#the meat roasted so tender it slipped from the bone and it looks like anime meat on bone and i love it

[babyblueetbaemonster]

Sir Mazoga, having a normal dinner.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Magic and Firelight (Ivar x reader)

Oh God. you know how I said I never write smut....apparently I lied. I blame this entire thing on @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ and @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​ for encouraging this. All. Their. Faults. 

This one-shot was inspired by the moodboard created by the ever-lovely @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ for a challenge. In the challenge she had to use Ivar, MagicAU and Licking....so I made sure to incorporate those themes into this written one-shot.  

Also this does not fit anywhere in the Vikings timeline because I want everyone alive and marginally happy, ok? So everyone lives in Kattegat but think season 5a Ivar. 

Warnings: SMUT, unexpected feels, like one swear word. 

Words: 4200

Tag List: @youbloodymadgenius​ @evelynshelby​ @pomegranates-and-blood​ 

reminder: not my moodboard. this entire, glorious thing belongs to @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ who was kind enough to let me use it.

  Revelry filled the air, coating everything in the Great Hall like a fresh snowfall. The feast was well underway. The smell of roasted meat and ale rose steadily into the air, along with the laughter and cheers of those still in attendance. A contest of strength just finished, the loser ending up with blood dripping from his nose, tainting his teeth, as he laughed uproariously. 

 A joyous shout shot through the hall. The signal of the next form of entertainment. Fists pounded on the tables in delight, a few exclamations arising amongst the sound. All noise ceased when a slow drumbeat began, like the echo of a steady heart. It sunk into the skin, traveling to the chest until one's heartbeat matched in echo. 

 Ivar shifted in his seat near the base of the thrones. They both sat empty behind him, his mother having retired long ago, and Ragnar at a nearby table with Floki and a few others, laughing with a flushed face and ale horn in hand. Glancing around his table, he could see the wild excitement in his brothers' eyes…. for they all knew what came next. 

 As the drumbeat started to increase, the first of the swirling dancers emerged. Their bodies covered in thin fabric that teased as much as it covered, leaving one longing for a glimpse only to be denied as she continued her provocative movements. The six beautiful women moved through the tables like swans gliding through water, each step, each sway of their hips graceful and in tune with the beat.

 "Who are they?" Ivar asked gruffly. These women were not the normal entertainment at a feast. Nor did he did not recognize any of them. 

 "They came with a trader from the Mediterranean." Ubbe answered, never removing his eyes from the dancers. "He petitioned with father yesterday to allow them the chance to entertain us in the way of their people…. or something along those lines."

 "Remind me to ask that trader where they are specifically from, because I know where I am going to explore next." Hvitserk stated with a smirk. 

 Ubbe bumped shoulders with Hvitserk, an unspoken agreement in the action. 

 Ivar rolled his eyes at their antics and turned his gaze back to the dancers…. Only to freeze when one locked eyes with him. 

 She stood across the fire, the flames appeared to lick and dance upon her skin. Every curve, each dip of her luxurious body highlighted in the flickering light. Her hair hung long, swaying with each movement, its own form of enticement. It was those eyes though, that held him spellbound to her. Large, luminous orbs that seemed to peer into his soul, that stole the very breath from his lungs. All he could do was stare as she danced. Each movement was pure elegance and seduction. The whole time those mesmerizing eyes kept him spellbound, oblivious to all but her. With her eyes locked on him, it felt she danced only for him. Each twirl of her body, each shake of her barely clad hips, her hands tracing patterns in the air, it all felt like a dance to entrance him. To maintain his attention. To rile up his blood and desire for her. To make him yearn for her with his whole body and soul. 

 When she finally released him from her gaze to spin away, he gasped in a lungful of air. Not realizing until now how he had forgotten to breathe while watching her, so enthralled by her, even air became unnecessary. 

 "You alright, Ivar?"

 The raven-haired Ragnarsson looked at Hvitserk, noticing the smile that teased the corners of his mouth. 

 "This is the closest he's seen a naked woman besides Margrethe and we all know how that went." Sigurd snarked, bringing his cup of ale to his lips. 

 "Shut up before I rip your tongue out and feed it to the flames." He snarled at his curly-haired brother. Fury stirred in the hollow of his chest like a wild animal threatening to tear apart its cage. 

 Ubbe smacked the table. "Enough. Both of you."

 The table quieted as their focus returned to the dancers. Eyes searching the hall, a slow-growing panic simmered in Ivar's gut as he could not see her. The other five dancers spun and twirled about, their bodies an example of art in motion. 

 Without warning, the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder caused his head to whip to the side, ready to demand blood from the one with the audacity to touch him…. Only to be met with those eyes that made him flustered and hot all over. 

 With her touches tender, she trailed her hand from his shoulder up his neck to cup the side of his face. Even if the need arose, he would be unable to remove himself from her sensual touch and her penetrating gaze, bewitched by her to remain still. Never before had he felt so exposed to someone. Even the times when he broke bones and had to be carried like a child, humiliation ripping into his skin. Now he felt undone as she beheld him, consumed by her with just a look. If the other dancers were art, then she, this divine beauty beside him, was a masterpiece, crafted by the gods themselves.

 Waves of jealousy rolled off his brothers, crashing against him like stormy waves on a beach but for once, he did not care. His eyes stayed glued to her, hypnotized by her very presence. 

 Suddenly he found himself facing her, unable to remember when he turned away from the table. She stood between his brace-clad legs, gazing down at him. Her fingers traced over his cheek, only to land at his mouth. Her thumb rubbed his bottom lip, encouraging his lips to part. Unable to resist her, he obliged, lips parting slightly. She made no further move, either to draw away or closer. His heart beat rapidly with excitement and mischief. A streak of wicked intent made his lips curl slightly, giving him away. His leather-bound hands reached out for her thighs; the soft skin almost foreign beneath his calloused-hardened fingers. In the same instant, he nipped at her thumb, still lingering on his bottom lip. Then he waited for her reaction with an impish smirk.  

 She chuckled, a sultry, honeyed sound that flowed straight to his useless cock and made him shiver in delight. 

 Never removing her eyes from his, she reached down to grab one of his hands on her exposed thighs. Then torturously slow, she guided it up the contours of her body, his hand caressing her hip, up her stomach and between her full breasts until his hand was at her mouth. Without waiting, she encouraged two of his fingers within. As her tongue swiped and sucked on his fingers like they were a tasty treat, Ivar lost all ability to think or resist. His hand still on her, gripped her thigh to ground himself, to confirm this was not a dream. 

 Women never paid attention to him, never looked at him with lust. After the latest raid in England where he proved his prowess in strategy and as a warrior, less women looked at him with disgust.

 But never this. 

 Never had one put him under a spell that made him want to sell his soul to possess her. Never had he seen desire darken a woman's eyes as they beheld him. Never had his own body and mind reacted with such a carnal, animalistic instinct. 

 He pulled his fingers from her mouth and dropped his hand to curl around her throat with just the slightest pressure. "Are you a thrall?"

 "No." She answered in a breathy tone, that only intensified his growing lust. Then she leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, those barely contained breasts almost in his face. "Do with me what you want, Ivar the Boneless. I am yours tonight."

 Whatever previous desire bubbled in his veins exploded at hearing her alluring whisper. A guttural groan lodged in his throat. The hunger for her reached an all-consuming, feverish pitch. Without a word, he pushed himself to his feet, slipping the crutch under his arm. "Come."

 He half expected her to laugh and walk away but instead, she traced a hand down the tunic over his torso with a purr of pleasure. Then when she looked up at him coyly once more, he was halfway to throwing her onto the table behind him to ravish her right there. 

 She silently followed him back to his room. The whole walk his mind raged, both in desire and fear. He knew he could not pleasure her as a man but this ethereal creature that followed him deserved to be worshipped. And she had chosen him tonight. Out of all those in the hall, including his brothers…. she chose him. 

 He vowed to make sure she did not regret it. 

 He dismissed his personal thrall as they walked in, pleased to see the fire lit in the small hearth and furs laid out before it. The door closed, echoing in the room. Once alone, he moved over to sit on a nearby stool, leaning his crutch on the wall behind him. 

