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toshidou · 2 years ago

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woe to the deer who is courted by the wolf . . .

pairing // könig x f!reader

word count // 7.2k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader, vampire!könig, predator/prey kink, mentions of blood and injury, minor elements of horror (very minor), slightly misunderstood lonely vampire könig, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, rough sex, creampie, biting, blood sucking, blood play

an // after battling with writers block for over a month, who would have thought it'd take a blood sucking giant to free me from the shackles of having no inspiration? anyway this is the most i've ever written in one day, which is only slightly concerning. bone apple teeth!

thank you to @erosology for beta reading this, and forever being my number one hype man ;-;

Pale moonlight peaks through a frame of eerily still clouds, reflecting off the polished black steel planted in the ground at your feet. You can hear the whispers of your friends behind you, a little too old to be snickering and giggling behind the palms of their hands, although you’re entirely too old to have taken their bet in the first place.

It started off as a simple reunion between old friends, a short trek into once familiar woods to the spot you used to set up base for the night, roasting marshmallows over a concerningly large campfire, sharing cliche horror stories whilst swaddled in blankets. This very night had gone about the same, until someone brought up the old manor. An imposing house that watches over the village that surrounds it, well kept and suspiciously pristine, withstanding the tests of time despite the fact that not a single soul has ever been seen to enter or leave the premises.

It had been a longstanding dare, an easy way to get someone to down their drink, ‘I dare you to jump the fence and knock on the door��. No one has ever been stupid enough to go through with it, a couple tried, but got as far as the black iron that surrounds the perimeter before they gave up. And yet, here you stand, too many years later, an individual who should be both older and wiser than to commit several crimes for the sake of a stupid bet and childish curiosity, staring at that very same railing.

You can hardly hear the whispered words of your friends from where they cower behind you, your eyes transfixed on the looming building that seemingly stares back at you from where you remain fixed at the bottom of the hill. Mahogany brick unblemished, barely touched by weather, towers three stories high, trimmed ivy crawling up the walls as though attempting to reach out to the moon that watches over it. Each window is blocked by scarlet wooden shutters, an old-fashioned touch for a house surrounded by new builds; looking at it now feels like taking several steps back in time.

Not a single spec of light leaks through any crack in the shutters, each room bathed in darkness, the same way it always has. Surely, you think to yourself, surely no one can possibly be in there. Your theory has always been that the house is long since abandoned, its previous owner having died, looked after by a previously employed caretaker who hated to watch a building they loved go into disrepair. And although that doesn’t explain the suspicious lack of activity, it’s the only sane thought that you repeat to yourself as your fingers curl around sturdy black bars, and you begin to haul yourself over the iron fence.

A moment later, and the dull thud of your feet hitting neatly trimmed grass breaks tense silence, your eyes meeting with several widened pairs through steel bars. It’s the furthest anyone’s gotten, and even now, you feel like you’ve gone far enough. It’s certainly not too late to change your mind, to do the sensible thing and throw yourself back into safety, and just as you’re contemplating backing out of the bet, you feel the hairs on your nape stand on end, a chill down your spine so sharp it causes a physical flinch. When you turn around, you’re met with the very same house, not a shutter or brick out of place, yet something, somehow, feels different.

It’s like a siren call, luring you from the safety of your friends that remain frozen on the other side, hardly breathing as though they daren’t make a sound, apprehensive eyes focused on your shadowed form as you slowly make your way up the hill. It’s more daunting up close, no longer a silhouette against a twilight sky, now you can see details the distance has never gifted you, the way the wood shutters that plaster the windows are carved with swirls and intricate patterns, how the ivy hides bloomed flowers amongst pointed leaves, speckles of pink and purple that ease the tension that coils your muscles, only bolstering timid curiosity. And now you’re standing within feet of the house, you’re left in awe by the sheer size of it. It never seemed particularly small, not even from the gate, but the front door alone has you gulping down nothing but frigid air. You take a few tentative steps, eyes raking over the magnificent details carved into thick black oak, the centrepiece that catches your gaze being the solid gold knocker that sits just above your head, halfway up the door.

Two hollow eyes stare back at you, a skull with two rams horns that curl from golden bone, and between its bared teeth lies a ring that rests against ebony wood. It stands out from every other detail of the house, a spine-tingling reminder of where you stand, echoes of the myths that surround this house whispered by your trembling conscience, and yet shaking fingers reach for the ring, curling around cooled metal before lifting it, preparing to knock.

But you never get the chance, because in true horror movie fashion, you’re met with the slow creak of old hinges as the very door you stand before begins to open, and in the void of black it reveals, you swear you see two pinpricks of red that greet you in the darkness. Your entire body goes stiff, still clinging on to the gold loop of the knocker as though it’ll somehow ground you, yet it does nothing to chase away the overwhelming sense of impending doom that screams at you to turn, to run, to get as far away from this wretched place as your legs can take you.

You turn just in time to hear the worried calls of your friends before the door is yanked wide open, dragging you over the edge of the premises with it and sending you careening onto the floor, sliding against wood and scrambling up only to watch that very same door slam in your face.

Frozen. Every single part of you remains stock still as you try to adjust to the darkness. Not even the moonlight dares follow you inside, leaving you alone to dart your eyes in the pitch black, searching for some semblance of light you can latch onto. Yet the house offers you nothing, and you can’t help but see red dots every time you dare close your eyes. In the moment of still you’ve been given, your brain reels as it tries to think of a logical explanation for the door seemingly dragging you into the house with no human in sight to operate it, and in your panic, you can’t help but pray that you’ve fallen asleep by the campfire, and this is all an elaborate nightmare you’ll be able to laugh about when you awake.

A creak from behind you sends you hurtling back into reality, a sure reminder that this is no nightmare, not one you can wake up from, at least. Your head whips to the side, terror freezing your muscles solid as you lock onto crimson orbs once again, so bright they can be seen even with the absence of light to reflect off them, your blood curdling in your veins as they remain fixed on you, unblinking. You scurry backwards, the sound of your back slamming against the solid wall behind you echoing through the dark, fingers curling against peeling wallpaper in a last-ditch attempt to find the door handle.

Your pathetic scrabbling is interrupted by the harsh sound of a match striking against rough material, your eyes drawn to the responding flame it produces, but moreso, the large fingers that dwarf the stick they clutch.

“What a curious thing you are.”

Each syllable rumbles through very walls, practically shakes the structure of the house, a low timber steeped with an accent you can’t quite place, but certainly isn’t local. You daren’t breathe, let alone move, not even when the ground creaks and shakes with every purposeful, creeping step the stranger takes towards you. The flame grows as the match is brought to a wick, the flame whittling away the wood until all that remains is twisted charcoal, before transferring to the candle, the dying fire roaring back to life, casting a flickering golden glow onto the one holding it.

You’re met once again with red, but now you can see bleached tear tracks running from shoddy holes cut into black cloth, a mask fit for the monster that wears it, and as they stalk ever closer, you belatedly wonder how they’re going to navigate the stairs that must separate the two of you, certain that even someone familiar with a house must need more light in order to not fall. But they never begin their descent, and it’s only when the flame lies mere feet from you, yet so far out of your reach, you realise there are no steps. You’re face to face with a giant.

Adrenaline douses you like a torrent of water, your widened eyes alert and stricken with obvious fear, yet you didn’t expect the gentle touch that encircles your wrist, lungs sucking in a stuttered breath as you stare into the hollow red of its eyes. Large fingers draw your arm upwards, moving your frozen limb with ease, until it’s stretched far above your head, your fingers bumping against the smooth wax of the candle the giant passes off to you. Your brain scrambles for words, screams against the shackles of your fear-addled mind, waiting to release a slew of incoherent pleas for your freedom, yet your lips remain firmly sealed.

You feel a weight in your trouser pocket, eyes darting down to see his fingers pushing a box of matches into the gap of the material, only for your gaze to snap back to him as he hunches down, the material of his mask flowing down as his torso towers over you. You’re left caged against the wall, nowhere to run as his face levels next to your ear. It’s silent for a few horrific seconds, until that same spine-chilling voice purrs one single word.

