fancity of fanworks, baby

casey. 26. they/them. / i post sporadically / smut page tbh. / 21+ ONLY PLEASE

[fansinciti]

Summary: Grun'tak is an Orc of outstanding achievement. In war. In peace. In depravity. In battle. He has claimed many prizes, but never before has a Drow male fallen into his clutches. Gruumsh has blessed (or cursed) him with this newest trophy.

Warnings: Content linked contains written, dark romantasy themes that include: M/M relationship, degradation, non-con/dub-con, half-assed aftercare, verbal threats, unnecessary plot for smut, bad BDSM, choking, spanking, gaslighting, and more. The usual toxic mess of tropes for dark fiction, really.

banner credit: toxisyddy

I am posting the AO3 links here because the chapters look kinda funny when formatting on my end on Tumblr. For those who read such taboo:

Chapter 8: here.

Zog did well to remain hidden from the trio. Though Guh had a head over his own in height, Zog himself carried a brutish build comparable to their mighty Chieftain. Still, two-to-one odds weren’t favorable, and so with great reluctance, he relented to stalk from afar. His savage leathers held no metal ringlets, steel plates, or the like. He made no jingle when he walked, and considering the fluster of the pretty Elf, his peers were too busy with their tasked transport than his own wandering. Not that he cared.

He was just looking.

Just a look. Maybe a brush, hardly even a touch even. 

He’d not felt the Drow himself, only the soft scales of tailored armor, but couldn’t tear himself from the creature’s ethereal presence. He had expected little when the Great Elder-Blooded announced his slave would accompany them. He was a private toy, Warlord Grun’tak had clarified, but that their raids would reward them with prizes of their own quite soon. They hadn’t thought much of the Great General’s plaything, despite the fact that it’d never stepped foot outside his private wing. The Champion of Gruumsh kept engaged with their worship, with their power, with the raw assembly of why he was Grun’tak, the Chosen of their Mighty One. Whatever pleasure-slave he kept that week was useless chatter. 

                               Until he saw the creature. 

The first glance had him doubling back. It’d been a passing patrol. He’d just stepped by the armory when he witnessed the little Elf being escorted by Lord Grun’tak himself. He was dressed in pearlescent silks. They dipped past the supple curve of his rear and the draped sleeves had been tucked into the crook of his arms, exposing even more of the endless obsidian of flesh. Few accessories adorned him, not that he needed such embellishments. The spectacle of snow-white hair was breathtaking enough. Spun like spider silk, it was carefully crafted into a braided up-do. A single crystal ornament kept it pinned in place, its silver a glittering counter to the sharp cant of his gaze. His lithe form had a cut of muscle to it, but unlike his orcish kin, he was small. He barely came up to the Great Lord’s chest. Not to mention, the Fae-fallen walked with such a wispy grace that it made him wonder how he didn’t just topple over. 

He was shocked to see that their Champion had supplied armor and steel for him, even more so when he saw that the Dark Elf could withstand the weight of such things. Regardless, he thought it an incredible feat that the Lord’s slave—Khah’alva, he thought he heard him called—would be able to look so pretty even when fed like a pup or enduring the burnt scales of Lolth. Zog watched on, a flinch of fury seizing him when he saw the Drow finally turn to Guh and speak. 

“I can walk.” 

The Orcish was alien and thick when it fell from his melodic tongue. He wondered idly what took the man so long to snap at the clumsy drag; at least, until he saw the Elf glance back, ensuring he didn’t hear among the rancor.

The Elder-Blooded.

Did Grun’tak not know that his pet was learning their language? Seemed an odd thing to miss, but it wasn’t Zog’s place to say. Despite this, there was a pulse of vindictive pleasure that he, and the two others he supposed, were privy to something the Lord wasn’t. It made him feel special, that perhaps he could be special to the wondrous marvel before them—

At once, the thought was shook off. Dismissed. Khah’alva was the Great Champion‘s. He’d do well to remember it. So long as he kept his interest to just that, the Unyielding-One wouldn’t punish him as he’d done Horc’n. The vile traitor had been ripped apart before their very eyes, Grun’tak opting for no weapon other than his sheer rage and brute strength. At the time, it’d been an inspirational act. Each spurt of blood, every crunch of wailing bone, even the tear of sinew and tendons had left Zog invigorated, ravenous. THAT was his mighty Lord, the very essence of Gruumsh he served, the very shadow he wished to replicate. He had sworn then he’d give his all for the General. To never defy. To never fail. To never falter.

Yet, as the delicate Elf was tossed inside, and he felt a twitch of displeasure at it, he saw him. Guh and Tong hadn’t noticed, but as the slender shadow brushed off his person, Khah’alva unmistakably met his eyes then. The silver pools glittered like diamonds among the dark, and when he leveled a glance to Zog, he felt himself freeze.

Pretty. So pretty.

Like a fairy, he held himself with abundant grace, the shade of his body so deliciously spun in an unseen dance.

Zog held the stare longer than he should. He knew it, but nothing irked him more than when the spindly Elf finally fixed him with a faint smile. Lovely lips quirked ever so slightly, that were it not for the near predatory glint of pearly teeth, he might not have seen it from a distance. He should leave. He knew it, yet the way he smiled, 

“Zog? Master General sent you?” 

The young Orc reeled, suddenly face to face with Tong’s curious expression.

“No,” Zog grumbled, finally tearing his eyes from where the Elf had disappeared into the tent, “Zog just….making sure bad Elf didn’t hurt Guh. To run.” 

Guh snorted, but Tong was none the wiser. He merely nodded along, snickering, “Little Elf too weak. Like weepy feather-babe. Easily crushed. Zog can go.” 

“Yeah….Zog…….Zog can go,” he agreed quickly, turning fast on his heel. His pace was measured at first. Had to be. He couldn’t let them know how a simple word from Grun’tak’s plaything could rattle his nerves so easily. Besides, he had no reason to be present then, not when a cask had been split and drinks to be shared. 

“Zog.”

There he stood. 

Endor Grun’tak overshadowed him with the promised rewards to his peers then. It would’ve once filled him with pride for their clan’s Champion to know him by name; now, it stirred a churning well of unease, of terror even. His voice hadn’t boomed in announcement either. He cocked his head down at the youth, a hum of thought rumbling in his throat. Pale eyes bore into his own with obvious scrutiny. He wondered if their Great Leader knew of his fear—perhaps even smelled it, judging by the flare of his nostrils and narrowing glare. 

“Seen something?” He growled, arching a brow. ‘I saw him’, Zog thought, ‘I heard him too, sir, and I want him too.’ He wouldn’t dare utter the thought aloud. Malice had already darkened Grun’tak’s features. His admittance would lead only to his demise. Surely. Yet, he’d committed no crime. Not yet—

Never. No. Never. He would never. 

“M—Endor Grun’tak, no, sir.” 

The Elder-Blooded chuffed, but with pressing matters on his mind, he hissed, “Then leave. Now.” 

He didn’t need to hear the warning twice. 

Not even daring a glance back, Zog broke into a scrambling sprint, the gait a far cry from his reluctant stroll before. He didn’t need to look back anyways. Grun’tak’s seething pierced him still, the chill of his ire inspiring fresh sweat to his brow. 

“Dismissed. Quick. Go get your grog,” Grun’tak grumbled, adding after a pause, “Nevermind the noise. Re-education begins now.” 

Guh and Tong nodded hastily, and after seizing the offered bowls of stew, departed without further query. They needn’t dawdle. Considering the other’s dark look, he wasn’t in the mood for teasing either. 

Without further ado, he ripped back the canvas to find the culprit of his frustration. Having propped a chipped mirror against the footlocker, Khah’alva had taken to the painstaking task of preening. Rather, that’s what the Warlord called it. It was the hour of activities before they rested. Braiding and brushing his hair, washing his face, oiling himself—how he found time or space to try such rituals while traveling would’ve amused him, were he not ready to test the constitution of his pretty pet. He noticed he’d already removed his scalemail. Whether it was in anticipation for Grun’tak or to spare the armor of his impatience, he couldn’t say. 

He knew the lack of greetings was intentional, though. 

The moment he stepped over the threshold, despite his back being turned, the Fae-fallen refused to meet his gaze. Delicate hands continued the idle pick of snowy locks, not a word uttered. Tension riddled his slender shoulders, and though his spitting kitten act was meant to be tough, Grun’tak saw the catch of his breath, the nervous fidget of his fingertips. 

And yet, he still refused to acknowledge him.

Hours had passed by with only the occasional brush of contact. A light groping even. He craved the warmth of the other’s skin, the hot stutter of his breath on his bare chest, and the evanescent visual of him, messy and gasping and naked, stuffed full of his cock. He also wanted the sharp tang of his blood on his tongue, welts of charcoal purpled by bruising force, the sting of his nails raking clean marks along broad muscle. He wanted to ravage him. Destroy him. Break him. Khah’alva had already irked him before, but the stone silence that stretched between them was only adding to his well of savagery. Travel already forced his plaything to cover himself. A modest tunic and fitted trousers clung to his form. Ash fabric accented every curve, the taper of his waist, even the coltish grace of long legs. He’d only been permitted such modesty as to alleviate the chafe of his armor, of course. Otherwise, he’d have his captive stripped bare for his viewing pleasure all hours of the day. 

He opted to stare down at the man for only a second longer, but maddening aversion finally made something snap. Grun’tak lunged forward, reaching to scruff the other as his underling had done only an hour prior. Zhah’alva hissed at the scuffle of boots, silver eyes catching the movement in the compact mirror. 

He reacted then. 

It came without a single thought, just a primal response to the nauseating fear that choked him. A dip of the shoulder, the Drow narrowly avoided the initial grasp, slender fingers instead seizing the Olog’s wrist. The action seemed to startle him as much as it stalled Grun’tak. He was far from pinned. It’d take only the slightest pull and the Orc could’ve easily broken his grip and the offending hand itself. Instead, his gaze trailed coolly up the other’s slim arm, the piercing stare slow as it devoured the audacity. Another time, he might’ve admired the cute hold, maybe even kissed the hand or licked the digits just to make his little ‘Alva seethe in disgust. However, when his gaze met the endless pools of mercury irises, he felt what remnants of self-control he had dissolve. Dark pupils dilated with terror, the mesmerizing gleam of silver nearly lost in the flood of his fear. Full lips had parted, yet no honeyed words fell. Each plane of muscle went visibly rigid at the gesture, and as his glare carved out his assault, he felt the faintest tremor shudder through the dark Elf. 

“That, sweetling?” Grun’tak nodded to the hand that feebly restrained him. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”

[fansinciti]

Summary: Grun'tak is an Orc of outstanding achievement. In war. In peace. In depravity. In battle. He has claimed many prizes, but never before has a Drow male fallen into his clutches. Gruumsh has blessed (or cursed) him with this newest trophy.

Warnings: Content linked contains written, dark romantasy themes that include: M/M relationship, degradation, non-con/dub-con, spanking, choking, bad BDSM, half-assed aftercare, verbal threats, unnecessary plot for smut, gaslighting, and more. The usual toxic mess of tropes for dark fiction, really.

banner credit: toxisyddy

I am posting the AO3 links here because the chapters look kinda funny when formatting on my end on Tumblr. For those who read such taboo:

Chapter seven: here.

Preparation came and went faster than Grun’tak would have cared for. While his pet carried himself with infuriating apathy, there was a new energy to him. Perhaps the drudgery of his imprisonment had a greater effect than he’d thought. In truth, he’d never questioned if the cute Elf suffered in his apparent solitude. After all, he’d been lavished in comparative luxury; this decadence was even more drastic considering all of his previous interests were long rotten in an unmarked pit somewhere. However, as the hours waned to their departure, Khah’alva moved about with an enthusiastic pensiveness. His terse tone and equally dispassionate pace wilted under the intensity of this upcoming raid. The studious intent he’d occupied his spare hours with was becoming abundantly apparent in how he held himself among his exposure to the rest of their traveling party. 

