#Infernal Assistance (Option Four)

[vaya-writes]

Infernal Assistance (Option Four) - 4

You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.

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Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Slow Burn. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 3800.

Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, chronic fatigue depicted, detailed discussions of sex, kink, sexual dysfunction, consent, monster cock anatomy, etc. Very brief discussion implying sexual assault and sex with somebody dying has happened to Veron since the apocalypse. Please let me know if you’d like anything else added.

This chapter was very cathartic to write, but a pain in the ass to edit.

Masterlist - A03 - Previous

Regardless of your newfound ability to nap in unfamiliar places, the sound of the door opening still startles you awake. 

Veron takes in your raised hands and defensive posture with a huff and a smirk. “You alright?” 

You take a moment to orient yourself. To let your heartrate settle, and wipe the sleep from your eyes before nodding. “Yeah. Sorry. Dozed off.” 

His wry amusement is immediately replaced with a creased brow and a frown. He bridges the gap between you. Puts the back of his hand against your forehead for a moment before withdrawing it suddenly; rethinking the impulse to touch you, or perhaps not actually knowing how to check a human’s temperature. “Is that normal?” 

It’s your turn for amusement, seeing a new side to the demon. With the impassive and steady front he’d shown you yesterday, you’d assumed he wouldn’t be the type to fret.  

“I’m fine. Feeling refreshed already. Having to take breaks is pretty normal for me.” You don’t tell him that the nap is an outlier. 

Even with your assurance, he looks bothered. “Did I take too much from you this morning? Do you want me to carry you home?” 

“God. No.” At that you push to your feet. Your cheeks blaze. You’re not going to let a stranger carry you home because you took a nap. 

But he might be right.  

“I mean. Maybe you did? I don’t really know. But I can walk. If you really want to fuss, then you can help me carry everything back.” 

He intercepts your movement and swats your hands away. “I’ll get it. Don’t push yourself.” 

You hide your amusement and let him load up on supplies before leaving for your apartment. 

He stares at you on the trip back. Frequent little glances, with that crease still in his brow. 

You let out a huff when everything has been delivered and he still hovers. “Look, I fatigue easily. I promise. It’s normal.” 

He crosses his arms. Gives a noncommittal grunt. But doesn’t move. 

“Let’s see how I feel tomorrow. If it becomes a problem, maybe we can change our schedule or something. Feed you in the evenings so I can take the night to recover. Yeah?” 

Some of the tension seems to go out of him. Enough so that he takes a seat on the couch. “Alright.” 

Still, he doesn’t relax. Even as you sort groceries in the kitchen and rearrange your new supplies.  

You leave him there, putting things away in the bathroom and the linen cupboards. Making the rounds through your space until you return to the lounge and find him waiting on the couch, still stiff. Still stewing in some unnamed emotion. 

Thinking it’d be better to nip the problem in the bud before it develops any further, you join him in the lounge.  

“What’s wrong?” 

He works his jaw. Opens his mouth to speak, but takes a moment to find the words.  

You let him. 

“You’re the first living person I’ve seen in weeks. The first friendly one in... months. I don’t want to hurt you on accident.” 

The first words that jump to your mind, the first assurance is ‘you won’t’. But you can’t promise that, can you? You don’t know this demon. Don’t know his temper or his strength. His patience or his moods.  

He could hurt you.  

It’s a thought you’ve already accepted. It contributed to why you agreed so readily to feed him. Why you’ll keep feeding him. Because a part of you knows: he needs you. Literally. Needs.  

And it would be better to help him willingly, than to have the choice taken away. Something you’re sure he could do. You saw him go against the zombies outside. If he wanted, nothing would stop him from taking control. Dragging you away from your home and using you as a portable snack.  

You realise he’s staring. A miserable look on his face, almost as if he can read your thoughts.  

You banish the worst case scenarios from your mind. Return again the crux of the hour. That Veron is worried. And that he doesn’t want to hurt you.  

You close your eyes in a grimace. Visualise where the rest of this conversation is going to have to go. “Alright. You’re my new roommate, nearly everyone else is dead, we might as well skip the small talk and jump right into the deep end.” 

Without further ado you drop onto the couch beside him. Stare at the black screen of your now defunct television while you direct your speech towards Veron. 

“Tell you what. I promise that from here on out I will make an effort to communicate with you. In particular, if things are- If you’re hurting me. If you’re about to hurt me. If things are about to go too far, or I’m out of energy, if you’re- going too deep or using too much force or- whatever. Okay? I’ll complain and whinge until you wish I’d be less communicative.”  

You don’t want to look at him. Don’t really want to be perceived right now. Instead focusing your attention on the demon’s reflection. How comically big he looks on the couch next to you. 

