here’s two of my ocs!! Meet Law Walker and Jasper Novak, co-protagonists of my original novel trilogy (which I hope to publish in the future :’))
(Yes, they are gay and in love <3)
Hope y’all like them 👉🏼👈🏼
HEY GUYS REMEMBER THIS
Well here’s the official story! It might not be what you guys originally expected, but I hope you guys like it! Reblogs would be heavily appreciated. I don’t have a name for this story yet, so suggestions would be super cool!
It’s a well known fact that humans pack bond with anything. The amount of times that Cryton had heard of human “pets” and “house plants” and making friends with AI was far too many in xir opinion. Humans adopting other species was a widespread phenomenon, but xe never quite expected to see it.
Cryton led the ground team on Exerta with xir human friend Bryce, who was talking about his homeworld to xem. The two had heard of a recent possible ship crash on the planet, and were sent to investigate.
“Some animals use bright colors to show us they’re poisonous, but others are bright to attract mates, you see?” Bryce explained.
“We have a similar phenomenon back on Lychein,” Cryton responded. In fact, xe xemself was brightly colored, showing off a possible danger to predators.
“But some animals mimic the colors of those poisonous guys so they don’t get eaten too.”
“That… is not a phenomenon I have heard of before,” Cryton muttered. The two continued walking, bits of debris appearing more and more frequently as they did so.
“Is that it?” Bryce questioned. And there it was. A broken ship, still in flames. The hull was cracked open wide, and the wings seemed as if they were torn straight off. The charred blue and purple paint clung to the metal, and the glass was cracked and lying on the floor. Bryce walked forward, getting a closer look. Under a large sheet of metal was the body of a passenger, its limbs spread out, broken and bleeding. Large lacerations cut across the body, and a metal beam impaled its supposed forehead. It was too mangled to tell the species. He looked around, finding another body in a similar position.
“I guess we found out what happened…” muttered Bryce. He moved around, looking at the broken ship. “Should we go back? Get this broken thing on a ship? Not sure what species they are and what funerals they do. Maybe figure out some more information?”
“I’m not sure… but if we find the black box, it could be—” Cryton was cut off by the sound of scraping. “What was that?”
“No idea,” Bryce muttered. He moved to the other side of the ship, trying to find the source of the sound. And through the large hole he saw a dark figure. He almost left, until he saw movement.
“Hey!” he yelled, “are you there? Do you need help?” The scraping sound got louder as he peered inside. “I’m going in.”
Bryce crawled inside, the fumes from the burning fuel making it hard to breathe. “Hold on! I’m coming!” With a closer look, he could make out the shape of the being. It was much smaller than the other passengers, and it was currently under the collapsed wall of the ship. It stopped moving, the scraping sound finally stopping. He got closer, lifting up the metal with all his might, but it barely budged.
“Cryton!” He yelled, catching his friend’s attention. “Help me out here!” Cryton moved closer, crawling under and grabbing onto the metal. “On three, we pull. One, two, three!”
The metal creaked as it was lifted up, revealing the passenger underneath. “Bryce…” Cryton whispered, “is that a Xelquian?”
The Xelquiae were known throughout the galaxy as being temperamental and strong, who often kept to themselves. The plate-like scales covering the majority of the body were dirty, and its many eyes were closed. The wings looked bent, and many flight feathers broken, and their legs were extended to the pointed position. One of the arms looked broken, possibly in an attempt to lift the metal. But they were small, smaller than even a Thespeys who were a mere four feet and a half on average compared to the usual eight feet that Xelquiae were. What one was doing this far out from their system was the question sticking in Cryton’s mind.
“I think so, but why are they here in the first place?”
“I’m not sure… but they are small. Even their head feathers are short,” Cryton pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter much, what matters is that they need medical attention. Come on, let’s get them to the ship.” Bryce leaned down, picking up the Xelquian and carrying them on his back. “Can you carry my pack?”
Cryton nodded, and moved to walk next to xir friend. “I’ll call Eletra,” xe said, pulling out xir communicator.
“Good. Tell her she has another patient to fix up,” Bryce responded as the two began their long trek back to the ship.
(Do not steal, copy, repost, or otherwise plagiarize my works. And if I catch you doing that I will hunt you down)
Hello! I hope inspiration has been good to you lately. Mind if I request a villain x heroine tango scene with all the enemies to lovers tension you write so well? Thank you!
"May I have this dance?"
She looked at his hand, outstretched towards her, and knew that she shouldn't take it. There was nothing to truly be won by dancing with him, though she could find the usual justifications, certainly:
his eyes on her and not her team
All ways of saying the same thing.
All a slippery trap of need and want, where valid reason and her entire purpose was mixed with the messier undercurrents of simply liking his eyes on her and not anyone else. Excuses. Truths. A tangle of thorns.
She needed his attention.
But she shouldn't have enjoyed his attention. His distraction. His eyes on her, and not her team. The electricity already tingling down her spine should have been a warning sight, a revulsion, and not a siren call sparking in her bones like she was some creature he had brought back to life with a flick of his fingers. And, well.
She was not his. She was not his. She would never, could never, be his.
He smiled at her like he knew what she was thinking and took her hand. He drew her towards him, stupid moth to brilliant blinding burning candle, and onto the dance floor.
Her heart hammered as they took up the familiar, simmering, frame of the tango. She placed no weight on his arm. His fingers curled strong against her own, elegant, but not forceful.
The tango was a seduction after all. A game. With a last glance, a last chance to protest through her dry mouth that he'd been far too presumptuous, their eyes met. Then, they finished the frame and turned their heads away.
The dance began. Slow, slow, quick quick, slow. The scent of his cologne, warm and sensual, dashed through with amber and cedarwood.
"You know, I'm starting to think," she managed finally, "that you throw all of these ridiculous events simply so you can have an excuse to do this again."
"Oh?" His voice was a low rumble near her ear.
Her head turned sharply, in time with the music, and their eyes met for another sizzling instant, inches away.
"And what if I am?" he asked.
She wasn't sure if it was a confession or a dare. Both. Her stomach squeezed. Both of their gazes flicked aside, as the dance demanded. Already, it pulled them along as inexorable as their fate.
"I'd say you're a pretentious twat."
He huffed a laugh, his voice a wicked delighted purr. "And I'd say you were a stunning dancer, all the better with me to lead you."
Heat flared indignant to her face but - the music had started proper, and there was no time for further words. Only the cut and glide of feet, of rising breath and heart, the skim of touch that danced the borders of intimacy.
Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.
Trust. That he would match her moves and she would mirror his. It betrayed them utterly, that trust. Exposed them surely to anyone looking at them, and everyone was looking at them, but even when her head was turned away all of her focus was on him.