The vast majority of his ruling had been upheaved and brutally reorganized. Much of Horc’n’s people had to be pruned from the corrupt tree of their military. Few would admit their allegiance so openly, and while their quiet betrayal initially shielded them from Grun’tak’s rage, they were all ripped from their shrouds. Eventually. That being said, many of the new recruits and leadership had never seen the toy their War-Chief hid away. It hadn’t been intentional, such secrecy, but it had stirred a curious commotion when he was finally escorted through the main structure. 

Khah’alva was a work of art. Slender muscles were made soft and supple by perfumed lotions. The delicate blend of jasmine and dirthwood was heavenly, and even then, invoked arousal when he huffed the fragrance off him. Prohibited from trimming his hair, Khah’alva labored intensely over braiding it, each tendril interlocked and pinned up by a quartz charm he’d gifted the Elf nearly three months prior. Its crystalline facets gleamed under the torchlight almost as bewitchingly as the silver of his eyes did. The fact it was finally on display on his darling Drow inspired equal smugness and guarded jealousy. He’d once taken pride in the way others leered towards his plaything, but now, lingering stares made his fingers twitch towards his axe and his mood agitated. He made no comment on the feeling, and considering how lovely the other was, he thought it only fair to allow them a look. Khah’alva appeared wholly disinterested in their lecherous gazes anyways, which oddly assuaged the well of bitterness that afflicted him. 

Forbidden fruit was the sweetest, and their limits would be tested when they shared quarters with the rest anyways. It was better to curb any outright encroachment to what was his now before they hit the roads. 

Thankfully, none seemed as enthralled as him, and so, no one reached for the Elf no matter what crowds they walked through. His old scalemail still fitted him well, with his lean build dressed in its garish black. All the ornaments of it had long since been seized and discarded. Lolth’s pride could poison the lands outside their stone walls, but within them, Her ruling was strictly shunned. A sigil of Gruumsh had been savagely burned into the polished silver. The brand was denoted by a smear of ivory paint as to mark his sweetling not as a worshipper of their One-Eyed God, but rather, property of one of his most exalted. 

Grun’tak was certainly a specimen that reflected His Might, between his lumbering stature and bloodthirsty savagery. The trophies he collected were rarely living, but since he had his prize prancing by his side now, took to displaying other victories of his conquest on him too. The hair pendant had been ripped from a butchered priestess of Selûne. Khah’alva’s swords had been pillaged and lost within days of his capture, and considering they’d be traveling through treacherous roads, had to be replaced. Though never spoken, he thought the tiny thing would prefer a blade of thieves’ quality—that was to say, he gifted the blades of a slaughtered Elvish clan’s leader to him the first time they’d visited the armory. A small part of him wondered if his dear spiderling would be miffed by the surface-elves’ work. He was vaguely aware the lot had an ongoing rivalry, but to his delight, Khah’alva actually smiled at the acquisition. It was slight, barely a twitching raise to his pretty lips, but it made his chest tighten unpleasantly. 

All these preparations were carefully locked away when they retired for the day. While he knew his prey wasn’t so foolish as to take a rapier to him during their sleep, he didn’t wish for the temptation to even be present. Then again, maybe he just wanted to pretend the Dark Elf held no such desires to begin with. Either way, their time together became less centric to their couplings and more to everything else. Walks, preliminary training, and temperamental warnings to the impassive Elf to what would happen if he even thought about running off began to fill their schedule considerably. This made sex more sporadic, but far from dispassionate. Whether it was the increased activity or even just the exploration of his home, Grun’tak found that whenever he embraced Khah’alva, his objections were easily silenced. His reluctance was so obviously shallow, and whatever qualms he had before, were quickly dismissed when his hand found the other’s cock and he nipped gently at those sharp ears of his.

The morning of their departure, the eagerness to bury himself to the hilt in the tranced Elf beside him had fallen to the background of his thoughts. Instead, apprehension stirred him an hour before their intended wake-up. It was annoying, this feeling. Fear had been a foreign concept to him. There hadn’t been anything in his life that he’d cared enough about if lost. Yet, as he perched himself up on his forearm, he eyed the gentled form spooning him with increasing worry. Rest softened his angular features, and sans the gifting of his swords, was the only time the Drow wasn’t frowning. Lips were relaxed, parted ever so slightly with every deep breath drawn. His hair was an entanglement too, and regrettably, he wondered if it would have to be cut short during their journey. Lashes twitched at sights unseen. Grun’tak wondered if he had dreams during his ‘meditations’. He’d never asked for details about them. It never occurred to him to. 

…..a notion that frustrated him right then.

For now, he wouldn’t rouse the Drow, momentarily content to drink in his serenity. The minutes that ticked by played tricks on his mind. Only on this day did it feel that time was racing past, but also crawling through the thicket. By the time Khah'alva opened his eyes, Grun’tak had carefully crept from the bed and was beginning to dress for the day. “.......Grun’tak?” 

The lazy drawl of his half-conscious voice melted his pensive scowl at once. This was a rare occasion, to wake up to the Orc not molesting him but several steps too. There was some mercy to the fact his back was turned when the Drow addressed him, though. The turbulent swell of emotion at the simple word only furthered his sour mood, and had the other seen such a feeling, Grun’tak was certain he would have snapped.

“Get dressed. We’ll move out shortly.” 

The Warlord had already unlocked and opened Khah’alva’s foot locker, its contents ready to be donned in a moment’s notice. Quietly, the Elf readied himself as instructed. While not a word was spoken, his excitement was simmering just below the surface. The fluidity of his movements, the haste in his hairstyling, and all the domestic quirks he’d taken up while imprisoned were done quickly, efficiently. The Orc had busied himself with dousing the fire, but between smothering the embers, would glance at the dancing gait of his bustling cleric. The haste he possessed was possibly the first time he realized how versatile his training under Lolth’s clergy could be. That, or there was a clear difference between when the Elf was properly motivated versus intimidated. Either way, Khah’alva had readied himself in record time, and surly as ever, they’d depart without a further word exchanged. 

The first obstacle was the matter of steed. Due to the robust stature of the Orcs, it didn’t occur to Khah’alva how they’d have to seek alternative arrangements. Spiders held a hostility that made their accessibility limited almost entirely to Lolth’s Chosen. Lizards were a rarer mount too; he’d been privy to the utility of them, but found their training often had to incorporate subjugation by arcane means. They were wily creatures, and unless charmed, often threw their riders once they scaled a lethal height. They were a poor choice for the Ologs, who relied primarily on their strength rather than the few magically-inclined. So, it’s with shooting brows and wide eyes that the Drow gawked at the towering, avian-like monstrosity ahead. At the Elf’s abject horror, Grun’tak couldn’t help but laugh. His mirth boomed from him, and upon its brilliant roar, was echoed by the near two-dozen others that trailed behind them. He beamed, all sharp teeth and tusks. “You’ve never seen one? ‘s a Giant Strider, sweetheart.” 

For some reason, there was some solace drawn from the way the little Elf slightly shrank back from the monster’s beady gaze, his back bumping against the Orc’s bulk. The amused condescension that oozed over his words wasn’t lost to the Drow, who shot him a scathing side-glance at the tone. He wasn’t sure which inspired such a withering glare, whether it was the newest addition to his endearments or the fowl itself. Regardless, he wasn’t in the mood for an argument, let alone would he tolerate insolence in front of his own kin. Without warning, he brought his knee up to the back of the other’s with pointed force, and in the same breath of the Elf’s startled collapse, scooped him up. One hand coincidentally found an aching grope to Khah’alva’s rear, but the other remained steadfast against the squirming back of the cleric. A curse had spilled from his pretty pet at the carry, but it was lost in translation. Khah’alva had labored over his research into the Ologs, but inversely, Grun’tak had done nothing to understand the Dark Elf’s origins. What little he’d learned over their time together had been drawn due to it directly impacting him. Khah’alva’s shorter resting periods, his penchant for dexterity, and his rather opportunistic omnivorous tastes were aspects considered only when he had to. 

Like tooth-combs and similar hair accessories were the only ones he could leave to his plaything. Anything that even remotely resembled a lockpick had to be discarded. While the main door was sealed by an arcane lock, there were private documents and trinkets he’d secured so that no prying eyes would see. That much included his spiderling, which he’d delighted in punishing hours after he’d been caught rummaging through such sensitive items. The memory stirred phantom ecstasy, but with duties ahead of him, he supposed he’d have to shelve such desires for later. Khah’alva continued to squirm as they approached the Giant Strider, its clever eyes remarkably unbothered by the Drow’s unease. 

To the cleric’s credit, he did his best to appear unphased, but Grun’tak knew every facet of his handsomely delicate features. He’d studied them in the other’s trance, in his ecstasy, in his anger, and even in his neutrality. It was cruel, yet he couldn’t help himself when he promptly tossed the other up onto the creature, guffawing at the startled shriek that escaped Khah’alva at the act. It was disconcerting how easily he could arrange the Drow. The fact that additional supplies didn’t have an impact on him only added to the horror. The startling revelation was reflected on his face, or so he assumed, for Grun’tak couldn’t help but whisper to him as he pressed close behind. 

“My sweet spider, you think a few bobbles would burden me? I’ll have to remind you of my strength this evening, since you’ve forgotten me so soon…” 

Khah’alva couldn’t discern if the other’s grin was lecherous or threatening, but either way, found an ache budding in his temple. This would be a long trip, indeed. 

____________________________________

The ride was far from smooth, and while Khah’alva despised much of his homeland’s quirks, he wished for a giant spider’s grace over the lurching leaps they currently endured. He’d staved off his nausea by the blessings of his Lord, a surprising mercy, but still despised the rolling pace that the creature fell into. Grun’tak, on the other hand, adored the speedy and jaunting gait of the Giant Striders. Every leap had them shifting in the seat, his hands steepled over Khah’s that clung to the pommel of the saddle. The continuous grind of his ass to the Orc’s front wasn’t without effect either. Every brush of padded muscle posed a delightful friction along his cock. The thrill of it was teasing, coming on as soon as it shifted away. His erection was regrettably restrained behind his own layers, but its presence was made acutely aware to the Drow with every chase of Grun’tak’s own hips. His breathing hitched, the Olog stooped, dropping his head just over the other’s shoulder.  

Khah’alva afforded him only a flat look, but with neither the space to retreat or will to bicker, he settled on watching the reeling sights around them. 

Stonework melded into sprawling caverns with every heaving step. Once they‘d settled into a rhythm, the commute wasn’t so miserable. There were points that were even nostalgic. After all, Khah’alva had barely stepped out of the noble sect of the orc‘s, let alone the city itself. The glimmer of the Crystal Caverns, the jutting dangers of the rocky halls, and the luminous flora that patched cool grounds eased a part of him he hadn’t realized was grieving. There was some peace in knowing the world outside simply persisted.

Even when he was caged from it. 

His somber facade remained, but the Olog said nothing. He was pretty when he glowered, and considering he’d succumbed to his embrace by then, Grun’tak couldn’t have been more pleased. 

Hours would pass with tepid peace hovering over the party. The warrior knew his companion didn’t sleep, but despite this, had to check several times to see if his docileness was due to a so-called ‘trance’ or two. 

It wasn’t. 

Each time he leaned forward, he’d catch the other’s curious, albeit shrewd, glance. Alert, Khah’alva would lift a brow in silent query, but not remark on his antsiness. He’d done well to dismiss the absentminded caresses. Soft knuckles were adoringly thumbed over by the Orc before he settled on entwining their fingers. His lips were no more than a hair’s breadth away from the Elf’s ear when he groused. 

“…..aren’t you being well-behaved?”

Suspicion had narrowed already thin eyes. Though his tone was hushed, his confusion remained poignant. Through the corner of his mouth, Khah’alva replied bitterly, “These are your people. It’d be unwise to upset you in front of them—and I will not lose this. Not so soon. Not…..yet.” 

