#Boy has rows of razor sharp teeth; he can chomp~

[fastfists]

When I say he had 'fangs' I mean boys has the shark teeth, whole row of razors in his mouth, chompers if you will~

[kururu418]

Tales Of Mewni: Side Effects

As Rosetta gives Astro a check up, she and Typhon fawn over their newborn child. Typhon reflects on just what having a child means to him, and Rosetta ponders about what traits he may develop in the future and takes some steps to help ease potential problems in the future. 

“Say ah for mommy.” 

Rosetta smiled as she watched Astro open her mouth, sticking his tongue out and showing off a row of razor sharp teeth. “That’s my boy,” she said as he shined the light and took a look inside. Each one of his chompers looked as deadly as a sword. Everything else seemed rather normal though. Aside from the smell of raw meat on his breath. She made a mental note to scold Typhon about cooking his food. Just because their son could eat raw food didn’t mean he should. 

She closed his mouth and then tilted his head back before looking into his nose. “I still don’t see why you have to check up on him. He’s a titan. He’s bound to be as healthy as can be,” Typhon said, watching the two from the other side of the room. 

Rosetta let out a giggle as she tilted Astro’s head to the side. The boy looked confused as she started peeking into his ear. “It’s better safe than sorry. Besides, he’s the first of his kind. There could be any number of things different about him. It’s best we found out now so we��re not too caught off guard,” she explained. 

Typhon raised an eyebrow. “There’s been half-breed titans before.” 

“But not ones born from you. You’re an entirely different being, even compared to other monsters. And your nephew was birthed by another titan, correct? It’s likely his biology wasn’t affected as drastically as Astro’s was,” Rosetta said. 

Typhon grunted at the mention of his nephew. Having Astro around was an incredible experience, but it also brought back some old memories. Rosetta tilted his head to the opposite side to check his other ear, and Astro grunted. “Well, he’s certainly the fussy type. If you weren’t the one handling him he’d have sprinted off by now.” 

“He’s a mother’s boy it seems. Which makes this all the easier for me,” Rosetta said, giving Astro a kiss on the forehead. The infant smiled up at her before she pulled out a pair of calipers. She angled it around his horns, measuring his head. “Hmm… his skull feels thick. I wonder who he got that from.” 

“Hey…” 

“I’m not joking. He could very well have inherited some of my father’s traits. Neither one of our sides of the family are exactly normal by our people’s standards.” 

Rosetta put on her stethoscope and then held it up to Astro’s chest. Typhon hummed and then made his way over towards them. “Seven hearts, right?” He already knew the answer. He had known since before he was born. But it always felt nice hearing confirmation. 

Rosetta giggled once more. “Yes love, seven little heartbeats,” she said as she started moving it across his chest, and then his back, to make sure he was breathing properly. 

Typhon reached down and poked at him, and Astro immediately chomped down on his finger. He chuckled as Astro glared, latching into his finger like a predator trying to pin down its prey. “He’s a natural. Came out of the wound ready to challenge anything that crosses his path,” he said. “I still can’t believe we made him.” 

“Were you really surprised? I mean you had to assume it was possible given that your brother had a child of his own.” 

“What? No, of course I knew it was possible. But it’s different. I raised Gadfly, he was like a son to me. When Kitsune was born I was surprised, but I was still attached to him too. Not just because of our blood link either,” he said. Something about having kids around had changed him. 

With Gadfly it had been easier to deny since he could pretend to just consider him another fighter in his ranks. But anyone with eyes could tell that he loved and treated the boy like a son. With Kitsune, he had the excuse of their blood bond, which drove all titans to protect members of their own families. But with how attached he was to him, he would have burned mewni to the ground for him, blood relation or now. 

Astro was still undeniably different however. He wasn’t just his son, or a member of the family. He was… well, a part of him. A living breathing manifestation of his and Rosetta’s love for one another. “We made him. Spawned him. I just think that’s interesting,” he said, running his thumb over Astro’s head. “He’s so tiny…” 

Rosetta smiled up at him. “He’ll grow. Chances are he’ll get most of his DNA from you. Which means he’ll grow as tall as a tree,” she said before lightly pinching Astro’s cheek. “Won’t you my little monster? You’re going to be a behemoth. As tall as a goliath.” The infant laughed and grabbed her hand joyfully. 

