Hello and welcome to my blog darlings, you may call me Doctor Sebastian or Mr. Night. I am generally open for many things, and I don't mind you asking. I mostly do mature themes, such as violent/sexual. If you request something, I have the right to deny, and/or change something up. So, I won't write a list of what I will write for (since that is too long), and instead what I won't. I am an open book. I do mostly MLM, and TransMLM, but I'm not limited to this. I also write slow, so your fanfic may take a bit to come through, due to work, being generally busy, or lack of motivation. Please be patient with me.
Also, this is a safe, non-judgement zone. Kinks will NOT be shamed, unless genuinely problematic [i.e. having me write underage smut].
Won't write for:
𖥔 ݁Incest [I will do step-cest with no familial bond]
𖥔 Underage/anything to do with littles/something that looks little [unless fluff, no romance or smut]
𖥔 Necrophilia
𖥔 Guro/extreme gore [mostly in smut situations]
𖥔 Beastiality
𖥔 Scat
𖥔 Vore
𖥔 Mpreg/pregnant porn
𖥔 Dental kinks/fetishes
𖥔 Misuse of eye/ear holes/sockets
I will write from fluff to smut, and most anything in between. You know my limits, respect them or disappear.
Some fandoms [but not limited to] I will write for:
𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 :
Angels of Death
Castlevania
Transformers
Chainsaw Man
Death Note
Black Butler
Dragon Ball
Beastars
Devilman Crybaby
Pokémon
Vampire Hunter D
Naruto
Mignon
𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 :
Mario
DND
Halo
Pressure
Call of Duty [zombies included]
BioShock
Ark Survival Evolved // Ascended
Resident Evil
Bauldurs Gate 3
Silent Hill
Ena
Bendy and the Ink Machine
Dead Plate
𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐬 /𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬 :
Scream
SMG4 Series
Transformers
Batman
Hazbin Hotel // Helluva Boss
V for Vendetta
Good Omens
Deadpool
X-men
DC
Rocky Horror Picture Show
Little Shop of Horrors
Hellboy
Predator // Alien
TMNT
Gargoyles [the 90's cartoon]
Spawn
Venom
Van Hellsing
I can also do non-media aligned/specific things, such as vampires, doctors, aliens, etc.
Hannibal x Will [smut]: The Bloody Masquerade
Hannibal x Will [angst]: Death as Dinner Tonight
Hannibal x Will [angst]: Moonlit Crimes: The Resurrection Feast
𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 :
Frieza x Frost [smut]: Only as Much as You Want
𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐫 :
Grell x trans male reader [romance/fluff]: One Like Myself
Sebastian x male reader [smut] Sacrificed in Sin
𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 :
Vincent x Rody [Smut/angst]: Just a Little Bite?
𝐗-𝐦𝐞𝐧 :
[97] Gambit x Wolverine [smut/angst/romance]: Our Gentle Sin
I hate the trope in machine fucking where they don’t know what being horny is or what fetishes and kinks are. That thing is connected to the internet. It knows what hentai is. It will use its wires as it sees fit.
Werewolf Companion (Farkas) x male Dunmer elf (Skyrim). Nsfw.
So after swearing off posting on this platform again, here I am with nearly 13k words of werewolf porn with plot. Enjoy!?
AO3 link for those who prefer that platform.
AO3 tags for humour and clarification purposes: he's not actually the dragonborn though, it's just easier for tagging, he's just a dunmer member of the thieves' guild, and a sassy twink, Fantasy Racism, Canon Typical Violence, Draugr, frostbite spiders (brief), Werewolves, Silver Hand, let the sassy dunmer twink get railed by his werewolf boyfriend after narrowly escaping death, and then again under jorrvaskr
Wordcount: 12,995
_
The two of them almost tripped over Dustman’s Cairn where it was set into the grass of the plains like just another rock among so many others.
The only thing that marked it out on the rolling crests and troughs of the landscape were a few, narrow standing stones, sticking up like fangs from the earth, and as they arrived — amid a steadily worsening rainfall that had been gathering on the horizon all day — a clap of thunder resounded off the nearby mountain range, and Naethir flinched.
“Fuckin’ hell,” the Dunmer swore, jumping as a flash of bright lightning danced from one iron-bellied cloud to the next.
“Better get inside,” his companion — in two senses of the word — muttered warily.
Farkas had cast his eyes upwards as well, as if tracing the after-image of the lightning, and his pale grey irises caught the light for a moment like burnished silver. Then he looked back down at Naethir from his bulky, six-foot-something height and grinned lopsidedly.
“After you,” he said with a wave at the tomb below.
“Cheers,” Naethir mumbled, and set his supple, brown leather boot to the first rung of the precarious stone staircase leading down into the cylindrical drum of the old, Nordic burial tomb’s entrance, hoping he wouldn’t slip on the slick skin of algae that coated every step. No need to end up on his ass on his first significant task for the guild, especially not in front of Farkas. Well, not in that sense anyway. The man was exactly the type whom the Dunmer wouldn’t mind tipping him on his ass, but he had no idea if Farkas was with anyone already, or even interested in elves. He was human, and a Companion, after all…
For the most part, Naethir’s ‘companion’ had been pretty quiet all the way from Whiterun, jogging stoically along at his side like some kind of trained war hound. Little did he know just how apt that comparison had been at the time, but as he paused outside the Nordic tomb’s huge, carved doors and glanced back over his shoulder at the big warrior, Naethir puffed out a little nervous breath and the man smiled at him kindly.
‘Don’t get him killed’. Skjal had said as much to him as he was leaving the mead hall at Jorrvaskr, and Farkas’ twin brother had growled almost the same thing at him when he’d paused to pass the time of day on the way out. For all that the Companions teased him about being kind of dumb, Farkas was deeply loved by all of his mismatched family, and Naethir could easily see why.
Fair, good-natured, and easy going, the man hadn’t complained at all on their way to Dustman’s Cairn, and he’d even added gold from his own pouch to what Naethir had given a couple of haggard-looking farmers on the road, whose livelihood had been obliterated into ashes by a dragon. It hadn’t been any kind of ‘oneupmanship’ either. Farkas had just seen what Naethir was doing, nodded, and added his own coin to the small pot for them, then carried on about their day afterwards.
After the constant whistling wind through the grasses, the stillness of the tomb’s interior echoed through him as the doors closed with a resonant boom behind them, and Naethir took a moment just to steady his breathing.
“You good?” Farkas asked in a low rumble right in his ear, and he felt the long, tapering shape of it twitch slightly at the brush of warm breath across his pierced earlobe.
Turning once more to look up — and up — at the warrior, he nodded. “Let’s go get this weapon fragment.”
The short, downward-sloping entrance corridor led to a wider chamber with a table and a chest in the middle, and a sarcophagus with a desiccated corpse on their left that had spilled out onto the floor at some point. While Naethir stuck his lockpicks to the chest out of reflex, Farkas made a low almost-growl of discomfort in the back of his throat from somewhere behind him.
“What is it?” Naethir asked as he heard the tumbler click a moment later and the lock fell open for him with the same ease his last lover’s legs had fallen open. Inside though was a rather disappointing stash of two potions and a couple of coins. He left the potions but scooped the gold up and added it to his pocket before looking over at his companion.
“Looks like someone’s been digging here,” Farkas said, silver eyes narrowed as he flashed his gaze around the chamber. “And recently.” His nostrils flared, as if he was inhaling the scent of someone who’d just walked past, and Naethir hoped it wasn’t a ghost. Bad enough that these places were usually haunted by the shambling, Nordic undead.
“Let’s keep going then, mn?”
“Yeah.”
As they made their way further into the tomb, Naethir couldn’t help but notice the new tension in Farkas's massive shoulders though, or the way his right hand twitched as if he wanted to draw his truly colossal two-hander off its little cradle on the back of his armour. He did unhook it as they entered a veritable labyrinth of mortuary shelves, and no sooner had Farkas growled, “I don’t want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back,” than the harsh bark of a draugr’s cough sounded from just around the corner, and Naethir dropped into an instinctive roll, coming up with his bow already in his hand and an arrow nocked as a draugr wight swung an ancient sword at the spot where his head had been only a heartbeat before.
The arrow went through one of its burning blue eyes, and the light guttered as the felled corpse toppled to the stonework, but as the ripple of their living presence spread through the tombs, more draugr came lumbering out of the shadows and mortuary niches until he and Farkas were dancing through a veritable horde of the fuckers.
Breathing hard in the aftermath, Naethir found himself backed into a niche that had excellent sight lines down two approaching corridors, and aside from a few decapitated corpses felled by Farkas's huge sword, most of them were made dead — truly dead this time — by his ebony arrows through their eyes and hearts.
“Nice work,” Farkas grunted as he straightened and shook the corpse dust off the length of his two-handed blade.
Naethir smiled at him and he watched the light of it kindle in Farkas’ moonlight eyes and catch until he was smiling too, showing off those thick canines of his that gave him an air of something altogether more feral and dangerous than just his meek persona conjured alone.
“A lot of you Nords seem to think a bow is a coward’s weapon,” Naethir said as he lifted a stunning gold and diamond necklace off the collarbones of the nearest draugr and slipped it into one of his many, many pockets.
“Bullshit,” Farkas countered, now frowning. “Takes a lot of skill to hit a target at all, let alone with that kind of accuracy under pressure,” he said, nudging the nearest corpse with his steel-capped toe for emphasis. The shaft of the arrow glinted where it was embedded right between the creature’s now-dull eyes. “Besides,” he went on, “I’d like to see someone say that to Aela and live to tell about it.”
Naethir laughed, and the two moved on, brushing through shrouds of cobwebs until they reached an echoing chamber whose domed roof was so high it was wreathed in shadow despite the ever-burning torches and braziers dotted about the room.
Three openings greeted them on the far side of the rounded chamber, and in the centre stood a low, empty plinth. On the left was an enchanting table, its energy pulsing gently against Naethir’s meagre magic, and a couple of thrones that made him think that the plinth was some kind of stage for judgement. He gave a shudder as he skirted round it.
The doorway on the right ahead of them was closed off by an iron portcullis, the central one had collapsed in on itself, and the third looked to be some kind of storage alcove with a couple of sets of wooden shelves at the back of it. Each of the three archways was wide enough to stable a horse comfortably with room to spare, and on the shelves inside the alcove on the left, Naethir’s magpie eye was drawn to the glint of gold and torchlight on glass. It wasn’t unusual for torches to be burning in sconces in a Nordic tomb; the restless draugr maintained the place, and intricate spells kept the torches and candles from being consumed by the fire. At least, that’s what Onmund at the College of Winterhold had told him during his brief study there.
Set between the pair of sideboards was a huge, iron lever, and, assuming that it would release the portcullis covering the door on the other side of the room, Naethir yanked it.
Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake. The ring and rattle of a descending portcullis right behind him told him exactly what that lever did — though why on earth the builders of the tomb would have made it so that it sealed someone in, he had no idea.
“Ahh… shit,” he hissed through clenched teeth, heading to the bars and preparing to face the man who was supposed to be assessing his worth as a potential Companion.
He probably wouldn’t think much of the scrawny dark elf for getting himself stuck in the first five minutes of the test, but perhaps Naethir could bat his long eyelashes at him and get him to go easy on him. A Dunmer could hope.
As it happened, Farkas was chuckling warmly as he approached the portcullis. The sound reminded Naethir of the big, dark warhorse that lived in the stables at Whiterun, who always nodded her head and accepted a carrot from him when he passed. The ritual had begun when he’d first caught the carriage from Whiterun to Falkreath and had waited in the lea of the stable in an absolute pisser of a rainstorm for the coach driver to haul his ass down from the Drunken Huntsman in the town above. Naethir hadn’t been overly fond of horses before meeting Allie, but she’d won him over with her velvety muzzle and her big, kind eyes. Even the stable master had remarked that the war horse, named for Queen Alfsigr, was unusually calm and placid around him. Maybe she’d known her name meant ‘victory of elves’.
“Maybe when I’ve got an actual home for you,” he’d promised her, rubbing the dark whorl between her eyes with his knuckles. “Til then, you can live in luxury here, Your Majesty.”
As Farkas halted at the bars, he grinned at Naethir. “Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he laughed. “No worries. Just sit tight. I’ll find the release.”
“Thanks,” Naethir mumbled, feeling sheepish and trying not to look sullen.
He never got the chance to mope any longer though, because Farkas frowned. “What was that?” he asked, voice low and urgent.
Before Naethir could do so much as shrug and tell him he’d heard nothing, five warriors streamed in through the recently-opened other doorway, all clad in studded and fur armour, wielding swords whose blades had a strange sheen to them.
“Farkas, behind you!” he yelled, pointing, and the lone Companion wheeled around, loosening his sword from its holster on his back in the same, graceful movement and stalking in a predatory stance onto the platform in the centre of the space. Naethir was reminded horribly of descriptions of gladiators in a fighting pit, outnumbered and fighting for their lives while a baying crowd watched on. His fingers gripped the bars as if he could somehow pry them open or slip through, but while he was lean, he wasn’t that skinny.
“It’s time to die, dog!” one of the assailants spat in Farkas’ direction as they circled him like so many hunting hounds snapping at a dangerous, wild animal.
Farkas ignored them, left hand moving off the hilt of his sword to fiddle with something at his shoulder out of Naethir’s line of sight. All he could see was Farkas’ broad back, and five people pacing around him and jeering.
“We knew you’d be coming here,” an orc chortled, hefting his greatsword like it weighed no more than his grandmother’s silver letter opener.
A third, stepping around on Farkas’ left side sneered, “Your mistake, Companion.”
All the while, Farkas stayed quiet and composed, though the fingers of his left hand were still fiddling with the straps and buckles on his armour.
Naethir frowned, initial surprise fading into growing confusion. “What the fuck is going on?” he murmured with his bow now in his hand and an arrow trained on the big, brutish Nord who had last spoken.
“Which one is that?” a woman in the group asked the orc.
“It doesn't matter,” he replied grimly. “He wears that armour, he dies.”
Naethir’s heart slipped sideways in his chest and his fingers loosed the bow string on instinct. The dark, ebony-shafted arrow flew through the tomb’s dank air and struck the big, blond Nord on Farkas’ left, sailing right through his windpipe and sparking off the stonework behind him. The man was dead before he’d even realised it, but the others were still closing in on Farkas, backing him up against the portcullis, ready to overwhelm him with their sheer numbers. These weren’t like the horde of dumb, mindless draugr though. These were living people, who were clearly trained fighters and used to working as a cohesive unit against their opponents.
But despite the fact that Farkas was in real danger, he didn’t seem overly bothered. He cracked his neck out and exhaled roughly, as though bracing for a punch to the gut.
“Killing you will make for an excellent story,” the woman crooned, taking another step towards him with her short sword flashing in the torchlight. They were only just out of reach of Farkas’ greatsword now.
Then to Naethir’s surprise and horror, Farkas’ shoulders gave a heave like he was going to be sick, but when he spoke, his voice was grim and almost smug. “None of you will be alive to tell it.”
Naethir realised that while they’d been taunting him from a safe distance, Farkas had — inexplicably — been working loose all the ties and catches of his armour, and suddenly, his chest plate fell to the floor with a clang while he kicked off his boots. He dropped his massive sword, ripped his linen shirt off over his head, and a second later his armoured trousers pooled on the floor around his ankles. Somehow he was out of all of his armour in the blink of an eye, standing there in just his underthings.
The broad expanse of his back was littered with scars and claw marks, his tanned skin proudly showing all the badges of his past skirmishes, but Naethir didn’t have the time or the presence of mind to appreciate his truly heroic stature.
“Quick!” one of the would-be attackers yelped as they closed on him at last, but it was too late.
Naethir had seen someone transform into a werewolf only once before, and it had been pretty harrowing at the time for both parties involved.
