Originally Posted by
Beast's Lair White Day Lemon Contest 2018
Pool 5
- Jeanne Alter and Leonidas investigate after something has every human and servant in chaldea but them fucking like wild rabbits. Lewding Jeanne Alter or Leonidas is ILLEGAL. Highly detailed descriptions of the varied manners of sex they encounter is HIGHLY LEGAL.
- An in depth analysis of Shiki murdering Arc/other shit, but written in an arousing, sexual fashion. The act, the intimacy, the CLIMAX. It can be a scene where he kills more than one thing. Any setting.
- Herakles was a hero, a warrior, a gentleman, a lover, and he was two and a half meters tall with the dick to match. Consensual gigadick. Any partner/setting. Multiple partners allowed.
“And so Achilles pierced her deeply with Peleus’ sturdy spear and extinguished the life of Ares’ daughter. Then from her head he plucked the helm and at once marvelled, for underneath lay a face that even death could not tarnish, beautiful as the breaking dawn, the visage of a goddess in the flesh. At once the hero’s heart was beset by both the deepest love and grief: to have slain such a beauty beyond compare, given to the cold grasp of Hades when he could have borne her home and made her his bride, a mighty queen befitting the mighty hero. Desire flooded his being for that warmaiden lying on the blood-sodden earth, a fire within him that he would never be able to quench.
“But wait, Achilles then thought, beholding her rosy cheeks still red with the warmth of life and the single wound he had cleanly struck through her heart, stealing her life but leaving her flawless body otherwise unmarred. Waaaait, he reasoned with himself, meeting the eyes of the Argives who had gathered around the fallen queen of the Amazons with the same conspiratorial stare. Maaaybe I could still…”
Bzzt.
“Rejected. You didn’t tag this for necrophilia.”
“...actually I was kinda curious to see where it was--”
“Dropped like hot garbage. That’s just nasty, dude.”
A mechanical sound, then a trio of voices cut the aspirant poet off mid-recital. He was ushered off the stage by the attendant to the crowd’s murmurs with the disappointment of a glorious dream being mercilessly crushed still evident on his face. From somewhere in the stands an amplified voice rose above the crowd with way more enthusiasm than the situation called for.
“Oof, another contestant crashes out! As expected of these illustrious judges, they have proven very hard to impress, nowhamsayn? The next contestant has his work cut out for him! With the tags of “lolicon”, “bestiality”, “stomach deformation”, and a shocking “fluff”, give a waaarm welcome toooo… Redditus!”
The crowd didn’t seem to like the young man that climbed the stairs up to the stage, meeting him with boos that failed to dampen his excitement. Or maybe he was just too dense to realise.
“Good day to you, most esteemed judges. By the grace of the Muses and the Divine Father’s favour I wish to present to you a heartwarming tale of love of which the poets shall speak for eternity! An unlikely love that blossomed between two souls that were shunned by the world, yet found solace in each other’s hands! Youth! Innocence! And yet steaming hot romance! Hark to the tale of the lovely goddess Euryale, the image of ideal beauty that was cruelly subjected to great Athena’s fury, and how she found love in a fellow outcast, the unwanted son of Crete, the hideous beast with the pure heart of a boy, the Minotaur himself, Aste--!”
Bzzt. The chime cut him off before he had even begun, all but smashed by a fist clenched in anger.
“The fuck is this?! Are you mocking me, you shitty quinary? Fuck off back to Redditia!”
“Brother, it’s just fanfiction. You can pretend it’s some faceless farm animal.”
“I blacklisted it for a reason! If I wanted to hear shit like this I would ask my wife!”
“Funny, did your parents never tell you how they met?”
“Wanna fuckin’ go, jackass?”
“I reckon that should be my line.”
“Brother noooo--!”
“Ooooooh, it seems the prospect of tender bull-on-loli loving has rubbed Judge Minos the wrong way! What can ya do, rules are rules, and even a single rejection equals elimination. Better luck next time!”
And so another contestant fell short. The crowd was divided on whether to cheer or boo for the early elimination. With this year’s judges shooting down entry after entry before they even got anywhere they had barely gotten to listen to any of the good stuff. And they sure didn’t pay the rather expensive tickets for this event to be completely blueballed.
Said event was none other but the annual competition of Lemon Recital, where the finest pornomancers in all the land gathered to test their skills of lurid expression and unbridled creativity before a panel of judges and a crowd constituted by connoisseurs of wealth and taste, seasoned reprobates, and horny ban-dodging minors. Drawing from history as well as myth, the contest was a celebration of traditional values and a good way to unwind after the highbrow dramatic competitions that took place earlier in the year.
