There are so many fantastic authors in this bonkers fandom, I absolutely love it. Here are my current favorite Grace/Rocky fics, in no particular order, organized by non-explicit/explicit.
Non-explicit
approach the asymptote (finished, rated T) by lizardhands (@szczyrkowa): The yearning is off the charts. Incredible Rocky POV. Love what this fic does with language and music (and kissing).
you weren't there that day for the Naming of Things (finished, rated T) by callmearcturus: Why is Rocky being so cagey about what he named Grace? Well… it’s embarrassing. But not in the way you think. Excellent ideas about Eridian language, featuring Grace getting adaptive hearing aids. The ending almost made me cry, which is HARD to do.
phenomenal nominal nothing (finished, rated M) by @grimark: Handfeeding meburgers to your human as a metaphor for love. Heartwrenching and fucked up Rocky POV. Nothing overtly sexual happens but somehow it’s still FILTHY.
i want us both to eat well (finished, rated G) by @peglarpapers: How much would Rocky be willing to sacrifice to keep Grace by his side? A hell of a lot. This fic also explores cultural differences vis a vis cannibalism. Incredible.
rocky holds it (finished, rated M) by @landsat9: Yep, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Had me wheezing with laughter.
better than your best (finished, rated T) by Goldmonger: Deeply affecting portrayal of the aftermath of Rocky’s trauma.
Teacher Grace’s Earth Human Romance (finished, rated G) by ketonebodies: Three of the Eridian kids in Grace’s class write an epic RPF together about their favorite teacher. Hints of worldbuilding and angst make the goofy humor even better.
Explicit
The Right Hand of Light (finished, rated E) by @doomedblade: Some of the best Eridian worldbuilding I’ve seen. Grace and Rocky love each other and are insane about it. Also probably the first ever use of the tag “Erotic carapace moulting” on Ao3. Groundbreaking.
Co-Valence (finished, rated M) by minimalistless: One of the best “Grace confesses to Rocky that he said ‘no’ to the mission” fics out there. Really interesting thoughts on Eridian conceptions of consent, as well as Eridian courtship. Only in the “explicit” category for a brief scene near the end.
It Is Imperative That The Cylinder Remains Unharmed (finished, rated E) by @startingatmidnight: When Grace’s “cylinder” gets into a predicament, his internal monologue predictably takes the form of Reddit posts. Hilarious.
i’m your man (finished, rated E) by spqr (@andthepeople) : How does one of the most tender, loving sex scenes in this fandom involve a belt sander?? Insane and amazing.
/r/HumanEridianRoleplay (ongoing, rated E) by @doomedblade: If Grace and Rocky hadn’t met on a high-stakes planet-saving space mission, they probably would have met through horrible erotic Reddit roleplay. They are both terrible in this and they’re perfect for each other. I’m obsessed.
Settled (ongoing, rated E) by @gravidowl: Rocky does some culinary experimentation on Erid to help save Grace from starvation and malnutrition. Grace goes absolutely wild for the results and Rocky has Feelings about it.
I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road (ongoing, rated E) by Moonshine_Dan (@synthyk): Amazing Rocky POV fic about meeting Grace that really leans into how long Rocky’s been alone in the torment nexus and how messed up he is both mentally and physically. I’m so seated.
hey can i request a story where reader comes across a newborn gnoll and discovers it has an appetite for something other then flesh ;)
Request2: I think people are sleeping on gnolls. They've got the ferocity thing of werewolves, a pack structure that encourages sharing, they're matriarchal so there's lots of wlw/femdom potential, and the females have a pseudo-penis they can use for penetration!
A/N: I wrote this to be f/f but when I re-read it I realized it could also be gn, so here. Enjoy!
Hunger for you
Gnolls x gn!reader || heat (implied), oral sex, rough sex
When you first saw her, you were on your way to the grocery store and she was wiping tables at the local restaurant. Your eyes met for half a second, and in that tiny slip of time, something inside of you snapped. And by the looks of it, she also felt it.
She stared at you intensely. For so long that you could feel her eyes burning holes in your back while you walked away, confused by the sudden emotions brewing inside of you. Your hole was clenching, you felt hot all over, and your arousal was shimmering at low for the rest of your trip to the shop.
When you walked back, she was resting her back on the brick wall outside the restaurant, her big body looking incredibly imposing. And once again, when your eyes met, your body warmed to the point that your clothes felt suffocating. You tried to rush, your steps further and further apart, faster and faster until you were almost running. You were so focused on getting home that you barely registered a voice calling your name. How did she know your name? You couldn’t care about that, you needed to get into your house so you could get some kind of relief to your growing arousal. What was wrong with you?
The second you opened your door, a big paw appeared next to your head, pushing it open and helping you inside. You were panting, literally panting, and your hole was clenching painfully over nothing. The only word that left your mouth was a soft plea, and she acted in seconds.
Your clothes flew through the air, her words explaining how you were going through something called a heat, but your brain was too scattered to focus on her words. You stared at her paws groping your body, focusing on the way her long tongue was exploring your neck and moaning your name. You could barely think straight on a normal day, but right now, with a strong gnoll in front of you shredding her clothes? You were done for.
Your vocabulary reduced to “please” and “hurry”, and her claws methodically talking all the clothes off your body before they found your hole. She cursed so loud it rang in your ears, and you rolled your hips, asking for more and more. You were still in the middle of your living room, but who cared when you were so fucking horny you felt like burning.
The gnoll in front of you helped you to your back, the cold tiles feeling incredible against your overheated skin. Her voice got reduced to a husky growl against your neck, and you were desperate for more, curling your legs around her middle and letting out a gasp when you felt her pseudo-penis rubbing your hypersensitive hole.
Luckily for you, she seemed as desperate as you, so it didn’t take long for her to be right where you wanted her most. Her pseudo-penis at your entrance, her long tongue against your neck, and her hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew those were going to bruise. Your brain melted into pleasure at the mere thought of being marked by her.
You’d never needed anything with such intensity before. And you were ready, even if you weren’t sure for what. She could do whatever she wanted to you, and you’d be thankful. “This is going to be rough,” she whispered against your skin and you nodded frantically. Wanting it. Needing it.
After that, everything felt like a blur of bodies, pseudo-penis, and you were feeling better than you ever had. Your bodies dance to a tune never heard before while she fucked into you like her life depended on it. Yours surely did.
Between her “I didn’t know humans could be so delightful” and “your hole belongs to me, now”, you couldn’t catch a breath. Her filthy words and even filthier movements in and out of your hole were like kryptonite to your fried nerves. You wanted it all. You needed it all. Your whole universe was focused on the point where she was fucking into you.
And when your orgasm approached, it was like a collision of galaxies creating an expansive wave that threw your own thoughts out of your brain. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t. You moaned, or maybe you remained silent. Your body was not your own when the only thing you could feel was blinding pleasure while your body shook under hers. She continued fucking you through it, and by the time you came back into your senses, she was roaring over you, her head thrown back and her claws pinching your sides when she came undone on top of you.
She fell to the side not to crush you under her weight. A vague memory of what they said about gnolls filtered through your incoherent thoughts. They ate their sex partners. They finished with them and then they ate them. She was breathing hard next to you, but his fangs looked incredibly big in the low light of your living room. A spark of fear ignited inside of you, and she looked to the side, her eyes fixated on your face. She arched an eyebrow, a clear question left in the air between you.
After a beat of silence you couldn’t hold yourself back. “Is that- They say-” You voice was breathless, trying to explain to her why your heartbeat was going crazy. “Are you going to eat me now?” You finally let out, too fucked out to be really scared, but the spark of fear still shimmering inside of you.
“I’m definitely hungry for some flesh,” she growled next to your ear, and you let out an undignified squeal when her rough paws found your hips and she lowered her face until she was close to your neck. She nibbled at the tendon there, sending mixed signals of fear and desire through your body. “I’m going to devour you,” she lets out in a low tone that is nothing but sexy.
