Arnan

It's been three weeks since the ritual. Three weeks since the dreams started and That Presence would find itself snaking up the back of your spine, settling into your mind, warm and enticing. You can still smell the fresh loam on the air, the sharp, acidic bite of blood cutting through. You toss and turn as you replay the night over and over, watching from afar as you leaf through ancient tomes, draw sigils in the ground. The words falling from your lips were as foreign to you then as they are now-- a language that had fully inhabited you as it was spoken. Having something answer back still twists your stomach every time, even as your thighs quake, your muscles all tense in excitement. It's the thrill of looking over a cliff's edge, the delirium flooding your mind from reckless abandon. You remember being bidden to drive the knife into your flesh and feeling no hesitation at the thought. Even now, as the blade sinks in, hot pain filtering across your form, the groan you let out is nonetheless pleasured. The hilt is sticking only inches out of your stomach, your vision is wavering, your thighs are soaked with the spend of your rapturous orgasm. The Presence purrs in your ear. [[It wakes you with a feverish sweat]]

Your body is strung tight like a wire, still thrumming from the sure, sensual finger plucking at tension. You're amazed how easy it is to keep living past it, to know that you hit some measure of rock bottom and yet life just moved on. The peak of desperation still sometimes sours the back of your mouth, sucking at your molars in near-pain. You hadn't been rational, bringing home that book you knew was cursed. Actually paging through it, putting to practice some of its methods? That was practically a death wish, a thrill seeking addict careening right past the line. You don't want to look at it too closely, caught up in the thousand and one things that still need doing as each day dawns. You're not out of the woods, suddenly. Not stable. You still need to make due, put food on the table. So you tell yourself it's stress and lack of sleep and ache for how long it's been since the bed wasn't empty. That night was a fever dream, a hallucination brought on by all those elements weaving together to drag you into delirium. You're not dead, and you would have been had a knife sunk that deep into your sternum. The phantom pains you feel at your midsection are just that, traces from a vivd nightmare. His voice settling over you like a dense fog, seeping into all your pores and crevices, it's simply your imagination. [[You need a way to distract yourself->Initial choices]]

You're so close to getting the apothecary open. You've got a decent stock, enticing shelves. You finished repairs on the structure just last week and though it sure doesn't look pretty, it does the job. You've got people ready to put the word out, you just... need to take the plunge. There's only so long you can delay yourself with fear alone. Fear that a half orc behind the table will turn people away. Fear that your unique wares will catch only scorn. Fear that your decision to leave the tribes up North and try to make your own way was a fool's errand. Living life constantly waiting for the worst to happen isn't living at all, and your fathers would die to see you so tangled up in your own head. The only thing holding you back is you... But, you need still want a marquee item. You've convinced yourself the doors can't open unless you've got something no one in their right mind could pass up. All the trinkets and curios and staple components are fine, but no one will go out of their way to travel to you for eccentricities. You need something they have to have. //Then// you can finally open. Then you can put all those worries behind you and move on with everything as planned. [[There's this spell component you've heard of...]] [[You've been meaning to explore that ruin...]] [[You've got that supplier in the city...]]

Emberoot has gotten quite popular recently, high in demand. Not many bother to try and source it, not buying into the gold rush. It's hard to harvest-- thistles sharp as razors and with sap that sears the skin-- but it's potent for all kinds of charms, compulsions. You'd found a thatch of it in a little clearing, a half-day's hike through the woods. They're dangerous, but nothing you can't handle. As long as you're respectful, dryads will have little interest in dealing with you, and pixies can be vicious, but easy to please as long as you're willing to play along. [[It'll be worth it]] [[Maybe one of the others is smarter...->Initial choices]]

Everyone in town tells ghost stories about it, but you've never heard a peep from the rubble. In your experience, there's always something worth finding in places like those, and really what are the odds you run into some old spirits still territorial over their resting ground, or the elaborate booby traps meant to make sure no one gets there in the firs place? <span class='red'>[[They're just superstitious, it's easy money]]</span> [[It's too risky for today, better try one of the others->Initial choices]]

Laudak owes you a favor and you've been coy about collecting. He'd probably enjoy a visit, even if it's for some goods. You know you've missed coming to //arrangements// with the blacksmith's son. You never know who you'll meet on the road, especially in your current condition. Busy roads are always a prime target for bandits hoping to catch underprepared travellers, but the merchants and snake oil salesmen are no slouches themselves. Swindling doesn't only come at the tip of a blade. [[But if you never leave town, you'll never find anything worth having]] [[Maybe one of the options closer by would be better for today->Initial choices]]

You need to open the shop sooner rather than later, and your rapidly dwindling pockets really emphasize one over the other. You don't want your father's gift to go to waste, don't want to have to head back to the tribe with your tail between your legs. They would not turn you away, indeed you think your brood-father would love nothing more than to have you back, but you don't think your pride could survive it. You need to prove to yourself that you can do this, that you're more than everyone sees at first glance. So you take a damp cloth quickly to your body, trying to wash away the heat of the night, your dreams. They made you feel pubescent again, writhing beneath the sheets, waking up sticky and spent. Once the pressure was off opening the apothecary, you'd slake that need next, but you're sure a partner would do nothing but frustrate you in the moment. [[You get dressed in simple travel clothes, things you won't mind getting dirtied or tattered, gather your pack and make towards the edge of town]]

You need to open the shop sooner rather than later, and if you've got no stock, you'll do no buiness. That's an irrefutable truth. So you take a damp cloth quickly to your body, trying to soothe all the little aches and trembles that still coil between your muscles. The heft of your thighs burn as though you'd held them, spread open all night-- the chords in your shoulders straining like they had when you spent weeks building your storefront. They threaten to devolve into fits of twitching, but for now the minor attention keeps them at bay. [[You get dressed in sturdy travel clothes, things a little tougher to get dirtied or tattered, gather your pack and make towards the edge of town]]

You need to open the shop sooner rather than later, and if you've got no stock, you'll do no buiness. That's an irrefutable truth. So you take a damp cloth quickly to your body, clearing out the harsher notes of your musk and freshening the sheen of your skin. In your little town and day to day work, there's little need for making yourself up, but it's been a while since you've seen Laudak and you'd like him to imagine you doing quite well on your own. Not that he's the defintion of refinement himself, but it's defintely more fun if he's the one making a mess of you. Your sex is still humid and you know you'll get covered in a fine layer of dust during travel, but it'll just have to do for now. [[You get dressed in newer travel clothes, things you hope not to get dirtied or tattered, gather your pack and make towards the edge of town]]

The town is mostly quiet this early in the morning-- a grey tinge still hanging over the sky and a thin, cool mist not having been burnt off by the sun just yet. The packed dirt beneath your feet is cool and flaking, somewhere closer to half dried clay than usual. The occasional neighbor having risen to feed the livestock waves at you from beyond their fencing, polite smile betrayed by the ever present confusion at your existence in their eyes. Eventide wasn't exactly a burgeoning metropolis of industry or diversity, you wouldn't have picked it on your own. But your father still owned his old home here, he'd garnered a good reputation. The name Knell could still garner a wide range of respones from the goat herders and fishermen that made up the bulk of the town, but there was no doubt they all ended on respect. For now they've seemed relatively harmless, and so you wave back, give them an affable nod. If you don't give them any reason to be wary, they're not the kind to invent one. As you head away from the clifs, you've got a choice to make for your approach. The woods are well split between the fae and those far wilder. You can never decide which is more dangerous. The fae, to some extent, are infinitely more knowable. You can barter with them, pick out ther inclinations, but they're fickle and violent things. If you try and avoid them, you head into the older parts of the woods, where things decidedly less human make their home. You could run into nothing at at all. You could encounter a creature with which there is no arguing. [[The devil you know is always better, you can handle the fae]] [[You'll take a beast over a villain, your strengths were always more tactile anyway]]

The ruins are just an afternoon's walk west of town, nestled in a little valley few are keen to visit. Fog has a tendency to gather between the hills there, hang in the air long after the heat of the day should have burned it off. But the grass around it is still green, the air still sweet and crisp from the moisture. You figure it's all superstition doing the work-- the combination of the ruined buildings and the unusual weather-- whereas the two apart would draw little attention. Making your way there is as simple as taking a walk for a picnic, idling across slight slopes and crossing brooks that barely crest your ankles. It hardly feels like work until you crest the ridge above where the ruins are hidden, and the breeze at your back suddenly chills. The scance sweat on the back of your neck dries and itches, and though the descent is gradual, you get the tingling sensation of staring off the edge of a cliff. True to form, most of the structures below are hidden in dense clouds, though sharp edges and the occasional spire break through the mist. Moss has gathered between all the stonework and the earthy smell of damp, slowly rotting woods hits your nostrils. You know there will be something of worth there, even if it's just for historical interest or study. You just have to be the only one brave enough to go and get it. [[Better skirt around the outside, keep to the places people lived instead of worked. Better safe than sorry.]]

Going through the grasses is such an unnecessary risk. Your only time limit is self imposed and taking an extra few hours will be easily worth your life. You follow the well worn grooves of wagon wheels on your way to the next city over, swinging your feet heel to toe over the uneven ground, making a game of blancing yourself along the lip. With nothing much around to see and no one to talk to, your entertainment for the trip is your own to make. You were never much of one for getting lost in books, nor learning little songs to pass the time and please a crowd. Those flights of fancy had little use when you lived with your brood-father's tribe. They were no animalistic beasts as some would have you believe, but their living was spartan. Nomadic life made no room for trinkets or idle curiosities. You're glad for it, in a way. It helped you learn what truly mattered and what didn't, what was useful, valuable in this world. "You've got a good head on yer shoulders," is how dad coined it. You hope he was right. [[Losing yourself in these thoughts, time passes]]

Risk begets reward and if you learned anything from living with your brood-father's tribe it's that anything worth having better be worth fighting for. Besides, you're definitely the largest thing in your village, you doubt even those that consider themselves predators in these grasses could bring you down. Your orcish blood ran thick, making for a tall frame that was generously filled out. Decent muscles, plenty of mass. They'd have to think twice before trying to square up on you. Even without any formal fight training, you were confident in your ability to throw your weight around. The grasses bent easily beneath your feet, parting wide around your frame. They were dry this time of year, made loud, bristly sounds as they drew against your skin. If you were still one to partake in raiding parties, you know you could easily hide a whole cluster crouched amongst the stalks. For now, you were done with your bloodshed, eager to try your hands at something else. That's why you needed the shop to succeed, to prove to yourself that there were other things worth doing. [[You try not to worry away your entire afternoon on it, stay focused on the task]]

You don't snap back to yourself until the wagon is already near enough for you to make out its driver. One moment you're wondering if you made the right decision, if you'll really be able to make something of yourself out here, the next creaking wood of wagon wheels has you realizing you're not even sure how far out of town you've made it. Your feet are just starting to get tender, sweat has cooled and dried into slightly itchy patches on your back. The sun is higher and the softer, loamy smells of the country side are starting to lose their potency. The ground benath your feet is dry, packed hard, no farmers or livestock to till it. You idly make your way to the side of the road, come to a stop intending to maybe eat a little, take a drink and stock of yourself. It's dangerous to get so lost in your thoughts out here, anyone could have happened upon you, dumb to the world. But instead of ambling past your position, the cart approaching slows with you, then grinds to a halt at your side. The driver is an older man-- hair turned an austere grey, weathered eyes showing just a hint of cornflower blue between their ever constant squint. He's gone barrel-bodied with his age, but seems not to have changed his dress in all the years. His finer tunic and soft looking breeches are not so ill fitted as to be off putting, but perhaps draw even more attention than a different size or cut might. "Now, now, now. What's a fella like you doing all out on your lonesome? Don't get many... visitors from up North, usually," he speaks almost every line in a half chuckle, patronizingly familiar in that way uncles you don't often see, often are. You adjust your grip on your pack a little tighter, try your best to put on your polite and affable demeanor. Placid face, gentle words, bad posture. Make him focus on the human half more than the orc. "Oh, I've just got a friend expecting me for a visit. Lots of catching up to do." You rub the back of your neck, smile up at him so wide your cheeks almost push your eyes closed. "Oh no, no. It's much too dangerous out here on your own, even for a boy of your heft! That friend of yours ought to have escorted you," he leans over as he says it over-performs a sympathetic frown, as though you were a lost child. He scoots to the side of his bench, then pats the wood just vacated. "I'll just have to pick up his slack and show your pal how it's done." [[There's no way you're getting on that cart with him]] [[Humor him, a ride's a ride, even if he sucks]]

As the hours pass, you can't help but find your mind drifting. The very nature of this trip begs you to think on things yet to have any definitive answers. The sheafs of parchment, tightly bound beneath a floorboard in your room. That desperate night, the chill of the pigments painted on your skin. His presence. You don't even know //how// you know it was a he, but you're sure of it. His power loomed over you, breathing down the back of your neck hot and heavy. It was overwhelming and yet, you felt your folds wetten, your cock begin to slip free. The broken words that fell from your tongue were unholy, but reached a reverent pitch. Just thinking about it renews the wracking in your body. Your stomach turns, your nipples harden. You are in a tailspin over it, until it's broken by a rustle, a movement desynced from your own. [[When you stop it rushes to follow]]

You're being stalked. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck, floods your system with adrenaline. Your vision narrows, tunneling in, and your muscles tighten. The pricking of danger is a familiar enough sensation that you're comfortable to admit there's an air of titillation within. Carefully you tilt your head, searching for a more precise direction. You are eerily still in a way most would not expect of your kind. Moments pass and wind rolls its way across the grasses, bending them just a little, just enough. At once you just catch sight of an arched mane of fur, the heavy, pungent scent of a musk downwind. The pheromones are unmistakably animal and acrid. Gnolls You're not sure how many, how well armed, or long seasoned. Slavering, stinking. Beastmen, but suitably distinct. Their instincts might be more base, but they're not beyond reasoning. You've got to pick an approach and stick to it. [[Aggressive. Bite first.]] [[Placating. Everyone wants something. There's an agreement on the table somewhere.]]

You knew this was a possibility and you're not going to balk in the face of it. You take a second to breathe deep, center yourself. Dad taught you a lot of things, but the most pressing of which was fight with purpose. A focused sword was the sharpest one. You had only a dagger with you, never taking too well to the blade, but this was keen enough for animal hide. You feel yourself tense in time with the gnoll, the thread of violence connecting you now. You erupt. With a roar that sprays spittle, swinging your body wide, you throw yourself back at the scavenger. It cackles in surprise and glee, but rises to meet you, catching the sweeping knife against its own rusted, notched blade. For a second you are face to face, close enough you swap hot breaths. The muzzle of a canine. The fangs of a beast. A man's intelligence behind the eyes. You bare your own tusks at him, meeting in the middle together. His spotted coat is raised on end, his digitigrade legs digging into the soil for leverage. His tongue lolls from his mouth, slavering with excitement. You growl as you heave to break away from him, keeping your posturing. The creature might be taller than you were it not for its hunch, but he's a carrion creature, made to slink. [[Dive back in]]

He'll respect your dominance or find himself stuck by your blade. Alone as he appears to be, he seems no match. Unless he produces some unseen skill in contradiction to the state of his blade, you have him dead to rights. You both snarl as you clash, teeth gnashing in the air, grinding steel against steel. Sparks fly as the blades slide against each other, sweat gathering as muscles strain. The gnoll is quick, tries constantly to circle and gain a positional advantage, but he doesn't have enough power when he leaps to break your footing. You keep your center of gravity low, receive him with pure endurance. The longer you skirmish, the less he dives forward, the longer his tongue hangs. His panting heaves his shoulders forward, his sweat stinging in his eyes. His loping circles range wider, move slower. Eventually he stumbles, leg going out for just a moment. But it's enough. [[You pounce]]

You leap for him, forgoing your blade to body him to the ground. His yelp cuts through the air sharply, belying his acceptance of defeat. It is not one from a twisted joint, one calling for help. Instead it is the cry of something already begging for pity. As you hit the ground, he does not have the strength to struggle, splaying beneath you. You straddle him, pressing your full weight into his body, keeping him pinned. You can see the way it limits his breathing, feel his legs kick out on instinct, uncomfortable with the helplessness. For the first time you get to take a good look at him. Piecemeal leather armor strings across his chest, natural state frayed. A ravaged loincloth keeps him decent. You don't know much about them, but he seems young for his kind. Fur sleek and vibrantly colored, mane cut to roguish peaks. Scars etch across his face and hide-- some appearing to be from fights like this, others from the claws of his bretheren. He looks up at you as calmly as he can manage, not begging for mercy, but not egging you on either. [[Take his things as recompense]] [[Mark him your inferior]] [[Finish the job]]

All the time you would have gained from this shortcut was burned up, and now you'll be coming into the city drained. You need to rush to get there before nightfall and he'll pay for this inconvenience, but not with his life. You lean to pick up your dagger and press it to his hide, ignoring his whimpers. You wriggle the blade up underneath the thinnest part of his leathers, try your best to saw them neatly. With a grunt and a snap they come off his body, crumpling into a pile in the grass. Noting that he's still alive, he cautiously cocks his head in your direction, starts to worm beneath you, testing the boundaries. It's impudent, almost playful. It doesn't help much that gnolls are hard to read, always looking like they're grinning, sounding like they're giggling. You sit your weight down on him fuller, but it seems to only encourage him as he nows looks you straight in the face, half rolling in the grass. [[Let him free]] [[Take the loincloth too]]

What you do understand about gnolls is their reliance on pack dynamics, their instictual adherence to at least one kind of order. For all the chaos they represent to small villages, their hierarchy is implicit, and strongly held to. If you want a lasting victory over this one, you'll have to use their methods to make him bend the knee. You dwell on it only for a handful of seconds, baring your teeth at him to keep his neck turned. It'll end the fight with both of you alive, so you take it. One hand planted on his chest, putting just enough pressure to make him focus on it, you rise off of him. It's awkward and stilted to keep your attention him, reaching blindly to shuck off your breeches, but you get them to your ankles eventually, leaving them tangled there for fear of tripping over them to take them completely off. You grip the fur on his chest tightly in a fist, gathering it up the way you would a horse's mane to ride without bridle. He whines softly, turning to you face you now, nostrils flaring and eyes wandering down to your naked crotch. [[You take a deep breath, hoping you're doing this right.]]

