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blueberryarchive · 3 months

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─୨MISS PEACHES '57୧─

(18+)//tw: drinking, pranking, cursing, light stuff//part 1

The horse trotted to the rhythm of the drums, the festival rumbled in the middle of the dusty nothingness, and the lights illuminated the stadium that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness of the warm night. The moon was hidden by the black clouds that threatened to break, lightning illuminated the mountains in violet, and the smell of a storm was approaching.

Jungkook encouraged the animal to go faster, clicking loudly. Jimin was behind him, with one arm he held onto the younger man's chest, and with the other, he took a long drink of the stolen whiskey.

The night called for things to fall into their hands, the purpose being to create a scandal and wake up that city girl who comes to Rivermouth thinking that she can devour them.

The apple of the Bell Ranch's eye, the star child, the one who left Rivermouth at nine to bring home a crown every couple of months.

The apple of Rivermouth's eye is back, wearing the brightest crown she's ever had. And the Hillside brothers plan to enjoy the show tonight.

With a spontaneous brake, both boys jumped off the horse, pushing people in the audience. Alcohol immunizing insults and judging looks.

"C'mon, Jimin. Hurry up!"

"Fuck off. I told you to bring something gross, ain't you working on Millie's butcher shop?" Jimin opened the lid.

"Ain't your dad a fucking shepherd?" Jungkook spat, tongue heavy with only a few sips.

"What should I bring? Wool? You fucking idiot." The blonde laughed, grabbing the last drink ready on his strap.

The crowd started getting busier, the lights fading.

The music started out of nowhere like the first trumpet of the apocalypse, announcing your arrival on stage.

And indeed, there was no prettier girl in all of Rivermouth.

With your pearly smile, high voluminous hair, perfect hands, and the sweetest smile Jimin had ever seen. Not even his mother looked so beautiful, nor did the statue of the Virgin Mary in the church. You were divine, a torment, taken from the same city hell.

"Take more." He heard himself say. Jungkook put his hand into the jelly jar that Jimin was carrying in his trembling hands.

Park's rebellious heart fell into his stomach as he saw you emerge completely from the curtains, materializing from the yellow dust that rose from the arid floor like a Las Vegas show. With smoke and lights and the Bell Ranch's girl dressed as a coquettish sailor. The lights are brighter than before, the sparkling shine of your glitter bow, your freshly painted nails, the sash around your body: MISS PEACHES 1957. Everyone applauded when they saw your hands rise and jump elegantly across the creaky floor.

Jungkook held the slimy mass in his fingers, gaping and wondering.

"Are you sure that's the right girl, Park?"

"Sure as hell." Jimin licked his lips, feeling a sudden thirst.

Thunder exploded in his ears just as your smile caught a glimpse of him. Like a sign from the Lord of your arrival, he was sure as hell that you were the right girl. "Why, are you scared, little church boy?" Teased, Jungkook clicked his tongue.

Was that what girls were like outside of Rivermouth? With long legs and an apotheotic smile?

"Aim..." Jungkook murmured coming out of his stupor, raising his arm, the reddish juice dripping down his wrist and onto his shirt.

It's not that Park felt hungry or wanted to go to the bathroom, nor that he has a fever. He wasn't nervous either, of course not, the alcohol helped him with that. But the southern heat was so strong from your presence that he felt like he could faint if he blinked and missed one of your steps, steps, steps, turn, one, two, one, two, three, four, CLACK! LIGHT! THUNDER!

Jelly spilled from Jimin's fingers, and his heart drummed to the sound of your patent leather shoes.

If he had known that the Bell Ranch girl was going to be you, maybe he wouldn't have stolen his mother's jam, maybe he wouldn't have called Jungkook that night. But it was already late, and his fingers were tickling, his nose was beginning to despise the smell of strawberries that filled his space.

"FIRE!" Jimin yelled as the clack of your feet made his throat burst.

The sweet rained down until it reached your beautiful face, your delicate costume.

A collective gasp landed Jimin on his feet, at what he had caused. Your smile was gone, your long eyelashes raised above the red. Both boys remained static, confused; as if they had desecrated a religious image.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck! We have to go." Jungkook mumbled hands into fists, eyes on the prize.

