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geometrician pleasure

by alloquitae (Voidromeda) (ao3)

Chapter 1: Watersports (Dark)

It has been quite a long while since her captivity at the hands of Emet-Selch – since her damnable showing atop of Mt. Gulg, revealing to him her more capable than he judges her to be at that very moment. In the midst of his little ‘soliloquy’, as it feels more apt to call, she reigns in the light and regains control just enough to raise a hand up and slap him across his cheek. The force is enough to whip his head to the side, silencing him completely, and his lips part into a shocked circle upon the impact of her palm against his cheek.

Around the corners of her vision, the light abates. Just a fraction. Just enough for her to witness Emet-Selch turn his head back to her, genuine shock on his face that she is able to have that much control to fight back against the raging light, the essence tearing at her aether and her body, to look upon him with anger and disdain and actually slap him.

She supposes it is not the slap that surprises him, not entirely at least. The Scions surround them both with bated breath, and even G’raha Tia looks surprised to see that she is whole enough to forgo the pain and lash out in anger instead.

Her musings are cut short when hands cup her cheeks and hold her head up, forcing their eyes to meet, and something simmers in his faded-honey gaze. Dread settles in the pit of her belly, overthrowing the relentlessly churning of the light when Emet-Selch looks at her, into her, through her and sees something something something some-

“Oh, Hero,” he exhales shakily, his voice almost perverse in how it dips and trails into a short moan at the end, “oh, to exceed my expectations, to play with my assumptions – that you are sensible enough... ‘Tis settled then; I shall keep you, dearest poppet, and you need not worry for your life; I need not kill you to finish what the flood started.”

She does not even get to respond when Emet-Selch’s fingers snap loudly in the sky and whisks the both of them away, with the last things she hears being the dismayed cries of the Scions and G’raha’s hoarse scream as he begs for her to be returned.

And now, of course, she is leashed and collared like a dog. She knows not what goes on in the world outside, save for the fact that Emet-Selch slowly, gradually, extracts the light from her as though it is nothing. As if the entire ordeal she goes through is naught but a mild disturbance, and she does not doubt that to be the truth.

But that does not mean that that is the only thing he does to her. Almost lovingly, he strips her the first day she is captive here; his fingers leave lines upon her skin, patterns invisible at first before she begins to scream. Below his fingertips her skin peels and parts, opening up like meat being sliced through with a knife, and he kisses each cut he leaves behind upon her body, licking the light-fused blood away, and he sings her praises when she does not buckle nor faint.

Now, she stays bare and shackled, fed meals that remind her sickeningly of meol, and still he strokes along her skin with magic that slices like a dagger. Sweat clings to her skin, soaks her hair enough that it sticks to her forehead, her cheeks, and her unclean nature seems to amuse him some.

One day, that amusement seems to finally boil over. With her body bleeding all across the floor and feeling dirtier than she ever has before, Emet-Selch pushes her down until her face sinks into her ‘doggie’ bowl and water splashes all around her. Leylines erupt and wrap around her, keeping her pinned down to the ground. It is almost as if she is presenting herself like a bitch, though that seems to not be intent when he settles himself atop her head.

It is then that a very stark realization hits her: he is as naked as she is, her hair sticking around his crotch and nausea immediately rises up within her when she realizes what is pressing atop her head. His fingers move through her sticky hair, making the sickness inside of her worse and worse, that is until he grabs at her head, holds her still, and gives a very slow exhale out of his nose.

Something wet slips out and she immediately screams. The leylines bound tight around her, squeezing into her skin extremely tightly when she begins to thrash, or at least, tries to. His weight keeps her pressed down just as much as the leylines roped around her, making it impossible for her to flee the stream of urine that begins to spread all throughout her hair. She gags, the scent of urea so strong to her sensitive nose, the heaving only getting worse as she feels the liquid drip and slide around the base of her ears.

Though fruitless, minute, she still attempts to struggle, even as his – his piss begins to slide down her face, her eyes having to slip shut to avoid them getting stung with urine. The stench of urine grows ever stronger as it makes its way down her face, making its way over her quivering lips and dripping an ever growing puddle from her chin.

All of the fight leaves her within moments, surrendering to the sobs even as her lips part and droplets land on her tongue, bitter and almost acidic in its taste, making her gag and heave, barely a writhe from her as he humiliates her this way.

The melodic chuckle that slips out of his mouth is almost soothing, especially when the endless river of urine comes to an end and he has but a few droplets to shake out on top of her. He slips off of her, probably to clean himself of whatever urine sticks to his thighs before he snaps his fingers. He comes to a kneel in front of her, a tissue wiping the sticky, disgusting fluid on her eyes away so that she may look into Emet-Selch’s own ones.

His gaze on her makes her want to vomit, dirtied as she is in his urea and her own sweat, and he hums before giving an exaggerated grimace.

“Goodness, my dear. You really do require a bath now, do you not? You will be freed from extraction today, and do not worry, I will not let you stew in the filth for so long this time. You’ve earned your reward.”

and at that, she immediately, immediately, begins to cry, practically wailing on the floor as she does.

Chapter 2: Human Furniture

“Are- are you sure you want this?” Persephone stammers out, the normal composed and stoic facade giving ‘way to the utter nervousness and embarrassment as she stares into Hades’s eyes. It tickles him how cute she is when it comes to matters of intimacy, having to fight back the urge to smirk ‘lest he deal with her wrath. “Would you not get uncomfortable? Would I not be heavy? I cannot see a reason as to why you would desire something so... so... impractical. Can we not, per chance, want for something else?”

With a shake of his head, he brings his arms around her waist and drags her into his embrace, kissing her forehead before ruffling her hair, and she relaxes a minute amount within his arms. “I assure you, my loveheart,” he says in a low, soothing tone, “you would not be bothering me, I would be most overjoyed if you were to agree to this request. It would not have to be for long; should I ever get uncomfortable, I will simply pinch you several times, perhaps a pinch and smack to let you know. Would that assuage your worries, loveheart?”

Though Persephone is quiet for a moment, Hades can tell immediately that she will acquiesce when her cheeks burn a bright, apple red. She looks up at him, her hands curled upon his chest, and bows her head down before giving him a minuscule nod.

The flush on her cheeks get worse, as if that is even possible, from the way his entire being lights up to her acquiescing.

A scrape of the chair and it is soon set aside, leaving the front of Persephone’s work desk empty, and he is quick to kneel down and shift about until he is comfortable. His dearest Persephone stands to the side, glancing nervously at Hades while utterly naked, fidgeting her hands together. She looks at him, takes a few deep breaths, before she makes her way over to him. It is endearing that she thinks such a small person like her can be heavy as she stands over him, legs parting and showing off her vulva, before she is settling her feet between his own parted legs and descending down upon him.

With an embarrassed squeak, she takes her seat upon his face, and Hades cannot help but have his hands grasp at her thighs, his face so utterly buried in her cunt that all he can smell is her, feel her lower lips press against his mouth with how he cranes his head back. It is dark all around him as she cages his face, trembling a little atop of him, before she leans forward and tries to work on something small and insignificant, that will not lead to the other Convocation members asking... questions.

His fingers curl around her inner thighs, his breathing slow and measured as he does his best to stay still, trying not to give in to the temptation and suck her dewy folds into his open mouth. She is dry currently, in part thanks to her shyness from his request, but he does not let that bother him, even if shameful arousal will be quick tent to his own underthings from being allowed this depravity.

Every bit of her is so, so soft, pliant beneath his fingers that stroke absentmindedly along her inner thighs, trailing close to her vagina and makes her shift every so often. There is a steadily growing ache at the back of his neck and he is sure that more will follow at his legs, his knees, but the way her folds rub against his lips whenever she moves has him distracted from his discomfort. He cannot stop himself from panting, barely able to get any air as is, and the wonderful smell of her has him slipping far, far too quickly.

It does not help either that she is beginning to move more, hands momentarily coming down to grasp at Hades so that his dearest Persephone may get comfortable herself, and she is beginning to get wet. She grinds against his mouth once before stilling herself, grasping at his top so that she may stop, even with her folds completely pressing against his mouth and teasing along his nose thanks to how she positions herself.

Wetness spreads across his lips from where she presses down on him, her slick getting more and more prominent the longer she stays seated on his face. His own arousal has been obvious and tenting his pants and he cannot help the long moan against her lower lips when she rests both her feet atop his bulge.

She does not say anything, simply applies pressure to where he needs it and he cannot stop the way his tongue lulls out against her cunt so that he may pant against her, her wetness immediately gracing him and fogging his mind further. She grinds her heel against him and he murmurs praises and gratitude into her folds, his words coming to a stop when she begins to press down against his face and grind into his tongue.

Oh, that his Persephone will get into this as much as he is gives him an untold amount of joy. It is clear she has long since stopped writing or working on paperwork, more focused, interested, on getting his lips and tongue to work servicing her, while still completely enveloping his head with her vulva, her rear. Her feet rub absentmindedly against his covered cock and he has to tighten his grip on her thighs to try and stay focused on his task, his body shivering and pearly drops seep through the cloth to dirty the soles of her feet.

The surprised gasp Persephone lets out at the feeling has his eyes rolling into his head, mouth moving uselessly to only moan and moan against her swollen, ruddy folds as he finally cums, shamefully leaking through the cloth to dirty his dearest love further. For a moment, his sight is all darkness and fuzzy, reality only returning to him when hands grip the back of his head, fisting into his hair and tugging wildly, a loud cry escaping his love above him before she is squirting all over his face.

There is so much that covers him, his Persephone shaking and grinding against his face to extend her own orgasm, staining him as much as he dirties her, and Hades groans, sure that he would have cum again if he could.

She goes slack atop of him, with only Hades holding and supporting her weight, before she finally lifts herself up and looks down at him.

His hair is a complete mess, his face soaked and wet with her slick, and still his mouth stays open so that he may pant, trying to get air back into his lungs from where Persephone asphyxiates him with her cunt.

“You – you are disgusting.” Persephone says, more out of embarrassment than any judgment of the sorts upon his person, and Hades cannot help but give her a lazy smirk before he crawls out from beneath her legs, pins and needles greeting him the entire time and a grunt slips out. He wraps his hands around his legs, massaging feeling back into them while Persephone whines a complaint about him being ‘messy’ and makes her way to the washroom to clean up.

He is sure she will make him clean up the mess of cum on the ground as she wanders away, though he also hopes that she will be receptive for a repeat performance in the future.

Having Persephone use him as a makeshift chair was far too stimulating.

Chapter 3: Fisting

It is quite clear to anyone with even two functioning brain cells how unaccustomed her body is to such intrusions, a fact that has excitement settling deep in Emet-Selch’s belly while he has the Warrior of Light, bound and tied up below him. She cannot see him, tendrils wrapping gently around her head to cover her eyes and hide her ‘way from his gaze, yet it is all the better for it; even the softest of feather-like touch has her twitching and writhing, her clit completely and utterly swollen and her thighs tensed up where they are spread wide.

Around his four fingers, struggling and tightening wildly with them so deep inside, her hole tenses and clenches, as though it cannot tell if it wants him deeper inside or to reject him from stuffing her so much. Swollen folds part like the most beautiful spring flower in bloom, showing off her slick hole and her intense arousal even as his fingers stretch her cunt past its limit.

She moans desperately, near gagging around the extremely thick tendril that thrusts deep into her throat, training it to open up around him while his thumb drags at the rim of her hole. His nail scratches against her and she yelps around the makeshift cock in her mouth, fluids dripping down her chin as the tendril expands then relaxes, filling her full of a quite potent aphrodisiac, fashioned perversely from his own aether.

Below him is quite the sight, her hips jumping up – or at least attempting to – while his fingers pull in and out slickly, loudly, lewd noises filling the air with each minute movement of his hand. Still his thumb drags at the rim, teasing it with the promise of how he will fill her up even further, and frustrated, almost panicked yet desperate noises slip around the tendril.

Gushing even further, her pussy a bright red and sensitive from her arousal and even further from the aphrodisiac, slick drooling all the way down her cunt and down between her ass cheeks, soaking the sheets of her rickety, terrible bed at the pendants. She writhes, walls fluttering when he pulls his fingers out of her soaking pussy with a loud, lewd squelch. She is not empty for long, does not get to whimper and sob when he presses his hand back against her gaped hole – now in the shape of a duckbill – and presses, hitting against resistance for but a breath’s moment before she swallows him down.

Her body jumps and fights against the aetherical tendrils, chest heaving desperately and far too quickly to be healthy, gasping and choking as his hand sinks further, further into her stretched hole. Walls pulsing around his hand, he inhales sharply when his hand is swallowed to the second knuckle, her rim dark and ruddy from the abuse of his fingers. There is a bit more resistance, walls clenching tight and Emet-Selch has all the patience in the world to wait for her body adjust.

Waiting years to set about the calamities tends to make one willing to wait for borderline anything; waiting for a willing whore’s cunt to give in is not much of a difficult task. Her pussy slowly relaxes, no longer clenching around him and he takes that momentary vulnerability to shove his hand all the way to his wrist, even as she screams around her phallic gag and devolves into shrieking when he curls his hand into a fist and thrusts in a little further, opening her up more.

With how swollen and red her clitoris is, hips bouncing minutely from the overstimulus, Emet-Selch groans as he uncurls his fingers and slowly thrusts his hand in and out of her channel. It strains around his hand, especially because of how small she is in comparison to his Garlean stature; it is mostly definitely a strength he takes advantage of, forcing her to open up more and more until her body is struggling to stay tight.