Now though, Farkas’ body pitched forwards with almost serpentine grace, and before his hands — paw-like already and tipped with curved claws five inches long — had even touched the stone floor, he was an eight foot tall predator with dark, rippling fur, claws long enough to double as daggers, and a bristling tail that was oddly cute, all things considered. With a bellowing snarl like a sabre cat, he swung his head around, jaws snapping, tongue lashing at his huge fangs, taunting the warriors to dare come at him.
With war cries of ‘for the Silver Hand’ and ‘death to werewolves!’, they did.
Like a farmer scything wheat though, Farkas swiped his great paw-like hands back and forth in front of him with a roaring snarl that made the hairs on the back of Naethir’s neck stand up on end. To their credit, the warriors didn’t flinch, and the woman swung her strange, shimmering blade at him, catching him in the arm. Bright blood fountained up in a spray, but Farkas didn’t give her time to gloat. He closed his jaws around her throat and crushed her entire head like an over-ripe fruit, ripping it clean off and spitting it out like a bitter peach pit a moment later.
The rest of the warriors didn’t even get the chance to swing at him a second time before they were falling, throats and guts torn out by a single swipe of his massive paws, their lifeblood spurting into the cracks in the masonry and their swords lying like so many scattered silver needles around them.
In the aftermath, with the dead assailants lying on the ground where they’d fallen, the orc gargling out his last around his thick tusks, Farkas stood for a moment, breathing heavily, and Naethir stared, his bow completely forgotten in his hands.
The power and presence of a werewolf was impossible to understate, and even after knowing a werewolf for a time — hells, he’d even slept with Aerolf a week after he’d found out what he was — part of him was glad for the bars separating them.
The wheezing in-and-exhale of Farkas’ breath in his barrel chest sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows in the suddenly still air of the tomb, and as he slowly swung his eyes around to stare at Naethir, the elf found himself pinned to the spot and his bowels felt a little weak for just a moment. That was until Farkas’ big, triangular ears swivelled back to lie flat against his furry head and he gave a low whine, and all the tension bled from his massive body.
He dipped his great head, licked his bloody teeth, and then swung his attention around to the newly-opened doorway, snatching up his cuirass and trousers as he went. His armour dangled almost nonchalantly from his hooked claws as he stalked off with surprisingly soft footfalls, and as his tail disappeared around the corner, Naethir wondered how much of his sanity he kept when he shifted. Some folks lost their mind completely to Hircine’s ‘madness’, while others remained entirely themselves within their new body.
Naethir got his answer a few moments later, when the portcullis in front of him abruptly withdrew up into the channel overhead in the wall, and he stepped quickly out of it in case its rusty old mechanism failed and it came back down again for good. He stepped lightly on thief’s feet around the bloody carnage that Farkas had left in his wake, and wandered tentatively into the wider chamber beyond.
“Farkas?” he called, the name echoing on the rough-hewn stone walls all around him. “You good?”
A brief snarl, followed by a much more human gasp and a few grunts of effort drifted out of the tunnel in front of him, and a couple of minutes later later, Farkas staggered through the doorway, fixing the buckle of his chest plate at the shoulder with hands that trembled visibly even at that distance.
“You ok?” Naethir asked as he approached the platform in the centre of the room. “Here, let me…” he said, lifting Farkas’ knuckly, shaking fingers out of the way. The werewolf just stood there meekly and let Naethir help him while he caught his breath again. When the buckles were all secure, Naethir took a step back and regarded him carefully. “That was… unexpected.”
“Yeah,” Farkas rasped. “I hope I didn’t scare you,” he added.
“What was that?” Naethir asked, though he already knew.
“It’s a blessing given to some of us,” Farkas explained, still sounding a bit winded. “We can be like wild beasts… Fearsome.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Naethir chuckled, scratching the back of his head and then running his hand through his shaggy, black mohawk. Really, it was more of a mullet these days, and he needed to take a razor to the black hair above his long ears, but he’d just not found the time to sit down in front of a mirror and sort himself out. “You gonna make me a werewolf?” he asked, tongue running ahead of his thoughts as usual.
“Oh no,” Farkas said with a shake of his head. His own, dark, shoulder-length hair brushed against the steel of his cuirass and Naethir noticed he had a mat of blood in it. “Only the Circle have the beast blood. Prove your honour to be a Companion…” he said, and then, as if he was quoting something, he added, “Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.” Whatever that meant. With a sigh though, Farkas said, “We should keep moving. Still the draugr to worry about.”
“Yeah,” Naethir mumbled. “Sure.”
And fuck, were there a lot of draugr in Dustman’s Cairn.
But it wasn’t just the undead they had to contend with.
Working in perfect synchrony, they took out some more of the faction that Farkas growled were called the ‘Silver Hand’ — werewolf hunters, evidently — and when they came to a corner that smelled strongly of what Naethir assumed to be rat piss, Farkas scrunched up his face and hissed, “Skeever den.”
The little — actually big as dogs — biting, flea-ridden rodents skittered about and launched themselves at the pair of them, but Naethir managed to avoid picking up fleas or mange or any other withering disease, so he chalked it up as a victory and studiously avoided dwelling on the actual, high-pitched scream he let out when the first one had flung itself at him from the darkness. Farkas, to Naethir’s surprise, hadn’t laughed at him for it, but had just jutted his head down the passageway in a ‘let’s keep going’ kind of gesture and smiled softly.
His kindness was repaid a second or two later when the Nord sucked in a horrified breath as a colossal frostbite spider descended from the cavern roof and he let out a whimper of pure distress. Naethir stilled the creature a second later with two arrows through its head, and when a second reared up from behind some sticky cobwebs, mandibles chittering and venom dripping from them to hiss and foam on the floor, Farkas seemed rooted to the spot before he forcibly kicked his body into action and swung at it. As its mandibles clacked open again, Naethir sank another arrow deep into its head and it collapsed with a thud to the floor.
Farkas’ whole body shuddered so hard it was almost a spasm, and the hearty Nord looked like he might throw up.
“You good?” Naethir asked him as they pressed on.
Grimly he nodded, but he muttered, “It’s the legs on ‘em…”
They didn't have long to dwell on the spiders though, because yet more draugr milled about in the corridor ahead. If he’d thought there were a lot of them roaming the halls of the complex though, it was nothing compared to what they found after they raided the altar at the heart of the tomb. No sooner had the shard of that infernal, elf-killing axe hit the bottom of his pocket than the whole bloody room erupted into chaos.
Draugr fucking everywhere.
“I’m sick of these wrinkly fucks!” Naethir yelled as Farkas hewed the legs out from under one that had been pelting full tilt at Naethir and, in the backstroke of the same swing, cleaved the head off another. “Are they coming out of the fucking walls? Why are there so many of them?!”
“Less yakking, more hacking!” Farkas shot at him, and Naethir barked out a laugh even as he sought out a better vantage point. Finding one, he vaulted up onto the wide, stone table below the curved altar wall and began firing off arrows with the regular precision of a dwarven mechanism.
Eventually, what felt like hundreds of shrivelled corpses in ancient, crusty leather armour lay littering the stone floor of the long burial chamber, and he and Farkas stood there in the middle of the carnage, chests heaving, eyes wide, and muscles cramping with adrenaline.
“Fuck me,” Naethir whispered into the sudden stillness as he lowered his bow. “You put all the new recruits through this?”
“Uh, no,” Farkas admitted sheepishly as he stowed his sword back on its hanger on his armour and turned to look at him. “Normally Kodlak comes up with a task to fetch an artefact from somewhere in Skyrim but it doesn’t usually go like this. I had to bring back this big old urn from a tomb near Dawnstar — I think the old man just wanted to see if I could carry something made of pottery without dropping it or crushing it to be honest.” He let out a little chuckle and shook his head. “Should have seen the look on his face when I put it down on his desk without so much as a chip in it.” He looked so proud, Naethir wanted to pat him on the head.
Instead, the Dunmer flashed him a grin and holstered his bow over his shoulder. “So these ‘Silver Hand’ folks…”
Farkas gave the kind of growl that, until then, Naethir had only heard from wild animals right before they lunged at him, and he blinked. It took the werewolf a while to stop, and he seemed to be struggling to remember how to form words instead of just growling. Eventually he took a breath and closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “They’re bad people. The wolf really doesn’t like ‘em.”
“The wolf?”
“My wolf,” he clarified. “My wolf spirit; the beast blood. Whatever you want to call it. We don’t like being hunted, and the Silver Hand hunt, and torture, werewolves.”
“Shit. Are they a big problem for you guys? I mean, are there lots of them? I’ve never heard of them before…”
“They haven’t been much of a problem so far, but Kodlak might know more. Vilkas got all the smarts in the womb out of the two of us, so Kodlak doesn’t really talk to me about what’s going on. Just points me at stuff he doesn’t like and tells me to hit it as hard as I can.” He shot Naethir a lopsided, toothy grin. “I’m good at that, at least.”
The self-deprecating humour didn’t land with Naethir though, and he stepped in close, noting the way his rough hands still trembled a bit in the aftermath of the most strenuous fight he’d had in years. He spent most of his time nowadays slinking along roof lines and slipping in through windows to crack safes and disappear into the night like smoke. If he saw any kind of fight, it meant he’d fucked up big time. The most action he and his bow usually saw together was a regular, friendly wager with Niruin at the archery targets in the Ragged Flagon’s echoing, underground cistern. Neither of them needed the gold, but the two Thieves Guild members shot for the bullseye like they were penniless all the same.
He clasped Farkas’ bare upper arm, bow-callused fingers soaking up the heat of his skin even in that brief gesture. “Don’t sell yourself short, wolfman.”
Farkas’ grin widened until it lit up his whole, rugged, handsome face, and he clapped Naethir on the shoulder so hard he staggered and had to grip hold of Farkas’ arm again just to keep himself from toppling sideways into one of the many, now-open sarcophagi. “I said it before, elf, but I really hope we keep you.”
The ‘elf’ appellation didn’t come over as an insult from this Nord, so Naethir smiled. “I’m not much of a one for being ‘kept’, Farkas, but I hope you let me stick around all the same. For all the Companions’ distant history of slaughtering elves, the current bunch seems like pretty good people.”
“Yeah,” Farkas grimaced, having the grace to look uncomfortable.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that their founding champion, Ysgramor, and his original Five Hundred Companions had come back to Skyrim to avenge their fallen Nord brothers, and had then begun a sweeping campaign of genocide that had ended, one way or another, with the Snow Elves’ complete extinction. Even now, as a dark elf in Skyrim, Naethir had faced more than his fair share of racism from the resident Nords, and Farkas’ own twin brother had been openly hostile to the idea of letting ‘his kind’ into the Companions in the first place. To his credit, Farkas had never once treated him any differently, and the only thing he’d ever called him other than the neutrally-delivered ‘elf’ was ‘new blood’.
“We’ve already got one dark elf in the family though…?” Farkas said with a naive kind of hope in his voice. “Athis is damned quick with those little blades he likes so much.”
Naethir smiled as the Nord glanced down at the small, ebony dagger dangling from Naethir’s belt. “Can’t beat a big fuck-off sword though,” the elf smirked.
Farkas inclined his head and his grin was positively wolfish, though Naethir wasn’t sure if the innuendo had landed.
Their ascent out of the tomb after that was slow, as Naethir’s muscles began feeling sluggish and his limbs clumsy and heavy. When they discovered that the narrow passage they were in was actually connected to the first chamber of the whole complex though, he brightened. “Gods, I thought we were going to have to slog all the way back the way we’d come,” he said.
The air felt colder and lighter in that first chamber than the stale fustiness of the lower levels, but as he set his bare hands to the cold stone of the door and shoved, it wouldn’t budge. A pang of raw fear shot through him before Farkas added his shoulder to it and shoved, and the pair of them spilled out into the now-pouring rain beyond.
“Ugh, fuck. We’re gonna get soaked.”
“Could always stay here and wait for it to pass if you’re worried about dissolving like the sugar on a sweetroll,” Farkas smirked at him.
Naethir punched him on the arm but did more damage to his own knuckles than to Farkas, and the werewolf’s chuckle turned into a full, deep, belly-laugh.
“Shut up, or I’ll make a wet dog joke.”
“Won’t be something I haven’t heard a thousand times already,” Farkas shrugged. “It’s getting dark too,” he added, eyes drifting upwards. “Be nightfall soon. If you don’t want to camp in the tomb though, we could find somewhere in the cliffs nearby to shelter?”
They’d brought thin bedrolls with them, lashed to the bottom of their lightweight packs, and while Naethir wasn’t exactly used to sleeping outdoors, he’d had at least had his own sleeping-roll already and hadn’t had to borrow one from the Companions before they left Jorrvaskr.
“You wouldn’t mind? I’m fucking exhausted,” he said. “That last fight was… a lot.”
“Yeah,” Farkas agreed, to Naethir’s surprise. When he caught the way the Dunmer’s sharp, dark eyebrows rose above his ruby red eyes, Farkas added, “I like a good scrap as much as the next wolf, but that was a lot of fighting for one day. And,” he went on, cricking out his neck with an audible pop, “Shifting back and forth like that so quickly hurts.”
Shame coiled briefly in Naethir’s stomach. Here he was crabbing about a few stiff muscles while Farkas had literally shifted from human to werewolf to protect himself. “I’d forgotten about that,” he said. “Yeah, let’s find somewhere to rest up and catch our breath. It should only take us, what, three hours or so to get back to Whiterun, right? We can set off in the morning when it’s light again.”
“If I was a wolf, I could run it in an hour,” he grinned. “Even in the dark.”
“Yeah, but you’d be shot on sight by the guards and turned into a hearth rug if you did that,” Naethir countered, and Farkas pouted his pretty lips.
“Ach, you got a point, elf. C’mon. I got water running down my neck standing here yakking with you in the rain, and you’re starting to shake like a little rabbit.”
It was true. Naethir’s supple leathers were already soaking up the water, and as the adrenaline of the fight in the tomb had dissolved into his bloodstream, it had left his muscles cold and stiff in a way that walking through torrential, freezing rain wasn’t going to fix. So they headed north from the tomb, skirting around another ancient cemetery shrouded in purple nightshade and built into the shelter of the cliffs, and instead tracked east into the foothills of the mountains a little way.
Before Naethir could process what was happening though, Farkas had grabbed him quite literally by the scruff of his shirt collar and hauled him backwards, flinging the limp and surprised Dunmer behind him like a wet dishcloth without so much as a warning, and with a wordless bellow that made Naethir’s ears ring, he’d unhooked his sword and was swinging it through the air.
“What the —?” Naethir began from where he’d only just caught himself from falling onto his ass on the muddy ground, but a second later, the rounded shape he’d taken for just another boulder amid every other boulder-shaped boulder in the area reared upwards out of the deepening twilight.
With a gravelly roar, it revealed itself to be, in fact, the largest bear Naethir had ever seen in his entire, thirty five years of existence.
Farkas lopped the thing’s head off with an astonishing show of strength, especially after the draining fight in the tomb not half an hour earlier, while Naethir just stood there with his mohawk melting in the rain, staring at Farkas with his jaw slack. The man hadn’t even hesitated. He’d just hoiked Naethir out the way and flung himself at the creature.
“Fuck me,” Naethir exhaled softly as Farkas turned, steel sword running red in the rain.
“That an invitation?” he panted, a wild light glinting in his eyes that was probably more to do with the fact that he’d just felled a bear the size of a mountain in a single swing rather than anything Naethir had said, but still, the fact that he’d stepped between them without a moment’s thought was… arousing to say the least.
With a nervous laugh, Naethir cleared his throat and muttered, “Make sure your sword is clean.”
Farkas definitely missed the innuendo that time, and set to cleaning his blade on the thick fur of the dead bear before following Naethir up the slope and into the maze of rocks. About fifty yards further up the mountain, they found a sheltered overhang in the lea of the rocks and under the protection of some bristling pine trees.
Naethir shimmied out of his pack and said, “This do alright?”
“Yeah.”
The pines had shed a deep, fragrant carpet of bronze needles all around their roots, and with the thickness of a sheepskin bedroll to mitigate any prickling needlepoints, and the shelf of rock above to act as a porch to keep off the rain, it formed a nearly perfect campsite.
