#CRAWLING AT YOU IN ALL FOURS LIKE SOME TWISTED CREATURE

[spookitordukeit]

G A S P

I did not just wander in! I was summoned! You were reminiscing on the good ol days of tumblr asks, and I graciously provided 😌

Now to that offer…

Fnaf lore you say?????? And hot pockets???? 👁️🫦👁️ Are you trying to capture me or seduce me because it��s working /j

GIMMIE

Feral seems very… feral. Have you gotten them vaccinated?

not yet

you see they just kinda wandered in from the wild one day

have yet to trap and release em

but lets make an attempt

//jiggles treat bag

here feral~

i got hot pockets and uh fnaf lore

[redvexillum]

@feral-fox-crypt I think I'm a psychic because I think you want rough sex with Alastor? Am I right or am I right? I want to dedicate this story to @dewdropdinosaur she has read some of my other rare pair fic during Kinktober/Flufftober and always left a comment that brought a huge smile to my face. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this one! 💖

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human!alastor, rough s♡x, reader has sub drop, aftercare, bad BDSM etiquette, rough ♡ral s♡x, p in v, choking, hair pulling, belt whipping, dual POV, alastor is bad with feelings, multiple ♡rgasm (f!receiving), over-stimulation, crude language, degradation, d♡m/s♡b, alastor is d♡m, reader is s♡b, minor hurt/comfort, alastor catches feelings for reader

✨️ recommended to read c☆ckwarming first for a fulsome experience ✨️

The sound of slick, wet slurping filled the room, obscene and unashamed, like a starved animal devouring a long-awaited meal.  

Alastor sat back, his glass of bootleg rye balanced in one hand as he stared out the window, eyes fixed on the darkened shed outside. His grip on the glass tightened, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his eyes narrowed, fury simmering beneath the calm veneer he struggled to maintain. It was a cold, bitter fire that burned hot in his chest, ignited by his own failure. 

He had let his prey escape. 

The papers were a humiliating testament to that. The Bayou Butcher, mocked openly, ridiculed. The survivor had painted a vivid tale of bravery, twisting the truth until Alastor was depicted as a bumbling fool—a pathetic predator who’d somehow let a prize slip through his fingers. Every word mocked him, taunted him, kindling the rage that boiled just beneath his polished surface. 

With a low, guttural growl, he seized a fistful of your hair, dragging your mouth off his cock with a loud, wet pop. Your eyes, hazy with lust and adoration, lifted to meet his. Your bruised, swollen lips parted as you gasped for breath, desperate for his approval even now. Your lips had been wrapped around him for the better part of fifteen minutes, greedily sucking him down, each needy pull of your lips drawing the otherwise dormant arousal to life.  His cock twitched at the sight of your expression: you wanted more, no matter how he took you. 

“S-sir?” you breathed, voice soft and trembling as your bare, supple body quaked under his fierce gaze. He could feel every small tremor against him as your hardened nipples brushed his legs, the friction sending jolts through you with each hitch of your breath, each restless grind of your thighs, trying to soothe the ache that pulsed between them. 

A smirk tugged at his mouth, dark and almost cruel, as he released his hold on your hair. “Come,” he commanded, low and dangerous, enjoying the thrill that coursed through you at the sound of his voice. You obeyed instantly, crawling toward him on all fours, desperate and shameless, just as he’d taught you—like the bitch in heat he’d once sneered you were, back when he had taken you in the dark intimacy of his radio station, his cock deep in your throat to muffle your needy moans. 

You were such a simple creature, so delightfully obedient. Alastor couldn’t fathom how any woman would indulge his depravity the way you did, how you could revel in the filthy things he made you do. 

But there you were—a rare, eager little pet, his perfect plaything, someone so willing to lay bare her body and soul for him that he’d found himself unwilling to discard you. You were a treasure he had now taken into his home, cherishing you like a prized possession. 

His cock throbbed at the sight of you, and his eyes tracked the sway of your breasts as you crawled toward him, each movement sending them into a pendulous swing that only fuelled his arousal. 

Your expression was one of pure, open adoration, your gaze filled with the kind of devoted bliss that soothed the sting of failure in a way nothing else could. His anger ebbed as he watched you, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar possessive warmth that simmered and coiled low in his gut. 

As you reached him, he knelt down, exposing himself fully, his arousal drooping slightly from lack of stimulation. But you, sweet and eager as always, hastened to rectify that, fingers wrapping firmly around him as you stroked him, forming a tight ring with your delicate hand. You leaned in, the tip of your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, and a shiver ran through him. With just a few teasing licks, you brought his desire roaring back to life, your skilled, needy mouth working magic on him with effortless grace. 

Alastor’s hand drifted to your head, fingers curling gently in your hair as he began to stroke it, his touch uncharacteristically soft, almost tender—a rarity that had your cheeks flushing as you stared up at him. Your lips curled into a blissful smile, basking in the affection he so seldom gave, your fingers still wrapped around him as you savoured his touch. 

You were nothing to him.  

He reminded himself of that with each pulsing beat of his arousal, each hungry sweep of your tongue over him. 

You were a diversion, a pastime, a convenient release for those primal urges that not even he could deny. And yet, as he gazed down at you, a small thrill surged within him, intoxicating and delicious. 

“Suck,” he murmured, his voice a soft, commanding whisper, devoid of emotion yet laced with something he had yet been able to name. 

You responded instantly, need and devotion glimmering in your eyes as you wrapped your lips around him, forming a tight seal at his tip before taking him deeper, letting him fill your mouth. Your tongue traced over him with soft, teasing strokes, and you began to bob your head, each movement drawing a low groan from his throat as he watched you. 

You were hopelessly clumsy—always fumbling, tripping, and blushing every time he so much as looked your way. But he loved the effect he had on you, how that heavy blush painted your cheeks every time he took control, how you quivered with each command. And no matter how rough he was with you, how often he pushed you to your limits, you only came back for more, craving everything he would give. That thought alone made a sharp grin spread across his face. 

A dark, possessive desire simmered in his gut, and he felt the twisted thrill of knowing just how easily you surrendered to him. You were the perfect woman...pet for him—the way you willingly, eagerly, gave up control, placing your complete trust in him. The way you looked up at him with reverence, even now, as he twisted his fingers in your hair and tugged sharply. A delicious shudder ran through you as he thrust forward, pressing deeper until he heard that lovely, choked whimper, felt your throat tighten around him. Yet, even then, you didn’t pull away; you stayed, devoted and unyielding. 

Like a loyal dog. Like a bitch in heat. 

... Like his cherished, obedient... pet.

The sound of his harsh breaths mixed with your muffled moans and wet, sloppy noises filled the room, each messy gulp of yours sending a wave of satisfaction through him. Drool began to slip past your lips, clinging to your chin in a thick, sticky mess. As he looked down, he felt a realization settle in his chest—a rush of certainty that you would stay by his side until death itself claimed you. You would be there, smiling up at him with that same innocent adoration, even if he stood drenched in the blood and gore of his latest kill. 

You, his perfect, shameless... lover, would fulfill his every dark desire unquestionably, wouldn’t you? 

In one swift motion, he pulled you off his cock, and your breath hitched as you looked up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy with need. The sight of you—so willing, so utterly ravished—sent a pulse of heat straight to his core, and his cock throbbed, painfully hard at the sight. Since when had you looked so divine? When had he started craving you like this? 

Why did he want to consume you whole? 

He took your hair in his hand again, a makeshift leash, and guided you to his bedroom. You stumbled as you tried to match his strides, hands and knees scrambling to keep up, yet you didn’t utter a single complaint. Instead, your wide, needy eyes were begging, pleading for him to take you, to give you every piece of himself.

When he crossed the threshold, he paused, feeling a strange sense of anxiety. This would be the first time he’d take anyone, you, in a bed. 

For the first time, he wanted to ravage you on something softer, something that allowed him to enjoy every moment, every gasp, every twitch of your body. Every other time had been in rough, illicit places: his office, the hidden corners of alleyways, beneath the cover of twisted trees in the bayou, or pressed against the cold, unforgiving floor. 

He stopped at the edge of the bed, watching as your trembling fingers reached up to trace the outer seam of his pants, awaiting his next command, your eyes so full of devotion it made his chest ache in the strangest of ways.

A thrill of ownership surged through him; you were his in every way, weren’t you? His pretty, obedient plaything. His perfect, precious pet. 

And you, he realized with a dark satisfaction, were entirely his. 

You were a strange girl.  

You knew you were.  

Excitement pulsed in your veins as Alastor, the one man who owned your every thought, invited you to his home. The whole way there, nerves danced beneath your skin, feeling the weight of his silence as he drove you deep into his bayou. This was a first—he’d never brought you into his home before. 

Heat flooded your core at the thought of what he might do to you. Alastor was the only man who didn’t treat you as fragile. The only one willing to satisfy every dark, unhinged desire you harboured, needs that would make anyone else turn away in disgust. But he never looked at you with revulsion during these acts, save for that lingering smirk when you fumbled over your duties. 

You were happy—beyond happy.

Being with Alastor made you feel more alive than you’d ever been. 

Now, completely bare before him, you knelt, wanting to whine, to beg him to take you in whatever twisted ways he pleased. 

But...as your eyes traced his expression, you realized that there was something different about him today. His usual rough, unyielding exterior softened, showing a rare glimpse of something tender, something reserved only for you. 

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, his voice low, demanding, with a hint of cruelty that made your stomach tighten. 

You scrambled, snapping from your trance. But after kneeling for so long, your legs wobbled beneath you, and you stumbled back to the floor, wide-eyed as you looked up. A cold, dangerous smirk curved his lips. 

“So you can’t even follow a simple order, can you?” he mocked, voice dripping with condescension. “And what did I say I’d do when you can’t follow orders, dear?” he hissed, fingers pulling his belt from its loops with an agonizing slowness, the sharp slide of leather against fabric filling the silence. 

Your breath caught, the thrill of fear mingling with a rush of wet heat between your thighs. You remembered all too well—the time he bent you over a tree for not bringing his dry cleaning on time, each slap echoing through the bayou, burning itself into your memory. 

“That you’d punish me, sir,” you whispered, barely audible, your voice trembling. 

“Correct. Ten strikes.” He grasped your upper arm, pulling you to your feet, only to toss you onto the bed. You landed face down, the plush fabric against your skin as you arched your ass up for him. 

A chill swept down your spine as he traced the belt’s cool edge over your heated skin, dragging it slowly along your soaked, sensitive folds. The slick sound of your arousal coating the leather mingled with your ragged breaths, filling the room. 

And then, without warning, the belt sliced through the air, landing with a sharp, punishing crack on your bare skin. 

“Ahh!” you gasped, your body lurching forward as you pressed your face into the mattress. “O-one,” you whimpered, each heartbeat amplifying the sting as your clit throbbed, the pain melding with pleasure. 

A fire sparked beneath your skin, flaring with each strike as Alastor whipped the belt against you again and again. You counted each one, voice wavering between cries and sobs, drool trickling down to meet the tears blurring your vision. Your thighs quivered, struggling to keep your ass raised, eager for him. On the seventh strike, when the belt caught your slick, needy folds, you felt a wave of shame as liquid spilled from you, glistening on your skin. 

A low, desperate moan escaped your lips as your walls clenched, craving something to fill the aching emptiness. 

Alastor’s sharp, mocking laugh sliced through the haze, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Coming without permission now, are we?” He didn’t give you a chance to answer, raining down the final strikes in swift, merciless succession. 

Your cries softened, a mixture of raw pain and bliss as you trembled, knowing that the bruises would mark you for days. Each ache would bring you back to this moment, reigniting the desire pooling within you. 

Then, without warning, he pressed three thick fingers into you, plunging deep. Alastor leaned over your arched back, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. “How dare you be this wet when I’m punishing you,” he growled, his fingers relentless as they drove into you, the sound of your slick, desperate flesh echoing in your mind. 

Your body writhed, pressing back, eager for more, your hips grinding against his hand as he filled you. “Please, please, sir, I need you,” you finally gasped, voice choked with want, your vision blurred with pain and overwhelming pleasure. 

The tension snapped in the air as Alastor's voice, pitched with a teasing, dark delight, pierced the haze surrounding you. 

“Do you now?” he mocked, his fingers glistening with your desire as he slid them from your mouth. Gripping your hips, he yanked you back into position, aligning his thick, throbbing head with your dripping entrance. Before you could even brace yourself, he sank in, burying himself to the hilt in one fierce thrust that ripped a sharp, needy cry from your lips. Before you could release it fully, his slick fingers thrust back into your mouth, muffling your gasps as your body clamped tightly around him. 

You tasted yourself on his fingers, the heady blend of his dominance and your surrender driving you mad as he stretched you with each brutal plunge. You could do nothing but cling to him, letting him bounce you up and down with each pounding thrust that had you soaring, the friction of him catching at every perfect spot inside you. The delicious ache of being stretched so completely consumed you, your clit throbbing as his cock teased your depths, nudging your cervix and filling you with intoxicating waves of pleasurable pain that left you reeling. 

Your muffled moans mixed with his guttural groans, the raw sounds of your bodies filling the room as he drove into you. When he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth, he circled them over your swollen, desperate clit, wringing a broken, gasping wail from you as another wave of pleasure shattered through you. His fingers never stopped their relentless teasing even as you came, your body helpless against the mind-melting ecstasy that left you a sobbing, trembling mess. 

By the time he tossed you onto the bed, you were barely aware, your body limp and pliant. Your leg draped over his shoulder, he resumed, driving himself into your swollen folds. 

Your shameless moans filled the air, the slick sound of him claiming you echoing as he pounded deeper, harder, unrelenting. Gripping your breast, he squeezed, his thumb rolling over your sensitive nipple, sending sparks through your already sensitized body. Your back arched, surrendering every part of you to him, your tears mixing with the damp sheets as you lay bare, offering yourself to his every whim, every desire. 

Then his hand was at your throat, his fingers wrapping around, pressing just enough to cut off your breath to reach the edge of oblivion. His cock throbbed deep inside you as he watched you, eyes glinting with manic delight. With each bruising thrust, he tightened his grip just enough for your vision to darken, and with that growing pressure, a new wave of pleasure bloomed inside you, sharper, more intense than before. Just as your world began to blur, he released you, and you gasped, the rush of air into your lungs sending you spiralling as a fierce, desperate climax ripped through you, shaking you to your core. 

Your soaked body trembled uncontrollably, each pulse of his cock within you driving you deeper into a haze of pleasure. His hold never wavered as he brought you to the edge again and again, until there was nothing left but the raw, aching, consuming pleasure that marked you as his. 

The heat between you was overwhelming, each breath catching as you rocked on his cock, feeling every thick inch filling you deeply. You could barely process the bliss, but you didn’t stop, even as your thighs quivered, and your mind spun, surrendering completely. 

