and fresh kids' publisher in the USA nearly 20 years ago by bringing some of Europe's finest comics to an American audience for the first time. You can get a sense of Boulet's darker-than-average, unabashedly anarchic illustrations here:

https://www.comixtrip.fr/bibliotheque/bea-wolf-weinersmith-boulet-albin-michel/

The utter brilliance of Bea Wulf is as much due to the things it preserves from the original epic as it is to the updates and changes. Weinersmith has kept the Old English tradition of alliteration, right from the earliest passages, with celebrations of heroes like "Tanya, treat-taker, terror of Halloween, her costume-cache vast, sieging kin and neighbor, draining full candy-bins, fearing not the fate of her teeth. Ten thousand treats she took. That was a fine Tuesday."

Weinersmith also preserves the kennings – the elaborate figurative compound phrases that replace nouns – that turn ordinary names and places into epithets at you have to riddle out, like calling a river "the sliding sea."

These literary devices, rarely seen today, are extremely powerful, and they conjure up the force and mystique that has kept Beowulf in our current literary discourse for more than a millennium. They also make this a super fun book to read aloud.

When Jim Henson was first conceiving of Sesame Street, he made a point of designing it to have jokes and riffs that would appeal to adults, even if some of the nuance would be lost on kids. He did this because he wanted to make art that adults and kids could enjoy together, both because that would give adults a chance to help kids actively explore the ideas on-screen, but also because it would bring some magic into those adults' lives.

This is a very winning combination (not for nothing, it's also the original design brief for Disneyland). Weinersmith and Boulet have produced a first-rate work of adult and kid literature, both a perfect entree to Beowulf for anyone contemplating a dive into old English epic poetry, and a kids' book full of booger jokes and transgressive scenes of perfect mischief.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/24/awesome-alliteration/#hellion-hallelujah

#pluralistic #beowulf #zach weinersmith #firstsecond #graphic novels #ya #kids #parenting #gift guide #reviews #epic poetry #history #generational warfare #bardic #comics #bande desinee

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

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Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause.

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess.

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond.

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her.

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that.

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain.

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy.

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice–

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty.

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here.

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him.

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter.

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes.

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.”

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers.

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again.

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless.

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess.

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

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candycandy00 · 1 year ago

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The Offering - A Sukuna x Reader Fic Part 1

Once upon a time, Sukuna was a human man, albeit a monstrously cruel and powerful one. Villages across the land worshipped him as a living deity. One such village holds a festival for seven nights in his honor every year, and on each night they make generous offerings to him, including women who are never seen again. On the fifth night, you are selected to be the offering.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Any feedback whatsoever is greatly loved! If you’d like to be tagged when I post another part, comment to let me know. You must have your age in your bio or pinned post and be 18+ to be tagged.

Smut. 18+. Sukuna is a human (my theory is that he got his four-armed body by modifying himself with jujutsu fuckery later in life). Dubcon. Mentions of rape that happened “off screen”. Very rough sex. Blood. Sukuna just generally being a sadistic monster. F!Reader.

Your forehead touched the ground, your entire body bent to bow as low as possible as the honored guest of the festival passed by. You didn’t dare look up at him. You’d heard stories of villagers being instantly beheaded by invisible blades for such an offense.

Even when he was gone, climbing up the steps to the shrine your people had built for him several years ago, you kept your head pressed to the ground. There you and all the other villagers remained until someone announced that Lord Sukuna, your village’s living deity, had gone inside the shrine.

Every year your village held a festival in Lord Sukuna’s honor. It was a week long affair, and each night generous offerings were left at the shrine’s doors for him to partake of. Sumptuous fruits, tender cooked meats, fragrant oils, delicate trinkets made of precious metals, sake of various types, and of course, beautiful women.

Lord Sukuna remained inside the shrine for the entire seven days and nights, then left until the next year, when the process began again. The women offered to him were never seen again.

On the fifth day, you were helping your mother prepare a basket of fruit for an offering. There were juicy pomegranates, glossy apples, and ripe peaches. They smelled heavenly, and you smiled as you arranged them to look as beautiful as possible.

A sudden voice at the entrance to your home caught your attention, a man speaking to your father. “Please try to stay calm,” the man was saying, “but your daughter has been selected to be tonight’s offering.”

Your mother wailed beside you, clutching you in her arms as if she could keep you from being taken. Your father turned to look at you with an anguished expression. You yourself simply felt numb. A part of you knew this could happen. You were of age, unmarried, and had been told you were pleasing to look at. It was only a matter of time, really.

So you stood in your home, your sobbing mother still holding you, as three shrine maidens walked in. They were quiet, older women dressed in white robes with downcast faces. They bowed to your parents, as if thanking them for their involuntary sacrifice, then took you by the hands. One of them helped your father pry your mother’s arms away from you as the other two led you outside. You didn’t even have time to say goodbye to your parents.

You went with the shrine maidens willingly. To struggle or resist would mean death for you and your family, and then another girl would be in your place, being pulled out of her home while her parents cried. It would happen to someone regardless tomorrow night, but at least this would spare one family the misery.

The shrine maidens took you to a small temple that sat at the base of Sukuna’s shrine. There they removed your simple garments and had you step into a large, warm bath. Floating in the water were near countless cherry blossoms, giving the entire room a sweet fragrance. You looked at the pretty pink flowers and, upon realizing this was the last time you would see them, began to cry.

One of the women came closer and rubbed your shoulder in a comforting manner. You looked up at her in surprise. The shrine maidens were normally quite stoic, keeping to themselves, maintaining Sukuna’s shrine between festivals, and helping to prepare offerings and see to the Lord’s needs while he was there. From your understanding, they were the only people besides the village elders who were allowed to have any contact with Lord Sukuna at all.

“Try to keep your head down,” the shrine maiden whispered, “and don’t look at Lord Sukuna until he tells you to. In fact, don’t do anything until he tells you to. Try to please him in whatever way he asks.”

You wiped your tears with your hands and looked at her sadly. “Does it even matter? Has any woman pleased him enough to survive?”

The shrine maiden’s grip on your shoulder became slightly more firm. “It does matter! If you please him, he might give you a quick death. We’ve been forced to clean up the remains of many women who displeased him. Believe me, you don’t want to be among their number. There are far worse fates than being beheaded.”

You shivered at her warning, but decided on the spot to follow her advice. Although the shrine maidens had remained silent about what happened to the other offered women, only confirming their deaths, rumors had drifted among the village for years. Stories of women being skinned alive, having their eyes ripped out of their sockets, having every bone in their bodies broken and their mangled limbs twisted into nightmarish shapes. You’d always hoped they were merely stories made up by the more morbidly curious villagers.

You composed yourself and then asked the older woman a question. “What is he like?”

The woman glanced back at the other shrine maidens who were preparing a garment for you to wear, then said in a low voice, “Lord Sukuna is cruel. He has no mercy for anyone. He is a monster.”

You felt your heart sink. You would be taken by this man tonight, and you’d never even laid eyes upon him.

When the bath was finished, you stepped out and were dried off by the women. They then dressed you in an extremely thin white robe. It was so thin that you were certain anyone could see right through it, making you feel embarrassed at the thought of walking into the shrine this way. Then you reminded yourself that he would probably rip it from your body anyway.

They lightly painted your face and combed out your hair, leaving it unadorned. Then they opened the doors and motioned for you to follow.

As you climbed the steps to the shrine, the shrine maiden who had spoken to you before gave you instructions.

“When you enter, keep your eyes down toward the floor. Lord Sukuna will be seated on a dais before you, but you must not look up at him until you are given permission. Once you reach the dais, bow down as low as possible and remain that way until commanded otherwise.”

Your heart was pounding as you neared the end of the stone steps, and the end of your life. You stopped in front of the doors and took several deep breaths to try and steady yourself, then you lowered your gaze to the space in front of your bare feet as the women opened the shrine.

You could feel his eyes upon you from the moment you stepped inside. The shrine maidens did not accompany you, and closed the doors behind you, leaving you to your fate. You slowly walked forward, keeping your eyes down, feeling a terrifying sense of pressure emanating from the dais that was supposed to be in front of you.

The walk toward the dais was nerve wracking. You didn’t know how close or far it was, and you felt naked in the sheer robe, your cheeks no doubt burning red at the thought of this man staring at you.

When you saw the edge of the dais come into view, you stopped and immediately knelt down, pressing your face to the floor as you always did with the other villagers every year. Then you waited.

For several minutes, you heard nothing. No breathing, no movement. Then a smooth, deep voice said, “You may look up now.”

You shuddered, then worked up the courage to raise your head slightly while maintaining a posture of submission. When you did, your vision was suddenly full of the man your village worshipped, the dreaded monster called Sukuna.

He was a man, not a beast, and you were shocked by how handsome he was. He sat not on his chair but across it, one leg drawn up at his side and the other hanging down, in a surprisingly casual pose. He wore white robes, the front open to his waist to reveal a muscular torso that drew your eye.

His face was lined with strange tattoos, and in his eyes there was an intensity that nearly took your breath away. You remained perfectly still even as your heart thundered in your chest. You didn’t know what was happening, why you suddenly felt drawn to this man. You could feel the danger, you had the sense that he would rip you to shreds without a second thought, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Something about the terror he provoked also excited you. With a spike of alarm, you realized you wanted to touch him.

When he spoke again, his voice had a silky texture that made you feel weak.

“There are three types of women who end up here,” he began, looking down at you as if you were an insect he was about to stomp on. “There are those foolish enough to think they can seduce me. They feign love, and I let them live in their delusions, right up until I take them to my bed. The delusions shatter pretty quickly then.”

His lips curved up into a fiendish smirk, and you were left wondering what terrible things he did to those women in his bed.

“Then there are the pathetic ones who cry and beg for mercy from the start” he went on. “Unfortunately this is the most common type. I have my way with them and then utterly destroy them. It’s what they deserve for boring me.”

Were these the women who displeased him? The ones who received the most brutal deaths? The cruelty of it stunned you, that the weakest and most frightened women were given the most horrific fates.

“The last type is my favorite,” he said with a haunting grin, “the ones who fight and scream and claw. These provide me with the most amusement, but sadly are the most rare. It’s hilarious, you see, to watch them slowly realize they never had a chance in the first place. I enjoy breaking their bodies and their spirits. And to reward them for the entertainment, I have them on my plate after having them in my bed.”

Your eyes widened as his words sank in. Plate? Meaning he ate them? He kept grinning, perhaps guessing what you were thinking. You felt a wave of nausea hit your stomach, but you kept your breakfast from coming back up through sheer force of will.

“I wonder what type you are,” he said, his red eyes boring into you, his unusually sharp teeth bared in his smile. “Try not to disappoint me.”

He stood up then, and his height was imposing, even more so because you were still kneeling on the floor.

You kept your expression blank, but your mind was racing. What type were you? None of the three he described matched how you felt. You had initially resigned yourself to your fate, and had planned to simply be quiet and obedient until he tired of you and killed you. But now that you were in his overwhelming presence, you couldn’t suppress the thrill you felt, the animal-like attraction to this brutal yet beautiful man.

The rational part of your brain was filled with terror and dread. Lord Sukuna was going to do indescribably awful things to you this night, then murder you and discard you as if you were nothing. But a bizarre little piece of your brain, one you’d never realized was there before now, was growing more excited by the moment.

“Stand,” he commanded, and you hurriedly got to your feet. You felt your face burning again when his eyes roamed over your barely concealed body. He turned and walked toward the back of the shrine, looking over his shoulder at you to say, “Follow.”

You obeyed, walking after him, careful to remain several steps behind. You soon came to a room marked off by sheer curtains, which Lord Sukuna pulled back to reveal the most lavish, ornate bed you had ever seen. Unlike the thin futon you were used to, this bed was thick and elevated off the floor. There were silk pillows and a satin-lined blanket, and the fabrics had apparently been perfumed, as they carried a heady, floral scent.

When Sukuna reached the bed, he stood beside it and turned to face you. “Remove your robe,” he said in his rich voice.

You nearly buckled right then and there. The fear and shame were mixing with arousal, and you thought you might collapse. With shaking fingers, you untied the thin sash around your waist. Then, with Sukuna watching intently, you opened the robe and slipped it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

You’d never been bare in front of a man before, and it felt as if your skin burned wherever his gaze fell as his eyes moved up and down your form.

He stepped closer and looked down at you, into your eyes. Did he see the turmoil inside you? The raging war between horror and lust?

His hands fell upon your trembling shoulders, and his touch felt electric. Finally, his hands on your skin! But then he jerked your body around so that you faced away from him, and those hands roughly explored your exposed flesh. One of them squeezed your right breast while the other moved down to grope between your legs. You gasped at the sensations, at being touched in this way for the first time, at the realization that you didn’t hate it even though his touch was harsh.

One of his fingers slipped into your folds, and your breath hitched in your throat as he grazed over a particularly sensitive spot. You felt him pause, both hands going still, and then he suddenly turned you back around to face him. He seemed to study your face for a moment, and then a smirk spread across his features.

All at once you were thrown onto the bed, your little cry of surprise ignored as Lord Sukuna slowly climbed on top of you. His hands were upon you again, grabbing and kneading the soft, plush areas of your body, his grip strong and bruising. He moved down, then pushed your knees up toward your chest, opening your thighs obscenely wide apart.

There was a strange look in his eyes as he gazed down at your most private place, and again that smirk. He bent down, his face getting so close to your body that you could feel his breath. You couldn’t help blushing at the closeness, and then you felt something warm and wet glide up your slit. When you looked down, his tongue was extended from his mouth, a string of clear fluid attaching it to your body.

A shudder rippled through you as he dove back in, this time pressing his tongue in between the folds of flesh to lick your swollen and sensitive clit. “Ah… ahh!” The small quick moans escaped your lips before you could stop them, and you felt a stab of fear when Sukuna looked up at your face. You were told not to do anything without his permission, so you had refrained from speaking. You didn’t want to displease him in any way, so you were trying to be completely silent. But when his tongue returned to your clit, circling it and then pressing into the top corner, even more moans came out.

Lord Sukuna continued until your body stiffened, your hands gripping the silken sheets as pleasure shot through you and one last, long moan broke free. He pulled away from you and looked down, watching you pant as you started to drop your tired legs back down. He grabbed them before they could straighten and touch the bed, pressing your knees back up.