She cannot even clench up around Emet-Selch’s hand when she squirts around him, gushing and drooling even more of her slick down her skin, forming a large puddle stain below on the sheets, and he purrs. His free hand comes to flick at her clit, rubbing and stroking her erect pearl even as she trembles far too much, overwhelmed and oversensitive, hips trying to get away from the pain even as more of her slick is forced to squirt out.

By the time he is satisfied with how many orgasms he has wrung out of her body, she passes out after the unravelling of her bondage and Emet-Selch lingers behind, caring for her even as she is unconscious. When she awakes, he lavishes her with attention, having enough of a heart to care about the tears she sheds and the way she clings to him, body overstimulated, oversensitive, and begging for care and love.

Though she is not whom he truly loves, he is not monstrous enough to abandon her while she is in mindless duress.

Chapter 4: Latex/Leather

Though he knows his friend does not deserve it, Hades makes a mental note to chide and scold Hythlodaeus later for allowing such a disgraceful and inappropriate concept to go through, especially when one such concept has no real-world, practical use outside of – of the intimacies of one’s bedroom. It is a strange, elastic thing; feeling soft and rubbery beneath his hands, made up of a material Hythlodaeus joyously refers to as ‘latex’. He supposes his friend himself funny when he hands a pair of gloves to Hades as well, chirruping that ‘such frivolous hand wear fashioned from far too refined leather suits an exaggeration such as yourself.’

He is loath to meet with Hythlodaeus any time soon, for he knows the sodding bastard will start gloating, knowing already that he convinces his soulmate to don on such an improper concept, has Persephone head down upon the bed while he kneads her bared ass with his leather-clad hands. The sleek, black attire that covers her entire body is shiny, going from neck to feet, clinging tightly to her modest breasts and her soft waist. There is a zipper on it that starts at the front, above her throat, for it cannot connect to the back for one, damnably uncouth reason:

As the ‘latex catsuit’ (why a cat, of all things?) stretches out all across her body, it leaves her ass and vagina bare, almost showing them off with how the material stretches across and shines around her, leaving her open and presenting while her latex-covered hands curl by her head. She shivers from the caress of the leather across her bared skin, a huff of laughter escaping her from the scrape of his glove against her latex, making it squeak as he continues to rub her thighs and pinch her playfully.

“This feels odd.” she says as Hades continues to admire her, hands whispering across whatever part of her covered body he can. The shiny black latex looks almost lewd against her snowy pale skin, her folds dewy and slick with her need, and Hades will admit he is beside himself with shameful arousal, mind taken up by the sight of how she keeps her hips lifted, legs pressing together in the most delightful of position.

A soft gasp slips from her lips when he finally buries her face between her legs, the bridge of his nose bumping against her labia, taking in deep breaths before he backs away. With one long, languid lick, he readies her for how deeply he is to feast from her, while dressed in a most shameful, untoward outfit.  

 

Chapter 5: Double Penetration in Two Holes

How is she even conscious right now? Ceelinae thinks almost deliriously as the smugly grinning Ascian cages her in his arms, holding her down upon his strange, absurd, abnormal, strange --- strange – strange pair of... of dicks, to put it bluntly, as she cannot think of any other way to try and describe what she is going through. Emet-Selch holds her easily down atop of his cocks, having somehow managed to successfully force her vagina to swallow them both down, the stretch so painful, so much, tearing her open, yet she ejaculates around him more than once, body twitching from the oversensitivity.

It does not help either that he has his tendrils all over her, suckling tentacles wrapped around her legs, thighs, and latching onto her breasts, her nipples, leaving dark hickeys all about. Two generously thick ones worm themselves into her anus, forcing her asshole’s sensitive rim to spread around them both, plumping it up from all of their ministrations.

Stuffed, the only way she can describe herself is stuffed, overstimulated, tentacles slipping between her legs to stroke her stretched pussy, like many tongues tasting her semen-filled channel, licking her clean just for Emet-Selch to hold her down and fill her up ever further, bully bulging with the endless amount he seems to carry with him and the ludicrously girths inside, spreading her open.

There are too many hands, tendrils, touches on her, curling around her small breasts, squeezing and massaging, licking the tightened tips. His lips are a soothing balm against her overheated skin, licking the sweat off of her throat and leaving behind dark smudges from where his lipstick smears, sticking uncomfortably to an already overheated, uncomfortable body.

She cannot even claw at him, seek purchase on his body, for the moment she makes the attempt, he bounds her; hands gripped tightly by aetherial tentacles, squeezing her wrist any moment she writhes too much. Throat growing hoarse, another pained cry from another orgasm squeezed out of her, a thumb rubbing circles around her raw and ruby red clit, tears creating stains on her cheeks when the tendrils do not let up either.

More wrap around her upper thighs, stroking her almost soothingly, utterly freezing when it comes to her burning body. When his lips find hers, open and panting, she cannot even reciprocate, letting his tongue – long, slick, strange, too thick, abnormal – taste the inside of her mouth, his free hand squeezing her hip.

When he thrusts deep inside of her drooling sheathe, practically gushing into his lap, it feels like she is being torn apart all over again, more of his own spend spilling out of her gaped hole with each minute movement. The ones inside her ass, throbbing and thick, spill something dark and cold inside of her, thrust out of tanden with Emet-Selch while he ruins her for any other who would ever wish to bed her after.

Lips press against her chin, murmuring words that she cannot hear, and when he thrusts into her one final time, filling her up to excess, the world around her goes dark.

When Ceelinae wakes up once more, her body is sore and her mind hazy, and across from her Emet-Selch sits on a chair, reading a book she recognizes as decidedly Garlean, and he looks up lazily before going back to his leisurely read.

She awakes again, not even having realized she passes out, and with far more clarity she is able to take note of another thing: she is utterly, utterly soaked in his fluids, covered in his lipstick kisses, and he is long gone, meaning she cannot give him a piece of her mind even if she wishes to.

Fucker.

Chapter 6: (Warning) Free Use

It is a surprise to none that one with her looks will end up being highly desired in The Beehive. He need not disguise himself given the lacking of The Republic of Garlemald here, none of Vauthyr’s generation of yore alive nor cognizant enough to recognize his voice, his stature, nor the aetherical signatures that trail behind him. The busy bees of the establishment do not flinch nor cringe away from him when they happen upon him, unlike those of Garlemald whenever he wanders into the whorehouses to simply watch man demean themselves further.

Just as many withered beneath his piercing gaze while he sups his wine, many more flourished, finding a twisted pleasure in the judgment present in his eyes. So many present to him a play of the mingling of flesh, a joining so obscene, engaging in sin and bolstered ever from his uncaring eyes.

The Beehive’s attenders and employees are no different. For all the differences one may find with even a cursory glance, there are just as many similarities hidden beneath the surface-deep observation. How many times does he enter a brothel of Garlemald just to bear witness to a kidnapped savage, their differing looks used as advertisement? Bodies used and discarded for its exoticism? Beneath Vauthry’s rule, full of loopholes and as depraved as it is, allows for the discomforting acquisitions of such... tastes.

He knows well the workers at the Beehive are all goodly folk, caring genuinely for the sex workers beneath their employ, the dancers and the hosts, yet know they can do naught for ‘acquired goods’.

And but of course, the Warrior is one of them.

He knows not how she ends up here, not that the details matter much, but it is clear she is barely of sound mind. Arms bound above her in stifling chains, the upper half of her body stuck within a most gaudy pillory, with bright magenta filigree and gold accents far too blinding to the eye. She wears naught but tattered stockings and a blindfold fastened tight around her eyes, black hair long and silky, so well-kept in spite of her treatment here. Calling forth a chair to be front-row audience to her torture, Emet-Selch takes the glass of alcohol offered to him leisurely, ignoring the pained wince of the worker bee when he looks at the bound Warrior.

It is clear she has been here a while; bruises line every nook and cranny of her body, brought about from tightened grips and suckling mouths, others wrought clearly by physical violence. He swirls the alcohol in his glass before he leans forward, easily plucking the blindfold away with a glare to make the worker bee stay quiet, and he is greeted, then, with tear-puffed eyes. Red as red can be and swollen to excess, a gasp escapes the Warrior’s lips and she looks through him at first.

Recognition filters through the haze of hers when his aether reaches out to wrap around hers, slipping down inside of her where others shan’t ever touch, lingering deep within her even as another ‘customer’ steps forth to use her as have many others. A pause at the sight of Emet-Selch, hesitation at first when he stares at the new brute, before the creature sets about to taking its pleasure from the Warrior of Light, of Darkness, and he leans back in the comfortable chair. The screams that tear from her throat a hoarse and worn, tears starting anew, and words, pleas for this to stop escape her bitten, bruised lips.

He pays the Eulmorans running this establishment a pretty penny to allow him to watch her for as long as his heart desires, bearing witness to the line of people whom rotate to abuse this exotic thing. For all they are concerned, with how there are practically very little non-Eulmoran Viis are here, he knows their interests are piqued upon the sight of a Viera like the Warrior. Pale as snow and as bright as the light above, contrasted with void black hair which curtain down her head, eyes like crystals, diamonds, and full, heart-shaped lips as red as the freshest cherries.

Is it no wonder then that they wish to stomp upon this freshly lain snow?

For hours he simply relaxes, lounges, and watches the Warrior’s body be used, abused, naught more than an orifice-toy or a sex-rag to be thrown in the trash after use, yet here she is bound instead. Fluids drip from her holes, dripping a horrid mess, and it is when his disgust finally takes over, almost boiling over to pity, does he snap his fingers and bring halt to the abusers lining up to this private area.

Just like that, he cleans her as well, giving to her a kindness that the Beehive cannot give, lest the Eulmoran’s child-king throws a tantrum that his toy is being loved when only he is to bless the Warrior. A part of him wonders if he wishes to turn the Warrior into his very own Sin Eater, keep her retaining most of her features yet shape parts of her to his lust.

He lifts her head up by cupping her cheek, his magick working to soothe the aches and tears at her aether, to bring to her some stability so that she may finally look into his eyes and take note of his amusement. Rivers of tears slip freely from her eyes, voice lost to how long she has been confined here, and Emet-Selch cannot help but click his tongue, shushing her almost sympathetically.

“Oh dear, my poor hero,” he croons so sweetly, pressing his lips to hers in a gentle mockery of a kiss, “that you have been abandoned by your Scions; can they not find a way to save you? To free you from this tormentous dream?” though he can see the weariness on her, masked not at all by the deep sorrow, he can see as well the relief.

Relief that there is someone here who shan’t treat her as a hole to be fucked.

Relief that there is someone here who is not a worker, bound by fear to obey the twisted lays.

Relief that there is a non-Eulmoran here... even if it is the enemy.

Another kiss presses against her open lips, silencing the heaves, and he murmurs soothingly against her cheek. “Let me save you.” he says sweetly. “We will away from here, and I shall fix all the ills that they have committed on you. I will give you the care you have oh so horribly been denied. Will you not accept my offer?”

And with no way out, still stuck within such frivolous bonds and silly pillory, she leans her head into his palm and nuzzles into it, kissing it to make up for her voiceless throat. Magick slips into her mind to allow her to slip into the most peaceful slumber, free of the nightmares of the waking world. When one of the workers nervously shuffles in to see whether or not the customer shall finally leave the captive be, a scream echoes loudly throughout the Beehive and everyone is a stir.

Bodies pile within the room, slipping down as space is made when the door opens, and neither the strange customer in intricate clothing nor the toy is anywhere to be found.

Chapter 7: (Warning) Rimming, Breeding, Tentacles

Expecting one to forget such a long period of abuse is a fool’s folly, this Emet-Selch is of course aware. He himself has broken many an arrogant man and woman, laid them low beneath his heel all while smiling with shining teeth at the people of Garlemald, espousing his value as the great Emperor they all clamour for him to be. He strips skin from flesh and lets the victim douse in vinegar. He removes eyes and damages ears just so that the sensation of touch is far worse. He isolates savages from their peers, keeps them alone and locked until they rely on only him, and abandons them once he has what he needs.

The rise to leadership is not an easy one; treachery, bribery, framing, all that the spirit of man conjures, he uses to his heart’s content. Many never recover from the trauma. Some take their own lives. Others flee so that they may grow anew.

His new Warrior has neither the second nor third option now that he whisks her away from that wretched Beehive to a place of his own making. Her eyes are forever glazed, mind elsewhere and movements languid. Food cannot stay in her stomach long ‘fore she is regurgitating it out. Touches make her cringe and shiver in fear. She looks at Emet-Selch like he is her saviour and monster alike, kept bare as she is within his ‘abode’, and there is not an ounce of shame found within him as he admits to the truth: he enjoys this.

Subservience, before, is not to be expected from her; though she is nowhere near as rude nor rash as any of the other Scions, or other of man in general, it is quite clear she bows to none but herself and the traditions of her home clan. She humours conversation with Emet-Selch more than the others, actually indulges in her curious with her ears lowering and shoulders relaxed, and offers to him hospitality lacking from her Exarch and merry band of failures and one child.

It of course is ridiculous that she will offer tea and chocolate cakes to him, all while her ears are practically vibrating with excitement and her lapine tail will not stop twitching violently, cheerfully. Her smile seldom reaches her eyes but the offer of knowledge will have her aglow with love and interest.

None of that is present from her now. When Emet-Selch tells her to kneel, she does so readily and rests her head on his knees when given permission. When he tells her to open her mouth and lets two fingers slip in, she suckles on them readily. When he touches her, even as tears spring to her eyes and she sniffles in fear, she lets him do so, groping her to his heart’s content. He presses a kiss to her belly, right above a particularly nasty scar and she manages to regain her voice enough to tell him how she gets it: a patron with dark fetishes carves into her stomach, trying to see if he can find her womb to ruin it, and she just barely lives if not for the Beehive security bursting in.

