#mtf reader

The warm orange glow of the tavern’s lights glistened on the surface of your drink as you sat in the corner of the bar. When you had left your house that night you would’ve done damn near anything if it meant not being sober; but now, having had the whole long walk here for that ache in the back of your mind to fade, you had hardly touched your drink. Still, you took small sips once in a while - if for no other reason than to wash the taste of that night’s draught out of your mouth.

“Mare’s essence” it had been called, a cure for barren wives and girls born of the wrong sex. The stuff was a closely-guarded secret, spoken of in reverent whispers by those whom it had aided. It tasted foul as sin, but it had proved effective thus far - already your skin had turned softer and your breasts grown tender.

The changes were welcome to be sure, but nowhere near enough to silence the agonizing bouts of dysphoria that came in the lonely hours of the evening, when even the sun could not keep you company.

It was one of these that had brought you to your local tavern. Alcohol was a poor excuse for a treatment, but if nothing else you needed the company. You were just about to take another sip when a snippet of conversation caught your attention.

“… It’s like I said, you talk to anyone down by those mountains and they’ll tell you - the elixir's hidden deep in the caverns, up top those ol’ rocks” It was a deep voice, not one you’d heard around here before - adventurers, if you had to guess.

“What, the elixir of life? And lemme guess, they’ll sell it to ya for only a copper?” another chortled, the group laughing boisterously in response.

“you know I wouldn’t chase an old wives tale like that” scoffed the storyteller, roughly elbowing his companion “this here’s the Sweet Nectar. Stuff of fairies, or so they say, s’posed to give you the body of your dreams if the legends are true!”

“As if!” another drunkenly laughed “whawuddat do t’ ya anyhoo? Grow yer balls t’ the size uvva pumpkin?” The group’s banter continued on like this, the drunken chatter fading back into the background once more as you finished your drink.

After that, the idea kept creeping up in the back of your mind. What if this “Sweet Nectar” really did exist? It could mean an end to the dysphoria, an end to keeping your true self behind closed doors, an end to drinking that godawful brew every night. You laughed the thought off - the only fey you knew of were tricksters at best. They were beautiful to be sure, but you doubted that beauty was something they’d so readily share.

Despite that, you just couldn’t shake the thought, what if it really was out there? The idea became more and more enticing as time went on, the promise of a better life that the nectar offered too tantalizing to ignore. It was this nagging thought that brought you to the local library a few days later. It was a grand building, a monument to an opulence long faded from the small valley town it stands in, carved mahogony scratched and warped, brass turned grey by years of patina. Still, the knowledge kept within was as valuable as the day it was erected.

After a short conversation with the librarian - a thin, nervous man who always looked as though he hadn’t gotten quite enough sleep - you were given a couple tomes to leaf through. It didn’t take long to find what you were looking for, a short book of local myths and legends with a complete description of the Sweet Nectar:

“The Sweet Nectar or Faeries Nectar is a legendary artifact said to reside somewhere in the caverns beneath the savarello mountain. It is said to grant to the drinker their ideal body, a possible explanation for the enchanting figures of the fae…”

This was perfect, you knew where the Savarello mountains were, they were only a day's trek from here. Immediately your mind began racing with the possibilities. You had long convinced yourself this was a good idea, rationalizing away every doubt that bubbled into your mind, now you had to find it.

That night you packed everything you would need for the journey, cramming all of it into an old leather backpack until you were finally ready. That night you slept restlessly, drifting between dreams and daydreams of what you would look like once you drank that elixir, how your voice would sound, how it would feel.

You woke with a start at the first light, leaping out of bed with far more energy than your meager sleep should have granted. For the first time since you could remember, you had something to really hope for, and you were going to chase it.

You made the trek to the mountain’s base with a spring in your step, making only brief stops along the well-trodden road for food and drink. Your enthusiasm died down as the evening came, doubts creeping in to fill the space the sunlight left - how would you even find the cave? Folk tales rarely included maps. Even if you did find the cave, how would you navigate it?

