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He’s not lost. The mad cyclone doesn’t get lost—that’s something children do, and Grimnir, god of war, the dancing tempest himself, is not a child.
That said, he might be a bit… out of sorts. Uncertain of what direction he came from. In an unfamiliar, uncharted location. But!—he isn’t lost.
The winds that typically guide him are still, as if the weeping trees of this unusual, mist-shrouded forest trap those gales in their branches and hold them prisoner apart from Grimnir’s senses. It’s unsettling, but it simply won’t do for him to let such a minor setback get to him—he mumbles as much aloud, under his breath, in a low and steady voice that helps mellow the fluttering in his chest.
“Yes, if I can simply—uwah?!” he starts, but on his next step a branch snaps under his foot and Grimnir yelps. Something moves in the shadows, the telltale hiss of leaf litter being disturbed reaches his ears, and Grimnir’s back goes rigid. “H-hey?! Who’s there! I mean…” he summons his lance in hand as he lowers his tone, “Hark, coward—you who slither in the shadows cannot hide from my gaze!”
Silence greets him, for a moment. He starts to think that, perhaps, he was mistaken, and heard nothing at all—just the branches shifting, perhaps?—but at the very instant he lets his guard lower, the rustling sound returns and Grimnir jerks to look over his shoulder. Despite his best efforts, he’s crippled without his winds; in a moment flat, there are vines wrapped around his arms and legs, holding him tight as he thrashes.
“Woah, woah—time out!” he squeaks, wriggling desperately as the plants tighten their hold. His lance falls from his hand and vanishes into the air just as it hits the dirt. “Not fair! There’s too many of you—” his protests are sharp, but the sight of a figure forming in the shadow of the hanging moss steals the breath from his lungs and makes his nerves skitter along his back like beetles.
The monster is tall, its body not too different in size nor shape from a human’s until its waist, where the forelegs and subsequent body of a canine form. Well, not precisely canine, but similar in structure—there are scales on the fronts of her legs, too, and leathery wings folded at her second set of shoulders. Her eyes, wine-colored and heavy-lidded, watch him as he struggles in vain, and her ears shift like an erune’s at the sides of her head.
“Oh? Aren’t you just adorable!” Her voice is thick like syrup; she touches a hand to the top of her exposed, full breasts as she looks the primal over. “However did you get here, cutie?”
Grimnir stares, baffled and slack-jawed, but shakes the stupor off quickly enough. “I was sent to this island on a missive, although—” he loses track of his statement and sputters a bit as one of the vines rather shamelessly slips under his breastplate. “I—I didn’t mean to disturb you, miss! I didn’t even mean to be here, so to say…”
The monster stops only a few feet short of him and sits back on her haunches, her chin resting against her fingers as she listens to him blather. “Oh, sweetie, you aren’t disturbing me at all. I rarely get visitors anymore… it’s actually quite exciting.” She reaches out and takes his chin in hand, instead; she tilts her head in an oddly doglike manner as she inspects the color of his eyes. It’s intimidating—embarrassing, even. The vines squirm along his skin as if exploring him; it feels weird, a little crawly.
“These kids are excited, too,” the creature hums as she trails her fingers along one of the shifting vines. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Me?” Grimnir squeaks, all his confusion evident in the single sound—he clears his throat and collects himself, aggressively trying to hide his slip-ups. “I am the god of war, the mad cyclone—my name is Grimn—iir?!” One of the vines grabs at his ass as he gets to his name, and the resulting surprise makes him choke halfway through. “Hey, w-where are you touching?!”
“Grimmie?” the monster repeats inquisitively, and mortification flickers through Grimnir’s expression.
“No, Grimnir, Grimnir!” he reiterates in a fluster, but she only giggles as the vines tickle at his chest and rip a run through the back of his pants. What are they trying to do—?!
She runs a hand through his hair, her expression strangely affectionate. “Grimmie is a cute name,” she says as if she hadn’t heard him, “Since you’re here… let’s have lots of fun together, Grimmie.”
He wants to argue, he really does. Being held up like this is uncomfortable, and the vines are touching him in all sorts of weird ways—and yet, all he can do is yelp when something sharp stabs into the bottom of his neck. It stings terribly, but it goes numb much too fast—Grimnir squirms against the vines and bites back the shameful sobs in his throat. Another of the thorns jabs in near his hipbone and he whimpers again; it hurts more when he squirms, but there’s a fuzzy sort of heat radiating out from where the thorns prick his skin.
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you that that might hurt,” the monster purrs, her fingers running almost soothingly through silver hair. Her own hair, long and black and silky, spills over her shoulders and hangs around Grimnir’s face as she hovers over him, her canine body making her almost absurdly tall when sitting. “It won’t hurt for long, though—oh, are you already feeling it?”
He is, he thinks. Something warm and weird that worms its way down into his core—Grimnir’s mouth hangs open and he mumbles, but for some reason, his tongue feels too heavy to properly form words. “W-what... did you…”
She giggles sweetly and cups her face in her oddly-soft hands. “Just relax, sweetie. Let it happen… oh, say,” she mutters softly, her fingers brushing along the length of his ears. “You’re not human, are you? Not mortal, either? This should really be fun…”
Grimnir wonders what she means, but his attempt to ask merely comes out as whimper as another thorn pricks at his chest. There’s a throbbing sensation between his legs as the vines tear through cloth and leave his lower body exposed; above his wet slit, his tapered cock unfurls from its sheath, stiffening and thickening as the poison works its way through his veins. When another tendril brushes over his nipple, the sensitivity resonates through his whole ribcage, leaving him breathless; he’s never felt anything quite like any of this, and it’s as amazing as it is terrifying.
