The door is pushed open - not by Fjord, but another cultist, yellow-eyed slightly finned. “You are summoned,” they say. “The ritual is to begin shortly.”
Molly smirks, Jester frowns, and pushes the plate with the remaining muffin in his direction.
“Follow me,” the cultist continues, “or we will drag you there by force.”
It is still only the one cultist, but the tower itself is unholy ground. He rises, and the other two follow not a moment later, all walking forth. Their paces shift, speeding up and slowing down, trying to have someone else be at the forefront, but in the end it evens out, and they're more or less in step when they reach the ritual chamber.
“Looks like a party,” Molly mutters, as they are joined by more cultists. Fjord is on a dais in the center, carved lines of a runic sigil around him and glowing, three empty spots, which they are each promptly shoved towards. Jester shakes off a few who grab at her - stronger than he’d have suspected, at a glance. He lets himself be guided, hand on the back of his neck dropping him to his knees.
They chant. He recognizes a few words as abyssal, although he can’t place the meaning, and at a glance neither tiefling knows the language either. It’s some sort of call and response, as Fjord stands gripping a sea worn falchion, golden eye staring up from the hilt.
Around them, the shadows of the already dark room deepen. He takes it as just the sign of the ritual’s power, but they start to solidify, like rippling, inky black water, slowly encroaching.
Maybe it’s because he’s too distracted, trying to determine what the ritual means even without knowing the words, and maybe it’s because he was waiting for Fjord to step off from the dais, or one of the cultists to approach - he doesn’t see the water form into tentacles until they’re already on him.
There’s gasps and shrieks - more surprise than anything but not without fear - from the other two, before the tentacles find their way into open mouths. One pushes against his closed lips, trying to force its way in his mouth, and after only a moment he relents rather than have it try and break his jaw with the effort.
The tentacles snake around limbs, pulling them all a few feet in the air. It’s easier to tell what’s happening by seeing the other two than by trying to figure out how he’s being positioned by sense, but most of his attention remains not on them, or the tentacles, but Fjord. His own shadow seems to leak out, as if it is the source, and he lets the sword go, to float before him, face wracked in concentration.
Clothes are torn away, roughly, and he knows there’s little chance of getting those back. Hopefully it won’t be the last they see of any clothing at all. Skin exposed to the cool room, everything is covered by the tentacles and their adolescent pawing, unorganized but not rough, at least. The two tieflings seem more affected, or at least, good at faking it, and he does his best to match their sounds, gasps and moans at the vague attempts to caress any and all exposed skin.
There’s a look of concentration on Fjord’s face - the tentacles aren’t the Leviathan, or some other sentience, but the Exarch controlling and communing - accessing a newfound power? The split attention among the three explains the sloppiness; there’s enough differences that he’s clearly making different moves for each instead of copying the same general impact on all of them.
It is Mollymauk who starts thrusting against the tentacles first, and not more than a few moments after the focus shifts, as they start to wind around actually sensitive areas, just beginning to press in. He doesn’t need to try and fake any sounds at that.
He’s not - he wasn’t expected, wasn’t prepared for tentacles. They’re more than even several pairs of hands could ever be, their writhing contact everywhere, surprising in how good it feels. Wrapped around and pressing in, just a few, just slowly, exploring over fucking, which is a sensation he’s never felt before.
It’s growing increasingly difficult, trying to keep his attention on what’s happening around him, on Fjord. Any sense of trying to follow chanting is gone, and he’s grateful there’s no reason to try and pretend to be unaffected, because he knows the attempt would be pitiful.
Tentacles start to hit and press into bundles of nerves, and he’s barely able to notice when they start moving forward, being dragged up the dais towards the center, and then he only truly realizes what has happened when there’s a hand on his face, gentle, but still pulling him up to make contact.
Fjord kisses him, and it takes all he can to not react. It isn’t the most forcefully he’s been kissed, but neither is it gentle - certainly claiming. The tentacles don’t stop, and he doesn’t hold back the moan he gives, even after Fjord pulls away.
They’re close enough to the center now that it doesn’t take movement, just a turn, for Fjord to focus on one of the other two. If any of them could move, it would be simple to reach out - but even a test finds the tentacles hold fast, not budging any limbs.
He’s turned to Molly now, biting at his neck as the tentacles raise upward, before the tiefling is angled back and Fjord starts fucking into him. Hands grip at thighs, but there isn’t even the pretense that’s what’s holding him up.
Moving in time, now, the tentacles start stretching and spreading and growing deeper within him - and from the sounds being made, Jester as well. It’s nowhere near the sensation of actually getting fucked, too many and too small, but it doesn’t make the rhythm any less intense.
It looks like Molly is about to come, when the tentacles around his dick pull back, leaving one like a plug and one wrapped around the base. After a shuddering thrust, Fjord pulls out, and there’s the sight of his cum leaking out of Molly before a much larger tentacle takes the place, not moving, just acting as a plug.
He turns to Jester, after that, Mollymauk overwhelmed and lying shaking in tentacles that still hold fast. Practically looming over her, hands caressing her breasts, he starts fucking her in turn.