Jimin's eyes were bright, the corners of his lips tremblingly raised as he watched you cry in the center of the stage, the unbearable white lights made your translucent tears shine, and the sweaty makeup made you look like a ruined wax figure. The women who surrounded you to protect you from so much shame. Oh, it was a sight.

If your father wasn't screaming, if Jungkook hadn't grabbed his arm, and if his mother hadn't screamed his name from afar. Jimin would have stayed until his feet swelled just to see you, to admire you until he grew weary.

It wasn't the first time he had made a girl cry, but making Miss Peaches '57 cry had been the greatest achievement for 18-year-old Jimin. Best of all, he didn't even have to move, yell at you, or even pull one of your perfect curls.

The mere fact that he came close to you caused tornado damage to such a wildflower.

They had to run through the blue night, ride through the cold drizzle, and disappear for hours until the festival and you were an intelligible echo behind their cruel, childish laughter.

Jungkook licked his sticky fingers while he looked back. Looking for your silhouette coming down the stairs, defeated in the worst way for a girl: when she thinks she looks her best.

That night, both boys slept in the hayfield of an old cabin, drunk and sticky. They both dreamed of the same girl, and both woke up with goosebumps from the dew of a wet morning and a mischievous smile.

One of them dreamed of stealing a kiss from you, the other of making you cry again.

#—📃: an ewe and the captive bolt #bts imagines #bts fanfic #jimin imagine #jimin smut #bts smut #jimin x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x oc #jimin bts #jimin fanfic #bts #bts jungkook

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llyfrenfys · 1 year

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Y Hen Llinge and all that: Welsh in The Witcher Series (glossary)

This post is largely my GDrive notes on this subject, but I am a Welsh speaker and have noticed Welsh cropping up a lot in the Witcher series. I'm going to go into a few examples in this post- a word of warning though, there may be spoilers, which I'll mark with a SPOILER WARNING.

The Wiki List:

The wiki contains a glossary of Hen Llinge words alongside their real-world inspirations. Hen Llinge isn't based on Welsh alone, but also Irish, German, English and Latin (among others). The list on the wiki has the following terms marked down as being inspired by Welsh (which I have compiled):

abb (rivermouth), w. Aber

aevon (river) w. Afon

aep (son of) w. Ap

ar (of/on/by) w. Ar

ban (peak/summit) w. Ban (sometimes Fan)

bleidd (wolf) w. Blaidd

breoga (frog) w. Broga

caed (woods) w. Coed

caer/kaer (fortress) w. Caer

col (mountainpass) w. Dol

conyn (plantstalk) w. Coesyn

craag (rocks) w. Crag

darganfod (discovery) w. Darganfod

darl’len (read) w. Darllen

dhu (black) w. Du

dol (valley/dale) w. Dôl

gláeddyv (sword) w. Cleddyf

glean (bottom) w. Glan

gwyn (white) w. Gwyn

gwynbleidd (white wolf) w. Blaidd Gwyn

gwent (wind) w. Gwynt

hen (old) w. Hen

holl (all) w. Holl

marw (to die) w. Marw

ninnau (ourselves) w. Ninnau

pont (bridge) w. Pont

stráede (road) w. Stryd

tir (land) w. Tir

tor (tower) w. Twr

uniade (a joining (n.) w. Uniad

wen (white) w. -wen

ymladda (fight) w. Ymlad

The terms in the wiki are terms created for the TV series- the terms created for the books and games are similar, but the TV lexicon is much more expanded than the book and game corpuses.

Words on the Wiki not labelled as Welsh:

These terms are on the wiki but have no origin listed. I believe they likely have Welsh inspiration (especially the last one):

ghar (word) w. Gair

inis (island) w. Ynys (see also: Irish)

ysgarthiad (shit, excreted waste) w. Ysgarthiad

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt

These terms are terms I have heard in the dialogue or seen in-game in Wild Hunt. They are not included in the wiki as they are game terms. They are also only possibly inspired by Welsh as I am not a dev, so I cannot be certain, however, I have chosen the ones I feel are likely inspired by Welsh in at least some capacity.