Vauthry will not appreciate a toy that cannot give birth, he is aware. It is for the same reasons as to why Emet-Selch heals her of her wounds, darkness seeping in and act as a balm to her unwanted, physical reminders. It is for the same reason, as well, that he ensures she is still fertile, her womb healthy, and when he presses a kiss to its general direction, her tears begin anew.

In the dark of his room, he has her presenting to him on all fours, though she falls to her elbows soon after when his aether made tendrils begin to slip to her vagina. Her tail is rigid, pointing upright, yet he cares not for it is not as inconvenient as a Miqo’te’s. Her arse is round and plump, a far cry from the one time he catches a glimpse of her naked, a far cry from how firm and, well, frankly flat they are, aware that it is more than likely Vauthry’s meddling.

When he presses his thumb against her hole, the puckered entrance feels extremely soft even through the leather of his glove, and she whimpers in fear when he rubs circles on her rim with his index. He leans forward then, presses a kiss to the puckered hole that clenches tight from the feel of his lips, before he buries himself in between to get a proper taste of her.

She is more than clean beneath his tongue, having returned to her personal hygiene with painful gusto when he gives her the freedom, and the taste of her skin is oddly pleasant, salty from sweaty yet not intensely so. His thumbs come up to help give Emet-Selch more to lick, forcing her hole to part a little more and reveal the pink insides a bit better, and his tongue dips in.

Her attempts at clenching yield to nothing, yet they are such quaint, adorable little attempts either way. It is not entirely out of trying to keep him out, he knows; several of his aetherial tendrils penetrate into her cunt, spreading her far, far more than any mere mortal can, and aphrosidiac-laced fluids fill her up to her womb, causing her belly to round out from the excess.

They undulate inside of her, curling against her erogenous spot again and again, causing her to repeatedly clench around his tongue that penetrates inside of her ass, lips pressed around her hole and hands massage her thighs, gloves growing slick from the mess of both her nectar and his own viscous fluids.

As part of him as they are, it is not only fluids that they have to offer her, her and her fertile, lovely little womb. Even as her channel tightens around them, and oh he can feel them several times over, as though he is in the mind of many men penetrating into the tightest whore, and his erections tent against his trousers, lifting his robe up from where he kneels.

But he does not leave her ass alone, content to taste her and kiss her soft asshole while she squirts around him repeatedly, growing more and more relaxed, incapable of moving with each rapid, intense orgasm. It is when she is practically boneless beneath him, muscles unable to respond to anything he does, do one of the tendrils bulge out and grow thick.

She cries out in confusion when that very same one presses past her cervix and into her womb, the unseen tip growing wide and its slit opens up, before she screams in shock; adrenaline momentarily bequeaths her movement that more tendrils lash out to stop, keeping her held down as large, inhuman eggs begin to push through the tendril and into her womb.

The first one is far, far too large for her small little body, her abdomen growing rounder with the combination of the first egg and the drugging fluids. In spite of her rapidly approaching anxiety, she moans long and loud and releases once more, her wet walls desperately clinging to every single tendril. Many more begin to push past, each pop inside of her causing her to cry and orgasm until no more of her nectar can gush out, her body constantly twitching and shaking with overstimulation. By the time he is done with her, parting from his duty of eating her arse out and now sits beside her, stroking her sweaty hair, she looks as though she is nearing the end of her pregnancy. He rolls her over to get a better look at her large stomach, domed with all of the eggs he lays inside of her, and he coos.

“How well you have done.” he praises. She looks at Emet-Selch through glossy and uncomprehending eyes. “You have done so well, my dear.”

With his breath quickening and the Warrior laying there motionless, he cannot deny himself any longer. He strips with a snap of his fingers, erections jumping up excitedly and already leaking thick, pearly drops down the shafts, and he grabs the top one as he settles betwixt her legs and buries himself into her gaped vagina in one thrust.

These eggs will not take without his cum and so he sets to fucking into her all over again, even when she begins to beg, but one kiss and a swipe of his tongue has her hopped up on aphrodisiacs all over again. Around his cock, her walls are loose and cannot even manage a grip on him, her insides so slippery and wet with her still drooling need even if she cannot orgasm any.

How long he spends fucking into her, he is not sure. His first orgasm from the first cock comes quickly, body having been heated up from his tentacles depositing all her eggs inside of her, and the second cock fares no better as he pulls out to penetrate her again, dousing her insides with so much semen it ends up spilling out.

Many more are taken into her womb, and even more shall be as he alternates between breeding her like that, making sure her hole is nothing but a white, frothy mess while her womb is full of his semen, ensuring the eggs will take, that she will give birth for him. Over and over again, until his sheets are stained with his cum and her hips twitch, another dry orgasm escaping her abused body.

When he is finally done and his balls do not feel so heavy, he pulls out, gathers her messy body into his arms, and kisses her lips.

“My dearest Warrior,” he says in a gentle hush, “dream now of a dark tomorrow, where I will love you as you need, and where you shall never want for anything again. Tomorrow, I will drain what light remains in you, and bring about the rejoining, so that our children may live in a world of peace and prosperity, and never again fear the foolishness of man.”

Beneath him, the Warrior lets out a single sob.

Chapter 8: Menophilia

Her beloved Hades has ever been a strange man. Millennium years old, having seen the annals of history, a purported creature of the night yet more than capable of walking within the day... severely weakened, of course, yet still, not as confined to night time as one may expect. Of course, being a creature of the night came with, ah, quirks, if one is to be generous about his existence. Blood to sustain his existence, an intense need for violence and sporadic sexual cravings, strength that breaks her walls or furniture whenever anger consumes him, an ennui that comes and goes, and intense lethargy that has him hiding away for hours, weeks on end.

The strangest is when some of those desires happen to, hm. Happen to ‘combine’, if she is to put it lightly. Almost as if on clockwork, as if it is a trigger, he will sequester her away to her private chambers, as though it is a mating call to a creature as strange as he. A week at a time, pinned to her bed while his fingers sink into the flesh of her rear, holding her tightly against his mouth when he nuzzles into her folds.

Reddened and slick from her cycle, sensitive because of it; excitement has him taking deep breaths of her cunt, perverse and intense, making her feel almost disgusted by his excitement, the bestial part of him that takes over. He keeps her pressed close, blood smearing across his face, somehow fitting his handsome visage and adding an intensity that suits him far too much. A thick, almost-serpentine like tongue drags between her folds, lapping at whatever of her blood he can get to, and she trembles below him, hands clenching tightly at the bed sheets.

He never lets her move during this, magic murmured into her skin to keep her lax and unmoving, allowing him to worship her pussy as he sees fit. Suckling upon her dewy folds, kissing her hole and letting his tongue slip in to try and slip out more of her menses, mouth cupped over her cunt. His breathing – no matter how superfluous – is desperate and quick over her, brushing against her hard clit and she gasps, hips jerking minutely, while he ate her, feasting on her like his favourite cuisine he had been denied of for month.

Doting eyes piercing into her, blood smeared all across his face, and love turning his gaze into something depraved and perverse. Though she knows that Hades, her beloved Hades; obsessive and worshipful, a creature of the night and possessive enough to befit the mythology and more, disgusting in his desires as he tastes her blood and cleans her of her menses. Bringing her to a shaky orgasm on his long tongue, his nose bumping against her swollen clit.

He devours her as he does every month for a week, tasting her like a ravenous beast, eyes glazing over and turning into a bright, glowing gold, a colour belonging to the inhuman. He kisses her hole, giving her only a second of reprieve, letting his head rest on her inner thigh. Blood paints him like face paint, all while love fills his gaze.

It is the same song and dance every month, where he devolves into a starved beast and tastes her vagina again and again, enjoying all that her body has to give, and even if a bit embarrassing... she cannot say she hates it.

(It is, however, a little embarrassing when he fucks her afterwards only to get back to eating her out, unbothered by the taste of his semen and her blood mingling together.

What a strange creature.)

Chapter 9: Pegging (F/F)

Perhaps she should be unsurprised that Her Radiance dominates not only within the fields of war, but within the bedroom; having refused to ever be impregnated, delegating instead women she deems ‘worthy’ to carry the seed of her husband, all while she teaches His Majesty’s place in her bed and what it means to truly submit, to let go of his damnable pride. Perhaps the Warrior should be less taken aback when Emet-Selch reveals her toy to her, a harness with something quite phallic and deep purple strapped to it, tapering down to be as thick as her wrist and barely as long as her upper arm, covered in nubs and bumps, and she has to fight back the urge to close her legs.

Her Radiance tells her, in that ever mocking, deep voice of hers, that, “you are not to defy me, hero, ‘lest you wish me to deprive you, to bend you over my knee and turn your arse so bloody red, so sensitive, that you shan’t be able to sit for months. Is that understood, my dear?”

And of course, she does her best to obey, even as large, manicured hands grab her thighs and spread her farther open. She shivers at the intensity of her golden gaze on her cunt, Emet-Selch’s short hair fluttering a little as she bows her head down to take the sight of her swollen, slick folds in better. “Good girl, darling,” she says mockingly, thumbs spreading her lower lips open to further bear her labia, showing off her pink insides and the clenching, small hole, “mhm, perhaps this toy shall be far too much for such a virginal body like yours; my dear, little, untouched snow.”

There is naught soothing to be found within her words, dripping with lust and glee, eyes alight with want and a hunger that makes her feel like meat. Her long, lapin ears are straight and twitchy, tense yet clearly anticipating, and Emet-Selch smirks lazily down at her, her nails scraping against her inner thighs. “But, I am nothing if not brave, nothing if not willing to explore and push boundaries. I am sure you are no different, are you?”

When the toy presses against her hole, so large it feels almost like a boulder against a rat hole, it is with realization that it is wet, slick and dripping. The tip feels wide and thick against her hole, prodding against the tight entrance before it pushes against the resistance, and the Warrior yelps. With fluttering eyelashes and tail rigid, she takes deep breaths, Emet-Selch thankfully waiting for her to open up, relax, and it is in a momentary vulnerability that the Ascian aboves her grins maniacally.

She is not even given chance to react when the toy slams all the way deep into her cunt, gaping her wide open and she screams, hands coming to grasp at Emet-Selch’s broad shoulders and claw at her skin as her once virginal pussy is spread widely open. Her mouth falls open, unable to stop the moans and desperate panting when something hot and unbearably cold at the same time begins to sink into her.

With blurry eyes, she looks into Emet-Selch’s eyes, attempting to understand the strange sensation that wraps around her soul, strokes along her clit even as it is only her thighs that are gripped, before realization hits her almost violently when the feeling becomes almost... familiar. Deep inside of her, alongside the thick, toy-cock that spears her blushing, gaping hole, Emet-Selch’s aether makes itself at home, stroking the inside of her soul as if to taste her very person, to give pleasure to her completely.

Slowly, powerful hips pull back and out of her hole that desperately grips around it, too wet to get a firm grasp on the toy as it pulls out of her with an embarrassingly loud slurp. Despite the intensity of being stretched so quickly, so harshly, her vagina is drooling, practically gushing her nectar all below her. A growing puddle gathers beneath her on the sheets, muscles unable to clench tight after such a powerful spearing, and one of Emet-Selch’s hands comes up to spread her fingers on her belly.

“What if I was to leave my mark here? Tattoo it into your body, fill it up with my aether, so that you shall feel me wherever you go?” she purrs, not even giving the Warrior a chance to respond before she slams right back into her gushing wet cunt, ripping another scream out of her – one tinged with pain and pleasure, mingling together to create an almost addictive concoction deep in her belly.

After this, however, Her Radiance does not wait, her patience having finally snapped when the Warrior below her whimpers and squirts lightly around the toy, a small orgasm from such overwhelming feelings. Caught in Emet-Selch’s embrace, she scoops her up onto her lap and she can almost feel the toy all the way up to her throat, mouth falling open in shock when she glances down and sees the obscene bulge in her belly.

With a wicked grin, Emet-Selch begins to thrust up into her, holding her body still and manipulating it to her leisure; the nubs and bumps inside keep grinding against her sensitive walls, massaging cruelly against an erogenous spot she knows not of its existence prior to this, and the base grinds against her swollen, hard clit. The aether inside of her does not abate either, hot and cold providing dual sensations against the almost overwhelming pleasure; Emet-Selch is all around her, large and broad like every other Garlean, yet enveloping her beyond what many – any – Eorzeans are capable of.

A hand at the back of her head urges her into a kiss, plush lips soft against her own, smearing dark lipstick all over and her mouth swallows all of her moans as she grinds the thick toy inside of her. Teeth sink into her lower lip before Emet-Selch moves to nuzzle near her ear, breath puffing against the base of her ear as she lets loose a soft laugh.

“Oh, the world I am going to show you tonight.” is the only warning the Warrior gets before Emet-Selch completely ravages her.

A small orgasm is not enough for Her Radiance, clearly; hours pass by in a blur of pleasure and pain, of hot and cold, as orgasm after orgasm is dragged out of her overheated body. The aether inside of her keeps her active, willing to keep going, especially as Emet-Selch seems incapable of losing stamina even as she shudders above the Warrior, eyes slipping shut and lips forming a small circle to release deep, lascivious moans, cumming against the base of her harness from where it grinds against her own vagina, her own clit.

Especially when Emet-Selch bites against her lapin ear and murmurs, “I’ve my own toy inside me, dear, against the inside of this lovely little strap, to keep me as much on the edge as you are.” before she goes back to violently fucking the Warrior, forcing her legs against her shoulder to fold her in half just to slip in deeper, to make her feel the toy intimately.