 She watched the fire, standing in the middle of his room. Her clothing appeared almost translucent in this light, a way of directing and guiding the eye along her perfect body. 

 "Take off your clothes." He commanded in a husky tone. 

 With a seductive wink back at him, she tugged on the few ties keeping the minimal clothing on her flawless body. In a moment, everything pooled at her feet….and he damn near swallowed his tongue. Bare before him, he was convinced there was nothing more stunning, more gorgeous than her. She put every sunset to shame, every spring flower, every star to grace the night sky, nothing could ever compare to her. 

 "Dance for me, my beauty." 

 A beguiling smile on her lips, she watched him for a moment. Then she began to move. A slow sway of her hips, hands trailing up her body to rise above her head. 

 There was no force that could tear his gaze away from her. When she danced in the Great Hall, he had been memorized…. but now, it would be sinful to remove his eyes from her graceful form. The circular motion of her hips, her hands tracing the curves of her body, the heavy-lidded eyes that watched him. He wanted nothing more than to sit at her feet for eternity and watch her dance. To worship at her altar and bestow her with gifts from the Aesir. 

 Then she began to spin slowly, allowing him to see all of her, a music leading her that only she was aware of. At one point, she squatted down and slowly rose, only to snap her hips up in a way that made him audibly growl. His hands were clenched in his lap, desperate to touch her, to replace her hands with his as they caressed her body. 

 Finally he could stand it no longer, this enchanting, sensual dance that made his blood boil ceaselessly with desire. 

 He swallowed thickly, mouth dry. "Go by the fire." He demanded. 

 If she was confused by his command, she said nothing. Turning around she sashayed over to the furs laid in front of the small hearth in his room. His eyes greedily drunk in the curves of her body as she moved. She laid down on the pile of furs before the hearth, unashamed in her nudity. With the colors of the flames and shadows painted across her body, she appeared ethereal. Something only for the gods to view. Perfection at its purest form.

 Sitting on the stool, he quickly worked the straps of his braces, never taking his eyes off her. Unwilling to miss her glory for even a moment. She laid on her side, gaze on him. One hand propped her head up while the other skimmed those curves highlighted by the flames. 

 Once freed, he crawled over to her like the predator he was. Hunger and domination with each placement of his hands and shift of his shoulders. There was no doubt who was in control. His fierce gaze never removed from her, keeping her pinned with the same strength as if ropes held her down. As he approached, she silently rolled onto her back, an intensity in those eyes as they watched him and a kittenish smile on her lips. With that, he crawled up her body until he hovered over her, blanketing her perfect form. Then he waited. Staring down at her, he was shocked once again that she chose him. That she currently lay beneath, pliant to his touch and commands. It was a powerful and dark sensation. To have this control, this power over her….to have her at his mercy. A more rapturous feeling than killing Christian priests or obliterating any army. 

 "Ivar…." She sighed out, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. "Don't keep me waiting."

 A crooked grin grew on his face. Here lay this Valkyrie, this goddess, this divine creature beneath him, begging for him. Without wasting a moment, his mouth descended on her skin, his arms holding himself just above her. He placed open-mouth kisses along her chest, loving the soft sounds of pleasure it drew from her. His tongue traced the curve of her breasts, paying special attention to the tattoo of a flower between them. Suddenly he drew one of her nipples into his mouth, causing her back to arch. Her hand flew up to grip his braids, as he sucked and licked the bud until it was hard and peaked, then he switched to the other side to repeat his ministrations. 

 "Ivar…." She moaned, tugging on his braids, hips rolling beneath them. 

 "Shhhh…. soon." He nipped at the side of her breast, pleased with the heat that flared in her eyes. "We go at my pace…. and I plan on taking my time."

 Slowly he slithered his way down her body, his tongue leading the way over her soft skin. There was nowhere he did not worship with his mouth, nowhere safe that his tongue did not covetously explore. By the time he was done with her, his mouth and tongue intimately knew every inch of her and the erotic sounds those spots drew from her lips. With a long swipe of his tongue starting at her sternum, he trailed it down between her breasts to her belly only to end at the top of her womanhood. 

 He glanced up from between her legs, the scent of her arousal a beacon for him to follow. She laid there, bathed in flames, coated in his saliva, chest rising and falling like the waves of the seas, with her eyes closed and mouth partly open. Never had he witnessed anything more magnificent. 

 "Still with me, my beauty?"

 Her eyes fluttered open to peek at him, a tantalizing smile on her lips. "Always."

 With that, he dove into her. His mouth feasted on the juices coming from her womanhood. It was nothing like he expected. She tasted sweeter than honey, stronger than ale. He continued to lap and lick her, wanting more, needing more of her taste. For he swore, this was the nectar of the gods. A sweet ambrosia not meant for mortal men. 

 Her cries of pleasure doubled his resolve to ravish her with his tongue. To bring her such pleasure that she would always remember him. He flicked at her clit with his tongue, watching her keen to the ceiling above. Her hips rolled as he sucked at her folds with reckless abandon. 

 Each mewl and cry from her mouth, made him feel like a god. Each chanting of his name seemed to strengthen his body to continue. Even as he laid on the floor, propped up on his elbows, her legs over his shoulders, he felt no pain. As if her ecstasy flowed back into him. Instead of the constant ache of pain from his legs that clawed at his mind ceaselessly, for once it was silenced. All he was aware of…. was her. As if she invaded his body and possessed his mind. 

 If he was to die now, with her cries of pleasure filling his ears, he knew Odin would still allow him into Valhalla. For to bring this celestial being pleasure must be akin to the glory of battle. His blood roared in his ears, forcing him to continue, desperate for more. Her taste on his tongue was a craving he never knew he had until now. In the cradle of her thighs was his new favorite place to exist. 

 When she peaked, when her pleasure overwhelmed her and his name was screamed into the very heavens above, he greedily ate away at her, drinking everything down and still yearning for more. He licked at her womanhood through the aftershocks, her taste and scent all his senses wanted to know. 

 Once satisfied, he peered up at her, expecting to see her blissed-out, eyes closed and immobile. Instead what he witnessed made him freeze, unable to move.

 She observed him with eyes that glowed like two full moons on the darkest of nights. 

 Where once he had been the predator, intent on devouring her, adamant to possess her…. now he understood. He was the prey. He was the one caught in the spider's web. He was the one now owned by her alone. Those glowing eyes entranced him, preventing him from looking away, sealing his mouth shut to call out. Unable to do anything but gawk at her in a bewildered, longing awe. 

 Slowly she leaned up, staring at him. He could not remember moving. All his mind could fathom were those eyes…. those glowing orbs that he swore had seen Valhalla, that galaxies swirled amidst, that stole his soul and branded her mark on him. When he next blinked, he was sitting, with her straddling his lap, in all her exquisite, naked glory. Her eyes beheld him with softness, her hands a gentle weight on his shoulders, even her bare breasts pressed against his chest, all of it alluded a power that could only be answered with reverence. 

 "Who…. are you?" He stuttered out. 

 She smiled; a captivating thing that made him want to worship her again but also sink his teeth into her bottom lip. "I have been called many things throughout my life. But tonight, those names do not matter. Tonight, I am simply y/n…. Tonight, I am here for you."

 "Y/n?"

 She purred as if the name stoked a fire within her. "Yes, my valiant warrior." Her hand tangled in his braids again, almost guiding his head to the side as her plump lips skimmed his jawline. "I have heard your prayers, seen your cries. I cannot give you your legs but I will give you what I can."

 A quake raced up his spine. "What?"

 "Shhhh…. surrender to me." 

 Hesitantly, she pressed her lips to his, as if giving him time to pull away. Instead, he felt a jolt shoot through him. He groaned, opening his mouth, allowing her to take control. He had thought her taste as he lapped greedily at her core was ambrosia, but her mouth…. oh, the taste of her mouth was both death and life combined. Something so intoxicating and potent, it stole the very breath from his lungs while a vitality bleed into his veins simultaneously.  Her mouth held him prisoner, a melding of their lips and tongues that scorched him in every way deliciously possible. 

 "Do you feel it?" She whispered, before delving into his mouth again with an even greater need. 

