What better way to celebrate the success of the event week than to continue creating? Every month, I'll post three bingo boards, populated by a randomised assortment of prompts. Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to create work(s) for your choice of prompts with the aim of getting a bingo (one whole line of five prompts, either horizontally, vertically, or diagonally across the board). If you would like an extra challenge, feel free to keep going and fill every prompt on the board for a blackout bingo, or pick another board and go again!
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Suggestions for additional prompts? Feel free to send an ask!
Check out the latest boards here
Peruse everyone's creations here
Full rules below the cut!
This event is centred around OCs (original characters). While customisable video game protagonists (e.g. tav/durge (bg3), warden/hawke/inquisitor/rook (dragon age), the rogue trader (rogue trader), etc.) are welcomed, canon characters should be relegated to background characters in works made for this event, if included at all.
By choosing to take part in this event, you confirm that you are both of legal age and mature enough to take part in an event centred around dark and potentially triggering topics.
While no one is obligated to interact with topics they do not wish to, there will be zero tolerance on attempts at censorship, kinkshaming, harassment, or bullying of any kind. Anyone who partakes in this behaviour will be excluded from this and all future events.
Prompts may be interpreted however you wish! There's no "right way" to take part -- the point is to inspire you, not constrain you. Feel free to create one work that encompasses all five prompts for a bingo, or one work for each individual prompt, or anything in between!
Please continue to tag your posts with #unwholesomeocweek so we can all peruse everyone’s creations! While not necessary, feel free to @ this blog too, if you would like to. I’ll be periodically going through the tag and reblogging everyone’s works here, but if you believe your post has been missed and you have followed all the guidelines set out here, please send an ask to this blog off anon in case I’ve missed it!
Additionally, if you are posting your work to AO3, add it to the collection!
All works reblogged to this blog will be tagged for common triggers with the format “trigger tw” (e.g. rape tw, incest tw, etc). While not an obligation, participants are encouraged to include tags in the same format on their original post for ease of filtering. If there are any specific triggers anyone would like tagging, please send an ask to this blog and I will do my best to accommodate you. (Note: this can be on or off anon, at your preference.)
While including trigger tags is a courtesy, works that include neither tags nor content warnings in the body of the post will not be reblogged to this blog. (Note: where the content warning is the prompt, it is not necessary to include a warning in addition to the prompt (e.g., if the prompt is sexual assault, it is not necessary to include a warning for this in the body of the post so long as the prompt is included). If your post is a link to a fic hosted elsewhere, including a screenshot of e.g. AO3 tags is an acceptable alternative.)
Works made using generative ai are not welcome in this event.
Works set in the harry potter universe, or making use of its canon or lore, are not welcome in this event.
By participating in this event you are agreeing to creating and consuming potentially distressing content and dark subject matter
Welcome to torturetober 2026! this post will serve as a general knowledge directory regarding the event. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask at any point!
What is torturetober?
This is a creative event centering various forms of torture with a general theme of medieval torture, though many forms are included. Every day will have a corresponding prompt that you create art/writing for!
When is the event?
Throughout the month of October! The AO3 collection will be open from September 30th until November 15th so any submissions are available.
Can I write OC / OC?
yes! in fact, I encourage this, greatly. You can write oc/canon, canon/canon, oc / oc, rpf, yumeship, and whatever your heart so desires!
Is this fandom-specific?
No! Feel free to write for any* fandom you wish, including your original work!
*this event is not open to any works within the Harry Potter universe
Is this writing only?
Nope! This event is for all and any creative endeavors! This includes crafts and illustration as well as virtual photography. There will be an AO3 collection for the duration of October however, I will reblog any posts using the tag #torturetober26 to this blog!
Will you be reblogging the art?
Yes! All art and posts tagged with #torturetober26 will be reblogged to this account. If it has been a full day and I have not reblogged your post, please tag this account and I will reblog it!
Can I combine prompts?
Yep! However for the sake of organization I will be reblogging the post on the earliest day the prompts are applied to or I will attempt to do so given the timeframe they are posted.
Is this event NSFW?