You looked at him just as he opened his own robe, revealing the same pattern of black tattoos all over his body. It was a strangely alluring sight, but your eyes were quickly drawn to the very large and imposing organ between his legs. It stood stiff and ready, and you knew what was about to happen.

Sukuna looked you in the eyes as he shoved himself inside you, so deep and so hard that you could only describe the motion as violent. He didn’t give you even a moment to adjust before he was thrusting viciously into you. It hurt, and even as naive as you were, you understood that he wanted it to hurt. He was clearly being as rough as he possibly could without literally tearing you apart, and tears stung your eyes as you bit back a scream, using one hand to cover your own mouth.

Sukuna pulled your hand away from your face, then leaned down close and spoke into your ear, a whisper that that sent shivers through you despite the pain you were in, “Cry for me. I’ll allow it. Let me hear your voice.”

Hearing that, you let out a cry of pain before beginning to sob. You looked up him with wet eyes and found him grinning, enjoying your suffering. He truly was a monstrous man. His motions only became rougher, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you thought he might crush them.

“Please… L-lord Sukuna…” you managed to cry out.

“Please what?” Again, that voice in your ear, that self-satisfied smile while watching you cry.

“I-I don’t… I don’t know…” You didn’t know what you wanted. Did you want him to stop? You wanted the pain to end, but you didn’t want him to climb off you.

“Really? Then I won’t let up.”

Unbelievably, he was thrusting even harder, even deeper. When you could no longer bear it, your hands that had been clenched at your sides flew up to wrap around his neck. He would probably kill you for touching him without permission, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Clutching him in your arms somehow made the agony between your legs subside just a little.

If he was angered by your touch, he didn’t show it. Instead, he laughed as if he were amused by your desperation.

Finally, when you were nearly at the limit of what you could withstand, you felt Sukuna’s cock twitch, his body go tense, and then warm, sticky fluid shoot inside you. Your arms slipped down from his neck as he pulled out of you and let your sore legs fall to the bed. Somewhere in your dazed mind you knew this was the end. He’d had his fun with you and now he would kill you, just like all the others. You saw him stand up from the bed and wrap his robe around himself, but before he could even turn around, you passed out.

*****

Sukuna looked down at the offering, feeling slightly annoyed that she had given out so quickly. She had held out better than most, however.

Despite what he’d told her earlier, over half the women offered to him never even made it to his bed. They were crying too loudly or shoving their fake affection in his face or even having the gall to try to attack him. They ended up as chunks of meat in front of the dais.

But this girl had been frustratingly blank and silent. He’d considered beheading her, but on a whim had decided to force a reaction out of her, thinking she could provide some entertainment. The reaction he got was not what he’d expected.

Sukuna was fully capable of making a woman become aroused, but it was always after applying plenty of stimulation to certain areas, not because he wanted to pleasure them, but because fucking them felt better for him when they were wet. This girl, however, was practically dripping from the moment he first touched her. And when he’d looked at her face, he’d seen reddened cheeks and lusty, glazed eyes. He also saw fear, and that mixture was too delicious to waste.

Those sounds she’d made, from the little hitching breaths to the soft moans she’d struggled to hold back, to the screams and cries of pain, had all been irresistible. He wanted to hear more of them.

He stood looming over the bed, watching the growing red stain beneath her naked, still open thighs, and wondered what he should do with her. He could kill her right then and there as she slept, but that would be boring. Much better to listen to her sweet death cries.

He reached up and absently touched the back of his neck. He could still feel her weak arms clinging to him. He stared down at the bruised and bleeding girl in his bed, at her sleeping tear-streaked face, and came to a decision.

He summoned one of the shrine maidens, who entered the room with her eyes on the floor. She pointedly avoided looking toward the bed, probably afraid of what she would see.

“Inform the village I won’t be needing a woman tomorrow night,” Sukuna told her. “I’m not finished with this one yet.”

The shrine maiden’s face lifted very slightly, the shock so much that she nearly forgot her manners. She quickly bowed again and said, “Yes, Lord Sukuna,” before hurrying out of the room.

He sat down on the bed, then sighed before pulling a thin silken sheet up and draping it over the offering’s body.

“Sleep while you can,” he murmured, a wicked grin returning to his face. “Tomorrow you’ll be entertaining me again.”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #sukuna x you #x reader

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gtsdreamer2 · 8 months ago

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Beach Gate

April 12th. The day they told everyone to stay out of the water. It was all over the news for weeks. They were releasing a small amount of radiation waste into the ocean. Scientists ran hundreds of simulations about how the water would be safe just one day after the release. Something about dispersement and currents. What they hadn't calculated were the hungry organisms in the water that would feed on the radiation and mutate.

Sebast was relaxing in his chair on the beach. He was on holiday and figured a lazy afternoon at the beach would be the best use for the beautiful day that it was. The beach was moderately crowded, but it was a school day, so it was mostly adults relaxing and enjoyimg the water. Sebast was reading the daily paper, but couldn't help but steal glances at all of the beautiful bikini-clad women that he was fortunate to be surrounded by on this clear, sunny day. He started to dose off while reading the article about a strange algal bloom that scientists were only just starting to study. As he slept, the water all along the shore suddenly began to glow a dark purple as the irradiated algae began to flood in. Woman and men alike were quickly covered in the bloom. As the beach goers exited the shimmering sea, two things became apparent. Firstly, the algae seemed to slip and slide off the men and children before receding back into the ocean. Secondly, the purple globs seemed to congregate and cover only the women, sticking to them and binding to their skin. At first they tried their best to remove the unwelcome algae, but as the masses of purple microfauna began to completely coat the women, their demeanor quickly changed from panic to pleasure.

Sebast awoke, startled as the screams turned to moans around him. Looking to the woman closest to him, he could only watch in fascination as she spasmed on the ground. Mashing her hands over her body, she forcefully massaged the purple goop against her skin. Slowly the algae was being absorbed into her and the irradiated creatures caused her body to swell and grow, which only seemed to fuel her pleasure.

"Fuck, this feels amazing!" She cried out, quickly breaking free of her inadequate clothing. All around him similar situations were playing out. The women began to surge in size at varying paces depending on how much algae they had been in contact with. Some women quickly realized this and ran back into the ocean, scooping up massive handfuls of the creatures and lathering them onto themselves. As the women on the beach began to only break the ten foot mark, those in the sea were quickly doubling and tripling that as their increased volume gave the algae more space to bind to.

Sebast watched as a hierarchy quickly formed. The massive women in the ocean were now big enough to block the much smaller women from growing any larger. This led to the woman that was closest to him coming up to him with a children's pail. She towered above him while she batted her long lashes. "Um, could you take this into the water and bring me more of that purple stuff? I want to be bigger and I promise I'll give you a big reward!" She pressed her chest together as she stuck out both her arms to hand Sebast the pail. He eagerly took it and waited for an opportunity. As one of the monstrously large women in the water started fighting over resources with another one, he made a dash for the shoreline, quickly scooping up a bucket's worth of algae. One of the titanesses watched playfully as Sebast delivered the pail. The woman eagerly dumped it over herself and rubbed it into her skin, quickly gaining a meager two feet in height. "I'll never catch up to those goddesses at this rate. Thanks anyway sweetie." She said, kissing him on the cheek.

The biggest of the sea queens laughed at the mini-giantess's attempt to gain some size. "That was pathetic." She taunted. "Watch and learn." The tide was forced outward as the kaiju sized woman lowered herself into the sea, leaving only her nose above the waterline. Suddenly she opened her mouth and sucked in hundreds of gallons of seawater and all the algae with it. Great volumes of purple water filled her cheeks as she gained another hundred feet in only a few moments. She moaned through her closed mouth, careful not to lose any growth fuel until it had all been absorbed into her. When her growth finally slowed, she sprayed clear water at all the onlookers that were now even further dwarfed by her.

"What a rush!" She boomed, her voice resonating for miles against the tiny eardrums it came across. At her new size, she had no trouble throwing the closest women to her size out onto the beach. "This is all mine!" She roared, throwing her arms out and scooping miles of purple onto her skin, which rose above the water higher and higher. She groped her massive chest and rubbed herself all over in a display of pure carnal dominance. Sebast just watched in awe as the women that were still much larger than him cowered before this ascending goddess. He turned to the one who he had helped grow and grabbed her hand. "Let's get out of here before she crushes us all!" He said, showing her another pail full of algae. She giggled before lifting him up and scurrying off somewhere safer.

#gts #giantess #size kink #sizetumblr #macro #size difference #minigiantess #mega giantess #growth #g/t writing #follower request

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badoobers · 2 years ago

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Catching Up

Art by Badoobers

Words Also by Badoobers

Commission for @ewdonottouchme

Standing in line for his morning coffee, Dan couldn't help but notice a familiar face, sitting alone and surrounded by several empty coffee cups. From the neck up, Ethan hadn’t changed one bit from college, but his slender and attractive face couldn’t distract Dan from the shockingly large gut his old roommate now proudly displayed. Ethan’s underbelly peeked out from underneath a too small and too tight t-shirt. Dan felt a mixture of emotions at that moment in the café but the most prominent one was arousal. Dan had always been attracted to Ethan but seeing him like this, his large pecs, which were once thrust proudly above his six-pack abs, now rested on the soft slope of his belly which in turn overflowed onto his lap, nearly obscuring his crotch entirely was driving Dan wild. Dan's desire for coffee was immediately overwritten by his need to get a closer look at his old friend and hide his growing erection underneath a table.

As he shuffled his way over to the table, Ethan glanced up from his cup and his face lit up with surprise. They greeted each other as old friends do and Dan sat down, eager to find out what had led to Ethan's sudden... expansion. Dan tried to be tactful but instead blurted out "Holy shit bro, you blew up!" Ethan grinned sheepishly, his face flushing red. He reached to rub his neck, inadvertently lifting his shirt and exposing even more of his belly. Dan crossed his legs for no particular reason, his face flushing red as well, also for no particular reason. "Well you see," Ethan began. "I've got this roommate. He’s an extremely good cook and he has no idea what reasonable portion sizes are! He makes more food than either of us can ever eat and I don’t like to waste food so I uh… well you get the picture,” he laughed. Dan was speechless. How often was Ethan gorging himself to get to this size?? “Yeah, I dare you to come over for dinner sometime,” Ethan said. “You’ll leave thirty pounds heavier at least.” As those words left Ethan’s lips, Dan’s fate was sealed. He was going to dinner.

Ethan’s roommate Marco was BIG but not in the same way Ethan was. Dan was by no means a small guy. He frequented the gym and had impressive pecs, legs, arms, etc. He was the whole package. And yet Marco towered over him in the doorway, his broad shoulders contrasted by his slim waist which was in turn contrasted by his monstrously muscled thighs and calves. Dan was awestruck. He shook Marco's hand and immediately felt self-conscious. Marco led him through the entryway where Dan slid out of his flip-flops, tossing them crookedly beside Ethan’s scruffy sneakers and Marco’s enormous leather boots which were polished to a shine. As he followed Marco down the hall, Dan couldn’t help but notice the way Marco’s jeans may as well have been vacuum sealed for how skintight they were. His ass was amazing. Equally amazing was the savory smell that greeted him as he entered the dining room. He could see an enormous pot on the stove, its contents bubbling. His stomach growled. Marco apologized and informed Dan that they would be eating at the kitchen’s breakfast bar since their dining room table had collapsed earlier in the week from the weight of all the food he’d made for Ethan’s birthday. Hearing this, Dan took his seat and crossed his legs.

Finally, Ethan appeared, holding a bottle of wine and 3 glasses. Dan watched in anticipation as Ethan poured the three of them tall glasses of wine and Marco set out two large ceramic bowls and filled them to the rim with a thick, creamy broccoli and potato soup which he finished with a heavy sprinkle of cheddar cheese and bacon bits. “Aren’t you eating too,” Dan asked, confused. “I had some earlier,” Marco said with a dismissive wave of his giant hand. Satisfied, Dan began to eat.

The moment the spoon passed his lips it was bliss. The soup was rich and savory, the potatoes melted on his tongue and the broccoli allowed him to pretend this was at least somewhat healthy. In the blink of an eye, his spoon was scraping the bottom of the bowl and he felt somehow hungrier than before. Before he could say anything, Marco swooped in and whisked away his empty bowl, setting it back down refilled with soup. Without hesitation, Marco began to eat again. A few bowls later there was a ding. Marco, equipped with oven mitts, opened the oven and the room filled with steam and the smell of freshly baked bread. In his hands, Marco now held the most incredible baguette. Everyone took a deep inhale and sighed. This was heaven. As he waited for Marco to dish out pieces of bread, he glanced over at Ethan. He flushed bright red. Ethan had his head tilted back, the bowl raised to his lips, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he chugged the soup. No wonder he’s gotten so fat, Dan thought. Ethan had transformed into a complete glutton! Dan watched as Ethan’s belly expanded with each gulp. He crossed his legs harder.

Dan spent the rest of the meal, glancing at Ethan as he consumed more and more of the soup, the gentle slope of his belly turning into a solid curve. He was so busy admiring his friend that he didn’t even realize how much soup he was packing away himself. His already snug tank top had grown even tighter around his middle and his six-pack had completely vanished. While he waited for Marco to fill his bowl again, he took a sip of his glass of wine and heard something tear. Glancing down he realized his tank top had split ever so slightly at the seam. This turned him on immensely. When Marco returned his once again filled bowl, Dan ignored his spoon completely and lifted the bowl to his lips…

It was truly an amazing feeling, the warm, thick soup pouring down his throat and filling his already full stomach. He was beginning to feel it now, that tension, the tightness of his clothes and the tightness of his skin, stretching to accommodate the constantly expanding amount of food as he continued to gorge himself. He heard another tear and it only motivated him further. As long as Marco kept bringing him soup and bread and wine, he’d continue to eat, and eat, and eat.

But finally, as much as he wanted to continue, he was completely and utterly full. He leaned back in his chair and let out a polite burp and rubbed his engorged belly. It felt so good. Ethan was even more impressive. He had transformed from a fattened ex-jock to a complete blimp, his belly filling his lap, groaning and gurgling. His skin was taut and red, angry at the amount of food he’d forced into it. Dan couldn’t find the energy to hide his arousal, his erection was enormous, and so too, he noticed, was Ethans. Ethan moaned, stroking his cartoonishly swollen gut. He felt ready to burst and was pleased to see Dan was in a similar state. Leaning forward he pressed his hand against Dan’s belly and whispered, “Feels good, doesn’t it… fatty. Dan was so full all he could do was nod. He opened his mouth and let out an enormous belch. The relief he felt was tremendous. He opened his mouth again, this time to speak. But before he could manage to say anything, Marco hollered, “Who’s ready for dessert!”

