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vaya-writes · 1 year

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The Wyvern's Bride - Part 3.7 (NSFW)

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

6800 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

All the smutty content warnings. There is penetrative sex. There is oral. There are handjobs. There is overstimulation and a little bit of edging. There's a heap of profanity and a bunch of fluff too.

I'll include content breaks if you don't want to see the explicit stuff, but the whole thing will be suggestive. This chapter IS about Adalyn seducing Slate. But it's also a confession chapter, so there's wholesome stuff for the non smut readers too.

Slate is steadily growing closer to his wit’s end.

It had started with the nightgowns. The first had been a pale spring green colour. Modest in cut. Daring in meaning. The colour that wyverns tend to flush around their mates. Signifying trust. Fondness. Love. He’d never expected anyone to do that around him.

But Adalyn can’t possibly know that.

She’s been wearing them every night whilst lying beside him.

Things had escalated during yesterday’s beach date. (Outing. Trip. Whatever.) He should have said something. She’d asked him what to wear, and he hadn’t said anything about the colour. It had to be his fault, really. If he’d said something, perhaps she wouldn’t have worn that sky blue delight. Had the audacity to wear such a shade in public. Blue, the colour of attraction, desire, lust.

He wants to strangle the cousin who’d gifted it to her. Or thank them. He’s not sure yet, there are too many feelings he needs to sort out. Mostly because females only flush blue when they’re open to advances.

Another thing Adalyn couldn’t possibly have known. Especially with that genuine smile, and that sweet look of focus whenever he’d chatter about something most people found boring. It wasn’t wanton behaviour. Even if wearing the colour beside him in public had made his brain stall several times.

He’d barely been able to look at her. Had spoken about every fun fact under the sun to stop from spilling his guts or disgracing himself. Because there’s no way Adalyn had meant anything by the dress.

She’d married him to save him from embarrassment. To try something new, away from the mundanity of life in Fleecehold. Not because she was attracted to him. Not because she wanted him.

He’d decided it must be Rin, playing a trick on him. Especially as things intensified. Starting with that letter. That parcel. The only thing Adalyn had said about it was that Rin had sent her a book.

So, he’d deduced that this is Rin’s doing: Adalyn wearing more and more of those colours. A green tunic here. A blue shawl there. The nightgowns fray at his sanity the most, gradually getting shorter or more elaborate.

He doesn’t sleep well. Lies perfectly still in the bed next to Adalyn, entertaining thoughts that are downright obscene. Frustratingly aroused, most mornings he has to excuse himself before she wakes, to find a private spot in which he can relieve himself. He tries not to think about her when he does. Tries and fails.

The touches are equally tantalising in their torment. She’d started small. Innocent brushes here and there. A hand on his elbow. A bump against his shoulder. Adalyn reaching up to straighten his collar, or brush hair out of his face. Always with a smile. Gentle grazes that drive him mad.

Lunch breaks are fraught with tension. Since he’d helped her with the garden, Adalyn has incorporated handfeeding Slate into her repertoire. Offering bites of her own pastries or catching him when his hands are otherwise occupied. Today Slate emerges from her wing, filthy, to find her holding his lunch.

“Open,” she demands.

He does so without hesitation. Is scarce able to breathe at her proximity, at her intense stare. He feels his cheeks flush grey-green, but is unable to look away, unable to hide any of the awe or desire from his face.

She uses her thumb to brush some crumbs from the corner of his mouth, and he damn near melts. She smirks at his reaction, and that’s when he begins to suspect that she’s complicit in the attempts on his control.

It has to be intentional, at the point. It has to be. The colours, the touches, the ancestors damned pheromones. She’s wearing them again, he notices, not for the first time.

It had gotten so much worse when she’d unearthed the perfume. Rin’s gift, he begrudgingly remembers. The explosion of scents and pheromones that had given him a headache when first revealed. Now skilfully applied, just faintly enough that at first he thought they might have been his imagination.

Scents that beckoned him closer. That bade him lean forward when she walked past, or that made him hyperaware of where she was in the room. Ones that whispered hello and tried to put him at ease. Others that got under his skin with how daringly inviting they were, almost begging him to reach out and touch Adalyn.

Today she’s wearing one of the latter. Along with a teal dress – unseasonably short. He’d be concerned for her wellbeing if he weren’t so busy sneaking glances at her woollen leggings. Or the way the dress clings to her chest. And her ass.

Ancestors, is he really ogling her so openly? He has to shake his head clear before recentring. She has him in such a daze, that he hadn’t processed any of their conversation. Had he even said anything? Had she? He’s searching his memory when Adalyn turns away and bends to pick up the picnic basket.

He watches the dress creep up the back of her legs, completely rapt again.

A strained sound escapes his throat, breaking the spell and startling him out of his trance.

She’s packing up and he has no recollection of eating. He really did sit through the visit, mute and staring. He curses himself. He’s becoming a pervert and a lecher.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” she smiles at him, and it hurts.

He watches her leave before looking down and realising with shame that he’s hard again. It’s probably a contributing factor to his dizziness.

The only thing that holds him back is perhaps she doesn’t realise just how strong of an effect these things are having. If she’s trying to make him want to jump her, to pin her to the bed and fuck her for hours on end, then mission accomplished.

But if she’s just trying to court him, to encourage him closer, to tell him it’s okay to feel things, to care about her more than they’d discussed...

He doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know what to make of the advances.

It comes to a head when Slate returns from work that night. Adalyn has made dinner again and is dressed in the same teal dress she’d worn at lunch, though she’s stripped out of her shoes and leggings. Her scent wraps around him – inviting and lovely – and he sits and readies himself for another painstaking meal.

He glances up when she asks about his day, and nearly drops his fork. She’s wearing makeup. Which by itself isn’t a big deal. She’d spent the past few days experimenting and trying on different cosmetics. But tonight her lips are painted a washed out blue and there’s a pale eyeshadow to match.

It’s ridiculous, but the colour goes right to his hemi. He stares back down at his food, a bit shellshocked, completely spacing on the question she’d asked him.

“Sorry, I missed what you said?”

“I said, what did you get up to today?”

“Oh, uh, the usual. I spent some time in your wing working on the second floor. Then...” he looks again. Can’t stop himself from glancing back up at her too innocent expression, her carefully composed interest and smile.

He loses track of his words again. “You know, just the usual.”

Adalyn regales Slate with details of her day while he forces himself to eat. He barely tastes the food. Barely hears what she’s saying. He’s not sure if he’s more in a hurry to finish and leave the table or dreading what comes next.

Adalyn finishes before he does, and watches him eat with a stare that’s almost predatory. For a moment Slate forgets himself. Forgets his size and his magic and his near immortality. He feels like her prey. A thrill goes through him at the thought. He squashes it down immediately.

“I think I’ll go do some more work before bed,” Slate mutters, standing once he finishes.

“Slate.”

He halts at his name.

“Please sit back down.”

He does, face flushing; worried that he appears too eager.

Adalyn stands and approaches him. All his nerves strain when she stops behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders. He feels like he could jump out of his skin.

“You should take a break. Are you really going to work through the night?”

Mute, he shakes his head, mesmerised by her tone. Her words are masked with faux sympathy.

“Good,” she murmurs, before kneading his shoulders.

Slate’s face turns greener when a whine escapes his throat. He covers his mouth and coughs, hoping to disguise the slip.

Adalyn huffs her amusement before digging her fingers in, unknotting his shoulders and working her way down his back. He feels like putty beneath her touch, mouth slightly agape, entire self-control devoted to keeping any more embarrassing noises to himself.

When she stops he could almost cry, but instead things intensify when Adalyn rounds the chair and takes a seat on his lap.

He stares at her, eyes too wide.

“Is this okay?” For a moment she seems hesitant. Doubt creeping into her expression.

He nods, almost frantic in the movement. “Mhm.”

She sags in relief before looping her arms around his neck. It puts her face a little too close to his, and he swallows; the only movement he’ll allow.

She crinkles her nose. “Your clothes are wet.”

He waits, desperate to see what she does next.

“Would you... like help taking them off?”

He goes stiff at her words. In every sense of the word. Thankfully she ignores his erections, using her finger to trace a pattern on his chest instead.

He’s clenching his jaw so tightly that it hurts. His hands dig into the armrests. He’s worried his claws will materialise and splinter the wood. He has to reply, he remembers, or he won’t get to see what happens next.

“If you want.”

She raises her brows. “I’m not asking what I want, I’m asking what you want.”

By the fucking Ancestors.

Unbidden, his hands go to her, trembling as he cradles her jaw. The other drifts into her hair. He gets even harder when she relaxes into his touch, turning pliant under his grip. He tries not to sound so choked, so raspy, but he can’t hide his desperation when he replies. “I want to kiss you.”

She lifts her chin in silent permission, eyelids drooping and jaw going slack. But it’s not enough for Slate. He presses his forehead against hers. “Please, I need to hear you ask.”