Grun’tak hummed, appeased. For now. If the fear of imprisonment kept his Faerie-lost in line, he could celebrate that. While he’d rather the other confess to enjoying the quiet intimacy, his coerced compliance would suffice. After all, these were his underlings. His pretty prize’s insolence would act less as a spitting charm in public and more of a threat to his own strength and reputation. If they suspected him to be so weak he’d be swayed by a slave, they’d undoubtedly clamor to take his role. While his death would be swift and savage, the same couldn’t be said for his spiderling. Many of their eyes hungrily undressed the Elf any minute they could, and while they maintained the honours of restraint on Grun’tak’s pride, such courtesy wouldn’t be extended if he were to fall. 

“Clever little thing.”

The cooed sentiment was awarded along with a peck to the Drow’s cheek, who grumbled something incoherent under his breath. In truth, that was another admirable quality to his pet. His insightfulness saved him. Although the Champion adored deviant punishment, any insolence that weakened his rule would be met with brutality largely foreign to the cleric. He’d tortured the other with sexual provocation. Nothing more, nothing less. For anyone else, criminal or enemy, he exercised his other avenue of lust: bloodlust. That was what earned him his rank. Hells, that was what made him Gruumsh’s Champion. 

Camp would eventually be made, but only when the exhaustion of travel weighed on wary minds to the point two of his scouts were caught scuffling. He’d wanted them to at least breach the outer caverns, but with tensions high, would be forced to settle. His own patience was thin, something Khah’alva noted duly, and continued his false subservience. 

Though armed and armored, he was never more than an arm’s reach from Grun’tak at any point. The equipment had bolstered some confidence in the Elf, though. His cold imperiousness kept his posture prim, hands neatly folded in front of him as he shadowed the hulking Olog. He’d not mentioned it, but Grun’tak could see the subdued eagerness for battle, for blades, for something in the pools of mercury which remained so hatefully narrowed. Occasionally, an odd look was directed to one other orc in particular. 

Zog. 

A young upstart with promising bull work. Grun’tak vaguely remembered him from Horc’n’s execution. He recalled the youth’s mouthiness against the now-deceased warden. He was filial to a fault, and while his praises to Grun’tak were always welcome, there were many occasions the warrior thought the boy to be more of a bootlicker than an ally. Regardless, mimicry was a form of compliment. From his hair to his toes, the shorter Orc did his best to replicate the Champion’s image. It was as flattering as it was ridiculous, but considering it held no harm, Grun’tak allowed it.

What he wouldn’t allow was the ashen pining he glimpsed on the youngling late in their preparations. He’d tasked out his lovely spider to fuss up a fire. Having forgotten the other’s divinity, he’d thought the task to be busy work while the rest of his men assembled tents, set the perimeter, and so on. Instead, Khah’alva had complied with the order, and with a half-hearted prayer, summoned forth a wicked flame. Captured by a ring of stones, he’d collected timber for it with a sensuous saunter. Perhaps he was unaware of his gait, let alone how it swayed his lithe body, but it served to stoke his desire for the Drow with every step. 

Not that he was alone in this desire.

Twice he caught Zog gawking. This itself wasn’t a crime, and many of the others took their pleasures in Khah’alva’s visage. However, their appreciation didn’t linger. It was passing, the quickest fancy seared to memory for later entertainment, but none weighed so uncomfortably long as Zog’s. He gaped at the little Elf, somehow finding some kind of work that kept him in proximity but far enough to avoid immediate notice. That much was infuriating, but with no actual offense taking place, there wasn’t anything Grun’tak could do. 

Frustrations mounted further when terrain slicked the Giant Striders’ resting bar, which allowed the damn things free chase as his newest recruits tottered after them, tired and slow. It would be his luck that, of the two skull heads to track down their beasts, one would be their cook, who ultimately sprained his ankle sometime during the chase. One injury already, ground wetted terribly, and a small platoon’s worth of hungry Orcs, all on top of a single, doe-eyed admirer of his prize stoked a building rage. Although he remained blank in his anger, it would be the gentle touch of his greatest frustration that stalled his wrath. 

”Shall I prepare the meal then?”

The offer startled the progressive violence he was concocting, so much so he leered down at the Drow, asking incredulously.

“…..you cook?”

Hooded eyes peered up at Grun’tak with the same flat bemusement as before. Silver was narrowed with disbelief, and coupled with the lean arms that folded so tightly over his chest, his tone of exasperation came as no surprise when he huffed, “I do. I’ve many talents, in fact. Parzdiamo is no mere courtesan like I—“

Grun’tak caught the other’s jaw in the cup of his hand, a lecherous grin widening as he drew dangerously close, “Don’t condescend me, sweetling, I’m also looking for a fight, and splitting you in half would make my evening.”

He chuckled when the Elf blanched at the notion, admiring the lukewarm pull against his hold, but not allowing a retreat. Not yet. Busied with the affairs of others, he’d hardly seen his plaything face-to-face at all. His grip melted into a caress, desperate to trace the lines of his slender jaw and high cheekbones. 

“I will take you tonight. Prepare yourself, as I won’t be gentle,” he ghosted a kiss along the cleric’s forehead, relishing the remnants of perfume on charcoal flesh, “I’ve craved you for too long to restrain myself.” 

Hot breath pebbled his skin, the orc’s chuffing statement eliciting a shiver. 

“Should you do well,” Grun’tak murmured, “I will reward you most graciously, but should you fail….” 

He dropped his touch to instead openly grope the Elf, the growl of his whisper turning a shade sadistic. Fantasies of the little spiderling gripping his shoulders as he rammed his cock into the deepest parts of him, the pretty melody of his voice turning ragged as his ass was pounded raw and his own weeping erection neglected to the point of pain, thrilled the orc.

“Know I want nothing more than to punish you.” 

With that, he stood to the fullness of his ominous height. A broad arm swept towards their humble supplies and the fire the cleric had conjured, adding sweetly. 

“I will inform the rest of your duties. Should you meet opposition, seek me out. Otherwise, you will not speak to anyone lest I give you permission. Another thing—“

He glanced to the now empty space, a frown souring his once smug expression.

“Zog admires you. Don’t entertain it. If I catch you even looking his way, oh sweet Khah’alva—you’d hate to see me angry.” 

The threat laid solemn in the air, hostility darkening his gaze. There was an awkward tension that lingered; the Drow couldn’t discern if it was a matter of jealousy or if the Olog leader had simply ascended to a new level of obsessiveness. Either way, he’d no plans to test such a boundary—nor did he have any great interest in Orcs, not even the one he most regularly coupled with—and so, he nodded. There was much to do, and this was another opportunity to impress and indulge a long neglected interest. ____________________________________

Grun’tak revelled in the luxury of his position for the time being. His men had largely settled into their respective roles now. Perhaps it was the fact that the tents were hitched strong, or that the warmth was bountiful from the enchanted flame, or far more likely—

The heavenly aroma that permeated through the encampment in hearty droves. He’d had eyes track the Drow’s movements with leering scrutiny, cautious for if the little Elf would take the chance to run. Khah’alva had busied himself the moment he’d been granted permission to cook. It was adorable the way he sifted through dry goods, obviously unimpressed, but imaginative in what could be managed. There’d been no lie that this was an occupation of his. He moved with an assurance echoed only by a professional, and truth be told, it made him wonder to what extent Elves worked their whores. ‘Courtesans’ as they called them, the orc recalled, or for the Drow, ‘parzdiamo’.

A whore was rarely trained, and considering the conquesting nature of the Ologs, even rarer to willfully take on the work. They weren’t expected to cook or massage or flirt or read poetry. They submitted to the wills of their masters, simply reduced to cocksleeves or pussyswallows depending on how public their use was. However, Khah’alva had an outstanding pride in his role. Any soul that escaped the brutality of sexual subservience didn’t boast their skills within it, but it seemed the Drow folk differed. As the lithe form flitted about, currently in great haste to scrub clean some foraged mushrooms, Grun’tak reclined among his own, admiring his pet and exchanging idle talk with the rest. Many were eager to eat, but despite their hunger, kept a good attitude to them. It seemed the aroma of something other than dried boar and watery gruel had put them on better behaviors. 

All except Zog. 

While few shot the young Orc warning glances, he seemed either wholly oblivious or willfully ignorant of his insult to the hierarchy. Tucked behind Torlak, Zog made no further disguises to ogling eyes, his head notably following the smooth gait of the Elf at every turn. Zhah’alva minded himself well, and as Grun’tak had cautioned him, paid no heed to the other’s stare. His diligence was admirable, and though the manner he brandished the cooking knife only reminded the Olog to never let the creature keep one, he watched on without interruption. 

Minutes ticked past, and yet, it was with a garbled thrum of something in the Drow’s sweet tongue, did the Chieftain realize the dish was complete. The words were lost to him, as Elvish was wholly foreign sans a few of the more colorful phrases, but he shrugged it off. 

“Done?” Grun’tak arched a brow, ambling himself up to a towering stand. The smell was promising alone, but as he peered over the pot’s brim, hummed in delight. Its stock was murky, with a few root vegetables and mushrooms and chunks of sliced meat bobbing in its broth. Khah’alva merely nodded, adding as he offered up a ladle, “I will fetch the bowls. Have a taste, if you’re doubtful.” 

In truth, he wasn’t. 

Although disappointed he’d receive no punishment, the appetite of his own was apparent. Hungry eyes bore holes into Grun’tak, awaiting only his permission to fight their way into a line. With a chuff, the Champion gave it. The lot immediately sprung to their feet. In a split second, the simmering anticipation that had stilled the camp into a tense silence had snapped. A cacophony of jeers and barks and groused threats were garbled to one another as the ranks assembled, each more eager to eat than the last. Khah’alva flinched at the chaos, eyes darting up to the Chieftain as he shifted back from the shoving and snappy masses. Embroiled in the fight for first—second, technically, after their esteemed Warlord—it seemed the Ologs had no care towards the little Drow. Food took precedence. He chuckled yet again, and after taking the spoon from his pet, ushered him away, off to fetch the serving dishes. 

Neither would notice eyes that never strayed from Zhah’alva, even amidst the chaos.

Even as the shadow of his figure slipped by, his leathers protected him from the featherlight brush of fingertips—a touch made out of growing hunger and wonder. It came as soon as it went, and though Khah’alva shimmied past upon his return, another touch didn’t follow. Not then. Soon, but not then. 

While a hearty portion was first doled out for himself, Grun’tak didn’t sit and eat. Instead, he took each bowl upon himself and served each of his underlings fairly. Each was dished by his hand; a serving role, the Cleric thought, that was oddly disproportionate to his indomitable status.  The quiet tilt of his brow was noted with a smirk, but not a word was uttered. Too many hands, too many eyes. His own were a lot to satiate, and while he wanted nothing more than to kiss the questioning furrow of his brow, his people were a true priority. As the line dwindled, so did the camp’s noise. Once his final soldier was served, he relinquished the serving utensil to his little Elf, ordering, “Take your fill then come to me. You will eat by my side.” 

Another curious tilt of his head. The Drow imparted few resources to their slaves, and above that, those of demoted rank never sat among the established. The cultural oddity was jarring enough to show on his face, and with a gravely laugh, Grun’tak crooned in Undercommon, “Forget your pomp, spiderling, and bear witness to true authority.” 

A few snickers echoed the Orcs’ pride, and while the Drow sneered at them, said nothing on the matter. He took but a small portion, moving now at a lethargic pace as the dread of sharing a meal with not one, but well over a dozen of the Olog clan vexed him. They mainly spoke in their own native tongue, with seemingly only a few knowing the variant of common, and had no intentions of holding conversations the Elf could understand. It was unlikely they were discussing anything of merit anyways. 

“Sit.” 