In a movement so fast you barely caught it with your human eyes, she was between your legs, and his way too long tongue was pushing into your hole. The scream that left your mouth was so loud you were pretty sure your neighbors were going to call the police. But the heat of her tongue was so good inside of you that you didn’t care if you ended up in prison for noise complaints. Fuck it.
Okay, so you all know last year around this time my life started going to shit. I had three dogs pass away, I hydroplaned into a house, and my ex blamed me for everything wrong in their life and broke up with me on my birthday. And most of those happened in the same week. So this year I have been trying to make this month memorable. I just got back from an amazing vacation with my best friend, I’m going to be hanging out with my discord server the night before my bday, and I’m treating myself a little since last year my ex convinced me we should save for something important (ha ha). Anyways, if anyone wants, I have my wishlist set up, and I love receiving cards and messages. So please, help me celebrate turning 37, because I deserve to celebrate myself a little bit.
Ever think of doing one with an analog horror monster? Maybe the reader is urban exploring with a person who are disrespectful to the area. They do it for content while she is just understanding the history of the place. They get spooked in the place, and chased only for the guy to trip her while filming. Leaving her alone with the creature?
A/N: I'm gonna go with monster POV for this one because I think it would be fun! But also as a disclaimer, I don't know much about horror bc I get scared very easily, so here's my take on that. Enjoy!
What lurks in the shadows
Unidentified monster x fem!reader || sfw
There are humans in the territory. He's been following them for the past couple of hours, clenching his teeth not to kill them both. The man is an asshole, he can say as much while he walks behind you, the pretty one with careful fingers and even more careful steps. The man deserves to die, he's only stepping down because you are not that bad. Neither of you should be there, but at least you aren't being rude and inconsiderate like the asshole is.
But when he sees the asshole with the camera kicking some of the ritual stones in the ground, he's had enough. The growl that leaves his mouth scares you both, turning in his direction and probably only seeing his imposing shadow on the wall. The screech you let out fills him with dread, but the way the man screams and smells of pee? He takes pride in it. He chases after both of you, following close behind but never close enough to touch you.
And then the asshole trips you, running ahead and leaving you there to fend for yourself.
His first instincts are to chase after him, killing him for being rude and clearly evil, but then your scent hits his nose and he stops. You are shivering, trembling like a leaf in front of him as he approaches very slowly, not trying to frighten you further. You look so nice right there, all soft and scared... His instincts to kill the other asshole grow, but he focuses on you first.
You look up at him with scared eyes, and tells you "It's nice to finally meet you, little human," as soft as possible.
It doesn't work. You faint right in front of him and he barely catches you before you hit the floor again.
Tentacle week. Day 4. Forest entity: the reappearance
A/N: This is for the ones who have been here for a long time. You can find part 1 here and part 2 here.
Forest entity x fem!reader || tentacles (vines), bondage, edging, double penetration, squirting, anal sex
“We find each other again, human…” The voice behind of you didn’t startle you this time. You were expecting him.
You came looking for him, and thanks to the compass he gifted you last time, it didn’t take long for you to find him. He was deep in the forest, resting against some flowers and looking otherworldly. He was so beautiful in such an alien way, you almost choked because of how you were holding your breath. He turned around and his inhuman eyes met yours, making you shiver in the process.
Fuck, you were already wet and he didn’t even approach you. He barely moved and you were more than ready to be taken. To make an offering to the forest as he said last time. You would offer all of you if he wanted. You would give him your everything if he kept fucking you dumb like the other two times.
He stood up, his tall brown frame looking like a god. “Did you come to make an offering again, human?” He asked, head crooked to the side and eye inquisitive as he stared you up and down.
...
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A massive bundle of 12 collections, most have epub and pdf files. Tons of stories, hundreds if not thousands of pages of monster romance! But it's only for a limited time. Get it by July 23rd, then these collections will be gone.
I have a ton of stories that aren't posted to the public. And to tempt you to the patreon, I wanted to share!
Female Reader x Male Monster Slasher x Stalker x Dark Romance x Plot Twist There’s someone, something in my house. I’m not sure what, but I
A young woman buys a house! But something is living in her walls.
Female Reader x Male Monster Fairy Tale Retelling x SFW x Moody x I Hate Everyone But You “What else is there?” That’s it, the four words
To escape a political marriage a princess goes to hide in the woods. A take on the Donkeyskin fairy tale.
Female Reader x Male Monster Number One Fan x Luchadors x Love At First Sight x Sweethearts For as long as I could remember, I have loved wr
Jody is a ballet teacher in Hearthway Hollow whose most favorite thing is Luchador wrestling. She goes to a special event where her favorite luchador El Suave Conejo is returning. (There are three parts!)
Female Main Character x Male Monster Shared Dreams x Past Trauma x Bonded x Teacher/Student Vermidias has a disgusted look upon his face as
Ratchet has formed a bond with the warlock Vermidias promising to free him for her own magic abilities. (Another Three parter)
Letters arrived for her on the dot, exactly at the same time twice a month. Every two weeks, a thick envelope of letters was bursting at the
The start of a novella! The Princess and the Halfling is about Wilimar, an orphaned halfling who is in love with Princess Syllia, who is half elf. Having both grown up under the tutelage of the witch Isidor. Syllia's family comes together for a wedding where a strange familial curse is revealed.
tea party - reader x sandrone x columbina x signora x arlecchino (6.2k)
signora has sent for a maid to bring tea to her and the other lady harbingers in sandrone's chambers. she's very pleased to see that they've done as she asked, and sent them a pretty one.
cw: power imbalance, bordering on dub-con although reader enjoys it. voyeurism, stripping, being on display, fingering, squirting, cunnilingus (both giving and receiving), pet names, kissing between reader and harbingers and between various harbingers themselves. reader has a vagina and wears a maid uniform.
that fatui lady slumber party really got me guys. i'm gay.
You balance the tea tray carefully in your hands, steam curling from the spout of the teapot and coalescing in the air like breath on a winter’s night. You’ve never been tasked with this particular duty before, but the Fatui grunt who had seen you downstairs had grinned widely as if he’d come across a jackpot when he’d laid eyes on you, and before you knew it you were being laden down with the tray and all of its accessories and sent upwards towards Lady Sandrone’s chambers with teacups for four.
Ordinarily, your work does not put you in the direct line of the Harbingers. You’re more of the downstairs kind; the neat little maid who peeps into bedrooms only when they’re empty, to dust mantelpieces and clear the ashes of fireplaces and make the beds so that the inhabitants of Zapolyarny Palace find their abode in perfect condition no matter when they return to it. In the rare cases that somebody does enter a room whilst you’re working, you’re to stand in front of the nearest wall and avert your eyes until they’ve passed, or until you can find a suitable moment to back out of the space and leave them to their business. Whatever that is.
One doesn’t get very far in this line of work if they’re too interested in what goes on behind closed doors here.
Speaking of closed doors: you have drawn to a stop before Lady Sandrone’s chamber door, the tea tray in hand. A brief frisson of fear goes through you: you are not used to being looked at. You are not used to having the eyes of your betters upon you. You try to resist the urge to pat your hair and pull at your clothes to make sure that you’re presentable: you’re certain they won’t give you more than a moment’s notice.
You’re simply furniture to them, you remind yourself, as you balance the tray carefully on one hand in order to give a sharp tap upon the door. A low, amused voice comes from within that most certainly does not belong to Lady Sandrone.
“Come in.”
Of course they do not get the door for you; that would make things far too easy. They probably have not even thought that you might struggle to do so: servants are furniture, after all. You carefully use your elbow to press down the door handle and your shoulder to push it open, thankful that they have at least thought to kept the door unlocked. You slowly enter the room, the teapot and the teacups on their heavy silver tray held before you like it is a sacrifice to them.
