#dear god these scenes are an absolute nightmare to color/light | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

delldarling · 5 years

Text

charting dreams | spiros

a commission for an absolutely wonderful anon!

male deity x female reader 5k words lemon | dream sex, creampie, hints of future angst additional note: ‘night flying’ ointment is a real thing, BUT please consult healthcare professionals or experts and do copious amounts of research before seeking it out and dear god, don’t ever ingest it, please & thank you

————-　✵　————-

There are… Way more books on the subject than you thought there would be. Which is good! Being able to compare information will help you find one that works well for you, but honestly? It’s kind of depressing that none of them have that old-world magic-looking binding. Just once you were kind of hoping that you might stumble onto something tangible and magical outside your dreams. If you can, you’re going to complain about the lack of embossed covers and fancy sounding titles when you see him again.

If you see him again.

Thus, the books. Lucid dreaming has been on your mind for quite a while now. It’s an interesting turn of phrase, and the thought of it, what all the books describe it as: Being able to bend your dreams to your will? That sounds pretty damn awesome. It’s not like this all came out of nowhere though. You’re not looking into it because of nightmares, which is apparently fairly common, or because you have some kind of serious yen for knowledge about brains and dreams. You’ve been… Dreaming of someone.

It would probably sound like some kind of fairy tale to anyone that hadn’t experienced it, and most people would just write it off as some kind of intensely vivid, though random, series of dreams. You’d been half tempted to do that at first too, of course.

It had all started out as crystal clear flashes in your dreams, like a perfect memory of a favorite movie scene. Simple conversations about your day held on a fancy looking carousel, glittering golden lights drawing your eyes away from your companion. Some days you traded amusing anecdotes under towering arches, draped over the top with what you first thought was blue gauzy material and fairy lights. Instead, you found out that they were actual fairy lights, little winged beings flitting about in a storm, eating holes in the sky.

“Stars,” he’d explained, pulling you to a stop as one of the little pixies pulled a dark blue swirl from the sky, like midnight-colored cotton candy, and ate it, leaving a gleaming star-like hole behind. You’d felt such an intense sense of wonder, heart loud in your chest, that you’d woken yourself up, hand actually outstretched as if you could touch-

They were wonderful and strange, and you remembered them with a clarity that you’ve never associated with dreams before. You could smell things - sweetness in the air, salt water on the breeze, and you could feel the heat and cold when you walked by his side. Still, it hadn’t been hard to write it all off as nothing more than an overactive, tired mind. Maybe you’d binged too many fantasy stories in media lately and your brain was just mushing everything together? Never mind that you can’t recall anything recent about pixies eating holes in the sky.

They’ve continued though, the dreams, the meetings you have with him. Far off places on maps are spread out before you like a feast, his arm warm under your hand as he escorts you or does his best to leave you breathless with laughter. You’ve always woken from those dreams invigorated, but with the strange sense that you were missing something, until- his face. On a shore with cresting orange waves, you turn away from the blinding glare of reflective sunshine, and then you see him, draped in a dark chiton, just before you wake.

Even having seen it just the once, you can’t erase it from your thoughts. The color of his eyes, shades shifting when you unfocus, like photographs of far flung nebulae. The impression of feathers twined with his hair and yet arching away from his temple like actual wings. The way his lips look when they shape your name, his hand taking yours so he can twine your fingers together-

He’s too beautiful to be true.

You’re both convinced you’ve made him up, and absolutely convinced you couldn’t have. Aren’t people supposedly only able to see those they’ve seen before in their dreams? And you know, without a doubt, that you’ve never seen anyone that looks like him in your day to day life. Unless he’s just a piece-meal of people or ideas you’ve found attractive. Even then, you’re not sure you could have put him together so smoothly.

It’s hard to believe that you’ve made him up though, when he declares that he is real. That, at least, has never happened before. Though you’re not sure you’ve ever taken the time to ask someone if they were a product of your imagination when you’ve been dreaming, having been too caught up in your imagined adventures yourself.

One night he’s stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, claiming that you should chart your dreams-

“Prove it,” you blurt, and you can feel your pulse speed. His image wavers, there and gone, and his eyes widen. “Prove that you’re real,” you clarify and your pulse ratchets up another notch.

“How?” He asks with a laugh and then takes your hand in his, clinging almost, like he can’t quite believe he’s touching you - never mind that he’s touched you before. His laugh sounds strained though, and the smile on his face is… Thin. “And you must calm your heart, dear one. You’ll wake, and how will I prove myself then?”

“I don’t-” know, you’re about to say, but he presses a finger to your mouth, worrying at his lower lip as he glances over your shoulder.

“Perhaps… Perhaps, I can tell you the dreams of those near you,” he says softly. “Yes, wait here for just a moment.” He does vanish then, and the dream loses a bit of clarity. You have a vague memory of being unable to read one of your favorite books, and then he’s back, whispering random sounding things into your ear, arms curled around your middle. “A family dog, a work dispute interrupted by a cart of apples, and a great webs, knitted by a grandmother. Ask your neighbors,” he pleads, mouth deliciously warm where it’s brushing your ear. “I am real, and I know their dreams - ask them,” he urges, and then you wake.

He’s so strangely eager for you to believe him, and after that list... You give in to the mild embarrassment and make awkward small talk with two of your neighbors. Bringing up recent dreams in front of the mailboxes is a little difficult, but you manage, if not exactly smoothly. You half hope it comes to nothing, that they brush off your questions and move on with their day - what are you even doing, trying to prove that a dream man is more than a figment? But one of them mentions an old dog they used to have, and then the other claims they dreamed or arguing with their boss.

“-we were at the bottom of a hill though, and one of those old apple carts came tearing down, nearly mowing us both to the ground. It was a bit more.. Vivid than usual, I suppose.”

“‘S nothing,” your other neighbor interrupts with a laugh. “My kid thinks great grandma must be a spider and has nightmares about her knitting webs as gifts.”

With a peculiar fluttering feeling in your chest, you march right back into your place. He’d been telling the truth.