It's no pleasure to take a life, but you know he's taken his fair share. You have to get back on the road quickly, having lost all your gained time on this. You certainly don't want to be caught out come nightfall. [[You make it quick and painless, clean your things on the grass before continuing on. ->The City is in Sight]]

It's not your job to teach this scavenger a lesson and you've already gotten anything that could be worth some copper from him, so you back off him quickly, just in case there was the possibility of retaliation. Instead he kicks and rolls for a couple moments, making a cloud of dust before leaping to his feet. He gives you a long, pregnant look, then scampers back into the long grass, chuckling to himself. [[You look after him until he disappears, then turn back to your path, bemoaning the lost time.->The City is in Sight]]

He still seems not to understand who's in charge and a little humility could do him some good. It's either a cruel thought or a childish one, but with the flick of the wrist you cut free his loincloth too. The fabric is tattered and raunchy, worth less than even the notion of taking as your own. But now he lies exposed. It's hard to perceive him as naked through the fur-- even though you can't help your gaze wandering down to stare at the plump sheathe and unevenly hanging balls you'd exposed-- and his demeanor certainly does little to reflect it. His panting comes perhaps a little faster, but his tongue is still lolling, little fits of laughs falling from his lips. He wriggles again beneath you, but now it feels different. He's not so helpless he couldn't make you fight to keep him pinned, but his movements now aren't meant to shake. They're restless, urging. You dig your hands into the fur on his chest, thinking you'll pull him face to face to ask just what he thinks this is. But when you drag him upright you can see the way he quivers at your roughness, and just the tapered tip of his red cock makes itself visible. It's glistening wet and so stark against the coarse, black fur of his sheathe. That hint of fever strokes over your body again and that voice from before, that deep timbre feels like a whisper in your ear, "Draw from him, little one. Drink deep of him, till it runs down your chin." [[Obey]]

The Presence feels heavy against you. Not like weighing you down, but enveloping you. The ghost of sensation hugs you from behind, gropes at your breast, slides posessively over the jut of your stomach before reaching down and inside. It happens in a second and then he is gone, but the words echo in your mind, and your sex sweats for attention. The gnolls seems not to have noticed any of the happenings besides the response of your body. Embarassingly he scents the air, his cock sliding a few inches further as wetness springs to your lower lips. His head tilts curiously before he nudges forward, pressing his warm, wet nose against your cheek. And when you do not bat it away, his long, humid tongue laps across your face, persistent and strong. You feel the prick of hesitation, and bleed of shame for how much you do not object. It feels good. You //want// him. And perhaps if it were not for the tall grass you would work more to surpress that. It's so hard to fit in here, to meet the expectations of everyone around you. You are half human, half of these people, but you feel more than a foreigner moving to their lands. You feel a foreign species not understanding their very nature. If they were to see you bedding a marauder, a canid, out in the open... But the gnoll wraps it's arms around you and you let your lips part in just a moment of weakness. His tongue lashes inside, pushing at the pocket of your cheeks and slathering across your own. You taste him and it makes you press into it, moan at the bestial way his drool wets your chin and cheeks. Just as you're starting to give in, it retracts, and you feel the padded flesh of his hands slide back to your shoulders, pushing you just a few inches away. [[You open your eyes, not realizing they'd closed]]

"Orc boy," his voice is raspy, thin. "Let this one pleasure you, you will be thankful. Trust." It takes a second for what he's asking to sink in. You're still unmoored from getting here in the first place, and then his stilted common... There's something eager about him, but not in the way some of your trsyts lead. He does not seem chomping at the bit to shove inside you rough and fast, finish without ever establishing a rhythm. He implores not to wet his own cock, but to let you lie back and simply receive. It feels rebellious to consider, but for a moment you're tired of always toeing the line, of living for those around you instead of yourself. So you strip off your shirt, then shuck your breeches. He licks his chops as he lowers you to the cool grass, eyes roving down your weathered, grey-green skin and downy, dark body hair. His paws press at your belly and then your chest, caressing your waist, your thighs, as though feeling out your form. "You would be good Pack to mount. Hearty body good for litters." He pinches at your nipples with a considering hum, as though imagining you nursing his pups. You lean into it, presenting your chest with a sigh. The orcs back home would surely not share such a sentiment, finding mixed kin more fragile, not sturdy enough to breed. You hadn't realized how much you'd like being told such a thing. "You would knot me? Pump me so full of your seed you know it would take? Make my belly swell with your wriggling pups?" [[You spread your legs wide, exposing the damp pubes covering your slit.]]

His ears fold at your filthy words, his shoulders hunching further to crane his long neck over you. The last few inches of his cock push past his fattening sheathe, and the veiny surface glistens with his excitement. His tail wags behind him. "Let me, let me, let me," he crackles, scrambling forward. His hands fall to your knees, holding them wide as he lowers himself between them. His breath is hot on the thin, tender skin, and you gasp as he presses his snout directly against your bush. He digs a little as he scents you again, snuffling at your slick before his thick, muscular tongue unfolds. It easily parts your swollen slit, worming in deeper. It brushes momentarily against your embedded cock, lancing sharp, electric pleasure through your body before settling into your cunt. It fills you easily, fat base of it stretching you open as the wriggling tip laps at your insides. The gnoll huffs, breath hard and fast against your mound, not withdrawing or relaxing his jaw for anything. His sharp teeth press blunt against the fat of your thighs and his warm drool pools in the creases. You groan for him, letting him hear his promise being kept, your mind flooding with pleasure. It's been too long since you felt anything but your own fingers, longer still since you've felt like you weren't holding back. You wrap your legs around his head, urgin him deeper, smothering him in your sex. He cackles, gripping the undersides of your thighs tight enough you can feel his claws, and continues licking. [[Your fingers find their way to his mane and you tug at the coarse fur, remembering how he'd first shown interest at your manhandling.]]

His tongue snaps out of you quick, harsh, and he yelps as he rubs his face in your stomach. You can feel his grin against your skin, his chest pressed tight to you. You're unused to a partner with such constant, restless movement, but he nudges at you for another tug, looking up with almost pleading eyes and ducking down to slaver all over the outside of your slit, coating you in his saliva. In that moment he's so much a canine repeating a trick in the hopes of another treat, and you've never been one that could keep from relenting. You thread your fingers deep into his fur and then //haul// him up your body, an unbidden smile springing to your lips as he laughs and jerks in his own pleasure. "This one never had strong bitch. Good, good, very good." His hands move to your waist and you feel him trying to make your bodies align. His torso is so long, even with the bend, and he seems unwilling to sacrifice licking into your mouth so he can finally fuck you. You roll up onto the middle of your back to help him, muscles straining as you wrap your legs around his torso, just under his chest. He looks at you with awe as he slides inside. "Strong bitch," he exhales, almost like a prayer, bottoming out, filling you up just to the line of discomfort. His paws dig into the grass, one arm shooting out for leverage, and he folds himself to start fucking you with strong, sharp thrusts. His fat, furry balls slap against your ass, sound cushioned by the fur. His breath is hot against your face, his musk heady. [[You tug him down for another kiss]]

And then he is licking and licking and licking inside you, with a focus and determination that makes tears spring to the corners of your eyes. He grunts with each rough hump, fucking you forcefully into the ground so your shoulders bend. For the first time he seems steady, enraptured in his current objective and sure in his movements. It's driven and single minded, and so fucking sexy. You feel your cunt sopping with pleasure, working to grind his knot past your lips. You can just tell the bulb will beat against the sensitive tip of your cock and you're desperate for it, begging him deeper with the grinding of your heels on his back. His teeth press marks against your lips, his tongue finding its way to the back of your throat, thick enough you're practically blowing it. He rakes his nails against your shoulders as he grunts and yips, pressing you hard into the ground as he forgoes his thrusts to firmly grind his knot against you. He's panting, drooling, sweating beneath his fur and you can feel his slender body quaking with the effort to give you what you want. Your chest tightens for a moment and then expands, beautifully and infinitely as you drink of his energy. You rub hard at his chest, stroke down his taut belly, and then feel for his cock mashed against you. Your fingers wrap just below the bulb of his knot and you //squeeze// them until it is throbbing. The gnoll screams loud enough you distantly register the sound of a flock of birds scattering to the wind before roaring in answer. You bare your tusks and let spittle fly as his knot finally pistons inside of you, locking you together just as you feel hot, thin ropes of cum gush inside you. [[You black out]]

For you it's an instant, but when your vision swims back into focus the gnoll is sat across from you, legs spread wide as he laps at his softening cock. His groin is soaked with fluids and he works with dutiful practice to keep the fur from matting. Your body is sore, wracked with the pleasant aches of having been used well, and you feel an echoed wetness between your own thighs. Unable to keep curiosity at bay, you reach down into your bush, feeling at his leavings. The canid spunk is thin against your skin, much of it having already run free from your cunt and down your taint. At the sounds of your rustling he turns back to you, dropping his little chore to crawl over and give you a few quick, sloppy kisses. You taste yourself and him on his tongue, and feel a twinge in your nethers that smarts. You laugh softly, ruffle his ears and return a few before moving to sit up. All at once the feeling of exposure filters back into you, making you keenly aware of your nakedness, the open air. You tuck your legs up against your chest and rub the back of your neck as the two of you observe each other in intimate silence for a few moments. "Runt. You call this one, Runt," his voice has taken on a new scratchiness after... all of that and you're embarrassed of the pride it gives you. You smile at him, nonetheless, give his neck an affectionate scratch. "I'm Arnan, and I'm really, very glad we didn't kill each other." You sit together a while longer before telling him you really must make it to the next town before sundown. It'll be a stretch at this point, but you'd rather not stop to make camp. [[You get dressed in silence, share one last, shy kiss, but don't look back as you move back on your path->The City is in Sight]]

The city is in sight and you know that you'll get there just in time. The breeze is cool against your skin, the air is fresh. This day hasn't gone exactly to plan, but there's not all too much you can complain about either. You're not sure what your fathers would think of your methods, of the lengths you're going to to get this apothecary off the ground, but you feel no shame or trepidation. They were never success oriented, driving at you to have great ambitions, but they always stoked your passions. Anything you had a passing interest in was something they became experts of overnight. They wanted what you wanted, and so you feel deep in your heart, they're gonna be happy no matter what you do. And that's what truly keeps you going. You want to pay it all back. You want to show them the fruits of their labor. One day they will have the physical proof of their investment of love, and that's what spurs you ever forward. [[You cross the next threshold-->End Card]]

You spread your thighs wide and close your eyes for a moment, needing to focus to start up your stream. Tingles flush through your body in little waves, relief almost rising into pleaure as you start to piss. A portion of your cock, just the size of your thumb peeks out from your slit, directly the steady, warm flow away from the heft of you dense bush and sagging sack. The stream splashes onto the gnoll beneath you and starts to soak through his fur, spreading dark patches like ink blotches across his hide. He mewls, but stays put as you continue to lift off of him, slowly letting go of your handhold and guiding the piss higher and higher. It crests the swell of his ribcage and starts flowing down, sluicing through the valley of his pecs and gathering on his collar bones before running down and off his shoulders. He rears back his head, not to get away from it, but to bare his throat. You stand fully now as you take his lead and walk forward just enough to soak up under his chin, breathing heavy as it spatters up past his jaw. You can see droplets coating his muzzle-- clinging to whiskers and running together on the black of his lips. [[It's a heady feeling]]

Away from the clinical notion of it and into the visceral feeling, you understand intimately now the power. Standing over him, naked and vulnerable, commanding not just his attention, but also his acquiescence? It sends more ripples across your skin, but there is no mixed sensation here. It is all pleasure. You feel more of your cock slide forward, unbidden, fattening up in the exposed air. The gnoll notices the movement and you watch as he makes pointed eye contact with you before licking at his chops, cleaning them completely of your piss. His loincloth jostles, and there's no need to guess at why. The tenting in the fabric becomes clear in seconds. Your stream stutters to a stop as new context bears down over the top of the scene, permeating the very air around. Suddenly it's charged. Suddenly the heat and open ground and animal musk take on new shades. That hint of fever strokes over your body again and that voice from before, that deep timbre feels like a whisper in your ear, "Draw from him, little one. Drink deep of him, till it runs down your chin." [[Follow]]

That voice, that dream of an idea. It's not even fully a person in your head yet, but the distinction is so clear. There is a Presence and it embraces you, stroking itself along your body like a cat, encouraging the thrill that's been taking you over. It's been so long since you'd partaken in a true rut, since you'd thrown all care aside and fucked in the open air only to slake your body's needs. Orcs had little hesitance around sexuality, eroticism. It was a need as basic as hunger, thirst. You'd worked so hard to bottle those instincts to better fit in around the humans, but now--. This opportunity laid out before you was one you would have never hesitated to take before. The moment you accept your desire, your cock fattens in full. Shorter than the average human's cock, but much thicker. The base of it is nearly the size of a fist, tapering evenly the entire length, covered in barbs at the tip. The flesh is a brackish purple, and as it flexes under the attention, the little quills quiver. Some find them much too rough, but others find no pleasure greater. They are not sharp, do not prick or tear, but are instead chitinous, rubbing inner walls raw. The gnoll does not seem intimidated by them, hazarding a move only to reach for his loincloth, slowly slipping it down his hips under your careful gaze. His sheathe is fat and black, heaving with his breathes. His own cock is half erect, bright red stark against his fur. He lets you look for a moment before rolling up on his back, resting most of his weight on his shoulders to put his hind legs in the air, moving aside his hefty balls to present the warm, leathery black of his anus. [[Take him]]

Invitation clear you rush forward, charging beneath him to hook his digitigrade legs over your shoulders and hefting him higher, nearly taking him off the ground. He yelps and then gasps a giggle in the near manic glee you so often hear from his kind, and you take a moment to stroke your hand over his furry belly before diving into him. Your nose mashes against his speckled taint, your tusks dig into the meat of his asscheeks, your tongue pressing thick and heavy against the skin of his hole. You feel his tail strain to lift at the touch and then start wagging as you lick over him with wide, wet swathes. His fur is short and coarse here before it turns to skin, and the way it's very nearly rough against your tongue makes you growl into him, sending reverberations deep inside. You can hear him panting at your ministrations, imagine his tongue lolling, eyes rolling back as you eat him sloppy. His musk is thick here. With his balls sagging over your nose and his warm taint pressed tight against your nostrils, you gulp in his canine sweat, wet fur, your own piss. It's raw and base and makes your blood pulse fast and hard. [[You miss this]]

You used to fuck and get fucked by your clansmen indiscriminately, often at the end of long days. Dirty and sweaty and often even bloody from a hard march, tenuous fight. There were no fine, sweet oils, hours of preparation, tucked up beneath the sheets of a bed. You push your swollen tongue past a ring of muscle and taste //inside// this gnoll and it's evident how much none of that exists anywhere near his life. A somewhat familiar, earthy flavor soaks into your tongue and your eyes slowly flutter closed as you start to drool into him. You know if you were to remove it now it would be stained and you pull him tighter to you for it. His legs wrap around your head and you tug at the fur on his chest, making wet, filthy noises as you slurp and suck at the ring now bearing down on your tongue. He has probably never known but to fuck any other way and it makes you want him more as your cock drips against his back, eager to be inside. You give him one last dragging lick before you pop off of him with a squelch, cheeks covered in your own drool, tusk marks pressed into his flesh. You lean forward to lave your tongue around his gleaming cock a few times, just to taste, kissing the fat swell of his nutsack, before lowering him back to the dirt. He cocks his head at you, spread eagle, and gives an excited little cackle as his tail kicks up dirt. You crawl up his long body, aligning yourself at his entrace, and let him scent at your breath for a moment when you come face to face. He huffs loud and fast, curious, and after getting his fill of investigation, starts to greedily lick back. You are caught off guard momentarily by the size, dexterity, and sloppiness of his tongue, but then groan into it, licking just as forcefully against it. Saliva drips between you as you do something less than kissing, but more than just tasting one another. [[You piston your hips to push inside]]

