Fic: The Vow.
Title: The Vow
Pairing: Shub-Niggurath/Sherlock
Rating:: NC-17
Genre: AU, horror.
Warnings: Incest, tentacles, non-con.
Summary: Written for this prompt The reason Sherlock doesn't sleep much is that every time he goes to bed, this happens: http://malesubmissionart.com/post/205758900/in-a-bed-a-young-man-is-penetrated-by-an (NSFW).
Word count: 2300
A/N: I wrote this a while ago for the meme and then forgot I wrote it, so I'm just getting around to posting it on my LJ now. So if this looks familiar to you, it's because it's actually pretty old.
Sherlock moved on average once a year, but Shub-Niggurath always found him. Sometimes he could hold her off for days or weeks by avoiding stepping on soil or touching a living plant. In London it wasn't difficult to avoid greenery. But inevitably someone would have a potted plant, or he'd be knocked backwards into someone's garden and he'd hear the rustling of one of her thousand children, poking a curious tendril up to see who of their blood was stirring about above.
Once he managed to hold her off for three months. But then, by chance he backed up and the skin of his hand brushed against a sorry looking potted ficus in the lobby of the insurance company he was investigating. He knew the jig was up.
Sure enough, that night Shub-Niggurath found him. He heard her rustling under his bed, like a furtive rat in search of a crumb, and knew he was in for another tedious-terrifying session. Which would it be this time, the sweet-talk, or threats? Either way, wouldn't matter. This impasse had lasted 15 years. Nothing would change.
Hello great-grandson, she said in his mind. Her mental voice was alien and disturbing, the mental equivalent of a snake sliding across his brain. Normal humans couldn't bear it. They could bear her appearance even less. Even Sherlock, whose mind was hardened by his ancestry, found her branched and morphic body hard to look at.
He'd only seen her fully once: claws and teeth, bristles and branches, hands, tails, thorns. Genitals of both genders in a hideous abundance, most oversized or otherwise hideously malformed. He'd cried hysterically for hours afterwards. Mycroft had calmed him down and explained his heritage. By then, Mycroft was the only one who knew what that heritage was.
“She won't hurt you,” Mycroft said hopefully. “She'll probably never bother you again.”
He was wrong.
These days Great-Grandmother mostly kept her hideous bulk hidden while she visited. She talked, occasionally threateningly, occasionally seductively, keeping her body sideways out of space-time. Occasionally, when Sherlock's anger got the better of him and he said something smart, she'd poke a clawed finger, fifteen inches long and wire bristled straight through a floor board, or a wall. She'd waggle it there, a reminder that there really was no barrier but her own self-control between them.
Since turning thirty, her visits were coming more frequently. From monthly, to weekly, to finally nightly. He'd moved again out of self-preservation, just for a single night's peace. He'd gotten three months. It had been bliss.
And now she was here, waking him from a sound sleep. Her claws scrabbling about under the bed, like a clumsy dog hiding from a thunderstorm. Sherlock considered getting up, but there was no point in it. Shub-Niggurath wasn't actually under the bed, she was everywhere and nowhere. They could talk here as well as anywhere else.
“Piss off, Great-grandmother. I'm tired.” It was cheeky but true.
You know what I want. Do it and I'll leave you be.
“I do. And I won't do it. You have a thousand children, and uncountable grandchildren, why bother me?”
My children can't pass as human. My grandchildren are all mad. And of their issue, you and your brother are the best. Your children will be beautiful, lovely, human, talented. They will prepare the world for Our coming. Her voice grew threatening. My patience has come to an end. Break your vow or suffer the consequences.
“Never.” The word was out without him having to think. It was the same reply he'd given for fifteen years. He'd never break his vow.
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 fervour 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 colour 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, artefacts. 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 favourites... 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 flavour hit him. Far from being fetid or foul, as he expected, it was sweet and savoury, hideously delicious. Nourishing.
He bucked with horror, realising 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.
Tendrils , half-plant, half creature, slid moistly over his arched torso. The smell was... wonderful. Beautiful. Like flowers or food, he couldn't decide which. They undulated, wormlike, over his taut skin, seeking his most sensitive parts. One found a nipple and brushed it, moistened it with its warm, slickness, then rolled over the nub. The other searched lower, poking blindly at his belly and pubic hair before finding his limp penis. Inexorably, it wound its way around the flaccid shaft. It's tapered tip worked its way past the foreskin to tease the glans and slit.