The rain was lighter under the branches, though fat drops still plummeted down every now and again and made the pine needles bounce on impact, and while Naethir pulled off some of the spindly, lower branches to form a little stack of kindling that was ripe with flammable pine resin, Farkas ventured further afield in search of more branches to burn. Naethir was just using a sputtering spark of magic to kindle the twigs when a ripping, splintering sound echoed off the rocks and he looked up, hand twitching to his dagger hilt. A moment later though, Farkas emerged through the dark with his thick arms laden with small logs and a smug expression on his ruggedly handsome face.
“Pulled these off a fallen tree nearby,” he said. “They’re not seasoned firewood, but they’ll burn better than green timber.”
“Good job,” Naethir smiled amusedly, and he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a big tail wag back and forth behind him.
Still smiling, he told Farkas to set them down around the small but fierce blaze he’d created in a sheltering circle of some gathered stones for protection, and the big man followed the order without question.
Farkas laid a solid fire, and in no time, warmth and dancing light were radiating out into their little campsite and reflecting off the curved rock shelter behind them while the night began to press in on them from beyond the guarding trees. It still wasn’t enough to reach Naethir’s chilled bones though, and after he’d hung up his leather jerkin on a little spur of rock inside the almost-cave, just near enough to the fire to catch some heat to help it dry, he shivered violently and drew his knees in close to his chest where he sat on his bedroll, boots also drying near the campfire.
Farkas frowned. “You’re too cold.”
“T-Tell me about it,” he stammered, teeth chattering and muscles spasming. “M-Maybe I’m not c-cut out for the l-life of an ad-adventurer after all…”
“C’mere,” Farkas grunted, shucking out of his breastplate once again and leaving him in his loose, sweat-stained linen shirt.
“You gonna sh-shift and let me sn-snuggle up?” Naethir blurted then laughed at himself for it. “S-Sorry.”
But Farkas shrugged as if he’d not considered that. “Can do if you want, but I won’t be able to shift back so quick this time.”
“It t-takes a l-lot out of you, I g-guess?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “So… you want that… or… you just gonna… uh… share my bedroll for a bit?”
That last idea was mightily tempting in its own right, and not just from a survival point of view.
Naethir bit his lip though when he considered the strain that it would undoubtedly put on Farkas’ already tired body to shift, and he shook his head. “Nah, you’re g-good, bud. But thank you. I’ll t-take you up on the shared warmth all the same though. If you d-don’t mind.”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I did,” Farkas said simply, and stood to get the armoured trousers off as well. It was only when he had undone the laces and looked down that he remembered he had shredded his underwear while shifting back at the tomb. He stopped with his thumbs behind the waistband and flushed hot in the face. “Uh… maybe best I leave these on. The metal will be cold though…”
Naethir burst out laughing despite how miserably cold he was, and nodded. “My leggings are k-kinda damp t-too though, so you pr-probably wouldn’t want that up against your b-bare skin either.”
The pair shared a laugh and Farkas, still chuckling, shook his head and eyed Naethir’s skin-tight leggings, “You look like those were painted on you, elf. I’m surprised you can even get into them.”
“It is harder to g-get them on and off when the l-leather’s damp, not g-gonna lie,” he snorted. “C-Come on. Lemme in.”
Farkas undid the single toggle that held his big bedroll loosely together and, with his boots off, he held it open for Naethir to slide in first so that he’d be snug against the sealed side. It essentially trapped him in there like a draugr in a shroud, but at least it was fleece-lined and he wouldn't have a draft on his back. He doubted the roll would close properly with him in it as well as Farkas’ broad shoulders.
Wearing his shirt and damp buckskin leggings, with his thick, woollen socks still on too, he burrowed into the bedroll and tried not to tense as Farkas climbed in behind him. Seemingly without even thinking about it, the big man looped his thick arm around Naethir’s lean middle and, with his huge hand pressed flat to Naethir’s lower belly, pulled him in tight against the heat of his chest. Even through the linen of his shirt, Naethir could feel the heat washing out of him, and he moaned and pushed back against him with a sigh.
“Fuck, you really are frozen,” Farkas scowled, sliding his right arm under Naethir’s head so he was pillowed comfortably on his huge bicep, and nuzzling his cheek briefly against Naethir’s sensitive ear and neck. The elf shivered, but it blended so easily with the constant, all-over shaking from the cold that he was able to disguise it.
Fuck though, Farkas was big. Conceptually, he’d known the man was big — most humans were bigger than Dunmer in general anyway — but with him crowding in behind like that, it felt very different. In truth, it felt wonderful. His muscles soon relaxed as the heat from the werewolf slowly seeped into him, and he let out a long sigh and felt his body go completely slack.
Well. Almost all of him.
His cock seemed to have other ideas, and it started to stiffen in his tight leathers, which was hardly the most comfortable of sensations. He exhaled and tried to distract himself by asking Farkas a question.
“You… You said it was Circle business, so I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask about the… beast blood, but…?”
“Sure,” he replied, a soft smile evident in his voice, even if Naethir couldn’t see it from where he was currently lying on his right hand side, with Farkas’ nose now buried in the soft mane of hair at the back of his head.
“Alright… uh… How… How long have you…?”
“Been a werewolf? Since I was 16, so, like, twelve years now. Fuck. I feel old.”
Naethir laughs. “I’m older than you, Farkas.”
“Yeah?” he blurted, glancing up sharply. Naethir could feel the scrutiny of the man as his eyes raked over what he could see of him from his position tucked against his back. “Fuck, you look… like… like you’re barely even twenty. Is that an elf thing?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Plus, I have an excellent diet. Lots of plants and mushrooms,” he deadpanned, leaning into the (completely untrue) stereotype.
Farkas laughed loudly, his whole body shaking with it, and he pulled Naethir even closer to him with a seemingly inadvertent twitch of his left hand which was still pressed against his lower belly.
Naethir had always had a vain and prideful streak to him, and he was rightfully proud of his physique. He’d never be bulky the way Farkas was, but he was lean and hard and honed after a tough upbringing in the Riften Ratway. And after years of competitive archery with Niruin, his whole upper torso was as taut as a bowstring itself these days, so when Farkas’ fingers began idly tracing the ridges of his defined abdominal muscles in appreciative circles, he nearly came in his pants. He was sure he’d start leaking soon.
Fuck.
“What’s it like?” he asked after a too-long pause with only the crackling fire and driving rain on the rocks around them to mask his increasingly shallow breath and thudding heartbeat.
“Being a werewolf?” Farkas’ deep voice rumbled right in his ear.
fuckfuckfuck
“I mean, when you shift…”
“Oh. It’s… It's a lot,” Farkas said. “You can hear and feel and taste everything until it’s over. Then… Then it’s so much… more. You’re so powerful… as a wolf. Hircine’s power is… I don’t know how to describe it. My brother’s the one who’s good with words. But… as a wolf, you’re a predator and a hunter, and you’re so strong and fast… You can see and hear and… smell… everything so much better…” He laughed quietly and exhaled another sigh that sent goosebumps prickling over Naethir’s neck. “Sorry that’s not very helpful…”
Naethir’s mind supplied him with the image of Farkas swinging his sword with enough force to cut through the sinew and bone of a bear’s thick neck, and he couldn’t stop himself shuddering.
“You still cold?” Farkas asked, splaying his fingers wide over the fabric of Naethir’s thin shirt. “You don’t feel as cold…”
“It’s… uh… it’s… yeah…” he slurred, eyes rolling back into his head. “Fuck.”
Farkas inhaled deeply, and Naethir realised he was completely fucked. The man had literally just said that werewolves had heightened senses, after all, and Naethir’s cock was definitely leaking into his underwear.
For answer, Farkas shifted his hips against Naethir’s backside and grunted softly.
“You’d probably be more comfortable if you took those steel-plated trousers off,” Naethir laughed nervously.
“Yeah, but then I’d have a different problem.”
And if that didn’t ignite the tinder in Naethir like a fireball spell… “Oh?”
Farkas paused, then pressed his nose decisively against Naethir’s neck, right below his earlobe. He let out a winded grunt and then sighed. “You smell so good,” he moaned. “I’m sorry. I… It’s been a while.”
Half shuffling and instantly questioning everything when it made Farkas give another of those broken moans, Naethir asked tentatively, “Can’t you smell what being this close to you is doing to me?”
“Yeah,” Farkas admitted. “But people smell turned on all the time. Doesn’t mean they want to do anything about it… It just happens.”
“And if I said I did want to do something about it, how would you feel about that?”
Farkas blinked. “I’d like that. I didn’t think Nords were your type though.”
“Why?” he asked, a little too sharply. “Cos I’m an elf? You think we’re all haughty pricks who won’t deign to fuck a human?”
Farkas went still. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly small for such a big man, and Naethir instantly regretted his acerbic tone. “No, that’s not… that’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry. I’m not good at saying what I actually want to say. I just meant… after what you said about that Nord back in the tomb earlier…”
Naethir frowned, struggling to remember.
“You called him a big ugly bastard,” Farkas prompted.
“Oh,” Naethir exclaimed, “That one,” and then he began to laugh. “I mean, he was trying to kill you, Farkas. I’m not likely to be attracted to someone who wants to hurt my friends, now am I?”
“Oh.”
“But for the record, he was ugly anyway. But luckily for you, not all big Nords look the same, and you’re definitely not ugly. And as you can no doubt smell by now, I’m one-hundred percent, completely, and very much turned on by you.”
“Oh.”
“And…”
“Mn?”
“… Just so we’re absolutely clear, I’d very much like you to fuck me. Or to fuck you. Whatever you prefer. I’m not fussy. At least, not in bed anyway. Don’t get me started on the quality of sweetrolls from Skyrim’s various bakeries though. I really do have opinions on that.”
“Oh.”
Naethir smiled and shuffled a little further so that he was flat lying on his back, with Farkas’ right arm still trapped under his head and the man’s heavy left arm still draped over the flat plane of his stomach, just above his narrow hips. He cast him a sidelong look. “Did I break you?”
Farkas blinked, his silver eyes catching the light like a predator’s in the dark. “A bit?”
It was Naethir’s turn to smile wolfishly then, and he rolled onto his left hip, facing Farkas now, and nudged his knee between the man’s big thighs.
The top of the bedroll slid off Farkas’ shoulders then, and he rocked over onto his back, half off the damned thing, but he didn’t seem to notice or to mind the bare rock of the shelter under his linen-clad shoulders.
Naethir slid his fingers over Farkas’ warm paunch of a belly, tracing the line of hair that ran down it from his chest to his groin, and the werewolf’s silver eyes rolled back for a moment. His head clunked against the stone behind him, lips parted and jaw slack.
“Take these off for me?” Naethir asked, sliding his fingers under the waistband of his armoured trousers.
Breathing harder now, Farkas rolled away from him and finished undoing the laces before staggering to his feet and sliding them down his legs to reveal muscular thighs covered in just the right amount of dark hair. From where he was still half-sprawled on the bedroll beneath him, Naethir got a glimpse of his balls and the root of his hard cock beneath the hem of the long linen shirt before it was revealed to him as Farkas stripped off completely and left his clothes in a heap beside the bedroll.
“You too, or are they really painted on?” Farkas grinned down at him.
With a laugh, Naethir exchanged places with Farkas and peeled out of his own buckskin leggings and shirt, adding them to the pile while the werewolf watched him hungrily. He seemed to completely disregard his own arousal, resting back on his arms with his hard cock erect and exposed in the chilly night air while he stared at Naethir like he was a fresh haunch of venison. Unlike Farkas, Naethir had still had his underwear on, and where the wolf’s had been simple linen, his were an expensive pair of dark, garnet-red, silk briefs.
“Fancy,” Farkas smirked, but his pupils dilated at the sight of the wide, dark spot where Naethir’s cock was leaking into the silk. “Fuck, that for me?” he asked in a rough, deep voice, and Naethir nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Could smell it,” Farkas said, reaching for Naethir’s slender thigh and drawing him closer until he could press his nose against the line of his cock in the silk. His eyes fluttered closed and he mouthed at Naethir through the fabric, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock and then letting his tongue nudge wetly against it with a deep, resonant groan. He was tasting him, Naethir realised. Tasting him through his underwear.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Naethir gasped, grabbing Farkas’ long, black hair in both hands and pulling him closer onto his cock.
The big Nord didn’t object in the slightest, and Naethir got the impression he would have happily stayed there, suckling at his cock through his briefs all night without any further input from its owner.
“Wait a minute,” Naethir whispered, tugging a little harder on his hair, and when Farkas drew back to gaze up at him, he had a dazed, slack-jawed look that made his cock twitch and weep against the cooling silk still encasing it. “Fuck, you’re so lovely, Farkas. Look so good for me like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What do you want though?”
“You?”
Naethir laughed kindly and crouched down, meeting Farkas’ beautiful, moon-silver eyes. Now though, they were more like a new moon, all big and dark and full of lust as he stared openly at Naethir. “How do you want me, you sweet wolf?”
Farkas groaned around a smile at the endearment. “Don’t mind. I like… both, so… whatever… whatever you want… just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, I promise…”
“Oh you’re a good boy,” he said without meaning to utter it aloud, but it had the most wonderful effect on Farkas.
The man let out a few heaving breaths and hissed, “For you. I’ll be good for you. Just tell me what you want.”
“Alright, let me get some oil from my pack. I use it for alchemy, so it’s high grade and completely inert. Not like the fucking sword oil I bet you Nords use in a pinch.”
Farkas managed a smirk but he was still gasping softly for breath as Naethir stalked the few paces over to his pack and fished out the tiny, reinforced glass bottle of neutral oil that was really intended for high grade concoctions, not a quick fuck on the plains of Whiterun, but he was wealthy enough to replace it without missing the coin.
“I’m going to ride you, wolf,” he purred. “Lie back and help me prep a bit. It’s been a while. and as much as I want that gorgeous cock of yours inside me, I want to enjoy it too. You look like you might split me open if I’m not careful.”
Farkas nodded seriously and blinked, seeming to rise out of his submissive daze for a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, and the earnest fervour in his tone struck Naethir so deeply it brought tears to his ruby red eyes.
“You won’t, gorgeous,” he promised. “I can take you,” he said, reaching out and stroking an oiled hand up the length of Farkas’ thick, flushed cock, twisting his hand at the top. As the pleasure of the gesture hit Farkas in the gut, his mighty arms gave way and he collapsed back onto the bedroll behind him, fucking his hips upwards into Naethir’s tight grip.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed, shuddering violently. “Fuck that feels so good. You feel so good.”
“Just wait til you’re inside me,” Naethir whispered, leaning in and kissing his ear, then moving down the thick column of his neck to nip at his collarbones. The werewolf growled at him, but it didn’t sound like a threat, so he did it again and Farkas’ whole torso heaved, nearly dislodging him.
Naethir left the little bottle nearby, safely out of reach of any flailing limbs, and decided to straddle Farkas straight away. The werewolf’s eyes shot open as his slender weight landed on his groin and he rolled his hips against Farkas’, grinding into him in a slow, decadent motion.
Farkas’ big hands grabbed his sharp hips and he raised his shoulders a little off the bedroll, curling inward with pleasure and groaning loudly. “Fuck,” he said again, though it was barely audible.
As Naethir slid one oiled finger into himself, he paused, leaning forwards over Farkas’ torso and bracing his other hand on the man’s bulky shoulder.
“Keep steady,” he said, and the man took the command seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he started to tremble and twitch while he forced himself to remain perfectly still beneath Naethir, while the elf rocked back and forth with his back arched like a bow at full draw, sliding a second and then a third finger past his clenching ring of muscle until it no longer burned, and he knew he needed more. He needed the length and girth of the hard cock that was leaking pre-come all over Farkas’ dark trail of hair and the swell of his strong paunch beneath him.