“Run.”

It’s as though all your body needed was the instruction, responding immediately as you tear away from him, feet slapping against hardwood flooring as you careen towards what vaguely resembles an entrance way. The flame flickers dangerously, threatening to leave you in the dark once again, your fingers curling around the candle, whispering prayers that it doesn’t snuff out, that it doesn't leave you alone with whatever stalks you in the pitch black.

You don’t stop running until you reach a hallway, sprinting down the claustrophobic corridor until you finally reach an open door, rushing inside and pushing hefty wood until it clicks in place, sealing you within, safe for now. You hold up the candle to illuminate more of the room, watching as the soft glow bounces off a glinting gold frame and painstaking strokes of oil paint. An obscenely large portrait hangs on the wall in front of you, the image of a handsome man draped in fine purple robes, shoulder length brown hair pushed back with a crown of golden leaves. He sits in a chair, grand and crimson, lined with bronze, legs spread over the expensive velvet, one large hand curled over his thigh, the other propping his head up, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair in a way that can only be described as unbothered, and unamused. But the thing that has you utterly transfixed are the two red irises that stare right back at you, playful and taunting, and hauntingly familiar.

Surely this isn’t the man under the hood, the one who dragged you into his house and watched you scramble out of his grip the second he told you to flee. Because why would a man so handsome hide his face? Why would someone who looks so young own a house that has stood at the centre of your small village for far longer than you’ve been alive? Nothing seems to make sense, not a single aspect of the past 10 minutes feels real, and you can only hope your friends saw what happened and ran to get help, because you’re not sure there’s a way for you to conquer this man alone. It’s as you’re floundering for answers that you hear a noise from outside the room, instincts taking over as you quickly hide under a small dining table and blow out the candle, praying you haven’t given yourself away.

You’re not entirely stupid, you know the meaning of red eyes, and although you could attempt to soothe your psyche with whispered lies about contact lenses and make believe, you know better. The thing that chases you is no man, and certainly isn’t human, at least not anymore. And as terrified as you are, there isn’t a chance in hell you’re about to let yourself become this monster’s dinner.

You sit in the darkness, clutching the smouldering candle to your chest, and wait. Ears alert as you listen for the slightest sound that might give away your hunter, a breath, a sigh, a scratch, you do little more than hope that your hiding spot remains occupied by you, and you alone.

After a tense few minutes, picking up on no other sounds than the thrumming of your own heart, your fingers slowly make their way to your pocket, gingerly plucking the box out and pushing the case off. Despite the lack of light, and the trembling that consumes your body, you manage to fish out a match, and strike it, holding the newly lit flame to the wick of the candle.

Bleached tears. Red eyes. Large fingers. Looming body.

“Boo.”

The scream rips from your throat before your brain can catch up, the candle abandoned as it’s flung towards him in a last ditch attempt to throw him off, knees and hands protesting as they’re dragged along grooved wood, leaving grazes in their wake. The momentary pain isn’t enough to stop you, however, lungs heaving as you tear out of the room, clumsily bumping into walls and ornaments, impeded by the dark, motivated by sheer determination to live.

Your decision to toss away the candle comes to bite you firmly in the ass the second you find yourself tumbling down a set of stairs, and in a move of sheer instinct your hands attempt to slow your fall, only for the skin of your palm to get caught on a loose nail, slicing the flesh and leaving you wailing as your body finally slows to a stop against the cold stone floor you now find yourself lying on. Every bone in your body hurts, aches, but is overshadowed by the sharp sear of white hot pain as you cradle your torn skin to your chest, warm rivulets of blood oozing down your wrist, tracking rivers of red down your forearm until you hear the steady drip, drip, drip of your blood hitting stone.

A light appears above you, a halo of pastel yellow emanating around black cloth, and within a second, the fight leaves you, slumping further into the floor as you accept your death, hoping none of your friends were stupid enough to follow you only to meet the same pitiful fate.

“Please,” You mumble, voice finally found, entirely too late, “Just make it quick.” You hear little other than a hushed chuckle in response, a cat toying with its food.

“I imagine it looks worse than it is, kleine maus.”

You pause at that, curiosity ebbing through once more. You may not have paid enough attention to languages at school, but even in your state, you know enough to recognise those words.

“You’re German?” You mumble, fear forgotten in your shock-ridden state. The man shakes his head as he crouches next to you, extending his free hand towards the injured one you have secured to your torso, tittering again as you flinch. But you have little other choice than to let him pry your hand away, watching with wary eyes as he examines your sliced skin. He holds the candle closer to the wound, a soft tut passing his lips before he holds the candle towards you, urging you to take it with a gentle nod.

“Austrian. But close.”

It all feels strange, foreign, as though you’re being lulled into a false sense of security just so he can tell you to run once again, laughing maniacally as he watches you bleed over his floor. The fear returns once you have the candle securely in your grip, eyes locked on the way his fingers curl around the material that hides his face, and begin to remove it. Inches of once cloaked skin is revealed, a defined chin melts away to pursed lips, a smattering of dark facial hair that frames his mouth and curls up his jaw, the material pulled further only to reveal a hooked nose, and two narrowed eyes that reflect the candlelight in a way not dissimilar to precious gems, rich and vibrant. Maybe it’s the shock, or limited blood loss, but you can’t help but marvel at just how pretty he is.

Of course, it doesn’t last much longer, not when survival instincts kick in, the realisation that your bloodied hand is now near the mouth of a creature that lives entirely off the thing that keeps you alive. But the grip on your wrist is ironclad, strong yet not uncomfortably so, a strange juxtaposition between monster and man as he cocks his head at your wound. With a nod, seemingly more to himself than you, you can do little more than cry out as you’re hauled over his shoulder, his arm secured tightly around your waist, the hood forgotten in a small puddle of your blood on the stone flags.

It’s mere minutes later that he places you down on soft sheets, your body sinking into a plush mattress, left to watch him as he ambles around the egregiously large room, muttering foreign words under his breath as he roots through an ornate chest of draws. You must be in a fever dream, unsure how you went from running for your life, to being patched up by the very thing you were certain would kill you. And yet, here you are, watching as he almost awkwardly sidles to your seated figure, and kneels in front of you, once predatory eyes unable to hold your gaze as he sets out various medical items by your feet.

“Your hand, may I see it?”

You present your palm to him, watching as his eyebrows knit together, giant hands placing tentative touches against your skin as though he’s concerned about hurting you, the thought of which does nothing to aid your spiralling confusion. But you say nothing, you simply watch as he takes a damp cloth and begins cleaning your cut, fixated on the way his eyes snap to you with every pained hiss and suppressed whine, picking up on the way he ensures each subsequent touch is a tad gentler than the last. It’s not too much longer until he’s wrapping your hand with bandages, making sure the gauze is tight enough to keep your blood in, but not enough to cut off circulation, the type of gentle care you never would have suspected from the giant at your feet. Your curiosity has increased tenfold, not a trace of fear left to lick at your nerves and render you speechless, replaced only by the overwhelming need to know more, to learn everything.

“What’s your name?”

It’s his turn to freeze, ruby irises briefly flitting to yours, rounded with surprise, before they snap back down, making himself busy as he gathers up a scattered array of bloodied cloth.

“I… I have had many. The one most people knew me by was König.” It’s strange, the croon of his voice sounds almost nothing like the one whispered to you in the dark, from low and horrifying, to gentle, almost timid. You’re nothing short of fascinated, leaning forward as you scan over the contours of his face.

“Why’d you drag me into your house and tell me to run?”

“Why were you trying to knock on my door?”

Touché.

Heat licks at the skin of your cheeks at his brazen reminder of your attempted trespassing, your uninjured hand coming to rub at your neck in lieu of a response. After a moment of silence, he sighs, deflating into the plush carpet below.