 And he did. By this point, his legs should be screaming at him, especially with her weight on his thighs. Instead there was no pain, no ache. Only blissful tingles danced on his nerves and a fire stirred in his belly. 

 He wrenched his mouth from hers, eyes wide and panting as he gawked at her. 

 "I cannot heal you," she quietly said, eyes still glowing, "but I can take some of your pain in exchange for the pleasure you gave me."

 Unexpected tears welled in his eyes. Pain, his constant companion since birth, now was barely a blip on his mental radar. He dropped his head to her chest, overwhelmed by the lessened pain and bliss coursing through his veins. As he thought about it, as he feasted on her, every lick, every caress of his tongue against her, pain drained from his body like slow droplets of water. It was only now he noticed, so caught up in her exquisite taste, that he easily could become drunk on and never wish to be sober again. 

 She spoke against his ear, authority and power ringing in each word. "Hear my words, Ivar the Boneless. Your fame will live on for generations. You will not be forgotten, in this life or the next. This is my final gift that I give you."

 She drew his face back to hers, pressing her lips to his in a fiery, desperate kiss. Her words, her touch, her taste, everything felt seared into the very marrow of his bones. A burst of white light and ecstasy flooded through him, making him wonder for a second if he died. 

 When he opened his eyes, mind hazy as if intoxicated, it was to find himself alone. Frantic, he looked around. Yet there was nothing to show of her presence. Not even her discarded clothes lay on the floor anymore. 

 "No….no, no, no." He mumbled, refusing to believe she was gone…. but there was no denying the truth. Yet even as he sat there, tears still slipping down his cheeks, he could feel her presence with the absence of pain. He could still taste her on his tongue. Strength and vitality flowed through his crippled body in ways he had never felt before. 

 He was unsure how long he sat there before a quick knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. It opened to reveal Hvitserk who cautiously stepped in, eyes scanning the room. 

 "You alright, brother?"

 Ivar wondered at the stupid question then realized he must be referring to the evidence of tears still staining his cheeks. Hastily he wiped them away on his sleeve. "What are you doing here?"

 "We thought we heard something…. I came to check on you." He tilted his head and scanned the room once again. "Where is she?"

 Ivar turned his face to the fire, without answering. How could he explain all that just occurred without sounding mad? That a glorious being chose him, used him for her pleasure and then gave him priceless gifts. No, no one would believe that. This was a memory, a present for him alone to cherish. 

 "You know if you need advice with pleasuring a woman, I am more than willing to help. They do call me the love guru." Hvitserk chuckled but immediately silenced at the stony glare Ivar sent his way. "Um, right. Well, I'll head back out." He started to walk away but stopped at Ivar's call. 

 "Wait!" When Hvitserk turned back around, Ivar swallowed thickly then continued. "What…. what color are my eyes?"

 The flaxen-haired brother moved closer. "Um, blue…. a vibrant blue…. they almost look like they are glowing but with a veil over them. I've never seen them like that before. Are you feeling alright? Do you want help getting to your bed?"

 Ivar smiled longingly, his chest squeezing at his brother's words. "No….no, I feel… I feel great, Hvitty."

 "Um, sure. Do you need anything?"

 "No, you can go back out to the feast."

 "Okay, good night, Ivar."

 Ivar did not answer, only just hearing the door closing as turned back to face the dancing flames. His mind drifted to thinking about her, his beauty. 

 Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something nestled between the furs. Carefully he maneuvered himself over to gently grab it, curiosity pushing him forward despite caution. Cradling it in his hand like a priceless treasure, he now could see what it was; a pendant, only the size of his thumb, but it was in the color and shape of a full moon and an etching that matched the tattoo of the flower between her breasts. 

 "Y/n." He whispered, as if prompted by something to say her name. To his surprise, the pendant glowed faintly for a moment, so reminiscent of her eyes before dulling back. 

 "Thank you." He slipped his necklace off with Thor's hammer and added the pendant. Once back on his neck, he lifted the pendant and kissed it, only to stifle a moan as the faintest hints of her taste tingled on his lips. 

 Feeling euphoric, he laid back on the pile of furs, pressing the pendant to his lips. He closed his eyes, trying to remember every moment with her. He prayed that he could see her once again, either in this life or in Valhalla. For he knew, there would never be another like her. He had no idea who or what she was, only the name she gave him. A name that would be branded upon his heart and soul for all eternity. 

[frightknights-n-monstergirls]

Dinner Scene

I have no idea how to title this and I thought of this late at night just before falling asleep so I’m sorry if it’s so put together and makes no sense.

It’s a scenario in an AU I thought about late at night. It’s the reader living in a djinn infested world and coping with it. I might do more on it.

Warnings: Suggestive themes (Reader is basically naked in front of a lot of people), bad descriptions of a group eating, baby death, forced eating, prelude to dubcon, this is not romantic or reader friendly, very negative feels

The sky is stained red, the clouds became that way after the Djinn takeover. You grew to hate the color even though your ceiling was painted to look like the blue spotted with white puffs you used to know. You absentmindedly play a video game you managed to convince your master to let you keep. After playing it for about half a dozen times, you were no longer playing it for amusement or passing time. You are using it to distance yourself from your master and the world at large.

You master didn’t know any better, he just assumed it was important for you to complete if you forced yourself to isolation. He would walk in asking if you would like to attend his council meetings, you would say you were almost done with a level. Sometimes, he would ask if you would like a stroll in the gardens. Tempting as it was, you declined stating you were busy. You knew it was a matter of time before he grew weary of your childish games and you had to face the new reality.

“Pet.” Your master croaked in a definitive bark. You knew that tone, you couldn’t get yourself out of this one. “It’s dinner time with the council.”

You paused your game to turn towards the djinn you only knew as Nathaniel Demerest. Did he go by a different name other than Nathaniel and Master? You didn’t really care at this point. “Dinner with the council?”

“Yes. It happens every so often. Hopefully once a week if not more.” Nathaniel shrugs holding what appears to be gold chains. “Put these on, this will let them know you are mine.”

You slowly take the rope like metal noticing that it was like a very loose chainmail suit. Some of the links dangle freely at the chest area. You stand to put the gold over your tunic only to be stopped by Nathaniel.

“Without your clothes, dear.” He leers purring at your shocked expression. You gawk at him for a moment before nodding eyes cast to the floor. “Good pet.” You hear his groan as you undress in front of him.

You shimmy the gold links onto your body shivering at the cold contact. The dangling pieces magically connect themselves around the joining of your thighs and torso like a metal shibari scene. The last piece wraps around your neck snuggly at your pulse point. You gulp feeling your nipples harden from the cool caress of the gold rope framing them perfectly.

From the pleased look from your master, you can guess that he’s getting some form of power trip. You whimper when he yanks the neck piece connecting to the chest forward causing you to hop towards him. You screw your eyes shut as you feel his breath fan your face grimacing at the foul smell. A hot tongue glides from your neck to the underside of your jaw. Your stomach churns in disgust as Nathaniel purrs deeply taking in your scent.

“So sweet.” Nathaniel chuckles taking your nipples between his knuckles gently rolling them. “Mustn’t ruin dinner with having dessert right before.” He materializes another link of gold but places it over your head. It slides down like a veil dangling loosely towards your mouth. “Beautiful. Come, the council is waiting.”

 Now you sit with your master at one slide of a very long table. Roughly ten djinn accompany you to a lavish feast of assorted meats and fruit covering the grand oak surface. The spread smells and looks delicious, if only the overall sight didn’t disgust you.

These djinn tore into the food like ravenous animals. Claws used to rip apart chunks of flesh off bone. Teeth gnashing and snarling if a djinn tried to steal a piece off another’s plate. They all act like they are starving by how fast they shove everything into their mouths. Nathaniel is wolfing down a leg of some large animal managing to break into the bone to suck out the marrow. An unopened cloche made its way to an orangish djinn who is taking his time and using medieval utensils. Once he lifts the top off, rats spew out causing a bloody frenzy on that end of the table. All the djinn of that end scramble to catch the vermin quickly ending their miserable lives with teeth or claws. One scurries towards you only to get stabbed by a knife by a blue djinn about six feet from your left.