Unless you work in a dungeon, yes! But to be more clear, sexual themes are allowed so long as there is no photography of a sexually exploitative nature. This explicitly means taking pictures of subjects without their consent. Given the nature of the event I want to be clear I am not condoning real life actual torture (boo no fun). That being said, there are quite a few heavy topics listed so to protect those not participating (and those who are who do not wish to see certain subjects) I will be implementing a tagging system that will be formatted as such:
tw: example
please consider utilizing this system when posting your work, thank you!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
written with @unkledeath but due to Life not finished until now
taster under cut, content warning for non-consensual voyeurism
Hot water sloshes in the kettle Zefira carries to her room. It's only a halfling-sized lean-to shack, built from scrap lumber, propped against the crumbling stone walls of an ancient cathedral. It was once Tymora's, long ago, when she was newly born with her twin Beshaba; she finds four-leaf clovers carved into bits of masonry every so often.
The priest closes and latches the door. She shutters one window, and half-shutters the side window that faces a hedge of saplings. The trees allow for privacy, and the cool draft from the window raises a pleasant ripple of gooseflesh on her skin.
The scalding water cools in the wide glazed bowl. Zefira pulls her simple robe off over her head and hangs it up on a wooden peg in the wall. She stretches her arms over her head, bends over to one side and the other. She gives herself a jiggle, drops her arms to her hips, shimmies out of her panties, and kicks them up and into the laundry basket.
Small luxuries regularly fall out of the store inventory and into her use. This soap is wrapped in paper with words she doesn't recognize, perfumed with herbs she's never seen or smelled before. She lathers a washcloth judiciously yet plentifully.
First: her arms. She works with her hands all day and ends most nights cooking by hand over a wooden fire, so the wash water runs dark when she squeezes it out. She dumps the washwater into her chamberpot and fills the basin again with clean water. The fine hairs on her forearms and wrists draw shadowed lines when she rinses thesm clean.
Her face is next. With eyes closed, smooth suds swarm over fine lines where her skin crinkles when she smiles. Blissfully unaware, she wipes the grime of the day away.
---
Ezra doesn't like to think of what he does as lurking. That would turn his activity into something sinister! He's merely making his rounds during the best part of the day, when the city is at her most amenable. She'll wake the next morning like a slattern, picking murdered men from between her teeth and combing them from the tangles of her hair; but for now, she is a lady, and he prefers her this way.
The knives he carries, one in his boot and the other beneath his glove, are for protection. Nothing untoward about it. He fingers the well-worn handle of the one up his sleeve as he pauses.
There's a scent of fragrant herbs on the breeze, familiar and pleasant. Following the smell leads him to a half-shuttered window, a square of buttery light in the cool blue of the evening. A cluster of trees affords the illusion of privacy, and he ducks behind them - Just a peek, he tells himself, and then we'll move along.
His breath catches in his chest when he sees who's inside.
The halfling priest's body should be familiar enough to him. They've shared enough fevered intimacies in the past month or so that it shouldn't be exciting, but she is transfigured in the glow of the lamplight. It illuminates her dimpled buttocks, the rolls on her hips, and turns them into something sculpted from warm wax; he can imagine himself reaching out to touch her, only for his fingers to be engulfed.
I'm interested in the bingo! But my astigmatism makes the white/red on black kind of hard to read on digital screens… Would an alternate version or list be possible for the prompts?
of course! I'll update the post with a text version of the prompts <3
And finally, five pages of bonus art!! While drawing “NEVER ENDING FUN,” I worried it wasn’t unwholesome enough for @unwholesomeocweek… So I compiled all of these to fix that LOL
Prompts: [D1] hatefucking, violence, divorce, [D2] body horror, coercion, [D3] corruption, power imbalance, [D5] dubcon, unethical experimentation, possessive behaviour, [D6] wound f*cking, [D7] bad sex, cannibalism, codependency !!
Thank you to everyone who liked, reblogged, or commented on the original comic for staying along for the ride! ;u;)/ I feel a bit anxious and silly making such “grand” things with my OCs, so your support means the world to me. I hope you enjoy this extra food, and have a great day!