You grunt hard as you fuck inside of him with a single stroke, widening him considerably, but not travelling very deep. He yelps in surprise, but then pants happily, clawing at your back for purchase. You feel your spines flex and swell as you start to undulate, rocking your hips in a circular motion. They rake across his inner walls, making his hole fluctuate and spasm at the hard, fine roughness. You can feel him squirm underneath you as he tries to acclimate to the sensation, likely so different from the canine cock trapped between your bellies. At the thought of it, you reach down to search for it, grasping him in a meaty palm and stroking at his veiny dick. It's so, so wet, dripping with a thin precum, and he bucks when you pinch the flared tip or squeeze at where his knot is still trapped inside his sheathe. You growl into him as you smack your hips against his ass, the fur cushioning the sound and reducing it to light puffs of air as you fuck. Your sack is heavy as your balls beat against the small of his back, letting him feel the potency of your breeding. Soft, little yips start to squeak out of him on every thrust, his wanton licking abandoned as he throws his head back, baring his piss soaked throat. You grip the base of his tail with your free hand, yanking on it to make him yelp louder, clench tighter around you. You can feel your spines exhausting his insides, making them flutter and quake with overstimulation. You hold his legs open with your thick thighs, nearly pinning his knees with your own. [[Sweat starts to bead on your hairline and you can feel your taint twitch]]

As you feel your balls start to draw up, the gnoll's cock fattens in your first, engorging itself those his knot still doesn't pop free. His little whines break into cackles and as they get breathier and more strung out, you hear them rasp into words. The common is broken and gasped, but for the first time you hear him speak, "Bitch, bitch, bitch! Yes, good! Make Runt bitch." His desperate begging kicks your desire into overdrive and you feel the fire in your belly burn that much brighter. You dig your feet into the dirt to fuck him harder, keep your spines flexed and swing hard to let him feel all four of your balls smack meatily against him. Your groin is messy as your own juices leak from the narrow gap between your cock and cunt and you can feel it closing as your orgasm starts to build. If he were orcish, you'd be trying to breed him, feeling your cock widen to pass your eggs. Instead you stay slightly loose, drenching him with stickier and stickier slick, making a sloppy wreck of his ass as you surge into him, half tackling him as you fuck at a pace to push over the edge. You dive forward as you start to feel it cresting, burying your face in his bared throat, opening your jaw wide to bite down on him, hard. Your own piss gushes from his fur and you feel his tender flesh jerk inside your mouth. Your tusks nearly break hide and you know you'll have left marks as he screams beneath you and starts to splatter you both with his watery canine cum. Your own, viscous seed gushes into him moments later, spattering his inner wals and sticking thickly to them. You feel him relax as it instantly soothes the battered flesh from your spines and you snarl you froth it inside him. Microbubbles of your own spunk mat your bush as start to slowly come to a stop, nostrils flaring. [[You let his throat drop from your mouth like a soaked pelt]]

Both of you sit back as you try and catch your breath, collapsing just inches from each other. Your mind fuzzes in the post fuck haze and for a while you just stare at the open sky, fluids cooling on your skin. Eventually you feel him nose at your thigh and your focus comes back to you in a snap. You jerk into a sitting position, blushing as you take in the mess on both of you, the dank scent still heavy in the air. The gnoll grins toothily at this, snuffling at himself and then you before lolling his tongue out in pleasure. You can't help but smile back and reach out to affectionately pat at his head, running your fingers through his mane a little as he takes to it well. Calmly you take his loincloth from where it was discarded in the grasses, and noting it's already raunchy state, use it to clean the filth from your cock before letting it slide back into your slit. He doesn't seem to mind the wetness, nor the new dark stains as he slips it back on before jumping to tackle you again. You let him lick into your mouth and lazily meet what kisses you can before gently pushing him off. "You've made me late, you rascal. I'll have to strain myself if I want to make it where I was going before nightfall." "You bitch Runt again. Again, again." He struggles around what words he seems to know in the common tongue, not seeming to be pressuring you for another round, but saying little else. "Hey, if you're still here when I come back in a couple days, we can definitely do this again." He nods along, though you're not sure how much he catches, before scrambling to his feet. He gathers up his things and then turns to point in the direction you came from, muttering another few rounds of broken common. "Runt you bitch. Runt wait." You hope you didn't throw him off his own course too much and smile and nod as you patch him on his chest, laughing at the way he goofily grins at you before loping back off into the tall grass. [[You turn to your own destination again, groaning at the time you lost->The City is in Sight]]

You don't want to risk any sudden moves. You can always change tactics if shit goes wrong afterwards, but if there's a chance of talking it out? You'd rather not bleed out in the long grasses before you even really get the chance to try and make this work. So you raise your hands high, drop your pack to the ground. "Whatever you're looking for, I can get it for you. Food, coin, trinkets. No one has to hurt for this!" Your voice is steady, but you work to keep it softer. Any words falling between tusks have a tendency to be taken as threatening, but it's worth a try. The grasses rustle at your side, and you turn slowly to face them. The movement is cautious, comes in fits and starts, but the frame making its way to you starts to fill out, take a clearer shape. Relief floods through you when it becomes clear there's not a whole pack waiting, when no rallying howls break out across the hair. Inquisitive huffing, the padding of paws circling your position. The gnoll is taking it as carefully as you are. "I'm just trying to make it to Hazelmouth, to see a friend. I've not got much, but it's enough to share between two." You hope their scavenging is a bit more desperate than usual if they've not got pack, send a prayer to anyone or anything that's listening. [[The grasses part]]

The gnoll that lumbers forward is a ratty thing-- fur matted and body edging on reedy. Bare patches show pink skin where swords sliced, and teeth tore. The battles he's been in look like more than just the average raids. Tattered leathers are strung around his chest and shoulder in an arrangement that can't offer much protection, and his loincloth looks a fairer sight worse than that. He lets you look him over as he stands, sheathing the rusty and pockmarked sword he'd had drawn as he stalked you. His posture is severely slouched, but even bent as he is, he's taller than you, long neck making his face loom. When his lips pull back his grin looks almost manic, showing off his sharp teeth and long, lolling tongue. He scents the air in your direction again before dropping to all fours to circle, eyes heavy in the way they drag over your body. "Runt want food," his voice is scratchy and thin, yet menacing as he stumbles a little around the unfamiliarity of common. "Runt want fight. Runt want fuck." His eyes flick up to yours at the last request, testing the validity of his demands. You try your best not to react. Admittedly, you hadn't thought that would be on the list, but he's lucky he asked it of you and not one of your puritanical neighbors. You've never been with a gnoll, but the idea doesn't send you reeling. The orcs that raised you were much more... open minded about that kind of thing. Though that would imply they gave it much more thought than what was true. As long as whoever was involved enjoyed it, they couldn't care less what you fucked. [[Still, you feel there's at least a little haggling to be done.]]

You're not completely helpless, nor frightened out of your mind of him. He's just one creature, and even with the height difference, you've got plenty of weight on him. One good tackle and you know he'd be pinned. You hold your palms out to reassure his safety, but then lower into a crouch and reach for your bag. He watches you with narrowed eyes, stopping in his tracks, but allows for the movement. You make a show of digging through it, hemming and hawing as you peek inside. There's road rations, sure. There's trinkets he might kill himself trying to use. There's more than half your savings in case you find stock you just have to bring back to the store... but he doesn't have to know that. "Let's not get greedy, eh Runt?" If he asked to fuck, you hope in the least there's something about you he likes, beyond being a warm body. So you grin back at him, even flash a wink. He looks a little taken aback at first, but then ducks his head, looks up at you even more suspicious. You might just be reading into it, but you swear there's a tinge of hopefulness too. "Tell you what, I'll let you have one thing from me now, and maybe you can find me for the others later." [["Fresh baked bread, nothing better. You need to bulk up if you want the others."]] [["Fights are more fun when we both know we'll survive. First blood wins, loser's gonna have to work on those other two."]] [["Let's both have a little fun, huh? Day goes down a lot smoother when you've had a little afternoon delight."]]

His ears twitch and a low rumble travels from his chest, out between his clenched teeth. He looks for a moment like he'll argue, like he feels cheated, but then you produce the roll. It's not warm, the shine from the bit of butter glazed on top has been reduced to a cloudy smear, but there's still a crackle to the crust when you gently squeeze it. His growling stops abruptly, his tongue slipping free to messily lick at his chops. He looks up at you, down to the bread, up at you. If his frame says anything, it's that his scavenging comes from necessity. He gives you one last, long look and then pounces. His entire jaw envelopes your hand and his teeth prick at your skin, but don't break. You feel his warm, strong tongue snatch it into the pocket of a cheek and then he scrambles back. He hunches a few feet away as he gnashes at it far too quickly to taste much, giggling as he revels in his miniscule feast. He's almost boyish in the way he so sloppily and eagerly wolfs it down, tail wagging before he catches himself. As soon as it's gone, he freezes, almost comically shooting a look back over his shoulder before hopping back into his prowling stance. "Runt finds later. Fuck and fight." He draws close enough to rub against you, almost like a cat, breathing down your neck for a moment. He growls low in your ear and then slowly laps once, twice at the side of your face before sprinting off into the grass again. You smell like a barnyard now and your stomach will whine before you make it to Laudak's, but it's a cheap price to pay. [[You gather your things back out and spare one last look back before heading along your way.->The City is in Sight]]

His grin turns sharp again at this, and he pulls away from you to stand and draw his sword. A gleeful, bubbling laughter builds in his throat and then spills out of his mouth, pupils blowing wide. You can't help but answer it with a smile of your own, pulling out your dagger and taking a wide stance. You feel your body tense for a moment, swear you can sense the adrenaline lying in wait. The both of you crouch and then pounce. Your blades clash with the ringing scrape of metal and you try to push him off with raw strength your dagger catches in one of the notches along his sword. The two bite at each other with a harsh grit and you both pull away from it, brows furrowing before manuevering again. He is fast, scampers in ways that are hard to anticipate. He has a frantic energy that always keeps you on your heels and you get a taste for how dangerous a pack of them could be. Imaginging his kin nipping at your heels as you try to focus on him is a sobering thought, but you try to win out through sheer endurance. There's a definitive air of desperation about him, he's not as strong as he could be, but you were never a master of combat either. It's hard to look for an opening, to know just how to press your advantages. You can feel your muscles threatening to cramp and ache, know if it goes on too long you'll be exhausted for the rest of your trip. The anxieties start to fill more and more of your mind, and you can feel your focus slipping. The awareness just helps the panic rise and you see the moment you know you've lost. He fakes your guard with his blade but then lashes his head out, jaw wide. [[His teeth scrape flesh, and with them splatters blood]]

You put your pack back down and slowly start to strip, naked skin pebbling against the wind for a brief moment before the sun warms it again. You're no stranger to being bare against the great, wide open, but it feels particularly revealing now. Your soft, fat nipples stiffen with the sensation of being watched and your hairy thighs tense. Runt tries his best to stay wary, but stares openly at your body, immediately starting to tent his ratty loincloth. You move towards him steady and cautious, crawling across the grass. He backpedals as you near him, falling back onto his ass, but then staying put as you move over him. The length of his body has you straddling his sternum to come face to face, but it's worth the little, moony look he gives when you take his head in your hands. You rub at the plush fur of his ears, massage into his scruff with your fingertips, then cup just below his muzzle. He's already panting by the time you lean that little bit forward to kiss at his open mouth, and he whines soft and high as he returns it. His tongue is strong and dexterous as it fills your mouth and you take to just leaving it wide as making out seems mostly like just licking back. His paws come up to hold onto your waist, leathery pads rough from weathering. You reach blindly behind you to fish for the ties of his loincloth, stretching to get a handle on them. It comes away easily and you break your mouths away to slide down his body. His fur is pleasant kind of rough against your skin-- stimulating, but not abrasive. You leave a shiny trail of slick down his belly from your slit and he squirms in delight from it. [[You cast your gaze downward for a moment to line yourselves up.]]

Minute pain flashes hot across your skin, but instead of fear or anger, it blooms into a full flush. You've felt... excitement at battle before, chased the high of victory with adrenaline fueled lust. But this is different. This is that ache from last night flaring at the touch. You feel his presence seep into you like a venom, pulsating in your blood. You throb not with a headache or a sickness, but a feverish desire. Runt wheels back to crow his victory, mouth stained, but all it takes is one glance, one scenting of the air and he knows. He cackles a laugh again and prowls back to you, now with a steady gait that belies his confidence. "Runt win. Orc boy fucks win." His sparse vocabulary doesn't hinder his smug tone, his almost chiding eye. You want to tell him it's not like that, you're not some maiden to be won or prude that only takes a certain type. But that's a waste of words. You only want to speak one thing. "Strip." You fall to your knees and Runt scrambles to untie his loincloth, greedy as a virgin begging for their deflowering. When the filthy fabric smacks the grass, you're hit full in the face by his musk. His balls and sheathe are covered in a short, coarse black fur. They fatten before your eyes, the arrowhead tip of his red cock slowly starting to peek out into the air. Sweaty fur is pungent in your nose, the dank earthy scent of it cut by the sharp saltiness of his sex. Already slick with thin precum, you can taste the bitterness of his fluids before you even lean forward. [[You look up to his face only once, keeping eye contact for a long beat before rushing forward.]]

His fur is simultaneously rough and silken on your cheeks, a bewitching mixture as you move with and against it at any given point. His fat, fleshy cock barely fits between your tusks as he instantly rises to hardness in your mouth, flexing on your tongue. Down here his innocuously strong, pastoral scent takes on a sordid tinge. Much in the way a man's work sweat can be relatively clean, but the mid-fuck perspiration dripping from his nutsack is deliciously foul. Runt is unwashed and uncaring and steeped in the enjoyment of his own pleasure never rinsed. Many orcs who preferred to breed stank of something similar, wanting to denote how much they enjoyed the spread of their seed, and your mouth waters at it. Tusks have always made oral messy for you, but as Runt starts to grind and pant, you soak his groin with your saliva. Strings of it make a mess of your cheeks and nose, mat his fur. As you gag on his girth it starts to froth and foam, but you don't pull back. Runt's own tongue steadily streams his drool, hanging low out the side of his mouth, and little fits of disbelieving giggles wrack his form. If a cock could taste gamey, that's how you would describe his, and you slather your tongue all over it, dipping into the divot on the top to sample straight from his piss slit. You grunt into him, snottily gulping for air through your nostrils and breathing him in deeper. [[He starts to thrust his hips, fat nuts slapping against the underside of your chin]]

His precum flows more steadily onto your tongue, and you can feel it thickening as you drink it down. He's getting close and you feel your brows drawing up in the anticipation of tasting his full, heady nut. You run one of your hands up his torso, fingers digging deep into his coat to feel at his belly. His cackles grow louder and he bucks at the touch, claws flexing at his side where he's straining to keep them. Your other hand tries to cup his balls, struggling to hold them both even with your wide palms. They feel so heavy even as they draw up and you try to be tender as you squeeze at the fullness of them. The essence of his musk is right there, thickest at the mouth of his sheathe, the tiny mane of fur along the seam of his sack. You run your fingers through it, imagining that you could tug and draw at them, that you could milk him for his spunk like they were udders. You groan as you audibly slurp at his cock and his laughter turns to sharp, hungry barks. When you slide all the way down him, flaring your throat to take him all the way in, you can feel a bulb growing at the base of his dick bottoming out against your lips. You could never unhinge your jaw around it, but the idea of trying makes the lips of your slit so wet you know you're staining your breeches. [[You've never cum from giving head before, but you swear your cunt is humming with pleasure, one deep, dirty frigging of fingers from gushing]]

Your inner walls are sweaty with slick, slit flush and fattened. You know without touching that the lips are tender, near to the point of aching. It's right on the edge of uncomfortable, a sensation you've not felt often. Whole afternoons spent pleasuring yourself as a teen, losing weekends to your first, ravenous lover. You shouldn't be this pent up. It's been... a bit, but--. You actually whine when Runt reaches out to hold at your tusks with a few fingers, gently prying your jaw just that little bit wider so you can taste the leathery pads on his paws. You want him, but unlike any man you've wanted before. Not in depth, but in flavor. You have simply taken a man for his body. You have found yourself smitten. You have even fucked to show appreciation or respect or even pure boredom. You can feel tinges of those things for Runt, but they are buried under a sea of craving. You want to drink of his seed like it's the sweetest nectar, like there's nothing else in this world that could sate your sudden need. You dig and pull and draw at him like sucking marrow from a bone and you can feel the moment he finally gives in. His furiously wagging tail goes stiff. His babbling laughter chokes off. His balls draw tight and his sheathe engorges and you feel the way his dick tenses before he starts to shoot. The first rope splatters down your throat, providing little but the aroma of his spunk. You hurriedly pull back before the next and moan as it then splashes on your tongue. Thin and watery, but soaking into your taste buds and making your eyes roll back. You mewl as you suckle at the tip and the next jet is so forceful it makes your cheeks bulge. Your lips puff, spraying a foamy spittle as you almost pull off, but Runt grips your hair to hold you latched. You drunkely moon up at him, trying to convey thankfulness as his dick pulses and pulses again. You could not take his knot, but it popped regardless and he shows no signs of stopping. Cum dribbles around your tusks, out the corners of your lips. You gargle as you try to swallow it and lose all focus when you hiccup and feel it start to drool out of a nostril. [[Happily, you drown]]

You lose time and all coherent thought for a while. You're aware of neither the breeze on your body nor the sound of the world moving on around you. You're suffused with a lethargic, contented comfort like a babe falling asleep on the teat. Your eyes don't close, but completely unfocus, your body slumps, slack, and your mind fuzzes. You come to first feeling Runt's wet nose pressing at your cheek, then the tacky itch of your unwashed sex bristling mild discomfort. As you stir, Runt pulls back with a huff, and starts-- or rather, continues to-- try and clean you. His tongue makes sticky sounds as it cups around pools of his own spunk and you blearily take note of his own soaked groin, still naked, his filthy loincloth abandoned on the ground, sodden with seed as he'd presumably tried using that first. You let his grooming continue for a moment before gently pushing his muzzle away and rising to sit. He cocks his head to look at you with worry, licking his drippy chops clean of cum, but doesn't press. You sit in silence for a while as you take stock of yourself, the situation, and come to terms with feeling... good. Your body feels relaxed and loose, you're not tired or worn. Runt's fur is sun warm against your skin and you let yourself nuzzle into his nape a little. Here he smells almost close to loam and the freshness makes you sigh. You enjoy it, for a time, knowing you have to make it to the city before nightfall. Eventually you both stand, and as Runt watches you get repacked, nervously pacing, you can't help but throw him one last bone. Right before turning to leave, you lean into him, pull on his fur to make him crane into a kiss. His is warm, huge against your own, his teeth awkward. You've never kissed someone with a muzzle, but he gives a little, excited yip and it's nice. You ruffle his mane before parting and only give one, last look behind you before setting back on your path. [[Somehow, you don't feel at all as though you lost that fight.->The City is in Sight]]

His sheathe is fat from arousal, covered in a short, coarse fur like his balls. The black of it is cut by the slick, cherry red of his pointed cock pushing free and you allow yourself the idle curiosity to play with it. Your fingers slide across the fleshy arrowhead tip of it, not unfamiliar with its particular nakedness. Humans and so many others have different skin around their cock. It is not so much a bare organ like canids, orcs, or even dragonborn. You glide down the hot flesh of it before your fingers hit fur. There is a slight resistance at the lip of Runt's sheathe before the supple skin gives way and you slide deeper probing at the wet, silken inside. It is somewhere between a foreskin and a cunt and you hum as Runt wriggles beneath your ministrations, tongue starting to loll. You bury your face in his chest, nuzzling at the fur that so dutifully traps his animal musk. This close you smell the sweat of his skin trapped underneath, the dirt caked in to try and keep him cooler. You slide around on it before finding the jut of a nipple, and brush aside the fur to get at it, latching on with a tight suckle. Runt yips and brings his hands up to run through your hair, holding you there as your own cock starts to slip free. You rub it against the little, long haired pelt on the seam of his balls-- marking him up more-- before sliding it upward so your dicks can grind together. [[Your hands slip free of his sheathe with a stringy, foamy mess of pre webbing between your fingers.]]