Your energy waning, you decided to rest for the night in the small town at the mountain’s base. The inn was a ragged old thing, the windows were gray with years of soot and grime, and the chain holding up the sign was more rust than metal. Despite that, as soon as you walked in the sound of revelry and the smell of ale hit you like a wall. The liveliness was refreshing, but you needed to conserve your energy for the trek ahead. You quickly paid for your stay, and headed up towards your room.

You were just about to turn the corner to the relatively quiet hall of rooms when you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around you saw a gorgeous woman, long curly hair and soft, clear skin, her green eyes sparkling like broken glass in the dim light. She looked out of place amongst the crowd of farmhands and adventurers, a fact not helped by her belly - she looked to be at least 6 months pregnant, probably more. “she’s probably the innkeeper's daughter” you thought to yourself.

“Hi there!” She said, her voice clear and unusually chipper for the hour “You don’t look like a local, what brings you all the way out here?”

“I'm just passing through” you said, trying and failing to match her enthusiasm

“Oh!” She said “You wouldn’t be searching for the Sweet Nectar, would you?”

“y-yeah” you said, taken aback at the forwardness of her question, was it that obvious? “I doubt I’ll find it though, I don’t even know where to start looking”

“oh that’s easy!” She said, “The cave is just by the lake south of here, I don’t think anyone’s ever gone in very far though!”

“th-thanks” you stuttered, her cheerful demeanor was starting to creep you out, why was she telling you this? “Guess I’ll look there then!”

Before she could say another word you had already hurried into your room, something about that woman just didn’t sit right, why was she so cheerful? How did she know you were looking for the Nectar? You set those thoughts aside for the moment, right now you needed rest - tomorrow was a big day after all.

You woke feeling well-rested, not quite the manic energy of the day before, but you were still filled with anticipation. If you were going to find the Nectar, it would be today. You would finally be the woman you always wanted to be.

The trek up to the lake was far more difficult than that of the day before. The trail was rough and steep, more of a deer trail than a true path at times. Nonetheless you carried on, all of it would be worth it when you got that nectar.

You were so focused on the path forward that you didn’t notice the signs of fey influence at first, but as you carried on it became more and more obvious - plants curling and twisting in bizarre ways, the needles of the pines turning from green to vibrant blue. You knew the danger, but you couldn’t help but feel more hope than trepidation, this meant it had to be here.

At last, you arrived at the cave entrance. The lake just behind you would’ve been the perfect place for a rest, but rest was the furthest thing from your mind right now - not when you were this close. You took a brief moment to light your lantern before heading straight into the cave, your hurried footsteps echoing throughout the vast tunnel. Your restless pace was quickly slowed by the terrain. The passage grew smaller and the walls damper the further you went, skowing your pace to a crawl as you struggled to stay upright. The air grew warm and humid as you went deeper still, and you began to see patches of moss on the cave floor.

The cave went on like this for what felt like hours, strange flowers and twisting vines joining the moss until they covered the stone like plush, verdant skin. You swear you saw some of the larger vines twitch as you walked past. Finally, just as your legs were beginning to ache from the long journey, you saw it.

Just a few meters ahead the cave opened up into a verdant grove, strange blooms speckling the ground with dots of vibrant colour, light trickling in from somewhere out of sight. There, in the center of it all was a gargantuan bloom; it’s silky petals, each more than twice your size, spread out invitingly like a carpet, highlighting the pods of glistening golden ichor hanging from it’s stylets. This had to be it - the Sweet Nectar of legend.

You savoured the moment as you approached the bloom, the air was thick with a floral scent that made your skin flush and your mind fog, effects you chocked up to exhaustion. Slowly and surely, you walked across the thick petals. This was finally it, all you had to do was reach out and-

scrack!

A sharp, wet, snapping sound, the ill-tempered child of a whip's crack and the snapping of a branch rang out through the cavern. Before your mind could even open the memo that danger was afoot - let alone read it - the thick petals had closed around you, trapping you in a prison of slick violet foliage. In an instant your joy was replaced with sharp, animalistic panic. You clawed and punched desperately at the soft yet unyielding walls of your newfound prison, but all you got for your efforts was a bruised knuckle and a rapidly growing feeling of doom.