Dan’s eyes widened. There was no way he could eat anything else, he’d explode! But the moment Marco pulled that pie out of the oven, his fate was sealed.

They ate dessert in a daze, forcing down slice after slice of berry pie smothered in melting globs of vanilla ice cream into their already maxed-out stomachs. Marco seemed to be completely oblivious to his friends' sexually charged struggle, chipperly bringing each of them a seemingly endless supply of food. He did join them in enjoying a large slice of pie but everything else was for Ethan and Dan.

Ethan began to feel queasy but felt Dan’s hand on his much too full gut. “Not giving up yet are you,” he said between burps. Ethan shook his head, resolute. They would finish this together. Adjusting their seats, they sat each with an encouraging hand on the other's belly and dove right back in. They could feel each other's bellies grow more and more as they ate, their warm skin growing tighter and overstretched. Dan felt a cheeky grab of his dick which he would have reciprocated if he could have reached Ethan’s own dick which had been buried under his fat quite some time ago during the meal.

Finally, it was over. The two sat there sweating, leant back, unable to find any relief from their overindulgence. Hearing Ethan’s chair creaking, Dan suggested they move to the couch, a feat which was easier said than done. With great effort, Dan got himself on his feet, letting out a tremendous fart. Ethan began to laugh but he was cut off by an enormous belch. They really were a perfect pair. Dan helped Ethan out of his chair and supporting one another, they waddled to the living room. Ethan peeled off his straining and torn t-shirt and immediately collapsed onto the couch, sprawling his limbs and groaning. Dan followed suit, pulling off his tank top. With no room on the couch, Dan slumped onto the floor and began to rub his swollen middle in a useless attempt to soothe it.

“So… full..” Ethan whined. “Rub my belly for me… please…” How could Dan deny such an earnest plea? Ethan pulled in his legs and Dan hoisted himself onto the couch where he began to rub Ethan’s gut. It really was impressive just how enormous he was. He was fat beforehand, sure, but now he was a behemoth. Feeling both Dan's hands soothing him, Ethan could only moan softly.

“Hey guys,” Marco said from the kitchen. “Sorry about dinner, I’d have made more food if I’d realized the both of you would have such hearty appetites! I’ll be sure to make more next time! Anyways, it’s gonna take a while to wash all these dishes, so you two can go ahead and watch a movie or something, ok?”

Hearing this, Dan figured they’d be left alone for a while and pressed his dick into Ethan’s firm underbelly, his hands sliding down onto Ethan’s chest. He squeezed his meaty pecs and whispered, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Ethan grabbed Dan’s waist and pulled him right on top of him, their round bellies squished together. The sudden pressure caused both of them to burp loudly right in each other’s faces. Then they leaned in for a kiss… but unfortunately, they couldn’t reach. “Why don’t we take this to my room,” Ethan said with a sly grin. “We can do a lot more in there.” Dan turned bright and nodded rapidly. He slid off of Ethan and helped him to his feet and they waddled down the hall to Ethan’s bedroom.

Finally, alone they could stop undressing each other with their eyes and undress each other for real. It was an incredible relief to slip out of their tight and torn clothes, all of their girths now out in the open, on full display for themselves. It was an amazing feeling. They clasped hands and fell onto the bed, the metal frame creaking in protest. Dan passionately kissed Ethan’s belly, moving further and further south each time until he reached… Ethan moaned loudly.

Marco hummed cheerfully to himself to the rhythm of Ethan’s creaking bed. With the dishes all done he could start preparing for tomorrow's breakfast. From what he could hear, Dan would be staying the night. Suddenly there was a loud crash. It would seem Dan and Ethan were a bit too much for that old bed frame. Marco knocked his large fist on the door. “I suggest you two use my bed for now,” he said. “The frame is much sturdier. Anyways, I’m going back to the kitchen now so do what you need to do.”

Marco resumed his breakfast preparations and Dan and Ethan resumed whatever it was they were doing on a much sturdier surface.

#ex jock #gay #my art #bulking #beefy guy #illustration #beefy pecs #gay gainer #gainer fiction #commission

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youredyingthatsallthereis · 20 days ago

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kinktober day 22: cockwarming

this is my last departure from the prompt list ive been using! i wrote dacryphilia (crying) into a piece i did back in...june i believe, and i was very satisfied with how it came out but i just. i dont have any other ideas for that kink so i'm going with this instead /thumbs up emoji/

content warning: this is mushy and they are in love

read on AO3 | prompt list i will be returning to tomorrow! | word count: 760

soapghost, trans ghost, cis soap, immediately post MW2 canon

"all the way in."

ghost wiggled his hips a bit, working slowly so that soap's cock was fully seated inside him.

"that better, love?" soap asked, running a hand along the front of ghost's thigh.

ghost gave a contented sigh once his back was flush up against soap's chest. soap draped an arm over his torso and kissed behind his ear. "good."

soap rocked his hips a smidge, just enough to feel himself slip half an inch deeper in and out of ghost's cunt before settling to go back to what they were watching.

which happened to be ghost's favorite mini-documentary about deep-sea gigantism. soap combed his fingers through ghosts dark, short hair while they listened to the narrator quietly talk about the role buoyancy plays in creating monstrously large life on the ocean floor. ghost had watched everything this marine biologist had ever made (and thus so had soap), but this piece in particular was his favorite. soap let the familiar information wash over him, savoring the intimacy of what they were doing.

through a series of poorly timed last minute plan changes that were out of both of their hands, they hadn't seen each other in nine consecutive weeks. and while normally that wouldn't be such a big deal, ever since sheperd's betrayal they had both been a bit edgy about having to be away from each other for more than a day or so.

no one had questioned that they had started showing up together in the mornings, that they left work together at the end of the day, that they were rarely out of each others sights - everyone knew.

ghost had moved into soap's house shortly after they'd both physically recovered from their wounds and no one had said a word.

they'd wasted no more time, knowing that too much had already been lost to needless pining and stalling: they set about learning everything about each other every chance they got, whether that was soap cooking them breakfast on a saturday or watching ghost's ocean documentaries (usually followed by a very thorough lecture of ghost's take on the subject matter) or spending hours in bed experimenting with what made the other tick. at the end of it, soap and ghost had bound themselves together for good.

and so after such an unexpectedly long time apart, they'd been frantic for each other upon reunion. ghost had returned to soap impatiently tapping his foot on the tarmac and shoving his gear at the nearest soldier with a barked order to get it checked back in and half-dragging ghost home, needing him as close as possible now.

that had been several hours ago; they'd been in bed almost the entire time and had zero intention of leaving. they'd already decided that they didn't even want to talk about the mistakes and assignments that had led to them spending so much time apart, just focus on that they were together now.

ghost shifted his leg back, hooking it over soap's to pull him in just that much closer. soap pushed his hips forward, kissing the corner of ghost's jaw as his cock slid into him, already full of his spend, just that much further.

soap vaguely registered a small white jellyfish on the television as ghost took one of the captain's hands and held it tightly over his chest. "hate being away from you," he admitted quietly. "bloody torture. and i'd know all about that."

soap almost snorted at the last comment. "bleedin' christ, simon," he said. "it is, though."

they laid in comfortable quiet, ghost pressing soap's hand flat to his chest over his heartbeat, like he needed them both to know that it was still there. needed him as close as he could be in every way, like even having him inside his cunt wasn't close enough.

soap closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb across ghost's chest, letting the heat under his hands and against his chest and around his cock remind him that ghost was there, ghost was safe, ghost was alive. and so was he.

they stayed like that for some time, soft and warm and still, until the documentary ended and ghost reached back to put a hand on soap's hip, giving him a small push.

"give us one more?"

soap smiled into the side of his neck. "i'm not 20 anymore, love," he said.

"please?"

soap chuckled and put a hand flat over ghost's lower abdomen, rocking slowly in and out of him to get fully hard again. "can't say no to you."

#soapghost #09 soapghost #ghoap #captain john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #hardstyle's kinktober 2024 #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #so far the only relationship i havent written a painfully mushy piece about is soaproach #ill honestly probably do that just like.......at a later date lol #i'm kinda saving that for when i re-write the entire canon campaign which will be later on hehehe #or da zine 👀#ghost is deep ocean autistic bye

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serenescribe · 8 months ago

Note

another ficlet idea: lilia and silver bonding together in the secret garden au \o/ are they playing a game? chatting together? ill leave that one up to you!

[✐] ficlet frenzy

“Regardless of whether you may be ready or not… here I come, little one!”

He stifles a giggle by pressing his palm against his lips, back pressed against the rough expanse of bark and moss. Silver is hiding, nestled behind a particularly ancient tree with roots so monstrously large that they tangle together into dips and crannies he can hide within. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest, the adrenaline of the game seizing hold of him, but there is no real fear there, only anticipation.

It is yet another day in this secret, wonderful garden he stumbled upon in the woods. His refuge, his little paradise away from the orphanage. It isn’t as though he hates it there; his friends are nice, and he loves to play with them, and some of the adults are kind enough to sneak him a few extra treats, or a gift or two. But here, tucked away within the rounded stone walls of a secret garden, is something special — an earthly paradise of the most beautiful flora and fauna, and a friend who smiles at him and plays with him — all his, all for Silver alone.

They’re playing hide and seek again. They’ve played it many times before. But no matter how many times they do it, there’s always somewhere new to hide. Silver always discovers new spots to tuck his tiny body away in, peering out from the wispy leaves of the trees, or ducking his head as his friend peers through a crack in a wall that he’s hiding within. In this little garden, this special place, there is always something new — and can anyone really blame Silver for wanting to come here again and again, whisking himself away into a wondrous world of his fantasies made real?

He holds his breath, eyes wide as he hears a faint thumping of footsteps go by. He must’ve gotten distracted; is his friend close by?

Silver’s friend is… how can he describe him? He doesn’t have a name for him, always referring to him as mister, but he is kind to him, always welcoming him in with a fang-toothed smile, his long black-and-red hair swaying behind him in gentle breezes of springtime wind. He presses sweet treats into Silver’s hands, swings him around merrily into a dance, and plays game after game with him before they collapse into rambling chatters of anything and everything that’s on Silver’s mind.

Silver loves his friend. He really does!

And yet, there is a line he dares not cross.

Beware of the faeries, the adults have always told them. Those of the orphanage are more superstitious than most, having experienced strange activity in the woods time and time again in spite of the modern era they all live in. For as long as Silver can remember, he has been taught painstakingly about how to deal with strange, beautiful people, those who wish to lure him away. Be polite to them, reject their food, and above all else, do not give away your name.

It’s the reason why his friend calls him child and little one, affectionately referring to him as dear. It’s the reason Silver carefully puts aside the ripe fruits and sugary treats he receives, always claiming that he isn’t hungry, and always making sure to eat before he comes so he isn’t telling a lie.

And yet, in spite of all the dangers, he keeps coming back.

“Found you!”

He squeaks as a shadow falls over him, two glinting red eyes peering down at him. His friend grins cheekily, before reaching down to scoop Silver up, lithe limbs betraying a supernatural sort of strength. “What a devious hiding spot,” he teases, “to take advantage of your small statue and hide amidst the roots of the trees! You grow better at this every day, dear.”

Silver squirms slightly, though he leans into the hold soon enough. His friend smells nice, like fresh forest pines and sweet fruits mingling together into something that clings to his nose. Everything about him just brings such an ease to Silver, a happiness he could have never possibly dreamt of.

(And yet, he still hesitates. He still notices the unnatural swiftness of his friend’s movements, the otherworldly beauty that drapes off of him, the way the garden seems to shift day after day, growing and twisting at an otherwise impossible pace.

There is a tinge of iron that clings to his scent.

Silver is happy here. He is safe. But—)

“You must be thirsty after all that hiding.” He feels himself being placed down onto a soft patch of grass. Silver watches as his friend pulls out an elegant little leaf cup out of nowhere, filled with something glistening and shimmering, with a scent that makes his mouth water. “Why not quench your thirst, hm?”

(Does he trust his friend?)

Silver blinks at the drink offered to him.

And then he smiles.

“Thank you for the offer, but… it’s alright!”

#my writing tag #ficlet frenzy #twst #twisted wonderland #twst writing #twst fanfiction #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #hi i wrote this a few months ago. take it #target audience me and mica the au we talked about months ago #hope you like it mica <3 #uhhhhhhh this totally isn't me posting twst to appease The Masses before i inevitably post something non twst #hahahaa hahah sweats nervously why would you ever think that. ha

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thekingofwinterblog · 9 days ago

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So just a bit of Rumiko's originally planned color scheme i have never seen anyone comment on.

Ryoga's entire assemble was originally supposed to be very glaring pink, whoch has several meaning in Japanese, as it's speciffically a very masculine color... But with a twist.

In Japanese, Pink is the color of Sakura, and in terms of masculinity, is used to symbolize Samurai who died before their time, in the prime of their lives.

Which you could easily connect to Ryoga's feelings that his life effectively came to a premature end at Jusenkyo.

Meanwhile, Shampoo's most notable different feature is that she was originally meant to have scarlet hair.

Now this is of course a reference to the fact that Shampoo, more than any of the other of Ranma's love interests represents war, fighting, ruthlessnes and martial arts.

In the context of Japan, it also is the color of authority, happiness and strength.

It is also meant to be a clear cut contrast to Lum, the Heroine of Rumiko's first hit series, from whom Rumiko took a lot of inspiration, but ultimately made her a mirror of, as defined by Shampoo's red, to Lum's generally green.

As for Ranma's design, while there is of course the more notable fact that Manga ranma always had black hair regardless of form, there is also the original color of Ranma's famous amrtial arts uniform, which rather than the familiar red and black/blue se all know and love, was instead a very distinct orangish yellow.

Rather than any symbolism, thia is instead a reference to one of Ranma's contemporaries/predessecors, Dragon ball, as Manga Goku's Kame Gi as shown on the cover above, is almost the exact same shade, much brighter than it's animated counterpart.

Overall, Rumiko just loved this color scheme in general, as a lot of art has ranma in orange duds.

Its even the main color on the final volumes of the series.