(And if you’re been following me long enough to recognise some of the older images—thank you so, so much. I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane QwQ)
My (belated) comic for @unwholesomeocweek is finally done!! This is the most ambitious project I’ve done in years and I’m so relieved I was able to make it before the late submission deadline on the 7th aha/// I initially started “NEVER ENDING FUN” as a fill for Day 1: HATEFUCKING / VIOLENCE / DIVORCE, but things spiralled out of control and I ended up doing 17 out of the 21 prompts, give or take… So take this as a love letter to unwholesome OCing itself—I hope you enjoy!
Major CWs: Body horror, violence, gore, forced transformation
Minor CWs: Implied rape / sexual assault, implied child abuse, forced medical procedures, substance abuse, corruption / mind control, manic delusions, generally unhealthy relationships
And that’s a wrap! In the end, I worried “NEVER ENDING FUN” wasn’t Unwholesome™ enough for the event… So over the next couple days I’ll be uploading some bonus art as well—full views of images that get cropped in panels, as well as various unwholesome illustrations of Dimitri and the Ouroboros (and the Other Ouroboros… I have toxic yaoi* and selfcest in the oven) :D
(I will note also, since this comic is a bit abstract: The Ouroboros was never human—they were always “something else”—but they were once mortal [i.e. could permanently be killed]. That said, with time shenanigans in place, who knows if that really “counted”…)
Anyway, thank you so much for reading. And thank you to the @unwholesomeocweek organiser for running such a fun event!! I’ll definitely be coming back in the future (hopefully not late next time 💀) Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated—please let me know what you thought, and whether you’d like to see more sequential works from me and my OCs! ;u;
EDIT 2026.07.02: If “NEVER ENDING FUN” was confusing in any way—or you want to verify whether your theories about what’s happening are in the ballpark—I explained the premise more clearly here!
It's the 8th here, which means the ao3 collection is now closed! I'd like to extend another huge thank you & congratulations to everyone who participated in the event (while I don't have stats handy for those who only posted on tumblr, the ao3 collection came out to 84 works!!!) <3
Never fear, though, this is not the end: check back here tomorrow as I'll be introducing offseason bingo for all those who wish to continue creating!
Summary:
The last time a man with sinister intentions tried to take her, Emmaline immediately shut him down. When it happens again, however, she's more interested in satisfying her curiosity. What will he do when she plays the perfect victim?
Will it be any fun to let herself be raped?
Written for @unwholesomeocweek Day 5 and 6 using the prompts Dubcon and Wound Fucking
Summary:
Emmaline managed to get her hands on a Cassisian, a small helmet-like angel that, while it isn't very intelligent, can be very useful for storing information. First, she has to rid it of all that ridiculous drivel it thinks it knows about the so-called "God King", and make it more aligned with her aesthetic; so she takes it home to use her daddy's tools for better effect.
Written for @unwholesomeocweek Day 3 for the prompt: Corruption
Summary:
On the job to cause horrific pain and death, Emmaline is interrupted in the middle of setting up some of her art. She has a creative idea of what to do with her intruder, but will soon learn why you don't play around with your victims too much.
Written for @unwholesomeocweek Day 1 for the prompt: Violence
Summary:
Emmaline Darling is the daughter of Kytons and a serial killer for the Empire. She has a list she follows when she's on her job to destabilize a city for an easier invasion. When she comes into contact with a man who deserves the torment she can deal out, she gets a little more hands-on than normal.
Written for @unwholesomeocweek Day 2 (yes I know I'm doing day 2 first, I just felt like this one establishes her best and so I wanted it at the beginning of this series) for all three prompts: Proxy Sex, Body Horror, and Coercion
You Can Rent a Space Inside My Mind // (aedin/melisande, konstantin/melisande)
You Can Rent a Space Inside My Mind || Aedin/Melisande, Konstantin/Melisande || E || ch 1/1 || 3k words
Original Character(s), Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, Groping, Brother/Sister Incest, incest as defined in a magical sense, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, entirely too much research on historical gown construction performed and then discarded in favor of porn logic, Shapeshifting, Unwholesome OC Week 2026
“Careful,” Starosta whispers, low gravel close to its ear. His breath is hot; his hands are at Melisande’s waist, now, a barely-there pressure. “You shall draw his attention—I only said that he could see us, not that he did.”
“Is there a reason, sir mage, we should wish to avoid his eyes?”