He’s breathless when she shifts, bringing her leg around so that she’s straddling him. He can feel much more of her now. Seated like this, it’d be impossible for Adalyn to miss the bulge in his pants. Shame darkens his cheeks.

Then she grinds her hips against his.

The movement is so minute, he’s not sure if he imagined it.

Her hands tighten around his neck. She brings her lips to his ear. Speaks so clearly, there’d be no mistaking her words. “Kiss me, Slate.”

Every doubt, hang-up, and hesitation empties from his mind. His shame slips away and it’s almost blissful the way he’s able to turn, touching his lips to hers without overanalysing his actions.

He realises he’s holding his breath. Pulls back to let it out in a whoosh, before leaning in and kissing her again. He’s too occupied with her touch to fret about the gall of his actions, and he’s moves instinctively, trailing soft kisses along her jaw and neck. He wants to commit every sound she makes to memory; every hitch of her breath, every pant and subdued gasp. He wants to worship every inch of skin he can reach; enjoy every shiver and sound he can wring from her.

Adalyn is the next to pause for air. Slate doesn’t let up though – having been given permission to kiss his wife, he intends to make the most of the experience. He lavishes kisses down her throat, across her shoulder, savouring her warmth. He lets his teeth scrape against her skin and nearly trembles with excitement when she flinches, before tilting her head back to give him better access.

“What else do you want?” She murmurs.

“You.”

She huffs a laugh. “I’m tired of guessing. Elaborate.”

He makes himself pull away. Feasts his eyes on her. Her lipstick has smeared. The colour might drive him insane if he looks any longer.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, trying to organise his thoughts. He doesn’t get the chance. Adalyn picks up where he’d left off, leaning in to suck a line of kisses down his throat. He lets out a shaky breath and his grip on her tightens.

Adalyn pauses. “Is this still okay?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes. Please, don’t stop.”

Emboldened by his plea, Adalyn grinds against him – there's no way he’s imagining it this time - her kisses becoming fiercer, their embrace more passionate. She nearly growls when her access is blocked by his collar. “I want to see more of you.”

--- NSFW Content Ahead ---

Slate doesn’t check himself, removing his shirt faster than he’d done before. Pieces finally click in his brain, and the next step of the evening presents itself to him. He stands, hands going under Adalyn’s ass, and carrying her to the bed. She isn’t fazed by the relocation, doesn’t even stop rubbing against him. She just wraps her legs around his waist before dragging his lips to hers again.

He kicks off his boots on the way there. Starts unlacing his pants. They make it to the bed and he sits, letting Adalyn straddle him and push him against the mattress.

“Much better,” she says before trailing her lips down his chest. She takes her time, and Slate practically melts at the attention. Wonders if Adalyn had been as eager to get her hands on him as he’d been her. Probably, he notes as she kisses and sucks nearly every inch of him. She’s exploratory in her path. Her cheek grazes his ribs when she kisses the indent of his scar. She runs her hand along his side, over the ridges and valleys of his muscles. When she turns her attention to one of his nipples he jolts.

He’s so focused on her mouth that he nearly misses her hand creeping down past his waistband. He lets out a shuddering breath when she rubs against his erections. His thoughts fizzle out when she fists her hand around one of his cocks and pumps it.

“Is this alright?” She murmurs against him.

He drags his pants down in answer, giving her better access. She squeezes and Slate can’t help but moan. It takes everything he has to not buck into her hand.

Adalyn doesn’t bother restraining herself, grinding against Slate’s thigh. When she stops mouthing at his chest he grasps her by the hair again, prompting her upwards to his face. She doesn’t need further instruction, and goes back to kissing him, mindless and messy.

Slate is close to coming. All she’s done is rub his cock and sit on his lap, and he’s nearly finished. He’s not sure if he should be embarrassed or elated. Is still caught up in surprise at the turn the night had taken.

Adalyn pulls back to catch her breath. She looks almost smug, watching him writhe and twitch under her touch. She brushes his hair back before placing her free hand on his cheek. “You look good like this.”

It takes a monumental effort to pull her into focus. He’s so hazy with need and so close to coming that tears prick his eyes. Adalyn is a blur of colour. The smear of her makeup, the marks blossoming on her throat, the flush in her cheeks – it's intoxicating. Another sound escapes him.

Her face softens at the noise. “You okay?”

“Adalyn...” He’s breathless. It’s an effort to speak. “If you keep- I want- I'm-”

“Use your words, dearest,” she leans down in a slow, deliberate movement. Presses her lips to the skin beneath his jaw. Then sucks.

He can’t use his words. Instead, he sees white as pleasure shoots through him, intense and unrelenting. His hips leave the bed. His breath catches in his throat. His eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t notice Adalyn’s praise as he comes – quite possibly harder than he’d ever done in his life.

Awareness drifts back to him as he comes down from his high. It doesn’t take long for him to reorient himself, but when he does the room is spinning. His brain feels like mush. Adalyn is still straddling his thigh, her hand splayed against his chest for balance. He wonders if she can feel how hard his heart is beating. She still grips one of his cocks, looking at the mess he’d made with an unreadable expression.

His tongue feels like lead, and he tries to string the right words together. “I’m sorry, I...”

He cuts off when she gives his spent cock an experimental squeeze. His hips jerk and he wheezes.

She huffs and smiles, watching him as she raises her hand to her mouth and licks her fingers clean.

His untouched cock throbs. What few thoughts had formed in his head quickly disperse.

“Why are you sorry? It’s not like I did this on accident,” she chides.

Fuck, he wants more. He needs it. But Adalyn is still dressed. Still composed, looking down at him with a bright-eyed expression he’s entirely unfamiliar with. Five centuries worth of matriarchal and societal conditioning are the final tethers keeping him from responding. From grabbing Adalyn ravaging her. Playing out every dirty little thought he’s had, every fantasy, every impulse.

He has to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s wanted before he can act. That he’s wanted.

“Do you-” he starts, looking up with searching eyes, “Do you feel like this too?”

She relaxes on top of him. Her lips twist into a wry smile. “Well, I didn��t come.”

Need unfurls inside of him, sudden and desperate. To see Adalyn come undone the way he had. To make her gasp and moan and beg for him. To make her feel the way he constantly does around her; needy, depraved, dying for her to take the initiative.

Before he knows it, he’s swapping places with her. Kissing down the length of her body. Slipping off the bed to kneel on the floor. Murmured pleas stream from him, too fast for him to process each one, “-let me help, let me make it better-” he grips her by the knees and pulls her towards him. “Please, fucking please, I want you so badly, I need to taste you, need to touch-” He parts her thighs. Wetness strings between them. She’s not wearing underwear. The observation knocks the breath from him.

He kisses her inner thigh. His unspent cock aches, painfully stiff. He grinds against the end of the bed, yearning for friction. “Ask me to touch you. Give me permission. Fuck, Adalyn, tell me what I need to do to make you want me.”

A hand closes around one of his horns, tugging. His whole scalp lights with pleasure at the sensation, and he shivers, staring up at Adalyn. Having her exert control over him like this is intoxicating.

Despite her actions, she doesn’t look like she’s in control. Her hair is mussed, her face pink, and she bites down on her lip viciously. Still, she tightens her grip on him.

“I already want you. I’ve wanted you for weeks. So stop teasing and just-” she cuts off. She lets out a groan, “Gods, are you really going to make me say it?” She pulls her dress up and stares pleadingly. “Use your mouth.”

Her words are the final fraying on his restraint. Lust rolls in and he pulls her to the edge of the bed. Too eager to temper his actions, he thrusts his face between her folds, tonguing up and down and before he finds her clit and sucks.

He should have stroked her first. Fondled her breasts or used his fingers. But there’s no room in him for sympathy and he continues his rough treatment, enthralled by the way she squirms beneath him. Her legs shake and jerk, and a stream of high-pitched noises escape her throat. He holds her steadfast, draping her knees over his shoulders and nuzzling closer.

“-slower, please-” he hears despite the clenching of her thighs around his ears.

Part of him flickers with remorse. He’d attacked her without any preamble or warmup, lapping up her juices like a wyvern starved. The rest of him is unmoved. Thrilled to hear Adalyn beg. Delighted at being told what to do. And merciless. Having waited long enough for Adalyn to give him an order, he intends to follow this one to the letter, even if she grows to regret the request.

“You want me to slow down?” He hums as his imagination runs free. She’d been teasing him all day. Two could play that game.

She whimpers and nods her assent.

He moves back, giving her some space and lathering kisses on her thighs once more. Despite his sadistic intent, he nearly loses himself worshiping her legs. He sucks and nips at the soft flesh of her inner thighs, watching marks bloom and darken with unshakable focus.

She goes limp with the treatment. Her moans drop in pitch, her breathing evens out. They both relax, drawn into a new rhythm; less manic, less starved. Softer; more intimate. Her spasms grow further apart, and she seems content to lie there under him. Until she’s not.