He lets out a long breath. “Right. I appreciate that. But what if... you’re not sure? If I’m going too far. Like.” He pauses. Considers. “Have you ever been for a massage?” 

You humour him. “I suppose.” 

“And they ask how hard you want it, and you say..?” 

“Medium.” 

“Okay, so they’re giving you a massage, and they’re getting it right. It’s feeling good. And then suddenly, just in this one spot, it’s a little bit too hard. The rest of it is fine. But, just this one spot is a bit unpleasant for you. Not unbearable, but not relaxing anymore. Right?” 

“Right.” 

He meets your gaze, “Do you say something?” 

And then you get it. Because in a situation like that, if it’s not outright hurting, if it’s only a little unpleasant, why not push through? You know it’s not good to do so during a massage. But communicating precisely is hard enough without telling a stranger how to touch your body. What if you get up the nerve to tell them ‘that spot hurts, go lighter,’ and suddenly the rest of the massage is too light? 

Is this how Veron feels when he’s fucking people? Like a masseuse, wondering if something he’s doing isn’t right? If people are just pushing through? 

“Can you tell? When somebody’s holding something back? With your... abilities?” 

He leans back into the couch. Expression somewhere between resigned and properly upset. “Was it a good massage?” 

“Huh?” 

“If it only hurts a little, do you still have a good time? Find yourself relaxed?” 

You consider. “I guess it varies. I usually appreciate any massage, enough to put aside a temporary discomfort.” 

He shrugs. “Then I probably can’t tell. I can sense arousal. I might notice it dip a little, but I’m not going to know why unless you say something.” 

It’s weird, his morose tone. You weren’t expecting him to get vulnerable with you, but that’s how he looks right now, staring fixedly at the ground. 

“Does that happen a lot?” 

He blinks, breaking from stupor. “The massage thing? Just a metaphor. But. Sometimes I’ll have some really good sex and then I’ll find out my partner didn’t like it as much. And it’s really upsetting. Because I wish they’d said something. Asked for more. Told me what wasn’t working. I like making sure my partner has a good time.” 

He crinkles his nose. Brings himself to glance your direction. “And I don’t want to be rude, but, like. You’ve got this... feeling. Where, you’re not... inexperienced, but, like. Not interested? Just. I know you’re doing this because you have to. And I appreciate it. But I still want you to tell me if you’re having a bad time. Yeah?” 

You’re taken aback. You wonder if all concubi would be so good at reading you or if Veron is just particularly perceptive. Because he’s not wrong.  

And now he’s staring down at you, lip bitten and arms wrapped around his knees, like he’s bracing for you to hurt him.  

You let out a long breath of your own. Sit back. Try not to fidget.  

“I have a... complicated relationship with sex. Some days I can’t stand the thought of it. Other days I’m completely neutral. And some days I’m all for it. None of those things are a problem by themself, but. It’s completely unpredictable. I never know what to expect.” You stare down at your hands. “My partners never. Get it, I guess. Or, sometimes they do. But they just don’t have the patience to deal with it. Make it feel like my fault when I don’t want to fuck. I guess as a result, I tend to do that thing. That you worry about. Where, if I’m not having a great time I don’t say anything. Because. I don’t think there’s anything they can do.” 

He’s silent for a while. You don’t blame him. It’s a heavy confession. What do you even say to somebody in response? 

He starts with, “I’m sorry people have made you feel like that.” 

It’s enough to get you to look at him again. Knees tucked less against his chest. Sitting cross-legged now, facing you. Still lip bitten and frowning, but less afraid. Less anxious.  

“You could have a sexual dysfunction.” He shrugs. A little smile appears on his face for a moment before fading. “Or, just straight up could be asexual. But. That’s not the point. Neither of those things would be your fault. Neither of those things are shameful either. And your partners shouldn’t have made you feel like they were.” 

You have to look away again when tears spring to your eyes. It takes you a few breaths to banish them. To hide your... what are you feeling? Relief? Embarrassment? You’re feeling seen, mostly. 

“I’m not the best at communicating what’s precisely what’s on my mind, but-” the words are out of your mouth before you have a chance to think them through. “I assume you’re familiar with the stoplight system.” 

“Yes.” 

“I can give you a bunch of yellows. As a ‘slow down and let me figure out how to tell you what’s wrong.’ Yeah? I might not know how to perfectly express when something’s not working, but I can at least be honest and tell you when it’s starting to happen.” 

He’s silent.  

Perhaps for a moment too long, because it has you anxious. “Will that help?” 

He lets out another breath. And then suddenly your hand is enveloped in his.  

You startle at the unexpected contact, meeting his gaze. He’s giving you another of those small smiles. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that will help. Thank you.” 

