Teaser:This story follows a series of events that follow the heroines of our time. But what happens when these heroines break and fall deeply?
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:
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Title: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
Author: LaLia
Chapter Tags: ---
Content Warnings: ---
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This story follows a series of events that follow the heroines of our time. But what happens when these heroines break and fall deeply?
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Fallen Heroines - Series of events
1. - Lara Croft - Island of monsters - Chapter 1
The ocean roared as Lara Croft left the small port town on the edge of the Philippine Sea. The sun had already set, and the lights of the fishing boats cast flickering beams across the dark water. Lara stood on the quay, her boots firmly planted on the rough planks, her backpack - containing climbing gear, pistols, and a tattered notebook - slung over her shoulder. Her father, Richard Croft, had vanished without a trace here years ago, hunting a legend he had discovered in ancient manuscripts: a forgotten island where the remnants of a prehistoric dynasty slumbered, temples of pure obsidian, and artifacts that could rewrite the history of humankind. “It’s the key to everything, Lara,” he had written in his last letter, which she carried in her pocket like a talisman. “The Island of the Sacred Beasts. It’s calling me.”
For months, Lara had been on the trail, from London libraries to Thai markets, to this forgotten corner of Asia. The locals, fishermen or merchants, had regarded her with a mixture of pity and fear. “Señorita, you mustn’t go there,” the old captain of the only freighter had whispered, packing his pipe. His voice had been a rough whisper, as if he feared the words might awaken the spirits. “The island is cursed. The ancient rulers—the Dynasty of Shadows—left their guardians there. Monsters are born of stone and flesh. They sleep in the ruins, but awaken them, and they devour the soul. Many have gone; few have returned. And those who came… they were never the same.”
Lara had smiled, that cool, self-assured smile that had saved her from countless graves and traps. Fairy tales. Superstition woven from the fear of the unknown. She had already fought mummified pharaohs and deceived forgotten gods—what harm could a few mythical beasts possibly do? “Thank you for the warning,” she had replied, her voice as firm as the steel of her knife blade. “But I’m not looking for ghosts. Only truth.” The other villagers simply nodded silently, crossed their fingers, and glanced at her as if she were already one of the damned.
But the warnings weren’t the worst of it. No guide would accompany her. The local hunters, who usually plowed through jungles and rivers for a few pesos, shrugged and turned away. “Too dangerous, Señorita. The waves listen to the beasts—they shatter boats like driftwood.” And the captains? They just laughed when she asked for directions to the island, which wasn’t marked on any map, only as a shadow on ancient parchments. “Even the gods avoid this place,” grumbled one, a burly man with sea monster tattoos on his arms. “Don’t go, or you’ll become dinner.” Lara eventually managed to find out the island’s location, but no one wanted to accompany her.
In the end, Lara had no choice. In a grimy rented shack at the harbor, she found an old fishing boat - a rickety thing with an engine that coughed like a chain smoker and sails eaten away by salt and time. “Five hundred pesos for the night,” growled the landlord, a crooked-toothed man who eyed her up and down as if assessing her soul. She paid in cash, loaded her gear, and pushed off as the moon was high in the sky. The sea was choppy, waves lashing against the hull like warning claws. Lara navigated by compass and stars, the coordinates from her father’s notes entered her old GPS device. The wind carried echoes of distant drums—or was it just her racing pulse?
Hours later, still deep in the night, the island emerged like a sleeping dragon. Silhouettes of jagged cliffs rose from the mist, overgrown with jungle that spread like a living tangle. No beach, only rocks that crashed into the water and a narrow path that wound through mangroves. Lara steered the boat into a hidden cove, tied it to a rotting palm tree, and leaped ashore. Her boots sank into damp mud, and the air smelled of decay, and something ancient, forbidden—like the breath of a tomb that was still breathing.
She switched on her flashlight, the beam dancing across moss-covered ruins that stood out in the twilight. This was it. The Island of the Sacred Beasts. Lara took a deep breath, ignoring the tingling in the back of her neck - just the wind, she told herself. No monsters. Just rocks and secrets. With one last glance back at the sea, where the boat bobbed like a forgotten promise, she stepped into the jungle. The path led her deeper, and with each step, the night grew thicker, as if the island were welcoming her... or capturing her.
The jungle enveloped Lara like a living net, vines whipping against her legs, and the distant screeches of unseen creatures echoing through the humid air. The path she followed - little more than a scar in the green—winded uphill, over roots that jutted from the ground like petrified fingers. Sweat beaded on her forehead, mingling with the musty scent of decay and tropical blossoms that glowed in the darkness like deceptive lights. After an hour of battling the undergrowth, the forest suddenly thinned, and a clearing opened before her as if a giant had hacked at it with an axe. There it stood: the ancient temple, a colossus of black basalt and weathered stone, arching against the night sky like the fist of a fallen god. Vines hung from broken columns, and ivy swallowed reliefs that had once depicted beasts and warriors—now mere silhouettes in the moonlight. No sound emerged from its depths, only the dripping of water from cracks that resembled open wounds. Lara felt a pang in her chest; here her father had stood, years before, driven by the same curiosity that now drove her.
She knelt down, let the heavy backpack slide from her shoulders, and opened it with practiced fingers. The preparation was routine, a ritual she had performed in dozens of graves—but today it felt more final, as if the island itself were watching. First, the pistol belt: she fastened the leather around her hips, the cold grips of the Dual Walthers clicking reassuringly into their holsters, ammunition pouches heavy at her sides. Then the hunting knife, a Damascus steel blade, sharp as a scalpel and as long as her forearm—she slid it with a soft scrape into the sheath on her belt, where it hung within easy reach. The backpack was too bulky for the narrow passages; she dug a shallow pit under a root, covered it with leaves and stones, and marked the spot with an inconspicuous cut in the bark of a tree. She was allowed to take only the bare essentials: a braided rope, 20 meters long and light as a snake, which she slung over her shoulder; An aluminum bottle of clear water, which she attached to her belt where it clinked against the pistols; and a bundle of flares—three wrapped in oilcloth, which she stuffed into her cargo pocket. The flashlight remained in her hand, its beam a thin spear in the darkness.
Determination burned in Lara's eyes as she stood. "For you, Dad," she murmured, the words a steely oath against the silence. A lead to him—a clue, an artifact, anything. She would find it or perish in the ruins. With a deep breath, she stepped forward, her boots crunching on the moss-covered stone. The entrance was a gaping maw, flanked by faceless statues whose eyes seemed to glow with emeralds. Slowly, tentatively, she slid inside, swinging the flashlight before her. The air grew cooler, heavier, filled with dust and the echo of distant drops. Walls of carved stone closed around her, reliefs of mythical beasts—half-human, half-animal—stared down as if warning her. Lara ignored them, her heart a drumbeat of anticipation. Here lay the truth, hidden in the darkness.
Lara navigated the temple's gloomy ruins, her footsteps, a faint echo in the endless corridors, where the beam of her flashlight cast shadows like hungry ghosts. The air was stifling, thick with an ancient scent of earth and long-gone civilizations. She clambered over fallen pillars, ducked beneath overhanging roots, and followed a faint breeze that seemed to emanate from a hidden chamber—a shrine perhaps, a trap perhaps. Her breathing was steady, the weapons at her side a comforting weight, yet deep inside, impatience simmered: every stone could be the one that had betrayed her father.
Then, in a niche, half-hidden above a pile of crumbling clay figurines, she glimpsed it: an enigmatic artifact, gleaming faintly. She removed her heavy belt to climb up more easily. There—a coin, as large as a gold crown, embossed with the face of a beast—curved horns, eyes of pure ruby. It was warm, as if pulsing with life, and Lara felt a pull, as if calling to it. “This must be it,” she whispered, reaching out her hand. Her fingers touched the metal—and the world exploded in smoke.
A hissing mist billowed out, thick and bluish, like the breath of a demon imprisoned for millennia. It enveloped her instantly, seeping into her nose and mouth, seeping through the pores of her skin. Lara coughed, stepped back, but it was too late. The smoke wasn't poison in the conventional sense; He was something alive, seductive, spreading through her veins like liquid fire. First a tingle, harmless as a breeze—then the wave. Her body reacted with an intensity that left her breathless: Heat spread from the point of contact, creeping up her fingers, down her arm, to her chest. Her nipples, sensitive beneath the tight shirt, hardened, throbbing as if invisible fingers were pinching and rubbing them. Every fiber screamed with hypersensitivity; the friction of the fabric against the nipples sent shivers through her torso, gathering in her lower abdomen, where a throbbing desire awoke—moist, insistent, unrestrained.
Lara's knees buckled, she staggered against the wall, the lamp clattering to the floor, casting its flickering light on her face. Sweat broke out, pouring hot streams over her skin, while her breath came in gasps. The fog of desire enveloped her mind, clouding her thoughts like a veil of silk and thorns. A throbbing emptiness pulsed between her thighs, yearning to be filled, and her hands clenched into fists to keep her from slipping down. "No... not now," she gasped, but the words sounded like a whimper. The poison made every movement agony: the rope across her shoulder rubbed against her breasts, sending sparks of pleasure through her; the belt cut in, intensifying the sensation as if the island itself were touching her. Escape was now a distant dream—her senses awash in a sea of heat where logic drowned and instinct reigned supreme. Her legs trembling, she stumbled deeper into the darkness, driven by her own body turning against her. The island's beasts might still be asleep, but something ancient had already awakened her.
The darkness of the temple seemed to thicken, and the poison seeped deeper, turning her skin into an instrument of torment, where every touch of the fabric against her breasts ignited unwanted lust. She clenched her teeth, the flashlight clutched in her trembling hand, its beaming an uncertain path through the fog of her senses. "Focus," she hissed to herself, but the words fell on deaf ears. And then... the sounds.
At first, it was only a whisper, like stone scraping against stone—a distant grinding, as if the ruins were stirring. Lara froze, her heart a hammer in her chest. It came from everywhere and nowhere: a crunch, followed by a deep, gurgling sigh that made the air vibrate. Like something ancient, ripped from its slumber. She whirled around, the beam of light dancing wildly across the walls, catching shadows that seemed to move. “Illusion,” she murmured, but her body betrayed her once more—sweat erupted from her pores, trickling down her back in hot rivulets, soaking her shirt, which now clung to her like a second skin. Her nipples, still throbbing from the poison, rubbed painfully against the fabric, sending shivers down her thighs, where the dampness spread, unrestrained and treacherous.
The sounds grew louder, closer—a rustling, as if rock were crumbling, and then the first crack, sharp as a whip. Lara's gaze fell upon the statues: rows of guardians flanking the chamber, frozen in poses of eternal vigilance. Large, monolithic figures carved from the same black basalt as the temple, their forms crudely humanoid, yet distorted—limbs too long, torsos crisscrossed with runes. And now…they moved. It began with one: the eyes, mere indentations in the stone, glowed, a faint, phosphorescent blue seeping through the cracks. The stone groaned, fissures ran like veins across its surface, and then the facade exploded. Where there had been cold rock, a fleshy mass oozed forth—gray and pale, like rotting flesh forced to life. Half human, half something abysmal, crawling out of nightmares. Their bodies, now soft and pulsating, were crisscrossed with thick lines reminiscent of knotted muscles, yet they twitched unnaturally, as if seething beneath the skin. They towered upwards, easily three meters high, colossi that grazed the ceiling, their movements a sluggish, slimy glide.
Their faces—God, they weren't faces. Where the mouth should have been, there was nothing but an empty, sunken cavity, the cheeks collapsed on either side and crisscrossed with deep, wrinkled furrows that looked like scars from centuries of rigidity. The eyes were black holes, bottomless abysses that swallowed the light and reflected nothing; ears, atrophied to tiny stumps, glued flat to the skull; and a nose entirely absent, just a smooth depression ending in emptiness. They weren't breathing, they were panting—a damp, rattling sound emanating from within them, as if they were sucking in the island's air to taste it.
Lara's blood ran cold. Sweat poured down her face, completely soaking her clothes, making every movement a slippery nightmare. Her body continued to rebel, the poison intensifying the heat into a fever that paralyzed and inflamed her muscles—a throbbing urge that spread against her will to her core, making her thighs damp and trembling. "Run," her mind screamed, an instinct as old as humanity, but her legs held her in place as if rooted to the stone. She staggered backward, stumbled into a niche between two pillars, pressed herself into the shadows, and realized she'd forgotten to put her gun belt back on. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, sweat dripping from her forehead, running down her breasts where it teased the sensitive nipples and ignited new waves of arousal. She bit her lip, tasted blood, fought the urge to let her hands fall and ease the agony.
The creatures all awoke now, a chorus of cracking and gurgling, as if the temple itself were giving birth. They peeled themselves from their stony cocoons, flesh stretching and forming, turning their blank faces into the darkness, searching. Lara held her breath, her heart a drumbeat thumping in her ears. She hadn't noticed the statue behind her—the one leaning directly against her niche, a guardian that seemed to be nothing more than a relic. But now... there was this feeling, this primal knowing, that something living stand behind her, unseen. A presence, cold and overwhelming, like the breath of death on her neck. The air changed, thickened, and a soft, slimy scraping sound filled the air—fingers reaching out.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Lara turned. Her body screamed with exertion, the poison making every movement a dance on a knife's edge, sweat stinging her eyes, blinding them for a split second. And there it was: one of the creatures, now directly in front of her, just centimeters away, its massive body, a wall of gray flesh glistening in the humid air. Three meters of pure nightmare, its black eyeholes staring at her—or was it a stare? It had no face, yet it saw her, sensed her. Lara's pulse raced, her mind a whirl of flight and fascination.
When the creature caught sight of Lara, it reacted. A shudder ran through its body, a pulsing of the fleshy mass, and then... the only thing that seemed to be humans stirred. Between her legs, where a man's groin might be, it hung: a member, enormous even for its grotesque proportions, thirty centimeters long, almost as thick as Lara's forearm. Gray like the rest of its body, thin and pulsating, yet the glances were human-shaped—round, smooth, with a tip that parted slightly, as if tasting it. It swelled, became erect, a monstrous phallus throbbing in the silence, as if hungry.
The creature reached out. Its hand—a paw of the same pale flesh, fingers long and bony, with nails like claws— closing around Lara's throat. Cold and hard, an icy, merciless grip that felt like stone in flesh, yet it was alive, pulsing slightly beneath the surface. Lara gasped, her hands instinctively flying upward, clawing at the beast's forearm, but it was useless—the grip was as hard as iron, drawing her closer, inch by inch. Her body was still paralyzed, the poison a web of fire and silk binding her; her gaze flickered rebelliously, green and wild, a final spark of strong resistance in the depths of her eyes.
The beast inhaled—or so it sounded, a deep, sucking noise emanating from its chest, as if it were sniffing. She smelled it: Lara's desire, which had spread despite everything, a scent of arousal hanging in the sultry air, mingled with sweat and fear. The poison had taken its toll; her body betrayed it with every pounding heartbeat, every unnecessary warmth between her thighs. The creature tilted its head—or what was left of it—its black holes clinging to her, and a growl rose from its throat, vibrating through the grip on her neck.
The creature, a colossus of cold flesh and ancient hatred, still held Lara in an iron grip around her throat. Her gaze bored into the creature's black holes, a silent scream of rage in her eyes, yet her body—oh, her body—pulsated in the betrayal of the poison, sweat and excitement mingling in a feverish current. The beast drew her closer, her breath a hot gasp, and then... it pressed forward. The member, this grotesque, pulsating shaft—thirty centimeters of pure, gray monstrosity, as thick as her forearm, the glans smooth and human in its cruelty—pressed against her lips. It was warm, alive, a contrast to the coldness of the hand that held her, and it throbbed demandingly, as if tasting her scent, the telltale moisture emanating from her.