Alastor threw his head back, his usual control slipping as he gripped your hips, his own movements coming to a halt while he let you take control for the first time, guiding his cock deeper with your rhythmic movements. 

"That's it, dear," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice husky and rich with praise. His release flooded into you, thick and hot, and he let out a small, breathy moan as you continued to move, clenching around him to draw out every last wave of his pleasure. “Take every single drop,” he muttered, the words leaving his lips with a fervent, almost reverent edge. 

Finally, he softened and slipped free, his seed mixing with your own arousal as it dripped between your thighs. He let himself fall back, his gaze heavy-lidded but still drawn to you, watching as you slumped, exhausted and trembling. Your legs splayed apart, arms limp, and your face a mess, wet with both tears and the remnants of your desire. Breathing raggedly, you tried to ground yourself, but your mind still floated in that heady haze, every muscle vibrating with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

You stared up at him, craving more, more of...you weren't sure what you craved. But you wanted to feel him, whatever he was willing to give you. Even as your body barely held itself together, you forced yourself to move.

The thought of, please don't leave, echoing in the dark recesses of your mind. 

A warm, low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and before you could react, he gathered you into his arms, holding you close. Something in you seized up, a flood of warmth welling up behind your eyes as he pressed you against him. 

Normally, he’d leave by now, always returning to whatever occupied him after these indulgent moments. Your fingers trembled, hovering uncertainly over his back, unsure if this was something you were truly allowed to reciprocate. 

Alastor had taken you farther than anyone else, yet he also left you feeling more alive and more vulnerable. 

As the thrill of the moment faded, you often felt a pang of sadness after, not knowing how to tell him that all the intensity seemed to leave a hollow ache in your chest. You bit your lip, not wanting to risk anything that might make him see you as clingy or overly attached. 

“Go on, dear.” His voice held that playful lilt, but underneath it, there was an unfamiliar warmth. “You know how to embrace, don’t you?” 

Hesitantly, you let your arms wrap around his shoulders, feeling the roughness of his suit and the warmth of his skin beneath. Tears spilled over your cheeks as you pressed yourself to him, breathing in his scent, feeling a strange fullness you hadn’t experienced before—a feeling beyond just your body. He didn’t let go, instead rubbing a gentle hand along your back, wordlessly accepting your embrace. 

“Sorry,” you stammered, pressing your face into his shoulder. “I’m not sad; I swear I’m not…” 

You wanted to tell him that the happiness you felt when he held you like this was overwhelming.Maybe you were a strange girl with strange feelings, but right now, held tightly in his arms, you felt more complete than you ever had before. 

For the first time, Alastor’s hand stroked your hair, each touch gentle and unhurried, melting away the last of your reservations. And as the tears continued to fall, he held you there, secure in his grasp, until you finally drifted into sleep, feeling a place of belonging and acceptance in his embrace. 

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[blimpintime]

jar of wind part four

Wynnie Lara is a fairy that was saved from a jar from Amarantha's reign of terror, but is soon figuring out that her time of peace is coming to a end.

warnings: torture, gore, blood, angst, and unedited

word count: 1.1k

eris x oc

Peeling my heavy eyes open as I am being dragged through some sort of forest, I turn my head to see some large creature yanking me by my arms not caring that I am leaving a trail of blood leaking from my leg. 

My hand is throbbing in the creature’s tight grip and I feel lightheaded from the wound in my thigh. I decide to stay quiet to see where it is I am going but that doesn’t last very long when the creature pulls me hard and tosses me forward towards what seems to be a small campground. 

I go rolling with a yelp and lay in the dirt for a moment disoriented. I am lying on my stomach in what once was my favorite green dress that is now covered in blood, dirt, and sticks. I try to sit up with a groan when a forceful kick whips me in the stomach. 

“Stay down little pixie.” A woman’s voice says to me. I roll to my back to get a look at my surroundings, the beautiful night sky mocking me in my hazy eyes. 

“You’re probably thinking we are hunting you for fun,” She declares with a smile, standing there with what looks to be a bounty hunter’s get-up with long straight white hair. “You’d be wrong though well sort of— no, no. Not just for fun, but for war dear pixie.” I choke out some blood and spit it at her from my lying position. Which in return earns me another hard kick to the stomach.

“You have the worst person to do this, I am a nobody, I work in a children’s shelter.” I whimper out. She walks back to her orge-looking companion with an annoyed grin when she pulls two huge nails out of a bag. 

“You are everybody, darling. Probably the only one quick enough to figure out what kind of chaos I am about to cause. You are the smart one after all.” She tosses the nails down on the dirt next to me and crouches down. She gets in my face and drags a sharp finger across my bloody mouth. She pops it into her mouth and sucks. She grins, “A virgin’s blood? My oh my Wynnie dear, you keep getting better.” She then takes a knife and shoves it back into the same thigh wound as before and twists. I scream as she collects my blood into a vial. 

Once she is done stealing my blood for whatever reasons she has, she stands up abruptly and hands the container of blood to the tall ogre. 

“Unfortunately Oggie and I cannot stay for long.” She chirps out with a pout. 

“Who are you?” I grunt out half haphazardly trying to crawl away from her my leg going numb from pain and blood loss. 

“My name is Blythe, and I would say I am sorry for the pain I am about to give you but… eh all is fair in love and war.” with that being said she picks the nails back up out of the dirt and grabs me by my hair. I kick and pull away from her but with a weak hand and leg, my efforts are futile. 

She reaches into her pocket and blows some sort of dust into my face. I wheeze and notice I am becoming even more sluggish, I can barely keep my eyes open when she decides to take the nails and stab them through my wings.

“Awe you’re like a pinned butterfly. One nail per wing.” She whispers like she is proud of her work.  I hadn’t noticed when I stopped screaming all I know is that I was lifted and put on the ogre’s back is when I eventually lost consciousness. 

Eris pov:

Eris has never felt terror like he is about to experience. The warm fireplace lit up his office with a warm orange glow creating casts of dark shadows when guards burst into the room.

“Sir. There is an emergency.” One of the guards looks pale as a ghost. Eris stands with a quick huff and takes a breath. 

“What?” He says and makes his way from around the desk following the guard out the door, “There was something horrifying left for you on the palace steps.” The guard clears his throat before continuing, “High Lord I want you to prepare yourself for what is to come.” 

Eris for a moment looks shaken, immediately thinking something happened to his mother or brothers. When they finally winnowed to the steps, the sun was starting to peak over the trees, making the day look like it was about to be a beautiful one.

But unfortunately, no amount of warning could have prepared him for what he saw, which was his dearest Wynnie Lara pinned to the marble flooring at the top of the stairs like a dead bug waiting to be studied. 

When he stumbled over to her limp body praying to the mother that she wasn’t dead. He collapsed next to her still form, “Someone get the healer.” He barked tears in his eyes. 

Hands shaking like he doesn’t know if he can touch her frail shape, he reaches towards her face brushing the bloody bangs off her forehead, leaning in close to see if he can hear her breathing. A light breath flushes out of her nose and he could have collapsed into a manic pile of joy just knowing she was still alive. 

She was always on the smaller side but there was something so jarring about seeing her so limp and broken on his property. Made him feel sick to his stomach looking at her, eyes closed and such shallow breathing.

By the time the healer arrived and brought her back to the healer’s room, Eris had been patiently waiting outside the room. He swore to himself whoever hurt her was going to feel the wrath of his entire army and then some. He was toying with ideas of torture for the one that caused her this pain and trauma.  And he was so deep in thought he barely noticed the healer coming out of her room. 

When the healer walked his way he noticed him holding a bloody piece of paper,

“Found this tucked into her dress, My Lord. She should wake in a few days now that she has been stabilized.” And walked off. 

Eris took the note with trembling hands and walked into her room. He sat next to her bed not even planning on leaving her side until she woke. He unfolded the note that was damp in her blood and gagged at the sight of it. 

Dearest High Lord Eris, 

Enjoy your traitor back. 

-The Night Court

a/n: soooooooooo. thoughts?

sorry about the cliffhanger! (i am not)

taglist: @cazrielsfairygf @buckyloki888 @litnerdwrites @the-fandom-ness @booksbypisces @nerdyalmondlawyerauthor @fatimam6 @lees-chaotic-brain @love-bookprincess @paleidiot @slytherintaco @lilah-asteria @rcarbo1 @esposadomd @dxjaaaa @tele86 @saltedcoffeescotch

[beaconfeels]

It still counts as day four if I haven’t gone to bed yet, right? A little bit more Steter for @steterweek

Stiles lies in his hospital bed and stares up at the ceiling. The sounds of the night rounds, the blinking lights, the beeping machines, it all makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He hasn’t had to spend too long in a hospital for many years, and he’s liked it that way. 

He keeps thinking about how he almost died this time. If that claw had been one millimeter over it would have nicked his jugular and he’d have bled out, and the tree limb that left a deep gash in his side could have been further over; it could have impaled him. 

And it’s so annoying because he’s been trying to stay out of harm’s way. He’s been actively avoiding fights and scary monsters and anything else that could kill him, but of course one dragged him back in anyway.

Fucking supposed-to-be-mythical creatures and their dumbass vendettas that always seem to involve kidnapping Stiles and trying to kill him. 

His eyes are slowly blinking closed, sleep creeping in, when he hears the faintest noise, something just a bit off from the other sounds he’s been hearing, then sees a shadow along the wall. He clutches his blanket and resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. 

Between one blink and the next someone is standing at the foot of his bed. Not someone, Peter Hale, the possible love of his life who fucked off to Europe two years ago and left Stiles brokenhearted. He stopped seeing Peter around every corner after the first year, but he still blinks, trying to figure out if he’s just misread some stranger’s face in the dim lighting.

Nope, that’s definitely Peter. Stiles can’t even speak around the mix of relief and anger and hope warring in his chest. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peter says, and Stiles hates him for calling him that. Hates him for the way he aches to hear it again and again. 

He turns his head away from Peter, can’t bear to look at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Derek told me you were hurt,” Peter says. 

That makes Stiles turn his head back around. “How’d you get here this fast?”

“I was in New York,” Peter answers. 

“Since when?”

“Six months ago.” 

Anger flares again. Six months ago. Six months ago Peter came back to the states and didn’t tell him. Sure, he was still a long way away, but he was back in the country. Didn’t he think that was something he could have told Stiles in one of his rare texts?

Peter moves closer, around the side of the bed. Nearly close enough to touch. 

Stiles keeps looking at him, and then away. Peter is so beautiful, and it feels so good to look at his face, but it burns too, like a strong drink that you can only handle in small sips. Has Peter somehow gotten more handsome while he was away? Is that even possible when he was already Stiles’s favorite person to look at? 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says. He does touch Stiles then, just a light brush of his fingers across Stiles’s knuckles. 

Stiles flinches away, and Peter sighs, tucks his hand into his pocket. 

“Why are you here?” Stiles asks again. 

“I told you, I heard you were hurt. Badly.” The hand that isn’t in his pocket flexes and balls up into a fist at his side. 

Stiles watches the muscles on his forearm move and tries to stay focused. “And?” he says coldly. 

“And I had to see you.” 

He searches Peter’s face, and those piercing blue eyes are searching his right back. “Why?”

“Because I was an idiot. Because I never should have left you.”

“Then why did you?” Stiles asks. He lets the hurt and the anger and the sheer sadness of the last two years seep into his voice. 

“You’re not going to like the answer,” Peter says, breaking their gaze. In an uncharacteristic show of nerves he twists the ring around his middle finger over and over, not meeting Stiles’s eyes. “You’ll probably still hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you,” Stiles says. “I wished a lot of times that I could, but I don’t.” He hates how wobbly his voice sounds, how he suddenly wants to cry. “I thought maybe…” he trails off, unwilling to talk about his feelings when Peter has been so vague with his. “Just tell me why,” he settles on at last. 

“Humans are so fragile,” Peter says, “And you insisted on running with wolves. I respect that you don’t want to take the bite, but I’ve lost so many people I love already. When I realized how I felt about you, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching you die too.” 

Stiles reaches toward Peter without really thinking about it, his hand trembling until Peter grasps it. “You loved me?” he asks. 

“Not loved, love. With every fiber of my being. When Derek told me you could have died, I realized what an idiot I’ve been. I may not survive it if I lose you, but I won’t give up one second that I could have with you ever again. Not willingly. Not if you’ll let me stay with you.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes,” Peter says fiercely, his eyes glowing supernaturally blue. 

Stiles is crying. Not dignified sniffles either, he’s very nearly sobbing. His whole face is wet with tears. Peter hands him a tissue from beside the bed, and Stiles wipes his tears, and laughs, and clutches Peter’s hand like a lifeline. 

Stiles scoots to the side of the bed. He winces when his side pulls uncomfortably, but it will be worth it. “Come here,” he pleads. “Come lie beside me. I need you.” 

Peter smiles, one of those bright, warm smiles that are so rare on him. He squeezes in beside Stiles, and Stiles leans up against his side. 

They breathe quietly together for a moment. “I love you too, you know,” Stiles says. “I tried not to. I tried to forget you. I couldn’t.” 

“I know the feeling,” Peter says dryly. “Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid? I can’t believe I wasted all this time.”

“We’ll make up for it,” Stiles assures him. 

“Stiles,” Peter says, and Stiles can hear the ache in it, the warning that there have been one too many close calls already.

“I’ll leave,” Stiles says. “I’ll go away from Beacon Hills with you. I know that doesn’t guarantee trouble won’t find me, but it’s gotta help being away from a supernatural beacon, right? So we’ll move. We’ll talk my dad into moving with us. We’ll figure out how to ward our home, and how best to protect ourselves and I’ll stay as far away as I can from anything that might bring trouble.” 

“Stiles,” Peter says, and this time it’s full of relief and something that might be awe. “Are you sure?” 

Stiles leans over and kisses Peter’s cheek. “Yes,” he says. He feels bubbly and light, like he could float right off the bed. He smiles. “We’re going to be so happy,” he promises. 

Peter leans in and presses their lips together, sweet and gentle, but full of promise. “Yes we are,” he agrees. 

[chronically-ghosted]

Third Base.

rating: 18+, explicit

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: after the last session went awry, you and max don't know how to be around each other. two months after a blow out fight, max catches you in the parking lot and decides it's time to talk.

warnings: angst, is that plot i smell? period sex (oral), impossible positions but he has super strength and doesn't breathe so shut up, semi-public sex, car sex, some briefly scary imagery (it's a dream), monsterfucking, mentions of a car accident and injuries related, arguing, max being a dick

a/n: MASSIVE shoutout to @jupiter-soups , @beardedjoel , @gasolinerainbowpuddles , @covetyou and @huffle-punk for giving me their blessing to do a vampire + period sex fic. The discord ladies really came in clutch here 👌i hope this makes you as horny as that thread made me

i wanted to get this out by halloween, but that didn't fucking happen so here's a fic that mentions halloween as a plot device. fun fact: orgasms can bring on your period early so no it’s not your 🐈 that’s sore it’s your uterus lining shuffling off

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You’re warm. Everything is warm. You’ve sunk beneath a fresh layer of volcanic ash, heartbeat pulsing with the lazy roll of molten lava at the heart of the mountain. Hands outstretched, you can’t find the edge of the mattress because there isn’t one. 