You use both of them to stroke your cocks in unison, groaning at the way they bump and glance off of each other. They are similar in shape, but where a bulb starts to swell at the base of Runt's, yours makes spines around your tip more evident with the flow of blood. Pale barbs stiffen with a chitinous edge to them-- not sharp, but chiseled and unyielding. They press with a rough intensity that is known to bruise, but in the way that is often associated with a pleasure so great it pushed into overstimulation. You rut them against the canid cock beneath you, wanting Runt to feel the pleasant, raw ache of an afterglow with an orc. He whimpers a little, but does not stop his own rhythmless humping, hunching his back to get the best angle and fucking your slick dicks against each other with abandon. You grope at handfuls of his fur, hold his thighs wide, reach beneath you both to fumble your flying sacks together to feel the fatness of your balls slapping. Your pubes have started to mat in the mess, your hands wrinkling from being so soaked. The pungency of sex smothers the fresh air and both of your frenzied grunts carry along the wind. Runt reaches for your ass to knead at the generous flesh and also stuff you infinitesimally closer, wrapping you up with his thighs. He curls his hunched neck to lick at your face again and his breath is hot and wet against your skin. He more drools against you than anything else, but you continue to press into him, feeding into the frenzy you've both reached. [[You can feel a fever pitch building, a fire foreign to you blazing across your skin]]

You're no stranger to an impassioned fuck-- to fucking a partner across the floor, breaking a sweat lost in your own masturbation, so eager for it you'll risk getting caught-- but this is no tryst. You feel as though you're galloping towards something, as though you're in a desperate rush. That presence that is totally alien to you, but so unique that it is instantly recognizable rears its head. It spurs you on. //He// wraps himself around you, urges you on, smacks your ass like a horse being urged into a sprint. Sweat drips from your hairline to brow to nose, dripping off of your lips. Your thighs quake from trying to keep the pace, your cock wet enough to fuck multiple partners bare. You feel like the tension between you is going to boil over, like the two of you are going to erupt against each other, feeding the fire into a blaze. You want to. You want to feel the sear against your skin. You want him to fuel you like an accelerant. "Harder, more, fuck!" You scream for him and Runt balks at first, but then dives forward, licking a wide swathe up your entire torso and around your shoulder. His maw opens around you and slavers against your skin before he clamps down, sinking his teeth into flesh. You tangle your hands into his mane as you groan so loud your throat is raw, clutching him to you. Latched so deeply onto you know, he uses his bite as leverage, fucking you with an abandon that would lead most to thinking you were being thrashed. [[You clutch onto him, unable to do much more but take the crashing of your bodies like waves against a cliff]]

You let the battering become mindless and sink into it, losing track of when you even tip over the edge. All you know is the relentless role of your frames, the way your muscles slap and your skin sticks. His fur rubs you raw. His teeth sting you numb. He flips you over to fuck you into the dirt as gouts of his cum spray up your body to splash on the underside of your chin. It mashes between you, sticks in your hair. Your sweat mixes and your musk coalesces and there is little intimacy in which you do not comingle. Your breaths cycle between each other and every moan or whine is sympathetically echoed from the other. You're not sure when, but eventually your fucking slows to grinding, stutters to overstimulated twitching, collapses to a sticky, exhausted afterglow. Your chests heave counterpoint to one another, one always filling the space between. Out of sheer lethargy your foreheads dig almost painfully into each other and you can feel his weight slowly pressing you into the dirt. You sit in it, stunned, until the shadows have changed their angle. Runt pulls away from you with a squelch, coldness instantly waking you from the easy space you'd been inhabiting. You're both bruised, shaky on your feet, slow to dress. But eventually you stand opposed again, smiles just as tenuous as your steps. You press your temples together for a long beat and then turn to leave in unison, slowly working back to pace. [[You'll have to dress your bite in town, and hope Laudak doesn't ask any questions.->The City is in Sight]]

To think of him as harmless just because he was middle aged would be a disservice to your own intelligence as much as to all the men you know even older that could more than handle themselves. As innocuous as humans like to present themselves, they invented the phrase, 'no good deed goes unpunished' for a reason. He could want to rob you blind, teach you a lesson, any manner of things. You try to be nonchalant about putting your hand to your hip, resting it on the sheathe of your knife. "I could actually use the exercise, us orcs weren't built to be sedentary," you try not to sound flat as you say it, go the extra mile to jiggle your gut a little on his behalf. His eyes are flat as he watches, and there is a long, long moment where the two of you just stare across the expanse at each other. Luckily enough the clopping of hooves is what breaks the silence-- travellers coming from the other direction. "You're missing out, boy." His tongue runs along his bottom teeth as he considers you for just a mite longer, but then he takes his reins back up, snaps for his horses to start back up their pace. [[You let him get a fair amount of distance ahead of you before heading out again yourself, now laser focused for the rest of your journey.->The City is in Sight]]

You're more than able to handle yourself and besides, if you save your stamina maybe you can ask Laudak to give you a real welcoming gift once you make it into town. He'll close the forge early at least for one night, you're sure of it. So you hop on up, grimacing a little at how you can still feel the heat of his ass on the bench. He smiles as he snaps for the horses to start their pace back up, props his legs up high so he can recline as he steers. For an hour or two he seems mostly content to make small talk with himself, divesting all the most uninteresting parts of his life story. He's called Conrad, used to get in bar room brawls with men who called him Connie. Leather worker, got a nice little shop in Hazelmouth. He stays there and sells his wares all week, comes home to his wife on weekends. Two kids, neither talk to him. Wife doesn't put out anymore. He starts hitting familiar patterns you've heard before, drops hints like small boulders into the conversation. And if his "chatter" wasn't clue enough, as time passes he slouches lower and lower-- shirt riding up, breeches riding down. His crotch is all but thrust out, his frame having rested heavier and heavier against your side. You'd mostly just hemmed and hawed your way through the conversations, but eventually his yarn stops spinning and there's a pregnant silence out in the air. He lets his knee fall across your thigh, his own spread wide open. [[Just get it over with, road head is worth the ride.]] [[Make him regret asking]]

Old horndogs are always the same and you're already certain you could guess exactly what his cock looks like and the way he'll dirty talk. He'll come fast and be done with it all as soon as his dick is soft again. You're not above fucking a guy just to get him to shut up, so really it's mutually beneficial at this point. You try not to roll your eyes before taking a glance up and down the road and then leaning over into his lap. He gives this haughty, contented sigh like he really finessed this one into being, immediately starts running his hands through your hair. As long as he doesn't stroke your tusks and call you a brute, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. You jerk his breeches just far enough down his thighs to let his dick spring free. The shaft is shaped like a cobra hood, all top heavy and bulbous, but the head itself almost half the size you would expect it to be. His pubes are wiry and mostly white, the skin around his thighs mottled from years and years of exposure to the sun. You open your mouth and drool on him a little before slurping him between your tusks, grunting as he starts fucking up into your mouth the second he feels your tongue. He stretches your lips and bashes against the roof of your mouth with little skill or care, like you're a crude toy he made from a sun-soft squash. [[You gather sex for him has little to do with pleasuring a partner these days]]

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Men like this always want the free hand out, the pat on the back for doing the bare minimum. He's an every day merchant with more love for his own dick than seemingly anything else, but expects you to be... impressed? Grateful? You feign your ignorance just a moment longer, "These reins, are they your own, fine leathers?" He grins as you point to them, sitting up in a rush to compliment himself. "Oh you like leathers, do you boy?" He's eager to put them in your hand, leering over his craftmanship in ware as well as wandering creativity. "They're fine enough not to chafe, but more than strong enough that even a lad like yourself could strain against them a good, long while." You give him just long enough to be practically falling over himself before striking out, lashing him quickly enough all he can do is stare with bewilderment. His wrists tie easily together, the thin straps making a tight, tense knot. "Why don't //you// show me?" You finally trade back his smarmy grin before taking him by the back of his neck and forcing him to his knees. He grits his teeth as he finally starts realizing he'd been outmanuevered, eyes squinting impossibly tighter. "What the fuck is this? You boorish, ungrateful beast." You yank on his reins, causing him to wince and shuffle forward, scraping his knees against the wood. [[He could use some putting in his place]]

You let him hold your head still, jack hammer himself against your teeth, your cheeks, occasionally making it to your throat. His fingers are thick and clumsy in your hair, his dirty words lost on your inattention. At the least he tastes good, smells blankly. When you pull off with a pop to let your jaw rest a moment, he slaps his wet dick against your lips, then shoves his fingers in your mouth. His nails clack on your teeth and then bite against your skin, the shape of his digits filling your mouth unevenly. He pulls on your lower jaw to set you to drool, more playing with the fact that you let him do this than anything else. "Not the first time you've done this, eh? Heard all you green fellas take cock, who woulda thought? So big and tough, but you all just wanna get plowed." You shake his hand free from your mouth and roughly take him by the legs, dragging him so he's almost all the way laid out, and you don't have to bend over to suck him. He seemed like he would have been the catch of the village when he was younger. Even now, on looks alone, you could have quite enjoyed sleeping with him. But now you just want it done. You twist your head on every downstroke of your mouth, lapping at the underside of his cock, and tasting at his hairy sack when you bottom out. He groans and tries to buck, but you keep him pinned by the hips, for his own good really. He never learned to fuck with rhythm, just races forward like a mutt in heat. Even though he doesn't deserve it, you show him a little, setting about a cadence with the way you bob your head, slurp, stroke, bob. [[Hitting the groove comes as a second nature, like muscle memory]]

You're reassured by how easy it truly was, just as you'd thought. Like peeling potatoes or chopping wood, you just get lost in the work of it. You dont feel your muscles ache or your mind wander. You don't get caught up wondering when he'll just finish already and try to force him over the edge. You drink him down as a happy buzz settles about your brain. The taste of precum, the slick-sticky sounds, the smell of a man stuck in your nose, it makes you feel loose. It's as though you hit just the right amount of drink and your body is flush, warm. You don't feel the need to touch yourself, to ask him for reciprocation, but you're... glad you're doing this. You like sucking cock. It makes you feel good beyond the obvious. You're good at it, you like making other men come. You have that practiced ease of something that you've done so many times you don't even really think about it. And you feel that Presence from before, the one that simmers just below your skin. He hums softly in your ear and //holds// you. "Good," he almost purrs. You swear you can feel him push the hair back from your head, just possessive and paternal enough to make it feel sordid. You mewl a little, blooming under the praise. You want to taste Conrad's cum. You want to hear him lose his control. But not for yourself. For Him. [[You redouble your efforts]]

Suddenly you have a passion for this. You feel like you're performing. You hollow out your cheeks, you let him feel you groan around him. You run your hands up Conrad's shirt and pinch at his nipples and once again let him fuck your face. Your slobber is making strings between your chin and his hips and you let him make you gag. Each time you heave a little he grunts, starts licking his lips. His balls draw so tight they practically disappear and you start coughing through your nose, bubbling a bit of snot. You let your eyes roll back in your head a little, your throat already sore, and suckle at him like you want to slurp the spunk straight out of his dick. He grabs you from behind your ears, starts shoving you down to meet his thrusts. His thighs are shaking and his breathless obscenities no longer even connect in sentences. The wagon slowed to a halt a while back and now he's just taking you out in the open. He grits his teeth and you can feel the moment everything in him goes taut, his dick engorging to its fullest for just a second before it starts to spray. His load is slight, dribbling down your throat in a tickle, but he screams his face red as he deposits it, grunting and barking like he has to force out each dribble with focus. You spit it and a healthy amount of phlegm out onto the dirt, having to wipe your whole face with your sleeve as he quickly redresses. You're probably gonna be puffy the rest of the night, but just as predicted, he goes into a near stupor afterward. [[It's almost worse that you don't feel used at all, settling into the silence->The City is in Sight]]

He struggles against your grip to pull himself back up, but you keep him hunched over as you toe at the heel of a boot, working to force it off. Spittle is starting to foam at his lips and he rears back, presumably with more vitriol readied. Before he can get the words out, you peel your warm, sweat damp sock from your foot and jam it past his teeth, stuffing it as far as it will go before he starts to cough. His eyes open wide and you see the full blue of them now in all their fury. He's an attractive man, when he's quiet. His muffled screams strain his throat, bulging out veins, and you gently tutt at him, shaking your head. "Who's ungrateful now? You wanted to play, didn't you? It's why you picked me up, have that shop all to yourself all week long. Maybe if you start behaving, I'll still let you get off, but I don't think you deserve my mouth, or even my hand." You take your turn reclining now, hands behind your head, stretching your body out. "Rub against my foot. That's probably more than enough for you, isn't it?" He quakes, livid, but you see the way his eys betray him, glance down to your wide, weathered sole. He flexes against his restraint, tries to work his mouth to spit out the gag, but to no avail. [[You offer him a pitiful pout, an off-handed shrug. You've got all the time in the world]]

He spends the decent part of an hour resting his trembling muscles before roughing himself up in bouts of temper tantrums. He wails and wriggles and contorts himself into awkward positions, but inevitably slumps back into his kneeling hunch. To his credit, the leathers stretch, but retain their shape. For a while you think he finally tired himself out enough to fall asleep. Sweat trickles down his temples, but he makes no move to clear it, his head lolling with the rumbling of the cart. His forehead comes to rest on your knee and he goes limp. You're happy to get a little peace for the homestretch, but just as you're settling, he stirs. He butts his head softly against you, then starts to nuzzle against your thigh. He can't bring himself to look up at you, make eye contact, but he starts making soft, little noises. Pleas. You hesitate a second before reaching out to rub at the crown of his head, massaging the short burr of hair he'd likely cropped so close to hide its thinning. He leans into the touch, shuffles closer, shy. He's probably never had to directly ask for anything, let alone this, but his thighs are spread wide, around your ankle. You arch a brow, not having honestly thought he'd take you up on your offer. But never let it be said you didn't reward good behavior. With a grunt you readjust your position to lift your leg, making sure you have complete control over the weight you put behind stepping directly on his crotch. [[He moans]]

You feel him immediately push into the touch and the shape of his cock is evident against your foot. He's already more than half hard in his breeches, and with a slow, steady pressure, you press harder. He snorts around his gag and worms closer to you, head in your lap at this point. He starts to roll his hips as best as he can, grinding up against what friction you've given him. You can feel when he starts to leak through his clothes, mashing his cock and balls against any angle he can find. He hunches and leans, maneuvering to test what he likes against your broad, wrinkled sole, firm heel, the dexterous curl of your toes. You do little to help him besides flexing it against the shape of him, stepping harder or softer, continuing to pet at him. He buries his face in your groin, breathing in the seam of your breeches, but you feel no desire to let him taste of you. You merely let him smother himself as you provide something for him to hump against, like a dog with a pillow. His tentative grinding turns to full bodied humping, then collapses into a frenzied fucking. He claps his nuts against your heel, rubs his shaft on the swell of your ball, and whimpers when you clench your toes over his dickhead. His breathing gets thin and fast and he starts to whimper as he chases the friction that will surely sting a little come morning. You can feel when he starts flexing erratically, when his movements lose all pattern. He butts his head repeatedly against you and tries to curl as tight around your leg as he can manage. You wait and wait and wait, pushing it to the last moment, wanting to meet him exactly at his crest. Just as his body starts to full tense, to go completely rigid, you forcibly kick into him, stomping his cock and balls. He makes the sound you'd expect, but spunk nonetheless seeps through his breeches and onto your toes. [[Tears squeeze out of his eyes and he shrivels around you for a moment, tenderly, jerkily still bucking against your foot.]]