“It has been a while since I last had any visitors. Your arrival was… Unexpected. You caught me off guard,” He pauses for a moment, pupils dilating as his fingers curl around the rags he holds in his hand, covered in your blood, “It has been even longer since I have been around fresh blood.” It feels surreal to have it confirmed, that the creature that sits before you is one you’ve seen only in movies and read in far-fetched romance novels. Yet, you feel no fear, that emotion all but vanished the second he halted everything just to care for an intruder's wound.

“My friends dared me to knock.” He cocks his head at that, a single eyebrow arching, bemused at your admission. “It’s been a dare for years, no one ever actually had the guts to do it.”

“Until you.”

A pause, your head dipping forward in an unsure nod.

“Until me.”

He’s staring at you unabashedly now, your eyes wandering over the rich details of the bedroom you reside in as an excuse to save yourself from his piercing gaze, an unreadable expression swimming in carmine eyes.

“I am glad it was you.”

You hate the embers of arousal that spark at his words, perturbed by your body’s reaction to seemingly innocent words spoken from a man you were sprinting away from less than an hour ago, and yet his eyes do nothing to put out the fire, intense and smouldering. You can’t bring yourself to look away, nor to quash the way your heart flutters as his torso leans closer to your thighs that subconsciously part to make room for him. The action doesn’t go unnoticed, nostrils flaring as sharp eyes zero in on the way your legs spread against silk sheets.

“And why is that, König?”

It’s as though you uttering his name opens the floodgates, black engulfing vermillion until only a sliver remains, thick fingers circling your shins as he leers further into the gap your parted thighs created, that same ravening stare that once sent fear trickling down your spine now leaves you gasping for breath for an entirely different reason.

“Because I haven’t seen something as pretty as you for a very long time, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop myself again, maus.”

You couldn’t prevent the whispered whine of his name if you had tried, eyelashes fluttering as you move to curl your fingers in his shirt, giving pathetic little tugs to the soft material of his silk shirt, eyes dipping down to where loose material tucks into black pants. Your back arches, a shameless display of desire as you slide your body closer towards the edge of the bed, and further into his touch.

“Who said anything about stopping?”

Your words remain suspended in the air around you, two sets eyes locked onto each other, blown black with barely-suppressed lust, and yet you don’t dare to make the first move, waiting, wanting for him to shed his timid skin and swallow you whole, become the beast that stalked you through rooms just to feel the thrill of the chase. His hands leave your legs, instead balling up into tight fists against his own thighs, the skin around his knuckles taut as though restraining himself. For a mere moment, you fear he may have changed his mind, that is until he utters the word you craved to hear.

“Run.”

You ignore the lingering ache in your joints, your thighs burning as you dash from the bedroom with renewed purpose, fuelled by the all-consuming thoughts of what’s to come, excited to finally be caught, a far cry from the unbridled terror that sent you scrambling before. This time, he makes no effort to prowl in the shadows, your heart beat soaring as the loud thuds of footsteps echo from behind, the floorboards quaking under your feet from the force of his steps.

You know there isn’t a chance he’s running at full speed, but even then he catches you almost embarrassingly quickly, built arms encircling your waist and crushing you against his torso, bringing you to the floor in an instant, leaving you to writhe helplessly between his body and the floorboards. You don’t give in, however, limbs thrashing, nails clawing against whatever they can reach, whether it be the arms that pin you down, or the wood underneath you, feigning an attempt to escape.

That is until you feel two sharp points dig into your nape, not enough to break skin, but the threat of it leaves you frozen under him, a doe caught in the wolf’s jaws. But you don’t fear the bite like wild prey would, somehow, you crave it, to feel his teeth sink into you, to let him lap at your blood and drain you near dry, anything just to feel like you’re his.

The pressure of sharpened canines begins to lessen, his teeth slowly peeling back from your skin, although anticipating your body to begin thrashing once again. But you remain subdued, the embers now engulfed by crackling flames that lick at your nerves and set your skin alight. It’s only when his hips shift do you feel the tent in his pants pushing against the top of your thighs, your eyes fluttering shut as you push your ass down to grind shamelessly against his cock.

“Temptress,” The word is almost incomprehensible through the growl that reverberates through his throat, a sound that gives away entirely how affected he is, rough and wanting. “You should be trembling beneath me from fear and yet…”

His words trail off, a stuttered gasp replaces your heavy breathing when you feel sizeable fingers trailing down your sides before sliding under your body, cupping your inner thigh. Your heart hammers against your ribcage from the chase, now bolstered by the scandalous touch as his fingers skim past your clothed core, only catching onto the way his fingers curl into the material until it’s too late, hardly leaving you enough time to yelp before he’s tearing you bare below him. The tattered remains of your pants are haphazardly discarded, joined soon by the threadbare silk of your ripped panties, one of your favourite pairs torn in half with hardly an ounce of effort.

“Yet here you are, schätzchen, quivering with need, dripping for the cock of the one that hunts you.”

The rough pad of calloused fingers swipes against your exposed cunt, unable to suppress the heady whine that leaks past your agape lips, your forehead meeting the hardwood floor with a soft thump. That single touch renders you limp, muscles going lax as you melt into the glide of his fingers as they tease your folds, slowing on every up-stroke to rub slow circles against your clit. It’s maddening, the pace in which he picks you apart, leaving you to grind on his fingers like a wanton whore just to feel the surmounting pleasure that builds in response to his touch. A tut sounds from above, heavy breath cascading over your nape as his head dips down, lips dragging from neck to the shell of your ear.

“What a desperate little thing you are, maus, you know what we call things like you in my native tongue?” Your head shakes, a breathy ‘no’ muffled into the floor, “Schwanzschlampe, cock slut.” Embarrassment mixes in equal measure with arousal, curling one of your arms under your head to hide your face, the action short lived as strong arms flip you onto your back, one large hand gathering both your wrists together and pinning them above your head, exposed before him in every way. It’s undeniably more intimate in this position, your eyes given little other option than to lock onto his as his other hand continues to tease your dripping cunt, carmine swimming with unrestrained desire pinning you to the floor as effectively as his near crushing grip on your wrists.

“You can’t hide your pretty face from me, liebling, I want to see how much you crave my touch.” He presses his forehead to yours, low candlelight from lamps that line the corridor walls glint off the two long fangs that peak past reddened lips with every word spoken. And it’s seemingly your turn to catch him off guard, your head tilting upwards to push your lips to his, swallowing his surprised gasp down greedily, arching your chest to push against his. The kiss is desperate, messy, a combination of saliva drips down your chin, moans and rumbled grunts creating a symphony that drifts down the winding halls of his home. With a nudge, you ensure his eyes are locked to yours as you part your lips, your tongue curling over his teeth before brushing over the point of his elongated canine.

With a push, you feel the sting as his fang just barely dips into soft flesh, a drop of blood beading at the surface before you push the muscle to his, locked onto the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull, the growl momentarily starting up again before his lips lock around your tongue, sucking at every morsel of blood that springs from the pinprick cut like a man starved. A man that has most likely been starved of blood directly from the source for more years that you’ve been alive.

If you thought that you’d unlocked the beast within him before, the taste of your blood brings out an entirely new side. His lips part from yours, the crimson in his frenzied eyes transforming before you, as though enriched from just a taste of warm iron. You watch as his pupils dilate and constrict, each push and pull between black and red prove hypnotic as his eyes slowly begin to refocus, the colour to his irises seem dull in comparison to the bright vermillion flecked with gold that peers down at you, still wild with hunger, driven by need.

The moment is broken mere seconds later when his head drops to your neck, sharpened teeth dragging along the throbbing pulse at the base of your throat, and just when you expect the bite, you’re left gasping for an entirely unrelated reason as your shirt comes apart against sharp enamel, shredded where it surrounds your naked torso, leaving you entirely bare. Yet all it takes is a singular glance to realise he remains fully dressed, not a single article shed.

“König,” Your voice comes out strained, practically whining as though prepared to beg, “Let me undress you?”