Or you’d become prescient. You’re not sure which is the more likely, but…

Lucid dreaming.

You crack into the stack of books you’d taken home from the library with eagerness. You want to try and take control in your dreams not only because manipulating them would be interesting, but because you’re desperate to prove that he’s more than a figment on your end. You try not to get caught up in thoughts of prescience - even if he is real in some way, it’s still a bit hard to believe you’re suddenly able to tell the future, even through dreams. You’re tempted to bring that up though, just like the very non-magical looking books, when next you see him.

There are a copious amount of notes and preludes in nearly all of the books, as well as the articles you’ve looked up online, that say to not get your hopes up. Lucid dreaming apparently doesn’t work the same way for everyone, and the results are rarely immediate.

Succeeding on the first try isn’t unheard of, one person writes, but it is exceedingly rare. True success will come in stages, starting with Awareness. Are you aware that you’re dreaming? Are you aware of where exactly you are in your mindscape? And that brings us to another important vocabulary word: Mindscape.

“Mindscape,’ you mutter, flicking idly through the pages. Some of the books are very cut and dry, but on the other hand, the articles and first hand accounts on the internet are… Kind of out there. You feel less like you’re researching and more like you’re getting drawn in by click bait or conspiracy theories when you read about personal mindscapes and see the hand drawn maps. Some of them are detailed enough - in both drawing and description - that you wonder why they aren’t trying to market them.

Still. You try and gather up information without getting your hopes up about it all, but honestly that’s the most difficult part. Having already experienced something.. Other while you were dreaming, you can’t help but think maybe you’ll have the upper hand. He’d told you, more than once, that your dreams had felt different to him, so you can’t get it out of your head, and... your hopes are most definitely up.

You clear your schedule, and even buy some special kind of ointment meant to help aid in lucid dreaming, heavy with mugwort and pennyroyal. The fancy art on the jar reads Night Flying in filigree letters, but on the back, in very large red print is: DO NOT INGEST. Half of you wants to set it aside, but you have done the research. On your forehead and temples only, or sometimes- you check your notes, wrinkling your nose when you see the written neck, and feet included. You open the jar, still unconvinced, but it only smells faintly of mint.

You’re unashamed to admit that you use less than the recommended smear, just to be safe. You settle down in bed, going through the breathing exercises that supposedly help aid sleep, and cross your fingers.

Not much happens. You wake in the morning, feeling well rested and too lethargic to get out of bed, but- No dreams. Not that you recall, anyway. Your hopes crash hard for a few hours and you clean your face and neck of the flying ointment a little more viciously than you need to. It seems so silly in the light of day, but you can’t shake the feeling of those dreams. Not the memories of them, crystal clear, not the weight of his hands in yours. But he hasn’t always shown up every single night.

You try again. And again, and it isn’t until the third night, when your pillow now seems to be steeped in the scent of minty pennyroyal from the ointment, that you finally achieve a vaguely lucid dream.

You’re walking down the street when you realize that you can’t hear the sounds of traffic, and then- Then you realize you’re dreaming. Your heart rate picks up, and you spin in place, exuberant, wondering why you’re turn seems to take twice as long as normal - and then there’s a plain looking door standing in the middle of the sidewalk. You walk towards it, after all, where else is there to go? But as soon as you place your hand on the plain brass handle, you frown. Between the books and the disappointment of not being able to tell the future, of not getting to see him, you.. You want magic in your life. You’d rather walk through a door that reminds you of Narnia, with gilded edges and some kind of fancy door knocker, than walk through one that looks like you can push it over with a strong breeze.

Concentrating on actually changing a dream takes way more effort than you would have thought though. If you close your eyes, it seems to give your subconscious enough tether to try and take back control. You close your eyes, and instead of seeing the fancy door you would have wanted, you’re distracted by thoughts of fluttering pages- no. You open your eyes, forcing yourself back on track, and laugh, finding your hand not on a plain brass handle, but on an ornate knocker. You smooth your fingertips along the swirling lines of it, pleased with yourself. Maybe it’s not quite what you’d hoped, but you’ll happily take it. You knock and then step back, assuming with every fiber of your being that he’s going to be on the other side, that he’s going to swing it open and pull you into his arms, but- The door creaks open, revealing a plain looking room with purple windows. It’s disappointingly empty, and he isn’t anywhere to be found.

You take a step into the room, letting the door close quietly behind you and then glance down at your hands. Lucid dreaming is all about being able to change things, isn’t it? You think of him, breathe deeply, and snap your fingers, willing him to appear with everything that you have within you.

Nothing happens. You’re still alone, with only the slightly hazy room for company. You can’t help but feel like you’re missing an intrinsic piece to the puzzle of his presence. Maybe you need to call his name, but…

You frown at the ornate rugs beneath your feet, eyes getting distracted by the whirling patterns. You’re not entirely sure you can remember his name. You have vague memories of him telling it to you, but all of those seem to be the ones in which you hadn’t yet been able to see his face. For a half second, the weight of disappointment bows your showers. Maybe you have made him up. You blink, and the dream seems to lose focus, your lucidity ebbing like a tide. You’re on the verge of waking, you realize, and then his voice is heavy in your ear, his lips warm as they brush against the shell of it, saying quickly, and fondly: “My name is Spiros. Don’t forget it so easily next time, hm?”

You wake with his name on your lips, half expecting him to manifest inside your bedroom. After a few heart stopping seconds though, you have to sigh. It stays tragically empty, and yet the heat of him, the texture of his lips- you can still feel it. You’re not going to give up.

After a while though, you feel like all your free time is spent sleeping. You experiment with the flying ointment, but after the last two or three times, decide that you no longer need help. The awareness of lucid dreaming happens more than half the time now, and you can change some things, but otherwise… You’ve been spending each night combing through strange places, catching the barest glimpses of him over the horizon, hearing his voice, faint on the breeze. Maybe, you tell yourself one evening, you need to stop chasing him. It’s like trying is only tiring you out, making you wander through long roads, only to find he was right where you left him. He doesn’t feel like a figment any longer, but the fact that he doesn’t is beginning to scare you, just a little. You can’t spend all your time searching for him, can’t spend all your time sleeping. You decide to stop chasing, even if you still practice actual lucid dreaming. But then, the next time you achieve more than awareness, more than that sense of reality, Spiros is waiting for you.