You can’t bare the scene anymore. You are technically naked at a dinner table surrounded by high ranking djinn who have the same dining manners as Skeksis, if not worse. You close your eyes breathing softly through your nose allowing the sweet aroma of the fruits soothe you as much as it can.  Your stomach still in tight knots from the whole situation.

One djinn across from you takes notice, “You need to eat, human pet.” You open your eyes seeing a portly yellow djinn lounging on his side using his magic to feed himself as one hand supports his head while the other rests on his large stomach.

He’s the epitome of lazy, you think bitterly to yourself. Then again everything’s at floor level since the table didn’t have legs so this djinn laying on his side isn’t too out of the ordinary. “I’m not allowed to eat.” You lie back straight making some poor excuse on the spot. If you can make a jab at Nathaniel might as well do it now.

Some of the other djinn are staring at you now, eyes either resting at your face or traveling your body. Your face heats up remembering that you are exposed to these djinn by order of your master. Shame bubbles from the empty pits of your stomach to hollow out the insides of your chest.

The yellow djinn practically spits his food out of his maw in a language you have never heard before gaining Nathaniel’s attention, “Why must you starve your pet? Its skin and bone already!”

“It is my pet you speak of.” Nathaniel growls holding a bone in a strong grip, you barely hear the thing crack in his fist. “I will do with it as I please.”

“At least, give it the fish.” The yellow djinn bemoans moving his head in his hand as if to snuff the conversation. “Have it eat the fats it needs.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes using his magic to move a closed cloche in front of you before a red djinn pounced on it landing face first on the table. The rest of the hoard laughs cruelly at him as he slinks back to his seat. The silver half orb slides in front of you, heat still radiating off it. The yellow djinn watches in earnest as if desiring to see you eat.

“It’s a delicacy, my dear.” Nathaniel purrs taking hold of the handle. You are developing a sinking feeling as your master began to sugarcoat his words, “It was caught especially for this occasion.”

Once the cloche lid had been removed, you let out an ear-piercing scream jumping away from the table landing back on your hands. On the plate laid a once crispy roasted infant mermaid. Large glossy sunken eyes stared up with cloudy pupils giving it a blue hue. It’s Glasgow mouth in a permanent horrified frown exposing tiny pointed teeth framed by curled barbels like a catfish. The arms are flexing near the head like any sleeping baby would do exposing its webbed clawed hands. The tiny body laid on a bed of lemons and thyme giving it a delightful smell. The abdomen and fishy lower half are scored revealing tender white flesh.

The room erupts into uproarious laughter from the djinn. You feel your eyes grow misty from either embarrassment or how cruel they were being in taking enjoyment in your shock. Even Nathaniel has his head thrown back in mirth. You gulp trying to regain your composure by scooting back on your pillow. You feel even more exposed than you have been throughout this dinner.

“Come,” Nathaniel dug his claws into the dead baby taking a good chunk of uncanny fish meat out. His other hand grips the back of your head by the hair easily holding you in place. “You should try it!”

His fingers slip passed you lips shoving the food into your mouth. You struggle in his grasp hating the fact that what was placed into your mouth tasted delicious. The meat is flavorful, tender, and melts in your mouth. You swallow it tentatively earning a few smirks from the hoard. You glance at the orange djinn at the end, he seems to not have paid attention and is looking around trying to figure out what was so funny with a confused smile, fork in mouth.

You barely had time to find the humor in it before Nathaniel pushes you on the table pinning your arms underneath you. Fear’s cold grip clenches at your heart as you see the other djinn stare hungrily at you. Your attention is taken off them when you feel Nathaniel behind you rubbing your sex with the pads of his fingers, careful with his claws.

“I promised a dinner and a show.” Nathaniel announces before spreading your cheeks spitting a glob of salvia on your puckered hole. He purrs watching the excess drip down your sex, you shiver at the feeling. “Let the show begin.”

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 3 [18+]

<-Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 ->

Summary: The creature feels guilty about having sex with you before explaining that he’s... um... made of dead people. Before things get too steamy again, he needs to reveal the truth. But how will you handle the news?

After you finish re-wrapping his bandages, attending to the healing of his bullet wound, you realize your stomach is gurgling with hunger. He generously offers all the roots and nuts stored in his pockets. You take them gratefully, but wonder if he has anything more substantial, like oats or meat. He does not.

“This is hardly enough for my breakfast, much less split between us.”

“You may have all of it for yourself,” he offers. “I can subsist on less.”

You pointedly refuse. “You need energy to heal; I can’t eat all your food. Besides which, if this is all you have, then I’ll be starving again by lunchtime.”

“I would spend every waking hour gathering every edible leaf and berry from the forest so you may feast as royalty, except this blasted arm. Even with your tender nursing, it is a constant throb of pain. I am unfit for protracted exertion.”

“Then I see no other recourse,” you say, popping a stale acorn into your mouth, “than to return home, or I won’t survive out here with you.” You’re honestly amazed that he can survive on such meager rations, as big as he is.

His shoulders fall, and he takes on an expression of mourning. “Then, you shall leave me after all.”

“Not at all! Come home with me, and I shall see we are both well fed.” You explain that your parents’ farm has a barn and hayloft at the far end of a wide field of grains, at the edge of the forest. It is isolated enough for him to hide within during the day, since you are the most frequent user of the space, as you go about your chores alone. It would be easy to visit him there to continue tending his wound, and they could quickly vanish into the forest.

He is greatly relieved to hear of your plan not to abandon him, though he adds, “I am not keen on hiding in a village full of people again. The last time did not end well.”

“The last time you didn’t have me looking after you,” you smile.

Before returning home, you and your companion roast your small stockpile of vegetables on the embers. He sits close to you the entire time they cook, holding your hand, hating every instant you’re not in contact with him. But he still looks away from you whenever he catches you looking at him too long, and lets his wild black hair fall in front of his face.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and begin combing through the snarls in his locks with your fingers. He gasps. Though he keeps shifting his face to keep you from seeing all of it, he braces his hands against your back to help you balance as you work, his chest moving up and down more and more rapidly beneath yours. Through his pants, you feel his bulge begin to harden against your thigh.

“Ah—the parsnips are burning!” he cries out, standing suddenly and dumping you off his lap.

After eating, you decide to delay your return a little longer. You strip your clothing off, undergarments and all, and hang them from a tree branch in the direct sunlight.

Your tall companion blushes a deep purple, and begins stammering. “W-what are you—um—”

“The sun is now fully risen, and casts a strong, dry heat, perfect for drying my clothes, which are still unpleasantly damp with the night’s dew. Come, you should remove yours as well: it helps them to dry faster.”

“I… um…”

You interrupt his fussing, pushing him playfully back against the trunk of an old, colossal tree. He gives in without argument, falling against the trunk as if you were the stronger, and leans down to you as you stand on tip-toe to kiss him. He growls hungrily against your lips, rough hands tracing down your body, exploring every inch of your skin.

“You are the most beautiful being in the world,” he pants, voice low and raspy. “An ethereal creature of light who has graced my lowly existence from on high—You are an angel.”

“I appreciate the flattery,” you laugh. “But I’m actually pretty average.”

“You are anything but common! Your heart is the most beautiful and generous I have ever known, to give succor to such a detestable wretch as myself. None has ever been so magnanimous in the history of your species. No human has ever seen past this horrible face.”

“There is nothing horrible in your face,” you purr, pressing your body against his. He whines softly, helplessly, leaning down to nip and kiss your neck, leaving red marks on your skin. You grind your hips against his—or his thigh, rather, as his hips are as high as your chest when he stands. He grows again, impossibly large, straining against the closure of his pants. You slip a hand under the fabric and feel the velvety, hot organ throbbing at your fingertips. You ache with desire imagining him inside you.

“Stop, please!” he cries, taking your shoulders and pushing you out to arm’s length. Sweat beads on his brow, and he pants. “I cannot allow this to continue.”

“What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head emphatically, “No. I want you more than anything, but it is I who am unworthy.”

“Oh, not again,” you whine. “I told you, I don’t care what you look like. Please, you don’t need to beat yourself up all the time. I want you, too.”

