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adaptacy · 4 months

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The General Drow's Celebration {2/2}

Pairing: General!Minthara x Durge!AFAB!Reader

{Part 1}

Warnings/Tags: NSFW! Pure smut this time. Knifeplay, bloodplay, consensual poisoning, exhibitionism, the slightest hints of foodplay, etc.

Word Count: 2.4k

Her hand slides up your body, finding purchase around your throat, and she meets your gaze, her prideful smile meant entirely for you. “Tonight, we celebrate two deaths. The death of Late General Thorm, and the death of The Nightwarden. Indulge in the wine and feast as you deem fit – a rebirth occurs this evening. A rebirth of values. A rebirth of power. A rebirth of The Absolute.” Her gaze lifts, meeting the intrigued smiles of her soldiers. “Hear the testament of my reign – straight from the voice of darkness,” Minthara chuckles, eyes drawn once more to you. “Speak my title, dear oloth.”

With a lustful smile, you oblige; “General Minthara.”

“General Minthara,” she agrees, leaning over the table to meet your lips, hand tightening around your throat, robbing you of breath in the two ways she knows best. Her other hand is placed on one of your knees, fingers tracing the inside of your leg and tugging outward, creating a little more room between your leg and her waist. Her hand disappears, and it’s only sensible for you to immediately miss it, especially when she’s forced to break the kiss, leaving the two of you to catch your breaths. She stays close, her voice low and steady as she makes a command; “Swallow.”

Without question or hesitation, you do as she asks. Immediately, there is a stinging present, starting at your lips, washing over your tongue and down your throat. Some tart bitterness that you’d subtracted from her mouth – you know both from experience and from the faded glisten on her lips, a mixture of your spit and the poison, some custom concoction made only for the two of you to share. The taste fades as your mouth borders on the edge of brimming numbness, your throat tight, and before long you feel it lull you into a state of light-headedness. She’d increased the dosage for the occasion, and you were, slowly, building an immunity to it, but tonight was a test of many things. A test of her guild’s loyalty, a test of her power, and a test of your constitution.

“Stay awake, my love. You will not want to miss what follows. You are far more entertaining to please when you are conscious. Your attentiveness shall be rewarded in full.” Her coos are accompanied by a snicker, and you nod in understanding, in a silent promise to obey her every request – her every demand. Your efforts to fight the artificial weariness in your head are pushed to the forefront of your priorities, and you keep your eyes strictly on Minthara, relying on her to be your point of focus, to keep you grounded and awake.

The kiss is resumed, and you allow yourself to close your eyes, very quickly regretting that choice as it makes the urge to drift off significantly stronger. So, instead, you force them open just in time to catch the glint on the blade of her bloodied dagger, lifted from the table and venturing towards your thighs. The chill meets your skin with the flat length of the weapon, though her hand rises enough to slant the dagger and poke the sharp point into your skin. Had your mouth been free, you certainly would’ve been forced to give some small hiss of discomfort, but you’re thankful for her lip’s presence working as a preventative.

The point is drawn down, and then curves inward, and then is drawn out again – soon, there’s five slightly curved lines of blood on your thigh, but she’s not yet done. Two lines in the middle are what it takes to complete it, and the pinching pain serves as an assistant in keeping you awake, making you grateful for the branding in more ways than one. Despite not being able to see her work, the web design imprinted on your thigh is a perfect recreation of the mark that she bears on her own skin. Minthara pulls out of the kiss, and you release her with a quiet whine, your mind too preoccupied with the challenge of staying awake to bother splitting your attention to prevent your own natural pleading.

Fortunately, the general doesn’t seem to mind – in fact, she grins, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head at you, as if surprised by your minor show of desperation. “Poison caught your tongue, dark one? Oh, do indulge me; what is it that you crave?” She asks, an unusual curiosity admitted in her tone.

Well, there’s only one answer for that question. It’s a simple one. “You.”

