One does have needs, after all. Fantasies, also. One does find oneself, on occasion, entirely too bored to bear. Summers in one's parents' house were always horrible things, lacking in entertainment of any sort for those under the age of fifty, certainly. Lacking in people to fuck under the age of fifty, also. An older gentleman might have his appeal, but there were limits. And now, well—now one found oneself in the South, and possibly even less popular than one had been in Tevinter, but now with the near-constant presence more than one distractingly muscular Qunari to taunt one with their tendencies to nudity. Sometimes it's altogether more than can be borne—altogether too much to allow one to focus on one's work. One is, after all, only human.
The ingenuity of one's younger self is, in other words, still of considerable value.
Dorian bars the door to his room. It's always a thrill, this: removing his clothes slowly, knowing what's to come. He folds his tunic carefully and lays it on the dresser, hangs his leathers in the closet.
Removes his smalls.
He's already hardening a little; his body jolts pleasantly at the drag of the cloth against his cock.
The spell isn't a terribly demanding one—can't be, when it's necessary to maintain it while being—well, while one's ability to focus is thoroughly compromised. Besides, he's well practiced in it.
He traces the shape of the thing in lines of green fire on the floor.
Lays his staff aside.
Kneels and touches his palm to the centre of the circle.
It shivers, the whole thing, glowing and rising, and he draws his hand up to pull the thing through, into existence.
It's a formless thing, to begin with; gelatinous looking, semi-transparent, the glow of the sigil made faint through its body, but another touch sets it writhing, growing, twisting into fine tentacles that reach, knowing, for Dorian.
It presses itself to his chest, shapeless body shifting, teasing his nipples into hardness.
Not truly a living thing, but a thing that stores memories, stores ideas. Uses them.
The fine tentacles begin to stretch and grow, upward and downward, a thick one to curl around his neck, tip pressing suggestively to the hollow of his throat. A thinner to push downward, wrapping around the base of his cock, behind his balls.
"Oh," Dorian says. Tips his head back to feel the shift of the tentacle on his neck, the way it tightens to stay in place. Swallows to feel the pressure of it.
Tentacles around his arms, snaking in loop after loop; they pull together, one arm to another, tugging them behind his back until his shoulders strain with it; settle in thick coils around his wrists.
Dorian spreads his knees, sinks down, body tilting forward. The thing is still moving against his nipples, tightening around them like suction, not sharp but aching.
He can feel his pulse against the tentacle that has hold of his cock.
If it would just—
But of course it will, now he's thought it.
The tentacle that slides over his hip is slick, thin; presses down between the cheeks of his arse from above, pulsing gently to part them, rubbing back and forth between them. The tip of it is barely touching his hole, and he wants, wants, wants—
It slips into his body so easily, a slow push that lasts longer than someone's cock pressing into him ever would, its thin flexible length sinking deep into him. It's still pulsing, twists to press up against the sensitive place that sets his cock jerking, precome sliding down it. The pulsing spreads the slickness inside him, has it sliding from his hole, obscene, obscene, obscene.
Imagine someone watching. Imagine doing this for an audience, letting someone—letting, perhaps, some particular person whose unsubtle flirting has been the subject of more ordinary masturbation on several occasions—letting that person see how filthy he can be, how debauched.
A tentacle brushes against the head of his cock, spreads itself to engulf, to press under the foreskin, into his slit, suction like the suction on his chest, and oh, oh, it's so much, he's going to come, he's—
Of course it withdraws, because it knows. Draws from him, collects the knowledge that he wants to be so desperate to come that he's sobbing with it.
Still, he cries out at the loss, hips jerking helplessly.
The tentacle inside him has started to swell.
This is one of his favourite parts, like imagining someone's cock growing hard inside him, like perhaps they had fucked and somehow stayed joined together and then fucked again later—how would that work? But oh, imagine it. Like this, being stretched not by fingers but—
He feels as full as he ever has with someone's cock inside him now, only the thing isn't still, doesn't simply thrust; twists, rather, filthy, filthy—it's still pulsing, and he gasps at every one, voice growing louder, louder, until the tentacle around his neck tugs brutally tight, killing his voice, killing his breath, another second, another, oh, oh—
The release of pressure, the rush of air into his lungs, almost shocks him into orgasm. But at the same moment the tentacle around his neck releases, the one around his cock pulls tight, leaving him moaning with his roughened voice.
Please, please, more—
The tentacle inside him twists, and he gasps, shocked, at the curled outline of it against his belly, definite, obvious, thinner there at its tip, the skin stretching around it, and the feeling of it inside him, so deep, oh.
He bears down on it, sucks in his belly to see the bulge grow, shudders, open-mouthed. A shock every time. If he could just press a hand to his stomach, feel it from the outside—but there's no mercy there, his arms still thoroughly trapped. But there'll be more, won't there? There'll be more, he wants more.
A second tentacle presses down past his cock, past his balls; rubs back and forth just behind them, pushes back further—this one is thicker, no mercy as it presses into him, the ache of being stretched so wide so quickly, like having two men fucking him at once—he's done that before, long ago, never forgotten it. So the tentacles don't forget it either.
The first pulses and pulses, but the second thrusts, shallower and faster, intent, far more like someone's cock in him, more, more, more, until it jolts and still, a simulated orgasm, something like come spilling into him.
The tentacle swells against his hole, just inside his body, no chance the come will slide out of him. It's so much, his body hot, the pressure of his arousal painful between his legs. Pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, in time with the tentacles inside him.
Dorian screams, frustrated in his own orgasm again, body falling forward against the floor; his arms come loose, all at once, a rush—let him lift himself up, hands and knees, though his limbs tremble.