(SPOILER WARNING: references to Witcher 3 Characters and actions central to plot ahead!)

mor (very/how/as) w. Mor (from location Caer Morhen)

aval (apple) w. Afal (from personal name Aval’lach)

caniatad (permission) w. Caniatâd (from the spell that transforms Aval’lach back to elf, 14:27)

nevid (change) w. Newid (from the spell that transforms Aval’lach back to elf, 14:27)

cyvir (correct) w. Cywir (from the spell that transforms Aval’lach back to elf, 14:27)

taron (thunder) w. Taran (from the spell that transforms Aval’lach back to elf, 14:27)

caeffyl (horse) w. Ceffyl (from the spell by Kiera Metz to transform white mice into white horses, 3:40)

mab (young man/son) w. Mab (from “Aen N'og Mab Taedh'morc”)

cor (choir) w. Côr (potentially a match, from “Aen N'og Mab Taedh'morc”)

me (me/ I) w. Mi (potentially a match, from “Aen N'og Mab Taedh'morc”)

y (the) w. Y (from location Aevon y Pont ar Gwennelen)

carraigh (rock) w. Carreg (from location Ard Carraigh)

llygad (eye) w. Llygad (from location Seidhe Llygad)

ess'tedd (meeting/to sit and meet) w. Eistedd (from “Darl'len, Aen Seidhe!”)

dol (valley) w. dol (from location name “Dol Niev’de”

niev (nine) w. nief (heaven) (from location name “Dol Niev’de”

This is just a glossary of terms for now- I plan to write a proper post about in-game texts at some point (though I am very busy right now with undergrad). I hope you enjoy this first segment at least! Let me know what you think about Welsh in games/media.

Tagging a few folks who might enjoy this post because some of the Welsh is straight up not changed. I found it quite funny in the magic spell cutscenes because I understood every word. Looking at you Keira Metz saying 'tair caeffyl gwyn' to summon 3 white horses!!!

@duine-aiteach @dragonleighs @crynwr-drwg @convolution @margridarnauds

#Hen Llinge #Hen Linge #The Witcher #Welsh #Cymraeg #The Witcher 3 #the witcher 3 wild hunt #Geralt of Rivia #gwynbleidd #Jaskier #Aval'lach #Yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #triss merigold #phillipa eilhart #Keira Metz #fringilla vigo

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redrcs · 5 months

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Transport on the river

Noosa Rivermouth

#original photographers #landscape photography #kite surfing #powered hydroplane #Noosa River

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rotworld · 7 months

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8: Roadkill

(previous)

the drift has changed. you set off on your next job and run into some trouble.

->sexually explicit. contains noncon, mild gore, gangbang, mild feral behavior, mention of breeding

The shift is a shimmering oil spill across the sky. Horizons tremble. Clouds spin. Rain from another world drizzles the roads, leaving quivering stains behind. Compass Hill’s children name constellations that will never exist again: Butterfly Eating Bird, Flying Seegris, Srivin Who Ate His Lovers. You bask in the tendriled shadow of a creature that is not there. The Drift stabilizes with the startling swiftness of a door slamming shut. The gray dawn comes.

Compass Hill’s couriers are those children who could not weave—grown now, fiercely loyal to the Singer and the haven he made. Some have gone home and found only disappointment. Some have not dared to try. The tug at the heart grows weaker, they say. Someday, they truly believe there will be no pull at all. Only the whisper of wind through silk and the scent of mulberries. But for now, they help you, plucking those old, unwanted threads to see where they lead.

Rivermouth is up north. Splitrock Junction is just west of there. The University is a fair distance southeast. You share an egg basket, the fragrant shells painted with edible floral art. The girl comes running to see you one more time, trailed at a distance by other children who have yet to grow their wings. She hands you a thin, handwoven cord long enough to make a necklace. You recognize the colors immediately; it’s her hopesilk.

“You made this?” you ask her. She nods proudly. “It’s beautiful. You should keep it, it’s very valuable.”