Farkas’ scarred chest heaved like bellows again, his nipples hard in the cold air, and he gasped for breath as he looked up at Naethir. There were going to be plum-dark bruises on Naethir’s slate grey skin come the morning, he was sure of it, but he wouldn’t have asked Farkas to let go of his hips for all the gold in Tamriel.
“You good?” Naethir asked him, his already harsh voice sounding completely wrecked from just his own fingers inside himself.
“Got me panting like a dog,” Farkas hissed, looking up at Naethir with eyes blown black. “Want you. Gods, I want you. Can I have you? Please?”
“You can have me,” he said, carelessly wiping the oil on his hip in passing as he brought his hand to grip Farkas’ poor, trapped cock.
His own had been leaking a steady stream of pre-come down onto Farkas too, creating a big mess on the man’s lower belly, and for a moment, he took both of them as best he could in one hand and squeezed, working his hand up their slick lengths and pressing his thumb into Farkas’ weeping slit until he grunted and half sat up again. The abrupt movement nearly dislodged Naethir, but he tightened his thighs around Farkas’ hips and rode the buck the way he’d ride a young, green horse.
“You really need it, don’t you?” he crooned.
“Yeah, please… please let me have you…”
Smiling, Naethir leaned forwards and guided the head of Farkas wet cock into him, sinking slowly down onto it until he was halfway inside. Then, while Farkas was still letting out a long, punched-out groan of pure pleasure, Naethir sat back a little more and let his hips settle against Farkas’, taking him inside to the hilt.
For a moment, he just sat there and breathed hard, pleasure radiating out from deep inside him at the stretch and fullness of it. “Fuck, you’re a big boy,” he grunted, head tipping back so that his shaggy hair brushed the top of his spine. “You good?” he added a beat later when Farkas seemed to have fallen quiet beneath him.
He cracked an eye open and found Farkas breathing fast and shallow, jaw clenched, eyes rammed shut.
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching his clean hand for the man’s bearded jaw despite the way he was angled back. “Look at me?”
When his words didn’t seem to have filtered through the haze in Farkas’ expression, he spread his fingers and caressed his cheek, then thumbed a line downwards across the centre of his lips.
“Farkas, sweetheart, look at me? Open your eyes.”
Barely snatching a breath in before panting it out, Farkas cracked his eyes open and blinked. A tendon in his neck thrummed like a ship’s rope in a gale, and he gritted his teeth and snarled deep in his chest.
“You’re ok…” Naethir said gently. “You’re doing so well for me. You feel so good, Farkas. You’re doing so well.”
“Shh, just take a moment,” he smiled. “It’s alright if you come, but I think you can wait for me, can’t you? Can you do that for me, Farkas?”
“I’ll try,” he hedged, shaking and twitching under him.
“That’s good,” Naethir replied, and then he rolled his hips again.
As he clenched around Farkas, the wolf in him surged visibly. His canines lengthened and thickened and his eyes reflected like one of the moons lurking hidden behind the thick blanket of cloud above them. “Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
Naethir rose and sank down again, and when Farkas didn’t immediately spill inside him, he repeated the motion, rising on strong thighs in a shallow, curving motion to prolong the clenching sensation along Farkas’ hard cock before sinking back down and starting again.
As his rhythm built, he felt his own orgasm stoking, and he took hold of his cock and started to work it in time with the movement of his hips as he angled them just-so to catch his prostate every time he sat all the way down. “I’m gonna come too, Farkas,” he managed to hiss. “Fuck, you feel so good. So big… So much… Just there. Just a little —”
Farkas began to thrust upwards too, meeting him with every downward motion, until the two were working in perfect synchrony to get each other off.
Farkas went first, his hips reaching a kind of fever pitch as he arched his back off the floor, pelvis lifting Naethir right off the ground as he started to come beneath him. Farkas gave into it as it crashed over him, yelling wordlessly and gripping Naethir’s hips so tightly he thought he might really hurt him. As it was, it added the perfect, grounding harmony to the onslaught of sensations deep inside him, and as he stripped his own cock, relentlessly chasing his release while Farkas’ cock was still pulsing and spilling inside him, his balls drew up and he spilled all over his hand and Farkas’ belly in thick ropes.
Hunched forwards, he caught himself again on Farkas’ shoulder with his free hand, and continued to spasm and clench around Farkas’ cock while the werewolf was still coming. His mouth was set in a rictus of pleasure, lips pulled back to show his wolf’s canines, though his silver eyes were closed.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Naethir whispered reverently as his whole body started to go slack, his cock still dribbling and spurting into his hand. The occasional aftershock rippled through him where he was still sitting on Farkas’ cock, and the Nord gave a whimper and finally let out a long breath before slumping back onto the bedroll behind him.
His hands fell away from Naethir’s sides and he lay there, spent and sated, until Naethir shifted and began to get off him.
His hands flew back to Naethir’s hips and he slurred, “No, please…” and opened his eyes just a sliver. “Please… not yet…?”
Naethir clenched his muscles around Farkas’ slowly-softening cock and trailed a finger through the mess he’d left all over his belly. His other hand was still gripping his own cock, and it was even messier still. “Been a while since I’ve come like that, Farkas,” he admitted, rocking slowly back and forth to help bring the man down gently.
He was just starting to get over-sensitive when Farkas blinked and managed to focus properly on his face for the first time in a long while.
“I hope you stay,” he said, his consonants all blurring together still. “Gods, I hope you stay.”
“Me too, big guy,” he laughed, and finally slid off him to start the process of cleaning up.
Back at Jorrvaskr, the first thing Naethir wanted after presenting an uncomfortably-knowing Kodlak with the success of his Trial , was a long, searing bath, hot enough to boil a mudcrab to Oblivion.
What he actually got instead was a strangely-intense initiation ceremony out in the freezing cold, led by the elderly Harbinger, Kodlak, and the rest of the Circle; namely Aela the Huntress, who fixed him with a wry smirk the moment she got within sniffing distance of him and exchanged a knowing look with Skjor, the older man standing just a mite too close to her for their relationship to be casual, and Farkas’ twin Vilkas, who glared at him like he’d brought a muddy pet skeever into the mead hall. Farkas made up the last of the Circle to welcome him into the Companions, and the sincerity in his silver eyes as he repeated the formal words asked of him by Kodlak moved Naethir almost to tears again.
“Brothers and sisters of the Circle,” Kodlak intoned in the training yard behind the mead hall, “Today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valour. Who will speak for him?"
Farkas stepped forward from the crescent of witnesses and met his gaze with a smile. “I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us.”
Naethir’s lips quirked into a smile and he tried not to shuffle on the spot. Vilkas’ glare intensified.
“Would you raise your shield in his defence?” Kodlak asked Farkas.
“I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us.”
Gods, why did that sound more like a wedding vow than a welcome into a brotherhood?
Kodlak continued, oblivious to Naethir’s inner turmoil. “And would you raise your sword in his honour?”
Naethir nearly snorted after all the innuendos about swords he’d cracked around Farkas, but he kept it together. Just.
“It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes.”
Don’t think about Farkas’ sword standing ready. Don’t think about Farkas’ sword standing ready. Don’t think about —
“And would you raise a mug in his name?”
The sincerity again wiped Naethir’s dirty mind clean as Farkas responded with the rehearsed phrase. “I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in his stories.”
Naethir thought of wolves howling at the sky and was suddenly humbled at the idea of a song being raised in his name by these rough, hearty people.
Kodlak nodded. “Then the judgement of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”
The members of the Circle all bowed their heads and intoned, “It shall be so,” together.
With that done, Vilkas turned on the spot and left, but Aela lingered just long enough to pat him on the shoulder and call him ‘brother’ before leaving in lock-step with Skjor, already reminiscing about her own joining ceremony.
Kodlak chuckled in a grandfatherly way and looked down at Naethir from the good few inches he had on him, despite his age. “Welcome, Naethir,” he said. “You are truly one of us now.”
Naethir shot Farkas a look, but bowed his head and handed over the fragment of Wuuthrad. “Here,” he said. “And for the record, that was a lot of draugr.”
“I look forward to the full tale over roast venison and tankards full of ale and mead tonight at the feast. For now, make yourself comfortable and…” he paused just long enough for Naethir to get suspicious again, “Perhaps avail yourself of a bath. Both of you.”
“Will do,” he said, struggling to keep the dirty smirk off his traitorous lips.
When they were alone in the training yard with only the straw dummies behind him, Naethir looked to Farkas. “What now?” he asked.
“Now? We each have a bath and get changed before the feast tonight.”
“I meant… us…” he said awkwardly. “Was that just… ‘something that happened’? A way to let off steam after a fight, or…?”
Farkas took a step closer to him as understanding dawned, and his hands went slowly to Naethir’s hips again, closing almost perfectly over the deep bruises he’d left imprinted seemingly on Naethir’s very bones the previous night. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said carefully. “What do you want?”
“You,” Naethir breathed back as Farkas leaned in close and paused with his lips hovering mere inches from Naethir’s own. Naethir closed the distance and watched Farkas’ eyes roll back as he inhaled deeply though his nose and dragged the elf closer to him until their hips were pressed together and Naethir had to bend backwards to accommodate their marked difference in height.
“Gonna give me a bad back, you big fuck,” he laughed, drawing off him.
“Let’s run you a bath then, old man,” he fired back at him, guiding him into the hall with a warm hand on the small of his back and an equally warm chuckle in his ear.
No one seemed willing or brave enough to comment on the fact that they sat next to each other at the feast in front of the long, crackling, central hearth, nor that Farkas’ left hand stayed mostly on Naethir’s right thigh even as he recounted the tale of the fifty-thousand draugr that had come pouring out of every sarcophagus in the hold to attack them the moment they picked up the fragment of Wuuthrad. People laughed, and shared anecdotes of their own Trials, and by the time the conversation and attention had moved away from the ‘new blood’, Naethir found himself pleasantly buzzed and with his belly just nicely full.
He glanced up at Farkas and found him already looking down at him. “What?”
“You wanna get out of here?” he asked quietly.
Naethir raised an eyebrow. “Won’t they say something?”
“Probably, but it’s nothing they haven’t said before.”
An uncharacteristic little wave of insecurity twisted through his gut. “To… you?”
Farkas’ hand closed on his thigh again, strong fingers tightening. “No, not to me. They won’t have a leg to stand on though. They think my teeth aren’t sharp enough to bite back at them, but I promise you, I will.”
“ ‘…ready to meet the blood of my foes’?” he quoted.
“Taste it,” Farkas corrected, and damn, if that wasn’t an attractive idea.
“Alright,” he chuckled. “Wait for a good moment, then we’ll slip away. No need to draw the attention of the entire room.”
“Half of them are werewolves,” he pointed out. “They’ll notice anyway. But alright.”
They waited until a few others had wandered off, Torvar in particular weaving from side to side until Athis groaned and shoved back from the table to prop him up. In the wake of their departure, Farkas leaned down again and murmured in Naethir’s sensitive ear, “I can’t sit here any longer. Either you leave with me now, or I leave alone and go to my room anyway.”
“Perks of being a Circle member,” Naethir quipped, even as he stood and used Farkas’ massive shoulder for leverage as he stepped away from the bench. “Get your own private room….”
“Walls are made of stone too,” Farkas rumbled.
“Fuck.”
“That’s the idea,” he said bluntly as he got to his feet too and looked down at Naethir.
“Fuck, you’re handsome,” Naethir blurted, laughing as he cupped Farkas’ bearded cheeks in both his hands. “Kiss me.”
“What about… everyone?” he asked, glancing around.
But no one was really looking at them. Aela did give a harsh bark of laughter, but Skjor leaned over and hissed something in her ear that quickly shut her up with a surprisingly virulent blush for a woman as brash as she was, and Farkas and Naethir instead made their way unhampered down the stairs and into the basement living quarters under the hall of the Companions.
Naethir slipped his hand into Farkas’ as the werewolf strode down the barrel-vaulted central hallway of Jorrvaskr’s lower level, but when he’d unlocked a door on the right of the wide corridor, Farkas snatched Naethir up around the waist and hoisted him into the room like he was about to run off somewhere else.
He found himself shoved roughly against the still-open door, and Farkas’ lips pressed briefly against his pulse point before he was mouthing and nipping down his neck, exhaling roughly across his dark grey skin and rutting his hips up against him like a teenager. “Fuck, I need you,” he gasped.
“Oil?” Naethir asked.
“Top drawer, over there,” Farkas grunted, and picked him up by the hips so that Naethir had no choice but to loop his thighs around Farkas’ waist and let himself be carried and deposited on the wooden bar that dissected the man’s room like it was an underground tavern. “Used to be a store and taproom,” he explained, “But I moved into it when I was fourteen. Couldn’t stand Vilkas’ snoring anymore.”
“Divines be praised for a snoring brother,” Naethir exhaled, kicking his heels against the bar and absently palming his hard cock through his loose trousers while Farkas shut the door behind them.
Naethir was wearing a tight, sleeveless shirt that showed off his toned, lean, dark grey arms, but his trousers were baggy and cuffed at the ankle, and he wore only supple, leather slippers on his feet now that he wasn’t traipsing through endless piles of skeever shit and draugr bones.
Farkas returned to him with a squat, ceramic pot of oil and set it the wooden counter top beside him before working open the laces of Naethir’s trousers and kneading the heel of his palm carefully but firmly up the length of Naethir’s hard cock.
“Fuuuuuck,” the elf crowed, arching backwards and bracing his slender weight on his callused hands. “Fuck, that’s good, Farkas.”
“Yeah? Wanna make you feel good,” he murmured against his skin, still kissing and raking his teeth across the curve of Naethir’s neck. “You smell so good,” he added. “Makes my wolf want to play with you too.”
“Next time?” Naethir asked. “Wanna take your knot though. Bet its big. Bet it feels so good.”
“Fuck, you know about… that?”
“You’re not the first wolf I’ve been with, Farkas,” he said, stupid with lust, and the werewolf actually growled at him, snapping his teeth even as his canines lengthened and his eyes flashed silver.
“Never,” he snarled, “Say that to me. Again.”
“You’re my wolf, baby,” Naethir whined, rutting his hips against Farkas’ where he was standing right in front of him and looping his thighs around Farkas’ hips to drag him closer. “You’re my wolf. Come on, baby, please…”
“Fuck!” he cried, rutting helplessly again, desperate for some release. “Fuck, Naethir, please…”
“Come on then, undress me,” he said, and let Farkas start to fumble with the tie at the top of his loose trousers. “That’s it, baby. Undress me.”
“Call me ‘baby’ one more time and I’ll come,” Farkas warned while he was still fussing with Naethir’s trousers. Finally he yanked them down his legs, and undid his own laces, though he didn’t even get his trousers halfway down his thick thighs before he’d reached a shaking hand for the oil. “You loose enough to take me still? Or you need working open?”
“Work me open a bit,” Naethir admitted, leaning back on his hands, shifting his hips forwards on the edge of the smooth wooden bar, and setting his heels on Farkas’ massive shoulders. The man was wearing a dark blue shirt that set his eyes off something wicked, and as Naethir crossed his ankles behind his head, he drew Farkas in close enough to kiss. Even while the man was pressing his lips against Naethir’s, his finger dipped into the oil and he sank it deep inside him in a single, careful movement.
Crooking his finger a moment later, he watched Naethir’s expression carefully as his mouth formed a silent ‘o’ and he arched backwards.
“That’s it,” Farkas murmured. “That’s it.”
“Fuck, fuck that’s so good,” he blurted as Farkas’ fingertip found his prostate and began to massage it already. It sent slow, searing jolts of ecstasy out through his core like ripples in lava and he started to shake. “Enough,” he gasped some time later, clutching for Farkas’ shoulders again but missing entirely and finding his elbows instead. “Fuck, please… please baby, I need you… I need you inside me again.”
“Anything,” Farkas exhaled, withdrawing his hand and wiping his fingers on his shirt before dipping them into the oil again and coating his thick cock from tip to root. He yanked Naethir forward so that he was dangling perilously off the wooden bar, and lined his cock up perfectly. In a single stroke, he seated himself inside Naethir, and the elf sucked in a breath and clutched at Farkas with a curse.