You smile back. Squeeze his hand for a moment before scrambling off the couch, trying to pretend you aren’t psyched out by that one piece of contact. Nervous rambling returns in place of your carefully thought-out confessions. 

“And hey, worry a little less about hurting me. I could be into it.” 

You regret the jest immediately, face pulling into a cringe. Is it too soon to make weird kinky sex jokes? It’s definitely too soon for that, right? 

You escape towards the kitchen. 

Veron is frozen, temporarily shocked out of his budding anguish. 

He laughs. A winded, raspy sound. 

“You-” he glances at you. Shakes his head and stares down at his hands, steepled between his knees. Rubs his face, still smiling. “Sure. Whatever you’re into.” 

“Don’t say that,” you open the pantry. Wielding manic banter to hide your embarrassment. “You don’t know what I’m into.” 

He sits back. Stares up at the ceiling with that small smile at his lips. “I promise I’ve seen kinks far more scandalous than yours.” 

He’s probably right. But the change to the atmosphere is nice, so you let yourself scoff at him in mock indignance. “I might have an unpredictable sex drive and difficulty coming, but I can still be into weird stuff.” 

He lets you make self-depreciating jokes about your kinks, occasionally quipping back until you start lunch and the pair of you fall into companionable silence.  

He joins you on the other side of the counter. Watches you eat. 

You finish your barebones meal and tidy up. You’re ready to call it there. To give him a pat on the shoulder and get back to work.  

He breaks the silence. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you did want me to hurt you during sex.” 

You drop a fork in the sink and let out a groan. “I just managed to break the tension. You really want to build it again?” 

“You’re very kind.” 

“I’m averagely kind. Why don’t we wait until we’ve actually had sex before discussing that kind of stuff.” 

You watch from your peripheral as his whole demeanour changes. The seriousness returns, though his gaze is no longer anxious or fretful.  

“It’s important for me to know my partner’s boundaries. Along with the things they want and enjoy.” 

You don’t quite meet his eye. Partner. The word is pretty intimidating in this context (He’s referring to you, after all). 

But not inaccurate. You’re working together, for better or worse. He’s trying to be forthcoming. And you can appreciate that. So you suck it up and make yourself participate in another hard discussion, this time hunched over either side of your kitchen counter. 

It’s more confronting now. More obvious when you’re avoiding his gaze. 

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself first?” 

Your question only hangs in the air for a moment before Veron shrugs. Eyes brightening at your concession. 

“Well. I like oral sex. I especially like giving it.” 

Your cheeks warm and you hide a smile. Yeah, you’d gathered that much. 

“I like fingering, but have to use magic to get rid of my claws. It’ll probably won’t be worth the energy cost in the coming days.” 

At his words you can’t help but glance in his direction. Peek at his hands.  

“I like touching, and being touched. I’m very tactile. Most stimulus is good stimulus. So if you want to get a bit rough with me you can. Pulling hair, tail, horns. Though when you pull somebody’s tail you should grip close to the base to avoid injuring it.” 

“Like hair pulling,” you add. 

“Like hair pulling,” he nods. Then gestures to his legs, “though my fur is short enough that you’d be hard pressed to not pull near the base.” 

You glance over his shoulder. “What about your wings?” 

They twitch under your stare, the stubby things flexing and unflexing. 

“They don’t get in the way too much. I can put weight on them. But I don’t like to do it for long periods of time. So laying on my back for more than a few minutes gets uncomfortable.” He flexes again, leaning forward so you can see the membranous expanse. They have a wide base, jutting out into prominent stumps and ranging along the slope of his back. Despite this they don’t span any further than Veron can reach his arms, looking more fit for gliding rather than proper flight.  

“Are they sensitive?” 

“Yes,” he tilts is head. “But not particularly erogenous. Still, if you’re going to be rough with them, I’d work up to it. Don’t just yank them around out without warning.” 

You glance up at Veron’s face before looking away again. Making yourself engage with the topic, you clear your throat. “I, uh, feel the same. About roughness. Mostly. In that I don’t mind it, but need to be... eased into it, I guess. Every time, I mean.” 

“Of course. That’s generally how bodies work.” He pauses. “Do you have any other preferences? At least when it comes to the basics?” 

It’s weird to let your mind wander towards sex when you’re having a serious conversation. To actively ask yourself how you want it while trying to maintain appropriate eye contact and body language. 

“Um. I suppose. I don’t mind being gagged or restrained? But not both at the same time.” 

“So you can communicate?”  

“So I can communicate,” you nod.  

“Do you like being gagged or restrained?” He adopts an almost flirty tone. 

