![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silver_sunTitle Twisted Coils
Fandom The Untamed/CQL - specifically the spin off movie Fatal Journey
Word Count2200
Characters/Pairings: Nie Mingjue/evil plant tentacles.
Rating explicit/adult
Warnings/contains noncon - this isn't fun tentacles or even grudgingly/eventually enjoyed tentacles - it's absolutely not wanted or enjoyed at any point tentacle.
Summary Written for the MDZS kinkmeme prompt - Nie mingjue gets fucked by the evil vines in fatal journey. That's it. that's the prompt. Nie Mingjue gets fucked by the evil vines in Fatal Journey. no squicks, go all out, fuck daddy up.
He’s winning the fight. Winning right up until the moment he’s suddenly very much not.
Baxia’s heavy blade slices through the vines, yet for every one Nie Mingjue cuts two seem to take its place. Yet there’s no fear. For now there’s nothing but anger, nothing but himself and the sabre spirit fighting at one, the fierce, wild joy of battle in his veins.
Then one is about his ankle, tripping him, pulling him earthward with such force the breath is driven from his lungs. Snarling furious with both the vines and himself for being snared so easily, he kicks out, trying to dislodge it so he can spring back to his feet and carry on the fight. His men, his brother, are relying on him. He's lost some of them already, he won't lose anymore, not tonight.
The vine about his leg squeezes tighter as more swarm in at him, emerging from the dark woodland with arrow-like speed and accuracy.
They coil around Baxia, a roiling mass that wrenches it from his hand, before swiftly dragging it out of sight. Others twist and loop around his wrists, about his chest, they hook through his belt, and tangle themselves in his clothes and hair.
It's dangerous to draw so much energy from his core so fast, the risk of sudden, violent qi deviation that comes with the Nie method of cultivation, frighteningly high these days despite his sworn brothers’ best efforts. There is little choice however, Mingjue tells himself: He's not about to be dead and buried just yet.
He tears the vines from himself, fingers sinking through the thin, rough outer skin and into the dense, slimy sap and tissue beneath. The world goes red with rage. His own wild anger driven on by the sabre spirit meeting and equalling the vines supernatural fury in its ferocity.
They’re angry, steeped in resentful energy. They want to hurt, to maim and kill. They want to cause fear, want to drink in the terror of their victims before they finally end their lives. They might be full of rage, Nie Mingjue thinks wildly, heedless of how the sap makes his fingers sting and itch, but so is he.
His clothes tear where the vines have worked their way through them as rips the sinuous coils loose, but he barely notices it. His hair falls in his eyes, the pins and decorative metal ornament that held back his braided hair having come loose in the struggle.
Finally he is free. Breathing hard, he scrambles back to his feet and looks round Baxia, knowing he will need it when the next attack comes.
There is no respite, no chance to rearm himself before the vines swarm him again. They rush in from all sides, coiling about him. He fights, yet without a weapon he knows it is a losing battle. They catch his arm twisting it up behind his back, their grip painfully tight, before lifting him off his feet.
There is nothing he can do but brace himself for the impact as they slam him first against one of the ancient, gnarled trees, then a second, before he finds himself hurtling back onwards the leaf strewn woodland floor.
He throws out his free hand in front of him, trying to brace against the impact, trying to shield his head. A head wound or worse concussion would lose him the fight for certain.
It’s not enough.
The weight, the momentum is too much, and his wrist buckles beneath him. Searing pain radiates up in his entire right arm, leaving him in little doubt that it’s broken.
The rank mould of decaying leaves are cloying against his mouth as he sucks in shuddering breaths, trying to control the pain. It's barely sufficient to clear his mind enough to start channeling energy to it, trying to stabilise it, so he's got a chance to fight back.
A tendril brushes across Mingjue’s thighs and he shudders, the feel of it against his bare skin where his clothes have been torn away revolts him. Worse though is the feeling as the thick, blunt tip of one of the vines slides between his buttocks.
He tenses, breath catching in his throat. It can't want that, he tells himself. It can't, it's a plant. A twisted and warped as it is by resentful energy it couldn't derive any pleasure from it.
It repeats the action and he feels frighteningly familiar panic start to build. Back when he'd been held prisoner in the Nightless City, Wen Rouhan had threatened such things. Had taunted him with how he'd let his men use him, how he’d break him and have him begging for death before he died. He never carried out his threats. But there had been nights when he'd lain his cell, body beaten and aching, unable to sleep for the fear that if he did that was when they would come for him.