Every thing they were was in the tango. Twisting and coming back, even every seeming effort to flee or be coy only another step to bring them, inevitably, together by the end of the song.
They ended breathless, facing each other, the careful frame of arms still the only things that were touching. Somehow. It was strange to think that it was only ever during this dance that they came this close.
His eyes were dark. Fixed on her. Always for her.
She swallowed and tried again, desperately, to summon up the hatred of that which used to come so easily. It wouldn't come.
His mouth curled into another smirk beneath the dip of her stare, but his eyes...
Well, the tango betrayed him as much as her. He might be leading but he couldn't help but react, responsive, sensitive, to every little thing that she did. He couldn't help but ask her every time, despite all his hosting duties and demands. He couldn't help but look at her like that.
If she was his, than he was hers.
An explosion sounded. An alarm began to wail.
His fingers slid into her hair, holding her close, preventing her half step away because they knew each other's moves so damn well, didn't they?
"I guess," he said. "That it was my turn to play the distraction for once. How did I do?"
her eyes on him and not his team
"Oh," it came out with feeling, "you bastard."
"Given your intentions tonight? Please." The music started up again. His lips brushed against hers, intoxicating, giddy as an adrenaline high as they moved into another dance. "It takes two to tango, darling."
“You’ll never be lost at sea, little one. Check the stars, the waves, the compass. You know where you are.
You know how to get home.”
This is Your Captain Speaking
“𝖎 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉, 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖊𝖊. 𝖎𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖞 𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖊.”
The man runs for his life. The dried leaves crunch under his, formerly, white shoes. He doesn’t know where he is or where he is going, all he knows that he needs to go far away from the figure pursuing him.
A trail of blood is left behind him. His left hand is clutching the bleeding stump of his right one, a lack of fingers clearly noticeable. The forest provides him no shelter as he tries to maneuver inside it.
‘Just go straight. There should be a way out straight ahead, right?’ His train of thought is interrupted when one of his foot hits a big chunk of rock and he falls face-first on the ground, hard. The man feels his two front teeth getting knocked out and spits out dirt and blood. He cries out, despite himself, as he momentarily forgets about his mutilated hand and puts too much pressure on it in his effort to scramble himself off the ground.
“What an unsightly scene we have here.”
The man’s blood runs cold in his veins. Fear making his arms weak and letting him fall back down. His sanity quivers as he hears the sound of hissing around him. So loud that it seemed like he had fallen right into a pit of angry snakes.
“I’m afraid our little game ends here. Now, be a dear and let me see your face.”
No. He will not. He will definitely not. This is all just a bad dream and he will wake up in his bed, safe and sound. His hand will turn out fine. He will go on with his life as usual.
“Disobedient to the bone, aren’t you? Very well.”
A pair of hands rest on either side of his face and he trembles despite the gentleness. The touch is almost soothing. Almost.
His head twists in the complete opposite direction of his body as the sound echoes around the area. Wide, glassy eyes stare into the face of the man’s tormentor, showcasing the remnants of terrified shock in the last moment of his—rather short—life. His nightmare smiles, resting their forehead against his and delighting in the macabre position he ended up in. Their gorgeous face marred by a splatter of dried blood across their cheeks and nose.
“I wonder,” they hum as they stand up to drag the lifeless man behind them by his hair, “if the stray dogs are still hungry.”
The town of Helmsford, Connecticut, in the 80s can be considered as your average small town in the middle of nowhere. That is if you pay no mind to the seemingly random disappearances and murders that happen here. But it is almost an art form, the way the townsfolk have learned to ignore them and forget it all with time.
You are the youngest surgeon in town and considered to be a prodigy of some sort. With a career in the medical field, you are much too used to dead bodies and hysterical patients. But... it is not the complete reason for that, is it?
A surgeon who kills deliberately. The irony is not lost on you. Dubbing yourself as a vigilant while law enforcements consider you no difference from the fugitives you hunt, you have no intention of letting your perfect mask slip and disrupt your entire routine.
When an officer from the local police department is unlucky enough to nose into your business and finding the secrets you hid in your basement, you have no choice but to silence him forever. Little did you know that this particular event would lead to an oncoming threat to the balance you had cleverly managed to keep in your life.
And you will soon learn that you cannot always outrun the karma that you hellishly dish out to others.
‘𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬’ 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫/𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟕+ 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬.
Park Jae-sung (Jason) / Park Jae-eun (Jane) [M/F]: An overall prickly individual, J Park is not someone that people would like to talk to on their own accord. People often refer to them as a person still stuck in their rebellious phase, much to their annoyance. After dropping out of business school, they are now lazing around at their home and trying to make it big in the music industry. It is clear that they don’t like people in general but you cannot help but notice that their chilly attitude does a complete 180° around you.
Their lovestruck gaze follows you everywhere they can, eager for your attention and affection alike. They have been in love with you since you were kids and they would do anything for you. Anything.
“Are you serious? My sanity, you say? Don’t you get it? It is nothing but a small price to back for their love.”
𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆: 𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗸𝗮𝗻𝗴 / 𝗸𝗶𝗺 𝘀𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗴
Thomas Kaufmann / Theresa Kaufmann [M/F]: They are the newest addition to the town’s mediocre and, dare I say, irresponsible police force. The detective takes utmost pride in their deduction skills, but they have to say that the Helmsford cases has them both baffled and intrigued. With a charming smirk, Detective Kaufmann wears wit and confidence like an expensive outfit.
They think you are one of the most interesting person they have ever met. An ardent admirer of your intelligence, they gladly take up your help in catching the ‘Reaper of Helmsford’. Little do they know that they are a lot closer to the answers than they expected.
“Don’t you forget about me either, dear doctor. Who am I kidding, I’m extremely hard to forget.”
𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆: 𝗸𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗿 / 𝗹𝗶𝗹𝗶 𝗿𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗵𝗮𝗿𝘁
Vivienne Malhotra [F]: A bleeding heart with a kind smile that always puts people at ease, Vivienne is a psychiatrist in the same hospital as you. All her life she has been taught to help everyone and treat them with kindness and it is something that she took quite literally when she pursued a specialisation in psychiatry. However, there is a storm of sadness raging behind the serene smile that she puts up for others.
Vivienne was the first person to befriend you from the hospital, even before the nurses. She also happens to be your therapist and the person who knows the most about your past. But she has an inkling that there is more to the story than you let on.
“Preventing your heart from forgiving someone you love is actually a hell of a lot harder than simply forgiving them.”
𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆: 𝗻𝗮𝗼𝗺𝗶 𝘀𝗰𝗼𝘁𝘁
Sebastián Navarro [M]: It was supposed to be a normal day where his Harry, his roommate, comes home and complains to him about his incompetent colleagues and the growing pile of unsolved cases. Now Harry is added to that list and Sebas is one of the prime suspects. He now struggles to bring up the mega-watt smile he used to possess and the nights spent being a private journalist has dark circles showing up under his eyes.