Similar to Shampoo, Ukyo also has an element of red that was dropped in the anime, in the form of her ribbon, the trim of her short, but also her lipstick and Eyeliner.

It also symbolizes strength, power and war... But in a much more subdued manner, as while Ukyo is just as monstrously strong as Shampoo(With word of god estimating her raw, brute strength on the level of Ryoga, though lacking his monstrous durability), she lacks Shampoo's comfortable with violence, nudity and such, with her loss against Ranma in large part due to feelings of personal emberassment at her own nudity that Shampoo has never shown.

She also in general just lacls Shampoo's comfortable with true, murderous violence as the go to answer to her problems.

Hence while it was meant to be a defining color on Shampoo, on Ukyo it was meant to be a very small yet noticable aspect of her coloring.

It is also the color of sacrifice, and more than anyone of Ranma's finacee's, Ukyo is willing to change herself if it means winning Ranma's heart.

Later down the line, this red color would also link her to her introduced at the last minute love interest Konatsu, who wore red in general.

Also, speaking of character who never got the animated treatment in the original series, Ryo Kumon stands out as not only was he given a color scheme by Rumiko, but his color scheme was speciffically influenced by the Animated color scheme of Nodoka as having purple hair, in order to contrast him with Ranma as looking far more similar to Nodoka than her flesh and blood son.

Its an interesting choice as manga Nodoka had black hair, which meant Rumiko specifficaly chose this color design to make the similarity between him and Nodoka much more obvious for when the arc was adapted for the screen(Which didn't end up happening in the first anime).

#ranma 1/2 #ranma saotome #ryoga hibiki #son goku #ukyo kuonji #shampoo #ryu kumon #konatsu #color scheme #anime #manga #rumiko takahashi #symbolism

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rotworld · 1 month ago

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8: Forgotten

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

your small band of refugees has finally found a safe place beyond the imperium's reach, but this paradise does not come for free.

->warhammer 40k. original necron/reader. contains graphic descriptions of violence, corpses, torture, (robot) insects going into orifices, coercive relationship, possessive/controlling behavior, mentioned memory issues, brief mention of self-harm.

At sunrise, little legs come scurrying into your quarters. Pinprick footsteps tiptoe up the side of the bed and perch on the pillow beside you. Something beeps rhythmically. You groan, rolling away from it. Thin, spidery limbs climb the shape of your body beneath the blankets and perch on top of you like a persistent cat seeking attention. It beeps louder. It wobbles back and forth.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you mumble. The beeping stops. The thing crawls down the bed and creeps up the windowsill, the morning light glittering on its metal carapace. This canoptek scarab is specialized for delicate tasks, the grooves in its tiny, rounded paws intended to slot against circuitry and gently rewire damaged internal processing centers. It was a gift, the first of many. It wakes you in the morning and skitters after you throughout the day.

The smell of food chases the fog of sleep from your mind. Someone has been here recently. Breakfast waits in a silver tray on the bedside table. It’s not a stale rations bar or a cracked tin of corpse starch but food, fragrant and fresh and still hot. Hard boiled eggs from a local avian species, diced greens and fresh fruits, spice-seasoned beans drizzled with sauce and topped with leaves of garnish. It feels like a dream but it can’t be. You’ve never seen anything like this, couldn’t have imagined it even at your hungriest and most desperate. Your eyes burn with tears as you slide the tray onto your lap. You never knew beans could taste like anything more than soggy cardboard and rust.

After breakfast, you get dressed. A robe has already been selected for you and folded neatly in a chair along with the accompanying sashes, cords and jeweled accessories. Each layer is light and airy so you aren’t overwhelmed by the pleasantly warm weather, but you still feel weighed down by all the thick gold bands and layered bead necklaces and jeweled brooches. It feels absurd to make so much noise while you move, everything clinking and clattering together. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to it.

A pair of intimidating gold and silver figures guard your bedchambers, standing just outside the door. Each holds a shield the size of their towering body and a monstrously large blade. They do not move. They do not breathe. You could easily mistake them for statues if not for the soft hum of their internal machinery. “Good morning,” you say quietly. Expressionless skeletal faces stare back. In perfect unison, they tuck their blades behind their backs and bow deeply—a traditional expression of submission to your authority. You hear them fall into step behind you, marching at your back. Your scarab struggles to keep up and scurries up to your shoulder, clinging gently to your robes.

The palace is still under construction. There are large slabs of unbroken stone lying around, half-carved pillars and unfinished sculptures, the intricate tile patterns leading to the courtyard in the midst of meticulous assembly. A row of enormous statues marks where the gates will be someday, a looming wall adorned with the symbols of the Runaadi Dynasty. For now, there are only rolling green hills speckled with shrubs and wildflowers. The lychguards remain here at your urging, standing sentinel in the shade of towering trees flushed with spring blossoms. They stand so still that the delicate pink blossoms falling from the branches land on their bodies and sit undisturbed.

As you descend into the valley, you start to hear voices. Chatter and laughter and the playful shrieks of small children. Unlike the scrap metal shanties and toxic ooze lakes of your youth, this is a gentle world of crisp, clear air and blue skies. Small huts with thatched roofs form a modest village, the grass thinning into what will someday be common dirt pathways. The fields are colorful and sweet-smelling with flowering crops. The storehouse is filling with grains. Furry, four-legged beasts graze on grass at the outskirts. There are no munitions assembly lines and backbreaking quotas, no Arbitrators stalking the streets with scowls and shock batons. There is no squabbling for the last ragged, moth-eaten blanket in the frigid shadows of the Underhive.

People wave and smile. A few children rush over to give you freshly picked flowers. Tryphena comes to see you with a grin on her face and grass stains on the knees of her trousers. There are small, prickly seed pods and leaves sticking out of her short, white hair. “Come to see the common folk?” she teases. “I’d give you a hug, but I might stain your outfit with my dirty peasant hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes. She smells like damp soil and leather. When she wraps her arms around you, she squeezes tight like she’s afraid she might not have another chance. “How are things?”

“Good.” She says it hesitantly, glancing back at the village in something like disbelief. “Everything is good. Dayn got that hole patched in the tannery’s roof. Gellora’s baby is due any day now. We’re building a library, too.” She points to a new structure just past the well, several people dragging wagons of lumber and stone over to build the foundations. “Hardly have enough books to fill it, but that could change someday. Wouldn’t that be something? Talis said I should write a book about we got here.” She picks absently at a starburst scar under one eye. The wound is no longer fresh but it is recent and still healing. It had been self-inflicted; a brutal knife wound intended to vandalize the fleur-de-lis tattoo that only lingers in disconnected spots of ink.

“You don’t want to?” you ask her.

She’s quiet for a long time, staring out at the fields and the grassy slopes. There are mountains in the distance, great peaks capped with snow and a cloudy haze. No one goes that way anymore. It’s the edge of the world as far as they’re concerned. Two Imperial ships sit in the shadows of those mountains, left to rust and rot. One landed gracefully. One bears a peculiar scar of anti-aircraft weaponry, a clean incision like a scalpel cut unraveling the steel. It crash-landed, gouging a smoldering scar across the landscape like a stripe of forest fire.

“I’m still having nightmares,” Tryphena admits. “About being found here. Sometimes it’s an Explorator fleet, stumbling upon us by chance. Sometimes it’s no accident. Inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus. My own Sisters, clad in fury. They burn everything and everyone to ash, but it’s the way they look at me that haunts me come morning.”

You watch a man hang a damp blanket on a clothesline. A woman draws water from a well. Children run past, the youngest clutching a stuffed animal with sooty stains peppered across its raggedy fabric skin. “No one is going to find us here,” you say, your voice quiet but firm.

“If it happened once, it can happen again.” She looks towards the mountains.

“Nurakhet isn’t on any Imperial map. The tides of the Warp are too treacherous for anyone to risk coming this way. And even if they do…” You clutch the jeweled brooch affixed to a sash hanging over your shoulders—the symbol of the Ruunadi Dynasty. It’s an impossibly ancient antique, luminescent crystals and delicate metalwork forged before even the simplest unicellular lifeforms had begun to swim through the primordial seas of your ancestors’ homeworld. It rested in a stasis container for untold millennia, protected from the ravages of time in subterranean darkness.

“If anything comes here,” you say, “they’ll protect us. They’ll honor the pact.”

Tryphena frowns tightly but she nods, her gaze drawn to white tufts of cloud drifting through the sky. You stand with her in silence for a while, watching the sun rise and the village brighten. “I’m grateful to you,” she says after a time. “We all are. But are you alright?”

You’re startled by the question. “Of course I am. You see what I’m wearing, right?”

That’s not what she meant and you both know it. “This was always meant to be the start of something different. Something better than what we had before. What good is a peace bought with blood?”

“It really isn’t like that,” you insist. You smile, hoping she doesn’t see the tension in it. You look her in the eye and squeeze her shoulder. “Tryphena, I mean it. There’s nothing to worry about. The most strenuous thing I’ve had to do all week is walk from one end of the palace to the other.”

She cracks a smile. “What hardship! All that walking. Next you’ll tell me that dinner was served on a gold plate, but there was no dessert.”

The scarab beeps on your shoulder, the glowing node embedded in its body flickering. There’s a shrill, electronic noise, a hiss of static, and then a voice. “Consort, your presence is requested in the western solarium.” It’s Zereb, curt as always. You apologize to Tryphena but she waves you off, insisting she has things to do anyway. You feel her stare lingering on your back as you walk away.

The lychguards are still where you left them. They bow when you return and shadow you on the long, pleasant walk back to the palace. “Good morning, Zereb,” you say.

A long sigh emanates from the scarab. Zereb doesn’t breathe—he has no lungs. He makes the sound only to ensure you understand just how exasperated he is. “Is it good? Truly? Do you know what I’m doing right now?”

“I’d rather not know, but I bet you’re going to tell me—”

“I am studying the human phallus,” he interrupts. “It is loathsome. Perhaps the most inelegant, repulsive structure in the natural world.”

“Ah,” you say.

“The Phaeron is displeased. He asked me why you insist on abandoning the lychguards when you leave the palace, as though I have unique insight into your rudimentary cognitive processes.”

“Is he displeased because I left them behind?” you ask. “Or because you insulted me?”

“Irrelevant,” Zereb says.

You stray from the path. The lychguards abruptly change course to follow you. The trees lining what will one day be a grand, crystalline walkway have sea green leaves and large flowers, starburst blossoms with several layers of pointed petals. You pick several. “Do you know what he likes?” you ask.

There’s a long pause. “What he likes?” Zereb repeats with confusion.

“Yeah. You know. Favorite color, favorite place in the palace, things like that. I know I could ask, but I’d like to try surprising him sometime.”

There’s another, much longer pause. “I do not think he remembers what he likes.”

“There must be something,” you insist. “He must like Ruunadi spearblossoms, right? He just had more of them planted in the courtyard.”

“That is because he heard you say that you liked them,” Zereb says.

“He likes gold, doesn’t he? He keeps giving me more.”

“The first piece of jewelry you accepted from him was a golden bangle.”

“Well, what about…” You stop yourself. Those light blue stones, you were going to say, the ones he just used in a spectacular mural in the dining hall—until you remembered they’d been used in the tile flooring of your luxurious bathing chamber. You’d made an off-handed comment once while sitting in the palace garden together. You liked those tiles. It was the color of Nurakhet’s sky just after sunrise, a shade you’d never seen before coming here.

“Perhaps you could tell him that you like when I have free reign over the observatory?” Zereb proposes. “You especially like when I have several uninterrupted weeks of privacy and do not need to debase myself with the study of human anatomy. Yes, I think it would please him greatly to hear that.”

“Sure,” you say dryly. The lychguards guide you back to the path, beneath the shadows of looming statues and a great arch of stone. It’s so empty here compared to the village. Most of the Ruunadi Dynasty has yet to awaken. Those few who work tirelessly to construct the palace are little more than automatons, sleepwalking shells directed by the Phaeron’s will. Zereb has told you that they are recreating the old Ruunadi palace down to the smallest painstaking detail, a futile task that may take the rest of time. They keep making and remaking sections. Statues are meticulously carved and then shattered in frustration, their faces unfinished collages of features that don’t match.

The lychguards stop walking suddenly. You turn back and find them angled towards a different hallway, clearly expecting you to go in that direction. “I thought I was supposed to go to the western solarium,” you say.

“That was a lie,” Zereb admits. “Sometimes you are reluctant to return if I am truthful.” You don’t move. Zereb knows, somehow. He always does—both of them. Maybe the lychguards silently report your every move, or maybe the scarab tracks your movements. “Consort. I know we are not always in agreement. But it is good that you are here. Your presence has a noticeable stabilizing effect—”

“He doesn’t even know who I am, Zereb,” you say tiredly. “He thinks I’m someone else.”

“The Phaeron says you are his consort, therefore you are.”

“This isn’t sustainable. You said his memory was affected by waking early and his IFF transponder isn’t functioning normally. So what happens if it gets fixed? What happens if those memories come back? What if—”

“Enough,” Zereb hisses. You recognize that hushed, fearful tone. There’s a long agonizing silence before he speaks again. “I must insist that you change your robes later. The Phaeron has already waited so long to see you. He would not care if you came to him covered head to toe in dirt, for the dirt would become precious for touching your skin.”

You take a deep breath. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about things like that,” you say. “I’ll be right there.” There’s a crackle and then the scarab falls silent. The lychguards follow you closely as you begin descending a flight of stairs that seems to go on forever. The palace changes from a warm, sandy brown to sleek black, shiny like obsidian. Veins of bright green pulsate in seams and crevices. The deeper you go, the more alien everything becomes. Enormous structures twist, piston and ripple in ways metal and stone should not. Jutting obelisks shine with strange symbols. The walkways are constantly changing, floating platforms gliding silently across great chasms. You would get lost here without the lychguards to guide you down the proper steps, across the proper moving sections of flooring, into the proper doorways and chambers.

This is where the Ruunadi Dynasty has slept for longer than you can even imagine.

The chamber you’re led to is not like the others. Rather than the unnerving quiet, silence save for the constant, bassy thrum of machinery, there is sickening noise. Muffled screams and sobbing. Wet squelches. Flesh peeled, nauseatingly slowly, from bone. Blood spatters tall surgical slabs, dripping constantly down the sides.

“Darling,” purrs Amuresha the Relentless, your savior, your jailor, your husband. “There you are. I had just begun to worry. You dismissed the lychguards.”