Typhon knelt down  closer to him. “Are you sure about that? I think he has more of your traits after all. Look at that hair. He obviously didn’t get that from me. And he got those beautiful eyes of yours as well. Just filled with that terrifying drive and hunger.” 

Astro opened his mouth and then fell onto his back, he grabbed his tail and then stuck it in his mouth, chewing on it like a baby would suck its thumb. “Oh, how adorable… but I’m going to assume with the horns and razor sharp teeth more of your traits are going to start appearing in him as he gets older… I wonder if he’ll sprout wings.” 

“If he wasn’t born with them I doubt he’ll suddenly just grow them,” Typhon said, poking at his back. “But could you imagine if they did. How painful would that be? I mean to have wings growing and tearing out of your back.” 

Rosetta hummed. “You may be right. Perhaps I should start working on potential medicines just in case,” she muttered. 

Typhon waved his hand. “Oh, I was only joking. Even if it does happen he’ll handle it. He’s our son after all,” he said. He was a titan, and one of his blood. There wasn’t much that could hurt him. Even if it came from his one body. It wasn’t as if Rosetta was a pushover either. 

~~~~

“GRRRRRHHHHH!!!!” 

Astro clutched his head in pain as he laid in his bed. The seven year old felt like a drill was going through both sides of his skull and meeting in the middle. The magic that had repressed his horns and other monster-like features was effective, but far from perfect. Star had managed to make the bouts of pain between sessions farther and fewer, but when they hit, they really hit. 

He bit down on his pillow, not wanting his mother or the others to hear him. It was the middle of the night, and he didn’t want to wake them. It wasn’t as if they could do anything about it if he did anyway. 

As he rolled over and buried his face in his mattress, he suddenly felt a much smaller and sharper pain in the back of his neck. It felt like something was pricking him. His head shot up, and he looked around the room to find… nothing. There was nobody there but him. 

He reached back and rubbed the back of his neck. Had he been stung by something or…? Wait, the pain in his head and back had died down. It still hurt, but it seemed much more bearable. He was confused, but… he was also tired. He let out a sigh and flopped down onto his bed, closing his eyes and trying to get as much sleep as he could before the pain came back. 

As he slowly drifted to sleep, a figure made its way from behind his dresser. Sting looked down at the boy as his breath began to steady. She smiled down at him, bending over and wiping the sweat from his forehead before giving him a kiss. “That’s a gift from our mother, little brother.” 

She then stealthily made her way out of the window, leaving the young titan to rest. Rosetta’s serum had to be taken to quite a few people to make sure it would be safe, but once Typhon was sure it would work he had sent her straight here to give it to him. 

As much as they hated to see the boy in pain, they knew it was necessary. Nobody outside of the Commission could know about the existence of Typhon’s child. He would become a target for countless enemies. But just because he had to suffer didn’t mean they couldn’t make it just a little more bearable for him. 

[tabbysgotclaws]

The Executrix Pt. 2 - #Throwback

Back at it again with the second part of this fun little anecdote. This half has all my favorite parts, so open them eyes real wide and I’ll blow a load of messy fun into them.

Trust me, I can tell you from experience, you’ll get used to it.

***

"Harper, get the bitch in the back of the van and get her mouth shut - blindfolded, too," Tyler says, walking out of my field of vision. "It's finally time."

The big one - Harper, I'm assuming - wraps his beefy arms around my shoulders and drags me backwards. Someone sweaty and skinny appears from behind me, skin pale and lit up by constellations of acne scarring, and takes up my legs up from the ground so I can't kick.

I don't know exactly what this is, but if you'll allow me to state the obvious, it ain't fucking good.

"Keep a hold of her, Dennis," Harper says, backing up frantically to some unseen location.

"I'm freaking trying. Keep moving, lard-ass," he says, trying to hide the fact he's freaking the fuck out right now, and failing.

"Fuck you."

Tyler, Al, Harper, and Dennis. I have all their names now at least.

Before I can process my circumstances any better, I'm thrown into the back of a van - arms bound, blindfolded, gagged. Then we're moving, and the two largest ones - Harper and Al - are keeping me in place, shoving twin gun barrels into my temples from either side.