She almost cannot comprehend it when Emet-Selch pulls out of her soaked hole, open and fluttering, trying to clench in protest over being empty. She watches with slack jaw as she comes to a stand, showing off the black harness in its entirety and making her watch as she drags it slowly down, revealing her own, smaller phallic-toy as it slips out of her beautiful, gorgeous vagina. So plump and pretty, labia spread open and slick with her need, her clit large and long, leaving her begging to kiss it. Such a pretty thing, all red like blush from arousal, and Emet-Selch chuckles above her when she throws the harness away hap hazardously.

Kneeling above the Warrior’s head, her hand comes down to spread her lips, showing off her cunt, before she shudders, thrusts her hips, and squirts across her face. “Clean me up, hero.” she says with a sneer before everything around her goes dark as Her Radiance, the greatest Empress of the Republic of Garlemald, uses the Warrior’s face as her rightful throne.

Chapter 10: Somnophilia

Beneath him, his Azem, his lovely Persephone; beneath him she falls into a deep sleep, body weary and eyelids heavy from the duties of her travels. The many cultures she must painstakingly record and remember, the many distances she travels, and she returns home only to have to be victim to his libidinous nature; how kind she is, to allow Hades to slip his hands up her legs and drag her smalls down to expose her vagina.

How kind she is, letting him settle twixt her legs and kiss her lower lips, breathing in deeply of her scent and moaning against her thigh, teeth nibbling at her skin to leave behind gentle bruises. He parts her lower lips, revealing her small, pink hole that clenches so temptingly when his thumb rubs against it. His nose bumps against her clit when he nuzzles back into her crotch, pressing his lips against her in a perverse mockery of a chaste kiss, before backing away to stare at the way she clenches, taut beneath his hands. He squeezes her upper thighs, amused by how he may grope and toy with her body to his whims and yet she shall not wake, such a deep sleeper the Traveller, the Shepherd of the Stars, has become from such treacherous, laborious travels.

His tongue drags between her lower lips, tasting the moistness that begins to gather, feeling her slick flood into his mouth the more he laps at like her a languid feline. She does not stir much in her sleep, lids still covering pale, crystalline eyes; lips parted with slow breaths and the heaving of her chest is not intense enough for his liking. Of course, it is not disappointment that spurs Hades on but the self-imposed challenge of destroying her, ruining her until her dreams cannot keep her for long.

It is to the sight of her eyes fluttering slowly open, heavy and glazed with sleep only for awareness and surprised pleasure to take over immediately, clarity gifted to her in the form of his head twixt her legs, devouring her nectar as though he is a man starved and she is his only solace, his oasis in the midst of the smouldering desert.

... Now, of course, he just needs to get to tasting her.

Chapter 11: Stockings

Emet-Selch has seen many an attire upon these mortal bodies; some ridiculous, as heavy and as cumbersome as the designs of the Garlean uniform, warped into something convoluted and technical when he, as Solus, looks away for but a moment. To the uniformity of the Alliance’s attire, differing only in colour and the ranking standing starkly in comparison to all, to the absurdity of some of the more tribal outfit he sees, these new lifeforms smearing themselves in body paint and tattoos before kneeling in holy prayer.

Though he knows he has never seen such outfits before, during Amaurot’s prime, a nagging voice in the back of his head deems it fit to remind him that Azem more than likely has. With her curiosity, he doubts not that she has seen many a unique culture while traversing the forests of Amaurot, diving deep in the boundless oceans, sitting among the locals and learning their customs, their history, before returning with something harrowed in her bones.

Ah. There he goes again, drifting in memories, recalling a maiden with hair so fair that many would have envied were Amaurot’s rules and norms not so strict. Soft, fluffy white tresses and eyes so pale many mistake her as blind, lips of ruby red... and again, he drifts, eyes slipping shut when he remembers kissing her, embracing her slight, small, diminutive, adorable little body onto his lap before suckling marks on her skin that their robe shall reveal no matter how hard she tries.

This mockery of her, however, has him rather... baffled, to say the least. To put it politely, as well. In mannerisms and speech, they are both quite similar; his Azem, small and slight as she is, has ever been a painfully polite, kindly one. Even to him, in public, she defers far too much to his title, hands folded in front of her and the mildest smile on her lips. Even to Hythlodaeus, who is simply the Chief Bureau of Architect, and still she will refer to him with greater respect than she shall ever expect of her.

Some of their nervous habits are the same, fiddling with anything their fingers can curl around, lower lip being sucked in while her tongue pokes out in thought. Fingers meeting together when they can find something long to fiddle with, thumbs pressing against each other. Even the way she sighs in agitation is the same as his Azem, a fact that both comforts and angers him beyond belief.

But perhaps the bloody most confusing fact about this recreation, this simulacra, this fraud of his Azem is that she has no damned modesty. Perhaps saying she lacks modesty is a bit of an exaggeration; perhaps it will be more correct to say that her definition of a battle attire is rather flawed.

Instead of thick leather hides, tough metal, strong plate, or even bloody enchanted ceremonial cloths or historical attire befitting all the little job stones she carries about, she deigns her main attire to be – to be some leotard with half of a robe sewn onto it, ankle high-heels and nothing but a pair of stockings that hide beneath her leotard as battle attire.

That she is hail and whole has him wanting to strangle her, snap that frail neck beneath his palms, and Heavens knows he need not use both hands to do so. Though he prides himself now on his hold over his temper, his patience and calm in the face of many, many things, he must admit now to his shame that he slithers into her temporary abode, waving the Exarch’s pitiful attempts at spying magic, and has his hand wrapped around her throat as he wishes to. Seated on his lap, like he remembers his darling Azem slotting so perfectly into, one arm keeping her pinned against him, while the other? The other, with glove removed, finds purchase upon her small neck, as frail as a doll and paler than porcelain.

Fingers larger than her own by a significant margin, applying pressure yet not squeezing to rob her breath away; not that it hits his fancy, just yet. He applies enough just to keep her from speaking, words coming out as chokes and wheezes. He need not his hands to tear holes into her stockings, the most egregious part of her body, to rip apart the bottom of her leotard so that he may expose her further.

She sits on his lap with her legs on either side, barely brushing against the floor while he leans (un)comfortably upon the rickety chair, and the hand on her waist slips away to push through one of the holes in the stocking, lifting it up to snap it against her skin. She jolts on his lap, her gaze edging closer to curiosity than fear, anxiety taking over soon after when he rips a hole in the middle of her crotch, his index stroking across her panty-hidden lips.

“Perhaps you shall change your mind, reconsider it thoroughly, on your attire when I am done with you this night, and perhaps the next as well. Something presentable, practical, and not so easily torn apart.”

And she cannot bring voice to her opinions when his lips take over hers.

Chapter 12: (Implied Dark) Shotgunning

The club floor outside blares heavily with whatever music is going about outside, bodies and neon lights blurring together into an incoherent mess, air thick with substances that Ceelinae knows little of, and little more of this world she finds herself dragged into. If she is out on the dance floor, sitting at one of the stools of the bar, then she is sure that just bending forward a little will show her people fucking in public, perform sexual favours, or stripping and losing themselves to the mixture of pheromones and chemicals in the air.

She does not have to worry about the drugs outside, the sex and the line of humans (small as it is) offering themselves to vampires. People being dragged away to the downstairs or upstairs to have a bit more privacy, and instead she has to fear for her life.

How ironic that the one thing that causes her discomfort is far more preferable than the mess she has herself in, hands tied behind her and ankles tied to the chair legs, head bowing down to avoid the gaze of the owner of this fetid, too damn expensive club, this intermingling of vampires and humans with a reputation underestimating the sheer wealth this place excludes.

All she wishes to do is to try something new, out of her comfort zone at the behest of Lyse and Yotsuyu, especially the latter when she starts talking about the club she is in: Convocation, where one can go to play pretend at being something else, somewhere else, submitting or dominating within the grounds while vampires prowl about, teeth sharp as a shark’s and gazes hungry.

Emet-Selch, as he is referred to by title for being an Elder vampire, sits behind his desk, one arm crossed on it while the other rolls his cigarette up and down. Smoke bellows up into the air, the room dim and lit by neon lights, bright magentas and scarlets intermittently pass over their faces. The entire office reeks of him, his cologne, and his smoke; especially his smoke that smells like cherries and ash, overtaking the entire room while he eyes her up and down, the hand on his table drumming a repetitive pattern while he loses himself in thought.

His cigarette dangles at the apex of his fingers before he brings it to rest between his lips, taking one, long drag before looking away to blow it to his left. She can see the smoke from the corner of her eyes, the chair creaking a little from her attempts to curl in on herself, and across from her, Emet-Selch huffs in amusement. Smoke eases out of his lips like dragon fire, the red of his lips barely visible in the dim lighting of the room, and Ceelinae flinches when she hears him push his chair back.

Heels clicking painfully loudly in the room, drowning out the noise of the music and screams of the club outside [on an especially randy night, a rare one, from what she understands], Emet-Selch’s large hand – and goodness, he probably only needs the one to break her neck – comes to grasp at her chin and force her head up. Pale, snowy white eyes gaze up into honey-golden ones, the other hand tapping some of the ash of his cigarette away.

“Igeyorhm was right,” he murmurs under his breath, “you really are my type. Nervous, virginal as well.” despite the pressing need for her to spit at him, to show some defiance, she need only look back to the slits of his eyes, the brief glance at long, powerful fangs, to remind herself she is outmatched. Teeth sink into her lower lip instead, gaze lowering over to the ground before he yanks at her chin again and forces her to look at him while he takes another languid drag of his cigarette.

With quivering lips and wide eyes, her neck straining a little and wrists feeling raw from the ropes, Ceelinae stays quiet, fearful of whatever this creature of the night may have planned for her. She hopes that her fate is, at least, a swift one, that he will just drain her dry and throw her corpse off into the canals, or some sort. Where no one shall ever find her and she shall leave all her friends in distress. The glow of his eyes are unreadable, his expression unchanging and lipstick leaving marks on his cigarette.

Exhaling them out his nose in an amused huff, with her having to close her eyes while an undignified squeak escapes her, the hand on her chin roams down to her turtleneck, her outfit completely modest in comparison to the frequent club goers here. He murmurs something low under his breath and she doesn’t get to hear it before she opens her eyes to see him take another drag in before his lips are smashing against her own.

Whatever noise she tries to make ends up in a sputter being swallowed by Emet-Selch when he exhales the smoke of his cigarette into her, forcing her to taste the ash, the cherries, tongue slipping soon inside to wrap around hers while she is trying to recover from the taste of smoke. Metallic yet sweet tastes enter her mouth, coating her tongue and making her moan in spite of her shame, her anger. It is like taking a bite into cake before downing it with something sour, oddly at ends with each other as gunmetal slides down her throat.

When he breaks the kiss to allow her to take big, desperate gulps of air, it is then that it hits her she tastes blood on his tongue, not too intense yet obviously from a recent feeding, and she nearly begins hyperventilating then and there as his tongue drags across his fangs and an almost-gleeful, self-satisfied smirk spreads slowly on his lips.

“It is best you stay here while I begin to get your new home settled. We would not want for a less scrupulous vampire to whisk you away, now, do we?” with another kiss to her lips, he turns off whatever dim lighting there is in his office and completely blacks out whatever windows let him see out into the club, leaving her in pitch darkness.

And her despair turns into righteous fury, with no one but herself as witness to her enraged screams.

Chapter 13: Spanking

“This is undeserved, and you are aware of this, so do not even bother trying to play the ignorant!” his Azem cries out while bent over his lap, wrists tied as tightly together as her ankles are, stripped with the aid of aether dissipation and her body mostly held down save for the minute writhing she can muster. Emet-Selch hums above her, fingers tapping a senseless rhythm upon the pale, soft skin of her buttocks, flicking her once and he chuckles at her indignant yelp.

“I am afraid, my dear, this is quite called for.” he says with no small amounts of sarcasm dripping from his tone, palm laying flat on her buttock and he amuses himself with how small she is beneath him, rubbing almost soothing circles on her rump while she wriggles on his lap. “Falling asleep on a floating islet in the air after reporting to none of your arrival there, causing undue stress for the researchers, and forcing Hermes himself to have to not only find you, but seek me out to aide him in tracking your aether? I believe that that is more than justification for your punishment, Azem.”

She wriggles harder on his lap, mouth open to give him some sort of snarky retort, and his palm immediately raises with a sharp hiss in the air then slams down on top of one of her perky cheeks, causing her to shriek in surprise and jolt forward from the hit. “And do not dare give me your cheek about your ability to defend yourself; there is not a doubt within my heart that you could fight every damnable, bloody creature in Elpis all at once and not have a single scratch upon you, but what of the beasts there? What of protocol? You were being quite reckless, and downright rude to those around you.”

Silence echoes louder than the roars of Elpis’s own beasts, especially as Azem withers on her lap and bows her head down; her long hair cascades down in pale curtains, as white as snow and purer than them even, and he rubs a soothing circles, a balm on the ache he leaves behind, before he bends down. His free hand grabs her throat and lifts her head up, lips taking hers in a passionate kiss that has her moaning regardless of how heavily she is bound atop his lap. “Just for a little bit,” he says with heavy breaths against her lips, “indulge me. Then, I will take good care of you, and we can speak properly about your etiquette besides. Would you, darling?”

Though her eyes flutter down in embarrassment, she grumbles something then gives a nod, the tips of her ears burning a bright red. “If... if you wish for it, then... just not too rough?”

He gives her another kiss before righting himself, the hand on her rump squeezing her soft flesh before it lifts up again with another loud hiss in the air. He lets it stay there for a while, watching the ripples of her muscles as she begins to tense, the anticipation as heavy as his palm as it descends back down onto her arse, making sure to not let it slap down with too much force to cause her discomfort, and she jolts forward with a yelp.