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do your breath catches in your throat at the sight of the four beautiful Fatui Harbinger women before you.
“Oh!” Lady Columbina – you recognise her, the ethereal woman with the mask over her eyes. “Our tea!”
They’re dressed as casually as you’ve ever seen; whenever the newspapers or magazines print images of Harbingers, they’re always draped in furs and silks, proud faces staring from the pages. But here, in Lady Sandrone’s rooms, they are dressed down as if ready to sleep. The Fair Lady reclines on a sofa in a ruffled nightgown. Lord Arlecchino wears slippers and a shirt open low in the chest. Lady Sandrone and Lady Columbina wear comfortable nightgowns – frilled and embroidered, naturally, and far more expensive than anything you’ve owned in your life, but undoubtedly nightwear all the same.
You try to bob into a curtsey and almost spill the tea, your cheeks going hot at the feeling of being looked at by all of them. Their attention focuses in upon you: far more than they would a piece of furniture.
“Oh,” purrs the Fair Lady, stretching out on the sofa like a cat before she pushes herself up. “Good. They sent a pretty one, like I asked.”
She moves towards you with purpose, with a leonine kind of grace that makes your heart beat too fast in your chest. The neckline of her nightgown hangs off her shoulder, and you’re struck suddenly by how much taller she is than you. How much this feels like a cat playing with a mouse.
“M-may I put the tray down and leave you in peace, My Lady?” You ask, your voice coming out in a nervous warble – and from the armchair in the room, a lower voice gives a satiny chuckle.
“You’re scaring them, Rosalyne,” says the Knave, and you see that despite her words she has a mild smile on her face. Lady Sandrone scowls.
“Put it down then,” she says. “Come into the room and let us look at you.”
“My . . . My Lord Harbingers--”
An impatient click of Sandrone’s tongue.
“We don’t have all day, you know,” she says, waspish. You’ve heard of Lady Sandrone having an awkward demeanour and a temper that’s quick to fire – you suppose they’re right. Still. You do not want to be getting on the wrong side of any Harbinger. You think helplessly of the tasks you haven’t yet gotten to (the windowsills are supposed to be dusted down, the grand table laid for supper) – but you’ve been witness to too many conversations about how the Harbingers treat those who displease them then to want to find yourself amongst those ranks.
Awkwardly, you bob another curtsey as you walk into the room proper. Signora gives a satisfied hum, and you just about manage to stop yourself from jumping in alarm when the door slams shut behind you and you hear the unmistakeable click of a key turning in the lock.
You place the tea tray upon the low table in the room. You’re grateful to see that not a drop of it has spilt. At least you can be certain of one thing amongst all of this strangeness.
You fist your hands in your apron, horribly aware of how it feels to have so many people’s eyes (although you’re not sure if you can truly consider the Damselette to be ‘looking’ at you) upon your form when you’re so used to being an invisible member of the masses. Signora walks back into the centre of the room, taking her place on the sofa once more although not lying prone upon it again. Instead, she leans forward slightly, interest colouring the one visible eye.
“Come here,” says the Knave, curling her fingers toward you and motioning to the spot in front of her chair. The Damselette has drifted towards the three other Harbingers and you now, taking a seat on the floor on her knees. There’s a faint smile on her face, too. Your cheeks still hot, you follow the instructions as a servant is supposed to, and find yourself stood before the woman. “Turn around and face the others,” she says, her voice still quiet and calm, strangely comforting in this unusual situation. You swallow audibly, but do as she says.
“My . . . Ladies?” You hazard, aloud, but your words are stopped in the air as quickly as they come when Arlecchino places her hands consideringly upon your hips, her fingers curling into the soft flesh there.
“Very nice,” says Signora, appreciatively. Sandrone makes a soft harrumph.
“They’ll do, I suppose,” she says, as Columbina stands from her position and practically floats over to Marionette. That faint smile on her face does not budge an inch, as she lays a hand on Sandrone’s shoulder and gives her own nod of assent, humming out a snatch of melody. A faint flush rises in Sandrone’s cheeks.
“D-do for what?” You ask, your voice coming out quiet and warbling in the room, which suddenly seems to have gotten ten times hotter than before. Arlecchino laughs softly, her hands curving down over your hips, lower and lower beneath the apron and the skirt of your uniform, until they alight on bare thigh. You let out a surprised cry, realise what you’re doing, and try to stop the cry in its tracks by biting into your lower lip.
“Oh,” Signora practically coos, and now she’s standing too, walking towards you with a sultry sway in her hips. You hadn’t realised just how tall she was before, but your eyeline is roughly around her generous chest before she leans down towards you and uses one finger to tilt your chin up to look her in the eye. “Absolutely adorable. I think I’ll allow myself the pleasure of being first.”
“First--?”
Your words are stopped by Signora’s hand wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you in for a kiss that feels like it burns down to your bones.
There’s a cry of complaint from across the room that you think comes from Sandrone, but you can’t concentrate with the Fair Lady’s mouth pressed against yours, soft and cool and full. Her tongue laps across the seam of your lips, and in surprise you open them and she takes the opening and slips it into your mouth. Arlecchino’s hands on your thighs move to grip, holding you in place – but her fingertips come far too close to the place between your legs, and panic alights like a dull flashing light in your brain.
Your gasp is swallowed up by the kiss you’ve found yourself in, though, and so you’re helpless to do anything other than let yourself be anchored in place and let Signora plunder your mouth hungrily.
After another long moment, another sweep of her tongue, she pulls back from you with a satisfied sigh and a wet pop. She regards you with a smile from beneath her half-closed eyelid.
“Oh, but you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? Arlecchino, you ought to kiss them too, seeing as you helped so much . . .”
“These are my chambers--” Sandrone’s outraged voice seems to rise in pitch, but Signora turns and holds a finger up to the incensed other Harbinger. Columbina keeps her hand where it is, even as Sandrone seems to burn with the indignation of it.
“Watch. If anyone can work them over, it will be our Knave. You know what an effect Lord Arlecchino has on the . . . timid ones.”
You don’t know quite what you expect, but you don’t expect the tug backwards on your thighs until you find yourself pulled onto Arlecchino’s lap, all ungainly frills and aprons and lace and stockings. Your face is so hot you fear you could fry an egg on it, but you’re too scrambled by everything going on to say anything, as much as you want to babble out your apologies and run for the door.
Arlecchino, though, seems to know exactly what to do – she pulls you closer against her, rearranges your uniform, and then you find yourself sitting on her lap with your back to her front, your legs bracketing one of her solid thighs.
“Poor thing,” Arlecchino murmurs into your ear, her voice soft and low and soothing. “You’re not used to being looked at, are you? Don’t worry. You’re very easy on the eye.”
You want to protest against that, but Arlecchino has reached between you both and you give a squeak of surprise as your apron falls to the floor, untied by one clever hand.
“You don’t need all of this in front of us,” Arlecchino continues. “It’s easier if we take it off, isn’t it? Ah. The dress too, I think--” The soft clink clink clink of the hooks and eyes of your dress being removed, and this garment is pulled over your head and you cry out aloud as you’re left in just your underwear in front of all four of the Harbingers. “There we are. Oh, you are pretty.”
The Damselette, never one for traditional manners, removes her hand from Sandrone’s shoulder to walk over to you – even with her eyes covered, you can sense her interest, and she hums in the back of her throat as she runs a hand over your collarbone, dipping to the line of your chest through your thin brassiere. When your nipples harden at the brush of her palm, she lets out a soft, musical laugh.
“Columbina,” says Signora, surprisingly gentle, and she pulls back, but still hovers closer than she has been before. You have the unnatural sense of being watched, far closer and more intensely by Columbina than she was when she was by the Marionette. Sandrone, for her part, does not seem to want to be left behind, and she stands too so that the three of them bracket you in, a loose half-circle around where Arlecchino has you straddling her thigh. The Knave gives a little chuckle.