Sebas had given you his trust before he realised it. So much that he never realised that the person who took away his peace of mind could be the kind surgeon who had mend his fractured leg, as well as his heart.
“He was my best friend and a complete fool. I won’t ever forgive him for leaving me. So don’t you leave me either, okay?”
𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆: á𝗹𝘃𝗮𝗿𝗼 𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗼
Play as a killer surgeon with a peculiar sense of justice and fun.
Fully customize your character including: pronouns, gender, physical appearance, personality, sexuality, and more.
What kind of a killer are you?
Romance 1 out of 4 love interests (1 female, 1 male and two gender-selectable). Or not. It’s more fun to use people, isn’t it?
Will you have some sort of morals in your twisted way of life, or are you as wicked as the people you slaughter?
Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss.
Manipulate. Mansplain. Malewife.
Why is the voice so eerily familiar to you?
Unearth the cursed m̴̡̢̦̙̦͔̖̯̹͙̂̈́̊̀͝a̴̧̳̥̹̲̘̠̲̯̍̽̈͛̋͋́͘͠͝d̴̳̹̥͎̜̥̗͍͐̈͋͊̇n̷̡͇̋͆̓͊̓̑e̸̥̊́͊͛̾̾̈́̈́̿̚s̵͔̄s̴̡̞͈͈̜͓̔̇͊ͅ that has plagued your family for generations.
Will you be able to keep your secrets hidden from the relationships you forge, or will the consequences of your actions eventually catch up to you?
Inspired by media like ‘Rebecca’, ‘Psycho’, ‘Tomie’, ‘Strangers From Hell’, ‘Dexter’, ‘Hannibal’, etc.
RO information, moodboards and playlists: park / kaufmann / malhotra / navarro
The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind
Sequel to Eindred and the Witch
In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.
Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.
“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”
Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.
“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”
And that was that.
By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.
His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.
He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.
Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.
Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.
I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.
He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.
At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.
He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.
He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.
When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.
“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”
The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.
The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.
“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.
What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.
“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.
What if you don’t want to?
Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”
People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.
“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”
When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.
He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.
Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.
She died within the day.
Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.
He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.
During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.
It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.
By the time he arrived, the battle was done.
It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.
Instead, it was a man.
Just a man.
The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.
Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.
The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.
The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.
“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”
Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”
Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.
The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.
Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.
Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.
Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.
Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?
As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.
Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.
By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.
Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.
In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.
After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.
Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.
Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.
He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.
One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.
A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.
When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.
I am here. I am here.
Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.
So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.
In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.
“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.
By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.
When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”
The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.
Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.
For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.
And then, the skies erupted.
He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.
When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.
The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.
He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.
Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.
Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.
The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.
Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.
The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.
He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.
It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.
It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.
“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.
The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.
“And if these things do not happen?”
Then your soul will fade from the earth.
Severin felt torn in two.
The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.
“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.
No, none, the wind agreed.
“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.
The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.
The blade struck.
It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.
When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.
It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.
And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.
Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”
For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”
It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.
It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.
The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.
The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.
Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.
Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.
One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.
The barbarian had returned.
Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.
When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.
When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.
It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.
Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.
By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.
By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.
He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.
He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.
Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.
When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.
Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.
When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.
Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.
Eindred, was his answer.
Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.
Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.
Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.
It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.
Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.
Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.
Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.
Confused, Severin drifted closer.
May your every loved one die screaming in pain.
I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.
You will never know happiness.
Your existence will be suffering.
It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.
May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.
May you live a life of safety and peace.
And Severin understood.
When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.
And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?
But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.
Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.
Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.
And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”
Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.
“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”
Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.
Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”
You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.
“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”
There it was.
His greatest enemy.
Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.
Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.
The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.
Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -
White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.
Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.
Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.
“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”
Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.
Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”
“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.
The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”
Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”
Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.
Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.
“Home, of course. Where else?”
“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.
And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.
By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.
“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.
Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.
“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”
“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”
Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes.
He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.
“That’s better,” Severin said.
The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.
When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.
“I don’t plan on stopping.”
Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.
“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”
Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”
Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”
And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”
“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”
Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”
“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”
EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)
"I need a knight to save my daughter!" The king plead the figure before him. It was the usual story. A dragon kidnapped the princess and a knight in shining armor tried to rescue her. Of course, it was only the squire that returned, leading the horse that pulled a makeshift sled on which the would-be rescuer lay. The figure before the king was not in shining armor. His armor was tarnished with time, covered with evidence of repaired dents and scrubbed scorch marks.
"I'll do it, but I must insist that the reward be discussed after the task is performed," the knight stated.
The king paused. "I want my daughter back, but how do I know you won't take advantage? Our treasury has already been injured defending our borders."
"I give you my word, the impact on your gold will be minimal. I choose to discuss the reward after for two reasons. The first of assurance. I refuse to take anything until I'm finished because gold that perishes with me has no value. The second is that my requests will sound nonsensical if presented before my task is finished. I ask you now, will you accept my terms?"
The king thought it over. Eventually, he agreed. The knight before him had been praised by others in the past for resolving similar issues and he didn't want to risk the life of his daughter over naming her worth in gold.
"I wish you success, dragonslayer," the king said as the knight walked away, though he paused ever so slightly at his presumed occupation.
Near the stables, the knight found the squire that had returned.
At the sight of the battered armor the squire leapt to his feet.
"I wish to go with you! I failed sir Charles and I cannot rest until I've seen his quest finished!"
The squire was young, his chin barely more than scruff, but his eyes were filled with determination.
The older knight looked him over. "Fine. Do you have a steed?"
"Not as such. Sir Charles did, though the horsemaster is likely to sell it to another knight."
The elder knight nodded and approached the stable master.
The stable master looked up from feeding a handsome brown steed as she heard the soft rattle of the armor approach. She was a stout and hardy woman, accustomed to taming the strong, spirited animals in her care.
"What can I do for you?" She asked.
"I understand you have a horse who's lost it's owner recently. I'd like to purchase it."
"Oh? If you don't mind my asking, what do you need a second one for? I've been taking care of the one you brought in and she's as healthy as any."
"Not for me. For the squire accompanying me."
She scowled at the young man who was at present impatiently looking for something to do.
"Surely the old nag will be fine for a layabout like him," she asked.
"The steed knows him. State your price and I'll pay it," the elder knight assured her.
With the payment details finished, she left to first ensure the gold was real before bringing the horse around. The young man, astonished, immediately began petting and speaking to the steed, a strong creature with black hair, soothing it. The woman's expression softened slightly before giving the squire instructions on how to properly care for the beast, through they came in the form of orders.
