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bakerstreet2021-10-04 09:05 am
cuemusic) wrote in bakerstreet2021-10-04 09:05 am
Entry tags:
extreme/unusual kink meme
HOW TO PLAY:
- Post with your character/canon in the subject line. Be sure to include preferences in either the subject line or comment, detailing what you are or are not interested in playing.
- Tag other people by hitting up the RNG, rolling to pick a category and then a relevant prompt below.
- There will be absolutely no kink-shaming. Do not tag a player with a kink they've said they don't like. No abuse or harassment (unless it's the sexy IC kind) is tolerated.
- This meme is guaranteed to include triggers, squicks, and adult times. Be conscientious of yourself and of your fellow roleplayers.
DOMINANCE (1)
1. Forced orgasm/orgasm denial - Maybe making your partner beg for it. Maybe making them beg you to stop.
2. Breathplay - When you control even how they breathe.
3. Sensory deprivation - So they perceive nothing but your touch.
4. Dub-con - Whether they like it or not.
5. Non-con - They definitely don’t like it. You don’t care.
6. Somnophilia - While you were sleeping...
7. Fisting - Inside them past the wrist.
8. Mind Control - Congratulations: you have powers of hypnosis, or telepathy. All the better to subdue your partner.
9. Master/slave or master/pet dynamics - You own them, and everything they are.
10. Piercings/tattoos/branding/scarification - Leaving a permanent mark.
11. Humiliation - Someone deserves to be taken down a peg or two.
12. Aftercare - You've exhausted them. Time to bathe, cuddle, and put them back together again.
13. Boss/Underling - Maybe you're a special kind of secretary, or maybe you're just willing to do anything for that raise?
14. Teacher/Student - You'll do anything for an A, or maybe teaching adolescents has just become too tempting.
15. Addiction - One of you is absolutely addicted to the other. Maybe they've drugged you, maybe you don't even know.
16. Chastity Belt - They're not allowed to have fun without you.
17. Sensory Deprivation - It's nicer if you don't see it coming.
GENDERPLAY (2)
1. Forced feminization/masculinization - Who's a good little girl?
2. Pegging/Femdom - because guys aren't the only ones who can bend someone over a desk and fuck 'em.
3. Breast expansion - Hmm, let's make a few adjustments here...
4. Cock expansion - Maybe it can be just a bit bigger?
5. Pregnancy, fertilization, breeding - You just can't wait to have a child.
6. Human cattle/livestock - Milking, feeding, mucking 'em out.
7. Bimbo/slut transformation - They only exist to fuck. Preferably to fuck you.
VIOLENCE (3)
1. Bloodplay - Mmmm. Tastes like pennies.
2. Vore - Who's hungry?
3. Mutilation - including castration, amputation, evisceration
4. Fight - No better way to warm up for fucking.
5. Needleplay - A few little pricks in the all the right places.
6. Wax play - It won't burn too badly.
ANATOMY (4)
1. Watersports - A golden shower.
2. Xenophilia, tentacles - Maybe you're a little too fond of alien anatomy. Or maybe aliens are a little too fond of you...
3. Inflation - You've taken so much that you're swollen.
4. Sounding - Slide it right down the center of his cock.
5. Medical kink - Oh, doctor, I have a terrible problem...
6. Enemas - To clean you out everywhere.
7. Extreme size difference - possibly even anatomically impossible sex
8. Multiple penetration - As many as you can take.
9. Oviposition - A new use for eggs. Or maybe you need to find a host for your own eggs?
10. Bathroom control - Control over something very personal.
11. Lactation - A very special brand of milk.
12. Urethra play - Be careful what you put in there.
AGEPLAY (5)
1. Age difference - May-December
2. Extreme age difference - ...February-December?
3. Underage sex - They might not know what they're doing, but they'll try.
4. Virginity - Time to deflower one partner or another.
OTHER (6)