“Perhaps. Is there?"
—
Just outside the lingering festivities of a banquet, in the cold and dark of the mountain, Melisande encounters the foreign wizard at rest. Subdued as he is, he is full still of cruel and clever tricks—and they are within sight of the prince, occupied and resentful within.
Read on AO3!
Day 4 for @unwholesomeocweek: forced voyeurism, mindbreak, incest
I'm not a week plus late on this, you are. I kept having to delete paragraphs because these two wanted to talk about magic and I wanted them to engage in a deeply inadvisable display of public undress.
M/F | Adair & Astrea | Bloodless Legacy (Crossover between @bloodlessheirbyjacques's Bloodless Heir and my Miadhachain Legacy)
Adair made a deal with Pirate Corinthian, but when its decided he's not holding up his side of the bargain, Corinthian uses Astrea to make a point.
Words: 1,678
Prompt: Non-consensual Voyeurism
Content: Rape (non-graphic) | implications of brainwashing | non-consensual bondage | character death (minor)
"If you fail me, little Camoan, I'll tie you in the corner and make you watch."
Adair had never doubted the threat, not for an instant, and those words rattled about in his head during each training session Corinthian shoved him into. He drew on them, used Corinthian's threat to drive him every time the next task seemed just out of reach. He had to do it.
For Astrea.
For himself.
For both of them.
And, as the magic crackled through his prosthesis, the scent of ozone burning through the air around him in a way that would once have left his hair standing on end, Adair reminded himself that he’d asked for this — all of it. He'd swore. He'd promised, begged on his knees, to learn. Begged to be shaped into Corinthian's tool, and pled, too, for the promised reward if he did.
His grasp on the magic faltered. He grabbed for it again and felt it slip away once more, like trying to hold water in his fingers.
"You're not even trying."
Corinthian's voice struck like a bolt from the blue, the sheer disapproval in those four words enough to make Adair's mouth go dry.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice? I told you the price, little Camoan."
Corinthian turned, voice rising, calling orders to one of the crew in a language Adair didn't speak, but something about the cadence and shape of the words sounded Pyrian in his ears.
Desperately, Adair tried again to call the magic.
It wouldn't come. Like trying to capture a cloud. The magic wouldn't obey him, wouldn't come to his call, no matter how hard he tried to reach it. He'd been able to do it before, hadn't he? Was he really not trying hard enough now? How could he not be?
He was still trying when the member of the crew Corinthian had called over hooked his fingers in the collar at Adair's neck and yanked him backwards, destroying what remained of his concentration as he half dragged Adair below deck with Corinthian, imperiously, following behind.
"I'll do better," Adair begged, then tried again with his Camoan, pleading for another chance. When the words he'd been taught to say failed to so much as elicit a self-satisfied grin from Corinthian, he felt the cold hand of something that seemed suspiciously like despair grasp at his heart.
The three of them stopped outside Astrea's quarters, Corinthian's crewman binding Adair's mismatched hands together at the small of his back.
Adair refused to open his mouth for the gag, clenching his teeth and turning his head away with every ounce of defiance he still had. The crewman grumbled something, and then Corinthian's nails bit into the side of Adair's face, making him gasp. And that was all the opening needed. The thick roll of cloth was stuffed between his teeth and a knot tied so tight at the back of his head that it forced him to accept the gag just to ease the pressure in his mouth.
Corinthian reached for the door, then looked back at Adair, their eyes meeting. The sheer disappointment in Corinthian's eyes as they stared Adair down left his stomach flipping and trying to curl in upon itself.
The moment passed. Corinthian pushed open Astrea's door and gestured for the crewman to bring Adair.
"A guest for you, sweet girl."
"Adi?" The way Astrea could put confusion and surprise all on the two simple syllables of his nickname made Adair's chest ache. He locked his gaze upon hers and, as though hoping he might have manifested sudden telepathy, begged with his eyes for her to run. He knew she wouldn't. Wouldn't understand. Almost certainly wouldn't heed his urging even if she did.
Corinthian stepped between them, reaching for Astrea, drawing near, fingers caressing her cheek and speaking to Astrea in low tones, the words meant for her alone. The fawning way that Astrea turned her attention to Corinthian left Adair's stomach roiling.