The problem in such a competition where everyone should have been a winner was that every contestant wanted victory only for themselves. After tons of salt were spilled in the previous year’s edition over how taste in porn is too subjective and arbitrary to consistently judge by it, about it outweighing criteria such as the storyteller’s skillful prose and masterful descriptions and how the story about Andromeda getting tentacled in every hole should totally have won, the organisers were pressured into finding a panel of judges that could truly be considered beyond reproach - who could be trusted to judge the merits of every entry fairly and impartially.
They, concerned over the outcry and the projected impact on pre-bookings, reached out to the three judges of the dead in Hades and inquired whether they would be free and willing on day such and such to sit on the gilded thrones on the stage, listen to some fapfics, and rate them according to their wisdom that is the greatest of all mortals. To their surprise, they agreed quite easily.
Unfortunately, it turned out that the arbiters of virtue and sin did not, in fact, make for good fanfic judges.
Rhadamanthys had left his seat to physically restrain Minos, holding his arm back so that he wouldn’t fling his heavy gold goblet at his fellow judge, or failing that the hapless poet who was being shooed off the stage by the worried-looking attendant. Meanwhile Aeacus twirled a sceptre of elaborately carved olive wood and inlaid veins of silver in his hands with a mixed look of boredom and disappointment on his face. He had imagined this to be a pleasant break from the serious duties of a judge of dead souls, but so far he’d only gotten aggravation out of the whole affair. The contestants and even the crowd were all men too, so there was nowhere to rest one’s eyes either. He sighed deeply. What a drag.
“Uhm, well, er-HEM,” the announcer fumbled with a parchment for a moment before regaining his bearings. “Next up we have a bit of a celebrity! This contestant has made quite the name for himself as a wandering poet, extolling the excellent exploits of extraordinary exemplars wherever he goes! Claiming a galore of tags, featuring fan-favourites “monster girl”, “defloration”, and “nakadashi” while also taking a gander at combinations rarely-seen and even more rarely well-executed: “consentacles” and “consensual gigadick”! If that doesn’t pique your curiosity you must either be a complete normie or a very high-level degenerate indeed. Iiiiintroduciiiing, the vaaagrant baaard, Maaaajorleaaague-gaaaaamin-gi-CUS!”
This time the crowd rustled with cautious anticipation, for this strange and distinctive name was not unknown to them. The man who clambered onto the stage, dressed in curious clothes and holding a harp in one hand and a satchel over his shoulder was said to follow the footsteps of legendary heroes, witnessing their deeds firsthand and recording them in tales for all men to hear. Truthfully it wasn’t as if ideas wouldn’t spread from person to person within a culture until a narrative of a hero’s exploits formed without a wandering poet travelling from city to city to propagate them, but this particular poet could claim something no other colleague of his could: he was said to have had the privilege to personally record the adventures of the greatest hero of them all.
“Hoh?”
It seemed that the judges had taken notice of him too, something - perhaps his name or his selection of tags - grabbing their attention. The poet took a theatrical bow at the wait towards each of the judges and plucked a few strings on his harp experimentally, letting the harmonious notes linger on the air until they were swallowed up by silence.
Then he tossed the gilded instrument to the side like a toy, where it smashed into the head of the unfortunate Redditus with a clang.
“How’s it hanging, my dudes? Gonna guess low and blue after this snoozefest, eh? Well sit your bottoms tight now, because I’ve got just the cure for that.”
From his seat in the podium, Rhadamanthys stirred - not out of discomfort, for your information - and addressed the flippant bard.
“Such irreverence, yet humour you we must. You speak of monster girls; what, then, is your subject?”
“Why, a former pupil of yours,” Majorleaguegamingicus answered, tapping his temple with his finger and favouring the adjudicator with a knowing smile. “A man larger-than-life in every aspect, the physical included.”
“Hm,” Aeacus interjected, “you must mean…”
“Yes. Today I will recount a tale of the greatest hero, the demigod whose girth cannot be ignored, the one and only, the incomparable Herakles, as I witnessed it with my own two eyes.”
At that, excited murmurs washed over the crowd. The prolific demigod was a popular subject of the poets, his exploits being as numerous as his partners. As a result it could be difficult for a poet to recite a completely original tale that didn’t retread the well-known topics of the Herakles franchise in a desperate attempt to recycle the stories told a thousand times before into fresh and exciting content. Minos must have thought so too, as he snorted with contempt at the name, already losing interest.
“Couldn’t pick anything more mainstream, huh. What’s next, yandere Medea? Electra daddy kink? Helen/Paris songfics?”
“Wise King,” the poet answered undeterred, “have you ever heard the tragedy of Scylla the princess-turned-aquatic-lifeform? It’s not a story the dramatists would tell you.”
“Think I forget my own stalkers? And what do you mean, have I heard. You trying to imply implications?”
“Certainly not, your surliness. And that’s a different one, much more literally named in my honest opinion. I do believe that this epic romance will seem as radical and fetch as a remake of that myth you used to love but the bard now refuses to ever sing.”