You have to drop your eyes again. Shrug. “Yeah, sometimes. It depends on my mood I suppose.” 

“Do you ever dislike being gagged or restrained?” He sounds more curious this time. No longer flirty. Relaxed. 

You’re surprised at the question, and realise you appreciate it too. “Yes. If I’m having a high pain day, bondage can make it worse, or just be very unsexy. And being gagged when my mouth is dry is unpleasant.” 

“Fair enough. Does pain impact your vanilla sex too?” 

You find your answers coming easier now. These are the type of questions you actually wish your previous partners had thought to ask. “It can. Like... if I’m with a spontaneous partner. Being manhandled is hot, but I don’t like it if I don’t know what position they plan to put me in, because I worry it might hurt.” 

He nods, thoughtful, taking a moment before replying. “So what I’m getting is: discuss how you’re feeling before starting any sexual acts, check if there’s anything you distinctly don’t want to do, and communicate before any changes.” 

You take a moment to think it over. Then, “Yeah. That sums it up nicely.” 

“What about your pussy?” 

You sink back into embarrassment. “What about my pussy?” 

“How’s it work?” 

You bark out a laugh at his question. “Like any other, I assume?” 

“You do alright with penetrative sex?” 

“Yeah. I can enjoy it.” 

“Do you like being stretched out beforehand?”  

You’d never considered it before, and shrug. “I mean. If I’m horny, I like foreplay. If I’m just getting my partner off, I rush a bit more. Provided I’m wet enough, I don’t need to stretch.” 

He seems to consider that answer, brow creasing. “Well, I can get you wet easily enough. But I’m a bit bigger than the average human. Will that be a problem?” 

You raise your brow. “I mean. The most I’ve felt is discomfort, at trying to put a toy too far in. So I’ll let you know. But the problem is the other thing. I don’t always get wet enough.” 

“My saliva is literally designed to arouse and lubricate. We should be fine on that front.” 

His frankness might embarrass you any other time. But having him stay calm and serious in the face of an uncomfortable discussion is a relief. 

“What about you?” 

“Hmm?” 

You gesture towards his lower half. “Is demon anatomy different to human?” 

He grins. “Oh. Yeah. Though it varies from species to species. Personally, most of my stuff is internal.” 

Before you have a chance to respond he steps back from the counter, shoves his coat back, and runs his hands up his belly, moving some of the fur out of the way. 

Your eyes fly upwards, practically scandalised. You know he’s been walking around without anything beneath the coat, but you hadn’t tried to get an eyeful. 

“Just a sheath. And my cock pops right out when I get aroused. See?” 

You keep your eyes averted. “A verbal explanation would have sufficed.” 

He lets the coat drop and leans back against the counter. “Right. Sorry.” He looks more sheepish than apologetic. 

You roll your eyes. “So. Do I need to worry about pregnancy? STDs?” 

He regains some seriousness at the topic. “Pregnancy, no. Well. You’re one hundred percent human?” 

“Yes?” 

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Non demons can only get pregnant while they’re in Infernus, as a general rule. And unless I’ve caught a disease from sitting on a toilet seat or whatever, you should be safe on the other front.” 

“That’s a myth you know.” 

“Sure. Point being, I know I was infection-free before,” he gestures towards the balcony, “you know. The world ended. So. Seven weeks ago. And since then I’ve not put my dick inside of anyone. Or put my mouth on anyone for that matter.” 

It wasn’t a large concern, but you can’t deny that it was still there, in the back of your mind. Still, you can’t help but frown. “Have you really gone that long without feeding?” 

He winces. Then shrugs. “I’ve had some... encounters, I guess you could call them. Two of them were more self-defence than feeding. Seducing myself out from a gun to the head. They were both in group settings, and I didn’t feel safe enough to stick around with those survivors. And then, maybe two weeks ago I found somebody else. I... couldn’t do anything to help them. But they helped me. I used up most of my reserves just- ...it was bad. I don’t want to get into it.” 

You give a slow nod. There’s a long moment while you process what he’s left unsaid. While you contemplate just how hard Veron has actually had it. 

You bring your fist to his shoulder. Bump him gently. “It’s been hard for me talking about sex. But, like. It’s not a big part of my life, you know? I can just opt out. I’m sorry you’ve. Literally, got to deal with it. That you’ve had those experiences. That you had to have them.” 

He takes your hand again. Squeezes it. “It’s over now. But thanks.” 

The atmosphere is heavy again, and you wish you could do more to banish the tension. Instead, you push through. “I don’t really have any more questions. Is there anything else you’d like to know?” 

He drops your hand. Adopts one of those flirty smiles. “I mean. We could compare kinks and fetishes. Or, I could joke about putting the things we’ve learned to the test.” 