There’s a gentle tug on his horn, and he blinks up at her. She looks wrecked. Her eyes are watery, and her makeup is smudged. He wonders if he’s taking things too far.

“Please, Slate. Not there.”

He holds fast to his plan, trusting Adalyn to tell him to stop if it gets too much. He kisses her other thigh. “Here then?”

She shakes her head.

He holds back a smirk. Kisses her knee. “Here?”

Adalyn lets out a whine. Bucks her hips. “Stop teasing.”

“You told me to slow down.” He nips at her skin before dragging his nose upwards, perfectly content to draw things out. “Unless you want me to go fast again?”

She doesn’t say anything. Drops her head and lets out a frustrated whine.

“Tell me where, Adalyn.” He doesn’t hide his smile this time.

“You know where.” She sounds petulant.

Warmth spreads through him, but he continues to play dumb, and shrugs. Echoes her earlier words. “Elaborate. I’m tired of guessing.” He scrapes her with his teeth again. “Plus, I like hearing you tell me what to do.”

Tears drip from her eyes. Slate pulls back, startled. He’s about to apologise, certain he’s pushed too far when she grabs him by both horns. Guides his face to her pussy.

“Here.”

His mind goes blank at the action, his thoughts skittering away. Until he’s only aware of her grip and the delectable warmth before him. He takes his time with kitten licks and soft kisses. Teasing forgotten, he treats her with awe, with gentleness. His wife spreading her legs for him is such a privilege, he can’t help but savour every taste.

Despite his abandoned plan, Adalyn still feels Slate’s exploratory pace. He winds her up until she’s groaning and bucking once more. Impatient, she uses her grip on Slate’s horns to grind against his face.

Slate drops further at the sensation. With his eyes shut tight and Adalyn’s thighs pressed hard around his head, it’s too easy for him to lose himself. He works without thought, drawn into her taste, her sounds. Her grip on him sends goosebumps down his neck and he hums, happy to relish the sensation, letting Adalyn pull him wherever she likes.

Trancelike, he moves with increasing fervour, flicking his tongue against her clit before moving down to tease her entrance. Over and over until he’s sucking hard at her pearl just to enjoy the way she shudders against him. He doesn’t notice the growing tension in her limbs, or the change in her volume. Doesn’t notice the signs of the orgasm creeping up on her until she’s gripping his horns with every ounce of her strength and gasping out his name.

It draws him out of his daze. Rekindles his lust. Slate decides then and there that he needs to hear Adalyn say it again. That he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her like this – moaning and incoherent. Appetite barely whetted, he keeps working, sucking harder on her clit and teasing her entrance with a finger. She’s so slick, slipping inside is effortless. She whines and tries to jerk back, but Slate is resolute, intent on pushing Adalyn as far as she can go. He adds another finger.

She’s a mess beneath him. Still shaking, riding out the aftershocks of her orgasm. Unable to come down with the way Slate keeps going. She wants to relax, wants to relish the intrusion, but is too heightened to do so. She’s barely aware of the sounds leaving her, the whimpers and groans.

Every time she untenses, Slate moves his fingers, prompting her to clamp down. Again and again, until she stops trying to pull from his grasp. Starts opening for his touches again. Though she can’t yet stop her cries or hold still. Tears brim her eyes. It’s almost as if she doesn’t know what she wants.

His prior plan to tease Adalyn until she begged comes back to him. He could keep going, turning her into an oversensitive mess. But looking at her, he doesn’t think he has the restraint. Watching her twitch and loll her head just reminds him of how much he wants to experience her pleasure for himself. To sink inside of her and feel her tremors directly around his cock.

Slate rests his cheek against her thigh and pauses to catch his breath. He uses the moment to check in. “How you doing, Ad?”

She tries pressing her legs together, succeeding only in pulling Slate’s face closer. A spent little noise escapes her.

He can’t help but smile. “Sensitive?”

She nods.

He runs his free hand up the outside of her thigh, soothing. “Do you want me to stop?”

She covers her face. Flinches when Slate curls his fingers inside of her. But doesn’t pull back.

“I asked you a question.” He takes mercy and eases up. Lets her think unimpeded. Even if he wants to keep distracting her.

A moment passes and she shakes her head. Her voice is barely a whisper, but Slate still hears her reply.

“More.”

He plants a soft kiss onto her thigh. He’s desperate for the next step, still achingly stiff and untouched. But if she wants more, who is he to refuse?

He kisses his way back to her core, spreading her legs and ready to taste her again when he’s accosted by the swat of her hand.

“Slate,” she cries and indecency of the sound makes his mouth water. “Please,” she wraps her hand around his horn once more and tugs. “I need the rest of you.”

He doesn’t have the discipline to hold back. To feel anything but relief at her words. It’s all he can do to crawl up the bed, breathless, until he hovers over her face, caging her in with his forearms. He still needs to see her ask.

“Say that again.”

Her nose crinkles and she balls her fists against his chest. Her voice is small. “I need you...”

Her embarrassment endears him. Arouses him. He can’t help but lower himself, settling between her legs. He strokes her thighs. Creeps his fingers closer to her dripping folds. She pants at the touch, spreading her legs eagerly. The sight threatens to unravel him, but he can still draw this out. Just a bit more.

“You’re going to have to be specific, sweetheart.”

Her hazy eyes clear long enough for her to blink up at him, pleading through dampened lashes. “I need you to fuck me.”

Ancestors. When she looks at him like that, when she says something so crass – he's not going to be able to hold out much longer. His legs tremble as he rubs his cock against her folds. Carefully. Tauntingly.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

She whimpers. Hits his chest. “I said, fuck me.”

“Ask nicely?” She could give him hell for it later. Right now, nothing beats the glee he feels hearing Adalyn beg.

“Please,” she whines and tears escape down her cheeks. She wraps her legs around his waist and grinds against him. “Please stop teasing, please just fuck me, please Slate, please.”

He can’t hold back anymore. Not when she’s lined up so perfectly or begging so prettily. He can’t stop himself from leaning down to brush his lips against her cheek. He tastes her tears before moving his lips to hers, gently at first. Heat grows inside him until he’s kissing her with abandon, fervid and hungry. When he pulls back he’s breathless, but no less eager.

“I’d be delighted.”

The last of his patience fleeing him, Slate thrusts inside.

Her legs wrap tighter around him. They’re both silent but for their heavy breathing. The pause probably only lasts a moment, but it stretches on for Slate, enthralled by Adalyn panting in his ear, the tremble in her muscles, the absolute euphoria of having one of his cocks inside her.

She moves first, grabbing the hem of her dress and pulling. She lifts her hips to ease the dress up, the motion sending pleasure curling in his gut. Still, he takes Adalyn by the wrist.

“Leave it on.”

Adalyn leans back to look into his eyes again, even as her cheeks grow redder. There’s a question in the air, and as he stares at Adalyn, some of the mania, some of the subservience leaves her. She looks pleased. “You want me to leave it on?”

He nods, suddenly abashed by the request. By the ease at which Adalyn can take control of the situation.

Her smile widens and she pulls him down into a heated kiss. “Don’t rip it. I like seeing what it does to you.”

He groans against her neck, heart pounding when Adalyn rolls her hips against him. “You’re a fiend, Adalyn.” He starts fucking her, resisting the urge to sink his teeth into her shoulder while he does.

She meets his thrusts, thighs trembling with the effort. She takes his hands, coaxing him to squeeze her ass, to touch her waist. “Your fiend.”

His hemi throbs at the words and he lets out a near growl. The curve of her hips, the warmth of her skin. She’s so soft beneath him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

Slate sits back, pulling Adalyn onto his lap as he goes. She doesn’t need to move much, legs already locked around him. Splayed open above him, with her dress ruffled and her hair loose, Slate doesn’t know where to look. He can’t see a single part of her he doesn’t desire.

She takes his hands again. Glides them up her stomach, pushing the fabric up as she goes, until her breasts are peaking out. He doesn’t need further instruction, and begins to fondle her, awed. He leans in to suck and nip at her flesh. She jerks in his lap, arching and gasping at the attention, and Slate groans as she clenches around him.

“All yours, Slate.”

His hips jerk. “Fuck.” He starts bouncing Adalyn on his lap, eliciting a stream of her gasps. She closes her eyes. Bites down on her lip. He reaches between them to press against her clit, delighting in the way she starts to squirm. “If you keep talking like that I’ll end up fucking you all night.”

She laughs, but cuts off in a moan. It takes her a moment to reply. “Why wouldn’t I want my husband to fuck me all night? I happen to like him a lot.”

Her teasing, sultry tone is undermined by her breathlessness, but it still does things to him. He stops palming her breast and grabs her by the hips. Overrides her easy pace on top of him in favour of a rougher fucking. Bucks up against her momentum and weight, driving himself deeper with each thrust, until he’s nearly slamming her down onto his cock.