“Me?” She clarifies, and you nod – sleepily, thanks entirely to the effects of the barely diluted poison, though you suppose your confusion isn’t helping. “What about me? Which part of me do you desire? My hands? My tongue? My blade, perhaps?” Her hand releases some of the tension around your throat, tracing your arteries under her fingers until she cradles your jaw, angling your head upwards as she awaits her answer. Her thumb crosses your lower lip, wiping it clean of lingering poison, though it has no effect on what you already ingested.

Again, the question isn’t a difficult one, even in your faded state. “All of you, my General,” you elaborate, your eyes trailing down towards the hand that wields the dagger, but a tug on your chin is enough for your gaze to snap back onto the drow.

“Do not get distracted, xi’hum. I have trained you better. We have an audience tonight – do behave. You fight the poison well. It seems you are adapting to the taste,” she praises, her thumb tucking into your mouth, and you blink up at her, staying quiet as she seems to be directing. “As you have so willingly consumed my gift to you, it is only just that I feast upon you in return. After all, a banquet is only complete with a meal. And a meal, I shall have.”

It’s not entirely clear if the butterflies in your stomach are due to your excitement or the poison beginning to digest, but either way, they’re a pleasant and welcome sensation, and Minthara is quick to catch onto the smile that they bring across your lips. Her thumb pulls away from your mouth and glides down to the very bottom of your stomach, her palm located just under your belly button as it presses you into the table, earning a momentary squirm from you. Once you settle, she leans down, her other hand firmly holding your marked thigh, and once she’s close enough, her tongue sweeps over the wound, collecting the spilled blood. Her eyes close in order to truly savor the taste, and her hand squeezes, pushing out as much blood as possible.

Perhaps due to your light-headedness, or maybe just how much she seems to be enjoying it, the feeling is strangely pleasant – despite what your short whine may lead the audience to believe, the warmth of her tongue over the cuts is oddly comforting, even if it is joined by the faintest of irritated stings. You don’t see a world in which it would be possible to not let your mind drift, anticipation and elation curling into a fantasy of what is sure to soon play out, once Minthara deems you desperate enough to earn the gift of her mouth’s company on your core. Unfortunately, that time hasn’t come, and dreaming of it only makes you squirm with expected neediness. Minthara reminds you of her plans with a soothing, yet firm, “Patience, dark one.”

And patient you are – as patient as one can be when they’re displayed so lovingly over a table of prying eyes, teased by the expertly dangerous (and expertly attractive) General Minthara, left powerless until she permits further pleasure. Every movement of hers is a carefully planned test, either of your obedience or your control; meticulous, gentle trailing of the tip of her dagger over your underwear, enough to tease what’s beneath without so much as catching a single thread of the fabric. She trails kisses up and across your thighs, her lips claiming every inch except the place that so terribly needs her attention.

The flat width of the blade presses against the length of your underwear, and you flinch just barely, earning a ‘tsk’ of disapproval from Minthara. You fall still once more, finally letting your eyes squeeze closed, your head tilting back as you try to divide your focus between fighting the poison and fighting your reflexes. You feel an unfamiliar, trivial chill brought on by the removal of cover, and you lift your head in time to catch Minthara pulling your underwear away from your skin with her knife, slicing it on the blade in a quick tug. Her eyes meet yours, and the point of her weapon presses against your throat, tilting your chin up towards her. “Tell me, my love. Who is it that controls you? Who is it that you belong to?”

“You, General Minthara.”

She chuckles, drawing the edge under your chin, enough to cause a scratch without spilling any blood. “What a good girl.” Her praise is followed by the removal of the blade against your skin, and she sets it aside, instead pulling up her chair and placing her hands on the outside of your thighs, tugging you a little bit closer to the edge of the table. Your knees hang on her shoulders, and soon her hands slide up to hold your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft skin they rest on. “Sing my name as I command, and pleasure shall be yours,” she promises, kissing your thigh once more.