You squint. “Is that your way of using a pickup line without committing to using a pickup line?” 

He shrugs and the smile turns apologetic. “More like, this is where I’d use the pickup line if I weren’t on sex rations.” 

You can’t help but laugh at his phrasing. 

He blinks and tilts his head. Staring, like he didn’t think he’d been that funny, that he didn’t expect you to laugh at his joke.  

“I trust you’ll think up a new one to use tomorrow, yeah?” 

His eyes soften and he makes a smooth recovery, pulling up another smile. “Sure. One corny pickup line, made to order. I’ll have it ready tomorrow.” 

Next

[vaya-writes]

This AU directly inspired ‘Infernal Assistance (Option Four)’. It’s not QUITE a fanfic of your work Pinnie, since I created a new demon and swapped out small amounts of world building, but it’s definitely written with the Santi/Survivor in mind.

I love apocalypse AU!Santi smmm its so cute to me ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ is it okay to ask you to write some moreee for example like he comes across his s/o in that scenario? Tysm in advanceee

I think it was kind of implied in the first post regarding that silly AU that Santi doesn't necessarily go looking for you, and neither do you, you run into each other in a very critical moment.

Specifically for you. You were surrounded, not enough resources were available to kill most of the feral undead, and at that point it was likely you were making peace with certain death.

Santi, on the other hand, was likely dozing somewhere to preserve what little energy he has left. Dozing, however, doesn't mean he has the privilege to ignore sound cues. Because as resistant as he appears to be to this infection, he's still vulnerable. Sounds could mean a lot of things, but a scream in particular can signal one thing he desperately needs- A food source. If he followed the loud cry and found a living person who could feed him, Santi could survive, instead of rotting away to his own demise.

That's why he barrels in, with all the strength that he still has, to save you, to get you the fuck out of there, doing anything and everything to entice you into letting him feed off you.

Before meeting you, he was probably not doing much of any relevance, stuck in the existential dread of "Should I waste my energy further to try and find living people I can feed from and risk dying along the way?" or "Should I rest for as long as possible and hope that someone stumbles into the general vicinity?". His biggest problem are not the zombies themselves, he's a high-ranker, he can dispatch many of them (not all), it's that he just doesn't have food sources anymore. Even if he did find someone, what are the chances that person doesn't trust him? That they won't let him seduce them because their walls are too high, they're on constant alert, and he doesn't have the energy to use pheromones/charms?

His only option there would be to force himself, but if he's going to do that, he needs to be cold enough to realize he's going to have to keep that person as some kind of cattle-pet (because they'll likely try to run off or kill them if he doesn't). Santi considered doing this to you. And yet, probably because you were so cooperative and so willing to team up with him, so unafraid and trusting- He can't.

Well, he doesn't want to. But, if in his moment of weakness, you deny the incubus, then you will unfortunately be subjected to such a fate.

What were you doing before? Well, surviving probably. Finding a safe location, doing resource raids, looking for other survivors maybe (or actively avoiding them).

[mitigatedchaos]

(~1,500 words / 6 mins)

google Zarus

- @contemplate-everything

Hah, I had forgotten about him, but when it comes to "The Gods are Racist," he isn't what I had in mind. (I'll tag in @samueldays and @morlock-holmes as well.)

To put it simply, in any fantasy setting in which there are multiple sapient species (to call them 'races' suggests a smaller difference between them than there is, in my opinion), we must wrestle with the question of why there is any species less intelligent, less kind, and shorter-lived than the smartest, kindest, longest-lived humanoids.

There are a whole lot of different perspectives we can take on this, which makes it a fertile creative territory.

There are, broadly, four major reasons a species can be evil (or 'evil') in a fantasy setting: environment, culture, innate, or selected.

1. Environment.

In a friend's setting, orcs are not less intelligent or inherently more bloodthirsty than humans, but have been pushed onto more marginal lands that have less productivity, making it harder for them to develop 'civilized' agricultural states. They end up more likely to raid as well, as their economic production for advanced goods is lower.

A species could also be otherwise normal, but are widely hooked on evil magic drugs that just aren't available in other areas, or have a local environmental pressure that murders kind people.

2. Culture.

A species may worship an evil god and exist within a culture of self-sustaining evil norms, where social approval is based on being evil and altruistic people are considered exploitable morons. A member of that culture has, as their entire life experience, expectations formed on this basis.

3.A. Innate (Body)

A species may have a fundamental evil resource conflict with another species. For instance, a vampire who must murder one human a year to survive would have to be crazy moral in other ways (such as, I dunno, holding closed a gate to the infernal realms?) not to come out, on balance, quite evil just by surviving.