There’s still a part of him wondering if he’s taking it too far. Worried he might hurt Adalyn. The bed shakes beneath them, and the sound of their fucking echoes in the stone room. But Adalyn seems to enjoy the treatment. Her mouth is agape, her back arches, her nails scrabble to find purchase on his back.

There’s no more room for rational thought, watching her like this – feeling her like this. The only thought he’s capable of having is the realisation that he needs more. He fucks her harder, faster, chasing that need for more. More of Adalyn. More of her sounds. More of that hot, wet texture gripping him so tightly. Until she’s convulsing on top of him, clasping a hand over her mouth, strained gasps escaping her.

He grabs her wrist, unthinking. “I want to hear you.”

Slate doesn’t give her a chance to respond. Keeps bucking, even as she trembles, limbs wracked with tension. Her moans peak, then stop entirely for a moment as she flexes. The spasms around his cock, the additional slick – feeling her come on top of him is his own undoing.

The last of his thoughts turn to static. Every muscle in his core tightens. Then he’s slack jawed, head thrown back as he comes inside of Adalyn, hips faltering and coming to a stop once she’s taken every drop.

“Fuck,” he says. His muscles turn to jelly. When Adalyn stops twitching around him she too goes slack, collapsing against his chest.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

--- NSFW Content Ends ---

He closes his eyes against the spinning of the room. Catches his breath. His muscles burn with a pleasant exertion. Strength is already starting to return to his body. The only downside to his quick recovery are the thoughts spooling back into his head; invasive and demeaning.

Did he really just fuck Adalyn?

He opens his eyes, and blinks down at her, bewildered. Hair sticks to her nape. Her heart is still pounding, but she’s boneless, the slight drag of her fingers against his arm the only indication of her consciousness.

Yes. That had just happened. She’d climbed into his lap and asked him what he wanted. And then he’d carried her to the bed.

She’d literally seduced him.

Right?

He curses his doubt. He should be ecstatic. Basking in afterglow. Giddy at Adalyn’s proximity. Not analysing whether or not his wife had actually wanted to have sex with him.

He glares at the ceiling. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He knows it, he knows it, he knows it. It’s something he’ll have to unlearn. To talk to Adalyn about. Because if she does want him the same way he wants her, and he’s being cautiously obtuse – he winces at the thought.

“Did you say you’ve wanted me for weeks?” It’s honestly a miracle he remembers the words. The rest of their encounter had been intense enough that all the foreplay, the banter, had burnt into afterthoughts.

She stirs, opening her eyes to look up at him. Then smiles, her cheeks flushing before she hides her face against his chest. Her words are muffled. “It sounds familiar.”

“Did you mean it?”

He feels her swallow. She shifts so that she’s no longer straddling him, instead curling up against his side. “Yes.”

He stares. Tries to reply, but words just catch in his throat.

She wants him? (Wanted him. Still wants him?) Does she mean physically? Romantically? He has to know. Has to ask. If only he could formulate a proper sentence.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Worried he’ll lose his chance, his nerve, he blurts: “Do you like me?”

She pauses in stroking his collarbone. Looks up at him again, another wry smile at her lips. “You’re asking now?”

He flushes. “Well, I know you wanted to- that you wanted me. But I mean... Do you want to court me?”

The smile drops as she presses her lips together. Her face goes red as she stares up at him. She probably doesn’t realise Slate can see so much detail in the dark.

Finally, she lowers her stare. Her voice is small. “I’ve been trying to court you for weeks.”

He’s shocked into silence. Barely manages a weak, “What?”

“I thought bringing you lunch every day and trying to spend so much time with you might clue you in.”

His eyes widen further.

“But humans do things differently. We’re a lot more reserved with physical touch and professions of emotion until we’re sure there’s returned feelings. And it’s usually done in equal parts by both men and women. I felt bad approaching you because I didn’t know how you felt about it.”

He splutters. A small part of him starts spiralling. “You-”

“I think I would have driven myself insane if Rin hadn’t sent me a book last week. It’s a treatise on wyvern physiology, though there was some etiquette stuff in there too. But even trying some of the stuff it mentioned, I was worried I might go too far.”

He’s still incredulous. “You like me. Romantically?”

She hides her face in the pillow. There’s a muffled noise of affirmation. It’s cute.

It doesn’t tamper his bewilderment. “Why?”

She turns her face, enough to be audible. “Well, you’re handsome. And interesting. And kind. And easy to be around. And every now and then you do something that’s really attractive. Liking you was mostly... just a crush. That snowballed into something bigger.”

Amusement breaches his shock, and he relaxes. “You think I’m attractive?”

Her face turns redder. “Yes. When you... lift things. Or when your clothes get wet.”

He can’t help but laugh. Wraps his arm around her shoulders and draws her close again.

“Do you...” she hesitates. Looks nearly as bothered as he’s felt these past few days.

He scans her face, wondering what could possibly be wrong. Finally, it hits him.

“Oh!”

She deflates at his exclamation. He nearly panics at the posture. Rushes to reply.

“Adalyn, I adore you.”

Her brow crinkles. “But I’m... I’m just...”

He takes her by the jaw. Runs his thumb over her cheek. “You’re thoughtful. You take me seriously. You listen to me. You respect me.”

She calms enough to frown. “That’s a low bar.”

Slate presses his forehead to hers. “You make me feel welcome. It’s... you have no idea how much I appreciate you.”

She untenses when he leans in and touches his lips to her own. She melts into the kiss and his mind goes delightfully fuzzy. It’s sweet, and soft, and he loses track of time. His head spins when they pause. Close enough to share breath.

He flushes as he contemplates his next words. “Can I... Can you tell me more about how humans make advances? Maybe not right now, but...”

She smiles, and it’s sweet enough to wind him. “Of course.”

He stares for a moment. Touches his forehead to hers again, inhaling deeply. Sweat and time have dulled her perfume, but it still lingers in the back of his mind, ambrosial and rich. Euphoria trickles into him, steadily enough that he leans down to kiss her again. Slowly, with a gradual increase in hunger. Until his hand is curling in her hair again, and he’s nearly on top of Adalyn – the heat between them rekindled.

She breaks away, her eyes crinkling as she grins. “Are you still hard?”

His lips twitch. “That’s the other one.”

“Didn’t I get that one off before...?”

He huffs. “I told you what’d happen if you kept running your mouth.”

She laughs before stretching up to kiss him again. The intensity returns, Adalyn definitely encouraging it with the way she clings to him, her hands coasting along his back, her breasts pressing against his chest. Until she pulls away, and shuffles back.

Slate doesn’t have time to be disappointed, because Adalyn rolls onto her stomach and lifts her ass. She gives an enticing wiggle, rubbing against him. “I could take more. But you’re changing the sheets afterwards.

Something in his chest begins to soar. He could probably tear up from happiness, from affection. Especially if he thinks too long about her smile, or how easily she’s able to proposition him.

He sets aside the feelings for later.

Then pins Adalyn to the mattress, ready to start again.

#vaya writes #the wyvern's bride #christ it's finally done #this took me like a month and a half and that was mostly just to edit and revise SO MANY TIMES #there will be more but there's nothing else mapped out so I'm a bit tentative about what to write next #but yeah I want a nice epilogue #and then maybe a series of shorts for things like more cute dates and Slate going into rut #monster romance #tetaro #wyverns #dragons

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guilty-pleasure-writings · 1 year

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Kiss of the Kelpie - Fawn Ending

When a monster seizes your boat, its do or die. Possibly literally.

Part One

Inspired by some goretober prompts and a monstertober prompt, a short choose your own ending story about a monster (penised monster, implied kelpie) and a gnc reader.

This ending contains significant yandere behaviour, and dubcon (sex implied to be magically compelled). 2822 words. banner by firefly-graphics

> Fawn

Wait, no, please-

Your limbs turn to jelly as it pushes the oar aside. Grasps you under the jaw. Holds you still as it closes the gap between you. Its lips don’t pucker. Its eyes don’t close. For a moment you’re not even sure if it’s going in for a kiss. Its movements are too awkward – as if it’s only guessing at how this is done, copying something it had seen long ago.

But then its mouth presses against yours. You close your eyes and hold still. You want to cry but you’re too scared. What if you anger the creature?

You feel nauseous. From the situation, yes. But mostly from the stench. Its breath smells of rotten meat. Its lips taste of stagnant water. All you can do against the disgust is hold your breath until it’s over. When it pulls back you don’t dare move. Especially not with one set of claws still cradling your jaw.

It examines you with wholly dark eyes; no sclera visible. You don’t think things can get any worse, but the hand around your ankle moves. You let out a shuddering gasp as it squeezes and works its way up your leg. Deadly claws caress your skin with careful restraint and you shiver at the contact, melting just a fraction into the creature’s touch.

“Interesting.”

Your eyes flutter open when it speaks.

It watches you with a half-smile. “You almost look as if you enjoyed that.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words catch in your throat. Should you deny it? Would that make the creature mad? Did you enjoy it?