She shakes her head. “Take,” she insists. “Make more later.” She sits with you and the couriers for a while, enjoying the warm breeze and weak, watery light. Her hair has been washed and braided, little butterfly-shaped clips keeping her bangs out of her eyes. She looks so much more at ease than when you first met her, but also older. The roads have left their mark. “Go home?”

“Maybe,” you say. Home is west now, so far west that your map isn’t big enough to mark it.

She walks you back to your car. The Song is a mournful farewell, a keening that rolls through town. The Singer is waiting for you. He’s brought more food than you need. He presses his mandibles against your forehead and helps you load your car. A new egg box for the front seat. A new bag of dried meat and salty snacks in the back. A heavy box slid into the trunk, bound for the University.

“Painsilk shipment. They paid in advance,” he hums. “There’s anchorware in the box to keep it in one piece, in case you get stuck in a shift.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to visit again soon.”

He takes your hand and squeezes it gently. Your missing finger no longer aches, properly cleaned and healed, no longer hidden. The Singer touches the spot where something used to be with aching tenderness, bringing it to his hand to kiss. “Be safe. I’ll wait for the road to bring you back to me.”

You pass through a different gate on your way out. Chiffon is there to nuzzle against you one last time and wish you well. The colorful silks of Compass Hill wither and fade in your rearview mirror, vanishing into the gray. Home is west, says the heart. You try to conjure a fantasy of homecoming but you can’t picture the town, can’t even imagine what the people would look like. You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and keep driving.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: KEEP THE STREETS EMPTY FOR ME BY FEVER RAY]

The road going south is smooth and peaceful, but there’s a lingering sense of unease. The car feels too quiet somehow. Something is missing. You find yourself glancing into the backseat every so often, staring at the empty space, the seatbelt no longer being worn. No curious eyes look back at you. No one scribbles softly on your map, or shares your snacks. She was only with you for a few days and she was so quiet and unobtrusive, but you’re keenly aware of where she used to be, the spot that was hers.

You’d never had company before, you realize. Some couriers offer the occasional taxi service but you’ve never taken work like that. Too much trouble, you thought, too uncomfortable having someone in your space, someone else to look after and take into consideration. You’re used to stopping on your own schedule, rationing your food for a single person. Any deviation didn’t seem feasible.

Loneliness is a bad trait for couriers. Unproductive. The silence won’t feel so heavy after a while, you think. You’ll stop looking back for a face that isn’t there.

The scenery changes. Rocky terrain turns to smooth, rolling hills. The trees thicken, clustered at the narrowing roadside. You’re in a town with dizzying suddenness, a lost and overgrown place. Vines strangle a flickering streetlamp. Old, crumbling houses appear and vanish in the distance like mirages in the fog. This is Verlinda again, a town in the throes of being devoured by ravenous forest. You drive slowly and watch for moving shadows. Something is shrieking in the fog.

There’s a car in the ditch. You slow down even further. It’s compact, bags and boxes stacked against the back window; probably another courier. There are no skid marks off the road but the driver side door is hanging open. Pulled over, jumped out in a hurry? It doesn’t look like it’s been there too long. It’s not rusted or overgrown like the rest of the city. Just up the road, you find scraps of clothing and a crescent of splattered blood.

Something screams again. You turn the corner and your headlights sweep across a body lying in the grass. It’s a woman. Her blouse is ripped open and one of her legs is twisted and mangled, a glistening mess of blood, bone and shredded denim. You pull over but not beside her, putting some distance between the two of you. She writhes in your rearview mirror, trying to pull herself out of the ditch.

“Help me! Please help me!” she wails. Your fingers curl around the door handle but you hesitate. She’s either a courier, or the mimic that ate her.

You look at her again in the mirror, thoughts racing. If she’s the driver of the car you saw earlier, she would’ve seen something just like this, you think, would’ve seen somebody injured lying near the road and stopped to help. It might’ve lunged at her when she was close enough. It might’ve chased her a while, might’ve wandered off to wait for her to bleed out for an easier kill. She might be dying, cold and alone, on the side of the road.