“Been searching, have you?” He teases, reaching out for your hand and- you can feel him. The faint whorls of his fingertips, the drag of his nails over the palm of your hand. It’s more than just the strange clarity from before, or the sense of being aware, Spiros’ feels real, and if you couldn’t see the shifting nebulae of his eyes, you might think you were actually awake. He tugs you a step forward and then turns you about in quick whirl, leaving the room with the faint sense of spinning, like you’ve actually been turning too many fast circles on your feet.

“Who are you?” You can’t help asking, letting him take another few dancing steps before you put your feet down, refusing to be moved. “I’ve been chasing you, trying-”

“Spiros,” he says, coyly, like he thinks you might be teasing him back. “Haven’t we talked about this before?”

“Not your name,” you say, glancing past his shoulder. Maybe you shouldn’t be staring quite so intensely at his eyes. The dizziness hasn’t yet faded. “Who are you, that you can jump into another person's dreams? I’ve been researching, you know, and- I still can’t figure it out. How you knew about my neighbors. I thought for sure that I was fooling myself. Or maybe that I was prescient,” you confess, embarrassment wrapping around you like a cloak. “But if you’re real-”

“My apologies,” he says, and even more strange than knowing that this is all a dream is that you can feel it. His sincerity, heavy in the air, and it sounds like… It sounds like cricket song. “For leading you on a chase. I cannot come often, there are too many dreams to spin, but-” He rests his forehead against yours, eyes falling closed. “I cannot seem to stay away.”

“Why?” You ask, just as confused, if not more so.

Spiros pulls away, eyebrows raised and for a moment his jaw works, like he’s searching for the words to say.

“You,” he says insistently. “Something about your dreams kept me coming back, but it was you that made me stay. Don’t you remember our talks?” Spiros asks, hair brushing against your cheek as he leans in again, and- feathers, there are wings, tangled in hair somewhere above his ears.

“I do,” you reassure him, hesitantly lifting a hand to stroke a single fingertip along his jaw. Faint stubble pricks at your finger, though not enough to make it uncomfortable. “That isn’t the point of this, though. You’re attracted to me,” you say, hardly believing it, and yet feeling the truth of it all the way down to your bones. “You’re attracted to me, and- to spin,” you say suddenly, thinking of the way your neighbors had claimed the dreams were extra vivid. “You spin dreams? I thought-” But you’re not entirely sure what you thought. Maybe he was simply a person with a talent for something beyond lucid dreaming? Creating them though..

Spiros sighs, taking a step back, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“I had hoped to save this particular conversation for another time, but you are much more observant than you used to be,” he says, shrugging a single shoulder, mouth slightly mournful.

“I don’t know whether I should be charmed or irritated by the way that sounds,” you say quietly, crossing your arms over your chest, just to give yourself a sense of normalcy.

“I’m one of the oneiroi,” he says, like that should mean something to you. “One of many. I.. Once there were many who called us gods.” His eyes flash back to you and then down, the afternoon breeze whipping his hair away from his face. “And perhaps we were, but now?” He turns in a circle, as if he can see far beyond the confines of the park you’re standing in. He probably can, you realize, if what he says is true. “There are medicines to combat us, or people who have severed themselves from this realm so severely that we can’t even catch sight of their dreams. And our newest siblings-” Spiros’ mouth twists. “They are so fast, swooping in on daydreams for their sustenance. Few of you take the time to notice us these days. If we’re noticed, perhaps we’re called nothing more than spirits.”

You wake with more questions than answers, but you feel satisfied with one thing: Spiros exists. Maybe not exactly how you’d pictured, but he wasn’t a figment. And he- Cares. About you. It’s still mind boggling though, trying to process the information, trying to sort out what you should do about it. You enjoy time with him, you’re very attracted to him, but you can’t help but worry about whether disbelief will always be lingering in the back of your head if you pursue things.

If only to cement his interest, Spiros seems to return twice as often after that, taking you on such vibrant, whirlwind adventures that sometimes they short out, speeding up your sleeping heart until you nearly wake. After one of these strange glitch-like interruptions, Spiros takes you to a warm night garden so the two of you can catch your breath, and it barely takes a blink before you’re suddenly lying in dark grass, softer than down against your back.

“Comfortable?” He asks, sitting to the right of you, his eyes tracing your body like a caress.

“I want you,” you find yourself saying, almost before you can even finish the thought inside your head. Spiros blinks, and the whole area seems to pause, as if it’s holding its breath along with him. After a moment, his eyes seem to change, the cool toned stars in their depths turning to molten gold, to heat and wanting, and the air becomes heavy with it.

“Truly?” Spiros asks, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He reaches out to touch you, fingers hovering over your shoulder and then stops, waiting for your response.

Yes, you think to yourself, thinking of every small touch, of his breath against your skin, of the way he says your name to capture your attention. His fingers tremble until you take his hand and press it to your chest, wondering if he can feel the unsteady rhythm of your heart. “Yes,” you finally say aloud, pushing away all your doubts. “Isn’t it obvious?” You ask, only half teasing, still wrought with nerves, even as he leans down to kiss you.

“As obvious as I feel?” Spiros asks and you can almost taste him, he’s so close. He cups your breast and then strokes his thumb over your nipple, breathing out slowly as he does.

A small laugh escapes you, more of a rough, low gasp than anything else. “‘S why I’m asking,” you say, closing your eyes before you can get lost in his own. His mouth meets yours, soft and warm, stubble barely noticeable against your chin or cheeks when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It’s almost a shame, you think, hesitantly sliding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, that I won’t come away from this with evidence. His kiss turns almost desperate, needy, after that, teeth tugging at your lower lip as he straddles one of your thighs, hand smoothing down your body and taking your clothes as he goes. He tastes like evening, and it’s beyond frustrating, not knowing what else to compare it to.