The command split the air, sundering his brooding. Silver eyes darted to the heavy hand that patted the Orc’s own massive thigh. The Drow tensed, his shrewd gaze slitting to an incredulous glare. Grun’tak fixed him with a warning glance, and with a sigh, the Cleric reluctantly perched himself onto the other’s lap. Albeit stiffly, he relished the familiar weight of his pet. Not quite a petal’s worth, but something close. A soft hum thrummed in his chest, and though one hand settled over the Drow’s waist, the other busied itself with his stew. There was a mercy that his focus was shifted elsewhere, and for a tepid spell, Khah’alva could eat in peace. They’d spared only a few minutes for reparations earlier, and though he loathed to admit it, he was ravenous. Little manners were spared then. Khah’alva ate as if it was his last meal.

Considering his capricious company, it wasn’t an unrealistic fate. 

Idle touch was brushed along his little spider’s lower back, and surprisingly, he wasn’t spurned. Grun’tak wondered what more his sweetling would permit before he got fussy. With the current company overwhelming them, he’d been remarkably dull. Duly submissive, but dull nonetheless. As the Orc ate, he watched through his periphery Lolth’s Child indulge too. Cute. So often did the little Elf pick at food given, remarking it to either not be to his tastes or that he didn’t hunger. He’d scarfed down his own serving in record timing. Such was a habit from his younger years. The combat training that rocked his cradle had been brutal, with only one’s bullying strength that would secure their next meal. 

Clearly, Lolth’s Gauntlet suffered differently. Their pride echoed in everything he did. Even hungry, Khah’alva ate with a measured pace, as if to consume was a show in itself rather than a necessity. Grun’tak snorted, and without warning, reached for the other’s dish. 

Khah’alva recoiled immediately; whether it was the affronting gesture or presumed molestation, he wanted no part. Mercury irises pooled with vehement disdain, his small hands cradling the bowl away from the Orc. Precious. The way the Drow’s scathing glare furrowed his brow was so akin to the spitting hate of a feral kitten that he couldn’t stifle his chortling. 

“Give.” 

The way the command fell was deliciously poignant, accompanied with a playful extension of his palm. Condescension dripped sweetly from his tongue, and the petulant order inspired just what he most desired then: Khah’alva’s fury. A shark-toothed grin split his rugged features, one that was immediately countered with a scowl. He was so pretty when demeaned, the way color flushed such angular features and twisted full lips into a sneer. Those very same lips would choke on his cock when such an attitude sprung forth. The precious silver of his eyes watered when he fucked the man’s throat, the way they watered into glittering pools of crystal smoke—

He twitched, praying the other fell to his taunting. It wasn’t necessary. Far from. His pretty spiderling existed still to serve his pleasures, and he’d seize them when the whim took him, but the chance to take him here—before all the lingering eyes of his men and the loitering interest of Zog’s. He’d show how it was his cock and hands and teeth that would have the darling creature whimper out his name, nails clawing into his back, begging for more as his words sputtered airy lies—

The bowl pressed coldly into his expectant hand, and in that moment, both of the men were eerily still: one with seething disgust and the other with immense disappointment. Grun’tak huffed, eyes narrowing at the withering stare Khah’alva bore into him. Such pretty hate, second only to the charm of his enthralling serenity. 

“Bitch,” he grumbled, earning only a petulant roll of his eyes, before the spoon was plucked from its half-finished depths. It wasn’t worth bending him over without prompting, especially not when the skills of a parzdiamo held true merit and a reward was to be served. He poked the watery contents left, and with a smile, brought a spoonful up to the other’s frown. 

“Open.” 

His tone never lost its goading lilt, and he took vindictive delight in the way it made the little Elf twitch with thinly veiled rage. He felt the idle flex of slender fingertips, the quiet ache to strike the orc for his insolent jab apparent, but steeled. Surrounding them were his own men, cackling over the sight of an ever-proud Drow being fed like a beaten lamb. Narrowed eyes peered up through his white lashes, and with obvious reluctance, parted his lips. It was petty, and if the other wished to act childishly, he’d risk a mild infraction. Khah’alva waited for no further word. He simply dipped forward, taking the spoonful of stew with a gulp before moving to settle back. He’d hardly shifted an inch before the hand on the small of his back had jumped up, thick fingers entangling into the thicket of plaited hair. There was no pull, not yet, but a taut pressure was applied, talons tempting flesh. 

“Aren’t you a greedy one?” Grun’tak leered, a sharp edge piercing his hooded gaze. “I’ll tell you when to eat, pet, so calm yourself.”  

“You honor me, jabuk,” Khah’alva countered sweetly, his hand enveloping the other’s as he impishly stared up. It was a venomous sweetness, a toxic trill that feigned simpering submission as he resisted the demeaning act, “To stoop to feed this one? How kind.” 

It was a soft smirk that mocked the Olog then. If he craved petulance, Khah’alva would indulge. Though, not so crassly as to inspire immediate repercussion. He could tell the other was aching for a fight, for an excuse to concoct some cruelty to assuage something in him. His words soured the humiliation, and with a huff, the Champion of Gruumsh abruptly shoved the little spider off of him. His food was kept in hand, and despite the amusement of onlookers, the Dark Elf landed with arachnid grace. He perched himself back on his haunches, staring up at Grun’tak who’d taken a stand, openly lording the meal above him. 

“Make your moves wisely, sweetling,” the Orc grinned still, though aggravation was clear in his tone. He was pent up, true, but the hardening glare of his pet was stoking more than his desires. 

There was a silent boundary being tested, one he’d anticipated once the creature reclaimed his armor and blades, but one he hadn’t thought would come so quickly. To the rest, he was a vision of submission: all doe-eyed and meek on his knees. Yet, Grun’tak saw the roll of his heels, the way his weight was carefully perched back should he need to lunge at a moment’s notice. He wasn’t kneeling to submit; he was readying a defense, and though no poisons donned his belt, the humiliation of the petulant plaything drawing blood wouldn’t do. Not tonight. Not now.

“On your feet,” Grun’tak barked, noting a few of his peers’ seemingly perplexed looks with added frustration. They wouldn’t know such treachery, and considering the tiresome hours they’d taken, he wouldn’t make it a lesson for them to face before resting. His gaze looked past Khah’alva then, who slid up to his own feet without a word. His eyes elsewhere, he called out, “Guh, Tong. Take him to my tent then stand guard. I will bring you both a second fill for your efforts.” 

They weren’t far from the Warlord’s tent, but considering how feisty his plaything wanted to be, he thought better than to risk him walking alone. Though, as soon as summoned, the bulky pair sprung from their seats. They’d already finished their portions, and considering how their eyes had been transfixed on the cauldron, he had no worries they’d be prompt in their delivery. A reward of more food wouldn’t be remiss, not for them. Guh, a burly soul with tangled braids, was the first to reach Khah’alva; Tong was just a step behind. He’d rather his men lay no hands on his prize, but considering a reminder was well-needed, he gave no further direction. Guh gripped the pleated leather straps on the Drow’s back, effectively scruffing him as he yanked him along. He delighted in the affronted sputter Khah’alva snarled, his footing fumbling against the stonework, and even laughed at the way he paled at how easily another dragged him along. Hands flailed, and though the meaning was lost to Khah’alva, Grun’tak chuckled when he heard the soldier grunt, “Bad Elfie!” When his darling managed to claw at the grip dragging him. Tong merely trotted beside them, snickering. 

Good. 

With that, the Elder-Blooded dismissed the rest. He settled on doling out a hearty helping for each as promised, but then enjoyed the spectacle of the rest squabbling for what was left behind. No blood was spilled over the matter. Rations weren’t that dire, but the flavor surpassed their own. It was a delicacy, really. The journey would be quite long. They likely thought his pet wouldn’t survive it, especially when the Warlord took such a tone with him, but he was as much of a tool as he was a creature for pleasure. He would cook for them again; Grun’tak would ensure it. The full bellies and lighthearted jeers ebbed his frustrations, and with so many playful in their fighting, he was relieved his curtness to the Drow didn’t sour the mood. 

Far from.

Several had begun cheers to Gruumsh’s might, a strength so powerful it could snuff the pomp of any Knife-Ear. Neither Fae of sun or shadow could escape the One-Eyed God’s subjugation. His ruling was inevitable. Grun’tak grinned when another scout took to a garbled chant, the glory of the Orc’s new world rinsing his senses of his spiderling’s nuisance behavior. Drink was poured. The brews were strong, and though cut with water, still carried a spitting bite. He indulged a hearty mug, gaze absently roving over the revelry of his own. 

Among the songs, another Orc was lost to the jostling crowds‘ noise.

[somebodytolove31]

The problem with playing smash or pass is that there's a lot of characters which I'm not sexually attracted to but I would fuck in a heartbeat out of sheer curiosity and ego, like I don't find Mickey Mouse attractive at all but if he approached me at a bar and went "Hey sexy, want me to show you my mouseketool?" I would say yes because then I get to tell my friends I fucked Mickey Mouse

[hobgoblinhero]

Smash Or Pass should never be about attraction, that's what Hear Me Out is for. A Smash on Mickey Mouse is understandable, even respectable. A Hear Me Out on Mickey Mouse however, that requires a lab dissection

[lobotomycas]

*pounds a monster at 9pm* why can't I ever sleep at night

[lobotomycas]

WAIT.I MEANT. THE DRINK LIKE I.M

[lyonnerileyauthor]

what a post to post on the monsterfucker website. pure gold

[official-monsterfucker-posts]

Official Monsterfucker Post

[thecollectibles]

Cats by Kateryna Korol

[sakurako07]

[fansinciti]

Summary: Grun'tak is an Orc of outstanding achievement. In war. In peace. In depravity. In battle. He has claimed many prizes, but never before has a Drow male fallen into his clutches. Gruumsh has blessed (or cursed) him with this newest trophy.

Warnings: Content linked contains written, dark romantasy themes that include: M/M relationship, degradation, non-con/dub-con, half-assed aftercare, verbal threats, unnecessary plot for smut, gaslighting, and more. The usual toxic mess of tropes for dark fiction, really.

banner credit: toxisyddy

I am posting the AO3 links here because the chapters look kinda funny when formatting on my end on Tumblr. For those who read such taboo: Chapter 6: here. Chapter 1: here.

Time passed, and though vicious and dull, their life together continued on in a dance of sadism and ecstasy. Grun’tak thrived in the newfound gifts of his little Elf. The ‘parzdiamo’ act was an enthralling one, one that relieved him with both sensuous climax and spurned a strange, nauseating tug to his chest. Such saccharine meaninglessness usually fostered annoyance, but…..

They never were apart. At least, not for long.

A few days would occasionally pass where he had to separate from the Drow, often for a field exercise, but he would always return with excessive vigor. He delighted in leaving his partner aching and exhausted, adored each spattering of bruises and love-bites all while reminiscing over the very first. It never did heal fully, the scarring crescent sent a well of lust and smug delight whenever he glanced at it. Oftentimes, Khah was left with labored breaths, sweat-slicked, and dripping from their rigorous ruts. He took that time apart deeply, and as such, was always intent to make up for their lost sessions the moment he was able.

Conversations became more frequent. Khah’alva spoke little of his time with the Church of Lolth, though it seemed less from a sense of secrecy and more from a vehement dislike. He never did divulge his faith, not even when teased with teeth or talons or touch. His pretty little Elf would endure plenty of humiliations and agony, especially if it was the price for fleeting insolence, but there wasn’t anything that would pull the intimacy of his faith from him. That much was an annoyance, but considering it was a matter of the Gods, Grun’tak would reluctantly yield. All other matters, however, were his to take, to indulge, to pry and rip from him at every probing opportunity. His favorite foods, drinks, what colors he liked, the way he wanted his hair, all the shallow delights he could strip from him. All that was his to enjoy and to disdain was knowledge the Orc found himself craving more and more, these talks often spiraling after their lovemaking. Each question seemed to puzzle Khah’alva, but he would entertain them with brevity nonetheless. The honey of his voice, although often pinched with frustration, was smooth, like velvet upon his ears. It could be soured far easier than it could be gentled. The Orc couldn’t keep his hands off him either, too drunk on the heavenly feel of his skin or enthralled by the sweetness he deceitfully crooned when the whim took him or the gentle bat of his pretty eyes when he requested the most meager of entertainments. 