She looks human. She’s solid, her shape stable, not warping or transparent. She’s talking to you—begging you to help her. “Please help me, please!” she cries, and is the simple repetition from fear and delirium or a restricted vocabulary, not understanding what she’s saying but knowing other things have said it? If she’s a mimic, she must be a crywolf. You won’t see anything unusual until you’re within arm’s reach, and by then it’ll be too late.

Suddenly, it’s quiet. She’s no longer screaming. She’s not even moving. You get out of the car and she’s lying there, nearly motionless. Her shoulders rise and sink with weak, shallow breaths. She’s thrown herself forward on her stomach and tried to crawl towards you, but she didn’t make it far. You hear her wheeze, wet, rattling breaths trapped in her throat. You don’t have much for medical supplies but you could be there, at least. You could sit with her, hold her hand.

You have a vivid memory of being young, so young you don’t think you should remember it—of being out here, along the road. Of lying in the grass. Of cars whizzing past, wind that rocked your small body and sent you sprawling, too weak to lift yourself. Sometimes you have dreams about that instead of forgetting how to breathe.

You step closer. She tries to lift her head but she just shivers, shoulders twitching, and gives up. A miserable sound comes out of her and you’re going to her without thinking about the consequences, without caution.

You’re halfway there when something else, something you didn’t hear coming, didn’t see in the underbrush, lurches out of the trees behind her. She twists and screeches and starts to come apart, splitting into sharp, drooling maws, no longer a woman but coils of flesh and teeth. The crywolf is like a snake with mouths for scales, hissing and contorting itself to lunge at the new threat.

It’s badly outmatched. The thing from the trees is far larger. You see a blur of legs, a centipede’s worth of hooves stomping and stampeding, antlers like forest canopy, and you are sprinting back to your car. The roar of your car’s engine struggles to drown out the unsettling sounds behind you, the nightmarish squealing of a frightened crywolf.

You almost swerve when you see a deer. It’s not quite in the road, just grazing beside it. You don’t want to slow down but there’s another one up ahead, a couple standing on a grass bank watching you go by. The next one is right in front of you, staring directly into your headlights with shining eyes and large antlers still fuzzy with velvet. It’s agitated, pawing the road with its hoof. You try to edge around it, pulling very slowly into the other lane. It rams against the side of your car and there’s a terrifying, breathless moment as you lurch in your seat where you aren’t sure if you’re about to tip over and end up trapped in an overturned vehicle.

The thundering footsteps of a colossal beast shake the ground and rattle your windows. You’re afraid to look in the rearview mirror. You hear hoofbeats—enough for a whole herd of deer. A dark shadow falls across you, an enormous shape blotting out the sky. Clutching the steering wheel, you turn to look out the window and it’s—

just a man.

There is no looming shadow. No enormous beast. But you feel it, even if you can’t see it. There’s a chill in the air, the instinctive terror of staring down something that could easily outrun you. The man is unusually tall but not monstrous. He has to bend slightly, tilt his head so he can peer into your window, one arm braced above it. He glares at you disinterestedly, occasionally glancing off into the distance as though he’d rather be doing something else. His hair is long, tumbling in unkempt tangles down his back. He’s not wearing a shirt.

You’ve never seen him before, but you’ve heard enough stories to know you’re looking at the Verlinda Stag.

He taps his index finger against your window. The nail is curved like a wolf claw. His hand is slick with fresh blood all the way up to his wrist. “Courier,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel. “We need to talk.”

“I didn’t hit anyone,” you insist.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Reluctantly, you roll the window down. There’s more blood freckling his face and splashed down his chest, a wide, arcing spray of red dripping all the way down his hips and—

He’s not wearing anything, you realize. Not just a shirt. No pants or shoes, either. By the time you realize you’ve been staring, he’s stuck his arm through the window and unlocked your door. You’re yanked outside and slammed into the pavement without a word, lying in the glare of your own headlights. Footsteps close in around you. There were deer here earlier, you’re sure of it, but all you see is people. Men with irritated scowls and curious smiles, just as naked as the Stag and visibly excited.

You make yourself sit up in a hurry. The Stag crouches beside you, catching your shoulder before you can stand. “Where are you from?” he asks, sneering. “And where are you going?”

