Re: 2nd Fill, The Vow 2/4 Warning: Tentacle Rape, Incestvelvet_maceMarch 21 2011, 05:44:16 UTC
It was the only thing Sherlock's father had ever insisted that he promise, and the last thing his father had ever asked for. Vow to me you won't pass the family curse on, he'd asked in a quiet, tense voice. Promise me that you will never have children.
At that time Sherlock hadn't known what he meant. He'd been twelve and his first brush with his great grandmother was still three years in his future. He was too busy being a child to think about giving up parenthood. He'd promised only because his father seemed so intense and it seemed the fastest way to be excused.
Mycroft, seven years older, had promised without hesitation. Sherlock had wondered at the fervor in his brother's eyes, but hadn't asked.
That night, their father's always fragile mind finally broke. Sherlock was woken by his terrified shrieks. His last glimpse of his father had been when the ambulance came to take him away. He'd spent his remaining years in an institution, beleaguered to nervous exhaustion by hallucinations.
“Never,” Sherlock repeated, letting his irritation color his words. “My line ends with me.”
Shub-Niggurath changed tactics. Her voice grew cloyingly sweet, Break your vow to your father, she crooned, And I shall be very good to you. I'll bring you buried treasure, jewels, artifacts. I'll murder your enemies in their sleep. You will want for nothing. Sherlock felt an unspeakable warmth and wasn't sure if it was physical or merely hallucinatory. Her affection seemed to coat the air he breathed with it's cloying sweetness.
“And I said 'Never',” he repeated again. “You might as well stop bothering me, you boring old hag.”
That was it.
Noise exploded around him. Before Sherlock could think to get off the bed, three of her hands had poked through and grabbed his body, holding it tight to the bed. Behind them came thick stubby tendrils, pinioning him further.
He was in for it now. He'd sassed her for the last time. Terror washed over him and he hoped that she would simply kill him rather than drive him mad the way she had his father.
I've been indulgent, because you and your brother have always been my favorites... but no more. If you won't serve me willingly, you will be made to serve.
“No!” Sherlock cried out, but before the word was half out of his mouth, a tentacle, slimy and fat and covered with small pebbled scales, plugged his mouth. He recoiled back, drawing his tongue protectively deep in his mouth and away from it. Then the flavor hit him. Far from being fetid or foul, as he expected, it was sweet and savory, hideously delicious. Nourishing.
He bucked with horror, realizing that Shub-Niggurath meant to seduce him, the way she had the fathers of her thousand children.
He twisted and fought her grip, but every hand he dislodge was replaced by two more. The bedclothes were ripped from his body, and then his pyjamas. He lay naked and pinned on his back.
The dim light coming through the window wasn't enough to show him more than dark glimpses of her, but it seemed she hadn't bothered to fully emerge from her dimension. Her body simply grew out of the mattress.
Something clawed and dangerous swelled up between his parted thighs. His jewels were cupped in a rough palm, lifted, and stroked. He wriggled and felt a threatening nail press against his scrotum. Yes, he thought viciously. Rip them off. I'll be worthless to you. Why hadn't he thought of it before?
Apparently it occurred to her as well, the claw moved, and the hand stroked softer, almost apologetically.
At that time Sherlock hadn't known what he meant. He'd been twelve and his first brush with his great grandmother was still three years in his future. He was too busy being a child to think about giving up parenthood. He'd promised only because his father seemed so intense and it seemed the fastest way to be excused.
Mycroft, seven years older, had promised without hesitation. Sherlock had wondered at the fervor in his brother's eyes, but hadn't asked.
That night, their father's always fragile mind finally broke. Sherlock was woken by his terrified shrieks. His last glimpse of his father had been when the ambulance came to take him away. He'd spent his remaining years in an institution, beleaguered to nervous exhaustion by hallucinations.
“Never,” Sherlock repeated, letting his irritation color his words. “My line ends with me.”
Shub-Niggurath changed tactics. Her voice grew cloyingly sweet, Break your vow to your father, she crooned, And I shall be very good to you. I'll bring you buried treasure, jewels, artifacts. I'll murder your enemies in their sleep. You will want for nothing. Sherlock felt an unspeakable warmth and wasn't sure if it was physical or merely hallucinatory. Her affection seemed to coat the air he breathed with it's cloying sweetness.
“And I said 'Never',” he repeated again. “You might as well stop bothering me, you boring old hag.”
That was it.
Noise exploded around him. Before Sherlock could think to get off the bed, three of her hands had poked through and grabbed his body, holding it tight to the bed. Behind them came thick stubby tendrils, pinioning him further.
He was in for it now. He'd sassed her for the last time. Terror washed over him and he hoped that she would simply kill him rather than drive him mad the way she had his father.
I've been indulgent, because you and your brother have always been my favorites... but no more. If you won't serve me willingly, you will be made to serve.
“No!” Sherlock cried out, but before the word was half out of his mouth, a tentacle, slimy and fat and covered with small pebbled scales, plugged his mouth. He recoiled back, drawing his tongue protectively deep in his mouth and away from it. Then the flavor hit him. Far from being fetid or foul, as he expected, it was sweet and savory, hideously delicious. Nourishing.
He bucked with horror, realizing that Shub-Niggurath meant to seduce him, the way she had the fathers of her thousand children.
He twisted and fought her grip, but every hand he dislodge was replaced by two more. The bedclothes were ripped from his body, and then his pyjamas. He lay naked and pinned on his back.
The dim light coming through the window wasn't enough to show him more than dark glimpses of her, but it seemed she hadn't bothered to fully emerge from her dimension. Her body simply grew out of the mattress.
Something clawed and dangerous swelled up between his parted thighs. His jewels were cupped in a rough palm, lifted, and stroked. He wriggled and felt a threatening nail press against his scrotum. Yes, he thought viciously. Rip them off. I'll be worthless to you. Why hadn't he thought of it before?
Apparently it occurred to her as well, the claw moved, and the hand stroked softer, almost apologetically.
Reply
Leave a comment