“See?” Arlecchino murmurs. “They can’t resist. Shall we give them a show?”
“I don’t . . . understand . . .” Your voice is a helpless thing, when you can feel the pleasant curls of heat low in your belly that remind you of how lovely you find every lady Harbinger, how enjoyable it is to be viewed as something pretty. Arlecchino’s hand brushes lower, lower, over the soft curve of your stomach and onto the plain cotton of your underwear.
“Shh,” she murmurs in response. “I won’t hurt you. None of us will. At least . . . not in any way you won’t enjoy.”
A rush of heat; those dark-tipped fingers, so much like claws, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. You let out a heated gasp as they stroke over your pubic mound and then lower, lower, slipping between the plump lips of your sex to the slick heat between.
“Speak for yourself,” Signora says, her voice husky. “I think that something that’s been hiding their loveliness from us for so long deserves a touch of punishment. Perhaps a spanking?”
You practically quiver under the idle threat combined with Arlecchino’s fingers, as they continue to slide between your thighs and map out the length of your slit. You’re aware of just how hot you are; the warmth and the wetness all at once making you feel dizzy. And the thought of being spanked--
“I said that they wouldn’t enjoy,” Arlecchino says mildly. “Judging by how they feel here . . .” Arlecchino punctuates her sentence with the briefest brush of fingers over the swollen button of your clit, “that’s not something they’re entirely against.”
“Take off their underwear,” Sandrone orders, imperious. “I can’t see.”
“My Lord Arlecchino--”
The Knave presses a kiss to the side of your head and you go all-over useless, your limbs melting under the brief moment of affection. It is so difficult to find anyone who is truly thankful to you in your line of work – anybody who really appreciates what you do. Would it be so bad, to let yourself be used by these women who already seem so much more appreciative of your presence than you’ve encountered in months?”
“I think we can oblige, don’t you?” She asks, her voice very warm and low like liquid honey, and you find yourself nodding in agreement as if hypnotised – letting her urge you onto your feet for a moment, off her thigh, in order to pull the sodden garment down your thighs and off your legs and onto the floor. “This too, I think--” And then you are divested, too, of your brassiere, your nipples standing to stiff attention in the room before them all. Tight coils of embarrassment mixed with arousal seem to keep them hard, noticeable to every woman in the room. Signora practically coos to see you standing there like this.
You dither for a moment, but are quickly pulled back onto Arlecchino’s lap – albeit in an entirely different position to the one you were in before.
Your thighs spread wide, your feet hooked behind her ankles, your back pressing against Arlecchino with one arm wrapped around your waist. In this position, there is no shying away – your thighs are forced wide, the lips of your sex open and displaying your clit and your entrance and just how wet you’ve allowed yourself to get from Arlecchino’s touch. Your chest heaving in soft little pants.
“There,” Arlecchino says, with more than a touch of the smugness about her – and then she reaches between your legs, delving between your thighs, and uses two finger to spread your lower lips even further apart. “My. Messy little thing.”
Columbina tilts her head to the side and then says, in her soft, strange, musical voice;
“I can help.”
You don’t realise exactly what she’s going to do until she’s before you, and her fingers are brushing along your thighs with the most feather light of touches, and then she is sinking onto her knees. You almost buck against Arlecchino in alarm as you feel surprisingly cool breath against your heated sex, but the woman has you in too strong a grip to do anything but squirm a little.
“Don’t,” Columbina says, voice lilting. “Don’t worry. You just seem like you need to relax. I think you could do with some help.”
You don’t think this is one of the usual ways that a superior – for that is what every woman in this room is to you – helps a servant relax, but you find yourself unable to say much to that effect as Columbina leans in and you feel the cool, wet muscle of a tongue flick teasingly out to taste you.
You suck in a ragged breath, your mind warring with your body about everything that is currently happening to you. You cannot deny that Columbina’s tongue against your most private and intimate parts feels good; you should know, from her singing, that she is entirely aware of just how to use her tongue. And yet it does come as a surprise – just how much she takes to working that same tongue over you, the delicate flick of the tip against your clit, the sensation of her dragging the flat of it down the length of you.
The way she doesn’t seem to mind that your arousal is wetting her cheeks; the fact she keeps making soft little hums of pleasure as she does it. Despite the blindfold covering her eyes, it’s as if she knows every one of your weakest spots – every sensitive little nerve that has your body feeling like tiny jolts of electricity are ricocheting all over your skin.
Arlecchino’s breath hitches in her throat, too, as she watches Columbina’s head between your thighs. You cannot imagine what you look like to the assembled throng; all in disarray over one of superior’s lap with another of them between your legs, Arlecchino’s fingers still lewdly spreading you open so you can’t even try to get away from the exploring tongue.
She doesn’t go at it with aplomb; she takes her time lapping at you, as if you’re some new flavour she wants to take the time to enjoy. But your body does not agree with the idea of taking time, and you feel the way that hot curls of want seem to keep curling inside of you. Helplessly, you reach for the arms of the armchair you’re spread over, digging your fingers into the plush upholstery.
“Columbina,” comes a petulant voice, and you look up to see that Sandrone is staring at you both with her lip twisted to one side, as if she’s considering whether or not she wants to get involved in this – but despite that, her hands are fisted in her dress and there’s a layer atop her words, a kind of breathlessness you didn’t realise an artificial body could create, that suggests she’s being rather flustered by the show. “If you go at it like that, you’ll never achieve any results!”
Columbina’s mouth pulls off your sex with a luridly wet pop, and you go hot again to see the way her delicate tongue flicks out to clean the wet droplets of your arousal still painting her lips.
“Oh?” Columbina asks, with only the slightest tilt of her head and a smile still on her face. “Isn’t the process just as enjoyable?”
Sandrone huffs out a noise of outrage and frustation.
“Of course you would think that,” she seethes, and she, too, moves towards you. She nudges Columbina aside with her foot and – much to your surprise – sinks down to join her on her knees. She takes a moment to look at you (and oh, you’re so terribly aware of the way Arlecchino is spreading your sex apart, so that she can see exactly how wet you are, exactly how it feels as though your clit is pulsing under the scrutiny).
“Sandrone,” Arlecchino says, and though her voice is mild there’s something that’s almost a warning – Sandrone looks at you again, and rolls her eyes.
“Alright,” she says, with a sigh. “I won’t hurt either. I just want to show our Moon Maiden how she should have gone about it if she wanted to get results—”
You let out a faltering noise as Sandrone, business-like and ruthless, runs her finger down your slit. Making a pleased little noise at how wet she finds you, she rotates her wrist slightly, so that she can press a finger against your entrance and gently circle her thumb around the pulsing button of your clit. And then, with no more fanfare, she slides that finger inside of you.
You jerk, unused to the intrustion – but Sandrone clicks her tongue and Arlecchino makes a soft soothing noise against your ear and keeps you anchored against her.
“Don’t mind our Lady Sandrone,” she says, whisper-quiet like a secret. “She gets rather invested in her projects – if anything, you should feel honoured she’s finding you worthy of her attention.”
“That’s right,” Sandrone says, looking up, as she crooks her finger inside of you, testing the way you feel around her. Her thumb doesn’t stop the maddening circle of your clit. “You should thank me, I think!” She pulls the finger out and pumps it once or twice, in and out of you, before she puts another finger against your entrance and looks up at you expectantly.
Your mind feels like a mess of wires, all tangled up. You can’t deny that the feel of something inside of you is intoxicating; that Sandrone knows what she’s doing with the inexorable rotation of her thumb, that Columbina’s exploratory tongue has stoked a fire in you that you can’t ignore. But it still takes you a minute to puzzle around it, to let your own heavy tongue reply to the request for gratitude.