Once the pair purchased their supplies, they wasted little time before leaving on their mission.
The dragon's lair was a day north. As such, they made camp in the forest as the sun began to set. As soon as the knight, with the squire's aid, was out of his armor, he helped to set up the camp, ignoring the squire's insistence that he rest. By the time the squire had come back from gathering firewood, the knight, who looked remarkably thin yet strong out of his armor, had already prepared the bedrolls and salted meats. The squire had little else to do besides care for the horses once the fire was started.
They ate in silence before the squire had to ask the question that had been formulating in his mind. It formed as a statement.
"You are nothing like the other knights I've seen. The others seem to like nothing more than fighting and giving orders."
"Was sir Charles that way as well?" The knight asked.
"I suppose. He was kinder about it to be sure. Though, that might only be because I was quick to do things before he asked. I was always told that the best squires did their work before others knew it had to be done. He only hit me a few times if I forgot to do things like sharpen his sword or polish his helmet. Oh! I should start work on yours!" He started before realizing the knight had already begun to clean his helmet himself.
Before the squire could fetch the sword to begin work on it, the knight spoke.
"Sit and rest. I prefer to maintain my own equipment. If you cannot rest, then please, care for the horses. They'll appreciate it."
The squire paused, confused, before following the knights suggestion and making the horses comfortable and clean.
"I wasn't always a knight. I became one after earning the title. Before then, I was a blacksmith's apprentice. He was an unruly man who enjoyed two things. Ale, and hitting things. It made little difference to him if what he struck was metal or not. He was also a coward. You see, an ogre had come to our village. It attacked the livestock, but with humans being, well, humans, people tried to drive it off. It would come back, torches would be lit, and it would run off. After the fourth or fifth time, I decided to follow it. The smith was unconscious and I felt I had little to lose. I don't know what I expected to find, but what I saw was the ogre bringing the cow it grabbed to it's cave. Inside was not another ogre though. It looked like a small giant in the dark and it was crying. The livestock was still alive. Neither the ogre or the other creature had been eating them. The only carcasses were of wild deer.
"I crept as close as I dared and finally realized what was going on. The ogre had been taking care of a baby hill giant. Though ogres eat meat, hill giants eat stone. I knew this because the smith once boasted about getting the best ore around when a knight had killed a hill giant and found almost pure iron in it's belly. I knew how to help now. It took some time that night, and I took a few hits from the ogre, but I was able to convince it that I was there to help. My time with the smith had made it easy for me to not get hurt badly. The ogre hit harder, but moved about as well as an angry drunk.
"That morning, I walked to town bruised and bloodied, but proud. A concerned guard had me rest in his bed, I had no family, and asked me what happened. I explained to him the best I could but he seemed to assume I had killed the ogre. When the ogre failed to show for several nights, a knight the king sent was told that I had dealt with it. It wasn't long after that I was knighted. That's why I'm not like other knights. I don't treat people the way I was, and every time I find a monster threatening people, I tend to find that the solution doesn't require bloodshed."
The squire had stopped brushing the horses to listen to the knight in awe. That the man in front of him was no different than him and had done so much was, humbling.
The next day, after the two packed up, they went straight to the dragon's lair. The burnt vegetation informed them when they were close. The cave the dragon lived in smelt of sulfur and burnt meat. It was quiet except for a low grumble from within the cave. Outside, the knight dismounted and led his horse to a patch of still-living grass near the entrance. The squire followed suite, but the knight stopped him.
"This will be dangerous. Don't you think the horses will need someone to keep them calm?"
The squire wanted to protest. He wanted to see things through, or at the very least, he wanted to see the elder knight in action, or to be there if things went badly. However, he also recognized that someone had to watch the horses. They were already nervous and any loud noise could scare them away.
The knight entered the cave alone, sword still sheathed.
He stepped carefully as his eyes adapted to the darkness of the cave. Thanks to the light outside, it wasn't long before he could walk with fair confidence though, and a couple of turns later he could find his way with a fire reflecting off the walls leading him. In the main chamber he saw the source of the flames. A great bonfire was burning, it's flames making the gold coins scattered about shine. Yet, the coins appeared dull compared to the resplendent silver and onyx colored scales of the great sleeping dragon. Next to the fire sat the princess, though her dress had become dirty and covered with small tears. She hadn't seen him yet as at that moment she was busy eating the roasted carcass of a deer.
When she did see the knight, she immediately grew wide eyed and hissed at him to leave. As her warnings became more insistent as he refused, the dragon began to stir. Coins, ore, and uncut gems shifted like water as the great being yawned and opened it's eyes. Upon seeing the knight, it roared, spitting fire at the ceiling of the cave.
Outside, the squire soothed the scared horses, calming them down before they could run away.
Inside, the dragon snarled at the man coated in steel. He made no move to draw his blade, instead raising one hand and using the other to unbuckle the sheath, allowing the sword to fall to the ground.
"Is this a trick?" The puzzled dragon asked.
"No. I wish to discuss why you have taken the princess and to negotiate her return," the knight responded, removing his helm.
The dragon sat, studying the curious knight before it.
Finally, it spoke.
"What makes you think I'm not simply keeping her as a pet, or waiting to eat her?"
"I don't know either. I know that she is alive. I know her father, the king, wants her home safe, and I know the last knight who came was killed by you. I wish to know the reasons behind all of this so that I may resolve this matter peacefully."
The dragon paused another moment before speaking again.
"I will discuss this with you. However, know this. If you make the poor decision to cause harm, you will find it reciprocated ten fold."
It then shifted into the shape of a woman with scales covering her in patches and long silver and black hair that shined like steel.
Over the course of an hour, it became clear that the dragon, Almzeera by name, had been in isolation for some time. She used to live with her mate and their child until a knight had slain her mate. Her child had left for revenge, but never returned. Almzeera had become bitter and in revenge, wanted the humans responsible to know what it was like to lose a child. However, she couldn't bring herself to actually harm the scared, defenseless human she had taken. Her pride wouldn't allow her to free the girl, and her father sent a dragonslayer.
The knight listened to the tale he was told. The young knight was obviously the intended dragonslayer, but from what he heard at the last village, it was another kingdom that had celebrated a dragon slaying a few years ago. Since then, they had met their own misfortune, losing their land to war after being weakened by plague.
Upon relating this to Almzeera, she realized the mistake. However, she couldn't simply allow the princess to leave. She had become a part of her... treasure horde in a way. The knight only took a moment to find a solution.
Outside, the horses were once again calm. The squire grew concerned instead though. He had been there for some time waiting with no sound from the cave. He didn't want to leave if the knight was alive, but he had no way of knowing if he was. Just as the squire began to resolve himself to take a look inside, he heard footsteps. Soft ones.