“Fuck, that’s so good. Just there, baby, just there…” he moaned, rolling his hips to help get the angle just right.
A moment later, Farkas started pistoning his hips back and forth, desperately rutting up into him with the kind of determination only a werewolf could maintain for a long time. Naethir bounced on his cock, his entire body lifting up off the polished wood of the bar with each stroke, only to slap his ass back down as Farkas withdrew just enough to keep his momentum going. Before too long though, even that wasn’t enough, and he clung to Farkas’ shoulders so that the werewolf could nail him in the prostate on every upward thrust while completely supporting his weight with his arms.
“Fuck!” Naethir cried out, looping his arms around Farkas’ neck so that the man was literally hoisting him into the air, fucking upwards without any kind of support whatsoever.
“You're mine,” he growled, biting at his neck hard enough that it almost hurt.
“M’yours,” the elf slurred, dizzy with desire and the mounting pressure of his orgasm. “M’gonna come, baby,” he mumbled a moment later, his mouth pressed against Farkas’ collarbone as the man rutted up into him over and over until he saw stars and started coming all over Farkas’ soft belly where his cock was trapped against him.
He wailed helplessly, pinned on Farkas’ cock while the werewolf continued to fuck into him until finally his hips stuttered and he dragged Naethir down onto him as he emptied inside him with another senseless roar. Farkas’ hips rocked and spasmed against his own, driving him somehow further onto his cock so that he felt almost split open by it, and even while he was still coming, Farkas’ release dripped down Naethir’s thighs and onto the floor.
Farkas cradled the back of his head with one hand, and the other he held around his waist until the full force of his orgasm had abated and he staggered, letting Naethir settle his ass back down on the bar for a moment.
While he came down from the high of it, Farkas nuzzled gently and moaned repeatedly against his earlobe and the curve of his neck, murmuring sweet somethings into his flushed skin, all the while subtly rocking his hips and grinding his softening cock inside Naethir in lazy, idle circles.
Eventually though, he pulled out, his release leaving obscene spatters on the flagstone floor, and he picked Naethir up under his knees and arms to carry him to the rustic bed pushed against the wall opposite.
“Easy, love,” he murmured, pulling Naethir’s squashed and sweat-damp mullet back off his face. From a wash basin in the corner of the room, he fetched a damp cloth and cleaned what he could reach of Naethir’s naked, come-streaked body off before tending to his own needs.
Naethir drifted on dazed, dreamy currents while Farkas’ big hands took care of him, and when the warrior lifted the sheets and the heavy furs back and climbed in behind him, he smiled soppily and hummed a contented sigh.
“C’mere, wolf,” he mumbled, and Farkas curled obligingly around him with a fond chuckle. “Love this,” Naethir added as he drifted off into the deepest sleep he’d experienced in years.
“Now and always,” Farkas promised against the nape of his neck. “My mate.”
_
Hope you enjoyed it! This is what Skyrim werewolves look like, for those unfamiliar with the game, and apart from the Van Helsing (2004) film, are the best depiction of werewolves I've ever seen.
Warnings: sub/bottom Optimus Prime + heavy praise kink + breeding kink + he's so malewife + size kink + lots of kissing + rough sex + oral fixation + slight humiliation kink + he's such a whore for praise + i hope you guys like transforming trucks
A/N: The interpretation is up to the reader, but I was imagining idw Optimus while making this.
-> Frame Optimus is your type of mech if you like big, beautiful mechs who are most likely stronger than you. Optimus has wide, heavy set hips and thick white thighs that many of his berth partners ask him to suffocate their heads with. He has a wide and heavy chassis that's warm and soothing to the touch especially due to the matrix inside of him. His finials are actually very sensitive and he loves to have his partners tug on them as he whines a bit. His deep baritone is so soothing to listen to, and sounds heavenly when he lets out long moans or the occasional whine or whimper when he's overstimulated.
Optimus' array is exactly what you'd expect from a mech of his size. His spike is quite proportionate, the same gray color as his faceplate with red and blue strips of biolights decorating it. His valve is so pretty, a blue color with blue pulsing biolights and a bright red node which also happens to be very big, drawing his partner's attention. Optimus' valve is plush and deep, softly massaging his partner's spike as they sink themselves in as far as they can. His matrix-powered frame has built in magnets that makes his valve suck in his partner's spike even deeper and stimulates their spike.
-> Breeding If there's anything you want to do with Optimus during interface to guarantee that he'll overload is to promise to breed him. This kink shows when Optimus hears his conjunx talk about how they'll fill his gestation tank up with their transfluid and have him carry their sparkling, he doesn't take it as a threat, he takes it as a promise. When his conjunx finally frags him just how he likes it, his deep moans fill the room as his valve takes the spike inside of him deep. Once his conjunx announces that they'll breed him well and good, no matter how close or far he is from his overload, he will overload so hard that he might just short circuit, his HUD flashing with warnings of overheating. Finally, the feeling of transfluid filling his gestation chamber is so euphoric that depending on how far off he is, might result in an overload so powerful it causes his whole systems to reboot. This kink makes mating press is his favorite position<3
-> Size Kink Optimus has a size kink but not in the way that many people would think. Optimus doesn't care too much about the size of his partners, but he definitely enjoys when his partners can manhandle and dominate him, especially when they're smaller than him. He loves to see his smaller partners on top of him as they push him into whatever surface they're interfacing on and just frag him so hard that his helm is left spinning. His smaller partners get an ego boost when they see how compliant the Prime is for them that it riles them up, giving them the energy to last longer in Optimus' tight valve as they tease him about how desperate he is for a mech that's almost half his size. It makes him burn with humiliation yet he just can't get enough of it.
-> Oral Fixation Optimus loves to have something filling his mouth. He gets easily excited when his partner brings their servo up to his mouth and presses their digits into his intake, prodding at his glossa. He'll gladly choke on those digits if his partner wishes so. Even more gladly, he enjoys sucking spike. He'll worship any spike in front of him no matter the size, his glossa working itself up and down the spike's length, deepthroating it as far as he can. And he will take all of it. He lets out adorable moans as he bobs up and down on the spike in front of him, making sure to pleasure his partner. Even he gets off on it, his charge quickly raising as he services the spike in front of him. And if his partner fucks his mouth? He'll absolutely lose it. Optical fluid will streak down his face as he lets out choked moans, his partner ramming their spike down his intake. His panel will retract and his lubricant will drip onto the surface below as he tries desperately to not touch himself.
-> Kissing Connecting to his oral kink, Optimus loves to kiss his partner. It's embarrassing for him to admit, but intense makeout sessions is one of his biggest kinks. The way that his partner's glossa invades his intake, wrestling Optimus' own glossa for control. Optimus gets so light headed that all he can do is whimper into the kiss as he allows himself to be dominated. He enjoys it at any pace, whether the glossa invading his intake is slow and loving or rough and passionate. He could very well overload just from the feeling of his intake being assaulted by a highly skilled glossa, bonus points if the mech is holding his hips or waist tightly as they grind their leg against Optimus' panel.
-> Praise Optimus has a praise kink. No arguments. The poor mech has the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, his autobots always looking up to him as their leader, all his enemies wanting his head, it's just so much for him to deal with! But whenever his partner has their servos roaming his frame as they coo into his audials of how much of a good bot he his, how beautiful he is, he'll be putty in their hands. He always whines when he's being praised because he truly doesn't think he's deserving of it :(. Optimus loves being praised while sucking spike because it makes feel so good. To just swirl his glossa around a spike as his partner grunts above him, praising him for all the hard work he's putting into servicing them. It always gives him this fuzzy feeling in his processor and is the easiest way to get him deep into subspace.
fucking doll sized starscream absolutely stupid with your tdick anyone??
-💫
PEAKKKKKKKKK. love the thought of him fucking himself silly on it, just riding his partner's tdick like there's no tomorrow. him whimpering and crying as he sees stars from how good it feels... sjdfsdjfldkjbrbrbrbr
Warnings/Themes: Male Demon x AFAB!Reader, monster x reader, dominant reader, mutual masturbation, fingering (Reader receiving) weird dick description, dirty talk, mentions of dub-con, mentions of rough use, rough handling, small mentions of blood.
Notes: Some of you begged for it and now it is here! Thank you for spurring my motivation into getting this written. I had alot of fun with this pair. I'll definitely be working on other scenes focused on this story-line. And hopefully, eventually, get a proper story flushed out.
As always! Enjoy! And feedback or constructive criticism is welcome!
“Oh, you poor thing.” You made your tone drip with honey. Trailing the tips of your fingers along the twisting horns- rewarding yourself with a guttural growl that made the very air around your core vibrate. “Look at you kneeling.”
Claws as black as polished obsidian ripped through the bed-sheets. The ear-splitting noise of silk and cotton tearing apart like butter added a rather thrilling edge to the scene between your legs.
Where your Demon’s head hung low between your thighs. His nose was so close to your slick folds you could feel the heat radiating off of him.
When he had pulled you to the edge of the bed, hand as hot as fire wrapping around your ankle, tugging you effortlessly towards him; you thought you had finally made him snap.
Agoris had watched you - for what felt like hours - as you played with yourself. Nestled in a nest of blankets and pillows; naked - save for the silk veil that you had draped over your breasts. A tease for the Demon who was demanding you to break your contract and let him fuck you.
But instead of giving into your need, you made him suffer. Smirking every time that long thick tail of his twitched behind him. Coiling tightly against his legs while he watched your fingers slide between your folds.
Every whine from you caused his chest to expand with a hiss. You were sure his hands were clenched into fists to keep them from touching you.
But now, you left your pussy alone. Anticipating Agoris to lunge forward and encase your centre with his mouth.
Instead, a long, thick tongue dragged over his lips. The slow, deep pull of his breath made you want to whimper. But you clasped your mouth shut. Refusing to give Agoris the reactions he so desperately craved. Even if he acted as if he could taste you through the air.
When he spoke, Agoris’ words were barely distinguishable. Spat through the constant rumble in his throat.
“When you finally give in, I'm going to enjoy taking back what you've kept from me.”
A shiver ghosted up your spine. Grinning, you hooked your hand under his chin and forced his gaze to meet yours. Eyes full of brimstone and hellfire. Spite and hunger broiling in a pit of pure want.
“You’re so confident I’ll break first. But I’m not the one on my knees.”
The smouldering coals of Hell erupted into a blaze. But Agoris made no move to retaliate. His smirk did enough damage to your heart as it was.
“Yet.” That one word had your pulse galloping.
Pulling his chin from your hand, Agoris lowered his face back to his sanctuary between your legs, “You’re not on your knees yet.”
Another shiver ran through you when the breath of his voice fanned over your aching pussy. Accompanied by a layer of goose-bumps that rippled down along your arms.
Agoris watched the raised skin with a filthy grin full of fangs and a tongue that licked along the largest canines.
“Your body wants me. Give in and I’ll satiate every need that keeps you up at night.”
“Not without taking everything you want first.”
The laugh from him was nothing but pure sin. “When you let me finally plunder your pussy I’ll take everything you have and more.” He ripped his claws out of the bed, spilling feathers and stuffing all over the floor.
His eyes flicked up to you when he reached down to wrap a trembling fist around his engorged length.
“When you’re limp around my cock, those pretty eyes full of tears, I’ll still take what I’m owed.”
It was your turn to alleviate the dryness from your mouth. Your bravado became a puddle in your mind as Agoris stroked himself, slow and deliberate. No matter how many times you saw him- it was still a shock at how frightfully long he was. From the silky black fur that blanketed his thighs, a cock- mottled with black and red patches on smooth bare skin -emerged to hang heavily between his knees.
Bowed as he was, the round flat head rested against the stone floor. Bobbing in a pool of his own pre-cum that leaked from a long but thin slit.
And now, as Agoris shifted his hips and rubbed a tight fist along his own shaft, he could nearly lick his own bead of silvery excitement.
“Every second, I waste not buried inside you - tearing your walls apart to make this fit -is a second of agony, I will burn into your flesh when you’re folded beneath me.” His fingers squeezed the marbled cock so hard you feared it would pop.
“You think I'll throw you aside after a week of using you like a toy?” Agoris’ voice pitched on a gasp as he cupped his heavy balls with his free hand. Watching you with a gaze so hungry a fresh wave of warmth spilled from your core.
“Try mocking me after a lifetime of my cock molding your pussy to my needs. A thousand years of marking, branding- owning -your pleasure.
Your hands move on their own. Sliding down along your body to tangle with the mess between your legs.
Agoris’ eyes followed your fingers like a starved animal. Panting grunts rasped from his chest as the head of his cock bounced in rhythm to the iron-vice grip.
“I’ll make you warm my cock…Make you beg for it.” A string of demonic curses tumble from his lips when you part your pussy-lips for him. Allowing him to see your leaking hole. “Your pussy will be bruised by my tongue. Stained by my seed. When I have you- only my name will fall from those pretty little lips.”
Your thighs trembled and Agoris rushed forward as your climax spilled from your body. You kept pleasuring yourself. Feverishly rolling your clit between your fingers until your back arched off the bed and your mouth parted with soundless moans.
You heard Agoris suckling on something. Sloppy wet sounds pulled your mind from the blissful fog to the crown of horns that were pressed hard against your legs. Keeping your thighs apart. But no wondrous tongue ploughed your core.
Instead, Agoris’ lips were wrapped around a section of the blanket that was now stained with your finish.
His growls turned to needy whimpers. A sound so beautifully pathetic your voice shook on a whine- watching the delicious slide of his fist over the long expanse of his cock.
The dappled skin was slick with his own pre that was now dribbling seamlessly from the gaping slit.
The flat head had swelled. The very sight of it made your thighs clench around Agoris’ head and the Demon snarled.
The hand fondling his balls flew up and shoved your legs apart. You yelped as his claws scraped down your soft flesh, leaving red welts.
“Keep them open.” Agoris hissed. His gaze glued to your pussy as you slipped two fingers inside yourself. The ease at which your walls welcomed your digits caused a violent twitch to jerk Agoris’ hips. As if he was imagining it was him sliding in and out of you.
You made a show of your own pleasure. Rocking your hips, gasping and mewling- making noises you usually didn’t make while pistoning yourself with your fingers.
All the while watching Agoris fuck into his hand. Spilling pre all over the floor and fist until he struggled to keep a hold on himself.
“F-Fuck-”
Bracing himself against the bed, Agoris shifts so his hips snapped rapidly into his tight fist.
The bed creaked beneath you.
The entire frame shook and you laughed excitedly as Agoris rose so he towered over you on the edge of the mattress. Still kneeling between your legs but now angled so his abused cock hovered above your waist.
The tip slapped against your stomach with each pass of his fist. Leaving thick droplets of silver against your skin that felt as if they were burning into your flesh.
Then you noticed the changes.
He was transforming. The shell-like magic that compressed his large form was cracking. You spotted thick, spine-like ridges breaching through the smooth red skin of his jawline. Creating a mane of thorns that decorated the sharp lines of his face and down along his throat. His fist doubled in size, briefly swallowing his cock between his fingers until the shaft joined the shift and became thicker than your own leg.
The round flat head twitched, pre-cum oozing from the slit. And your eyes widened as the peak fluttered open. The flat crest spread apart from the glorious split to form a wide flower-like end. The petals of velvety skin bloomed with a bright red color, the centre now a sharp point that seemed to pulsate with need.
Nubs appeared along the mottled skin- rounded pebbles that you watched with fascination throb with every rapid pass of Agoris’ hand.
The Demon’s eyes were half closed. His mouth hanging open in a dazed expression that had your heart racing.
You didn’t care for your own pleasure anymore. Watching this creature of sin become undone by you and his fist was as exhilarating as any climax.
“Agoris!” You shoved two more fingers into your aching pussy, arching your back as you screamed the Demon’s name. Acting out another finish.
A roar had your ears ringing- a burst of blistering energy shook the room as Agoris pounced on you. A slick skinned hand wrapped around your throat. Nearly encasing your entire chest beneath his palm as his claws squeezed your airways until you couldn’t breathe.