1. Fucking machines - When human stamina just isn't enough
2. Ritualistic sex - a religious sacrifice, a cult demand.
3. Gangbang - They're all here, and they all want you.
4. Multiple - Pick two of the above.
5. Multiple multiple - pick 3-5 of the above.
6. Challenge - Include 5+ of the above.
7. Incest - Fun for the whole family.
8. Electricity - A few little shocks can just be electrifying.
9. Public - Will someone see? Do you want them to?
10. Tentacles - Lots of them
11. Fucking machine - It doesn't tire out.
12. Wild card - Don't like any of the options? Come up with your own!
mollymauk tealeaf | critical role | ota
Henry Dunn | Harper's Island | M/F
Éowyn | Lord of the Rings | OTA
cw: slavery, noncon
Yet they will not have forgotten her, of course; it is the love they do bear her, and the burden that love is, that makes her keeping worthwhile. Her people will be brought to heel, the war will end in smoking ruin and Rohan will witness a true, incontestable victory. Their obedience and their loyalty will be bought with the threats made upon their beloved heroine, now his hostage. They will comport themselves under the delusion that she may yet be returned to them unharmed, whole, body and spirit battered but not broken. Men will thrash for all manner of hopeless fantasy when they are mired to the throat in the realities of war. They will believe there is yet one thing kept untouched by those atrocities, that the gods would never permit such senseless cruelty to pass. The desperation of war will lead a man to invent gods where he had none before, if he thinks he can beg then a shield to keep protected what he himself failed to protect.
They will come, those valorous men of Rohan, to appreciate the true power of divinity. His captive, too, will acquire a taste for godliness which cannot be denied. It does not matter how little interest she may have been raised to keep in the notion of gods, and perhaps that is for the best, for he does not consider himself an unremarkable deity among so many others. Gods are generally cowards, afraid to walk the earth they purportedly had a hand in making. The Saints, too, were feeble at the last; their immortality came in the glory of their fables. He will not be one who rules hearts and faith from a silent distance. He will be one who rules in the present, with the immediacy of his own gloved hands, and he will have bowing before him not only intangible hearts and intangible faith, but wholly tangible bodies.
He keeps her in his own chambers. A dungeon cell would have been more fitting for a captive, but how easily then might she have slid into a detached coma of pity, of her own divine indifference? How easy it would have been, then, to grope for comfort in the nearness of death, or to sink into an unfeeling, blind dark. How easy to determine herself lost, incapable, little more than a ghost or a corpse, a coin rusted and worthless.
No, she will enjoy the luxury still of living, though not with the privilege of any true liberties. She shall have her cell, but it will be composed of the walls of his own elegant, black room. She will have what so many of her own people surely do not: a solid roof above her, the comfort of a lavish bed draped in black, the absence of violence at a boorish gaoler's hands. The absence of the threat of starvation or an imminent beheading. She will be made to know, every moment that she is kept here, that she has what so many others lack, blame she might rightly bear. Had she led her people to victory, after all, she would not have cost them so many innocent lives. She would not be responsible for the decisions they must now face; she would not be the hinge upon which the war may turn. She will live, and she will be made garishly aware of it.
She will not, however, enjoy any company which is not his own. She will not, without his leave, have a servant to speak to or a visitor to take fleeting respite in. She will have only him, and all the rest will be silence and waiting. There are guards posted outside the doors, most certainly, and he is on occasion struck with the inspiration to bring visitors of his own choosing into this room they now share. And he is a man at war, all the rest aside, and he will not be hurried through his venerable duties. He keeps her waiting as long as it pleases him, with no pattern or consistency to the hours when he deigns to see her. There is consistency only in knowing that he will come.
And so he does, alone for the time being, sweeping into the room with a flair of black at his heels, with a posture that is stitched entirely of an untiring arrogance. She will be, if she has not yet been so daft as to attempt to improvise a defiance, bare – he has declared that she will be kept this way until he fancies her otherwise. She will have been without contact with any other mortal body crossing through the palace halls, and she will, he prefers to think, gloating, suffer a coil of gratitude to behold him, despite her sanctimonious loathing.
“Oh, what a day I’ve had, milaya.”
no subject
But she will kill him, one day. He has not killed her, no matter how she might wish for it; and while she lives, she will not cease to cling to that one dogged hope. If she must tear out his throat with her teeth like a beast, if she must strangle him with her bare hands, if she must go down with him... she will kill him, or she will perish in the attempt.
And it would be as simple as that, were it only her life that hung in the balance. But it is not. It has never been. She is not allowed to forget that her countrymen are forfeit to her mistakes; is not permitted to forget Raedan, or Caolfrith, or the numberless others whose blood is on her hands. She is not allowed to forget, even in this foreign place, that she is a lady of station and duty - even as all the pride and dignity of that is stripped from her, time and again, until nothing is left but the bone-deep ache of shame.