Out stepped the princess, blinking at the slowly setting sun, and smiling at the squire.
She explained to him that the knight and the dragon Almzeera had reached an agreement. She would be free to go home to her father. In exchange, the knight was to stay with Almzeera as a part of her horde. The knight had also asked the princess to relay a message to the king. The only payment he asked for was twofold. First, the king was not to harm any dragons and to instead attempt to discuss peace options with them. The second was to give the squire his title as he no longer had need of it.
Two pages I did for the mini pitch when we looked for an author for the graphic novel. We got a wonderful author now, we are working on the story and the actual scene has changed a bit and I will draw it again.
So have those pages :D
Sharing some older Leviathan doodles with y’all at 4am lol. I meant to show them a while ago but I was lazy 💀
an ocean sunset flight puts the mind at ease 🧹🛥
Monster Universe- Chapter Three: Devil's Threeway
The werewolf can no longer watch...
Pairing: Werewolf x F!Reader x Minotaur
Word Count: 5K
Warnings: mfm threesome, monster smut, blow jobs, p in v sex, anal sex, voyeurism, barely a hint of plot but we'll get there, facial, cunnilingus, teratophilia, a little bit of blood, non-con elements if you squint, NC-17!!!! TUMBLR DOES NOT POST IT IF I TAG IT AS SUCH, SO PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!!
Author's Note: Chapter 3- the much awaited threesome between you, a werewolf, and a minotaur. Below the cut is a whole mess of monster smut- if you have no interest in this, please don't torture yourself by reading it. Head's up- this goes straight into the smut. There is no preamble- it is a direct continuation of the previous chapter!
Read Chapter Two Here! / Read Chapter Four Here!
Golden eyes take in your bare form where you're settled on the minotaur's cock.
Black eyes drift down to memorize the way you're stuffed full, impaled on a reddish-pink member that should be too big for you to take.
The werewolf and the minotaur cannot keep their eyes off of you.
You feel weightless, as though the only thing keeping you from floating straight up to the stone ceiling is the heavy dick settled inside of you like an anchor. When the werewolf takes a step towards you, your insides clench in anticipation. The minotaur grunts in response and you feel his member twitch, making you whine.
Suddenly, you're lifted off the desk by one muscular arm entwining under your breasts and the opposite hand gripping the underside of your thigh. You cry out and flail, arms thrown backwards to find something to hold on to as the minotaur turns towards the fire. One hand finds the base of his left horn while the other clutches at the coarse fur of his neck. He stomps over to the enormous white rug; you hear the long claws of the werewolf's feet clicking against the stone as he follows. You aren't sure how any of this is going to work- you aren't sure how you still have the energy to continue this insane, taboo tryst.
But your arousal only seems to be growing the more the night wears on and you feel helpless to stop it. At this point… you don't want to. You've never felt so alive, so fluid, so open and hot and ready and eager. And certainly never for anything other than humans.
That same tug from before pulls at your mind. You gaze at the wall opposite you, take in the dusty tomes and scrolls that fill the rocky shelves; the minotaur said he'd been asleep for one hundred years. 100 years. Woke up two weeks ago.
First willing woman to fuck-
The bull-man lifts you suddenly and you cry out as his erection slips free of you. Instantly, the cum bursts out of you. The barrier of his cock gone, the dam floods and milky white, creamy sperm streams out steadily from your gaping pussy and on to the pretty white fur below the minotaur's hoofs. You groan at the loss and the feeling of being emptied and the anticipation of being filled again to replace the impressive load that's just escaped you- that's still escaping you.
The minotaur lowers you carefully to your feet and you turn on trembling legs to face him as he kneels before you. Your hands shoot out to grip his horns to steady yourself, not trusting your aching legs to keep you upright.
"You did so well, little one," the creature tells you proudly. His praise has you smiling bashfully. "Now," he continues, mouth moving strangely around the words, "let me clean you, and you do the same for me."
You pause for a moment, unsure of how to do as he’s requested. The size difference will make any attempt at sixty-nining the traditional way… difficult. The werewolf steps into the firelight, onto the rug behind the minotaur, and stares at you. You bite your lip, finding it difficult to take your eyes from his.
But then the minotaur is sitting, tail swishing behind him lazily as he does so. He spreads his legs wide and you let go of his horns to step over his thighs as he does so, leaving you straddling him as he gets comfortable. His oversized hands come up to grab your hips and you look down to see a peaceful gaze in return. You relax and smile. "What do I do?" You ask softly.
"Turn around, darling."
You do so as he reclines. His hands guide you backwards so that you're standing over his chest. Small amounts of cum still drip out of you and land on his broad pectorals. He doesn't seem to mind.
You feel his head raising just enough for his snout to press against you and you bend over as you realize what to do. No, this was most definitely not traditional. But hopefully it will be effective.
You bend in half over him, upper body horizontal with his, and you grab onto his hardened member to keep yourself steady. His cock twitches near your mouth. It's puffy and swollen and pretty in color, with veins running along it and cum still leaking out of the tip. You hesitate before you open your mouth and descend on it. You aren't sure how far you can take it in your mouth, but you want to try.
The minotaur huffs out against your pussy, making you clench around nothing. You moan as the taste of the bull's cum saturates your tongue. You open your mouth wider, straighten your neck and work your tongue against the broad tip of him. You bob your head slowly, letting your saliva collect and dribble down as you take in the first inch or so of his large member. It’s so good. You don’t know how it tastes so good, but you feel like a glutton, salivating and groaning as you take him further and further in your mouth.
The minotaur grunts in approval and before you can prepare yourself, his long tongue is licking up your cunt. He swirls it around your clit, making you hum in pleasure around his cock. It causes him to hum in return, the vibrations of his deep voice settling in your core. There’s a motion from behind you and you look up as you pull up on the minotaur’s cock, keeping your lips wrapped around the head. You blink up at the werewolf standing above you, straddling the minotaur’s thighs so that he can be near you.
The werewolf is erect. His cock twitches near your face. Suddenly, you feel bold. Knowing these monsters are about to fuck you gives you a kind of high you’ve never experienced. Keeping your gaze on the werewolf, you descend slowly on the bull cock, hollowing out your cheeks as you do so, moaning loudly. The werewolf’s lips pull back in a snarl, though he doesn’t make a move to stop you. He waits patiently as you work even more of the dick down your throat. You have to take your eyes off him then as you adjust your head so that you can swallow down more.
The minotaur pulls back briefly and chuckles.
“You’d better pay attention to your pet, little one.”