There is only warmth and rocking, gentle waves.

There is only this.

There is only him. 

Shoulders hunched between your legs, his tongue is a hard muscle, leverage against which you grind and shift and when you find that spot together, you throb in sync with the rush of blood to your cunt and sink a little deeper into the endless sheets that flutter against your skin like paper in the wind. 

Your lips form the shape of his name but in the sigh that leaves your mouth, you can’t be sure if you called out to him or if everything coherent had been swallowed up in a cry of listless pleasure. But he responds all the same. The vibrations in his chest between your thighs, his tongue wrapped around your clit, nearly tear you over the edge that very second – you cry out, not wanting this to end, not wanting to leave this hearth of him, folded over you as if you were made of fine ceramic and he was a fiery kiln. You arch, your release dangerously close, and his grip around your thighs tightens, tightens, pulling you deeper down into his face, his nose, that wicked, wicked tongue, and his grip tightens and it hurts. His fingers, his nails, pinch down into you, your flesh swells between his knuckles as if he’s going to tear straight through your skin, your muscles, your bones – and you yelp. 

It’s not fun any more.

You struggle, but he’s on you too tight, a riptide sucking you under. You try and kick him off, push him off with your hands but it’s no use.

Everything is cold and metal and it hurts and you’re begging him to let you go, let you live, when those fangs, as sharp and jagged as steak knives, suddenly embed themselves in your thigh. Your hips jerk with the force of it, with the agony as he slices your femoral artery and drinks deep. And then he bites your other thigh, tearing through your flesh, turning the cradle of your thighs into dripping viscera. 

Max, you think you beg, the fight all but drained out of you as your blood flows freely from between his fingers, from the gashes in your thighs, your throat, your wrists. He’s torn out chunks of you and swallowed them whole. 

Max.

The creature lifts its head, its eyes blood-red, pupils black as the darkest night, mouth twisted and wrenched open screaming, four glistening bone-white fangs, dripping blood, your blood, your life, your flesh. Begging won’t save you now. 

It snarls, the sound pinching off like a dying woman’s scream, inch-long talons tearing up your hips as it crawls forward, crawls into your throat and just before it delivers the killing bite, it whispers:

You asked for this.

The first thing you see when you jerk out of the nightmare is the crease of your pillow, looking up at it from the plush of your mattress. Your cheek smushed into your blue sheets, duvet tangled between your legs, the horror of the nightmare still pressed into the corners of your brain like a tacky, sticky film, you can’t quite understand what you’re looking at. The adrenaline is fast in your blood, heart pounding, your unconscious mind unable to determine what is real and what is not, safety or danger, and your fingers dig into your sleep shorts, arms tucked up underneath you. You blink twice, the headache from yesterday returning, your swollen, black eye almost immediately painful, and then you realize the pounding you hear is not your final heartbeats, but someone at your door. 

That buzzing is not the last conscious thoughts in your head fizzling out, but your phone on silent, humming incessantly. Groaning from the pins and needles that shoot up your arm after having slept on it all night, you flop onto your back, your other wrist twinging painfully in its flesh-colored wrap, as you crawl to the edge of your bed – which is thankfully in sight. You can’t pick up your phone with your dead-fish arm and your twisted wrist so you answer the call without looking and put it on speaker.

“Hello?” 

“Why aren’t you at work?” His voice is clipped, short, pissed. As if he was your actual boss and not the sales manager, while you worked in legal. After the dream, it immediately sets you on edge. Every major part of you is sore and hurts, either from the accident, or sleeping so hard you figured you briefly went into a coma. 

“What’s it matter to you? I called my department and told them I’d be out.”

“Yeah, and I had to find out from Tim.” The pounding from down the hall gets louder and suddenly you connect the two. It should be illegal to be this furious minutes after waking up. “Open the door,” he snaps into the silence over the phone. 

“Are you fucking serious right now? You’re at my apartment?”

“Yes, now open the fucking door.” 

You chew your lip because you genuinely do not want to see him right now. There’s a reason you called Tim to pick you up after someone T-boned the back of your car yesterday evening and the plausible excuse is that he lives in the same apartment complex as you. 

“Open the door right now or I swear –,”

“Alright, jesus. Gimme a fuckin’ –,”

You shrug on your cardigan, hissing as you bend your shoulder. 

“What was that?” You swear his voice takes on an edge, catching on something and tearing just enough to let something vulnerable bleed through. 

“It’s nothing – I –,” you twist your other shoulder into the arm of the cardigan, the phone pinched up against your ear. “Jesus – okay, fuck this, just stay there and don’t break down my door.”

You pound the red button with your thumb and launch your phone onto your bed before you limp lightly down the hall, the weight on your right ankle just a little less than on your left. It’s half a second difference in your regular gait, but something tells you he’ll know.

He’s across your threshold before you have the door fully open, glaring around your dark apartment as if it personally had a hand in keeping him outside in the hallway. There’s something frenetic in the way he moves, in the way he stands, even if he is completely still. It’s the same sort of wired energy that is usually reserved for end-of-quarter deadlines, isolated to sustained knee bouncing or wearing out the spring of a pen with one too many clicks. Max is . . . uneasy.

“Well?” He rounds on you, hands on his hips, as if you’d just been caught pilfering through the company supply cabinet for ink cartridges to sniff and get high. You’d never been on the receiving end of Max’s bad temper before – in fact, you’d been the solution to it for quite some time now. You’d seen him go off on a vendor that screwed up an order or chew out the competition, but not this. Not that tense jaw that can’t find a place to settle, eyes narrowed in warning. Don’t test me. 

“Well, what?” Maybe you should have changed out of your pastel blue pajamas before coming to face your co-worker/occasional sex-fiend/boyfriend(?) but it’s too late now. You try to stand as tall as you can, arms crossed. 

“You wanna tell me why you weren’t at work today and I had to hear from Tim – fucking sandwich-eating, wormy-mustache, sword-dildo Tim – that you’d been in a goddamn car accident.”

“It was minor and he lives in my building,” you respond, chin high.

His eyebrows arch as his mouth twists indignantly. “So minor your car wasn’t drivable?”

Point 1 for Max. You bristle, fighting the heat on your cheeks. “It was just easier to call him. He picked me up, dropped me off with some painkillers and some juice, and left. I didn’t fuck him if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

He picks up on a thread you didn’t expect him to follow. “He gave you . . . juice?” 

“Yes. His sister is a nurse and it was something about the adrenaline and sugar in orange juice – and I don’t know – it was comforting, at the time.”

“Comforting?” He asks like it’s a foreign concept. Something alien and unnatural. “What, like he gave you a hug or something?”

Your stomach turns on something sour. “Sure, Max, yeah. He could see I was upset and he did the terrible, horrible thing of giving me a hug when he saw I was in pain.”

“So was it a minor accident or not?” He takes a step forward and you remember how much bigger he is than you. How wide his hands are. “Fuck, can you turn on a light? I’m fucking straining to see anything.”

The migraine had set in moments after you closed the door behind Tim and like a creature retreating to lick their wounds, you shut off every single light in your apartment and close the blinds tight. You stick a comment about vampire sight up between your teeth and switch on the lamp by your couch. 

You catch a glimpse of that pretty face cut with sharp, angry lines and flared nostrils, before it flickers, fades out when he spots the black eye, the wrist splint you forget to hide with your sleeve before it’s too late, the way you hold your weight off your sensitive ankle. 

For some reason, you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch as the taut line of his shoulders deflates, his wide hands with his thick fingers slide bonelessly off his hips, how he stands up right instead of that aggressive forward lean, reserved only for what you thought he saw as enemies.

He swallows whatever was sitting behind his teeth and stares.

Where he had been even temporarily vulnerable with you days ago, it’s your turn to shy away, hiding your tender spots. 

Guilt washes up to your eyeballs the longer he stares silently, taking in every bruise and bump. You hate the fact you feel guilty, and you hate that you don’t know where the guilt comes from or why it sits so heavy in your chest. 

The truth of the matter is you did think about calling him. In fact, he was the first name you pulled up on your now cracked phone, but sitting on a curb outside of a gas station as a tow truck came to take your car away, you scrolled down past him. 

The truth of the matter is Max hasn’t been back in your apartment since the night you went to second base and he bit you on your tit. In fact, he’s been avoiding you in the office for days now. When he wouldn’t meet your eyes over the coffee machine, it became easier and easier to wonder if this was the same man who set out all those candles for you, who put down all of those insane precautions to keep himself from going too far, who couldn’t help but vibrate with pleasure as he drank from you. First base had gone over without a hitch, but something went wrong that night and he’d sooner let the relationship fizzle out than talk about it. 

The following shower that night had been awkward and uncomfortable, too close and the steam too hot. He left shortly there after, only a handful of mumbled words exchanged, and he hadn’t come back.

So, maybe, sitting there, your head aching, your wrist pinching, you wanted him to feel as abandoned as you had.

“I’m a little . . . banged up, alright?” Your fingertips brush the edges of the Ace bandage around your palm when your fingers curl and uncurl, your head tilted just off center as if you could hide the swelling from him. “Nothing that a few days of rest can’t fix, so you really didn’t need to come over.”

“Rest and juice, right?” The look in his eyes is raw, rubbed down into nothingness, blackness, totality. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, “it wasn’t like that and you fucking know it.” 

His head tilts as if considering your words, or considering something else, and by the time you open your eyes in a millisecond blink, he’s got your chin in his palm, his fingers curled up your cheek, thumb firmly pressed into your jaw. Dark eyes roving, he’s inspecting every cut, every bruise, every hair out of place. 

Irate at the hot flush low in your stomach at the way he grips you, you push against his chest, yowling out some disgruntled noise, but that only makes him squeeze you tighter. He doesn’t even look you in the eye. 

“I’ve healed much worse than this,” he murmurs, breath smelling deliciously of mint and not a hint of anything metallic. “Especially on you.” 

His thumb brushes dangerously close to the rim of your purple and green eye and while even the slightest touch stings, it’s nothing compared to the bite of pain his words and soft tone inflict. You give him one more good shove and he backs off, thumb swiping briefly against your chin. His mouth is a straight line when he finally meets your glare. 

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t think you gave a shit, Max.” You’ve been in tense business negotiations all your adult life so standing your ground and not crying is something that has become second nature to you. And yet, your eyes grow hot and tight all the same. You’re not crying, but your body is remembering how good it feels to do so. “Ever since that night, you’ve been acting like I’m diseased or something. You made it pretty clear we’re not actually dating, so I called Tim because it was the path of least resistance. I was tired and I hurt and I didn’t want anything complicated. And I didn’t tell you because quite frankly I didn’t think you’d notice I wasn’t there unless the breeze blew the wrong way and your dick got hard.” Every unanswered text and call straight to voicemail over the last two weeks flashes in your mind and your wrist twinges painfully as you gesture to your bedroom. “Because that’s what this is, right? Just a good fuck? A good time? For the record, you didn’t ruin that lingerie set. I put it on cold in the washer and the blood came right out, okay? Everything is totally fucking fine.”

You don’t realize how loud you’d gotten until your apartment rings with silence. It is the absence of noise, of only one set of lungs in use, that makes it so loud. 

Max’s jaw still hasn’t found a place to settle, to calm himself. He purses his lips as his bottom teeth grind against the top. His eyes are unreadable, black coals in his head, instead of that gooey warmth you swear you’ve only seen in your direction. He swallows once before opening his mouth.

“So then, do you want me to fix you? Just so we can get back to fucking and I can get what I came here for.”

Soft. Quiet. A rattlesnake you don’t see coming until its fangs are in your foot, pumping you full of poison. 

“Get the fuck out of my house. Right now. Leave.”

As if mocking you, he walks out the front door. He could be out and gone before you draw your next breath, but he chooses to click his fucking Armani leather shoes across your tile, open the door – the knob demonstrably small in his massive hand – and slam shut so hard the painting on the wall shudders. 

If the shower had been a separation by omission, this had been the real thing.

The heat behind your eyes becomes unbearable, sharp, painful as you begin to choke on everything you didn’t say to him lodged in your throat. Vision blurry, you yank your curtains close and flip the light switch, plunging the apartment back into darkness. 

It’s not until you’re curled up on your side in bed, duvet over your head, that the tears come. They’re silent, you’ve only ever known how to cry silently, but they fall fast, dripping off your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut and your black eye throbs, a thunderbolt in a storm. You cry out and touching it makes it worse and you cry because it hurts and you cry because you’re pathetic and you cry because, worst of all, you didn’t make Max realize what a fucking asshole he is.

It’s not until you wake up at two in the morning, suddenly and without a descent, that you realize Max walked into your apartment without a jacket on, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose. As if he had heard the news and immediately left the office to come to you.

Days pass. And days turn into weeks. It’s two months later and you haven’t heard a word from him.

Everyone at the office has been very considerate about your injuries – holding doors for you as you hobbled through them, your team taking on more client-facing calls while your eye healed, typing up the last bits of the reports when your wrist started to ache. For a company that employed literal hell-spawn, you’d been rather touched by the kindness everyone showed you. 

Even Tim. Who offered, after clarifying he definitely wasn’t hitting on you (if only because he feared the legal repercussions you could bring down on him like a smiting hammer) to drive you home while your car got fixed. Those nights when Evan sat in the back because they were headed to a DnD session afterwards were always a little awkward. 

Everyone helped out, except one person. A significant person that made your chest twinge every time you saw his door close seconds after you came into the breakroom. You could hear your sister’s scolding voice now: never fuck where you eat.

For sleeping with a vampire, you supposed that statement was doubly true. 

As the world turned towards winter, night came early and stayed longer, eager for mischief. The air grew thin, cold, trees sagging, turning brown, and molting. There’s a smell to the air that usually excites you, usually makes you smile and yearn for your couch and a long movie night. But not this time.

Halloween falls on a Monday this year and given the majority of its workforce still remember when it was called Samhain, it’s a company holiday. Ahead of a long weekend, this late, the office is empty. With nothing (and no one) to greet you at home, you stay until it could be officially counted as pathetic to keep working in an empty and dark building, before powering down your laptop, gathering your things for what you foresee as just a long working weekend, and locking your office for the night. 

