Chapter Text
You knew you shouldn’t stare so brazenly at him, but there was so much to stare at you couldn’t tear your eyes away. The Lord of Limgrave - the Spider of nightmarish rumors throughout the land - was a sight unlike anything you’ve ever known.
And what a sight he made, enormous beyond even the Omen grunts in his employ. The man was hunched over from the weight of many limbs across his shoulders and back, all of them revealed to the stunned crowd of pilgrims. Godrick shuffled unevenly with his massive, composite legs, but there was still a sort of swagger to his movements; a confident, dramatic posturing that kept everyone’s eyes on him. Most of all, yours. There was no denying, as monstrous as he had made his body, his face was untouched. And it was… handsome.
You had no time to unpack all that now. He was making his way down the line of Tarnished sacrifices, inspecting some at a glance and pulling others forward to tug their limbs outward in a painful, degrading appraisal. Some people were more frightened than others, but some still were almost enraptured by his presence. This was the blood of Godfrey, after all. For some, this man was the true heir to the throne, for better or worse.
One by one, pilgrims were either tossed aside to be dragged back into the graftsurgeon’s lab, or they were personally harvested by the Lord himself. Godrick would use his axe for the occasion; it was a heavy, inelegant option when a butcher’s cleaver or just a sword would do better, but there was a sort of fanfare about it you could tell he was milking. It was a performance almost, his show of power and tyranny. The axe blade fell heavily, like a guillotine, to sever a stranger’s arm at the shoulder. Your pulse quickened. The new limb was taken, cradled by the bouquet of arms on Godrick’s back and carefully placed in the free space along his shoulders. The graft set in, and the hand began to twitch and writhe back to life, under new, complete ownership. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks.
A sellsword with a particularly fit body was beside you, though not by choice, judging by his bound hands in front of him. He would be a likely candidate, someone Godrick would dramatically pull apart and strip all usefulness from for his audience. His audience may as well have been solely you at this rate; you were the one staring with wide and captivated eyes when everyone else bowed their head, or looked away and wept. He was going to dismember someone right next to you, and the thought only made your heart pound and your skin prick with an electric current of excitement.
When it came time for Godrick to look upon the sellsword, he was closer to you than ever before. What a beast he was, twisted with so many parts of other people he stopped being human himself. You could see underneath the drapery that did a flimsy job of covering him that whole pieces of people had been grafted to him. Bolstering him, making an armor in itself for whatever was truly left of him. This should be disgusting. This should be the most horrible thing you’ve ever seen. Why couldn’t you look away?
The grafted man pointed in your direction with one of his enormous ‘main’ hands. You froze before remembering the man next to you. The better candidate. The sellsword trembled, but he had a determined look of hatred on his face as a soldier pushed him forward. You were close enough that you could see Godrick’s eyes light up in cruel delight at the man’s position before him.
“A vagrant such as you is a waste of parts. You should be honored to provide your Lord with a humble sacrifice.”
“Fuck you.” The man spat at Godrick in one last, bold attempt at rebellion. It made the demigod’s smug face screw up into an offended grimace. You held your breath.
The impact of Godrick’s huge, six-fingered hand against the man’s face was enough to nearly fling him into you. You flinched backward with a gasp, feeling a fleck of warm blood hit against your chin. Driven at your feet, the sellsword groaned from the pain of a visibly shattered face.
“Insolent.” the Lord grumbled through clenched teeth, his elongated arm reaching down to pick up the sellsword by the scruff without needing to bend down. He let the axe blade fall on the man’s shoulder, close enough that you were sprayed with vibrant, arterial blood. It was so… disconcertingly warm. As it cooled on your skin you shivered from feeling the wind dry it on your face.
The man’s screams faded along with his life as Godrick took what he wanted. He reached back to graft the new limb close to the back of his neck, stooping slightly to do so in front of you. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the private show; the veins of the new limb bulged as new blood was forcibly pumped through it. Its muscles twitched and its fingers curled as Godrick acquainted himself with its presence on his person. You were so taken by this display of profane power and violent conquest that the crowd of weeping, wailing and dying peasantry were simply not present anymore. It was just you, and him, and it was only when you heard a low chuckle rumble from his throat that you realized he was staring too. At you.
“Are ye thoroughly entertained?” His tone was sardonic, but amused. His smile was crooked, with his imperfect teeth and dry, chapped lips. You felt your face burn with a sudden embarrassment, and pointed your gaze towards the corpse on the ground.
“Sorry, my Lord.”
“No, no, by all means: take it in.” Godrick leaned forward - far too close, enough for you to hear the writhing of his grafted limbs as they curled in a display of his power over them. “Are you enjoying the show, little voyeur? I’ve felt your wandering eyes on me this entire time.”
Did he really notice…? You stole a careful glance back up at his face and saw his smile turn sadistic. He thought you were gawking with fear. Well, he wasn’t wrong, but it was certainly more than just fear.
“... I am, my Lord.” You gathered up your courage, emboldened by knowing your fate was probably sealed. You looked up at him with no fear in your eyes, but instead the enraptured interest you had kindling within you from the beginning.