Alternatively, a species that has a very high fertility might quickly exhaust local carrying capacity and come into resource conflicts with neighbors more often.

3.B. Innate (Mind)

This is basically an AI safety argument. A species could be designed to enjoy cruelty more, or to be more xenophobic, or more paranoid, or to have more bloodlust or less inhibition, just as an AI could be designed to be a paperclip maximizer. In a fantasy setting it can be an absolute binding, but it could easily just be an increased frequency. Imagine having an implant in your head that rewards being a bad person.

A species might also not be innately more evil, but have greater risk factors, such as a natural craving for power and complexity, or an ability to consciously control their own sense of empathy for others.

4. Selected

A species (such as fiends) may be impossible to become or impossible to remain as without being evil.  Thus, the entire population of that species consists of evil people, or people who were once extremely evil.

I actually like all of these, as they provide a rich palette to paint with and can be used to create morally-challenging scenarios when used together. Giving orcs the capability to be good but having a tougher time of it will tie the clerics and paladins in knots - but also more clearly separates them from the neutral and evil characters.

And let's give four reasons for their existence as well.

1. Evolution

In our world, humans ended up being the only sapient species, but in a world with magic, evolution might go in very different directions. It could be simply that no one made goblins on purpose, but a sapient species with short lifespans, small resource usage, and high fertility has an evolutionary edge in many regions, particularly when technology levels are low.

On the flip-side, elves living for such a long time allows them to access more magic and more complex magic, resulting in a feedback loop in environments where magic resources are rich. Same for intelligence, which is used for developing and casting spells - but also for finding mutually-beneficial arrangements.

In a magic-evolutionary environment, it's possible that the species create the gods rather than the other way around, so they tend to (probably accidentally) create deities that reflect their strategies and tactics, which then reinforce them both culturally and environmentally.

2. Evil Deities

Evil deities are, well, evil. In the interests of spreading their evil influence, it would make sense to create evil sapient creatures, even if a handful of them will defect to good. The suffering of these creatures matters little to their creators, as evil deities are evil.  This seems to be the usual reasoning.

3. Divine Ecology

If gods need prayers, then a logical thing to do is to deliberately create sapient species that will worship you. Creating an evil species is like creating a brainwashed population, only it's down to the innate level so it's even more effective. This evil species also won't have moral objections to spreading your worship by conquering the rest of the planet.

Alternatively, species may not be equally easy to create. Creating an elf species might cost Divine Points, which then can't be used for shaping mountains or adding oceans or building temples or something. It might also be high-risk - long life may mean low fertility, which could be devastating if there's some kind of depopulation event.

4. Mortals & Evil Mortals

In this scenario, both the long-lived species (like elves) and the short-lived or 'evil' species (like goblins) were deliberately engineered on purpose, probably by evil wizards. Who was going to stop them? Paladins? That sounds like a quest!

This situation may have occurred much earlier, in a more advanced body-hopping fantasy-transhumanist civilization, where elves were high-end 'sleeves' and goblins were cheap and expendable bodies that people would exit once the time period was up. Then that civilization collapsed, and the body-hopping technology was lost... until now...

This gives us multiple options for a "The Gods are Racist" campaign.

1. Undoing the Dark Gods' Handiwork - A group of adventurers set out to remove the evil influence that the Dark Ones exert over orcs and goblins, and possibly increase their lifespan and intelligence to be similar to that of humans (or even elves). The Good gods support this quest.

BRANCH: The Dark Ones do exist and do corrupt the orcs, but the original technology used by the body-hopping civilization to create orcs is discovered, calling into question just who or what the good deities are, since this is completely incompatible with the creation mythology.

BRANCH: Removing the evil influence is possible (and successful), but increasing the lifespan is not, imposing a moral dilemma.

2. Undoing the Gods' Handiwork - A group of scientific-rationalist transhumanist adventurers challenge the deities, which in a more Greek god type way, have made the different species different without appropriate moral evaluation.

BRANCH: Turns out the Greek gods are just very powerful and very obnoxious wizards that have become full of themselves over the millennia. No higher entity is discovered with certainty. Subsequently voluntary species-change technology is introduced; only thanks to vanquishing the wizards is its energy cost economically feasible.

BRANCH: Turns out the Greek gods were once mortal and they would really like to retire from this deity thing. They scout the adventurers as their replacements, who end up having to make a lot of similar decisions due to similar resource constraints, just like the last batch and the batch before that.

3. Elf Supremacy - A group of adventurers find a magical device able to turn other sapients into elves. They discover this when they accidentally use it on themselves.

BRANCH: This is part of a plot by the Elf Deity (who is Evil) to transform everyone into elves, thus taking all worship in the entire world for himself. The party must root out and stop this vile Elf Conspiracy; unfortunately being an elf is considered so desirable that the conspiracy has many backers and this proves difficult. They end up having to take assistance from rival evil deities.