"You make one fucking move," Al says. "I won't hesitate."

I'm vibrating in silent, warm darkness like-- no, that one's too easy. We're in there for like half an hour, is what I'm saying, and the whole time I can hear them all muttering to each other over the rumble of the engine. Especially Tyler, who's practically giddy, like a kid on the day he first discovers PornHub.

"We're doing it, man, we're actually fucking doing it," he keeps saying.

And I can't help but feel that I'm "it."

Soon enough, we stop, and the back doors open and I'm once again acquainted with the cold touch of the outside air, as I'm manhandled out onto the blacktop by Al and Harper.

"I'm not sure we should be doing this," says Dennis, the wimpy one, as he crawls out of the driver's seat.

"It's too late to back out now, Den," Tyler says. "We're going all in."

I'd have made a joke to relieve the tension, but a strip of duct tape was putting the kibosh on that for me.

A typewriter-burst of quick footsteps as I'm dragged into an unfamiliar building through heavy-sounding metal doors. They're all around me, like bodyguards on Opposite Day. Harper and Al carrying me, Dennis - from the sound of his strained breaths - carrying a weapon that's too big for him.

Smooth fingers grope at my face, and the blindfold is pulled off.

"Welcome to Hell," Tyler says.

I'm being carried down what looks like the hallway of a small hospital. It's plain and sterile, '50s-style. If ever you've watched a documentary on the horrors of those old catholic mental hospitals, you've seen a place just like this.

Dennis is carrying some kind of submachine gun, by the way, in case you were in suspense about that. I don't really give a shit about what kind, I just know it could probably turn a body into a sack of corned beef if you shot it enough.

"I bought this place up last Summer," Tyler, still walking, says. "For a couple years now, I've been feeling this dull ache, like sexual tension - but no matter who I fucked, or how often I fuck, it just doesn't go away. It's the same with you boys, right?"

"Yup."

"Yeah."

Dennis pauses, and murmurs, "I guess so."

"And I realised," Tyler continues. "Me and the boys just need to get some blood on our hands. But if we cut up some poor bum in an alley, we've gotta finish too quick, and besides, those bastards probably wish for death. You, though?"

He turns and grins at me for this part.

"You really wanna live, I can tell. You're strong. So it'll be a real joy breaking you - plus, you came out here to kill me, so you probably didn't tell anyone where you were going," he says. "Be honoured, though, you're gonna be our first. That's pretty special, isn't it?"

Great. Perfect. Wonderful. I'm Baby's-First-Murder.

One thing I do have to give them, though, they've really gonna above and beyond with the prep. Each room seems to have a keypad lock and sturdy doors, probably a remnant of whoever was kept in this place before Bradley-Boy retrofitted his murder dungeon into it. Sheets of plastic everywhere, non-stick flooring.

As places to die go, it's pretty deluxe.

"Take her to the meat locker," Tyler says. "I'm gonna get prepped."

He peels away from the rest of the group, tapping the code into a nearby keypad, and disappearing behind one of those heavy, metal doors. They've already dragged me off before I get a chance to get a good look.

"We're not gonna let Tyler have all the fun," Al says, his voice a nasally snicker. "He may own this place and the gear, but we're gonna take turns. We're all gonna get to enjoy taking you apart."

Al's a natural born ass-kisser, you can smell it on him.

We veer off from the hallway of Tyler's Marvellous Murder Compound, into what looks like a break-room with a coffee machine on one of the counters and a huge, oak conference table in the centre of the room.

On one of the other counters, there's an expensive-looking double barrel shotgun, and Al picks it up.

"I'm gonna get an espresso, you want anything?" Al asks.

Dennis leans against the table and shakes his head. He's got a sad, droopy face like one of those handbag dogs that really want to escape their genetics, and you can tell the poor kid's heart just isn't in it.

"Cappuccino," Harper says, holding me with both hands. He's a big guy, probably six five, and built like a barrel. Equal parts muscle and fat in a way that almost makes my mouth water.

While Al interfaces with the Keurig and Dennis reconsiders his life choices, Harper drags me down a long, dark hallway towards what has to be the meat locker. He's got me in a one-arm bear hug, but I don't resist, even when he's tapping in the code with his free hand, not even paying full attention to me.

The door opens, he drags the both of us inside, and we're locked in.