The grafted man sniffed dismissively. “Flattery won’t ensure you leave in one piece.”
“It’s not flattery-” You spoke out of turn too quickly, bringing back that offended sneer on his face. You shrank away submissively, and turned your gaze downward once more. “I am not flattering you. I am… admiring you.”
He snorted, at first, and let out a fake-sounding laugh. He turned to his subordinates, who spared the briefest of uneasy chuckles. He didn’t look the least bit convinced as his upper lip curled over his yellowed teeth.
“Do not mock me, you little shit, or I’ll have you dragged back to the labs and used for my bastards, instead. Your limbs won’t even get the privilege of adorning me.”
You took a measured breath, and stared up at him with twice as much conviction. This wasn’t about surviving him anymore; this was about convincing him. Of what, you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to unpack yourself.
“I do not mock you, my Lord. I am speaking the truth. You are… a lot to admire, and I could not look away; forgive me for my rudeness.”
His yellow eyes narrowed, disbelieving and even more offended by what he saw as an act of insolence. He stared you down, daring you to look away, and when you didn’t balk nor blink in the presence of his genuinely frightening expression, he seemed to… deflate, just a bit. His broad shoulders slumped.
He spared no further words for you, walking off to address one of the men standing at attention for him. You didn’t hear the words he bent down to speak into the soldier’s ear, but the helmeted man did a double take over it. Godrick gave the man a firm slap on the shoulder that made the soldier cringe.
You watched Godrick leave the courtyard, your heart sinking. He didn’t believe you, and now you were going to die for an offense you didn’t mean. For some reason, the idea that you couldn’t properly convey your reverence for him was more upsetting than the death thing.
The soldier he spoke to approached you soon after, taking you roughly by the arm. “Come with me.”
Ah, to labs it is, then. Now the fear truly set in for you. Ironic that it would be the idea of being brutalized and stripped of your usefulness by his many scion bastards that was more upsetting than being grafted by the Lord of Limgrave himself.
You were dragged through the castle grounds with no explanation of where, or why. The soldier simply did his job, and when he brought you to the right place, he promptly left. He handed you off not to a graftsurgeon, but to a handmaid.
The servant quietly led you to, oddly enough, a bath that was still being filled by servants. She gestured at the steaming water disinterestedly. “Our Lord wants you properly cleaned and dressed before he’ll grant you the grace of his presence.”
Wait, what?
You could only let out a confused sound as you were firmly guided by the shoulder towards the water. In moments, the servants went to work on cleaning you, whether you had a say or not.
You were scrubbed clean of blood, sweat and grime. Your hair was shampooed and your body was patted down with perfume. You were suddenly the cleanest you’ve ever been in your life. A robe of luxurious golden silk replaced your peasant rags, and only then did the gravity of the situation hit you. Godrick wanted to see you. He had taken an interest in you… or at least your interest in him.
The maids sent you off with still-damp, combed hair and a half-hearted good luck. Another servant was there to pick you up when you stepped out of the washroom, and you found yourself whisked away once more. You were trembling with excitement. And fear. And… various other things you weren’t sure you wanted to get into. You were fascinated by the man, sure, but you still grappled with that. You didn’t think yourself to be a deviant, or anything. You never before considered such strange desires as the form Godrick had made for himself. It wasn’t normal, and he knew that. It… intrigued him, you were realizing. He was going to humor you.
You hoped.
Godrick’s throne was as massive as he was, and yet he still seemed to have too many limbs to fit without them spilling out over the sides and over the back. He lounged leisurely, one horrible composite leg stretched languidly out as he leaned towards one side. His axe leaned against the arm of his seat, a hand absentmindedly toying with the pommel. Another pair of hands were rebraiding his long, white hair, and yet another was holding a goblet of wine. He was in his element, though the performative swagger in his body language never left. He still had a guest to entertain, after all.
His multitasking ceased when you were brought before him. Your servant escort bowed plaintively, and wasted no time in leaving the two of you alone. Whatever was about to happen, they weren’t about to witness.
“Ah, my voyeur.” The echo of his rough voice rang through the high ceiling of the throne room, drawing your attention back to him. He paused to take a deliberately leisurely sip of his cup, hooded eyes still picking you apart much like yours did to him. “You clean up well, now that we’ve scrubbed the lowborn filth off of you.”
Awkwardly, you did a cross between a bow and a curtsey, unsure of how to address him in a way that wouldn’t be groveling. You’d probably be groveling here pretty soon, at least. “Thank you, my Lord. For- for the clothes.”
“Hmph.” Godrick glanced away from you, feigning disinterest. A few of his arms stretched and cracked their knuckles. “So, are you pleased with this development? Be truthful, now.”
Excitement sparked your fingertips and lingered on your lips, leaving an almost tingling sensation. You swallowed hard. “I am, my Lord.”
Godrick scowled at the frankly smitten look that was probably on your face. “I said: be truthful.”
“I am speaking the truth.” You insisted. Your eyes didn’t leave him. “I am very grateful to be brought before you, and not, um, grafted or killed, or anything.”