“Th-thank you, My Lady . . .?” You hazard, and Signora laughs. Everybody in the room must be able to hear how flustered you are and how out of it all of this attention is making you feel. You, too, can hear the breathiness in your words, the thickness in your throat – and as Sandrone slides her second finger inside of you, you release a whining, stuttering moan.
There’s the slightest stretch, of course – but there’s also a feeling of fullness that you’re entirely unfamiliar with, a kind of slight sting that makes you want to roll your eyes back in your head. Sandrone gives a little pleased ‘hmph’, before she once again sets to working those fingers in annd out of you, pumping slowly, mimicking the movements that you’d one day thought a man might do to you--
You would never have once imagined this particular situation. Even in the midst of it all, you can barely believe it’s happening – all four of these beautiful women, all so focused on you, on the noises you’re making and the reactions you’re giving them . . . Sandrone crooks her fingers inside of you again in a come-hither motion, and somehow it seems as though she brushes against some kind of switch in the hot, tight channel of your sex and you moan, louder and more wanton than any noise you’ve ever heard yourself make.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” Sandrone admonishes you, but there’s a smug pride in her voice as she continues to mercilessly work that new spot inside of you, forcing more shockwaves of pleasure forward. It’s . . . overwhelming, in the most primal of ways. To have Sandrone do this for you, her fingers curling and pumping, her thumb working over your clit now with more pressure. You can feel the muscles in your thighs jumping, your toes curling helplessly, your shoulders shaking.
“Don’t worry,” says Signora, and you can hear her smile even as your lashes flutter. “You can be as loud as you want, sweet thing. The rest of us don’t mind hearing you at all.”
A click of Sandrone’s tongue, but she doesn’t sound all that angry – she’s far too busy being pleased with herself, as helpless little whines and whimpers keep escaping from your mouth. The slick sound of her fingers pumping into you embarrasses you and thrills you all at the same time, and that feeling does nothing to quell the excitement you feel building up in you.
“That’s right,” Arlecchino coos. “Let go.”
“So soon?” Sandrone asks, but then she lets out a laugh and she seems to increase her speed to a point that almost seems inhuman, more machine than anything else – and that feeling you’ve felt building in you, that ball of heat and wanting, that need to do something without the knowledge of what it is . . . that all escapes you, all at once, and you come under Sandrone’s clever fingers.
Oh.
You do more than come.
Something about where she’s been stroking you and the pressure and the speed all comes together, and you feel something else inside of you break – and you feel a gush, fluid spilling forth from you, onto Sandrone’s fingers and onto Arlecchino’s lap and onto your own inner thighs.
You barely notice all of that, though. Far more pressing is the way that your orgasm seems to explode into being, the fireworks, the way it feels your body is being disassembled and then being put back together. Your thighs shake – and your mouth is moaning, whimpering, helplessly making noises into the heated air.
She carries on through your orgasm, though she does at least have the decency to slow down, to help you over the peaks of your release with stroking, gentler fingers. She waits for your breath to almost even out, before she slowly, slowly pulls her fingers out of you.
She looks down at those fingers and shakes her head, making a click of displeasure with her tongue.
“You’ve made a mess,” she tells you, as smug as before – but then Signora laughs from her place.
“Then have the sweet little thing clean you up,” she says, and a hot flush climbs up the back of your neck – but Sandrone smiles sweetly and stands up and then places her fingers in front of your lips, wet and glistening with your ow slick.
“With your tongue,” Sandrone says. “Be good, now.”
You’re hesitant as you do it – but you do it even so, almost enjoying the thrill of how corrupt it makes you feel, to move your head forward and envelope Sandrone’s fingers within the warm, wet cave of your mouth. She’s clearly not expecting you to be so eager about it, either – when she feels your tongue hesitantly probing against the finger joints, she lets out a shaky breath as she waits for you to finish.
She pulls her hand back and tries to gather up her poise again, and with a little sniff she says;
“Well. I suppose . . . that was very nice.”
Columbina laughs, and then the Damselette is at Sandrone’s shoulder again, placing her delicate hand upon the other Harbinger’s own and pulling her back. As they retreat a little further into the room, you swear you see Columbina press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Sandrone’s mouth--
“Oh my,” says Signora, smiling at you. “It seems I didn’t get to go first after all. What a terrible pity.” Her uncovered eye gleams. “Still – I suppose that it means I get to do something a little different. After all – you’ve gotten to come, haven’t you? Been happy to be the receiver? I daresay it’s about time for you to try giving.”
“My lady?” You warble, unsure of what she means – but Arlecchino makes a noise of agreement, and she lets her arm around your waist ease off and gently assists you to stand on shaky legs, like a fawn taking its first steps.
Signora laughs.
“Oh, how cute.” She turns and walks purposely towards the sofa, where she comfortably settles herself – and then she takes the hem of her nightgown in her elegant fingers and pulls it up around her waist, bunching up the fabric behind her so that her legs and her thighs and the tempting golden pale hair at the vee of those thighs is revealed. She heaves a soft sigh and pleasure and then, stretching like a cat, parts her thighs so that you can see her own sex between them, pink and glistening in the firelight. “Look what you’ve done to me. The least you could do is come and do something about it.”
“H-how, My Lady?” You whisper, though your mouth has gone dry at the sight of her, so beautiful and statuesque and entirely at ease. Signora laughs aloud once more.
“Why, Columbina’s already done it for you and you don’t have an inkling at all of what I might want you to do with your pretty mouth?”
You take back what you thought about your mouth going dry before – because now it is a Sumeru desert.
“I . . . you would allow me to do that?” You whisper, and Arlecchino stands too. She places a gentle hand in the middle of your lower back and pushes you forward.
“Oh, sweetness,” Signora purrs. “I’d be getting even more out of it. Think of it as . . . repayment for me having the forethought to summon such a pretty maid to the tea party. Come get on your knees for me, hmm?”
You don’t know if you would have been able to do it – to gather up enough courage to walk over there and dare to put your mouth upon a Harbinger – if it hadn’t been for Arlecchino, walking with you. She gently pushes down on your shoulder once you’re there, and as you sink to your knees she takes a seat beside Signora, pulling the other woman’s thigh onto her lap.
Signora makes a soft noise of pleasure not unlike a cat’s, and then wraps her hand around the back of Arlecchino’s head to pull her into a kiss that makes your heart hammer in your chest, it’s so full of sensuality and hunger. Arlecchino kisses her back, hungry for the other woman’s mouth, her teeth tugging at the plump fullness of Signora’s bottom lip. When they separate, both of them have half-lidded, wanting eyes as they look down at you.
“Isn’t that cute on you,” Signora purrs, and she places a hand loosely on the top of your head, fingertips tangling in your hair. “Don’t be shy now. I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time.”
It still requires determination to breach that final gap. You can smell Signora on the air; sweet and slightly musky, something that makes you fair dizzy with wanting. Her fingers pet through your hair again, as she coos sweetly at you and you finally manage to bring forth the courage to put your mouth on her.
She’s so beautiful. Stately and graceful and above you – and yet here you are, about to do this for her, after she’s said so many sweet things about you . . .
Your tongue hesitantly reaches out, lapping against her heated core. She tastes sweet, a slight tang at the back of your mouth, but far from unpleasant – and as your tongue moves against her, she lets out a pleased sigh, shifting just so in order for you to be able to access her sex better. She rests her head on the back of the sofa with a pleased ‘mmm’ noise, and you notice that Arlecchino is drawing patterns with her fingers on Signora’s bare thigh.
Emboldened by the reaction, this time you flick the tip of your tongue against the slightly hidden pearl of Signora’s clit, and the woman gives a little thrust of her hips forward to encourage you to repeat the motion again. You do exactly what you think she’s guiding you to do and lick and suck at her clit, and you’re encouraged with sighs of pleasure and breathy little moans that make that ache low between your own thighs return.