With his hand on her throat, it slips away to grasp at her shoulders and shove her down, making her present her ass to him and she whines in shame.

“Do keep yourself from tensing too much, dear,” he says jovially, “or else it will hurt far more, even with me holding back.”

When he is done with her, Azem’s ass is bright red, like cherries and apples, and it spreads down to her upper thighs, her juices staining her skin and babbles slipping out of her lips. Despite the reluctance she shows prior, it seems she has long since changed her mind, having thrown herself into it so readily that his robe is practically dark with the amount of her pre she drools all over him.

What a lovely Azem he has.

Chapter 14: Face-sitting/Collaring

That the Emperor of Garlemald, a sorcerer of Eld, an Architect of great acclaim and a creature eldritch in age, in knowledge, can know how to simply lay down and allow for her to take over is almost addictive. Knowing that he knows how to serve as much as he knows how to order, to command, that he will clasp at her thighs in fits of desperation, burying his face into her folds without ever needing to breathe, and that he is hard in his trousers, tenting it shamefully so, has her head spinning and her body trembling.

The leash to his collar is clasped tightly in her right hand, the left leaning on his abdomen to steady herself while he is practically inhaling her in, tasting her relentlessly with a long, thick tongue and fingers leaving bruises on her skin where he grabs her. Below her, with his face absolutely drenched in her pre, Emet-Selch breathes heavily, borderline panting, against her lower lips, and his breath is shameful, disgusting, absolutely undignified for a man with as much power as he.

She gasps atop of him and yanks at his leash, dragging his head up and lifts it a bit so that he may be completely buried below her, his hair tickling across his skin and the moan he lets loose is lascivious, loud, voice vibrating against her before he returns to eating her out. He sucks one of her lips into his mouth, lavishing with his attention and ever careful of his teeth, and Ceelinae cannot help but whine atop of him.

Her tail twitches eagerly, lapin ears ramrod straight from the growing tension within her belly, knotting up as her orgasm drags ever closer, and as though he can tell he releases her fold to instead go back to almost violently tasting her slick. His tongue moves in quick lashes against her, lapping her like a starved dog, and his tented need drools thick pre of his own out, seeping through the fine material of his trousers.

Thoughtlessly, she pulls at the leash against and pulls the collar tight against his throat as he gets manhandled by her, his breathing – no matter how unnecessary she knows it is – growing strained from the pressure of the collar and his own heavy arousal, his cock hard and begging for her mouth. Ceelinae will admit, shamefully, that she practically drools from both the ministrations of his untiring tongue and the heady, thick smell of his pre, the pheromones of his arousal and his utter devotion to her pussy.

With her head throwing back when his lips wrap around her hard, swollen clit, suckling on it gently, she jerks her hips forward, tugs a little too hard on his leash, and gushes all over his face, drenching him and his hair in her slick. The long moan he lets out against her rips another smaller orgasm out of her, walls tightening so that she may squirt a little more on his face, dripping her slick all across his face, and she sighs when her muscles finally relax.

Letting go of his leash, she settles back down onto his face, relaxing atop of him even as he is buried in her cunt, her thighs bracketing his head. She reaches down and pats the bulge of his cock and Emet-Selch’s hips jolt in surprise before he tenses up, trying not to move, even as she squeezes him through his layers of clothes and begins rubbing at him.

“Good boy,” she says jovially, “I believe you have more than deserved your reward. Make sure to use that tongue of yours again while I give you the treat you deserve, if you would not mind?”

 

 

With the way he practically drools even more cum through his trousers, Ceelinae feels confident in saying that Emet-Selch more than enjoys that prospect.

Chapter 15: Massage

The amount of knots present in Hades’s back is rather insane, Eros thinks to herself when she straddles his back and begins to get to work, spreading oil on his back and then begin kneading them out. He is large beneath her, arms crossed below his head, and utterly nude in spite of her saying how unnecessary it is. Though, in private and only in her own thoughts, she will admit that it is a crime how much of his body is hidden beneath that robe, none being able to see how muscular and fit her beloved soulbond is. Her hands are comically small on his back as she kneads his back, redness dying her cheeks from the groans that spill out from his lips.

It is quite clear, luridness aside, that his body is completely tense, her beloved far too busy with work and being hunched over his desk for too long, and some of the tension in his body palpably feels heavy beneath her palms. More and more groans spill out of his mouth the lower she goes, a particularly loud moan pouring out when she begins to press down and massage at the small of his back, Hades peeking over his shoulder to glance at her.

The look in his eyes are molten, liquid honey, his mouth hidden before he goes back to resting his head on his arms. He huffs in amusement when her hands hover above his buttocks, face completely dark red and shy before oily palms begin to slide on firm cheeks, mostly for self-indulgence than anything else. She squeezes him and he grunts, shifting a little beneath while she continues to squeeze and knead his butt. Sidling down a little further, she gives his left cheek a small kiss and he laughs in surprise, before she goes to working on his legs, one at a time.

And despite all the noises he releases, he ends up falling asleep underneath her, and she goes back to slowly massaging him, humming above him as she does.

It is a good day, all things considering.

Chapter 16: (Dark?) Fucking Machine

Magitek is a wondrous thing, even if he has no real love for the mortals who birth the technology. A different advancements from those he remembers from Amaurot, materiel attempting to make up for their lacking of aether – or, more aptly, the genetic blockage that keeps them from accessing it – and to give them an advantage against the ignorance of the Eorzeans, the Far Easterners, the Ilsabardians if necessary.

Though Thavnair has ever remained a neutral force, willing to ferry goods hither and thither for all countries, all kingdoms, regardless of standing, still Garlemald attempts to cannibalize it under their wing. Using the endless trade routes of Radz-a-Han to expand their science and, later, delve into indulgence, into personal effects. With the war going from endless bloodshed to a gradual but victorious conquering, there is not much for them to do but capture slaves and to advance in the most frivolous of things.

This machine is one such ‘advancement’, if he is to be polite about it. It is a strange device; bench-like at the bottom with a long spine, machinery wired to thrust the large, phallic looking objects that have been attached (and are easily detachable and replaceable, if he so wishes), a remote to change the settings, and limbs meant to be attached to nipples so that they may ‘suck’ on them.

Yes, for the curiosity of the Garleans lead to them creating a machine that can be used by seldom few, far too expensive and lewd for the prudish Republique, causing no end of scandals even as nobles and the rare-few rich commoners buy these outrageous machines.

He buys one himself, mostly out of morbid curiosity, and he does not use it the once upon the Empress, does not even let her know that it exists and simply allows it to rot within his personal collection. Until now, of course. His leylines lash out, eagerly wrapping even further around already bound hands, and the Viera upon the bench lets loose a distressed cry before shadowy tendrils wrap around her mouth.

A blindfold replaces her usual one, thicker and properly robbing her of sight. Her hands are tied to the little protrusion on the bench where she lays stomach down on, legs forced apart by his leylines and her two holes exposed to the machine where the large, phallic toys press against her. She shakes her head, muscles tensing in her legs. He shudders at the feeling of her tongue brushing against the tendril in her mouth, feeling it keenly on his mouth member, and he sighs serenely.

More tentacles slither out from the shadows they leave behind, from the darkness in the corners, and wrap around her form, causing no end to her mounting distress. Dragging her slowly, even as she whimpers around the tendril in his mouth, he has the tendrils manhandle her until the tips of the objects pop inside, pulling her further and further onto the toys until her stomach bulges with the size of them both.

He circles around the machine until he finally finds the switch and flips it to the highest setting, laughter bubbling out in stutters before devolving into a moan when Ceelinae screams around the tendril in her mouth when the machine begins its relentless thrusting inside of her tight holes. The noises around the tendril, quick and panting, panicked almost, have him biting back a moan.

Grabbing at the suction cups, or so he remembers them being called, he brings them down to her small bosom; so tiny that they can barely even fit in his hand, Garlean stature and all, and the cups look almost comical on her nipples. Her thrashing on the bench gets wilder, the blindfold sticking to her face as tears soak it through, her hips barely able to move thanks to the leylines keeping her bound, humming his aether all over her body that already sings and screams from the relentless, quick fucking the machine is giving her. He knees before her, hand grasping her chin and the tendril recedes. Pleas for him to stop immediately fill the air, alongside the lecherously loud squelching of her cunt as arousal fills her against her will.

“Shh, dear,” he whispers to her, in this abode where naught but shades and memories can hear them, “the price to pay to live, my dear, to not be a mindless, aether suckling beast, is obedience. Now, stop begging, and accept your gift.”

Chapter 17: ""Titfucking""

“You cannot – you cannot truly want this.” Eros says, ever baffled by his strange wants and desires, laying on her back completely bare and her lips kiss swollen, eyebrows furrowing together while she stares at Hades with disbelief clear writ on her face. He holds himself above her stomach, thighs flexing with the effort he is putting in to not settle down on her and apply unwanted pressure, and she looks down at his bobbing, painfully hard erection before looking back up at him. “I am sure that you have noticed, O’ Venerable and Esteemed Emet-Selch, O’ Wondrous Architect, but I do not have the bloody tits for your perverse enjoyment.”

As though to further prove her point, her hands leave their spots by the sides of her head and brings them down to, instead, cup her breasts and lift them up, her hand more than enough to hold them up with how small they are. The dark tips of her nipples are relaxed instead of tight and perked up, standing stark against the paleness of her skin, and he croons lowly in appreciation.

“I do not see as to how that will be an issue,” he chirrups cheerfully and she stares at him so incredulously that he is surprised she has not attempted to throw him off, out the room, and lock the door so that she may forget this nonsense, “I am sure I can make it work. It will be very, very adorable to see, I can assure you.”

"Ad- adorable?!” she sputters out, “you – you want to — oh bloody hells, Hades!” she covers her face, exasperated, “do whatever you like then, but do not be upset with me when you are disappointed with the results.”

Hades cannot help but beam at her after her permission, shifting forward a little more and making sure to be careful as he bends down, takes his member in his hand and moans lowly at the sensation of touch, finally, before he settles it down between her chest. It does look ludicrous from his vantage point, especially when he grabs her small breasts and presses them against either side of his member, her now-tight nipples barely rubbing against the top of his cock.

“I was right,” he says with barely concealed joy, “it would look extremely adorable.”

 

 

 

One slap later and his desire sated, his dearest Azem lets him bed her as usual, though with him lavishing a bit more attention to her breasts than usual. By the time he finishes up with her, her breasts are covered in bites and suckles, and the exasperated look on her face has worsened.

Chapter 18: Pet Play

It is very strange to get on all fours, a collar attached to her neck and a leash in the gloved hands of the once-great Emperor, he, the first of his name, Solus zos Galvus, his Radiance Emet-Selch. They are in an open area, far-detached from society to allow for him to take her on a walk like the pet she has become; though she may not be a dog, he reasons with her far too casually, does not mean she is exempt from exercise. He strips her of her clothes before attaching the leash to her collar, a gentle pink hue and soft leather around her neck, and yanks at it until she is on her hands and knees by his side and following after him.

The sensation of the ground beneath her is odd, the feeling of wind against her extremities has her blushing a deep dark red, and she shivers the more she crawls by his side. It does not help either that, as if motivation and to mock her slightly, he has a large plug sat snugly inside her of her arse, spreading the insides to an obscene degree with a glowing, shimmering purple gem in the centre.

Another shifts in her vagina, two constant pressures inside of her that has her stuttering in her movement for a while before he yanks her forward and forces her ahead. “Do be a good girl and keep up.” he says with a chipper tone that does not befit him, far too pleased with her struggles. He does stop to bet her head, rubbing at the sensitive base of her lapine ears and she shudders where she stops, nails scratching at her and she bites her lower lip to not moan.

His hand strokes down the back of her neck, lifting the collar up and snapping it against her, and she jolts in surprise. “Good girl, aren’t my touches preferable to punishment?” he croons at her, “now, be good, and follow after with no pause, hm? And if you are good, I will give you quite the lovely reward, I assure you.”

And despite the pressure inside of her that begins to vibrate and stroke at her insides, rubbing against the sensitive spot and walls inside of her, massaging her from the inside, she manages to finish their walk and the amount of joy and satisfaction on his face is immeasurable.

Chapter 19: Mirror Sex/Cockwarming

Being trained to serve Emet-Selch as his willing... she does not entirely know what they have between them, though she knows not for certain if it is not romance; a man like Emet-Selch who sees his past love in her yet refuses to acknowledge the truth before him is not a man who can ever be her partner, truly. Yet neither of them can deny the spark of heat and lust between them, with how often Emet-Selch stares at Ceelinae like he wants to pin her down and destroy her, ruin her for anyone else, and she knows, knew, will know him well enough to tell that he will keep to that promise.

His desires for her run deep, ever deeper when he realizes he looks exactly like the Eros he loses eons ago, and it brings her some degree of comfort to know that still she reacts the same to his lusts, his wants and desires. To know that he is still the lecherous, perverted man she remembers him being, with a sexual appetite that seems to never be satisfied.

 

 

 

At least it is also comforting to know that he goes, immediately, for the extreme. Their first night together has her completely held up and propped up by him, her back against his chest as she sinks down onto him, her legs held up and open by his aetherial tendrils, many more holding her up so that he may pinch and play with her breasts, massaging her small bosom while he has her ride him in front of way too many mirrors.

She can see every angle of their copulation, his voice lowly demanding against her ear that she watches, pays attention to how her pussy greedily swallows him, her clit and dark red from need, desperation. Thighs wet from her desperation and juices dripping onto the floor, to make her watch as he pulls out to show off her wide open her hole is, clenching desperately around nothing, cooing over her wet, pink insides before he goes back to fucking into her.