There wasn’t much else to say other than that. At least, without accidentally pushing it too far in saying you were excited to be the object of his interest, be that positive or negative. He cleaned you and dressed you up and you knew you were wearing nothing under this robe. You knew what was coming next, even if he was playing hard to get.
The grafted man regarded you with disdain, though you could see some semblance of confusion in his eyes. He straightened up in his seat, making sure to tower over you even more to glare down his nose at you.
“Tell me then, little Tarnished: are you really of such strange tastes that you find all this arousing?” He gestured broadly to his giant, grafted body, his arms fanning out like the courtship display of an exotic bird. You blushed at the brazen question.
“Ah, well, I do find you to be… h-handsome.”
Your voice broke. Godrick gave you a disappointed look as his arms fell back into resting positions. You hoped that your red face would at least impart some believability to your words as you stammered over your conflicted feelings.
“I find you to be… fascinating. Desirable, in a rare way. It’s- it’s hard to explain-”
“Stop.” Godrick’s tone was flat. “Don’t waste my time. Now, answer me this: do you find me monstrous?”
Well… any answer would probably get you pulled apart. So you might as well tell the truth.
“Is ‘monstrous’ really supposed to be a bad thing?”
The domineering look on the demigod’s face faltered, his eyes growing just a little wider and his sneer falling as he was faced with an answer he had to really think about. You demurely turned your gaze back down to the floor.
You swore you could almost hear a soft, melancholy sigh from the man. With a lurch he got onto his awkward feet, his center of balance understandably out of whack from his asymmetrical body shape. He gave you an expectant look as one of his arms motioned for you to follow.
Much like the throne, the bed that Godrick kept in his chambers was oversized to fit him, though it seemed noticeably roughed up, and had been broken and repaired to varying degrees of success. A fireplace brought warmth and light to everything, and you could see that the Lord’s penchant for violence and bloodshed didn’t extend to his personal life. There were… limbs, sure, but they seemed to be in one corner of the room, alongside what seemed to be his own collection of medical tools and supplies. It made sense, now that you thought about it. There was bound to be some practical medical discipline behind the forbidden arts he used on himself.
The room itself seemed slightly small for him, as large as he was, and he had to do some careful maneuvering to get through the door. The difference between this place and the cold, echoing throne room was night and day, and you could now see that reflected in the man who led you here. That dramatic posturing, that performative quality in how he carried himself was gone. He slouched, walking with careful, shuffling steps into his bedchambers before turning to face you.
“Close the door.” His voice sounded softer in the intimacy of the room, but there was still an edge to it that demanded, not requested. You complied, and now you were truly alone with him. In his chambers, brought before him because you expressed an interest in him. It was surreal.
He stood, stone-faced, waiting for the gravity of the situation to sink in for you. It already had long ago, and now you were just anticipating his next move. Would he touch you, with those many hands? Would he force you to your knees and demand to be pleasured? Or would he just… toy with you, with all of those tools and blades he kept neatly set up in the far corner there?
Godrick regarded you with a cool gaze, devoid of the ghoulish enthusiasm for bloodshed or the haughtiness you saw earlier. He looked a little tired, and a bit wary towards you. Like you were the one he wasn’t sure he should trust.
“Right, then. What is it that you want, hmm? Gold? Power? …The honor of carrying on the Golden Lineage, perhaps?” His last offer was said with no salaciousness, like the concept was purely transactional. “Come on, don’t delude yourself. You can simply want something from me without keeping up such an act.”
“It’s not an act.” You couldn’t hide the offense in your voice, his words stinging you more than you counted on. “I truly find something attractive about you. I’m… not sure why, either.”
You risked a little shrug and sardonic chuckle, shying away from his stare self consciously. Godrick’s expression did not change as he stood still before you, eyes burning into you. Finally, a hand beckoned for you. “Come here.”
You closed the gap between yourself and the demigod, taking cautious steps. With a soft grunt, Godrick carefully lowered himself onto his knees in an effort to get on eye level with you. His primary hands were planted on the floor to support himself; it was a little ironic, seeing him kneeling before you. It felt like a more considerate gesture than you expected.
“Prove your desire to me.” Godrick rasped in a low whisper as you got closer and closer to his face. You could smell the wine on his breath now, and see the gray five o’clock shadow setting in around his jaw. “Kiss me.”
It sounded like a plea, almost. You didn’t hesitate to oblige, taking that last step forward to press your lips against his. Oh, you were going to prove it to him, alright; desire burned through your core, making your extremities feel almost numb as arousal pooled in your gut. His lips were dry, but he was responsive to the firmness of your kiss. You didn’t hold back, feeling a spark of self-satisfaction when his breath hitched and his movements became more forceful. A hand from his back reached over to cup the back of your head, holding you there as he stuck his tongue in your mouth. You tasted traces of the fine vintage he was enjoying shortly before your arrival.
Eventually, the two of you had to come back up for air. Godrick’s eyes fluttered back open, pupils blown. His pallid complexion was now noticeably flushed, lips no longer dry and now a lurid pink. The grafted man swallowed thickly, breathing heavily as he still studied your face, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“... Acceptable.” He admitted, trying to save face. You endeavored not to smile. The hand that held your head withdrew to brush its knuckles against your cheek as his gaze grew a little colder. “Perhaps I’ll give you what you want, if that really is what you seek. I want you to prove it to me, though.”