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up to you from under his lashes before the grip on your arms lessens, his legs folding under him as he rights himself into a kneeling position over your body. He suddenly seems unsure, maybe a little self-conscious as you lean up brushing your fingers over flowing pristine white silk, taking your time as you unfasten each button, never once letting your eyes stray from his. And despite the hint of bashfulness, he keeps his gaze pinned to you, a wary lion caught off guard by brave prey.

After the last button falls undone, you let the tips of your fingers trace up revealed skin, before pushing the shirt from his shoulders, and watching as it billows onto the floor, exposing a defined chest highlighted by a smattering of scars that tell stories you could only dream of hearing. He’s nothing short of ethereal, otherworldly in every sense of the word, a behemoth of a beast, with the face of an angel.

“You cover up a lot for a man as handsome as you are.” Your disguised question prompts a flinch, solid fingers clutching into fists at his side, but before you can rush to amend your words, he slumps, resigned to your curiosity.

“I have garnered a reputation I do not wish to catch up to me. It is safer to keep myself hidden, maus.” You make a mental note if you somehow find yourself in his company after this night to ask him more, a carnal need to know everything that makes up the being knelt above you. But you tuck them away for now, refocusing your attention to the waistband of his trousers, deft fingers wasting little time undoing the silver clasp and dragging down the zip until the front peels open.

“Good thing you don’t have to keep hidden in front of me, huh?” Your lips tug upwards into a playful smirk, your hands planting on the solid muscle of his chest before you’re pushing him backwards, letting his legs splay out either side of your now free body before easing both his pants and underwear down the corded muscle of his thigh, marvelling at each inch of skin revealed to ravenous eyes. His trousers join the crumpled mess of clothes that lay scattered across the floor, giving him no time to adjust to his new found nudity before your head is ducking down, tongue flitting out to lick a long strip from the base of his cock to the tip.

Your enthusiasm is immediately rewarded with a faltered whine, watching from under your lashes as his head lolls backwards, trembling fingers coming to cup either side of your face. He’s big, his cock twitching against the defined muscle of his abdomen, thick and long, and nothing short of daunting. Yet you choose to focus on the way your pussy clenches around air at the mere sight of it, overwhelmed by the knowledge that you’ll understand what it is to be split open by him, to be fucked by him. Your tongue darts out once more to press against the tip, the small cut on the surface only just healed over, your spine shuddering at the dulled sting that follows as you begin to take the head of his cock between your lips, mouth stretched almost painfully around the girth.

It does nothing to dissuade you, however, tears clouding your vision of his blissed out expression as you swallow him down deeper, hardly taking more than two inches before your throat spasms around him in protest, coaxing a throaty whimper from spit-shined lips that has your hand darting down to your clit, fingers rubbing desperate circles into soaked flesh.

The following whine that reverberates around his cock swiftly gives you away, crimson eyes focusing in on the way your hand disappears between your thighs, before flitting back to the way your watering eyes remain locked to his, hissing out several curses in German at the sight of your lips wrapped around his straining cock.

“Your mouth… Gott, your fucking mouth,” strong fingers guide your head off his cock, your lips separating from the tip with a lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting your lolled out tongue to his cock. “Need to fuck you, schätzchen, I can’t wait any longer, verdammte hölle—”

You’re not given any warning before he’s pinning your back to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and bending you in half, a feat you didn’t know you were capable of before his strong fingers moulded you into the perfect position to take his cock. Folded like this, you can’t help but feel like a doll in his hands, your height and weight rendered meaningless under the sheer size of the monster above you. Trepidation begins to simmer under the surface of your skin, trying to imagine just how your body could ever make room for him.

But he doesn’t leave you much time to fret before his head falls to your thighs, thick fingers twitching from where they hold up your legs as his nose buries into your pubic bone. Long strands of brunette block your vision, startling as you register the feeling of something thick and wet pressing against your folds.

“K-König!” Your cry prompts a responding groan from the man below you as his tongue licks firm stripes up the length of your cunt, glassy eyes drifting up to you as though intoxicated, drunk of the heady taste of your arousal. With a jolt, you’re left helpless to watch as one of his hands slides down your thigh, stuttering through another gasped moan of his name as you feel a single thick digit slide into the wet heat of your pussy, eyes watering at the stretch that merely one of his fingers provides.

He doesn’t hold up, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking the second he feels your walls clamp around him, slowly easing your muscles into accepting a second finger, distracting you from the momentary pain by lapping his tongue against your engorged clit. But even so, taking two of his fingers feels like more of a challenge than any cock you’ve taken in the past, eyes rolling backwards as he begins to crook them within you, calloused fingers rubbing against the gummy walls of your cunt in a way that has you convulsing around him, warbled sobs hiccuping past your lips as you feel your first climax rip through your body.

“One more, maus, I need you to take one more so I know I won’t hurt you.”

Tears track down your face, still processing the intensity that just wracked your body, but you nod down at him anyway, rewarded with a gentle smile and whispered praise as he cautiously eases a third finger into you, pausing the second he hears a pained hiss after the first knuckle. He hums, placing tender kitten licks against your still throbbing clit, letting you push past tender overstimulation to help pull your mind off the burning stretch, refocusing your attention to the pleasure his mouth provides.

“Doing so well, liebling, almost there…” His words are whispered against your glistening pussy, eyes firmly fixed on yours as he guides you through, until finally all three of his fingers are pushed to the hilt, cooed praise following immediately after.

“König, need you, I need you inside of me, please.” Your sniffled plea evokes nothing more than a playful smile from him as he cocks his head to the side.

“Am I not inside of you right now, maus?” His tone is teasing, words accompanied by a wiggle of the fingers that remain buried in your cunt, coaxing a depraved moan from your already raw throat.

“Your cock, wan’ your cock so bad,” It takes a second to search for the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, your eyes sparking when it finally comes to you, “Bitte, König.”

It’s immediate, the way his fingers pull from your cunt and secure themselves back around your thigh, darkened rubies glinting with that same predatory stare you’re all too familiar with now. He wastes no time as the tip of his cock bumps against soaked folds, your fingers wrapping around his veined shaft as you guide him inside, mouth parting in a silent cry as the tip pushes past the first ring of muscle and leaves you breathless.

There is no mistaking that three of his fingers gave you a mere taste of the stretch, belatedly wondering how on Earth he’ll fit amongst the tight walls of your cunt, and the other organs that surround it. But by some grace of God, he continues to move, inch after thick inch swallowed by your cunt as though it were made for him, a perfect match, the monster and his plaything, the predator and its ever willing prey.

A rush of air finally fills your lungs once the dull slap of his hips meets your ass, unfocused eyes widening as you take in the protrusion of his cock, the bulge obscenely large where it stretches out your skin.

“S’big, you’re so fuckin’ big, what the fuck—”

Slurred rambles are cut off with a searing kiss, passionate and fiery as his hips begin to draw back, swallowing down frenzied curses as he slams back into you, setting a cruel pace right from the start. You never had a chance, you should have known, and yet you regret nothing as he pounds into your abused cunt, your cervix meeting the tip of his weeping cock with each forceful thrust, thick veins rubbing against the walls of your pussy and leaving you glassy eyed and cock-drunk.

Mindless babbles flow from drooling lips, your neck drooping to the side as you hope your eyes convey your needs without resorting to incoherent words. But it takes little more than exposing your throat to him before his lips latch onto the flesh, sucking a line of bruises into your skin before finally settling over your jugular, the only pre-warning of the oncoming bite being the scrape of fangs before they’re puncturing skin, flooding your veins with a venom that has your toes curling, fingernails digging into the muscle of his back and dragging thick red lines against shuddering flesh.

His pace never falters, hips still careening against yours as his lips suck around the two minute incisions, drinking down your blood with a thirst you’ve never witnessed. Whether it’s the subduing poison that flows through your bloodstream, or the shift of hips as his cockhead nudges the walls of your cunt in a way that has stars blooming behind your eyelids, you find yourself hurtling into another climax, whimpered cries and bloodied nails evidence of your earth-shattering orgasm.