“Only for a moment,” you assure him. He stalks forward from the shadows and your head raises, craning your neck to keep your gaze on his face. Amuresha, like all necrons, is cursed for all his unlife to wear a visage of death. The living metal of his body is sculpted into a skeletal form, an elongated skull for a face with a grim, unchanging expression. His chest is a broad plane with horizontal slits mimicking a ribcage, connected to his pelvis by nothing more than a flexible metal pole serving as a spinal column. Rather than clothing, his body is adorned with colorful protrusions mimicking garments and jewelry. Layers of thin, flexible metal sheets hangs in front of his legs to form a ceremonial loincloth and a cloak of interlocking hexagons form a cloak over his shoulders. A flared crown juts directly from his skull, wide and colorful like the wings of a bird.

“A moment is all it would take to lose you, beloved. You are not like I am.” He reaches for you, metal fingers curling against your cheek. You hear his internal cooling systems kicking into high gear as he overheats himself, cognitive processors humming dangerously, just to warm his living metal to a comfortable temperature. “You are perfect,” he murmurs. “Just as you have always been.”

You smile sadly. It’s hard to know exactly what Amuresha sees when he looks at you. He knows something is wrong. He knows time has passed since the days of flesh, but how long, exactly, eludes him. Zereb has told you he was married once—and that the marriage fell apart in a rather spectacular fashion. Somehow he holds two truths simultaneously; that it was mere days since that last screaming argument that drove his spouse away, and yet staggering cosmic ages have also passed. He knows he is made of living metal and he knows you are not, and no effort has been made to reconcile the two.

He says you are his consort. Therefore, you are.

“Are you going to join me for lunch?” you ask. You take his hand in yours. It’s much larger, each metal digit stretching far beyond the length of your own fingers.

“Soon, my love. I have work to finish here. Come and see.” You don’t want to. Your stomach churns at the thought of what’s waiting for you in the darkness of this room. But Amuresha bends slightly, bringing your hand to the stylized indents on the lower half of his face resembling the grimace of a skull. “Love?” he asks, so soft and hopeful that your heart aches.

“Of course,” you say. He can’t smile but the green glow in the dark sockets of his face seems to brighten.

He leads you. He walks slowly. He never lets go of your hand. The lighting in the tomb chambers is incidental, any illumination the result of machines carrying out their functions. Amuresha makes more light for your benefit, encouraging the walls and pillars to glow more brightly. Your breath hitches as the rest of the chamber becomes gradually visible. You see things that will return in your nightmares.

There are humans—bits and pieces of them—scattered across the chamber. Heads preserved in stasis cubes and torsos dangling from angular meathooks, bodies bisected and vivisected and peeled like fruit. The worst are the ones that are still alive, strapped to metal examination tables. Some of them thrash as much as their bindings will allow, trying to scream through their gags. Some are motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood trickles from their ears, nose and mouth. The ones that still have tongues make noises that are almost words; curses, prayers, oaths of vengeance. The ones that still have eyes stare at you with fear and awe and hatred.

“We have been studying, Zereb and I,” he says, chuckling as though you might find this amusing. He strolls down aisles of death and butchery, leading you along at a leisurely pace. The stench of rust and rot and death is unbearable. Zereb is here, hunched beside one of the slabs. He is slighter in frame than Amuresha, his chest section narrower, his limbs more delicate. Living metal encases him like a robe, a rounded sheet covering his head like a hood. He glances at you with five gleaming bulbs, gemstone bright, set in his face. A swarm of scarabs, much smaller than yours with much sharper limbs, crawls around restlessly by his feet. The scarab on your shoulder whispers an apology.

“What have you been studying?” you ask, eager to leave as soon as possible.

“Oh, all manner of things! There is so much wonder in the flesh. I wish to emulate its softness for you. Its warmth. Its sensitivity.” His hand wanders down your back, squeezing your hip suggestively. “I have studied males of this species most extensively,” he says, lowering his voice to a sensual purr. “They are unseemly, I know, but they are more complex than they appear. Just like us, they sometimes copulate purely for pleasure. Perhaps I will be able to do this again soon. Love you in the ways of flesh, just as I once did.”

You’re too stunned to answer. You didn’t think it was possible. Amuresha has nothing resembling genitalia, just smooth metal between his legs. Zereb’s mentions of his studies earlier ceases to be amusing and suddenly becomes a concern.

Amuresha stops beside one of the slabs. “Do you recognize these, my star?” he asks.

He wants you to look. Your heart pounds. Bile climbs up your throat at the sight of the body lying there. It’s a woman. Her armor is cracked and shattered in places, bloody from the oozing wounds underneath. Her hair is white, cropped just above the shoulders. There is a fleur-de-lis tattooed beneath her eye. She’s chewed and struggled against the gag in her mouth so much that it’s dug into her face hard enough to expose slippery insides, the meat of her cheek muscles. Her eyes are glazed over but even through the blood loss and agony, you can see the clarity and the sheer magnitude of her hatred for you.

Across the room, Zereb gives a command. The scarabs rush up the side of the slab in a wave. A man babbles through his gag, and then he cries, and then he screams.

“These…these are…” You’re going to be sick. “I…I thought you killed them already.”

“My love,” Amuresha says softly. He turns you towards him, framing your face in his hands. “Don’t be afraid. Yes, these are the creatures that followed your retinue here. They can’t harm you anymore, you see?”

You don’t want to look but he makes you, turns your head and forces you to watch Zereb pluck the gag out of the man’s mouth. Scarabs rush in, a few impatient ones wriggling into his nostrils instead, making his eyes bulge and his flesh distend around them as they burrow into his brain. He shivers and retches, fingers scraping the metal slab he’s trapped against so hard they bleed. He gags and retches and gurgles violently, blood trickling from every invaded orifice. Zereb bends over him, studying his face intently and searching for some hidden sign. When he sees it, he makes a slight gesture. A wave of the hand, two fingers extended.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the noises he makes. The wailing. Wordless, mindless animal fear. His struggles turn to trembling and then he goes completely still. Mouth hanging open. Eyes blank. Rivulets of cerebrospinal fluid dribble from his bloody nose.

Amuresha mistakes the cause of your frightened whimper. He holds you, a hand smoothing over your head in gentle, affectionate strokes. “You are safe here, my star,” he whispers. “You and your courtiers are under my protection. No harm shall come to you.”

You cling to him, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. You can still smell the rancid stink of decay and inhumane cruelty. You can still see Tryphena’s Sister, her bloodshot, hateful eyes, the peek of her mandible through mangled skin. “You promise?” you say weakly.

“I swear it,” Amuresha says. “You are safe, now and forever. As long as you are here. With me. I love you, darling. I will love you until the stars have all died.”

His grip tightens until it’s bruising. You tell him you love him, too.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #warhammer 40k

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sometinysludge · 1 year ago

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Another carnival au oc? More likely than you think.

This small, funky little creature is Tin! I generally started with the design first and the logistics later, so bear with me.

Tin’s game is themed around the normal games of skill you find around a carnival, where you go to shoot for prizes and all that good stuff. It’s just cranked up to a thousand. The “weapons” you use to hit targets are either monstrously large and hard to move/manage, or teeny tiny for comedic effect.

If you happen to not complete the challenge before the time limit runs out, he’ll probably throw a bomb at you. Or himself, if he’s feeling cheeky.

Alright, now allow me to ramble-

Tin’s body is an explosive in itself, meaning that if his tail is lit (or becomes lit) he will explode. He won’t perish and die of course, he’ll just get smaller and smaller. Consequently, the smaller he gets, the larger and more ridiculous his explosions are.

Everyone in the carnival knows this from experience.

In regards to relationships, uhhh, he’d probably “get along” with Jax. To be honest, their relationship would be more symbiotic than anything. They’d probably just get tossed around a lot to blow things up, which they wouldn’t mind.

As always, carnival au is by @(sm-baby) woot woot.

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

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Karma is a God

Chapter 13: The Riverlands

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 7700

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

The skies over Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point are clear. There are no clouds to hide in and Grey Ghost makes quick work of the distance from Dragonstone to Maidenpool.

The Queen had ordered that she fly straight back to King’s Landing after accompanying Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, but as much as she fears her mother’s wroth, she fears what might happen if she sits idly.

To the south, Borros Baratheon has summoned his banners to Storm’s End. To the west, the Lannisters clash with the Iron Fleet. The Tyrells have taken a neutral stance, but the Hightower army is rebuilding in the Reach, rallying behind Prince Daeron and Criston Cole.

As for the Riverlands… the reports they receive are harrowing.

For almost two moons, Aemond has terrorised the Riverlands, unleashing dragonfire and death upon all those he deems to be traitors. Everything in his path turns to ash; towns, cities, castles, crops, and too many lives to count.

They fly high enough that the world spreads out below them like a map. As they approach the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, she can see where the green fields turn to black. Smoke rises from the ground, trees reach against a grey sky, charred and bare. No life remains where Vhagar flies.

Could he hear the screams as he did it? Was he blind to the suffering, or did he bathe himself in it?

She had heard the cries of dying men as she burnt the Tyroshi war ships by Driftmark, but they were distant, a noise lingering in the back of her mind. All she remembers of that night is the smell of smoke, flashes of golden flames blurred through her tears, emptiness and rage. Thousands of lives ended, for the sake of avenging two already lost.

It is not the same, she tells herself.

They were soldiers. Any one of them could have been the man who released the quarrel that killed Jace, or manned the ship that sunk the Gay Abandon and young Viserys with it.

Aemond kills because he is cruel.

And I…

Death could not save the people who died at Hightide and Spicetown, it could not bring back her brothers, or any other lives lost at The Gullet. That thought has lingered in her mind ever since, a parasite draining the warmth from her body, the life from her soul.

But this is war. Either she will die a martyr, like Jace, like Rhaenys, or survival will chip away at the person she once was.

Maidenpool is nothing compared to the grandeur of Dragonstone or the high walls and towers of The Red Keep. Its keep and battlements are grey and cobbled, covered in moss and ivy so it blends in seamlessly with the surrounding greenery and the backdrop of the sea.

The castle is not the first thing she spots though, rather the blood red dragon that lies before the outer walls. Caraxes is curled in on himself, in a rare moment of peace as he sleeps. But he stirs as they land, rearing his head and glaring at them through wide, golden eyes.

Grey Ghost is uneasy, and not without cause. The Bloodwyrm is monstrously large, bloodthirsty and chaotic.

She remembers the first time she saw Caraxes, as their families gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Jace had flown on Vermax, while she, too small to ride Arrax, rode in a carriage with her mother and father. They reached Hightide and suddenly she heard a thunderous roar and a whistling, rippling shriek. What a sight they were, Caraxes and Vhagar, soaring from the East with the sunrise. They terrified her in different ways. Vhagar was colossal, and though Caraxes was smaller, he was swift, with piercing eyes, sharp teeth and a serpentine neck that she couldn’t help but follow as it swayed and slithered.

The gates open before she has dismounted. Daemon leads an escort of guards to meet her, dressed in his riding leathers rather than his armour. He knows not to come too close to Grey Ghost.

Her dragon is steadfastly steady as she dismounts, his head fixed on the men who have dared to approach his rider.

Strangers, hisses the voice in her head. Danger.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister which hangs from his hip. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is calm but in a way that makes her nervous.

“Your Grace,” she says, keeping a gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s hide, stroking along his scales to calm him.

Daemon observes this with a small smile, and a turn of his head towards the guards, who relax their stances. “You should know better than to announce on dragonback unannounced.”

“And yet you were able to determine I was not an enemy,” Luke says. “I came from Dragonstone.”

His amusement fades into something more concerned. “Baela and Rhaena?”

Rhaenyra needed a dragon to protect the island and patrol the sea, if necessary. It couldn’t be Tylesys, Sheepstealer was still weak from the encounter with Tessarion, and she wanted Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing to stay in King’s Landing. By the slight frown in Daemon’s face, he has some trepidation about Baela being the one to take on such a burden. But she is brave enough for it, and besides, Dragonstone is defended by water and the Velaryon Fleet. So long as Daeron and Tessarion remain in the Reach, the girls will be safe.

“Your daughters are safely delivered,” she says.

Daemon looks between her and her dragon. “Does your mother approve of you being here?” he asks.

Her breath catches effortlessly in her throat. “She does not know.”

He smiles again. “I have to admit, I did anticipate you might find your way here.”

The small council met the very day they received the first letter from Riverrun.

Prince Aemond has declared a one man war on the Riverlands, intent on burning all those who align themselves to Queen Rhaenyra.

The sight before her eyes was dull and gloomy. She winced at flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder that were not there to be seen or heard. She saw only him, the scar she had left him, the sapphire set within the socket. His voice drifted through her, just out of earshot but there nonetheless.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

“Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

“My nephew must not be left unchecked,” Daemon’s voice said.

Suddenly the other faces in the room materialised into view. Rhaenyra’s eyes were down, fixed on the golden ball placed before her. Lord Corlys’ brow was twisted in contemplation and concern. The other men of the Small Council were watching Daemon, who in turn had his eyes on her.

He watched her for the entirety of their gathering, and she knew what he was looking for. She gave him nothing, not the smallest movement in her face or a hint of an expression. She had become rather well practised at this.

But the moment she was back in her chambers, the moment she was alone, she gave into the fury and fear simmering inside of her. She only managed to seat herself on the edge of her bed before the tears began to stream down her face. She caught them in her palms as she wept.

Aemond was rarely cruel as a child, if he was it was because he had been pushed too far, by Aegon, by Jace, and by her own doing. She had expected him to hate her when she returned to the Red Keep, and she had been right in her assumption. A debt was owed, one he had wanted her to pay with her life.

Whose fault could it be but hers that Aemond had grown into he had become?

A weight hung heavy in her chest. She hadn’t been the one to mount Vhagar or utter the command that scorched the Riverlands, but she knew she had a part in this, in some twisting of fate, in the overlaps and knots in the threads of life.

Two moons passed and hardly anything came from Daemon’s hunt. News would come of a castle or town left in ashes, farms and fields obliterated, whole herds of livestock lost to the dragon’s jaws, but Daemon could not fly fast enough. By the time word reached him of an attack, there would no traceable signs of Aemond and Vhagar but the devastation they left behind.