Your head falls back once more, and she only allows you to lay in wait for a few seconds before her tongue runs over your folds with the same meticulous precision that she exercised when tasting your mark. Your ankles lock where they rest on her back, trying to pull her in closer, but she only chuckles at your attempt, the near purr against your skin sending a shiver up your spine. Though she’s hardly even begun, you feel all of the anticipation paying off, your high standards miraculously met, and you hum out “General,” in an effort to earn further pleasure.

Minthara obliges, letting her tongue bathe your clit, the movements nothing short of loving despite how intensely violent and unapologetically rough she could be, though that side of her is still ever-present, especially as she runs her teeth over your clit, threatening to introduce a pinch amongst the pleasure.

Partially in an effort to avoid facing the attention of the surrounding True Souls, you close your eyes, which also causes all of your attention to be drawn to the sensations between your legs. Just in time, Minthara pulls her tongue back, drawing a long line from the lowest point of your entrance up to your clit, still teasing you before she takes it any further. Her nails aren’t quite as willing to remain on the surface, however, and an accidental squirm earns you eight pricks where her fingers hold your skin, her thumbs settling on merely pressuring their spots. It takes a lot to subdue a whine, though the pain is slight in comparison to the carving of her blade.

Your ankles thump – gently, nearly disguised as a flinch – against her back, and she chuckles against your skin, refusing to continue just yet. At least, until you sing out a “Please, General” of desperation, to which she replies by finally moving forward, slipping her tongue into you as a form of affirmation. This is hardly the first time the two of you have been in this position, but it never fails to overwhelm you – in all the best ways, of course.

There’s a tingle on your skin, no doubt a side-effect of the sting of poison, though the slight traces still remaining on her lips are hardly enough for any actual damage or irritation to set in. Just a tingle, enough to prick your skin without genuine danger. Of course, that’s not to say the rest of the dosage wasn’t still in effect, as your eyes felt heavy even despite them being closed. Fortunately, with Minthara lapping up everything your insides had to offer, you were far from at risk of falling asleep.

Your hands reach down, one holding Minthara’s arm, her grip on your hips tightening in acknowledgement, and the other pushes against her head, encouraging her as best you can without being able to move your hips much. She lets go of your body with one hand, instead her fingers wrap around your arm, keeping it in place. Minthara moves with your eager pushes, and you can feel her smile against your skin, buried beneath the stimulation provided by her tongue.

It doesn’t take much, or very long – she’s fantastic at giving speeches and winning people over with her words, but it’s hardly the only thing her tongue is gifted at – before you feel yourself approaching the very edge of pleasure itself. You do as she demanded; singing out her title, begging your General for release, and as promised, she doesn’t let up. Every swipe or curl of her tongue is a carefully planned one, completely unraveling your dignity, revealing your desperation before her, and before her devoted followers.

Your legs tense, pulling her closer and locking her between your thighs, hips rolling as you hit your release, your pitiful whines met with a sinister chuckle from the drow. Once you settle back, you feel her stand and force your legs to unclasp, and you open your eyes to meet hers, her glare simultaneously satisfied and yet still hungry. Your hands fall to your sides, and she leans down, gripping your chin and narrowing her eyes at you.

“You obeyed. A magnificent show, my darling. Perhaps it will not be your final performance. Certainly not for my eyes,” she praises, pulling your head up enough to capture your lips in a kiss, and your already weakened body isn’t able to do much but melt in her hold, mumbling mindlessly against her mouth. You feel a second hand on your waist once more, and you’re pulled to sit up, your legs locking around her hips. The kiss breaks, and she glances around at the audience, contemplating something before she speaks. “Finish your meal as you wish. There is excess wine in the kitchen. Your general must finish a banquet of her own.”

Those around you either snicker or mumble understandings as Minthara moves her hand from your throat to your waist, lifting you off of the table. Immediately, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and lean into her, allowing her to carry you off, letting your high fade in the journey back up to your quarters.

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