You let him come down at his own pace, and when he finally looks back up to you, you fish the sock from his mouth. You toss it back into his wagon, watching him carefully as he works his jaw, tries to wet his dry mouth. But he doesn't break the silence, just waits patiently for you to reach out and finally untie him. He rubs at his wrists, winces as he pushes off of his knees to come and sit beside you. He's made a mess of his clothes, stains sticky and self evident, but he pays them little mind besides to tenderly cup at his crotch every so often. He takes the lead from your hands, knickers at the horses idly. Eventually you put your boot back on, not caring for how it'll stink later with your travelling sockless. Eventually he grunts, seemingly needing to break the silence some other way before he starts to talk. "You... do that kinda thing often?" He is, at one, embarrassed, reluctant, and defeated. "Only when men make me," is the honest answer, said with the blase nature you feel it deserves. He huffs at that, adjusts himself carefully, but addresses it no further. [[Every once in a while you catch him stealing looks at you, but he buries the moment, and you're content to let it happen.->The City is in Sight]]

Things are much easier to scrounge from sparse farm houses. The spaces between are much wider and more forgiving, less claustrophobic than old city centers. While there might be richer loot where businesses organizations made their stay, there was much less danger in a place where the nices stuff was usually stuff beneath floorboards or into chimneys. So you approach at a slant, circumventing the bounds of the fog that seem to put a hush over the land. There is no sweet bird song here, nor the ever present hum of insects. Occasional gusts of wind whisper through the grass, but there is a stillness that makes it feel outside of time. It feels almost like entering another plane. There is a tension in the air. You feel as though there is a sixth sense that you are missing when walking this ground. Your breathing sounds loud in your own head and unconsciously your movement slows to a near crawl. Just as the incline is starting to level out, you make out the shape of an old stone fence just ahead of you. It's so like the ones that make up the farm land of your own village, and yet. There are stories here, you can sense them. Weighty tales just begging to be told. You half expect to walk up to the wall and see cryptic messages carved into the stone, to come across a scene of a ransacked house, old blood stains still evident on the floor. But the fence is just pockmarked with the slow erosion of rain. The first house you approach is broken, but mostly from the peat roof buckling under its own, sodden weight. [[You take a few deep breaths, try and shake off your own anxiety]]

You can't shake the sensation of being watched as your start to pick through the establishments one by one. You're sure it's just your mind looking for faces in the fog, but the hairs on the back of your neck never lie back down. You do not feel blinded by the pervading mist, but instead cowed by it. Like a creature with no sight in the dark, or a person without knowledge of a local tongue, you are unmoored here. You feel like you're missing something, but not because it's hiding. You simply don't understand, cannot perceive. It makes it hard to focus on your findings. You don't want to stay in any one building too long. You don't want to dig too deep and disturb some sense of rest. You feel silly for imagining such things, but would feel even more dumb to ignore your own safety. You're warring with yourself whether you should just leave now-- try not to waste more of your day and head to one of your other leads-- or doubling down and actually making an effort here. You're lost in the argument for a moment before your attention is drawn by a small miniature squall brushing past your feet. Except... you're inside. The little gust kicks up long settled dust, carries leaves in a tumble across the floor and into one of the dilapidated doorways just behind you. The living area you'd been standing in had little of note. A rusted stove sat against one wall, the remnants of a chair in the center of the room. It seemed abandoned purposely, unlike some of the others you'd explored. You weren't going to bother to check the other rooms, but as your gaze followed the dust devil, a glint of metal caught your eye. [[If it's nothing, you'll leave. But if you actually make a discovery, it's proof to keep on the path.]]

You center yourself and shake off your superstitions before following. There might be things at play here that you don't understand, sure, but that doesn't mean they're beyond any and all logics. There are simply magics and beings beyond your ken, and the only way to conquer them is to know them. The door creaks softly as the wind blows it from slightly ajar to completely open, dispersing when it reaches the room. Unlike anywhere else in this building you'd seen, there's traces of life here. A bed still sits in the corner, moth eaten sheets having once been neatly made. A candle made of long rancid fats sits atop a nightstand, beside a messily bound book. Small boots sit at the foot of the bed, a bundle of old clothes across from it. Someone had been here. Someone had left their life, or been left themselves, for these were bits worth taking. You sit carefully on the bed, minding the way it threatens to splinter, take the book in your hands, brushing away the dust. The writing inside is hard to make out. Large portions of ink bled with time and moisture. The entire corner of the book was mold ridden. But there was a name at the beginning-- Edwynne-- and dates kept neatly at the top. A young boy's diary. Even though he appears long, long past this world, it still feels sacrilege to read, but you can't stop yourself. There are passages about working hard in the blistering sun. Siblings he's in a tangle about, a dog he wanted to keep. They were near equally spread between idle, simple thoughts and the arresting complications of growing up and coming to understand the darknesses of the world. You're just about to stop when it gets... gripping. [[The more you read the more your eyes feel stuck to the page, a near compulsion urging you forward.]]

He starts having dreams about the neighbor boy. They are odd and frightening at first, but then... He wakes with a mess in his sheets and knows something he did not want to know about himself. He doesn't want the boy, his dad, the town to know. He's hiding things. He's worried a lot. He starts struggling to pull his weight around the farm. You ache and a sour taste starts to fill your mouth, but you can't put it down. It feels as though there is someone over your shoulder, egging you on. The room seems to shrink around you, drawing your focus tighter and tighter in. Your vision narrows and everything but the book is darkness. You feel the chill of the fog settling deep under your skin, but are feverish to finish. More and more bits are damaged, missing entire weeks or months. Edwynne goes out riding for long periods of time. He gets in a fight with his siter. He starts saving money to leave. A distant cousin comes to visit and they try things at the pond a couple miles away. He wants more. He wants to embrace this part of himself. And then it ends. Suddenly, there are no more pages and you feel stricken. There is no final, climactic event. There is no cap, tragic or otherwise. His story drops out right in the center. You drop to your knees to look under the bed, to knock on the floor boards. There must be a next volume, some missing pages. As you're scuttling around on the soft wood, you feel that weight of a new, foreign sensation behind you. The bed sheets rustle and a soft sound somewhere between sighing and crying echoes not in your ears, but your head. Goosebumps break across your body and a flash sweat bursts atop your skin. [[Turn and flee, you get the notion you just have to make it to the sunlight]] [[Face it, you both deserve the respect of a face to face confrontation]] [[Banish it, the material plane is no place for such a thing]]

You were taught well growing up, know that spirits are meant to be respected. Even the twisted things, the violent ones, their nature is usually no fault of their own, naught but tragedy. You take a few deep breaths to center yourself, then push yourself to stand. You turn and face it, determination etched onto your face. If you didn't know to look, you would think nothing was there, but as you search the space behind you, you see the unnatural way the sheets have pooled-- a slight dip in the bed. A mournful sound floats through your mind, one that's almost... pouting. There is no shape of words, but the attempt at scattered intentions. There is longing in the way it calls for you. It might be a mistake, but you feel a deep conviction that you must answer it. So you approach, slow and steady. You sit beside it, turn to face it. There is nothing to see and yet you feel it tremble. "Edwynne?" you softly call, hoping against hope your intuition is right. You reach out a hand, guessing at his form, try not to jump at the sensation of skin where you see only empty air. Chin, shoulder, elbow, you're not quite sure at the placement of your touch, but he does not recoil. That echo, like he's calling out to you from the bottom of a well, trills out across your mind. It's a questioning, pleading sort of purr. "Let me help you rest. Show me what you need," you let your hand rub circles where you feel him and you swear his presence grows under your attention. Where once he was a cold, draining void, you are hit with a flushing glow. Instead of pulling at you to draw you in, he suffuses himself in the space, settling around you like motes of dust in the sun. And everywhere those motes settle, a lethargic, molten warmness blooms. It speaks of lazy summer afternoons, muggy from the pond. The tangle of two bodies coming to a new enlightenment. It makes your breath stutter, your groin stir. [[In this he needs guidance. Lay Edwynne down and show him.]] [[Let him have his fill, choose what interests to chase.]]

Your father taught you a little about spirits, while he was still around. They were his specialty, why you even existed in the first place. He'd cleansed a battle ground at the behest of your brood-father and secured himself a good reputation among the orc clan. The more they worked together, the more they found their partnership to bleed beyond professional boundaries. At one time you thought you'd take after him, but now all you're left with are complicated memories, and small tricks of the trade. A little bag of components you keep always at your waist carries the necessaries to calm the creature, if not outright kill it. You reach for them slowly, dig as surreptitiously as you can. The low sound that's tinged with a dirge, a wail, grows louder, closer. You close your hand around a botttle of purified water, laced with iron savings, dissolved salt. Something of a catch-all, a pepper bomb. You clutch it and wait, feeling sweat run down your temple. It draws closer, more insistent. Even as your muscles twitch you hold your ground until you can feel a heavy, bitterly cold air start to wrap around your shoulders. With a roar you pull the vial from your patch and smash it to the ground, holding your breath as sigils etched on the glass force it to instantly vaporize. You spring to your feet and draw more signs in the air, repeating the lines the way a priest would a litany of prayers. The air crackles. Energy builds. Pressure pops your ears and makes blood run from your nose. You feel short of breath, but hold your focus steady. It feels as though the entire room is going to implode and then-- the sound of a tether snapping, the echo of its tear. The fog in the room explodes like a flash of soot against the walls. The shape of a boy is left against one of them and you only have seconds to consider it before turning to run, escaping back into the open air. [[Your eyes water, there must be something in the air->Spirits were just people, and you're glad you did well to remember that. ]]

Spirits can be dangerous, no matter their intentions. The afterlife is a mire, and they often find themselves lost and confused in their in between state. They do not know themselves, no their form and all its dangers. It can be easy to get lost trying to help one, only to find yourself a victim to their hollow whims. So you take a deep breath as you prepare yourself, tense you body slowly to run. You were never much of a sprinter, but you can cover ground when you need to. You focus on the task, the finish line. What's behind doesn't matter, only whether you reach the end. When you open your eyes you have sight for nothing but the door and as your teeth grit in determination you bolt. Your muscles scream at the sudden break into frenzied use, your lungs threaten to stitch. The wind feels so terribly cold as it whisks past you and a sucking whirlwind behind you ushers it faster. You feel your clothes start to pull at your body, your feet sliding against the floorboards. You had only made it to the living area by the time his wails in your mind drown everything out. You come to a halt, struggling against a wall of wind pushing you back, inch by inch, and you lift your arms to shield your face from the way it pulls at your skin. Your boots scrape as they start to leave the ground, you clothes flutter and strain before they rip clean away from your body. You groan and give a helpless roar as you are finally upended and tumble back into the room. With a slam your are thrown up against the celing, grunting as dirt is sent flying. [[You are pinned, and watch as the presence stands from the bed, wind whipping around it in the guise of a form]]

You hesitate a moment before reaching out to press at the form in front of you. The presence is amorphous, but the resistance against your hand is just enough to let you know that something is there. It moves with your ushering, and you watch as the pillow indents, the boy lying down. Blindly feeling your way out, you crawl over him, sliding your breeches down to your knees, pulling your shirt just over your head, letting it hike in your armpits. As you rub your hands up and down his form, trying to learn the shape of it, sensation blooms everywhere you touch. Raw, potent energy seeps into your flesh. It's almost like pressing your hand to the surface of water. You feel the tension, body and weight of it. It has a temperature, a texture, and yet it gives completely around you. The more you stroke, the more little tremors ripple out around your hand. In your head you feel the tickle of his quivering gasps. You do not get the immediate feedback of a cock fattening, your partner visibly squirming, but if you pay attention the reactions are there. You... manipulate him over and over, until he is rising to meet your every touch. Pressure appears at your hips and beckon you forward, like legs wrapping around you, and you have to use your hands to brace yourself as you fall half prone. Your stomach flutters as your cock now dips into the surface. The soft, welcoming tingle like dipping feet into a sun-warmed pool envelops it, and on instinct you rut up into it. [[You find no friction, but the silken drag is pleasurable all the same, and his tremulous wails of pleasure in your mind egg you on further. ]]

You feel a little drunk, a lot foolish as you slide to the edge of the bed just for a moment to derobe yourself, before sliding all the way back on. Edwynne's presence is gone from it for a second as you lay out, much too large for what was a young human's bedframe. One of your legs dangles off the side and you're half sat up against the headboard. You adjust, a little uncomfortable as you wait for him, but still when sensation pools on the meat of one of your inner thighs. It presses at you, not in the shape of a hand, but simply with blunt insistence. You let it guide you to raise your knee, parting yourself to be laid bare. A soft, cool exhale dusts across your taint and the bottom of your asscheeks. It rasps inside your head, tickles across your skin, and you feel a little dizzy at the disconnected nature before something wet slips against your hole. Not quite fingers, not really a tongue. It is dexterous and strong, but thin and blunt. It's too wet-slick for saliva, too evenly shaped for hands or cock. There is no flare of a dickhead, no spur of a knuckle. It worms in familiar movements, but has an evident amateur practice. It moves with no intention, no aim to stretch or stroke. Its only interest is the silken slide of inner walls, the warm taste of heated flesh. It continues to wriggle and without warning there are hands on your chest, squeezing and mashing. They pinch roughly at your nipples, grope at the handfuls of muscle, fat. You groan as they are pushed together to emphasize your cleavage and then the wet is slathering all over them even as it hasn't left your entrance. [[You buck against the headboard]]

You sense no other presence, you hear no extra calls bouncing around your mind. But another hand lifts and presses at your belly, pushing it up so another sensation of tongue circles your navel. You groan, overwhelmed by the oddity and overbearance of so much touch. "E-Edwynne?" you call out more to assure yourself than anything else, and are awarded when everything stops. You close your eyes and for a second he is nowhere, but then all the force are hands and you are being turned over. You scramble not to tumble out onto the floor, plant one foot against the ground. You are pushed to your knee on the otherside, your ample ass spread wide open. Tongue and tongue and tongue sop at your asscrack, soaking you from tailbone to taint and you swear you feel the splatter of a wad of spit despite no sound of it being hocked. You brace yourself for the sharp ache of being underprepared, but grit your teeth instead of clenching. But the sensation that follows is one eminently familiar and pleasnt as cock glides easily inside you, bottoming out in one single drag. Perhaps you were just used to the size of orcish or goliath men. Perhaps Edwynne made something of his shape that was easier than normal. Either way he feels slender inside you, crooked and reedy the way you remember your own more youthful trysts being. His frame wraps around your back, him hugging you more than anything, as he starts to move back and forth. His movements are juddery, unpracticed and unsure. He clings to you like a limpet, you can hear his trembles in your head. His intentions wash over you and the fear of his foreign love making dissolves against the very common nature of his worries. [[He wants not to finish too quickly. He wants not to hurt you. He hopes you like it as much as he does.]]

You slowly lower your chest to the bed, ignoring the musty smell of the old, threadbare sheets. Pushing your ass up, you give him that much better of an angle, start to slowly roll your hips to meet him on every thrust. You pay attention to the way you start to feel the light slap of his unevenly hanging balls, the blunt pressure of his fingernails digging into your waist. You start to actually hear his arrhythmic breaths and the rasp of your skin against each other. His lips tremble against your spine and his knobbly ankles dig against your calves. You had so many summer ponds of you own and the memory of them seeps into you. You moan his name for him, mewling and pleasured, and smile when it makes his hips quake. He stops holding onto you like an anchor and lets his hands rove everywhere he can reach. His fingers slip across your wet cock, curiously stroking along the shape of the spines. He cups both sets of your balls, hefts as though to weight them, squeezes as he smacks his own sympathetically against you. The rest, tangled in your damp bush as you feel his cheek smear against your back, his panting coming in more and more broken stutters. You can hear him when he says, "O-o-oh, I'm going to--" and you are surprised when you feel wetness burst inside of you. He hunches against you, grinding his hips as though trying to mate. He almost sobs, shaking behind you. You swear you can feel parts of him filtering into you, suffusing into your pores and sinking into your flesh. It's now that another presence enters the room, but one that you brought. From your dreams. From the ritual. He breathes into you like Edwynne did, but he is a man, with experience and control. He does nto give you intimations, he falters over no form. He is strong and big and he presses his full, naked self against you as he hisses, "Sooo, good. My beautiful orc-boy." He touches you, possessively, pouring heat into your body. [["Feed," it is both a command, and an allowance, and as he fists your cock, your burst.]]