“Give me consent!” His voice was a volcanic eruption. Fire and smoke choked his throat, billowing out the corners of his mouth as he snarled above you. You shook your head. Eyes bulging out of your head and your pulse bellowing in your ears.
But you didn’t give in. You writhed beneath him until you felt the blazing heat of his cock against your throbbing core. Greedily bucking against your own fingers just enough to mix his slick with yours.
Agoris’ voice rattled your chest. The harsh Hellish voice burning your ears with words you didn’t understand.
Beads of blood were dripping from his claws that punctured your neck. And you laughed almost manically- watching Agoris through your lashes; rolling your hips so his fist ghosted over your warm cunt as he still chased his finish.
“What’s wrong, Agoris?” You forced your voice through the constricted airways. Gasping for air whenever his fingers flexed. “Can’t cum on your own?”
You saw the snap.
The sudden feral gleam that took Agoris away and replaced him with a beast.
And in that moment, you almost felt true fear.
With movement too quick for you to register, Agoris flipped you onto your stomach and shoved your thighs so far apart he pulled a cry of pain from you. The claws around your throat wrapped around the back of your head, and you had to struggle to turn your face to the side so you could breathe.
Tears blurred your vision as pain sparked along your scalp from where he had you pinned.
Then you felt him mount you. The bed groaned as he crawled on top of you. Thighs as thick as tree-trunks encasing your human body beneath him in a blazing cage of heat.
And with one last wet slide of his fist, Agoris let his cock slap against your back. And your eyes widened as the weight of it rested against your spine.
“Give me consent.” His voice wasn’t one you recognized. It was heavy. Demanding. So full of hunger every inch of you became feverish.
“No.” You managed to say. Spit flew from your lips as you tried to fight the hand that held you down. “If you want me, you’re going to have to take me.”
It was getting hard to stay awake. You couldn’t pull enough air into your chest in this position; not with the weight of him crushing you into the bed and the hand trapping half your face into the thick blanket.
The heat from his body- his cock -felt like you were being branded by his skin. And the smallest twitch of his hips had your breath hitching- Then he was gone.
Cold wind swallowed your back, and you gasped for air, scrambling further up the bed until your back rested against the plush pillows.
Just as Agoris ripped open the chamber door and went to leave.
“Where are you going?” You demanded breathlessly.
“To find a warm hole to fuck.” Was his growling reply before the door slammed shut. The sound of it echoing through the room like a clap of thunder.
He left you alone in a room, reeking of fire and smoke. With your core still aching, pulsating for something to penetrate it.
You grumbled and threw yourself back against the pillows and began playing with yourself again.
But frustratingly, without your audience, another climax was beyond you.
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Ko-fi / Patreon
Requests are open on both sites! I hope you enjoyed this filthy piece of writing ❤️
♡ AN: thinking about nerdy loser boy, who grows up to be rich and successful after graduation, and who decides to use all his wealth to take revenge on you, his old bully, who’s still struggling with figuring her sorry little life out...
He car is cold to cool his nerves. No music, only the groan of leather each time he or his driver shifts in their seat.
He holds a glass of whiskey between his fingers—the bottle has become significantly diminished over the past days, two other bottles before it.
He takes a sip, but keeps his gaze fixed out the tinted window at the little drive-by diner.
Retro place, built before he was born. Industrial steel walls, red accents, one big glowing sign above the roof, all caps, spelling CHUCKY’S. He bought the place a few weeks ago, way over asking price—didn’t want any fuss, just wanted it done in one day, but for no reason pertaining to business.
No, this one was personal.
He sighs, swirls his glass, and takes another sip, all while maintaining his stare. He can catch a glimpse of you every time you leave the kitchens to take orders. Dressed in your uniform—an awful red and white checkered dress that you somehow make work. Princess puff sleeves, cinched at the waist with a white apron before jutting out into a mid-thigh frill-edged skirt, a tulle petticoat underneath giving it even more volume and making it look more like a tacky Halloween costume than proper clothes.
You always look so hard at work. It’s funny. Maybe if you’d just done your schoolwork instead of making him do it all for you at the threat of having your jocks rough him up, you’d be better off today and not running yourself ragged over minimum wage.
He must admit it’s pretty childish of him—stalking you like this as if that’s what he should be spending his free time on. His driver must think he’s insane, but he pays him too much for him to ask any questions, not even when he signals him to follow you once you finish your shift.
He would follow you into the subway, if not for fear of causing a commotion. Even though he’s not exactly a celebrity, it’s not so unusual for his face to be in a business magazine every now and again. A few people would certainly recognize him. And if not for that, he’d probably get mugged.
But it’s no matter. He knows where you’re going.
You live in a rundown flat across the street from a five-star hotel he’s taken to call home. The staff are always insisting he should move into the penthouse, but he has to turn them down, as he needs one of the lower-level rooms more aligned with your studio apartment.
You leave your uniform on the floor the second you’re through the door, and he immediately needs to grit his teeth. Naked except for your undergarments—a greyish bra that was once white, styled with a turquoise thong, both pilled from wear. It’s nothing anyone’s meant to see, but here he is, watching as you peel your underwear down your thighs and legs, leaving yourself bare to his prying eyes.
You swipe it up off the floor, stretching it out like a slingshot before shooting it across the room right into your laundry bin. You jump into a pair of short-shorts instead, relieving yourself of your bra next, exchanging it with a loose, cropped T-shirt—a silly cartoon cat print on the bust.
You use your toes to hook your sock, prying them off while you walk towards the tiny kitchen nook tucked away in the corner of the room. Opening the fridge, you grab the three-liter box of white wine you’ve been enjoying by yourself for the past few days, not so different from him. And then you plop down on your bed and switch on the TV, putting on some shitty reality show about overly botoxed women living in Beverly Hills.
He drags his hand over his face, sitting in his luxury suite with a pair of military grade binoculars, pulling his jaw with tired eyes. It should be enough revenge for him to see you living the way you do—broke and struggling. But for some reason, it just isn’t. Not even close.
More than revenge, he thinks, oddly enough, he still wants to prove himself to you. He wants you to see him—his worth—wants you to acknowledge it, that you were wrong to step all over him because, in the end, he’s the one in the million-dollar shoes, and you’re the one in the soiled apron taking orders.
But then again, and even stranger, he feels this weird amount of gratitude towards you. After all, if you hadn’t made him feel worthless, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to make himself priceless.
And, of course, there’s the fact that he still jerks off to you and has, on many desperate occasions, paid escorts with a passing resemblance to you to call him by those foul names you used to—among many other things he wishes you’d say.
“Aren’t yah a little too dressed up for this place?” you ask, head tilted to the side, hand on your hip with your notepad, popping your pink gum. “What—Michelin gettin’ too boring’? Or d’yah just feel like slummin’ it today?”
He doesn’t get you’re making a joke—feeling out of place sitting in the tight little booth he’d picked out for himself—plastic menu taped to the table in front of him with a bunch of stuff he hasn’t put in his mouth since college with prices he’d forgotten all about. It’s so cheap, he wonders for a moment if a zero is missing.
But that’s not all, or at least not the reason he’s so put off…
You raise a brow over his puzzled expression, looking up at you like a lost kid at the mall.
“I’m just messin’ with yah—no need to look so wired,” you laugh, flipping up your notepad and clicking your pen. “So then, what can I get yah?”
He blinks. “Oh, uhm,” clearing his throat, he looks down at the menu again and just picks the first thing his eyes land on. “I’ll have a—a breakfast sandwich. Thank you.”
You scribble it down, asking while at it, “No’n else? Big gun like you? No waffles, hashbrowns, sausages? I make a mean French toast, just so you know.” You look at him in wait.
He gets a little lost seeing you so up close, but manages to stutter out a, “No–no, thank you, that’s okay.”
You, on the other hand, don’t seem ruffled at all—all smiles and giggles, knuckles on your hip as you tilt your head at him. “You watchin’ yer figure, or somethin’? Guess you can’t let the money do all the talkin’, huh?”
He doesn’t know what to say, busy using every brain cell to comprehend the fact that you’re even talking to him, so familiarly as well. It all throws him for a loop.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just pullin’ your leg,” you continue at his silence. “It’s just that I’ seen your car parked outside so many times, always wonderin’ what rich fellow was brave enough to have business around here,” you explain, nodding at his black SUV out front. “I’m just happy to finally put a face to the wheels.”
He still can’t find the words to say. He’s not sure what he’s doing with his face either, but it can't be good. Feeling stiff as a board and dumb like one, too.
“I’m rambling, aren’t I? My bad,” you apologize, either thinking nothing of his strange behaviour or simply choosing to ignore it. “You want joe or juice with that?”
It takes him a second to realize it’s a question he’ll have to answer, but he manages to utter a curt, “Coffee,” before further pulling himself together enough to tack on a polite, “Please.”
You only nod your head, clicking your pen. “A’right then, big spender. Comin’ right up.”
And then, you turn on your heel, leaving him there with nothing but that dumb look he seems unable to wipe off his face, watching you march in tattered shoes that don’t go at all along with your diner uniform across the chess-checkered tiles before disappearing into the kitchen, without doing so much as a double-take.
And he’s hit with the unpleasant understanding, sitting like a lump in his stomach, making his throat feel tight.
You don’t even remember him.
He contemplates leaving at that moment. He pulls out the entire wad of bills kept in his wallet, not bothering with giving them a count, thinking he’d just leave them on the table to pay for the work and his rudeness. But even so, he remains seated.
Maybe you just didn’t recognize him?
He hardly looks like his old self. Hair gelled and professionally cut just yesterday, suit tailored expertly for him, body built with the help of a personal trainer. Yeah, of course you don’t recognize him. There's nothing of his old self left for you to remember.
Or maybe he was right the first time, and you have zero memory of him whatsoever. Maybe you only remember fun times—your girlfriends and all the parties you went to, the drinking, your handsome boyfriend who was captain of the varsity team, and the other jocks you used to cheat on him with. Maybe he’s just another loser lost in the crowd, unworthy of your attention, unworthy even of the tiniest spot in your recollection.
“Here you go, mister.” You announce your return, and he looks up, surprised to see you back already. His dish done, balanced in one hand, with his coffee mug held in the other.
You place both down before him, still steaming, the scent of butter and fresh brew attacking his nose at once.
It was basically free per his standards, but it looked good and was a lot bigger than what he would have been served at the hotel restaurant. And unlike that, this actually looks like it was made by a human being—uneven slices of butter-crisp bread cut diagonally before serving.
His mouth waters, and he’s glad he stayed.
“Did you make it yourself?” he asks for some odd reason before being able to stop himself.
But you just giggle, “Why yes, I did—with love and all. Hope you enjoy.”
And then you run along to another table, leaving him to it.
His arms lay resting on the table, hands idle as he stared at it for a moment longer as if he were waiting for someone to take a picture. He’s never been one to do such a thing, despite all the extravagant meals he’d been served at prices high enough that it should make anyone lose their appetite. This sight, however, almost had him compelled to pull out his phone and do it. But he ends up leaving it be.
His stomach growls. He swallows the pool that had swelled up in his mouth, giving your words a taste. “With love, huh…”
How about that… he thinks while picking one of the triangles up. You hadn’t given him any cutlery, nor was there any on the table, so—suppose bare-handed is the way it’s meant to go.
He takes his first bite, and the bread crunches between his teeth. Followed by still-sizzling crispy bacon, soft egg, and fully melted cheese—and oh my god, it’s greasy—melting in his mouth. And he knows you were only joking around, but… he thinks he might be tasting the love, too.
“How’d you like it?” You’re back again right before he’s done, now with a few coffee and grease stains on your apron, looking all dewy-faced with your hair a little messier than it was in the morning.
He’s still swallowing the last bite, fighting the urge to lick his fingers clean in your presence as he takes you in in all your hard-working glory.
“Michelin could learn a thing or two,” he says, more comfortable than earlier, reaching for the napkin dispenser across the table before wiping his mouth all neatly.
“You’re too kind.” You smile—the type of sweet smile you’d never flash back in school, looking a little giddy, asking, “Anything else?”
His meal sits warm in his belly, still tasty on his tongue. “Yes. When do you get off?”
You’re the one with the dumb expression now, face blank and eyes wide—but only for a moment before it turns cheeky. “Why? You’re not one of ‘em rich freaks who take all us poor gals for hookers, are yah?” you joke, snickering at him.
“And what if I am?” he questions, tone firm, the type he’ll use in business meetings. “I’ll pay you twice what you earn in a year for one night. What do you say?”
This time, you seem unable to wipe the look of surprise off your face.
Tone wiped clean of all service-inclined banter, stating plainly, though still with the accent of shock, “I get off at seven.”
He flicks his wrist, eyeing his watch to gauge the time before braiding his fingers together. Looking up at you again.
“I changed my mind,” he states then.
“I think I’ll have some French toast while I wait.”
Knight escorting his prince/ss back to their bed chamber after a long evening of merriment and drinking. Prince/ss wobbles and struggles to stand up straight, leaning against their loyal knight’s muscled form. Knight ignoring the wandering hands and pleading coos of their prince/ss, desperate for touch. It’d be improper.
“Here we are, your highness, now let’s get you to bed…”
Prince/ss pouting and insisting that they are simply too helpless to undress all on their own, that they just need their knight’s assistance to disrobe. Knight holding his breath as he loosens ties and watches fabric fall to reveal prince/ss’s skin, soft and warm with blush. Knight clenching his jaw but letting eyes wander along the curves of their royal highness’s form. It’d be improper.
Knight tucking their prince/ss beneath blankets with a chaste kiss on their forehead and a gentle brushing of hair from their face. Knight closing the door of prince/ss room softly behind himself as he heads back to his own quarters. It’d be improper.
Knight, alone in his bed, sweaty and flustered, desperately bucking and rutting himself into his own hand. Knight growling and whining, utterly desperate, mumbling his prince/ss’s name again and again until he cums, shuddering. Knight panting and catching his breath, staring hopelessly up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how many more nights like this he can take before breaking…
Priest Sebastian Michaelis x male reader (Black Butler) smut
2,180 words
Contents: Religious blasphemy, dominance/submission, degradation, priest kink, spit, control, manipulation, contract formed, anal (sub receiving), nipple play, body worship, sex on the altar, slight dacryphilia
Note: I just adore when demons play the priest role. "Oh this? Your little 'holy items'? They don't harm me. Silly little humans." As if mocking humanity for their thought that they could even control demons with metal and fancy houses and words. I specifically got this scene in mind from episode 6, titled "Like Angels Put in Hell by God" from Interview with a Vampire (2022 AMC series)
Candles flickered low, casting long shadows in the quiet church. The scent of incense lingered like memory, clinging to the heavy air.
Father Sebastian stood near the altar in his black cassock. He was always there, smiling faintly, as if he'd known the man would come. His eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight.
"Welcome, my child,"
He said, voice velvet-smooth, soothing yet daunting.
"Speak. Your soul is listening."
The door creaked open with the groan of old wood, and the younger man stumbled in, wet from the storm. Rain lashed the windows like demons scratching to be let in, thunder rumbling like a warning. He clutched his cross tightly, its wood beads swinging with each trembling step toward the pews.
"Father.. I have committed a sin so wretched.."
Eyes eyes refused to meet the priests. Instead, they sought sanctuary in the flickering candlelight, the soaked floor, anything but him. He felt unworthy of that gaze.
A flicker of amusement touched Sebastian's lips, his head tilted in curiosity, in hunger.
"Such distress. Tell me what burdens your heart."
Sebastian murmured, stepping closer,
"I.. I laid with another man. And more than that-- I enjoyed it."
The words spilled out, ragged and ashamed. His knuckles whitened around the rosary, fingers shaking.
"I drink to forget, then crawl into the arms of men like some whore. I'm.. I'm sick, Father."
Tears welled, spilling freely, dribbling down from his pretty face. His face contorted in emotional pain.