It was then that you heard a hissing sound. You looked up and saw the precious bulbs shrinking, the liquid within spraying out into the air as a fine mist. It couldn’t even occur to you to hold your breath, as soon as the scent hit you any thought in your mind was annihilated by the deepest, most desperate need you had ever felt. Your skin was hot and sensitive, the warm air around you suddenly felt cold and cruel as the spurning of a longtime lover. You needed to be touched, to be fucked, to be bred - each breath turned you into more and more of a leaky, panting mess - your gock straining desperately against your pants.

You began to strip as quickly as you could, desperate to sate the burning crimson need that had enveloped you. Your desperate task was quickly interrupted by a movement in the corner of your vision. You watched as thick vines, easily the size of your arm snaked out from the base of the plant’s pistil. You watched as they began to move towards you in deliberate, almost sensual motions. You knew you should've been terrified, as any rational observer would be - instead, you were ecstatic.

You let out a lascivious moan as the tendrils began to snake their way up your body, tearing off your clothes as they went. With your body like this, even the slightest touch felt incredible. You shuddered with need as they worked their way uo your chest, brushing deliciously over your sensitive nipples. Resistance didn’t even occur to you, not when your body was a bonfire of need, not when every touch felt so good.

You let out a desperate whine as the vines began to tease your most sensitive areas, leaving the gentlest, most teasing of touches at the base of your gock and around your hole. You tried to hump against them, to get any kind of friction, but the tendrils weren’t having it. They tightened around you, locking your body in place as your whines turned to all-out cries, begging for to be touched, to be filled, something.

After what felt like an eternity of torturously gentle teasing, you pleas were finally answered. You shuddered as you felt a thin, slick vine rubbing at your hole before finally, deliciously, it slipped in. The moment you felt the tendril rub against your prostate you were seeing stars, your mouth agape and gock leaking like an icicle in the spring sun as you came to your first of what would be many mind-shattering orgasms.

The vines didn’t stop - and you wouldn’t have wanted them to. Your body was still aflame with need despite your orgasm, and the feeling of finally being filled was like no other. You moaned and thrashed uselessly as the vines had their way with you. Every thrust had you crying out for more, and the vines obliged, two wrapped around your sensitive nipples, another around your gock. The onslaught of pleasure was unbelievably intense, it only took seconds before you were already about to-

And then they stopped.

You cried out in desperation at the sudden lack of sensation as the tendril that had been fucking you pulled out, tugging futilely at the vines restraining you as you cried out half-formed pleas. Your squirming stopped when you saw something snaking it’s way out of the plant’s tall pistil. It was another one of the tendrils, but this one was thicker than the others, and covered in thick ridges. It’s head was distinctly phallac as well, a large opening in the center dripping with thick, golden fluid.

You moaned at the very sight of it. This was exactly what you needed, you just knew it, nothing else could possibly satisfy you in this moment. It slipped inside you, stretching you to your absolute limits as it began to thrust. The other tentacles redoubled their efforts, and it wasn’t long before you were brought to another shuddering orgasm. It kept going. Every thrust felt divine, you could feel the ridges popping in and out, the sheer girth of it crushing against your cum button every time, and every little spurt of that golden liquid that it gave made your head swim. And then you saw them.

Bulges, thick, glowing bulges were travelling through the tentacle inside you. This thing was going to fill you with it’s seeds. Panic set in for a brief moment, but was quickly silenced by another spurt of the golden nectar. You wanted this, no - needed this. You shuddered and squirmed with anticipation as the seeds crept towards you, until finally…

Pop

The feeling of it pushing inside you was rapturous. It should've hurt, but the ichor meant that all of it registered as more pleasure as your vision went white. You came, a shaking, moaning, tidal wave of an orgasm that didn’t even have time to finish before…

Pop

Another slid in. Somehow, it felt better than the first. You came once again as it pushed deliciously past your prostate, your whole body shaking as…

