Shadow: I wrote something terrible. And it's not like this is my OTP for the ancestors or anything. Nope. And I totally don't want to write a torture-forced-impregnation-fic with these two. Nope.
Disclaimer: Hussie, we need to talk about your marriage...
WARNING: Kismessitude, noncon/rape, alien biology, etc. Enjoy.
The Sufferer kneels beneath you, his own cancerous blood painted upon his cheeks. You sit upon your throne, gazing down at him and reach out, gripping him by the hair and tilting his head back to meet his ever defiant eyes. The lust to quench and crush that defiance rises within you.
He licks his red stained lips and leers up at you, with those once careful and accepting golden eyes. The torture has changed him; turned him into an enraged beast of hate and despair.
You grip his face instead, hand cupping under his chin and claws digging into his dark cheeks, candy red blood beading over them. He glares at the mirth in your eyes with his own brand of loathing. And you thirst for more.
You pull The Sufferer closer to your throne, the sharp edges digging into his thighs and more blood staining your seat. He hisses in discomfort and uncomfortable arousal as your thick fingers glide over his nubby little horns. They are pitifully small in your opinion. Other trolls say size doesn't matter. It does. It is a symbol of your dominance and superiority over others. And this mutinous, Signless troll is dwarfed by your superiority.
Yanking The Sufferer onto your throne, so he is kneeling between your knees, you force his gaze to the glorious rainbow painted behind you, of countless trolls and countless colors, mashed together in splotches of unyielding gore and picture. They spell out paintings and indecipherable words. And he knows his rare and cancerous blood must and will join the rainbow as well.
You rip away the last piece of cloth around his waist, the only piece of dignity left he has to acknowledge. His bulge is soft and limp between his legs- size hardly comparable to yours. You compare his bone bulge to that of a female's. He does not laugh at the joke. You glance at his seedflap beneath his bulge and you smell the lubricating fluid beginning to leak from his nook, proving he is just as aroused by the barely contained loathing sparking between you.
The look on his face gives away how unhappy he is that this hate and torture his affecting him, but the biological effect is much more deep rooted and needy. You comment on how it is best he is producing the lubrication, as he will definitely need it. He does not respond beyond the dignified look of contempt and hate.
You turn him around, facing the other trolls in your throne room, bid them to witness the age long mating process that has become so obsolete under the power of buckets and mother grubs; now used as means only for control and humiliation.
You unsheathe your bone bulge to The Sufferer, rubbing it against his seedflap and his bulge. It is rapidly gaining blood flow and color, the dark skin flushed a deep red. The Sufferer is denying to look at the trolls watching the ritual. Your nook tingles with his defiance. Your lust to crush it is near unquenchable.
With no warning to The Sufferer, you plunge your bulge into his nook. He screams with the pain as candy red blood dribbles down your shaft. You smell the salt of his transparent tears, tinged with red, wetting his cheeks. He is a virgin to the mating ritual of old times, something that brings you great pleasure. You lean forth and lick the tears from his cheeks, the bitter taste of his blood staining your tongue.
The Sufferer is strong in his resilience. No sounds leave him as you begin to rock and sway him over your bulge. He sinks all the way down to the root, no doubt causing him great pain. Your girth stretches his abused nook wide. You are more or less surprised he has not been tortured this way before.
You move through the motions of the ritual, translucent sweat with the hint of indigo drips down your dark body as The Sufferer's blood rubs against your chest with the motions of your mating. He denies the gazes of all those that look upon the ritual with awe, many of them having no idea such a thing ever existed in practice.
The only sound The Sufferer gives is a strangled cry, his genetic material spraying from his nook and down your bulge. You keep moving him, regardless of his climax, and soon enough to shoot your own genetic material within him.
You catch your breath and shove him to the floor. He looks up at you with a look of pure loathing. You let the wolves descend upon him and he is strung up and tortured once more, ending his mutinous, scab of a life.
It was too bad, too. You would have gladly taken him as your caliginous partner.