His mouth filled slowly with her sap, and though he tried to drool it out, some inevitably slid down his throat. God only knew what was in the substances Shub-Niggurath was feeding him. Aphrodisiacs most likely. The rational part of Sherlock's brain tried to analyse the way he felt, the way she was making him feel. It was the only way to stay sane under the assault.
He was high, certainly. His head was buzzing. The smell and taste made him light-headed and hungry. Unconsciously he sucked, then regretted it as a large swallow of the stuff went down his throat. The drug slammed him. Every part of his body hummed. Better than Ecstasy. More invigorating than cocaine. This was an alkaloid designed to addict.
His cock swelled, either from the the pulsing pressure of the tentacle around it, or from the drugs that now raced through Sherlock's veins, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he could see how a thousand men had succumbed to his Great-Grandmother's seduction. His erection lifted up, tall and proud. In the dim light, he could seen the tendril gripping and sliding. Teasing him. The tip burrowed deeper down the slit, giving him the added sensation of being stimulated from the inside.
God... God... God... Please...
Sherlock had never been much of a Christian, even though his mother had insisted they all attend church regularly. Even as a small child, church had seemed cold and unfriendly to him. He couldn't shake the sense of disapproval. Once he had discovered that the blood of a true god ran through him, it had seemed the height of hypocrisy to worship anyone else. But he couldn't worship her either. And now he tried vainly to find his former faith - if there was ever a time for miracle, now was it.
The only answer was his ankles being pushed insistently apart. He felt, rather than saw the thick, bulbous phallus that pressed itself against his anus. It prodded him insistently, dripping with lubricant manufactured specifically and perfectly for this sort of penetration. He clenched away the first assault, but the fluids seemed to warm and sooth the muscle. By the second assault, he had no strength to hold her off. He felt himself pulled open, wider and wider as the blunt member forced its way in. He bucked his hips up a few inches, attempting to pull himself off, but Shub-Niggurath moved quicker, filling him. The result of his thrashing was merely to fuck himself on the thick probe.
Something in him broke. Perhaps the drugs had finally beaten him down. Perhaps the combined sensations were more than he could rationalise away. But he stopped thinking. He stopped caring. All he wanted was more. More of what tasted good. More of what felt good. More of everything, in him and around him.
Shub-Niggurath, sensing his defeat, eagerly supplied it.
He was embraced, head to foot by hands that held, petted, and warmed him.
He was stroked, probed, squeezed and filled, and inexorably his body yielded to her demands. He felt the pressure of his need swelling inside him. Each thrust, each pulse, each rub felt so good. He bucked hips, fucking himself harder on the phallus within him, attempting to make the tendril slide faster against his rigid cock. He worked himself like a whore, thoughtlessly, relentlessly. Scratching that itch. Yes, more, there, harder.
He came. An unbearable tension eased and he was swept with intense relief. He didn't even notice the way her tendril gobbled his seed. All he knew was the raw feeling left behind when it removed itself from his slit. His cock was released. It deflated and lay against his hip. The vine worrying his nipple let it go. The phallus slid out, leaving him gaping and empty.
It was over. Shub-Niggurath had what she wanted. His vow was shattered.
You did well, she spoke, her satisfaction all but suffocating him. Drink my milk and grow strong and virile, great grandchild. Live long and heal fast. You will need the endurance you gain.
Before Sherlock could react, the tentacle in his mouth surged deeper, pulling his face up so that his neck arched, then thrusting past his uvula and down his oesophagus. It was too big to swallow. He wasn't designed to take this. It hurt as it pistoned slowly up and down. His stomach filled helplessly. Then, just as he worried he might pass out from lack of air, she pulled back. His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe. Then she was out entirely and he coughed and sputtered, and tried not to throw up.
“There you have what he want,” he said bitterly, when he could. “Go impregnate some unfortunate woman with it, and leave me be.” He was still clinging to sanity, he realised. Despite everything she hadn't robbed him of that. He was stronger than his father. With any hope, the poor wretch born out of this monstrous union would be even stronger. Perhaps he'd find a way to defy her.
Oh my beloved great-grandchild, Shub-Niggurath purred. Once I would have been satisfied with a General, raised in your love to be as brilliant and strong as you. Since you refused me that, I will have an army from you, instead. And you will never know a single one of your children. Not one.
She released him slowly, a hand at a time, each melting back into the nothingness from whence they came.
Sherlock swallowed. Could she really use the issue of this night to raise an army? She was strong, and powerful, but she never struck him as having the patience or finesse for that. Then he clutched his stomach, full of her milk and remembered her words. You will need the endurance.
He grabbed the torn bedding and pulled it closer to himself.
She'd changed her game.