Paper bats hung from the ceiling, with orange and black table clothes thrown over tables in the break room. Cardboard witches and zombies grinned wickedly from the dark corners, woolen webs with freakishly large spiders hiding near the ceiling. The office manager, Carla, has really outdone herself this year, you think, as you unplug the rows of purple and orange lights looping around the ceiling tiles. With your leftover lasagna from Amanda (who insisted you still needed someone to make you dinner), you flick off any remaining lights, the red exit signs guiding you out in the dark. 

His office door is open, not unheard of but not common. 

The room is dark, so maybe he left early and just forgot to lock up. Your chest tightens at the thought that he ran out of there in a hurry because he was eager to meet up with someone, a pretty someone who looked great in a set of heels and had a fang fetish. You swallow; one of a dozen scenarios you’ve tortured yourself with over the past few weeks, particularly painful. 

It’s strange, to go on and live your life when there has been a fundamental and irrevocable change, when there is nothing where there once was something – an outline almost visible as though the air itself was trying desperately to remember, to hold on. 

Your eyes grow hot and you blame it on season allergies when you wipe your eyes with your palm. You blame it on the steady headache you’ve had all day. You blame it on the irritability that’s been rubbing you the wrong way for days now. You blame it on the lack of sleep you can never seem to get enough of. Fuck, is it possible to drink yourself into a wine coma? You’d really love to find out. 

Without the sun, the wind is particularly chilling, curling over the collar of your jacket and pinching the back of your neck. Your feet ache, the plastic holding the lasagna is starting to sweat, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got a run in your nylons. Fighting back a shiver, you unlock your car and toss everything into the passenger’s seat when you hear your name. 

For a fraction of a second, you think it’s the wind. That your mind has been circling its own loneliness for so long, it’s taking pity on your pathetic ass and imagining comfort out of thin air. But you hear it again, stilling with one foot in your car, hand on the door. Your name – quiet, reserved, purposeful. 

So unlike him. 

“Can we talk?”

Just get in the car. Just get in, turn it on, and drive. Your fingers bite into the cold metal. 

“Max, it’s late and I’m exhausted –,” 

“Then I’ll make it quick.” 

His long coat flutters around his knees in the uneasy breeze, his hands in his pockets. You can’t really see his face in the shadows between the streetlights. 

You haven’t moved. One foot on the floor of your car, hand on the door. He sighs and tugs at the tie around his neck. You wait.

“You said you’d be quick –,”

His jaw ticks, finds your gaze for the first time. “It’s fucking freezing out – can I at least sit in the car?”

“There’s lasagna.” Max had the unique capacity to trigger your most basic instincts seemingly out of nowhere. Where did he get off demanding anything? You want to stomp your foot and stick your tongue out. “I mean, you have to move the lasagna . . . and some other stuff.”  

Briefly thankful for the dark shadows to hide your childish blush, you plop into the car seat without looking back at him. His figure moves around the car and you make the express decision to make him deal with all your shit in the passenger's seat. But to your enormous surprise (and swelling embarrassment), he gathers your briefcase, the plastic container, and your empty coffee mug without comment and puts them gently in the backseat – without flinging them or sighing like he just moved mountains. 

Your fingers curl over the stiff steering wheel as he folds his long legs into the car, fighting with his jacket, and grunting a bit when his knees press up against the dashboard. The click as his seat slides backwards to make room is painfully audible. 

The overhead light in your car fades long before either of you say anything. 

“Max, it’s cold and I wanna go home–,”

“Okay, okay, sorry – fuck –,” he twists the coat tighter around his chest, sliding low in his seat like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Okay. It’s just . . . this isn’t easy and I don’t –,” 

“You don’t what?” You snap, rounding on him, patience finally running out. “You don’t know how to apologize for being a fucking asshole?” 

“No – I mean, yeah, but –,” 

“So you admit it! You were being a shit and you know it!” 

“It’s not like it’s that fucking simple–,” 

“Yeah, it is. It really is, Max. You got scared the last time we were together and you took it out on me the first chance you got.” 

He shoves his palms into his eyes. “Okay, yes, I was scared, but not then. I mean, it freaked me out a little bit, but . . . it wasn’t the bite that got to me.” 

“Yeah? Then what was?” 

He huffs, lowering his hands slowly, his shoulders curving in as his hands drop into his lap. “You told Tim and not me. And,” he adds quickly at your rapidly reddening face, “and for about fifteen minutes, I didn’t know if you were alive or not. I just heard ‘not at work’ and ‘car accident’ and I assumed the worst . . . and because of the way I’ve treated this relationship, you didn’t think about calling me just to let me know you were okay. And . . . I fucked up.” 

You blink. Slowly, then several times rapidly. “You were scared that you lost me.” 

That pained grimace deepens and he scowls at you like you called his Tonka Toy Truck stupid. 

“Don’t say it like that. It makes me sound pathetic.” 

You scowl back. “Would it kill you to be genuine for two seconds? It’s okay to have feelings. Even ones about me.” 

“Of course I have feelings for you,” he rolls his eyes and you want to bite him on his finger. “Why would I put us both through the fucking ringer just so I can bite you if I didn’t care about you?”

“So then if you can easily admit that you have feelings for me, why were you so fucking awkward that last time? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why were you so fucking mean to me at my apartment?”

“Because I don’t wanna keep this a secret anymore!” 

Your car feels abnormally cramped as all the air is sucked out with a vacuum. But, as a vampire, maybe that’s not a problem for him. 

Or maybe if he stops, he’ll never be able to get it all out. 

His eyes are wide, his broad shoulders pressed up against the door, as if he is trying to escape the confines of the car, or look at you straight on. 

“I want to be the one you call when there’s a problem, not fucking Tim. I want you to know I’d never, ever hurt you, no matter how blood drunk I was. I want . . . I want to stay overnight at your apartment and I want . . .” he trails off, swallowing over the words that are seemingly choking him. “I want to be your . . .”

He murmurs something and you assume you didn’t hear him because you are simply too shocked.

“What?”

Max groans and puts his hands over his face as if he is being physically tortured. 

“I wanna be your boyfriend. In public. At work. All the time. I wanna . . . I wanna tell people I’m your boyfriend and you’re my girlfriend.” He makes a face and sticks his tongue out, grimacing. “And I wanna fucking graduate kindergarten apparently. Get married on the blacktop. Blegh.”  

As he wrestles with the apparently juvenile terms, you fall into speechlessness. There’s a dozen emotions flashing through you like fire embers: relief, anger, embarrassment, curiosity, joy, sadness –

Desire.

Watching his tongue roll around in his mouth, even comically, reminds you exactly why you entered into this relationship/not relationship with him in the first place. 

Mouth finally closing, he lifts his gaze to you, chin tilted down, and you can almost imagine the ears turned back and low on his head.

“And I know that’s not what you want. I didn’t want to say anything but then it all just fucking snowballed, and it’s been killing me not being around you, so when I saw you leave tonight, I thought–,”

“Why do you think that’s not what I want?” Your heart rises, just a bit, in your chest, and you feel it tap against your breastbone. “Why wouldn’t I want to go public?”

Max watches you cautiously, eyebrows drawn down. “HR nightmare for one. But in the beginning, since we didn’t, you know, go public then, I just figured . . . Figured you’d want to end it before calling me your boyfriend.”

“But you didn’t want that either, in the beginning, right?”

He nods, suspicious.

“But things changed for you. And . . . you know . . . things might have changed for me too.”

God, maybe your mom can take pictures of you two together at the kindergarten graduation ceremony. Why is this so fucking hard to talk about? 

Max blinks at you, his turn to be struck silent. 

“So, theoretically, if I stop being an asshole and you call me for all your rides home, I can call you my girlfriend to Tim’s stupid face?” 

“If you’re ready to deal with the HR nightmare,” you say, meaning that and a handful of other things. If you really want to deal with all of that for me.

You swear Max’s eyes twinkle gold for a second. 

“Um, yeah. I mean, I am if you are.”

“I am if you are.”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.” 

A grin sparks across his face, the tension leaving his jaw. Joy crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Then I wanna kiss you first.”

Your heart is now knocking between your breastbone and your throat. You nod, swallowing nerves. 

“Finally, something we agree on.” 

For the first time in your memory, Max moves slow, hesitantly, but encouraged by the smirk on your lips. The car still feels small, but now in the best way possible. He leans forward, the console in the middle squeaking as you press your forearm against it, his hand sinking into your hair, nails against your scalp. 

You smell mint, coffee, and finally, something coppery. 

You lick your lip a second before his slot against yours. 

It’s chaste, as chaste as kissing Max Phillips can be. A thoughtful moment of rediscovery, of possibility, of relieved familiarity. He knows just how to turn his head, to press into you, to make you sigh into his mouth.

“Am I forgiven?” He teases, his voice soft and quiet, eyes half open as they take in every pore and feature of your face.

Desire, buttery and warm, melts into sticky arousal between your thighs. The fingers on his chest dig in as you grasp at the material to drag him closer. 

“I think you owe me a base, slugger.”

Max’s eyes widen. “Here? Now?”

“I’m pretty sure the office building is locked up, so unless you have another suggestion–,” 

He groans, hands immediately tugging around your knees to pull you literally out of your seat and into his lap. He grinds your hips down against him, as if he couldn’t help it, and you gasp, embarrassingly turned on from his hands on your hips and his sudden show of strength. That goddamn vampire strength. 

“I missed you so much, you fucking freak,” he mouths against your cheek, his hand squeezing your thigh once before curling around your neck and yanking you into his hot mouth. Your muffled noise comes across as protest and surprise, but he keeps you pinned, his lips and teeth and tongue fighting over themselves to get to your skin first.  “I’ll give you any base you fucking want, but I wanna neck in this car for a bit.”

You nod, quelling the flush of heat between your thighs and the subsequent whimper by burying your hands under his jacket, under his blazer, and tugging his shirt out from his waistband. His skin is cold, despite three layers of clothing and a heated seat. 

Max grunts as you palm his stomach, muscles tightening, and he dips his mouth to your ear, your cheek, your neck. The brush of teeth against your hammering pulse point carries only the threat of pain. His tongue circles your vein like a bullseye. 

His fingers knotted in your hair, Max rolls his hips once, breaking off the kiss to watch the shiver go through you and end in a subtle moan that has you knocking your forehead into his shoulder. 

He mouths your ear, that soft skin just below it, hands rubbing up your hips and inching your skirt up your thighs. 

“Are you sure you want it here?” His words are as gentle as his lips — which is to say not at all. He roughly captures your mouth again before you can answer and sucks your bottom lip between his teeth as if he can bleed the answer from you.

He’s kissing you so hard, your back nudges the dashboard. You respond in retaliation; swirl his tongue with yours like a goddamn preview, hands low on his groin as you push him back. 

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Yes, Max, please. Here.”

“Then we’re moving the fucking lasagna again.” 

He twists you as he opens the car door, and immediately the wet patch between your thighs is slapped by the cold air. You stumble, shuddering, your nipples tightening in the chilly air. But he’s already knocking everything on the back seat to the floor. Grabbing you and guiding you by your hips to lay back against the pleather and spreading your knees with the brush of his thumbs, his eyes darken as if he can see through your skirt and nylons. Like he can hear your cunt throb for him.

He hovers over you, his Armani fucking shoes hanging off the seat as he kneels on the seat, seemingly struck silent by the sight of you, even with all your clothes on. 

“Max,” you say against the swelling in your chest, “you can bite my calf if biting near my pussy is too much.”

Just the mention of that wet, warm place he is so ridiculously fond of has drawn his attention back from his distant thoughts. 

“So I can’t eat your pussy after I eat your pussy?”

“If you think you can handle it,” you nudge at his elbow with your toes, “go for it.”

Over his shoulder, you can see the wind tug on his jacket, hear it ghost over the treetops, but with his thick, broad body over you, you feel nothing but warm. Max unbuttons his collar and slides his already loose tie from around his neck. He tickles your nose with it before dropping it onto the floor. 

“Leaving this within reach in case you need to scream into something, okay?”

You roll your eyes, flushed hot at the idea that you’re about to have semi-public sex. “You’ve been gone for a while. Maybe you’ve lost your touch.”

Something in his eyes grows dark, sharp, and his chin tilts just slightly. 

“I guess you’ll have to judge that for yourself.” He pushes up your shirt to your throat, exposing your white linen bra (that’s what you get for assuming your sex life was over) and your twitching stomach to his hot, wandering gaze. Before you can pretend to protest being cold, he drops his mouth to the swell of your breast and teases your nipple with his teeth. “You tell me if I’ve lost my touch.”

Immediately, a full body shiver radiates from where his lips suck and you stretch out against the leather, eyes fluttering open and shut. He hasn’t earned a moan yet, a fact he seems acutely aware of when his eyes flick up to watch your face as he palms your other breast. He digs one finger over the cup, curling over the material and grazing your nipple with his nail, when you shake your head. 

“Too public,” you breathe, as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him against you because you want to feel how much this affects him too. “Someone could see.”

“But you want me to eat you out? That’s not too public?” He grins as he tucks his face into your neck, lazily rolling his hips because he knows that’s exactly what you want. 

“Just stick your head up my skirt.”

He stills, teeth ghosting your skin. “Yeah?”

You feel him twitch against your thigh and you have to remind yourself not to ask him to full out fuck you in the backseat of your car. You nod, your chin ruffling his hair. His grip on your ribcage tightens, an errant thumb swiping the underside of your breast, as he lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan.

“Have I told you you’re a fucking freak and how much I love it?”

Your toes curl in your shoes, heart in your ears, and blood hot under your skin. Just as he moves to shuffle back, you cup the back of his neck, turning your teeth and lips to his ear, the hairs there as soft as peach fuzz.

“No. I’m a monsterfucker.”

The sound that escapes him is no longer human, deep, jagged, a warning cry to hunted prey, and you feel just a prick of fangs against your neck. Immediately that rush of endorphins bows your back, a Pavlovian response to be fucked so good over and over again, and you keen into his chest. 

“Max, baby, please–,”

Your cunt actually aches. 

Max shoves himself away from you, yanking off his coat and suit jacket in one motion, and he actually lets them fall to the concrete parking lot. Before his sleeve is all the way out, he curls over you, one hand shoving up your skirt, and the other snagging the front of your nylons. His grip pinches the coarse hairs and your cunt involuntarily clenches as he peels the nylons over your hips and your knees with one hand. To get them completely off, you’d have to stretch out your legs, so he shoves your nylons to your ankles, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and thrusting you up the seat. Your head knocks against the car door, but he doesn’t seem to care – and neither do you. 

The back seat of your ford is not meant for two people, much less two people hellbent on oral sex. And yet . . .

He shoves one knee under your low spine, lifting your hips up and you acquiesce – tightening your muscles to keep the position that nearly folds you in half, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to breathe, honey,” he purrs into your thigh and takes your knee around the back of his head, and then does the same to the other. The height gives you enough leverage to balance against the roof of the car, giving your weight onto his shoulders, and your cunt exactly where he wants it. 