“Get on with it then,” Minos waved impatiently.
“Monster girl, huh…” Rhadamanthys repeated to himself.
“I’ve seen what happens when he gets inside sea monsters. It’s not pretty,” Aeacus muttered darkly.
“Anyway,” said Majorleaguegamingicus, “this one’s called Sandstorm.”
Thus he began a strange and totally not fake tale.
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The twelve labours that immortalised Herakles are thought to have been performed as penance for the murder of his family while captured in the web of madness that Hera had cast over him. For many years the demigod subjected himself to dangerous labour and humiliation by lesser men than he in order to purify himself of the hideous crime. At least, that is what the legends say.
The truth, as told by the demiman himself, is that he was absolved of the crime by an old king not long after. In fact he gave him 50 grandkids as a thank-you. What truly vexed the hero to the point that he sought the counsel of the Delphic Oracle was a problem much less spiritual in nature.
You see, Herk is a big guy. For you, and for everyone around him. Two and a half meters tall, to be exact, and with the dick to match. But as is natural for any self-respecting hero he had his needs, and getting those needs fulfilled was becoming quite a serious issue. If a woman was not intimidated at first glance, thinking that a chance to take him for a ride would likely never come by again, she was certainly traumatised after they were done. Emotionally, not physically - Herk is actually a really considerate guy, but he can only go on for so long with just the tip.
(It should be said here that Megara was a remarkable woman with an amazing capacity for love, if you catch the drift.)
The Oracle, swathed in dank vapours and slurring rather terribly, spoke her divinely inspired message:
“Don’t be a baka, smash cloaca.”
Herakles pondered on the wisdom of those words, and decided that while their true depths were still impenetrable to him, he could start by finding the biggest idiot he knew and seeing what he had to say. And that is how he travelled to the court of his cousin Eurystheus and asked him what were the things he would rather not do the most. The rest is history; or rather, legend.
Rear naked choking the Nemean Lion Friend. Shrugging off crabs to pound the Hydra into the ground. Capturing and (s)laying numerous MonMusu rejects, even NTRing them from their gods. Shooting the Hundred Heads of the harpies of Stymphalia, unarmed. While he was reluctant to describe what went on with the kinky centaurs herded by King Diomedes, he fondly recalled the adventures he had with the shortstack draphs he stole from that whale Geryon’s mancave. As for what deeds he performed in the man-thirsty land of the Amazons and the Garden of the sheltered Hesperides, words failed miserably to describe them.
By the time he asserted his dominance over the three-headed awoo, Herakles had understood that only the most phantasmal of monster girls could accommodate his needs. Yet he still felt that something was missing. His exploits had earned him glory and satisfaction but he had still not obtained something vital that he’d once had and lost: love.
Thus having completed his best-selling twelve-part series he set off on another journey, searching far and wide for the one that could fill the oversized void in his oversized heart. And as he was passing one day through the straits of Sicily, on his way to pay the cowgirls of Helios a visit, he met her.
Clinging to the base of the cliff overlooking the churning sea was a terrible monster. Six long serpentine necks writhed above a draconic torso, itself ringed with vaguely canine heads that sprouted out of it, all filled with double rows of serrated shark teeth, their eyes four each in number and burning with bloodlust and hatred. From its waist downward a mass of tentacles supported the massive beast, thick as tree trunks and filled with pulsating suction cups.
It was Scylla, daughter of a sea-god, a princess who was cursed into this hideous form by a habitually jealous witch. From her whirlpool of emotion - the resentment for her unfair punishment, the sadness for her lost life, and also the unbridled rage and lust for revenge and a dark exhilaration for her new demonic form - had emerged a monster that delighted in attacking the passing ships and devouring their crews in every manner imaginable.
The monster sized Herakles up with her many, many eyes and knew that he would not be easy prey. Herakles sized the monster up and wondered if the one he’d killed in that weird ash lake that one time was its relative.
Then he pulled out his bow and no-scoped the fuck out of her.
It was not fit to be called a battle. Scylla was a famed monster but Herakles’ A+ Rank Giant Beast Hunting had been rightly earned. The sea frothed with mingling blood and foam as enormous arrows pierced and severed the lashing necks and tentacles that came his way before they had the chance to touch him. The monster thrashed in pain she had never before experienced in her life, feeling with an animal intelligence that her life was being extinguished by a superior predator. Heads as big as houses fell into the sea with gigantic splashes, eyes lifeless and ruined by the demigod’s projectiles.
Scylla was panicking. She had given herself over to the beastly instincts, burying her human heart and form deep within that monstrous body and mind so that she would never be hurt again, but that body was rapidly falling apart. At this rate, she would have to-- she would have to flee before that man could see her - before she would have to see herself for what she truly was!