Breath coming too fast and too shallow, he tries to call Baxia back to him. If he can free his other arm he can fight. Whether it's because he's expended too much energy already or that Baxia too heavily restrained or too far away the result it same: Baxia and the sabre spirit remain frighteningly silent and beyond his reach.
He starts to struggle again, but the movement sends vicious spikes of pain through his wrist, the bones grinding together. There is a rushing noise in his ears as he teeters on the edge of unconsciousness.
A sob escapes him, sick, all consuming fear pooling in his chest. He’s trapped, utterly helpless against whatever it wants to do to him.
The litany of ‘no, and ‘please, please no,’ fall haphazardly between ragged breaths. He's never begged for anything in his life, never thought he would. But then never, even in his very worst nightmares, had anything come close to this.
The vine brushes across the tight, puckered opening, and Mingjue can't hold back a cry of utter terror.
Then without any further warning it forces its way inside him. The slight oily sheen on the outside of it does little to ease its intrusion. Longer and wider than anything belonging to a person could ever be, pain lances through his whole body, muscles locking up and seizing.
Trying to breathe through it fails. Choking, sobbing, arms pinned or broken he's unable to press on any meridians to try to minimise the damage. He can do nothing as the vine pushes and twists inside him, huge, agonising and obscene as it squirms ever deeper.
The pain and pressure build, and he feels his bladder empty, a hot wet rush soaking into his ruined clothes.
Eyes squeezed tight closed, Mingjue can taste the wet salt of tears running over his lips, mingling with the copper tang blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek. He thinks it was when he collided with the first tree, but everything is so hazy he can't be certain of anything anymore.
A second vine brushes across the back of his thighs, sinuous, undulating, as it seeks out….
Panic seizes him, driving out any other thought. He struggles heedless now of pain in his arm. He can't let it put another into him. Can't. He feels like he's been split in two already. He doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not split open. Let it strangle him, let it crush his throat, his ribs. Anything but this.
The coils about his legs tighten, stretching his legs apart, keeping him open and exposed. There is nothing he can do as the second tendril forces its way in beside the first. Fast and brutal, skin and muscle hold for a moment before they begin to tear.
The pain eclipses even the throbbing of his shattered wrist pinned beneath his chest and he screams. Screams until there is no air left in his lungs, until his throat feels raw from it and black spots fill his vision.
The coils around his chest squeeze, while another winds itself about his throat. His vision greys out until finally, mercifully, everything goes, pain and consciousness falling away.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Everything hurts. Feels scraped raw inside and out.
“Hold him steady, I'll…” The voice stops, takes a shaky breath, then swallows hard. “I’ll get it out.”
It's Zonghui’s voice, Mingjue thinks, almost certain. His mind is still hazy, adrift on a sea of pain, unable to focus or recall anything. Why is he lying on the ground, his head on his brother’s lap. What had happened, what...
The is an agonising tugging feeling deep inside, then something slips loose. He cries out. Tries to, but all that escapes his lips is a hoarse, inarticulate sound, his voice too strained from screaming, the bruising around his throat throbbing fiercely.
Gentle, shaking hands stroke his hair, trying to soothe him, to ease his fear. “You're safe. I'm here, da-ge. Zonghui is here. We're all here. You're safe now. It's all over.”
Disjointed images of what has happened assail him, and Mingjue feels the rising tide of panic threatening to engulf him. They are still talking but he can barely catch their words over his own racing heartbeats and ragged breaths.
“....need a doctor.” Zonghui's voice shakes. “He’ll need stitching. We have to leave. I’ll ready a stretcher, he can't ride.”
Still stroking his brother's hair, HuaiSang nods, biting his lip, eyes big and scared, tears dripping steadily off his chin.
Mingjue shivers. The movement, small as it is, sends a vicious spike of pain radiating through him. He tenses, trying to still the next, but to no avail, and he starts to shake. A fine tremor at first, then stronger, harsher, until he's trembling violently, his body unable to process the terror and pain in any other way.
“It's shock,” Zonghui says, sounding shaken himself. “Keep him warm. Here take this.”
A heavy cloak is draped over him. Mingjue doesn't want to think about the steak of blood on Zonghui’s hand, about where it came from.
“It’s alright, da-ge, it's gone. You're safe, you're safe now,” Huaisang says, despite the way his voice shakes, despite the way he drips tears over them both. “I’ll protect you. I will. I promise.”
