#joi writes

At first, your brain draws the short straw guess of animal but what out here submerges itself in a mountain lake as an ambush predator? And then you're not thinking much at all because you're in a state of unadulterated panic.

Slimy, slick ropes constrict around your waist and legs, dragging you into the water. You register the slippery fingers of something that reminds you of wet seaweed crawling up your legs.

It doesn't take you far into the water. You stop being afraid of drowning and begin fearing how it's positioning you. The thing poses you on all fours in the shallows. One of the last images you coherently register is your shocked, slack-mouthed expression reflecting back at you on the surface of the rippling water.

"Mff-fn!" is all you can get out before a thick, pulsing feeler sticks in your mouth. You taste salt and starchy chlorophyll. More tendrils begin slithering under your sopping tee shirt and shorts.

A foggy part of your brain wonders if this is how it feeds: a deer walks up to the water's edge, the creature grabs it, and then pumps it full of brain-fogging nectar until all it can do is drool around the intrusion in its mouth, slithering down its throat.

Your terrified assumption that this thing is about to feed on you is obliterated when the intrusion in your mouth begins thrusting.

The substance it's filling your mouth with makes you pliable and eases your panic. The quick in-and-out breathing from your nose evens into a smooth, steady exhalation punctuated by sharp, excited inhalations.

You feel drunk on this. Floaty.

How heavy and warm the tendril weighs on your tongue reminds you of a cock, and when more of itself slithers in the space between your spread thighs you can only walk your knees out further to let it in, dizzy with the idea of what the friction of the feeler in your mouth will feel like in your pussy.

You don't have to wait long. The creature is driven by a need to fill every hole you can offer.

It shreds your shorts and probes the tip of your wet, quivering flesh before feeding itself inch by inch into your cunt, and then it elicits from you a sharp, choked moaning as it begins to work your ass open on the other cock it makes for itself.

It starts small but then engorges itself, secreting a plant-like sap that numbs and eases its intrusion in your upturned ass until you're silently begging for more, bucking your hips back.

The tentacles filling up your ass and pussy begin slimy and cool from the water of the lake, but the longer they work into your fluttering holes, the hotter they get as they suck up your body heat.

The last thing the creature does before it goes on autopilot is to sucker onto the nub at the top of your slit, strumming it with a constant pressure that plumps up your clit and drives you five kinds of crazy.

This goes on for minutes. Maybe hours. You lose track of time, and how many times it makes you cum.

Eventually, you feel it—the widest part of the tentacle in your pussy begins to work itself further into the tight clutch of your body, stretching you to the limit as it fights to cram more of its pulsating, mind-numbingly fat cock into you.

There's a sucking pop! as it knots you and you gurgle helplessly as you feel it begin pulsing a liquid heat in your mouth, ass, and pussy. This substance it's dumping into you is not the brain-dumbing nectar it's pumped down your throat earlier. This is different, hotter.

You can feel it sloshing around your insides, weighing down low and warm in your throat and pelvis where you're sure if you could look between your legs, you'll see a gentle swell where its cockhead is pulsing against your insides and unloading its hot, sticky spend into your pussy, breeding you.

The dents on the concrete wall and in their hearts make no difference. Jean's vice-like grip on the collar of Eren's shirt and Eren's vice-like grip across Jean's back go hand in hand. There are times when one of them would look in the mirror– to stare at the split lip of their reflection and ask themselves, was this from his fist or his teeth? But it does not matter, not to them.

The wall, it seems, is now wielding two roles– as a medium and as a silent witness. It witnesses as they gaze into each other's eyes with unspoken wonder about unspoken feelings. It witnesses as their anger fuses with lust and detonates. They have created their own definition and act of intimacy– a meaning so intricate that not even them could fully fathom. The web that is woven between them transcends language, because their hearts beat too loud and too fast for it to be called hate, and love should not cost them this many wounds. Hate is merciless, and so does love.

Outwardly, you put on the tough, unflappable act that has gotten you out of tight squeezes. "Look, I get you've got to put on the whole big and bad act, but I need you to please cut the shit and speed this up."

The horned god rests an elbow on the trunk of the nearby alder. He leers down at you with that same faint amusement, drumming his claws against the bark of the tree. You try not to look at the gouge marks even this minor contact causes. It sizzles the wood, burning it.

"I've never had a mortal ask me to speed things along. It's quite refreshing from the usual drivel."

This devastatingly attractive god has a voice like oil: smooth, slippery, and a fucking peril to let it saturate your hearing.

He's wearing a skirt-kilt thing knotted around his angular waist that reminds you of all the artfully draped cloth over statues of Lucifer post-fall from grace.