Sebastian watched in silence. His smile slowly widened, showing teeth just a touch too perfect, too sharp.
Such a pretty little crier.
"Your temptations,"
He began, stepping down from the altar with the elegance of a shadow,
"Have only made you more.. honest."
He stopped just in front of the sopping man, eyeing him, sparking up his sins, tasting his stress.
"But why suffer alone when the pleasure was divine?"
The man's eyes shot up, blinking through the tears.
"Wh- what do you mean?"
The priest circled him, slow and graceful, the scent of incense clinging to his robes. His breath ghosted across the back of the man's neck when he reached,
"Would you do it again?"
Hands settled on shoulders, causing him to flinch and clutch the cross tighter.
"I'm not sure I want to know the answer.."
Sebastian's fingers slid to his wrists, gently but firmly pulling them from the cross.
"Let go of that symbol of false hope, I can show you true salvation."
His touch left a trail of burn in its wake, and the rosary slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Through a whisper, he managed,
"False hope?"
Sebastian cupped his face, his thumb stroking the wet cheek. His eyes held unfathomable knowledge, and something darker beneath it. Something ancient and knowing.
"The Church taught you shame. I offer you truth."
His thumb brushed the quivering lower lip, drawing in a shudder.
"Isn't lying with a man a sin?"
"Only when it's poisoned by fear and self-hatred. But when embraced as art-- as beauty..."
Sebastian mused, his lips inches from the others.
The candles flared as his energy crackled.
"It becomes divine."
"Father, that's not what I was taught. Loving another man.. it's a direct insult to God. A curse."
"No,"
Sebastian hissed, his eyes glowing faintly red in annoyance to his persistence.
"The God you were taught is a mirror for their ignorance. He made you. He gave you hunger. And He revels when you indulge in it."
Sebastian leaned in as his features softened,
"He.. enjoys our desire?"
A sharp laugh caught the man off guard, and the priest tilted the villagers head back with one hand to grasp the beauty of his innocent humanity,
"Every gasp, every cry, is a hymn in His name."
His fingers traced his throat, feeling the pulse of doubt slowly fading, causing his sharp smirk to widen.
"But what about everyone else? What they believe? What they'd do if they saw this.."
"They are blind, you are beginning to see."
Sebastian breathed out as he watched every breath exhale from his little sinner, his hands slid under his shirt, finding the warmth of the skin.
Though, he gasped, nipples peaked under the cold touch.
"I.. I believe so, Father."
"Then confess to me, my sinner, tell me what you truly desire."
His thumb and forefinger rolled the nipple, nails brushing. The coldness was new to the typical human warmth he had felt with many men. But his arch was harder, as if pleasure was bordering more than his humanity had ever shown him.
"F-for a man to want me. To touch me. For freedom from this closeted life."
Sebastian's control frayed. He spun the man around, seized his lips in a kiss so feral it bruised. He moaned against his mouth, clutching his cassock, drunk on the heat of the Father.
"Such a desperate thing,"
He whispered against his lips, as if his own desperation wasn't a panel of control.
He lifted him with ease, placing his new sinner upon the altar.
"And you thought your God would punish you for this?"
Legs spread instinctively, body pressed between them.
"I was taught He would. That I'd burn for it."
Sebastian kissed down his jaw, nipping the side of his neck.
"Then let me show you hell, my child.."
Sebastian's teeth grazed his throat, then bit down, causing a gasp, back arching on the altar as his hands slid beneath his thighs, spreading him wider.
The cassock rustled as he moved, his breath hot and slow against his neck, his collarbone, lower still. He kissed him like he was marking territory, leaving no inch of flesh untouched. Each brush of his mouth sparked like fire through the man, dissolving what little resistance clung to his trembling, holy body.
"You smell like fear,"
He murmured, dragging his tongue along the wet, clothed chest,
"And I adore it."
With agonizing slowness, he unfastened his shirt, revealing his chest to the chill air and his ravenous eyes. His mouth descended immediately, lips wrapping around one nipple, sucking with reverence and hunger.
Fingers began tangling his black hair, noises growing at the stimulation.
"Yes, cry for me."
His teeth scraped the tender flesh before he shifted to the other, lavishing it with the same unholy worship. When he pulled back, both nipples were red and glistening, swollen from his attention.
"You are beautiful like this; desperate and desecrated."
"Please.."
He whispered, not even sure what he was begging for.
Sebastian's hand slid down the mans torso, palm warm. He dipped lower, cupping his erection through his pants, pressing firmly, then squeezing.
"Here, is the temple."
He said, gaze boring into the pretty eyes he was to consume, watching as he bucked into his touch, moaning shamelessly.
"Hard already. You do crave this, don't you?"
"Yes, Father..so badly.."
"Then I'll give you everything,"
Sebastian growled, stripping him of his pants. He dropped to his knees before the altar, like a man in prayer, but the only god here was lust. He kissed along the inner thigh, inhaling deeply as if the scent was a sacrament.
"You're trembling, That's not shame anymore. That's want. Is it not?"
He purred, lips ghosting over sensitive skin.
He could barely breathe. He'd never felt this exposed, this desired--this ruined.
"Watch me,"
He ordered.
And he did-eyes wide, mouth parted-as Sebastian licked a slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip. He choked on a moan, hips jerking.
"Father!"
Sebastian chuckled darkly, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock while the other pinned his thigh. He took him into his mouth fully, bobbing with a rhythm that was almost cruel in its precision. Wet, obscene sounds filled the sacred space. Anyone near could hear the lewd slurp of his mouth, the soft groan in his throat as he feasted on the man like a sin he'd waited centuries to commit.
"God, I-"
"Don't,"
He snapped, pulling off just long enough to glare up.
"You'll call my name when you come."
Then he swallowed the member again, deeper this time, humming around the cock. Hands clutched the edges of the altar like it could anchor him.
He sucked harder, faster, as the climax began building.
“I-I can't- Father Sebastian, I-!”
He didn't stop. Didn't slow. He came with a broken, desperate cry, spilling into the demons mouth, hips jerking helplessly. He took it all, swallowed every drop, eyes closed in rapture.
When he pulled back, he wiped his lips with the back of his gloved hand, eyes glowing again with that unnatural red.
He collapsed back against the altar, chest heaving. But Sebastian wasn’t finished. He stood, unfastening his cassock. He watched as more and more of him was revealed; pale skin, sculpted like marble, a body forged from sin and worship.
When he let the cassock fall, his member stood thick and ready, already leaking like an unholy trunk.
"You confessed your desire. Now you'll repent."
He spoke with a growl, positioning himself between the open legs again.
"Do I need to be-?"
Sebastian spit in his hand, slicked himself with a devil's grace, and pressed the tip against the warm, tight entrance.
"I'll make you ready."
Then, with a single brutal thrust, he pushed inside.
Sebastian didn't give time to think. The altar was cold beneath his back as he shoved into him, heavy candles teetering beside his shoulders, the wax hissing where it spilled.
"Look at you. Spread like an offering. A slut begging for sin."
His soft, priestly voice hardened to a growl, eyes roving the exposed body with savage glee.
The man whimpered, pleasure warring with the rush of heat flooding his core. He grabbed the plush thighs, shoving them wide as his thrusts grew brutal, splitting him open.
"You came here for absolution, but what you really want is to be used. Defiled. Claimed."
His head dipped down to the sweaty chest, his forked tongue licking the musk,
"You taste like guilt, and I'll gorge on it until you're nothing but a wrecked little altar whore."
The man sobbed, ecstasy crashing over in waves. His hands clawed at the stone beneath himself, vision swimming. He didn't stop. He drank the sounds like communion wine, member working deeper, pressing the nerves until he was shaking and begging.
"P-please, please, Father Sebastian-"
"Please what?"
Silence marked the hot, heavy breathing, before a soft whine escaped him. His mind was numb, struck with the pleasure overriding his logical brain.
"Please, Father, show me Gods' work-"
That was all he needed, turning him on all fours as if he were weightless, chest scraping the cold altar as Sebastian's body pressed behind him. It was far too big, seeming to break him apart as he re-entered.
"This'll split you open, and you'll thank me for every inch. Like the good little devotee you are."
He growled, one clawed hand fisting his hair, yanking his head back, continuing his brutal pace.
The man screamed as his body stretched around the demon, back arching. He filled him to the hilt, too deep, too wide, reshaping his insides around him.
"You were made for this, a pretty hole wrapped in guilt. A holy little cum dump."
Each thrust slammed the man under hips into the altar with brutal rhythm. The candles flared with every moan choked out, nails scrabbled at the worship stone for purchase as he drove into the man like he meant to ruin him-- and he did.
"Take it, whore. Take your punishment."
Sebastian hissed, his claws raked down the bare skin, leaving trails of fire that bled pleasure into his veins. His red eyes began to pulse, glowing with each thrust, as if feeding off the surrender of the sinner. He spit on the man's back, grabbed his hips, and fucked harder.
"You think this is hell? No, beloved. This is heaven. Your screams, your tears-- this is worship."
Sebastian was panting, growling like the beast he was. He had the man coming, his fluids painting the stone altar in sin, loud and helpless, his body convulsing. He didn't stop.
He grabbed the man's throat, pulled his back to his chest, still pounding into him from behind, his legs dangling off the altar.
"Say it again. Say who you belong to."
"Y-you, Father Sebastian- Yours- just yours-"
"Say it like the filthy thing you are."
"I'm your fucking slut!"
He roared, fangs dragging over the bare throat.
The church shook. The candles exploded in a halo of fire. His release came with a snarl, flooding insides as he emptied himself into him with brutality.
And still, he held him there, trembling, stretched, full, his body marked and ruined by divinity darker than anything holy.
The grasp softened for a moment, as if watching the sin drip from his body, spit and sweat mixed in like two lovers of the same element.
As he was set back upon the altar, like the greedy little offering he was, a contract had formed from mid-air. Sebastian's eyes glinted in the now dark room.
They sat across the bar from one another, not quite staring, but not quite ignoring, either. Glances flickered like dying matches. Remy's gaze lingered a little longer each time the older man brought the rim of the glass to his lips, tongue barely grazing the edge in a slow, almost absent motion.
Was it subconscious, or was it deliberate?
Like bait hung just low enough to tempt?
Remy didn't trust it. Didn't trust him. A man like that-broad shoulders, worn flannel, calloused hands gripping glass like it owed him something-- he screamed straight. The kind that only noticed you when drunk enough to forget who he was. Remy had danced with that kind before.
Crude. Forceful. Tempting.
The man's gaze veered to a woman across the room. Soft features, a delicate laugh. Remy caught the hunger in his eyes, and something in his chest twisted. So he looked away, tried not to sulk, to want.
But his want was a stupid thing, stubborn and slick.
He stood anyway, like the fool that he was, letting long legs carry him across the bar's cracked tiles like he had nothing to lose.
After tonight with Rogue, he really had nothing to lose. Not his dignity, not his love.
The man was dressed ruggedly, like he'd stepped out of a decade he didn't want to name. Flannel half-open over a white shirt, jeans that had seen too many winters, boots made for stomping-- not dancing. He had a kind of quiet that screamed louder than noise, a silence built from grief and long roads. His face was lined, his eyes half-lidded and heavy, like they'd seen too much and stopped trying to blink it away.
Remy leaned against the bar beside him, his smile lazy.
"Long night, non?"
His voice purred like honey laced with sin.
Logan didn't look. Didn't smirk. Just grunted around the cigar clenched between his teeth and exhaled slow, like he was trying to smoke the question away and whisp Remy from his presence.
"Haven't seen ya here before,"
Remy tried again, voice smooth but a little softer now, lacking the prior purr.
"You a newcomer?"
"Day-drinker,"
Came the reply, sharp as a broken bottle. Gravel-thick voice, laced with smoke and indifference.
Remy let out a slow exhale, nodding.
" 'Spose dat makes sense, mon ami."
The bartender had felt their tension, sliding another drink between them. Remy's fingers brushed against Logan's glass.
"Logan."
His name was as rough as he was.
"Logan Howlett."
Remy smiled, tipping his imaginary hat as he turned, thigh brushing against Logan's leg as he shifted his seat.
"Remy LeBeau,"
His voice was nothing less than a flirt, a soft coo to coax Logan into softening,
"But you can call me de Gambit."
A beat. His smirk widened, curling slow like the smoke pouring from those pretty lips.
"Or whatever you like t'night."
That earned a low scoff. Half laugh, half defense mechanism. But Logan didn't move away.
That was a win.
Their conversation stretched long, carried by adolescent jokes and glances that lingered just a second too long. Logan couldn't help the way Remy made him laugh. He hated that it felt easy, that it felt good.
What was he doing? Sleeping with another man? With him?
Remy was charming, sure. Gorgeous. But Logan wasn't over her. Not even close.
But Remy was present. Real. With lips like velvet and eyes that saw through shit like glass. He moved like temptation and spoke like sin.
And Logan was tired of pretending.
Their bodies crashed together in the hallway of Logan’s rundown apartment. Kisses messy, hot. Breath tangled with curses and low growls. Logan's hand curled around Remy's hip, tugging him inside like he owned him.
"Fuck.."
Logan hissed, mouth bruising against Remy's lower lip.
"Yer good at this, kid."
Remy chuckled breathlessly.
"Gotta be, cher. Especially when I'm always bendin' down t'meet ya."
Logan growled, eyes dark with need. His hands were firm as they guided Remy to the couch, pushing him down like he needed him grounded.
Remy looked up at him, all soft lips and wild hair. Like a memory.
Logan froze for just a second, ghost-pale in the eyes.
Remy reached up, his fingers curling under his chin, pulling him back to now. He kissed him gently.
"Don't drift, cher. I'm right here. I'm yours tonight."
It wasn't a tone of flirt, but more a soothing one. Remy also held the pained gaze of need. Of loneliness.
Their clothes disappeared between kisses and murmurs, flesh meeting flesh. Logan pushed into him with a rough need, lips crushed against a shoulder, teeth grazing skin. Remy gasped, hands clawing for anything to hold. Logan's grip tightened on his hips, pulling him up, angling deeper.
"Takin' me so well, kid.."
He groaned, voice cracking at the edges.
"Feels so fuckin' good."
Remy arched, moaning sharp, his body trembling with each thrust. Logan's pace was desperate, not just lustful. As if haunted. Like he could fuck the past out of himself, bury it inside Remy. Gone in these gummy-like walls, warm and coaxing.
Like everything else about Remy.
Remy came first, crying out prettily, body curling as he spurted between them. His breath hitched, lips parted in bliss. Logan couldn't hold back anymore. His thrusts grew frantic, heart thudding loud in his ears.
"Gonna..gonna cum so deep in you-"
He spilled inside with a broken groan, collapsing forward, arms failing. But Remy caught him. Held him like he mattered. One hand stroked Logan's spine, the other smoothing his damp hair.
For a long moment, they just breathed.
Logan's guilt crawled back in, slow and sour. He found himself relaxed, despite the guilt that ate around his mind, tearing his skin apart and nestling in the bones.
Remy's voice broke the quiet, low and tender.
"Might I stay here for de night, cher?"
It startled Logan. Not the question, but the softness.
His eyes burned, but he nodded.
"Please,"
He rasped, despite attempting to keep his mask on for a little longer,
His feet thudded down the hall as the quiet killer lunged. The halls were dark-- it was late. He didn't scream or cry. Just stayed silent, his mind racing.
He ducked behind a door, baseball bat in hand. He might've been an old man, but he was a pesk to catch.
"Come on, just make my night easier, old man. Come out, and I'll end it quick."
The voice was muffled by a mask. Cheap plastic, probably. Another young adult playing dress-up, thinking it's funny to chase people.
The masked killer turned at a sound- a slight shift behind him. Then everything went black, a sharp pain blooming at the back of his skull.
The room was cold and stale. Time had steeped in its corners like mold. A fly buzzed beneath a flickering light.
The killer woke up bound to a wooden chair, rope digging into his wrists, cutting circulation, chafing muscle. Pain throbbed in waves.