“West. Somewhere west. I’m going to the University.”

You’re not sure he’s even listening. He’s looking up, past you, and you hear someone going through your car. One of the men passes him your map. He scrutinizes it briefly, scoffing, then hands it back. “You’re going to do something for me,” he says. They’re rummaging around in your trunk now, moving things around. You try to look back and see what’s going on, but the Stag catches your chin and makes you look at him. “I’m giving you something very important. You’re going to deliver it to the University. You’re going to take it straight to Dr. Loyola at the College of Medicine. If you don’t, I’ll know.”

You nod quickly. The Stag nods at someone behind you and you hear the trunk slam shut. His hand drops from your chin but it’s on your shoulder again, firm enough that you know he doesn’t want you moving. “Is there…something else?” you ask nervously. You’re aware that you’re surrounded again, the other men milling around, standing in a wide circle around the two of you. They’re talking quietly, whispering sometimes. They keep looking at you with hunger in their eyes.

“You should’ve known that was a crywolf,” the Stag says.

You avoid his gaze. “I figured it might be.”

“I know. You reeked of fear. But you still got out of your car. Talked yourself into ignoring your instincts.” He shoves you suddenly and you’re on your back, pinned there by his hand on your sternum. “Desperation,” he says the word with disgust, “is going to get you killed, courier. I can’t have you doing something stupid when you’re making a delivery for me. If it doesn’t make it to its destination, I’ll be very upset.”

“It will, I swear it will!”

He lifts his hand only for one of the other men to take his place. This one is smaller, his build more slender, and he keeps a hand on your throat to choke you whenever you start to squirm, the other tugging at your pants. The Stag stands and begins to pace around you, just outside the circle of eager faces looming above you. “You will,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

The man on top of you works his hands into your clothes. You flinch when he touches you, rough, calloused fingers stroking you hard and fast. He leans in, inhaling against your neck, and then he laughs. “Ohh…this one’s been here recently,” he says. “Smells like rabbit.” You try to buck him off again and his thumb digs into your windpipe. Your hands go instinctively to his wrist, trying to scratch him, pry him off. One of the others is there, kneeling by your face. He pins both of your hands above your head.

The Stag leers at you. “Rabbit, eh? We don’t have to go easy on you, then, do we?”

They let you keep your shirt on, stripping only your lower half. The road is cold and hard against the backs of your legs. The man on top of you watches tears fill your eyes with a condescending smile, stroking his hardening cock. “It’s not gonna be so bad,” he assures you. “We’re just gonna mark you. Anything with a brain’ll smell Verlinda all over you. Keep you nice and safe and protected.”

You shake your head desperately. “Please just let me go. I’ll go straight to the University. I won’t take any detours, I swear, I’ll be fast—”

“Will you hurry the fuck up?” one of the others snaps. It’s the one holding your wrists, one large, clawed hand trapping both yours. “Stop jacking off and fuck them, we don’t have all day.”

The one on top of you laughs. He bites his lip watching you twist and try to kick him away, easily catching one of your ankles. “Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “By the end of this, I’ll be your favorite. You’ll beg me to have a turn again.” You wheeze when he surges forward, bending you nearly in half. He hooks your knees over his shoulders and you feel his tip at your entrance, rubbing and prodding.

He goes agonizingly slowly. Every thrust is shallow and teasing, just kissing your hole. When he starts to push, it’s with the same infuriating patience, gentle motions that give you time to breathe, adjust, and feel everything. The wind is cold on your skin but his skin is scalding. The pavement digs into your back. He rests his palms on either side of your head, savoring every small gasp and whimper.

“What’s it like to fuck a human?” one of them jeers.

“Mm…tight.” His next thrust is harder, squeezing the head of his cock inside. “And they smell good. Makes my mouth water.”

The Stag saunters back into view, circling behind the man on top of you with his claws trailing over his bare shoulders. For just a moment, his silhouette seems larger, crowned with arching antler shapes. “They’re not just human, Garvan. Not just of this world. Little lost thing doesn’t know where they’re from.”