Lara fought with everything she had—her hands clawed into the fleshy mass of the arm, nails digging in, but it was like fighting against stone. She pressed her lips together, a bulwark of pure will, twisted her head away as far as the grip allowed, and muttered a curse through gritted teeth. “Let... me... go!” But the pressure was too intense, merciless; the rock behind her, rough and unyielding, held her captive like a wall from the temple itself. The head of his penis rubbed stubbornly against her mouth, smearing a sticky fluid across her lips that tasted of salt and something unknown—like forgotten rituals. Her body continued to rebel, her nipples hard and throbbing beneath her shirt, a pulling sensation in her groin that she hated yet couldn't deny.
With a gurgling sigh that escaped the emptiness of her throat—a guttural, yearning gasp, as if the creature were drawing in air to taste its pleasure—the beast thrust forward. The shaft forced its way in, stretching her lips apart, overstretching the corners of her mouth to the point of tearing, a searing pain that mingled with the heat of poison. Lara's mouth opened wide, an O of shock and compulsion, and then it began: a slow, deep thrust that fucked her mouth like a shell made for this moment alone. The taste exploded on her tongue—bitter and alien, with a hint of stone and earth. She gasped instantly, a choking sound that vibrated in her throat as the shaft slid deeper, pressing against her palate, touching the back of her throat. Saliva flowed uncontrollably, spilling from the overstretched corners, dripping down her chin, mingling with tears of exertion. Her hands pounded against the creature's body, uselessly, as she gagged, gurgled, tried to pull her head back—but the grip on its throat held her fast, forcing her to take it, inch by inch.
Deeper, deeper still, until the shaft filled her throat, blocking her windpipe, and Lara's world shrank to that moment of humiliation. The creature gasped louder, a rattling growl vibrating through her body, and then it came. A shudder, a pulse, and a viscous mass poured into her—warmer than a man's, thick as honey, a contrast to the cold skin of the beings that clutched her. It flowed in hot spurts deep into her throat, forcing her to swallow, filling it until excess seeped from her nostrils and spilled over her lips. Lara coughed, gagged dryly, the taste a burn mark on her tongue, but the poison transformed it—a spark of unwanted warmth in her stomach that only intensified her pleasure.
The other creatures were now awake, drawn by the gurgling and the scent of her arousal, a pack of gray shadows creeping from the walls. Soon Lara had another cock in her mouth—a second paw jerked her head back as the first released it, and the new shaft, equally massive, penetrated, stretching her once more. Her clothes fell like offerings: claws ripped her top with a sharp tear, exposing her ample breasts—full and heavy, her nipples hard and rosy in the lamplight, bobbing with every thrust. Her trousers were ripped off, roughly and definitively, hanging uselessly over a nearby stone, leaving her naked and vulnerable. The second creature fucked her mouth with raw greed, coming deep in her throat, the viscous fluid mingling with the first, running down her neck. The third followed seamlessly, an endless cycle of stretching and ejaculation, gasping and choking—and yet her own lust did not ebb away, the poison a curse that transformed every humiliation into waves of heat, making her thighs wet and trembling.
Now the fourth monster was behind her, its paws gripping her hips, cold claws digging into soft flesh. It thrust—directly into her pussy, wet with betrayal, slick with arousal, yet the shaft was a battering ram, filling her, stretching her, creating the sensation of tearing her apart. Lara cried out, a muffled sound around the cock in her mouth, pain and pleasure a whirlwind churning her body. The creature held her arms tightly, pulling her torso up, bending her, and fucking her fast and deep—a brutal pace that made her breasts bounce, heavy and hypnotic, nipples skimming through the air. Each thrust sent shocks through her, building the pressure until the beast came, pumping the warm mass into her, filling her until it overflowed.
Lara gasped, her breath coming in ragged gasps, a groan escaping her throat—half protest, half surrender—as the fluid dripped from her, running down her thighs. The fifth creature, meanwhile, had pinned her to a flat stone, her back pressed against the cold rock as it took her ass. The entry was raw, a burning sensation that made her cries echo through the ancient ruin—an echo of despair and ecstasy reverberating off the walls. She struggled, but it held her down, fucking her deep and mercilessly until the fluid was spurted inside her again, hot and thick, another tribute to the island.
Number six took her vaginally once more, the shaft sliding more easily now, lubricated by the previous chaos, and Lara could no longer resist—not even her own body. Waves of pleasure coursed through her, building like a storm, and she came seconds before the creature, a cry that turned into sobs, her insides contracting, milking the intruder as the warm tide washed over her.
The next two, seven and eight, lifted her like a doll—paws beneath her thighs, spreading them wide. One cock penetrated her pussy, the other her ass. Lara was a swaying doll, trapped in their rhythm, stretching and fullness in every hole, her body an instrument of their lust, moans and gasps mingling together.
More and more followed, an endless stream of gray bodies taking her in every conceivable position and combination. Sometimes on all fours, a cock deep in her ass, pumping and thrusting as she gasped; then in her pussy, another in her mouth, silencing her. She lay on her back in a pool of cum, sticky and warm, the fluid surrounding her as she was fucked. Then sandwiched between two creatures, filled front and back, her breasts pressed against cold skin. It oozed out of her everywhere, from the overstimulated, stretched holes—pussy, ass, mouth—rivering down her thighs in streams, dripping onto the stone. Her body trembled uncontrollably, three orgasms had overwhelmed her, waves of ecstasy she hated yet couldn't stop, the poison a master of torment. She'd thought of fighting back repeatedly, eyes searching for the pistols on her belt, fingers searching for a stone, but she was powerless—surrounded, held captive, mere rape meat for these ancient creatures, a victim of the dynasty.
But then... the fog lifted. The heat in her veins subsided to a dull throb, the creatures twitched as if summoned by an unseen command. A final growl, a final thrust, and they crawled back—into the walls, into cracks that closed like wounds, flesh hardening to stone, as if it had all been just a nightmare. Lara collapsed, naked and smeared, gasping on the floor, the ruin silent once more, only her heartbeat audible.
Lara awoke with a sharp inhale, as if the air itself jolted her from unconsciousness. The ground beneath her was soft and damp, a bed of wet leaves and roots that smelled of mushrooms and rain. The jungle enveloped her like a living crypt—tall trees towered, their canopies an impenetrable roof that allowed only occasional glimpses of the breaking sky through. Birds screeched in the distance, a chorus of warnings; insects buzzed around her head like curious spirits. How had she gotten here? The memories were a swirl of horror and ecstasy: the creatures, their cold paws, the endless, stretching thrusts, the viscous fluid that had filled her. Had they carried her away from the ruins, tossed like a trophy into the island's embrace? Or had her own body carried her, blinded by exhaustion, driven by the poison that still burned in her veins?
She sat up, a sharp pain shooting through her lower abdomen, and then it hit her: all her clothes and belongings were gone. The gun belt, the knife, the rope, the torches—everything was gone, swallowed by the night. She wore only her heavy boots, stiff as leather and smeared with mud. Otherwise, she was naked, her skin pale in the twilight, covered in dried traces of the night: sticky patches that trailed across her breasts, encrusted between her thighs, a memorial of warm, viscous substance that had now hardened and scaly like old wax seals. Her ample breasts rose and fell with each breath, her nipples still sensitive, reddened by touches that hadn't been hers. Lara touched her hip where the belt had been, and a shiver ran through her—not just pain, but an echo of pleasure that made her shiver.
She had to make it to the boat. It couldn't be far; the cove was only a few kilometers away; down the path she'd climbed at night. But when she stood up, her knees buckled, and she braced herself against a tree trunk, its rough bark biting into her palm. Every step hurt, a firework display of memories: the creatures, those gray nightmares of stone and flesh, that had fucked her, stretching, filling, breaking. Her muscles protested, a dull ache in her thighs where bruises from claws blazed; her buttocks still wide open, a throbbing emptiness echoing with every step, as if the shadows of her tormentors still lurked within her. The dried fluid crackled against her skin, flaking off in tiny flakes, and with each rub of her thighs together, she felt the remnants—sticky, alien, a scent of salt and forbidden things that made her gag. "How... how could this happen?" she whispered into the silence, her voice hoarse from the screams of the night. She, Lara Croft, who had crawled through pyramids, fought ninjas, defied forgotten gods—and now? Reduced to a trembling wreck, marked like cattle. The island had broken her, hadn't it?
The excitement still hadn't subsided. It was otherworldly, a lust she had never known—a fire that wouldn't die down, but blazed on, fanned by the poison, the coin a curse that cut deeper than a dagger. Every pain was a spark that ignited the heat: the friction of her thighs stirred a tug at her core, her nipples hardened, throbbing and yearning, as if they longed to be touched; her womb pulsed, wet despite everything, a betrayal that drove her mad. She stumbled forward, the jungle a labyrinth of vines that reached out like tentacles, and with every step it got worse. The air was heavy, filled with the scent of flowers, like aphrodisiacs, and her body screamed for release. “Not now,” she gasped, clenching her teeth, but the waves were building, relentless, a tsunami of desire clouding her mind. She couldn't help herself. She needed it again—not the creatures, not the humiliation, but something of her own, something controllable, to release the pressure before it tore her apart.
She slid down against one of the trees—an ancient giant with smooth, moss-covered bark that shimmered like silk. Her boots sank into the soft ground, and she leaned her back against the trunk, its rough texture a contrast to her soft, sweat-drenched skin. The leaves rustled above her, a soft lullaby of the wilderness, and Lara instinctively spread her legs, her thighs trembling with anticipation. Her hands, still smeared with night, slid down—hesitantly at first, as if she didn't trust herself, then hungrily, demandingly. She touched her breasts first, cupping the heavy orbs, kneading them firmly, her fingers digging into the flesh, tugging at the nipples, rock-hard, sensitive to the point of pain. A moan escaped her lips, deep and animalistic, as she twisted and rolled the tips, the stimulation sending shivers down her spine.
Her right hand wandered lower, over her flat stomach, where muscles twitched as if electrified, to the triangle that glistened moistly. She parted her labia with two fingers, carefully, as if revealing a fragile secret, and gasped—she was wet, so wet, a warm current coating her fingers, the scent of her arousal mingling with the island's aromas. Her clitoris, swollen and throbbing, stood out like a jewel, and Lara circled it, first gently, agonizingly slowly, building pressure until her breath became a gasp. "Oh God... yes," she murmured, the words a prayer to the darkness, as she rubbed harder, circling, pressing flatly, making the nerve endings explode. Her free finger slid lower, plunging into the heat—first one, stretching her, massaging the walls still sensitive from the night's intruders, then two, writhing, searching for the spot that made her tremble. She was fucking herself now, a rhythm that matched her pulse—in, out, deeper, faster, the juices squelching softly, trickling over her hand, running to her ass where the stretching echoed, a reverberation that only intensified the pleasure.
The tree trunk behind her became an anchor; she pressed herself against it, the bark rubbing against her back, against her shoulders, a rough scratching that sharpened the sensations. Her hips lifted, thrusting into her hand as if she were being invisibly fucked, and she imagined—no, she remembered—the creatures, their coldness, their violence, and hated herself for being aroused by them. The fingers inside her curled harder, rubbing her G-spot while her thumb teased her clitoris, a swirl of sensations that tensed her body like a tendon. Sweat broke out again, trickling between her breasts, dripping onto her lap, mingling with the nectar. Her moans grew louder, gasps of "More... please..." the words breaking into a cry as orgasm washed over her—waves radiating from her core, making her muscles twitch, milking her from within, clutching the finger as if it were alive. She came hard, longer than ever before, a tremor that curled her toes in her boots, lifted her breasts, and a warm gush flowed over her hand, wetting the bark, the ground. Lara collapsed, gasping, her hand still inside her as if she didn't want to let go, tears of relief and shame in her eyes.
But then—as the fog lifted and the world became sharp—she pulled herself together. “Enough,” she growled, withdrew her hand, wiped it on a leaf, and stood up, her legs like lead. The jungle seemed to be watching her, vines whipped her, insects stung, but she fought on, hour after hour, with enormous effort. Pain was a constant companion, every step a stab in her buttocks and vagina, reminders of stretching and fullness, but she gritted her teeth, ignoring the aftereffects of pleasure that kept flaring up. It slowly grew light, the sky turned pink and gold, birds sang louder, as if the island were celebrating its triumph. And then, after an eternity—or was it only three hours?—the forest parted, and there lay the bay, the small boat bobbing peacefully in the shallow water, untouched, a glimmer of hope.
Here she stood, faced with the question: to flee or to stay. The sea beckoned, an escape route back to the world where she could heal, re-equip, return—with reinforcements, weapons, a plan. She was certain she'd find a clue to her father's whereabouts; the coin, the ruins, the beasts—everything screamed of secrets he must have uncovered before the island claimed him. Blended together. But what if it was already too late? It would take weeks to get back here. She was here now, and a setback didn't mean she'd failed. The decision hung in the air, heavy as the morning mist.
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Fallen Heroines - Series of events
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LaLia
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Fallen Heroines - Series of events
Last edited by LaLia on Thu Nov 06, 2025 9:53 pm, edited 12 times in total.
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LaLia
- Accomplished Writer
- Graduate
- Posts: 456
- Joined: Mon Feb 24, 2025 5:02 pm
Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
2. - Lara Croft - Island of monsters - Chapter 2
Lara stared at the boat rocking gently in the bay, a symbol of escape and reason, but deep within her burned the flame of Croft curiosity - the one that had driven her through graves and traps, that had consumed her father. “Don’t go,” the wind whispered, but she shook her head, the wet strands clinging to her skin. She stayed. The island would not break them; she would conquer them. She still had spare clothes: a tight crop top made of breathable fabric that emphasized her ample breasts and exposed her flat, toned stomach; a pair of short brown shorts that lay like a second skin over her toned bottom, the seams straining with every movement. She strapped two more pistols—gleaming Berettas, loaded and ready—in the holster around her hips, ammo pouches rattled softly, and a knife stuck to the back of her belt. She put a second flashlight, sturdy and waterproof, in her pocket. And then, as a final bulwark against the invisibles: a bottle of tablets that an old acquaintance - a doctor from the archaeological circles who had studied poisons in Syria - had given her. "Against all sorts of toxic gases," he had said, "from mustard gas to ancient mists. Neutralizes the neurotransmitters that mess with the body." Lara swallowed one, dry and bitter, feeling it settles in her stomach. Did that work here too? The poisoning from last night was still noticeable, although not as strong - a dull throbbing in her veins, the tingling in her skin that flared up with every touch of clothing, a whisper of pleasure that she wanted to ignore. It didn't leave, lurking like a shadow.
Then, after a short pause, Lara set off again; the sun was high, a merciless hammer that turned the jungle into a steam bath. Sweat was already beading on her skin, running down between her breasts where the crop top dampened and adjusted, revealing the contours of her nipples. The shorts rubbed against her bottom with every step, a rub that made her tingle, but she gritted her teeth and marched east, away from the temple. “No repeat,” she murmured. She looked for other clues - old maps in Father's notes had spoken of a mountain range, of traces of a forgotten dynasty that led deeper into the island. The path became rocky, the jungle cleared, and soon she encountered a bare, stony mountain range: jagged rocks that stood up like the bones of a giant, wind whipping up sand and gravel. The air was drier here, sharp with the smell of quartz and dust. Lara climbed, her muscles tensing under the tight fabric, sweat running down her back, pooling in the waistband of her pants.
Then the first traces: a broken obsidian arrow, half buried in the sand, marked with runes that twisted like snakes. She knelt down, brushed off the dust, her heart pounding - it was old, prehistoric, like the coin. Artifacts continued: a shattered dagger, its blade gleaming from an unknown metal; Footprints, not human, but broad and claw-like, carved into the rock as if they were meant to last forever. Lara followed them, a long march over scree fields and narrow passes, the sun burning on her exposed skin, the crop top now sticking like a second layer, her breasts rising and falling heavily with every breath. The tingling became stronger, a tightening in her abdomen that reminded her of the night, the stretch, the fullness. In a narrow gorge - walls of red sandstone that closed like teeth - the path ended abruptly before an inconspicuous entrance: a crack under a massive ledge that swallowed light like a hungry mouth.