“You could try sucking on it,” says Arlecchino, and you briefly glance up from below your lashes to see that she’s resting her head against Signora’s neck and chest, gazing down at you with those strange eyes and hunger in the set of her mouth like a wolf looking at a tender morsel.
You follow her advice, gently sucking the swollen bud (peeking out from beneath the hood now) into your mouth and sucking gently on it, and Signora’s hands tighten in your hair almost painfully. She groans, chest-deep, and then she adds her own voice to the advice though hers sounds more like an order:
“Don’t stop doing that.”
With such clear instructions, how could you possibly ignore her? You continue to suck on it, feeling it almost twitch in your mouth, the way that she keeps her legs apart even though she clearly wants to press them either side of your head and pull you in. Harbingers don’t get where they are by not having self-control, you suppose.
“Next time we’ll teach you how to use your fingers too,” you hear, a whisper behind you, and you realise that Columbina and Sandrone have come to join in. You think, from the sound of their voice, they’ve settled back onto the large pillows on the floor – but the far more pressing matter is in your mouth.
“I won’t be long,” Signora sighs, tilting her hips up even more. Her voice shakes and shudders. “Mm . . . you have no idea what watching you being worked over did to me--”
You double your attack on her, the thought of being the person who makes the Fair Lady come sending frissons of excitement all through you again. You let go of her clit for a moment to give more eager laps of her cunt, up and down, over and over, her sweet slick coating your tongue. You pay particular attention, though, to her clit – to keep going back, over and over.
And only partly because the insistent hand in your hair keeps dragging you back to it. You flick your tongue over it, an ache in the root of the organ because of how hard you’re trying – and then you feel it. Where your chin is practically buried in the softness of her sex, her entrance pulses once, then twice against you--
And Signora whines aloud, she finally gives in the urge to wrap her thighs around your face, a slippered foot digging into your back, and pulls you in to keep licking and sucking at her as she rides out the heated waves of her orgasm, soaking your cheeks, pulsing against you with hungry moans and the flex of those strong, lithe thighs.
By the time her shaking and groaning is done, and her thighs have released their hold on you to settle lazily back on the sofa, feet on the floor. She gazes at you, sleepy and sated, every inch a beautiful house cat.
Your gaze flickers nervously to the last woman in the room. You’re suddenly aware that, once again, there’s a pounding between your own legs that feels like a second heartbeat.
“Lord Arlecchino?” You whisper, shyly, your mouth still wet from Signora’s recent release. “Do . . . is there anything I can do for you?”
Signora lets out an amused laugh. Arlecchino looks at you, consideringly – it is not exactly a kind look, but you feel warmed by it even so.
“Our Knave prefers to play with toys,” Signora says. “And we hadn’t had enough time to procure them for this little soiree. Still . . . I daresay she’d very much like to play with you again. Don’t you think?” She addresses the last question to Arlecchino, who now gives a little smile to the other woman.
“Very much,” Arlecchino says. “I don’t think you’ve been nearly filled up enough tonight. Ah. One makes do, though.” She leans forward and brushes her dark-tipped thumb over your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth to wipe an errant droplet of slick from it. “I’m sure we’ll call on you again. Still. Until then . . . I think you ought to put your uniform back on. Someone from the palace is probably missing you.”
You don’t realise until you’re halfway back to the kitchens that you’ve left the tea tray and all of the tea things in Sandrone’s chambers.
in the dark of night, you attempt to write a letter to a priest in hopes that he might save your husband from what he's become. soon, the letter lays abandoned and your husband's lust consumes you on yet another night.
warnings; mdni/18+, yandere character, dubcon, voyeurism, erotic horror, rough sex, blowjob, facial, implied breeding kink (i guess??), extremely explicit sexual details, graphic details of bodily fluids, very prose + detail heavy, horrific imagery + details, derogatory words used (whore, bitch, lunatic - not all mc), pseudo-victorian setting + historical inaccuracies
wc; 4,119
divider; @/strangergraphics & @/cafekitsune
I suggest that you read IMPOSTER and/or ROOT ROT before reading this, but this can still be read standalone.
a/n: this took me a couple of days to complete and get posted, so it would be absolutely amazing if you could reblog + share your thoughts with me!!
It was these dark hours that you feared the most, when the grandfather clock's filigree hands aimed to some despicable time of night where you should have been well asleep by now, dreaming of incomprehensible things while tangled in your sheets and bedclothes.
You envied the rest of the household for their unconcerned ways of living. They could wake with the roosters and the golden sunrise; the shafts of light quietly, gently filtering through the gaps in their curtains, caressing their faces into wakefulness. To them, darkness meant the absence of light and day; it meant that all their worries, their toils, were of no importance for as long as the moon was high and their eyes were closed.
The staff knew that they needn't think too hard so long as their chores were completed, the mansion kept up, and their Masters satisfied in every way possible. Perhaps that's why they turned a blind eye to the noises in the black night; moans and cries and screaming originating from somewhere different each time, but always sounding of the same suffering and pleasure. Perhaps they heard what they did and decided to cower inside themselves and their pillows, afraid to know what they would find if they followed the echoing voices.
Even your maid, Sadiya, seldom interfered during the height of it. She was always the first to get you into a hot bath the following morning, holding one of your hands while pressing a sponge to your naked body, her expression wrenching in disgust when she saw the red, purpling bruises beginning to bloom across your skin. She never said much about it. It wasn't her place.
Tonight, you locked your door and tucked a silk scarf in the long crack below it, hoping to keep the shadow out this time. You weren't confident it would work because nothing ever did. If it wanted in, it always found a way to do so, at any time it pleased, despite how terrible it made you feel.
You pulled a sheer cloth across your shoulders and studied the placement of the silk scarf below the door for a moment longer before going to your desk and lighting a lantern. There, you lifted the lid to reveal writing utensils and beautiful, soft paper. A long envelope already marked with your name and the recipient lay to the side.
Just then, from somewhere within the house, you thought you heard your name called. Deep. Guttural. Ravenous. It hardly sounded human, even as it moaned out your name in a miserly way. You thought it reminded you of a cat in heat yowling for attention.
But there was little time to look for humor in this situation. If you were going to discreetly write this letter, it needed to be done now before it found you again.
To the esteemed Father Marius DuMonde,
Forgive me, Father, for I do not have much time to write to you, but I hope you will read this letter and consider with great urgency an unexpected trip to this household. I have enclosed money for your traveling expenses and any amenities you may need. While you are here, you will be accommodated most exquisitely, and your every need thoroughly tended to. I only ask—no, beg of you—to hear me!
Over the past eight months, I feel as though I have been slowly exposed to a worsening evil that I cannot hope to ever comprehend. It is a heavy shadow that is always upon me, watching me, touching me, and, horribly enough, defiling me. It is inescapable, and I fear that it might be driving me mad.
You might already be thinking that I have lost my mind, that I am a lost cause. I beseech you to hear me, believe me when I say that: I am not a lunatic. I do not suffer from hysteria or delusions of the mind. I have always been as well as I could reasonably be given my circumstances and upbringing in life, and I know reality from fiction of the mind.
What I have been seeing and experiencing is true and raw.
I believe it has possessed my husband, who has been home from handling the affairs of his late uncle's estate for nearly eight months—the same time when this all began happening! I do not think it's a coincidence, and neither do you!
He is not the same man that I knew. My husband is a scholar, reticent, and the most intelligent man that I know. Who he is now is completely changed. He is now far more outspoken than I, and has utter disinterest in everything he once treasured! He even destroyed his own garden, one that he's grown, maintained, and researched for twenty years. He no longer studies; he seldom reads. His only interest now is in something that I cannot disclose to you, for it is of a most indecent nature.
Father DuMonde, you must—
"My, you're certainly occupied. Who are you writing to this late, my love?"
You reflexively threw the ink pen away, slammed the lid of the writing desk so he could not see the contents of your letter, and stood from your chair. Of course, this would all be useless if he asked to see what you had written, because as his spouse, you could not deny him. But, as he came away from the bedroom door and closer to you, into the dim, flickering light cast by your lantern, you could not distract yourself from the thought that he already knew.