One hand abandons its duty of playing and teasing her tits to instead cup her chin and pinch her cheeks, forcing her eyes open so that she may take in her face in the midst of pleasure, how brightly her cheeks burn with embarrassment and arousal alike, and how she keeps squirting around his cock, over and over again. Even levitates a mirror above her when her eyes roll up midst her many orgasms, refusing to let her escape the state she has been reduced to.

At some point, Ceelinae wakes up to the realization that she pisses out mid sex and that her womb is full of his seed, a broad chest holding her against him and she huffs in amusement, knowing that the body embracing her is not his, not awake. That he is elsewhere. Scheming something every second of every day.

 

 

And from then on, their relationship devolves further and further into her sating his lusts and random frustrations, the bruises on her body becoming permanent additions on her skin. Like tattoos she never asked for yet still traces her fingers over, breath quickening in masochistic pleasure, and she hopes that he never realizes how much she loves the pain he inflicts in equal measures as the pure pleasure.

This is why she is currently between his legs, hands bound behind her while her mouth and throat are stuffed with his cock, her nose only able to inhale his musk, only taste Emet-Selch’s skin, his cock soft inside of her mouth instead of hard and suffocating her. Her surroundings are dark beneath the desk, his large body hiding all light, making all that is in her vision be his robe, his trousers, breathing him in —

His cologne, his pheromones, him. His arousal, his sweat. All around her is nothing but Emet-Selch while he busies himself with... with something; perhaps he is writing in a journal. A report to the other Ascians, or what of them reminds. Perhaps he is writing his own novel, a play. She knows not. All she knows is that she is to be good, obedient, and to keep his cock nice and wet inside of her mouth, not doing anything unless he demands it of her,

 

 

 

and she is disgusting for enjoying this so much.

Chapter 20: (Warning) Noncon/dubcon

“A vampire’s venom can be greatly stimulating.” she remembers him saying the first night he drags her down to this – this strange, underground basement of his, she doesn’t know if it is at the club he runs or somewhere far away, somewhere where she cannot be searched for, but she knows for a fact that she is surrounded by ‘the bare essentials’. A bed that, surprisingly, is extremely comfortable to lay down on, a tiny separate room with a bath and toilet, with Emet-Selch chirruping that he prefers it if she is to bathe on her own, show him that she is capable of caring for herself while he is not here.

The only thing Emet-Selch truly gives to her is a single swipe at his fangs with his thumb before he grabs her chin harshly, forces her mouth open, and drags something slimy across her tongue and forces her to swallow. “A feeding until you are used to it.” he says dully before looking around the basement, clicking his tongue as he does. “And I will have someone clean this place up. What a terrible squalor to live in, Ceelinae, was it? I will have someone fix this place up, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

He is not the one who makes food for her, not necessarily. A servant comes down to give her something; human once, she thinks, when she sees the bite marks on his neck and the dead, fish-eyed look he gives her – a thrall now, a slave. She cannot bring herself to feel sympathy for him, for how is she to spare it when she is currently in quite the predicament herself too? With an extremely long chain attached to her ankle from the wall, allowing her free roam of the surprisingly roomy basement but quite obviously not allowing her a chance to escape.

Emet-Selch does not often come down here, not at first that is. When he visits it is to smear more of that strange fluid on her tongue, later kissing her to secrete more of that venom of his into her mouth.

 

 

 

And she does not want to admit how good it feels every time he does that. When he feeds it to her the first time, she feels no different. A little bit of tingling at the tips of her fingers and toes, yet nothing else that she can notice. Yet, the more and more he feeds her, the headier it begins to feel; her body feels like it is on a low burn, pleasure simmering in her belly before it intensifies with each feeding.

She claws at her own skin whenever he is not here, the effects of his venom lasting for far too long and no amount of her masturbating makes the sensations go away. Her thighs are soaked and that is when he deems it fit to strip her, outfitting a collar onto her neck before he leaves her alone, and that is all that he does to her for a while. Feeding her more and more of that venom until she knows that she no longer can survive without him – his venom, his touches. No amount of anything makes her body calm down.

 

 

 

 

When it is finally too much, that is when he actually properly stays and visits her. Her body is overheating, curling up on the floor while she shivers, the world around her a blur of shapes and colours until one stands out with startling clarity before her.

“You have taken to it quite beautifully.” Emet-Selch murmurs and she moans at the sound of his voice, trying to twist so that she may grab at him and he takes her hand in his own, lifting her up onto his lap and she whines loudly when she realizes he is just as nude as she is. “You are so receptive, are you not? A virgin in body and more, hm? What were you doing at a club like Convocation on such a night like that?”

Ceelinae can’t respond, far too obsessed with the fact that her soaked vulva is grinding down against his cock, even if he is soft still. His hand grabs at her throat, squeezes, and holds her up that way, laughing in amusement from how she writhes and struggles on his lap, trying to get her own pleasure. The heat inside of her is too much, tears dragging endless rivers down her face and all she can do is beg, whimper, and she chokes when he squeezes at her throat again with a hum.

“Please, please, please, please—” she cries out, sobbing loudly, while he holds her and does nothing, “just – just make it stop, please — it’s too much, hurts, please!” and with a satisfied hum, the hand around her throat slips away to grab at her hips, lifting her up, and she actually wails when he has her slide down onto his cock. She cries into his shoulder as he holds her down onto his member. “Hurts, hurts, please, please!”

“Hush now,” Emet-Selch says in a low coo, running his fingers through her hair while she sniffles and whimpers atop of him, “I will make it better. Good girl, taking to this so, so well.” he kisses her cheek, “you will be quite a treat to domesticate, won’t you?”

 

 

And all Ceelinae can do is sob, wanting nothing more than for the intensity inside of her to go away.

Chapter 21: Size Difference

“Such a small thing you are.” Emet-Selch hums from behind her, his body completely bracketing hers, his chest broad and wide in comparison to her slimmer, extremely smaller form. He does not need to do much else besides lay down on Ceelinae to keep her pinned down, her legs held open by strong, large hands. She whimpers, hands clenching at the sheets below her when he begins to pull his cock out of her, whining loudly from the stretch inside of her as he slips almost completely out of her, the tip of his cock the only thing left inside of her now before he thrusts, violently, back in.

He bulges her stomach out, a vague outline of his cock as he moves harshly inside of her, practically rearranging her insides to his liking as he ruins her vagina. Below him, with her long ears completely rigid, Ceelinae wails as she climaxes around him again, squirting messily for the umpteenth time while he is still relentlessly hard inside of her.

“So small, frail, and so, so easily breakable.” his hand slips away from her leg to instead wrap around her chest, one hand more than enough to spread all across, and he shifts backwards, lifting her up while his erection stays inside of her, and she cries out in wild abandon when he lets her sink down onto him again. His thighs are thicker, wider than her own, and he balances her between his legs while one hand keeps her pressed against him. His free hand comes to press against her neck, fingers wrapping around the length and width of it easily.

A kiss presses against the corner of her lips and Emet-Selch keeps her completely still, even as her walls flutter desperately around the thick intrusion inside of her, her vagina stretched completely open from how big he is inside of her. Whimpering, she looks up at the man spearing her sensitive, overworked insides, and he has to bend down once again to kiss her.

“Such a tiny little lover I have for myself,” he says while grabbing at her wrists with one hand, lifting her arms and manhandling her so that she is pinned against his chest, “take what you want. Ride me.” with shaky body and trembling legs, she tries to do as he asks only to start sobbing when Emet-Selch’s hand clenches against her hip, limiting her movements. “Silly thing.”

With her shaking and held up, she cries out as he slowly pulls out of her, the movement making her sob and squirt once more around him before she screams as he slams back into her. He kisses the corner of her mouth again.

“Let’s see how well this small body of yours can hold up when I do not hold back anymore, hm?”

Chapter 22: Formal Wear

“We – we are in a public – Hades!” she cries out, attempting to desperately hold onto the pants she decides to wear today, trying and failing to save her decency from large, prying hands as Hades yanks her pants, and subsequently her panties, down, impatience taking over as he uses his magic instead to hide them away when they catch on her thigh-high boots. He doesn’t even bother looking at her pink panties, which is a shame because she thinks it is rather cute in comparison to her outfit, but he seems more interested in trying to figure out how to hike up the back of her robe so that he may have access to her cunt.

They are supposed to be at a nice gala, invited over by Hermes after a momentous discovery in Elpis; a formal event that Hades is more than prepared for. A nice, dark vest atop of a white, long-sleeved shirt, the material of the vest soft and fine to the touch with matching silk pants, and black, leather loafers with greater heels than most others. It does add unnecessary height to her already tall husband, but it suits him so she tries not to complain much.

And, well, she dresses formally as well; a long dress with long sleeves that stops just above her ankles, slits on either sides that stretch all the way to her hips, yet she makes sure to pants to keep some semblance of modesty. That doesn’t seem to matter when it comes to Hades, however, with how he keeps pawing at her like a man starved. Eros wonders if it will matter if she wears a burlap sack and he will still find it attractive, the libidinous bloody creature he is.

She bats her hands at him and he grabs them both, pinning them against the wall and she has to strangle the indignant cry she is about to let out when she realizes his magic is holding her pinned down. “Can you not wait for us to get home?” she cries out and Hades pauses behind her, pressing a kiss to her ear and giving out a satisfied hum when he sees their matching earring on her right ear.

“But isn’t it exhilarating?” he almost sings out when he finally hikes her robe up, the fine silk of his pants grinding between her legs as he jams his knee there to keep her open. He pushes his chest against her back, his hand coming down to play with the flap at the top of her robe, flicking at one of the buttons. “If I were to open this, would I have access to your chest?”

She immediately begins struggling. “Don’t – don’t you dare!” she huffs, face burning a bright red at the thought before agitation takes over when her writhing causes her tiny hat to drop to the floor, much to Hades’s apathy. “Control your libido and give me back my pants – we are at a gala and I would prefer not to be – be -”

“Scandalous?” he supplies helpfully for her, even as his fingers begin to dip between her folds and she bucks against his knee.

“Yes!” she hisses out, the leather of her gloves squeaking a little against the wall the further she struggles. “I would prefer not to cause a scandal, nor to – to have... have...”

“My seed in you while we are in the middle of socializing?” he says, continuing to helpfully finish her sentences for her when his free hand grabs her hip and forces her down, holding her still as two fingers sink into the pink softness beyond, rubbing against her supple walls and she bucks her hips again, his leg at the perfect position for her clit to rub against. “Oh, but isn’t that the fun of such meetings? You, in these stuffy clothes, though your robe – the slits make me think you wanted me to lose my mind. Did you think just wearing trousers would hide their appeal?”

She trembles as his fingers begin to piston wildly in and out of her, aether coalescing at her clitoris, and Eros has to bite her lower lip to stay quiet from the many stimulations on her; it feels like so many mouths are kissing and licking her clit, lovingly feasting on it while his fingers spread her. A third one pushes in, spreading her even wider, and she cannot help the way she stutters and rubs her clitoris even further against his own silk pants.

“I can imagine your embarrassment, how cute your face would be, trying not to make it obvious that I fucked you minutes after getting here. That your womb is full of my seed, clenching your cunt to try not to let any seep into your panties.” he groans against her hair, fingers still violently fucking into her. “I’m afraid I’ve talked myself into quite the excitement.”

“You – you are an uncontrollable bastard. I hope you step on a nail.” she manages out even with her shaky breath and he huffs in amusement.

Later, when she arrives late to her table with Hermes, Hythlodaeus, and Venat, she tries to ignore the knowing looks the latter two send her and murmurs an apology to the former when he just stares at her curiously. Hades drinks his wine uncaringly.

Chapter 23: Double Penetration in One Hole

An Amaurotine rut is rare, but when one has them they are intense, lasting for weeks on end, often making those victims of it absent and unavailable for the entire period of it or until their body arbitrarily decides that they are satisfied. As well, those who experience ruts have different genitalia, all of which – if Eros remembers correctly – are rather... unique.

Her dearest Hades is one such of those who experiences ruts. The first time they are to bed, his confidence and arrogance drops for a moment to give away to nervousness and embarrassment when they undress, showing off his unique genitalia while an arm comes to cover his eyes. Two lengths reveal themselves, erect and bobbing, with the one at the top only marginally smaller than the one at the bottom, not that it matters given how big and thick they both are. His balls below are fat and heavy, looking almost cute to her when she looks at the pair of cocks.

A part of her wonders what his ruts are like, knowing that there have been a few months where he is indisposed for a week or more, and the way his face gets so, so dark red has her excited. She grows obsessed with his genitalia, noticing how extremely sensitive he is at the bases of them both, where something thick bulges out whenever he gets aroused enough, and he is so easy to get to climax when she squeezes them.

Kissing and suckling them has him borderline crying from the intense pleasure, and her Hades always leaves behind such an obscene mess all over the floor when she finishes playing with him. She is the one who starts most of their explorations in bed; getting him more comfortable with actually having sex with her, starting first with rutting between her thighs and creating a nasty mess whenever he cums between her legs.

Though he still isolates himself during his rut, Hades begins to actually warms up to penetrating Eros with the ‘smaller’, top one, slowly easing it into her and having to hold onto her tightly to not orgasm early, though he does not let that thick bulb ever push into her even when she knows it gives him the most pleasure.

As they grow more and more comfortable with each other, exploring what the other enjoys, what makes them loud and scream and what makes the other flinch and unhappy, is when Eros brings the subject up to Hades: is he capable of putting both of his members inside one of her holes? She has to duck down to avoid the drink being spat out of his mouth like a geyser and then has to immediately help him not choke, with him looking at her like she is absolutely insane.