You’re honestly too scared to know for sure.

“Do I repulse you, little one?”

You want to deny it. But even as you go to shake your head, you hesitate. Would it know if you lied?

It takes you a moment to find the words. To form them. To say anything in a volume above a whisper. “Maybe just your breath.”

The creature blinks, shock written across its face. Then it tilts its head to the side and gives you a wide and open smile. It’s probably one of amusement; intended to be genuine. Instead, it just terrifies you.

“It must have been something I ate.”

You don’t know if the creature is trying to scare you, but that’s the effect the words have. All you can do is give it a strained smile.

“But if you don’t find me wholly disgusting, I might just...”

You don’t have time to react before its lips crush against yours again. This time there’s more fluidity to the movement. Its tongue forces its way into your mouth; dry and leathery and exploratory. You close your eyes and exhale, trying to relax into the kiss, trying to ignore the taste-

It pulls away, abrupt.

“I don’t think you’re going to be afloat for much longer.”

They’re right, you realise with horror. The puddle at the bottom of the boat is now above your ankles. Water is leaking through the hull at an alarming rate, and almost unconsciously you grip on to the creature.

“I can’t swim.” It kills you to admit it, but you don’t have much of a choice. Your time is running out.

“Oh?” That relaxed grin is back. “Would you like some assistance?”

“Yes,” you beg, “Yes, please.”

The creature lets go of you. Untangles itself from your grasp and goes back to leaning against the edge of your boat, almost casually. “And what do I get out of it?”

You start to cry. Despair hovers over you. “Anything. Please. I just want to live. Don’t let me drown.”

Its grin is positively wicked. “It’s a deal then.”

The boat groans. Cracks. As if the creature’s words are a death knell for the ancient wood.

“You and I are going to have so much fun,” it says.

The boat comes apart beneath you and you plunge into the water.

You’re ready to panic. Ready to kick and shriek and probably waste your precious air fighting against your own gravity and the icy pull of the lake. But arms wrap around you. Under your arms. Around your waist. Holding you against the creature’s chest.

For a moment you’re filled with relief. You’re going to be okay, it’s going to take you to the surface.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it takes you deeper.

And deeper.

Until you can make out the lumpy lakebed and the occasional tangle of freshwater plant, and you realise that you’re going to die down here.

The water is murky and other than vague outlines, you can’t make out much over the creature’s shoulder. You can’t even make any sense of its lower half – too large, too long and misshapen for your brain to process and properly see anyway.

The last of your air leaves you in a string of bubbles and your head starts to hurt. Your lungs squeeze uncomfortably tight. Are you really going to die here? Should you have fought back? Should you have done something differently?

You go limp. Black spots jump in your eyes and your vision starts to tunnel. You need to breathe. You just need to open your mouth and pull in the air. Your body is starting to scream. Starting to demand you do it. Do it. Breathe-

It’s suffocate or drown.

But before you can choose the creature slows. Holds you by the back of the head and peers at your face. And presses its mouth to yours again.

At first you’re incredulous. You’re going to die and this thing is kissing you again?

Then you feel the air blowing into your lungs. Feel the relief in your chest. You don’t even care if it tastes of decay and rot, you bring your hands to its face and take as many breaths as it will spare you.

Then the moment passes and the creature is swimming again. Water drags at your clothes, at your hair as it propels you towards its destination. Again it has to stop. Again it has to give you air. Twice. Three times. Four.

And then you’re swimming up.

Your head breaks the surface of the water and you gasp for breath. Spluttering and coughing, you cling tightly to the monster, wrapping your legs around it’s waist, terrified it will leave you to the depths.

“We’re home,” it says in a sing-song voice. “Would you like a tour?”

“I can’t see,” you say, voice a painful rasp.

“Ah. Of course. Worry not, it’s brighter in the day.”

You move through the water, slowly this time, and it deposits you on a pebbly shore. You crawl up the sloping bank until you press up against a sheer rise. Feeling your way up you realise it’s a stone wall, and that the bank you stand on is quite narrow. You could lay on it without getting your feet wet, but that’s disregarding the lake tides.

If the tide came in, if this were an underwater cave, the whole area could go under. You’d be trapped and nobody – aside from your abductor – would be any the wiser.

It’s suddenly hard for you to breathe.

“If you follow that wall left you’ll find my collection. I keep the lake remarkably tidy. I bring all of the wrecks here. We’ve got row boats, ‘swans’, canoes... I’ve also got a nice pile of fabric you can use. We can build you a nest! You’ll be so comfortable. Of course, it’s a bit damp – okay a lot damp – but I can’t help it. It’s not like I can take the clothes from anyone dry.”

You lean against the wall as your legs turn leaden, sliding to the floor with defeat.

“And if you follow the wall to your right, you’ll feel the moss in that corner. Humans eat plants, right? The last guest I had said they could eat the moss, so I suppose you’ll probably be fine. It might not be enough, but I can bring you other things. Oh! And the water that drips down that wall is clean, if you’d prefer not to drink from the lake.”

You don’t know how big the space is, but the darkness presses in on you. Tears bubble up and drip down your cheeks. The space – the cave – feels too small. You focus on keeping your breathing regular but your thoughts still start to spiral. You might not have drowned, but you’re still going to die here.

There’s a clammy hand against your cheek.

You focus on the contact, letting it ground you. You’re not alone in the dark. There’s something here with you.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

The hand gives your cheek a fond little pat. “Why’s that, sweet thing?”

“It’s dark, and nobody knows where I am, and you’re going to kill me if I’m not good-” you start to cry. Your throat closes and you can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Aw,” there’s a crunch and a scrape as it beaches itself and leans over you. You’re pulled against its chest again. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to look after you. I promise, I take good care of my things.”

One hand runs up and down your back. The other through your hair, claws scratching your scalp delightfully. You can’t help but feel soothed, eyes drooping as you relax into the creature’s touches. You’d woken in the middle of the night when you heard the voice. Had been compelled out onto the lake by any means. And had gone through a ringer of adrenaline and stress.

The fatigue is catching up to you. All you want to do is drift off; sleep away the night and hope that you wake from this nightmare in the morning.

But the creature has other ideas.

Gentle touches, which had relaxed you, now have you shuddering and biting back little noises of content. A hand rubbing your back. The other kneading the muscle of your leg. After a minute the creature plucks at your clothes.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay in these wet clothes. Perhaps you should remove them?”

You’re acting out the suggestion before you can even consider it. Hands moving without permission, thoughts going hazy with the need to please. Something about that voice makes you eager to obey.

“Good job,” they praise. You go fuzzier at the words. Not quite sleepy, but your thoughts are foggy and it’s hard to concentrate. It’s easier to just... lean into their touches. Let them pat your hair and run their fingers up and down your chest. Tracing patterns across your breast. Teasing your nipples until you’re unwittingly aroused.

You let out a shuddering exhale.

The creature lays you down on the ground. Your legs fall open to make room for its approach. Your head tilts back and you’re suddenly struck with an overwhelming desire to be touched. Hands caress your hair as it kisses your throat. You whimper.

“Shhh. I know. Why don’t I show you just how good I am to my pets?”

There’s a part of you burning. A presence in the back of your mind, screaming: wrong, this is wrong. But the voice is so far away. And if you are to be a prisoner here, you might as well have a good time.

It’s too easy to ignore the warning. Too easy to relax and let the creature take what it wants. Especially as its now familiar voice seems to urge you to do so. A whisper in your mind telling you to spread your legs and enjoy yourself.

You feel wet and silky hair brush your thigh. Then their tongue; curious. Exploratory. Before their mouth closes over you and they begin to suck.

Your hips buck off the ground and you gasp. The hands that pin you to the ground might be sharp and cold, but the creature’s mouth is wet and warm. You can’t help but moan as their tongue circles you, and you find yourself becoming more vocal, more desperate as they find a rhythm.

You don’t know if it’s stress, or surprise, but you come quickly, with a loud cry, arching and flexing. They work you through the aftershocks of your orgasm, until you are finally still: limp and pliant.

The creature chuckles. “You look good enough to eat.”

You don’t have it in you to protest. To be afraid. Just horny, when its hand goes between your legs to feel your core. You’re a drenched mess, slick with saliva and your fluids. When the pad of its finger rubs against your hole, you shudder.

“But I suppose, I can settle for doing other things,” it muses, rubbing a knuckle against your opening, making you arch and gasp.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Tears prick in your eyes. Humiliation at how aroused you are. Trapped in the dark with a nameless, and presently faceless monster, but you’re trying not to squirm with need.

“Hmm, my greedy pet. Didn’t I just make you come?”

You still feel hazy. Lust glazes your thoughts and before you know it you’re begging.

“Please fuck me, I’ll be good, please use me, please, oh please-”

It silences you with a kiss. You taste yourself on their tongue, but you don’t even have it in you to be offput, grinding against their hand with a whimper and letting them devour your moans.

“Well,” it breaks off to reply, “since you asked so sweetly.”