Once there, she felt her excitement again, a whisper that came from the poisoning - or was it the island itself? The heat between her thighs, the throbbing that was making her wet, the shorts now uncomfortably tight. She wondered if it would be smart to masturbate herself first - a quick moment of relief to think clearly, like yesterday at the tree. Her hand instinctively slid down, touching the fabric, but she shook her head, clenching her fist. “Focus, Lara,” she hissed to herself, the words an anchor in the storm. The task was more important: Father's trail, the secrets. With a deep breath, she drew both pistols, the handles cold and familiar in her hands, and entered the nondescript entrance. She was prepared to encounter the creatures again - those gray shapes that seemed to be able to smell her lust, scent her weaknesses like predators. Every shadow was an enemy, every breath of wind a whisper, but... she was alone. The ravine reverberated with only its own echo, the dripping of water distant.
Lara looked around: nothing at first, just rubble and empty rocks piled up in the narrow space like a grave. She felt her way forward, cautiously, her boots crunching on splinters, her eyes searching for patterns, for runes. Then, after some time - minutes that seemed like hours - she noticed it: a shrine, small and hidden in a niche, which seemed to glow in the shining sunlight. Rays filtered through two narrow hatches near the entrance, hitting polished stone that shimmered golden, surrounded by reliefs of beasts - not the gray monsters, but noble, mythical creatures, with horns and scales, dancing in ecstasy.
She examined everything closely, kneeling down, her fingers gliding over the surface - smooth, warm, as if it were alive. She looked for clues: engraved symbols that looked like a map, symbols that resembled Father's handwriting; a small alcove, empty, as if something was missing. “Careful,” she thought to herself, “not another trap.” No pressure point, no loose plate - she didn't touch anything that could trigger it, kept her distance, scanned every corner with the lamp.
Suddenly the earth shook. A deep rumble rose from the rock as if the island itself was growling, stones broke from the ceiling, pelting down deadly rain, dust hung in the air, thick and suffocating. “Fuck, that doesn’t sound good,” Lara muttered to herself, coughing and backing away, pistols raised. The entrance closed as if by magic - a massive chunk slid down from above, blocking the gap with a deafening crash, clouds of dust pouring out. The two hatches that let in light cracked and closed, panels sliding in front of them as if invisible hands. And then... the water. It ran from the walls, from small cracks that opened like wounds, a whisper at first, then a murmur that quickly grew. Lara hadn't touched anything, hadn't triggered anything - was it the shrine? The air? She felt panic rising, a lump in her throat as the cold water surrounded her boots, rising and slapping against her calves.
Water poured from the walls everywhere, an unstoppable torrent, rising rapidly—soon reaching Lara's shorts, soaking the fabric that clung to her bottom, cold and sticky. It climbed higher, lapping at her hips, the holster growing heavy. At this rate, she had only minutes to find a way out—she pounded against the walls, groped for levers, fired a shot that produced only echoes and shrapnel. Her heart raced, sweat mingling with the water that now caressed her breasts, making her crop top see-through.
Then, when the water had reached her neck—cold, oppressive, making breathing a struggle—she noticed the light source that had illuminated the shrine. The hatches were closed, but the beams... they were coming from above, a faint glimmer through cracks in the ceiling. "Of course," she thought, a spark of hope amidst the panic. She could wait now—the water automatically swept her upwards, up into the room, carrying her like a doll, her arms flailing, searching for purchase. The shrine disappeared beneath the surface, then her shoulders, and she treaded water, the heavy belt pulling her down, but she fought her way back up until her fingers found a hatch. With her last bit of strength, she pried it open, water splashed, and she pulled herself up, gasping, soaked, into a narrow shaft.
Once there, she took a deep breath, gasped for air, coughed up the water that had seeped into her lungs. "Saved," she thought, a faint smile on her lips, her pulse still pounding. She just had to climb out—the shaft was steep, but climbable, her fingers searching for handholds in the cracks, her boots bracing themselves. But suddenly... she felt a pull. Something invisible, powerful, like a hand from the depths, gripped her ankles—cold, slimy, strong? She tried to hold on, nails dug into the stone, but the pull was too strong, merciless. The water splashed again, a final deep breath as she was dragged down into the abyss, darkness enveloping her, the shaft a coffin of water and stone.
Lara recognized it now, as it pulled her into the depths—they were tentacles holding her ankles. No thicker than a rattlesnake, slimy and black, with skin that pulsed like leather underwater, they had wrapped themselves several times around her leg, a vise of flesh and suction cup that tightened the more she struggled. The water swirled around her, bubbling in her ears, and she emerged, panicking, her lungs burning from the last breath. Her free hand groped blindly for the knife she had worn on her belt before the tide came in. The blade slid out, a silver flash in the darkness, and she brought it down, cutting into the flesh of a vine. A hiss, a spurt of ink-like fluid, and the grip loosened for a moment. But already other tentacles had seized her arm—first the right, the one with the knife, wrapping around it like ropes, pulling the weapon from her numb fingers, letting her sink into the depths. Then the left arm, a second attack, and now she hung there, held by four limbs, spread out like an X in the water, adrift and helpless.
More tendrils emerged from the shadows underwater, a nest of tentacles populating the darkness. One, thicker than the previous ones—a muscular strand as broad as her upper arm, with suckers gaping like hungry mouths—clawed her throat. She gagged instantly, a pressure that constricted her windpipe, stars exploding before her eyes, and consciousness fading in a swirl of cold and pressure. The world went black, the water a final, suffocating kiss.
Then the water vanished—as if an invisible plug had been pulled, it flowed away into hidden channels and collected in several shafts, a gurgling roar that faded into the distance. Lara fell to the ground, a hard impact on wet stone that took her breath away, made her cough, and spat up water. When she came to, she was lying at the edge of a pool—a deep shaft now filled with water, still and black like a mirror of the underworld, just centimeters below her head. She felt the tentacles turn her onto her back, roughly and methodically, her shoulders pressing against the cold rock, her head hanging over the edge, her hair slipping into the water, dancing like seaweed in the current. Before her eyes—only millimeters away—tentacles danced: thin, sharp tips breaking from the surface, bobbing, searching, as if they could sense her panic, her heat.
Lara tried to reach her weapons—the holster hung crookedly at her hip, soaked and heavy. Her fingers stretched out; she had just reached one of the pistol grips, the metal cold and familiar beneath her palm, as if one of the tentacles were forcing its way into her mouth. Short, deep—an intruder that parted her lips, slid across her tongue, plunged into her throat, and retreated. Then the second, the third… alternating, again and again, a cruel carousel of extension and withdrawal. When Lara tried to turn away, to shake her head, she was pulled back by more tendrils—loops around her cheeks, fixing her skull in place. She still gripped the handle of her pistol, her fingers clenched around it, but she was unable to draw it; something—a thin tendril around her wrist—held her fast, a steel band of flesh. She gasped, a choking sound that vibrated in her throat, her saliva running down her face, cascading in hot streams over her cheeks and chin, mingling with the salty taste of the tentacles.
But then Lara was pulled upright—a tentacle at her neck, thicker than the others, now gripped her, a ring of pulsating flesh that rationed her air, hoisting her up like a marionette. Lara reached for it, her free hand clawing at the slippery mass, trying to free it, pulling with nails that dug into her skin—but it held fast, unyielding, while thinner loops squeezed and pinched her nipples, hardening the tips beneath the wet fabric. Other tendrils forced their way up into her trousers, slipping under the waistband, groping over her thighs, moist and insistent. Lara's eyes flickered in panic, green and wild, as her trousers and belt were pulled down—the fabric slid over her buttocks, revealing her bare skin, her shorts hanging at her knees, useless, while the pistols clattered to the floor, out of reach.
Then two more tentacles tugged at her wrists, pulled her arms above her head, stretched them out, making her even more defenseless—a grip that fixed her, strained her shoulders, and made her breasts lift, straining tightly beneath the wet crop top, her nipples pressing against the fabric. The tentacles exposed her breasts; claw-like tips caught in the hem, tearing the fabric apart with a sharp rip, revealing the ample orbs, heavy and glistening with water, their rosy tips hard with cold—or was it the poisoning that had awakened them? Lara looked for her weapons, searching for a way out, her gaze darting across the floor where the Berettas lay, but the thinner tentacles now spread her legs, forcing her thighs apart, while others roughly squeezed her breasts, kneading them like dough, and still others touched her nipples—fine points that circled, plucked, a touch that shot through her like electric shocks. She was trapped in a horror, a web of living flesh, and yet she had to take a deep breath; the poison was still in her system, a toxin that intensified the irritation, the touch of her nipples made her tremble, a shiver that traveled from her chest to her stomach, where the heat flared up, unwanted, unwelcome.
She fought against her body's reactions. Water beaded on her skin, trickled down between her breasts, pooled in her navel—as the thin tips of the tentacles touched her nipples and clitoris. Her clitoris, swollen with touch, throbbed like a second heart, and Lara bit her lip, suppressing a moan rising in her throat, fighting the wave that threatened to engulf her.
Then the next tentacle emerged from the water... a tube, tapering like a glans, dripping with water and another fluid—thick, pearly, oozing from its tip—and as thick as a forearm, a monster of flesh that broke the surface like a submarine. "Oh shit," Lara murmured, her voice a hoarse whisper, panicking a knot in her chest.
Like a snake, this tentacle crept toward Lara; It was green, not black like the other tentacles, whose ends were more pointed—this one had a curved, pulsating shape, with veins that throbbed beneath the skin. Then it appeared before Lara's mouth, the tip of its glans pressing against her lips, smearing the fluid over them, a taste of salt and something sweet, seductive. Lara pressed her lips together, shook her head, wildly, desperately, but like creatures in the night, the tentacle increased its pressure while other loops squeezed and twisted her nipples, when suddenly Lara's head was pulled back by her hair—a jerk that bent her neck, parted her lips. Her resistance broke, a whimper escaped her, and the tentacle, which looked like a cock, felt like one, and tasted like one—warm, slippery—forced its way into Lara's mouth and began to fuck her. Slowly at first, then deeper, thrusting, stretching, until it filled her throat.
No matter what she tried—squirming, biting, gagging—she couldn't free herself, and so the smacking sound and her gasps filled the room. She barely touched the stones beneath her with her toes as more tentacles with sharp ends forced their way between her legs, and one slid inside her—smooth, twitching, stretching her pussy, filling it with a slow glide that blended pain and pleasure. Her mouth filled, she could only gasp, a muffled rasp, while the splashing in the water behind her boded ill—waves growing stronger, as if something larger were rising.
Lara saw another version: tentacles with four grasping pincers, brownish-pale, like rotten wood, slid around, grabbed her breasts, clasped them as if with four fingers at once. And with that, she felt pain, something like a thorn burrowing into her nipples on both sides—fine spines penetrating, sucking as if extracting something. Lara wanted to scream, arched her back, but the tentacle was deep in her throat, fucking relentlessly, thrusting, pulsing, while her breasts were massaged, the grasping pincers twisting, pulling, a pulling that turned into sucking.
Then it poured into her mouth, her throat—masses of a viscous liquid that tasted indefinable, reeked of ammonia, sharp and chemical, like a burning poison. Lara had no choice but to swallow, gagging it down, spurt after spurt, until her belly swelled, heavy with liters of the mass, before that fucking tentacle withdrew, sliding from her mouth, disappearing into the water with a splash. The thinner snake from her pussy also retreated, leaving a throbbing emptiness. What remained were those non-human hands, clutching her breasts like an octopus, sucking at her nipples and massaging them—squeezing, milking, a rhythm that lasted seconds, minutes, until they released. Milk—or something like it, white and creamy—dribbled from Lara's nipples, trickling down her skin in thin rivulets. As the grip on her hands also loosened, she crumpled.
For a moment, Lara stood, her knees like jelly, the semen that had dribbled from her mouth running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts, her stomach bloating with the weight, a pressure that made her feel overfull. She breathed for a few seconds, gasping, coughing, the air tasting sweet with freedom, and then fell—a collapse onto the rock that was painful, but welcome.
Lara saw the knife, not far away, just reach out her arm… her fingertips touched it, grazed the handle, a spark of hope, but then there was that iron grip on her ankle again, holding her back—a tentacle that wound around her ankle, pulling, turning her onto her stomach. She tried to turn, to break free, kicking, her nails scraping against the rock, but more tentacles were there again, a swarm from the depths. “Not anymore,” she whimpered, her voice shaky and broken, but already they were pulling her buttocks apart—rough loops that spread the flesh, exposing it, and seconds later two of the thinner tentacles were inside her. It was too much, a burning, a tearing that made her gasp; the pleasure faded more and more, the humiliation of the animalistic rape won out, tears burned in her eyes.
Two tentacles, these ones that tapered to a point at their ends, not phallic in shape but simply resembling blunt vines, forced their way into her anus, deep and painful, stretching, thrusting, a rhythm that made her gasp, while others pulled her legs apart, spreading them wide. Her breasts kissed the cold rock, flattening them, rubbing the sensitive nipples raw against the stone. She was now only supporting herself on her elbows, her arms trembling, her belly sloshing with each thrust.
Then another tentacle, even thicker than the one in her mouth, forced its way into her pussy and thrust brutally—a battering ram of flesh that filled her, stretched her to the limit, a pain that, despite everything, turned into ecstasy. Lara nearly lost consciousness, stars dancing before her eyes. “Oh God!” she screamed as her ass and pussy trembled under deep, wild thrusts—a double assault that shook her to her core, waves of overstimulation that made her body quiver.
She was pulled up, forced to her knees, but her arms were held out to the sides—loops around her wrists that fixed them, tightening them, so that the thrusts now made her breasts bounce, faster the harder she was fucked. Milk spurted from her nipples with every thrust, sweat flew, and Lara's gasps filled the room.
Lara was fucked repeatedly, the tentacles seemingly endless—a tireless army of flesh and desire gushing from the depths of the pool as if the island itself were sacrificing her. Kneeling in this position with her arms stretched out to her sides, they held her fast as the thick snakes pounded into her ass and pussy, a brutal rhythm that shook her, making her breasts bounce like pendulums of agony. Milk spurted from her nipples with every thrust, mingling with the sweat pouring down her face and the viscous fluid that oozed from every orifice as one tendril gave way to another.
Then they changed position, turning her like a doll: lying on her back, her arms fixed above her head, one tentacle inside her pussy, fucking her deep and mercilessly, stretching her to the breaking point, while a second approached from above, dripping and pulsating, filling her mouth—a cock from the underworld that took her throat, making her gasp, saliva and semen mixed together, running down her face. Her legs were spread, held by thinner tendrils that squeezed her thighs, and she stared into the twilight of the hatch high above, where the light was fading, the day fading into sunset. Time slipped away in a haze of thrusts and ejaculations—minutes stretching into hours, her body coated in the creature's semen, sticky and warm, oozing from her mouth, her pussy, her ass, forming puddles on the rock, making her skin glistening and smeared, as if she'd been immersed in a bath of corruption. For over two hours now, it had been raping her, relentlessly, and Lara's mind flickered on the brink of collapse, her will a spark in the tide.
But in a moment of paralysis—as the tentacles paused, perhaps to gather strength, perhaps to torment her—her gaze drifted to the side. There, just an arm's length away, lay one of the Berettas, its barrel resting in the shallow water at the edge of the pool. The noose around her wrist loosened, only for a few seconds, as the creature pulsed, distracted by her throbbing body. Lara's fingers stretched, trembling, ignoring the tugging in her muscles, the burning in her orifices—centimeter by centimeter, nails scraping against stone until they found the handle, cold and comforting. With a final, desperate jerk—a scream drowned in a gurgle—she yanked out the pistol, the shot ripping through the shaft, a deafening crack that made the walls tremble.