The crewman dragged Adair, still struggling against his bindings, to the corner of the room where chains lay as though they'd been waiting for him. The crew member wrestled Adair to his knees and linked the first set of chains to his bound hands, yanking backwards and making the chains rattle when Adair tried again to pull away.
In the middle of that small room, Corinthian's voice rose from that soft murmur, not much, but loud enough for Adair to make out the words — spoken in clear Oracean — as Corinthian directed Astrea's gaze away from Adair, where the sound of his shackling had drawn her attention. "Don't fret about him, sweet girl. He's about to learn a valuable lesson." Corinthian patted Astrea's cheek once, twice, and then crossed to Adair, dismissing the crew member with a hand wave and a clear intention to take over the process of binding Adair.
"Remember, you brought this on yourself," Corinthian said, ratcheting all the give out of the chain hooked through Adair's collar. He glared at the pirate, wrinkling his nose and pulling back his lips as best he could to bare his teeth while the gag kept him silenced.
Corinthian's hand slid to Adair's cheek, the touch almost tender and the implication of power in that contact somehow worse than an actual slap would have been. "You know whose fault this is, don't you, little prince. It didn’t have to come to this." Then Corinthian leaned in, voice low against Adair's ear, the words whispered in a sultry husk like those of a lover, "Prove to me you still want your prize, little prince. Make me believe you."
With that, Corinthian turned to the crew member once more, uttering a curt two words and nodding towards Astrea. From the way blood had drained from Astrea's face, Adair's guess that the language had been Pyrian had to have been correct — for all the good that knowledge would do in the moment. He didn’t have to speak the language to know precisely what that command had been.
The door had scarcely closed behind Corinthian when the crew man all but lunged for Astrea, his big hands far too rough on her small frame as he pawed at her with intentions all too clear.
The chain hooked onto the collar didn't allow enough ease to turn his head away, forcing Adair to stay watching as Astrea was manhandled and fondled. Straining against his bonds, he tried in futility to yell through the gag, tried to demand that Astrea be left alone.
And when the man pinned Astrea on her stomach, hiking up her skirt to mount her roughly, and her screams reached that achingly familiar pitch? Adair couldn't try to look away. The pirate had even had the audacity to make sure to position himself and Astrea so that Adair would see Astrea's terrified face, her eyes begging for help.
Adair threw himself against his bonds, nearly choking from the pressure of the collar at his throat, screaming into the gag, his feet skidding on the floor as he tried to lever himself up against the hold of the chains.
That was Astrea.
He'd promised to protect her. He had sworn to keep her safe. And now? Anger clouded his eyes. Anger at his own failures, at Corinthian, at their whole situation, at the man defiling Astrea right in front of him.
Rage sparked in his veins.
And with the tempest of his anger came the magic.
Heat and light flashed. The air boomed and crackled with the sharp metallic scent of ozone mixed with the acrid stench of singed flesh and hair.
The man atop Astrea slumped, then collapsed on top of her, wisps of smoke rising from his suddenly still body. Astrea trembled beneath him, her breath shuddering as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her terrified eyes met Adair's once more, and he tried again to speak, as though this time his words might get through instead of getting trapped behind the gag and emerging only as garbled, desperate sounds.
"Adi!" Astrea scrambled out from beneath the man's body, stumbling towards Adair and tripping on unsteady legs as she rushed to him. Her shaking fingers dug into the knot at the back of Adair's head, trying to pull the gag free. "Hang on, Adi," she whispered, even as Adair tried in vain to ask her if she was alright.
Knowing that she couldn't be.
After what felt an eternity, Astrea tugged the gag free and Adair worked his jaw, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before attempting to speak, the words that had been so blocked before having suddenly taken their leave.
He could only stare at her, searching her face for…something. Some assurance he knew he couldn’t find. Certain the look on Astrea's face was her doing the same to him.
At the other side of the room, the door opened once more, marking Corinthian's return.
"Highness." It was the only word Adair managed to say to her before Corinthian intervened, catching Astrea by the shoulder and pushing her away with the merest pressure.
"Away from him just now, sweet girl. I fear you'll only spoil his lesson."
