Redwall Commission - Flitchaye/reader
Imported from SF2 with no description.
Are you waking, pretty one? Can you hear our voices? No, no, sleep on. Sleep deeper.
Don't frown so. Here. Breathe deep, take in the scent. Sweet flowers send you down to dream. Don't you love valerian? Ignore the bitter roots. Ignore the pungent undertones. Don't they only make the flowers sweeter? Don't worry about what they do to you. Don't fear the scents of monkshood and foxglove. Breathe the gentle lavender and let your heartbeat slow. There, let us soothe those wrinkles from your brow, pretty one. Let us bind you tighter.
Ahh, is that a yawn? You're floating, not quite waking. Perfect. Your breath smells fresh, your teeth so clean. Let us see them, let us smell you. Let our nimble little claws explore your open mouth. Don't worry about the taste of dirt, or the scratchy feel. Don't wake enough to bite. It wouldn't help you anyway.
More claws stroke your ears and slither inside; more pull your headfur and watch you squirm. We can't get enough. You're so soft and clean. So beautiful. We must see more. Touch more. You're firmly bound, but that's no matter. We cut and gnaw away your clothes, and share the rags out as trophies for the ones who captured you. You're such a fine prize, they'll be honoured for many moons to come. Perhaps even longer, if we let you live a while. Yes, you're temptingly plump, but it would be such a waste to use you up so fast. There's so much more to do to you.
Gentle, everybeast, gentle. The herbs can only do so much. Go slow and watch our precious squirm.
We must get closer. We must taste you. Cold wet noses, warm wet tongues, little nips of needle teeth. All over. Still you're sleeping? Good. Don't bother to fight. Turn away from one, another's there. The ropes are firm. You're twitching but you can't kick, can't roll. As helpless as a fish on a spit.
It doesn't matter which one of us first strips off our weeds (not our masks, never our masks, not above the ground). Once one does, so do we all. Those who can reach grind against your flesh, wrap your handpaws round their shafts or force your fingers in themselves, fight for just a second's turn inside your mouth. Our musk surrounds you as strongly as the herbal drug. Each one is quickly pulled aside by another, then another, and there are always more. Those who give up turn to each other, indiscriminately.
The chief's the one to take it further. The chief's the one who sniffs between your legs. At his wave, we untie and re-tie your footpaws, spread wide between two stakes this time instead of bound together. Just as helpless. Nothing you can do.
It's so hard not to bite you. So hard not to simply dig in to your softest flesh and eat. The chief holds back, his mask pushed up just enough to press his nose right to you and *huff*. His eyes roll back in bliss. Instead of biting, he licks, tongue darting fast and light, and lets his paws roam to warm your body up. You're moaning in your sleep; is it pleasure or terror? Either would be good, and both would be perfect. Yes, it seems like both. You're trying to pull away, but your musk is starting to flow. The chief licks your wetness from his lips and goes in for more. All of us lean in and raise our masks just a little to catch a sniff of your scent - carefully now, one breath at a time. The herbs are still burning, and we aren't immune. Some of us take too deep a breath and have to sit down. You're so beautiful. It's worth a little headache.
The chief shifts back, lifts his snout away. Don't fear, pretty one, he will be back. He casts aside his weed cloak, and it falls to shreds - there's no shortage of replacements. His shaft emerges, hard and pulsing, pointing to you as surely as an arrow. He slicks himself up with a pawful of spittle. You're so relaxed, so limp, he barely needs any slick to open you up.
"Prittything," he chitters as he slides inside, "pritty prittything..."
The tribe takes up the chant. Pretty thing. Pretty thing. Every eye's on you. We'll never let you go.The chief's claws dig into your thighs as he thrusts, holding you still, as if you needed more of that. Through the tribesbeasts' still-exploring paws a whine escapes your mouth, but nothing more. Don't cry, pretty one, you're only dreaming. You'll have plenty of time to cry when you wake for real.
Faster, faster, the chief drives into you, and the others speed their pace to match him. First one splash of come hits your cheek, then another fills your handpaw. Gleeful chatters and screeches fill the air as the orgy around you comes to its peak. The chief grits his fangs, does his best to hold out the longest. At least until you come. You deserve to enjoy this too, precious toy. You've brought us so much joy and will again, and we should make you happy now. After all, you won't be happy when you come around. Nobeast ever is.
We join the chief to help you, little paws stroking and squeezing and scratching. Mouths on your nipples and neck. You arch and spasm and shudder, and your eyes flicker open but you're still asleep so they truly see nothing. Perhaps you catch a glimpse, though, as when you finally come the cry from you that we stifle with our mouths is a thin, frightened wail. Your tensing, twitching body sets the chief off too, and he fills you up with a snarl.
You lie limp again, face twisted in confusion. You're almost awake now. We lick away your tears. It's alright, pretty one, it's alright. We'll take good care of you. We won't be bored enough to eat you for a long, long time.