I will kill him. But not until it is sure. Not until there can be no doubt in her mind that it will be an ending. Until then, she is bound by the chains she has forged herself, of duty and of honour - or whatever can pass for honour, in the disgrace of her imprisonment. Until then, she can see no alternative but to choke down the fury and the grief and the roiling nausea, and push away shame as much as she can, and obey.
She has, of course, searched his room for anything that may be used as a weapon. She has, of course, found nothing to her purpose. She has wept, but only a little, and furtively. And she has, at last, come to settle in the corner of the room, her back against the wall and her arms slung across her bare knees, her head tipped back as though, through the stones of this silk-draped prison, she might still see the stars. She tries not to wonder whether Éomer lives, or how he may look at her if they are ever reunited. She tries not to think whether her uncle's sickness has returned, or whether it is a sword or a shadow or a stopped heart that will bring an end to Théoden Ednew. She tries, most of all, not to think of whether they still hope for her return. I am dead, she tells them, again and again, in her thoughts, as though she could reach across the miles and cry it to them direct. I am dead, and cannot return; and you must live, and give no thought to me.
It is in this attitude, sitting stone-still against the wall, staring blindly upwards at the ceiling, that he comes upon her. To her disgust, there is relief in his return. How long has she been sitting this way? How long, before that, did she pace the limited confines of this room, marking out inch by inch the dimensions of her fate? New horrors are, at least, a change from the never-ending remembrance of the old; pain has always been less dire to her than numbness.
She does not, at once, move to acknowledge his arrival. She does not try to hide her nakedness; she has learned already that to do so only makes it more brutally apparent, and besides, what can she hide, now? He has seen every part of her, those cold eyes a slithering touch on her skin, and his eyes the least of it. Until he speaks, she does not move at all; and only then, taut with coiled anger, does she slowly turn her head to look at him.
"Hu ic besárge an þú," she says flatly, and even if he does not know the words, the meaning is clear in her bitter, sarcastic tone, in the slight curl of her lip. What a shame. It is as much defiance as she dares, and perhaps more than she should; but she cannot wholly give herself over to meekness. Nor has she managed to abrade the pride from how she holds herself; even naked, even defeated, there is in the set of her shoulders and the glint of her eyes an unconscious arrogance that answers his. "Then do not let me keep you from your sleep."
no subject
Her nudity is no longer among her conscious grievances, it would seem. She wears it as she would be a woolen tunic, he thinks: with a complete lack of attachment. There must be in that, for her, a flicker of promise. If she does not align herself with her body, then perhaps she will not suffer to feel what is done to it. If she can cease her pacing, seat herself against the smooth span of the wall and fear nothing which advances, then there will be no pain and no shame. She can be elsewhere, untethered from her body as it sits imprisoned, and play no part in any man's games. Hallucinate armor where there is none, a wistful fool might hope.
He laughs cordially as he strides with ease into the room, unfastening the silver clasps of his kefta, emblazoned with the sigil he has taken for his own: the sun in eclipse. It is the emblem worn by all which is his. He pulls the sleeves crisply from his arms, servant to no time but his own, no matter the hour. Beneath is another layer of pressed black, and the muted light of the room catches in the neatly tended sheen of his hair, gray eyes flicking dubiously over his captive's folded form.
"You won't." She would not keep him from sleep, whensoever he might choose to take it. She would not keep him from anything he might choose to take. He gives the room a perusing survey from where he stands, as if to be certain that her being within it has unsettled none of the draperies, disturbed none of the decanters; as if she might have left fingerprints upon any dark, gleaming surface.
His attention falls, at his leisure, upon her, and there too does he turn his body, stepping in near-silence to place himself before her.
"I must remind you to refrain from speaking your dead tongue here. It will not come easily to you, but you will learn Ravkan, and you will speak it as if you never knew anything else." Then, without overture, as he curls the tips of his fingers to prompt her to motion, "On your knees."
no subject
Disdain is too strong a word. What is worst is to know that he does not think enough of her even to disdain her. She has always been, through all her grief and all her loneliness, a daughter of kings, a fair and noble lady, and if she has not always been in control, she has never before been nothing to someone. But he, with every word and movement, with that cruelly casual movement of his fingers and that untroubled gaze, reminds her that she is a toy, and nothing more. He will not even give her the grace of hatred; and his unflinching disregard is lye to her pride, corroding all that she is. All that she has is herself; but what value in that, when he will not recognise its worth?
