In the aftermath of battle, a scavenging corvid finds more than she bargained for.
tags: commission, corruption, girl penis, heroic azuras, nsfw, transformation
BLACKBIRD hated battlefields. They were messy, dangerous cacophonies, and the only things worse than their noise and frantic movement was the silence and eerie stillness that followed. But it was in their forlorn aftermath that Blackbird found the shiny things she so very much loved.
Uncharitable observers would have lumped the corvid in with the carrion that fed on the dead, or the looters that dispatched the dying. Yet Blackbird stood apart, compassionate and devout in her own way. She made the sign of the Empty Throne over the bodies clad in gold-and-blue, whispered the promise of the Exiled Goddess over armor of stygian black. When a soldier groaned under her ministrations, she bound their wounds as best her wings and teeth would allow. For these small charities, she asked a small price—trinkets, beads, pretty baubles that twinkled in the sun.
The birdgirl skirted the edges of the battlefield, initially hoping to avoid the mass of bodies strewn across the plain. And among those armored forms that fell on the flanks, there should have been enough medallions and gemstones to sate her curiosity. Yet Blackbird was drawn, slowly but inextricably, to where the fighting had been thickest. Her glances became cursory, and then she began ignoring shine and glint altogether, hunting for something, something particular that was eluding her. The quest for shiny jewels usually drove her, but this clarion call was different—a new compulsion bordering on hunger, an overwhelming hollowness that only it would satisfy.
She found it at the center of the battlefield. The sword was as magnificent as it was massive, a priceless relic that could have only been wielded by a demigod. Even embedded in the ground, it towered above the carnage, a cairn of steel and blood. But it was not the dark menace of the sword that called Blackbird. Dangling from its hilt, almost insignificant compared to the size of the weapon, was the most beautiful gem Blackbird had ever seen.
It was a rich red, though its exact hue kept changing. The deep maroon of priceless wine, the ruddy flush of supple lips, the scarlet of flowing blood: each new shade whispered another promise, another fate the jewel had witnessed and would, with Blackbird’s help, witness yet again. As one crimson-stained future flowed into the next, the corvid knew she must possess the stone and all the power it contained.
She attacked the pendent with gusto, her teeth the only real purchase she had on the stained metal. Her efforts should have had no effect, but the gem’s fell sentience wanted to be possessed as much as Blackbird wanted to possess it. A light tug, and a chain that had survived a hundred battles and hundred hundred swings gave way.
The pendent dangled from her mouth, back-forth, back-forth, and for a moment, the corvid simply stood and stared down her nose, transfixed by the fruit of her unexpected and improbable success. But the gem wasted no time on surprise and sentimentality: it jerked from the birdgirl’s lips and leapt for her throat, the chain wrapping around her neck and securing the jewel against bare skin.
Blackbird squawked in surprise and, for the briefest of moments, realized just how much trouble she was in. She brought her wings up to her neck, feathers slipping under the new choker, and tried desperately to re-break the chain she had just pulled apart. She could feel the stone’s warmth against her throat, feel its heat in her mind, and…
… and in the reflection of a piece of armor, she caught sight of just how good the jewel looked on her throat, dark red against pale flesh.
Her feathers stopped pulling at the the choker and tentatively reached for the blood-red teardrop. At first her ministrations were exploratory, then eager, then ecstatic, her escalating efforts rewarded with more and more pulses of pleasure, a rising tide that left her flushed and panting. But even better than touching the stone was seeing it, staring deeply into its reflected image, listening to its dark promise. Her feathers kept obscuring the gem, so despite the bliss she finally let her wings drop away and roam the rest of her body. One brushed a hard nipple, the other glided over her wet slit, feathers mercilessly teasing without rewarding.
Because the only reward, Blackbird now understood, was the jewel. To be its herald was the reward. It spoke to her, and in turn she would give voice to its desires. Her fate was to shape the world to its will. But first, she had to be shaped, molded into something that was more than Blackbird, more than a corvid—something truly worthy to carry the stone and its message, a dark and terrible queen that would succeed where its other heralds had failed.