Unlike Mollymauk, her hands are not being held - and she wraps them around Fjord pulling him tight. The sounds she makes are no more intelligible, just caught up in pleasure.
When her hands fall aside, and Jester falls back, they’re wrapped up in tentacles once more, keeping her in place and aloft. It’s harder to see, harder to tell, if she’s also on the near edge of orgasm when Fjord pulls aside - still hard, magically so - and the tentacles slide up to take the place, still and far away from anything sensitive.
And then Fjord’s focus is back on him. A shorter kiss, a sharp biting mark, he lets himself fall into the grip as the tentacles pull back and Fjord takes their gaping place. It’s surprising how full it feels, after being so stretched and opened.
It hadn’t felt this long, watching the others, but it feels longer - mind not able to focus on keeping track of the time quite so closely. There’s so much magic in the air, he can taste it, power. Fjord feels so good, the contact, even the tentacles. There’s no need to fake a reaction - it’s getting to him, it truly is.
And as it had with Molly - the ritual refuses to let him finish, even as does so, warm and sticky and leaving him feeling so filled. The tentacle that comes to plug is larger, stretching, and refuses to move at all, to let any relief come until it is decreed.
The Exarch shifts back to the center, and reads his lines, and the room cracks with power, the chanting which had gone soft, or further away, rising to a crescendo. It’s like every shadow in the room is a tentacle, now, golden eyes glowing in the dark. He can feel a metal collar snap around his neck, but he can’t find it in him to care.
There’s only a few moments of stimulation, that’s all that’s needed before he’s coming, surely in unison with the other two. Can’t even look, too much feeling, nothing stopping - he falls back into the embrace of the tentacles.
When he regains consciousness, the ritual chamber is gone, replaced by a bedroom, softly lit by candles. He’s been cleaned up, which is mildly worrying but not truly unexpected. Beside him in the bed are Molly and Jester - there is a space where Fjord may have been, but he is nowhere to be seen.
The collar was real, though, is still around all three necks. The other two have different designs, ever so slightly customized, more for aesthetic than personality, but not completely apart. He wonders, if he found a mirror, what his own would appear as.
Careful to hide the movements, he looks to the candles, and follows the familiar somatic components for control flames. The color shifts, ever so slightly, before returning back as it was. Not enchanted to block magic, an oversight he was more than thankful for.
From what he had seen - from the powers on display within the tower - it would not be an easy mission, to kill the Leviathan’s Exarch. More information would be needed, a weakness - but at least magic was still available.
For now, though, that is too much thought. He shifts closer into the other two’s embrace, and lets the fleeting whisper of consciousness vanish once again.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: rites of conquest (Fjord/Caleb/Jester/Molly, dub/noncon, arranged marriage, tentacle sex) 2/2
Date: 2022-03-14 11:22 am (UTC)Molly smirks, Jester frowns, and pushes the plate with the remaining muffin in his direction.
“Follow me,” the cultist continues, “or we will drag you there by force.”
It is still only the one cultist, but the tower itself is unholy ground. He rises, and the other two follow not a moment later, all walking forth. Their paces shift, speeding up and slowing down, trying to have someone else be at the forefront, but in the end it evens out, and they're more or less in step when they reach the ritual chamber.
“Looks like a party,” Molly mutters, as they are joined by more cultists. Fjord is on a dais in the center, carved lines of a runic sigil around him and glowing, three empty spots, which they are each promptly shoved towards. Jester shakes off a few who grab at her - stronger than he’d have suspected, at a glance. He lets himself be guided, hand on the back of his neck dropping him to his knees.
They chant. He recognizes a few words as abyssal, although he can’t place the meaning, and at a glance neither tiefling knows the language either. It’s some sort of call and response, as Fjord stands gripping a sea worn falchion, golden eye staring up from the hilt.
Around them, the shadows of the already dark room deepen. He takes it as just the sign of the ritual’s power, but they start to solidify, like rippling, inky black water, slowly encroaching.
Maybe it’s because he’s too distracted, trying to determine what the ritual means even without knowing the words, and maybe it’s because he was waiting for Fjord to step off from the dais, or one of the cultists to approach - he doesn’t see the water form into tentacles until they’re already on him.
There’s gasps and shrieks - more surprise than anything but not without fear - from the other two, before the tentacles find their way into open mouths. One pushes against his closed lips, trying to force its way in his mouth, and after only a moment he relents rather than have it try and break his jaw with the effort.
The tentacles snake around limbs, pulling them all a few feet in the air. It’s easier to tell what’s happening by seeing the other two than by trying to figure out how he’s being positioned by sense, but most of his attention remains not on them, or the tentacles, but Fjord. His own shadow seems to leak out, as if it is the source, and he lets the sword go, to float before him, face wracked in concentration.
Clothes are torn away, roughly, and he knows there’s little chance of getting those back. Hopefully it won’t be the last they see of any clothing at all. Skin exposed to the cool room, everything is covered by the tentacles and their adolescent pawing, unorganized but not rough, at least. The two tieflings seem more affected, or at least, good at faking it, and he does his best to match their sounds, gasps and moans at the vague attempts to caress any and all exposed skin.