The pleasure is all consuming and you have no space for thought as you black out. When you wake, spunk is cool and itchy against your stomach. The bed had crumpled beneath you, but you felt nothing as it hit the floor. Your body quakes as you push yourself to sitting, and you groan as you feel distinct wetness having leaked out your hole, down your thighs. When you reach to wipe at it, it's still warm, much thicker than any you've felt before. You bring your fingers up, coated in it, and can't help but marvel at the way it shimmers as you rub it. There are brilliant, opalescent streaks of blue-purple like oil. It heats even more the longer you manipulate it, and you can't help yourself as you bring them to your mouth to taste. Musky and pungent, but cutting through it all the fresh, crackling aroma of ozone. You choose to focus on this, on your potential success and the moment you shared with Edwynne, rather than what sits heavy in the room. You've been ignoring Him for this long, surely it will rest that much longer. For now you fetch a couple vials from your bag and crouch in the abandoned farm house, collecting samples from yourself. In a sense it's ectoplasm and you know it's potently useful no matter how it was gathered. When you think back on it, you think not of being fucked by some invisible being, but have the image of a boy losing himself in you. It's clear as day, etched firmly as though that's how it always was. Coarse, coiled hair, uniquely red-brown. Overwhelming smatters of freckles to the point of outright speckling his skin. Broad features and middling coloring. He was tall and gangly, had a funny smile. You hold him in your heart as you get dressed, gather your things. [[Spirits were just people, and you're glad you did well to remember that. ]]

There is no clutch of his inner walls, no tangle of his limbs. You are not bound by any of the normal constraints. The rhythm of your hips doesn't have to sing any familiar notes, there is no correct tempo. You can thrash your cock side to side, slide all four of your nuts in alongside with no pressure. There is no bottoming out or trying not to bend him into an angle too harshly. Your mind struggles to comprehend all the possibilites, to even come to terms with an idea of what your fucking entails. The matter that is Edwynne pulsates around you, warmer where you penetrate him, but undulating across his entire form. On instinct you lean down to lick into him, to tangle your tongues and breathe into each other, but there is no mouth. His surface tension suctions to your lips and he gushes into your open mouth, filling your cheeks. The viscosity of him is thicker than water, but flows more freely than you would expect for the way it coats your tongue, your throat. You cough and splutter around it as it fills open space without thought, your eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being stuffed like this. His taste is a contradiction. Like summer rain. Like sweaty skin. Like crackling ozone. Like fresh spunk. He is simultaneously fresh and earthy and you cannot help but reach out the way you would to draw him into a tight hug. [[But you slip through]]

You plunge into a pool of him. It is not like diving. You do not slip into a static body that moves only with the current. You have no context, but... it is like you are swimming in his sex, like you are enveloped entirely by the fleshy walls of his anus. He ripples and reacts around you, shivering and tensing. He manipulates you to pull and drag. But you can break his surface at any time, coming up for air. When you do your hair is soaked, your entire body covered in a pungent goo. If you had the space to think on it, perhaps you would pause, but the overwhelming pleasure of fucking into a being with your entire body obliterates any thought besides chasing it deeper. You keep your head above the tide, coughing out puddles of his leavings, but writhe inside him. You do not fuck to stroke his passage, to hit his prostate. You hump with wild abandon, just needing to keep moving. Your sack swings weightless and with reckless, suspended but still propelled. In your head Edwynne is moaning loud and unrelenting, yelling the way only one entirely consumed by their lust, or confident there is no one to hear would. He is warm and quivering and wet all around you, and you can feel intentions of his by miniature riptides that course against you. He rubs insistently at your firm nipples, circles around your inner thighs. He lavishes attention to your balls over and over before snaking between your ass and playing in the crack. As his cries grow louder and you can feel everything inside you starting to draw tight, his form ripples so violently it starts to burst, splashing and soaking into the bedsheets. [[The back of your neck tingles and at once, He is here.]]

That presence that was in your room, that followed you through realms. It leers over your shoulder and in its wake you are made aware of what a pittance of power Edwynne has here. You cannot see Him either, but you know the shape of Him in your mind and when He touches you, He is firm. When He speaks there are words, not intimations, and you can't help the moan that falls from your lips as his Hands wrap around your throat, your jaw, climbing up to possessively clutch your hair and pull open your mouth. His fingers stroke individually against your tongue and He purrs into your ear. "Are you enjoying this little mote? You have pushed him beyond any fathoms he could have dreamed," He drawls with all the condescenion of one delighted by their own pity, yet you feel His pride suffuse into you. "Sup from this creature for now, but soon you and I will feast together and you will be as him, drowning for the way I wrack you with pleasure." Your eyes roll back and something in your mind fizzes. Your cock throbs and starts to spit and as you gush into Edwynne you feel his moans peak. They squeal into an airless silence and as he follows you over the bring, he bursts. [[You hit the bed, hard, as your consciousness fades to black.]]

When you wake, spunk is cool and itchy across your skin. The bed had crumpled beneath you, but you felt nothing as it hit the floor. The sheets are soaked to dripping and your own hair is matted to your body in uncomfortable swathes. The taste and smell of him is so thick in the air, the ozone almost tinting to iron with the traces of body. When you reach to wipe at some of it, it's still warm, much thicker than any you've felt before. You bring your fingers up, coated in it, and can't help but marvel at the way it shimmers as you rub it. There are brilliant, opalescent streaks of blue-purple like oil. It heats even more the longer you manipulate it, and you shudder as you think about the sheer volume of it left. It spatters the walls, your clothes are ruined. For now, you choose to focus on this, on your potential success and the moment you shared with Edwynne, rather than what sits just in the back of your mind. You've been ignoring Him for this long, surely it will rest that much longer. For now you rise and peel off your clothes to use as a mop, collecting samples from yourself. In a sense it's ectoplasm and you know it's potently useful no matter how it was gathered. When you think back on it, you think not of rutting in some unknowable ocean, but have the image of a boy losing himself to you. It's clear as day, etched firmly as though that's how it always was. Coarse, coiled hair, uniquely red-brown. Overwhelming smatters of freckles to the point of outright speckling his skin. Broad features and middling coloring. He was tall and gangly, had a funny smile. You hold him in your heart as you get dressed, gather your things. [[Spirits were just people, and you're glad you did well to remember that. ]]

You can feel yourself simultaneously being forced aloft, and yet a siphon swirling down from you. It draws on your life force, stoking fear and force inside you to feed from. The more it takes, the steadier it gets, starting to bring to life an image of itself. He is blurry, almost, like you are seeing him as a mirage, or through greased glass. But he is there all the same. Coarse, coiled hair, uniquely red-brown. Overwhelming smatters of freckles to the point of outright speckling his skin. Broad features and middling coloring. He was tall and gangly, lips tilted to a crooked smile. You have the spare thought to consider him boyishly handsome, and at that a new presence spills into the room. In comparison it is billowing, filled to overflowing. It is familiar to you and yet infinitely more terrifying. Him. The one that reached out to you in the ritual, came through even as you did not bid it. You cannot see Him, but you know Him in your mind as He slides in front of you, momentarily blocking the drain that had started. But He does not do so selflessly, and rolls up against you, //dragging// his frame along yours. You cannot help the way it stokes heat in you, try not to react when your cunt wets at the feel of Him, the knowledge that He's grinning. He's like an ex lover you want not to want, but He knows just how to get you spinning. "Now, now boy. How ever did you get into this bind? You're... more than that," His words slither across your skin as He murmurs them and He continues to rove His touch all over you as He does. "Do not succumb to this pitiful thing. We have yet to find rapture together. Embrace him. Give him something else to //suckle// upon. He will not care for your meat if he is slurping on marrow." You feel the distinct shape of many jointed fingers parting your nether-lips, stroking inside you to make you flush. You bite your lips so hard to not moan, but the sound buoys in your throat nonetheless. He snickers, but places a tender kiss against your cheek before sliding away. [[Once again you are laid bare]]

You feel your juices drip to the ground and as they do the siphon stops. You are kept firm against the ceiling, but the boy cocks his head at you, considering. "Edwynne," you call out, hoping against hope your hunch is right. "I have so much more to offer than this. You don't want my death, we both know it. Take my warmth, feast on my body, but do so with joy." Your chest trembles at your own offering, desperate for it to work. You do not want to give Him anything, but if He can save all in this room, there is something worth considering. You struggle against the spirit's hold just enough to push your thighs completely open, showing the way your sex has flushed. At first there is nothing, but then the boy judders across the floor, up into the air. He apparates to meet you where you're stuck and his eyes narrow as he considers you. The longer he waits, the closer he drifts. You do not dare to break eye contact with him, but feel some notion of his presence brush against you. He is warm, which you had not expected, but holds no form against you. Edwynne is not like Him, not so powerful as to manifest completely. The shape of him is but an intimation, a memory, a guise that his true self holds aloft. His hands reach out to close around the swell of your tits and you gasp as he grope them, mashes them together. The bump against your slit spills easily inside without even the hint of prep, the way water fills a jug. At once he is inside you, silken and slender. There is the idea of a cock, but it takes no singular shape. It only aims to fill your insides, stroke against them. It makes no move to stretch and you can't keep the confusion from your voice as you moan despite it. [[His expression is still impassive, but he presses up against you fully, his body enveloping you. ]]

He has weight, tension, but suctions to you the way the surface of liquid pulls against your skin. He opens his mouth and there is no physical sound, but his soft moan floats across your brain. His hips move with no idea for a rhythm, a pace, and his skinny cock follows aimlessly. Your back and ass grind into the building behind you, your body being pleasantly pressed against the roof as he begins to fuck you. He abandons your chest to grab at your wrists, enveloping them and flowing like a current to shove them above your head. He pins them there and watches you intently as he continues his rut, like he's waiting for the glimpse of resistance. But when you let him do as he likes, a spark starts to glow behind his eyes and he moans for you again. He starts to pick up pace, to press more and more against you. Your weight makes his lanky form bend around you, but still he pushes, as though you are simultaneously pushing each other down like opposing magnets. His form sliding against you is as the rush of a brook on your ankles, soft but insistent, and the warm silkenness of it makes you sigh in pleasure. His fucking is not tender, but in a similar vein of ease, and the threat of him slowly bleeds from you as you casually take it. Your mind is flooded with that image in his diary-- a muggy summer day. The humidity of the sun on the pond. The lethargy of having nothing to do all day. The idleness of fucking not to chase an orgasm, but just exploring and enjoying the naked intimacy of one another. [[You feel almost drunk off of it, your mind starting to fuzz]]

As the image of him grows clearer with every passing moment, you focus on it less and less. The sensation becomes your sole attention, the idea settling over you like a warm blanket. His moans rumble low across your mind-- a summer lightning storm rolling across the hills. You smell and taste ozone, suffused with the salt of sweat, the musk of jism. The sense memory of dew drops become sticky with sex and you are flush like an overripe fruit. Fleshy, juicy, pungent, supple. You want to have a bite taken out of you, your slick to gush down someone's chin. As your brain sticks on it, the intimation of a cock inside you starts to melt, to meld. Edwynne's face is still front and center in your swimming vision but his tongue tangles in your folds. He tastes you. He makes wet sounds as his lips slurp against yours and somehow you feel his chin nuzzle to nest against them. He tongue fucks you with all the swollen enthusiasm of a first timer, blunt and desperate, and your thighs quake at the eagerness. You hear his ragged, open mouthed breaths even as his nose flares and snorts against your cunt, and between it and his tongue the cock somehow surface again. You stare into his face as he messily digs into your slit with single minded determination, wanting only to fuck your opening in any and every way. Digits dig at you, pull you apart. He reaches in so deep and purses his lips against the blisteringly sensitive tip of your dick where its hidden inside of you, nestled away for when you want to breed. [[It starts to slide out at the stimulation, just a bare, tapered inch of it for Edwynne to suckle like a stretched teat.]]

You so rarely are touched like this, pleasured completely. Only other orcish men have known you can have some function of both, together, that it is true skill to find the perfect balance of them for your partner. Some want most to be filled, only to have the tip of their cock rubbed the way some females of other races are pleasured. Some rarely welcome entrance to their cunt, always letting their cock slide free when aroused, its girth closing off the entrace to his vaginal passage. A finger can sometimes, with stretching, wriggle into a gap above a fully distended cock, still play inside even as barbs are flaring. Most are a mix depending on current mood, partner. The mono-sex of orcish kind have little stigma around types of pleasure, experiencing it all. You are sure this spirit of a human only partook on accident, but you welcome it all the same, giving in completely to his frenzied ministrations. Pleasure fills you, soaks your brain. You swim in it, happily lost to the eddies. As you let go He returns to suck at your nape, in a way that you know will leave a mark. "Mmm, even as you give, you take of him, my boy. We feed together, and soon will have our feast." Your eyes drift dizzily closed and you feel yourself go weightless. Slack against your spirit-lover you find a finish that is no pressured release. Instead it seeps out of you, slow and sumptuous. You drool your juices onto his tongue, balls instantly setting to ache as your thighs draw tight and tigher together. [[You slip into a glowing sleep, mind drifting away into the dark]]

When you wake, spunk is cool and itchy against your stomach. The bed had crumpled beneath you, broken your fall, but you felt nothing as you crashed into the floor. Your body quakes as you push yourself to sitting, and you groan as you feel distinct wetness having leaked out your slit, down your thighs. When you reach to wipe at it, it's still warm, much thicker than any you've felt before. You bring your fingers up, coated in it, and can't help but marvel at the way it shimmers as you rub it. There are brilliant, opalescent streaks of blue-purple like oil. It heats even more the longer you manipulate it, and you can't help yourself as you bring them to your mouth to taste. Musky and pungent, but cutting through it all the fresh, crackling aroma of ozone. You choose to focus on this, on your potential success in what feels like a now idle venture for goods, instead of the looming darkness still heavy on your shoulders. You've been ignoring Him for this long, surely it will rest that much longer. For now you fetch a couple vials from your bag and crouch in the abandoned farm house, collecting samples from yourself. In a sense it's ectoplasm and you know it's potently useful no matter how it was gathered. When you think back on it, you think not of being fucked by some sheer being, but have the image of a boy losing himself in you. It's clear as day, etched firmly as though that's how it always was. You could draw a portrait of him if it were asked, could describe the timbre of his voice. Though you do not recall it happening in the moment, you know the look of his true smile-- boyish in its joyful relief after finishing. You hold this idea of him in your heart as you get dressed, gather your things. [[Spirits were just people, and you're glad you did well to remember that. ]]

It's surreal, standing back outside after that. The dotted landscapre of abandoned farm houses appear much different than they had just before. You can't bear the thought of entering another, and turn to face the tighter network of city streets instead. The breeze is cool against your skin, the air is fresh. This day hasn't gone exactly to plan, but there's not all too much you can complain about either. You're not sure what your fathers would think of your methods, of the lengths you're going to to get this apothecary off the ground, but you feel no shame or trepidation. They were never success oriented, driving at you to have great ambitions, but they always stoked your passions. Anything you had a passing interest in was something they became experts of overnight. They wanted what you wanted, and so you feel deep in your heart, they're gonna be happy no matter what you do. And that's what truly keeps you going. You want to pay it all back. You want to show them the fruits of their labor. One day they will have the physical proof of their investment of love, and that's what spurs you ever forward. [[You cross the next threshold-->End Card]]

Orcs rarely had the patience or the inclination to put up with the nonsense of fae creatures. Riddles and bargains and guises were much beyond their interests and so the two peoples rarely interacted, even in places where they found themselves butting territories. You'd mostly only heard of them as bed time stories your father told-- weaving odd little cautionary tales about creatures who loved their fun far too dearly and forsook their responsibilites. For a time you thought it was just the kind of things parents said to get their children to behave, chuckling together at the absurdities they devised to fit personal scenarios. Now you knew that was only part the truth. For every tall tale you were told about little creatures that would eat your toes if you didn't properly care for your boots, there were a handful more true experiences of relatives being discovered as changelings in the village and such. You felt confident that if your father and these people chose to stay around them, they couldn't be that beyond handling. All it took was the awareness of their existence and tactics, the wariness to ensure that you wouldn't be dragged into anything foolish. [[You take the well worn path, steeling yourself against the little chitters that echo around as you are swallowed by foliage]]

The old woods are a territory you find some measure of comfort in. Wild lands are where you were raised, you understand their danger more than almost any other. You steel yourself and turn for them, keeping a hand on dagger hilt strapped to your side. Getting there is easy, it's navigating the trees that's hard. The wood is grey and harder than rocks, near petrified in its age. As the wind shakes through the boughs, the trunks creak in protest, creating an eeries symphony that filters through the entire area. Gnarled roots threaten to break from the mossy undergrowth and crack your ankles if you're not careful. The smell this deep is so rich and earthy your head almost swims with it. Fresh loam, damp fauna. It's beautiful, in so many ways. The stark stillness makes every flash of movement feel dangerous, and the way the light barely filters through the leaves casts shadows everywhere you look. It's tempting to just sit and stay a while, in a way you can't quite describe. It makes your hackles rise on instinct, like a prey that's trying to be hypnotised. You're sure many a person has taken a nap here, never to wake up. There are creatures up in the branches, waiting just inside the burrows. You can sense the way they watch you, communicate soundlessly to one another. [[You stay on your toes, picking out the path you'd happened across before]]