“So cute,” the monster-woman purrs, watching his eyes roll back and his jaw hang slack as the vines work their way over his body. Every touch feels like fire, or lightning—too much, for his conflicted and hypersensitive nerves. “Oh, making a face like that… I can’t resist you, either,” she hums as she pulls away just a bit.
Grimnir whines, missing the warmth of her touch already—which seems wrong, but his head’s all foggy and he can’t make heads or tails of it. He glances over at her, need heavy in his eyes—he can see her thick, proud cock standing stiff between her hind legs. “Why are…?” he mumbles uselessly, but a coiling vine presses experimentally against his dripping cunt and makes him cry out sharply. All at once the heat concentrates there and his flesh quivers desperately, wanting more. “Ah… that’s… more…”
One slips inside, rounder and softer than the other vines, and Grimnir whimpers. It’s not quite enough, just a tease of something more, yet it rubs against his walls as it probes deeper still into him. He seizes up as it vibrates, buzzing as it grows a touch thicker and leaves something inside of him—the monster woman laughs softly. “There, that should do… now then,” she breathes softly, watching as Grimnir writhes, “Let’s get to know each other a little better, Grimmie.”
The vines shift, loosening just enough for Grimnir to fall into a heap on the forest floor, like every ounce of strength has been removed from his body and replaced with this fuzzy, overwhelming sort of heat. They reposition him with ease, forcing his hips upward and digging into the earth as they bind his wrists and ankles. The monster shifts and stands, makes her way around to his backside as Grimnir whimpers and moans; the vines tease at his cunt once more, small ones spreading his folds wide before her, and he tries to rock back against them with a needy whine.
“Ah, you’re so ready for me,” she moans as her paw lands at his side; Grimnir stiffens, but he can only mewl pitifully in lieu of protesting. Fluidly she rears up and mounts him, supporting her weight against a nearby tree with her humanlike arms as she looks down at him, eyes fluttering. “Mm… I wonder if you can take me without breaking? I hope you can… I’d kind of like to keep you around…”
The heat of her cock radiates against his skin and Grimnir keens, desperate but unsure of what he wants. “Please… please…!” he begs, his tongue thick in his mouth. “S-so hot, it feels weird, I can’t…”
She obliges him with a hard, deep thrust of her hips, burying her animalistic girth deep inside of him in one go—Grimnir nearly screams at the intensity of it. He’s overcome, shaking from a sudden climax, and drool spills out from between his lips as she sighs contentedly. “Ah… it fit? Wow… you’re something special, Grimmie.”
He can feel her all the way into his stomach, filling him utterly—somehow, he hadn’t realized just how empty he was until he was filled. It feels right, like he’d been itching for it for hours even when he has no idea how many minutes have actually passed, anymore. “Ama...zing…” he manages to sob, his expression lost and desperate.
The monster lets out a rumbling sound and starts to fuck him in earnest—Grimnir mewls and cries with each heavy thrust, each new depth she manages to reach inside of him. He’s not sure why his voice gets away from him so easily, but a careless script of “more” and “good” and other sawed-off nonsense spills from his throat until it feels like his voice will go raw.
She slams into him without mercy or reprieve, breathing heavily. “You’re amazing,” she gasps, pulling out slowly only to thrust in deeper yet, “You can take all of me… so well… even though you’re so tight, too…”
Her hips rock faster and Grimnir comes again with a sound that may as well be a scream, hips quivering and vision blurring into splotches of color and tears. Everything from his head to his core to his belly burns and buzzes with overwhelming pleasure—he can’t think at all, like his brain’s liquefied from the heat, yet his body keeps telling him he wants more, even when this already seems to be too much.
He squeaks pathetically as her knot swells; his cock twitches and curves between his legs. “B-big?! S-so—that’s—” Grimnir babbles as the thickness of her shaft expands, leaving no room in his body for anything aside the simple, overwhelming satisfaction it provides. He begs for more, despite himself, and she gasps quietly above him.
“This is—how I mate,” she pants, slamming her full length into him and making him yelp again. “You’re so, so good—you’ll carry those seeds so well,” her tone is laden with heat and awe, and her nails scratch desperately against bark.
Grimnir can’t really understand what she’s saying, but it sounds like she’s happy, and that’s enough—as she cries out breathily her release spills into him, an incredible amount of molten-hot fluid that fills him until his stomach strains at the pressure; he comes again from that, his body shaking with electric sensation as his limbs fail him, but the vines and her knot keep him held haphazardly in place.
It doesn’t stop there—not even after he’s come down from the high of his climax. She’s still deep inside him, her knot stretching him full, and when he so much as squirms underneath her, she moans throatily and more of her seed spurts into his already-full cunt. The more insane part is that that makes him get off again, despite the buzz of the last orgasm still lingering in his body—his thoughts melt into mush and his whole body quakes, and time seems to lose all meaning as his vision fades.
She stays inside him like that for some untold amount of time—minutes, maybe hours, of bucking her hips and riding out her release, sending Grimnir’s body to repeated, overwhelming peaks. When she finally pulls out with a wet pop, he collapses utterly into the leaf litter, shuddering and drooling and gasping for breath as white fluid drips from his overworked slit.
His consciousness fades to the warmth of the monster’s canine body settling beside him, almost protective in how she curls around his shivering form. “You did good, you did so good,” she assures him as she reaches down to stroke his sweat-mussed hair; “Now I’ll take care of you a bit, okay? So rest up…”
He doesn’t have a choice, so he simply whimpers as unconsciousness claims him.