The bullet didn't hit flesh, but the source: a thick root emerging from the water where the tentacles were born—a splintering, a hissing, as if the island itself were howling. The tendrils twitched, detached abruptly, whipping wildly through the air like a wounded snake before retreating, sliding into the depths, a final sucking sound that faded into the darkness. The creature didn't flee dead, but was driven away—a shadow that lurked, perhaps waiting for weakness. Lara collapsed, the pistol still clutched in her hand, gasping, her body a wreck of oozing fluid and bruises, her breasts heavy and leaking, the holes throbbing with emptiness. She crawled, rolled away from the edge, pressed herself against the wall, and wept—not from weakness, but from pure relief.
The hatch high above was now a dark oval, the moon casting silver streaks into the shaft, and Lara forced herself to her feet, naked except for the ripped shorts hanging around her ankles. She gathered what she could: the second pistol, the knife lying in a puddle, and climbed—bloody, trembling, but Croft, unbreakable. The climb out of the ravine was a nightmare; rocks tore at her skin, but she made it, bursting into the open air where the night air was cool and pure, the jungle whispered around her. She stumbled to the boat, washed away the marks, bandaged her wounds with scraps of her clothing, and swallowed the last poison tablet, which dulled the tingling but didn't extinguish it. The island lay still, but she knew: It wasn't over.
In the morning, Lara sat by the fire, her pistols loaded, the ammunition counted—too little. She stared into the flames, the scars on her soul as fresh as those on her skin. Had she found a clue to her father's whereabouts? The shrine, the runes—yes, fragments of a map burning in her mind. But the question gnawed at her: Could she escape? The boat waited, the sea a gateway to a world where help, healing, and revenge awaited. Or was she trapped here forever, a plaything of the beasts that slept and awoke, hungry for her essence?
Lara stared at the boat rocking gently in the bay, a symbol of escape and reason, but deep within her burned the flame of Croft curiosity - the one that had driven her through graves and traps, that had consumed her father. “Don’t go,” the wind whispered, but she shook her head, the wet strands clinging to her skin. She stayed. The island would not break them; she would conquer them. She still had spare clothes: a tight crop top made of breathable fabric that emphasized her ample breasts and exposed her flat, toned stomach; a pair of short brown shorts that lay like a second skin over her toned bottom, the seams straining with every movement. She strapped two more pistols—gleaming Berettas, loaded and ready—in the holster around her hips, ammo pouches rattled softly, and a knife stuck to the back of her belt. She put a second flashlight, sturdy and waterproof, in her pocket. And then, as a final bulwark against the invisibles: a bottle of tablets that an old acquaintance - a doctor from the archaeological circles who had studied poisons in Syria - had given her. "Against all sorts of toxic gases," he had said, "from mustard gas to ancient mists. Neutralizes the neurotransmitters that mess with the body." Lara swallowed one, dry and bitter, feeling it settles in her stomach. Did that work here too? The poisoning from last night was still noticeable, although not as strong - a dull throbbing in her veins, the tingling in her skin that flared up with every touch of clothing, a whisper of pleasure that she wanted to ignore. It didn't leave, lurking like a shadow.
Then, after a short pause, Lara set off again; the sun was high, a merciless hammer that turned the jungle into a steam bath. Sweat was already beading on her skin, running down between her breasts where the crop top dampened and adjusted, revealing the contours of her nipples. The shorts rubbed against her bottom with every step, a rub that made her tingle, but she gritted her teeth and marched east, away from the temple. “No repeat,” she murmured. She looked for other clues - old maps in Father's notes had spoken of a mountain range, of traces of a forgotten dynasty that led deeper into the island. The path became rocky, the jungle cleared, and soon she encountered a bare, stony mountain range: jagged rocks that stood up like the bones of a giant, wind whipping up sand and gravel. The air was drier here, sharp with the smell of quartz and dust. Lara climbed, her muscles tensing under the tight fabric, sweat running down her back, pooling in the waistband of her pants.
Then the first traces: a broken obsidian arrow, half buried in the sand, marked with runes that twisted like snakes. She knelt down, brushed off the dust, her heart pounding - it was old, prehistoric, like the coin. Artifacts continued: a shattered dagger, its blade gleaming from an unknown metal; Footprints, not human, but broad and claw-like, carved into the rock as if they were meant to last forever. Lara followed them, a long march over scree fields and narrow passes, the sun burning on her exposed skin, the crop top now sticking like a second layer, her breasts rising and falling heavily with every breath. The tingling became stronger, a tightening in her abdomen that reminded her of the night, the stretch, the fullness. In a narrow gorge - walls of red sandstone that closed like teeth - the path ended abruptly before an inconspicuous entrance: a crack under a massive ledge that swallowed light like a hungry mouth.
Once there, she felt her excitement again, a whisper that came from the poisoning - or was it the island itself? The heat between her thighs, the throbbing that was making her wet, the shorts now uncomfortably tight. She wondered if it would be smart to masturbate herself first - a quick moment of relief to think clearly, like yesterday at the tree. Her hand instinctively slid down, touching the fabric, but she shook her head, clenching her fist. “Focus, Lara,” she hissed to herself, the words an anchor in the storm. The task was more important: Father's trail, the secrets. With a deep breath, she drew both pistols, the handles cold and familiar in her hands, and entered the nondescript entrance. She was prepared to encounter the creatures again - those gray shapes that seemed to be able to smell her lust, scent her weaknesses like predators. Every shadow was an enemy, every breath of wind a whisper, but... she was alone. The ravine reverberated with only its own echo, the dripping of water distant.
Lara looked around: nothing at first, just rubble and empty rocks piled up in the narrow space like a grave. She felt her way forward, cautiously, her boots crunching on splinters, her eyes searching for patterns, for runes. Then, after some time - minutes that seemed like hours - she noticed it: a shrine, small and hidden in a niche, which seemed to glow in the shining sunlight. Rays filtered through two narrow hatches near the entrance, hitting polished stone that shimmered golden, surrounded by reliefs of beasts - not the gray monsters, but noble, mythical creatures, with horns and scales, dancing in ecstasy.
She examined everything closely, kneeling down, her fingers gliding over the surface - smooth, warm, as if it were alive. She looked for clues: engraved symbols that looked like a map, symbols that resembled Father's handwriting; a small alcove, empty, as if something was missing. “Careful,” she thought to herself, “not another trap.” No pressure point, no loose plate - she didn't touch anything that could trigger it, kept her distance, scanned every corner with the lamp.
Suddenly the earth shook. A deep rumble rose from the rock as if the island itself was growling, stones broke from the ceiling, pelting down deadly rain, dust hung in the air, thick and suffocating. “Fuck, that doesn’t sound good,” Lara muttered to herself, coughing and backing away, pistols raised. The entrance closed as if by magic - a massive chunk slid down from above, blocking the gap with a deafening crash, clouds of dust pouring out. The two hatches that let in light cracked and closed, panels sliding in front of them as if invisible hands. And then... the water. It ran from the walls, from small cracks that opened like wounds, a whisper at first, then a murmur that quickly grew. Lara hadn't touched anything, hadn't triggered anything - was it the shrine? The air? She felt panic rising, a lump in her throat as the cold water surrounded her boots, rising and slapping against her calves.
Water poured from the walls everywhere, an unstoppable torrent, rising rapidly—soon reaching Lara's shorts, soaking the fabric that clung to her bottom, cold and sticky. It climbed higher, lapping at her hips, the holster growing heavy. At this rate, she had only minutes to find a way out—she pounded against the walls, groped for levers, fired a shot that produced only echoes and shrapnel. Her heart raced, sweat mingling with the water that now caressed her breasts, making her crop top see-through.
Then, when the water had reached her neck—cold, oppressive, making breathing a struggle—she noticed the light source that had illuminated the shrine. The hatches were closed, but the beams... they were coming from above, a faint glimmer through cracks in the ceiling. "Of course," she thought, a spark of hope amidst the panic. She could wait now—the water automatically swept her upwards, up into the room, carrying her like a doll, her arms flailing, searching for purchase. The shrine disappeared beneath the surface, then her shoulders, and she treaded water, the heavy belt pulling her down, but she fought her way back up until her fingers found a hatch. With her last bit of strength, she pried it open, water splashed, and she pulled herself up, gasping, soaked, into a narrow shaft.
Once there, she took a deep breath, gasped for air, coughed up the water that had seeped into her lungs. "Saved," she thought, a faint smile on her lips, her pulse still pounding. She just had to climb out—the shaft was steep, but climbable, her fingers searching for handholds in the cracks, her boots bracing themselves. But suddenly... she felt a pull. Something invisible, powerful, like a hand from the depths, gripped her ankles—cold, slimy, strong? She tried to hold on, nails dug into the stone, but the pull was too strong, merciless. The water splashed again, a final deep breath as she was dragged down into the abyss, darkness enveloping her, the shaft a coffin of water and stone.
Lara recognized it now, as it pulled her into the depths—they were tentacles holding her ankles. No thicker than a rattlesnake, slimy and black, with skin that pulsed like leather underwater, they had wrapped themselves several times around her leg, a vise of flesh and suction cup that tightened the more she struggled. The water swirled around her, bubbling in her ears, and she emerged, panicking, her lungs burning from the last breath. Her free hand groped blindly for the knife she had worn on her belt before the tide came in. The blade slid out, a silver flash in the darkness, and she brought it down, cutting into the flesh of a vine. A hiss, a spurt of ink-like fluid, and the grip loosened for a moment. But already other tentacles had seized her arm—first the right, the one with the knife, wrapping around it like ropes, pulling the weapon from her numb fingers, letting her sink into the depths. Then the left arm, a second attack, and now she hung there, held by four limbs, spread out like an X in the water, adrift and helpless.
More tendrils emerged from the shadows underwater, a nest of tentacles populating the darkness. One, thicker than the previous ones—a muscular strand as broad as her upper arm, with suckers gaping like hungry mouths—clawed her throat. She gagged instantly, a pressure that constricted her windpipe, stars exploding before her eyes, and consciousness fading in a swirl of cold and pressure. The world went black, the water a final, suffocating kiss.
Then the water vanished—as if an invisible plug had been pulled, it flowed away into hidden channels and collected in several shafts, a gurgling roar that faded into the distance. Lara fell to the ground, a hard impact on wet stone that took her breath away, made her cough, and spat up water. When she came to, she was lying at the edge of a pool—a deep shaft now filled with water, still and black like a mirror of the underworld, just centimeters below her head. She felt the tentacles turn her onto her back, roughly and methodically, her shoulders pressing against the cold rock, her head hanging over the edge, her hair slipping into the water, dancing like seaweed in the current. Before her eyes—only millimeters away—tentacles danced: thin, sharp tips breaking from the surface, bobbing, searching, as if they could sense her panic, her heat.
Lara tried to reach her weapons—the holster hung crookedly at her hip, soaked and heavy. Her fingers stretched out; she had just reached one of the pistol grips, the metal cold and familiar beneath her palm, as if one of the tentacles were forcing its way into her mouth. Short, deep—an intruder that parted her lips, slid across her tongue, plunged into her throat, and retreated. Then the second, the third… alternating, again and again, a cruel carousel of extension and withdrawal. When Lara tried to turn away, to shake her head, she was pulled back by more tendrils—loops around her cheeks, fixing her skull in place. She still gripped the handle of her pistol, her fingers clenched around it, but she was unable to draw it; something—a thin tendril around her wrist—held her fast, a steel band of flesh. She gasped, a choking sound that vibrated in her throat, her saliva running down her face, cascading in hot streams over her cheeks and chin, mingling with the salty taste of the tentacles.
But then Lara was pulled upright—a tentacle at her neck, thicker than the others, now gripped her, a ring of pulsating flesh that rationed her air, hoisting her up like a marionette. Lara reached for it, her free hand clawing at the slippery mass, trying to free it, pulling with nails that dug into her skin—but it held fast, unyielding, while thinner loops squeezed and pinched her nipples, hardening the tips beneath the wet fabric. Other tendrils forced their way up into her trousers, slipping under the waistband, groping over her thighs, moist and insistent. Lara's eyes flickered in panic, green and wild, as her trousers and belt were pulled down—the fabric slid over her buttocks, revealing her bare skin, her shorts hanging at her knees, useless, while the pistols clattered to the floor, out of reach.
Then two more tentacles tugged at her wrists, pulled her arms above her head, stretched them out, making her even more defenseless—a grip that fixed her, strained her shoulders, and made her breasts lift, straining tightly beneath the wet crop top, her nipples pressing against the fabric. The tentacles exposed her breasts; claw-like tips caught in the hem, tearing the fabric apart with a sharp rip, revealing the ample orbs, heavy and glistening with water, their rosy tips hard with cold—or was it the poisoning that had awakened them? Lara looked for her weapons, searching for a way out, her gaze darting across the floor where the Berettas lay, but the thinner tentacles now spread her legs, forcing her thighs apart, while others roughly squeezed her breasts, kneading them like dough, and still others touched her nipples—fine points that circled, plucked, a touch that shot through her like electric shocks. She was trapped in a horror, a web of living flesh, and yet she had to take a deep breath; the poison was still in her system, a toxin that intensified the irritation, the touch of her nipples made her tremble, a shiver that traveled from her chest to her stomach, where the heat flared up, unwanted, unwelcome.
She fought against her body's reactions. Water beaded on her skin, trickled down between her breasts, pooled in her navel—as the thin tips of the tentacles touched her nipples and clitoris. Her clitoris, swollen with touch, throbbed like a second heart, and Lara bit her lip, suppressing a moan rising in her throat, fighting the wave that threatened to engulf her.
Then the next tentacle emerged from the water... a tube, tapering like a glans, dripping with water and another fluid—thick, pearly, oozing from its tip—and as thick as a forearm, a monster of flesh that broke the surface like a submarine. "Oh shit," Lara murmured, her voice a hoarse whisper, panicking a knot in her chest.
Like a snake, this tentacle crept toward Lara; It was green, not black like the other tentacles, whose ends were more pointed—this one had a curved, pulsating shape, with veins that throbbed beneath the skin. Then it appeared before Lara's mouth, the tip of its glans pressing against her lips, smearing the fluid over them, a taste of salt and something sweet, seductive. Lara pressed her lips together, shook her head, wildly, desperately, but like creatures in the night, the tentacle increased its pressure while other loops squeezed and twisted her nipples, when suddenly Lara's head was pulled back by her hair—a jerk that bent her neck, parted her lips. Her resistance broke, a whimper escaped her, and the tentacle, which looked like a cock, felt like one, and tasted like one—warm, slippery—forced its way into Lara's mouth and began to fuck her. Slowly at first, then deeper, thrusting, stretching, until it filled her throat.
No matter what she tried—squirming, biting, gagging—she couldn't free herself, and so the smacking sound and her gasps filled the room. She barely touched the stones beneath her with her toes as more tentacles with sharp ends forced their way between her legs, and one slid inside her—smooth, twitching, stretching her pussy, filling it with a slow glide that blended pain and pleasure. Her mouth filled, she could only gasp, a muffled rasp, while the splashing in the water behind her boded ill—waves growing stronger, as if something larger were rising.
Lara saw another version: tentacles with four grasping pincers, brownish-pale, like rotten wood, slid around, grabbed her breasts, clasped them as if with four fingers at once. And with that, she felt pain, something like a thorn burrowing into her nipples on both sides—fine spines penetrating, sucking as if extracting something. Lara wanted to scream, arched her back, but the tentacle was deep in her throat, fucking relentlessly, thrusting, pulsing, while her breasts were massaged, the grasping pincers twisting, pulling, a pulling that turned into sucking.