You really only need a few fistfuls of the plant to call the trip successful. You have the necessary kit in your satchel, you could even extract what you needed the second you had it with you. You're sure clients would pay even more if you treated the emberroot yourself, distilled it down to its more manageable state. You're not yet knowledgeable to put such a thing to use, to make the most of it, but you've got the practical skill to break it down. Under your father's hand you'd worked more with poultices, tried your best to counteract venoms and keep infections at bay for the clan. But they all share a similar base. You're sure if he had his way, you'd be opening up a little clinic instead of... this. He could never quite manage to get along with his kind, but he had a caring heart all the same, one which he was exceptionally stubborn about putting to use. He wouldn't smile all that often, but there was also no world in which he was letting you out of his sight anything less than well fed, rested, and looked after. It's probably why he fit in so well. Thinking on it, you slowly come to realize you'd lost track of time somewhat-- your own whereabouts even more. You'd been travelling on auto pilot and now the woods around you were unfamiliar. [[You take a second to just sit and breathe, panicking never helps anybody]]

You're sure you can retrace your steps. Your path is clear through the dense underbrush. You might lose more of your day than you had been planning, but in the end it's just an inconvenience. As long as you're careful, you won't have strayed too far, won't have made the worst mistake. You're just about to make for your own path, to start slowly picking through the trees when the distinct rustle of something moving just beyond your sight catches in your ears. You swivel your head to catch it, turning in circles to follow the sounds, but every time your eye alights on what should be the right spot, there's only swaying shrubbery. Your heartrate starts to tick up and immediately you feel adrenaline flood your body. Sweat starts to gently bead across your skin and you can feel your focus narrow, pinpoint straight ahead. You have to make a choice here and now, and stick to it. [[Run from the thing, you just have to break from its territory]] [[Play dead, perhaps it will lose interest, or give you the first opportunity to strike]]

You make a break for it, no longer caring about the noise you make or even entirely where you are headed. All that matters is you getting out. Your toes smash into gnarly roots, thin branches whip across your face sharp enough to draw blood. You can hear the creature crashing about behind you, but when you glance behind to look, you can see its form is much larger than yours. It's hard to make out the shape of it, so surrounded by foliage it looks as though the bushes themselves are hunting you down. You tear further and further away from it, not content with any distance that doesn't make it stop completely. Stitches ache across your ribs and lungs, your thighs start to burn. You were more the type for long distance than sprinting and you can feel spring of sickness in your body at being pushed too far, too fast. Still you carry on until the sounds become so distant you have to train your ears to hear them. You turn one last time to look and see if it can even be made out any longer and then immediately smash against the hard barrier of a tree trunk. You don't go down, but for a second you are dazed and reeling, eyesight having blurred completely and body stock still. You sway, about to go down, when you hear the creaking of wood again and out of nowhere you are caught. [[You have little time to react as a branch winds its way around your waist and draws you to the tree again]]

With some wild animals it's the best approach, even as it goes against every instinct screaming in your body to just move. You have to conquer your own base urges in order to get out ahead of it. You make yourself conscious of the pace of your breathing, try first to slow and then quiet it. You close your eyes to keep them from twitching, from skating over every silhouette trying desperately to parse out every bit of information. Slowly you start to lower yourself to the ground, ignoring the way your muscles jump and your chest constricts to a terrible tightness. Despite everything the ground is cool and soft. Moisture soaks immediately into your clothes, but it is fresh and clean. Your head is pillowed on the long rotted twigs and leaves that make up the floor. You sink ever so slightly into the ground. For a few long moments after you settle, everything is painfully still. You hear nothing but the idle chirp of bugs, the swaying of the wind. There is this interminable tenseness in the air that threatens to make you break, as though you're being tested to keep form. Your belly barely moves with your breaths anymore, spots fizzing in the black of your closed eyes. But then there is the rustle again and this time it is coming closer. You feel almost as much as you hear its approach. The weight of its gaze on you makes your skin prick, your tendons wrack with minature convulsions. It gets close enough that you can feel the ground near your side depress under its form and at that you hold your breath completely. [[Wait as long as possible until you strike]] [[No matter what it does, do not move]]

Even through all this, your hand never left the hilt of your dagger. Your fingers tremble to grasp firmly at it, but you hold them at bay for every second you can possibly buy. Whatever this creature is, you want for there to be no chance for it to react, no avenue of escape. If you're going to swing at it, you're going to hit and hope that you strike true. It looms over you, blocking out what little sun had made its way past the canopy. It is somehow immediately cooler under the shade it creates, several degrees so, and you can feel it drip some sort of liquid across your body. It spatters lightly across your face and unbidden trickles between your lips. It tastes like rainwater, but there's the tingle of a peppery, sizzling something that makes its presence linger on your tongue long after. Still you wait. The tips of leaves graze across your skin, somehow threatening with their thin edges, and the way their vegetal stiffness moves against you is completely alien. They do not bend to the wind, the do not move only when fruit is picked. They have a mind of their own and it is bearing over you. You clench tightly around the grip, slide the blade free so slowly it makes no sound against the sheathe. You can feel the creature about to rear back and so you lurch with all the force you can muster. Your wrist gets tangled in vines as you try and drive the dagger as deep as possible, meeting little resistance until you hit a dense, fibrous core. A sound like a million cicadas screeching all at once bursts into the air and you feel the hot gush of blood scorch your skin. While it flails, you roll and take off sprinting back from where you came, not even bothering to glance behind you to confirm whatever state you're leaving it in. [[The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

No matter what happens, you cannot break. It will be looking for a provocation and as long as you don't give it, you'll survive this. It might rough you up. It might fill you with terror. But you have the confidence to bet your life that it will not kill you. It looms over you, blocking out what little sun had made its way past the canopy. It is somehow immediately cooler under the shade it creates, several degrees so, and you can feel it drip some sort of liquid across your body. It spatters lightly across your face and unbidden trickles between your lips. It tastes like rainwater, but there's the tingle of a peppery, sizzling something that makes its presence linger on your tongue long after. Where it touches your skin it feels like balms you've made before that in some way, burn cold, and the tingling brings your entire body to attention. The tips of leaves graze across your skin, somehow threatening with their thin edges, and the way their vegetal stiffness moves against you is completely alien. They do not bend to the wind, the do not move only when fruit is picked. They have a mind of their own and it is bearing over you. Vines sprout from the ground below you and you can feel them slowly wind their way around your limbs, thin, but numerous. It comes down to hover directly above your face and you feel the silken, velvety brush of petals against your skin. The curvature of them makes them feel easily larger than your own head and their movements is searching. You try not to pull away from them to maintain your stillness, but then something bristles across your nose. Irritating, probing a stamen as long as a limb circles your face, quivering as it deposits pollen all over you. Sticky, itchy, filtering in everywhere it can seep, you struggle as much as you can against it, but you can't fight the full body reaction as you curl around a sneeze. [[The spores immediately swarm into your open mouth]]

As the trees break, a hill crests, and you're greeted with a field aflame. Bright, warm blooms of emberroot shift in the wind like flickering fire and you know that you'll get there just in time. The breeze is cool against your skin, the air is fresh. This day hasn't gone exactly to plan, but there's not all too much you can complain about either. You're not sure what your fathers would think of your methods, of the lengths you're going to to get this apothecary off the ground, but you feel no shame or trepidation. They were never success oriented, driving at you to have great ambitions, but they always stoked your passions. Anything you had a passing interest in was something they became experts of overnight. They wanted what you wanted, and so you feel deep in your heart, they're gonna be happy no matter what you do. And that's what truly keeps you going. You want to pay it all back. You want to show them the fruits of their labor. One day they will have the physical proof of their investment of love, and that's what spurs you ever forward. [[You cross the next threshold-->End Card]]

Finally sensing your movement the flower suckles to your face, smothering you in the heady, floral perfume of it. The petals wrap completely around you, the stamen stiffening and quaking as it ruffles against your features. A cloud of pollen envelops your head, nearly choking you on it, forcing you to breathe more of its seed into your lungs. Your hands flex to try and fly up, force the thing off of you, but the vines keep them prone. Some of them snap against your struggling, but just as quickly grow back, actively working to keep you pinned. You feel the creature shamble to straddle you, resting its entire weight against your hips. The firm, cool flesh of succulents push against your skin, pushing to bloom up underneath your clothing. The more the pollen fills your head, the less you try to work against it. A feeling almost like congestion clogs up into your sinuses and fogs your head until everything is a soft, warm glow. You barely register the sensation of several, thin, chitinous limbs now working to shuck you of your breeches. A low buzz starts to burr across your ear drums and burrow into your skull. It sounds distant and yet the reverberations of it flush across your skin. It is strongest at your thighs, where you can now feel bristly hairs scrape them to sensitivity. Petals alternate against the irritant, trying to soothe the spots you know are blooming red. Soft and luxurious and cool, their ministrations do their duty and cause your cock to slowly stiffen up and out of your slit. You hadn't felt much heat of arousal, but it is absolutely dripping, and the buzzing grows as the small limbs guide it to an opening. [[You are pushed to penetrate]]

Your arms no longer struggle against the vines, your head lolls in its cradle. Even your mouth has gone slack, open, as you are filled with pollen. The stamen of the plant probes at your lips for a moment before starting to slither inside, filling your mouth with its perfumed girth. Your eyes roll back and you moan as you feel your own cock being similarly suckled. The entrance you were ushered to works slowly, pulsating and flexing to draw you deeper every few seconds. It's slick insides feel like fresh aloe against your cock-- mucilaginous, chunky, little crips beads rolling against your engorged flesh. Vines grow under your lower back to try and lift your lips higher, bringing you deeper into the creature until your balls bottom out. You can feel the stamen pulsating with pleaure inside you, its pollen mixing with your saliva to make a syrupy mixture that coats your throat. It begins to fuck itself on you, loosening its grip to let you fall from its entrance before sucking you back in. Its juices mat in your pubes, run down your balls and the creases of your thighs, fresh smelling and seedy. You are almost entirely numb to most of these sensations, but the fog in your brain is pleasurable still. Low and ever present, never spiking or falling. It is an all consuming base line that keeps you erect, wet, your balls working to churn a load. [[You breeze through it, losing track of time again]]

There is a floaty endlessness to the way it milks you, seeds you in turn. This thing has no concept of time, on a duty that it is content to do for as long as is necessary. You're aware, at some point, that you do draw up and groan around a slow, aching ejaculation. But it is no peak. There is no ratcheting up to a height and then the thrill of chasing it down. Your muscles don't even tense. The spunk merely drools out of you, being sucked deeper and collected by your captor before it starts the process again. Eventually you are deposited with a slick pop-- falling out of the creature and off of its stamen. It withdraws from you as slowly as it overtook you and then ambles back into the brush, finished with its prey. It takes even longer still for the fog to leave your brain, but eventually a sneeze tickles at your sinuses and you spend several long, unfortunate moments clearing thick, pungently aromatic mucus from your passages. You stare blankly at it as you clean yourself off with your canteen, pull back on your clothing, but in the end can't bring yourself to pass it up. And so you gather it into vials, noting the rose gold tint and the floating particles of plant seed in them. No one needs to know how you acquired these things, only that you have them and they're useful. So you tuck them into your bag, content to just focus on what minor success you can as you start following your trail back to your intended destination. [[Eventually the emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon->The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

Your head swims and you try for a moment to break away, but are pulled flush against the bark. It scrapes against your skin and you feel the groan of the wood again as it tries to manuever you, position you against itself. You are lifted to straddle one of the branches and clutch at the trunk to hold your balance, marvelling as your head clears just in time to see the creature rush past, now far beneath you. It screeches like a hundred angry cicadas as it moves and you feel a chill down your spine at your narrow avoidance of it. You're so flooded with relief that for a while you don't even process the fact that you were helped out of the danger, until a thick, pungent smell draws your attention. You recenter yourself on the branch that you're straddling, still gripping onto the tree to make sure you don't tip to one side, and realize it has opened up in front of you. A knot the size of your fist has split the bark, just barely above where the branch meets the trunk. It is stained with fresh sap, slowly seeping it from the inside. The smell of it is sickly sweet, but musky, filling your head and making you slightly dizzy all over again. You feel a pang of sympathy for the thing, reaching out to stroke at the spot as you marvel at how deep the knot goes. The wood is dark oversaturated there, almost to the point of softness. When your fingers hit the sap it is warm, the same texture as processed syrup. [[The tree groans again, but as it does the wood plumps up, the whorl in front of you swelling and opening wider.]]

You blush, instantly withdrawing your hand from your savior, amazed and... titillated at this stunning piece of nature. You'd heard tale of dryads and entwood, but you hand't thought they'd... well. You watch as a vegetal spur blooms its way free of the knot-- somewhere between a fungus and a fruit-- and grows in front of you, sticky and phallic. The tree groans as the branch you're sitting on tips upward, causing you to slide closer to the trunk. You landing here appears to be no accident, or at least a happy one in the tree's mind. It's not a coupling you would have imagined for yourself, or a scenario you might have dreamt to milk your own pleasure, but the dryad did save you, after all. And it's not like you haven't been wanting to release a little pressure anyway. [[Focus on its pleasure, give it your mouth to use]] [[Holes were made to pleasure two people, slide inside and give both of you a little portion]]

You push yourself back to lie down across the branch, actually finding your balance much surer as you're laid flat against the bark. You scoot carefully closer, nostrils filled with the sweet, piney scent of the sap now front and scent. Pungent and musky it fills your head, fogging your brain a little as you approach, making the taste of it soak into your palette before you've even opened your mouth. You mewl slightly, feeling yourself instantly salivate at just the notion. The wood in front of you undulates slowly, like it's quivering at a tenth of the pace a creature your size wood. The dryad creaks and groans as you approach, fresh sap seeping out of the whorl every second. The pulp of the wood fattens as your breath ghosts across it and you hesitate only a moment before lipping around the edges. It's remarkably smooth, like polished, petrified pieces, putting up no friction against the thin skin of your lips. The taste of it hits you instantly, sweet but sharp. Like a bourbon soaked syrup it burns a little, but then overwhelms your mouth with a dark, rich sugar. You moan softly and continue to work around the edges, kissing and suckling at the dryad's sex. When you reach the top, you're faced with the looming presence of the spur it bloomed as an erection, and curiously tip your face to look it over. It's all one color, looks to be made of the same material, but the shaft has ridges like a stalk of celery while the head is soft, spungy, and has a frill of gills underneath like a mushroom. [[Cautious for both yourself and the tree, you slowly hover over it]]

You pull the front of your tunic up and over your head, slide the waist of your breeches under the hang of your balls. Before sliding forward, you put your hands to the tree again, fully partaking of it this time. You sink your thick digits straight into the center of the knot, pushing against the silken walls and groaning as you feel its viscous sap gush around you. You plunge and stroke and scissor inside of it until you can feel the wood quivering against you. It moves almost in slow motion, the tremors undulating in visible waves, and the more you play with it, the more your cock swells in excitment. It slips free from your slit, fattening up quickly, and you do not hesitate to slather it in the sap that was provided. It feels wrong in only the best way as you smear it all over yourself, marvelling at the way it sticks and oh so lethargicly starts pooling or running down. When you're ready you scoot as close to the trunk as you can manage, stroking up and own the rough bark, shivering at the way it scrapes along your stomach and chest as you enter. Your cock sinks in about as slow as you had imagined, all thrusting muffled by the tar of the tree's juices. It's like fucking into a barrel of molasses-- resistance and suction forcing you to move at a glacial pace. Within moments it has soaked against your balls, matted your body hair. It webs between your thighs, and threatens to start slowly oozing down your taint. [[You lose yourself in it]]

You roll your hips luxuriously, eyes rolling back at the decadent, rich feel. You barely even sense the wood surrounding you, mostly fucking into a pool of its slick. The peppery, sweet smell like pine smothers your senses, soaking into the roof of your mouth as it coats more and more of you, The tree groans and moves like it's being blown in a gust of wind, tilting back and forth minutely beneath you. You stop caring about the way the bark bites into your skin, wrapping yourself tightly around it to try and get as deep as possible. You fish a hand between yourself and the whorl of wood, fishing in the mess for that fruiting spire of an erection it had sported. When you close around it, the shaft is ribbed like a stalk of celery, but the top is smooth and porous, with gills underneath the flare of it like a mushroom. You start to stroke it in time with your thrusts, fingering at the delicate flaps. As you grip it, spores start to spray from it, filling the air before starting to gently float their way towards the ground. The tree convulses around your cock, the undulations increasing in pace to feel almost like it's lapping at your shaft. The tree with all its fluids feels none of your barbs and lets you fuck however you feel, with complete abandon. The muscles in your ass start to draw tight, your dick flexing as hard as it can manage under the weight of the sap. You let your head fall back as you grind to a halt and start to pulse, flooding the knothole with your own, thick seed. [[The two of you flutter together]]

It takes a while to come down, and when you do it is slow work to extricate yourself from the dryad. You pop free with a gooey, sticky bubbling sound, sap flooding back into the tree to fill the void of your cock. You're absolutely coated in the stuff, reeking of pine. Your body hair is stuck to your skin in whorls, your clothes absolutely soaked with it. Each movement you make leaves webby strings of it and as your cock grows flaccid you groan at the feeling of it gumming up your slit. The tree wraps its branch around you again to lower you to the ground, but does little else to help with the predicament, having had its fill. You're sure this stuff is useful for something, even if it's just a niche sort of lube or a sweet little glaze. Perhaps both at the same time. Either way, you fish some vials from your pack, try and scrape gobs of it into the glass that aren't laced with your pubes. You'll have to find a river to actually get clean and hopefully keep your cunt from having the yeast infection of a lifetime, but you'll take that over being mauled by a shrub beast any time. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, readjust your clothes as best you can, and head back to find your path with a renewed focus for keeping quiet and safe. [[Eventually the emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon->The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