Then he buries his tongue inside of you. You shriek around his erection, ass pushing towards his mouth automatically. Oh gods, it’s so good. He could fuck with you nothing but his tongue and you think you’d die happy. You push and push and push and before you realize it, you’re thrusting against his snouted mouth as he curls his tongue inside of you and eats you out. He makes small grunts and moans as he does so, as though he’s actually enjoying a full-course meal and not the glistening wet hole of your pussy. Your legs begin to tremble and you work your mouth faster around his cock.
You know he told you to pay attention to the werewolf, but a small part of you likes teasing him, even if it is a very dangerous thing to do. The minotaur is so huge, you can’t get more than half of him in your mouth. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, but you feel a little bad. You work your hands up and down the part of the shaft that your mouth can’t reach, using the saliva that has dripped down to help lubricate and make the motion smoother.
The minotaur pulls back with a loud groan and a pant. “Gorgeous woman, if you keep that up, I’ll blow my load in your pretty mouth. Is that what you want?” His hands that had been gripping your hips move and you feel an oversized hand smack your ass roughly. You scream as you bob your head, tears forming in your eyes. You want to tell him “yes” but you don’t want to take your mouth off of him. Instead you thrust against nothing, missing the feeling of his mouth against your sex. You whimper around him, twisting your hands around the base of his cock. You let go with one hand and trail towards his balls instead. They’re huge and slightly furry and you massage them as you suck him off.
Please, you think desperately. Please cum in my mouth. I want you in me.
He slaps your ass again, making you flinch and cry out around him.
The werewolf is growling steadily above you. His clawed hand shoots out suddenly and grips the hair at the base of your skull. You expect him to pull you off. Instead, he puts pressure on your head, forces you down. You gag, bits of drool spitting around the cock. He guides your head, makes you blow the minotaur as he watches.
You feel yourself approaching your orgasm without any stimulation from below. You moan, long and deep while the werewolf increases the speed. Just as you feel yourself about to cum, the werewolf yanks. Your mouth is ripped from the minotaur’s cock and before you can process it, the werewolf is shoving his member down your throat. You gag, throat bulging and hand coming up from the minotaur’s testicles to grip the werewolf’s thigh as you struggle. He isn’t patient anymore. He thrusts quickly, the bulbous base hitting your chin each time. Saliva flies out with the actions. You think some may be dripping out from every orifice of you, but you’re too far gone to care.
The minotaur unfurls his long tongue in you once more, prodding and swirling. Your hips buck and you bounce spasmodically against the bull's face. Claws begin to break the skin on your scalp and the shock of pain has you jerking back. But the werewolf keeps hold, snarling and huffing as he fucks into your face. A jolt of fear finally zips through you, a bit of clarity poking through the haze of lust that has consumed you all night.
These were monsters- creatures that haunted your worst nightmares; they were cursed beasts, deadly beings that killed, maimed, destroyed-
And you were fucking them.
Or rather, they were fucking you.
Your body shudders and aches from your position hovering over the minotaur and your neck is beginning to twinge with the pressure the werewolf is putting on it.
Any hint of intelligence in the wolf's golden eyes has vanished, replaced with the animalistic instinct that's taking over. He braces one clawed foot on the minotaur's thigh, giving himself a better angle at which to pound down your throat. You gag and gasp and it's hard to breathe, but with the wet tongue lapping at you, the discomfort turns heady and good, and you think you're going to cum.
One clawed hand leaves your scalp. You catch the coppery scent of blood as he moves his monstrous paw down to clutch your throat. He squeezes and you see white dotting prettily at the edge of your vision. You moan as he thrusts; it comes out strangled and raspy and muted from the dick stuffed in your throat.
The werewolf growls, then suddenly stiffens. He throws his head back and howls, the sound echoing against the damp walls of the hidden library and pounding loudly against your skull. There's a wave of warmth down your throat that overcomes you so quickly that you gag and your reflexes have the werewolf’s cum dribbling out around his twitching member. It floods your mouth, sneaks into your sinus cavity as you choke on it. You pull off with a wet gasp, releasing the wolf's thigh to wipe hurriedly at your nose and mouth. It's everywhere; the werewolf's seed coats your mouth and chin and upper lip in a disgustingly delicious way.
The pressure on your head lifts and the werewolf pulls back. You see pinpricks of red at the tips of his claws, shiny in the firelight. You gasp again, struggling to catch your breath. The minotaur continues to lick your cunt, though he's methodically slow in his attention. You shiver, rolling your hips against him, feeling his wet snout on your ass cheeks.
You wipe your face. When you pull your hand back, thick, creamy cum spiderwebs between your fingers. You choke out a moan before peering up at the werewolf still hovering over you. He stares down and you see the command in his eyes; you bring your hand up to your mouth, keeping your eyes trained on him as you lick a stripe up your palm. The cum collects on your tongue; you keep your mouth open for the werewolf to see when you bring your hand down.
Something flashes in his eyes, something nearly human-
You close your mouth and swallow, letting your eyes flutter shut as you savor the taste of him. He tastes different than the minotaur had, but you aren't sure if it's good or bad.
You work yourself against the minotaur's tongue in time with his licks and thrusts. It's slow and sensual, almost like a dance with you bent over his impressive tongue as he cleans you out. His meaty hands are gripping your thighs, pushing and pulling as you move with him.
He pulls back after a moment, panting. You whimper. You were so close-
"Cum against my tongue little one, and I'll do the same for you," he states in his booming voice. You glance over your shoulder to look back at him. The sight of the bull's face shocks you- for a moment you'd almost forgotten…
You nod before turning your attention back to his member where it pulses near your face. You lower yourself to him again, feeling the werewolf shift his stance above you.
You open your mouth wide, ignoring the ache of having done so for so long already and descend on the dick before you. The tastes on your tongue mingle and a moan hitches in your throat. You may become addicted to this. You work yourself up and down, keeping your tongue flat against the length of him. Gods, he's so big; you suck at the fat cock eagerly, slurping and moaning as you let your saliva once again pool around him. It drips down as you move, trailing along the reddish skin and accumulating in a puddle.
He grunts, a large burst of air hitting your pulsating cunt. You gurgle out a moan of pleasure.
"Darling woman, you're doing so well," he trails off with a moan. Hearing his praise makes your back arch and you go back to using both hands to work the base of his cock that's impossible to reach. It's wet and sticky, hot and cold at the same time.
He grunts again before burying his face in your cunt and thrusting his tongue into you. The two of you work at each other, moving quicker and quicker as you each approach your climaxes. The wolf stands above you, one elongated foot still braced atop the minotaur's thigh, and he begins to pleasure himself near your bobbing head.
Your body begins to hum in delight. There's something about knowing that makes the situation especially erotic; knowing the fearsome werewolf is jerking off near your face, knowing the cursed minotaur is about to cum in your mouth, knowing both creatures are drunk on you.