The only thing she clings to, the spite that keeps her together, is the knowledge that this is what he intends. He will take her clothes, take her freedom, take her dignity and her title and her tongue; he means to winnow her to nothing at all, and it would be so much easier (so she has thought, in black moments) to simply allow it, and let guilt and grief flow away with everything else, and be a pliant pet, a horse broken to the whip. But when she loses herself, then he has won a final victory, and she clings most grimly to the determination to keep that from him.
It is the only thing she can hope to keep, after all. Defiance is already, of necessity, bled away; she may still speak her little barbs, but he has not shown himself prone to second warnings, so she must speak them in Ravkan. She shifts as slowly as she dares, without taking her eyes off his; and her jaw is tight, the anger and hatred throb restless in her veins, but still, she kneels.
Her fists clench, briefly, and then her hands settle against her knees, her thighs now pressed together. Somehow, she feels more naked kneeling than she did sitting, even as her long hair falls in an almost covering cape around her, even as less of herself is on display as a result. There is no pretending, under his eyes, that she is naked by choice or by accident; there is no forgetting what he has done, and can do, to her. She bites the inside of her cheek, and holds herself tense, waiting.
no subject
Will she be hounded by nightmares? He considers the landscape of her rest as he regards her, as he observes her knuckled fists and her thighs pressed flush, each against the other. Her hair cascades before and behind her shoulders, beaten gold in the shimmying light of the torches, and he reaches to cut, with the edge of his hand, that golden veil back from her throat, back from her breasts. He cocks his head in unspoken deliberation - he might well cut her hair to the shoulders and be done with the sliding, shielding inconvenience of it altogether - but he makes his hand the only blade for the moment, gently sweeping her bare for his eyes.
The shift of her jaw, the thinning of her closed lips makes clear the bite she must be delivering to the inside of her own cheek, and he glides his gloved fingers up from the side of her throat, correcting her unseemly habit with a press from the pad of his thumb. A press that can, it promises her, adopt a much rougher schooling if she does not heed this soft warning.
"I know how anxiously you have been awaiting my return. Surely you have begun to understand the honor there is in belonging to someone of my..." he trails into brightly musing thought, squandering no word, wasting no finessed inflection of his voice, tolerating nothing which is not perfect, "...divinity. You must proudly wear your devotion, don't you think?"
He does not care to hear her thoughts upon the matter, nor does he make debatable the esteem he has chosen for himself. It does not matter that he has yet to be recognized by his own people as the Saint he has long known he is. She will know it, and she will have the distinct pleasure of being among his first and foremost supplicants.
Taking a step closer, abruptly leaving between them little enough opportunity for her to refuse, he does not lift his hand from her face. It is for her to do what work must be done, and for him to brand what is his. The hand which does not hold her head at the level of his hips rises to the empty air above her, a turning of his fingers working that hollow space with a slow caress, as if waking something which sleeps, and waking it fondly. And because he is benevolent, and because perhaps she will require straightforward instruction; or because he simply enjoys giving the command, because he knows she will find him, behind fastenings waiting to be done, generously roused, enticed already by his own threats lavished upon her:
"How starved you must be. You may take me upon your tongue."
no subject
Nor does she keep her disgust from her face, both at his touch and at his preening self-aggrandisement. She wonders, not for the first time, whether he truly believes the arrogant terms in which he casts himself; whether he really thinks himself divine, whether any part of him believes she should be honoured to be in this position. She is not immediately sure whether it is worse if he does, or does not.
But he moves closer, and the thought is gone in the sudden, sinking horror as his hand begins to move above her. She cannot see, held as close to him as she is, exactly what movements he makes; not even when she turns her eyes up, a gesture horribly like supplication, to try and look; but she can guess why he makes them, and how the shadows may even now creep and dance to his call, and despite all her courage, fear is a cold stone in her belly. Not fear that he will kill her - he will not, she thinks, be so kind - but, knowing he does not mean to kill her, fear of what he and his shadows may do instead.
It is almost a relief, then, to be given an order more earthly in its horrors. Almost.
"Starved animals," she mutters under her breath, "may bite." But she mutters it in Ravkan - clumsy, coarse, uncomfortable on her tongue - and she knows she will not. Cannot. No matter how tempting the thought, no matter how certain she feels that to geld him would be worth any torture he could return to her... it is not hers to choose. It is not, in the end, her life that he would take. He is not so just.