When the call of his raid came, it came with both primal glee and unexpected trepidation. The expeditions would be for months on end, with little to no contact with the Underdark. It would mean one terrible truth. 

Khah’alva would be left to the trusted care of his own. 

And, the Drow was clever. His lethargy for escape was…..well, he couldn’t fathom what the other could possibly be plotting, as he’d found no discernible notion of it. Then again, it wasn’t as if the creature had anywhere that would accept him, let alone shield him from the Olog’s fury. Perhaps that’s why there’d been no attempt to flee. Perhaps there simply wasn’t an avenue in which the little thing could survive. He’d never tested his swordsmanship; Horc’n had been a treacherous snake, but he doubted that the fool would’ve lied about his pet’s abilities. Between poor blade-work and weak divinity, the natural horrors of the caverns would consume him before he could even reach a settlement with sentience.

That’s what Grun’tak told himself. It’s what he believed.

“Sweetling, come.” 

The letter remained grasped tight in one hand, the other patting the corner of his desk. Slanted eyes fixed him with palpable aversion—a notion that would’ve stung his ego, though was assuaged by the simple fact Khah’alva was his, only his. Till the end of his days and whatever came after that. Slowly, slender legs slid over the edge of the bed with deliberate sluggishness, his gait equally reluctant before he came to a crooked stand beside him. His stature was so small, the orc couldn’t fathom how he could have possibly survived in the vile belly of the Underdark before his acquisition.

“Sit,” Grun’tak snapped, his glare darting to the same space he’d gestured to. A sharp exhale was his only reply, the Drow perching himself on the desk with folded arms and crossed legs to match his equally cross expression. It was reflex now that he reached out, settling a palm on the flesh of the other’s knee. A thumb ran absently over the bone, comfort drawn from the fleeting contact despite the Drow’s impassiveness. 

“You can wield a sword?” 

Khah’alva raised a brow, dubious.

“I suppose.” 

The answer was as ambivalent as the rest of his attitude. He had no interest in the Under-Chief’s pervasive curiosities. That, and if the other wished to spar, he was certain it would end most dismally on his end.

“You will come with me. To the surface.” 

Both brows raised then, shock slating off his shrewd glower. He would lean forward, the action far more subconscious than he’d care to admit, as he gasped, “When?”

Fear and excitement played tantalizing effects on his angular features. He’d been imprisoned in these four walls for so long that it was no surprise he was eager to see the outside world. It was a reeling decision. Clearly. The only alternative would leave his darling playmate to his men, and though he trusted they’d keep their hands off for so long, he was certain the shadow Elf would take advantage. Somehow. His kind thrived on chaos and lies. While he played pliant, there was a ribbon of distrust reserved for his pet, one that couldn’t be stifled no matter how soft his words would spew or how delicious he tasted in the aftermath of a morning rut. He was Lolth’s Child, even if he took worship to another aside from Her.

The breach of proximity was welcome, though. The continued warmth of his burning heat was a slight distraction to the growing anxiousness in his gut. Lips were still parted, the kissable visual not yet indulged in lieu of the rising tension, but closeted for later lusts. His touch drifted upward, a calloused palm cradling the Elf’s sharp cheekbone. A passing glance was directed to the letter, Grun’tak sighed, “Three days’ time. I….” I don’t want you to get hurt. 

The sentiment died at the tip of his tongue, and judging by the questioning look, couldn’t even be inferred from his own dark expression. There were many uncertainties, and at the core of it all, he didn’t want death to take him. Not yet. Not for a while. “You are mine.” Khah’alva’s head tilted from his grasp, exasperation fast returning as a hand brushed off his caress. The Orc wouldn’t allow him distance. Rather, with his own gnawing apprehension eating at his heart, he groused, “C’mere.” I need you. “Closer.” The Drow didn’t. Instead, he remained seated as he was, hands fussing at the other’s sudden pawing before hissing, “No, let’s—” There was the desperation for clarification. Khah’alva had read of equal horrors topside: beasts with blinding radiance, a sun that set the very grounds ablaze, and more. His excitement was endearing, as was his apprehension, but the Orc demanded the security of his presence, the solidarity of his touch. There was no room for refusal. Even if an inquiry was to follow the rejection, it was lost to the surge of seething rage at the wretched word. 

He was sick of it.

He lunged to a towering stand, his gentle cradling turning to a choking hold of the Elf’s slim throat. A crushing pressure clenched down, stealing away the other’s stuttered breath. His other arm encircled the slender waist, and in the same flinching second, yanked the scrambling figure into his lap. He kicked out instinctively, the sudden loss of air inspiring him to claw at the unyielding strength with a fumble. Gruumsh’s Champion snarled at him, the bruising force of his own grip sending throbs of pain into the cleric’s side, trapping him against him. Regardless of his sputtering, Grun’tak pressed a smothering, open-mouthed kiss to him. His chokehold only relented enough so that, as soon as the Elf took in a gasping breath, his tongue could dart forward, sweeping through the other’s mouth with a dominating force as tusks threatened to scratch the pretty creature’s face in his feral fervor. 

He knew better than to bite now, at least not intentionally, but the way the Olog claimed his mouth with the wet appendage made him gag. The notion normally incurred no reaction in him, but with the strange anxiety gutting him, it seemed to only frustrate Grun’tak further. Khah’alva was his, and he was strong, so he shouldn’t have such doubts about his safety….

Yet, it persisted. 

And, worse yet, the Drow’s endless denial was just that: endless. Day in, day out. No matter what climaxes he lavished upon the tiny Elf, he was continuously ungrateful, even bitter about the entire ordeal. “I have saved you, aislam ,” he growled into the Drow, the perplexity of the new title lost in the fear of the orc’s flaring temper, “I have taken you and gifted you pleasures you and your pathetic little peoples have abandoned for the sake of your ego. Let go of your pride and remember this, dear ‘alva, I have you alive because you take my cock so pretty.” He relinquished the Elf’s hip, groping instead a handful of his rear. “I have you here because I need—want your sweet little hole to milk every inch of me, every morning, every night. You are my whore . Nothing more. Your life is allowed by my lust, so tell me, sweetling, why would you refuse me? ” 

There’s a building tension in him with every sharp word, brewing terror dilating dark pupils and slimming the enthralling glimmer of silver irises. Tears pricked the tips of white lashes, staved off only by the other’s will and the tepid breathing he was permitted under the pressing palm. As frightened as he was, there was a part of him that wondered how much of the brutal sentiment was to intimidate the Drow as much as it was to reassure Grun’tak of their roles. The belittlement was nauseating, and no matter how true, stung. The flicker of hurt was hardly masked, for he loathed to express such burning humiliation, as it served only to harden the other’s flesh. He derived a sick satisfaction in it. Even now, the orc’s twisted rage lessened, the edge of his hardened hate softening as the pressure along the base of his neck was further alleviated. His grasp never left him. Neither the hand on his throat or the grip on his ass fully retreated. Sucking kisses were trailed along his jaw, the threat of sharp tusks teasing under the angle of his mandible. “Why, pet? ” The answer would surely stoke the other’s flippant anger, and rather than reject the smothering affections or speak openly, he opted for a half-truth. “.....I’ve never been,” he croaked, voice rasping from the radiating ache, “To the surface, I mean.” 

Another surprise, but not a total one. He’d vaguely screened the contents that the Elf requested. A sparse handful of books had been indulged about the surface and its dwellings, and while he’d not recently cooed over the cute creatures so studiously fixed on its pages, he knew it was one of few curiosities he seemed to indulge. It didn’t matter—shouldn’t have mattered. Anger was welcome, understandable. It was easier too, easier than feeling this turbulent mess. Disbelief soured the orc’s words as he spat. “And? You’re scared? ” 

“And if I am?” 

Weak as he was, there was a thread of indignation to the statement, almost defensive. There was some reprieve to see the land above stirred more unrest than excitement, or perhaps that was simply his own hope. The possessive hold turned far more lax as the clarity of the situation surfaced. “That’s all…..?” Grun’tak muttered absently, breathing in the salt of the other’s skin, ashamed at the blooming relief that staked him when the little Cleric nodded. It was loathsome, these moods. The way that the other’s pliancy affected his own emotion weighed on him far more than he’d ever admit—either to himself or aloud. Yet, as the tension remained simmering, Khah’alva thought better than to withdraw. If anything, the grousing nips to his neck, which sent muted shivers down his spine, were tolerated as he braced himself against the burly Orc. 

Hesitant palms laid flatly against the bulk of his torso. His coltish legs lean and splayed over the thick mass of the other’s thighs, and for the moment, he allowed himself to sink into the sloppy affections. The coil of frustration unwound with every nibbling peck, the taste of his plaything’s skin as sweet as the blossoming bruise that came with the brief strangulation. His touch was gentler, but still desperate, as if the other’s blood and arousal would somehow alleviate the lump that’d settled in his own throat. The race of such thoughts he’d once considered meek and unfounded baffled him. Their bond was as he stated. Khah’alva was his to use and discard as he desired, and yet the notion of the Drow’s absence incurred fear. Furthermore, the strange pain in his chest when he’d caught that bewildered terror when rebuked— Not rebuked, just….

“When I say you’re mine, it is that you are mine. In body, in lust, in blood.” Grun’tak paused his doting, though never parted from the other. Pale eyes peered up from his hunched position, his adorations had descended to the other’s collarbone, which he’d non-too-delicately exposed by tearing away the flimsy silks that wrapped him. 

“Things that are mine receive my attention, my care, and above all, my protection.” 

His head raised to level his companion’s gaze. 

“There is nothing that I will allow to harm you, be it up there or out here. You are safe. You are home. Again. You are mine.” 

The elf fidgeted, and while his aversion usually stirred upset, there was something about the Drow turning from him that stemmed from something else entirely. There was an ashen indigo to the tips of his ears, just as there was a cute catch of his lip. Like he was biting back a word, or perhaps a confused or guilty thought. Either way, the endearing fluster wasn’t the only darling response to his sentiment. 

Pressed so close, every bit of the fae-lost was exposed and felt by him. The sheer fabric was split in the front, revealing the lean planes of his petite figure. The protrusion of bones against obsidian flesh weren’t as pronounced as they’d been upon his initial arrival. He hadn’t felt the pangs of hunger under his care. Outside of his own afflictions, nothing had ever harmed him. Far from, really. Grun’tak spoiled him with treats, small gifts, and plenty of pleasures that would leave any untrained creature broken and exhausted. That was what made his pretty Elf so special. Even if he wasn’t as eager as his own Orcish counterpart, his stamina and constitution were comparable. Too many others split under the size of his girth or the pressure of his grasp, but his spiderling differed. He would grit through it, gasp at its fullness, turn hard under the choking abundance, and even find release when his fingers dug too tight into the flesh of his throat or teeth drew blood when he bottomed out. Lolth’s Children were born cruel. Venom and treachery ran hot in their blood. Even when his words were spitting refusal, his body was honest in its perverse delight to pain and pleasure. 

The dominance had to be a thrill of his. It was at the guttural truth that the other’s cock twitched, the abashed lift of his hips not lost to the Olog, who’d immediately noticed the hardening flesh. His anger vanished then, a wolfish grin splitting his square features before he nuzzled into the crook of the other’s neck. He’d sooner choke on his own tongue than utter an apology, but for the other’s merit, he’d gentled his attentions, shifting his focus to the throaty lull of control rather than his preferred, savage immediacy. 