Blackbird felt the jewel shift her attention toward her body, and her eyes followed, happily soaking in the sight of her changing form. Her skin darkened, the flesh first flushing pink, then continuing to redden, until finally it was impossible to tell where the jewel stopped and she began. Her freckles, once a cute sea of brown speckles, turned the deepest shade of midnight, sinister oil on a sea of red. Her nipples followed suit, shocking black summits to anyone brave enough to scale her mountainous breasts. Her feathers, impossible dark, flitted across her changed skin, and she reveled in its new leathery texture, instinctively knowing that her hide was now impervious to all but the most holy of weapons. A tongue, longer and more serpentine than before, snaked across her lips, and she thrilled with the lewd possibilities its new shape offered. At the edge of her hairline, two nubs pushed out of her skull, the beginnings of a pair of horns. The birdgirl, more monstrous with every moment, mewled in unexpected pleasure as they grew, curling back up and over her scalp. They crowned her head with a regal air, the ivory-gold bone indisputable proof that her patron gem had found its queen.
The pleasure crashing through Blackbird was reaching a crescendo pitch, but the jewel was not yet done. The birdgirl threw her head back, screeching with unadulterated perversion as her clit’s sensitivity increased ten fold, each brush of a feather threatening to push her over the edge. But still she did not cum, the dark magics holding her back from ultimate release. An unknowable ecstasy was dammed within her, growing without end, and with it came madness. The last shards of her decency and humanity—any inclination or emotion that would hold back the huntress she was becoming—bent under the deluge, then gave away completely. In that moment, she understood, intimately and completely, that she was the jewel’s, that her pleasure was its to give and her release its to withhold. She gasped and cried and begged, dark oaths spilling out of her mouth, half-intelligible promises of the world she would help the gem make, the corruption she would spread and the thrones she would overthrow. Blackbird was so consumed that she had not even noticed how her clit had changed, how it had grown and expanded until it was a cock, as long and thick as a man’s arm. One wing grasped the rod tight against her chest, its veined black flesh enveloped in her deep red cleavage, while the other wing sunk between her legs and played with her new, heavy balls. Faster and faster she stroked, wings and feathers and titflesh lubricated by the precum seeping from the cock’s flat tip, her testes churning with barely-restrained sperm. Finally, content that its dominion over Blackbird was complete, the jewel let its servant cum. Her body clenched, muscles taut, as she came and came and came, a thick stream of corrupt cum shooting from her massive horsecock and anointing the battlefield with its taint.
In the quiet that followed, as she sucked down rattling breaths into her tremoring frame, Blackbird’s final transformation began. The corruption bled into her sclera, blackest ink drowning the whites of her eyes. It made a beautiful, captivating contrast to her irises, which retained their golden sheen—but now that gold was tarnished, alight with a malign inner glow. As her pupils elongated into monstrous slits, it was clear she was no longer a mere corvid. She had always sought, always collected, always desired. But now those base drives had been amplified, deepened, darkened. Whatever she had been was gone, and in its place was the warped soul of a harpy, a hunter touched by the profane and the demonic. Her body screamed out for the touch of supplicants, for their tithes of gold and their professions of eternal service. Wealth and slaves and souls—they would all be hers.
Oh-so-temporarily sated, the new monster looked across the plain of dead and dying soldiers and, for the life of her, could not remember why she had hated battlefields. There were such fertile soil, from which grew terrible power—an end to the weak, but a beginning for the strong. The birthplace of queens.
Across the field, Blackbird spied what she used to be—a pair of scavengers, making their way amongst the armored bodies. The jewel whispered to her, and her cock throbbed with anticipation. Soon, they would fall to their knees in adoration, worshiping the jewel and its herald’s cock. Their skin would erupt with beautiful plumage, their new horns and slitted eyes indelible proof that they, too, had been chosen. And they would be but the first of her flock, the first step toward a better, darker world. A crimson-colored future stretched out before them, a future of wanton destruction and unending lust, and at its end—an eternal dominion of monstrous corruption. That was what the jewel wanted… and Blackbird, Queen of the Harpies, would see its will be done.
My first ever commission, written for CorruptiveSpirit and BlackyBird. This is also the first-ever story set in the world of Azuras.