Her mouth is dry. Her fingers dig, once again, into her thighs, as though anchoring themselves against what they are called upon to do. There is a shudder of sick dread that runs cold and taut up her spine, to gather tight in her shoulders, to join the lump that has formed in her throat. She no longer tries to meet his eyes.
A duty. A duty like any other. Her fingers, when she finally summons the strength to move, feel numb and clumsy on the fastenings of his trousers. She can feel the heat of him through the cloth, the hard press of his cruel excitement. You have sworn before that you would suffer any torture for your people's sake. Then you must suffer this, too. A duty like any other. But it is not. In her heart, she feels that it is not. It is easiest to think of it in such a way, to see what he does to her as an unpleasant chore that must be done; but it is no such thing, and there is a sick humiliation and a bitter shame in every moment, no matter how she tries to tell herself she need not feel it. There is no honour in this whore's work, no pride in serving her people through debasement; and to please her captor in any way, least of all in this perversion of intimacy, is the bitterest gall of all.
And will you face the widows and the orphans and the grieving parents, and tell them that you could have saved their sorrow, at the cost of pride? Her breath shudders and catches in her throat, a ghost of a sob that she will not allow. She closes her eyes tightly, tries to force away her maiden's shame, and as his hard cock springs free, she thinks again, with violence: I will kill you. And when I do, I will geld you in truth.
It is a dream. It is only a distant dream. For now, she must summon her resolve, and open her eyes; and, faced with the ugly truth erect and purpled before her, she does as she must: opens her mouth, too, and grips lightly at the base of his cock, and - hating him, hating herself, hating every force that has brought her to this point - puts out her tongue to lay it against the underside of that hotly throbbing member, trying not to flinch from the heat and the salt-sweat taste of it. She can feel, where the smooth head presses against part-open lips, how his blood pulses; again, she is possessed by that thought: starved animals bite. How the blood would pulse, if she used the weapons still remaining to her; how he might suffer, how none of his dark power would remedy the violent emasculation of her teeth; what a fitting vengeance it might make. Would it kill him? Perhaps not, but he does not, in any case, deserve to die without pain; and whatever sigils and designs he etches into her fate with that hand above her head, could she not at least pre-empt with some well-earned retaliation? Starved animals bite. Trapped animals do, too.
She does not bite - does not, in fact, take him far into her mouth at all. Apparently taking him at his word, she settles for upon her tongue in truth; laves a long, broad lick against the smooth skin of his cock, and tries not to think about what she is doing.
no subject
If the temptation crosses her mind, it is too short-lived to catch on the tinder of hate. She has not collected enough dry, witless wishes for kindling. She knows that if she indulges her violent whims to draw his blood, it is not her own blood he will draw in turn.
Her disgust is undisguised on her face, though he has left her nothing with which to craft a disguise. She cannot feign bravery or indifference or a serviceable rage. She cannot feign the acceptance of a death he will not give her. She cannot combat him with defiance and her pride will not subdue her into a show of frightened compliance. She must simply live, and the whites of her fingernails scrape her thighs to flushed irritation. When she speaks, they are four words venomously retorted, but retorted all the same in Ravkan. She will not bite. She will be as any starved animal, and feed with pitiable abandon upon the scraps he tosses her. She will look to him for more.
More direction, more structure, more companionship. More acknowledgment, more praise, more satisfaction. He raises both brows - the appearance of impatience more than hesitation for what she has said, as that is a threat which, unlike her mouth, bares no teeth. Her fingers unfasten, rather inelegantly, the silver fastenings of his black trousers, and she is close enough that he can nearly feel the way her breath jitters, the hitch of reluctance, of aching resentment. He does not much care why she aches, only that she feels that visceral pang. Because she must, when faced with the fact of his twitching cock, also bear in mind the face of her uncle, of her brother, of those in her hall whom she had murdered with bound hands? Because while she may claim a certain morbid intimacy with him, a privilege few others share, she does not yet know the plain and simple satisfaction - distraction, corrupt fulfilment - of any pleasure won for herself?
The flat of her tongue fits up against him, guileless and plain, predictably hot. Her lips have only negligibly parted, and he supervises with dark, downturned eyes. Pleasure is not an exhilaration in its own right. The slow needling of taut muscle low in his back is a credit to the vision of her upon her knees, to the knowledge that she has undone his trousers without any coercion, opening her mouth around him because she has considered her options and chosen him.