Then it poured into her mouth, her throat—masses of a viscous liquid that tasted indefinable, reeked of ammonia, sharp and chemical, like a burning poison. Lara had no choice but to swallow, gagging it down, spurt after spurt, until her belly swelled, heavy with liters of the mass, before that fucking tentacle withdrew, sliding from her mouth, disappearing into the water with a splash. The thinner snake from her pussy also retreated, leaving a throbbing emptiness. What remained were those non-human hands, clutching her breasts like an octopus, sucking at her nipples and massaging them—squeezing, milking, a rhythm that lasted seconds, minutes, until they released. Milk—or something like it, white and creamy—dribbled from Lara's nipples, trickling down her skin in thin rivulets. As the grip on her hands also loosened, she crumpled.
For a moment, Lara stood, her knees like jelly, the semen that had dribbled from her mouth running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts, her stomach bloating with the weight, a pressure that made her feel overfull. She breathed for a few seconds, gasping, coughing, the air tasting sweet with freedom, and then fell—a collapse onto the rock that was painful, but welcome.
Lara saw the knife, not far away, just reach out her arm… her fingertips touched it, grazed the handle, a spark of hope, but then there was that iron grip on her ankle again, holding her back—a tentacle that wound around her ankle, pulling, turning her onto her stomach. She tried to turn, to break free, kicking, her nails scraping against the rock, but more tentacles were there again, a swarm from the depths. “Not anymore,” she whimpered, her voice shaky and broken, but already they were pulling her buttocks apart—rough loops that spread the flesh, exposing it, and seconds later two of the thinner tentacles were inside her. It was too much, a burning, a tearing that made her gasp; the pleasure faded more and more, the humiliation of the animalistic rape won out, tears burned in her eyes.
Two tentacles, these ones that tapered to a point at their ends, not phallic in shape but simply resembling blunt vines, forced their way into her anus, deep and painful, stretching, thrusting, a rhythm that made her gasp, while others pulled her legs apart, spreading them wide. Her breasts kissed the cold rock, flattening them, rubbing the sensitive nipples raw against the stone. She was now only supporting herself on her elbows, her arms trembling, her belly sloshing with each thrust.
Then another tentacle, even thicker than the one in her mouth, forced its way into her pussy and thrust brutally—a battering ram of flesh that filled her, stretched her to the limit, a pain that, despite everything, turned into ecstasy. Lara nearly lost consciousness, stars dancing before her eyes. “Oh God!” she screamed as her ass and pussy trembled under deep, wild thrusts—a double assault that shook her to her core, waves of overstimulation that made her body quiver.
She was pulled up, forced to her knees, but her arms were held out to the sides—loops around her wrists that fixed them, tightening them, so that the thrusts now made her breasts bounce, faster the harder she was fucked. Milk spurted from her nipples with every thrust, sweat flew, and Lara's gasps filled the room.
Lara was fucked repeatedly, the tentacles seemingly endless—a tireless army of flesh and desire gushing from the depths of the pool as if the island itself were sacrificing her. Kneeling in this position with her arms stretched out to her sides, they held her fast as the thick snakes pounded into her ass and pussy, a brutal rhythm that shook her, making her breasts bounce like pendulums of agony. Milk spurted from her nipples with every thrust, mingling with the sweat pouring down her face and the viscous fluid that oozed from every orifice as one tendril gave way to another.
Then they changed position, turning her like a doll: lying on her back, her arms fixed above her head, one tentacle inside her pussy, fucking her deep and mercilessly, stretching her to the breaking point, while a second approached from above, dripping and pulsating, filling her mouth—a cock from the underworld that took her throat, making her gasp, saliva and semen mixed together, running down her face. Her legs were spread, held by thinner tendrils that squeezed her thighs, and she stared into the twilight of the hatch high above, where the light was fading, the day fading into sunset. Time slipped away in a haze of thrusts and ejaculations—minutes stretching into hours, her body coated in the creature's semen, sticky and warm, oozing from her mouth, her pussy, her ass, forming puddles on the rock, making her skin glistening and smeared, as if she'd been immersed in a bath of corruption. For over two hours now, it had been raping her, relentlessly, and Lara's mind flickered on the brink of collapse, her will a spark in the tide.
But in a moment of paralysis—as the tentacles paused, perhaps to gather strength, perhaps to torment her—her gaze drifted to the side. There, just an arm's length away, lay one of the Berettas, its barrel resting in the shallow water at the edge of the pool. The noose around her wrist loosened, only for a few seconds, as the creature pulsed, distracted by her throbbing body. Lara's fingers stretched, trembling, ignoring the tugging in her muscles, the burning in her orifices—centimeter by centimeter, nails scraping against stone until they found the handle, cold and comforting. With a final, desperate jerk—a scream drowned in a gurgle—she yanked out the pistol, the shot ripping through the shaft, a deafening crack that made the walls tremble.
The bullet didn't hit flesh, but the source: a thick root emerging from the water where the tentacles were born—a splintering, a hissing, as if the island itself were howling. The tendrils twitched, detached abruptly, whipping wildly through the air like a wounded snake before retreating, sliding into the depths, a final sucking sound that faded into the darkness. The creature didn't flee dead, but was driven away—a shadow that lurked, perhaps waiting for weakness. Lara collapsed, the pistol still clutched in her hand, gasping, her body a wreck of oozing fluid and bruises, her breasts heavy and leaking, the holes throbbing with emptiness. She crawled, rolled away from the edge, pressed herself against the wall, and wept—not from weakness, but from pure relief.
The hatch high above was now a dark oval, the moon casting silver streaks into the shaft, and Lara forced herself to her feet, naked except for the ripped shorts hanging around her ankles. She gathered what she could: the second pistol, the knife lying in a puddle, and climbed—bloody, trembling, but Croft, unbreakable. The climb out of the ravine was a nightmare; rocks tore at her skin, but she made it, bursting into the open air where the night air was cool and pure, the jungle whispered around her. She stumbled to the boat, washed away the marks, bandaged her wounds with scraps of her clothing, and swallowed the last poison tablet, which dulled the tingling but didn't extinguish it. The island lay still, but she knew: It wasn't over.
In the morning, Lara sat by the fire, her pistols loaded, the ammunition counted—too little. She stared into the flames, the scars on her soul as fresh as those on her skin. Had she found a clue to her father's whereabouts? The shrine, the runes—yes, fragments of a map burning in her mind. But the question gnawed at her: Could she escape? The boat waited, the sea a gateway to a world where help, healing, and revenge awaited. Or was she trapped here forever, a plaything of the beasts that slept and awoke, hungry for her essence?
Last edited by LaLia on Sun Nov 02, 2025 4:15 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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HBK
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Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
Great idea! Monsters, tentacles, supernatural elements—not something you see every day in stories. Is it because they're difficult to describe? If so, you've absolutely nailed it. The tentacle scene, in particular, is incredibly detailed and well-written.
Do I understand correctly: Lara Croft was the subject of the first two chapters, and other heroines will follow? There are certainly plenty of options.
Do I understand correctly: Lara Croft was the subject of the first two chapters, and other heroines will follow? There are certainly plenty of options.
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Blue
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Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
@LaLia :
In the old days, I loved playing through the Lara Croft games on my PC. Over and over again, until I lost interest.
I hadn't heard anything about Lara for a long time, and now suddenly a story about her appears here in the forum.
Normally, when it comes to rape stories, I'm not a big fan of fiction and fantasy stories.
But the name Lara Croft and also the name of the story's author did persuade me to read this. And I have to say, the result surprisingly impressed me.
Yes, it's not a 3-star story that I would give if it were a similar real-life story. But I liked it, and I'm looking forward to the continuation.
In the old days, I loved playing through the Lara Croft games on my PC. Over and over again, until I lost interest.
I hadn't heard anything about Lara for a long time, and now suddenly a story about her appears here in the forum.
Normally, when it comes to rape stories, I'm not a big fan of fiction and fantasy stories.
But the name Lara Croft and also the name of the story's author did persuade me to read this. And I have to say, the result surprisingly impressed me.
Yes, it's not a 3-star story that I would give if it were a similar real-life story. But I liked it, and I'm looking forward to the continuation.
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LaLia
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Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
Thanks...you're right, describing the supernatural is even more of a fantasy world, but that's precisely what can make it appealing, when realism isn't so important anymore.HBK wrote: Fri Oct 31, 2025 4:13 am Great idea! Monsters, tentacles, supernatural elements—not something you see every day in stories. Is it because they're difficult to describe? If so, you've absolutely nailed it. The tentacle scene, in particular, is incredibly detailed and well-written.
Do I understand correctly: Lara Croft was the subject of the first two chapters, and other heroines will follow? There are certainly plenty of options.
And yes, you understood correctly. I currently have 5-6 more heroines in mind, each of whom will get 1-2 chapters.
Thanks to you too; especially since you said it's not really your genre. The fact that my reputation also led you to read it is a great compliment.Blue wrote: Fri Oct 31, 2025 10:37 am @LaLia :
In the old days, I loved playing through the Lara Croft games on my PC. Over and over again, until I lost interest.
I hadn't heard anything about Lara for a long time, and now suddenly a story about her appears here in the forum.
Normally, when it comes to rape stories, I'm not a big fan of fiction and fantasy stories.
But the name Lara Croft and also the name of the story's author did persuade me to read this. And I have to say, the result surprisingly impressed me.
Yes, it's not a 3-star story that I would give if it were a similar real-life story. But I liked it, and I'm looking forward to the continuation.
I think Lara Croft is one of the most frequently used characters for many fantasies (plus Angelina Jolie was already hot), and the theme of adventure and foreign lands fits rape stories very well, I think. I even considered writing a story based on the games' walkthroughs.
I hope you'll stick with it when we move on to other characters. I think most of them will be familiar.
The next chapter will be released over the weekend or early next week.
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LaLia
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Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
3. - Tauriel (The Hobbit) - The Hunt for Azog
In the dense, ancient forests of Mirkwood, where the trees stood like silent sentinels over the secrets of Middle-earth, began the story of Legolas and Tauriel. Legolas, son of the Elvenking Thranduil, was a prince of the Forest Realm, born in the magnificent halls beneath the roots of the oaks and beeches. He came from a line of noble Sindar Elves who had lived in the forests since the First Age, far from the great wars, yet ever vigilant against the shadows that approached from the south. Legolas was known for his unerring eyesight, his skill with the bow, and his elegant, almost feline agility. His blond hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, and his blue eyes pierced the darkness like stars in the night sky. He wore fine leather armor, adorned with silver leaves, and at his side hung a long knife, honed in countless skirmishes against spiders and orcs. Yet deep in his heart, he yearned for adventures beyond the borders of his realm, driven by a quiet but unwavering sense of duty.
Tauriel, his faithful companion on this hunt, was a Silvan elf, born in the less opulent but wilder parts of the forest, far from the royal halls. She was no princess, but a warrior through and through—captain of the Forest Border Guard, protecting the realm's borders against invaders. Her origins were humble; she grew up among the common elves who lived in harmony with the trees and animals of the forest, learning early on to understand the language of birds and the secrets of herbs. Tauriel was known for her unconventional nature, often acting on her heart rather than strictly following orders, which sometimes brought her into conflict with Thranduil. Her strengths lay in her breathtaking speed, her mastery of two daggers—sharp as a wolf's teeth—and her bow, which she wielded with deadly precision. She was brave, compassionate, and possessed a deep empathy for all living beings, which drove her to protect not only her own people but also dwarves or humans when injustice was committed. Her appearance was stunning: long, fiery red hair that danced like a flame in the wind framed a face with high cheekbones and green eyes that shone like emeralds. Her skin was pale and flawless, and she wore a green cloak of soft fabric reinforced with leather plates that did not restrict her movements. Silver bracelets, symbols of her victories, adorned her arms, and her boots were so silent she could slip through leaves without a rustle. Tauriel embodied the wild beauty of the forest—strong, untamed, yet graceful.
For days, the two had followed a trail that led them deeper into the wilderness. The enemy they were hunting was Azog the Defiler, one of the most dangerous, feared, and brutal Orcs ever to stalk the lands of Middle-earth. Azog hailed from the dark caverns of Gundabad, an ancient Orc stronghold in the northern Misty Mountains, where Orcs had dwelt and forged their wickedness since the First Age. He was no ordinary Orc; Azog was a Pale Orc, taller and stronger than his kin, with skin as white as bone and scars bearing witness to countless battles. He became infamous for the Battle of Azanulbizar before the gates of Moria, where he beheaded the Dwarf king Thrór, thus igniting the great Dwarf-Orc War. Azog was notorious for his cruelty: he tortured prisoners, plundered villages, and ruled his hordes with an iron fist. His left arm was severed in that battle, but he replaced it with a gruesome prosthesis of metal and thorns, which he brandished like a weapon. Azog served dark powers—once the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, later even Sauron himself—and his aims were always destruction and domination. He was a symbol of hatred, a desecrator of land and life who knew no mercy.
Azog's trail led Legolas and Tauriel across the land, beginning near Mirkwood, where they had first discovered signs: broken branches crushed by heavy boots and the stench of decay hanging in the air. Leaving the shelter of the trees, they crossed the vast plains of Rhovanion, where the Anduin River shimmered silver in the moonlight. Here they found the first traces of chaos: a small human village on the riverbank had been burned to the ground, its wooden huts reduced to smoldering ruins, corpses scattered like discarded leaves. Azog and his band had struck—slaughtering livestock, plundering supplies, and driving out survivors. The sight of the charred prams and blood-stained fields made Tauriel's heart pound with rage; she knelt, touched the earth, and whispered a prayer for the dead. Legolas's expression hardened, his resolve growing with every step. "This desecrator will pay," he muttered, knocking an arrow in his bow.
The hunt continued into the hills of Emyn Muil, jagged, rocky landscapes where the wind howled like tormented souls. Azog's path was littered with destruction: tattered caravans of traders from the east lay scattered, their wares—silk, spices, and gold—useless in the dust. Orcs had ambushed the travelers, slit their throats and impaling their bodies as warnings. The scent of blood mingled with the salty wind from the nearby Sea of Rhûn. Tauriel, with her keen eyesight, spotted footprints leading deeper into the wilderness, and her strength—her unwavering endurance—kept her going, while Legolas's precision protected her from lurking dangers. Each new scene of horror heightened their resolve; Tauriel remembered her own losses in the forest, friends slain by orcs, and vowed inwardly that Azog's reign of terror would end.
The trail eventually wound its way into the Shadow Mountains, the Ered Mithrin, cold, snow-covered peaks in the north where dragons had once roamed. Here, the chaos became more tangible: burned forests where Azog had set fires to cover his escape, and dead wolves—his own mounts—he had carelessly abandoned. The air was filled with the cawing of ravens feasting on the carcasses. Legolas and Tauriel climbed over glaciers and through narrow passes, their Elven endurance allowing them to ride for days without rest. Tauriel's red hair billowed like the wind, and her daggers flashed in the dim light. With each dead body they found—a fallen hunter, a family torn apart—their rage grew into a fire that fueled them. “He must not escape,” Tauriel said firmly, her green eyes burning with determination. Legolas nodded, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon.
In the icy canyons of the Ered Mithrin, where the wind whistled through the rocks like the howls of fallen souls, Legolas and Tauriel caught up with Azog and his horde. The Shadow Mountains rose like jagged claws, and the snow crunched beneath their light boots. Azog had noticed them—or perhaps he had been expecting them. Instead of rushing directly to Gundabad, where the ancient halls would make him unassailable, with thousands of orcs and wargs lurking in the depths, he waited. He lay in wait in a narrow ravine that seemed like a natural trap: steep walls on both sides, strewn with loose screen, and a narrow path leading into the darkness. Here he could exploit his numerical superiority, lure the Elves into an ambush, and crush them before they could thwart his plans.
Legolas and Tauriel charged forward, their Elven senses heightened. The prince drew his bow as the first Orcs burst from the shadows—rough, gnarled creatures with yellow teeth and rusty blades. "For the Forest Realm!" Tauriel cried, and her arrow whizzed through the air, striking an Orc squarely in the eye. Legolas followed with a volley, his arrows piercing armor and throats as if made of parchment. The two elves moved like a whirlwind of death: Tauriel's speed made her dance among the foes, her daggers flashing and cutting deep wounds, while Legolas struck from a distance, arrow after arrow, each a masterpiece of precision. Orcs fell by the dozens—a mass of writhing bodies, black blood soaking the snow. The air filled with their roars and the clang of steel, but the elves were relentless. Tauriel's red hair flew like a bloody flag, and Legolas's blue eyes blazed with concentration.