Now this was just getting a bit aggravating. “Prove what?”
“That you’re not squeamish.”
Another hand of his reached down to take yours and guide it to one of the golden clasps that held his piecemeal clothes together. “Undress me.”
Your hands trembled as you undid the clasp as ordered, and a few more that kept fabric loosely wrapped around his torso. He watched you all the while, judging your mettle; this was a test, but it was also an act of dominance. It was foreplay.
Even without having to humor his apprehension, you were eager to see what was underneath all the clashing, sewn-together scraps. Carefully, you pulled off the great cloak he wore, revealing even more limbs than you previously imagined. So distracting was the reveal of how complex his body truly was that you gave an errant tug, and ripped the fabric. You flinched and froze in place, eliciting a wry chuckle from the demigod.
“Keep going.”
Eventually, with your heart in your throat and your stomach in confused, aroused knots, you had him naked, kneeling before you. Even when your eyes subconsciously trailed down between his legs, they still became distracted by the sheer detail of the many grafts that made up his torso. You could see recognizable bits of his victims; a navel there, a collar bone there, an occasional nipple. The skin had become a patchwork tapestry of different tones and textures, different traces of body hair from people who were once individuals, and were now one man. The transition between these parts would be a faint seam in some places, almost flawlessly blended together. Others were deliberately stitched or stapled into place, alluding to grafting not always turning out as intended.
With each breath, the array of different muscles and bones writhed in a way that was nothing short of inhuman. You could see now, in your proximity to him, that all of these parts were breathing. They had lungs.
Holding your own breath, you leaned in to rest an ear against his chest, and heard a cacophony of heartbeats.
“Amazing.”
Godrick’s laughter was quiet, but it reverberated through his amalgamated chest. A hand snuck down to pet your hair. “Do you still find this body desirable, in a rare way?”
“I do,” You breathed, hands beginning to wander and explore the different sections of skin. Bulging muscles and joints stirred under your touch. “Can you still feel through all of these parts?”
“I don’t feel ‘through’ them,” Godrick corrected, “I feel them as my own body. They are me.”
There was something in the certainty of his tone that ignited something within you. These parts he had grafted onto himself were once a part of people with lives and identities, now stripped of that and absorbed into the veritable mountain of flesh that he had become. This should have horrified you beyond belief, but instead you found your heart racing. He was so warm underneath your touch, the combined body heat as well as shared arousal of his grafted body parts making you sweat against him.
Godrick guided you back to his lips, and you kissed him deliberately slowly, your hands exploring his neck, his face, his mighty shoulders. His own hands did some wandering too, sliding up and down the silk of your robes, but not yet opening them. You nearly did, but part of you wondered when he would take that initiative. Was he still testing you? Was this still not enough?
He directed his attention towards kissing the crook of your neck and seemed to lose himself a bit; his breathing was desperate and hot against your skin, his hands going from caressing to grabbing and squeezing. You could only hold onto his shoulders and dig your nails into his flesh. Doing so with the intent to get a reaction drew a whine from his throat.
“Tarnished,” he mumbled against your shoulder, “I have one more test.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from groaning impatiently. He smiled as he kissed your collarbone. “Just one more. I need to know if you can handle bloodshed.”
“You killed a man in front of me.” You answered frankly.
“Not that kind of bloodshed.” Godrick withdrew, sitting on his haunches and giving you a serious look. “I have an infected graft I can’t reach. I want you to assist me with it.”
Your own expression turned wary. This was a very odd time to bring up a pressing need for medical attention. “... How?”
A hand pointed towards the corner he kept all of his surgical tools. “Second cleaver from the right should suffice. Bring it here.”
You hesitated, searching on his face for his true intentions. His eyes narrowing impatiently were enough to make you turn on your heel and head straight towards the knives.
The butcher’s cleaver was heavy in your hand; a chunky, well-used blade nicked from hacking away at bone countless times. Godrick watched you familiarize yourself with it with a smile better suited to the bedroom than the operating room. You had a good idea of what he really wanted you to do, now.
Godrick directed you to seek out the offending arm embedded in his back, too close to the center to reach comfortably. It did seem to be the sickly runt of his collection, its skin turning the color of a bruise as it hung limply where it was grafted onto him. The other hands pointed towards it accusingly.
“Just a couple of good whacks should do it. Don’t be shy, now.”
Your hand shook, the cleaver suddenly feeling much too heavy for you to reliably swing. You weren’t even sure if missing would mortally wound him or not, but the idea of taking a blade to the object of your desires was still something you were unprepared for. Nevermind if you missed - what if you did a bad job?
“I-I don’t think I can do it.” You had to hold the cleaver in both hands, attempting to keep it steady. Godrick let out a heavy sigh, his overly-wide shoulders drooping.
“Tarnished. Do not worry about genuinely hurting me; I have experienced far worse. This is nothing.”
You could believe that, without needing to know any details. Steeling yourself, you held your breath, aimed, and struck him.
