Why don’t I write more often about Arthur and John getting banged by monsters? I asked myself.
On a related note, tags & warnings: monsterfuck, aphrodisiac-induced dubcon/noncon, WIP snippet
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The thing’s heavy feet crunch in the gravel of the tunnel with every step it takes toward them. Arthur backs away, panting. He sounds like he can barely catch his breath.
“What the fuck is going on?” John snarls. He hates feeling this confused. “What is that? I can’t see anything!”
The…the thing—the thing John can’t fucking see—growls. Its voice is concerningly deep. It sounds huge. Heavy.
Arthur is trembling all over. John can feel it in his part of their body, how unsteady they are on their feet. They’re overheated, sweating. It’s cold on his feverish skin in the mine’s chill air. He whimpers. That sound…the helplessness of it twists John up in ways he does not have time to interrogate right now.
“Run, Arthur,” John whispers.
Read more: Malevolent Day 16: Shadows & InvisibilityArthur doesn’t run. He takes another step back, moving like he has to force himself for every inch, and his heel catches one of the ties on the mine cart tracks.
When he wobbles, fighting for his balance, the thing pounces forward. John thinks. He thinks that’s what happens.
They go spinning. John’s palm and elbow are scraped on gravel. When they land, they’re on their belly. In his leg and arm he can feel the weight of the monster that must be pressing down on their back.
“No, no no no no,” Arthur is whispering. Not to John; just to himself. “Please, please don’t.” He cries out in pain as they’re jolted hard.
John tries to push himself up on one elbow, but what good does that do? He can’t see behind them unless Arthur turns his head. “Arthur! Arthur, I can’t see.” At least let him see what the fuck is happening to them!
Arthur sobs and drops his head. “Don’t look, John.” The sound he makes next is a low, vibrating moan that’s distinctly not pain. John gasps at the way it thrums through him, almost like he can feel it. “There’s nothing to see anyway,” Arthur whispers.
“God damn you, are you just going to let it kill us?!”
“It’s…” He gasps again. “It’s not…killing us.”
They’re moving. John can feel that much, but he can’t feel how. But sure as hell Arthur isn’t trying to escape. “Let me see.”
Arthur’s forehead falls to John’s forearm. He shudders, as if John’s given him a death sentence, then pushes himself up enough to twist and let John see over their shoulder.
Long bloody furrows spaced like claws run down Arthur’s back where his clothes have been shredded from his body. His back is arched, pushing his ass up in the air. His ass that’s…that’s spread wide around something John can’t see, rocking on it. That’s the movement he felt.
“Arthur,” John breathes.
“Shut up.” Another shudder goes through their body and Arthur moans. John watches the muscles of their back tense and bow into a sharper curve, and he’s tempted to moan himself.
It’s over them. Covering them. John can’t see it but he can hear it. Sense it. Almost feel its weight in the heaviness of its breathing filling the space just above their body. They never had any chance of escaping it, he understands now. It’s pinning them in place with a claw; the sharp tips form dimples in the skin of Arthur’s shoulder, near their face. Its paw must be huge, spanning most of the width of Arthur’s shoulders. And despite that, their hips lift, push back against whatever is inside Arthur, so thick and spreading him so wide. John feels his eyes dilate at the sight.
Arthur is enjoying it. All the chaotic sensory feedback falls together. His heavy breathing, their hammering pulse, the way he’s rocking their body onto the thing. It’s fucking them and Arthur is getting off on it, whether he wants to or not.
Something shivering and hot goes through John at that. His voice drops in pitch when he asks, “Arthur. What is happening? Why is it…?”
Another sob shakes their frame and Arthur lets his head fall again, their upper body dropping to the gravel. John wants to protest. He wants to see. Arthur presses their face into the nook of their folded arms while they rock against the ground, moving to the pace of the monstrosity inside them.
The sight of Arthur spread so wide around it…the image is so strong he would almost swear he can feel it. He wants to watch. He wants to see more of how their body flexes and shudders for it.
“Larson,” Arthur whispers. “He…he dumped something on me. Some kind of liquid. He said…he was ‘giving it a playmate.’”
He wants to ask Arthur what it feels like. It takes every bit of self-control he possesses not to. He wants to know. “You’re…reacting.”
“I can’t…” A thin keen rises from him, an awful cocktail of horror and arousal that makes John wish he had a tongue. “I can’t stop it. I can’t… John, please.”
There’s nothing John can do. They both know that. It twists in what John thinks Arthur would call his heart. As attractive as it is to watch Arthur’s body respond to being ravished by this thing, he would stop it if he could for Arthur’s sake. As it is, all he can do… “Tell me about it, Arthur,” he says gently.
Arthur makes an awful, appalled sound through his teeth.
“I mean it. Look, you…you don’t have to go through this alone. Share it with me. Let me know.”
Arthur’s hand, near John’s, clutches into his hair. He whines—not a delicate noise but a twisted sound of resistance.
“My body won’t stop,” he whispers after a moment.