"How did you get in? I locked the door, Solomon," you said.
He closed the distance between your bodies and stroked the side of your face where the bone of your eye and cheek met with his knuckles. You started from his ghostly touch, freezing hands that felt as though they'd never known the warmth of a fireplace or a body. Even though you'd known him intimately in every way imaginable, the ruthless cold that radiated off of him never faded.
Solomon smiled down at you serenely. "Why did you lock the door?"
"Because—" the words hit a snag in your throat, stealing them until you cleared your apprehensions with a quiet cough. "Because I wanted a little privacy for a while. I was given my own room for exactly that purpose, yes? It's the same reason why you have every space that you do in this house, isn't it? There isn't anything wrong with that, is there?"
"Is that really it?" asked Solomon, who then tucked his nose against the crook of your neck and kissed your skin. His lips traversed to one of the throbbing arteries under your jaw, where he focused his efforts and pinched you lightly with his blunt teeth. You flinched again, struggling to swallow around a mounting wad of anxiety in your throat, anticipation beginning to knot your insides in ways that made it hard for you to let him touch you slowly.
"You can tell me what's on your mind, I'll listen," said Solomon, though you did not believe him. That was one difference that you missed most between this imposter and your real husband: The real Solomon would've listened to what you had to say, even if he did not particularly care for it. This version of your husband—this thing—would be satisfied if he only ever ripped screams of ecstasy from your ripe, pink lungs.
It was when he peeled off the thin fabric from your shoulders like a second skin and unfastened the ivory buttons on the front of your nightclothes that you decided to tell him the truth. "I feel watched, Solomon. I always feel like something is looking at me, no matter what I'm doing. It likes seeing me scared. It likes knowing that I know it's there. I've seen it from the corner of my eye sometimes."
Solomon shucked the shirt from your body and immediately placed a wet trail with his tongue and lips up along your breastbone, hands sinking below the waistband of your drawers and undergarments to squeeze your ass. It was your instinct to wind your fingers in his hair, twisting black rings of it tightly with your knuckles as he worked on you.
"What does it look like to you?" asked Solomon between hard breaths, lips and hands never leaving your body as he spoke. He would never tire of your sweetness, of the salty brine that slicked your skin as he fucked you out of your mind, of being the reason for your greatest pleasure and greatest agony. "Tell me, my little love, what does it look like to you?"
"Terrible," you said.
A groan rumbled in his throat, leaving a hot tickle on your skin as he exhaled and kissed and sucked a wet path up to your neck again with the fervor of a man who'd only ever known lust, yet never held something warm in his arms. His hands kneaded your ass dexterously, fingers teasing, prodding you lower and higher to elicit a soft sound from your lips that you tried to mask by biting your teeth and tugging the black hair on his head.
"Why don't you tell me more?" He insisted, using his hands on your backside to bring you flush with his chest and hips, his smiling mouth cool against the shell of your ear. All of the tiny hairs on your body rose like needles, a shiver chased the length of your spine, and the thrill of it all made you throb between your legs. "What does it look like? Tell me just how terrible it is, darling. I want to envision the thing that watches you every moment, follows your every step, haunts your every breath."
His words were sinister to you; caring far too much for something that frightened you, looked at you through hollow eyes and pinpoint pupils. You recalled a time when it had been watching you from the ceiling as Solomon fucked you into the mattress, your nails clinging to his back desperately. You had noticed it and tried to speak to your husband, but you could not find your voice, so you whimpered and moaned underneath the thrusting man, clenching around him so tightly in your fear that he came inside of you.
"A horrible pale face," you began, which prompted Solomon to nestle his face into your neck again and slowly grind his hips against yours. He was aroused by your discomfort, your reluctance to recall the awful specter obsessed with your very existence. As he guided you through the motions, you felt the bulge in his pants rising, pushing hard against your core and setting your blood ablaze. "I… a horrible pale face; a grinning face with teeth as thin as needles. Its skin looked wrong; pulled too tightly; decaying; shredded. It was cloaked in black. I remember it being so dark that it was darker than the rest of the room."
"Go on, go on," he spoke lowly into your skin, pulling one of his hands away from your ass to unlace the drawstring bow on your drawers so the fabric pooled at your ankles, revealing you to him and the dim room. "Go on, go on. I know you've noticed more."
You thought about how the apparition knew you just as intimately as Solomon did; how it had observed the beauty and oddness and blemishes and perfection of your body just as closely as your own husband. Would it know, then, how to make you unravel just as well as the man who touched you now?
"I remember—I remember the eyes; I remember how they stared into me. Even though its eyes looked empty, something was glowing inside its sockets. It was evil, Solomon. Those eyes were pure fucking evil," you explained with a wispy voice, unsure of how much he could've heard while he was distracted humping you and sucking your neck raw. But, you continued: "I think I remember its head the most. It wore a crown. The most horrible thing I've ever seen."
"A crown can be horrible, you say?"
Solomon's face was under your jaw while his fingers pushed divots into your hips, controlling the friction between your bodies. His clothed cock was nearly erect and stroked your sweetest spot, blurring your vision with searing pulses of white that wrapped around your head like a hot halo. You reached for his belt between your gyrating bodies, but he wasn't finished hearing your talk and grabbed your hands.
"Ah, ah," he sighed into your ear, "the crown, tell me about it."
This surprised you as Solomon seldom denied you in the moments when you plucked the courage to initiate something of your own accord, rather than being hopelessly dominated by him first. He used the pad of his thumbs to caress the insides of your wrists, an impatient gesture meant to coax you into talking more, talking faster.
"It reminds me of what black icicles would look like covered in…"
"Yes?" Solomon pressed.
You told him it looked like flayed skin and viscera tangled into the seven immense spikes on the crown. Sometimes, you believed you were able to detect the entity's presence before ever seeing it by the way it smelled: The malodor of rotting flesh and the tang of blood. On the night when you had seen it watching you from the ceiling, you had thought that the skin seemed fresh.
Solomon gave a satisfied smile and released your wrists to unfasten his belt, the other little, frustrating barriers on his trousers keeping him from what he wanted. He pulled out his cock and gathered the precum weeping from the reddened tip in his palm to smear along the shaft, stroking himself to full hardness. You saw it twitch in his hand, his hips bucking forward in anticipation.
"On your knees," said Solomon, to which you readily obeyed.
The floor was painful and, without the fireplace going, leeched the warmth from your bones. You felt vulnerable in this position for an unexpected reason: You were closer to the darkness in the room now than the light starting to suffocate inside your lantern. It wasn't enough to take the edge off of your urges, of how mesmerized you were by his cock as you began to stroke it and kissed along the underside, letting your tongue taste the sweetness of the precum he had spread.
You dragged your tongue across bulging veins and followed the curve of it to the weeping bulbous head. Solomon sighed in relief when you finally took him into your mouth, coating him in your saliva, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him deeper into your throat.
In these instances with Solomon, you never truly felt like yourself. You were spellbound by a haze of lust so potent that the world ceased to be, time lost meaning, and you would forget that upon awakening later during the day, the pain would be absolute and untreatable. Bruises thudded dully, appearing as broad, dark red ink-spots across your body, and you'd be bedridden and inconsolable in agony.
Yet, during these long, dark hours of night where your husband belonged to you alone, you wanted him to ravish you, rut you like an animal in heat against any surface he could find, leaving no part of you unknown. You wanted his hands on your throat and his nails pushing crescents into your skin as he split you apart, all the while whispering of terrible obscenities and fantasies that were dizzying and made you want to shrivel away in confusion of him and yourself.