“You may ask anything you like, sweetling,” Grun’tak hummed against his flesh, “Remember what you have told me. I am power. I am stone. I am war and I am the absolute. It is under me you shall live, and under my strength, you will be guarded. They will not come for you. I have you now—” The steady pull of a building breath was held tight. That explained his avoidance of the Church of Lolth. He was frightened still . Even when the matrons were miles afar, that terror clawed into his spiderling’s psyche still. He yearned to purge the arachnid-bitch’s influence from the Fae-fallen. Whatever threat they possessed was long gone under his possession; after all, whatever could the meek Cleric have done to inspire genuine wrath from the Lady of Spiders herself? Khah’alva’s tension was an internal one that, while the Olog couldn’t put words to it, could see how it warred on his delicate features. He blinked quickly, as if the well of tears would wither away if he continued to will it, and was intent to look anywhere other than at the taunting embrace of the monster he thought to despise most. Grun’tak’s throaty hum continued, his assurances falling in tandem with the gentle stroking of the Drow’s lower back, his sides, his thighs. A kiss was planted tenderly above his hammering heart, the Orc then murmuring again. 

“Never forget that. I have you, my little spider. I have you. ” 

He delighted in the way a tremor raked through his lean form, a shaky ‘ah’ slipping from full lips before stifled by his own palm. The assurance made a spectacle of him. A flush of color purpled his cheeks. Its fluster narrowed pretty eyes as lashes hid the embarrassed sheen of his satisfaction. Had he known a simpering word or two would discompose him so easily, he’d have showered the quivering creature in them months ago. He was such a bristly little thing. Grun’tak hadn’t thought paltry words would mean anything to him. Still, there was one crack in the glass of his shrewd mentality. After all, if the Drow sought the solidarity of a place of his own, he could grant that much. His bolstered lies were still lies. Although he could dispatch his plaything whenever the whim took him, there wasn’t an ounce of him that held such a desire. This would be the safest place for him, Grun’tak would ensure it, and all the Drow had to do was oblige his lusts. He wouldn’t starve nor would death take him while here. 

Perhaps Kha’alva knew that too.

The deliverance of pain was always a response to his own internalized turmoil or an act of play to arouse the twisted soul. Never did it truly threaten his mortality. Tempted it, certainly, but that was the beauty of his Elf’s graces; a cleric could mend itself with ease rather than rely on the sluggish pace of natural restoration. 

“I know why you’re so frightened, sweet Khah. Hush.” Grun’tak crooned. His palm trailed down the smooth plane of his stomach, fingers running down till they wrapped tight around his weeping erection. He swept his thumb over the head, admiring the watery slick of his pearlescent pre. He stiffened at the grip, but he didn’t withdraw. The orc sighed, the sound as playfully wistful as it was threaded with sincerity. “I am cruel to you, aren’t I? My poor, cute ‘alva,” his kisses returned, a heated trail of saliva licked along the length of his slender neck. His voice thrummed hot and heavy against goosebump flesh as he continued, “But you tease me just as cruelly, so it is only fair. Dearest one, you may be living because my desire for you burns like so, but make no mistake. It is not a candle I hold to you, but a wildfire. I will never tire of you. Not in this life or the next.” Jagged teeth tempted the pitch skin once more, the needling pressure left passing marks, but the fleeting pain incurred an audible gasp from Khah’alva. He felt his own need surge at the other’s. Still dressed into the simple leathers of his work, his member was bound behind the straps and folds, his arousal aching even more under the writhing weight of the Drow. His assurance was true, and while it far from forgave him from his abuse, it seemed to ebb some of the Elf’s greater fears. 

The calloused edge of his palm dragged along the other’s velvety cock with a groan, delighting in the way the smaller one jumped when his fingers pulled back the tender skin of his dick before smoothing it back over. He set a steady pace then, every inch of the member rubbed with vigor as he shot the panting Cleric a cocky smile. Each breath came out stuttered with every tug to his genitals. His pleasure left dewey spend over the Orc’s knuckles, just like it deepened the color in sharp cheeks and coiled tight in his belly. The languid pull of the other’s length left it wanting more and more, it hardening in desperation for release. “Careful, lovely.” The sentiment was a warning to and for him. Every time he breached close to his climax, Grun’tak halted any motion, barely stifling his chuckle at the other’s immediate, half-lidded ire. He dropped an arm to the narrow waist of his partner, and though he briefly considered bending him over the top of his desk then and there, he dismissed it. He’d let this coupling be softer, a meager kindness to cancel out throttling him only moments prior. 

Already the bruises were surfacing, a darling necklace of mottled indigo lost in the beauty of his obsidian complexion. He held Khah’alva close to him, almost cradling, as he lurched forward, rummaging through his drawers for the oil he kept just for these trysts. To his credit, the Drow’s arms reflexively encircled his own neck, clinging tight lest he be dropped to the floor. The vial in hand, he popped the cork, letting its thick contents ooze over stout fingers. The weathered pads of his digits made quick work of the warmed substance, and it was without a word, the first pressed into the flinching pucker of the Elf’s ass. He flinched at its abrupt entry, the thickness one he never seemed able to fully grasp. 

A second was added after a few, short thrusts, to which Khah’alva notably stiffened, his cock leaking at the stinging stretch inflicted. “You do so well in taking me, sweetling,” Grun’tak groaned, marveling at the fluttering heat that seemed to swallow up his invading caress, “There can be no one else, not another that takes me so prettily or so wantonly. I told you then and I will tell you now, Khah’alva: Lolth’s Gauntlet has trained you just for me.” He’d added the third, his wrist twisting as he fucked his fingers into the lubricated hole above him. Lithe hips ground down into his hand, an airy breath of satisfaction pulled when his knuckles grazed along sensitive walls and strained the tight rim of his. Praises were hummed into the collarbone of the Elf, and while he wished to relish the ardent yearning that strung up his pet, he was nearing his own breaking point too. The confines of his armor left him in anguish, and it was with a frantic scramble of clasps and buckles, was he finally freed from his suffering. 

His member sprang forward with leaking anticipation. His own budding desire dribbled thickly from that slit in the fat head of his own cock. Its musk was more abundant now, coupled too with the sheen of sweat from his own restraint, and it thudded simply against the other’s. Although comparable in length, Grun’tak’s dick exceeded the other’s nearly twofold in its girth. He slathered the remnants of the oil along his own shaft, and with a few courtesy jerks, brought the aching tip to his quivering entrance. Pressure built as he pressed up, the mushroom-head popping in with a groan from both. For Khah’alva, it was the beginning of his suffocating fill; for Grun’tak, it was the delicious warmth that squeezed down on him like a vice. “Let it go, little spider,” the Orc cooed, his hold curling just shy under the slender thighs. There was the tension of anticipation building within his wiry muscles. The Olog knew it well now, the way he split him open, left him shuddering and shaking in want and guilt. Deny it as he did, the sin of flesh was one that couldn’t be covered. “Swallow your pride,” he continued sweetly, ivory tusks trailing tender lines along the base of his throat, “Take it.” 

Khah’alva gulped, eyes still averted, but the heat of intimacy radiating from his flushed body. His small hands hesitantly settled onto each rigid plane of muscular shoulders. His grasp was the only thing that kept the demure Elf from falling onto the rest of him, and for that reason alone, did he bite back his errant desires. There wasn’t a single aspect of the Drow that he didn’t want to marvel, to touch, to break, or to violate. The planes of obsidian were kept smooth only by the weak divinity within him; the only mark of any violence that persisted to that day was the vicious bite that crescented above his collarbone. 

Otherwise, he was pristine. Perfect. Pretty . Gorgeous tendrils of stark white had grown over their time shared. In truth, Grun’tak forbade his pet to ever cut it. Not that the creature ever had a chance as, despite his apparent submission, he didn’t trust the other with any sharp instruments for any period of time. Snowy hair billowed about him like a halo of light, the jarring contrast a tempting one. The volume of it all made for a wonderful leash, especially when he bent the other over anything he could and rutted into him. This pace was smooth, agonizingly tantalizing as the Elf pivoted himself lower, rolling his hips with arduous care as he took another inch with sucking pleasure. Walls fluttered around the veiny member. The tight channel was as welcoming as it was refusing to accept the girth. Each stretch of muscle was accompanied with a cute grimace, the reach of Grun’tak’s own manhood piercing him further and further. There wasn’t enough lubricant in the entire Keep that could prepare him for their couplings. What slick had gathered along the mass aided only the initial entry. Every thrust following was agony, blissful agony—the intensity near primal when the orc’s cock grazed against that tender gland deep within him, the ribbed rim of his shaft pulling and punishing in its penetration. 

Eventually, he felt his thighs fall flush to the other’s. Heavy balls pricked against the smooth Elf’s ass, a satisfied chuff rumbling from the Orc. He relished the tremble from the effort of taking him. He’d watched with carnal delight as the other’s greedy hole took him, bit by bit, quivering and gasping and groaning. Thick fingers travelled upward then, one set smoothing over the curve of his side while the other found amusement in tweaking his dark nipples. Talons were sharped against the buds of sensitive flesh, and with every pull and twist, he grinned at the stuttered breaths it drew from the Drow. Grun’tak couldn’t remain motionless. With the other wrapped so warm and so snugly around his thick member, he simply couldn’t. “Good boy.”

The praise was followed by an immediate thrust upward, Khah’alva hissing at the friction. There was no break from him—the orc’s musk surrounded him, and as he set a steady pace, the Elf was forced to bounce on his cock relentlessly. It choked him, the momentary reprieve before the punching fullness consuming him once more. “Ah—ah—” The sounds that spilled from Khah’alva were music to his ears. They were honest. They were his , for with every push of brutality, he felt the Elf’s cock trickle its release. Then, when he hitched the other’s leg higher, he found that spot that made the so-stoic Child of Lolth unravel. His moans were airy, choked. His manicured nails blunted into the Orc’s muscles, his grip turning furious as his craving to climax drew close. They shared a breath as Grun’tak drew closer, pace quickening as he pressed his forehead to the other’s. Sweat dotted their brows. One from the ecstasy pounded into him, and the other from the intensity of motion. “You’ll let go, sweetling. Let go and come for me. ” 

He shuddered at the command, the Elf’s head dropping as he panted heavily into his chest. His hips rolled to meet the other’s, the frenzied thrusts stumbling when the Cleric froze. Silver eyes screwed shut. His dick sputtered its spend onto the Orc’s own stomach, twitching with each spurt of blinding relief as muscles spasmed. His hold clenched onto the rigid flesh impaling him. An appreciative groan was ripped from the Olog when his hot passage rippled over him. The Elf had shivered from raw nerves left aching from his release. 

Yet, Grun’tak was close. His hold dropped back to the Elf’s slim waist, and though he snarled at the drag of hard flesh over sensitive skin, the Orc simply pecked him on the cheek, returning to merciless pounding with doubled fervor. He squirmed and writhed above the burly figure below him, torn between escaping the punishing stimuli or to succumb to the weak arousal that threatened to take him again. The Olog knotted a handful of snowy-hair, wrenching the other’s head back too late in an attempt to catch the lazy sight of his orgasm. “Ah—stop, stop, please—”Grun’tak’s tongue slipped into his begging mouth, stifling his pleas as his balls slapped hard against his rear. Khah’alva gagged as the appendage teased the front of his throat, spit swapped with the sloppy kiss. His release came with a growl, his cock impaling the other to its base as wave after wave after wave of his seed blanketed the inside of the poor Elf’s abused hole. The warmth filled him to the brim, setting nerves alight between the tug to his rim and the discomforting slosh stuffed into him. Grun’tak hummed as weak thrusts rode him through the last of his orgasm, his bruising grip softening with every pump. Drained, Grun’tak settled back in his chair. He wasn’t ready to catch the imperious glare of his partner. The moment had been too endearing to lose. So, he tucked a palm behind the nape of his neck and crushed him into a sticky embrace. His other hand halfheartedly tucked the silk robe around the Elf, though the gesture was as hastily abandoned as it started. Instead, he looped that same around his narrow waist, smothering him in the hug for just a while longer. “Don’t move.” Admittedly, there was no room for Khah’alva to even try. Stuffed on the Orc’s softening cock and mashed into the rigid wall of his body, he was forced to simply feel . Heat rolled off of him in a suffocating haze. As perspiration dewed on him, the warrior himself was sheened with it, leaving the Elf to feel every damp plane of every scarred muscle. Thick spend was mostly plugged into him, the massive member essentially corking the bulk of it within. Still, some trickled past the gaping stretch of him, leaving his inner thighs sticky. All around him was the scent of their coupling. Their sweat, their seed, their spit. All of it left phantom marks that not even a bath could dispel, and yet….