Adair wished that Astrea would have put up any resistance to the command, but she merely gave him an apologetic look before moving away, leaving him to face Corinthian.
The approval on Corinthian's face left Adair's feelings in a confusing flip-flop, trapped somewhere between relief to have done well, and dread that Corinthian looked so pleased. A single, slender finger caught beneath Adair's collar, Corinthian's nail scraping delicately against the skin of Adair's throat to direct his attention upwards. "I knew you could do it, little prince," Corinthian said, voice pitched once more in that husky tone. "You've earned your prize." And, as if there had been any question as to which prize they meant, Corinthian indicated Astrea almost without turning their head, angling their forehead and pointing to her, almost, with eyes alone.
Unwholesome OC Week Day 4 | Non consensual Voyeurism/Mind Break
a/n: yeah i know it's not June 4 get over it @unwholesomeocweek said I could keep posting till July. The voyeur is the one that isn't consenting to voyeurism in this one (which is know is technically a different thing, but let me cook) f/f pairing Read the first part here
The Crown Prince and Crown Princess (to be) had a simple wedding by kingdom standards. The ceremony was private, in the office of the clerics and paladins who did the work of religion and faith that the king relied upon. The very people that had worked to ban magic from the kingdom were the only ones permitted to see the Crown Princess' bare face. The feast afterwards was no different than her welcome feast. Except that you were called upon to flee a real bear instead of telling stories by shadow puppets. You wondered if the Crown Prince had required it because of his dissatisfaction with your previous tale.
Fleeing a chained bear was no real difficulty though. The difficulty came in making it look difficult, in forcing the gasps and shrieks and laughs from the audience. In faking a fall just as the bear reared up and rolling away as he came down. In running circles that kept him from strangling himself on the chain. In not crying to release it because it was just too terrible.
There was a reason you preferred men in bear costumes to the real thing and it wasn't about any danger you might face.
Still, you did your job well.
So well that the Crown Princess' laugh, high and muffled behind her veil, tinkled like glass chimes above the roar of the crowd.
"Since you have been so amused, my princess, let me gift you this entertainment. As your wedding gift."
The Crown Prince's announcement fell onto a sudden silence.
You saw the crinkle of the corner of the Crown Princess' eyes. The sign that you had begun to recognize of a forced smile.
"I've always wanted a pet bear, my love," her voice was soft and her following sentence was covered by the noise of celebration reigniting. "And a pet jester."
You remembered those words and the swell of pride and the rush of heat when you were manacled in their wedding chamber. When the heavy iron collar around your neck had a chain looped through it and when the end of that chain was driven into the wall. When you were put right next to the bear, similarly chained to the wall. Similarly captive.
Similarly.
Not the same.
If the prince was surprised to see you hale and hearty, stroking the sleeping bear's head when he walked in to the bed chambers that you'd been waiting in for over an hour, he didn't show it on his face. Instead it was still painted harshly with contempt. And rage. And pride.
All of the things you were used to seeing on his face.
What you weren't used to seeing — what you could never be used to seeing — was the Crown Princess walking into the room behind him. She was unpinning her veil. Thick layers of fabric unraveled and draped over her shoulder, trailing behind her like a cape. Your eyes fixated on her like your first glimpse of water after dying in the desert for a week.
You hadn't even realized the Crown Prince was talking until the dull buzzing in your ears stopped. Until the sudden harsh slap across your face that turned your eyes away from the angelic vision caped in the night sky. Until you landed on the floor with ringing ears.
You scrunched your eyes closed. Willed the ringing to stop. The flashes of gunpowder explosions to stop. The flares of pain.
When you opened your eyes you locked gazes with the Crown Princess. Your coal-dust-diamond. Her hand cradled your cheek. Nearby you heard a rumbling. The bear was growling, its paws on the Crown Prince's chest and legs. And the Crown Prince was whimpering.
The Crown Princess helped you to your feet. Your hands moved, creating the shadow puppets that unshackled your wrists and unbound your throat. The collar fell to the ground with a heavy thud. You pressed a kiss to your Crown Princess' hair.
"Witch," the Crown Prince hissed from his place under the claws of the bear.