"And here we are," he says with a chuckle.

Inside the so-called Meat Locker is an NSPCA nightmare: large meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, butchery equipment fixed to the walls, and several large, plastic bags full of dead cats and dogs - most decapitated, all frozen. Seems, like most budding serial killers, Tyler and his boys were using people's pets to practice, and letting all the meat go to waste.

Sick bastards.

There's an icy, metal door and another keypad standing between me and freedom - not to mention a linebacker-sized slab of beef with a burgeoning love of sadism - but hey, I'd been through worse odds.

Harper just drops me - my hands still bound - onto the concrete floor. He leans in and rips the duct tape off my mouth with his thick, meaty fingers, and smiles.

"You can scream, or cry, or beg," he says. "All these rooms are soundproofed out the ass, so it won't do you any good. All you can do is pray it's over quickly and hope God is kinder to you than us."

I just laugh at him and feel his dick shrivel in his pants.

"What's so funny?" he asks, gritting his teeth towards the end.

I laugh harder.

"That fucking line, man," I say. "Talk about corny, Jesus. I bet you were rehearsing it in your head on the walk over, weren't you?"

He grimaces. It's the look a man gets when you pull out the butt plug too fast, like you're trying to start a lawnmower.

"And zip ties? Come on, dude, you can do better than that."

"What?"

I throw the inert piece of black plastic at his face, and hold up both of my free hands towards him, like I'm asking for a high-ten.

"Guess I'm stronger than I look, huh?"

That grimace just dissolves into a second of perfect, beautiful panic. His hand shoots out to the side, groping through the air for a weapon, but he doesn't quite reach the cleaver on the wall.

But I reach him.

Before he can even say anything, I'm up on my feet, and I've slammed his head into the wall with a dull thud that makes him crumple like a cartoon accordion against the wall, eyes swivelling all over in his stupid face, blood trickling off his fat lower lip.

He's too dazed to even yell in pain at first, but when I stamp on his groin, he finds his lungs again in a long, shrill scream.

He swings wide for my legs, there's a lot of power behind it, but he's predictable. The guy's a tank - real strong, but real slow. I just hop over the punch like I'm jumping rope, and kick him in the chest.

"That's the problem with guys like you, Harper. You've got plenty of enthusiasm, but you've got no technique."

He wheezes out a pained "help", his face covered in blood, tears, and snot - the golden trio of a man who's finally aware he's fucked with the wrong person.

Well, not person, but you know what I mean.

"Let's get you up," I say, grabbing him by the shoulders.

I lift him up without much effort - he's still too dazed to really thrash, until I slide one of the ceiling meat hooks into the back of his clavicle and leave him hanging there, blood soaking through his shirt and dripping off of the swell of his ass. He's screaming in gorgeous agony the whole time.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he keeps screaming, but nobody's there to enjoy it but me.

When he's calmed down a little, I take his hand, and move those big, meaty fingers close to my mouth.

I can feel the skin of my face splitting all the way up to the jaw, and the fangs sprouting. Three rows, like a shark, all razor-sharp, all designed for the sole purpose of turning anything I so choose into a yummy meat purée.

Harper sees it too, and he starts screaming again.

"Tell you what," I say, licking a long, black tongue over my arsenal of fangs. "I'm just gonna do my thing. If you want me to stop, the safe word is the access code."

I separate his index finger from the pack, and one loud, meaty chomp later, I'm gulping it down, and feeling all that delectable, warm blood squirt from the stump.

Warm, coppery cocoa.

Meanwhile, Harper is discovering a new level of agony.

I take his middle finger, and do the same.

"This is good shit, Harper," I say. "I'm really gonna look forward to eating the rest of you once I've killed your friends."

I take his ring finger, and he finally cracks.

"2416!" he screams. "For fuck's sake, it's 2416!"

The mutilated hand falls to his side, spraying an arc of blood like a Catherine wheel onto the floor of the meat locker. While he's busy mourning his missing digits, I turn to the side and input the key-code.

A beep and a green light. Success!

I open the door and start walking out of it, before turning to say, "try not to die while I'm gone, Harper, I'll like you better warm!" then finally fucking off down the hall.

