The Wicked Witch (Keir's Version)

Outside Evernight Castle, Land of Darkness

6:07 am — Wednesday, 16th September, 2015

You stand in the Land of Darkness. The sky above is a bruised purple, bled dry of light. Beneath your boots, the obsidian earth cracks, weeping rivers of black, bubbling Grimm pools that steam in the dead air. Ahead, Evernight Castle—Salem's fortress—looms, a jagged spine of dark crystal tearing into the heavens.

Movement ripples across the crags. Dozens of red eyes ignite in the gloom. Beowolves and Ursai lunging from the shadows, a tide of claws and dripping jaws. You don't break stride. A Beowolf slams its obsidian claws against your chest; the bone-blades shatter into black dust against your skin. You walk through the roaring pack like a man parting tall grass, leaving a trail of broken teeth and fractured bone behind you.

The massive fortress doors, etched with glowing, ancient runes, shatter inward as you lay a single palm against the dark metal and push. The stone archway splinters, throwing a hail of debris onto the polished floor. You step over the wreckage and ascend the central tower.

At the summit, Salem sits on a throne of obsidian.

She doesn't rise. Her pale, porcelain skin is stark against her sweeping black robes, her dark, veined temples framing eyes that have watched empires crumble. She looks down at you, her expression a calculated mixture of amusement and clinical curiosity. A slow, patronizing smile touches her lips.

"You are the first in a very long time to reach the top of my tower without an invitation," her voice purrs, echoing with a chilling, melodic confidence. "State your business, stranger."

You close the distance, your boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. "I am here to fuck the most powerful woman in the world."

Salem’s composure fractures. Her crimson-and-black eyes widen, a flash of genuine disgust twisting her regal features. She half-rises, her posture instantly radiating imperial dominance. "You must be a child if you think your brusque manners would enthrall me. I will have your tongue for your insolen—"

"You will do nothing, because you are entirely powerless against me," you interrupt, your voice dropping to a low, deliberate murmur. You step right through her invisible magical wards, shattering the ancient defense like brittle glass until you are mere inches from her face. "You and I know the truth, Salem. Strip away the titles, and you're no queen. You're a failed suicide attempt. Your immortality is a god's punishment, and your control over the Grimm is just the scar tissue from a pool you jumped into because you wanted to die. And by the end of today, you won't even get to have that."

The silence in the room turns absolute. You see the fury plays across her face before she unleashes a telekinetic shriek. The concussive wave catches you dead-on, lifting you off your feet and hurling you across the chamber. You crash through a massive obsidian table, wood and stone exploding around you. You sit up amidst the debris, brushing dust from your shoulder, completely unblemished.

Salem’s hand is already raised, her fingers curled as a concentrated lance of pure, destructive magic ignites in her palm. She hurls it. The bolt travels six inches before fizzling out into harmless sparks.

She blinks, her hand trembling slightly. She tries again, her veins darkening with effort. Nothing. "What—" Her voice cracks, the imperious facade slipping. "What did you do? Why can't I use my magic?"

"Your magic isn't gone," you say, standing up and flashing a slow, confident smile as you walk back toward the dais. "You just can't use it anymore. I've locked it. Don't worry, though—our kids will still inherit it. Just like your children with Ozma did."

A sound of pure, unadulterated frustration tears from her throat, but without her magic, it lacks its supernatural weight. All that's left is the raw, furious gasp of a woman stripped of her greatest weapon. Reaching deep into her connection to the dark pools, she commands every Grimm in the fortress to assemble and destroy you. The heavy doors burst open again as a horde of Beringels and Creeps flood the chamber, eyes glowing with murderous intent.

You glance back, flex your will, and rewrite the fundamental code of their existence.

The charging Grimm freeze. Their glowing red eyes bleed into a calm, submissive white. Salem watches in mounting horror as her own creations turn their backs on her, forming a silent army, marching in lockstep behind you. Without her magic or her monsters, Salem is entirely defenseless—her combination of immortality, magic, and control over the Grimm had long excused her from ever learning the base mechanics of physical combat.

She turns to flee through a side door, a hopeless attempt you don't bother humoring. With a silent command, four massive Beringels lunge for her, cutting her off. Their heavy, furred hands clamp down on her wrists and ankles, pinning her firmly to the polished floor.

"Stop this! I order you to stop! Let go of me!" she commands, her voice rising in pitch, her fingers clawing uselessly against the Grimm's thick hide.

The shouting dies in her throat as you step between her pinned knees. Her chest heaves against the stiff fabric of her high-collared dress, her breathing shallow and ragged. For the first time in ten thousand years, there is a flicker of genuine vulnerability in her eyes.

"Don't be sad," you murmur, leaning down to trace a finger along her pale jawline. Her skin is ice-cold, but her pulse is racing beneath it. "Today marks the start of a new aristocracy. Humans who can wield magic, ruling over those who can't. And you know exactly where those bloodlines are going to come from." You slide a hand up her thigh, your fingers finding the warm, damp heat hidden beneath her heavy skirts. "Right here. Doesn't that make you feel important?"