"Clown," you stated back. A correction. And an insult. "Are you not amused by my parlor tricks anymore, your highness?"
You squatted next to him and ran your fingers through his hair. Your Crown Princess buried her hands in the bear's fur, stroking it until it's growling ceased.
You dragged the Crown Prince up by his hair and saw his eyes water at the pain. He'd so rarely had to face pain. Not like you. Not like the bear.
The bear stepped off, sitting and bowing its head so that the Crown Princess could make short work of its collar.
She spoke in a language that would beguile any beast. It had worked on the bear. It had worked on the prince. It had worked on you.
The Crown Prince took his new freedom to swing a fist, turning his body into the punch even from his place prone on the floor.
He was not faster than your shadow puppets. Hands of shadow gripped him, wrapping around his wrists and joined you in dragging him to the chair in the corner of the room. High backed and beautifully carved, you dragged him into the seat and the shadow hands pinned his struggling wrists to the arms of the chair while you bound a waiting rope around his throat through the intricate whorls on the arch of the chair back.
He pulled against it, spewing curses, and you shoved a wad of cloth into his mouth. He wailed against the gag, nearly choking on it when he gave a ragged inhale.
"You really ought to calm down, your highness. You don't want to hurt yourself."
His ragged breathing and snarling through the cloth faded as you looked back at the enchanting vision. She perched on the edge of the bed, just like when you had been summoned to her. But now her body was bare in all it's glory instead of shrouded in dark heavy skirts. If she'd been beautiful fully clothed, she was blinding now. Long dark limbs stretched out, arching like the statues of goddesses at rest. Her hair fell like a curtain behind her. A pool of night sky shimmered under and around her. You knelt at her feet like you had the first night she'd summoned you.
This time you hadn't been unceremoniously pulled out of bed in your nightclothes. This time when she ran her hand over your head the bells of your cap jingled and she giggled with delight. This time when you cupped her ankle in your hand, your gloves slid against her skin and she shivered. You watched the ripple of goosebumps slide over her skin and chased them with your tongue. She tasted earthy. Salty. And just a little bit sweet. You stopped to scrape your teeth over the inside of her knee, right where you knew she liked it. Where you knew she would let loose a moan that could squeeze your heart too tight for it to beat.
Her moan was nearly a wail as you bit down and sucked, only to release her and do it again higher up her leg. Her inner thigh, the bulge of fat where her thighs met, the inner curve of her hip socket. And then finally your prize. Her prize. You locked your lips to her and dragged your tongue through the damp curls and into the dripping wet slit. She moaned and rolled her hips, dragging your tongue over her.
The bells on your hat jingled as she tightened her hands on your hat. As one of her hands slid under it to coil tightly in your hair. As she pulled your head exactly where she needed it. Where she could use your mouth to best advantage. Where she could touch herself to your tongue and give you sacrament that you needed to be saved.
Your hat fell behind you, its bells ringing as it tumbled down your spine and crashed onto your calves. You pushed it away, kicking it across the floor.
Your fingers moved to caress — to squeeze and tease and please in the intimate witchcraft that the fox prince wouldn't have gifted your coal-dust-diamond. You curled your fingers into the shapes that satisfied her, plunging deeper and beckoning the pleasure out of her and onto your tongue.
Her first climax was a satisfied sigh of a moan, shaking legs tightening around your hand and your cheeks while you smiled smiled smiled into her. She her hand loosed in your hair, giving the distance that let her fall back on the bed. Her arms spread wide across the sheets that the Crown Prince would have stained with her, her glowing skin beautiful and magical against the absence of color. A beauty on a blank canvas. You lapped her up, drinking the sweet nectar that she gifted you until she pushed you away with her foot on your chest.
You held her ankle, holding her foot to your chest and kissed the tips of her toes as you leaned back. You sat on your feet and realized your ankles hurt and your toes were numb like you'd been praying for an entire ceremony at the life forsaken chapel of the king and his new religious advisors. How you wished all worship was as worthwhile as this.
You bowed your head back, leaning so that you could breathe in the air scented with the Crown Princess' pleasure. You filled your lungs until you were drowning in air. And you let your head fall back far enough that you met the Crown Prince's eyes.