His lips finally part from your skin with a slick sigh, lips painted the most beautiful shade of crimson that drips down his chin, a line that marks your possession, evidence he’s consumed by you, drunk on you. And it’s as you lean down, your tongue dragging against the bloodied stubble of his chin, lapping up what remains of your scarlet ichor, that he finally succumbs to the pleasure, his cock jolting within you as he releases seemingly endless spurts of cum against your cervix, buried as deep within your body as biology will allow.

Panted breaths intermingle as his forehead presses flush to yours, lidded eyes, now nearly entirely consumed by gold peers at you, an interesting mix of fascination and something that looks almost fond discernible in his gaze. You still have so many questions, intrigued and just a little bit obsessed with the man above you, yet it’s apparent that your feelings are far from unrequited, and one day, every question that burns at your tongue and begs for answers will be satiated. For now, you’ll bask in his looming presence and tender care, grateful to have found him in the first place, however unfortunate the initial meeting was.

Just as his lips ghost against yours, the distant sound of creaking has you both freezing in place.

“H-Hello? You still in here?”

“... Scheiße.”

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thevoiceofdesertbluffs · 2 months ago

Text

had a conversation w my good friend @rockosaur (who is not an hsr fan she just puts up w my yapping) and this came up. so naturally i had to make it. ::3

#hsr #honkai star rail #sunday hsr #robin hsr #goosey rambles #this goes against my headcanons a wee because sunday is transmasc 2 me but WHATEVER #it's funny to me specifically.... giggles #anyways. please enjoy this low effort meme. i am sorry for no art also </3 #and sorry to hsr/sundaypost again you must understand. i love him.

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skyloftian-nutcase · 3 months ago

Text

Malice's Stain (Imprisoning War)

I set out to write one thing, stumbled onto something I had written weeks ago, and was inspired, so have some post-war PLOT for y'all! >:D I feel like this can be read even if you have no idea what's going on, but whatevs, read as you please. <3

The smell of autumn was in the air.

Crickets chirped, a symphony of oncoming coolness and stillness, a song of farewell to the warm, moist summer nights filled with twinkling fireflies that replaced the stars. The sky sparkled, gracing the land with a preview of the splendors a cold winter night sky could provide. Flames burned quietly from torches, casting shadows taller than the castle’s turrets.

Link stared blankly out at the courtyard from the balcony.

He knew this feeling. Or lack of it, really. It took every ounce of energy to just breathe. Here he stood, permanently planted in this spot, not tolerating moving but not wanting to stay still. His mind was filled with cotton, half-thoughts trying to formulate sentences and failing to even convey anything beyond a dull ache, a shadow of what should have been an emotion.

This was becoming a problem, but he was far beyond the point of caring at the moment.

There were a million stressors on his mind, yet none truly seemed to stress him out. It was just another thing to be done, another item to obtain, another person to look out for. Day in and out, watch the children, watch the military’s progress in training new recruits, watch the Sheikah scientists continue to come up with new creations and make new breakthroughs.

Smile, say a few words, rinse, repeat. Go to bed, never fall asleep, get up, do it again.

He gave up even trying to go to bed tonight. He’d tolerated his son’s presence today. Tolerated it. What sort of father tolerates his children?

Link felt a twinge of something pull at his chest. His lips trembled. He leaned heavily on the balcony railing, sagging as if the weight of all the stars in the sky were bearing down on him.

There was a low rumble, a voice that practically growled as it chuckled. “So this is the fate of the Hero of Hyrule, then. You’re just as pathetic as I figured you to be.”

Link stiffened a moment at the voice, at the way his body physically reacted and wanted to scream and claw at the man. But no. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t be real. He’d sealed Ganondorf away years ago. Besides, last night Link had seen the Gerudo general he’d murdered when he was sixteen; he’d figured, after a week without sleep, he’d probably start seeing things. He’d gotten close to this level of exhaustion during the war, and he remembered he and Hemisi had nearly lost their minds.

It didn’t make it any more tolerable, though.

Link didn’t dignify the hallucination with a response.

“I’m grateful you didn’t marry my daughter,” Ganondorf continued, pacing the length of the balcony behind Link like a predator stalking its prey. “You would have ruined her.”

It stung, for a moment. Then Link almost laughed. “The only one who ruined her was you.”

“Imagine if I had won,” Ganondorf continued, either oblivious to his words or ignoring him. Could a hallucination ignore its creator? “Imagine the different state of things.”

“Hyrule would have burned,” Link snapped, glaring at him.

“Would it?” Ganondorf questioned. “Is it not burning slowly now, withering away as its nobles poison it from the inside out?”

“Zelda is working to fix that,” Link argued.

“Ah, yes. Zelda.” Ganondorf spat out the name like it was a curse. “How Nayru ever favored such a dim-witted child is beyond me.”

Link reached for a weapon before remembering he wasn’t armed. “You are the only fool I had the displeasure of knowing. Thinking you could control everything and in the end all you did was destroy it. Tell me, when you first came up with the plan to steal the Triforce, was murdering your entire family part of it or just a side quest for fun? You stood tall and proud like some king but you were nothing more than a clown, lapping at power like the pathetic boar that you were!”

“And yet here you stand,” Ganondorf hissed, motioning towards him. “The man with all the power in the world, and you are completely helpless.”

The fight drained out of Link, and he felt his face grow cold and pale. Rage filled him and exited just as quickly as he had no rebuttal.

Pathetic.

…He wasn’t wrong. Link was pathetic. He was weak and he knew it.

Years ago, he’d tried to end it in an act of desperation and fear, wanting to escape his imprisonment and avoid becoming a monster that he thought he was turning into.

Had he succeeded in avoiding such a fate? Was he not a monster?

He supposed he wasn’t. He was no Ganondorf. But… he was pathetic. Despite all his attempts to be otherwise, here he stood, arguing with thin air and unable to win.

“You were supposed to be the pride of the Sheikah,” he heard beside him, and he turned to see Lady Impa looking at him disappointedly. “Yet all you do is wallow in self-pity. Our duty is to the royal family, and you can’t even do that.”

“You’re no Hero,” Ganondorf sneered. “Heroes are powerful.”

“Heroes are selfless,” Impa added, walking up to stand beside the ghostly Gerudo man.

“How could anyone love such a wretch?” Ganondorf finally said.

“I don’t need your love or approval,” Link spat, though the fire had mostly drained out of him. It was less of a rebuke and more of a plea, a petition to himself to believe it.

He was over this conversation. He turned sharply, growing dizzy, staring down at the ground so, so far below.

Softer footsteps came next, lighter feet than the thundering steps of the monster he’d faced years ago but not as purposefully quiet as his chief. He caught sight of red hair in his periphery, and he saw Hemisi watching him, bubble ponytail over her shoulder, amber eyes reflecting the firelight.

Link bit back an exhausted sigh, squeezing his eyes shut. He should’ve known she’d inevitably appear in this insanity. He really should try to get some sleep. Would Zelda appear next? Or would his mind turn images of his own children against him?

Honestly, he probably deserved that more than anything.

“You look like shit,” Hemisi commented, an echo of her remark when they’d seen each other for the first time since Sonia’s baby shower. He recalled the incident fondly and forlornly, an event that probably should have never happened. But that had been years ago.

He wasn’t sure it was worth indulging this hallucination as well, and had very little energy to do so, but if he ignored it things would probably just get more out of control. “I haven’t slept in a week.”

“Why?”

Hell if he knew. He’d tried. He used to sleep too much. Now, suddenly, his body decided he just shouldn’t sleep at all. He’d had sleepless nights before, but never for such a long stretch. He felt like he was about to burst out of his own skin. He wasn’t entirely sure why any of this was happening.

“What’s wrong, Link?”

Her voice was so gentle. It made him want to scream.

But what was wrong? He had episodes where he felt down or unmotivated, but he hadn’t felt this insane since Sonia’s birth. His daughter was eight years old now!

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

Hemisi snorted. “I’d say so. You haven’t slept in a week.”

He supposed that was a silly remark to make, given the circumstances. But he really couldn’t fathom what was causing this.