But Azog the Defiler was cunning. He ordered his troops to surround the Elves and used the chaos to escape. As his Orcs died, he slipped away through a hidden crevice, his white body blending into the snow. "He's escaping!" cried Legolas, but it was too late—Azog vanished into the distance, Gundabad almost within reach. The Elves continued their slaughter until the ground was littered with Orc carcasses, but the trap snapped shut. Stones rained down from the cliffs above, and more Orcs poured out of hidden caves. Legolas and Tauriel were now trapped in the gorge, the two of them against an overwhelming force of at least a hundred Orcs.
They fought bravely, back-to-back. Tauriel whirled around, her daggers a deadly dance, severing limbs and ripping open bellies. Legolas's bow sang until his quiver was empty, then he drew his long knife and continued fighting, elegant and precise. But the number of enemies was overwhelming—orcs clambered over the corpses of their fallen, their eyes burning with hatred. Suddenly, a shrill screech rang out from the shadows: a giant spider, one of the offspring of Ungoliant, like those that lurked in Mirkwood and appeared in the old legends, burst forth. Its body was as large as a horse, covered in bristly fur, and its eight eyes gleamed hungrily. It had allied itself with Azog's horde, lured by the promise of fresh meat.
The spider shot out a web of sticky silk thread that entangled Legolas's legs. He stumbled, hacked at it with his knife, but a second strand pulled him up, high into its nest on the cliff face. "Legolas!" Tauriel cried, but she couldn't help—the orcs were pushing her back. Legolas fought fiercely, setting himself free, but the spider bit him, its venom seeping into his veins, slowly paralyzing him. He hung helplessly on the web, his body trembling as the creature wrapped him.
Now Tauriel stood alone, surrounded by orcs. Her arrows were gone, her quiver empty, but she would rather die than give up. "Come here, you freaks!" she roared, her green eyes blazing with defiance. She drew her daggers, the blades gleaming in the dim light of the ravine. Her speed was breathtaking—she dodged blows, leaped over heads, and stung like a viper. One orc fell with his throat pierced, another with his belly ripped open. She moved like the wind through the trees, elusive and deadly, her red hair a swirl of fire.
But then she encountered him: Azog. The Defiler stepped out of the shadows, his metal claw gleaming menacingly. He laughed boomingly, a sound like shattering ice. "The little Elven whore dares to go it alone?" he sneered. A fierce battle erupted. Tauriel attacked first, her daggers aimed at his throat, but Azog parried with his prosthetic arm, which sparked. It was swift, dodging, thrusting, striking his shoulder—black blood gushed forth. But Azog was a colossus, his strength superhuman. He swung his claw, and the blow struck Tauriel so hard in the side that she was hurled through the air. She crashed against a rock face, pain exploding in her ribs, but she scrambled to her feet, gasping.
The tide turned swiftly. Azog used his superior strength to push her back. His blows came like hammer blows—one grazed her arm, tearing open the skin, another struck her hip, sending her reeling. Tauriel fought on, her daggers flashing, but she was tiring. Azog laughed, seized her by her fiery red hair, and dragged her across the rough canyon floor. Stones ripped her clothes, scraped her skin, blood mingling with dirt. She fought back, kicking and stabbing, but he disarmed her with a brutal kick. Again and again, he struck her painfully: a punch to the stomach that made her gasp, a kick to the legs that sent her sprawling. Tauriel crawled on all fours now, exhausted and defeated, her breath rattling, her body a mass of bruises and wounds. She spat blood, her green eyes still defiant, but her resistance was waning.
The other orcs finally seized her, rough hands gripping her arms and legs, pinning her to the ground. She squirmed, but it was no use. Azog loomed over her, his white body casting a long shadow. "They don't call me the Defiler for nothing," he said, laughing, his voice a growl of malice, and began to remove his armor.
Tauriel watched with horror in her green eyes, now wide with panic. She knew from the ancient legends and the whispered tales of the Elven guardians that Azog the Defiler was known not only for his battles, but also for his sadistic delight in breaking Elven women—humiliating them, shattering their pride, and turning them into mindless playthings. Now she was his victim, the proud captain of the Forest Border Guard, who had once easily brought down orcs, now helpless on the cold, snow-covered floor of the ravine, surrounded by grunting, laughing orcs. She tried to break free, writhing in the creatures' rough grip, which held her arms and legs like vises. Her muscles tensed; her speed, which had saved her so often, was useless against their overwhelming numbers. Claw-like hands pressed her down, tearing at her tattered clothing, and Tauriel felt the chill of the mountains and the heat of shame wash over her. "No... let me go!" she hissed through gritted teeth, but her voice broke, a hint of despair creeping into it.
Azog knelt behind her, his massive, white body casting a shadow that swallowed the last vestiges of light in the canyon. With a brutal tug, he ripped the remaining scraps of her clothing—the leather of her armor creaked as it gave way, revealing her pale, unblemished skin, now marked with bruises and abrasions. Tauriel struggled, but it was no use. Then her pained scream echoed through the canyon like the thunderclap of a fallen warrior. Azog's powerful orc cock, a monstrous thing, thick and throbbing, thrust into her, forcing itself deep into her tightness, stretching her in a way that was pure brutality. His cold, rough hands gripped her hips, nails digging into them, and he began to fuck her—hard, merciless thrusts that shook her body to its core. Each thrust was a humiliation, a blow to her pride as a warrior. Tauriel, the untamed elf with the fiery red hair who had once commanded the winds of the forest, was now reduced to a trembling bundle of pain and shame. Tears streamed down her high cheekbones, salty and hot, as the degradation overwhelmed her. She, who had never wept, not even in the darkest battles of Mirkwood, now collapsed—sobs mingling with her screams, her green eyes clouded with humiliation. "Please... no..." she whispered, but it was no use; Azog only laughed, his breath hot and putrid on her neck.
After some time, when Azog's rhythm had already enveloped her in a fog of agony, other orcs began to join in. They pressed against her face, their tails—half-human, half-animal, knobby and with a foul odor—shoving into her mouth. Tauriel gasped and gagged as they forced her inside, her throat stretched, saliva and tears mingling. The orcs grunted with pleasure, pulling at her red hair to force it down further, while Azog thrust from behind. The proud elf was now utterly humiliated, her body a vessel for their lust, her dignity crushed like leaves beneath boots.
Legolas, paralyzed in the spider's web high on the cliff face, watched it all unfold. The venom pulsed in his veins, paralyzing his limbs, yet his blue eyes were clear enough to grasp the horror. He wanted to help Tauriel, screaming inwardly, tugging at the sticky threads that held him fast, but he was powerless. The spider lurked above him, its skeleton cracking, while below, the orc horde broke Tauriel—their screams rising to him, a knife in his heart. "Tauriel... no..." he murmured weakly, tears in his eyes, but he could only watch as the woman he secretly loved was destroyed.
Azog fucked her harder and harder, his massive body slamming against hers, each sound a triumph over the Elves. With a roar of victory that shook the rocks, he came inside her—hot, sticky semen flooding her, dripping from her battered pussy as he withdrew. The Orcs around her roared, their own ejaculates clinging to her face, hanging in strands in her red hair, mingling with dirt and blood.
"Take the Elven whore to Gundabad!" Azog roared, his metal claw pointing at the unconscious Tauriel. "Thousands of lustful cocks are waiting for her there!" The orcs laughed, hoisting her up like a trophy, tossing her over the shoulder of one of the larger ones. Tauriel was nothing but a piece of meat.
In the dark depths of Gundabad, where the halls of ancient stone echoed with the roars of countless orcs and the stench of sweat, blood, and decay permeated the air, Tauriel's nightmare became a gruesome reality. The orcs had dragged her through the snow-covered passes like captured prey, her hands bound with rough ropes that cut into her wrists, a filthy gag choking her cries. Azog led the procession, his laughter an echo of triumph as he barked orders. Tauriel, once the proud elf with fiery hair and an indomitable will, now hung limply over the shoulder of a burly orc, her body bruised and battered, her spirit broken by the defilement in the canyon. Azog's semen still dripped from her, a sticky reminder of her humiliation, and the other orcs' sperm plastered her face, clumping in her red curls that had once shone like a crown of wilderness. Every orc footstep made her feel how far she had fallen—from a warrior who had pierced orcs with daggers to a mere object of their lust.
As they passed through the massive gates of Gundabad, where torches flickered and shadows danced like hungry ghosts, Tauriel was thrown into the central hall. The floor was hard and cold, littered with bone fragments and refuse. Hundreds of orcs gathered, their yellow eyes blazing with greed, as Azog presented her like a trophy. "Look here, you maggots!" he roared, pointing his metal claw at her. "The Elven whore of the forest! She fought like a lioness, but now she crawls before us like a dog!" The crowd roared, stamping their feet, and Tauriel tried to rise, but her legs buckled. The humiliation burned like fire in her soul—she, the captain of the Border Guard, who had never flinched from an enemy, now lay naked and defiled before a horde of beasts. Tears of shame streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the dried semen, and she whispered a silent prayer to the Valar, but there was no answer.
Hours passed in a fog of pain and humiliation. Azog oversaw everything, his laughter the cruel orchestra. He forced her to crawl on all fours across the hall, past the jeering orcs who beat her with sticks, pinched her breasts, and slapped her. "Crawl, whore!" he commanded, and Tauriel obeyed, too exhausted to resist, her red hair trailing on the filthy floor. She was cornered where a group of orcs surrounded her, their animalistic cocks—thick, throbbing, with a foul odor—trapped each of her orifices. One held her head as he came in her mouth, forcing her to swallow the bitter, sticky semen to the jeers of the crowd. Another lifted her hips and penetrated her anally, eliciting fresh cries of pain, and Tauriel felt the last bastion of her pride crumble. She was no longer an elf, no longer a warrior—just a trembling, defiled wreck, covered in sweat, blood, and semen, her body a monument to total subjugation.
Legolas's fate was no better; the spider had dragged him to Gundabad, where he hung in a cocoon, paralyzed but conscious. From above, he watched as Tauriel was broken—her screams echoing up to him, her humiliation a dagger in his heart. He wept silent tears, powerless to help, as the orcs continued to defile her. Azog noticed and laughed: "Look, the Elven prince! He watches his whore serve!" The humiliation reached its peak when Azog forced Tauriel to kneel—naked, trembling, with semen in her hair—and humiliated her by making her say aloud, "Thank you, Master," for every "gift" the orcs had given her.
From that day forward, Tauriel was the Whore of Gundabad, a broken soul in the shadows of the mountains. She served Azog's army, her pride trampled, her beauty defiled, an eternal symbol of orcish rule. The Free Peoples knew nothing of it, and the forest whispered her name only in sorrow.
In the dense, ancient forests of Mirkwood, where the trees stood like silent sentinels over the secrets of Middle-earth, began the story of Legolas and Tauriel. Legolas, son of the Elvenking Thranduil, was a prince of the Forest Realm, born in the magnificent halls beneath the roots of the oaks and beeches. He came from a line of noble Sindar Elves who had lived in the forests since the First Age, far from the great wars, yet ever vigilant against the shadows that approached from the south. Legolas was known for his unerring eyesight, his skill with the bow, and his elegant, almost feline agility. His blond hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, and his blue eyes pierced the darkness like stars in the night sky. He wore fine leather armor, adorned with silver leaves, and at his side hung a long knife, honed in countless skirmishes against spiders and orcs. Yet deep in his heart, he yearned for adventures beyond the borders of his realm, driven by a quiet but unwavering sense of duty.
Tauriel, his faithful companion on this hunt, was a Silvan elf, born in the less opulent but wilder parts of the forest, far from the royal halls. She was no princess, but a warrior through and through—captain of the Forest Border Guard, protecting the realm's borders against invaders. Her origins were humble; she grew up among the common elves who lived in harmony with the trees and animals of the forest, learning early on to understand the language of birds and the secrets of herbs. Tauriel was known for her unconventional nature, often acting on her heart rather than strictly following orders, which sometimes brought her into conflict with Thranduil. Her strengths lay in her breathtaking speed, her mastery of two daggers—sharp as a wolf's teeth—and her bow, which she wielded with deadly precision. She was brave, compassionate, and possessed a deep empathy for all living beings, which drove her to protect not only her own people but also dwarves or humans when injustice was committed. Her appearance was stunning: long, fiery red hair that danced like a flame in the wind framed a face with high cheekbones and green eyes that shone like emeralds. Her skin was pale and flawless, and she wore a green cloak of soft fabric reinforced with leather plates that did not restrict her movements. Silver bracelets, symbols of her victories, adorned her arms, and her boots were so silent she could slip through leaves without a rustle. Tauriel embodied the wild beauty of the forest—strong, untamed, yet graceful.
For days, the two had followed a trail that led them deeper into the wilderness. The enemy they were hunting was Azog the Defiler, one of the most dangerous, feared, and brutal Orcs ever to stalk the lands of Middle-earth. Azog hailed from the dark caverns of Gundabad, an ancient Orc stronghold in the northern Misty Mountains, where Orcs had dwelt and forged their wickedness since the First Age. He was no ordinary Orc; Azog was a Pale Orc, taller and stronger than his kin, with skin as white as bone and scars bearing witness to countless battles. He became infamous for the Battle of Azanulbizar before the gates of Moria, where he beheaded the Dwarf king Thrór, thus igniting the great Dwarf-Orc War. Azog was notorious for his cruelty: he tortured prisoners, plundered villages, and ruled his hordes with an iron fist. His left arm was severed in that battle, but he replaced it with a gruesome prosthesis of metal and thorns, which he brandished like a weapon. Azog served dark powers—once the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, later even Sauron himself—and his aims were always destruction and domination. He was a symbol of hatred, a desecrator of land and life who knew no mercy.
Azog's trail led Legolas and Tauriel across the land, beginning near Mirkwood, where they had first discovered signs: broken branches crushed by heavy boots and the stench of decay hanging in the air. Leaving the shelter of the trees, they crossed the vast plains of Rhovanion, where the Anduin River shimmered silver in the moonlight. Here they found the first traces of chaos: a small human village on the riverbank had been burned to the ground, its wooden huts reduced to smoldering ruins, corpses scattered like discarded leaves. Azog and his band had struck—slaughtering livestock, plundering supplies, and driving out survivors. The sight of the charred prams and blood-stained fields made Tauriel's heart pound with rage; she knelt, touched the earth, and whispered a prayer for the dead. Legolas's expression hardened, his resolve growing with every step. "This desecrator will pay," he muttered, knocking an arrow in his bow.
The hunt continued into the hills of Emyn Muil, jagged, rocky landscapes where the wind howled like tormented souls. Azog's path was littered with destruction: tattered caravans of traders from the east lay scattered, their wares—silk, spices, and gold—useless in the dust. Orcs had ambushed the travelers, slit their throats and impaling their bodies as warnings. The scent of blood mingled with the salty wind from the nearby Sea of Rhûn. Tauriel, with her keen eyesight, spotted footprints leading deeper into the wilderness, and her strength—her unwavering endurance—kept her going, while Legolas's precision protected her from lurking dangers. Each new scene of horror heightened their resolve; Tauriel remembered her own losses in the forest, friends slain by orcs, and vowed inwardly that Azog's reign of terror would end.