Despite knowing that you won’t bare the marks of this when you wake, Spiros seems desperate to leave you with the sensation of them. Your lips feel swollen, buzzing with his attention by the time he pulls away so you can breathe, and his hands are heavy on you, half massage, half the slow drag of his nails, just enough to leave your skin pebbling even though you’re not cold in the slightest. He seems content to just touch, to watch you writhe underneath him, your hips arching as you try and get closer. He’s still dressed, still covered by that dark chiton, hands steady- but his face. The look in his eyes is greedy and pained. You wrap your fingers in the front of his chiton and yank, pulling him back down to kiss, to taste the pulse in his throat. The angle has him pressed to you, hard and hot and bare underneath his clothes and you moan against his mouth at the sensation. You don’t want him to look so sad, you want him to stop thinking, to feel you- Your hand slips between you, moving aside material until you can take him in hand.

Spiros tenses, pulling his mouth away from yours so he can groan quietly, immediately rolling his hips down into the grip you have on him. “Are you impatient?” He asks, voice gone rough and rasping. “I would think- by the dark,” he gasps, hand wrapping around your thigh when you squeeze him. He seems lost for words, lips pressed so tightly together that they’re trembling. After a moment he shifts, spreading your legs so he can kneel between them. The sight of it, the way his hands slide up your thighs, makes your heart beat even faster. A buzz, a zip, seems to shudder through the very foundations of the earth, and for a split second you could have sworn you saw your own ceiling and bedroom instead of stars and nebulae wheeling through the sky above you.

“Concentrate,” Spiros insists, breathing the word out against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickles and you shiver, blinking a- he bites you. Not hard enough even to bruise, but the sharp edge of it has your back bowing, attention fully settled on Spiros’ hand dipping between your thighs. They’re the perfect texture, and he uses just the right amount of pressure to slick them through your wetness, to stroke slowly over your clit. Between the bite and his fingers, you’d forgotten to move, but you squeeze him again, wanting to reciprocate, wanting to share the pleasure.

It feels like forever and no time at all before you’re aching so badly that you’re about to beg. Every brush of his thumb, every time he curls his fingers inside you has you rocking up into the motion, but you want him, want him to speed this maddening rhythm. “Enough,” you gasp, choking on a laugh when he ceases all movement, a slight frown curling his lips. “Not- enough of you,” you say, and then you’re whimpering as he pulls his hand away, his clothes vanishing before you can blink.

“Enough foreplay?” He asks, licking at his fingers before both of his hands are curling around your hips, dragging you towards him until his cock is teasing your clit with slow strokes.

“Yes,” you say, a bit sharply, unable to do more than grasp at the soft grass underneath you. The angle is perfect for watching, for seeing him drag the head of his cock over you until it’s gleaming with your wetness, but it’s too gentle and you can’t find purchase with your feet to help press you harder against him. “I want you to fuck me,” you demand, breath coming fast as he takes a moment to glance at the far side of the garden.

“I suppose I should,” he teases, smirking before his eyes drop back down to you. “Morning is approaching too fast for my liking.” You don’t know how he knows, you have little idea of the time you’ve spent here now, but you’re not complaining when he lets go of your hip to take himself in hand and press himself into you. You tighten, eager for him, for the feel of him filling you and his eyes flutter closed, lips parting like he’s forgotten to breathe. “You- you feel-” His jaw snaps shut, and he takes a deep breath before his hand curls back around your hip again, and he sets an unforgiving pace.

“Oh,” you get out, clutching tighter to the grass. You no longer care that you can’t move your hips, that you’re having to tense your thighs so your legs aren’t dangling uselessly- watching is wonderful. Anywhere or with anyone else, you would have worried about him getting tired, but Spiros looks like he has endless stamina, thrusting into you this way. His knees finally shift though so he can bring you closer, so his skin can brush against your clit with the angle change and then you’re shaking apart, head thrown back. You’re dizzy with the force of it, breathless and then Spiros is gasping your name and heat fills you until you’re overflowing, his thrusts slow and he loosens the tight grip he has on your hips. “Spiros,” you breathe, trying not to focus on the way the stars and trees overhead are shifting in the breeze. You blink, and you think you see your ceiling again, morning light casting pale patterns over the walls- and then Spiros is lifting you, a hand against the middle of your back as he pulls you into his lap, uncaring of the mess, to place an eager kiss against your lips.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever get enough of you,” he confesses against your mouth, hand gentle as he cradles your jaw. “But you must wake soon, and I cannot keep you here.”

“You sure?” You tease, grinding yourself down and then whimpering because- He’s still hard.

Spiros looks drunk, cheeks ruddy, eyes heavy lidded, but he grins. “If only I could,” he murmurs, and his next kiss is sweet, and lingers long after you’ve woken.

You’re alone in your room, and even though it’s cold out, the blankets feel stifling. You shift your legs, still blinking sleepily and freeze when you feel how slick you are. You wonder if you’re not going to hurt yourself with this in the future, with longing for more time with him. It’s only then that you notice a single, gleaming feather on your pillow. The sight lays your fears to rest.

If only for the moment.

————-　✵　————-

...turn the page?

#exophilia #deity x female reader #male deity x female reader #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster boyfriend x reader #spiros #d.darling writes

314 notes · View notes

vore-scientist · 4 years

Text

The Discourteous Duke

[Safe, soft, G/t M/m vore with fear.play and tiny female observer]

A Tale of the Mystic Woods

Summary: An asshole from Princess Sophia’s past shows up at Yonah’s wizard tower and finally learns his lesson about not making unwanted romantic advances and taking no for an answer (and hopefully stops making shitty poetry). Lots of G/t interaction in this one.

Warnings: A lot of fear.play. Intended to be comedic, Yonah and Sophia make some pretty intense/morbid taunts, however nothing graphic/detailed but the implications are unsettling so beware. I personally feel it is Hilarious banter!

