Yeah, this is basically just raunchy spooky-themed porn. Unfinished WIP.
Larson/Arthur/John
Tags & warnings: dubcon/noncon (I mean by every genuine measure it’s noncon – but they’re fucked up and not fighting it), hypnosis/mind control, tentacles, bondage, body horror, body transformation, sexual sacrifice, uneven writing because I’m still trying to make it better
***
Arthur’s head starts spinning when the door to the secret passage swings shut with a heavy thud behind them.
“It’s dark,” John says, “but there’s a faint light at the bottom.”
The passage slopes downward. The floor is stone. Arthur sets his hand to the wall as it all seems to sway around him. “I feel strange, John.” His body feels light, disconnected. It’s like he’s hanging tied on puppet strings, being moved by someone else’s hand.
Read more: Malevoween Day 3: Altars & Sacrifices“…So do I,” John admits reluctantly. Arthur feels his fingertips brush against his left temple. “I think…the incantation we read to open the door. It did something to us.”
“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. “I think… I felt it.” He spoke it aloud after John recited to him. It had swum in his head, left him feeling buoyant and light. He still does. Detached from himself, his problems seem far away, nothing he needs to worry about right now. There’s a warmth flowing through him that beckons him to get lost in the sensations of his own body.
He knows that’s not true, but it feels so good. How long has it been since he felt good? With every step, it seems to sink into him, a sweetness in his blood, a melting in his bones. “John? Do you…?”
“There’s a room,” John says softly. There’s a drifting quality to his tone that makes Arthur want to reach to him.
Instead he touches stone—a threshold. They’ve moved. He hadn’t even quite noticed they were moving.
“We’re at a doorway,” John replies to his sound of surprise. Oh, his voice is slow honey. Fuck, Athur wants to touch him. “The walls are uncut rock. It’s lit by dozens of candles lining the walls. Their wax is dripping down the stone in runnels that glint in the flickering light. The ceiling is high; their light gets lost in the darkness above. In the center…is an altar.” Tension enters his voice as he tries to fight off the thickening trance. “Arthur—”
Arthur breathes out, and then in. That altar. “I…” It’s as if it’s pulling him to it. “John, I…” It’s why they’re here. It wants them. He wants…
“There’s someone here,” John says, startled, at the same time as a familiar voice says, “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Arthur flinches. The hand he hadn’t meant to reach out with falls back to his side as he turns.
“It’s Larson.” Their host. Larson, the man who owns the manor. Or…cares for it. It hadn’t been clear— His footsteps move to the altar. Arthur knows because he can feel the fucking thing. It’s calling to them. “Come here, Arthur.”
The command shivers through him. It seems to hook in his bones; even John makes a faint sound in response as it sets in them. Obeying it feels sweet, and he licks his lips, moving with it till Larson’s hands fall upon him. He stops then, waiting while they tighten around him, and a mouth comes down to cover his. Arthur moans. Through the thin pajamas he’s wearing, he can feel every seam of the man’s suit, the drag of the buttons against his stomach and chest.
He can feel the hardness of Larson’s cock against him.
Fingernails drag down his back, barely blunted by the flimsy cloth of his shirt, and Larson’s fingers sink into the muscle of his ass. He kneads till Arthur’s hips jerk forward, rocking against Larson’s erection.
Larson hums into his mouth. “Yes, Arthur. Just like that.”
He’s so…he’s so horny. Something about this place. The script John read to him is still twisting in his mind. It makes his body feel hot and John’s presence burns in his mind. Inside him, John moans and shifts. Arthur can feel it, as if they’re two bodies pressed against each other. “Arthur. We shouldn’t…” He trails off. “We… Arthur, I…”
Arthur’s breath shudders out of him. “Yes,” he breathes back.
“So eager,” Larson purrs. “Good.”
“I wasn’t,” talking to you, he wants to say, but he’s suddenly aware of how Larson’s fingertips are sunk into the cleft of his ass, nudging against his hole through the pajama bottoms. He’s been pushing back against them, he realizes, eager for more than that teasing nudge. Before he can pull himself together enough to voice his uncertainty, Larson grabs the waistband of his pants and pulls them down.
His precarious grip on his rational mind slips again as blunt fingers push into him, and leave him clinging as he’s fingered.
Larson thrusts into him eagerly over and over, almost brutal. His breath pants hot and fast against Arthur’s throat, turned on by his own roughness. Turned on by the way Arthur hangs onto him, breathless and off-balance, as he’s forced to accept it. It shouldn’t make him feel so good; someone being so rough with him shouldn’t make him too weak-kneed to stand by himself. In his head, John growls and quivers in time with Larson’s pace, almost as if he’s anticipating Arthur’s penetration each time. It makes Arthur’s body begin to yield with arousal.