The night before she left to escort Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, she took supper with Lord Corlys and her siblings, which included Alyn and Addam. Moments like this were the closest she came to feeling she had a home in the Red Keep, despite the notable absences. She forced herself to smile as Joffrey tried to imitate everything about Lord Corlys, the way he held his cutlery, the way he leaned back in his chair and kept his cup close to his lips. Her brother was to be the future Lord of the Tides afterall.

Rhaena kept her little pink dragon, Morning, on her shoulder. She and Addam fed her scraps of beef and praised her when she cooed.

Baela sat beside Alyn, with perfect posture and a tight smile on her lips at everything he said. But her resolve was slipping. With every joke Alyn whispered in her ear, she leaned a little further into him and laughed a little louder.

At first the sight made Luke’s stomach churn, as if she could still see the distant battle at The Gullet, like she could still smell the smoke as the Tyroshi ships were bathed in Grey Ghost’s fire. Until she wondered if Jace had ever told Baela of his time at Winterfell, why he had a scar on his palm and why, if she travelled north to see for herself, Cregan Stark would have one to match.

Alyn was charming, Luke supposed, gracious, with a smile that sparked excitement.

What did it matter where Baela chose to seek happiness? Surely it was better that she did not dwell on memories and live her life with the burden of the past. What would that bring but grief and regret?

After seeing young Aegon to bed and allowing Joffrey one game of Cyvasse, Luke visited her mother. Rhaenyra could be found where she usually was, in her father’s chambers sitting by a dying hearth and gazing over the model of Old Valyria, coated with dust and cobwebs after so many years of neglect. Luke sat by her side, tracing her fingertips over her hands and the cuts along her skin. Some were red and fresh, some were older and clotted, others had faded into thin scars.

“They are meaningless,” her mother whispered without turning her eyes to her daughter. “A consequence of our ancestor choosing to forge his throne from the swords of his enemies. My father suffered the same.”

Watching her mother was like watching a warm and golden autumn fade into a desolate winter. She could not endure it for long.

Her back fell against the door as she returned to her bedchamber, frozen in place by what she saw. Another envelope, sealed with a winged insect stamped into amber wax, left on the floor by her bed, exactly where she had found the last one.

She held her breath for a moment, waiting for any kind of sound, a footstep, a voice, a scuttling of a rodent, but whoever had delivered it must have been long gone.

Once again, she reached for the knife by her bedside, slicing through the envelope to save the seal.

There was just one line, and no signature.

Search for him and he will find you.

She knew what had to be done. She could not sit idly, not while her mother’s allies burned and she had a debt of her own to claim.

Daemon steps towards her. “You want to be the one to do it,” he says.

She often has this feeling, like she’s drowning in her own skin. Like the world around her is cold and dark and she cannot breathe. She sees only one way to save herself from it.

“I have to be.”

The castle is quiet, filled with servants who scurry through the halls with their heads down, and knights and Lords who offer no looks of warmth to their Prince and Princess. It is unusual that Daemon does not reprimand them for it.

He sees that she is brought to a chamber that overlooks the sea and is given supper. It is no great feast– many of the crops and livestock of the Riverlands have been lost to Vhagar’s fire, but she is given a plate of shucked oysters and another with white fish and potatoes. Daemon does not eat with her, or visit her once she is finished.

The sounds of the waves roar in her ears as she lies in the bed and pulls the sheets around her. Each time she starts to fall asleep she feels weightless, and suddenly she is slipping from Arrax’s saddle and hurtling through to storm into the waves of Shipbreaker Bay–

But she wakes before her body meets the water.

A maid comes to her early in the morning just after sunrise. She bathes and dresses in her riding leathers, firmly fixing her sword to her hip, letting her fingertips linger on the golden seahorse hilt.

“He should be taken as a prisoner,” was Lord Corlys’ counter to Daemon’s pledge to find Aemond. “If he is dead, the Greens will make a King of Daeron and rally behind him.”

Rhaenyra at last looked up when he said it. “My brother forsook any chance of mercy when he tried to claim the life of my daughter,” she said.

Grey Ghost and Caraxes wait for them beyond the castle walls, restless the way dragons always are before they take flight.

“I have word from Sabitha Frey,” Daemon says before they mount their dragons. “She has recaptured Harrenhal along with the Blackwoods.”

“I can’t imagine it was difficult,” Luke says. “It was left completely undefended.”

Daemon chuckles as he hauls himself into Caraxes’ saddle, a much steeper climb than it is for her to mount Grey Ghost. Aemond would have further to climb than either of them, a thought which she tries to dismiss.

“We have our hold in the Riverlands once more,” he calls to her as Caraxes starts to move. The dragon whistles like a dolphin and bellows a screeching roar as he lurches forward, bounding off the ground and swiftly ascending into the air with powerful beats of his wings that shake the trees. Daemon steers him west, over the burned landscape.

Danger, whispers the voice in her head.

She drives Grey Ghost forward nonetheless.

As they fly, the air around them is hazy and thick. Luke keeps her sleeve over her nose and mouth. She is used to wind and rain rushing against her face, but smoke is a different beast altogether. It stings in her eyes, burns in her throat, seeps into her lungs and her bloodstream.

Heat lingers even after the fires have died and eaten everything away to ash. She feels it through her leathers.

Harrenhal is not out of place among this scorched wasteland. She sees the lake first, as vast as an ocean, black water glimmering under the sun’s early rays, splashes of white foam with the waves. In the centre is an island, so thick with trees she cannot see the ground underneath.

She feels unsettled, as though she is being watched. This must be the famed God’s Eye.

Standing over the water, shrouded in smoke and mist, is Harrenhal. She can see the path of Balerion’s fire through the five towers, where the stone is melted, twisted, and crumbled to ruins.

Harwin Strong once told her of the curse of Harrenhal, that every family who dared to hold it was doomed to meet a terrible end, and now her mother’s banners hang over the front gates.

Caraxes lands on the lakeshore where Daemon waits for her to dismount. This is a place familiar to him. This is where he was when news came of Arrax’s demise above Shipbreaker Bay. This is where he gave the order to seek justice for the deaths of his daughters. He remained here while Rhaenys burned at Rook’s Rest, as the Triarchy sank the ship that carried his son, as the Velaryon Fleet held The Gullet, as Jace and Vermax were lost to quarrels and treacherous waters.

Now is not the time to unleash her anger, but Daemon has always had a way of seeing right through her.

He leads her up the slight slope to the gatehouse, into the castle itself. The soldiers they pass bear the sigils of the Freys and the Blackwoods, proud and powerful houses of the Riverlands. Unlike those they passed at Maidenpool, the men and women here look upon their Prince with reverence. Daemon, with Dark Sister by his side, his short, silver hair braided away from his face, looks nothing less than a force of nature, a warrior, a would-be-King, the kind of man to inspire fear from both his enemies and his allies.

And when the fearful eyes come to her, they become curious. It is a question that has haunted her all her life; what do they see when they look at her? A Velaryon, a Targaryen or a Strong? A Princess, an heir, or an outlier, an insult to custom and duty? Perhaps now they see what she has become.

She follows Daemon through quiet hallways, through archways and holes in the walls where there should be doors, until they come to a cavernous hall. The light hardly reaches through the glassless windows on the far side of the room, but she makes out arches and buttresses hundreds of feet high, hearths untouched for decades. On the walls there are carvings of the sigil of House Hoare, images of the sea, krakens and sea monsters, men bathing– or drowning, under the dim light of the braziers, the last remnants of the Iron Islanders who once made this their home.

In the centre of the hall, still quite a distance away, is a table, around which a man and two women are gathered. Candlelight flickers against their faces as she and Daemon approach.

A woman stands at the head of the table, studying a map of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Her chestplate bears two sigils, one of a black toad, one of two, blue towers. Her hair is pulled tightly from her face. Despite the soft, round edges of her cheeks and jaw, there is a stern look about her, a sharpness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth.

The man is young, dressed in armour, marked by the sigil of a weirwood surrounded by ravens. He has a head of curly black hair, to match the second woman, only hers reaches below her waist. She is breathtakingly beautiful, tall and broad, dressed in white and black with a red cloak hanging from her shoulders.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, ushering Luke to stand at the other end of the table, overlooking the Kingswood and the Rose Road past Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. “Lady Sabitha Frey, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Only now do they look at her, with the same curiosity that she is used to.

“What an honour it is to be acquainted with you, Princess,” Lady Sabitha says, stiffly.

The two Blackwoods bow their heads, and Lady Alysanne offers her a small smile.

“We are glad to have you join us, Prince Daemon,” says Lord Benjicot.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement as he sets Dark Sister down on the table. “It seems a far more convenient base than Maidenpool,” he says, darkly.

A gust of wind howls in the distance. It is quiet, but with the echo through the hall it sounds monstrous and unnatural.

Lady Sabitha seems to have command of this gathering. Luke has heard rumours of Lady Frey’s character, most of them from Daemon. He says she is merciless and efficient. She finds she agrees with this assessment, but rather admires her for it. She has lost her husband in this war, and now her seat. The Twins, along with her son, have been taken by the Lannisters, who now block the road south.

“The Riverlands are loyal to you, Your Grace,” she says to Daemon, “but we have little chance of mustering more men than we have here.”

“What of the Tullys?” Luke asks.

Lady Alysanne sighs. “They cannot be relied upon. Elmo Tully would pledge their banners to the true Queen, but he will not act against Lord Grover’s wishes.”

“The Lord of Riverrun is as decisive as he is young and spritely,” Daemon says. “We cannot afford to wait for the old man to die while the Hightowers recover their strength.”

“But with Jason Lannister at the Twins, the Starks will have to fight through an army to reach us,” Alysanne says.

They fall into quiet, studying the map and the figures upon it, the hightower in the Reach, the stag at the edge of the Stormlands, the lion and the wolf to the north.

“And then there is the more pressing issue,” Lord Benjicot says darkly.

Luke counts the dragons upon the map. Tessarion in the Reach; Moondancer at Dragonstone; Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre at King’s Landing. Lady Sabitha moves Caraxes and Grey Ghost to Harrenhal. Two figures remain, a golden dragon for Sunfyre, kept at the edge of the map, and Vhagar, hovering over Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper.

“He was last seen here?” Luke asks quietly, reaching out a finger, but stopping herself before she touches Vhagar’s figure.

“Not three days ago,” Benjicot says. He places the tip of his finger over Riverrun first. “He began his assaults here, after Harrenhal was abandoned. He won’t directly attack the Tullys, but he targeted the lands that surround them.” Then he traces east, over the towns along the River Road, marking Aemond’s warpath.

“I went to Darry,” Daemon says, “by the time I got there, Vhagar was feasting on whole farms of sheep at the border of the Vale.”

“We think he might be seeking shelter here–” Lord Benjicot points to the mountain range that marks the border of the Westerlands. “Out of Prince Daemon’s reach, close enough to continue his attacks.”

“And he was not seen after Pink Maiden?” Luke says.

“He attacked at nightfall. Even with Vhagar’s size, it was impossible to tell where they went.”

Her eyes follow as he moves Vhagar’s figure to the mountains, and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. The weight strains her neck.

“Perhaps I could ride out on Grey Ghost and search the mountains?” she says.

Daemon does not give the others a moment to consider. “I will not allow you to use yourself as bait.”

What is the difference? He would be happy for her to meet him in open battle, but not to seek him out as she had done with Daeron?

She knows better than to test the patience of Daemon Targaryen, but her own has been wearing thin for far too long.

“And how else do you intend to find him?” she asks. “You have searched for Aemond for moons and to no avail. Do you expect him to come to us willingly?”

“He is proud enough to do so,” Daemon mutters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not sought you out?”

“Enough.” He does not need to shout. His anger is apparent enough for her to bow her head and listen in to the rest of the gathering in silence.

There is nothing for her in Harrenhal but death.

She takes an abandoned servant’s quarters as a bedchamber, by the kitchens in Widow’s Tower, until Daemon tells her of the horror found in the crypt underneath.

Their bodies were left in the cellar, slaughtered within a cell, some simply run through, others slashed to shreds. There was no sense to it, no reason for Aemond to kill his prisoners or bring such a bloody end to House Strong– well, almost.

She wonders why he did it and how he can live with himself in the aftermath. He had not even spared the children. She pictures them cowering, helpless to watch as their family were picked off, one by one, before Aemond at last set his one, violet eye to them.

But Aemond kills because he is cruel, and soon that cruelty will be ended.

She cannot stay in the tower knowing what lies underneath. So she takes her sword and climbs the staircases, past empty chambers and passageways. She doesn’t know what she is expecting. Whatever was left of Ser Harwin or his belongings would have been removed years ago, and while Harrenhal may belong to his family, he always said he never felt at home here. She sees why for herself.

Her legs burn as she climbs higher, where the tower becomes decrepit. The stairways are treacherous now, she wonders if they might crumble under her boots and yet she carries on, passing rubble never cleared and gaps in the tower where the walls were lost to the Black Dread’s fire.

She comes to a bridge, high above the courtyard leading into the castle’s tallest tower, the Kingspyre. There are at least some signs of life in this part of the castle, servants, lit torches and hearths.

She passes a chamber with a great oak door, adorned with carvings of sea creatures with grotesque faces, waves and ships, the three rivers of the Trident and, when she looks closely, pairs of eyes hidden amongst the images.

She expects it to be locked, but tries the handle, only for it to open, seamlessly and silently.

It is a grand chamber, to be sure, perhaps intended for the Lord of the castle. There are no belongings in the room, no sign of ownership, and yet it is well kept. The sheets are clean, the logs of the hearth set and ready to be set alight It smells stale and stagnant, but not like the lingering smell of smoke found in the rest of Harrenhal.

She hesitates, then smooths her palm over the bedsheets to find they are cold. This chamber must have been in use recently, but not recently enough to warrant immediate attention.

She wanders to the window, overlooking the courtyard, the gatehouse and the God’s Eye beyond the walls. The figures in the courtyard are distant but still distinct. Daemon’s silver hair is obvious as he stands with a woman. At first she mistakes her for Lady Alysanne; she is seemingly tall and slender with dark hair, but something about her posture is different, the way she tilts her head as she leans closer to Daemon.

The wind wails beyond the walls of the tower and for a moment it sounds soft, like a breath.

The woman turns her gaze up, to the very window Luke stands behind. She can make out the colour of her eyes– green, brighter and paler than Lady Alysanne’s. They must be truly striking at a ground level, because from here they are piercing.

A sick feeling floods Luke’s stomach. She should not be here, not in this room, perhaps not even at Harrenhal, but she cannot find the courage to leave.