Harper, Al, Dennis, and Tyler. These are tonight's specials.

I can hear the splutter of the coffee machine before I hear Al, and when he hears me, he makes a fatal assumption that I can't help but love him for.

"Yo, Harp, it's getting cold," he calls out, expecting to see his dumbass friend emerge from the hall, rather than a bloodstained lady with a face like an enamel garbage disposal.

"Hey, Al," I say.

He gasps when he sees me. Feels good, feels right.

"Your turn."

He drops his coffee cup, shattering it, and scrambles for the shotgun that he's left on the counter.

I'm fast, but so is he - he manages to offload a shell, blasting a hail of searing-hot buckshot into the air in front of him, and I only just manage to dodge it.

"Shit!" he says, voice high with fear.

There's a yard between us. He levels the shotgun again, but I manage to close the distance and push the barrel sideways, his blast firing impotently off into the coffee machine while I push him to the ground and straddle him, black claws now growing from my fingertips.

"I know how you feel," I say, staring down at his terrified face, watching my black spittle drip onto him, "this night's not going how either of us pictured it, but I'm better at rolling with the punches."

I start leaning down towards him, fangs ready to render his punk-bitch face open, when a cold hand closes around my shoulder and pulls me off of him, before I can even realise what's happening.

Harper. That big, freezer-burned dipshit had wandered out of the meat locker after me, spilling gouts of blood along the way, all to save his shithead friend.

"Get away from him!" he slurs.

"I thought I already dealt with you, asshole!" I yell at him, as he swings his mutilated pincer hand towards me.

As expected, he's still an uncoordinated slab of muscle, swinging haphazardly for me with all the grace and finesse of a grizzly bear on heroin. I have to duck and weave around his fists - I'm stronger, but he's bigger, and he knows how to throw his weight around.

"I'm not gonna let you get away with this!" he says, speech so slurred he sounds like Sylvester Stallone now.

I hear the soft click of a double-barrel shotgun reloading behind me, just in time.

Without turning to see, I leap sideways under the conference table, as the blast Al intended for me rips Harper in half at the waist instead. He tumbles back, with an abdomen that looks like pulled pork, and finally dies.

Al screams like he means it, and I'm fucking furious.

"You dumb son of a bitch!" I scream from under the table. "The biggest one here, and you go and ruin the fucking meat!"

The second shell blasts a hole through the table to the left of me.

He's out again, and I seize my chance.

One strong push from underneath, and I flip the table. It's thick and heavy, and from the sudden yelp followed by a meaty thud, I can safely assume my plan’s paid off.

The shotgun clatters across the ground, and Al’s pinned underneath the table, reaching feebly for it, groaning in pain.

"Well, well, well," I say, walking over to him. "That was some nice shooting, Al, I bet Harper never saw that coming."

"Fuck you," he says.

And I stomp on his face. But I don't stop at one, oh no, I keep stomping. Stomp, stomp, stomp, crunch, splatter, squish, splash, yum. By the time I'm done, to call the Jackson Pollock painting on the end of Al's neck a head is staggeringly generous.

I'm gonna need new shoes.

When I look up, I see Dennis, the nervous one, his face streaked with tears, standing in the doorway.

He's aiming the machine gun at me, hands shaking. The poor little lamb is crying.

"Don't move," he says. "Please."

I give him the softest smile a person with sixty teeth can manage, and make sure he can see both of my hands.

When he's steadier, I step forwards.

"Stop!" he croaks.

"Dennis, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you," I say. "Let's just talk, okay?"

He falls silent, and I take another few steps forwards.

"I could tell, from the moment I came in here, that you weren't like the others. You didn't want this, did you?"

Dennis slowly, but resolutely, shakes his head.

"I knew it," I say, stepping closer. "You were pressured into it, weren't you? By Tyler and the others? You were afraid of them, but you never wanted what they wanted. I can just feel it in my bones."

Another few steps, I'm right in front of him. He's so calm.

I gently place a hand on the barrel of the machine gun, and lower it.

"See? It's okay, Dennis, it's okay."

And then he starts sobbing, and I feel awkward as hell.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it," he keeps saying, and he leans forward to hug me. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't wanna hurt anyone, I swear."