[All character involved are adults.]

If you enjoy my story, please tell me so, and reblog if you can. I live for feedback! And reblogs spread my work.

---

The sun was setting slowly behind the Kingdom of Orr, and the Mystic Woods. Not that Sophia nor Yonah could see the outside, even with the magical windows in the living room that displayed the area around the tower. The pair really needed to get their sleep schedule in order, what had been meant to be a brief snooze, just 10-20 min between potion brewing and enchanting, had turned into almost 3 hours. The half-giant had made the mistake of laying down and Sophia made the mistake of laying on Yonah’s ample middle. So soft, and as it rose up and down with his breathing she was lulled almost comatose. Especially with one of his hands pressing down on her like the warmest weighted blanket, removing all worries and anxieties.

And yet Sophia woke up as a migraine-inducing familiar sound reached her ears.

She shouldn’t have been able to pick up such a quiet sound, especially since Yonah stayed slumbering. But to the princess this sound was so distinct, so irritating, her hearing had become especially attuned to detect it even at the lowest decibel.

What is this amazing sound? Don’t get ahead of yourself. Sophia is still unsure if she really heard it or if it was in her dreams, causing the dream to become a nightmare so quickly as to wake her up instantly. But as she was now awake in a very quiet room, except for Yonah’s breathing.. ohhhh the slow rumbling was incredibly soothing, and his pulse, steady and strong beneath her, tempted her back to sleep.... Unfortunately that noise… as she calmed a bit she heard it again. That noise was in fact very real, and it made her blood boil.

Without waking Yonah (a feat that deserved an entire epic written about it) Sophia slipped out from under the giant’s hand, sliding nimbly down his side. She almost fell very audibly to the floor, since Yonah’s girth did not leave any couch cushion for her to land on, but she anticipated this and swung to grab onto the lower seam, which was just a little higher than her height above the ground. So she dropped without making a sound.

Amazingly Yonah still did not wake as she hurried out to the staircase and started up the stairs. Aggravatingly the noise only grew louder. Which made Sophia start to stomp her way to the window once she was in the workshop and even if she could not discern words, her fears had been confirmed. Maybe fears isn’t the right word. She was not scared of the noise, she was mad at it. At the person making it.

Full of rage she clambered up to the windowsill and made her second mistake of the day, looking down.

50ft below with hair so platinum blonde it was like a beacon in the dimming light, eyes so blue they were a cloudless sky, a nose so sharp it could prick holes in leather, and a smile of perfect teeth so broad it almost tore at his face, stood The Duke. To Sophia’s extreme dismay he was holding a lute. Of course he brought the damn lute! That’s what she had been hearing. That and.

| There once was a young lass from Orr. And she was Never a Bore. As she danced to my music, her heart did totally lose it. Sophia and the Duke be True Loves for Sure |

Ugh. His voice was just as bad as she remembered. Sultry yet whiny. The absolute worst. She glared down as best she could, even if he wasn’t paying attention, and hopefully couldn’t see her expression from that far. And his POETRY - It was so deeply terrible Sophia wanted to cry. But she didn’t, because he might hear her-

“Ah Is that my Dear Sophia so high in yonder window?”

NO!!!!!!

Of course he had looked up! Why the fuck had she looked down!!?!? She could not look him in the eyes. Eye contact would be a third and final mistake.

“FUCK OFF DUKE!” She called down with her eyes tightly shut.

“Ah!” his voice confidence did not waver, “But I am here to rescue you, and win your heart!” he strummed the lute.

“The lovely Sophia, trapped so in despair, I bid thee to let down your hair!” No. That wasn't the worst rhyme she’d ever heard. But it was up there.

Instinctively she held her braid, not to undo it, but as if it would undo itself just to fulfill the fairytale. It could! It was very long, just like that girl from the original tale, though her name was lost to time. Thankfully it didn’t, but a small voice in her head did suggest pulling it all out and using it to strangle the Duke.

“Even if it was long enough, which it is NOT,” she shouted down, “I wouldn’t do so for you! Go away!”

“Then shall climb up the old fashioned way,” said the Duke, putting his lute on his back.

Sophia had not expected him to leave. He never listened to her. Not years ago, not now.

When Sophia was about 16 she’d come to terms with the fact that she would never be sexually or romantically attracted to anyone. She’d tried a few times before, and even a few times after, but every attempt was painful, mostly emotionally, for everyone. After that it was common knowledge among the nobility. Spreading news about someone’s orientation was important, so that it could be respected. It was pretty embarrassing when, for example, a prince rescued a princess who wasn’t into princes. But even when Sophia’s status was made known, that didn’t stop a few folks from trying to rescue her once she was kidnapped.

Or in this asshole’s case, from courting her very publicly and loudly.

Over and over and over again.

Before she was even sent away! And Ben refused to ban him from the kingdom because he didn’t want to set a precedent of using his position of power to remove those who were simply an annoyance. He did however ban Duke from the castle. Eventually.

Sophia had tried a lot of things to get rid of him. Dumping honey and feathers on him from her bedroom window. She tried cursing him (which… failed spectacularly). She even tried shooting him, with blunted arrows but still… Thankfully she was a terrible shot. But she’d also tried, you know, TELLING HIM SHE WAS NEVER GOING TO BE INTERESTED.

Perhaps he needed a stronger message, and one that had not been possible before. A small part of her felt a bit bad for coming up with this plan, he didn’t really deserve this treatment. No wait. He totally did. He fucking harassed her for years and had gotten it in his stupid head that because she’d been kidnapped he could now rescue her. In theory she was to marry whoever rescued her. Not that her father would force that tradition on her. With little convincing that small part of her rejoined the rest. And she smiled as she heard movement from downstairs.

She took one more glance down the window. Duke, engrossed as he was with avoiding the illusory thorns, noticed and smiled up.

“I am coming my sweet chocolate princess”, he smiled with perfect teeth.