When she makes her way down the stairs of the tower and into the courtyard, Daemon and the woman are gone. Instead she finds the castle’s Godwood, following the small stream that runs through it, to the heart tree.

The faces in the bark are nothing like those in King’s Landing. These faces are full of anguish, twisted, mouths open as if they are screaming, in pain or fury.

A chill slips down her spine and she knows she is being watched– not by the eyes in the tree. A footstep treads softly in the grass behind her. She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough for them to know she has heard them.

The footsteps are less careful now, unabashed in their approach.

She sees a flash of dark hair, at first believing it to be Lady Alysanne, only to find herself disappointed, and then a little on edge.

It is the woman from the courtyard, the woman with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you often find yourself seeking the comfort of a weirwood, Princess?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly low, rich and seductive.

She never used to, but she seems to have noticed them more since they took King’s Landing. She passes the weirwood in the gardens of the keep, sees the image of one above her bed, finds her mind wandering to memories of afternoons she spent under the shelter of red leaves and her uncle’s arm as he read from a history book.

“What business of it is yours?” Luke says sharply.

The woman hums a low laugh and lets it fade to silence.

Night is beginning to creep in. Beyond the walls of the castle, the sight of the sunset over the lake will be beautiful, a red sky over the water. She hears the waves and the wind as if she is standing on the shore.

“It is a terrible thing to lose one’s family,” the woman says, bringing her hands before her. Her dress is made of simple black fabric, with no patterns or distinctive embroidery, but the sleeves are long, draped over her hands and lined with green satin.

Luke catches a piece of flesh between her teeth. “You have lost family in this war too?” she says, uncaring at her shortness.

The woman tilts her head. Luke watches her as she takes a step towards the tree, placing her palm against the white bark, beside one of the faces. “The family I have lost was never mine to begin with. In truth, I do not feel it,” she says.

A hollow feeling lodges itself in Luke’s chest and twists like a knife in an already fatal wound. She wishes she could say the same.

The woman drops her hand from the tree, and turns to her. “Do you feel your losses, Lucerra?”

The absence of her brothers becomes a little more subdued each day, but she still carries them with her, the memories, the pain of knowing that their deaths were anything but peaceful, and the burden Jace has left her with.

She was so fearless as a child, she realises. She was secure, the daughter of a Princess, the granddaughter of the King, with Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Jace to guide her, protect her. But all of that is gone now, the life she used to enjoy, and she fears the things she used to love.

Tears prickle in her eyes, heavy and close to falling.

How much can the woman read from a single look from her eyes?

She steps forward to take Luke’s hands in hers. Her skin is rough and dry. She opens Luke’s palms, running a slender finger along the lines in her skin. “A powerful combination of blood flows through your veins,” she utters. “The blood of the dragon, and of the First Men.”

Daemon has taken heads for such an insinuation.

Luke raises her brow. “Do you question my legitimacy?”

The woman scoffs. “ Laws are made by men, but we are made of flesh and blood alone. Legitimacy has no meaning in the natural order.”

“And yet without it, my position will never be secure,” Luke says.

The woman stares at her, amused or mocking, it is difficult to tell.

“It was not by right of birth that Aegon the Conqueror claimed rule of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She thinks of all the history lessons she used to sit through, never taking in a word. All the hours she would make Aemond read to her– did he hate her back then? Would he have refused her if he felt he had the choice? “No. But he won it, and had the strength to hold it.”

The woman hums. She runs her hand further up, to the thin, blue veins running along Luke’s wrist. She presses her thumb against her skin, letting the colour fade and run again.

Her harsh green eyes come to Luke’s. “Blood is unambiguous,” she whispers.

Why must it all come back to blood?

The woman seems to note some kind of change in Luke’s face, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brow just a little. What does she think she might find in the frightened and furious mind of hers?

“Helaena said something to me,” Luke utters before she can stop herself.

“She spoke of blood,” the woman says, assuredly.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

Luke breathes slowly. She has tried to decipher Helaena’s words for weeks, moons even.

Her aunt used to mutter strange musings often, always to Aegon’s insistence that she was stupid and freakish. Jace’s stance was that he would not burden himself with things that did not make sense to him, and so she did the same.

Blood– blood she shares with her mother and the line of Kings that have come before them. Blood she shares with her brothers, with her father. Blood she shares with Helaena and her uncles. Blood spilled, lives ended or left in ruins. This war has seen too much of it already.

“What did she tell you, Princess?”

She whispers the words that have haunted her since she heard them, but where Helaena’s voice was gentle and wistful, she feels a tremble in her own throat. “There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

The woman frowns, keeping her gaze on Luke’s eyes as though the answer lies within her very soul. The longer she looks, the duller her eyes seem to become.

“What do you believe this means?” the woman asks.

Daemon says killing Aemond will end the war, or at least determine the outcome. Corlys says it will weaken their enemies, but give them cause to regather their strength. Her mother would say it is justice.

Kill Aemond and the threat of Vhagar will be removed. What remains of the Riverlands will be spared, Daeron and Tessarion will stand alone. Then they need only wait for Cregan Stark to march south to secure their victory.

It should all be so simple.

So why does she feel the wind running through her? Why does she feel so restless and furious that her body trembles and her nails press into her palms? Why does she hear the crashing of waves morphing into distance screams? Why does she feel so wrong?

The woman’s voice is perhaps the one thing that sounds true, clear and low. “Mercy is a weakness.”

She knows she has no reason to trust this woman, but the rage inside her tells her she is right. She may never know the number of men she has killed from atop her dragon, so what is one more? One more life lost, a fair exchange for what he has taken from her.

But it will be different to know the name of the man whose life she will claim, to know his face and his voice. To share his memories and his blood.

Mercy is a weakness– it sounds like something Daemon might say.

“What are you doing here?” The command in his voice as he approaches startles them both. Luke tears her eyes away from the woman, to the head of silver hair gleaming in twilight.

She begins to panic. Was she supposed to stay in the castle? The hour is getting late, perhaps he was concerned… but he doesn’t so much as look at Luke. His gaze is clearly on the woman.

“I was beginning to worry you might be dead,” he says.

The woman’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was spared by his Grace, the Prince Regent.”

Daemon scoffs, utterly unamused. Only then does he turn to Luke. “What poison are you inflicting on the poor girl?”

“Poison?” she echoes with a sly expression.

“That is your way, is it not, witch?”

This does not seem to phase the woman.

Daemon hums a short laugh, but his expression remains dark. “You were supposed to deliver my nephew to me…”

She hates this, not knowing the whole truth of what is happening around her, the secret devices and plots. The familiarity between Daemon and the woman is beginning to infuriate her, until her chest feels heavy with the weight of the breaths she takes to calm herself.

“...But by the sounds of it, it seems all you’ve succeeded in doing is keeping his cock wet.”

Suddenly her chest and stomach twist into a tight knot.

It is not an image she wants in her head, but it appears nonetheless. The woman standing before her is a beautiful one, and Aemond is a Prince, a warrior, hot-blooded and demanding when he wants to be.

Her imagination is vivid and visceral. She has felt his lips against hers, his breath on her skin, his hand tracing down the front of her gown and slipping beneath her skirts. She had almost expected him to take her fully that night, in the hidden corner of the Red Keep while their families failed to make amends. She often wonders if she should have let him.

Does he ever think about that night? What he did to her— what they did together, or was it all forgotten the moment he saw the pair of eyes bearing into her soul this very moment?

“He will come,” the woman says.

Daemon chuckles to himself. “For his paramour?”

Her piercing gaze falls once more to Luke. Her eyes are dark now and almost bloodthirsty. “He will come for what he believes he is owed.”

And so they wait.

Thirteen days pass. Daemon marks each one with a slash of Dark Sister in the trunk of the heart tree in the Godswood. Each strike bleeds red sap.

She tries to make use of each day, but there are only so many arrows she can shoot into targets and tree trunks, only so many times she can sharpen her sword before she will damage the blade.

All the while there is no word of Aemond and no sightings of Vhagar. Whenever she gathers in the great hall with Daemon, Sabitha Frey and the Blackwoods, she scours the map as if she will somehow know where to find him.

Daemon refuses to let her ride Grey Ghost, not even to circle the lake. He says the risk is too great, but since when did he ever burden himself with risks?

This castle was built on blood and is haunted by the Stranger. In another life Harrenhal might have been her home, but she fears she may not be able to stay here much longer. Her sanity cannot bear it.

She tries to find a new chamber to sleep in each night, but rest never comes easily. When she wakes she recalls dreams of the lake. In these dreams, she does not walk along the shore or try to find her way back to the castle. She lies against the pebbled beach, her head cradled in scaly limbs, a longing for blood in her belly and an ominous feeling that keeps her grounded.

Search for him and he will find you.

Luke rises with the sun. From the battlements, she can see Daemon in the godswood, carving his fourteenth strike into the weirwood tree. To the lakeshore she makes out the shape of her slumbering dragon. Grey Ghost blends in almost perfectly with the morning mist, until she spots one of his yellow eyes, wide and bright enough to spot from the castle.

She retreats to her little bedchamber in the Tower of Dread, tucks herself under the bedsheet, rough and scratchy with age, and shuts her eyes.

She stares back at the castle, and knows she will be safe within its walls— for now at least.

Her body is not her own, but she settles in it. This is not a brief moment of madness as with Tessarion. This feels like an extension of her dreams, something natural and familiar. Her movements are deliberate as she rises and spreads her wings.

She leaves Harrenhal behind, darting up towards the sky with all the speed she can gather, until the lake and the lands around Harrenhal are set out before her.

Aemond has not followed a particular path, so it stands to reason his hiding place may not be where she expects it to be. He could be in the mountains southwest of Pinkmaiden, or he could be somewhere else entirely.

If he has not been seen since then, perhaps he is somewhere more isolated.

By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky, she has flown over most of the western Riverlands, over Raventree Hall, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden and Stone Mill. She can see she is approaching Riverrun, the seat of the Tullys. They do not fly any banners, and yet their men are gathered and preparing for war.

Where to then? Along the Red Fork to the Trident, to the mountains that border The Vale? Or over Whispering Wood, where the mountains meet the sea along Ironman’s Bay?

Intinstic drives her north with a swift beating of her wings.

A swirl of storm clouds looms over the Iron Islands, but the rain has yet to reach the mainland. A fearsome wind threatens to blow her off course and below her the waves beat against the base of the cliffs, crashing and roaring against the rock with flurries of white foam. Grey Ghost does not fear the sea and for now, neither does she.

She flies high, sweeping her eyes along the slivers of shoreline that have not been claimed by the tide, searching for any sign of another dragon, a nest, a charred carcass of an animal. That’s when she hears a growl, like a rumble of thunder, echoing through the air as if the very sky seeks to unleash its fury.

Vhagar rises from her hiding place, half-buried in damp sand and the rest of her hide blending in with the rock. She feels the heat coursing through her blood when the dragons meet each other’s eyes, the fire rising in her gut, the urge to sink her teeth and talons into flesh.

But she looks up to the clifface, to the figure standing on an overhang. His sapphire eye gleams through the dull daylight, the ends of his silver hair drift with the wind and the beating of her wings.

Aemond.

He knows what Grey Ghost’s presence means, she can see it in his face, the awe and the anger. She would be a fool to think he would feel anything else.

He will come for what he believes he is owed.

And what of the debt he owes her now?

When does it end?

When she opens her eyes her skin is drenched in sweat. She tosses the sheet off her body and hurries to dress herself in her riding leathers. Grey Ghost will fly swifter than Vhagar, but she needs every second she can claim. With her boots pulled over her feet and her sword on her hip, she yanks the door open, sprinting through the halls and the courtyard. She doesn’t stop when some of the soldiers stare at her in confusion, or when Lady Alysanne tries to stop her and ask what’s wrong. She couldn’t answer them if she tried.

She feels her heart beating at all her pulse points, the wind slicing over her skin, the howling of the wind coming off the lake.

Daemon is in the Godswood, under the heart tree, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. He turns to face her as she approaches.

She is breathless, but her voice has never sounded clearer. “He’s coming.”

“How?”

How did he know to come? How do you know?

“I saw it,” she says.

Daemon frowns. In fairness, she herself would not trust such a vague answer.

She follows him back to the courtyard. The castle is in a panic now; the men are restless. Daemon fetches something from the armoury, a bow and a quiver of arrows. They are slim, not enough to pierce the hide of the dragon, but enough to shoot through the flesh of a man.

“Remember everything he has taken from you,” he says before he hands them to her. “Aemond may share your blood, but he is not one of us.”

She nods, and fastens them over her back.

Grey Ghost flies over the castle as the sun begins to set.

Luke and Daemon both know what they must do. She joins her dragon, hiding amongst a line of trees on the eastern shore of the lake, while Daemon waits in the open, and calls for Caraxes.

From the shadows of the trees, she watches the sky turn from blue, to gold, to red.

A shape flies before the sun and for a moment the world goes black.

She has never forgotten the fear she felt when she heard Vhagar’s call at Storm’s End, as she saw her shape through the clouds and stared into her open jaws. That same fear ripples through her body and makes her blood run cold, but she does not shy from it.

A thousand voices cry out in her head. Screams of the men she condemned to burn. Cries of anguish and mourning. Raised voices, calls for justice and retribution.

Mercy is a weakness. She finds herself wishing the world had more mercy.

But one voice appears clearer than the rest.

Blood– her heart in her chest.

Blood– the sky through the branches, illuminating the lake.

Blood. Blood she shares with Kings, Princes and dragons.

She has seen Aemond’s blood before and felt it against her skin. She is sure she will see it and feel it again before the night has reached its end.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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candycandy00 · 1 year ago

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The Offering - A Sukuna x Reader Fic Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

If you’d like to be tagged when I post the final part, comment to let me know. You must have your age in your bio or pinned post and be 18+ to be tagged.

Feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated! Thanks so much for the feedback on part three! It warms my pervy little heart! ❤️

It was late the next morning when Sukuna was sitting in the bath, cherry blossoms floating all around him. He’d long enjoyed the fragrance of this particular flower, especially because they were so short-lived. This village had been wise to hold his festival in the spring, so that they could incorporate the blossoms into his offerings.