He shakes his head in defeat. “You only believe you do because I have withheld the full truth from you. You believe my deformity to be a natural misfortune of my birth, or sustained in a disfiguring accident, do you not? I am sorry to have deceived you, even by omission—I know you will flee in disgust when I tell you the true cause of my fatal defect, and I would do anything to keep you by my side. Yet guilt weighs heavy upon me. I must cast off this burden, and let you choose, fully illuminated, whether to remain companion to me, or to curse and despise me, as any rational being would.”

“You have to tell me… right now?” you ask, fully naked.

“It cannot wait.”

He produces papers from the pocket of his clothing. With trembling hands, he gives them to you, then hastens to the far side of the tree to hide, awaiting your reaction.

The pages are full of grotesque images: anatomical sketches of dissections, human remains taken from robbed graves stitched together with parts taken fresh from tortured animals. The illustrations were not cold and detached, as a typical medical text, but somehow lurid, as if its author were etching his twisted passions onto the page. At first, you don’t understand why your friend showed you this—the notes are all rambling and etched in a shaky hand, difficult to comprehend. When you discern the author’s intentions to build a living man, all of the pieces come together. Your stomach turns. It takes a few moments for you to gather your feelings and return to the huddled form, making himself small clutching his knees to his chest, on the other side of the tree.

“What I read… it's horrible,” you say, voice shaking with emotion.

“I know,” he whispers without looking up.

“This Victor Frankenstein was a monster! The things he did to those poor, innocent animals—not to mention defiling the dead. He has no conscience, and yet he writes as though he believes himself divine! What a pompous, arrogant, self-absorbed egomaniac!” you stomp, crumpling one of the pages in your fist. “Did you see this passage here, he writes: ‘A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.’ Ha! And yet he abandoned you, leaving you at the mercy of an unfeeling world. How dare he?!”

The creation looks up, blinking his wet eyes in astonishment. “But, are you not alarmed? The truth of my nature is too horrid to be borne by the human mind, too fantastical to be believed—surely you are shocked to learn it?”

“To be honest, I knew all along there was something unnatural about you,” you shrug. “I wouldn’t have guessed this, but, you did go on about being an abomination so I could hardly be surprised.”

“But, does it not disgust you? You revile my creator for his profane work, yet I am the result—all of his evils he poured into me, keeping the virtues of beauty and humanity for himself. Any execration you profess against him, you must feel for me a thousand fold!”

“No.” You kneel beside him, hug him and hold him tight, letting the papers scatter to the floor. “No. You share none of the blame for his actions. It is he who darkened his soul with his misdeeds; yours is innocent. You have done nothing wrong.” You caress him, planting tender kisses along his arms, trying to revive his spirits. He unwraps his arms from his knees, unfurling them from his chest, and scoops you into the opened space, burying his face in your neck.

“These are a corpse's arms that hold you,” He sobs, breath hot and ragged. “The skin of a dead man wrapped around charnel-house bones. I am not a person, I am a macabre assemblage. You must be sickened. You must hate me.”

“I care for you; all of my feelings toward you are those of affection and love. You are a person, no matter what your limbs are composed of. A wonderful, generous, selfless person, who did not deserve to be abandoned and alone. Who did not deserve to be scorned for wearing this face. This body is not who you are. You have a soul, which this Frankenstein could not have had any part in bestowing you, for it is far brighter than his own. And besides which, is my own body any less revolting when described in such explicit detail as laid out in these papers?”

He looks you up and down, bare in his arms, your vivid flesh in sharp contrast with his ashen pallor. The corner of his thin lips slowly creeps upward. “I would spare myself no detail on the subject of your body, my dearest.”

Your cheeks flush bright red. “Damn you—I knew the moment I said it!” you playfully clap his chest.

“My apologies,” he laughs softly, trying to repress the salacious grin spreading across his tear-streaked face. “If I spoke too familiarly, I—”

You press your lips to his, silencing him. Timidly at first, his fingers run through your hair, then, encouraged by your moan, he pulls you harder into a deepening kiss, parting your mouth with his tongue, twining with yours. His hands find your waist, guiding you as you slide down into his lap, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do… do you want to…?” he breathes. You nod, grinding your hips against him for emphasis. He smiles, and shifts his weight as if to get up, but then slumps back down against the tree, cringing painfully. “Yet I may not have the strength. My injury fatigues me, and I have exerted myself too much already.”

“Is it alright with me being in your lap like this? I don’t want to hurt your recovery, of course, but you look so crestfallen—if you want, we can do it just like this.”

“Oh?” his eyes brighten.

“Mm,” you purr affirmatively, trailing your fingertips down his chest. “Let me do all the work.”

You undo his pants and free his eager length. Lowering yourself onto him, you ease down slowly, feeling him stretch you as you work, little by little, to take in his massive size. A flurry of shallow gasps issue from his lips with each inch of progress you take, and his eyes flutter closed in rapture. With a deep moan, you sit on his lap, fully sheathing him. He arches and goes rigid beneath you. You lean forward to kiss his eyelids, then begin riding him, arms twined around his neck for leverage, rocking together in a steady rhythm.

Helpless, desperate noises escape his lips with each thrust, and each noise makes you wetter. You love hearing how much he loves it. You take it as a challenge to get him to cry out louder.

“May I touch you?” he asks.

“Please.”

His hands explore your body, seeking out areas that get a reaction from you, teasing your nipples, between your thighs, caressing your lips—quickly finding which buttons to press that will make you moan. He loves that you can find pleasure in him.

As he gets close to the edge, he begins thrusting up into you more vigorously, bucking and writhing, forgetting his need to take it easy. He grabs your hips and moves you at a faster and faster tempo, but he still wants more.

"I want to... To be on top again. Is that OK?"

"God yes."

He flips you back onto the ground, lifts your leg up over his shoulder, and begins thrusting hard, deeper, until he screams out, shuddering as he spills his seed inside you. Then he collapses to the ground, limp, luckily having the presence of mind to roll to the side to avoid crushing you.

“I should not have done that,” he groans, damp with sweat, clutching his bandaged shoulder. “Owwww.”

You caress his chest, smiling contentedly. “Do you need me to re-do your wound dressing?”

“No, no. Thank you, my angel. I just need… to rest…”

And with that last, weary remark, he drops promptly to sleep and begins snoring. By the time he wakes up, your clothes are dry.

[fontainebleau22]

Alright, for the DVD commenar (I mostly reblogged that post in hope to get everyone else to reblog it. ;p I mean sure I wanted to do it but mostly I wanted everyone else to do it). The Fire Sermon, either the beginning until Goodnight waking up the morning after. Or from "the loup took them to a place" until "Well was he?"? ^^

Thank you so much for this!

The loup took them to a place where water ran clear and shallow over abed of stones, pooling under trees which dappled soft grass with shade. Fishdarted below the surface and the water’s edge showed tracks of deer and fox. Ahigh rocky wall rising beyond offered shelter, and there was only the gentlestof breezes to set the leaves rustling.

Howdid they get there? Well now, that’s a question. You wouldn’t find it on yourown; it’s more a case of here andthere … easier to show than to tell, Ithink.

**Thissection turned out to be the key to the whole: I initially wrote it as a linearnarrative, but came completely unstuck on the question of how they got to thegreen place. I toyed with the idea of the loup riding on Goodnight’s horse, butit wasn’t appropriate to my version of the werewolf; then I started writing adescription of the journey with the landscape slipping and altering aroundthem, but it got too long and even I thought it was dull. And then I had theidea of the narrator, as a solution to the problem, and it just wrapped itselfaround the story without any further effort.**

Goodnight slithered from his horseto let her drink, reins trailing, and dipped his own hands into the water tocool his face. It seemed a place entirely of nature, untouched by humankind,but looking about him he saw the ring of an old fire with a black kettlesuspended over it, and a roll of blankets. The loup saw his glance. ‘What were you expecting, a cave full of splitbones?’

Goodnight bit back the yes that danced on his tongue and said,‘Expect is not a word I’d use.’

‘Be welcome,’ said Billy formally,and Goodnight bowed his head in polite acknowledgement before he led his horseaway to unsaddle her and let her graze.

**Itried to make Billy’s speech patterns a bit formal and archaic, to reflect thefact that he’s not really human.**

He returned to a sound of splashingin the creek and caught just a glimpse of bare golden skin and streaming darkhair before he turned away, stiff and awkward.