Sophia did not tell him off, though his offensive comparison of her skin color to chocolate made her wish the thorns were real and poisonous. Instead she climbed down to the floor and then back up, onto the workshop table. It was just a better set up there. Easier to get into character if Yonah was sitting down opposite her. Plus she wanted to see if Duke would fall to the floor. That was always amusing.

When Duke reached the window he looked confused to find her on a table, especially given that, from his perspective, the room looked normal.

“Sophia, what are you doing over there?” he asked so sickeningly sweet.

“Why don’t you come and find out?” She still avoided his gaze.

His eyes got wide as for the first time ever she hadn’t told him to scram. Then Sophia cackled as loud as she could when indeed, the Duke dropped to the floor, and crumbled as the distance was much greater than it appeared.

“My love, why must you laugh at my agony?” He almost sounded like he might finally get the hint. Almost.

Sophia resisted saying she wasn’t his love. It was pointless. Anyways, the unmistakable footsteps of a half-giant walking up stairs had been getting louder, until the trap door lifted and Yonah entered the scene.

The half-giant wizard had taken his time arriving. Probably calming his hair down, as it tended to make funny shapes when he slept on his couch. Even from across the room he towered over Duke. Yonah looked at Sophia, then Duke, then back at Sophia, a bit bemused.

“This. This must be your-”

Duke paled, which Sophia had not thought possible, but he didn’t immediately run. Which meant she and Yonah were going to have some fun. He had clearly forgotten that captive princesses were guarded by their captors, who were usually monsters. Idiot.

“Yonah, could do me a favor and eat this fucker?” She waved a hand at Duke.

With the skill of a true professional, Yonah’s face became one of wicked glee, and whipped his head around to lock eyes with Duke. Making sure to show his teeth, he licked his lips and approached Duke.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and scooped up the nobleman who had not yet processed what Sophia had said.

He carried Duke over to the worktable, holding him tightly in one hand. As he heard the giant’s stomach rumble he connected the very blatant red dots.

“No- please- don’t eat me!” he pleaded, then, thinking correctly that he couldn’t persuade the giant, “Sophia- You cannot be serious!”

“I sure can!” she said, ‘Gods it’s going to be great to finally be rid of you.”

Yonah in the meantime was removing the duke’s accoutrement: a sword, the lute, anything he didn’t want the duke to have once in his stomach. All the while the duke was crying. Sophia had jumped from the table to Yonah’s lap and clambered to his shoulder, laying across it to enjoy the duke’s emotional peril.

“Please, I’ll do anything! Anything!” he pleaded, as Yonah licked his lips again.

“Oh but you are! I told you to leave, so you’re leaving. Just not alive,” Sophia said, both cheerfully and menacingly. “Goodbye!”

On that cue Yonah shoved the man headfirst into his mouth.

Sophia, for all she loved being the one eaten by Yonah, she also loved watching other people get eaten by her wonderful wizard. She liked seeing his teeth barred as he worked a person to the back of his throat, as he was unable to close his mouth until the last moment. He looked a little ridiculous, but also powerful, and happy, swallowing down something that by all means should be impossible. The distortion of his throat was both freaky and very cool to see, and if the person was strong the struggles were visible.

She liked seeing him take the last exciting gulps that got the person down his throat and the swelling of his neck recede down, the last impression of the person disappearing into him.

As that happened with Duke she hauled herself over Yonah’s shoulder and slid down his chest, dropping into his lap a few swallows before Duke arrived in his stomach. In anticipation, she hugged Yonah’s stomach, and felt the duke get squeezed into it. She giggled.

Visually it didn’t make much of a difference from an outside perspective. Yonah looked a little fuller, but that was it. Though, Duke’s muffled screams did penetrate the fleshy prison. His previously irritating voice was now music to Sophia’s ears. Some of his more forceful struggles produced movement visible to those looking for it, and was very obvious to Sophia who still embraced her giant. She did shift to lean her hand on a spot that she felt confident Duke’s elbow had been.

“Thanks Yonah,” she said, looking up into the proudly evil face. She made sure she was loud enough for Duke to hear her.

Yonah beamed with his shimmering fangs even if Duke couldn’t see him. “My pleasure, Sophia. He tasted amazing!”

Then he leaned back and pat his stomach affectionately. He was not acting, he was very much enjoying this treat, he still had a little drool at the corner of his mouth.

“Who was he anyways? Why did I need to eat him?”

Sophia put her elbows over his stomach and her head in her hands.

“He was some duke who tried to court me before I was sent here. I thought he’d leave me alone, but as you saw…or tasted... I’m finally rid of him.”

Now Yonah went back into his act. “Nobility!” He said with elation, “no wonder he tasted so good.

Then he sighed while rubbing his stomach; Sophia swayed with his gut, Duke continued to cry.

“A pity though.”

Sophia, also in on the act though a bit disappointed, asked “what!? Why a pity?”

“I have to spit him up. I can’t just gobble up every nobleperson that you don’t like.”

“Can’t you make an exception this once! He was really annoying!” She sounded so sincere that Yonah was a bit taken aback. However he understood. This duke had harassed her over the years, felt that he was special and above Sophia’s incapacity to feel romantic love. What a dick.

But not enough of a dick to deserve death. A good scare was sure to be enough, and very well deserved.

“I mean! If he wants to be around me so much, then maybe being eaten is the way to go! Once he’s a part of you he’ll also be with me.”

Now Yonah was confident she was saying things to scare Duke, and it was working. So he went along with it.

“That’s a good point Princess!” He grinned wickedly down at Sophia, very pleased with his next choice of words, “How about we ask him, he’s still kicking, though I can’t tell for how long”

He poked his stomach, hard, “You’ve got a choice to make,” he declared. “Stay in there, die, and become part of something Sophia does love... Or get out of me, out of Orr, out of Mystic Woods, and remain alive, But Never Ever EVER Contact Her Again. ” He made sure to lower his voice and growl for that last part to really make sure the duke understood that if he showed his face again, or even sent so much as a letter, Yonah would find him, and finish the job.