But of course, he ends up giving in, stretching her out thoroughly when she seems adamant on trying to take him in. He begins with actually popping the thick bulb inside of her, an extremely thick intrusion that balloons inside of her when he is about to cum, keeping him locked in and flooding her insides. “I am quite sure,” he says with absolutely little certainty, “that if they are both inside of you, they will not, ah... swell.”

The next step is easing a finger in alongside his member into her, loosening her up, adding more and more fingers until all but his thumb is spread inside of her. Creation magic comes into play next, small toys created to try and stretch her open little by little, until finally, finally, after weeks of trying to open her up (ignoring the times he isolates himself during his rut), she feels permanently gaped, as though she will never go back to normal.

With soothing kisses peppered all across her face, he lines the heads of both of his members against her hole, one thicker than the other, and despite the hesitance at first, something primal and satisfied makes itself known on his face. Almost smug and gleeful in comparison to the endless concern and reluctance he shows the entire time he is preparing her, until Hades slaps himself and shakes his head, pinching his eyes shut.

Eros resolves to ask him about it later, her mind immediately unable to focus when he holds onto himself to keep stable and even before he begins to push in.

And gracious, by the stars above, is the stretch a lot. Barely halfway through and she is already wailing, his hands coming to hold her down when she tries to buck and take more in, walls fluttering over the desperate sensation of wanting them in. He is so slow, meticulous, as he keeps pushing more and more inside of her, all of his preparation feeling like it is for naught with how big it feels, one large mass that pushes her open even more, rearranging her to his liking, and Hades lets out a strangled groan the further in he sinks.

Eros’s mind goes completely white for a moment when he is more than halfway inside of her, supple walls clenching around him and still giving away to his incorrigible shapes, being forced to submit to his virility as he has far more to give. When her senses return to her and her eyes are open, it is to the sight of her beloved Hades panting above her like a dog, eyes glazed over and tongue lulled out, a high flush on his face yet there is enough rationality in him to keep going slow, no matter how much hunger he stares at her with.

A lovesick grin spreads on his face when her gaze meets his, eyes glimmering brightly with that very same sensation, before he groans as he sinks even more in, almost completely inside. All that is left are the dual protrusions at the bases of his cocks, thick and bulbous and catching at her stuffed hole, yet that does not seem to deter him. Letting loose an odd chirrup, he reaches down with one hand, stroking the overstuffed rim of her cunt, before he lets the finger push past and make her shriek from the stretch.

More fingers sink in with extremely loud, wet squelches, embarrassing her with how much pre her pussy drools around him, and it almost feels like he is holding her open, his tongue still out in the air before it retreats so that he may let out his own scream when he finally forces both his cocks entirely in her, fingers having to hastily slip out as to not get caught.

Her own voice abandons her, everything going blank again when an earth shattering orgasm breaks her, his sizes too much, so perfect, she is never going to be the same ever again after tonight. He collapses over her, careful not to actually land atop of Eros, and she whimpers when Hades wraps both arms around her, lifts her up, and settles her on his lap where it all feels deeper, and another orgasm rips through her once again, just as intense as the first, making her twitch and gasp nonsensical phrases.

“In you, in you,” he babbles on and on, hand coming to rest atop the conspicuously large bulge on her belly and he kneads himself through her, his other arm bracing her while he nuzzles his face into her shoulder, babbling nonsensical words of love and elation over how deep inside of her he is. Murmurs and praises of how happy he is she took both, sounding love drunk and full of lust while he keeps her spread on his erections.

“I am going to break you.” he growls in promise before he finally gets to thrusting, and Eros can no longer keep a grasp on her sanity when he starts to violate her in ways unknown before.

By the time he is done with her, hours upon hours have passed, his libido having been enhanced by the depraved act, degeneracy leading him to overflowing her womb with his seed to the point that when he is forced to pull out, a river of white flood out of her.

For a moment, he looks completely out of it, having given in to base instincts she remembers not being there before, and then the next his eyes are wide with realization and a flood of red takes over his face. He is utterly quiet when he cleans her up, taking extra care not to overstimulate her while cleaning the inside of her vagina out, wiping her down, getting her water to refresh her, and bringing easy to eat snacks when she rasps out how out of it she feels.

“Can we do that again?” she asks with a hoarse voice in spite of the water and Hades looks at her incredulously. “That was... amazing.”

“Maybe when you aren’t dying in the afterglow,” Hades says, overly snarky as always, “and on a different day, perhaps weeks later, when you do not look about ready to pass away.”

“Then I will hold you to that.”

“I would prefer if you did not.”

“Too late.”

Despite the exasperated sigh he gives out, he still continues to pepper her with love, making sure she is safe and happy, before joining her in bed so that they can actually sleep.

Chapter 24: Sweat

Despite what mortals may think, just because he inhabits a body does not mean that he inhibits all of the biology of said body. Most he does, yes, but some others he normally does not care for. Or at the very least, require far too much energy than he cares to expend for the functions of said body. One of the functions he does not repress includes, well, a body’s ability to sweat. He, of course, understands the function of perspiration, he is no bloody moron, but sometimes he wishes he does actually decide to repress that function of his body.

Here, out in the sweltering humidity of Rak’tika Greatwoods, where all of the Scions are also perspiring profusely and looking uncomfortable (save for the Warrior of Light who seems to have aetherically enhanced herself to keep her body temperature even. He has to give her points for that one), he is no less a victim than they are. The raiment of the royal Emperor is warm because of the cold of Garlemald, where though the summers are not frigid snow, are still as cold as the latest fall in Gridania. It is practical as well as a symbol of his ranking, of his excellency, but it is definitely not meant for humidity and heat like that of Rak’tika.

It does not help either that he is a bloody fool and keeps far too much body hair for such a heat like this; his armpits are soaked (and goodness does it feel disgusting) and he can feel the way his pants cling to him from the heat, only adding to the sticky feeling all across his body. Just like how Thancred’s hair is sticking to his face, Emet-Selch is no less victim than he is. He has to drag his scant few hairs off of his forehead just so that the sensation of sticky hair goes away, and they are all a bloody sight when they end up within the village of the Viis.

Of course, the Viis are polite when it comes to the heat and naught else, knowing that not many of those not native to the Rak’tika Greatwoods can actually handle the, well, environs of this place. He has to remove his blasted overcoat while the Scions are engaging in inane conversation, snapping it out of existence for the time being, and he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to try and get some of the stickiness to go away, cursing himself for wearing white and making it clear how much he is sweating in this heat.

It is while the Scions are speaking that he notices a rather peculiar thing: the Warrior of Light cannot stop staring at him. The Viera is looking at him oddly, expression a little dazed at times before looking embarrassed, a permanent flush on her face that cannot be from the heat, she shows no signs of being as bothered as the others when they first make their way into the Rak’tika Greatwoods.

He doesn’t entirely know how to react when Ceelinae approaches him when he is alone and staring off into the distance, wondering when they will leave this blasted place, and she simply... stands. Close by. She stands closest to him while they are doing whatever they are doing, a fact that the Scions seem to be aware of but do not know what to do about.

“What is it that has you staring at me so intently?” he asks when they are alone, the Scions having split off to each do their own isolated act, and Ceelinae looks about ready to bolt, though he does commend her for not running the moment she is confronted. “Is there something amusing about a man drenched in sweat?”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, before she finally deflates, her rabbit ears dropping a little bit. “You smell amazing.” she manages out, almost out in a gasp. “Your scent is so strong, so powerful; I wish I could bury myself in you, be completely encased in your aroma.” she whimpers, shifting closer and closer to him, before she stops and her ears are completely ramrod straight.

Bemusement is the only thing Emet-Selch can register at this moment; he is aware that, yes, the bestial races of these lesser races are... well, bestial sometimes, but he has never once been target of their base instincts. Here he stands, utterly drenched in sweat, feeling sticky and disgusting, and the Viera is looking at him with glazed eyes and pleading gaze, teeth nibbling her lower lip as she stares at the dark stains on his white shirt, and Emet-Selch is not entirely sure as to what to do with the information.

“And is embracing me all that you wish to do? Simple creature. I suppose you wish for me to, as well, give you permission to do so? Would you like that, then?” he asks in confused amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips when she nods quickly, almost violently, and he reaches out to her, tugging her close and wrapping his arms around her so that she has no means of escape.

Though, he doubts that that is what the Warrior wants. She croons in his embrace, hands clinging at the front of his short, her mouth attaching to her neck to lick away at stray drops of his perspiration, and he hums in thought. Her hands leave his front to slip below his shirt, splaying across his moist skin and whimpering against him when she feels the evidence of heat’s bitter work.

“Oh,” she moans, “you smell so good.” she practically plasters herself against him, grinding against him as she does. “Please, alone, want you, alone – smell wonderful, strong.”

With a shake of his head, he lifts his arm up and bears witness to her mounting excitement, having to fight back a laugh when her head buries into his accidentally offered armpit, and a resounding snap fills the air before he whisks them away to indulge in her perverse desires.

What a disgusting creature.

Chapter 25: Bondage

Leylines extend out from the top of the ceiling, holding her suspended in the air as they wrap around her belly in intricate weaves, around her legs and her ankles to keep them bent and pointed at the ceiling, as well keeping them spread open much to her intense embarrassment. There are more leylines wrapped around her arms, keeping them pinned to her back, while more suspend her up by her neck, being careful not to dig in too deeply to strangle her, to hurt. She is far above the ground, this she is aware, and yet she cannot exactly see how far above she is.

Around her eyes is a black blindfold, tightly bound to make sure she cannot nudge it off by accident somehow, cutting off all of her sight. What Emet-Selch calls a ‘spider gag’ takes residence in her mouth, keeping it open so that her saliva has no choice but to drool out of her mouth, tongue useless in her mouth.

She can hear the clicking of his heels as he walks around her, loud and echoing at the back of her head, a hand coming to grasp at her chin so that he may hold her up and inspect her thoroughly. “What a mess.” he says snidely, clicking his tongue, before he steps away to continue circling her like a vulture. The sounds stop for a moment and she lets out a garbled whimper, the sound wet thanks to the spider gag. She cannot feel his aether either, the Ascian masking it perfectly, and her ears perk up from the tension in the air.

A hiss flies through the air and she lets out a strangled shriek when a gloved hand slaps against her pussy, a lewd, wet squelch echoing in the air room, and she gives minute writhes in her bonds, her breath quickening from the shame over how soaked her pussy is. Another slap lands on her pussy, the stinging pain of it almost addictive in how it feels against her folds, her hole clenching around nothing before slowly relaxing again.

“You are absolutely pathetic.” he says with a hiss, the disdain in his voice as thick as the tension in the air. “Does being bound up by your captor arouse you? Do you get off on the humiliation? Disgusting, wanton creature, this is not a reward, you mindless, mangy beast.” another slap against her aching cunt and she is not given a moment to register it before he brings his hand back and slaps her ass, the force of hard enough to send her swinging forward a little, and she pants and gasps as best she can with her mouth forced open.

“Perhaps I should simply abandon you, bound up and alone, until you learn your lesson, until you learn that this is a punishment, not a reward for your misdeeds.” he clicks his tongue again before another harsh spank lands on her ass and she can only take it, unable to move while his leylines hold her up in the air. The clicking of his heels echo in the room again before she feels fingers on her face and they yank her up, tongue sticking out of her mouth while she pants like a dog, and she tenses up when he spits in her mouth, before a warped sob escapes her.

“Remember, love,” he says to her in a low coo, “this is a punishment, not a reward, not meant for you to enjoy what is happening to you.” he squeezes her cheeks, the gob of spit feeling heavy on her tongue and getting heavier when he spits in her mouth once again. “Now, I am going to leave you be, and I expect your behaviour to improve and be less deplorable when I return. Is that understood?”

She sniffles and attempts to make a noise of affirmation, relief immediately flooding her when Emet-Selch hums approvingly and backs away.

“I will return soon. On your best behaviour now, you senseless creature.”

Chapter 26: Stripping

The outfit she wears is not intricate yet it feels like it beneath his hands as he strokes along her legs, running his palms along the sheer stockings that cover her skin. Stroking down until he gets to her ankles, squeezing her gently and she huffs then giggles when he drags his fingertips along. It has been a while since he has willingly, lovingly, undressed someone with the genuine desire to actually bed them, the wife he takes while as Solus being given a convincing act and nothing more.

But with the Warrior beneath him, looking so painfully similar to the Azem he once loved, still loves, he cannot help but worship the body below him. His hands slip below her tunic, feeling the softness of her belly and stroking down to her sides, running over scars that refuse to fade with the ebb of time. He has to turn her over onto her belly to find the strings that keep her tunic together, undoing them to get to the straps, and it falls apart, open, when he spreads his hands out. The bindings around her bosom is easy to remove next, throwing them away before he turns his gaze back to her.

Painfully scarred skin greets him; attacks of fire and lightning leaving their marks, blades sinking in deep yet thankfully not paralyzing her completely. He traces along those scars, murmuring lowly to himself, and she hums curiously but he tells her naught.

For all that he may reveal without, he wishes to keep those within secret. As distraction, he bends down to press kisses against all the reminders of her battles, of all that she struggles through, and the Warrior below him goes tense right against his lips. He hums, nuzzling into the back of her neck, breathing in the sweet smell of her voluminous hair, then backs away so that he may return to undressing her.

The trousers she wears is extremely simply as well; breathable and allowing for quick and athletic movement, versatile for her needs, and he returns her onto her back, her small breasts being pulled apart, only slightly, by the force of gravity, and he coos approvingly. Large hands look out of place on her hips when he rests them there, just to feel her beneath him, before he undoes the bindings of her trousers and begins to pull that down as well.