She wasn't done with him. She'd never be done.
Pairing: Shub-Niggurath/Sherlock
Rating:: NC-17
Genre: AU, horror.
Warnings: Incest, tentacles, non-con.
Summary: Written for this prompt The reason Sherlock doesn't sleep much is that every time he goes to bed, this happens: http://malesubmissionart.com/post/205758900/in-a-bed-a-young-man-is-penetrated-by-an (NSFW).
Word count: 2300
A/N: I wrote this a while ago for the meme and then forgot I wrote it, so I'm just getting around to posting it on my LJ now. So if this looks familiar to you, it's because it's actually pretty old.
Sherlock moved on average once a year, but Shub-Niggurath always found him. Sometimes he could hold her off for days or weeks by avoiding stepping on soil or touching a living plant. In London it wasn't difficult to avoid greenery. But inevitably someone would have a potted plant, or he'd be knocked backwards into someone's garden and he'd hear the rustling of one of her thousand children, poking a curious tendril up to see who of their blood was stirring about above.
Once he managed to hold her off for three months. But then, by chance he backed up and the skin of his hand brushed against a sorry looking potted ficus in the lobby of the insurance company he was investigating. He knew the jig was up.
Sure enough, that night Shub-Niggurath found him. He heard her rustling under his bed, like a furtive rat in search of a crumb, and knew he was in for another tedious-terrifying session. Which would it be this time, the sweet-talk, or threats? Either way, wouldn't matter. This impasse had lasted 15 years. Nothing would change.
Hello great-grandson, she said in his mind. Her mental voice was alien and disturbing, the mental equivalent of a snake sliding across his brain. Normal humans couldn't bear it. They could bear her appearance even less. Even Sherlock, whose mind was hardened by his ancestry, found her branched and morphic body hard to look at.
He'd only seen her fully once: claws and teeth, bristles and branches, hands, tails, thorns. Genitals of both genders in a hideous abundance, most oversized or otherwise hideously malformed. He'd cried hysterically for hours afterwards. Mycroft had calmed him down and explained his heritage. By then, Mycroft was the only one who knew what that heritage was.
“She won't hurt you,” Mycroft said hopefully. “She'll probably never bother you again.”
He was wrong.
These days Great-Grandmother mostly kept her hideous bulk hidden while she visited. She talked, occasionally threateningly, occasionally seductively, keeping her body sideways out of space-time. Occasionally, when Sherlock's anger got the better of him and he said something smart, she'd poke a clawed finger, fifteen inches long and wire bristled straight through a floor board, or a wall. She'd waggle it there, a reminder that there really was no barrier but her own self-control between them.
Since turning thirty, her visits were coming more frequently. From monthly, to weekly, to finally nightly. He'd moved again out of self-preservation, just for a single night's peace. He'd gotten three months. It had been bliss.
And now she was here, waking him from a sound sleep. Her claws scrabbling about under the bed, like a clumsy dog hiding from a thunderstorm. Sherlock considered getting up, but there was no point in it. Shub-Niggurath wasn't actually under the bed, she was everywhere and nowhere. They could talk here as well as anywhere else.
“Piss off, Great-grandmother. I'm tired.” It was cheeky but true.
You know what I want. Do it and I'll leave you be.
“I do. And I won't do it. You have a thousand children, and uncountable grandchildren, why bother me?”
My children can't pass as human. My grandchildren are all mad. And of their issue, you and your brother are the best. Your children will be beautiful, lovely, human, talented. They will prepare the world for Our coming. Her voice grew threatening. My patience has come to an end. Break your vow or suffer the consequences.
“Never.” The word was out without him having to think. It was the same reply he'd given for fifteen years. He'd never break his vow.
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 fervour 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 colour 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, artefacts. 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 favourites... 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 flavour hit him. Far from being fetid or foul, as he expected, it was sweet and savoury, hideously delicious. Nourishing.
He bucked with horror, realising 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.
Tendrils , half-plant, half creature, slid moistly over his arched torso. The smell was... wonderful. Beautiful. Like flowers or food, he couldn't decide which. They undulated, wormlike, over his taut skin, seeking his most sensitive parts. One found a nipple and brushed it, moistened it with its warm, slickness, then rolled over the nub. The other searched lower, poking blindly at his belly and pubic hair before finding his limp penis. Inexorably, it wound its way around the flaccid shaft. It's tapered tip worked its way past the foreskin to tease the glans and slit.
His mouth filled slowly with her sap, and though he tried to drool it out, some inevitably slid down his throat. God only knew what was in the substances Shub-Niggurath was feeding him. Aphrodisiacs most likely. The rational part of Sherlock's brain tried to analyse the way he felt, the way she was making him feel. It was the only way to stay sane under the assault.