The cloth in his mouth was sodden, a curtain of saliva drooling down his chin and onto his lap. The tent of his trousers was soaked with a combination of what must have been his pleasure and his spit. His eyes were unfocused, but sparkling with the rage you'd left in him.
You lay your princess' foot back on the ground, kissed her knee, and stood. You scooped your hat from the floor where you'd kicked it and walked to the Crown Prince.
"Do you feel we've made you the fool, your highness?"
You took his circlet from his head and set it on top of the dressing table beside him. It clattered as it spun, uneven on its axis, and you watched his eyes flick to it — his brows furrow in hate. You stroked a thumb, scented with the Crown Princess' arousal, over his creased brows to smooth them. And you placed the jester's crown over his head, adjusting the cap to cover his sweat dampened hair.
"If you promise to be good, I'll let you taste her," you offered with a sly smile and a whisper he would call villainous.
He snarled through his gag, choking on his own spit until you nearly worried he would die from it. The bells shook with each cough, tinkling silver while the gold circlet landed.
"Suit yourself," you shrugged.
You shed your clothes as you stalked back to your Crown Princess. She'd moved up the bed, the sheets wrinkling and pulling from the bed as she'd moved, a beautiful disarray. The bear snored in front of the door. She watched him until you were at the edge of the bed, naked and raising a knee to approach. Her foot raised again, pressing against your throat as you crawled onto the edge of the bed. You leaned into the pressure. Her eyes glanced past you, to her newly wed husband bound by shadow puppets and pride to his throne.
A smile of pearls broke through her face as she bent her knee for you. You pressed forward, crawling on hands and knees across the wrinkled canvas of her wedding night portrait, her leg bending with your advance until you pressed her thigh to her chest and kissed her cheek. She kept her eyes on her husband as you bent her and arched her under your touch, as your knee pressed to her core and you stroked over her breasts. Soft as silk, softer than the sheets below her, you bent your head to press a kiss over her heart. She made a whimpering sound that coiled inside of you and lifted her hips. Her thigh wrapped around you, the softness of it clutching you as her heel dug into your ass and begged you forward.
You curved to her shape as she curved to yours, curled bodies interwoven and tangled. Her skin soft against yours. Her hips rising and falling like your breath as you sucked her skin into your mouth and pressed yourself into her. You glanced up and saw her eyes drifting from the Crown Prince, rolling back into her head as her neck bowed back to expose her throat. You pressed. You dove into her. And when she broke over you like a wave you felt your own coil unleash into a spiral of pleasure. You rocked your hips into air as she clutched you close and rode out a shaking orgasm on your thigh.
You heard the soft whimpered whine of the man in the corner, the shaking of your bells on his head. You grabbed the Crown Princess' ankle and spread her legs, wrapping her legs around your waist. You lifted her, one arm under her arching back, and turned her so that her eyes closed in rapture and her face opened in a silent prayer was pointed towards the man who would not touch her on their wedding night.
You looked up at him. His eyes were unfocused, his hips thrusting as if his pants were going to offer him enough friction for release.
"Go on, your highness," your tone dripped with derision as you brought your hand between the two of you, knuckles rubbing against her sodden entrance while you rubbed the tight bundle of nerves. "Imagine you were in this bed and thrust. Beg someone to find mercy and let you spill your seed."
His eyes locked onto yours and then drifted down to direct his unfocused gaze at his wife. At the extraordinary pleasure on every line of her face. At her breasts bouncing with every shift of your entangled bodies. At the place where your bodies met, where your hand disappeared, where the noise of her pleasure being stroked was thickest.
His eyes rolled back in his head and you saw his mouth moving. Your shadow puppets released him, pulling the gag from his mouth as he spilled into his pants.
Prayers to old gods and prayers to you, to his queen, to the night, all spilled off of his tongue. His pathetic mewling as his brain disintegrated provided the background to your love making. To the thrust of your fingers, first in your Crown Princess and then in you. To the cascade of pleasure that left your hand soaked from both of you. To the delighted gasp and then giggle of the Crown Princess being plumbed for depths of pleasure no one would ever have thought to search her for. As your diamond sparkled in your arms, you crashed onto her, spent, and decorated her with kisses.