The trail eventually wound its way into the Shadow Mountains, the Ered Mithrin, cold, snow-covered peaks in the north where dragons had once roamed. Here, the chaos became more tangible: burned forests where Azog had set fires to cover his escape, and dead wolves—his own mounts—he had carelessly abandoned. The air was filled with the cawing of ravens feasting on the carcasses. Legolas and Tauriel climbed over glaciers and through narrow passes, their Elven endurance allowing them to ride for days without rest. Tauriel's red hair billowed like the wind, and her daggers flashed in the dim light. With each dead body they found—a fallen hunter, a family torn apart—their rage grew into a fire that fueled them. “He must not escape,” Tauriel said firmly, her green eyes burning with determination. Legolas nodded, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon.
In the icy canyons of the Ered Mithrin, where the wind whistled through the rocks like the howls of fallen souls, Legolas and Tauriel caught up with Azog and his horde. The Shadow Mountains rose like jagged claws, and the snow crunched beneath their light boots. Azog had noticed them—or perhaps he had been expecting them. Instead of rushing directly to Gundabad, where the ancient halls would make him unassailable, with thousands of orcs and wargs lurking in the depths, he waited. He lay in wait in a narrow ravine that seemed like a natural trap: steep walls on both sides, strewn with loose screen, and a narrow path leading into the darkness. Here he could exploit his numerical superiority, lure the Elves into an ambush, and crush them before they could thwart his plans.
Legolas and Tauriel charged forward, their Elven senses heightened. The prince drew his bow as the first Orcs burst from the shadows—rough, gnarled creatures with yellow teeth and rusty blades. "For the Forest Realm!" Tauriel cried, and her arrow whizzed through the air, striking an Orc squarely in the eye. Legolas followed with a volley, his arrows piercing armor and throats as if made of parchment. The two elves moved like a whirlwind of death: Tauriel's speed made her dance among the foes, her daggers flashing and cutting deep wounds, while Legolas struck from a distance, arrow after arrow, each a masterpiece of precision. Orcs fell by the dozens—a mass of writhing bodies, black blood soaking the snow. The air filled with their roars and the clang of steel, but the elves were relentless. Tauriel's red hair flew like a bloody flag, and Legolas's blue eyes blazed with concentration.
But Azog the Defiler was cunning. He ordered his troops to surround the Elves and used the chaos to escape. As his Orcs died, he slipped away through a hidden crevice, his white body blending into the snow. "He's escaping!" cried Legolas, but it was too late—Azog vanished into the distance, Gundabad almost within reach. The Elves continued their slaughter until the ground was littered with Orc carcasses, but the trap snapped shut. Stones rained down from the cliffs above, and more Orcs poured out of hidden caves. Legolas and Tauriel were now trapped in the gorge, the two of them against an overwhelming force of at least a hundred Orcs.
They fought bravely, back-to-back. Tauriel whirled around, her daggers a deadly dance, severing limbs and ripping open bellies. Legolas's bow sang until his quiver was empty, then he drew his long knife and continued fighting, elegant and precise. But the number of enemies was overwhelming—orcs clambered over the corpses of their fallen, their eyes burning with hatred. Suddenly, a shrill screech rang out from the shadows: a giant spider, one of the offspring of Ungoliant, like those that lurked in Mirkwood and appeared in the old legends, burst forth. Its body was as large as a horse, covered in bristly fur, and its eight eyes gleamed hungrily. It had allied itself with Azog's horde, lured by the promise of fresh meat.
The spider shot out a web of sticky silk thread that entangled Legolas's legs. He stumbled, hacked at it with his knife, but a second strand pulled him up, high into its nest on the cliff face. "Legolas!" Tauriel cried, but she couldn't help—the orcs were pushing her back. Legolas fought fiercely, setting himself free, but the spider bit him, its venom seeping into his veins, slowly paralyzing him. He hung helplessly on the web, his body trembling as the creature wrapped him.
Now Tauriel stood alone, surrounded by orcs. Her arrows were gone, her quiver empty, but she would rather die than give up. "Come here, you freaks!" she roared, her green eyes blazing with defiance. She drew her daggers, the blades gleaming in the dim light of the ravine. Her speed was breathtaking—she dodged blows, leaped over heads, and stung like a viper. One orc fell with his throat pierced, another with his belly ripped open. She moved like the wind through the trees, elusive and deadly, her red hair a swirl of fire.
But then she encountered him: Azog. The Defiler stepped out of the shadows, his metal claw gleaming menacingly. He laughed boomingly, a sound like shattering ice. "The little Elven whore dares to go it alone?" he sneered. A fierce battle erupted. Tauriel attacked first, her daggers aimed at his throat, but Azog parried with his prosthetic arm, which sparked. It was swift, dodging, thrusting, striking his shoulder—black blood gushed forth. But Azog was a colossus, his strength superhuman. He swung his claw, and the blow struck Tauriel so hard in the side that she was hurled through the air. She crashed against a rock face, pain exploding in her ribs, but she scrambled to her feet, gasping.
The tide turned swiftly. Azog used his superior strength to push her back. His blows came like hammer blows—one grazed her arm, tearing open the skin, another struck her hip, sending her reeling. Tauriel fought on, her daggers flashing, but she was tiring. Azog laughed, seized her by her fiery red hair, and dragged her across the rough canyon floor. Stones ripped her clothes, scraped her skin, blood mingling with dirt. She fought back, kicking and stabbing, but he disarmed her with a brutal kick. Again and again, he struck her painfully: a punch to the stomach that made her gasp, a kick to the legs that sent her sprawling. Tauriel crawled on all fours now, exhausted and defeated, her breath rattling, her body a mass of bruises and wounds. She spat blood, her green eyes still defiant, but her resistance was waning.
The other orcs finally seized her, rough hands gripping her arms and legs, pinning her to the ground. She squirmed, but it was no use. Azog loomed over her, his white body casting a long shadow. "They don't call me the Defiler for nothing," he said, laughing, his voice a growl of malice, and began to remove his armor.
Tauriel watched with horror in her green eyes, now wide with panic. She knew from the ancient legends and the whispered tales of the Elven guardians that Azog the Defiler was known not only for his battles, but also for his sadistic delight in breaking Elven women—humiliating them, shattering their pride, and turning them into mindless playthings. Now she was his victim, the proud captain of the Forest Border Guard, who had once easily brought down orcs, now helpless on the cold, snow-covered floor of the ravine, surrounded by grunting, laughing orcs. She tried to break free, writhing in the creatures' rough grip, which held her arms and legs like vises. Her muscles tensed; her speed, which had saved her so often, was useless against their overwhelming numbers. Claw-like hands pressed her down, tearing at her tattered clothing, and Tauriel felt the chill of the mountains and the heat of shame wash over her. "No... let me go!" she hissed through gritted teeth, but her voice broke, a hint of despair creeping into it.
Azog knelt behind her, his massive, white body casting a shadow that swallowed the last vestiges of light in the canyon. With a brutal tug, he ripped the remaining scraps of her clothing—the leather of her armor creaked as it gave way, revealing her pale, unblemished skin, now marked with bruises and abrasions. Tauriel struggled, but it was no use. Then her pained scream echoed through the canyon like the thunderclap of a fallen warrior. Azog's powerful orc cock, a monstrous thing, thick and throbbing, thrust into her, forcing itself deep into her tightness, stretching her in a way that was pure brutality. His cold, rough hands gripped her hips, nails digging into them, and he began to fuck her—hard, merciless thrusts that shook her body to its core. Each thrust was a humiliation, a blow to her pride as a warrior. Tauriel, the untamed elf with the fiery red hair who had once commanded the winds of the forest, was now reduced to a trembling bundle of pain and shame. Tears streamed down her high cheekbones, salty and hot, as the degradation overwhelmed her. She, who had never wept, not even in the darkest battles of Mirkwood, now collapsed—sobs mingling with her screams, her green eyes clouded with humiliation. "Please... no..." she whispered, but it was no use; Azog only laughed, his breath hot and putrid on her neck.
After some time, when Azog's rhythm had already enveloped her in a fog of agony, other orcs began to join in. They pressed against her face, their tails—half-human, half-animal, knobby and with a foul odor—shoving into her mouth. Tauriel gasped and gagged as they forced her inside, her throat stretched, saliva and tears mingling. The orcs grunted with pleasure, pulling at her red hair to force it down further, while Azog thrust from behind. The proud elf was now utterly humiliated, her body a vessel for their lust, her dignity crushed like leaves beneath boots.
Legolas, paralyzed in the spider's web high on the cliff face, watched it all unfold. The venom pulsed in his veins, paralyzing his limbs, yet his blue eyes were clear enough to grasp the horror. He wanted to help Tauriel, screaming inwardly, tugging at the sticky threads that held him fast, but he was powerless. The spider lurked above him, its skeleton cracking, while below, the orc horde broke Tauriel—their screams rising to him, a knife in his heart. "Tauriel... no..." he murmured weakly, tears in his eyes, but he could only watch as the woman he secretly loved was destroyed.
Azog fucked her harder and harder, his massive body slamming against hers, each sound a triumph over the Elves. With a roar of victory that shook the rocks, he came inside her—hot, sticky semen flooding her, dripping from her battered pussy as he withdrew. The Orcs around her roared, their own ejaculates clinging to her face, hanging in strands in her red hair, mingling with dirt and blood.
"Take the Elven whore to Gundabad!" Azog roared, his metal claw pointing at the unconscious Tauriel. "Thousands of lustful cocks are waiting for her there!" The orcs laughed, hoisting her up like a trophy, tossing her over the shoulder of one of the larger ones. Tauriel was nothing but a piece of meat.
In the dark depths of Gundabad, where the halls of ancient stone echoed with the roars of countless orcs and the stench of sweat, blood, and decay permeated the air, Tauriel's nightmare became a gruesome reality. The orcs had dragged her through the snow-covered passes like captured prey, her hands bound with rough ropes that cut into her wrists, a filthy gag choking her cries. Azog led the procession, his laughter an echo of triumph as he barked orders. Tauriel, once the proud elf with fiery hair and an indomitable will, now hung limply over the shoulder of a burly orc, her body bruised and battered, her spirit broken by the defilement in the canyon. Azog's semen still dripped from her, a sticky reminder of her humiliation, and the other orcs' sperm plastered her face, clumping in her red curls that had once shone like a crown of wilderness. Every orc footstep made her feel how far she had fallen—from a warrior who had pierced orcs with daggers to a mere object of their lust.
As they passed through the massive gates of Gundabad, where torches flickered and shadows danced like hungry ghosts, Tauriel was thrown into the central hall. The floor was hard and cold, littered with bone fragments and refuse. Hundreds of orcs gathered, their yellow eyes blazing with greed, as Azog presented her like a trophy. "Look here, you maggots!" he roared, pointing his metal claw at her. "The Elven whore of the forest! She fought like a lioness, but now she crawls before us like a dog!" The crowd roared, stamping their feet, and Tauriel tried to rise, but her legs buckled. The humiliation burned like fire in her soul—she, the captain of the Border Guard, who had never flinched from an enemy, now lay naked and defiled before a horde of beasts. Tears of shame streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the dried semen, and she whispered a silent prayer to the Valar, but there was no answer.
Hours passed in a fog of pain and humiliation. Azog oversaw everything, his laughter the cruel orchestra. He forced her to crawl on all fours across the hall, past the jeering orcs who beat her with sticks, pinched her breasts, and slapped her. "Crawl, whore!" he commanded, and Tauriel obeyed, too exhausted to resist, her red hair trailing on the filthy floor. She was cornered where a group of orcs surrounded her, their animalistic cocks—thick, throbbing, with a foul odor—trapped each of her orifices. One held her head as he came in her mouth, forcing her to swallow the bitter, sticky semen to the jeers of the crowd. Another lifted her hips and penetrated her anally, eliciting fresh cries of pain, and Tauriel felt the last bastion of her pride crumble. She was no longer an elf, no longer a warrior—just a trembling, defiled wreck, covered in sweat, blood, and semen, her body a monument to total subjugation.
Legolas's fate was no better; the spider had dragged him to Gundabad, where he hung in a cocoon, paralyzed but conscious. From above, he watched as Tauriel was broken—her screams echoing up to him, her humiliation a dagger in his heart. He wept silent tears, powerless to help, as the orcs continued to defile her. Azog noticed and laughed: "Look, the Elven prince! He watches his whore serve!" The humiliation reached its peak when Azog forced Tauriel to kneel—naked, trembling, with semen in her hair—and humiliated her by making her say aloud, "Thank you, Master," for every "gift" the orcs had given her.
From that day forward, Tauriel was the Whore of Gundabad, a broken soul in the shadows of the mountains. She served Azog's army, her pride trampled, her beauty defiled, an eternal symbol of orcish rule. The Free Peoples knew nothing of it, and the forest whispered her name only in sorrow.
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LaLia
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Re: Fallen Heroines - Series of events
4. - Katniss Everdeen - The Mockingjay Whore
In the steamy depths of the arena, a tropical jungle ticking like a gigantic clock, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark awoke to a nightmare of heat, humidity, and unseen traps. The 75th Hunger Games—the Quarter Quell—had once again plunged them into this hell, where every hour brought a new threat of death: poisonous fog that burned the skin, bloodthirsty monkeys with fangs like daggers, tidal waves that swallowed everything in their path. Katniss's bow was drawn back in her hands as she crept through the dense undergrowth, Peeta at her side, his injured leg hampered, but his will unwavering. "We'll get through this together," he whispered, but Katniss's mind raced: this was no longer just an arena; it was a symbol of the rebellion simmering in the districts.
They forged alliances with the other victors—Finnick Odair from District 4, with his trident and charming yet calculating grin; the elderly Wiress and Beetee from District 3, the geniuses of technology; Johanna Mason from District 7, fierce and vicious as her axe. Together, they deciphered the secret of the clock: each section held a precise danger, a cycle of death that revolved eternally. Katniss's arrows flew with pinpoint accuracy, saving allies from the Careers, those ruthless fighters from the wealthy districts who hunted like predators.
The plan took shape in the night, beneath the flickering sky: Beetee wrapped a wire around the lightning tree, which would be struck by a massive electrical surge at midnight. "Shoot the arrow into the field," he commanded Katniss, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. The invisible magnetic field surrounding the arena would explode, destroying the Games. Katniss's heart pounded as she raised the bow, attaching the wire to the arrow.
In the final seconds of the arena, as lightning flashed across the night sky and Katniss's arrow pierced the invisible magnetic field, the world around her exploded in a cacophony of sparks and deafening thunder. The tropical hell of Quarter Quell—with its poisonous mists, ravenous monkeys, and endless waves of death—collapsed. Katniss's body was thrown through the air by the shockwave, her bow slipping from her fingers, and she landed hard in the damp undergrowth. Dazed, she looked up, seeing Peeta fighting in the distance, Finnick and Beetee calling out in panic. "Peeta!" she cried, but her voice was lost in the din.
Suddenly, a shadow descended upon her—not a rebel hovercraft, as she had secretly hoped, but a gleaming, cold Capitol ship, marked with President Snow's emblem. Strong hands in white uniforms seized her and injected her with a sedative that paralyzed her limbs. "The Mockingjay girl," one of the men muttered with a mocking grin. "President Snow will be pleased." Katniss struggled weakly, her thoughts racing to Prim, to Gale, to her mother—but the world went black.
When she regained consciousness, she found herself in a sterile cell, deep beneath the Capitol, where the hum of machines and the distant echo of screams filled the air. Her arms were chained to the wall with heavy shackles, her body aching from bruises and burns from the arena. The air smelled of disinfectant and roses—Snow's signature scent, which made her gag. A door slid open, and there he stood: President Coriolanus Snow, in his immaculate suit, a white rosebud on his lapel, his eyes cold as snakes.
“Welcome back, Miss Everdeen,” he said in his soft, venomous voice. “You gave us quite a scare. But now… you’re mine.” Katniss stared at him; her gray eyes filled with hatred. “Where’s Peeta? What did you do to him?” Snow merely smiled, a smile devoid of warmth. “Your beloved Peeta is safe—with the rebels you supported so vehemently. Ironic, isn’t it? They rescued him while you… well, you’re my guest.”