Larson must be able to feel it, the way Arthur’s body eases around his fingers, because he begins twisting them and scissoring them inside him, stretching him more and more until Arthur’s legs go out from under him and he falls completely into Larson’s arms, gasping.
“There,” Larson purrs. “Now I think you’re ready.”
“Ye-yeah,” Arthur agrees, nearly mindless.
“Ready for what?” John murmurs, dazed.
The room tilts around him as Larson dips him, lowering him until he feels a flat stone surface beneath his back. The altar.
“Oh,” they gasp together. He and John. When his shoulders hit the altar, the room rolls through them. It’s ancient, vast—vaster than the space John can see or Arthur can feel—and heavy, with a patient, slow lust that’s been building within it for ages, waiting for this.
All that enormity settles on him along with Larson’s weight. He’s pressed down against the stone and it seems to welcome him with a lover’s embrace, feverish and greedy for him. He moans, and he isn’t sure whether it’s fear or eagerness.
In his head, John quivers. His own fear and yearning tangle with Athur’s like a second instinct, coiling together in ways he can’t remember feeling before.
Larson catches his wrists and stretches his arms above his head. Metal jangles, and then something hard and cold closes about his wrists. Larson’s hands come away but Arthur can’t pull his hands down.
“Shackles,” John says breathlessly. “Arthur, we’re trapped.”
“Oh,” Arthur says, equally breathless. “Oh fuck. We’re a sacrifice.”
He jerks at his chains when Larson catches his legs. Tries to buck away. Larson pushes his knees up and uses the leverage to pin Arthur’s hips and drive down into him.
Arthur cries out, back bowing off the slab at being forced open in a single thrust.
“So tight,” Larson pants against Arthur’s neck. “I can feel every flutter of your muscles as you struggle.”
Arthur whimpers. It’s not a man’s cock inside him. It’s…the presence. The vastness, whatever is wrapped around them, entering his body like a fucking portal. The power of it, moving into him… “Please,” Arthur begs. His hips lift, seeking more.
“Arthur,” John groans. “Arthur, I can’t feel it. Please. I need—”
“Please,” Arthur says again, and their voices blend so that for a second, he’s not sure what he’s begging for, or which of them is begging. His hips lift again, of their own accord. It’s too much, so much vastness pouring into him. Larson lays across him like a blanket, and something is wrong with that, the way he’s spread out, petting at Arthur’s body… “Please, just wait.”
“Arthur…” John sounds slurred, like he’s struggling for every word. “He’s melting. His form is dissolving into…ropes, squirming…” Something slides up Arthur’s shoulder to his arm. John moans.
“I knew you were the one,” Larson exults. His voice sounds…wet. “Your body fits me perfectly. As if you were made for me.”
Arthur shudders beneath him, full and aching for more against his will. God, he fucking wants it, whatever that awful power is that’s pressing them down, pressing up against them through the altar, stroking him from the inside out like it’s petting the insides of his veins. It thumps in his lungs like a tremendous heartbeat resonating up through him from the stone.
It thumps through Larson, writhing on top of him in coils and grasping lengths. All trace of a man’s body is gone, even to Arthur’s senses. Another of those stroking, creeping lengths curls down over the curve of his hip, and it feels like a line of kisses, suckling its way across his flesh with what feels like little gripping mouths.
Lips close over his to swallow his moan. Something slips into his mouth that isn’t a tongue. Something roughly ribbed but wet, not with saliva but fluids that taste salty-sweet.
They’re wet. They leave some kind of fluid in their wake, where they move over him.
Larson strokes Arthur’s hair, and it’s not a hand. “It’s all right, Arthur,” he soothes when he pulls back. “You’ll stop struggling soon. In a few more moments, you’ll be begging for it. For everything that’s going to happen to you.”
“To us,” John mutters. “What? I…Arthur, fuck, I can’t pull my head together. I, we…”
Larson slips a tentacle behind his balls to press those little suckling mouths to his perineum.
Arthur’s hips rock and he throws his head back with a shout.
“Arthur, I can’t see!”
He jerks his head back down with a sobbed “Sorry.”
A slithering thing hooks under Arthur’s jaw and pulls his face around. “Are you apologizing to me?” Larson asks. His voice is a fading gargle. “How polite of you, but you needn’t worry for me. This is what I was meant for. I’m fulfilling my purpose. And shortly, so will you.”
The things suckling at his taint. He feels them begin to open him. He understands suddenly, horrified, what they want of him. And then the sensation drags him under, as they begin to reshape his body.