Link smelled lavender all of a sudden, and he turned, noticing that Hemisi had vanished, and only saw a silhouette in the entrance to the balcony. The curls that haloed their head, as well as the mildly heavier build from childbearing gave away the person’s identity, her lavender soap carried in the chilly breeze.

“Zelda?” he asked hesitantly, wondering if this was somehow a more vivid hallucination or if the queen really was there.

The silhouette stepped out of the castle entirely and into the open air, and the torches cast their light on her. Zelda watched him, hands rising to hug her bare arms as she shivered a little.

She was responding to the environment. She had to be real.

“Link,” she said softly, green eyes roaming the area. “Who were you talking to?”

Great. The queen overhearing her husband steadily losing his sanity was the last thing he needed right now. He felt irritation sting, pulsing angrily behind his eyes with his ever-growing headache.

“Myself,” he answered truthfully. “Long night. Do you need something, Your Majesty?”

Zelda hesitated, noting, “Are you not cold? It’s getting chilly out here.”

Link glanced down at his attire. He was still wearing his summer clothes, the bright red tunic laced with golden embroidery overlayed by the dark forest green cloth that draped over his left shoulder and across his chest, cinched at the waist with a brown decorative belt made of leather and beads. There was no need to wear trousers in the summer for nobles in formalwear, something Link had never really enjoyed, but he’d adopted the dress as he was expected, wearing sandals with it. At least the tunic went to his knees. Nevertheless, Zelda was right – he was underdressed for the weather, but… he’d chosen to wear his summer attire as it had been warmer in the day and he’d wanted the nighttime cold to slap some semblance of clarity into his foggy mind.

The hallucinations did not seem to be indicating that it was working. The way he only just noticed he was shivering didn’t help, either.

Deflecting, he jutted his chin towards her briefly, his earrings jingling in the breeze with the movement. “And you?”

She was, after all, in her own warmer weather clothes, a sleeveless ocean blue knee-length simple dress overlapped with a milky white overdress that crossed over her chest, shoulder to opposite hip, before encircling her legs, more in the back than the front. She had a thicker belt with cloth bearing the symbol of the Triforce resting over the area the overdress left exposed. Her curly brown hair was pulled out of her face, though styled in its usual half-up/half-down manner, so at least her neck was likely somewhat warm. He could vaguely make out goosebumps over her light skin, despite her hands covering her upper arms and the bright blue skin paint that decorated her from upper arms to wrists.

“I’m freezing,” she admitted. “Come inside, Link.”

Did she actually need something? It was strange for her to seek him out this late. They certainly weren’t on as bad terms as they used to be at the start of their rocky marriage, but given her actions over Sonia’s training, Link had distanced himself and their son from her. He hadn’t wanted Orik dragged into her scheming like his sister had been. It had left their relationship… cool, to say the least.

Sighing, he complied. There was nothing left to do at this point, and he didn’t have the energy to argue further. His eye roamed the balcony, scanning for any more hallucinations, but his mind seemed to be having some mercy on him; the demon king, Link’s chief, and his former love were all gone.

His fingers stopped stinging from the cold as he followed the queen indoors, though the air was still fairly chilly. Zelda didn’t speak, instead wrapping an arm around him and guiding him along. He glanced at her, almost wanting to ask what this was about, but not caring enough to do so. With the minor alarm of haunting images of his past disappearing, he’d grown numb to the world once more.

Goddess, he just wanted to sleep.

The couple eventually wound up at the door leading to Zelda’s chambers. Link glanced at her again, wondering if she wanted what he thought she did. They hadn’t been physically intimate in years—early in their marriage it had been a push between the two, Zelda needing an heir and Link needing a release from everything, but as they had matured and had two children and steadily avoided each other, neither really wanted to instigate anything all that often.

So why did she want it now?

Zelda opened the door, guiding Link inside, and then sighed, releasing him and heading towards the roaring fire. Link looked around, feeling out of place, and honestly just wanted to leave. He watched the queen a moment longer, watched as she took off her belt and outer dress before grabbing a robe and bundling herself up.

“Come to bed,” she said. It wasn’t quite an order—he was very familiar with what those sounded like—but it still seemed firmer than a request.

Link sighed again. Debated the matter for a moment, growing annoyed at being stuck here, but quickly acquiesced, giving up on the matter. The bed was unbelievably soft and warm, yet simultaneously too hard and cold, his back hurting, hair on his body rising in anxiety, muscles aching, mind still unable to focus.

He… wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this awful. Had he felt this bad during the war, perhaps?

Maybe the night before Hemisi and I fought Ganondorf, he mused. But back then, he and Hemisi, despite how nervous they’d been, had also had each other. There had been a little comfort in that, in the promise of a future after everything, in the hope that the world wouldn’t end the next day as Ganondorf held Zelda and the capital hostage.

He was far over the bitterness of how everything had unraveled between him and the new chief of the Gerudo, but his heart still hurt thinking about the war, about a time when he knew what hope felt like. And he wanted to smack himself for it. His children brought him hope and joy.

Well. They had. Until whatever the hell this funk was had started poisoning him.

He had episodes like these, but they’d never been this awful. Nor this agonizing. He’d be exhausted, paralyzed, but it would last maybe a day or two, a brief spell before Lady Impa would track him down and help him, or his children would find a way to fetch him (he still was too scared to let them know where his room was, terrified of what he’d do if they startled him awake—his reactions weren’t as severe as they’d been, but he still worried).

Zelda slowly got in bed as well, watching him a moment. She no longer hid her expression, worry clear on her face, and it made Link feel like he was under scrutiny.

She was trying to be nice. That’s what this was. Perhaps she did need something, but not now. But he knew she could be kind as well, and that seemed to be her only motivation. He knew that. So why did he feel like a caged animal?

Link waited. Time passed. The fire died. Zelda fell asleep. He was still wide awake.

A whisper behind him made him turn sharply, though he tried to be quiet for his wife’s sake. He caught sight of a silhouette, and alarm made his eyes widen as he slinked out of bed, looking desperately for a weapon.

The person vanished.

Link wanted to scream. He couldn’t stay in here. If these hallucinations got worse, he could hurt Zelda. So he made his way back outside, hoping the cold would slap some sense into him.

He never made it to the balcony, though. Something else caught his eye. It sparkled in the night, like an ember from a torch, but it was darker.

The crispness of the early spring air froze over as if winter had come anew, and Link felt like the wind itself punched the air right out of his lungs. It was unnatural, like he was being squeezed, like something was crawling inside his skin and tearing him apart. His head pounded, and the world darkened, surrounded in purplish burgundy energy, like blood and poison mixing together in a sickening magic that could only be produced by someone who had let evil stain them to their very soul.

Ganondorf disappeared as he screamed, encased in the dark essence, and Link clutched Hemisi more firmly. She was still limp in his arms, having taken the brunt of the lightning attack he’d sent their way, able to redirect it before it could kill all three of them.

When the vicious tornado of malice dispersed from the center of the dark storm, a massive beast stood before them, and Link felt as if his heart stopped. It roared ferociously, and he rose to its threatening call, drawing his blade once more, surprised to see it glowing bright blue. Behind him, Zelda cast a spell of some sort, and Link could see the borders of the dark storm held in place by a golden light, the same barrier she’d used to protect herself in the castle.

The real fight had begun.

Link felt his blood freeze.

No. No.

It was a single spark, and he’d been hallucinating. Nothing was wrong. Ganondorf had been dead for years now, soul split viciously into four to prevent the demon he’d sold himself to, the demon he’d become, from ever returning. The cycle was broken. It was over.

Paranoia overrode reason in his mind. There was no way everything they’d done, everything he’d sacrificed, had been in vain.

Link moved quickly, foggy head gone, filled instead with frantic thoughts, one overlaying the other, choking him as he hyperventilated, barely able to make it to the stairs as his vision started to blur, as his fingers tingled and grew numb. He pulled a torch off the wall, nearly falling down the next flight, and tried to slow himself down, tried to tell himself this was just another hallucination.