**Idebated a bit about ‘stiff’ here, as I thought it might be an unintentionaldouble entendre. But there wasn’t another word that seemed to fit the bill, soI left it.**

But the loupemerged naked, shaking the water from his skin, unabashed. ‘Wash,’ he said,‘there’s no one near: I’d know.’ And Goodnight suddenly felt himself absurdlyoverdressed in coat and waistcoat, stock and boots; he cast his clothes asideto bathe in the pool, then came out clean and refreshed to lie under the treesbarefoot in shirt and pants.

‘All this green in the desert, itreminds me of home,’ he said, ‘just a little.’

‘Tell me,’ said the loup, so Goodnight told him about theemerald swamps and the sluggish water, the damp heat and the trailing moss, theturtles that dived and snapped, the alligators, while the loup lay and watched him with fiery eyes. ‘And the loup-garou. You were there too.’

**Iknow nothing about what a bayou is like – I was supposed to go to Louisiana last summer,but I wasn’t well enough. But I did like the idea that Billy, strange as he is,is also part of Goodnight’s past, and that’s why I made him a loup-garou.**

The loup turned his head. ‘Seen many like me?’

‘No,’ said Goodnight truthfully.‘I’ve seen a few loup-garou, somecloser than I preferred, but none of them was like you.’ He was near enough forGoodnight to see the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of muscle underskin gilded by the sun.

Now for a hunter to fail to kill a loup-garou at the chance was foolish,and to accept its invitation was beyond foolish, but perhaps in truth Goodnightdid not yet believe the place he found himself; perhaps he expected still towake up at dawn by the cold ashes out on the trail somewhere, and laugh athimself for his extravagant imagination.

**Thissounds like an echo of Tanith Lee to me, though I can’t find an exact match forit.**

But the loup certainly seemed to find nothing unusual in his presence: ittreated him with careful courtesy, listened with attention to his words, and tobe sure, it was as handsome by day as it had been by night, dark andfine-featured, moving with heedless grace around its domain. And so Goodnighttook each moment for its own, without examining the how or the why, and theday was long and sunny, the evening lazy and companionable, meat roasted overthe fire, the flask passed from hand to hand, and the talk flowed as easily asthe cool water rippling in the creek.

Fear was far from his mind as helay down to sleep; indeed, he felt something akin to comfort or protection asthe loup murmured its goodnight. He remembered no dreams, yetas he stirred the flames under the kettle to make his breakfast the loup surveyed him thoughtfully.Accepting the tin cup of coffee which Goodnight offered, he remarked, ‘Yousleep uneasily.’

‘You watched me?’ Goodnight asked,uncomfortable under its appraising gaze.

‘I don’t need to see,’ said the loup. ‘I hear you move and cry out inyour dreams. I scent your panic; I sense your despair.’

**Allthe senses but one …**

Goodnight left him unanswered for along time, but the loup said no more,just looked at him, and eventually he said, ‘The past has its claws in me, andit doesn’t let go. Things I saw I can’t unsee, deeds I can’t undo. I learnedwhat men are capable of, what I was capable of.’

‘Let the past be past,’ said theloup, ‘live in the now,’ its gesture encompassing the sun, the grass, thewater. ‘Embrace it.’

‘Wish it were that easy,’ saidGoodnight.

‘Do you?’ asked the loup.

**Itried to make many of Goodnight’s replies to the loup unthinking ones,conventional responses which, when looked at closely, don’t quite say what youthink they do.**

It raised its head to where asliver of moon floated high in the twilight sky, its inner disc shining faintlyagainst the gathering dark.

‘Old moon in the new moon’s arms,’observed Goodnight. The loup gazedupwards and it seemed that the tiniest shiver ran through it.

**I’vealways adored ‘the old moon in the new moon’s arms’ as a phrase and a sight,and of course it’s an apt description of what’s to come. The phenomenon isactually earthlight: the moon shines from the light of a full earth.**

That night he woke to theinevitability of a weight on his chest. Not fur and teeth and yellow eyes, buta man speaking warm against his ear, pressing a gun into his left hand.

**Grrr.I managed to convince myself early on that Goody is left-handed in the movie,but I must have been looking at a reversed image, because he isn’t. I was soproud of getting a detail right, but it isn’t.**

‘Take it. I don’t want you defenceless,’ andhis hand closed on the grip of his own pistol.

‘Come to tear my throat out?’ hehusked. The man wasn’t heavy but he was powerful, and as Goodnight heaved upagainst him, testing, he discovered that he was naked.

‘Something like that,’ murmured theloup, and black hair tickled his faceas he bit oh so gently down Goodnight’s neck.

Toostrong for you? Too close to the bone? Oh, don’t turn away. Story’s only justbegun.

 Goodnight’s hand slid across hisback, feeling the solid muscles under the skin: his fingers found out the thinlines of parallel scars on his thigh, a knotted ridge of scar on his side. The loup tore his shirt open impatiently andhis palm fell like a burning brand on Goodnight’s chest. ‘Do you want this?’ heasked, and Goodnight realised he’d already dropped the gun to coil his fingersin that silky hair, to open up that hot red mouth with his own. He let hisdesire came raging to life and course through his body, sparking to life underhis skin; he felt his clothes thick and stifling, blinding his senses, androlled over, stripping them off, desperate to feel, to touch, to press everyinch of him to the marvellous nakedness beneath him. They crashed together copperyand fierce, without hesitation, without tenderness, without thought, teethraking and nails clawing, until the furnace heat cracked and shattered him intoa fountain of sparks.  

**Twothings here: the scene was originally going to be a bit more explicit, but Idecided that if I wanted it to be about instinct and animality rather thanrationality, then vague was better. And obviously the scene lent itself tofiery metaphors: I started writing the story under the title ‘Drowned as aDove’, which is from the terrific poem by Charles Causley, Mother Get Up, Unbarthe Door, in which a girl tells how her mother’s lost soldier lover comes backfrom the war as a ghost, and she runs away with him. The last lines are, ‘I’mdrowned as a dove in the tunnel of love / and I’ll never go home again.’ But Irealised that the water metaphor was wrong for this, which is supposed to be ared and fiery tale, so I changed the title to remind me to put in as much fireas I could.** 

Afterwards as his heart slowed, theloup draped over him heavy andrelaxed, teeth nipping softly under his ear, he asked, ‘How did you know?’ andBilly said, ‘I could taste it, pouring off you like smoke.’

**…and there’s the missing fifth sense!**

In the light of morning he laythere, Billy asleep beside him, or seeming to be, and his closeness and theache of his body made sure it was more than a dream born of want and fever. Hefelt as if he’d stepped through a door: no wrongor sinful or depraved; this was hot and simple, taking fear and shame andsearing them away until what was left was a core of blind lust and pleasure.There was no gentleness in it, no caresses or sighs, only strength barelyrestrained, and he met it shock for shock; it found out something in him,consuming and raw, and drew it out, quick and relentless.

**Iwanted to work a little on the idea that Goodnight, inside, is just as much ofan animal as the loup; he just tells himself stories about being civilised.**

He looked to his side and sawBilly’s eyes open, depthless dark. He reached to touch his chest, thenhesitated to close the space between them. The wolf stared into his eyes. ‘Thatwas the first question.’

**Thefirst and last questions set into their form immediately I got the idea, thoughthe second was harder to work out exactly how it should be asked.**

Anger flared, that he should be soeasily fooled, then turned as quickly to chagrin. Well and good: was I ever going to give a different answer?

**‘Welland good’ is one of the loup’s speech patterns, and Goodnight’s picked it uphere.**

Well,was he?

**Ilove the narrator. This story was so great to write.

[ecotone99]

[HR] Massacre Of Some Goats (Part of my unreleased anthology book)

Massacre of the Goats

It is not a lie that I have seen my own son be cast of a cliff by Imperial soldiers. The mass grave of infants by the rocks below had been washed with tears and blood but there were no clothes as they were stripped beforehand. Xian had asked for nothing from the soldiers, just a bowl of rice.

What am I to tell to his mother?

His mother who's conscience were too pleasant for this world. Its..Hell. I would feed my wife the scraps that my son would not want as she slipped into a sweaty, rambling fit. And so, in a damp and hazy night like this; there would be nothing for me to eat.