He was high, certainly. His head was buzzing. The smell and taste made him light-headed and hungry. Unconsciously he sucked, then regretted it as a large swallow of the stuff went down his throat. The drug slammed him. Every part of his body hummed. Better than Ecstasy. More invigorating than cocaine. This was an alkaloid designed to addict.
His cock swelled, either from the the pulsing pressure of the tentacle around it, or from the drugs that now raced through Sherlock's veins, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he could see how a thousand men had succumbed to his Great-Grandmother's seduction. His erection lifted up, tall and proud. In the dim light, he could seen the tendril gripping and sliding. Teasing him. The tip burrowed deeper down the slit, giving him the added sensation of being stimulated from the inside.
God... God... God... Please...
Sherlock had never been much of a Christian, even though his mother had insisted they all attend church regularly. Even as a small child, church had seemed cold and unfriendly to him. He couldn't shake the sense of disapproval. Once he had discovered that the blood of a true god ran through him, it had seemed the height of hypocrisy to worship anyone else. But he couldn't worship her either. And now he tried vainly to find his former faith - if there was ever a time for miracle, now was it.
The only answer was his ankles being pushed insistently apart. He felt, rather than saw the thick, bulbous phallus that pressed itself against his anus. It prodded him insistently, dripping with lubricant manufactured specifically and perfectly for this sort of penetration. He clenched away the first assault, but the fluids seemed to warm and sooth the muscle. By the second assault, he had no strength to hold her off. He felt himself pulled open, wider and wider as the blunt member forced its way in. He bucked his hips up a few inches, attempting to pull himself off, but Shub-Niggurath moved quicker, filling him. The result of his thrashing was merely to fuck himself on the thick probe.
Something in him broke. Perhaps the drugs had finally beaten him down. Perhaps the combined sensations were more than he could rationalise away. But he stopped thinking. He stopped caring. All he wanted was more. More of what tasted good. More of what felt good. More of everything, in him and around him.
Shub-Niggurath, sensing his defeat, eagerly supplied it.
He was embraced, head to foot by hands that held, petted, and warmed him.
He was stroked, probed, squeezed and filled, and inexorably his body yielded to her demands. He felt the pressure of his need swelling inside him. Each thrust, each pulse, each rub felt so good. He bucked hips, fucking himself harder on the phallus within him, attempting to make the tendril slide faster against his rigid cock. He worked himself like a whore, thoughtlessly, relentlessly. Scratching that itch. Yes, more, there, harder.
He came. An unbearable tension eased and he was swept with intense relief. He didn't even notice the way her tendril gobbled his seed. All he knew was the raw feeling left behind when it removed itself from his slit. His cock was released. It deflated and lay against his hip. The vine worrying his nipple let it go. The phallus slid out, leaving him gaping and empty.
It was over. Shub-Niggurath had what she wanted. His vow was shattered.
You did well, she spoke, her satisfaction all but suffocating him. Drink my milk and grow strong and virile, great grandchild. Live long and heal fast. You will need the endurance you gain.
Before Sherlock could react, the tentacle in his mouth surged deeper, pulling his face up so that his neck arched, then thrusting past his uvula and down his oesophagus. It was too big to swallow. He wasn't designed to take this. It hurt as it pistoned slowly up and down. His stomach filled helplessly. Then, just as he worried he might pass out from lack of air, she pulled back. His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe. Then she was out entirely and he coughed and sputtered, and tried not to throw up.
“There you have what he want,” he said bitterly, when he could. “Go impregnate some unfortunate woman with it, and leave me be.” He was still clinging to sanity, he realised. Despite everything she hadn't robbed him of that. He was stronger than his father. With any hope, the poor wretch born out of this monstrous union would be even stronger. Perhaps he'd find a way to defy her.
Oh my beloved great-grandchild, Shub-Niggurath purred. Once I would have been satisfied with a General, raised in your love to be as brilliant and strong as you. Since you refused me that, I will have an army from you, instead. And you will never know a single one of your children. Not one.
She released him slowly, a hand at a time, each melting back into the nothingness from whence they came.
Sherlock swallowed. Could she really use the issue of this night to raise an army? She was strong, and powerful, but she never struck him as having the patience or finesse for that. Then he clutched his stomach, full of her milk and remembered her words. You will need the endurance.
He grabbed the torn bedding and pulled it closer to himself.
She'd changed her game.
She wasn't done with him. She'd never be done.