“Is it, though, boy?”

Link whirled, seeing nothing, but that voice had been clear, as if he—

He shook his head. You just saw him on the balcony. It’s not real. You know that.

Yes, yes. Yes. It… it wasn’t real. None of this was real.

Yet there it was again. A dark spark, a piece of that awful, hellish storm that had eaten away at Ganondorf’s flesh, that had tried to consume all of them. The reveal of the true evil, the physical manifestation of how far the former Gerudo king had fallen, the…

The day Hemisi’s father had died. The day the man Link had viewed as a father had…

Link bit his tongue. Focus! You haven’t viewed him as a father since he captured you during the war!

It was beyond infuriating that such thoughts still lingered, but he blamed it on being sleep deprived. He had to think!

Link took a steadying breath, and he continued descending into the depths.

Hyrule Castle was a large and formidable fortress. It had been rebuilt and fortified after the damage from the war, after that final fight when Ganondorf had taken the capital. During the reconstruction, they’d created an inner sanctum in the lower levels, accessible only by the most trusted Sheikah and the royal family themselves.

Zelda had been trying for years to learn how to access the Sacred Realm so they could properly hide and protect the Triforce. Link knew little of her research, but he did know it existed. He was no sage, and his magic was practical, not fantastical. He had no way of knowing how to access such a world, and had left such sacred matters to her. In the meantime, though, it was heavily guarded in a vault near the Temple of Time, returned to its holy resting place from which it had been stolen years prior. But the inner sanctum…

Ganondorf’s soul had been split into four pieces. Three had disappeared into the sky, vanishing beyond anything they could find, no matter how many scouts they’d sent, no matter how the Sheikah had torn Hyrule apart to find it. Zelda had theorized they’d moved into a different realm entirely, as the Triforce could of course do such a thing. But one piece…

One piece had remained.

The Master Sword, a sacred blade constructed by the goddess, refined by her divine Hero, was specifically designed to seal away evil. And it held a piece of what Link had killed that day.

After what felt like an eternity, the king consort finally reached his destination. Two Sheikah flanked the entrance, noticing his approach, and knelt. He passed through the door without delay, walking through a room with false entrances to misguide anyone who might get this far.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

Link jumped, startled, turning to see Hemisi watching him.

Goddesses, not now, he grumbled, returning his attention to the doors.

“Link, you really do look awful,” Hemisi noted. “You need to sleep.”

“I know,” he snapped, still trying to focus on finding the right door. He knew which one it was, dammit, he just couldn’t think straight!

He heard a young man’s voice next, still somewhat tenor in youth, almost unfamiliar as it had been so long, but it made him freeze up.

“Stop trying to convince him, Hemisi, he’s too stubborn,” Merovar, Hemisi’s long dead brother, grumbled from Link’s other side. The hero turned, looking at the teenager, but despite how alive Merovar looked, all Link could see was the broken body on the battlefield, the bleeding stab wound, all he could hear was Hemisi screaming—

Link squeezed his eyes closed, putting his hands over his face, pushing on his temples, begging Hylia for help.

He heard a whisper, the same one from the queen’s bedroom, so, so distant but somehow so much more visceral than either hallucination. It was deep, rumbling, but too far away to be discernible. The Gerudo royal twins grew silent, disappearing from the room, and Link thanked the goddesses over and over as he finally found the door he needed, rushing to it and opening it.

The air froze, stealing Link’s breath away. His left arm lowered, torch nearly falling out of his numb grip.

The inner sanctum was a large, stone room, four corners posted with guardians affixed in place, large heads swiveling constantly to seek out threats. Their usually blue and amber lighting was flashing purplish red as they all focused on the center of the room, though there was no true target to fire at yet.

Yet.

Malice swam in the air, peeling off the Master Sword like smoke from a flame. The blade sat on an altar in the center, surrounded by a light blue barrier of Sheikah technology and magic, the eye of his people still glowing brightly to ensure the seal.

“Link.”

The torch dropped entirely, and Link scrambled back towards the door, terrified, breath coming out in rasps. No, no, NO!

The fear at hearing Ganondorf’s whisper faded though, morphing into rage. That monster would not return, would never return, and he would die before he let him hurt his children, his queen, or his kingdom!

The seal was still holding, but he wasn’t sure if it would continue to do so. He had to find a way to figure out why the sword wasn’t enough, why that piece of Ganondorf’s soul was seeping out like blood from a wound. Had the sword weakened?

He needed Ze—

“Link!”

Gasping, Link turned sharply, finally losing his balance entirely in his exhausted state. Zelda leapt forward to try and catch him, hands scrabbling for his tunic to help ease him to the ground. He reached for her desperately, gripping her shoulders, breathless, speechless—

He refused to be helpless. He refused.

“The seal,” he rasped. “We have to repair the seal!”

Zelda’s expression grew frantic as she looked up, examining every inch of the room. Link couldn’t fathom why she didn’t just look at the sword itself, but—

The world spun and then grew unnervingly, disturbingly still. Link held his breath until his vision grew hazy around the edges. The queen’s green eyes examined everything at least five times before she slowly looked back at her husband. When Link saw the concern, the anxiety, but a lack of overwhelming dread, he slowly glanced around the room as well.

The sword was dormant. The guardians were swiveling their heads as usual, a reassuring scrape of metal, blue eyes passive.

Had… had it all been…?

“I’d been having strange dreams,” Zelda said quietly, kneeling down to be at eye level with him. “A strange, impending dread. I thought… perhaps one of the nobles were going to try something. But… Link, I think my dreams are about you.”

Link swallowed, but he could only scrape the back of his throat, dry as it was. “M-me…? You… you think I’m the threat?”

The queen slowly moved her hands from his tunic to his face. “No, Link. No. I… I think you need to rest.”

You’re becoming a threat.

But he… he could’ve sworn—!

What if you’d broken the seal in your panic?

Oh, goddess. Oh, goddess.

He heard footsteps behind the queen, and Impa came into view. The look on her face mirrored the nervous energy she’d had as she’d taken care of him all those years ago, when he’d tried to take his life.

“I—I swear, I—” Link tried to argue, but found his voice failing him, and suddenly, just like that, he was helpless again.

Weak. Pathetic. The words spat in his mind through Ganondorf’s own voice, and he whirled to look at the sword once more.

Nothing.

“Link,” Impa called gently, hand warm on his tense, shivering back. “Come on. We’ll get you something to drink to help you sleep.”

Was he… really…?

Link shivered, curling in on himself, feeling more humiliated and useless than he had in a very long time. The two women flanked him, gently holding him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out brokenly.

“It’s okay,” Impa assured gently, oh so gently, that same soft tone she’d used so many years ago.

“We’re going to help you,” Zelda affirmed, her own tone softer than he was used to.

Slowly, Link let them help him stand. He took one last look at the room, at how peaceful it was, and felt like he was going to be sick.

Why did something still feel wrong? Was it just him?

The three made their way back up the countless stairs. The queen let out a small sigh – despite the worry she had for her husband, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat reassured that there wasn’t something else going on. She’d never had visions that pertained to Link, though, and it was frankly a little terrifying that he’d gotten this bad. The chief of the Sheikah watched her boy worriedly, wondering if he’d been on the brink of something far worse, remembering how bad he’d gotten when he was eighteen, terrified that he could’ve almost broken the seal himself without even realizing it. The king consort felt miserable and petrified in his own right, wondering if he should even be allowed anywhere, ignoring how his cheek stung over his old scar he’d gotten from Ganondorf.

But it didn’t matter what the three thought. Plans were in motion. A former ruler sat in the dungeons, awaiting his triumphant return. And farther in the depths than the former King of Hyrule, the inner sanctum remained spotless.

Except for one little spark.