The rest of his towering body filling your vision is a leanly muscled, naked chest covered in whorls of inked markings. His appearance is as hypnotic as his voice. You're dizzy with pinning your eyes on one spot. Pale, dark, pale, dark.

You resolve that you're going to die how you have lived: running off at the mouth and meeting his unflinching eye contact with a steely glare.

"Are you usually this much of a snotty asshole when it comes to appeasing those sycophants who ring your lunch bell? Give them a little dinner theater for their trouble?"

The god lets out an airy, amused chuckle, more of a giggle, really. Look at you! You've got the seven-foot killing machine tittering like a schoolgirl.

"I've no desire to consume you," he patiently reassures, and then he crouches down to your seated level. He reaches for you with his dark claws. "Now give me your hand, please."

He asks politely, genteelly, like it's the most normal thing in the world to request you stick out your arm, and by the by, he's not here to fucking eat you. In fact, he's here to be the very spirit of politeness.

Maybe you should humor him. You're in no position to refuse. Your legs are going numb from how they're folded under you.

"Which one?"

"The one they cut, of course," he says.

An impatient waggle of his big hand reminds you you're taking too long to go along with this. You do as he says and try not to flinch when his hand, dwarfing yours, is so big that his fingers close over your wrist when he cradles it.

His tongue lolls out, he leans in, and it's then you get a look at the serrated teeth he's sporting. They gleam like a knife in the fading light of dusk, and you let out a soft, shocked sound when the dark, leonine roll of the god's tongue swipes the wound.

It's clotted since you began fleeing through the woods, but the rake of his textured tongue, rough and firm, abrades the flesh and opens it anew.

It stings, and you want to jerk your hand back, but his hold is iron. There's a contented rumble that comes from the air around you. It reverberates the ground you're sprawled across, tickling your skin and raising hairs in its wake. And then it emanates from him; alright, he's into it.

A little too into it.

A fleeting thought of him wrenching your arm from its socket so he can chew on it like a choice bone makes you want to pass out, so you hold firm and let him lave over the wound like suffering the attentions of an overly large dog.

And then the cut starts to tingle. It feels...nice. When he relinquishes your hand after a minute of therapeutic licking and ground-vibrating purring, all that's left of the wound is a fresh, pink scar.

"I might have to revise my statement," he informs you gravely, still crouched. His elbows are set into his powerful thighs and his deadly hands hang idle between them.

"Which one?" you ask, dreading his answer. You clutch your newly healed hand to your throat, instinctually guarding a weak spot that those terrible teeth could rip and tear.

"The bit about not consuming you. Frankly, you're fucking delicious, darling."

And then you see a subtle twitch at the corner of one of his red eyes—a tell.

He's joking.

You call him out on his bullshit immediately.

"Oh, fuck off, man."

He laughs uproariously, slapping his knee, and you have to restrain yourself from reaching out to shove him onto his back. He topples over in his mirth, sprawling out on his side like a lion lazing in the last rays of sunlight.

Any residual terror fades to amused annoyance. Of all the gods to summon, you get the teaser. You are, for now, safe. He can call you darling all day long if it means you keep a pulse.

"No, but in all seriousness," he sobers, digging an elbow in the springy grass so he can rest his great, antlered head on his fist. "We're in a bit of a bind, darling."

How he puts that statement to you is like you're on the same team, folding in for a huddle to discuss the next big move, and plotting out the winning strategy.

The sun dips behind the horizon and the cascade of light illuminating the forest snuffs out like a candle.

"How so?" you lean in cautiously, mindful of your proximity to his antlers. It'd be the worst to poke your eye out on one of his prongs, and you don't want to find out if him licking your eyeball will restore your sight.

"The folk back in the glade aren't winning any prizes at summoning, I'm afraid to say. The nature of their ritual they used to call me to this plane is more...carnal, to tell you true, and meant to benefit you more than them."

Oh. Oh.

"Like a sex thing?" you venture, picking at the grass beneath your hands.

"Not entirely. That particular summoning binds a bride to me, not my dinner."

Time slows as you wait for his response. You've long since catastrophized the best and worst-case scenarios of how Rowan will receive your idea: on the bright side, he could agree with his typical boundless, boyish enthusiasm and whisk the both of you off for a weekend of carnal, anatomically harrowing fun in the countryside.

On the gloomier side, he could turn you down to not hurt your frail (and tragically human) anatomy with his impossibly thick, long cock in his true form. You weren't built to take his kind of anatomy.

Rowan, out of a sense of preservation for his 'dearest, sweetest dove', might want to keep the sex, as one might say, very vanilla if only to protect your health.

But damnit you want it!

If you had to rewind the clock and place your finger on how this all started, it was a harmless remark by your husband's mother over the phone when you were trying to plot out a way to join the clan during their usual solar equinox jaunt.