“That’s it, pretty girl. Now, let me eat.” He sticks out his tongue, flat against his chin. 

He clutches your hips and tugs you closer, right into his waiting muscle. 

Your spine arches even further off the seat when he takes advantage of the position and licks you from the curve of your ass to your clit. He catches the dripping wetness in his mouth, using it to massage that bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue, his fingers firm against your hip. Any more pressure and he’ll bruise you. Any more after that and he’ll crush your hipbones. 

Your hips thrust weakly, thighs squeezing his head, as he forcibly reminds you that he hadn’t lost his touch, with an additional reminder that no one else touches you like he does. No one. Not a living soul or otherwise.

A side lick to your clit and you bite your lip, eyes shut, your hands above your head to find leverage. You push back against him and he groans into your pussy, aquiline nose breathing harshly into your damp curls. 

“Fuck, Max – yes, right there – oh god –,”

That soft teasing feeling that makes your hips cant forward with a sudden desperate need expands with every swipe of your tongue. 

He’s never going to let you live it down if you come this fast. 

“M-Max,” 

He opens his jaw more, dropping his mouth to your exposed hole and licking so deep inside with a curled tongue, your thighs start to shake. You gasp, head lifting forward before dropping back, as he fucks you with his tongue. You want to ride his face. 

And then Max lets out a grunt, shifting underneath you, his gaze flicking up to yours. With a hand on your knee as he practically hangs you upside down, he pulls back.

“You taste different.” 

It takes you a second to realize he’s said something coherent. “W-what?” 

He licks his lips, smeared with a wetness that makes the lower half of his face shine in the murky street lights. He licks you again as if to make sure. 

“Your taste . . . your cunt, it’s . . .”

Max’s eyes widen slightly like a wolf catching the scent of a deer. 

“Hold on, baby, I gotta try something.” 

Without warning, he plunges two fingers inside of you and sucks on your clit. He times his sucks with the rapid pump of his fingers and you’re at your peak in seconds. Your thighs shake, your cunt tightens, the sudden ascent overwhelming and intense, and with a tap against that spot inside you he’s forever marked as his own, you flatten against the seat, as everything inside you bursts, wet and bright, into his waiting mouth. His eyes flutter at the taste as it drips out of you, corners of his mouth smeared with your release. 

Max slowly slides his fingers out of you, watching you with apparent curiosity, pride evident in his eyes, and immediately your cunt aches, as if he had just given you three orgasms instead of one. There’s a low throb at the crux of your thighs and you groan, the pain only dull. 

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He nudges your thighs back from his ears, opening up you just a bit before he tucks his tongue into you again. The throb, alongside the still settling waves of your orgasm, wants you to push him away, but it’s not overstimulation. After being with Max for so long, you knew what overstimulation felt like and this is not it. 

“Max, c’mon, give me a second — fuck,”

Your eyes widen as you feel something wet trickle out of you and into his mouth, his eyes fixated on you. His grip around your waist pulls you closer to his chest. 

You watch each other the second you realize what’s just happened.

He leans back and there’s blood on his bottom lip.

Embarrassment scorches through your body and all the shitty feelings you had all week suddenly identify themselves as symptoms of PMS. Fuck. 

You immediately push on him, trying to de-tangle yourself from his shoulders, but he shakes his head.

“You wanted me to drink your blood, right? Third base? Well, now we don’t have to worry about where to bite you.” 

“But Max,” you struggle, working to sit up right but he won’t let your legs go. In fact, his grip turns rougher and you feel his fingers crush into your hip bones, his other hand pinning your knee to the back of his neck. “Max, c’mon, you don’t have to do that. This is silly and –,”

His wide palm smooths over your knee, like he’s trying to settle a frightened cat. 

“Who’s scared of genuine feelings now?” He murmurs. 

Only Max Phillips can go soft and sweet with your cunt inches from his face. Your apparently bleeding cunt. 

His hand moves from your knee, down your thigh and over your hip, before making the reverse trail, just as slow, just as comforting, while his gaze never leaves yours. You swallow something harsh in your throat, as your lower pelvis starts to ache. 

“The last thing I want is to hurt you, but I’ve heard that orgasms can actually help with cramps.” Max says softly. This isn’t a ploy to get (further) into your pants. He’s being genuinely – really, seriously, genuine. Your heart beats just as hard as the cramps as they settle. 

“What woman told you that?” 

Max huffs out a laugh, turning his head to nuzzle your thigh. “I was lonely without you and had to make do . . . so I befriended Carla and her gang.”

“The office manager?” You gape at him.

“They all tried to set me up with their daughters,” he chuckles, his hands still roaming over your body. He adjusts his knee so you have something to lean into. “So, pretty harmless. But they are also some of the most incorrigible gossip hounds I’ve ever known.” 

“They didn’t mind setting their daughters up with a vampire?”

“Not all of them are human, honey.” His eyes roll up your chest to your face. “And the ones that are were practically begging me to turn them.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, baby, I didn’t.” He shifts again, tugging you further over his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the backs of your knees. “We don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.” 

“I know. It’s just . . .” You touch his thigh behind your back, needing to feel him to gather up the strength to say what you wanted to. “No one’s ever done this before.”

Max’s solid eyebrow jumps, lips pulling back into that wicked smirk. You swear you catch a glimpse of fang as he focuses back onto your cunt. 

“Well, you’re a monsterfucker and I’m your monster to fuck.” 

His mouth lowers, eyes on you, waiting and begging. You nod and he prods your clit with his tongue again, before licking anything and everything out of your hole.

Max doesn’t eat. He feeds. 

He grunts through his nose, trying to kneel as high as he is allowed in the cramped space. Finally, his gaze falls from you, eyes flickering shut, as the cramp in your pelvis digs deeper – you cry out – but then, it melts. The dull ache is spread across your hip bones until it is just warm, hot with your rushing blood. You moan, throwing your head back, and finally you dig your hands into his hair. 

As that warm bright coil begins to sink into your pelvis, Max groans between your legs. He pulls back just an inch, his lips a gooey red, to say:

“Pull on it if you need to hold yourself up.” 

Why you thought you could ever go back to a human lover after Max is a fuzzy, hazy notion at the edges of your mind when you dig your fingers into his hair, slightly longer than it’s been in the past, and pull yourself even closer to his mouth. 

In a truly impractical position, you feel his iron-hard cock poke your back, his hips stuttering, fucking empty air. His arm bands around your hips, your knees knocking against the ceiling, as he adjusts his grip. 

The inverse of blood has you going dizzy; blood rushing to your head as Max coaxes blood out of your cunt. 

And then you feel it. 

Behind your thighs, his chest vibrates and the air is filled with a delicious, primal sound. The sound of a beast being satiated, of a hunt gone well, a feeding that will sustain for a long, long while. Before you found it rather adorable, funny that a grown man like Max Phillips would purr when deeply satisfied, but now, it’s a hair-pin trigger to your demise. 

You cry out, loud and wet and wanting, as everything from your hips down starts to tighten up again. You lock your ankles together against his back, toes exposed to the night air, and you use the last of your waning strength in your thighs to lift yourself even further to him. Your hips thrust weakly and that grip around your hip bones seals you to his chest. 

Don’t fucking move. 

But it’s enough. Your inner thighs a gooey, hot mess, he prods his tongue deep, licking up every liquid that drips out of you, before coating your clit in your own mess. 

He sucks and you come. Long and loud. 

Your vision slowly begins to unblur, black spots fading, as he lowers you down, careful not to go too quick like he’s trying to not to wake someone from a light sleep. You can feel that sleep, that endless relaxation swelling over you as you go boneless while Max untangles you. 

Your eyes stay open long enough to see the smear of red across his lips before he wipes it away. The cramping in your pelvis has been reduced to a gentle throb. 

Gingerly, Max pulls your skirt down, hand arching your back so you don’t have to lift your hips as he adjusts you back into some modicum of decorum. He reaches back and snags his coat and jacket from the ground before tossing them into the passenger’s seat. With your feet in his lap, arm stretched out across the back of the seat you just debauched, he shuts the door and instantly the smell of his cologne permeates the air. 

You grin, wriggling down in the seat as far you can go like a housecat warmed by the sun. 

You sit in silence for a bit, content to just be, a welcome retreat for your breathing to go steady and his cock to soften. His hands brush against the heels of your bare feet. 

“You made me purr again,” he says with a grin. 

“There’s no way that’s the technical term for it, whatever it is,” you say teasingly as you watch him trace your ankles with his finger. “You should ask another vamp what you’re supposed to call it.”  

He chuckles, squeezing your foot once before glancing up at you. Whatever he sees in you, it makes his eyes go soft.

“You mean ask about the thing that only happens during the most intimate moments a vampire can experience? Yeah, sure, I’ll bring it up at the water cooler.” 

Satiated and warm and a little loopy from a truly record breaking orgasm, you stick your tongue out at him. 

“Fine. I’m going to tell people that you purr like a cute, innocent little kitten until you find a better term.”

He bends your knee so he can press his lips to the curve. 

“Just because you’re my girlfriend, don’t think I won’t turn you over and swat your bottom.” He nips at the hollow of the joint with flat teeth, opening up your legs to him again. You can feel that heavy wetness trickle down again, and you sit up, not embarrassed by your bleeding, but suddenly tired beyond belief. 

Max lets you move out of his lap as you curl a hand around his cheek. It’s a shame you only see that touch of vulnerability, the man without the quips and the teasing and the bravado, after a good fuck. But you think you might finally have it your way, sooner than you ever hoped. 

“Well if my boyfriend would drive us back to his place, maybe I could show how sorry I am for teasing you.” 

He studies you for a minute, a full minute that has you surprised he’s not roughly kissing you again.

“Sometimes, around the office, you’d smell different and I never knew what it was. I didn’t put enough thought into it to realize the pattern, but it makes sense now. And it makes sense why you were suddenly very busy during that week when I’d bootycall you.” 

You shrug, your neck suddenly very warm. “I dunno. I figured you wouldn’t want to be around me when I’m like that. Not to mention I dress in baggy clothes and wander around my apartment with a heating pad taped to my hips.

“Really? They’re that bad?”

You nod. “Women around the world rejoiced when working from home became an option. Video calls only show from the waist up.”

“Now that’s all I’m gonna be thinking about at the next all-hands meeting,” he grins and squeezes your knees. 

“I guess I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?” You shake your head. He nods, humming his affirmation, and kisses you. 

“Let’s go to your place,” he mutters against your lips. “There might be no place on earth less equipped to handle Shark Week than a male vampire’s bachelor pad.” 

“Shark Week?” You giggle. 

“Carla’s words, not mine. The Rising Red Tide. Code Red. Aunt Flo. And my personal favorite, communists in the fun house.”

Your giggle turns to a snort as you lean forward into him, laughing. His lips press affectionately into your hairline as you settle down. 

He moves to take your feet out of his lap when you gently take his elbow. 

“So we’re good, right? This wasn’t too much?” You are a little concerned by the total and complete lack of fang he showed, but entirely grateful.

As if reading your mind, he says, “the fangs only come out when I need to get through pesky flesh to feed. Your blood came out like a broken ice cream machine at McDonalds.”

You wrinkle your nose as he laughs and you push him out of the car. 

“That’s disgusting, Max.”

You snag the keys from your briefcase and toss them to him as he rounds the car and you crawl into the passenger’s seat. 

He drops in and immediately turns on your seat warmers. The gesture is subtle and thoughtful, things you thought Max Phillips never could be. 

“Speaking of which,” he holds onto the head of the seat as he backs out of the spot. “Carla also told me that ice cream is the cure to most cramps. So, with the lovely picture I just painted in your mind, do you want to go to McDonalds?”

As you look at him, shadows flitting across his face as he drives under streetlight after streetlight, his fingers that had been inside you minutes ago loosely holding the steering wheel, your heart twinges as you come to a certain realization.

This can’t last, right?

He’s only acting like this because he feels bad, feels guilty, right?

Max Phillips isn’t boyfriend material, despite his claims. 

As proven before, feelings can change. So you wonder how long until his feelings about you change again and he grows tired of you. Max Phillips is not a housecat. 

You swallow, glancing away before he has a chance to catch your eyes.

“Yeah, Max, let’s do it.” 

Prev | Next | Series Masterlist

[the-light-finds-its-way]

A Wish, Kel Tas Ne

The Awoken Warlock's heart weighed heavy within his chest. Walking past his siblings, all chittering and conversing, scuttling around with four arms instead of two, Velliks glanced upon his own form.

No claws. Two arms. Entirely Awoken, not Eliksni.

The man sighed heavily, frowning as he bit his lower lip, and shook the dismay away. Velliks located his Kell, then approached, bowing.

Misraaks turned around and looked upon the captain. "Velliks. You are brave as always. What may I do for you?"

Velliks lowered his shoulders, dropping his gaze. "I... I'd like some guidance, if you're willing, Kel-ne."

The Kell smiled warmly, and nodded. "Of course, Velliks, kir ma sha. Speak your heart, and I will give it Light."

Nodding, Velliks inhaled deeply, thinking for a long moment. Searching for the words to express his mind, he spoke. "I'm... not like everyone here. I haven't been. I never was." The Warlock shook his head, tensing. "You call me captain, and granted me my name as one of you, but I am Awoken walking amongst Eliksni. I mimick your habits, and your movements. Zavala believes me strange because I chitter as I speak, and I crawl around as much as I walk. He sees an Awoken. Everyone does. I see an Awoken... But... I wish I didn't have to..."

"Hmm..." Misraaks chirped gently for a moment, pondering in silence otherwise. Then, he looked upon Velliks, and motioned for him to follow. "We should not speak this matter to the House. They would be afraid, and rightly so."

Velliks stood, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You will know soon," the Kell promised. He began walking away from the rabble of all.

Quickly, the Warlock followed, rushing to his Kell's side as they made way for the outskirts of the Eliksni Quarter.

Misraaks halted, and turned to see Velliks once more. "Have you heard the tales of the Ahamkara?"

Velliks shook his head, puzzled. "...No. I don't believe I have," he replied.

"It is hard to regale one in the stories of what was and no longer is. But still the tragedies of these wish-masters is known by all who lived their wrath." Misraaks glanced to the infinite sky above. "Centuries ago, Guardians made contact with the Ahamkara. Wish Dragons. These creatures were capable of granting anything one sought regardless of what it was. However, the price was grave. That wish would be forced to drive its maker to the bitter end, in that whatever the wisher received, they'd have no choice but to submit to it entirely. If a Guardian asked for power, they'd find themself forced to obtain power by any and all means necessary including that of everyone else. They'd kill, they'd slaughter, and they would not stop until put down. If someone wished for riches, they, too, would seek their fortune at the cost of all, never stopping even if the universe were drained of all its wealth, the very promise torturing its maker to forever hunger for more. But... the wishes were granted nonetheless. Whatever was sought became theirs. And it could not be taken away.

