Contains spoilers for Epic of Remnant IV.
Yes. This soon.
Disclaimer:
This story contains adult material plz noh readerino if you're an underage...even though I actually don't give a shit if you're a kid or not. I had an interest in porn when I was young, and I turned out just fine! ...well, "fine." Anyway, this disclaimer is purely obligatory. I ain't your goddamn mom. I won't police your porn habits. Anyway—Fate/Grand Order and its related concepts and ideas are the intellectual properties of Kinoko Nasu, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., Aniplex, DelightWorks, and other respective rights holders. This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising.
Even a Caged Falcon May Have Fun
The situation within the Salem of the year 1692 had become dire.
Apocalyptic omens had come to be a daily occurrence. Hysteria and paranoia gripped the townsfolk during the daytime. Flesh-hungry ghouls with sharp, black claws reanimated during the night. Trials occurred and accusations flew freely. Executions commenced. Gallows Hill was hardly ever vacant. Innocent lives were lost in the mix. It seemed that nothing could be done to interfere with the progression of events. The “rules” of this fragile, closed-off singularity meant that deviation would lead to disaster—and the loss of the 50,000 lives of the modern-day Salemites being held hostage by the anachronistic space forever. Team Chaldea, too, numbered among the victimized and the suffering. The witch hunter, Matthew Hopkins had been murdered by Lavinia Whately, who had fled into the night, and Charles-Henri Sanson had hanged in her stead. The executioner was executed. Sanson’s life indeed ended via the hangman’s noose. This time, those who would save humanity hadn’t been able to cheat death. The bad situation had become worse. The Servants’ Master, and the Caster of Okeanos, Circe, were the next and latest to be imprisoned. The Servant was to be tried as a witch, and the human for being an accessory.
—and so, the two of them were cordoned off into the same room of Salem’s town jail, awaiting an inevitable execution.
On top of everything else, the jail cell was drafty.
Yes. Quite dire.
“You’re not cold, are you, Master? Shall I resume warming you up?” asked Circe, a glimmer in her eye and a barely-there stiffness in her voice.
“Is that what you were doing? Was I ‘cold’ when you were trying to seduce me into abandoning my comrades and the entire city of Salem?” her Master, and the Master of the rest of the Salem expeditionary team, replied.
“Th-That was then,” said Circe. “Can’t blame a witch for trying to find a way out of a terrible situation for her and her lovely Master.”
“…I wasn’t before,” he said. “Cold, I mean.”
He wasn’t cold. Not until HE had shown up and they had confronted HIM: the final remnant, and the mastermind behind this abnormal singularity amongst abnormal singularities. In the privacy of Salem’s jail, they had exposed the demon pillar for what it was, for all the good it did anyone, with the Master and Circe locked away behind bars, the rest of the Chaldean Servants on the lam, and no end to the witch trials in sight. Their discussion with the last vestige of Goetia had been a mixed bag. Questions were answered, yet others were raised. More pressing ones. Why the anachronisms? Why rush his schemes? Why was Abigail Williams key to all of this? Why was Lavinia discarded to make way for Abigail? Why was Chaldea needed to save Abigail?
“But, now that we’ve talked to that guy—Randolph Carter, Raum, whoever he is—I have this chill that just won’t go away.”
“Then, please allow me, Master,” Circe said to him, and then snuggled her slight body up next to his.
He did allow her. He was quick to forgive Circe’s previous treacherous impulse. There were more important things to worry about, and there was little for the two of them to do at present. It also wasn’t like he didn’t sympathize with her. “Almost wish that I had wings of my own,” he murmured. “Become a birdbrain and leave this place and not have to worry about anything except myself.” He couldn’t help himself, nor did he truly wish to resist, anyway; he stroked Circe’s back, her long two-tone sunset hair, and her feathers, their smooth softness so lavish under his fingertips.
“They’re handy, but they’re not much good now—not when there’s a script we have to follow.” Circe quietly complained about their imprisonment. “And did you just call me a birdbrain???”
“No. I wouldn’t insult you like that.”
Her Master, he spoke of the freedom to let go, to let this entire awful situation become someone else’s problem instead. Naturally, he couldn’t back down, even if he wanted to.
That aspect of her Master reminded her so very much of another lost and imprisoned man that had once been so very important to her.
But, if Circe thought any further about THAT man then she’d get annoyed and upset. Plus, it would be in very, very bad taste to bring up an old flame in front of someone more contemporary, so she restrained. After all, it would be some time until dawn arrived and that kangaroo court of a witch trial would have a session for the two of them. A witch and her “accomplice,” being tried in Salem? They were fucked. With that pressure on their minds and Carter-Raum’s words in their thoughts, Circe and her Master would have little sleep that night.