Caution guides her, he decides - she will do what she thinks must be done, but purposefully, carefully, losing no more than she must, as if she toils under the delusion that she covets something which might still be lost. Nothing of her body, perhaps - nothing which will not, if does not already, imminently belong to him - but she knows that she may well still lose any of those who are still dear to her. Starved animals have an eye cast always toward the hand which feeds them.
The gloved hand writing calligraphy above her head has drawn to its fingertips a scalpel of shadow, and there is a gathering darkness which bleeds through at the base of the walls, reaching and curling like idle hands, awaiting their turn to serve. But it is only one focused point of shadow he needs, and he guides it like a poised pen between her shoulder blades, as if it yearns to write a thousand words. It is not, however, a pen, and her skin is not parchment; it is a piercing shadow, and it does not abide the sanctity of the human body. It grazes above her spine, through her hair, the ghost of a spur - her only flight from it can be forward, of course, though no flight will last.
Starved animals may bite, but first they will feed. It is the hungry knife of a shadow that he drags across her shoulder blades, slowly tracing a precise circle, and the fingers which hold her face, cradling as a lover might, apply a smooth, prying pressure, encouraging her jaw to open. She has seen for herself how deeply the shadows can be commanded to cut, as easily as a cleaver through mutton, and he smirks, for would that threat laid against her not make the proud reach of his cock seem the gentler choice? There is laughter yet on the measured edges of his voice, as if this were merely a bit of mischief pursued between well-met paramours.
"You wake even more a virgin than the day before, don't you?"
no subject
And the truth is, the sharp and cutting pain that sears suddenly against her back comes, more than anything, as a relief. It is not pleasant, of course; it brings a sharp sting of tears to the back of her throat, which must once again be choked away; and she can feel how her heart stutters at the sudden burn of it, the way her skin seems to prickle and draw away from the touch. But pain is simple, and clean, and understood; pain is a torture that she has always accepted without fear, and greets without uncertainty. Pain, she can meet with a warrior's stoic determination; in that, it stands far preferable to anything else he has made her suffer.
It stands preferable, too, to what is before her; and if she dared, she would throw herself back against the cutting knife of shadow, praying that it might cut deeply enough to bring an end to this charade. But she does not dare, because she does not believe that he would be so careless as to let it end her. She does not dare, because the charade is all that there is, now; and she hates herself for that cowardice, for not breaking free even at so high a cost; and still, she resists only for an instant his probing fingers before her mouth opens, and the hot weight of him is against her tongue. She does not flee the spur of sharp and piercing shadow against her back, and yet, even so, she shifts away from it, the muscles of her shoulders shuddering taut against his tracing blade, horror tight and aching in her gut as she wraps her lips around him.
His words are a fresh barb, one that brings the blood hot and high to her cheeks, a shameful reminder of all that she is not. There is a strange, paradoxical sense of failure in it, too - as though, amid all of this, what is shameful could ever be that she is too much a maid. As though she should hold herself subject to his judgement, where she is already subject to his whims. She has no reason to be shamed if, as a woman who has never yet been touched by loving hands, she is more a virgin than his games should allow; she has no reason to feel stung by so light a blow. Why, then, are her cheeks aflame? Why is she compelled by stubborn pride, before thought can master her, to take him a little further into her mouth, as though to prove him wrong?
She does not know, with the best will in the world, what she is doing. Her jaw itches to close, to bite after all; the pulsing heat of his cock bruises the top of her mouth, pins her tongue against the base. She tries to swallow, her mouth gone quickly from too dry to pooling with spittle; succeeds only in pulling him a little deeper. Her breath shudders around him, carrying a hint of something humiliatingly like a whimper. Her free hand has returned to her thigh, balled into a tight fist.
Pain, then, is a friend. Pain is plain, and familiar, and almost honourable. She closes her eyes again, and tries with all her might to focus in on pain.
no subject
But he is not so careless with his work. He will not have blade or flame or torturous device do for him what his own hands can do. As a painter guides the dash of color across the canvas, so he guides the shadow that draws like a razor across her skin. She will wear his eclipsed sun as his every other possession does, and he oversees the careful engineering of that unflawed circle, the smooth knifing of nimble shadow, with an impassive face. Incongruous with the fact that her lips are slipping further down the length of his cock, the swelter of her mouth made briefly musical by an escaping whimper.
The sleek black leather of his fingers tightens at her jaw, as if that sound had not entirely pleased him, and when he speaks, his tone is arch.