In a previous life, before all of this I was a graduate in agriculture at the only university around here, the one at the base of mountains. Before the druggy withdrawn animals roamed the streets, they were my friends. We had been flooded with mystifying agents by the West, men frenzied for violence, food and sex as flames itched their glass pipes. I saw the worth it still had. The rich men were able to transport their families overseas in the presence of a multitude of melons. The export trucks followed The Silk Road as to not stray.

Just before that the educated were sent to farms as to promote equality; it was our beloved Chairman's idea. We; me, Chi and Xian were once happy in our family bubble.

My village was a tired settlement sleeping at the edge of a sharp cliff face. As the sun peeked over the one long road which passed through farmyards and small huts, one would awaken to the humbling cliff face etched with bright green vegetation looking over at the goat and drug fields across the street. My home was the plantation first from the right, I had also rented my properties to good families nearby, my monthly payments would come running down the road. We lived in comfort but to the state I was merely a rich peasant.

Around the time when produce from the wheat farmers was to be sold only to the state, our countries population was urged to kill sparrows and flies as the creatures had been a pest to the sacred harvests. So when all the food was sent to the cities, I asked the arriving cadrè what we were to eat, for this I received ten lashes.

Over the coming months, the laughter of children and symphonies of bustling businesses had ceased. People at home would hear tractors and the grunts of iron women tending to molten steel by their backyard furnaces.

'In 15 years our economy needs to be as powerful as the US', proclaimed our Chairman.

So to accelerate metal work across our Great Nation, these furnaces were quickly erected with clay. The iron scraps were sold to cadre in exchange for rice but how will peasants eat when their pots and pans have been smelted.

Then one day on the Year of the Dog, trucks carrying bulldozers peeked over the long road. They parked up in a single column formation in direct view of the cliffs face. Houses were levelled, all of my properties. Gone. Any peasant that was brave enough to scream or scold the cadrè were beaten to the bone. After tending to the beaten, I walked passed the rubble for my last cigarette, I could hear the crackling of a great fire. I lit it by the fire of my burning Opium field as the villagers screamed in pain and sorrow. I just stood and watched the painting, strokes of bright orange and black blemished the moon soaked fields. In the distance, a single dove tree unable to flee is forced to watch the evil of man.

My village was once a beautiful place, now it cries in the smoke of the furnaces. Some would say the cliff would smile when drenched in the monsoon season, now it listens to the ramblings of withdrawn peasants and dying mothers. Bodies littered the side of our long road covered in bits of soot. The community house fed grains to peasants that hadn't succumb to the black fumes but the goats behind the house were for the cities.

I stopped caring and started eating, a dead tenant of mine had once said to me:

'My mother suffered in the Revolution of 1911, she said that bark or clay can be roasted on a fire and that it can be eaten. If trees are stripped, scrapings of coal also suffice'.

From the death of sparrows and absence of flies grew the number of locusts whom ruined wheat crops across the nation. Cadre grew more violent as the food for the cities depleted, peasants were buried alive, injected with salt water and had their tender bones crushed. It was then, when the scraped coal had taken my fingernails, that my loving wife gathered the women of the village into the community house. By dawn, a dozen women and children hung from the ceiling in a brave act of self destruction. Ash blew itself across the land, tens of millions of the darkest souls floated into the next realm.

Now I sit by the community building, my son, a bloody mess of guts and muscle. My wife, hanging from the sad cliff face in the nude. Cadrè refused to bury deserters. I'm hungry. Where do I go from here? The end cannot be worse than what I have suffered, yet; I dont know what the end is. A thousand gods have pondered and agreed to bestow this intensity of suffering onto man. Why? Theres my story for you fuckers. I'm going to sleep.

The faceless man had concluded his rambling and the line of dying peasants laughed in response to his tale, all seemed to have lost their way. Before his dying breath was ready, he held back. He had questions and so with his thin stature and the blackness of coal smudged across his teeth and mouth, he grabbed a sharp shoulder blade lying next to him and marched to the goats.

The first goat he killed was too small, blood splattered across his left eye and hands as he worked hard to hold down the squealing creature. The other few goats could not be used either. From the pregnant one he had learnt to cut around the neck until he felt a crunch. This was when he was to rotate the shoulder blade, the head popped off clean. The final goat was a dream, its head lay on the ground, spitting dark red blood.

This man, with a face of blood, ash and soot fit the decapitated head onto his own after pulling out its brain and parts of its skull. Sharp cuts of bone sliced the mans neck as the head took its place on his thin face. Blood gushed down his face, the creatures blood mixed with his own and flowed down his face. He was suffocating.

The blood started to clot, it was almost solid. It webbed, crossing itself over through the dark abyss, the red plasma pulsated. It lived. He walked carefully only over the plasma as he did not want to fall to his death, however he had failed to notice the hole at the centre of the complex. Falling through shadowy growths of blood vine, the colours brightened as he fell further from his starting point. Bright blood pushed him through the new realm and he found himself lying on the face of a black pyramid plummeting to eternity.

Purple lights flashed in the dark of the black abyss, it started to rain. The pyramid of blackness in the expanse of colourful blood rain, colonised by the faceless hybridized being; continued to fall. The eye of the goat manages a blink.

Sitting opposite him, a bearded man, browned by his climate. The rain continued, it flushed down the body of a palm tree that the bearded man sat underneath.

"God hates us. Why? In infinite suffering, even death may die. Why would he kill my happiness?".

In response to his questions the bearded man smiles. He opens his eyes slowly, his legs remain crossed.

"What happens at the end? I'm standing at the edge of my world, what's the meaning?".

Frustration was growing.

Not resting his smile, the bearded man answers:

'You're alone'.

X

Malnourished villagers found several dead goats behind the community house. That night they ate meat for the first time in years. The mans old tenant tucked into thin cuts of his landlord and goats cheek. This was when Yasukè opened his eyes with a stern look.

X

Sometime in 1580, Japan.

Yasukè removes his trusted katana from the tachikake. He slides the cold steel from the hardened wooden koshirae. He stands by the open sliding door with the loose sleeve of his kimono dancing with the wind. His sword glistened amongst the dawning sun. Etched into the opening of the doorway Yasukè contemplated his dream as his talkative dwarf servant swept himself through the withering wheat fields to shout:

'Yasukè, taste battle for once. In the night as we slept, men ravaged our farmyards. Behold Yasukè, beyond the that tree stump lies thirty decapitated goats'.

Yasukè ran softly in short steps towards the sleepy cold sun. Passing the cold bark of the cut Maple tree, he lay his concerned eyes upon the massacre of some goats.

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[rosemaidenvixen]

You are my Sunshine

Chapter 12: Thirteen Part 1

Ao3

Content warning for animal death, animal consumption, and mild gore.

For most people it was no easy task to lift a plastic bucket full of saltwater and poultry, but Jim just had to wait until nightfall and it was a snap.

Jim carefully adjusted the bucket’s position and slid the lid of the cooler into place. Tomorrow the turkey would be ready and waiting for roasting.

Turkey prep down, he pushed the cooler into an out of the way corner of the kitchen and got out the cutting board. Time to start on the stuffing. Getting a handful of onions and celery out of the vegetable crisper, he got to work prepping, peeling, and chopping them.

Personally, Jim could take or leave stuffing, but his mom and Toby loved it so every year a bowl of the stuff made it onto the table.

Falling into the practiced rhythm of slicing vegetables with little to no fear of cutting himself, Jim’s mind started to wander.

Thanksgiving, like all of their holidays, was pretty small scale. It usually just involved him, his mom, Toby, and Nana getting together at his house for a shared meal. Occasionally an out of state relative or two of Toby’s would drop by, but they weren't particularly close relatives and few ever came twice.

As for Jim and Barbara, all of their extended family had either passed away or were distant enough to be considered strangers, so no out of state visitors for them.

Jim looked down at the blue, stony skin of his knife hand.

It must be hard for Mom to have so little family, but it was probably for the best.

No relatives visiting meant no one coming around and questioning why Jim never left the house past dark. Or worse, actually  seeing  something.