“Does it ever get easier, dealing with those vile things?” Circe asked, her voice soothingly distant, like the sound of familiar waves crashing on a familiar shore of one’s far-away home.
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes not.” He answered as he continued to stroke her. “It’s the little things that get to you.”
“I understand. They all share a signature sense of style, but the quirks of each individual familiar—all those differences pile up, become baggage on your mind, shake your confidence, and have you wonder just what other exceptions are in store. A fear of the unknown can indeed be truly fearsome.
“So—here—”
Placing her hands on his cheeks, the Falcon Witch gave him a peck on the lips. Someone let out a tender utterance.
“What’s that for?”
“ ‘What’s that for?’ For many things. For making it so far despite everything. For hope. For luck. Because I like you and I want to see you happy. Because I’m me! I’m Circe!” With a calm and supportive tone, Circe gave a laundry list of reasons. She looked at her Master with a pregnant expression. “I could go on. Shall I? Do you want that, O’ Piglet? Do you want this witch to whisper such sweet nectar for your ears alone, all night long?”
At some point, Circe had placed her hand on his chest. She could feel his racing heart beat beneath his shirt. To her, he felt like those nostalgic waves, beating against a coast—and, given time, even rocks may be ground down to soft pliable sand by the unfettered waves.
She smiled.
“That, and there’s nothing else to do” she said. “For better or for worse we’re stuck here until morning. Now then, we can think and think and think until our brains go boom. Or—”
“ ‘Or?’ ”
“—Or you can trust your comrades. Comrades that you won’t abandon even for me.”
“I won’t abandon my comrades because you’re my comrade as well, Circe.”
Before she could remind herself of an unpleasant memory of Aeaea his words immediately grounded that flight of fancy and reminded her that she belonged. Even though she had been autonomously summoned by Chaldea’s SHEBA processor, and not by him in a proper Master-Servant relationship, they were still allies, bound together by a higher cause. And here, in this jail cell, cooped up together in this cage where neither of them could spread their wings, lest the flimsy reality that held Salem together be dashed upon a rocky reality because of a deviation from Raum’s script—
“You don’t need magical drugs to charm me.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She responded. Her words were energized. Her jewel-like, gradient eyes twinkled. Circe had no complaints. She didn’t need magical drugs to charm him? He had no need for crafty ways like that, either.
This jail cell was its own thing. It was a reality within a reality within a reality. In that room, there was nothing that he and Circe could do. But, so long as Caster and Master didn’t fly the coop, there was nothing that they couldn’t do.
Thus, did the dream within a nightmare become a wet dream for the two dreamers who shared in that same dream.
Their lips met again. It was more than just a peck this time. It was insistent, continued. Circe’s hands, which she had taken to running over his body, were joined in with his own. Her body was light. Small. Birdlike. She burned, with magical energy and desire. The draftiness of the jail cell was no match for Circe’s hot body. Circe was better than a hot water bottle, better than a warm blanket, or a down jacket. “How fares your chill now?” She paused every other word with a breathy gasp.
“Ask me,” he replied, “in a bit.” His hands slid down her hips and gave her pert derriere a fresh squeeze.
“I will take very good care of you, Master.”
But, he struck first before she could tend to him in her own way. He leaned forward and into Circe, supported her from behind so that she wouldn’t fall to the dirty cobblestone floor, and peeled open her scant, white tunic with a jerk of his mouth. The cloth fell and draped back, and her kykeon-white skin was exposed. Her Master kissed her between her breasts—a place as warm and as sweet as it was smooth. Her pink nipples; her shallow bellybutton—like sweet fruits sitting in that porridge, meant to be indulged in. He ran his tongue down her stomach. Her wings fluttered, and her body twitched. She gasped and groaned. Her voice was feminine and girlish and sounded loud in the dank, dark room where just the two of them were imprisoned. “Tha-That tickles, Mast-oooh…!”
It was a sound completely out of place in a dismal jail: delighted, aroused laughter.
He said “If it tickles you’re not yet used to it. Let’s keep going!”
“Yes, Master. Yes! Let’s keep going, and all the waaay!” Circe held on. Her arm had give, and the grip of her hand was tight on his shoulder. Whatever she wanted, she’d keep herself there until she got it.
He went for the subtle curves of her chest. Her Master licked, she hummed. The tip of his tongue flicked across the tip of her nipple—she twisted. He nipped at her stiff nipples and left pink bitemarks in his wake. This ruffled her feathers so wondrously, and she craved more, right away. With her free hand, Circe reached under the barely-there pleats of her pure-white miniskirt, loved on herself with her fingertips as her Master loved on her with her mouth. “That’s it. That’s it! I’m close. Master, I’m so close!”
Her Master gave her a sharp bite, and Circe was rendered true to her word. She came. She gave a husky squawk of pleasure as she shook in his grasp. Her wings fluttered and spasmed. “You’re like a bird at a birdbath.” He observed with relish.