Salem writhes against the Beringels' iron grip, her pale face flushing a deep, furious crimson. "You pathetic little—"

Her words are cut off with a gasp as her regal black gown dissolves like smoke, replaced by something far more appropriate. All her queenly finery disappears, from the rings on her finger to the ornate bands holding her hair in it's bun. In their place, a collar materializes around her throat—black leather studded with crimson gems that pulse faintly with suppressed magic, carrying a woven compulsion ensuring she cannot remove it or leave this tower without your explicit permission. From the collar, thin chains of dark metal extend down her body, connecting to a harness that frames her breasts without covering them, pushing them up and together. More chains loop around her waist, then down between her legs, parting her pussy lips for your wandering fingers.

"No," she breathes, looking down at herself with horror. "No, you can't—this is—"

"Perfect," you finish for her, stroking your hardening cock as you admire the transformation. "Hopefully this will help you accept what you are now, Salem. Not a queen. Not a goddess. Just my breeding ****."

Her face contorts with rage and shame. "I will kill you for this. I will find a way. I am eternal, and you—you are just a boy playing with powers you don't understand!"

You gesture to the Beringels. They shift their grip, forcing Salem onto her hands and knees, her ass raised high. The chains of her new outfit jingle softly with the movement. You kneel behind her, running your hands over the curves of her rear, feeling her flinch at your touch.

"You don't get it yet," you tell her, positioning yourself at her entrance. "I am a God greater than the brothers who used to rule your world. We are eternal, meaning you are going to be my breeding bitch for the rest of eternity. So for your sake, you should try to enjoy this."

As the thick, unyielding length of your cock presses hard against her slick entrance, Salem’s imperious facade completely shatters.

"Please," she gasps out, her head twisting back toward you in sheer desperation. "Please, I'll—I'll give you anything—"

"You already are," you grunt, reaching forward to grab a fistful of her white hair, yanking her head back. "You're giving me your womb. Your legacy. Your entire existence."

You drive forward in one deep, unyielding thrust, and Salem's scream echoes through the throne room. You fuck her harder, faster, using your enhanced strength without restraint. The wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh fill the chamber, punctuated by Salem's increasingly **** cries.

Salem's Throne Room, Evernight Castle, Land of Darkness

7:38 AM — Wednesday, 16th September, 2015

You grip Salem's pale hips harder, your fingers digging into flesh that can't bruise but certainly can feel. The ancient sorceress has gone quiet now except for ragged breathing and the occasional whimper that escapes her lips despite her obvious efforts to suppress them. Her white hair cascades across the dark floor, tangled and damp with sweat.

Pulling back slightly, you bring your palm down against her pale, exposed cheek in a sharp, resounding spank. The crack of flesh against flesh echoes off the obsidian walls. Salem lets out a startled, breathless gasp, her body jerking against the Beringels' iron grip.

"Are you ready to admit what you are yet, Salem?" you grunt, delivering another heavy, rhythmic slap that leaves the pale skin of her ass flushed a deep, stinging pink. "Say the words."

She twists her head back, her teeth bared in a snarl of pure, defiant malice, though her voice trembles with exhaustion. "I am the master of Grimm... the queen of this world... I will never bow to a petulant child!"

Another sharp, heavy blow silences her, the stinging impact vibrating right through her hips and into her core. You drive deep inside her again, punishing her stubbornness. You feel her inner walls desperately clamp down around you as her immortal body helplessly betrays her mind's hatred.

"Your body disagrees. It is starting to accept what it's for, even if your mind refuses to accept it," you grunt, driving deeper into her, feeling the slick heat tightly encasing you. "Let's see if making your body more honest, and better suited to its new role, will get your mind to accept it."

Without pausing your thrusts, you flex your reality-altering will.

Salem’s eyes fly wide in unadulterated horror as a sudden, intense heat ignites beneath her skin. Beneath your gripping hands, her hipbones crackle and shift, broadening significantly, expanding her pelvis into a wide, fertile cradle designed solely for bearing children.

"No! Stop—what are you—" she chokes out, her voice breaking.

Before she can finish, the change surges upward. Her breasts swell rapidly, growing significantly heavier and fuller, stretching the dark metal links of her harness until they press deep into her flesh. A sudden, leaking warmth spills over her chest as her new, lush curves begin to visibly lactate, thick white drops dripping onto the obsidian floor. Her body is rewritten to be perpetually ripe, permanently prepared to provide for a lineage.

"There," you growl, your hands molding the newly widened swell of her hips. "Now you look exactly like what you are."

With a silent command to the Beringels, they shift her body mid-stroke, rolling her over onto her back. They pin her wrists and ankles to the floor, forcing her into a wide, exposed missionary position beneath you. You drop your weight over her, driving back into her newly aligned, hyper-fertile core with a heavy, wet slam that knocks the breath from her lungs.

You lean down, burying your face against her chest. You latch your mouth onto one heavily swollen breast, sucking greedily at the sweet, warm milk filling her chest. Salem lets out a sharp, devastated sob, her head thrashing from side to side against the stone.