That first hit made a dull, meaty thunk that was satisfying in a truly odd - yet invigorating - way. Godrick’s reaction was immediate, lurching forward and clawing at the floor. Every muscle in his monstrous body tensed, and his many hands balled into pained fists. But the sound he made, the drawn-out, throaty moan he bellowed, was the best part by far. The man’s agony bordered on ecstasy. Or, maybe it was one in the same.
The limb was still attached, though hanging on by flesh, sinew, and torn cartilage between the bones. Godrick panted hoarsely. “One more.”
Your second whack was more confident, now that you understood the intentions here. The dead arm was pruned from him messily, and left to fall to the floor as useless meat. Blood trickled from the wound, painting a vivid red trail down the mismatched skin of his back, but Godrick still moaned like he had reached his climax without you. A pang of arousal coursed through you. You did that to him, and he loved it.
When he could control his writhing, tensing limbs again, one of his hands reached down to perform a healing incantation on himself. The bleeding was stopped, but the rawness of the injury remained. Godrick was sweating, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He turned to look at you out of the corner of his eye.
“You passed.”
“Do you believe me now?” You held up the bloodied blade for emphasis as you returned to his front. Godrick had a truly deranged, toothy grin on his face; he was the closest yet to the Godrick you met in the courtyard not too long ago. The grafted man laughed as his hands pulled you closer. You simply dropped the cleaver, no longer needing it - for now.
Was this who you really were? You never put thought into it like you did now in this moment, your singular active brain cell working hard to process desires you were suddenly indulging in. Well, nevermind that - Godrick needed only to lift you up with ease and sit you on his bed for that last bit of sensible skepticism to snuff itself out.
Godrick’s lips trailed down to your chest, and he opened the robe he had you dressed in. All the while, his many hands held onto you in any way they could. A pair held you by the shoulders, another set loosely teased around your neck, daring to squeeze. A thumb that had been absently stroking your cheek found its way to your mouth, and as it rubbed your sensitive lips you nipped and licked at it as much as you liked.
The muscles of your stomach clenched when his attention on your body shifted ever downwards. Hands clasped your thighs and held them apart, angling them up until another pair could hold your ankles towards the ceiling. You glanced down to see an impish look on the demigod’s face. He had stopped just short of between your legs, and he was gauging your reaction.
“Please.” You mumbled.
“What was that?” Godrick’s tone was still demanding despite the smile still on his face.
Ugh, of course he’d make you beg. “Please, my Lord.”
“Your Lord…?” A hand motioned for you to continue. You sighed through clenched teeth, face burning with embarrassment.
“Please, my Lord Godrick, Please take me.”
Godrick snickered as he went ahead and put his mouth on you.
You had been holding this arousal inside you for what felt like hours since you witnessed his display in the courtyard. It simmered and threatened to boil over as he made you pass his ‘tests’, and now that you were actually being touched, it ignited. You were gleefully at his mercy now, with every hand he had on you in some way. For the most part, he was gentle. But every now and then there would be a hand that grabbed a little too tightly, too possessively, or one that raked its nails down your back.
His hands were more skillful in pleasuring you, but his mouth was an earnest runner-up; he had enthusiasm, going down on you as a low, needy groan rumbled from his throat. You would have placed a hand of your own on his head if you weren’t restrained by him. Half-heartedly, you tested the waters by putting up a little bit of a struggle. He responded by tightening his complex grip on you, and your heart hammered in your chest.
He could tear you apart if he wanted to. You were lucky that all he wanted was to nip the insides of your thighs and lick broad, drooling stripes between your folds. Inelegant, compared to how precisely his hands multitasked with your body, but it was driving you wild all the same. How was he able to keep up with himself, sometimes? You could barely do the same amount of coordination with only two.
While the flame of your desire was kept alight, it was stoked with agonizing increments. He paused when you started to shake in his grasp multiple times, letting you reach that edge then whimper as you slid back down that proverbial slope. You whined, which he surely enjoyed. His fingers began to bruise you as you squirmed in his grasp.
He kept you pinned as he slowly stood up. As he loomed over you, you shivered with excitement at the notion that he was finally ready to fuck you. Upon a second glance between his legs, you instead found him soft. Godrick lifted you up to reposition you in his lap, one of his larger hands cradling you with ease. With your arms temporarily freed, you tried to reach for his dick, only to be gently slapped away.
“No. Let me see to you.”
Well, you weren’t going to argue with him on that. When his fingers found your cunt, all capacity for thought went out the window.
Fingers dug into the flesh of your mons, pulling back your outer lips for easier access. Even more rubbed teasing circles around the thoroughly slick entrance. Godrick’s breath was hot against your ear. “Now: how much of me do you really want?”
“All of it.” You answered without skipping a beat. He softly laughed against the back of your neck.
“Alright. Just remember to breathe, Tarnished.”
You quickly realized what he meant by that, as you were held fast once again.
You’ve masturbated with both hands in an experimental, awkward manner before, sure; but you never could get the right amount of coordination to make it work. Godrick had the right coordination for upwards of four hands between your legs alone, and he was playing a fucking symphony down there. Two fingers inside you made way for another two from a hand at a different angle, both gently, gradually spreading you open. More still focused on your clit, faint teasing touches turning gradually firmer and more forceful. One finger slowly pushed its way into your ass. He left no gaps in the absolute full-body assault he subjected you to.