"Uh, there there," I say, patting him on the back.

"I didn't want any of this. I'm so sorry," he says with another sob.

"Dennis?"

"Yeah?"

He looks up at me, his face red and puffy from the crying.

With one bite, I take his eyes, nose, and cheeks. His body starts seizing and spasming, flopping like an air-drowned fish. With a second bite, I take his entire upper jaw too, leaving him a gory, human Pacman, and I let him drop to the ground in a heap, gulping down my mouthful.

What? It's been a long night, I'm hungry.

Picking up Dennis' machine gun, I stroll out into the hall, knowing I only have one last corpse to make.

Time to see how Tyler's doing.

Seeing as I don't have a meatbag to torture for the code to Tyler's private murder studio, I take a more traditional approach: firing the contents of the machine gun into the keypad and lock, until the door slides gently open, and I can hear a panicked heartbeat ringing out like a dinner bell on the other side.

"What the fuck?" Tyler says.

I step inside.

The room looks like an ER put together by exclusively by Nazi war criminals. A metal dissection table fitted with straps, bordered by a tray of pointy, extravagant instruments of pain that'd make even the most hardcore S&M dungeon proprietors blush.

Tyler's in the corner, dressed in surgical scrubs, quaking in his designer shoes and holding a long blade. All that cockiness from earlier is trickling down his left leg.

"Hey, Tyler," I say, making sure he can see his friends' blood on me. "How's it going?"

"Harper! Al! Get in here!" he shrieks past me. "Dennis! Please!"

That gets a laugh out of me.

"Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy," I say, coming a little closer. "Just you and me."

He's sweating like Chris Hansen just told him he's got the chat logs. Nothing make me hungrier than fear.

"Look, I can pay you, you know I'm good for it."

"Hmm. Nah, I'm good."

"I can give you anything money can buy."

"You're just not getting it, Tyler. We made a deal, and I don't go back on my deals."

Tyler panics, he lunges forward, knife extended.

"You fucking whore!" he screams.

The blade meets flesh and pierces. When Tyler realizes what he's done, he sees that his knife is sticking through the palm of my hand, and my clawed fingers are curling around his knuckles, piercing his flesh.

He lets out the prelude to a trembling scream.

"I prefer 'sex worker'."

A decent kick to the chest and he tumbles backwards, wheezing, unarmed, pants-shittingly terrified.

I pull his knife out of my hand like I'm plucking a splinter, and toss it to the side, giggling.

"Just out of curiosity, did you really think that'd work or were you just throwing shit at a wall?" I ask.

"You're a fucking monster," he wheezes out.

"I mean, I'm not the one with the murder compound and the freezer full of dead pets, but sure," I say. "Hey, lemme show you something cool, it'll help put things into perspective."

While Tyler marinates, I head over to his tray of sharp toys.

"These were for me, right?" I ask.

No answer. He's too busy trying not to cry.

"Watch this."

One by one, I pick up each of his funny little tools and force them into my chest. I maintain eye contact, watching his face fall every time a glinting blade disappears into me, and the realization dawns on him just that little bit more that he was fucked from square one. Scalpels, ice picks, pen knives, potato peelers, wooden spikes, six inch nails, box cutters, linoleum knives, paring knives, dental equipment.

"Look, ma, I'm a pincushion!" I say, both hands raised.

I clench my many teeth and squeeze, like I'm trying to take a shit after a few weeks without fiber, and the foreign objects - the entire contents of terrible Tyler's torture-tastic tool tray - force themselves out of me and clatter to the floor with a musical tingle.

My wounds blink shut, like eyes ashamed to look at him.

"So many people have tried to kill me, Tyler. Mongol warlords, spartan warriors, Viking berserkers, revered samurai, honorable knights, and more uncaught serial killers than I can even count - and they all tasted fucking delicious. What the hell made you think that you, some punk rich kid, ever even had a chance?"

Of course, he doesn't have an answer, except to whisper: "please."

I fall to my hands and knees, and start crawling towards him. He backs up until there's nowhere to back up to, and then I'm on top of him, his eyes meet mine, and he sees the drool dripping from my fangs.

"Now, how was it you said you wanted this done again? Oh, right, manually..."

His screams - like his sweet, tender flesh - are exquisite.

All things considered, four meals for the price of one. Not a bad night. Not a bad night at all.