“OUT! LET ME OUT! I’LL LEAVE HER ALONE!” Duke answered with no hesitation.

Yonah put Sophia back on the workbench and went over to the windowsill. He placed one hand on the stone and one hand on his stomach.

“Are you letting me out!? I promise! Please!! I’ll-”

Pressing into his gut Yonah started to retch. It was not as pleasant to watch him throw up people as it was to watch him swallow them. Still mildly entertaining to see Yonah in distress. Retching turned to choking as he regurgitated the duke, but as Duke recovered and stood up, Yonah stepped to the side, cutting off his view of the workbench and Sophia.

“Can’t- Can’t I see her just one more time?” he asked. His face was red from screaming and crying.

Yonah smiled at him and coughed up more phlegm, “Sure you can.”

The duke brightened.

For a second. Before Yonah drew his tongue over his shining fangs.

“If you want to so badly, go ahead, but then I get to finish my meal.”

Duke gulped, “Nevermind- I- I’ll be going”

“Awwww, are you sure, you were really delicious,” Yonah growled, and reached for Duke as if to eat him regardless.

Duke squealed and nearly jumped out the window, but managed to snag a foot in the vines, and eventually got down and ran away.

Yonah watched to make sure, but he also felt Sophia climbing up his robe and hair so she could peak over his shoulder to double check.

“He’s gone?” she asked as if she couldn’t believe it, “he’s really gone!” she said with more confidence.

“WAHOO!” she almost fell backwards off of Yonah but caught herself on his hair. He reached a hand around and grabbed her. She didn’t comply and kicked his hand away. Sophia scrambled back up to his shoulder and sat down to hug Yonah’s scruffy cheeks, adding in a few kisses for good measure .

“Thank you!” she said, and now she was crying. It was finally over.

“I love you sooooo much!”

“Aww it was nothing, Princess,” he said. It really was nothing, and he’d enjoyed it. But he was proud to have helped Sophia, and glad she was finally rid of this horrible nuisance. And in a way, proud that Sophia loved him, even if it wasn’t romantic. He loved her in the same way. What a world where he got to show that love by eating people, not that he was complaining.

“Man, we really slept through the day.” He indicated the dark sky, “That potion we left to simmer before our nap is definitely ready to be completed. If you’re fine with a late dinner.”

Sophia started to climb down his person, her intent on the otherside of the room, where a half-giant size hearth and cauldron bubbled. He laughed as it ticked. Once she had made it to the prep table he walked the eight short steps it took to join her.

[FIN] if you liked PLEASE REBLOG!

REBLOGS HELP SPREAD MY WORK! I also love knowing that people read my stories! My askbox and DMs are OPEN!!! let me know!!!

[Thanks for reading! please reblog! Or message me telling me what you think! I crave feedback! For more mystic woods go to vore-scientist.tumblr.com/tagged/mystic+woods+story or search ‘mystic woods story’]

#safe vore #soft vore #extreme cuddling #g/t vore #nonfatal vore #sfw vore #vore writing #fearplay #unwilling

54 notes · View notes

diveronarpg · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations, KAT! You’ve been accepted for the role of PUCK. Admin Rosey: There's nothing that thrives more in Verona than chaos and Kat, that's exactly what you brought us - a character that exudes nothing but pure and utter chaos. Your para sample highlights perfectly the best and worst of our beloved Puck and his unapologetic satisfaction in being the best at being the absolute worst. Verona has endured many things but it has yet to endure Puck - and honestly I'm not entirely sure it will. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Kat Age | 24 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I think I’ll be able to get on quite a bit! At least two or three times a week, but likely more! Ya girl dropped a whole job ya YEET Timezone | EST How did you find the rp? | I originally came across it in the lsrpg tag, also I miss y’all :( Current/Past RP Accounts | These are links to inactive past accounts! https://neosy.tumblr.com/ https://grchcmisms.tumblr.com/ https://99gael.tumblr.com/ https://halogenq.tumblr.com/ https://odinbellc.tumblr.com/ ;)

In Character

Character | Puck, Pavel Lam

What drew you to this character? | beautiful chaos and twisted humor, a spring in the step of a child-like demon, all soft face and sharp features. they live life as if there are a lack of consequences, laughing in the face of harbored restrictions and societal rules. they swindle, steal, and slice, color the world with trickery and a wicked grin. they’re absolutely flavorful, chocolate cake with bitter, poison icing, long sticks of candy cane that are licked too sharply pointed.

similar to the likeness of peter pan, of trickster gods, and all devil-may-care figures. he is forever a boy, but parading as a man, selfish and big-headed. i see potential dripping from the deepest of crevices, his heart burrowed in armoured steel, tasteless victory.

what draws me to pavel lam? sweet, sweet chaos fed to me like grapes from adonis himself. let me unleash the beast of my writing in all its absolute, unruly nature. let me shatter glasses of whiskey by chucking them towards my fireplace as i express all the ways he can shred plans like priceless documents. i crave blood-stained teeth and busted knuckles, the dance of a jester as he makes away with all the kings gold. the clanking of chains and countless rings adorning fingers, gluttony and swallowed sanity. dear god, what doesn’t draw me to this character?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

i. pride he shrugs, his silhouette not at all coy nor a picture of interest, but on the other side of a turned back there are gritted teeth and balled fists. he supposes it’s the curse of a person forced to work for their success, scramble and claw for riches. nothing tears him apart like a lack of respect, ironic and hypocritical from someone who can’t recall the definition of the word most days. he cannot stand being discounted, or ignored, more likely to smile at a drink thrown in his face than a turned back. his pride will eat him alive if he lets it, will consume him whole without mercy, and he cannot let them know how much it bothers him. he keeps secrets and lets blood pool his mouth from having his teeth sunk too harshly into his tongue. he can only clench his jaw so tight before something begins to splinter, a comment or a jest just an inch too far, just a little too close to home and something is bound to snap; an aging dam that still struggles against the weight of its burden.