The sob that tears loose feels like it has ripped a hole through his chest, but Mingjue hasn't got the strength left to fight it, and it is followed by a second and a third. He doesn't want to need protection, not from anyone, doesn’t want to push Huaisang into that role. He's meant to be the protector, he is meant to keep him safe. He's failed them.
Huaisang makes a sound that is close to a sob as well. Then he curls over him, bringing the cloak with him, trying to cocoon them both from the world.
Gasping on pain and fear, Mingjue buries his face in Huaisang’s robes, tears fast soaking through the heavy fabric.
All his strength, even the power of the sabre spirit that came with his clan's method of cultivation, hadn't helped, hadn't kept him safe. He'd trained so hard, given every part of himself, traded the usual long life cultivation of a strong golden core brought for raw power. Power to keep his brother and his sect safe.
It wasn't enough. It never had been enough. Not before when the Wen took him prisoner and not now.
What use is he to them now, like this? There is no possible way for them to continue with trying to suppress the spirits in the tomb tonight, not for many nights to come. Not unless they can manage it without him. Whatever happens people will die because of it.
It's too much to take in. Too much bear. For now the sabre spirit is silent, the roiling anger that had seemed to bubble just below the surface absent too. As if there is no room left in him for anything other than pain and fear.
He shivers, eyes tightly closed, tears still falling as Zonghui and one of the other senior Nie disciples share energy with him. While they try to treat his arm the best they can. While they wrap him carefully in the loaned cloak and lift him onto the stretcher.
Huaisang walks beside him, holding his hand, talking about anything and everything to let him know he isn't alone.
He drifts for a while, barely seeing how Huaisang directs the disciples to protect their route with fire talismans. Finally even this is too much to maintain, and Mingjue feels a dim sense of relief as he falls back into unconsciousness as his brother and his men carefully make the journey home.
……….
I leave the story here as that is as far as the prompt goes. In my mind what happens next is slow recovery and divergence from canon, as Nie Mingjue no longer dies from qi deviation. The problem with the resentful energy and sabre spirits builds, and Huaisang realised they need an expert in on to solve things, and this is why he brings Wei Wuxian back earlier than he does in canon.
Maybe i’ll get the urge to write this one day, but can't say for certain. If anyone else wants to pick this up and run with it, go ahead.
Fandom The Untamed/CQL - specifically the spin off movie Fatal Journey
Word Count2200
Characters/Pairings: Nie Mingjue/evil plant tentacles.
Rating explicit/adult
Warnings/contains noncon - this isn't fun tentacles or even grudgingly/eventually enjoyed tentacles - it's absolutely not wanted or enjoyed at any point tentacle.
Summary Written for the MDZS kinkmeme prompt - Nie mingjue gets fucked by the evil vines in fatal journey. That's it. that's the prompt. Nie Mingjue gets fucked by the evil vines in Fatal Journey. no squicks, go all out, fuck daddy up.
He’s winning the fight. Winning right up until the moment he’s suddenly very much not.
Baxia’s heavy blade slices through the vines, yet for every one Nie Mingjue cuts two seem to take its place. Yet there’s no fear. For now there’s nothing but anger, nothing but himself and the sabre spirit fighting at one, the fierce, wild joy of battle in his veins.
Then one is about his ankle, tripping him, pulling him earthward with such force the breath is driven from his lungs. Snarling furious with both the vines and himself for being snared so easily, he kicks out, trying to dislodge it so he can spring back to his feet and carry on the fight. His men, his brother, are relying on him. He's lost some of them already, he won't lose anymore, not tonight.
The vine about his leg squeezes tighter as more swarm in at him, emerging from the dark woodland with arrow-like speed and accuracy.
They coil around Baxia, a roiling mass that wrenches it from his hand, before swiftly dragging it out of sight. Others twist and loop around his wrists, about his chest, they hook through his belt, and tangle themselves in his clothes and hair.
It's dangerous to draw so much energy from his core so fast, the risk of sudden, violent qi deviation that comes with the Nie method of cultivation, frighteningly high these days despite his sworn brothers’ best efforts. There is little choice however, Mingjue tells himself: He's not about to be dead and buried just yet.
He tears the vines from himself, fingers sinking through the thin, rough outer skin and into the dense, slimy sap and tissue beneath. The world goes red with rage. His own wild anger driven on by the sabre spirit meeting and equalling the vines supernatural fury in its ferocity.