"Every single child I put inside you is going to be doing the exact same thing," you murmur against her skin, your voice low and merciless before you capture her other breast. "They will grow strong on your milk, Salem. A whole dynasty born from your submission."

You lift your head to look down at her. Her face is flushed a deep, ruined crimson, completely broken by the physical evidence of her transformation.

"And speaking of our children," you whisper, a dark, confident smile spreading across your face as your thrusts become harder, faster, chasing the rapidly building peak of your next climax. "I'm using my power to guarantee that you conceive the very next time I cum inside you."

"You—you can't—"

"Look at your body, Salem. Look at what I've already changed. Do you really think I can't make your womb just as compliant?"

She looks down at her own leaking, swollen breasts, her wide, heavy hips, and the utter certainty of your words destroys the last of her defiance. She knows she cannot stop it. Her body is no longer her own; it has been completely rewritten into a vessel for your offspring.

"Please... no..." she gasps, her fingers twitching uselessly against the floor as her hips involuntarily hitch upward, helplessly matching your brutal, driving rhythm.

You lean forward, pressing your chest against hers, one hand locking around her pale throat while the other roughly kneads her enlarged breast. Your thrusts become urgent, punishing, forcing her to absorb every ounce of your supernatural momentum. Salem's inner walls clench around you in a frantic, **** rhythm as another ****, overwhelming orgasm tears through her immortal frame.

"Take it," you growl into her ear.

Your release hits with violent intensity. You drive yourself all the way in, bottoming out against her womb, and flood her fertile core with a massive torrent of seed. An impossible, endless deluge of hot, thick cum surges from you, filling her to capacity and stretching her beyond it. Salem’s stomach begins to visibly swell, bloating outward beneath your heavy strokes. Her skin tautens, the dark, branching veins pulling tight across her flesh as her belly distends further and further, ballooning to grotesque proportions.

"Do you like how this feels?" You give her engorged tits a hard squeeze, causing warm milk to spurt directly onto her distended, swollen belly. "I hope you do. This is exactly what you're going to look like when you're nine-months pregnant with my octuplets."

As the words leave your lips, your power flares within her. The reality-warping energy binds directly to her essence, instantly rewriting the laws of her biology to guarantee she is carrying eight of your babies.

Below you, Salem lets out a broken, trailing wail that dissolves into a ragged, breathless sob. Her altered body goes completely limp beneath your weight as the ancient queen of the Grimm finally comes to terms with the reality of her defeat. She is pregnant with your bastards—carrying the children of the one man she now hates more than anyone else in existence, including Ozma himself.

Evernight Castle, Throne Room

11:15 AM — Wednesday, 16th September, 2015

Salem is on all fours beside her throne—your throne now. She cannot move. Her hands and feet are encased in dense blocks of hardened black tar, anchoring her to the floor. A thick, seamless blindfold covers her crimson eyes, and heavy obsidian plugs muffle her hearing. She is cut off from all senses besides touch, and you only leave her that to make her suffer more.

From the dark pools deep beneath the castle’s foundations, thick, pulsing Grimm tendrils have snaked up through the stone floor. They entwine her body, penetrating her through her mouth, her pussy, and her ass. They stretch her wide, pulsing rhythmically as they pump dark, concentrated nutrients directly into her womb.

Every ounce of sustenance is diverted to feed the growing life inside her, leaving nothing for Salem herself. Her immortality will not allow her to starve to ****, but it cannot save her from the agony of starvation. She will feel perpetually famished, hollowed out, as she serves as nothing more than a living incubator.

This is her punishment. Not for the millions of innocent lives she snuffed out during her millennium-long shadow war against Ozma. Not for her grand plan to **** a global genocide by bringing back the Brother Gods to judge a fractured humanity.

It is simply punishment for her defiance. For refusing to admit she's your breeding bitch.

The sensory deprivation is designed to break her entirely. In the dark, silent hunger of her isolation, she will learn to crave your return. She will look forward to the weight of your body as the only time she is allowed to move freely. She will look forward to the taste of your cum as the only nourishment she is permitted to swallow. The rough, overwhelming pleasure of your touch will become her only escape from the void.

You are entirely indifferent to her crimes. You don't care about her genocidal ambitions any more than you care about Ozma’s righteous crusade to unite humanity. Your objection isn't moral; it's logistical.

Both factions want the same thing at the end of their checklist: to summon the Brother Gods. Ozma wants them to return and uplift a peaceful world; Salem wants them to return and obliterate it so she can finally die.

You have no intention of letting either happen.

You didn't lie when you told her you are a God. Individually, your reality-warping power eclipses either Light or Darkness. But if both Brothers were summoned at once? Facing them together would be a risk—at least until you strengthen your divinity through the sustained worship of trillions across the cosmos.

The Brothers had abandoned Remnant. They forfeited their right to it the moment they shattered the moon and walked away. This is your world now, and you do not intend to share it.

To keep them barred from this reality forever, you cannot allow either faction to unite the four relics. Both Ozma’s righteous protectors and Salem’s genocidal cabal will have to be systematically broken, their centuries-old networks torn out by the roots. As you look out over the shifting shadows of the dark continent, only one question remains:

Which faction will you destroy first?