Jim swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

He’d been changing every sunset for so long that transforming was as natural to him as breathing now. It had gotten to be so routine that some days he almost managed to forget how unnatural it was.

But lately even forgetting had become harder and harder.

Jim’s hands trembled as he sliced through the celery.

In the past year he’d grown several inches in his normal shape, while his blue form had shot up by nearly half a foot. During the day his voice had started cracking non stop and at night he suffered from constant headaches as his horns grew in even faster than the rest of him.

But Jim could deal with that; growth spurts that left him gangly and gawky, constant growing pains in bizarre places, sounding like a cartoon character. All of it.

Except for one thing.

Jim slid the finished celery into a large bowl with a lot more force than was needed and started peeling the onions.

From the start he’d never been able to eat normal food when he was blue. But while the things he could eat were weird, they weren’t exactly rare. Canceling their recycling plan and occasionally picking up used socks from the thrift store set him up with plenty of night time snacks. So diet was never really an issue for Jim, at least not until last summer.

It had started before then, though when exactly Jim couldn’t say, but July was really when it sunk in.

Jim used to be able to go all night without eating. Sure he prefered to have a snack or two after dark, but if they happened to be out of night time ‘food’, he could just as easily skip eating and make up for it with an extra large breakfast in the morning.

Last July was when Jim realized that he couldn’t not eat at night anymore. Even if he did manage to fend off hunger pangs for the whole night, the day after he would be so sluggish and weary that he could barely function.

But getting hungry wasn’t the issue.

Jim was bringing the knife down with so much force that it actually started to embed into the plastic cutting board.

The issue was what he was hungry for.

Glass and metal and plastic had always been staples of his nocturnal diet. But a while ago Jim had started craving….different things.

Things he could tear his new, larger teeth into. Things that were chewy and crunchy but also moist and tender. Things that tasted like metal and butter at the same time.

Things an awful lot like the seven pound turkey currently brining in the cooler.

The turkey Jim had barely been able to keep himself from taking a bite out of the whole time he’d been preparing it.

The knife slipped in his hand, catching two of his fingers with the blade. Jim yelped and dropped the knife, which fortunately didn’t land on the floor, before quickly grabbing the injured hand and pulling it close to his chest. Once his heart stopped pounding, Jim cautiously pried his good hand off the injured one to examine it.

A long scratch across both fingers but no harm done. It was a good thing that the hand he’d knicked with the knife lacked a pinky, if he had one it would have been badly cut.

Jim took several deep breaths before picking up the knife and going back to chopping the onion.

Jim could handle looking different, he could handle  being different, but not this.

This wasn’t like growing horns or being made of blue stone.

This was wrong.

It wasn’t just raw meat he was craving, if it was he’d eat some sushi and be done with it. What he was craving wasn’t a cut and cleaned piece of meat, but a whole bloody animal.

What scared him the most was that he knew he could do it. Years of eating metal and leather told him that if he wanted to, Jim could grab an animal, fur, hide, hooves, and all; and just start eating.

What did that say about what he turned into?

Jim dumped the last of the onion into the bowl. He really should work on the herbs next, but if he got out the sweet potatoes, the smell of the sweet, starchy tuber would kill the traitorous stirrings of hunger thinking about the turkey had brought up.

During all the months Jim had been having these cravings, never once had he given in.

And tonight would be no different.

Jim rapidly started peeling and dicing the orange tubers, the smell made his stomach turn but he welcomed it.

Same plan of action as always, work on the sweet potatoes to kill any appetite he had, then force down empty cans and soda bottles to keep himself full for the rest of the night. He didn’t have to fight it forever, just until sunrise. Then these disgusting urges would be gone.

At least until the sun set.

Then it would all start over again.

But he could do it, Jim had been fighting his appetite and winning for months now, and he could keep doing it for however long he needed to.

He wouldn’t let his nightly transformation change him any more than it already had.

No matter how strong his hunger was, Jim was stronger.

He would fight this forever if he had to.

Loud rustling noises coming from outside jarred Jim out of his thoughts.

Curious, he leaned over towards the window and peeked through the blinds. A flash of movement raced across the compost bin, followed by a loud bang and a crash.

Jim jerked backwards from the window.

What  was  that?

Was it something dangerous?

What if it hurt Mom when she got home?

Despite how much he did not want to leave the house, Jim needed to take the risk and find out if something dangerous was out there. He walked over to the back door and gingerly cracked it open. Just in time to see one of Nana’s cats scurry past him and go out through the hole in the fence.

It was the one that actually liked him, he could never remember all their names so he just called it Cat #6.

Looking back at where Cat #6 originated, Jim had to do a double take. The compost bin was laying on its side with the lid several feet away and compost strewn everywhere.

And propped up against the side of the bin was a rabbit bleeding from its neck.

While he watched, not quite believing what he was looking at, the injured rabbit gave a single twitch before shuddering and going still.

For a few seconds Jim didn’t move, slowly realizing what had happened. It wasn’t burglars or a roving pack of coyotes causing all the racket. One of Nana’s cats got out, got into a tussle with a rabbit, and knocked over the compost bin; that was all. He just had to clean up the mess before his mom got back.

After quickly grabbing a large trash bag, Jim took a few hesitant steps outside and walked over to the compost bin. It wasn’t that Jim was scared of leaving the house, he loved going camping and running around in the woods. But being outside in his own backyard, with nothing but a wooden fence separating him from the prying eyes of anyone walking by made him deeply uncomfortable. That was why he needed to clean up the rabbit and the compost and get back inside as fast as he could.

Gingerly, Jim grabbed the rabbit by one of its feet and lifted it off the ground.

He could feel of bone and muscle and sinew move under his fingertips.

The rabbit itself wasn’t too messy, the only wound was the one in its neck that had already stopped bleeding, all Jim had to do was put it in the bag and put the bag in the trash can.

The coppery tang of it’s blood filled the air.

The smell reminded him of the turkey, rich and briny.

Jim held the rabbit over the open mouth of the trash bag, ready to drop it, tie off the bag, and go back to working on their holiday dinner

But Jim found himself unable to let go.

Stomach churning with unease and traitorous hunger.

What was he doing, why was he even considering this? This was a, formerly, living and breathing animal, not food. He couldn’t just eat a bunny rabbit!

Or could he….

Jim glanced around; it was too perfect. The rabbit was already dead, one of Nana’s cats had gotten it, that was just nature. So it wasn’t like he went out and killed an innocent, woodland creature to satisfy his sick urges.

He was in his own backyard well past midnight so no one would be around to see him….it would be the simplest thing to take a quick bite.

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t. Jim had been keeping his appetite in check for months, he couldn’t screw that all up now. If he had half a brain he’d chuck the rabbit in the bag right now.

Despite every rational argument he could think of, his grip on the lapin stayed firm. Some murky instinct floating in the back of his mind refused to let it go.

The rabbit just smelled too damn good.

Jim took a deep breath.

Just one little bite, that was all it should take to get the curiosity out of his system. Then he would throw it away and go back to chopping sweet potatoes.

Jim raised the rabbit to his mouth, heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears, half of him recoiling in horror and the other half rejoicing, and tentatively took a bite.

Bones crunched easily under his sharp tusks.

They were built for this.

Scorching hot blood dripped down his throat, quenching him in a way he’d never thought possible.

Flesh stretching and tearing in his mouth before landing in his stomach, filling him with complete and utter bliss.

Forget socks and empty bottles and old silverware.

Forget filet mignon and coq au vin and red velvet cake.

This was the most delicious thing Jim had ever eaten in his life.

One bite became two.

Two bites became four.

Four bites became eight.

After eight he stopped counting.

Jim knew he should stop, he should have stopped a long time ago, but he was well beyond the point of caring.

After months and months of fighting back his hunger, Jim was finally indulging himself.

And it felt  so  good.

The world around him narrowed until it just contained Jim and the rabbit he was rapidly devouring. In that moment nothing else mattered. All he cared about was eating more and more and  more .

Jim was so lost in his feast that he didn’t notice. Not until the backdoor light flicked on.

Instinctively, Jim jerked his head up from the rabbit in his hands, swiveling in the direction of the light.

Standing on the back steps was his mom, still dressed in scrubs and lab coat from work, staring at him with wide eyes.