BRANCH: At first they use this device for immense profit, because so many people want to be elves, before discovering the effects are contagious, unleashing the (involuntary) Elf (Transformation) Plague. It turns out this was why the technology was not used before, and they must embark on a quest to stop it on behalf of the Elf Deity, before the other deities go to war.

BRANCH: As a subversion, it turns out there’s nothing especially dangerous about the technology at all.  The adventurers spend the rest of the campaign increasing their opportunities for their company, Elf Inc., to make huge amounts of money, and occasionally being challenged by conservative elements in other societies as they expand their markets.

4. Newly Unequal - All the species were equal until just a few hundred years ago.

BRANCH: This was the result of an elf supremacist wizard using magic to transfer other species' positive attributes to elves. The quest to stop him failed. Fortunately, this power is concentrated in a series of physical artifacts that can be destroyed. Elves aren't even a 'real thing,' but rather are descendants of a specific kingdom at the time of the switch, which has used this transferred power to subjugate the other 'species'.

BRANCH: Every kingdom in the world is still trying to figure out what happened as the global political situation has been rapidly destabilizing. It turns out that actually, this is what the species are normally like (in the absence of intervention), and a series of magical stations built by an ancient empire drained energy from more powerful species and transmitted it to less powerful species for the benefit of ideology and political stability. The adventurers face a moral choice in reactivating it, not least because the effect will rapidly kill some of the oldest members of the high-power species.

[brownstonearmy]

2020-05-01: “Legal” Litter Liberation

July 24 (Friday morning)

On Thursday evening, our team of heroes goes to bed in their respective houses. But the next morning sees each party member wake up in an unfamiliar location. Everyone is in a separate guest room filled with fancy furnishings. Though there are silk curtains on the walls, there are no windows.

Each room is furnished identically, with a comfortable canopy bed, a wardrobe filled with fine unisex robes in a variety of sizes, a dresser containing toiletries, a desk with chair, and an exquisitely crafted chamber pot underneath the bed. No one has any possessions except for what they slept in or kept under their pillow.

Lucky wakes up wearing one of Hilaria's shirts, with no spell focus or material components to speak of. Q, going by Fuego this morning, wears a sheer tunic atop some less-sheer underclothes, suspecting an excess of drink as the reason for waking up in a strange bed for the umpteenth time. Spleenifer's been sleeping in a burlap robe, and managed to show up with her holy symbol and holy book of tithes that she keeps under her pillow for reasons that are known only to her and Lathander. No one discusses what Norm was or wasn't wearing; it's probably for the best. Everyone loots their respective chambers to find something to wear, while Spleenifer goes one chamber looting further and inspects the chamber pot for potential tithes. Sadly, the chamber pots are all spotless.

The scent of breakfast cooking wafts through the air as the party emerges from their quarters. Everyone ambles down the tower steps until they find a woman waiting for them at the tower's base. The human woman introduces herself as Storm Elers, seneschal for the master's manor. Master Yula is quite eccentric, she explains, and indicates that he will soon join them at breakfast to discuss some business matters of great personal urgency. They walk through the house to the dining room, passing a library that contains still-beating hearts adorning the walls, a teleportation circle etched into the floor of another room, and a room whose floor is covered in a dozen fist-sized stone balls (one of which is moving erratically of its own volition).

Everyone takes a seat at the long table and attempts to make sense of the bewildering array of silverware in front of them. A breakfast feast (no, "breakfeast" is the one portmanteau we don't use in this house) of all types of cuisine is soon delivered to the table. Master Yula appears at the end of the table with wild, unblinking eyes. His disconcerting gaze watches everyone with great interest as they try to figure out which of the 30 forks to use for their meals. Much to Yula's chagrin, only Spleenifer grabs the wrong utensil. But Spleenifer is a woman of utility who nevertheless makes things work (even if it is with the squid de-veining spoon).

As everyone begins eating, Yula explains the situation. He has need of adventurers with a particular skill set that overlaps with sanitation. He asks them if they would assist him in building a litter box. The party is understandably wary of this offer, as litterbox construction does not usually require teleportation and a mission briefing. As a show of "good will" he offers the party an advance payment of 100 gold pieces to each character. The coins are contained in four velvet pouches that feel warm to the touch. Something stinks to Spleenifer, but it's not the coins.