Their hands go to your waist, and you’re lifted into the air. You hear a shuffle and feel the world tilt as it lies onto its back and places you atop it. You straddle a body that is unusually wide, though your hands rest on its humanoid chest for balance.

They lift you and you feel their member at your entrance. You might not be able to see, but its press against your opening tells you something of its size, and you blanch.

You don’t have a chance to protest, though, because it eases you down onto it, sheathing itself in you. Your head lolls back at the stretch and you let out a long groan. There’s nothing human about the member inside of you.

A flat head with a slightly pointed tip that eases into you, pressing flush once inside. A monstrous length and girth that has you moving gingerly, genuinely concerned that you might tear if it fucks you with abandon. You reach down and touch yourself, and the creature hisses when you clench.

“Did I say you could do that?”

You trail your fingers lower, rubbing against the base of their cock. It’s... long. They’re not even fucking you with the whole thing. Further down you feel a single ridge. Then a... sheathe? It groans at your touch, and starts lifting you up and down, fucking you open.

You begin to feel the familiar building of tension in your centre. Can’t help but reach down and stroke yourself. You’re still slick from their earlier ministrations; flushed and swollen.

“You should see how you look right now,” it says, its voice a near growl.

“You should see... h-how you feel...” you try to retort but trail off to let out a breathy moan instead.

It laughs beneath you.

You don’t try speaking again, submitting to the fuzziness of your thoughts and the rush of chemicals in your head, making you feel higher and higher. You just keep stroking yourself, tilting your head back and letting the creature lift you up and down the length of its cock.

“That’s it. I want to feel you come on me.”

You let out a whine at their words, convulsing as a second orgasm drifts closer and closer, much sooner than you’re used to. It’s overwhelming. Your body feels alight with sensation and you struggle to keep up with the rising wave within you.

There’s a hand at your throat. Claws pricking your skin. “Now, pet.”

You couldn’t resist, even if you’d tried, and you clench around them as you come, shaking and gasping and whimpering, every last reserve of your strength emptying to fuel your twitches and shudders.

You’re so focused on your own orgasm that you almost miss it coming inside you; the deluge of seed coating your walls, overflowing and running down your thighs.

You fall forward against its chest, panting, as it squeezes you tighter and keeps fucking into you, using your body to coax out every drop, every hot spurt.

By the time it’s done you’re limp in their arms, mouth agape and thoughts awash in dopamine. You can’t formulate a complete thought, other than, ‘feel good’.

Talons drag through your hair again, and another arm wraps around your waist. “You liked that?”

You let out a groan, and nod.

You can hear the smile in its voice. “Good. I told you I take care of my things.”

#kiss of the kelpie #dubcon #kelpies #yandere mosters #horror #monster smut #tetaro #exophilia #okay so like this is my favourite ending #quickly edited and last few paragraphs written this morning #so i apologise if it's a little off #guilty writes #my writing

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monsterloverpod · 1 year

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Presented without context

#I lied #these are from our last episode #monster fuckers anonymous #tetaro #monster fucker #monster lover #danny phantom #the locked tomb #barbie #podcast #comedy

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tinatiini · 2 years

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#alexisonfire #Tetaro de Flores - 2022

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triplenlace · 5 months

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Cuatro antiguas boleterías de teatros y cines de Buenos Aires

En la fototeca de la Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno, de Argentina, se conservan estas cuatro fotos de despachos de entradas de cines y tetaros antiguos de Buenos Aires. El que está sobre estas líneas tiene reja de bronce, dos ventanillas y barral de apoyo. Un cartel anuncia la película “Miguel Strogoff de Jules Verne avec Ivan Mosjoukine” (francesa, de Víctor Tourjansky, 1926). La fotografía…

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twinky-linky · 5 months

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King Harkinian Hyrule

King Harkinian Hyrule was born the 23rd of Tetartos, 7396. He was married to Queen Zelda Rannulf Hyrule, and they had a daughter, Zelda Daphnes Hyrule on the fourth of Tetaros, 7441. King Harkinian was very well known for his reign over the Hyrule Kingdom. He was very popular among his people. He died on the tenth of Deuteros, 7460

#drawing #digital illustration #digital painting #art #artists on tumblr #artwork #the legend of zelda #au #alternate universe

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pesquisadordramaturgia · 2 years

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A POÉTICA DE ARISTÓTELES!

“EIS POR QUE A POESIA É MAIS FILOSOFICA E MAIS NOBRE DO QUE A HISTORIA: A POESIA SE REFERE, DE PREFERENCIA AO UNIVERSAL. A HISTORIA, AO PARTICULAR” (ARISTOTELES, POETICA, PAG 97)

POETA: SE REFERE AOS EVENTOS QUE PODERIAM TER ACONTECIDO;

HISTORIADOR: SE REFERE AOS EVENTOS QUE DE FATO ACONTECERAM.

TRAGÉDIA ERA A MAIOR E MAIS ELEVADA FORMA DE ARTE LITERARIA, SEGUNDO ARISTOTELES

DE ACORDO COM ARISTOTELES HÁ 3 TIPOS FUNDAMENTAIS DE POESIAS: 1. POESIA LÍRICA; 2.

ÉPICA E A3. DRAMA.

PARTE DE UMA CARACTERISTICA INATA DO SER HUMANO: A MIMESE

O QUE É A MIMESE? : É UMA REPREENTAÇÃO OU IMITAÇÃO. DE ACORCO COM ARISTOTELES A NÓS FAZEMOS POR NATUREZA, COMO HÁBITO. E O QUE DIFERE DAS OUTRAS CRIATURAS É POR QUE NÓS SOMOS OS MAIS MIMÉTICOS E POR QUE RECORREMOS A MIMESES PARA EFETUAR AS PRIMEIRAS FORMAS DE APRENDIZAGEM.

A ARTE DE MIMETIZAR É UMA TENTATIVA DE APRENDER VERDADES UNIVERSAIS EM ACONMTECIMENTOS INDIVIDUAIS. POR TANTO PARA ARISTOTOLES A TRAGEDIA ERA O TIPO DE DRAMA PERFEITO

TRAGEDIA EM GREGO SIGNIFICA (DRAMA)

A TRAGEDIA ERA UM RITUAL RELIGIOSO REALIZADO EM COLETIVO, PELOS ATORES, COREUTAS E PELO PUBLICO. E CONTINHA UM PODER DE CURA E EXORCISAÇÃO DO “MAL” ATRAVÉS DO QUE ELE CHAMOU DE CATARSE (EMOÇÃO).

O DRAMA SIGNIFCA AS AÇÕES EM GREGO.

A FORMA POETICA QUE QUE MELHOR SINTETISA AS AÇÕES (MIMESES)COMO FUNDAMENTO É O DRAMA TRAGICO, DE ACORDO COM ARISTOTELES ELA MIMETIZA COISAS MAIS ELEVADAS.

A COMEDIA MIMETIZA OS COMPORTAMENTOS E APRTE MAIS PROFANA DA NATUREZA DA HUMANIDADE (E DOS PERSONAGENS)

TRAGEDIA SE ORIGINOU NO CULTO AO DEUS GREGO DIONISIO QUE É O DEUS DO TETARO, DAS FESTAS, DOS VINHOS, DO EXTASE E DOS RITUAIS RELIGIOSOS. POR TANTO, ETA ERA UMA FORMA EXALTAÇÃO ENCORAJADAS PARA TODOS (SEJAM ESCRAVOS, HOMENS LIVRES, MULHERES)

AS FESTAS TINHAM UM CARATER CIVICO-RELIGIOSO. ELA POSSIBILITOU O SURGIMENTO DO TEATRO NA GRECIA, POIS AGREGAVA TODO O POVO ATENIENSE EM SEU RITUAL

ARISTOTELES FOI DISCIPULO DE PLATÃO, FAMOSO POR CRIAR O MUNDO DAS IDEIAS. POREM ARISTOTELES VIA A MIMESE POR UMA PERSPECTIVA “DIFERENTE” A DE PLATAO:

- PARA PLATAO O POETA É UM RECRIADOR INCONSCIENTE, ELE REPRODUZ PRODUÇÕES JÁ EXISTENTES ADVINDAS DE UMA MATRIZ ORIGINAL (A CRIAÇÃO DIVINA) QUE É NATURALMENTE BELA, E QUE ESTA NO MUNDO DAS IDEAIS. DAI CONCLUI PLATAO QUE A ARTE SENDO UMA TECNICA DA IMATAÇÃO ELA É IMPERFEITA, VIVE NUM MUNDO DE APARENCIAS E DESSA FORMA AFASTA OS ESPIRITOS DA VERDADE (O DIVINO) E SE APROXIMA DO PROFANO.