“Ohh?” Garvan grins as he leans in, resting his weight on top of you. He rocks forward and you feel him sink deeper, more of his length pushing past your resistance. “Poor thing. Does this one have to go? We could keep them. You don’t have a mate for the season, do you?” He withdraws to the tip and then slams into you, making you keen. All that gentleness is suddenly gone. His pace is slow and brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that scrape your back against the concrete.

The Stag hums thoughtfully. You’re barely aware of the sound over your own panting and gasping, Garvan’s moans, the harsh slap of skin on skin. “Hmm. You’re right, I don’t. But I can’t keep every cute thing that wanders into my territory, tempting as it is.”

Garvan hilts inside you and rests there, grinding his hips in a slow circle. To your horror, a bolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. Maybe you can’t hold your voice in, or maybe he scents your arousal; he knows. You see his smile widen, feel his cock twitch inside you. “That’s alright. Verlinda’s a big place. You’ll be back before long, won’t you, courier? Back here, under me…”

Slowly, he pulls out. You expect another harsh thrust but then he’s letting your legs down, stroking himself over your chest. He never looks away from you, holding your gaze with half-lidded eyes and a sick, delirious smile, until he throws his head back with a curse. Cum splatters your skin and he doesn’t stop until he’s wrung himself dry, emptying everything has onto your thighs and stomach.

“Next time I’ll fuck you properly,” he groans. “In my den…during my rut…breed you all night long.”

There's barely time to struggle before someone else takes his place and you're being flipped over, shoved onto your belly with somebody heavier on top of you. "You're gonna share, right, Garvan? Not gonna keep 'em all to yourself." You're dragged partially upright and wince, skinning your knees on the road. The next one is not slow or gentle. A hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls just as he slams inside you in one merciless thrust.

The sight of them surrounding you, all sharp teeth and glinting eyes, makes a whimper slip out involuntarily. They're all watching. Pleasuring themselves to your pain and humiliation, eager to be the next to tear you apart. The Stag takes the spot directly in front of you, hooking his fingers beneath your chin. It's hard to focus on him when someone's slamming into you from behind. "You look good on your knees, courier. But you'd look even better in your own skin." The Stag drags his claw over your lips, tracing the shape of your mouth. "Come find us again when your teeth come in. I want to taste the real you."

You don't know how long they take you like that, ravaging you in the middle of the road. You scratch up your palms on the asphalt trying to crawl away, your knees raw and bleeding. One will mount you, fuck you senseless, and then finish across your ass or back. Your vision swims and your head feels hazy. Your insides are sore and your body is a bloodied canvas from raking claws and nipping teeth. The Stag is always there, stroking your hair or dragging his claws down your back. When the others have finished, panting and satisfied all around you, he forces you up onto your knees and takes your throat.

You don't fight him. You don't have the strength. Your arms are sore and weak, dangling limp at your sides as he holds you by the back of the head and fucks your mouth. You choke on his girth, jaw stretched uncomfortably. You look up at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes and that makes him worse, more excited and demanding. He slams into your throat all the way to the base, balls slapping your chin, and then he holds you there. Your throat spasms and your nails dig weakly into his thighs. You can't breathe.

"Shhh." He strokes your head like he's soothing a startled animal. "Relax. You did well. Just take it." His hips jerk and you feel him cumming, thick and bitter on your tongue. You try to pull away and his grip tights, claws digging into your scalp in warning. You don't have to ask; you know he wants you to swallow. He hushes you again when you gag, gently pressing his fingers into the side of your neck in massaging motions. You're surprised at how much it relaxes you, melting against him. You swallow and his eyes follow the movement of your throat, his cock twitching against your tongue.

“I can almost feel it,” he murmurs. The pads of his fingers rub up and down your throat, massaging something tender beneath the skin. “Right here, deep down…there you are, courier.” When he steps back, you collapse on your hands and knees. You’re cold and in pain, sick to your stomach. Garvan offers you your clothes, chuckling when you snatch them from him.

They leave you there without a word. The men split off in different directions. The Stag cross your headlights, stepping off the road. You see him slip between the trees. That paralyzing feeling of being beheld by something so much larger and stronger, being pinned by its gaze, finally fades away.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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