"I will not have your tears. Don't cry." There is no breach which suggests he might be persuaded from this decision; no catch of sympathy or untoward attraction at the notion of her tears. A mood never consistently forecast - what he decides he will have at one hour will not be patterned for the next. It makes no matter; all that need be of concern to her is that he will not have her tears now, like this. She will not whimper and whine with him in her mouth.
And within that unpracticed mouth are the machinations of a swallow, which she does not achieve: her saliva laving over him as a ready cunt might, the hungry design of tongue and throat drawing him deeper, her breath catching and tripping and spilling. His fingers curl beneath her jaw, pulling her forward while he lends himself into the hollow of her mouth. The ridged roof of it is a soft, wet grate, and her tongue is pinned beneath the thick throb of his cock, cushioning. This unwitting welcome hounds a darting satisfaction up his own spine, and he lets fall the shadows from his call once he has riven into her back a perfect circle.
The fingers she had lifted to him he brushes aside, the irritated gesture of one whose progress has been interrupted by an inept touch, and he brings the hand which had been puppeting the shadows to her hair, instead. There they sink and twine, kneading gently, as if she were an encouraged lover on the brink of praise.
She will find none forthcoming - he jerks her forward, fingers turning to a fist, those at her jaw closing in command. He has instructed her not to cry, and accordingly selects a topic of discussion which is naturally not open for discussion, one which he suspects she will not greet without tears, sooner or later.
"We are going to have a bit of company tonight, you and I. I have a Heartrender who will be delighted to see you, and a prisoner who will be happy to be out of his cell. A guard, too, who will be most grateful for the opportunity. Rest assured, of course, that as I am the first, I will also be the last."
no subject
His fingers tighten against her face, and he has the gall to tell her not to cry. She might almost laugh, if she dared. I will not have your tears - as though she would gladly give them. As though, in all this long hell and torment, she has not held them back; as though she has not fought with all her might to battle back the urge to weep, so that she has only allowed herself even a few hastily-shed tears when she is entirely sure she is alone. As though she did not force herself to watch dry-eyed when he slew her people and took from her all that she had. There is a special cruelty in making even this one matter where she has kept her pride, this one thing she controls, subject to his whims - and it is worse still because she does not know whether he does it on purpose, or because he truly has not noticed her forbearance. To find herself so accidentally aligned with his desires is no comfort, quite the opposite; it is the bitterest demand of all.
And it is, it soon transpires, not even one she can wholly keep. She does not weep - will not consider it weeping, for these are not tears of grief or rage or pain - but he yanks her forward, drives her onto him; and as his cock bruises roughly against the back of her throat, forces its way through tight muscle that will not gladly accept the intrusion, she feels the telltale burning in her eyes, a sharp echo of the bile that burns in her throat. She jerks and spasms against his grip, wracked by sudden, choking coughs, her throat tightening hard against the unfamiliar assault, and how, then, can she keep her eyes from watering? They are not tears. She does not weep. She simply cannot breathe, and for a moment - perhaps a merciful one - cannot even parse what it is he is saying, or fear what will come next, or doubt whether he will see that she does not weep. There is, for that moment, nothing but the animal instinct which tells her she is choking, and the jerking nausea which rises in her belly and must be forced down, and the blinding discomfort of breathless invasion as his hands tighten on her. All she can see, all she can taste and smell and feel, is the violent thrust of his hard cock into her mouth, and the pain in her back and in her chest and in her throat, and how her jaw is wrenched wider to take what she would sooner destroy.
And she does not weep. She does not.
no subject
With gray eyes fixed on her face, he watches as she consumes him as she is bid, and then watches still as her body startles, refuses, striving to expel the intrusion with wracking coughs. And with this bodily panic comes, of course, the shine of tears, and he studies her as she jerks, no doubt hoping her failure to obey his command will go unnoticed, or be taken for a lapse which was no fault of her own. For a moment he keeps his gloved fingers knotted in her hair, holding her forward to choke on the spearing length of him, a flicker of amusement lifting his brows.
She is, of course, too much a maid to know how to master her body's uncouth impulses, and he reaves forward, a low grunt punctuating its finality before he steps back, fingers uncurling from her hair, the others deserting their hold on her face. Withdrawing himself from her mouth, he leaves room enough to do only that and then delivers a crisp, backhanded slap to her face. It had been a simple enough command, not to weep, despite her inability to see it done, and he straightens the shining black glove on his hand once she has been reprimanded for her failure. It is then a moment more as he fastens again the trousers that had been undone, and as he restores himself to his proper bearing, he regards her with undisguised disgust.