Look how filthy I am, please, see me, let me make you feel good—let me show you—
He laughs in shock when the tentacle that's knotted itself inside him keeps on and on spilling, reaches one unsteady hand under himself to touch his stomach—the twisting of the longer tentacle, the way his stomach begins to round a little, the swell of it matching the growing pressure inside him, pressure like the tightness of arousal itself, the one layered over the other. And then, in his mouth, in his mouth—the tip of the tentacle around his neck forces his jaw open, presses, the texture rough against his tongue.
The tentacles in his hole are changing too, ridged and textured, and every movement of them as he rocks his hips helplessly has him moaning around the tentacle in his mouth. This time whatever the shorter tentacle pushes into him makes his belly relax, the full tightness of it easing, leaving only the unbearable tightness of arousal and the sudden more definite rounding of his stomach, bulging out against his hand, rounded but soft, completely lacking the hardness one might expect from being so overfull. Soon, then. Soon.
His head hangs heavily between his shoulders. Filled from both ends, tentacle closing and releasing around his neck, all he can do is feel, feel, feel—wait until the thing decides it's time, held suspended in pleasure, feeling how the tentacles inside him keep on expanding, preparing.
The things aren't eggs, exactly—don't fill any function beyond driving him out of his mind. But what else to call them? They have the shape of eggs. He can feel them now, where they always begin, forming in the main bulk of the thing, their outlines distinct against his chest, more solid than the surrounding mass, their hard forms wavy with ridges or with bumps.
He's trembling with anticipation before they even begin to push out along the lengths of the tentacles, gelatinous green stretching around them. The knot of the short tentacle inside him relaxes in preparation, leaving him bereft, loose, come sliding slowly from his body even bent forward as he is, running down the insides of his thighs.
When the tentacles yank him ungently upright onto his knees, anchoring themselves, one assumes, on the wall behind him, more slips free, more, more, but there—the first of the eggs has slid down across his arse, pushes insistently at his hole.
The tentacle in his mouth expands in wild pulses, like it's excited, like it's mirroring his excitement, forcing his jaw open wider, the tip of it pushing into his throat, air cut off from the inside this time so that he can't make a sound, can only push down, spread himself, shameless, begging without words.
A stronger pulse pushes the egg half way inside him, leaves him stretched around the broadest part of it, shocked all over again at the stretch—think that it can be more, when he's already been held so wide open—think what a difference the harder pressure makes, what a difference the shape of it makes, fuck, fuck.
And it's inside him. Inside him. Always so unreal, that his body can take it, helped by the quirks of this thing, the way it creates space, the way it loosens him. The second egg is already behind it, keeping more come from spilling even though he's so obscenely rounded, stomach protruding so that he can't see his cock.
The thing has left his hands free; holds him up by his neck. Knows he wants to touch, to feel it, and oh, oh, there it is, the shape of the egg pressing out against his belly, framed by tentacles, the softer shapes and the harder one.
He slumps forward, pressure to his neck so that he gasps breathlessly around the now thinner tentacle in his mouth, no way he could support his own weight in this position, in this state, both hands pressed to his stomach to feel the shape of the second egg, the third, each larger than his fucking fist—a fourth—his cock hurts, it hurts so much, it should hurt more, please, please. The eggs shift under his hands, rubbing at his insides. His head buzzes with the thunderstorm static of it all.
The impossibility of it. Every time. It's not usually this much, this far, but he needs—right now he needs—
He thinks again of being seen, and this time the heat of it is almost unbearable. Thinks of taking someone else's hands, that specific someone's hands, and pressing them to his full belly, letting them feel—maybe he could have the creature let him go and have that person fuck him in this state, face down on the cold floor, hips pushed up, everything kept inside him—he'd be so loose he'd barely feel it, even if they're as big as he has reason to think, even if they're as big as they are in his fantasies—but it'd jolt him forwards again and again, stone against his face, their hands hard on his hips—they could spank him, bruisingly hard blows—tell him how amazed they are at what he can take.
They could hold him afterwards.
The tentacles inside him pull away all at once. The tentacle around his cock. He's left with the whole thing shoving him back against the wall, tilting his body back so that come spills out of him, so that his cock jerks and jerks with closeness to orgasm, need, need, the eggs pushing down inside him, and if he could just—he tries desperately to push himself, struggling with the strange slackness of his insides, presses his hands harder to his stomach to help it; mouth falling open in a wrecked cry as the first egg presses against his hole from the inside, stretching him, his body flexing around it, the sudden slip of it from him making him curse.
His hands shake against his belly.
You're so fucking good, his imaginary partner says. Look, I can fuck you with it and there's barely any resistance at all.
Dorian grits his teeth, sobs as he pushes down on the next egg, shifts it lower, fumbles into stillness when it drags against his prostate, trembling on the edge of coming, waiting for the tentacles to deny him again, again, again, but—
His orgasm seems to last forever, fresh pulses at every egg that slides from his body, on and on and on until he feels emptied, bodily and mentally, whited out, made into a thing with no mind that can't do a damn thing but shake and shake and shake at the aftershocks.
It lets him go gently, the thing; pulls him back to sit against the wall before it fades, the floor between his legs filthy. But that fades too, with the creature.
And it's only him, tired and debauched, lost in the strangely pleasant loose feeling of emptiness in his belly, and the odd wish—the other hollowness, less pleasant—the wish—no, not to be so satisfied he doesn't need this. But to be so satisfied he can share it.
Well, one can daydream. But one has work to do, and secrets to keep, and how could one hope—oh, but it's a fine fantasy.