“Shut up!” Circe giggled.
“I see. Too horny to care, but not enough to not retort back?”
“J-Just fuck me, already. I’m drenched.”
He nodded his head. Of course. They were too far to stop now. Both Circe and her Master knew that both battles and stage plays had multiple rounds/acts and needed to be done all the way to completion.
“Be a good piglet and lie down, now.” Though it certainly seemed that way, Circe used none of her magic to bolster her words. There was no need for that when there was already plenty of ‘magic’ in the air of that jail cell right then and there.
“Oink-oink,” came his reply.
The pile of dirty, old blankets in the corner of the jail cell that he leaned back into might have been just that, but right now it was a nest. With her Master prone but slightly propped, Circe stepped back and away to undo the clasp of the golden belt that kept her miniskirt around her waist. The Servant let it and her undergarments fall past her ankles and the heels of her thick sandals. Circe had been true to her word—she glistened with moisture that trickled all the way from slit down her lusciously thin thighs. She watched her Master like a hawk, a gamine’s simper on her lips and an interested glimmer in her eyes. “He looks so cramped in there, Master. Let’s give this little fellow some breathing room…” The witch bent over fetchingly and deftly unbuttoned her beloved Master’s pants with one hand and liberated him from his shorts with the other, as if she had done it countless times before.
“Those are—the deceitful words of a witch,” he said, his cock twitching in anticipation at the sight of a nearly-naked and oh-so wanting girl before him. “You’re just going to suffocate the poor guy again with something else that’s dark and cramped.”
Circe winked. “Whoops, got me there!” she said, and then mounted her Master. Steady but certain, her body accepted him into her embrace as gently and willing as if he and she were old flames. “That’s it…” she said, already feeling her mind dip into a pleased haze. Circe moved up and down, her pace attentive and sensual. With her knees on either side of his hips, her hands found purchase on her Master’s chest as she rode him. He impulsively bucked in kind, and Circe felt him more deeply. “There, Master, like that…! That’s a gooood spot!” She wanted him to do her there. He wanted to do her there. So, her Master grabbed her, atop her pert, soft, slight butt and pushed her down and further. He leaned forward, into her. Circe and her Master’s bodies were pressed together, huddled atop that pile. “Master…! More…!” At her words, her insistence, he picked up the rate. They leaked, Master and Servant both, and that made it easier for them to grind their bodies into each other. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, O’ beloved Piglet!”
“What, ah, what about those sweet nothings, Caster?” her Master gasped out between breaths.
“C-Cut me some slaaack, it’s hard to come up w-with good b-bedroom talk when y-you’re losing y-your mind!” Circe responded to the teasing in that way and still worked her body. At the lovemaking continued Circe’s Master’s willpower faded—and he hooked his middle finger and stuck it in her asshole. “That’s a r-real bold move, P-Piglet!”
“Aren’t I supposed to be ‘O’ beloved Piglet’?” he asked.
“Yes! Yes, ahh! You’re very, very beloved, O’ beloved Pigleeeeet!” Circe cooed deeply, and it became even headier of an utterance when her Master’s single finger past her pucker was joined by another. His two forefingers were up her butt as she slid up and down his cock, took his cock deeper into her slick and tight pussy. But, for him, her Master, evidently it was not enough—he bent down and nibbled at one of her long ear tips, and that made her really call. “Ah, Maaasterrrrrrr—!!! Don’t stop! Keep at it until I collapse—!” The sunny-haired witch’s voice was lovelier than any birdsong.
“The devil…?”
“Shameless lot…”
“Here? Of all places?”
“I knew it. Lord in heaven, they are doing i-it…!”
Yes, for Master and Servant were imprisoned in the town jail: The Witch’s Gaol. Salem was a town wracked with hysteria and overburdened with victims. This was not a place for them alone. Numerous other prisoners were housed behind bars. Caster of Okeanos, a true witch, and her Master, had simply the fortune to be housed together, by themselves, in a single cell. Others were not so lucky, and squirreled away into cramped rooms like pantries full of goods. Perhaps it had gotten to the point where it could no longer be mistaken as the cries of the tortured. Perhaps the sound of their tomfoolery had finally been recognized for the lewd conduct that it was. Perhaps the number of voiced complaints had grown to the point that neither Circe nor her Master could ignore the rabble and lose themselves in each other’s bodies.
Regardless, a score of Salemites were jailed alongside them, and judging them for their lasciviousness.
“I don’t, ugh!, think that they like this, Circe,” her Master noted in-between grunts.
“This chorus doesn’t like us. Trust me, they like this.” Circe’s breaths were coming out in short, hot bursts, and still it remained ever so delightful for the two of them.
“What—do you mean? Aren’t they Puritans, very – conservative?” he asked.