They’re angry, steeped in resentful energy. They want to hurt, to maim and kill. They want to cause fear, want to drink in the terror of their victims before they finally end their lives. They might be full of rage, Nie Mingjue thinks wildly, heedless of how the sap makes his fingers sting and itch, but so is he.
His clothes tear where the vines have worked their way through them as rips the sinuous coils loose, but he barely notices it. His hair falls in his eyes, the pins and decorative metal ornament that held back his braided hair having come loose in the struggle.
Finally he is free. Breathing hard, he scrambles back to his feet and looks round Baxia, knowing he will need it when the next attack comes.
There is no respite, no chance to rearm himself before the vines swarm him again. They rush in from all sides, coiling about him. He fights, yet without a weapon he knows it is a losing battle. They catch his arm twisting it up behind his back, their grip painfully tight, before lifting him off his feet.
There is nothing he can do but brace himself for the impact as they slam him first against one of the ancient, gnarled trees, then a second, before he finds himself hurtling back onwards the leaf strewn woodland floor.
He throws out his free hand in front of him, trying to brace against the impact, trying to shield his head. A head wound or worse concussion would lose him the fight for certain.
It’s not enough.
The weight, the momentum is too much, and his wrist buckles beneath him. Searing pain radiates up in his entire right arm, leaving him in little doubt that it’s broken.
The rank mould of decaying leaves are cloying against his mouth as he sucks in shuddering breaths, trying to control the pain. It's barely sufficient to clear his mind enough to start channeling energy to it, trying to stabilise it, so he's got a chance to fight back.
A tendril brushes across Mingjue’s thighs and he shudders, the feel of it against his bare skin where his clothes have been torn away revolts him. Worse though is the feeling as the thick, blunt tip of one of the vines slides between his buttocks.
He tenses, breath catching in his throat. It can't want that, he tells himself. It can't, it's a plant. A twisted and warped as it is by resentful energy it couldn't derive any pleasure from it.
It repeats the action and he feels frighteningly familiar panic start to build. Back when he'd been held prisoner in the Nightless City, Wen Rouhan had threatened such things. Had taunted him with how he'd let his men use him, how he’d break him and have him begging for death before he died. He never carried out his threats. But there had been nights when he'd lain his cell, body beaten and aching, unable to sleep for the fear that if he did that was when they would come for him.
Breath coming too fast and too shallow, he tries to call Baxia back to him. If he can free his other arm he can fight. Whether it's because he's expended too much energy already or that Baxia too heavily restrained or too far away the result it same: Baxia and the sabre spirit remain frighteningly silent and beyond his reach.
He starts to struggle again, but the movement sends vicious spikes of pain through his wrist, the bones grinding together. There is a rushing noise in his ears as he teeters on the edge of unconsciousness.
A sob escapes him, sick, all consuming fear pooling in his chest. He’s trapped, utterly helpless against whatever it wants to do to him.
The litany of ‘no, and ‘please, please no,’ fall haphazardly between ragged breaths. He's never begged for anything in his life, never thought he would. But then never, even in his very worst nightmares, had anything come close to this.
The vine brushes across the tight, puckered opening, and Mingjue can't hold back a cry of utter terror.
Then without any further warning it forces its way inside him. The slight oily sheen on the outside of it does little to ease its intrusion. Longer and wider than anything belonging to a person could ever be, pain lances through his whole body, muscles locking up and seizing.
Trying to breathe through it fails. Choking, sobbing, arms pinned or broken he's unable to press on any meridians to try to minimise the damage. He can do nothing as the vine pushes and twists inside him, huge, agonising and obscene as it squirms ever deeper.
The pain and pressure build, and he feels his bladder empty, a hot wet rush soaking into his ruined clothes.
Eyes squeezed tight closed, Mingjue can taste the wet salt of tears running over his lips, mingling with the copper tang blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek. He thinks it was when he collided with the first tree, but everything is so hazy he can't be certain of anything anymore.
A second vine brushes across the back of his thighs, sinuous, undulating, as it seeks out….
Panic seizes him, driving out any other thought. He struggles heedless now of pain in his arm. He can't let it put another into him. Can't. He feels like he's been split in two already. He doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not split open. Let it strangle him, let it crush his throat, his ribs. Anything but this.
The coils about his legs tighten, stretching his legs apart, keeping him open and exposed. There is nothing he can do as the second tendril forces its way in beside the first. Fast and brutal, skin and muscle hold for a moment before they begin to tear.