It wasn’t just that he finally made you cum. It was that he made sure you didn’t stop; going over that edge over and over, writhing in an iron grip unable to escape the overstimulation. He wasn’t entirely cruel about it though, pacing what he was doing to allow you just enough slack to keep you from completely burning out. He was right about remembering to breathe, because if it wasn’t for his pace, you would have surely passed out. All the while he just watched, focused on the task at hand.
Your moans turned into screams, and in turn withered into keening gasps. Each orgasm made your body clench around him so hard you felt the points of his bony knuckles within you, diligently pleasuring you. Cum dripped down his wrists and onto his thighs. You lost count of your climaxes. You lost the ability to count your climaxes. By the time he stopped you still spasmed, gaping without his fingers inside you; shivering feverishly as everything went black, and all you could hear was his breathy chuckling.
You awoke with a dull, full-body ache keeping you pinned to the bed. The places where Godrick held onto you were developing clear bruises now, some of them retaining the shapes of his fingers on your thighs and wrists. You were left splayed out and naked, your sweat and cum drying on your body where it hadn’t soaked through the sheets. When you tried to move, pain bloomed in your loins. It seemed best to just lay there in your own juices and wait for your brain to solidify from being pureed by that man.
The man in question hobbled into the room with a pitcher of water and a glass. Weakly, you tried to sit up and take it, but the sharp ache of your overstimulated loins made you gasp and fall limply against the pillows. Godrick smiled smugly down at you.
“Regretting your decision yet?”
Which one? Either way, you emphatically shook your head no. Though he still retained a trace of a smile, the demigod looked unconvinced.
A few of his hands guided you into a careful, upright position. You had to be careful of how you bent your legs, lest any errant brush against your genitals send a shock of pain through you. You were surprised that his attention on you didn’t begin and end at the opportunity to fuck you. Hell, you didn’t expect him to come back after leaving your blissed-out form. You expected a servant to briskly whisk you off, whether it was out of the castle, or into the graftsurgeon’s labs.
But he was still there, and he went so far as to help you take a desperate drink and settle back down again. He made no move to make you leave, but you had the feeling that he was ‘done’ with you. Or perhaps, he decided you were done with him. The bed groaned and creaked in protest as he settled down next to you.
With some difficulty, you turned over to face him with a sluggish lurch and a wince from your soreness. He allowed you to clamber onto his grafted bulk, watching you warily all the while. The chorus of the many hearts powering his amalgamated form fluttered a little as you relaxed on top of him, the realization that you weren’t just going to leave probably coming as a surprise to the demigod. Maybe as much as his tolerance of your presence did for you. You rested a sweat-stained cheek on his chest, and felt the vertebra of an errant spine.
“Did you cum?” You asked, after a moment.
Godrick shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”
Frankly, you expected him to just wring you out like a wet rag for his pleasure in the first place. You came into this bedroom expecting to get (happily, enthusiastically) destroyed by someone with absolute power over you. But beyond the act he played for the common folk he plucked you from, Godrick the man was quite different. Perhaps it was because you were also quite different from those he’d expect to invite into his bed.
A hand reached down to stroke your hair. Your face flushed all over again. “You know… you were gentler than I thought you’d be.”
Godrick snorted gently. The patchwork of his body stirred as you ran a hand over different bumps and seams within the flesh. He seemed unused to being touched, the muscles under his skin jumping when your fingers traced over them, making the hand in your hair twitch a little. Propping yourself up on your elbows you gave him an earnest look in the eye.
“I want to make you feel good, too.”
The grafted man studied you for a moment, uncertain. The corner of his mouth pulled a bemused smirk towards the sincerity in your eyes. “You’re a bit of a right freak, aren’t you?”
You grinned back, hearing fondness in his voice instead of judgment. Yeah… maybe you were. What of it?
Your wandering touch explored contours of the abstracted, mutilated pieces of Godrick’s fallen victims. The musculature that would have been his pectorals was gnarled, repurposed arm flesh stitched into bands of sinewy tissue, only recognizable by the few knots of elbows still visible. Clear forms of limbs curled around his sides like exposed ribs, a few stapled into place with gold plating half-sunken into overgrown scarring. The veins under his skin ran gnarled rivers of blue between the visible distinct pieces. Each moment spent looking at him was a new revelation of the sheer work that he put into this body. The arms were the centerpiece, certainly, but the foundation that supported them was meticulous.
Your deviant desires were set alight again. You planted kisses along the seams between skin tones, and around navels and exposed breasts. With one hand between his legs you tried to fondle life back into his loins. His legs - or rather, the many legs making up his legs - tensed. A few that dangled uselessly where they were unable to be fully bound to him kicked a little. You looked down at the thick, composite forms he shaped with metal bands and fused armor. Only one of his feet still had a pitted old sabaton on it, and judging from the way the flesh started to grow over the edges and through a few of the joints, it was there to stay. Even compared to the rest of his body, it looked a little worse for wear. Your thoughts went back to the infected limb he had you excise earlier.
