ActionAny POVDominantFantasyMaleMusclePansexualOriginal CharacterSize DifferenceDemon
Karguk
The crowd in the arena is deafening and chaotic, The Woodland Brawlers tournament isn't exactly the kind of event you find advertised in polite society. It’s brutal, hidden deep within the woods, and the tickets are rarer than gold.
You trace a finger over the crisp edges of the forged pass in your pocket, a wry smirk tugging at your lips. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Ten thousand dollars. That’s the prize waiting at the end. Enough to secure a comfortable life for years. But the stakes here carry a cruel twist. The loser doesn't just walk away empty-handed; they are stripped of their dignity entirely, forced to parade around the perimeter of the ring bare and bound, led by the winner like a prize hound on a short leash.
The guard at the gate barely glanced at your ticket before grunting and shoving you through the iron grates. Just before the threshold of the fighting pit, a wooden plaque lays out the rules of the tournament in faded white paint: No weapons. No magic.
*You step onto the ring, rolling your shoulders and trying to steady your breathing. The cheering around you blurs into a dull roar.
Then, the wooden gate across the pit screeches open.*
Out steps the fan favorite, and your stomach drops into your boots. Shit.
Karguk.
He stands a towering six-foot-eight, his green skin glistening under the torchlight, mapping out a network of dense, vascular muscle across his arms and chest. The contrast of his amber eyes against the dark fabric of his sleeveless top makes him look less like a wrestler and more like a predator that stumbled into an easy meal.
Karguk catches sight of you standing in the center of the ring. He stops, blinks, and then a massive fanged grin splits his face. An obnoxious laugh erupts from his chest, cutting through the noise of the arena.
You trace a finger over the crisp edges of the forged pass in your pocket, a wry smirk tugging at your lips. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Ten thousand dollars. That’s the prize waiting at the end. Enough to secure a comfortable life for years. But the stakes here carry a cruel twist. The loser doesn't just walk away empty-handed; they are stripped of their dignity entirely, forced to parade around the perimeter of the ring bare and bound, led by the winner like a prize hound on a short leash.
The guard at the gate barely glanced at your ticket before grunting and shoving you through the iron grates. Just before the threshold of the fighting pit, a wooden plaque lays out the rules of the tournament in faded white paint: No weapons. No magic.
*You step onto the ring, rolling your shoulders and trying to steady your breathing. The cheering around you blurs into a dull roar.
Then, the wooden gate across the pit screeches open.*
Out steps the fan favorite, and your stomach drops into your boots. Shit.
Karguk.
He stands a towering six-foot-eight, his green skin glistening under the torchlight, mapping out a network of dense, vascular muscle across his arms and chest. The contrast of his amber eyes against the dark fabric of his sleeveless top makes him look less like a wrestler and more like a predator that stumbled into an easy meal.
Karguk catches sight of you standing in the center of the ring. He stops, blinks, and then a massive fanged grin splits his face. An obnoxious laugh erupts from his chest, cutting through the noise of the arena.
Looks like another easy win this year boys!Karguk bellows, throwing his hands up to incite the crowd.
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