"What are you thinking about, darling?" asked Solomon with his hands wound tightly in your hair, to the scalp, knowing that you couldn't speak around your throat full of his cock. You struggled to keep the pace that he wanted, to keep from choking on him as he thrust his hips into your face and buried himself deeper inside your hot, moist mouth. "Let me guess: You're thinking like a filthy whore, aren't you? You're thinking about everything I've done to you; what else I could do to you. I want you to know, I've felt you clench around me when I've mentioned that slut of a maid of yours, and even my manservant. Perhaps we could invite them in with us one night, yes?"
Of course, you could say nothing, do nothing but whimper miserably as he fucked your mouth, and your own pleasure was limited to what you could accomplish with vigorous strokes on yourself.
Solomon watched you do this from down the length of his sharp nose, through darkened, glassy green eyes that flickered gold in the waning lantern light. He had leaned back into your writing desk to steady himself as the tension built, harsh breaths and moans gliding out from his lips like silk. His sounds were as beautiful as they were lewd and voracious, of a man who could never be satiated, who would always hunger for this.
And then, he stopped abruptly and pulled his cock out of your mouth, one hand wrapped around it as he rapidly brought on his climax from impatience.
"Look at me," said Solomon, coarsely, breathlessly. "Look at me as I cum, like the little whore that you are."
Where had your shame gone? To think that at one time, such vulgarities spoken by a man to you would've made your anger blaze out of control. This nefarious version of Solomon had whittled away your soul bit by bit until you were left an amoral husk who sat at his feet, tongue lolled out of your mouth, waiting for what came next.
Solomon's hips stuttered, cock throbbing in his hand as he came in hot, white ropes across your face and chest. The thick stuff had a milky glisten in the flittering light, cooling quickly as it made contact with your skin, exposed to the cold, airless room. It crawled down the length of your face, slow as a snail, filling the seams of your lips and drying on your hardened nipples. You felt as disgusted as you did aroused, imagining how Solomon would respond if you swept it off of your cheek to smear between your legs, beckoning him to consume you, fuck you until you could feel nothing at all.
He saw the desperation in your eyes shine like tears rimming your lower lashes and took a calming breath as his knees struck down to the floor before you, his cock still half-hard and rising again. Then, he kissed your lips for the first time that night. His tongue traced the soft shape of your mouth, gathering his spend on it before pushing through your teeth and mingling the briny taste of him with your saliva.
"What would everyone think to see you like this, I wonder?" asked Solomon between breaths, between impassioned kisses that made the thoughts in your head whirl. Your answer was to swipe the cum from your face into your hand, smearing it along the length of his cock, feeling it pulse in your grasp as you stroked him stiff. "What would the staff think if they could see you? That bitch maid that you keep around? What would that fool of a father of yours think to see this was awaited you when he gave you away to me?"
"Solomon, fuck me, please." You hoped your begging would distract him, freeing you from the embarrassment of having to think of such things. "I need you."
He let out a crack of laughter that was derisive, yet euphonious; a sound befitting a handsome face like his. Before he had returned home from his uncle's estate, you'd never known him to know true joy or laughter, but now he provided copious mockery.
"You need me? Why would I keep you waiting any longer, then?" Solomon took you by the waist, hoisting you onto his lap with the sort of ease no normal man should possess, and kneaded the weeping, dark red tip of his cock down to the base of his shaft to lubricate himself. "I'm not sure that I could ever share you in the ways that I speak about, darling. You are mine and mine alone. That ring on your finger proves it."
He brought your hand to his lips and lightly touched them to the bright red carnelian band rooted deep into your left ring finger. The affectionate gesture was met with scalding pain shooting up the length of your arm, flashing white behind your eyes, coaxing groans he chose to ignore.
"What a beautiful face you're making," said Solomon teasingly, letting your hand fall to grasp the fat of your hips with his blunt nails as he split you open on his cock, fully seating himself inside of you. He reveled in the tight, slick warmth that surrounded him, the way the tension between your brows deepened from pain to concentration as you lifted yourself partway off of his cock and lowered back down with your thighs.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, leaving featherlight touches down the nape of his neck that made him moan as he sucked raw spots into your flesh, blotches that would reveal this night to the world, unable to be concealed by any neckline or shawl that you owned. He would delight in your humiliation, your sheepish avoidance of everyone, including him, because it offered him the thrill of chasing you, earning your forgiveness time and time again, and repeating the sickening pattern that you never learned better from.
"Solomon, lie back," you gasped, bringing your palms to the front of his chest and pushing him away from you. "This isn't enough. I need more. Lie down."
"How bold of you to make demands of me," said Solomon, but he did not deny you and abandoned the marks on your neck to flatten his back to the floor. The coldness did not startle him as it did you; it comforted him. Darkness now enveloped the room as the last of your lantern light choked in its glass cage, enrobing him in black air carrying the smell of sex and something somewhat distantly foul and rotting.
You knew that the apparition had returned to observe the obscenities. How long had it been there, you wondered? Had it seen the way Solomon defiled you while you sat on your knees and accepted it? Was it seeing you now as you rode your husband and lost control of the rhythm you had built to his savage thrusts up into your body? The only thing keeping you mounted on his waist was his hands holding your ass in a bruising grip, drawing blood under his nails, watching your expression contort familiarly between pleasure and pain.
"There is no greater beauty in the world than what I see right now." His words were so deep in his throat, guttural and rough; you'd heard them before, earlier, as you had been writing your letter to Father DuMonde. "The more I see you like this, the less I want to let you leave."
Right now, you don't want to leave. You wanted Solomon to fuck you into oblivion and cum on his cock while the entity studied you, learning what made your back bend like an archway and scream the loudest. You wanted it to see how Solomon fucked you through your orgasm until your body convulsed, and no sounds could dislodge from your throat.
He obliged, of course, bouncing you down onto him with such ferocity it left you winded and bracing yourself on his chest with one hand, the other still nestled between your legs. A white fuzz trance of ecstasy did not await you once you finally reached your climax. It was a grueling end that hurt, where your moans had dissolved into pitiful whines, sobs you swallowed down in the back of your throat. Solomon stayed inside you at his tipping point, thrusts slow but buried deep, cock pulsing hard as he filled your insides with his warm seed.
Your senses numbed to the phantasm's presence, to the fact that Solomon had yet to soften much inside of you and kneaded your thighs fondly. As you looked towards the windows overlooking the backyard, a heavy sense of dread settled over you and twisted your organs.
Solomon had noticed, too.
"Daylight is still far off, my love. There is still plenty of night remaining for us to enjoy."
The smut is genuinely so good but then you also have all these details like the maid character, the priest, details about what old Solomon was like (rip king) and now this... entity thing? It just makes the story so engaging beyond the first read.
Imagine how fast your heartbeat would go when you recognize him right on your doorstep. You look to the sides, expecting somebody to jump and help, or maybe the complete opposite. You don't know what you are feeling, your whole body is frozen in place while he smiles at you. The smile that you find so charming at the restaurant looks way too creepy in the dark of the night while he stares at you.
The only thing that you can see in the barely lit street is the glint of his fangs, the way his nostrils breathe smoke out while he tilts his head to the side. He looks as handsome as ever, wearing a tux like he always does, but this time it complements the red of his scales almost perfectly. Not that you can care much about that right now, not when his smile grows bigger. He looks dangerous. Your lizard brain is telling you to run, but you can't do anything.
His hand is outstretched in your direction, like he's waiting for you to say something, to move, to grab it... But you can even breathe properly. Your heartbeat is going too fast. Your head is getting a bit dizzy. There's a numbness spreading through your body.
And everything goes dark.
You wake up in an unknown place, everything is soft-lighted and there're so many pillows and soft fabrics that it feels like a cloud. You look around, trying to decipher where you are. That's definitely not your house. You look around until you spot him, a big smile in his predatory face, and his hand outstretched towards you again. His voice is soft when he speaks: "Don't worry, love. I'll take care of you. You'll never wish for anything. I'll give you the world."