Khah’alva reluctantly settled into the embrace. Not a word of argument was uttered, even though tired muscles were tense with unease. While the sex had been regrettably enjoyable, there was greater relief in knowing that he was soon to break those four walls, and perhaps, break free entirely.

[fansinciti]

Summary: Grun'tak is an Orc of outstanding achievement. In war. In peace. In depravity. In battle. He has claimed many prizes, but never before has a Drow male fallen into his clutches. Gruumsh has blessed (or cursed) him with this newest trophy. 

Warnings: Content linked contains written, dark fantasy themes that include: M/M relationship, degradation, non-con/dub-con, half-assed aftercare, verbal threats, unnecessary plot for smut, tbh.

banner credit: toxisyddy I am posting the AO3 links here because the chapters look kinda funny when formatting on my end on Tumblr. For those who read such taboo: Chapter Four on AO3!

Chapter Five on AO3!

[lmbibitor]

“can mutuals dm you?” my mutuals can fire me from a cannon through a brick wall, looney tunes style. as long as we’re all having fun

[ineffectualdemon]

Not me explaining that here on Tumblr tits is a gender neutral term for big chests unless the person has said they don't like it

[ineffectualdemon]

On a serious note people being unironically horny about cis men and referring to their chests as tits in their horny rantings has made me feel more comfortable as someone who is transmasc

Like I don't have huge dysphoria about my chest because I'm not very well endowed but I still have some and like thinking: "I'm a sexy dude with sexy tits" is actually a good feeling for me personally

[official-boob-posts]

my blog is a safe place for the gender neutral usage of tits

[demihappycow]

[monstersflashlight]

[reallesbiancorn]

🌧 Rain and petals eavesdrop, 🥀

🥪 They sent the wrong sandwich. 😔

[teaboot]

“Do you ship...” Buddy I will ship almost anything if I think about it too long. I love love and situations

[2242706]

i have crazy garlic fingers from peeling and chopping garlic cloves yesterday this phenomenon is always fascinating to me because it reminds me that i, too, am made of meat, and therefore i am also susceptible to being seasoned

[quail-in-red]

My party has like no charisma, it’s terrible

[fansinciti]

ch.3 / ?? Summary: Grun'tak is an Orc of outstanding achievement. In war. In peace. In depravity. In battle. He has claimed many prizes, but never before has a Drow male fallen into his clutches. Gruumsh has blessed (or cursed) him with this newest trophy.  Warnings: Content linked contains written, dark fantasy themes that include: M/M relationship, degradation, half-assed aftercare, verbal threats, unnecessary plot for smut, tbh. banner credit: toxisyddy A/N: I wrote so much of this, so bear with me as I post my reserves. I will eventually write something else, I swear, but in the meantime. Here's some random plot/aftercare for this originally just random erotica. Word count for this chapter is approximately 4k, hence the under read more tab! AO3 link here for those who prefer it!

Grun’tak anticipated the Drow to doze in his arms. His cloak had been tucked gingerly around his battered body. As loathsome as that was, without the orc’s body pressed warmly into his own, the chill of the caverns had crept up on him. Sweat and muck had cooled on him, and with nothing to shield him from the draft, he found himself shivering minutes after their coupling. The cape did little against the sticky humidity, and though Grun’tak cradled him tight, it was far from welcome or helpful in rebuffing the cold. 

Sleep was a condition he couldn’t indulge, even if he wanted to, and to meditate in this state would be nigh impossible. Still, he focused on his breathing. Shame and humiliation burned him nearly as bad as the pain radiating up the expanse of his back, the bruising bite, and the plethora of other hickeys and scratches and welts that afflicted him. They were reminders of the subjugation, he was certain, and drew vile memories every time he fidgeted, trying to find some relief from the ache. He was no stranger to rough sex, but the size and brutality of the Olog far exceeded the select few passionate affairs he’d entertained before. 

“Rest.”

The command was groused too close, hot air tickling the tip of his ear and sending another shiver down his spine. He had tucked his face into the crook of the other’s chest. Tousled hair ruined by the dirt masked his expression, though his distress mattered little to the other and his hands curled the fabric closer to his naked person. 

“I cannot.” 

His reply was muffled since it’d been spoken into the leathers, but the Orc seemed to hear it nonetheless. The moment the other was out of sight, he would call upon the gods. His divinity was novice, but with it, he’d survive long enough to attempt a greater escape. He could endure this—he would endure this. 

“….so be it.” 

A shrug rolled through his broad shoulders, the other hissed at the stinging pull of his wounds. 

“Stop moving,” Khah’alva snapped, to which the Olog childishly jerked his one arm to yank the Drow up. A kiss was planted to the crown of his head, the act purely spiteful, before he growled against the elf’s scalp.

“Command me again, sweetling, and I’ll rut you into the ground till you bleed then have you crawl the way back.” 

The threat silenced him. So, he settled on scowling into the monster’s breastplate as he affectionately nuzzled into him. 

The walk was unpleasant, yet nothing was worse than when they arrived back at the commander’s stronghold. Many had scrambled to find the wayward prisoner; some for the reward, others for the chance to be spared for the failure of his escape. Horc’n was the first to greet the pair, and though the Drow was blind to the scathing glance cast his way, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Hushed jeers followed their approach. Many were lecherous in their comments, and while he’d sworn the Orc had flared with jealousy over Jar’duav, he seemed victorious when displaying his newest prize, never minding what slip of flesh was glimpsed or how the scent of sex lingered over the pair. 

“Endor Grun’tak—“ Horc’n started, panic thinly veiled under militant bearing.

“Tomorrow morning. Report to me then. If you haven’t yet, execute the others and stake their heads out front. I’ll be writing to their little matron soon,” Grun’tak ordered, pausing only to smirk at another pup’s leering of his pretty Elf, then adding coldly, “I’ll think on your deficiencies. May Gruumsh find mercy where I will not.”

With that, the Orc withdrew from the gathering of curious and awestruck eyes, stepping off to make his way to his own work-quarters. His home had too many points of entry. Since his darling companion fancied lockpicking, he didn’t want to fuss over his keeping. Blockish hallways gave way to a singular corridor which spiraled up into a tower. Narrow windows had been carved into the stones. They were spaced far in between and were hardly a few inches in width. Although the Dark Elves were petite, they weren’t that small. Scaling out of the room would be difficult, even more so if there was only one exit point, but he quietly tracked the route regardless. 

Eventually, they came to a heavy door, and despite the encircling lock on it, Grun’tak simply knocked thrice and it swung open. 

An arcane lock. Damn it all.

Another barrier, but not an impossible task. However, the room secured was a comparatively cozy one. The exotic pelts of various big game were spread about the circular floor. Peppered spots and clashing stripes of the animals made for a tacky combination, but certainly a warm one when compared to the frigid shale he’d been thrown on earlier. A desk of stone was embedded into the farthest wall, with a matching rock fireplace, and accented by a strange, copper basin. Its craftsmanship differed from the rest. Its charm was equally as bulky, but with tinkered accents stamped along its border. 

With the floor padded so well, Grun’tak took no issue with depositing his pet beside the fire, even granting him the kindness of his cloak. For the moment, that was. While his hands clutched the fabric to his chest still, he leaned toward the emanating heat, pointedly avoiding the other’s piercing gaze. The Orc, on the other hand, snorted at the little Elf’s demeanor. It was awfully cute, the way the Drow fussed and frowned and shrank away. 

Like a shrew, he thought, a smirk following the thought. 

As he busied himself with retrieving some water, he kept a corner-eye on his newest plaything. Khah’alva was as refined as porcelain. Yet, in the backdrop of crude furs and mottled browns, he looked so awfully out of place. Endearing, though. The sculpt of his features was soft, but angular. Marbled between gentled masculinity and a pervasive femininity, the Drow was a marvel. He was petite too, engulfed by the pooling fabric, and occasionally peeking up at him with slitted anger.             “You are so small .” The sentiment is crooned as if directed to a beloved cat, the Olog-Elder perching against the sink as he peered down at the other. He couldn’t fathom how the hateful creature managed him, not without breaking entirely. 

“.....perhaps to you.” The wry sentiment was uttered to the embers, Khah’alva refusing to grace the other with a glance. Another chuckle rumbled from his chest. They were all dainty, the Drow, but he supposed the one before him was marginally taller than the women. It was a slight difference, but a difference nonetheless. 

Grun’tak returned to his pet, settling cross-legged in front of him as his water-laden bowl sat to his right. There is an appreciative tenderness as rugged hands ghosted over the Elf’s flesh. For the moment, he was content to fawn over the other, eventually tugging him in a way that the Drow was forced to face him. It wasn’t gentle, his direction. Initially met with resistance, it’d taken a tutting snarl and the fatigued man relented, turning to sit crossly in front of Grun’tak before being corrected. “No,” the Orc murmured, “Spread yourself.” 

Alarm melted to understanding once the Olog gestured back to the bowl beside him. Water was warmed by the lit fire then, the heat of its crackling blaze rolling through the room with ample comfort. It’s by the gentle sweep of a rag that grazed charcoal skin, washing away the crusted remains that’d trickled down slender thighs. His touch returned to exploration of his lithe body. Rather than lustful groping, however, he applied the cloth with clinical care—a surprising feat, considering the flare of his nostrils and the darkening bloom of arousal in his pale irises.

The quiet was welcome for the moment, and while he felt muscles tense under the fleeting care, Grun’tak relished the sight of his work. His caresses lingered over the blotches that darkened already pitch-black flesh. His bite was savage, teeth having lifted skin and the glittering ruby of his pretty Elf’s blood dewing as it clotted along the puncture marks. There was a vindictive pride in the way the other’s puckered rim had loosened too, continuing to drip out his seed with every flinch, and the obscene streak of the orc’s own blood just shy of his kissable lips.

“There will be no Shaman for you,” Grun’tak murmured, wringing the rag before re-applying, “For Her Great Duties lie with our people and healers are few.” 

The Drow nodded absently, his gaze fixed on the fire past his perched assailant. A few more moments of peace would pass before the adventurous touch descended. He cringed as the Olog gave a fleeting squeeze to genitals with the washcloth. The smugness flickered at the trace of red rinsed from his aching asshole. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware of injury to his little pet, but the lack of reaction hadn’t matched the extent of injury. How curious. His brow knitted together, the pressure of his palm to the other’s balls turning firm as he rolled them over with the damp fabric. Again, he winced in mild discomfort, but bit back any noise. 

“You’re no stranger to pain, my ‘Alva.” 

The Dark Elf froze, leveling the lecherous gaze warily, but not elaborating. 

“Lolth’s Gauntlet has trained you for me,” he continued, malice lacing the simmering glee in his tone, “The Gods’ have blessed me then, for such a cute little prize to endure all that is me .” 

He pressed the blunted knot of cloth to his abused hole, delighting in the hiss he elicited with every scraping swipe. Another minute was indulged in twisting and rubbing the raw chafe of the other’s groin before he retired the cloth altogether. Reaching into his belt, he withdrew an unlabeled jar from a satchel. There were various other dressings and vials, its supplies reflecting its medicinal function. The lid was removed and a pungent aroma immediately cut the air. Wrinkling his nose, Khah’alva tilted his head to look at its muddied contents, a questioning concern blooming in his features.

“This’s a balm,” Grun’tak grumbled, scooping up a dollop of the foul concoction, “Should help. I’ll have you again later.” 