As he watched the pale pink blossoms float by, his mind drifted to the offering who was probably still asleep in his bed, or perhaps having breakfast. Now that he’d thought of her, he wanted her to come and bathe with him. She would probably be embarrassed, even though he’d seen every inch of her numerous times by now. Imagining her blushing face was getting him excited, so he summoned a shrine maiden and told her to bring the offering.

Only a few minutes passed before the girl was led into the bathing room, wearing only the sheer white robe. The moisture in the air was making the thin fabric cling to her body in all the best places. Sukuna subconsciously licked his lips as the girl bowed low to the ground and the shrine maiden left.

“You can look up,” he said, and he waited for her to raise her head and look at him before he stood up in the bath. The water came up to his thighs, leaving most of his body exposed. He watched her expression as her eyes raked over his form, water drizzling down over his muscular chest and abdomen, his cock soft but still large and impressive. He knew he was an attractive man. Many people, regardless of gender, had looked at him with appreciative eyes. But once they knew who he was, his reputation for cruelty and extreme violence made their sense of fear override any attraction they might have felt.

Well, this strange offering was the exception.

Even knowing he was a sadistic monster, she was completely overtaken by her lust for him. He found that endlessly amusing, and so he stood there wet and naked before her, giving her hungry little eyes a feast.

“Stand,” he told her, “and remove your robe.”

Instead of getting up immediately, she instead lowered her flushed face back to the floor. “Lord Sukuna,” she began with a small and frightened voice, “may I please… request something of you?”

He stepped out of the bath and walked over to stand above her. This close, he could see that her body was trembling. Though he was normally annoyed by requests, he was too curious not to allow it. He asked, “What is your request?”

She kept her head to the floor and spoke in a frail and halting voice. “If… if you see fit to do so… could you please… show me mercy and b-be gentle with me today? My body still aches from last night, my Lord.”

Ah, so that was it. In all honesty, hearing her beg him to be gentle with her while quivering before him made him want to take her right there on the floor, harder than he ever had before. He wondered what sort of expression she would wear as he mercilessly pounded into her. Ahhh, he could hear her lovely screams in his mind, her pleading voice begging him to stop as he left fresh bruises all over her soft body.

Then his mind was invaded by the image of her smiling, and the image of her hugging the pink robe. He sighed. “I’ll show you mercy, if you can satisfy me in other ways.

Now stand up and remove your robe.”

He watched her hurry to her feet, clearly eager to please him. As she shyly pulled off the robe and let it drop to her feet, he wondered how he would kill her at the end of the night. She had certainly pleased him enough to earn a quick death, but he didn’t want it to be over so soon. He wanted to take his time, draw out every agonized scream, slowly slice away parts of her until there was nothing left.

Ah, but he didn’t have time for that. He would be leaving the village by morning. It was a shame that she wasn’t the offering on the first night. Then he would have had the whole week to enjoy her. The first four nights had been an utter waste. Only the first offering had made it to his bed, and only then because he hadn’t enjoyed a woman in weeks and wasn’t feeling particular. She’d been totally boring, a hole to fuck and nothing more. He didn’t even remember her face or what she’d sounded like. The other three had been eviscerated in front of the dais, their hysterical blubbering too annoying for him to bear.

He looked at the bandaged girl in front of him and wondered if he’d ever be able to purge from his memory the image of her smiling face, the sounds of her sweet moans and cries, the feeling of her arms clutching him with all their meager might. He walked over to a stone seat near the water and sat down, deciding to give the matter more thought in the evening.

********

When Lord Sukuna had stood up in the water, you’d literally stopped breathing for a few moments. Standing there naked, glistening with water, black ink trailing lines down his body, he looked every bit the god your village worshipped him as. When he came to stand over you, the closeness of that perfect body to yours made you feel dizzy. His beauty only made you more self conscious, but you took off your robe as he commanded.

Now he was seated near the water, and he beckoned you to follow. You approached him slowly, dreading whatever he might do to you but also feeling an incredible thrill. You were already wet just from the sight of him.

When you were close enough, he reached up a hand and ran it over your bandages. You felt a shiver when his damp palm slid over your bare nipples.

“Let’s take these off,” he said, and began peeling the thin strips of cloth from your body. He unwrapped you as if he were opening a gift, using careful, intimate movements that left your face burning. When the bandages were completely removed, you somehow felt more naked, even though they covered very little to begin with.

He pulled you closer to him, so that you were wedged in between his spread legs. You could feel that he was getting hard. As if in response, you felt your own arousal dripping down your legs. You clamped them together, embarrassed that you had no control over yourself when you were this close to him. But he looked at you with a smug smile, seemingly able to read your thoughts. One of his hands squeezed in between your thighs and moved up, just grazing your pussy before withdrawing.

He held up his hand, shiny with your fluids, and looked you in the eyes as he licked it clean. Your knees nearly gave way. That look in his eyes said he knew he was driving you mad with lust, that he enjoyed making you so wet you could hardly bear it. He grinned as he leaned closer and said, “If you want me to show mercy to your dripping pussy, then satisfy me with your mouth.”

As he pulled back slightly, he licked two of his fingers, thoroughly coating them in his saliva, then plunged them into your mouth. He watched you suck them ravenously as he spoke again. “Ah, but I haven’t given you permission to have my cock in your hot little mouth. What are you going to do?” The question was asked in a mocking tone, but you knew the answer.

His fingers slipped from your mouth and his strong hands pushed you down to your knees in front of him. His fully hard erection stood tall, inches from your face. You wanted it in your mouth immediately, to taste him, to please him. But he hadn’t given permission yet, so you looked up at him with teary eyes and said, “Please, Lord Sukuna… please honor me by letting me taste your cock.”

You saw his eyes widen just slightly, and his engorged member seemed to twitch. Then a wide smirk appeared on his handsome face. “Very well. You can taste it, but you’re not allowed to take it into your mouth yet.”

With a small bow of appreciation, you extended your tongue and began licking up and down his length, slowly, with worshipful motions. You paid special attention to the tip, where a few delicious drops were leaking out. Ahh, you wanted it in your mouth so badly!

“Please, I beg of you, my Lord,” you said between licks, a thin string of his sticky precum connecting his tip to your tongue, “Let me take you into my unworthy mouth.”

He looked down at you with no expression. “Denied,” he said.

His cock was throbbing under your tongue, but he clearly wasn’t going to go easy on you. It wasn’t like you were trying to be seductive, you were simply voicing your genuine desires. You nestled your tongue into his tip again and continued your pleading.

“Lord Sukuna… please… I need you in my mouth… please! Fill my mouth with your cock… let me drink your cum…”

You said it all while licking every inch of him with religious devotion.

Finally, he grinned down at you and said, “You can take me in your mouth now.”

Your lips immediately enclosed around his length, the unbelievably huge cock completely stuffing your waiting mouth, your tongue circling it.

Even though you were enraptured with the taste of him, you heard his silky voice above you.

“Oh, but now that I’m in your mouth, don’t take my cock out. No matter what. I’ll remove it when I’m ready.”

You looked up at him and nodded your head as best you could while having your mouth so full. You couldn’t imagine wanting to take it out now that you had such a gift in your mouth, but your mind was getting a little fuzzy, momentarily forgetting the kinds of cruel games Sukuna liked to play with you.

Your legs were slippery, drenched in your own juices. You were so aroused, you couldn’t stop your hand from moving down to slip inside your folds.

“Don’t touch your clit,” you heard Sukuna say in a commanding voice, and you felt like sobbing as you pulled your hand away. He wouldn’t touch it or allow you to touch it last night, and so it remained swollen and sensitive and begging for attention.

You heard him laugh at your distress. “Such a needy little cunt,” he said.

He was pulsing in your mouth, you could almost feel his heartbeat. You kept up your ministrations, using your entire mouth to pleasure him. The thick organ twitched once more, and then all at once his hand gripped your hair and pulled you forward until he was choking you. He came, shooting hot cum directly down your throat. But at the same moment, he released your hair and his hand moved to your nose, where he pinched it shut, cutting off your air.

You almost jerked back in your panic, but you remembered him telling you not to take his cock out of your mouth, so you held on, feeling the warm and sticky cum sliding down your throat as you struggled to swallow it without breathing. Tears were falling from your eyes as you looked up at him, silently pleading for him to let you take a breath. He watched you for a moment before finally releasing your nose.

For several moments you sucked in air through your nose and sputtered and coughed around his cock, not letting it fall out of your mouth. He seemed to be enjoying your struggle, looking down at you with an amused expression. It took you a little while to realize he still hadn’t pulled out, even though he had already cum.

“Did you really think I would be satisfied with cumming in your mouth only once?” he asked. Then he reached down and stroked your hair as he said, “Keep me in your mouth until you make me cum again.”

You wasted no time swirling your tongue around his now soft cock. The first step was getting him hard again, so you focused on that, making gentle sucking motions and moving your head back and forth. You tried to ignore the red eyes staring down at you, watching you work, as well as the soreness blossoming in your jaw from keeping something so big in your mouth without letting your teeth hit it.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for him to be fully erect again, and the feeling of him swelling against your tongue made you even wetter.

You had given up denying to yourself that you were falling for this monstrous man. He was cruel and brutal and enjoyed hurting you, but it didn’t change the way you felt in his presence. You wanted him, so much that your entire being ached for him. Even knowing he was going to kill you did nothing to dull your passion. And so you communicated those feelings through your mouth on his cock, wanting him to feel your desire, your love.

And after only a few minutes, you felt him throbbing again. His hand returned to your hair, and you prepared yourself to have his cock shoved down your throat again, but this time he suddenly pulled himself out of your mouth. As you looked up at him curiously, his hand still holding your head still, you felt strings of hot cum shoot onto your face. It covered you, getting into your hair, dripping down over one of your eyes, across your nose, running down over your lips and falling from your chin to drizzle over your breasts.

You stared up at him with one eye open, frozen, not daring to wipe any away without permission even as a glob of it ran over your left eyelid. As he looked down at your messy, cum-soaked face, Sukuna was smirking again, clearly very pleased with himself. He stroked the back of your hair and stood up from the stone seat. “Good girl,” he said, “now finish your meal.”

It took a moment for your addled mind to understand what he meant, but then it clicked for you. As he watched, you began wiping up globs of his cum with your hands and pushing it into your mouth, licking your fingers clean each time. You smiled up at him and said, “Thank you for this blessing, Lord Sukuna.”

The smirk seemed to vanish from his face, and he turned away from you. Was that….? No, it couldn’t have been…. You knew it had to have been your imagination, but for the briefest of moments, just before he turned away, you could’ve sworn there was a faint pink tint to his face.

You didn’t have time to think more deeply on it, because soon after he turned back to you and scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to the bath. You didn’t protest, only gasped in surprise as he stepped into the water and sat down, easing you into the steamy warmth. The water smelled so sweet, like him.

He gently pushed your entire head down into the water, just for a few seconds, then pulled you back up. Then he had a sponge in his hand, wiping at your face. When finished, he turned you to face away from him and then began running his hands through your hair, working some sort of lather into it.

Was he really washing your hair? It seemed ludicrous. He was a tyrant, an evil god, but right now he was carefully rinsing your hair. The soft movements made your whole body tingle. Was this his way of rewarding you? Or the start of another sick game?

Once your hair was washed, he sat back against the wall of the tub and pulled you into his lap, your back against his firm, wet chest. One of his hands moved over your body lightly, brushing over your nipples, your stomach, you hips, and then settling between your thighs.

The hand just sat there for a while, not moving and not parting your folds, as if it were just a comfortable place to leave it. Then, just as you were relaxing, one of his fingers slipped in. It pointedly did not touch your clit, only the area around it, which drove you mad. He circled it without even grazing it once, and you quivered in his lap.

“Please… Lord Sukuna…”

He had his mouth close to you ear. “Please what?”

“Please touch my…”

After you failed to finish the sentence, he whispered to you, “Touch your what?”

You squirmed as he kept rubbing everywhere except your aching nub. “My… c-clit,” you whined, both your hands gripping his strong arm.

“I won’t,” he said, “and you won’t either. Not now.”

The finger he’d been tormenting you with slid completely inside you, and was quickly joined by another. You moaned, your back arching against him as he pumped both fingers in and out of you.

Your senses were overwhelmed. The heat of the water, the strong scent of cherry blossoms, Sukuna’s perfect body pressed against yours, his sultry whispers, his fingers fucking your needy hole… it was too much for your fragile emotions to handle.

“Lord Sukuna… I love you…”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you quickly lowered your face to hide your blush. His fingers never stopped, and in fact he added a third as his other hand tilted your chin up to make you look at him.

He looked amused, as usual, and said in his beautiful voice, “Such a pitiful little offering.” Before you could even wonder what he meant by those words, his mouth encased yours, his tongue pressing between your lips and swirling with your own. Your hips in his lap reflexively moved with the rhythm of his plunging fingers as you moaned into his mouth.

Every inch of you felt amazing. You wanted to stay like this forever. If only the festival would never end, if only you could have been chosen the first night and had a few more nights with Sukuna, if only he felt even one tiny, fleeting speck of care for you.

One of his fingers pressed a spot inside you that made you nearly scream in pleasure, and you came on his hand, your body shuddering in his arms while his lips drank in your moans.

The two of you remained in the water for a while longer, neither of you speaking, your panting the only sound in the room. Then Sukuna stepped out of the water, and you followed soon after.

You stared at his form longingly as he dried himself off. He caught your gaze and laughed. “We just bathed. Don’t tempt me to make a mess of you again.”

You blushed and turned away from him to finish drying off yourself. You were still embarrassed about your slip up earlier, when you accidentally admitted that you loved him. You knew such feelings from an ordinary village girl were laughable to him, so you hoped he would simply forget it.

The two of you pulled on fresh robes and left the bathing room. As you walked down the hall a few steps behind Sukuna, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Let’s have something to eat. You don’t want to be hungry when night falls.” Then he continued on.

You stopped dead in your tracks. It occurred to you that he would definitely take you in his bed one more time before the festival ended, and he would probably hurt you again. You thought you could withstand physical pain, you’d even made peace with the fact that he would kill you. But there was still something he could do to you that you didn’t think you could handle, something he would most likely do just for the sake of being cruel. He could let you know just how little he thought of you, how ridiculous your sad little love was, how meaningless these past few days had been to him.

A strange little throb appeared in your chest, and you pressed your hand there to feel your own heart beating. You shook your head to try to dispel your dark thoughts, and hurried after Sukuna, deciding to do your best to enjoy your final hours.

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#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #x reader

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