- JÁ ARISTOTELES ROMPE COM ESSA TEORIA QUANDO SEPARA A ARTE DA MORAL COM A TEORIA DA MIMESE E DA CATARSE.TENDO COMO MATERIA PRIMA O MITO, SENDO A TRAGEDIA A IMITAÇÃO DE REALIDADE DOLOROSAS, ACONTECE QUE ESSA MESMA TRAGEDIA TAMBEM NOS PROPORCIONA PRAZER. POR ESSA RAZAO UM INDIVIDUO INERENTEMENTE EXISTE EM SEU INTERIOR O “BEM” E O “MAU”, ISSO ACONTECE COM O HEROI TRAGICO, QUE É UMA “PESSOA” QUE TEM ACERTOS E ERROS, QUALIDADES E DEFEITOS PARA VIVER ESSE DRAMA TRAGICO.

PROCESO DE CONSTRUÇÃO DOS ENREDOS:

- HAMARTIA: O ERRO COMETIDO EQUIVOCADAMENTE QUE VAI DETERMINAR O DESTINO DO PERSONAGEM;

- MOIRÁ: É O DESTINO TRAGICO, COMO UMA SETENÇA DIVINA AO QUAL O PERSONAGEM NÃO TEM COMO ESCAPAR;

- HYBRIS: É A AMEAÇA QUE FOI ESTABELECIDA CONTRA A VONTADE DO DIVINO. UMA ATITUTE ULTRAJANTE DO PERSONAGEM QUE DESENCADEIA O DESTINO TRAGICO COMO UMA PENALIDADE.

A ESTRUTURA DE UMA TRAGEDIA:

ENREDO / 2- CARATER / 3- ELOCUÇÃO / 4- PENSAMENTO / 5- ESPETACULO / 6- MELOPÉIA.

1.1 ENREDO: É ORGANIZAÇÃO DAS AÇOES DO PERSONAGEM DE FORMA SEQUENCIAL ELOQUENTE (CONVINCENTE OU VEROSSIMIL)

2.1 CARATER: EPOPEIA E TRAGEDIA (IMAGENS DE HOMENS SUPERIORES); COMÉDIA, SÁTIRA E PARÓDIA (IMAGENS DE HOMENS INFERIORES). O QUE NOS FAZ DIZER QUE ELAS [AS PERSONAGENS] TÊM TAL OU QUAL QUALIDADE. [...] A TRAGÉDIA NÃO É IMITAÇÃO DE HOMENS, MAS DE AÇÕES E DE VIDA, [...] E A PRÓPRIA FINALIDADE DA VIDA É UMA AÇÃO, NÃO UMA QUALIDADE. ORA, OS HOMENS POSSUEM TAL OU QUAL QUALIDADE, CONFORMEMENTE AO CARÁTER, MAS SÃO BEM OU MAL-AVENTURADOS PELAS AÇÕES QUE PRATICAM. [...] NA TRAGÉDIA, NÃO AGEM AS PERSONAGENS PARA IMITAR CARACTERES, MAS ASSUMEM CARACTERES PARA EFETUAR CERTAS AÇÕES.

3.1 ELOCUÇÃO: É O ENUNCIADO DOS PENSAMENTOS POR MEIO DE PALAVRAS, ENUNCIADO ESTE QUE TEM A MESMA EFETIVIDADE EM VERSO OU EM PROSA. SUAS PARTES SÃO: LETRA, SÍLABA, CONJUNÇÃO, NOME (SUBSTANTIVO/ADJETIVO), VERBO, ARTIGO, FLEXÃO E PROPOSIÇÃO.

4.1 PENSAMENTO: CONSISTE EM DIZER SOBRE TAL ASSUNTO O QUE LHE É INERENTE E A ESSE CONVÉM. PENSAMENTO É AQUILO EM QUE A PESSOA DEMONSTRA QUE ALGO É OU NÃO É, OU ENUNCIA UMA SENTENÇA GERAL.

5.1 ESPETÁCULO: É O MAIS EMOCIONANTE, MAS TAMBÉM O MENOS ARTÍSTICO E MENOS PRÓPRIO DA POESIA. NA VERDADE, MESMO SEM REPRESENTAÇÃO E SEM ATORES, PODE A TRAGÉDIA MANIFESTAR SEUS EFEITOS; ALÉM DISSO, A REALIZAÇÃO DE UM BOM ESPETÁCULO MAIS DEPENDE DO CENÓGRAFO DO QUE DO POETA.

6.1 MELOPÉIA: É O PRINCIPAL ORNAMENTO. MEIO DA IMITAÇÃO, ORNAMENTO DA LINGUAGEM: CANTO.

O CORO:O CORIFEU É O LIDER DOS PARTICIPANTES ATIVOS DO RITUAL (O CORO), ELES NÃO ESTAO INERENTES A AÇÃO.

O ESPAÇO DAS APRESENTAÇÕES SE DÁ EM UMA ORGANIZAÇÃO DO ESPAÇO EM MEIA LUA, COM AS ARQUIBANCADAS E O PALCO JUNTOS EM FORMA CIRCULAR. BUSCAM APROXIMAR O MAXIMO POSSIVEL OS ESPCTADORES DO RITUAL. TORNADO OS ESPECTADORES NÃO MAIS MERAS TESTEMUNHAS DO QUE ESTA AOCNTECENDO, MAS SIM, PARTE DO RITUAL.

DURAÇÃO: 1- PRÓLOGO / 2- PARODO / 3- EPISODIOS / 4- EXODO / 5- ESTÁSIMO

1.2 PROLOGO: QUANDO SÃO APRESENTADOS AS CIRCUNSTANCIAS DA NARRATIVA

2.2 PARODO: É A PRIMEIRA PARTICIPAÇÃO DO CORO;

3.2 EPISODIOS: É O DESDOBRAMENTO DO ENREDO ATRAVÉS DAS CENAS (REVIRAVOLTAS);

4.2 EXODO: A ULTIMA PARTE DO CORO, O FINAL;

5.2 ESTÁSIMO: É A FALA DO CORO AO LONGO DO ESPETACULO.

O ENLACE E O DESENLACE:

O ENLACE É O DESENVOLVIMENTO QUE SE ESTENDE DESDE O INICIO ATÉ AQUELA PARTE EXTREMA EM QUE OCORRE A MODIFICAÇÃO DA AÇÃO PARA A PROSPERIDADE OU PARA A ADVERSIDADE.

O DESENLACE É O DESENVOLVIMENTO QUE SE EXTENDE DO INICIO DA MODIFICAÇÃO ATÉ O FIM. É A RESOLUÇÃO DO DRAMA.

A DURAÇÃO: DE ACORCO COM ARISTOTELES, A TRAGEDIA TEM QUE SER MAIS CURTA, CONCISA, MARCADAMENTE EPISODICA (PEQUENOS EPISODIOS QUE IRÃO COMPOR O DRAMA) DO HEROI TRAGICO.

A RELAÇÃO ENTRE EPOPÉIA E TRAGEDIA:

DEVE HAVER MIMESES NAS DUAS, ELA COMPOE A AÇÃO TENDO COMEÇO, MEIO E FIM.

Fotos: Representação de Medéia / Capa da obra de Sófocles, “’Édipo Rei”, da editora L&PM POCKET.

REFERENCIA:

Referência: ARISTOTELES. Poética. Rio de Janeiro: Edipro, 2011.

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llobu-cerval · 3 years

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some doodles from someone who just played metroid dread

AND NOW WITH BAD JOKES

#metroid #metroid dread #samus aran #kraid #adam #metroid samus #x virus #tetaro #honestly when I saw him I was like #oh no hes hot #metal birdy daddy #raven beak

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monster-toy · 2 years

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A monster fuckers cafe chain please. The werewolf one where you can get lattes and pastries while sitting a werewolf's lap, cockwarming their knot. A vampire one where you are the tasty little treats. I think it would be very successful

#monster fucker #tetarophillia #tetaro #nsft #nsft post #txt

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vaya-writes · 1 year

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Serving the Serpent - 1

Briar owes Lord Isen her life, unfortunately. She works off her debt by serving in his castle. Dealing with the rapidly changing circumstances of her life, she’s not used to anyone paying her much attention. She struggles particularly when Isen seems set on interacting with her.

Cis female human with selective mutism x male naga (slow burn, co-workers to lovers, power imbalances, eventual smut). 2000 words. Content warnings for this chapter: allusions to Briars background (contains cult like elements of religion and misogyny) and descriptions of food. Divider from firefly-graphics

It had been a last resort. She had been a last resort. The coarse rope binding each of her limbs. The stone of the Serpent at her back. The blindfold bestowed out of kindness. None of it was wanted. Not the colony’s first choice. Not a sacrifice they wanted to make.

Or so they’d told Briar as they’d left her to the beast.

She knows this place. Knows the clearing and the statue. When she hears the low roar, she knows the beast and knows where it will make its appearance. Knows that the Serpent will step out of the brush with his spear raised and save her. That this is just a nightmare.