Your orgasm tumbles through you, pulling at your nerves and splitting you apart. You falter around the minotaur as you give a thick, wet cry around him, hips jerking and rolling as you chase the feeling. His tongue doesn't stop- he drinks up your release, grunting as he does so.
His deep voice catches and then-
And then cum shoots to the back of your throat, surprising you. You retract your mouth, hands rubbing and pulling at his thick member as strand after strand of cum explodes out of the tip. It lands against your mouth and coats your nose and drips down your throat, but you keep going, keep jerking him off, knowing he isn't finished. Seeing it happen, feeling the heat of his orgasm as he coats you in his release has you whimpering as a terrible longing ache spreads in your chest.
You almost hate to waste it... His cock twitches, smaller and smaller bursts of semen ejaculating until finally he's finished and the remnants are dribbling down his shaft. You dip down without thinking, tongue slipping between your lips to gather up the thick cum slipping down his cock. You swirl it on your tongue before you swallow it down with a soft gasp. So much, so much- your belly is so full of cum now, in every way.
The minotaur grunts, his thick hands squeezing your hips.
"Let me see your face, pretty maiden."
You straighten, careful to avoid the werewolf as he continues fucking his furry hand above you. You stand on trembling legs and, with great effort, lift yourself off the minotaur to stand shakily beside him. You look down at him, panting and trembling, a mask of cum dripping slowly down your face.
The minotaur sits up with a grunt, kicking his leg out from under the werewolf. The wolf stumbles and snarls in warning, taking a step back and releasing his pulsing cock.
The minotaur ignores him and reaches his hand out to you where he still sits on the luxurious rug. You move to him automatically and his hand wraps around your waist. He pulls you on top of him again, adjusting you easily in his lap. His member presses against your slick folds, but he doesn't move.
"You wear my seed well, little one. Like a badge of honor. Tell me, how did it feel to have our cocks in your mouth?"
You blink slowly, feeling sluggish and warm. Shyness creeps up on you and you look at his chest to avoid his black eyes. "I-It was… I… liked it," you finish lamely. Heat erupts in your cheeks then as embarrassment makes itself known.
He hums thoughtfully.
"Would you like us in you at the same time, little one? Do you think your pretty body can handle it?"
You look up at him in shock then, a new kind of heat sparking in your belly.
Both of them…
No longer letting one watch, but both of them inside of you?
"Yes," you whisper as more cum drips from your chin. "Please."
The minotaur's hold tightens on your waist and he eases you down. You gasp and clench at the intrusion, before forcing yourself to relax. He thrusts slowly and brings you down carefully, easing himself into you further and further each time. He moans when you're halfway down, pausing for a moment. His hands drift down to clutch at your ass, thick fingers digging into your backside and spreading you.
You whimper when the air hits your puckered hole.
"You won't break, will you, woman?"
You shake your head, bits of cum flying off with the motion. It's quickly drying against your face, making your lashes stick together. "N-No!" You gasp out, hips rocking against his tight grip. He won't let you move further.
"No, you are strong," he agrees. The sudden, assured statement has you freezing. Gratitude and pride surges through you, makes your knees go weak and your pussy flutters with his sweet words. Strong…
He shoves you down suddenly.
You scream, the sound bouncing off the walls and hitting you full force as pain shoots up your cunt and settles in your bones. The minotaur grunts as he begins bouncing you on his cock, your walls dragging against his thick member. It hurts, it hurts, it… hurts…
The friction is soothing the pain. The slick between your legs begins to coat his cock and soon you're riding him without his assistance. You bounce on him, leaning forward to grab his horns for balance. Once you take the weight off your upper body, you can focus on increasing your speed below.
He keeps your cheeks spread as you gyrate and grind against him. Once you find a good rhythm, you jounce enthusiastically atop his gigantic monster cock. It punches a keening sound from you each time. The outline of the minotaur's dick is visible as it pumps into you.
You keep moving, a steady thrumming against your core as you ride the monster.
He holds you down suddenly, refusing to let you move. You whine and roll your hips. The way he fills you is overwhelming.
"Hold still, little one. Unless you want that mutt to rip you apart."
You freeze at his words, eyes widening.
The presence at your back makes you shiver. You glance back in time to see the werewolf bend over you. You arch, gripping the minotaur's horns tight when you feel the bulbous member pressing against your ass.
The werewolf folds himself over you, claws digging into your sides, and he begins to insert himself into your asshole. A squeal of discomfort slips out and the wolf's claws dig into you in warning. You tremble, struggling to stay still. The minotaur is chuckling beneath you, apparently amused by your discomfort.
"Shall I distract you, little one?"
Before you can answer, he's flicking his tongue against your left nipple. You clench around him at the feeling, a moan curling in your throat. He swirls his tongue around your nipple, playing with the hardened peak and panting against you as he works.
The werewolf grabs your head with one hand, claws tangling in your hair as he jerks your head back. His hips surge forward and the pain that blossoms through your backside trails up your spine and has you screeching. The intrusion is too much and not even the minotaur's tongue can take away from it. You feel the bulb at the base of the werewolf's cock pressing into your already widened hole and you flinch away from him; his hand in your hair keeps you from going far. Tears prick at your eyes automatically and the weight of your situation comes slamming down on you.
You don't know what you're doing.
The werewolf pulls back and the sting of it has you crying out, voice choked from the angle that he holds your head. He surges forward then, making you scream. He repeats the process, pull out, thrust in, pull out, thrust in and after a few times the ache gives way to a burning pleasure. He fills you in a way you've never felt before. Your choked sobs turn into wet moans the longer the werewolf continues to fuck your ass.
The minotaur grunts and begins to pull out as the werewolf pushes in. You give a shrill whine until you realize he's pushing back in as the wolf pulls out. They're taking turns. The discomfort ebbs and once they find a steady pace, your body begins to sing in delight.
The werewolf is at your ear, snarling and huffing, gnashing his teeth dangerously close to your exposed neck. You keep hold of the minotaur's horns. The minotaur is back to licking at your chest, tongue lapping at your nipples appreciatively. They thrust and pound, and fuck you raw, taking their turns. The steady pace begins to increase, the werewolf's hips snapping quicker and quicker.
Soon, he's no longer waiting for the minotaur and he's digging his claws in again, drawing blood. You give a keening cry at the pain and pleasure of it. The werewolf growls deep in his chest while he presses his furry body against your back. You feel the bulbous base hitting your ass over and over, so fast that it's almost as if there's no time between thrusts.
A new wave of pleasure rolls over you as he hits something deep and your voice grows in time with your building orgasm. Not to be outdone, the minotaur increases his pace as well, abandoning your chest. No longer gentle, the bull man grunts and groans as he thrusts up into your clutch, cock throbbing and ready to blow.
