#questing

Mod here: Honestly this is just for fun and some more fantastical stuff here. I will indeed be bothering and tagging people as possible helpers in quests, but you can tell me to not tag you if it gets annoying (sorry in advance). Also so I have a reason to post more lol. Tagging some people who I think might enjoy this

@wizard-offical @warlock-official @fae-offical @warlock-offical @dnd-offical @dnd-official @goblin-offical @satan-offical @whimsy-offical

It hurt.

Once you were able to change your form, be whatever you pleased. Flow with the rivers, nestle in the dirt, run with the animals, you could even masquerade as one of them. A real person. Now, dried up and alone, you were stuck here, amongst the burned out ruins of your old life.

They had come in the night, bearing torches and oil. Raiders driving the townsfolk from the village where you plied your trade. The citizens didn’t look for you. Maybe they thought you’d escaped? It was true, you could be anything you pleased when you had enough of their essence to sustain you, but the flames. The heat. No, as soon as the bordello where you lived and worked began to burn it was too late. You felt your moisture escaping, your body hardening, your mind retreating to the fist-sized mass of hear-jelly that lay at your core. Now it was only a matter of time until the last of you dries up and you pass to whatever lies next.

“What are we even here for?”

A voice? It had to be. A man’s voice. It sounded faint, muffled. Coming from outside, definitely. You tried to call out for help, too weak to even muster that.

“Anything valuable, Cawl. Anything at all that we can return to the refugees.”

Another voice! Another man. Older, with a scholarly accent. You redoubled your efforts, willing yourself to cry out

“The place is cinders. There’s nothing left but ashes”

A third? They were talking about searching the place. You could hardly believe your luck.

“Valuable ashes, at least to us” the older man spoke again “People aren’t expecting their gold and silver back, but getting a child’s toy? Or even just word that someone may be alive or dead. Closure and hope, that is what we are being paid for. Quite handsomely, I may add”

Some grumbles from the third man, but you heard them split up. It was only a matter of time.

It felt like hours passed, though it may have only been minutes. The village is small, little more than an inn, a smithy, few houses, and your home, all situated at a crossroad. No matter who it was, travel through this part of the country took you by here. In happier times that meant a steady flow of traffic, enough to eke out a living for the humans fixing gear and putting travellers up for the night. Now people skirted around the burned-out remains. Until today.

A banging on the door. Someone throwing their shoulder into the ruined wood, over and over. The weight of him shook the walls, a huge assailant smashing against stout timber. The door held firm, likely propped by some debris that had fallen against it. Then came the axe blows. Rhythmic chopping as your rescuer hacked his way in. Whatever he was using, it made light work of the blocked door. Loud, heavy whacks making way into splintering, into silence.

Heavy footfalls. The only sound, loud in the sudden stillness after his violent entry. He worked methodically, moving room to room. It wasn’t long until he found you.

“What have we here?” He was a minotaur. Thickly built, lazily holding an axe the size of a man in one hand. He looked at you, little more than a stain on the floor, before reaching out and gently plucking your core from the midst of your desiccated matrix “A slime core. Still alive too. Here you are, have a drink.”

The minotaur, Cawl, emptied his waterskin over you. Greedily, you took in the water, surface becoming slick and shiny once more. It wasn’t enough for the long term, but right now this hulking copper-brown mercenary had saved your life.

He checked the other rooms, taking combs, charred keepsakes, even a letter one of the other women had stashed in her room, half burned away by the flames that had ravaged your home. Before long, you were being presented to another man, bearded and bedecked in robes. A wizard? It seemed likely.

“Some trinkets, and this.” He turned you over, still wet and glowing faintly

“Ah, a slime core. The refugees had asked me to look out for one, though I never asked why. Well done, Cawl. You just earned our bonus”

“I’d better, Mel, you know how I hate these kinds of jobs.”

The third man returned, tall and lanky, obviously a wood elf. “Three houses searched, not one measly gold piece amongst them. Why the fuck do I bother? Did find this though” He tossed a doll at the wizard, Mel?

The wizard caught it. “Everything salvageable is worth its weight in gold to these people. At any rate, we’re done here. Look what Cawl turned up”

The sensation of being tossed through the air would have made your stomach lurch, if you had one. As it was, you just felt yourself leaving a wizened pair of hands, then long rough digits envelop you

“Slime core. Neat, probably worth a few silver to an alchemist”

“Or a few gold to the refugees, Ven, we’ll be eating out on this one for days”

The ranger clapped the wizard on the shoulder “Melzar the Grandiloquent. You absolute dog, you’ve held out on me. Right. Let’s get the fuck out of here, place gives me the creeps”

With that they left, chatting amongst themselves as you were bounced in a pack. Melzar kept you with him, occasionally checking to make sure you were still where he left you. Within an hour, you were in a ring of tents. Familiar voices around you. Your friends were here.

