Honestly this was going to be a couple paragraphs I tossed out at some friends on Discord, but then it got too long.
Arthur/John/KIY
Tags & warnings: eldritch horror, noncon, sex pollen, monsterfuck, flowerfuck, tentacles, unfinished,
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Arthur hangs caught in the loops of the vines that dangle from the tree, arms stretched out to either side of him, while John stares down the King in Yellow, the both of them caught somewhere between fury and the trapped terror of a rabbit.
Read more: Malevolent ficlet: BlossomThe vines curl around Arthur’s chest and hips and thighs, groping and tightening lazily around his body in a way that leaves him with no question about what he’s meant for. He tugs and thrashes with every part of his body he has access to, and knows from the way he’s pulled and twisted that John is fighting and thrashing too, growling and cursing in his head.
But nothing they can do seems to get them anywhere, and the vines keep coiling, more falling from the tree to catch around them, slithering beneath his clothes to rub lasciviously against his most sensitive and vulnerable places. The sticky sap they exude makes his skin tingle; he has no choice about his growing sensitivity or the response of his body, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.
“He’s not moving,” John says to him, low. But Arthur can tell. He can *feel* it. He’s infuriating in his total lack of action. Arthur’s own reaction to him is infuriating; he hates the cowering prey sense of his own mind, and his own cringing recoil against antagonizing a living, demonaical force of nature.
“Are you just here to watch?” he snarls at the looming, still figure of the King, because he hates most of all how alluring that awful figure is. The sensuality that lies barely cloaked beneath that unmoving golden mantle, that doesn’t so much radiate from him as crash outward in wave after wave, breaking over Arthur’s mind and body in a blood-warm surf of power and desire.
“Arthur, SHUT. UP,” John snarls at him, but it’s too late. What he thought he’d win from his little
outburst, he doesn’t know. The satisfaction of lashing out? To force the King to admit he fucking feels something too, the implacable, untouchable bastard?
Definitely it wasn’t for the King to rouse himself and begin to glide forward.
He feels each step the figure takes toward him in his bones–an awful *pull* in his own core toward the living nightmare, a quaking dread of his own swiftly mounting desire for the King to *reach him*. and then–and then–? “Stay the fuck away from us!” John is shouting. “He’s mine! And I am *not yours.*” Between the two of them, he and John nearly wrench his arms from his sockets trying to tear free, but it gets them exactly nowhere before the King stops before him, towering and ominous in his shining yellow raiments.
“Say *something,* goddamn you,” Arthur snarls up at him–up, and up, oh fuck he’s so tall. The presence of him is bigger and older and more unyielding than the tree arching up over them from behind.
The King still says nothing, but Arthur’s attention is directed downward by the rustling of his cloak.
“He’s…opening,” John murmurs in a sort of cold, dreading anticipation.
He keeps going, but Arthur doesn’t need him to describe the rest. Somehow he knows exactly what they see. It’s as clear in his mind as the Dark Young had been that day back in Armitage’s office.
“The panels of his cloak are peeling back. Curling up and away, opening like…like the petals of a flower. And beneath…” With each word he speaks, John’s tone changes, inch by inch growing warmer, hungrier. “From beneath emerge a nest of writhing tendrils.”
Arthur gasps, seeing it without his eyes. Tries to jerk away, knowing that in a matter of moments they’ll reach for him. There’s nowhere to go. Writhing tendrils, some as thin as just a few of his fingers, others as thick as his wrist…or, more terrifying, as thick as the King’s wrists. Some have bulges on the ends. Others taper to fine points. “They writhe and twine about each other, twisting together obscenely and coiling and uncoiling around a thick, central stalk, as if they’re…as if they’re stroking it.”
The hunger in John’s voice now is also obscene. It strikes Arthur that he’s describing his own genitalia. That thought squirms in his own gut as hot and obscene as what John is describing. “It’s…dripping, Arthur. There’s a white fluid oozing from it, gathering thickly at its tip and then trickling in big, pearly beads down the stalk.”
Arthur aggressively doesn’t mean to, but he groans at the description. The carnal display of the King, standing spread open like a massive flower with tendrils waving lewdly out from the heart of him, drags him down into desire so unnaturally powerful he feels like he’s drowning of it.
The King laughs, because he doesn’t miss John’s eagerness either.
“You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you, fragment?” he murmurs, with heat and amusement both in his voice. His enormous pistil dips and wriggles forward, pushing between Arthur’s thighs toward the cleft of his ass while Arthur whimpers in fear and arousal both. John’s heavy breathing echoes in Arthur’s ears. So does his lack of denial. “You’ve wanted him for a long time, haven’t you? Will you describe every moment of this to him?”
Arthur shouts in pain as the vines split his pants open with a heave, and then the air is against his skin, not cold at all but chill against the heat of his cock. His skin is pulled tight with goosebumps, intensely responsive to even the faint sensation of the air against him. Let alone the impossible velvet smoothness of the King’s fronds curling around him or the powdery soft sensation of the King’s stamens wrapping around him to embrace and caress him, leaving saffron yellow streaks of pollen all over his body as his pistil pushes into Arthur’s ass, so thick and stiff that he has no choice but to relax his body and give in to its demanding thrusts.