There’s a look of concentration on Fjord’s face - the tentacles aren’t the Leviathan, or some other sentience, but the Exarch controlling and communing - accessing a newfound power? The split attention among the three explains the sloppiness; there’s enough differences that he’s clearly making different moves for each instead of copying the same general impact on all of them.
It is Mollymauk who starts thrusting against the tentacles first, and not more than a few moments after the focus shifts, as they start to wind around actually sensitive areas, just beginning to press in. He doesn’t need to try and fake any sounds at that.
He’s not - he wasn’t expected, wasn’t prepared for tentacles. They’re more than even several pairs of hands could ever be, their writhing contact everywhere, surprising in how good it feels. Wrapped around and pressing in, just a few, just slowly, exploring over fucking, which is a sensation he’s never felt before.
It’s growing increasingly difficult, trying to keep his attention on what’s happening around him, on Fjord. Any sense of trying to follow chanting is gone, and he’s grateful there’s no reason to try and pretend to be unaffected, because he knows the attempt would be pitiful.
Tentacles start to hit and press into bundles of nerves, and he’s barely able to notice when they start moving forward, being dragged up the dais towards the center, and then he only truly realizes what has happened when there’s a hand on his face, gentle, but still pulling him up to make contact.
Fjord kisses him, and it takes all he can to not react. It isn’t the most forcefully he’s been kissed, but neither is it gentle - certainly claiming. The tentacles don’t stop, and he doesn’t hold back the moan he gives, even after Fjord pulls away.
They’re close enough to the center now that it doesn’t take movement, just a turn, for Fjord to focus on one of the other two. If any of them could move, it would be simple to reach out - but even a test finds the tentacles hold fast, not budging any limbs.
He’s turned to Molly now, biting at his neck as the tentacles raise upward, before the tiefling is angled back and Fjord starts fucking into him. Hands grip at thighs, but there isn’t even the pretense that’s what’s holding him up.
Moving in time, now, the tentacles start stretching and spreading and growing deeper within him - and from the sounds being made, Jester as well. It’s nowhere near the sensation of actually getting fucked, too many and too small, but it doesn’t make the rhythm any less intense.
It looks like Molly is about to come, when the tentacles around his dick pull back, leaving one like a plug and one wrapped around the base. After a shuddering thrust, Fjord pulls out, and there’s the sight of his cum leaking out of Molly before a much larger tentacle takes the place, not moving, just acting as a plug.
He turns to Jester, after that, Mollymauk overwhelmed and lying shaking in tentacles that still hold fast. Practically looming over her, hands caressing her breasts, he starts fucking her in turn.
Unlike Mollymauk, her hands are not being held - and she wraps them around Fjord pulling him tight. The sounds she makes are no more intelligible, just caught up in pleasure.
When her hands fall aside, and Jester falls back, they’re wrapped up in tentacles once more, keeping her in place and aloft. It’s harder to see, harder to tell, if she’s also on the near edge of orgasm when Fjord pulls aside - still hard, magically so - and the tentacles slide up to take the place, still and far away from anything sensitive.
And then Fjord’s focus is back on him. A shorter kiss, a sharp biting mark, he lets himself fall into the grip as the tentacles pull back and Fjord takes their gaping place. It’s surprising how full it feels, after being so stretched and opened.
It hadn’t felt this long, watching the others, but it feels longer - mind not able to focus on keeping track of the time quite so closely. There’s so much magic in the air, he can taste it, power. Fjord feels so good, the contact, even the tentacles. There’s no need to fake a reaction - it’s getting to him, it truly is.
And as it had with Molly - the ritual refuses to let him finish, even as does so, warm and sticky and leaving him feeling so filled. The tentacle that comes to plug is larger, stretching, and refuses to move at all, to let any relief come until it is decreed.
The Exarch shifts back to the center, and reads his lines, and the room cracks with power, the chanting which had gone soft, or further away, rising to a crescendo. It’s like every shadow in the room is a tentacle, now, golden eyes glowing in the dark. He can feel a metal collar snap around his neck, but he can’t find it in him to care.
There’s only a few moments of stimulation, that’s all that’s needed before he’s coming, surely in unison with the other two. Can’t even look, too much feeling, nothing stopping - he falls back into the embrace of the tentacles.
When he regains consciousness, the ritual chamber is gone, replaced by a bedroom, softly lit by candles. He’s been cleaned up, which is mildly worrying but not truly unexpected. Beside him in the bed are Molly and Jester - there is a space where Fjord may have been, but he is nowhere to be seen.
The collar was real, though, is still around all three necks. The other two have different designs, ever so slightly customized, more for aesthetic than personality, but not completely apart. He wonders, if he found a mirror, what his own would appear as.
Careful to hide the movements, he looks to the candles, and follows the familiar somatic components for control flames. The color shifts, ever so slightly, before returning back as it was. Not enchanted to block magic, an oversight he was more than thankful for.
From what he had seen - from the powers on display within the tower - it would not be an easy mission, to kill the Leviathan’s Exarch. More information would be needed, a weakness - but at least magic was still available.
For now, though, that is too much thought. He shifts closer into the other two’s embrace, and lets the fleeting whisper of consciousness vanish once again.