But there was no escape to be found from Herakles’ killstreak, and as the last of the draconic appendages was headshotted with contemptuous ease the monster’s ravaged form seemed to disintegrate before the hero’s eyes, the scales and serpent-dog parts sloughing off and dissolving into the sea as if they were melting - or rather molting. Soon enough the titanic monster that towered over the prime male specimen of Ancient Greece had shrunk down to a much smaller form that lay crouched amidst the wreckage of its destroyed body. When Herakles made to approach it with his bow still clutched in his hand he was surprised to see that from within the monster had emerged a woman’s form, whose nubile body was plain to see for his trained eyes. Her hair was luscious and vibrant, her delicate arms hugging her own body as she shivered, covering up a chest as steep as the cliffside she called her home, and what joined her shapely hips in the place of legs were tentacle-like serpentine tails. He imagined that if she stood on them she would be roughly level with his height.
All of a sudden Herakles, weary of travelling the sea for many days with nothing to comfort him, had the strangest craving for octopussy.
“D-Don’t look at me,” the girl cried out with tears pooling in her eyes. She turned away from the approaching hero in a desperate attempt to hide her face from him. “This h-hideous body can only cause s-suffering.”
Herakles remembered the prophecy of the Oracle. But more than that, as the consummate gentleman he was not going to let that pass.
“Nah, you’re pretty hot, babe.”
The fallen princess lifted her tear-filled eyes to look at the gentle giant who had smashed her body to pieces to reveal her true self. She who had been cursed unjustly for rejecting another’s love now felt the flutter of an emotion she thought she would never feel again in the heart that had been shattered so long ago. Their eyes met, and she knew it for what it was. Then her gaze travelled south until it met Herakles’ stone pillar, and she gave a shy smile, her tentacle-tails beginning to wind round the hero’s legs and travelling ever upwards.
And then they fucked.
.
.
.
.
“So where is the actual lemo--”
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“...and that’s how you two met?”
Jeanne Alter threw a dubious glance at the mad giant, then at the girl who was still sleeping on the bed with a content look on her drooling face, then back to the giant whose lips were set in what felt strangely like a very self-satisfied smirk. He pounded a fist to his chest with a smack that shook the room’s walls. The Lancer-class Servant in his bed shifted to better hug the pillows.
“I… see,” Leonidas said, not really seeing the point of the story they’d just heard or understanding how Berserker had even communicated it using only roars, hand gestures and black blocks of text. “Then perhaps you were not affected by this incident but independently expressing your… mutual love.”
Alter made a gagging noise in the background, but they’d already seen much stranger things in their investigation of the halls of carnal debauchery that Chaldea had inexplicably become. Never mind Queen Medb’s newly christened “Pleasure Dome” or Matthieu Kyrielight’s inversion impulse awakening her latent nature as a public meat toilet - the things that Scathach was doing with Hessian Lobo were not meant to be witnessed by eyes of any kind.
“Ugh. Let’s go.”
Without bidding the demigod adieu Alter pivoted on the spot and exited the room with the Spartan king quickly muttering his congratulations to the happy couple before following her out into Chaldea’s corridors.
The situation was pretty bad. The two had been wandering around for hours searching for the perpetrator of this incident and they had gotten no closer to finding them than they had understood why they were the only ones seemingly spared the inhibition-loosening mental effects that had turned everyone else into sex-crazed morons.
In the end they had decided to start from the most plausible suspects behind Chaldea turning into Sesshouin Kiara Land but they’d had no luck so far, and the effect seemed to only worsen with time. Soon not even the children, locked inside Leonidas’ room and kept occupied with impromptu sketches and storytelling by a few of the king’s retinue, would be spared.
Alter’s heels did not click so much as splash against the floor that was spattered with things better left to the imagination. She sidestepped a particularly large puddle with a sneer of profound disgust on her face. Leonidas, having experienced the aftermath of many a Gymnopaedia festival firsthand, was familiar with navigating scenes of fallout following mass naked frat parties. All the same he wished he was wearing rubber boots instead of sandals.
Suddenly, the two Servants felt the pressure of observation upon them. As it drew closer they could perceive what they had come to identify as waves of raw lust that had been rolling off of almost every single person, mundane or otherwise, that they had met so far. No doubt, another brainwashed sex-addict was approaching - in fact they could sense that he was just around the corner ahead of them.
“It’s… some kid pitching a tent? Get your hand out of your pocket, you’re not fooling anyone.”
“No, wait, isn’t that the new limited 5* Assassin from the Tsukihime event?”
“What the hell is a Sookeyhim—LOOK OUT HE’S GOT A KNIFE!”
“Kyokushi--!”
And then they were fucked.
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Posting 2018 memefics in 2020 Fanfics is like giving CPR to a dead horse, but we could still artificially inflate it by posting all those unpublished entries, r-right?
god i miss contests
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