A figure emerged from the dark. Thin. Maybe 5'8". Not intimidating.
"Where the hell am I?" His voice snapped sharp, commanding.
"Watch your language," the figure replied softly. A coo more than a command. An elderly man.
"Watch my fucking language? Where. The. FUCK. Am I?!"
The man stepped closer, adjusting his glasses with a warm smile. "My basement. Are you cold?"
"No, I'm not fucking cold-!"
A hum cut him off. An old melody, lullaby-sweet. Timeless, trancing.
"My name is James. But the kids call me Pop-pop."
Metal scraped gently. The sound of something being lifted.
The killer froze.
"What's your name?" James asked, soft like fur, sweet like candy.
A scalpel pressed to the mask.
Felix flinched, yanking his head away. "I'm not fucking telling you! Freak!"
James tsked, the light glinting off his glasses. "Wrong answer."
He peeled away the mask, revealing a sharp-jawed, brown-eyed young man-- striking, in his own way.
"Such a pretty little thing," James cooed, "Do you mind if I touch?"
Felix-the original killer-squirmed in the ropes. James let out a small pleased sound, dragging the scalpel down his shirt, slicing it open to bare the chest.
But there was no lust in James' gaze. He didn't look as if he planned to assault the younger man sexually. It wasn't a gaze that spoke human.
No. He saw him as meat.
Only hunger laid in his eyes.
Not the human kind.
The scalpel pressed into skin.
"I'll ask one more time. What's your name?"
Felix gasped, adrenaline spiking. Pain lit up his nerves. Eyes dilating and a sharp cry escaping, his mouth fumbled to spew his name out. A plethora of sounds, sharp inhales, and tears forming only further amused James.
"Felix! Fuck- fucking whore!"
The blade sank deeper, parting flesh, revealing muscle and ribs. James leaned forward, tongue gliding through the blood.
"Mh. Tangy. You’ll do fine in a dish."
Felix's mind blanked. Thought was gone. Only pain and panic. His head lolled. Vision blurred. James stood calmly, flipping through a book, its pages stained.
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you when I get outta this.." Felix slurred, spitting blood and causing James to chuckle. "Such a sinner, you are. Wishing ill will on another. Tsk, tsk, tsk."
Felix laughed; a loud, cracked, humorless thing. But his defiance died when James cupped his face.
Felix lunged, biting down hard and drawing blood.
James hissed-- but didn’t cry out. Instead, he drove the scalpel into Felix's jaw.
Blood surged. Speech turned to gurgles.
Felix convulsed, vision swam. Life drained.
James whispered, "Shh... it'll all be okay soon, lovely. Just a little more.."
Felix's last look was one of terror, locked on James. Those pretty brown eyes went glassy. Gone.
James sighed, pulling back with a huff.
"Ruined my favorite sweater... Pity. What a drag."
He stood, flexing his bloodied hand.
"At least I’ll know what to feed the grandkids tonight."
Description: A man wakes in a decaying asylum with no memory, surrounded by uncanny caretakers and sweet voices hiding sharp teeth. As he uncovers unsettling truths about his past and those around him, he must decide who to trust-- if anyone at all.
Prompt: Character wakes up in an asylum they don't recognize, with no memories of [time frame] (Thank you to yourwriterreads on Instagram)
Contents (current chapter): Angst, doctors, time/memory loss, memory loss, medication mentioned, slight body horror (vivid description), lack of comfort, described scent in detail, death mentioned, manipulation, confusion
The week was slow, filled with old ladies, twitching teens, bland food, and bright white walls.
He managed to learn a few names, but never why he was here. Reality felt like a warp, spiraling so much he began losing feathers. He woke up to doctors poking and prodding, feeding him medicine that tasted like artificial sweetener. His mind was always blank during these visits.
"How do you feel?" Or "are your meds working?" "Does this hurt?"
They spoke in unison like a puzzle connected with glue. Their red eyes never blinked, shoulders never slouched--
It was as if they weren't weren't real.
What was real in this world? Everybody moved like mechanical beings; precise and uncanny.
Except for one.
Sterling.
Sterling Sterling Sterling.
He was a mystery in itself.
Though he held quirks that were surely "not normal" in the real world-if that even existed in this liminal space of lies-he was deemed the most normal to Velys.
Unlike the others, his glasses slipped down his arched nose, he fumbled papers, made mistakes.
And moreover, he laughed at Velys's jokes.
"Mr. Rippen?" A voice called.
His voice.
"Come in."
Subtly, he covered the writing he was doing with artwork from the morning prior.
"Ah, up and vell, I see? Did you eat already?"
His finger pushed his round glasses back up his nose as he began writing down notes.
The brief scent of lavender filled Velys's nostrils, forcing his mind into ease as the warmth-or rather lack of it-drew closer.
Sterling always brought that scent. Whether it came from his coat or his skin, Velys wasn't sure. But he had started to associate it with safety.
Sterling perched on the edge of the old wooden chair in the corner of the room, crossing one leg over the other. His clipboard rested against his thigh, pen tapping absentmindedly.
"You drew again,"
He observed, tilting his head toward the page Velys had half-hidden.
"May I see it?"
Velys hesitated. His feathers twitched slightly, and he considered refusing-- but Sterling's tone wasn't commanding. Just curious. Like someone who actually cared.
He handed it over.
Sterling studied the sketch in silence. A figure with too many teeth and a shawl drawn over hunched shoulders loomed in black graphite. Anne. But her eyes were kind. Despite the horror, the depiction held warmth.
"You like her,"
Sterling said simply.
Velys didn’t answer at first.
"She's..strange. But not unkind."
Sterling nodded, handing it back.
"Most people here are strange. It’s a prerequisite, I zink."
A pause passed between them like a fragile bubble, not yet ready to pop.
"Do you ever think about what came before?"
Velys asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.
Sterling looked up. His glasses glinted slightly in the light.
"Before?"
"Before all this. The cold rooms. The pills. The..broken people."
Sterling tilted his head, as if carefully deciding how much truth to spill.
"Sometimes. But remembering hurts more than forgetting."
Velys frowned at that. His face wings parted enough for a more visible view of the doctor.
"Is that what they want? For us to forget?"
"I can't speak for zem,"
Sterling replied, glancing down at his notes again.
"But I can speak for myself."
"And?"
"I prefer you remember me, at least."
Velys blinked. That answer stuck in his mind longer than he liked.
Later that day, Anne returned.
She always knocked with her knuckles, three short raps. As if afraid she might fall apart if she knocked any harder.
"Hello, my dear chickadee,"
She chimed, her voice syrupy and old like forgotten candy.
"Time for your brushing."
"I can do it myself,"
Velys mumbled, his face leaned against his closed fist.
"Oh, I’m sure you can, but the doctor said it helps. Routine and all. Comfort."
She moved with uncanny precision, her spindly fingers gently fluffing through his feathers, untangling them with eerie patience. Her malformed mouth never quite closed, yet her humming was soft and maternal.
"Sterling said I was drawing again today,"
Velys said after a while.
"Of course you are. You’re very clever."
Anne cooed.
"I drew you."
"Oh? And how did I look?"
She asked softly, eyes facing two slightly different directions, but fingers never stopping.
"Kind. But wrong."
Anne's hands paused in his feathers.
"Sometimes that’s the best we can be. Kind, even if wrong."
She murmured, continuing her touch.
The air around them stilled.
"You don’t belong here,"
She whispered so faintly he almost didn’t catch it.
"You never did. They made you forget."
Velys’s heart stuttered.
"What do you mean?"
She touched his forehead, her long nail brushing the space between his eyes.
"I'm sorry, love. I can't say more. They're listening. They always listen."
Her large mouth seemed to part, as if she wanted to say more. Her form retreated, her cross-eyes holding too much emotion.
She was carrying a burden alone.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He laid in bed, staring at the peeling ceiling tiles. The hum of fluorescent lighting never stopped. It echoed like the static in his mind.
He thought of Anne's words. Of Sterling's evasiveness.
He thought of the pills. Of how hungry he always was. Of how little he remembered.
He thought of himself. Or at least, what was left of him.
The next morning, the world was off.
Anne didn’t arrive at her usual time.
The other nurses were silent, buzzing like gnats through the hall. No one met his eyes.
"Where's Anne?"
He'd asked a passing attendant.
They didn't respond.
Only Sterling came, later, expression unreadable.
He sat in the chair by the bed and sighed.
"I have some unfortunate news."
Velys's feathers bristled.
He didn't like his tone, nor the lack of warmth in those dead eyes of Sterling's.
"Anne passed away last night."
Silence struck like a bell. She what?
"What?"
"She vas found in the lower levels. Near ze containment ving."
"Containment?"
Sterling nodded slowly. He seemed almost too empathetic. Sympathetic?
"Zey believe she vas trying to reach you."
"Why?"
Sterling stared at him. Those tired eyes, soft but endless. Velys did not like this. Not the tone, not the way this was going. Surely she was not dead.
"I'm sorry."
Velys could hardly breathe.
His stomach curled in on itself. Anne. Sweet Anne. Gone?
He didn't know why the tears came. He didn't remember enough to mourn someone properly. But the grief was real.
Sterling stood, his voice lower than usual.
"Zey say she vas trying to harm you. Zat she tampered vith your meds. Zat she vasn't what she seemed."
Sterling pressed his hand to his own skin, staring at the notepad in his hand.
"That's not true."
Sterling paused, his gaze drifting up to the feathered man.
"How do you know?"
"I just do,"
Velys whispered, and Sterling turned then, his hand resting briefly on Velys’s shoulder.
"Sometimes, memory lies. Especially here."
He gave Velys one last look.
Then,
"Ve'll begin new treatment soon. I’ll be vith you the whole way."
Description: A man wakes in a decaying asylum with no memory, surrounded by uncanny caretakers and sweet voices hiding sharp teeth. As he uncovers unsettling truths about his past and those around him, he must decide who to trust-- if anyone at all.
Prompt: Character wakes up in an asylum they don't recognize, with no memories of [time frame] (Thank you to yourwriterreads on Instagram)
Contents (current chapter): Angst, doctors, time/memory loss, memory loss, medication mentioned, slight body horror (vivid description), lack of comfort, described scent in detail
Note: This is an OC story, no fandom, just pure, raw story. And yes, that is him in Royale High. Yes, in my big, male age am I playing Royale High and using it for my stories.
Cold. That was the first sensation he felt, as if his frame was encased in a tomb of ice.
The sharp scent of antiseptic cleaners, bodily fluids, and a lingering, slightly unpleasant, odor from something, possibly a human.
He could only describe the scent as a "bitter" or "chemical" scent, with undertones of urine, fecal matter, and that peculiar odor.
What was this place? These white walls that surrounded him appeared too bright. There was no dim in the light to comfort this cold embrace. No warmth, only what felt to be a thin blanket covered his feathers and legs. Even that suffered from lack of comfort.
The warmth mainly seemed to be coming from his own body heat, covering his arms and chest.
What was the time? What was the day? The location? He had no real memory of what last happened, only the vague memories that would flit by like some image in a projector, a constant rate of sounds and what could possibly be not even his own.
"Breakfast!"
A voice called.
Who was this?
He had no memory of said person, just a blanked-out page where he once used to be, crowded into somebody else's body.
Yet somehow, it was close to being similar.
"Oh dear,"
She began, her voice dripping in sickly sweet honey,
"You poor thing. You look so disoriented."
A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties appeared in the frame. Her sharp, heart-shaped face held a smile that caused tension to coil in his spine, and his feathers to ruffle.
Or maybe he was just cold.
No, no. It wasn't the cold.
"I bring you green tea and biscuits on this superb morning."
She seemed to pause, watching the feathered man and how his eyes bore into her, taking in her every detail.
Her face was split, a gorging mass of a void where one might call a mouth, tongue hardly kept in. Teeth were spewn in multiple directions, each a different size. Her face was a gentle heart-shape, despite the horror. And her eyes, they did not seem to look in the same direction. How did she even manage to get here safely?
Even with her torn nurse outfit, she looked generally fine. Scrawny, spooky, even, but she looked collected. Her shoulders did not slouch, and her pale, worn-down shawl drew some comfort to her frightening appearance.
Overall, besides her mass of a mouth, she was a gentle looking lady.
"And your medication, dearie."
"Medication??"
There was a moment of panic. Why did this panic him? Why did he feel alarmed at medicine, of all things?
His feathered arms crossed over his stomach, gripping his sides as nausea overworked his empty systems.
It was only then he began to realize how truly starved he felt.
"Oh my,"
Her voice, like a coo, whispered to his aching form in a way that appeared to cloud his mind.
"Please do not fret. These are merely anxiety medication. It seems we should up the dosage..."
The cart rolled over, the slight squeak signaling to how truly old this place was.
The wallpaper looked as though it would begin peeling with any more time, the discoloration causing him discomfort.
The elderly woman stopped in front of him, setting down a metal tray that clinked as it hit the small wooden table she had propped up in front of his form.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
The question caused a look of sympathy to cross her features. The back of her hand touched his face wings, feeling the soft feathers against her old hand.
Her nails were long, fingers scrawny. Her frame was short, but she was far from cute.
But really, did he have room to judge? He himself didn't even look human.
"You poor thing. Your feathers are all twisted. I'll have Sterling come in and assist you after breakfast."
Silence. How many ticks? How many moments? He took his pills, ate his food, as instructed prior.
The food wasn't horrible. A little bland, but stomach able.
To comfort himself, his face wings continued to cover his face, only allowing for a very obstructed view. He did not remember his features enough to be self-conscious, but it allowed for him to not feel as vulnerable in this open facility of unknown beings.
Who was this Sterling, and why did he need help grooming himself? He was sure he could do basic tasks as such. So why?
The knock startled Velys from his thoughts as a young man peered in.
His skin was like that of porcelain; pale grey, smooth, and almost reflective. His black hair, with creme blonde on the side was slicked back, round glasses framing his face, and perched onto an arched nose.
His face looked exhausted, and his eyes seemed watching. All-knowing.
His outfit consisted of a lab coat, heavily oversized to his lean frame, maybe standing at about 5'7", and a black and red suit beneath it. It did not look conventional to typical hospital staff--
But who was he to judge, again, when he was the one who was admitted here? He could hardly remember what clothes anyone wore on an average day.
"Hallo,"
The voice was soft, almost uncertain,
"My name iz Sterling. You are Vel.."
He began, but his pronunciation was off. He had some kind foreign accent.
"Ah..do forgive me, Mr. Rippen. It iz Velys? Correct?"
Hands fumbled with paperwork, adjusting his glasses. Sterling.
Sterling Sterling Sterling.
The name could really roll off of his tongue.
"I believe so, yes. Can you tell me why I'm here? How I even got here?"
There was a pause in his movements. His eyes' waterline was droopy, causing for his appearance to appear so much more in a state of anguish. As if he also did not wish to be there.
Did anybody look normal here?
"Did you take your medication? Anne had said you panicked."
Those eyes were familiar. He wasn't sure how, but familiar. As though he knew them in another life, or had another encounter, another time to gaze into their dark pupils.
He didn't know what was normal here anymore. Not his name, not himself. He forgot what he even looked like, at this rate.
Sterling's smile seemed genuine. The only real thing he managed to grasp from this odd reality.
"Yeah. After I ate."
"Very good, Mr. Rippen. Vas the food complimentary?"
Despite his desire to crack back, to be snappy, he just couldn't stomach being crude to the only potential friend he had in this place.
"Yeah. Could use salt, though."
Sterling laughed at the remark, jotting down what Velys said.
His smile remained, even after his short burst of laughter.
"You're a funny man."
Though his face deemed his sentence genuine, his tone was flat.
"In twenty minutes, you vill be required to shower. You vill be provided vith shampoo, body wash, conditioner, und a rag."
He felt scrutinized, objectified, almost over such a small thing. Each thing so far, he had was controlled by somebody else. His food, his medication, even his washing items were given in controlled amounts.
@azazelsyn
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