Pop

Your gock is twitching uselessly now. The constant pleasure too much for it to keep up with. Any attempt at coherent thought is shattered by another orgasm when…

Pop

You don’t know how much more of this your mind can take. You’re covered in your own drool, barely anything more than a mindless fucktoy. Your whole body shaking every time it…

Pop

You never want it to end. You’re a shaking broken mess and all you want is more. It feels incredible. Your belly is stretching to accommodate all the seeds and you feel so full it’s like you're going to…

Pop

And finally, it stops. The tendrils gently lower you to the ground as darkness begins to creep in at the edges of your vision. You mutter something vaguely adjacent to thanks before you drift into an exhausted sleep.

You awaken at the entrance of the cave, the calm lake rippling gently in the morning breeze. For a moment, you think it must have all been an exhausted dream, but one look down at your swollen belly is enough to prove otherwise. Half-panicked you look at your reflection in the water, hoping to take stock of the damages. What you see brings tears of joy to your eyes.

Your head lay in Mads’ lap, warm and still. His hand, broad and cool, rested against your scalp, thumb occasionally smoothing over your temple before brushing strands of your hair behind your ear. A book sat in his other hand, the spine worn and bent — some battered classic he’d picked from your shelf that morning. Something European. Something unreadable to most but melting on his tongue.

He flipped a page, then returned his fingers to the crown of your head like they belonged there.

You closed your eyes and hummed faintly.

“You’re not reading anymore,” he murmured, his Danish accent low and warm, like the breeze. His eyes didn’t leave the page.

“I’m resting,” you replied dreamily. “There’s a difference.”

He smirked, barely audible, but you felt it. You knew him well enough to hear a smile in the way his throat shifted.

You looked up at him. He was wearing those vintage tortoiseshell sunglasses he always picked up from flea markets, a linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled. You had on one of your usual throwback little dresses, white cotton and a red ribbon in your hair. You were the picture of something classic — Mads always said you looked like you'd walked out of a Polaroid from 1975.

“I like it like this,” you murmured. “You, reading. Me, resting. The world not needing anything from us.”

He closed the book, carefully, marking the page with an old receipt from your first trip to Copenhagen. He looked down at you with that expression — fond, but just a little haunted — like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

You sat tucked in the corner booth of a cozy little café that had those pale wooden chairs and dusty hanging lights. Your iced coffee had long since started sweating in the glass. Mads stirred his espresso, lazily. A crossword half-filled lay between you.

People had started to notice him. They always did.

The barista had smiled too wide when she saw him. A couple at the window had stared openly, whispering in each other's ears. A girl your age — maybe a bit younger — gasped when she recognized you both.

Mads caught your eye and smirked, leaning closer across the table. “Don’t look now,” he said dryly, “but I think we’re famous.”

You laughed into your straw. “You are famous, old man.”

“And you,” he said, tapping your hand gently, “are dangerously close to overtaking me in followers.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. Your recent photo — curled up in Mads’ arms on your balcony, him reading, you grinning into his chest — had gone viral. Again.

“Whatever. You’re the movie star.”

He sipped his coffee. “And you’re my favorite co-star.”

Your stomach flipped. He always said those sorts of things without blinking. Never performative. Just true.

Before you could respond, a young fan came to the table — a shy guy with a trembling voice asking for a picture. Mads was always gracious. Calm. Effortlessly warm.

When the fan hesitated, unsure if it was okay to ask you too, Mads reached for your hand under the table and laced your fingers.

“theyre the better half of this picture,” he said with a wink.

The fan snapped the photo, flustered and glowing.

When they left, you leaned back and gave Mads a lazy smile.

“Do you say that to everyone?”

“Only the ones I love,” he said without pause.

You bit your lip. Looked down at your shared coffee rings on the table.

He reached across and brushed a crumb from your cheek, fingers soft, eyes fond.

That night, walking home, fingers laced.

The city lights blinked above you, and Mads pressed a kiss to your hair as you leaned into his side.

"Tell me a story," you said.

"I already did," he replied.

"You mean the book?"