#writing #imprisoning war #hero of power #imprisoning war zelda #EEEE this makes me happy #I hope y'all like it :D #I got super excited #Link gets some comfort!? ISH??#they're all freaked out #because they can all sense something's off but their Danger senses aren't quite aligning right #Ganondorf IS trying to poke at the barriers but he has no idea if it's working or not #Demise's Malice on the other hand is definitely trying to find a new host to cause chaos but it's so weakened no one can quite tell #ANYWAY #I had fun with this :D #I already said that #whatever #please enjoy #this was not proofread. As usual.#There will probably be a part 2

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cyanocophrenic · 8 months ago

Text

Obsession

I'm not a complicated woman, I swear.

I'm so boring.

I'm quiet. I live alone. I drink decaf. I file my taxes in January. I majored in art history.

I crochet, goddammit! I crochet cardigans, the most boring kind of sweater! And then I wear them! Like Mister Rogers, aka the plainest person to ever exist.

No one could possibly suspect how deeply weird I am.

I've been perfect. I've never left a browser history. I've never worn blue and red together. I've kept myself as trim as my mom's genes let me. No one's ever caught me watching the movie.

You know... the movie?

You know the movie.

Well, I mean, I guess it's "movies" now, but... I know which one left a violet stain on my soul.

You can't blame me.

Well... you certainly can't, anyway.

If you were me, maxed out on good karma, toeing every line you've ever met, perfectly alone in all the universe... what would you have done differently? What other choice was there?

Never mind how I got the chance. As soon as I found out about it, there was nothing else I could do. Everything I thought I knew about myself fell away. All the safe choices and good behavior just gone, poof, like they never existed. This is my fate, it was made for me.

I was always going to be the one chewing this stick of gum.

In the end, it was like they wanted me to find it.

Dodging through an unlocked door, stealing through low-lit corridors, drawn to it like the heartbeat of the universe.

It's so silly. I know it is. Some stray neutrino passed through my brain as a child, and I watched the wrong movie, and I twisted into whatever it is that I am. All I've wanted is to become something else, and that something is big, and round, and draped in the shreds of the last clothes she'll ever wear.

That last part is really important for reasons I just can't explain. All that matters is that I literally get too big for my britches. I just need to hear that little "pop". That's it.

I can never seem to imagine past that. Regardless, I'm putting the gum to my lips, completely, defiantly unaware of how this will end. It's on my tongue, and the flavor is unreal. I guess they didn't bother with the roast beef or anything. It's just violently fruity. Juicy, and warm, and way too sweet.

A door creaks open. I was so sure I wouldn't be found, but joke's on them. It's too late.

It's a mousy woman woman with huge glasses, wearing a lab coat. She peeks around the door before she enters, like she doesn't want to offend me.

"Oh-" she says.

"Um," I say around a mouthful of juice. "I-"

And then I think, hey, wait, I've made my choice. It doesn't matter how this ends! What's she going to do, save me? I'm in control here! Kind of!

"... um." I say again. Actually, it's hard to talk. I'm swallowing a lot of juice.

She steps all the way into the room.

"Uh, hi," she says, fiddling with her glasses. She looks at me, and then down at her clipboard, and then back to me. "Are you-"

"I'm not spitting it out," I say, before gulping down another burst of juice. I'm starting to feel kinda bloated.

"No, I mean. Um," she says, "sorry, I'm new here, um."

I'm tired of my mouth working so hard, so I make a show of swallowing the gum.

"Oh!" she says, "that was fast," and she makes some sort of mark on her clipboard.

What.

"Um, could you follow me this way, please?" she asks, gesturing toward another door I hadn't noticed. One of those big ones like they have on loading docks that roll upward.

"What?" I ask, reflexively.

She walks over and pushes a big red button on the wall. The door starts lifting.

"Oh, sorry, we can wait if you want," she says, "you'll fit, don't worry."

I start to have a thought, but then my stomach gurgles and I feel like I'm on an elevator going down. I clutch my sides and double over, but... it's getting hard to bend.

"Don't worry," she says again, "it just feels weird, but you'll be okay."

The thought comes back. Someone was expecting this. They're prepared for this.

I look back at the pedestal the gum was resting on. It's already been replaced with another piece.

The worst feeling in the world is thinking you're making a defiant last stand, only to find out that the hill you chose to die on was ready-made for your dramatic exit, and that you'll be asked to leave through the gift shop and pay way too much for the photos they take of you. You know, figuratively.

I have to do something they won't see coming.

I turn around and lunge for the new piece of gum. Or, at least, I try to lunge, but my thighs are filling up and it's getting difficult to move dramatically. Still, I grab it and cram it in my mouth. Might as well be a brat.

"Oh!" she chirps again, and makes another mark on her clipboard. "Wow! So-"

God, I'm feeling so full. I can feel every inch of my clothes pulling taut against my skin. I gave in to temptation and wore a blue top, blue jeans, and a red belt. I couldn't help myself. Now, that belt is starting to dig in, trying to squeeze me in half.

I swallow the new gum, too, and look down at myself. I'm getting pretty big, bulging out around the belt. My shirt is riding up, exposing my swelling blue belly to the cool air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her make another mark.

I try to touch my growing midsection, but it's getting hard to move my arms. They're filling up too. I feel warm all over now.

"You're blowing up so fast!" she says.

She opens her mouth to say something else, and that's when my belt snaps apart. My equator surges outward, jiggling and sloshing from the violent release.

It feels so, so strange, becoming something completely alien to what you use to be.

That said, it also feels amazing. Swelling bigger and bigger with gushing blueberry juice, bursting out of- wait.

I'm still growing, but besides the belt, everything's still on.

I try to look down again, but all I can see is the blue horizon of my belly. I flap my hands in frustration.

The lady speaks up again. "Since you're likely unable to move by yourself now, may I have your permission to roll you?"

"Um," I say, trying to think. I'm freaking out a little right now. "Uh."

I need this. It's all I've ever really needed. I just need need need to blow up and burst out of my clothes, that's it, and who cares what happens to the blueberry that used to be me.

All I need is to burst one little button and I'm done. I'll have won. Good day, miss.

The problems is, I'm perfectly round now, and my jeans are so, so tight but haven't so much as snapped a stray thread.

"Miss?" she says, "may I roll you away?"

I try to think of something to say, just to stall for a little more time. I'm so close, so so close.

Instead, I break down.

"Please," I beg her, "I'm going to lose my mind if I can't pop this button."

"Hey-" she starts, but I'm in a full-on panic right now.

"I have to, I have to, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to be a blueberry, and like what if you roll me away and I never get juiced and I'm just stuck like this forever which would be hot but still or like what if this is as big as I can get and it's just impossible like what the fuck who even makes clothes that fit spherical women I knew I should have worn the red ones-"

"-but-"

"And I know what you're thinking! She broke the rules, it doesn't matter what she wants, she's just a blueberry now, blueberries don't want things, they're not even people! She had her chance and she blew it except she couldn't even blow it-"

"Miss! Please," she snaps, and she walks over, reaches up, and pinches my lips closed.

We lock eyes, because where else can I look, and for a moment, I just cry silent blue tears down my puffy cheeks, pouting all the while.

Then she smiles, and says, "I'm a trained professional, Miss. I can help you with that." She lets go, brushes her frizzy hair out of her eyes, and disappears behind me.

I feel her warm little hands on either side of me, like she's trying to give me a weird hug. Then I feel her squeeze into me. It feels startling, she must be way stronger than she looks. The pressure builds more and more, and I can hear her making an adorable little straining noise.

Then, there's a pop, and immediately a sense of relief. I hear a little zipping noise as the fly on my jeans explodes open. I gasp at the sensation.

Finally.

I give a little shudder, releasing the tension I hadn't realized was building the whole time. How Freudian of me, I guess. The oral stage ain't got nothing on this.

"Now then," she says, appearing in front of me again, smiling wider, making yet another mark. "May I please roll you away, Miss?"

#blueberry inflation #my words #blueberry expansion #copping to some deep autism here but don't mind me #maybe if i write enough i'll understand myself lol doubt it though #anyway good riddance and hope y'all enjoy #also please ignore any typos or plot holes or whatever #just had to get this one out #body inflation #body expansion #i guess this is as close as i want to get to a factory tour story

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