“How long do you usually keep these different grafts?”
“Until they rot.” Godrick answered with a shrug from several shoulders. “Sometimes they last weeks, sometimes they last years.”
Curiously, you tested the responsiveness of one of the dangling legs. It wiggled when you stroked its thigh, running your exploratory touch up to find where it was still attached to a pelvis against his side. Feeling around the area you could make out a ribcage, and a collarbone, and the rapidly beating heart inside of almost a whole, headless human body. All of it grafted to him, nearly lost in the thick tumorous, scarred skin that grew between the less complete grafts. You stroked the chest of the piece, and it squirmed in a lifelike way that made you flinch back.
Godrick laughed at your reaction. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”
“Are you sure it’s not-”
“It’s meat now, Tarnished. Raw material. However much it moves of its own accord is of no consequence.”
To test that, you tried to fondle the mostly-intact body the way you would have a more conventional lover. Its partially-engulfed chest was squeezed before you ran your fingers down its defined rib cage and abdominal muscles. You looked back to see if that drew a reaction from Godrick, and found his eyes shut.
Then you dragged your nails hard down the grafted chest, making it seize from the shock of pain. As you suspected, the rest of Godrick reacted too. The demigod’s breath hitched with a gasp, a few of his hands holding onto the bed’s lavish headboard. You reached over to give his cock a few pumps, slowly figuring out what was going to work for him as you felt it twitch in your hand.
Well, if he liked pain, you were quite happy to hurt him.
You rubbed the fresh red marks you left, relaxing the muscles under your hand. You glanced at Godrick again, gauging his reaction. His heavy-lidded eyes and slowly creeping smile leered back, quietly egging you on. You hesitated to continue; you may have let him do whatever he wished to you, but you weren’t sure if there was mutuality to that. He was the Lord of Limgrave, after all.
Your hands sought sensitive areas on the tapestry he made of himself; testing patches of soft, supple skin from younger victims and rough, sinewy parts once belonging to hardened warriors alike. His eyes were still on you, looking almost bemused in your attempts to pleasure him as he had you. When you found a nipple still present just above his lower ribs, you gave it a hard pinch that made him fail to stifle a gasp. The demigod glared at you with little threat behind it, his pale face flushing again. “Cheeky.”
You put on the same sort of smug smile he gave you earlier, when his touch left you flustered and at his mercy. “Do you like being treated roughly, my Lord?”
Godrick sniffed. A hand reached down to flick away pale strands of hair in his face. “Not in a way that you’d deem savory, Tarnished.”
Your thoughts briefly turned towards the raw and uninhibited sounds he made over having one of his own limbs cut off. Was that the only thing that could get him off, now?
You glanced at the bloodied cleaver, left forgotten on the floor. He seemed to have been looking at it too, because when your eyes met again his face broke into a broad smile, and yours went beet red. With the utmost caution you slowly bent over the side of the bed to retrieve the weapon, and held it aloft for some sign of approval that that was what he truly wanted.
Godrick gave you a tiny, dismissive shake of his head, narrowing his eyes. “No, no, that won’t do.” A hand pointed in the direction of the array of knives among his surgical tools. “Get the carving knife on the second row there - the smaller of the two.”
The fact that he knew exactly what you were propositioning and also knew the right tool to use was certainly evoking… something within you. You remembered the sort of satisfaction you got the first time you hurt him on his command. The gravity of such a powerful being trusting you with something that rendered him so mortal, so vulnerable wasn’t lost on you. Moving carefully from the dull ache of your recovering genitals, you retrieved the correct blade, and received a couple of eager thumbs up.
Godrick lifted himself from the bed to stand with a soft groan and the creaking of more than a few joints. With one of his larger hands he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, as you had before, and returned to a similar position kneeling just short of his face between your legs. A hand gently took yours - the one wielding the knife - and brought it closer to the crop of limbs he grafted onto himself.
The look he gave you was dire, still searching you for any hesitance or regret towards how far you’ve come in your tryst with him. His grip on your wrist tightened to effortlessly hold you still. “Should I trust you still, Tarnished? Or have we been simply playing the long game in assassinating me?”
“What? No!”
Godrick chuckled at your flushed face and the betrayed look in your eyes. His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers creeping up to join yours in holding the knife. “Bah, you’ve had plenty of opportunities so far. And no self-respecting assassin would keep up the act of a simpering pervert like you for as long as you have.”
As sharp and cruel as his tone was, there was an inherent mirth to his insults that made the heat rise in your chest. You were inclined to agree with him. In fact, you vainly hoped your fawning over him really did enkindle some trust between the two of you.
Godrick’s many arms repositioned themselves to clear room around one prospective sacrifice that looked a little more pale than the others. The grafted arm held itself up with a weak tremble, as the other hand that clasped your fingers against the knife handle guided you closer. The sound of skin-on-skin friction made your eyes dart down towards his legs, and you found him already vigorously stroking himself in preparation.
You didn’t hack away at him right away, and watched his smile turn impatient but ultimately amused by the situation. “C’mon, don’t make me beg.”