They sent the adventurers to get you back!

Melzar produced you from his saddlebags, showing you to one of the villagers. The smith, Rod, the man who had found you on the road and first taken you in, “Is this the slime core you wanted? It was in a whorehouse”

Rod took you in his hands, sandpaper textured and armoured in callouses from years of metalworking “Aye, this is it. ‘S a little worse for wear, but we’ll get it back on its feet in no time. You want to help out? Sure it’ll be very grateful”

The adventurers frowned, looking at one another. Cawl spoke “You want to revive it? Slimes are no laughing matter, man.”

Rod laughed “It’s tame, don’t worry. Why do you think it worked where it did? No. Never went hungry on our watch.”

He was already carrying you off, the adventurers in tow. Men either side of him noticing you in his hands and peeling off to follow. Before long, every man who had escaped the attack on the village was following Rod out of the camp and into the forest. Rod spoke first, addressing Cawl “You ever fed a slime before?”

“No. Just like I’ve never fed a vampire, or a siren”

Rod chuckled “Doesn’t need to be blood. It just needs water, and a little protein” He cinched down his trousers, his hand massaging his cock “Sure, a feral slime’ll take whatever it gets, blood bone and flesh. This one has other tastes.”

He was hard now, rubbing himself off over you. His hand working over his shaft as he angled himself at your core. You waited in anticipation, imagining opening your mouth for him like you had a hundred times before.

It wasn’t long before he was panting, wrenching his cock as the tip tapped against the surface of your core. The dense material had a little give, the surface forming a divot where he pressed against you.

At last, thick, white cum flowed into you. Greedy for more, you absorbed it, swiftly repurposing his essence, paler slime flowing out of you to cover his tip, gently sucking on it, drinking him down.

Then another man replaced him. He didn’t last as long as the smith, the little slime you could bring to bear stimulating the sensitive parts of his shaft, flowing between the tip and his foreskin, teasing the hole. Eager. Greedy. You drove him onwards, his panting getting quicker and quicker until he too released. Your slime turned white for a moment, clouded with his orgasm before it too was absorbed into you, converted into more of yourself.

Over and over, a man would take you in his hand and bring himself off over you. Again and again you would drink in his essence, familiar and welcome, growing a little more each time. Still too weak to take a form. A mass of hungry, needy slick, surrounding a fist-sized self.

It wasn’t long until the men of the town sat around, spent and smiling stupidly. You were still small, maybe only double or triple the size you were when the minotaur first found you.

The minotaur now looking at you. He had seen everything that had happened. He wore no armour, a simple loincloth covering his modesty. The same simple loincloth now utterly failing to cover much of anything. Because of you, despite himself, this monster of a man was sitting at half mast, fully descended from the sheath at his crotch, dangling some inches below where the whitish cloth ended. He hesitated, an eight-foot tall warrior looking almost afraid of a slime still smaller than an average housecat. A glance at the smith, who nodded, making a lewd gesture with his hands

“Try it, you’ll figure out why it was the favourite right sharpish”

Cawl’s brow furrowed, still unsure.

You saw Melzar, the wizard muttering something you couldn’t hear, before a flash of light flew from him to Cawl. At once, the minotaur’s demeanour changed. Gone was the indecision, replaced by a frothing at his mouth and a wild-eyed stare.

Cawl grabbed you, holding you next to his throbbing cock. Every pulse got it bigger, already longer and thicker than any of the villagers who had fed you today. Your form spread across it, taking in the rising heat of his manhood. Those thick, rough fingers that saved your life before now struggled to grip onto you, some primal need to hold onto the thing fucking him. You’d give him what he wanted next time. Right now you were so hungry. You could almost taste him already as you pulsed around his manhood. Cool slime flowing and coiling around hot minotaur flesh, pressing your core to the flare, easing your way around his balls to massage them, feeling the weight as you squeezed and kneaded at them. He was leaking, long rippling strokes earning you a steady trickle of precum. The starter before the main event.

He was close. You could feel it. Heavy lidded eyes stared down at you. Both hands on your core, the only part of you he could grip as the rest massaged and coaxed. Grunting breath blowing clouds of hot steam over you even in the balmy air.

At last. A howl of relief. Thick, potent cum flowing into you. Every pulse was as much as a normal man could produce. His throbbing member kept going, jet after jet spurting into you, the sheer volume of his seed painting your body a shade paler as his eyes crossed.

Melzar was chanting again, as his friend’s overstimulated cock started to finally run dry. Again, flashes of light flew from the cackling wizard, this time landing on every man in the clearing. Each one looked at you, eyes filled with the same feral, primal need.