tread lightly, or beware of the snakes in the long grass.

ii. greed it’s never enough, not all the riches in the world, not the most dangerous task nor highest penthouse. they can’t be sated by grandiose or any price tag, though such things are very well accepted and stolen. he will take all that is offered and more, refusing to reject any task that seems of interest, anything that feels as if others would turn it down out of fear or otherwise. these are the things that get people killed, and still he only laughs, the sight of his own blood lighting mirth and distaste. he feels no pity for himself, no self-preservation active in his mind or body. it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself in a situation that he even his wit and silver tongue cannot get him out of. danger signs do not flash so brightly to him, the dense fog filling the road in a blind search for glory and gore, his fingers grasp in the darkness and he plays it all as a game.

once and awhile, headlights cut through the mist in a warning.

iii. shame at night his muscles twitch and ache in sync with the pain in his chest, stood in his bathroom mirror with smudged glamour and horrid eyes – hurt, and disdain for his hurt. who is this person in the reflection? weak, and caked with dirt, hideous, with weighted skin under dull eyes that look pitifully vengeful? at night he stays out to avoid the man he shares his apartment with, the one who glares at him through the framed glass in his bathroom, the sleepless monster that feels everything he ignores, drunk and full of nightmares so that the pavel who works and the pavel who socializes can laugh and spit and jeer. the man who cowers under sheets and stares at blinking clocks is human, disgustingly so, and he rots and rots until he pulls his arms through decadent sleeves embroidered by gods. he does not cry, but seethes, and then he pulls himself together, all intoxicated and wild, the character, the jester, the mercenary.

he plants his hands on the cold porcelain edges of his sink, locks eyes with the reflection he sees, and laughs as if mad.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | you know me, the more pain, the more suffering, the more gain. bring it y’all.

In Depth

In-Character Para Sample:

he sits in the backseat of a parked stretch hummer with his legs spread in a dramatic fashion, leaned back in his seat with aloof expressions, careless posture. it’s not his car, but he dominates the atmosphere, the perfect center of attention, the other man’s eyes steadily on him, as it should be, as he intends for it to be. silvers drip from him, a newfound love of chains and jewelry, pretty and powerful. he looks unimpressed, perhaps playing his version of coy as he says, “okay, you have me here, now what on earth are you going to do with me?” all sharp teeth and glinting eyes, a modern day dionysus filled with lies and mirth, devilish words with a darkened tone, he leans forward, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. pavel smells of fortunes, far from the street rat in rags, far from desperate but perpetually greedy, his grin so sharp it practically glows in the dark, could easily be imagined floating in midair, hovering above the leather seats.

they’re only here to play games, fingers gleaming with rings and itching to touch, to sully, to disrupt.

in instances like this they feel perhaps immortal, catching the light of the car overheads, the glare and tinted windows blocking the blackness of the late night outside. yes, mother, a child not designed but merely thrown together, a sloppy collection of limbs and blood becomes something beautiful, something frightening, so very terrible. a boy who had to struggle for money now carries himself as if he has had it his whole life, so comfortable in luxury, shrugging at expensive things and putting his shoes on the interior of italian leather.

“you know what you’re here for.”

pavel’s lips pull back in a wicked smile. the knife digs into the bottom of his calf in his boot.

it’s all too easy to play a part; pursed lips, crossed arms, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. he appears petulant, perhaps wanton, poorly postured at a gala. expensive clothes but in an under dressed manner. he caught the targets attention immediately, an old married man with a high price on his head, a chunk of gold hidden in his chest, a new rolex behind his temples, and that’s all he sees now, not blood beneath flesh or rolling veins. if he is inhuman, then so is the man, objects for objective purpose, paid for in cash and carnage, a handsome face with chilling features.

he whispers lies and gets pretty words in response.

he likes it this way, business perceived as business, no fluttering eyelashes and personal questions, just the words of ‘roll over’ and a ringing, gawky laugh in response.

this is what war looks like to him now, red tinted club lighting and soaked underfoot, sleight of hand and golden letter openers, expensive bottles of wine and chandelier shards etched into skin. he suits this as well as he did sloppy street crimes, officers never minding the homeless man on homicide scenes; now they turn their backs to boys with expensive things, petty and spoiled, they assume, not worth their time. he climbs into the other man’s seat easily, a swing of legs over hips, knees fitted and he leans forward. it’s then that the feeling inside the car changes, near imperceptible to the eye but distinguishable by the way the man suddenly squirms, feeling less in control still, suddenly trapped. pavel gets close, faces nearly touching, eyes all humor. “what’s wrong? you wanna be on top?” he laughs, and the man pushes his chest, trying to get him off but pavel tightens his grip, fingers pressed tightly to the top of the seat on either side of the man’s head. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he feels the panic, the surge in energy, and it’s then, in one quick motion, that he unsheathes the knife and plunges it into ribcage.

he still does his best work with messy murder, pulling the knife out and slamming it into the man’s chest a second time, the leak of blood getting on his clothes, pants and undershirt black for good reason.

blood runs red yet appears inky in the under-lit vehicle, seeping out of wounds like tar, a monster escaping a body first in slow motion and then all too quickly. bodies get cold fast to him, his interest only spanning how long it takes for the light to leave your eyes before it’s on to the next. not a minute to waste, unopened bottles of champagne lay waiting to pop, showers of wine and new gadgets and shiny things to replace the new gaping void he feels in the cars interior. it doesn’t make him quite nauseous, but something inside him rolls. disgusting. boring.

he removes his long white over shirt now tainted with red and discards it on the floor of the vehicle carelessly, leaving a black wife beater on his person and opening the door, one leg sliding out in front of the other. he stills just a moment outside the gaudy vehicle, allowing only a moment to pass before the dull click of a lighter.

Extras:

playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6BpLUvLJ5B0AShSPXzf4sT?si=xZj_nNlVTWOQqzk3K2S_Ig hc: owns gucci slides unironically

#accepted: puck #accepted

2 notes · View notes