He gave your knife wielding hand a needy tug, his grip on you loose enough that you pulled away in a moment of impulsive confidence. Your heart hammered in your chest from your brazenness. He was the one on his knees, wasn’t he? “Alright, then; beg.”
Godrick’s golden eyes widened for a second, then narrowed into spiteful little slits. He was still palming himself all the while as he visibly gritted his teeth. “... Please.”
You motioned for him to continue with your free hand. “Please…?”
A couple sets of fingernails dug into your knees. “Please, my Tarnished.”
Though your hand still trembled, uncertain, you tried to bring the knife to his flesh with confidence. The blade was plunged into the space between the arm and the mass of scarred tissue of his shoulders with a satisfying ‘shhk’ .
A moan caught in the demigod’s throat, his many hands grasping at the edge of the bed as well as your legs. The arm selected for the sacrifice twitched, its hand going slack. You held it straight up by the wrist to keep it still. As the knife was pulled out with a gush of blood, Godrick whined, his forehead resting against your thigh where you felt it slick with sweat. Down near your feet, he was beginning to rutt into his fist at an uneven pace.
There was a somewhat deranged grin on your face as you continued to cut off the limb. You were using a knife that made it far messier and more brutal than it needed to be, and that was very much on purpose. It made you really dig in there; stabbing, sawing at tendons and through the cartilage and bone of the joint. You were going at an almost teasing pace as you drew out more gasps and undignified sounds from man at your mercy. This incredibly powerful, incredibly dangerous man; now reduced to writhing in ecstasy, a glutton for punishment. Another freak, like you.
One of Godrick’s shaking hands grabbed your wrist before you could finish. You froze, suddenly afraid that you went too far after all, when another hand grabbed the limb you were cutting and yanked it the rest of the way off. A spray of blood hit you, anointing you by violence you a second time today.
The Lord of Limgrave, blood trickling down his front in a narrow red stream, got to his feet so quickly that the bloodloss made him falter. One of his main hands grabbed and nearly splintered the bedpost to steady himself. No longer at your mercy, the man loomed over you with wild eyes and a rock-hard erection. You opened your legs for him without a second thought.
As sore as you were down there, being penetrated lanced you with pain at first; but soon the endorphins kicked in, and your cunt clenched around him greedily. Each thrust was quick and forceful, desperate to rutt into you like an animal, slamming into your aching clit. The pain was only so fun for so long, so you endeavored to try and angle your hips to where he could just pound against you without hitting the sensitive, overstimulated nub.
Blood from his shoulder dripped onto your chest and neck to be inadvertently smeared around by Godrick’s sloppy, possessive kissing. Your wrists were grabbed, holding you down on the bed firmly as you still clutched the knife. His sweaty hands wandered over you as they always did, but they were particularly greedy and forceful now; tugging at your hair, clawing at your skin, holding you by the throat just short of choking you. Frankly, you were in heaven.
Godrick’s wild fucking turned into hard, deliberate thrusts as he reached his own peak. That, combined with our own anticipation for him to cum was enough to send you over the edge as well. You were drawn as tight as a bowstring, legs shaking, muscles clenching down to the point that you felt him throb inside you. It wasn’t long after that Godrick let out a breathless moan and came, himself. His hips ground against yours, his grafted musculature writhing unnaturally. You felt him throb and spill himself once, twice, thrice… and then his massive body went slack.
He slumped over you, sparing you from crushing you to death by his larger arms propping him up. Mercifully, he rolled off of you to splay out on the bed beside you. His arms fanned out from his back and shoulders across the blankets, a few of them as unsteady and shaky as you were.
Slowly, carefully, you tried to move over to him in a way that wasn’t agonizing. He assisted you in draping over him bonelessly, arranging your exhausted, spent form on his chest.
You watched his sweat-stained face wince in pain one more time, as he set to giving the wound you inflicted a belated heal. When his attention turned to you, the smile that crept up on his face was almost endeared to you. A hand reached to muss up your hair, perhaps more like you were a fond pet than a human being.
“Not bad, Tarnished, not bad. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper fuck… you’ve seen what I have to do these days to spur myself on. It’s not for the faint-hearted.”
Your grin in response came off as maybe a little too eager, maybe a little too perverse as you thought back to his masochism. He flashed you an equally unhinged looking smirk. Like attracts like, it seemed.
As the two of you came down from the high of sex and pain, you found yourself quite content. Quite comfortable even, around such a man as him. There was that need for genuine affection there, present in the gentleness of his touch and in the look in his eyes when you accepted his extreme nature and tastes. You couldn’t imagine it was often that he found someone willing to sleep with him out of a genuine attraction, rather than a transactional agreement.
Maybe that meant you were special. Or maybe it meant you were destined for a gruesome, violent dismemberment when he finally got bored of you. In the back of your mind, you thought about the probability that he would turn on you, somehow or another. You were just meat to him, raw material just like everyone else. Either you would continue to entertain him with your eagerness, or you would be stripped of all your useful parts.
… Either way, what bliss.
Godrick turned his head to smell the faint scents of sweat, sex and blood that clung to your hair now. He let out a long, contented sigh against your scalp.
“I’ll keep you a while yet, I think.”