His eyes narrowed, and while once submissive to his cleaning, he withdrew his legs into himself, attempting to squirm back. Irritation flared then, anger thinning his mouth into a fierce line. His hand snapped forward, fingers enclosing around his prey’s ankle, and yanked him forward. Khah’alva scrambled to grab at the rusg, desperate to find purchase, as he kicked out at the orc. The blow is easily dodged, and with another sharp pull, brought his slathered digits closer to the other’s puckered ring.

“No—“

“You will take this as you took my fingers, sweetling,” he seethed, annoyance shifting to fury, as he brandished the sharp talons coated with the ointment. 

“No, stop, I—I can heal it. Don’t—“

“Heal?” Anger dissipated, melting fast to earnest hope . The odds of a cleric in these dark hours were next to null. 

“Yes,” Zhah’alva stuttered, desperate, “Y-yes, let me, just—just don’t use that. ”

His eyes were transfixed on the tub with awfully sharp fear. Claws and injuries aside, it seemed as if he was equally fearful of the substance as he was his captor’s wrath. The idea of the Drow utilizing magic was a dangerous one, and while he’d thought the other nothing more than a weak swordsman, the call of something divine lurking within him could pose an issue. The Gods’ shielded their most holy, only the weak would be discarded so casually.  Then again, he was certain the Drow Mother was a cruel mistress, known to be even crueler to her men. 

“Go on then, pet. I will watch—and should your spells turn against me, my cock will be the one to treat you, should you survive,” Grun’tak warned, but settled back on his haunches, the gel shining in the dim light. Another nod was his only response, and while he glanced over their awkward proximity, he didn’t wish to risk the return of the Orc’s rage.  Shifting, the Dark Elf returned to his seated position. It was difficult to think with the surge of adrenaline kicked into his system. That, and the other’s clean hand had taken to drawing absentminded circles over his knee. Thumb stroking the soft flesh, the Olog leaned closer, breath bated with anticipation.

The acrid tang was one Khah’alva recognized at once: clitocybe. Far from medicinal, he was well-trained in the arts of poisons to know that its properties would do little other than fester the wound. His survival was his priority. Although he’d wished to keep any and all ability shrouded, to be poisoned while battered like so would only impede his odds of escape. This had been one of the reasons the cleric had hidden his swordsmanship as well. Their consistent underestimation had been his tactical advantage all along. Exhausted as he was, this was something simple he could pull from the fog well enough.   Indeed, Grun’tak watched with awe as his plaything closed his eyes, luscious lips formed words in a strange tongue as his white brows pulled together in strained concentration. He felt the air coil and reel, as if invisible forces struck the Elf rather than cradled him with its aid. Even more remarkable was watching the bruises lighten, shallow scratches all but disappear, and a breath of relief ease posture that was taut. There was no radiance to the healing, no flash of light or show for its merit other than the obvious: his injuries had improved in a matter of seconds.  With a rattling breath, he opened his eyes and nearly startled. He’d not forgotten the Olog’s presence, but he hadn’t heard him draw even closer in his inspection. As promised, the ointment was discarded, wiped away on the tacky rug, so he could settle his palms on Zhah’alva’s spread thighs. This was a blessing, yes, but a complication as well.

“You’re a cleric?”

“A novice—acolyte, really,” he clarified. Not quite a truth, but far from a lie. His hands rested on top of the other’s, and none too subtly, attempted to brush off the touch. There was much still to be learned, clearly. After all, the grievous bite had lessened, but was still present nonetheless.

“But you can heal?”

He nodded again. There was a hesitation to the admittance, namely because Grun’tak’s enthusiasm was bubbling more and more by the second. Thoughts ran wild. Solutions to impossibilities were fast becoming tangible, and with a sudden bark of laughter, he stood, scooping up his Drow companion. Never minding his flailing, he noted the lack of wincing as further evidence that any internal tears had been mended as well. Too surprised to react, he planted another open-mouth kiss to the Drow, chuckling still when he sputtered in disgust. The mind had deceitful repulsion, but he knew well by the spend he’d wiped from the other’s chest that Zhah’alva hadn’t been without ecstasy. 

“A reward,” he crooned, joy slating his previous frustration away with a twisted smile, “Gruumsh has graced me with you for our next raid. A prize you truly are. Oh, my little cleric, what reward do you seek? You were hiding such a gem from me for a reason, so I shall reward your honesty.”

Never mind it was for purely selfish reasons. The solution he presented far outweighed the insult of omission, and thus, he would grant some mercy. The other fidgeted, clearly trying to find some stability in the hold. He wished to be in any other place than here. Alone too. Recalling the Orc’s cruel promise, he gulped, gaze turning avoidant before hesitantly suggesting, “You—tonight you mentioned—could we not…?”

“Pick another gift.” 

Despite the abruptness, no irritation stemmed from the request. He was enthralled by the sculpt of the Drow, and though he yearned for a moment of solitude, Zhah’alva had no hope of such a thing. Instead, he ignored the nuzzling to his neck, focusing instead on something—anything that would alleviate the dread and disgust that left a film on him. 

“…..my personal possessions?” 

A flat look of disbelief was leveled then, to which the Drow continued. 

“Clothes, wash stuffs, and such. Nothing of danger, I mean.”

It was demeaning to request such simple things, things that were already his and had been since his conception, yet he was earnest in it. He had a foreboding feeling that his world was to be fraught with strife and turbulence soon. The violation to his person was a brutality he knew would be repeated. Even with its filth washed away, the phantom strokes and sensations haunted him. As did the pain, which while lessened greatly, was still there. 

A reminder. A constant reminder when coupled with the orc’s persistent touch. 

His small comforts would be his only prayer for some semblance of normalcy, of control. Although he would have seized the chance to take up arms against the warrior, even knowing he was likely to die by the other’s axe, there was at least a shred of dignity with such a fate. Left to bleed out from the rape of an Orc was not only horrific, but one of many tragedies he wished to avoid.  Misconception cleared, Grun’tak chewed over his words carefully. In truth, the categorization for their captives’ belongings was minimal. The supplies were often divided among his own; none taken survived their captivity, really. Yet, with the chaos of patrols and his plaything’s escape, the likelihood the Drows’ possessions were still in storage was high....

“I am generous.” Grun’tak huffed playfully, “So I will indulge my pretty Alva’s wish—“

Khah’alva sighed, relief almost bubbling to the surface before the orc finished his sentiment.

“—for a kiss. Submit. Kiss me, sweetling, and I will give the word to bring all you and your people’s things here. Pick what you like. You will only keep what I approve.”

The Dark Elf’s brow shot upward. There’s indignation in his gasp, frustration sending his hands up in a surprisingly flippant gesture. He was mindful to not actually strike the cause of his upset. Tempting as it was, his moods were as chaotic as the Church’s. He’d rather not inspire injury so soon after recovery. Eyes lifted to meet Grun’tak’s smug grin, his own gaze narrowing with quick thought. 

“What if….” He glanced at the discarded jar then at the Orc. “I counter your gesture with another truth? A greater one? Would that pay your penance?”

Grun’tak chuckled at that, his arms encircling tighter around the Drow as he drew him close. The lovely florals that he smelled had ebbed under the pervasive sweat and mud, yet he found the other intoxicating nonetheless. Perhaps that was one of the luxuries Khah’alva wished to reclaim. He hoped as much. Curiosity piqued, he swayed the Elf in his arms, cooing. 

“If your truth is greater? But of course.”

His tone reflected his doubt. As did the dubious look and his smirk. So, with his own retaliatory grace, the Drow snapped. 

“That ointment is laced with Clitocybe—it’s poisonous. Such a thing will fester your wounds and collapse your body, if given enough time.” 

At once, the gentle rocking ceased. Fingers twitched reflexively in their hold of the Elf, and his bastard smile vanished. Another step, and he dumped the Elf unceremoniously on the day-bed. 

“Don’t fucking move.” 

It was a command barked over his shoulder, as the Orc plucked up the jar and promptly stalked out of the room, door slamming behind him so hard it left the wood rattling. His fury lingered in the air. Tension melted into anxiety. While naked and perplexed on the soft covers, he considered following the order purely out of fear of repercussion. Footsteps thudded heavily down the steps, and while he was familiar with few of the brutish words Orcs used, the vast majority of his shouting was lost to the Elf. 

As far as he knew, he had a few minutes. A few minutes to salvage the vestigial remnants of his pride. A few minutes revel in the solidarity. Above all, though, a few minutes to investigate. He leapt to his feet, crossing the room in a few urgent strides, before settling at the other’s desk.  It was surprisingly organized. Little cluttered the surface, sans a robust ink pen, a cut geode, and achievements. He wondered idly what worth the blemished quartz meant, as compared to the other jeweled supplies or coins of honor, it felt out of place. Neverminding it, he moved on to the contents of the drawers. Papers were bound by different wires, colors dictating categories unknown to him with more words incomprehensible. Together, they spoke the common tongue of the Underdark, but apart, Grun’tak operated almost exclusively in Orcish.

Scowling, Khah’alva returned the sheets in precise order. He continued to flip through everything he could, noting recurring names duly. Perhaps the knowledge could be helpful. Perhaps it was inane dribble. Only time would tell. It wasn’t until he scoured the bottommost drawer that something of legible worth came to him: a courtesy map, torn and forgotten under other pressing paperwork. The other must have received it years prior, and in his line of duty, forgotten it. The Drow snatched some spare parchment, and with meticulous focus, copied a rudimentary floorplan of the fort. It was a simple map, and were there any other secrets within, this wouldn’t expose them. However, it gave him a better idea of the layout. No plan could be performed blindly. He annotated points in the Drow dialect, the landmarks would aid him only if he could make it. Next, he’d discern their patrol patterns….assuming he lived long enough to do so.  Despite his disgust, there was a singular benefit to the Leader’s lust: it kept him alive. How long he held that fancy, he’d no idea. If his tastes reflected his moods, he could only assume this wretched tryst would be just as short-lived. He returned the scrap of a map to the bottom of the pile, turning then to fold his own rendition to a tiny square. It’d have to be hidden. Somewhere. Somewhere that would be awkward or unlikely to invite the lord’s scrutiny. He scouted the chamber, eventually wedging the piece above the trimmed base behind a bookshelf. It’d be too low to catch even a cleaner’s eyes and the jutting edge of stone would keep it from being swept away. 

Satisfied, he moved over to the wash basin, turning the tap to find the water was still delightfully warm. To cleanse himself may alleviate the other’s rage, even if it defied his order to remain still. It certainly would mitigate some of his own revulsion.

Khah’alva assumed he’d rather waste the time molesting him than fuss with his hair. After all, the Olog hardly tended to his own properly. He’d rather have it short, and more than ever, he’d wished he’d cut it prior to this failed task. The appeal of such convenience had heightened every day of his travels, but with the Spider Queen’s malice towards anything remotely masculine, he’d maintained a style similar to his ‘sisters’. There was no soap nor did he see a comb readily available. While he held no qualms with pilfering the Orc’s belongings, he didn’t want the monster to know of it. Another bitter sigh, and the Drow began the tiresome work of untangling the muddy mess by hand.

[littlepinkbeast]

you know how most of the things humans use as spices are poisonous or repellent to most other mammals? and you know how anything vaguely d&d inspired has dwarves being way more poison resistant than even humans?

dwarf cuisine shouldn’t be bland, it should be unimaginably spicy and potentially harmful or fatal to humans. like green potato and rhubarb leaf salad with a festive garnish of yew berries and deadly nightshade berries, that kind of thing.

[the-rear-admiral-reborn]

Concept: humans think it’s bland cuz rather than memorizing what kills humans it’s safer to just pass on the spices.

[loreofcardigan]

#‘should we add salt? everyone eats salt right?’#‘no that’s a rock there’s no way humans eat rocks

[blatant-phishing-attempt-bot-de]

Humans casting “protection from poison” before eating dwarven food like those lactose pills you can take to drink milkshakes