"I knew you wouldn't break," he boasts. "I knew you could take us both, little one."
You sob at his words, orgasm approaching as his deep voice washes over you.
"I wish I could freeze this moment in time; see you like this for all eternity. Stuffed full and dripping with our cum. You're so full of us, drenched in our essence. How will you ever go back to what you were before?" He gives a punctuated laugh then, panting as he impales you repeatedly. There's something rather cruel about his comment, but it's true enough that you can't be offended. How will you go back..?
"Will you seek me out when you need your pleasure? I promise I'll give it to you. I'll give you whatever you desire, precious one." His thrusts grow sloppy. "I'll fill that pretty cunt as many times as you wish. I'll spray my seed on you, I'll cum down your throat- I'll do it all." He huffs against your chest.
"Cum on my cock, beautiful. Soak my dick. I know you want to. I know how much you like your pet taking you from behind." You clench around the minotaur as he speaks, close to coming undone.
"Such a dirty woman, letting two cursed beasts fuck your holes at the same time." Your breath hitches.
"Letting that filthy werewolf cum down your throat and fuck your asshole- you'll let him do anything, won't you?" Your body begins to tense, heart beating in time with their rapid thrusts. The werewolf's growls grow deeper and longer, his claws scraping down your hip and ripping through the skin of your backside just as the minotaur moves his hand aside.
"Take my load, sweet woman. I want you coated in me, inside and out. Let that mutt cum in your ass. I'm sure he'd clean you up." The image of the werewolf with his snout between your cheeks, licking cum out of your asshole has you screeching and your long-approaching orgasm rolls over you, rocking you against them as you scream in ecstasy.
The wolf growls and stills as you squeeze around his cock. He cums suddenly, rope after rope of liquid heat filling you as his dick twitches inside of your ass. The minotaur grunts, still bouncing you despite the tight hold you have around him.
"That's it, darling. Cum on my cock."
You groan as your orgasm begins to fade, whimper when the wolf doesn't pull out and the minotaur keeps fucking you. The minotaur grunts as he continues. "Such a nice cunt. Perfect, tight, wet for me-" he begins to groan in between words, black eyes focusing on your bouncing tits. "Beautiful, sweet queen of monsters. We'll bow before you, lick you, please you, fuck you as often as you want. Perfect," he moans. "Perfect-"
Your heart leaps at his words, just as he freezes beneath you. His horns are ripped from your hands as he throws his head back, roaring as he cums. It shoots up inside of you, making you moan. It's hot and generous, filling you up to the point of overflowing once again.
The familiar swell of your lower belly greets your sight as you peer down. The minotaur's cock pumps a few more times, spitting out the last of his seed into your overfilled womb.
Distantly you wonder if you can become pregnant from this.
The three of you stay still on top of each other, panting, slick with sweat. The wolf's furry chest is still pressed against you, and your hands are splayed across the minotaur's chest where they'd landed to keep you upright as he'd cum. Your body is too warm and it makes you dizzy.
Finally, the werewolf lets you go and the relief from his claws has you sighing. He pulls out slowly and you whimper and twitch when he's finally free. You can feel his cum seeping out of you and you lower your head, embarrassed. You wiggle, working yourself carefully off the minotaur. His hands come up and grip your hips, helping to lift you off of him.
Feeling weak and tired, you collapse on his chest, mumbling a shaky apology. Your arms are limp with exhaustion and you can't hold yourself up.
There's a large hand on your head then, giving a comforting pat. "Do not apologize, dear one. You did well. The mutt must leave, but you can stay and rest as long as you need."
You lift your head weakly, eyebrows pulled up in worry. How can you say you don't want the werewolf to leave?
The clicking of claws on the floor draws your attention to the werewolf. He's making his way slowly to the entrance.
"W-Wait!" You call out meekly, trying to push yourself up.
The wolf halts, furry back hunched. He turns to look at you slowly, yellow eyes gleaming. You struggle for a moment, pushing your chest off of the minotaur's. "Please… please don't leave," you mutter anxiously.
The minotaur snorts in disbelief. "The werewolf will always leave, sweet woman. It is his nature."
You glance down at him, hurt, then look back up to find the werewolf gone.
You hear the door to the entrance shuts, muffled in the distance, and your heart falls.
Taglist: @clydesducktape @221bshrlocked @heard-you-had-the-plague @im-gonna-cry-and-be-slutty @miraclesabound @namay @kesskirata @tacticalsparkles @naughtynecromancer @breezythesimp @libbymouse @raquelitaaaa @bbl32 @andtheywerer00m4tes @coracaogrande @neobanguniverse @hennypenny17
“Being a captain is more than just owning a ship, more than having a few men sail on it with you. It’s about the relationship you build. It’s the trust, the companionship, the loyalty… that’s what makes a crew.
That’s what makes a captain.”
This is Your Captain Speaking
Wanted to make a pinned post for ease of access to different links, especially for mobile users so here we go! (We will be adding things as we go)
Welcome to the official Astrarium blog! It's going to be a written story that will be posted on its own website in the near future, with 7 chapters available on launch date and a new chapter every week to every other week. It's a high fantasy story about a human girl named Ari, that is adopted and raised by the Dragons, the masters of the universe, and her 4 year journey to train to be a Watcher, or a god of a Realm of her choosing. It's being written by myself (Kenzie, she/they) and my boyfriend Jonathan (he/him), under the label of our small production team, BADG3R Productions!
Want a more in depth idea of the story? We've got that post right here!
Want to get an idea of the characters appearances? Check out the hero forge models Jonathan made over here!
We also have a character facts tag, and an aesthetic tag, and if you're looking for things related to specific characters, they each have a tag (their first name)!
Interested in the creation myth? Check out the history of the Dragons!
Have a peaked interest in the Realms? We have a page for it! And we also post various worldbuilding facts in this tag!
Do you like incorrect quotes? We've got plenty over in this tag!
Want some admittedly shoddily made tiktoks? Come check them out in this tag!
Wanna know more about BADG3R? Check out our about page or the behind the scenes tag!
How about a sneak peak? The first 3 chapters are available over here!
Got some questions? We got answers for you.
I was watching Drawfee's shuffle playlist prompt and thought it sounded fun.
The songs I got were "Hit List" by Will Jay, "Le Bien Qui Fait Mal" from Mozart Rock Opera, and finally "Necromancin' Dancin'" by Bear Ghost. Obviously, the last song inspired a lot of the aesthetic.
The concept I came up with was a necromancer who revives people to kill off the problems in her life, but it's unstable magic that usually fails after a few weeks. One of her revived servants, however, feels indebted to her and the pain of living in this new form means nothing so long as her soul serves her.