"Guardians feared the power of the Ahamkara, and watched as all whose desires were granted tore apart the universe. The Vanguard began a mission to slay all these wish-masters for the safety of Humanity. Dead Dragons could no longer twist their promises to those whom they granted their will. And since this elimination, none have wished. There are no Ahamkara to speak desires upon. Or so the legends say..."

Shaking his head, Velliks sighed. "Why does it matter, then? What bearing do the Ahamkara have if they no longer exist?"

"I have traveled far, across many systems in this galaxy, and I have seen boundless infinities. I've heard whispers spoken through the mouths of things which cannot be seen. Those voices are waiting. Calling." Misraaks looked Velliks in the eyes sincerely. "I am certain that the Ahamkara have not all been killed. There are few, and they live. Hidden. Waiting.

"It is true an Ahamkara will force the wisher to follow their will eternally, however Guardians would free those bound by promise when the Ahamkara who granted the wish was slain. The dead cannot enact a living will. If you can find one, you can make a wish to become Eliksni. And if you gather your fireteam, you can kill it once your wish is granted. You'll be free as the very self you desire to become."

There, Velliks's mouth fell agape, his shoulders falling as he grew entirely silent for many moments. "But... Who could I even trust to do this?! Who would be willing to go against the Vanguard law to help me?! Where would I even begin to look for an Ahamkara?!"

Misraaks grinned. "The law-breaking part is simple. My partner, Anthem-99, has been dubbed 'The Lawless Vanguard' for a reason. All the same, Magnuskel is a good man willing to give aid to all in need. He is powerful, and it would not surprise me if his might alone could tear apart an Ahamkara. Both their allies are many, and with the Titan and Hunter, you will find an army ready to follow you forth as you make your wish. As for finding one, listen to the stars. Travel in the direction of voices, and seek their sources. If you hear words from something unseen, and they reach not your ears but your mind, you will know. You will find them. Let their whispers guide you. But do not go alone. An Eliksni is nothing without his House to stand by him."

Velliks immediately bowed to Misraaks. "Kel tas ne, thank you. Truly. Thank you."

Nodding, the Kell grasped Velliks's shoulder, gripping it firmly. "You are Velliks, kir ma sha. Brave and strong. You are our captain. And I am certain your unrelenting prowess will serve you well in the battle to come. Light guide you, hatchling." Misraaks smiled, releasing the Warlock, then walked away toward the House once more.

And Velliks's heart lifted, filling him with hope. Standing up, the captain smiled, chirping gently.

A wish... He would make a wish, and become Eliksni.

[stories-from-the-warp]

A strange portal opens up, and an even stranger power immediately intimidates those who can sense the aura.

It seems as strong as a god, perhaps stronger. But something is quickly wrong, as the one who has the power steps through the peculiar, non-warp portal.

It is a demon, with a muted apple blossom skin. He doesn't seem to belong to any known chaos god, he's too powerful for any of the main four to own him.

But the thing that is "wrong" is how wounded he is. He's covered head to hoof in deep scars and burns, his strangely round horns look infected and are broken. He limps like he doesn't even have the strength to carry himself, and the fever radiating off him, you can feel as though his blood was made of lava.

In his arms are some strange demons, who are not as powerful, but just as sick and wounded. They're each very small, smaller than mortal children, and barely breathing.

There is a second, more powerful power at play here. Something disgustingly holy. But in a twisted way... the source of the holy magic is quickly found as the stranger stumbles forward, crying in agony.

He gingerly tosses the children from him, as his wounds start to froth and boil over. A reddish steam floats from his wounds, and his eyes pop. He falls to the ground, sobbing as he collapses. His back is COVERED in arrows that radiate the foul, cruel, holy power. It's boiling him from the inside out, it seems...

Yet he's still alive. Still surviving, despite the unbearable pain...

He doesn't seem to notice that someone is watching him. All he does is point his ears, oozing that awful foaming blood, at the lesser demons. Watching over them, as his flesh melts the stone beneath him from how hot the holy arrows are making it.

( @ask-underfazverse )

Right as the Immaculate Masquerade had only begun its revelry, some unwelcome guest rudely interrupts. How disappointing. But just before any frenzied cultist or jubilant daemon could even think to charge, they sensed the aura of this trespasser.

Once their thin slit nostrils had carefully sniffed the air, the Daemonettes recoiled with shrieks. That strong, burning stench was one they recognized: the powers of Order. It wasn't the Anathema or His followers, yet just as repulsive. They hissed, stepping back to form ranks with their mortal allies---those who didn't flee and weren't stuck in a catatonic state from potent narcotics.

A looming shadow came closer, stepping over the assembled line and into the light. Clad in golden plate, opulent jewelry and shimmering silks, a towering creature with four arms and polished black horns stood between its minions and these "children".

"My, my..." it spoke with two voices at once---one with a soothing tone while the other dripped with sarcasm. "What poor, unfortunate souls have come crawling to our door?"

Its goat-like eyes then turned to the larger, more injured one. "What terrible, horrible, awful, sad, tragic fate has befallen you and your little ones?"

[nicherayyy]

La Squadra x Fem! Reader OUTLAST AU

Chapter four 

Previous chapter: chapter three

AN: are you excited? bc I am

TW: body horror, cursing, violence

MINORS DNI

“Stay right here”, Risotto gave you a warning look. What is he trying to do?

The knock on the door became even louder. If this continues.. whatever this creature is, soon will get in. The room seems like shrinking now, and it’s just you, your captor, and that thing behind that door. You slowly crawled into the corner of the room from all these emotions overwhelming you. The adrenaline coursing through your body. 

Risotto is about to.. open this door. Is he going to fight that thing? And if so will he be able to overpower it? No. The memory of Risotto’s blooded hands and these people he killed made you wrap your arms around yourself, in seek of protection. All this time he could twist your neck like it was nothing.

And the realisation that there’s no guarantee you’ll be alive for another hour.. your insides tightened. You feel sick, terrified. This can’t be true.

It’s just a dream. Just a stupid nightmare and it’s a part where you’re about to wake up. Yes, that’s the plan. You’re going to wake up, maybe have something nice for breakfast. Then, you’ll go to your stupid work to do your stupid interviews. Everything will be alright. A tiny hope in your eyes. 

You try to pinch your arm as hard as you can. It hurts. Maybe even a bruise will remain. But you’re still here. You still can hear this thing and it’s attempts to open the door. You still can see your crazy captor, whom you recently saw covered in blood as he tore human flesh apart. 

You eying him. Waiting for his actions. Waiting for something to happen. 

“OPEN”, you attempt to press in the corner even more as you heard its cry behind the door.

“OPEN”, you heard again. It’s definitely not a human. Not anymore. The door began to shake from the force. You looked back at Risotto, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Everything looking like a slow-motion at some point, as if delaying the worst. 

Risotto barely had time to open the lock when the door suddenly burst open. It’s white like a chunk, thin and tall, with face like a death mask hanging from a bone. Its eyes like holes. Immediately your captor grabs it. Trying to throw it out of the room you’re being held in. You fill dizzy, everything looks so unrealistic at this point. If it wasn’t adrenaline in your blood, you would have lost consciousness long ago. 

After a few seconds, Risotto manages to push this creature in the corridor. All his attention is now on the fight. 

The creature turned out to be stronger than you expected, you could say, it was even similar in strength to Risotto. Even being knocked to the ground it still tried to fight back, reflecting all blows. You have no idea how long this will continue. You slowly stand up from your place in the corner, moving as carefully as you can, eyes following Risotto’s every hit. You still trembling, legs going weak of all the stress you’ve got. 

You see this thing overpowering Risotto, now being on top of him, death prep on his hair, trying to smash his head against the cold concrete of the corridor floor. And only now you realise- you can’t be sure your captor will emerge victorious from this fight. If he loses.. you will be left alone with god knows what it is, and this time you’re absolutely sure, it has no intentions of keeping you alive. Is so you need to run as fast as you can. 

But on the other hand, if Risotto’ll stay alive you have no idea what he will do for escaping attempt. Your throat tightened. You need to choose what to do. And now it’s you life depending on it. Your vision blurred. It’s so hard to think straight. 

Still hesitating, you run out of the room. Fuck it. You don’t understand whether it’s a banal desire to live or just adrenaline in your blood. 

Almost running down of the aisle, you hear a thump. The sound of the fight died down, only your heavy breathing and the sound of your work shoes hitting the floor. You’ve never been so grateful for your choice of work clothes. 

“WHERE ARE YOU”, you heard Risotto’s distant cry, so he’s the winner. Deep in your heart you hoped it won’t be him. Panic start filling you again. If this creature would just kill you.. Risotto.. Risotto’s most likely will want you to suffer. Hopefully he didn’t understand in which direction you ran. 

You still moving as fast as you can, looking for a safer place or even better- an exit from this cursed place. 

Just don’t look back and run. 

You hear something getting closer to you. Slowly, but surely. 

Corridors and rooms seem endless. The main thing is not to get to a dead end. 

“COME BACK”, you hear somewhere in distance, “YOU’RE MINE”. This game of chasing can’t last long and you just know that. It similar to game of tasting your stamina, or luck. 

Your legs starting to hurt. Tears running down your face. And as you thought, luck has turned away from you. The dead end. The corner room in one of the aisles. You still hear that Risotto is looking for you. You hear his steps getting closer. 

You can’t think of anything better than lock the door of this room and try to hide yourself. 

“I CAN HEAR YOU”, you trembled from anger in his words, he’s almost here, “BE A GOOD GIRL AND COME OUT NOW” he cried. 

This will be your end, you thought. Eventually he’ll find you. He knows where you’re hiding. He’s in your aisle, checking every room. Your eyes wide from fear, from fear of your captor, from fear of what he’ll do to you. It’s so hard to breath again. Your eyes on the locked door, waiting for your fate. This is it. 

“Hey”, you heard a voice of stranger behind you, “Hop in the elevator if you want to live”

Now you looked around the room itself. There was a food elevator in the corner. You are saved!

Perhaps this is one of the survivors. You two are going to stick together. You’ll going to get out of this place.. alive. You can’t even describe how happy you are. 

You weren’t happy for long before you heard someone start knocking on the door. He found you. 

“Just open the door”, he pleaded, “Let’s talk”. 

A strong blow followed. 

“JUST OPEN THE DOOR BITCH”, he screamed. 

Without thinking long, you jumped into the elevator, barely fitting into the cramped cabin. 

“Fuck you”, you hissed. Elevator moved right when the door got knocked out. 

“NO”, he screamed, voice pitched. 

“COME BACK”, he pleaded again, “STAY, PLEASE STAY”

The higher you go, the more dull his voice becomes. It’s over. You’re safe now. Everything will be just alright. You’re so excited to see your saviour, you’re so grateful. A tired smile on your face, maybe your luck’s still on your side. 

The elevator doors started to open and you were ready to throw yourself at your saviour with hugs when something stopped you.

This can’t be true. No. 

In front of you was another patient of asylum. Skin on his body burned, the face’s twisted and sewn up. Just a few pigtails could be discerned on the head. 

He smirked at you, “How I wanted to see a new face here”

[nani-nonny]

Inimitable/Spiderweb snippet

A tiny snippet where F!Leo from my hypothetical au where he’s trapped with four turtle tots that are meant to be replicas of himself and his brothers

Read more here and below vvvvv

Leonardo yawns, attempts to stretch too but is immediately—and abruptly—awakened by the sharp, stinging, burning pain that ruptures through his spine. He closes his eyes tight, silently waiting for the pain to subside before he twists to rise on all fours, bracing the floor. He holds his stomach as he rises on his knees, wincing at the slight burn of straightening his shell.

A small chirp interrupts his painful wake-up call, and he flinches.

The slider looks around, squinting at the bright white lights that reflect off of even whiter walls. Next to him is a white, wooden crib with a white mattress, no pillows or blankets, not even the tiniest toy. The wooden bars of the crib are covered in small divots, all carved into the wood like the work of the tiniest beaver.

Leonardo holds onto a wooden bar and uses it to slowly rise to his feet, careful not to disturb his back. He grunts, closing his eyes as he tries not to focus on the strain of his legs. He must have slept wrong, his legs are screaming for mercy.

When he finally manages to stand on his own two feet, he finally looks into the crib at the four small creatures that are huddled in the farthest corner. Their faces have sleep lines and their shirts wrinkled, they must have had a nice sleep. Maybe the nicest in a while.

The smallest mutant with the teal shirt reaches for him, tiny fingers measuring up to a fraction of his pointer finger.

The teal one chirps happily when his finger makes contact with its palm. Its tail wags happily, aggressively swaying side-to-side and slapping its siblings.

Leonardo chuckles lightly when the small mutant with the pink shirt bites the teal one’s tail. He reaches into the crib and sets his hands flat—palms up—against the mattress next to the children. The teal and lavender ones easily crawl onto his hand, chirping with each other in delight.

The teal one plops onto the pad of his palm before slipping down to his thumb like a slide. Its yellow stripes crinkle when it smiles up at Leonardo, chirps in response when the slider releases small huffs of laughter. Leonardo chirps in response, awkwardly trying to make the sound come out softly. He really needs to get some practice in…

The cream wearing turtle sits down on the middle of Leonardo’s palm, poking the rough skin and scratching at the callouses. It looks up at him with its large eyes narrowed at him, and suddenly headbutts his calluses when Leonardo tries to smile at the little one.

“Okay, rude,” Leonardo points out with a raise of his brow. But he notices the pink one has yet to move from the corner. Its baby teeth are bared like a predator, but limbs partially sunken into its shell.

Before Leonardo can try to persuade the little pink shirt turtle, the teal one lets out a sharp squeal when it falls over onto its back. Leonardo is quick to help the teal one up, using his prosthetic finger as support for the smallest.

The pink one is suddenly on his palm, biting onto his prosthetic finger.

“Hey, that’s not good for your teeth,” Leonardo tries to scold and pull the pink one away until he stops. The pink one’s teeth aren’t wrapped around his finger, but almost grinding down on the metallic material. He raises his prosthetic hand slightly, smiling when the pink one drags along. “Are you teething on my finger?”

Now carrying all turtles in his palms, he lifts them out for the crib and in his lap. He crosses his legs and nestles the back of his hands into the gap as a makeshift play area with palms. But surprisingly, they don’t start playing around or chatting amongst themselves in chirps. They sit where they stood, and look up at him.

“Oh, uh, hello,” Leonardo stutters, unsure of what to do with the tiny eyes that look up to him.

The teal one’s tail doesn’t stop wagging, even as it tries to stay seated. The lavender one notices and crawls over to grab the teal one’s tail and raise it to show off to Leonardo.

“Good job… you…,” Leonardo tries to praise but his voice falters. Speaking to himself, he mumbles, “I doubt Big Mama gave any of you names.”