Althea, your mother-in-law, lived part-time in a cottage at the fringe of their clan's ancestral wood, phoning you every other week to catch up when she fancied walking on two legs in her human form as a lark and possessed fingers to ring your cell from her own landline.

On this occasion, she misspoke with a completely well-intentioned but irksome reminder that you had little knowledge of how things worked in Rowan's world.

You had brought up an ignorance on how long you should ask off work for the occasion.

'Do these gatherings run rather long? I don't want to put Rowan out with having to break away and drive me home early.'

Your mother-in-law (or mate's dam as the unicorns called it) chortled. Her reply came tinny across the line, 'Oh, dove, you couldn't possibly know that though, how silly of me! They go on a whole fortnight.'

Really, Althea could be the loveliest woman (see also: mare) at times, but your mind was always churning like a clunky washing machine when you tried to fit the idea of yourself into their clan, Rowan's culture. It was a different world outside of the city where you both lived a blended, normal life as an interspecies couple.

How much more were you missing out on by not having been born and raised as a unicorn mare?

Thus, your research has led you down what you call a bit of a rabbit hole. On the other end of it, you're not even certain you're solving the main problem of feeling ill-fitted in his life.

Will sex with him in his truest, most authentic form fix your feelings of inadequacy? Findings are still pending, but you're certain you'll regret it if you don't at least give it a go.

There are precisely twenty-six tabs open on your laptop, which is presently sitting closed on the kitchen island between you and Rowan. Many web pages open on it are mundane, most leaning scientific, and a few are downright pornographic in nature.

Admittedly fitting a unicorn's cock anywhere in your body is fucking daunting. You're committed to doing the legwork on this topic—you've read countless blogs and sundry social media testimonials from people, much like yourself, in long-term relationships with unicorns.

'Lessons learned, and handy tricks for making it all work out!' as one lovely soul commented with a list of Dos and Don'ts.

And then you looked up the porn. Amateur and professional content, unicorn on women, unicorn on men, unicorn on unicorn, shifted and unshifted. But the one that grabbed your absolute attention during last night's browsing session was this one:

The scene opens on a moonlit forest, the camerawork and lighting exquisite as it pans to a young woman running pell-mell in a short white sundress. She's having a grand old time being pursued, giggling, and shooting coy, furtive looks over her shoulder. The sound of pounding hooves pipes into your earbuds.

There's a minute of a chase as a fig leaf, a performative thrill before the porn gets into the real action. The woman trips, falling over a moss-covered log. Of course, how she gets into that position is contrived as there's obviously prop work and choice angles employed to maneuver the girl perfectly.

Her skirt comes up conveniently rucked during the fall, and there's not a scrap of underwear to hide her shaven, bare pussy from the back shot spread across your laptop screen.

Camera lighting catches the glimmer of how wet the chase has made her. The stallion finally catches up and mounts over the girl's prone body splayed ass up on the log.

His shimmering white coat brightens your screen in an otherworldly glow, and you watch as the girl squirms to hitch her hips higher while the stallion flexes his powerful hips, lunging low with a guttural, primal noise.

The actress is so into it—she sighs and coos and coaches him so he lines up just right, and your breathing hitches with hers when the fat, flared head of the unicorn's cock prods her sweet, pink folds with a wet click and then—

Your husband had stirred beside you in bed.

You'd shut your laptop at lightspeed and felt a flush creep all the way south toward your navel. You gave it a beat. Had he seen your screen?

Rowan, still sleeping, was only turning onto his other side. You soothed a hand down his broad, muscled back and watched the star shine shimmer of magic pulse in his veins at your touch.

Now, this evening following the last and final straw that had pushed you towards making this proposal, Rowan stands on the kitchen tile, processing.

Your husband takes a long moment to gather his thoughts. It's a special sort of hell, waiting on his verdict. Your heart hitches in your chest when his fingers twiddle his keys, and he's bitten down on his lip as he considers you with a furrowed, consternated look. And then Rowan blows a bit of air out through his lips in a bemused, amazed snort.

Your unicorn husband takes another look at you, purses his lips, and decides he needs a drink, too, because he confiscates your glass and drains all of it in one go. And then he dumps all his things on the floor, steps to your side, and takes you into his arms.

"Are you certain you want that, dove? It will be..." he pauses, then enunciates, "difficult. We'd best consult a doctor before giving it all a go." He reaches to cradle the turn of your cheek in his hand, and you reach to cover the back of it so you can nuzzle into his palm, sighing happily. This is absolutely, most definitely, not a hard 'no' to your idea. "I'd feel rotten if I hurt you, but I want what you want, wife. If it's safe, and you desire it, who am I to deny you?"