The creature appears. It’s just a dream but her stomach still drops as she beholds the monster in all its glory. Its beak drips with saliva as it grows closer. It freezes her in place with its scarred and beady eyes. Talons the length of her forearm claw up the dirt as it approaches.

Any minute and Lord Isen will appear. Any minute and he’ll re-enact the dramatic rescue she’d experienced. He’ll cut her lose and shield her from the beast and send his ranseur through the creature’s maw.

But Isen doesn’t come.

Briar wakes when the creature looms over her and makes to peck out her eyes.

The hearth casts the servant’s dormitory in a dull orange glow. The room is hot. Briar’s nightmare is only partially responsible for the sweat she is bathed in.

She kicks off her sheet and rolls off her pallet with a groan. Hardly anyone is stirring yet, so she sits and rests with her head between her knees until she’s calm enough to face the day. There’s no way she’s going back to sleep, so she readies herself for work.

She braids her hair back and dresses quickly; self-conscious about changing in front of a room full of strangers. True they were all women – or females, Briar supposes. But the two weeks she’d spent in Riversreach aren’t enough for her to feel comfortable in a room full of non-humans. Not yet, anyway.

Still, even as she distrusts them, she wishes someone else were awake to join her for a trip to the washroom. She doesn’t like to make the trek in the dark. Especially not alone. And right now, there’s nothing she wants more than to wash the stickiness from her skin.

The servant’s quarters were always too hot during the evening. Kept warm for the large amount of lizard folk who worked in the castle. Briar knows they have trouble regulating their body temperature, but still wishes she could sleep in a cooler room. It’s hard to sleep in the heat, and dense humidity of the Ophidian Lowlands can make the evenings unbearable.

“Girl.”

On her way back from the washroom a thin male with ash grey skin steps from a shadow.

She freezes in place. She hasn’t done anything wrong, but it’s hard to feel comfortable under Lockwood’s gaze.

“You’re up early.”

Briar hazards a nod.

“Why don’t you help Cook in the kitchen, then. See me for more work after breakfast.”

She bobs in a curtsy and hastens towards the kitchen before the dark elf can change his mind. She tries not to scurry like a mouse, remembering to act with dignity and evening her strides before she can make a complete fool of herself. Scampering around will just attract unwanted attention.

Briar arrives at the kitchen and steps inside cautiously. She’s met with another wave of heat and starts to regret waking up so early.

Cook fixes her in place with his yellowed eyes. “Breakfast isn’t until sunrise.”

Briar shakes her head. Points to the pile of food yet to be prepped.

“Did Lockwood send you? Have you washed up?”

Nod. Yes to both.

“Right. You ever butcher meat?”

Briar shrugs. Nods once. Some kinds, yes.

Cook points her to the carcass on the back table. “Do what you know. Elsie can show you the rest.”

Briar makes her way over to the deer and picks up a knife. The guts and hide had already been removed.

Deer is a rare catch in her colony. The Pilgrims were ill suited to the local swamps and woodlands and most of the meat they brought in (that Briar had consequently prepared) was made up of large rodents, fish, and small reptiles. Never snakes though. That was the one new rule they’d adopted upon migrating to the Lowlands.

Briar had seen the men butcher a deer once. Recalls the memory to guide her, clearing her throat and attracting Elsie’s attention before she starts. Briar mimes where she should cut, and female gives a nod of approval.

Good. This is something she can do. She butchers the animal. And is then prompted to skewer and cook the meat. The bones and scraps go into a pot to make broth. She’s then made to clean the area, mopping up any spilt blood and scrubbing the counters to a shine. By the time she’s finished, most of the food has been transported to the dining area, and Elsie has left to serve while Cook plates Lord Isen’s breakfast.

Briar catches a glance of his meal and her stomach rumbles with envy. For a naga, he certainly has a varied diet. Eggs, toast, sausage, and a side of fruit.

When she reaches the servant’s dining hall and accepts her own breakfast, she looks down at her plate with a wistful sigh. Today the omnivores had been served a grilled deer skewer, a piece of bread, and… she pokes the pile of leaves with suspicion. Cabbage?

She puts a leaf in her mouth after eyeing it carefully. Since coming to the castle she’d been served three meals a day. But Cook's ideas of what humans eat are dubious at best. It had taken Lockwood’s spontaneous visit to the dining hall, incredulous questioning, and followed intervention before Briar had started keeping her meals down.

Cook, to their credit, had tried. Briar had agreed that humans eat meat, and had been served it every meal since. Just not to safe standards. Especially since most of the lizard folk here didn’t need their meat cooked.

Lockwood had taken Briar under his wing after that day. Had informed Cook that he’d oversee Briar’s training himself. Since then, Briar had reported to the head of staff each morning for work. And had also been served a (somewhat) balanced diet.

She has an easier time working with Lockwood, despite his stoic exterior. He asks the right questions, speaks fluent Common, and watches carefully when Briar signs her replies. She thinks that, if he asked to learn, he’d probably pick up her preferred method of communication quite quickly.

It is cabbage, Briar discovers with relief, although it has been served raw. She forces down the bitter leaves between bites of bread. She hadn’t eaten much produce before coming to the castle, either. Chronically underfed and sustained on a foraged diet, Briar had been malnourished when Lord Isen had brought her to his keep.

Most days she tries not to resent her people. But at mealtimes she can’t help but pity them. Stuck in their old ways they hadn’t even bothered trying to learn to farm the new land, or what crops could properly be sustained here. Two generations the Pilgrims had spent in New Haven, and still they barely survived.

Briar knocks at Lockwood’s door and waits her permission before entering. The dark elf is sitting at his desk, pouring over some papers.

“How did you do in the kitchen?”

“Good,” Briar signs while she gives a resolute nod.

“Glad to hear it. I might station you there permanently if nothing else stands out. But today you’ll be working the third floor. Emillie will show you the basics.”

There’s a knock from the open door.

“Emillie, this is… your shadow for the day. Girl, this is Emillie,” he introduces you to the female at the door. Her scales are a pale green, though the ones around the softer parts of her body are a bright yellow.

Emillie curtsies to Briar before taking her by the hand. Her Common is accented, but she’s easily understandable. “I’m very pleased to work with you. I’ve seen you around, but we haven’t had a chance to speak. Or, I mean, I haven’t had a chance to speak to you. Shall we get started?”

Briar glances to Lockwood, who waves her off. “Begone now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She swallows, before following Emillie out, closing the door behind her. The lizard still holds her hand and Briar looks pointedly at it before the female releases her.

“Oop, sorry. I was just so excited. We don’t get new staff members very often. Not a lot of people pass through the area and the local villages are quite small. Honestly, I feel like half the staff members Lord Isen employs are ones he’s met himself while out travelling. I hear even Mr Lockwood was hired through a connection with the Lord. Though I wonder how a dark elf ever met the boss.”

Briar is content to let Emillie prattle, so long as she teaches her adequately.

The third floor is certainly the finest of Riversreach. The floors are polished to a shine, there are works of art and tapestries decorating each of the walls, and most of the furniture is of fine make, imported from other parts of the world. There are offices, guest rooms, one particularly lavish washroom, and Lord Isen’s suite.

The floors need to be mopped every day, as Isen detests slithering around on dirty surfaces. The linens checked and changed daily, and the fireplace swept and restacked. The main surfaces cleaned, and the less used areas and corners wiped and dusted each week. The windows washed and the metal fittings polished each weekly. And those are just Emillie’s responsibilities.

It’s not so bad, Briar supposes, even if it’s tiring. The work is simple, and hard to mess up. The only thing Emillie tells her to be weary of is knocking on each door before entering, and making sure not to interrupt any of the boss’s guests or his meetings.

With the Lord apparently busy, his room is empty and ready to be cleaned. Briar and Emillie let themselves in. Briar tries not to gawk at the room. A large bed and wardrobe, a stone hearth with several plump chairs ringing it, and an office made up of a desk and two bookshelves – one could comfortably live out of this room for weeks, if it weren’t for the lack of bathroom (which is attached anyway). Briar tries not to scowl at the wealth of it, and takes her directions from Emillie.

With the floors and surfaces done, the pair start on the bed when Emillie puts her hand to her face. “Drat. I didn’t fetch the new bedding. I’ll be right back.”

Briar’s heart thunders. She reaches out her hand as Emillie turns and leaves, but her instructor misses the gesture.

She's left alone in the room. Briar glances around, too aware that she does not want to be left alone in the Lord’s room. Yes, he’s in a meeting. Yes, she has permission to be there. Yes, everything would be fine.

Still, she strips the linens quickly, eager to be done with the place. She’s fumbling with a pillowcase when the door opens, and Briar nearly slumps with relief at Emillie’s return. She turns to the servant to scowl at her. To enforce that she didn’t want to be left alone.

Instead, she locks eyes with Lord Isen.

#vaya writes #serving the serpent #monster boyfriend #monster romance #tetaro #my writing #posting because I'm having executive dysfunction and struggling to sit down and write #and hopefully praise and hype will help with that #nagas

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