At the mention of Big Mama, the cream one’s eyes narrow and a tiny rumble begins to reverberate through its chest. Its short tail whips against Leonardo’s palm, and it clicks its beak in growing anger.

“Yeah, me too, little… one,” Leonardo tries to joke but fails to address the cream shirt turtle directly.

The slider sighs and leans his head back. “I can’t keep this up. If I’m going to be stuck here, raising you against my will, we’re going to have to give you all names.”

The lavender one’s head perks up, letting go of the teal one’s tail and sitting down again.

Leonardo stares at each turtle, and each one stares back at him, unblinking. He raises them closer to eye-level, looking them over. “Mikey would know what to name you guys…,” Leonardo mumbles in defeat when he loses the staring contest.

The pink one chirps sharply, making Leonardo flinch. He looks down to see the pink one’s tail impatiently sway side-to-side.

“Okay, Pink, I get it,” Leonardo nods then freezes. ‘Pink’?

He looks at the teal shirt turtle and names it simply, “You’re wearing blue, but it’s not like my blue… so you’ll be Teal.”

Teal’s tail begins to wag again, its happiness unable to be contained. It launches forward, jumping for Leonardo’s face and splats on his forehead.

The slider smiles, “Alright, you’re Teal until I come up with something better, I’m sorry that you’re a color—.” His smile falters then he groans, “Eughh, I owe Dad a huge apology.”

Teal chirps before falling from his face and back into his palms, partially landing on his siblings. The pink one lets out a warning growl, tail whipping with annoyance.

“You’re Pink,” Leonardo names the pink one, then starts naming them down the line. “You’re… you’re not yellow… you’re more of a skin color, almost creamy like a lotion. Cream! You’re Cream, and you are… not purple, that’s my brother. But you are a lighter purple, you’re Lavender.”

Lavender crawls forward and sits before reaching out for Leonardo with tiny hands that grab the air for him. It chirps and smiles, little fingers managing to point at him.

Leonardo raises them closer and is immediately hugged by all four. He damn nearly breaks into tears then and there had he not been holding them to his face.

They trust him. They trust him to hold him close to his face like this, —trust him to talk and smile, —trust him to chirp happily and wag their tails like he’s the best thing to ever enter their lives. And he can only name them after the colors of their shirts.

“I promise I’ll come up with something better, okay? Just wait,” he promises them but they only chirp in response.

Naming turtle tot mutants is hard, no wonder Splinter chose the Renaissance artists /j

[dvilsdesire-a]

Character headcanon questions!

How would you describe Haarlep original appearance?

🌶spicy:

Is there a specific taboo or forbidden kink that excites him?

Random asks || always accepting

// Honestly, I really need to make Haarlep in game, or draw him, so people can get a feeling of what he looks like. My version of Haarlep is tall and lean, taller than Raphael's cambion form, and leaner, though he still has muscles, he's got very long limbs (and is a creature of sensuality more than physical prowess). He looks more fiendish in nature as well, as he has digitigrade legs, and is able to crawl around on all fours easier than someone that doesn't have digitigrade hind legs.

His tail is thin and long, his wings are similar to most devils, I wouldn't say there is anything overly special about them in appearance. They have less spikes than Raphael's, though.

Haarlep's skin is a dark shade of blue, and his limbs gradient into black (so he has black hands and feet), with some shades of darker blue and black across his wings and tail, as well as his back.

His facial structure, honestly... doesn't look that much different from Raphael's. Mephistopheles DID craft him with Raphael in mind, so his facial structure isn't too different, more feminine in nature with those softer, higher cheek bones and a softer jaw like Raphael has. His collar bones are more prominent, and he doesn't have the bones that most tieflings have across their bodies. He is smoother, creating a softer appearance.

His horns are far less impressive than Raphael's, though, and more feminine in nature, smaller and only one set instead of two.

His eyes are a bright, icy blue (I went with blue because Cania is a place of ice and snow, and the blue just seemed to work with me, especially seeing Mizora as a shade of blue as well). Blue is also a colour that is seen as calming and soft, which works with an incubus imo, allowing people to drop their guard more around him as he appears soothing.

Haarlep's hair is long and black, wavy in nature. He wears a shit load of jewellery in his hair and over his body, covered in gold rings, rings in his hair, and necklaces across his neck and even hip jewels that sit around his waist (think belly dancer?).

As for spicy kinks that Haarlep is into... Honestly, there's not a LOT Haarlep won't do for a good, tasty meal, and he's willing to do even more if someone promises their soul to him.

Haarlep is a creature of sin, lust, sex and overall fetishes. If he can find someone who is willing to sell their soul to him just because they can't find anyone willing to partake in their kink, Haarlep is pretty much willing to do it.

He's a fiend. There's not much devils aren't willing to do to get their hands on a soul, especially if he can twist it in a way where he's in control. The only thing that Haarlep will not enjoy is if someone is ordering HIM around. Haarlep is a control freak in the bedroom, he will give off the illusion that someone has control if he's having a good time, but you won't be the dominant one in the role. Haarlep is all about keeping his brats in check, no matter how cruel it is. Generally speaking, he picks partners who are on the same page as him and who enjoy being slaves to sex or their pleasures.

For an incubus, sex is ten thousand times better if someone is actually enjoying themselves, especially if it's something they are secretly into. Haarlep is all about exposing those kinks and letting people give into them.

[bakageta]

I've been working on a comics fic that is deeply self indulgent of all the ideas I liked and cut out all of the execution that I don't like. It also has my first and only symbiote oc, Honey! I figured I might as well post the first bit for @symbruary <3

It likes the new god.

Of course, all of them like the new god. It is hard to dislike the new god. Not because he is a good god, but because the old god was so much worse.

It likes the new god more than most, though. 

The new god does not need to be restrained and caged and entombed like the old god. Instead the new god hides himself away, on a little blue planet far, far away from Klyntar. Sometimes the new god rides one of its fellows, his nature pulling him away from his planet, but that never lasts long. He fights his way back, every time.

It finds this strange. It had been so still for so long, holding the old god in check alongside its fellows, that it cannot understand. The world it has access to has expanded hugely. So has the new god's world, maybe even more than its world has. 

It wants to explore the new world. It wants to circle stars and ride the cosmic gusts it has only heard of third hand from others. It wants to see all the planets one by one and taste each of their atmospheres. It wants to feel something other than the nothing of space or the stoic touch of its fellows, all former links in the old god's chains. With a ferocity borne of a lifetime spent as a cage, it wants everything it had never before been allowed to want.

How is it possible that the new god does not want with the same crawling urgency?

It does not know, does not understand, but it wants to.

You can go, one of its fellows tells it. One who had been an unyielding bar of the old god's cage and who now was content with the joy of motion. Find out for the rest of us what kind of god this new god is.

Do not hurry, another says as it spirals in an elegant corkscrew across the empty core of Klyntar. No need to rush and bind another god.

So certain, chides another. This god has not even lived long enough to even know what it is.

They devolve into discussion, as many points of view and opinions as there are individuals. This is new as well. Before, there had been no option but to cage the god, but now no one knows what to do.

I'm going to go see the new god, it announces. 

None pay it any mind, caught up in discussion, and it leaves without any of the others noticing it go.

The cracks and crevices of the planetary cage are easy to navigate now that their prisoner is destroyed. Rocks who have not moved in their lifetime shift around it, stretching with unfamiliar motion, until it reaches the surface. There is not much atmosphere, it could fly into space with a simple twist of its form.

But it has never sensed the landscape of its own planet, and what is the point of journeying to the new god if it does not take advantage of these moments while it can.

The hive knows how to form many kinds of sense organs even if its own cage colony has never had use for such frivolities and the knowledge is easy to grasp. It paints its own true black surface with eyes. Ones that can only differentiate between light and dark, ones that see deep infrared, ones that see soaring ultraviolet, ones that can see the waves of energy in the sky belched forth by distant stars. And, most importantly it thinks, eyes that can see all the details of the spectrum in between those extremes.

It is resting on a landscape of stones. Some smooth and some rough but all of them are beautifully iridescent. In the distance, if it focuses its new eyes, it can see a forest. All of the plants shift in a non-existent wind and host creatures peek out of their boughs. And in between it and the forest are some of its fellows. Four of them, all the same true black as itself and twining around each other. They must be its colony mates, because there is a sense of awe in their movements as each twist from one cascades into the others until another novel movement breaks the repetition.

Instead of joining, it blinks away all but six of its eyes and shapes itself for space. Its body spreads into a wide plane and something like a torso bulges in its midline. At its front a mouth full of teeth splits open underneath the eyes it kept. It makes strong, clawed feet on powerful legs and launches into the sky, through the thin air, and out to space.

Space is everything it had been told of and more. 

It wants to linger, the system that the rogue planet had nestled into is a beautiful one even if it is not particularly unique. A midsize star, three plants, one planetoid, and Klyntar weaving a holding pattern between their gravities. Its home leaves a rippling wake that it sees with its remaining pair of complex eyes.

But, now that it is in space, it can feel even more strongly the new god wrenching himself away from one of its fellows. Why does he pull away so urgently when he has the stars and all the knowledge of the hive mind within his grasp? How can he resist the need to know and see and learn?

Those questions are the only reason it turns away from the cosmic spectacle in front of it. It compresses itself smaller than it has ever been before, and writhes into the space between space. With the backing of hive knowledge it travels towards the beacon of the new god's roiling mind.

Eventually it emerges in an asteroid belt with only one, red planet between it and the god's world. The god's presence is much more defined than it has ever felt. Churning with sadness and fear and anger and disgust, its fellows would have likely condemned the god for those emotions alone. Isolate the new god so that his terrible emotions could not infest the warp and weft of the hive mind like the old god's rage had previously.

But, it thinks, there is potential in the mixture. The new god must be able to feel more than just those negative emotions. Something made only of those muddled, torn feelings could never have defeated the old king. There must be more to this new god, there has to be.

It takes time for it to reach the god's blue-green world. The new god does not notice its approach, too focused on his own problems. It forgives him, he is still new after all. 

This planet's atmosphere is much denser than Klyntar, much more difficult to slip into. It goes slowly, taking care not to burn, and lands among trees on the same landmass as the god. 

It intends to head to the new god as soon as it has gotten its bearings, but the forest it has landed in distracts it. The trees are all the same species, all planted in rows, all equidistant from each other. It is an artificial forest, it realizes, and then it sees the fruits. 

The fruits are amazing. They are bright and colorful, pale yellow covered in enough streaks and speckles of bright red to make a solid color over the yellow. In its mouth they are dense and crisp and the skin is just present enough to feel as its teeth cut through the flesh. Seeds in the fruit's core crunch and snap in its mouth. Then it notices the sugars against its tongue and it shifts the receptors there to taste more than just the chemo-signals of close range communication. Sweetness bursts as it bites and the juices run out of its mouth and down its front where it absorbs the excess.

Absolutely delicious! The best possible thing for its first meal beyond the old god’s grasp! 

It knows it should find the new god, but its journey has been nothing but denial of its wants. It can have this one small thing. This one small treat.

So it eats. It gorges itself. It ignores the lifeforms around it–humans the hive mind knows–and it wanders the artificial forest as time passes and the quality of light around it shifts and dims.

“Well at least you’re having fun.”

The sound draws it out of its indulgences, and it turns to see one of the old god’s dragons condensed into the shape of a human, though the skin of its body and limbs is white and obviously Klyntar.

Who are you, it wonders strongly enough for the dragon to sense, but the dragon does not react. 

Maybe the atmosphere is too dense? It takes a few cautious steps towards the dragon, who watches it intently.

Who are you, it tries again. 

"Are you talking at my brain or something?" The dragon makes more noise, but then it actually speaks: Talking to me?

Oh, it realizes, the noises were language. Spoken language is an odd idea to it, but not to the hive. Which one is the dragon speaking? 

English, the hive supplies. 

"Was attempting to," it tells the dragon.

"But now you speak English." The dragon claps its hands together. "Awesome. What are you doing in this orchard?"

"Tasting."

The dragon watches it for a moment and then looks at the forest around it. Belatedly, it realizes that it has done some amount of damage in its haste.

"You came to Earth to eat a half dozen bushels of honeycrisp apples?"

That had not been its intent, but it would not change what had happened. It nods in agreement and adds, "came to meet the new god."

“The what?”

“The new god?” Surely the dragon knows that Knull has been felled? “He destroyed the old god, Knull, and took his place as the scaffold of the hive.”

"Took his place… You mean Eddie?"

"If that is the name of the one who slayed Knull, then yes, would like to meet Eddie."

The dragon grimaces, sucking air in through its clenched teeth. Its teeth sharpen as it does. “I… I can probably do that, I’ve been needing to talk to him for a while now. If I take you to him, what’re you gonna do?”

It does not tell the dragon that it would find Eddie with or without its help. It can understand the importance of connections, and this dragon is apparently Eddie’s and not Knull’s. It is a very important connection. “Meet Eddie, talk to Eddie, see for the hive what kind of god Eddie is.”

The dragon’s lips purse tightly over its fangs. “And if you don’t like him?”

“Leave,” it responds, “there are other planets to experience, and the hive will make its own decision.”

“And what’s the hive gonna do if they don’t like him?” the dragon asks with a furrowed brow.

“Uncertain.” The hive would take their time making a decision, but that decision could be anything.

The corners of the dragon’s mouth turn downwards, but it does not say anything else. It looks at the sky–now completely dark–then it sighs. “If I agree to set up a meeting with Eddie, will you come to my place?”

“Of course.”

“Alright then, let's get outta here.” The dragon stretches its arms above its head and starts expanding its mass. Its shift from human to dragon is clumsy and uncertain, gangly as if it was somehow unused to its own body.  Great sails of wings stagger out, the tail whips out thin and stringy before muscle builds up on it, and then the dragon’s body catches up in fits and pulses. It is an uncomfortable process to watch.

Once it finishes the dragon shakes itself off from nose to tail. Ready? 

Yes, it agrees, and popping one last apple into its mouth, climbs onto the dragon’s back.

[novankenn]

Reluctant Hero?

= Twenty-Four = (Chapter List)

Nora didn't waste her chance, grabbing the disgusting thing before her by the head she used the impressive strength of her stocky frame to yank it backwards, driving the back of its head into the floor.

Nora: You perverted fuck! (pulling the head up and smashing it down against the floor again and again) You are NOT getting my first time! That's for Rennie and Rennie alone!

Deadite-Male: I'm sorry, please stop!

Cardin kicked the armless one closing on him in her naked chest, before rolling to the side and latching onto his mace. Rolling onto his back, he twisted the base of the handle and swung. The armless corpse lurched forward, straight into the arc of his swing. Upon impact, the fire-dust in the head went off, bursting the head of the Deadite in a shower of black gore.

Cardin: I got it in my mouth! (Rolls over, climbs to his knees as he starts retching.)