After President Snow finished his words with one last cold smile—“You’re my Mockingjay, Katniss, and I’ll make you fly whenever and however I please”—he turned and strode with measured steps to the door of the sterile cell. The scent of his roses still lingered in the air, a sweet contrast to the metallic smell of the shackles and the sweat on Katniss’s skin. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Snow vanished into the Capitol corridors without a glance back. Katniss's heart raced, her gray eyes blazing with hatred. "You bastard," she muttered, tugging at her wall-mounted chains. She knew what was coming—Snow had hinted at it, with that touch of sadism in his voice. But she wouldn't break. Not so easily.
No sooner had the door closed than it slid open again, and two soldiers in pristine white uniforms entered. Peacekeepers, Snow's loyal dogs, with helmet visors that concealed their faces and heavy boots that echoed on the floor. They were tall, muscular, trained for oppression. One of them chuckled softly, a sound like shattering glass. "The Mockingjay girl. President Snow said we should... welcome you." Katniss's stomach clenched, a wave of nausea rising within her. "Don't come near me!" she hissed, her voice a growl as she strained against the chains. Her muscles tensed, the memory of the arena—of arrows flying, of battles won—giving her strength. She kicked at the first one who approached, catching his knee with a hard kick. He stumbled, cursing, and retaliated—a hard fist to her stomach that took her breath away. Pain exploded within her, but the rage burned brighter. "You'll pay for this!" she screamed, spitting into his visor.
But they were stronger, two against one bound woman. The second man grabbed her legs, forcing them apart, while the first loosened her bonds just enough to send her sprawling to the ground. Katniss fought like a wildcat, scratching and biting—her nails tearing at her skin, but a blow to her cheek made stars dance before her eyes. Blood dripped from her lip, and humiliation mingled with rage: she, the victor of the Hunger Games, reduced to this. They ripped her tattered arena robes, revealing her pale skin, scarred by old battles. The first knelt behind her, his hands roughly on her hips, while the second stood before her, unbuttoning his uniform. "Hold still, bitch," he snarled, forcing his hard cock into her mouth. Katniss gagged, tried to bite, but another blow to her head left her dazed. At the same time, she felt the pain from behind—the first was thrusting into her anally, hard and mercilessly, stretching her in a way that burned like fire. She screamed, muffled by the cock in her mouth, tears of rage and pain streaming down her cheeks. Her emotions swirled: hatred for Snow, for these men, for herself for not being stronger. Every thrust was a humiliation, a blow to her pride—she, who had fought for the districts, now a plaything for the Capitol.
The assault lasted an eternity, a long period of agony, during which they alternated between moaning and laughing, their bodies slamming against hers. One of them, from behind, thrust rhythmically, slapping against her skin, while the other held her head and pushed deeper until she gasped. Katniss's rage boiled over—she tried to twist, to use her elbows, but every attempt ended with blows: a fist to the ribs that made her gasp, a kick to the thigh that left bruises. "You're nothing now," the second one sneered as he came in her mouth, forcing her to swallow his bitter semen, while the other followed with a grunt, his seed dripping inside her. She coughed, spat, her eyes burning with fury. "I'm going to kill you... all of you..." she whispered, but her voice was hoarse, broken.
No sooner had the first men retreated, smoothing their uniforms, than the door slid open again. The next two came in, fresh and eager, their eyes hungry behind their visors. "Our turn," one said with a grin. Katniss's body already ached, her muscles trembling with exhaustion, but rage kept her going. She lashed out when they grabbed her, landing one in the groin—he yelped, struck back, a hard slap that whipped her head sideways. "Wildcat, eh? That only makes it better." They threw her onto her back, one spreading her legs, thrusting into her vaginally, hard and deep, while the other squatted over her face, taking her in his mouth at the same time. Katniss screamed in muted gasps, her nails digging into one man's arm, but a blow to her chest made her gasp for air. Her emotions were a whirlwind: rage at the injustice, shame at her helplessness, a deep hatred that drove her not to give up. Every thrust felt like a wound to her soul, yet she whispered curses, spat blood. "Peeta... the rebellion... they're coming," she thought, clinging to that spark of hope as the men grunted, their sweat-drenched bodies slamming against hers. After endless minutes, they came, filling her with their seed, laughing at her tears.
Then the next ones. And the next. The door opened again and again, pair after pair, in an endless cycle of humiliation. Sometimes they forced her to her knees, one in her mouth, the other vaginally from behind—Katniss choked, fought back, bit, which ended in brutal blows: fists to the stomach that made her double over, kicks to the legs that made her limp. Sometimes they took her anally and vaginally at the same time, while she screamed and cursed. Her rage grew with each assault, a fire that wouldn't die down, yet her body grew weary—bruises covered her skin, blood and semen mingled on the floor. She thought of Prim, of her mother, of Gale, of Peeta in District 13, and the hatred kept her alive. "You can take my body, but not my will," she thought, even as the tears flowed, and the pain almost numbed her. The soldiers came and went, their uniforms white as death, and Katniss's cell became a chamber of endless torment, where her rage morphed into a vow: One day she would be free, and then the Capitol would burn.
The days merged into an endless torture. Snow's men—Voxe with mute mouths and sadistic Peacekeepers—tormented her with interrogations and rapes. They injected her with their truth serum, which dredged up her memories, and forced her to speak before cameras to appease the districts. "Tell them the rebellion is pointless," Snow ordered. "Tell them you're sorry." Katniss initially refused, gritting her teeth, but the pain became unbearable—electric shocks that set her nerves on fire, whips that left welts all over her body, and repeated brutal rapes. She didn't break completely, but she uttered the words she hated: "The Hunger Games are necessary... President Snow is protecting us all."
In her cell, alone with her thoughts, Katniss became a prisoner of her own mind. She dreamed of the arena, of Peeta's touch, of freedom in District 12. But by day, she was Snow's puppet—made up and dressed in sumptuous gowns for propaganda videos, posing as a "rescued heroine." "You're my Mockingjay Whore, Katniss," Snow whispered during one of their meetings. The rebellion raged outside, fueled by Peeta, who had become a symbol in District 13, while Katniss languished in the heart of the enemy, a spark of hatred in her soul waiting for the moment of revenge. But for now, she was trapped, a bird in Snow's gilded cage, and the roses smelled of despair as she was led to her cell, where three soldiers were already waiting for her. "Ready for round two?" they breathed, and Katniss sank to her knees, ready to endure another rape.
In the steamy depths of the arena, a tropical jungle ticking like a gigantic clock, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark awoke to a nightmare of heat, humidity, and unseen traps. The 75th Hunger Games—the Quarter Quell—had once again plunged them into this hell, where every hour brought a new threat of death: poisonous fog that burned the skin, bloodthirsty monkeys with fangs like daggers, tidal waves that swallowed everything in their path. Katniss's bow was drawn back in her hands as she crept through the dense undergrowth, Peeta at her side, his injured leg hampered, but his will unwavering. "We'll get through this together," he whispered, but Katniss's mind raced: this was no longer just an arena; it was a symbol of the rebellion simmering in the districts.
They forged alliances with the other victors—Finnick Odair from District 4, with his trident and charming yet calculating grin; the elderly Wiress and Beetee from District 3, the geniuses of technology; Johanna Mason from District 7, fierce and vicious as her axe. Together, they deciphered the secret of the clock: each section held a precise danger, a cycle of death that revolved eternally. Katniss's arrows flew with pinpoint accuracy, saving allies from the Careers, those ruthless fighters from the wealthy districts who hunted like predators.
The plan took shape in the night, beneath the flickering sky: Beetee wrapped a wire around the lightning tree, which would be struck by a massive electrical surge at midnight. "Shoot the arrow into the field," he commanded Katniss, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. The invisible magnetic field surrounding the arena would explode, destroying the Games. Katniss's heart pounded as she raised the bow, attaching the wire to the arrow.
In the final seconds of the arena, as lightning flashed across the night sky and Katniss's arrow pierced the invisible magnetic field, the world around her exploded in a cacophony of sparks and deafening thunder. The tropical hell of Quarter Quell—with its poisonous mists, ravenous monkeys, and endless waves of death—collapsed. Katniss's body was thrown through the air by the shockwave, her bow slipping from her fingers, and she landed hard in the damp undergrowth. Dazed, she looked up, seeing Peeta fighting in the distance, Finnick and Beetee calling out in panic. "Peeta!" she cried, but her voice was lost in the din.
Suddenly, a shadow descended upon her—not a rebel hovercraft, as she had secretly hoped, but a gleaming, cold Capitol ship, marked with President Snow's emblem. Strong hands in white uniforms seized her and injected her with a sedative that paralyzed her limbs. "The Mockingjay girl," one of the men muttered with a mocking grin. "President Snow will be pleased." Katniss struggled weakly, her thoughts racing to Prim, to Gale, to her mother—but the world went black.
When she regained consciousness, she found herself in a sterile cell, deep beneath the Capitol, where the hum of machines and the distant echo of screams filled the air. Her arms were chained to the wall with heavy shackles, her body aching from bruises and burns from the arena. The air smelled of disinfectant and roses—Snow's signature scent, which made her gag. A door slid open, and there he stood: President Coriolanus Snow, in his immaculate suit, a white rosebud on his lapel, his eyes cold as snakes.
“Welcome back, Miss Everdeen,” he said in his soft, venomous voice. “You gave us quite a scare. But now… you’re mine.” Katniss stared at him; her gray eyes filled with hatred. “Where’s Peeta? What did you do to him?” Snow merely smiled, a smile devoid of warmth. “Your beloved Peeta is safe—with the rebels you supported so vehemently. Ironic, isn’t it? They rescued him while you… well, you’re my guest.”
After President Snow finished his words with one last cold smile—“You’re my Mockingjay, Katniss, and I’ll make you fly whenever and however I please”—he turned and strode with measured steps to the door of the sterile cell. The scent of his roses still lingered in the air, a sweet contrast to the metallic smell of the shackles and the sweat on Katniss’s skin. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Snow vanished into the Capitol corridors without a glance back. Katniss's heart raced, her gray eyes blazing with hatred. "You bastard," she muttered, tugging at her wall-mounted chains. She knew what was coming—Snow had hinted at it, with that touch of sadism in his voice. But she wouldn't break. Not so easily.
No sooner had the door closed than it slid open again, and two soldiers in pristine white uniforms entered. Peacekeepers, Snow's loyal dogs, with helmet visors that concealed their faces and heavy boots that echoed on the floor. They were tall, muscular, trained for oppression. One of them chuckled softly, a sound like shattering glass. "The Mockingjay girl. President Snow said we should... welcome you." Katniss's stomach clenched, a wave of nausea rising within her. "Don't come near me!" she hissed, her voice a growl as she strained against the chains. Her muscles tensed, the memory of the arena—of arrows flying, of battles won—giving her strength. She kicked at the first one who approached, catching his knee with a hard kick. He stumbled, cursing, and retaliated—a hard fist to her stomach that took her breath away. Pain exploded within her, but the rage burned brighter. "You'll pay for this!" she screamed, spitting into his visor.
But they were stronger, two against one bound woman. The second man grabbed her legs, forcing them apart, while the first loosened her bonds just enough to send her sprawling to the ground. Katniss fought like a wildcat, scratching and biting—her nails tearing at her skin, but a blow to her cheek made stars dance before her eyes. Blood dripped from her lip, and humiliation mingled with rage: she, the victor of the Hunger Games, reduced to this. They ripped her tattered arena robes, revealing her pale skin, scarred by old battles. The first knelt behind her, his hands roughly on her hips, while the second stood before her, unbuttoning his uniform. "Hold still, bitch," he snarled, forcing his hard cock into her mouth. Katniss gagged, tried to bite, but another blow to her head left her dazed. At the same time, she felt the pain from behind—the first was thrusting into her anally, hard and mercilessly, stretching her in a way that burned like fire. She screamed, muffled by the cock in her mouth, tears of rage and pain streaming down her cheeks. Her emotions swirled: hatred for Snow, for these men, for herself for not being stronger. Every thrust was a humiliation, a blow to her pride—she, who had fought for the districts, now a plaything for the Capitol.
The assault lasted an eternity, a long period of agony, during which they alternated between moaning and laughing, their bodies slamming against hers. One of them, from behind, thrust rhythmically, slapping against her skin, while the other held her head and pushed deeper until she gasped. Katniss's rage boiled over—she tried to twist, to use her elbows, but every attempt ended with blows: a fist to the ribs that made her gasp, a kick to the thigh that left bruises. "You're nothing now," the second one sneered as he came in her mouth, forcing her to swallow his bitter semen, while the other followed with a grunt, his seed dripping inside her. She coughed, spat, her eyes burning with fury. "I'm going to kill you... all of you..." she whispered, but her voice was hoarse, broken.
No sooner had the first men retreated, smoothing their uniforms, than the door slid open again. The next two came in, fresh and eager, their eyes hungry behind their visors. "Our turn," one said with a grin. Katniss's body already ached, her muscles trembling with exhaustion, but rage kept her going. She lashed out when they grabbed her, landing one in the groin—he yelped, struck back, a hard slap that whipped her head sideways. "Wildcat, eh? That only makes it better." They threw her onto her back, one spreading her legs, thrusting into her vaginally, hard and deep, while the other squatted over her face, taking her in his mouth at the same time. Katniss screamed in muted gasps, her nails digging into one man's arm, but a blow to her chest made her gasp for air. Her emotions were a whirlwind: rage at the injustice, shame at her helplessness, a deep hatred that drove her not to give up. Every thrust felt like a wound to her soul, yet she whispered curses, spat blood. "Peeta... the rebellion... they're coming," she thought, clinging to that spark of hope as the men grunted, their sweat-drenched bodies slamming against hers. After endless minutes, they came, filling her with their seed, laughing at her tears.
Then the next ones. And the next. The door opened again and again, pair after pair, in an endless cycle of humiliation. Sometimes they forced her to her knees, one in her mouth, the other vaginally from behind—Katniss choked, fought back, bit, which ended in brutal blows: fists to the stomach that made her double over, kicks to the legs that made her limp. Sometimes they took her anally and vaginally at the same time, while she screamed and cursed. Her rage grew with each assault, a fire that wouldn't die down, yet her body grew weary—bruises covered her skin, blood and semen mingled on the floor. She thought of Prim, of her mother, of Gale, of Peeta in District 13, and the hatred kept her alive. "You can take my body, but not my will," she thought, even as the tears flowed, and the pain almost numbed her. The soldiers came and went, their uniforms white as death, and Katniss's cell became a chamber of endless torment, where her rage morphed into a vow: One day she would be free, and then the Capitol would burn.
The days merged into an endless torture. Snow's men—Voxe with mute mouths and sadistic Peacekeepers—tormented her with interrogations and rapes. They injected her with their truth serum, which dredged up her memories, and forced her to speak before cameras to appease the districts. "Tell them the rebellion is pointless," Snow ordered. "Tell them you're sorry." Katniss initially refused, gritting her teeth, but the pain became unbearable—electric shocks that set her nerves on fire, whips that left welts all over her body, and repeated brutal rapes. She didn't break completely, but she uttered the words she hated: "The Hunger Games are necessary... President Snow is protecting us all."
In her cell, alone with her thoughts, Katniss became a prisoner of her own mind. She dreamed of the arena, of Peeta's touch, of freedom in District 12. But by day, she was Snow's puppet—made up and dressed in sumptuous gowns for propaganda videos, posing as a "rescued heroine." "You're my Mockingjay Whore, Katniss," Snow whispered during one of their meetings. The rebellion raged outside, fueled by Peeta, who had become a symbol in District 13, while Katniss languished in the heart of the enemy, a spark of hatred in her soul waiting for the moment of revenge. But for now, she was trapped, a bird in Snow's gilded cage, and the roses smelled of despair as she was led to her cell, where three soldiers were already waiting for her. "Ready for round two?" they breathed, and Katniss sank to her knees, ready to endure another rape.