Her concerted effort to never shed a tear has been plain enough, ever since their first meeting; that was a pleasure she had been intent to never easily allow him. Not as her people were slaughtered, and not as she was carted like a vaguely useful heifer to this palace, where she has at least found a simpler and undeniable purpose. She would give him nothing, if she could, and he looks upon her now as if she has failed even in this.
"Shall we tell your uncle of how you wept? What a pity that his last memory of you will be the proud White Lady, bleating like a sheep. He does so esteem your nobility and your virtue in his letters. He loves you dearly, and your brother, too. How their words bleed."
He makes to leave her with this, a temporary abandonment that coincides nicely with a tapping at the door, the arrival of their guests. A smooth smile makes fair the edges of his face, a glimpse of the charm he long ago learned to wear for court. He wears it now, as he turns to admit the company he has summoned for this night.
no subject
Not at his words, at least. Never at his words, which are lies: her uncle's last memory of her will be the last time they saw one another in truth, will be how he looked back at her when she stood proud and tall on the ramparts, her white dress flying like a pennant in the winds of her home, and she was undefeated. She will not think that they will believe she wept, no matter what he tells them. They must hold her in higher esteem, even if it is esteem for the maid who has perished little by little in this shadowed place; they know her too well, love her too well, to believe that she will break. And they have not seen her thus, naked and red-faced, doubled over on her knees as she gasps for breath, the reddening mark of his slap rising livid on her pale cheek.
They are alive. That, at least, she can cling to; that is a buoy in the tide of her fear and humiliation. Hope, from him, is only a way to twist the knife: yet it is hope nonetheless, to think that her uncle still lives, that her brother still holds the Hornburg. She cannot return, will never return, but they may yet survive. She grasps for that thought, to find strength in it. The Mark may yet survive. Her family may yet survive. What happens to her, then, need not matter.
She is still afraid. The mark sliced into her back stings and oozes thick, hot blood; there is a string of spittle clinging to her lips, and the tears have spilled over to track down her cheeks; and it has not yet begun. She knows that, with a sinking dread that clasps cold fingers around her spine. She is afraid, no matter how she tells herself not to be, no matter how she repeats to herself, like a mantra, that she is already dead and has no honour left to lose. It is a lie. She has clung to the shreds of nobility and virtue, and she clings to them still, and so he will tear them from her, and it will hurt far more than those cutting shadows could; for pain is only pain, but this humiliation cannot be withstood with grace.
She swallows, her throat still aching from his rough assault, and briskly scrubs at her tearstained cheeks before, her hair falling about her like a shroud, she raises her head to look up at whatever - whoever - is to come.
kagehira mika | ensemble stars
xue yang | mo dao zu shi | m/m
no subject
Abigail Hobbs | Hannibal | m/f
Cor Leonis - Final Fantasy XV - Open to Anyone
Dominance - 1 thru 4, 6, 8 thru 10, 12 thru 17
Genderplay - All; open for either Cor or his partner(s) to have gender-fuckery this time around.
Violence - 1, 5, 6
Anatomy - 2, 3, 7 thru 9, 11
Ageplay - All; hard no for anyone below 14 for this meme
Other - 1 thru 6, 8 thru 12))
Yuzu Hiiragi | Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V
Dominance: 1, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12
Genderplay: 2, 5, 6
Anatomy: 1, 8
Ageplay: Only 4, not interested in a large age difference.
Other: 1 (and 11, they’re the same, lol), 2, 3, 9, 10
cosette évreux | original | f/f
dominance: 1-6, 8-15, 17
genderplay: 5, 7
anatomy: 1, 7-8, 10
ageplay: all prompts1, 3,
other: 1, 3, 7, 9
other kinks can be found here! )
Ivar Ragnarsson | Vikings | m/f
Stiles Stilinski | Teen Wolf | M/M
Duo Maxwell | Gundam Wing | M/M
Alina Starkov | Grishaverse | M/F
Ash Lynx | Banana Fish | m/m
No bathroom stuff or vore. Ask about lactation or mutilation. Open to everything else.
Faves: breathplay, master/slave, master/pet, humiliation, addiction, sensory deprivation, multiple penetration. ]
Yamimasho Anubis | YST/Ronin Warriors | ota