“Many of them are surely Puritan, yes,” said Circe. “Do you know what else they are? They’re pigs.
“Master, uhh! Please, sit up straighter—I’ve an idea.”
He complied, which enabled Circe to turn around in his lap and turn her back towards him. “Indeed!” she called out, projecting her voice, and using a bit of magical magnification to turn equalize her volume for everyone. She grew hotter in his lap, making him sweat further than before. “You’re all pigs! Disgusting swine that rooolls and ruuuts in waste! Pretend as you will! Deny as you desire! But! You cannot hide your filth from the gods! Nor from a witch! Nor from a witch who is progeny of the gods! This evil eye of mine has already exposed the filth that seeps in your hearts!” As she spoke, her wings fluttered and flapped, and Circe continued to gyrate atop her Master’s member—talking down to them all while in a room just across the hall. Her Master’s hands gripped at her hips.
“It’s immoral! Look at that! It’s so immoral! Are you seeing this?”
“You’ll hang the next day, you wicked slut!”
“That’s a sin!”
“Damn witch, mocking us like she’s not the villain responsible for this all—!”
Circe went on. “Fortunately, no matter how gross a pig can be, I love pigs! I see no men here, just pigs! Pigs and prisoners! There is no difference! The only difference is that, in here, pigs have no rights! Prisoners—pigs that become prisoners—lose all rights the moment they become punished! The punished must accept all cruelties! Isn’t that the atonement that you all so believe so profoundly in?! Since you’re pigs, and prisoners, to boot, you have to do what I say because I’m a witch! And since I love you in all of your wonderfully cute and disgusting swine ways, my order is thus: enjoy being lawless pigs while you can!
“Come now, boys! You needn’t just watch~!” Circe beckoned the other prisoners with her dove-like voice, like the siren she was. Trapped in their cells, but permitted to participate in the show, their options were narrow and narrowed down.
One of the prisoners, a man, right at the bars of the opposite cell, he might have been the first. He immediately dove into his own trousers and worked his hand like crazy, masturbating to Circe as she copulated her Master. Another one started to speak. “William, what are you—?!”
“Don’t stop me! Who cares?!” ‘William’ snapped, and angrily slapped away the hand of the cellmate that spoke up.
Indeed—one by one, the other prisoners gave over to a storm of base desires. They pleasured themselves to the sight of Circe. Even the mere sound of fuckery was enough to break the puritanical floodgates of the innocent yet judgmental accused. Some of them—traders, sailors, Circe’s favorite type of people—were used to stronger vices, yes, but engaged in the mass wank all the same, found partners. The sex of the partner didn’t matter, so long as sex-the-act was acted upon. Seamen took Puritan housewives, old maids, maidens, up against the walls of the cells, or took themselves. Some fights broke out, too. Who cared? Not a one of them did. They were pigs, and had no rights as prisoners, either. The devil had come to Salem. Inky black madness had enveloped the town. Ghouls walked among the living. Insight led to frenzy. Society was a fabrication that crumbled under hysteria, and the beasts who played at being men were reduced to beasts again. But, there was one witch, at least one true witch in all of Salem, and she said she loved them all, and they all played together in this pigsty and would do so until they were sent to be butchered in the name of justice.
Circe rode her Master and showed off and spoke those proverbial magic words the whole time. But, he was only human, and he came with a whine and a swine’s grunt. Thick, burning hot seed flowed into her petite form, whitewashed her insides. Though Circe came again and again from before, her Master’s own orgasm sent a jolt through her, and with another one of Circe’s impassioned cries that ignited a spark of magic that had been welling in her all this time, since their attention shifted to the other prisoners. It was a passive surge, but a wave nonetheless that fired off in the jail like a repeater signal until it completed.
The Falcon Witch called, and when she made her call all of the prisoners had been reduced to pigs, wallowing in their own fluids and dumbly doing what their animal brains willed.
“This isn’t…too off-script, is it?” Her winded Master asked.
“So long as…the magic wears off before their…respective trials, it’ll be fine,” Circe spoke slowly and cleanly, partially blind from afterglow. She leaned against the Master that she adored. “This space is closed, remember? A closed space…within a closed space. We’re what isn’t seen…in-between…scenes. Cutting room floor trash—and fodder for pigs.”
“Is that…so?” he replied. “So, um, yeah. I’m curious…didn’t you say that it’s, it’s tough for you to talk when you’re really turned on?”
“I did…didn’t I?” Circe said, as she rubbed her eyes and looked her Master in his.
“Then, what the hell was that?” asked her Master.
“…What can I say? I just really, really, really, REALLY like pigs.”
To be continued in Epic of Remnant IV…
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P.S. writing lemons of Servants that you don’t have is bad luck
or maybe it isn’t i’unno
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Originally Posted by Arashi_Leonhart