The pain eclipses even the throbbing of his shattered wrist pinned beneath his chest and he screams. Screams until there is no air left in his lungs, until his throat feels raw from it and black spots fill his vision.
The coils around his chest squeeze, while another winds itself about his throat. His vision greys out until finally, mercifully, everything goes, pain and consciousness falling away.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Everything hurts. Feels scraped raw inside and out.
“Hold him steady, I'll…” The voice stops, takes a shaky breath, then swallows hard. “I’ll get it out.”
It's Zonghui’s voice, Mingjue thinks, almost certain. His mind is still hazy, adrift on a sea of pain, unable to focus or recall anything. Why is he lying on the ground, his head on his brother’s lap. What had happened, what...
The is an agonising tugging feeling deep inside, then something slips loose. He cries out. Tries to, but all that escapes his lips is a hoarse, inarticulate sound, his voice too strained from screaming, the bruising around his throat throbbing fiercely.
Gentle, shaking hands stroke his hair, trying to soothe him, to ease his fear. “You're safe. I'm here, da-ge. Zonghui is here. We're all here. You're safe now. It's all over.”
Disjointed images of what has happened assail him, and Mingjue feels the rising tide of panic threatening to engulf him. They are still talking but he can barely catch their words over his own racing heartbeats and ragged breaths.
“....need a doctor.” Zonghui's voice shakes. “He’ll need stitching. We have to leave. I’ll ready a stretcher, he can't ride.”
Still stroking his brother's hair, HuaiSang nods, biting his lip, eyes big and scared, tears dripping steadily off his chin.
Mingjue shivers. The movement, small as it is, sends a vicious spike of pain radiating through him. He tenses, trying to still the next, but to no avail, and he starts to shake. A fine tremor at first, then stronger, harsher, until he's trembling violently, his body unable to process the terror and pain in any other way.
“It's shock,” Zonghui says, sounding shaken himself. “Keep him warm. Here take this.”
A heavy cloak is draped over him. Mingjue doesn't want to think about the steak of blood on Zonghui’s hand, about where it came from.
“It’s alright, da-ge, it's gone. You're safe, you're safe now,” Huaisang says, despite the way his voice shakes, despite the way he drips tears over them both. “I’ll protect you. I will. I promise.”
The sob that tears loose feels like it has ripped a hole through his chest, but Mingjue hasn't got the strength left to fight it, and it is followed by a second and a third. He doesn't want to need protection, not from anyone, doesn’t want to push Huaisang into that role. He's meant to be the protector, he is meant to keep him safe. He's failed them.
Huaisang makes a sound that is close to a sob as well. Then he curls over him, bringing the cloak with him, trying to cocoon them both from the world.
Gasping on pain and fear, Mingjue buries his face in Huaisang’s robes, tears fast soaking through the heavy fabric.
All his strength, even the power of the sabre spirit that came with his clan's method of cultivation, hadn't helped, hadn't kept him safe. He'd trained so hard, given every part of himself, traded the usual long life cultivation of a strong golden core brought for raw power. Power to keep his brother and his sect safe.
It wasn't enough. It never had been enough. Not before when the Wen took him prisoner and not now.
What use is he to them now, like this? There is no possible way for them to continue with trying to suppress the spirits in the tomb tonight, not for many nights to come. Not unless they can manage it without him. Whatever happens people will die because of it.
It's too much to take in. Too much bear. For now the sabre spirit is silent, the roiling anger that had seemed to bubble just below the surface absent too. As if there is no room left in him for anything other than pain and fear.
He shivers, eyes tightly closed, tears still falling as Zonghui and one of the other senior Nie disciples share energy with him. While they try to treat his arm the best they can. While they wrap him carefully in the loaned cloak and lift him onto the stretcher.
Huaisang walks beside him, holding his hand, talking about anything and everything to let him know he isn't alone.
He drifts for a while, barely seeing how Huaisang directs the disciples to protect their route with fire talismans. Finally even this is too much to maintain, and Mingjue feels a dim sense of relief as he falls back into unconsciousness as his brother and his men carefully make the journey home.
……….
I leave the story here as that is as far as the prompt goes. In my mind what happens next is slow recovery and divergence from canon, as Nie Mingjue no longer dies from qi deviation. The problem with the resentful energy and sabre spirits builds, and Huaisang realised they need an expert in on to solve things, and this is why he brings Wei Wuxian back earlier than he does in canon.
Maybe i’ll get the urge to write this one day, but can't say for certain. If anyone else wants to pick this up and run with it, go ahead.