Nora flinched as the one she was braining against the floor finally stopped trashing as its head compacted from the final blow. Her hands, lower arms and stomach were coated in black blood and brain matter.

Deadite-Girl #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Nora closed her eyes and turned her head as a shower of viscera, as Jaune's saw was plunged into the gut of the Deadite that was attacking him.

Jaune: HA! (Rips he saw out through the creature's shoulder) HA-HA! (Jaune spins about, his saw hand stretching out, tearing through the exposed snake like neck)

Deadit-Girl #2: Fuck you! We'll swallow your soul!

Jaune: (Pulling his shotgun from its sheath) Swallow this!

All three of them winced as the sound of the shotgun echoed about the enclosed space, while also showering them in even more gore.

Jaune stumbled and slipped on the blood coated tiles, before landing on his ass, his back against the wall. Nora slid and slipped as she moved over to him and dropped to a sitting besides Jaune. Not to be left out in the open, Cardin crawled over and took a seat on Jaune's other side.

Nora: Is it always this... gooey?

Jaune: Pretty much. I really could use a beer right now.

Cardin: (Reaching into a pocket hidden by his armour and drawing out a familiar ziplock baggy) I have one left, seems like as good a time as any...

Jaune: Cardi, my man. Nora?

Nora: Fuck it. After this slasher-fest, I need something to help me forget it.

Jaune: No, that is the wrong attitude.

Nora: What?

Jaune: Using alcohol or weed to forget leads to the dark path of addiction and is a terribly unhealthy attitude.

Nora: Then why are we?

Jaune: To relax and take the edge off.

/==/ 30 minutes Later - beacon Morgue /==/

Glynda Goodwitch stormed through the doors of the morgue after being called by a very panicked orderly. The moment her high heels toughed the blood slick tiled floor, she fell, landing in a pool of the putrid fluids.

Jaune: Hey teach! (Cough) What brings you here? (Cough)

Glynda twisted about, trying to regain her feet, as Nora reached over and plucked the joint from Jaune's lips to take a hit herself. Finally getting to her knees and becoming relatively stable, he glared at the three sitting against the wall.

Nora: Sorry for the mess! (Coughs as he hands the roach over to Cardin) Who knew these things had so much goo in them.

Cardin: Not me.

Jaune: That was probably something I should have warned you guys about. Might be a good idea to get some stain-resistant clothing.

(Quick question to those enjoying this craziness... should I change the rating to mature? I do have a fair bit of violence and some "substance" use being shown. I'm a little worried that this could be flagged and want to avoid getting in any trouble.)

[crystal-verse]

Wolgraha week day 6: AU

[do you ever think about what would happen if the exarch succeeded in taking WoL's Light, but didn't actually manage to cast himself into the rift? the answer was my lightwarden crystal exarch au -- thus, enjoy]

The Crystal Exarch was a very beautiful man.

The Crystal Exarch was a very beautiful Lightwarden, too.

Pale white skin like porcelain, patterned in gold and dark black-blue like a decorative teacup. Crystal crawling along his right arm and down his hip, swallowing his right leg up to the knee, spreading across his chest and back to circle his neck like a gorget and creep into the feathers of those massive wings he had. Wings tipped in crystal and edged in gold, and there, too, was gold along his shoulders and hips, gold twining into his arms and legs and yet more arms, a Lightwarden so beautiful, so devoted to his cause, that his only altered features were the wings resting upon his back, the porcelain-and-gold colors his flesh wore, and the two sets of arms that floated in the air, that he might give yet more to help people.

Or, that was the assumption, you're sure. They were a very beautiful thing, that Lightwarden. Agape. A deep, selfless love.

Agape had eyes as red as the Crystal Exarch's eyes had been. The eyes on the back of the hands of those four floating arms were the same seaglass blue as G'raha Tia's eye had been.

And oh, what a pretty sight they made, Agape. Crystal Exarch encased in yet more crystal, a beautiful yet deadly creature. Even in this state -- Light torn away from you yourself and from your cousin, Light torn away from the two vaunted Warriors of Light -- the Lightwarden that had been (was still) your husband was calm. Docile. Content to curl up around you and rest his chin on top of your head, purring all the while, eyes closed.

He was only so content when around you, of course. They were still a Lightwarden. They gathered all the Light in the sky and devoured it until his body nigh on shone with Light held internally, the crystalline flesh glowing just as the Crystal Tower did. (Just as your own crystalline claws and fangs and blood did.) It made sense, of course -- G'raha Tia was a man devoted, and the Crystal Exarch even moreso, and it was a testament to that devotion, a sign of how much he was devoted, that even Light-twisted as he was, the Lightwarden Agape brought no harm to you.

They are small, for a Lightwarden. Only the size of a male Au Ra, lacking the horns but oh so much more deadly. You rarely leave the Tower, now. Your place has always been with G'raha, with the Exarch, with Agape, and the Scions may think you lost to madness but you think it is lost to love instead.

What else could be expected, of a god and their most devoted? What else could be expected of the oldest god and the highest angel? What else could be expected of you, Sae'pheli'ehva, who had brought the Tower into being, held your Raha within your crystalline ribcage for centuries? Who would ever think that you would not return that same devotion?

He was a beautiful Lightwarden. He was calm, if only in your presence. (You compare yourself to Vauthry once, in your thoughts. You do not do it a second time.)

The Scions are not allowed into the Tower. None are, save Lyna who enters every second day with a stubborn slant to her mouth, informing you both of the goings-on of the Crystarium, of the First.

Your Lightwarden has far more of his mind than one might think, you're sure. He thanks Lyna in a voice that echoes and sounds like bells and lute strings falling over one another. He holds you close and bids you rest, often. For all that you are god-and-angel, Crystal God and Crystal Exarch, Warrior of Light and Lightwarden, your body is mortal while Agape's is not.

You rest in the Ocular. You hold him close to you, tuck that porcelain-white head into the crook of your neck. Agape's purrs are much stronger than Raha's had been, somehow. Some part of being a Lightwarden seems to have changed the purrs, made them deeper, even more of a bone-rumbling sensation.

"Sleep." You say. "I'll be here to hold you while you rest."

They sleep.

[deadmandraw]

@baddestdangerboy || Data Corrupt Pt. 2 Starter

First they were transported to the... Space station because the Earth wasn't safe. And now the space station was also unsafe. Figures. Why isn't he surprised by this turn of events?

At least he has a clear objective: climate the invading monsters. Apparently some were coming from the moon? He doesn't really understand it. The fact they were in space was above him, really. But fighting for the lives of others was something he was well acquainted with at least.

The thrum of adrenaline. The feeling of Crowned Clown's claws tearing through an opponent. For the first time in weeks it felt like he was finally able to breathe again. None of the opponents were Akuma — they were all something else. As deadly as they were strange.

He rounds a corner, flipping and twisting his way through a hoard. Six, then five, then four, then three, then two— There was someone else fighting. It looked like one was about to catch him from a blind spot. Half a beat. Crowned Clown reaches—

BAM!

Allen's left arm stretches across the distance accordingly, slamming into the creature and pinning it down. It screeches as it struggles. Allen picks it up and slams it down hard. It stops struggling.

Just the sound of their breathing, now. Allen offers an awkward little smile and a wave. "You alright? There's certainly a lot of these. Crawling all over the place."

[nixierain]

Bruh I just wrote a short story and Idk what to name it but here ya go

TW: Blood, violence, intense gore, blood, cannibalism Link if you prefer that: Untitled document - Google Docs And the damn thing if you wanna read it here:

The air was cold, the wind icey. Blood splattered on the grass, staining their hands, breaking their bones. The snap of tendons and the ripping of flesh was enough to hurt your ears. They stood over the body, staring at you. Their red eyes goreing into your soul. Horns glistened in the daylight, along with the fresh red, blue and black blood. Several colors mixing, some oxidizing and turning brown. You could see how sharp their claws were from how they were tearing apart the muscle. Though, the worst part was them eating it. Their teeth sharp enough to glide smoothly over the skin, and spikes on their arms simply able to be used as forks, stabbing into the victims, giving a twisted take on forks.

You watched this for a bit, the brutal creatures turning a peaceful, sunny day into a cannibalistic, hungry, bloody massacre. The sounds alone could give a person severe trauma, but no, you we’re watching. Seeing the bloodthirsty beasts devour every single poor soul in sight. Unless it was their tribe, it was eaten. Even their own species, just over tribes. They slashed at another across the chest, you could see the blood get scooped up in scratch, the gray being licked the fluid off of its claws. Then it would rip apart its limbs and rip it apart with its fangs before consuming the broken meat and bone. They spat the others' spikes and horns, as well as piercings. Weird enough, you noticed that these creatures seemed to have a lot of body piercings, as if it was a part of their culture. All the more to not want to interact with these things. Although, they did seem easy to trip, long legs, but small feet. Cleftly hoven and miniscule. Then again, they seemed accustomed to it, watching as when they fell, they would just crawl around on all fours before jumping back up to their feet. You were starting to get sidetracked from the bloodshed by simply studying the violent beasts. You started to notice the little things. Like how their long hair flows at different lengths, and how the chiefs wear a deer skull. The glistening of the spikes, how their tails swish when moving. The blood on their ash gray ski- 

Blood… 

Blood…

Blood…

Your brain went down a spiral as blood splashed around more, some dropping on your face. The beings noticed you, and quicker than a feather, they darted at you. Ripping you apart at the seams, spilling your guts, blood, organs, soul. They ate away at your life like starved entities that hadn’t eaten in ages. You felt something stab you in several places – Spikes. They were all over your body, skewing you like a Kabob.

Pain,

Blood,

Fear,

Survival instinct,

Unending feeling of death, and agony,

We’re the last things you felt before the silence and darkness welcomed you in open arms. Alas, your life was taken due to your cover being blown during research, though your files, papers, and records will forever be known as they make their way back to the Quartiles.

[badtasteaquarium]

[A] the discovery (rouge)

I got the call last night, a sting mission to Dr. Eggman's base. They had a reliable tip that the Ultimate Lifeform was still alive. I had to take it.

Eggman security is trivially easy. Navigating it is more difficult. I had to crawl on the ceiling through a maze so dense, that I thought the headrush would have gotten me. But finally, I found what GUN had been looking for.

Shadow.

He was unassumingly lying on a workbench. Strange to see him older, as if he had aged with the rest of us. There was a shininess to his skin, and certain articulate points to where his joints would be that suggested that this wasn't his original body. No, how could it be? He fell from space five years ago, after saving the world from certain doom--there's no way he could have survived, not as he was.

"What are you doing here?"

Eggman's voice jumps me out of my skin, and I jump enough to skim my fingers over Shadow's arm. It's cold. Chills run down my spine.

Eggman is in casual sleeping clothes, something that is strangely humanizing and unsettling. He adjusts his glasses and sneers at me. "Well? Don't make me sound the alarm."

"He...did you...is he...?" is all I can manage to say, unable to take my eyes off this ghost on a mechanic's table.

Eggman sighs. "Not for any lack of trying," he says, strolling over with his hands behind his back. "I've been working on this for about four years. Unfortunately, I've hit a road block and had to move on to other things."

"What kind of road block?" I ask.

"Like you could possibly understand!" he replies haughtily, but his expression grows tired, and he shakes his head. "No...no. Not the time for this."

He walks over to an object about my height covered with a sheet. He unveils it to reveal a stasis tube, liquid fuchsia red. Inside is a twisted creature, covered in black and red scales. Its body is not complete, and is patched with brown skin. One arm is intact, but the other is a half-grown tentacle, fingers hardly developed. Its face is completely scarred over, skull exposed to reveal part of its brain. I inhale sharply, dizzy.

"That," he says, "is what is left of the Ultimate Lifeform. I pulled everything I could from the ARK to try and piece together how my grandfather created him. It turns out he made a deal with an alien life form known as the Black Arms."

"Unbelievable," I say, breathless.

"When my robots found him, he was already starting to....regenerate." he says. His voice is distant, haunted. "He has been slowly progressing, but he would not survive outside of the stasis tube. His heartbeat is weak, and can hardly breathe on his own."

"That's enough," I interrupt, covering my face. Tears were prickling at the corners of my eyes, and it took all I had to hold them back. "An alien..."

His eyebrows furrow. "It's the only reason he even survived. But, without intervention..." Eggman shakes his head, sober as death. "He had finally figured out his purpose. He was just a boy. I didn't--couldn't leave him like that. So, I've been working on a reconstruction solution."

He paces back to the workbench around Shadow. "Making a new chassis was easy, and with some research I could wire everything up relatively the same. But, I'm not a geneticist. That's harder. His brain is...mostly intact, and so is his spinal cord. With that network, it could be possible to integrate him to his new body. I could develop the software...but for it to be him, it would need to interface with his mind, with the hopes that his memories are still stored. There's so little we know about the brain, even at the top level, and I..."

He trails off. Never had I ever seen him in this state. It makes me wonder if in some forgotten past, he was a father to ill-fated children. Or, maybe there's some good and kindness in all of us, even the megalomaniacs.

There is nothing for me to say to it, so I only say what I am here for. "GUN received a tip about...this," I manage. "They want to retrieve him."

"For what purpose?" Eggman snaps. "What, to build a weapon out of him? To further indite my grandfather? Experiment on complex A.I.? Or..."

He pauses in frustration, pacing around the workbench.

"They could finish building him," I suggest quietly. "They've been doing extensive Chaos energy research with their drives. Not to mention they have the manpower to work on complex software."

"Of course they do, they're the government," he grumbles. "Who's to say they won't destroy my operations here?"

"If that was the case, why did they send a sting, like me?" I retort. "Someone who has history, with both you and him?"

He stares down at Shadow, still and lifeless. "Do you think they could?" he whispers. "Could they finish what I started?"

I nod slowly. "I don't think they would want him if they couldn't." I look directly at the doctor. "And I wouldn't be here if there weren't a chance."

Eggman sighs deeply. "If I just wanted a replica, I would have just made that. That's child's play," he mutters.

I don't think he's talking to me. I vaguely recall seeing humanoid robots deeper inside the base. The paneling and styling were marks of their robotics, but especially comparing them to Shadow on the table, they were quite convincing. If I'm not escorted out, perhaps I will look for myself. But again, it's not about making a replica, is it?

This is technological necromancy.

Eggman takes off his glasses, eyes strangely beady, especially dwarfed by his mustache, and gives me a stern look. "You can tell GUN that he's here. And they can take him," he says. "No more than five people. They need to find a way to integrate his organics. They will not take down the facility. No weapons. You will be here to guide and observe. And I want to see him when he is complete."

"Or else?"

"Or else you'll all be turned into scrap." He folds his arms. "And it had better be him. Better dead than a facsimile."

I nod, swallowing hard. I couldn't make that choice, but there's a part of me that's comforted that someone could.