A surprisingly cute pair of panties greet him; they look more similar to briefs, for that he is sure is deliberate, probably to let her exercise more comfortably, but they are cute nonetheless. A very soft pink with darker toned flower designs, contrasting heavily against the earthy tones of her usual attire. He chuckles and she giggles in turn, unbothered by him slowly unwrapping her to his leisure, and he bundles her trousers up and throws them away as well, probably to land with the bindings he discards.

Her socks come off next and she is absolutely bare below him, clad only in her last remaining piece of underwear, covered in bruises, of scars that shall never fade, of injuries long faded, of pain that he can understand, and more.

 

 

 
 
 
 

And all of it is beautiful, even as his fingers trace along blaring, shadowy lines, an agony that he inflicts onto her, and can never undo.

 

Chapter 27: (Warning) Public Sex

The Warrior of Light has fallen. Or, perhaps, it is more correct to say, the Warrior of Light and Darkness, or she who once was both, has been properly domesticated. No longer is she able to fight and foil their plans, destroying all that they have worked hard to make come true, no longer do the Ascians have to fear the Scions, or whatever else name they may call themselves.

After all, Emet-Selch sinks into her body, the blessing of Hydaelyn all but evaporated, and kills the Scions himself. Her hands stain a deep red with their blood, their skin. Tearing into them until they are naught but meat on the ground, naught to identify them as aught else but remains. He is the one who walks about in the Warrior’s body, his magic slipping through her fingers, him who tears the Crystarium apart, who picks apart G’raha Tia’s brain before he drags it away, locks it up in fluids to study it closer.

Breaks every part of the Crystal Tower until the world has no more beacon of hope. Swallows the people who fight against Light whole, brings out Sineaters, he is the one who does it all. Cradles the Warrior of Light against his breast while he tears the world apart, while he brings about a new umbral calamity, and while he has to wait for a new shard to be reduced to naught but its most overwhelming of elements.

He cradles the Warrior of Light against his breast while she cries, the creature of Light and Darkness able to nothing as the world is reduced to ash. As corpses line the ground with her hands all over them. As he tears the world asunder. He kisses the corner of her lips and all she does is cry harder, wailing, mourning for those who shall never come back to her.

 

 
 

The people of the First, against all odds, survive the calamity that befalls them. Vauthry’s peoples are alive as well, though he melts the self-proclaimed, overgrown child leader into a sentient, burbling puddle. Elidibus appears disapproving of him at first, when he takes the former Warrior in with leash and collar, when he takes over what little civilization is left behind on the First, on Novrandt, and when he turns this former shard into his pet’s playpen.

It is quite easy to break the little creature he has in his hands, be it in private, where he shall flog and whip the little thing, where he peels her skin off and pours acid, vinegar on her exposed muscles before fixing her back up. Where he will carve her eyes out and cut up her tongues. Where he will break every single finger and toe she has before forcing her to walk on crooked gait.

 

 
 

(Where he will remove her eyes, as he does always, before slowly fucking into it, where he will peel her skin off and ejaculate over her exposed muscles, and where he will saw her legs off before gleefully rutting against the bone and meat exposed.)

 

 
 

Those little who remain recognize the poor Warrior, their former hero, as he drags her amputated body across the broken, light-flooded streets. They recognize the shell of an icon, of a person so powerful that all of hope foists itself onto her shoulders, settling heavy on her creaking bones and her grinding spine. Now, now she is a pet, now they witness their tyrant settle her on his lap, witness him stroke at bared skin, bared genitalia.

Play with small mounds that have been experimented and tested with, piercing her nipples with something magical to keep them heavy with milk. Foods them to Sin Eaters that shall never know any better, threaten to have her bedded, destroyed, by creatures far too large for her.

 

 
 

But he loves her, of course. He shan’t ever let anything happen to her. He shan’t ever let anyone break her except for him and him alone. Where he shall love and adore her, even as he lifts her up like a rag doll and settles her on his member around slaves and prisoners to the Sin Eaters. As automaton creatures drag them away to feed them to the creatures of Light left behind. Where he erects a statue of dedication to Hydaelyn, just to watch as people pass by her with hatred and scorn in their gaze.

He kisses his pet, his little former Warrior, as he watches another hume be thrown into the gaping maw of a Lightwarden great. Wipes away drool and stray tears, fills her up again and again and again until she is fit to bursting, heavy with his seed yet shall never grow pregnant. He kisses her cheek, kisses her, loves her, and rubs circles around where her womb should be.

Traces circles around her bellybutton, and loves this mindbroken pet, loves this disgusting creature. Loves her, as he always has, and always will.

 

 

 
 
 
 

Loves her, in this shell of rot and light. Loves her, as slowly, slowly, another calamity forms, and not enough of Hydaelyn’s powers is left behind to bring them another hero.

 

 

 
 
 
 

He loves her.

Chapter 28: Lingerie/Crossdressing (Maybe?)

“How depraved are you to enjoy this?” Emet-Selch asks her far too casually for someone in a lustrous black corset and garterbelt, his member poking out through the crotchless panties, and his stocking-clad legs cross over one another while Ceelinae glares up at him, face a deep red. “Really, to think that you would actually get off on this; did you think I would let your petty little insult slide?”

She glares at him even harder, if that is even possible. “I never told you to – to dress like this!” she waves over at him, with his body – muscular and thick, broad as he is – being completely dressed up in the corset and poor excuse for panties, especially with the bottom of it bloody missing so that his member may hang free. It does not help either that it bobs before her, erect and leaking a little bit of pre in spite of his calm, stoic face.

He reaches down to grasp her with his hand, wearing some long, silky opera gloves as he fists a large amount of hair in his fingers, and yanks her forward, dragging her cheek against his leaking cock. “But you had thought that your insult would embarrass me,” he coos out, sounding smug and even smugger as her mouth falls open almost by instinct, allowing his erection to slip past plush, cherry-red lips and deep into her wet throat, “now, look at you, my dear, aroused by a man dressed like this. How disgusting are you? How depraved? Is having my cock in your mouth enough to make you forget my state of dress, or is it enhancing your pleasure?”

The grip on her hair is firm, refusing to budge even as she pushes back and instead pulls her down further on his cock, pushing past the scant resistance of her throat before penetrating deep into her oesophagus. His free hand comes down to stroke at the bulge in her throat, purring in satisfaction at how big he is in her throat. “Let’s see how deep your depravity goes then, hm?”

When he is later fucking her on her loudly creaking bed, dangerously loud, as if it is about to break, there is no way anyone can doubt his virility with how thick and big he is inside of her, generously spreading her hole wide open while he keeps her pinned face down. He has his hands around her legs, holding her spread open in an embarrassing display, the sleek black of his outfit a nice complement to his tan complexion and standing stark to her extremely pale one.

Her walls flutter around him, velvet heat swallowing him and his seed down with each spurt inside of her as Emet-Selch keeps going, driving her to near-insanity with how good he fucks her. The sheets below are ruined with their combined fluids, her body unable to keep the amount of cum he fills her up with, belly bulging out with his outline.

Fingers stray away from one of her legs to instead trace his sigil on her womb and she clamps down around him, voice loud and bordering on an extremely high-pitched squeal from the thought; being tattooed with his claim, even more so than the fact that her ass is full of his seed too, having been recklessly abused by him before he cleans himself just to go back to fucking her cunt.

At times, his legs will press against her and she cannot deny the spark of arousal that runs through her as his stockings brush against her skin, how her belly feels tight when he presses his chest against her back and she can feel his corset. How he still is entirely clothed while she isn’t, those crotchless panties letting him do whatever he wishes to her, his balls smacking loudly against her ass.

By the time he is finally satisfied, Emet-Selch has truly rendered her a twitching, oversensitive mess. The lightest strokes of his still glove-clad fingers against her clit is enough to spark a tiny orgasm from her, yet an orgasm nonetheless. He laughs.

“I suppose I shall be obtaining more outfits of this nature if it has you this slick and libidinous; how lovingly honest you are during moments of intimacy.”

She manages to call him one slurred ‘fucker’ before she passes out on the bed from the relentless, harsh fucking.

Chapter 29: Telepathic Bonds

Eros is aware her husband is an envious man. An envious, possessive man who does his best to be considerate of her, to think of her needs and her desires first, and tries to stomp down that ugly green monster that rears its head from time to time. It is why he only focuses on her pleasure, why he kisses her like there is naught else in the world but her, how he murmurs under his breath how perfect she is, how gorgeous, beautiful. Leaves blazing trails with his kisses on her skin, suckles that others shan’t see but he shall know are there, quietly satisfied over his marking her person.

This new connection after their deep soul bonding is almost an extension of him, reaching her no matter how far she may travel, be it to the ends of the earth or but a few kilomaitres away, he shall always reach her and leave touches like kisses on her body.

 

 

 
 
 
 

He also likes to use their endlessly long, telepathic bond to pleasure her to near-insanity. She will feel the phantom sensations of his hands dragging across her skin, groping her even with her robe covering her, giving her modesty that she so desperately needs as ghostly hands cup her crotch, one long middle finger slipping between her folds to rub teasingly at her hole. She knows that today is going to be a long, long day as she has to sit through meetings with other Convocation members when his hands do not let up, his aura unchanging and unbothered and polite as ever when he runs into her while they are busy.

But she can feel the way his fingers rub at her clitoris, can feel many more hands manifest to grope and squeeze her thighs, finger her pussy, and she has to put far too much effort into maintaining her composure. Her body feels tight and shaky, overstimulated, when she begins to feel something akin to a slick tongue tasting her, having its way with her hole, tasting her, fingers inside of her, spreading her, yet she clenches around absolutely nothing.

When she gets her hands on Hades, she is unsure if she is going to strangle him to death or fuck him so hard neither of them will be able to walk nor attend their Convocation duties for at least two months.

 

 

 
 
 
 

She has a feeling it will be both.

 

Chapter 30: (Warning???) Stuck in the Wall

Though she tries not to make it a habit to curse out the people who hire her, as Fray encourages her to be all the time (and goodness does her inner representation not relent), but she has every damned desire to scream at the top of her lungs about how much she hates being the Warrior of Light [and Darkness depending on the conundrum of the day]. She slams her hands against the walls on either side of the hole she has managed to jam herself in, cursing under her breath in every language she can think of as she wriggles and writhes.

Her hips are far too wide for the hole, at least in comparison to her waist and her upper body, and now she is bloody stuck. Stuck in the middle of nowhere within the lands of Novrandt, doing an errand for someone from the Crystarium, all while utterly aware that the gratitude she will get for this shan’t be worth it should she ever crawl out of this little predicament she has, unfortunately, made herself victim of.

At the very least, the area she finds herself confined in while she is a, um, wall decoration at this current moment is mostly devoid of fauna, consisting mostly of beneficial flora as well as ones mostly for aesthetic reasons. Though, she supposes being stuck in a ruined piece of wall lessens her appreciation of the beauty around her, of the rather pleasant scents that mingle together in the air.

Perhaps this shall serve as a lesson for her attempting to find shortcuts even when extremely unnecessary. She huffs and writhes where she is, fingers curling into fists on either side of her, and she smacks it once, twice, then a few more times out of her sheer frustration.

“So it seems that the esteemed Warrior of Light has gotten herself stuck in a wall! How quaint. How peculiar. How utterly moronic of you.” says the ever eccentric voice of Emet-Selch, from right behind her actually, and when her skirt flips up, she shrieks in indignant rage. “Oh, my! And not only does the little, bastard fool get herself stuck in the wall in a skirt, she does not even wear leggings below to try and give herself some decency!” he gasps in mock shock, a hand coming to pat at her left arse cheek now that her skirt is flipped up.

“Do – do not look – stop! Fix my skirt up right now, you – you charlatan! You pervert! You – you disgusting freak!” she calls out, trying to push herself out yet only serving to give herself unneeded pain, and she yelps out loudly when his gloved palm suddenly smacks down onto her arse cheek, causing the flesh to ripple from the force of his hit, and she flushes darkly. “W-wh-wh-wh-what—”

“Shh, Hero.” he murmurs quietly, for once not adding strange and inflections to his voice and instead sounding hushed, a soft sigh escaping him when both hands come to rest on her ass and she begins her struggles even harder as he starts to knead and massage at her flesh. “Really, now, you are quite fortunate that someone as scrupulous as I found you, and not some little hooligan that will no doubt take advantage of the Warrior of Darkness’s vulnerability.”

She pounds her fist against the wall. “There are very few who are even aware of who I am! Though with how, unsubtle we are, and how the... Hm.” she has to stop for a moment to actually process his words and, thankfully, Emet-Selch lifts his perverse little hands up to allow her to actually formulate her thoughts. “With how incompetently done the summoning was by the Crystal Exarch, I would frankly not be surprised if everyone figured it out the moment I stumbled in and called myself Viera.”

“I would quite frankly kill the Scions myself were the people here that unintelligent and simply renew the flood to fix them of their sin of being stupid.” he says in response and she is not given time to respond when his fingers catch at the band of her panties and begin to tug down. It takes her mind far too long to remember what reality is when she feels wind brush against her bared folds, and her struggles begin anew. Gloved fingers dip between her folds and she whimpers from surprise, the friction so odd against bare, extremely sensitive skin. When two fingers rub against her hole (untouched in her frequent vigil to remain chaste), she moans in surprise, loud and clear, and freezes up when he does.

“Oh,” he says, voice dipping far too darkly for her tastes, “I would so love to hear more of those noises.”

 

 

 

And in a last bid attempt to keep herself chaste, she tries, tries, and tries, yet his magic binds her further and keeps her pinned to the wall, leaving her to his mercy.