You have to bend your neck at an awkward angle to start licking at it, but you work to put your mouth to it all the same, wanting to give back to this creature that saved you. You can't wrap your mouth all the way around its shaft, but carefully suckle at it, minding your tusks as you drag up and down the length. Though it is slicked in sap, the underlying taste here is of the flesh, much fresher and new like a sapling. It has those floral, fleshy notes of cucumber until you reach the head, which unsurprisingly coats your mouth in the earthy flavors of fungus. Delicately you lick at the flaps of frills underneath moaning at the way they flutter beneath your ministrations. You pull off with a pop, scared to be too rough, and take it in hand to stroke as you lean back into the knot. Idly you notice you've started wetting your breeches, but you pay no mind to your own cunt besides maybe grinding on the bark a little. If you finish from this, it's merely an added bonus. You're hesitant at first, pressing your whole face up against the trunk, but as you lick into the center of the knothole, tasting of its deepest sugars, you find yourself more and more greedily pushing into it. The sap smears against your cheeks, runs down your chin. [[It's so thick it coats your mouth completely, pools underneath your tongue]]

You glut yourself on it, greedily sucking more and more down until you swear your can feel your stomach swelling with it. Every so often you have to pull away to work to swallow your current mouthful of it, gasping for air as it almost clogs up your throat. It's matted into your beard, threatens to clog your nostrils, but you still dive back in, lapping and suckling and tongue fucking deeper and deeper into your savior. Its cock has started to puff spores into the air, seeding the ground beneath it as you lazily jack the vegetal cock off, using your other free hand to fork a few fingers in right along its rim, as though you could pull it ever so slightly wider like you would a hole of real flesh. You grind your own crotch against the gnarled spur in the branch you're rested on, moaning as you can feel yourself nearing completion just from this. Feverish and swollen and sensitive, you've wet your entire groin, almost getting drunk off of the head you're giving. You pull away just to transfer to its cock, swallowing the whole thing down in a single stroke, fluttering your throat around it. And with the knothole freed you slide your fingers back inside, four at a time as you forecfully fuck into it. The tree tightens around them, squeezing them almost to the point of pain before flooding itself with its release, coating your hand all the way to the wrist. You follow not long after, lost in the mess that you've made of each other. [[It takes a minute for you to withdraw your hand and when you do, a seed the size of a walnut is clutched in your fingers]]

It takes a while to come down, and when you do it is slow work to extricate yourself from the dryad. You pop free with a gooey, sticky bubbling sound, sap flooding back into the tree to fill the void of your cock. You're absolutely coated in the stuff, reeking of pine. You do your best to wipe it from your face, get it free from where it's webbing together all over your fingers. It still leave a tremendously tacky residue, but eventually you at least free yourself somewhat from the weight of it. The tree wraps its branch around you again to lower you to the ground, but does little else to help with the predicament, having had its fill. The seed clutched in your fist is an odd one at best. Shaped quite plainly like a sack of testicles and reeking of semen, you're not entirely sure what to do with it, but you're sure it'll be useful to someone, somewhere. You wrap it in some cloth and stuff it into your pack, wondering if there's even anywhere you can do reserach about such a thing.. You'll have to find a river to actually get clean and you're sure you'll be sick to your stomach from all the sugar, but you'll take that over being mauled by a shrub beast any time. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, readjust your clothes as best you can, and head back to find your path with a renewed focus for keeping quiet and safe. [[Eventually the emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon->The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

With a canopy this dense, trees this tightly packed, one would think the forest this deep would be dark and gloomy. Natural light barely filters its way down to the ground-- floor packed with leaves, seeds, fruit that are all in different stages of decomposition. The smell of nature perpetually in the cycle of life is thick here, pungent with the dueling flowery aromatics and dank rot. And yet, there is an ever present glow about the edges of everything. The fuzz on stone fruits is always set alight, tree sap glistens, and bodies of water hold mirages of warm colors like spilled paint atop the surface. It is the golden hour in these parts, forever. Dust motes filter through shafts of autumn sunset and the temperature hangs at a place that is unnerringly pleasant. Even more so than a dark and twisted wood, this is the kind of place where people are lost forever. Everything beckons you to approach, to sit and stay awhile. It all exudes its own charm that argues with you to dissolve your destination, to abandon all the things you thought you had to do. It's enticing, obviously. Even understanding the facade doesn't make it seem any more saccharine or contrived. It does not ring hollow as the words of a charlatan trying to swindle you, fighting against their own smarm. It is meticulous and in a way, genuine. It's the ever present call of the grass always being greener somewhere else. And maybe that's true. There's always the chance. You do your best to admire it all from afar, like someone merely documenting a foreign landscape. [[You've been walking what feels like hours, you're sure you'll be through it soon]]

Up ahead you see a break in the treeline, and you scramble for it, not noticing how much the trees arching around it looked like a gateway. All you notice is that there's a different light ahead, the promise of another sort of landscape that will free your mind from its exhausting concentration. Stumbling over fallen branches you break into the clearing, eyes widening and heart skipping a few beats as you're taken by the beauty. By some sort of magic you're instantly in a glen like the ones you grew up in. The grasses are tawny and scraggly. The rocks are sharp and jagged. There is a dampness set about everything, the taste of salt on the air. Pangs of longing break suddenly across your skin and sourness springs to your tongue. You hadn't realized just how much you missed this until the very second you were there again. You can just imagine the rich, fatty scent of a seal meat stew over the fire-- hear the braying of hounds as they wrestle with children and beg for scraps. Tears very nearly spring to your eyes, but they are stifled by the appearance of a little swarm of pixies buzzing into view. Only inches tall, grey skinned, wings irridescent in the mist. When they smile they have sharp teeth and thin, snake like tongues that scent the air. "Orcish boy, this pleases you, does it not? Stay awhile, steep in the love for your home. We are happy to provide you with this, and the payment taken will be easily replenished, never missed." [[This is the only taste of home you'll get in a while and besides, fae cannot lie. What harm will it do?]] [[Their bargains are always lopsided, flee and don't look back.]]

Sometimes the smarter option is not to fight. It always feels counterintuitive, like giving up before you've even started. It's a hard lesson most people in your life have taken a long time to learn, including yourself. It's easy to reach for violence, to rely only on your strength to get around things. The fae want you to react blindly-- it's more fun that way. They're like cats that play with their quarry, casual and cruel as they bite the legs off spiders just to watch how funnily they'll continue to dance. But if you never give them the opportunity, then they'll just take what they truly need, abandon you for something that puts up more of a struggle. So you shrug, drop your pack to the ground and slump along with it. You roll your neck and sigh in momentary relief, free from the weight of your gear. The pixies pause a moment, flummoxed, looking to one another for a reaction. Their eyes narrow and as they fly down to approach, they're slow, wary. "How can I help you fine fellows?" They scowl a little, as though you'd been making fun, and after a few moments of chittering discussion, send one to hover just in front of your face for negotiations. He looks so close to humanoid it makes the subtle shifted features all the more unsettling. A miniature, naked man's body, but with extra joints in the limbs, razor teeth, nictitating membrane. "We wish only to dine on rarities and delicacies. The same two meals may never touch our lips. Sustain us a while longer, bare your teats and let us sup on orcish milk for the first and last time." [[A blush springs to your face, hot and sudden]]

You don't even attempt an answer, affirmative or not. Anything you do or say they'll use against you and you know better than that. These things are fast, but you gather they're using all their strength combined to hold up this illusion. You're too big for them to take down through physicality alone. You make an eye for the portal that you entered through, measure the distance in your mind. At a dead sprint you'll be back through there in no time. You tense your muscles, take a slow deep breath. You'll always love your home, but this isn't real, and if you want to ever go back there with pride in your heart, you have to make it through this. Teeth grit with determination, you turn and break into a run in a single, smooth move. All the muscles in your body snap with a single intention, bursting forward with the intensity of a predator finally leaping for its prey. Your feet slide on the imaginary damp, catch on the crags of uneven rock beneath you. But you were raised to run on terrain like this. Your tribe could march through the night without reaching exhaustion. You feel the pricks and burning sting of tiny, razor sharp fae weapons bite into your skin. Miniature arrows and dainty daggers pierce your skin, draw blood, but aren't enough to make you slow. [[With a galloping crash you leap back through the doorway and crumple to the ground on the other side, chest heaving. ]]

It was close, close enough that you're sure your father would have given you such a talking to even the other adults in the tribe would have trembled. He was never one to lay his hands on you, but by the gods he could give a speech that made you wish otherwise. A smarting ass and wounded pride would have recovered much sooner than the deep shame he could instill at having scared or disappointed him. Even without having to face it in person, just thinking about what he'd say has you scrubbing the back of your neck as you gather yourself back up, move to continue on. There's a lot of things you're glad he doesn't know about, things you'll never tell him if all goes right. He'll only see the success of your venture, the result of all these dodgy dealings. Thinking on him distracts you enough from your surroundings that no more honey traps catch your attention, your legs taking you on autopilot across the trails and out of the forest in truth this time. [[The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

You've lactated before, all orcs experience it throughout their puberty. Your shirts are as liable to be sticky as your sheets at that age, but late in your teens in tends to peter off, disappearing for mostly completely-- until they choose to mate. It's been a while since you last felt your own tits wet, and only in the throes of passion. It was not unheard of for orcish men to have a fetish for such things, or even outsiders that marvelled at such things unseen of in their own kind. Even still, you'd not been outright approached over it before. Worrying your tusks against your lips, you figure it is truly one of the least harmful things they could ask for-- a paltry price to pay for passage and indulgence in this illusion. So you nod to them, wave the little swarm over. You untie your shirts as they approach, letting the neck slide down your shoulders, exposing your furred chest. The muscles underneath were firm, but like everything else on your body, protected by a generous layer of fat that gave them a soft, plush appearance. Your teats themselves were dark and pointed, often making their form known even beneath your clothes. The little fae titter in glee as you recline on your elbows, brushing your mane of unkempt, curly hair behind you to give them unfettered access. It feels more lascivious than anything you've ever done-- jutting your tits forward to present them for ministration. [[The pixies descend]]

Like fruit flies creating a cloud overripe peaches, they flutter in a mass around you. Their little bodies cling to your flesh with pinching digits, sticking to you with the same almost-sting of a locust. They chitter as they roam around you, making little grunts of exertion and interest as they examine your body. You try not to let your nervous, fluttering breaths shake them too much, leaning your head back to puff out into the open. The dreary, cool grey sky of your home is a placid reassurance. There's such calm in the uneven tones, the slight drizzle that you barely feel. It makes all the little hair on your body damp, frizzes your hair to nearly double in volume. As you focus on it, you relax more into their touch, slumping even further down into your position. It is no warrior stud from your tribe, sweaty from his sparring and bawdily asking you for a drink as his rough fingers push into your pants, but the sensations aren't truly unpleasant. Their sharp teeth sting as they bite into the sensitive skin of your areola, but soon the bristling turns into a pleasant burr like the scratch of a beard on your inner thighs, a slick that makes your insides tingle. Their little tongues feel almost as though they're trying to dip into your nipple, to pull the milk from you before it beads. Their entire bodies grope at you, pushing your flesh in multiple directions as they use their entire strength and the beating of their wings to manipulate you. Some bicker for the chance to taste first while others content themselves with exploring you further. One has taken to nibbling around your navel, elbow deep inside the opening. Another has mounted the side of your head, already husking a breath as it grinds its sticky cock against the ridges of your ear. Another still is wriggling into your pants and you try not to slam your thighs closed as you feel it spelunking about your now dewy sex. [[It's all a little overwhelming, you lay back and just let them have their way]]

It's too hard to try and focus on any one thing happening to you. The droning of their wings, the mutitude of their hands, their flittering attention changing faster than you can track it is truly dizzying. So you decide to just let them do what they do best. You slide all the way to the ground, shivering as you feel the cool grass on your back. The second you give in, their frenzy increases tenfold. Your clothes start to be shredded as they try to get at more of you, groups of them working together to lift your arms above your head, pull apart your ample asscheeks. You close your eyes and punch out little cries as they swarm over you. Your milk has started to flow with their attentions, still lethargic but steady. They gobble at the little beads so hastily that much of it runs in rivulets down your chest, making little tracks towards your belly that others lap at. Mischievous, thrilled laughs bubble in the air as you feel them rutting against your taint, your sticky cunt, your humid hole. They lay their whole bodies against your skin, clinging to you in a bear hug as they fuck themselves against you, like a pubscent humping into their bedroll. You can only tell when some of them spend against you as they bite into you when they do, elliciting sharp flares of hot pain that dull into warm tingles. Your milk starts to come faster and more plentiful as your cock starts to slide free, steamy and sticky. [[The pixies that had been stationed at your lips clutch onto it and ride the length of it as it grows, cackling.]]

Their little mouths against latch against the flesh like suckers, making your cock throb in dozens of individual spots. Some of them skitter down to your balls, fighting against the heft of them and wealth of extra skin to burrow in the sweaty crevices, immersing themselves in your sack to grind. You scrabble your feet against the ground as you feel the onces at your ass now testing the ring of muscle at your whole, taking turns fisting their arms inside and then struggling to pull themselves free. When you open your mouth to groan in surprise, three flit over to cling to your face, latching against your lips, nose. One fucks against your gums, rubbing his dick half between your lips and half against your teeth, tongue lolling in pleasure. Another has climbed half inside, giggling as he plays in the drool he's causing, little feet stamping onto your tongue. The last grins with near mania directly in your line of sight, scrabbling to gain purchase on your upper lip, before ramming his cock into one of your nostrils. You cough and splutter, shaking a few pixies free in your shock, but they swarm back with all the abandon of a fly, caring little for your batting. Your tits are starting to feel raw, stinging from all the eager teeth, gulping mouths. You barely even register their wetness, too occupied with the forms wriggling between your toes, sounding your dick, now wriggling their way wholesale inside of your ass. [[Your brain is a white noise fuzz of sensation]]

To try and take back autonomy over any one section would be to ignore another, and you know that the second you moved on they would simply rush back. You don't bother to try and finger a pixie or two free from your asshole, nor delve between your sacks to do the same. You don't swat at your chest to give your swollen, reddening nipples a break, nor try to brush the little buggers fucking the shit out of your nose away. You let them lick at every inch of you, grope and grind and blow their meager loads. Many of them are now sticky from your milk or their own spendings, leaving little trails of mess everywhere they visit, matting your body hair. There's a dozen microcosms of events happening around you. Little groups of them cheer as one spreads your hole with his arms and legs, straining against the muscle. Another pod are stumbling and hiccuping, coated in your milk and looking to have nearly drowned themselves in it. More grunt and squeal and laugh and moan as they beset you. Their hedonism rivals even that of the satyrs, and you marvel at it as the two at your nose clap hands as they finally start to cum inside it, egging each other on as they grind in deep, tickling your sinuses, causing you to huff and then sneeze them out, sending them flying. Your thighs quake and distantly you think you register your own orgasm wracking through you. You can hear the gurgles of pixies that are spattered to your thigh, stuck like insects in a web of your spunk. As you're losing yourself to the chaos of it all, That Voice chuckles in your ear, warm and intimate. [["Their test of your stamina wil be nothing compared to me, sweet boy."]]

At some point you had to have passed out, as now you awaken. You are not surrounded by the call of shorebirds, nor the misty damp. Instead you are back in that golden forest, though now with shredded clothes and wrinkly, cold tits. It takes you a long couple minutes to come back to yourself, gather your things, salvage what you can of your clothing. During your self inspection, unamusingly tucked inside yourself you find a little fae charm, with a note wrapped around it. //A debt is still owed for the pleasures you bestowed upon us. Rub this charm between your folds and think of us, and we shall come to your aid// It's almost hilarious and you can't help but snort at their audacity. At the very least, it's something for your time and even if they're the most selfish lovers you've ever had, they weren't the worst. Thinking on how another encounter would go, you meander your way out of the forest, too enraptured by the trap your already fell into to pay any mind to the others trying to catch your attention [[Eventually the emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon->The emberroot is close enough you can smell the sharp bite of it like cinnamon]]

End of Chapter 1 Thanks so much for playing this proof of concept! For now, this is all the adventure that Making Love has to offer. This project was created in tandem with, and for the enjoyment of my readers over on twitter. Most days we're creating horny fanfiction over there, but I've been wanting to branch out into original content and they agreed to follow me on that journey. If you'd like to come hang out, drop prompts, ask questions, and maybe encourage or help me to continue on with this, head on over! I'm @DirtcoreD and I would love to hear from you. We have an inclusive, safe space over there to have all kinds of fun. Let me know if you want more!!! I didn't fully commit to this because I was unsure how much readership would carry over, but if you want more of the story, more gameplay elements, and maybe even some art of the characters and scenarios, bring it to my attention. And if, by chance, you'd like to work with me, I'd be more than happy to expand this project beyond just what I can do as a horndog with a creative writing degree and youtube tutorials. If you've made it this far, I've got one last, little treat for you [[Please Enjoy]]

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