Inside the bag are 100GP as promised, but also a large brass coin that Yula describes as a Coin of Obligation. Yula's hard-sell has just resulted in the characters accidentally accepting an infernal contract. But now that the contract has been sealed, Yula gleefully explains what must be done. The party is now bound by an agreement where they are independent contractors to Yula, and the only way to fulfill the contract is to construct a more impressive and expensive litterbox that Yula currently has. Of course, Yula is full of suggestions on how to accomplish this contract.

The most legal and time-consuming way to accomplish the task is to toil in the mines with the slaves in hopes of finding enough sand, gold, and gems to construct the litterbox. But in the name of good fun, Yula suggests a more "straightforward" method: rob the vault where Yula keeps many of his rare magic items and prevent the bank staff from reacquiring the items. The terms of Yula's banking agreement stipulate that he must be reimbursed in gold for the value of the items he lost. Yula gets to keep his magic items and more than enough gold for a new litterbox. It's a winning proposition all around (for everyone except the party members). Another option is just to walk out the front door of the mansion and suffocate in the void that surrounds Yula's mansion in this demiplane.

Spleenifer is tired of this fiendish presentation and brandishes her holy symbol in an attempt to make him flee. Yula dismissives Spleenifer's attempt and proceeds to monologue about infernal superiority, how squishy mortal bodies are, and related demeaning phrases. You know, standard fiendish monologue stuff. Spleenifer doesn't admit defeat, but she does sit back down at the table to plot about how to get out of this unfortunate contract.

During Yula's lengthy speech, Lucky and Norm start stealing silverware from the table. There's like, at least 50GP worth of cutlery at each place; no one's gonna miss a few dozen forks and knives, right? Norm mostly goes for the stabby utensils, but Lucky opts for a quantity-driven approach. She elevates the petty theft to an art form, turning Hilaria's shirt into a giant cutlery purse. Fuego gets in on the action, too, and starts stuffing their cutlery into the bedazzled robe they had chosen to wear to breakfast. Who knew sequins could be so loud?

Yula finishes his speech and escorts the party to view the corpse of his former litterbox. The litterbox itself is a 30-foot square with sides that are encrusted with gold and gems. It's like an ostentatious Japanese rock garden you can poop in. Unfortunately, part of the litterbox got chipped by a trowel during a routine cleaning. You can't even see the chip, but any imperfection means the litterbox is ruined and needs to be replaced. The current litterbox is probably valued at 8,000GP, but a suitable replacement would need to cost at least 30,000GP. Yula excuses himself and allows the party to explore his house until everyone makes a decision as which course of action they will take regarding their contracts.

After Yula leaves, the party is left with more questions than answers. How are they supposed to get materials? Can Yula be killed? Is he just a really big cat? If Anaxilas autographs the box, how much will the autograph artificially increase the value of the litterbox? Can they feasibly teleport back home and coerce Anaxilas to do the autograph? Time to explore the house and get some answers!

Talking to Storm is probably a good first step, but Lucky wants to gather some spell components just in case someone needs a good dose of magicking. She makes a detour through the kitchen to grab some honey. Gum arabic comes from a makeup kit in the dresser of her guest chamber in the tower, and an eyelash is provided by Fuego. With the material components secured, the party finds storm in her office drinking some stolen wine straight from the bottle.

"How was your visit with Yula today? We hope it was as magnificent as you had expected," she says unenthusiastically. Fuego realizes that Storm is just reflexively reciting a script to avoid a shock from her Coin of Obligation. Storm's been here for the past few years and has spent so much time drinking that she doesn't really remember what her original agreement was, but she knows that if she ever acts against her agreement she risks a potentially deadly shock. Storm's memory of the vault is less hazy, though. She mentions that the vault has to have two keys to open, one that belongs to Yula, and another that belongs to the bank president. There's a room that requires following a certain line on the floor to avoid setting off an alarm. The vault they will probably need to rob is Vault 4, and the whole bank is patrolled by guards. Some of the guards are living, but others are nimble clockwork contraptions.

With the information gathered from Storm, Lucky gets an idea. She discusses with the party the mundane equipment that they will need if they are to pull off this heist. Lucky writes this down in a list, and borrows Fuego's coin pouch, splits the seam and stashes her Coin of Obligation in the lining before dashing off to find Yula. She tries to corner Yula into unintentionally making another agreement, this time to nullify their existing agreement. Yula condescendingly concedes that Lucky's approach has merit and nullifies her Coin of Obligation.

Yula makes a big show about it, by summoning the entire household staff and making an announcement that Lucky's contract is hereby nullified. But the rest of the party is still bound by the original agreement. To add insult to injury, Yula amends the agreement by announcing that he is formally prohibiting the future instances of nullification with Lucky's method. That girl's got moxie, which is why she alone could wiggle out of the contract. But even though she's technically free, Yula is under no obligation to provide her with the means to go home, and thus it looks like everyone's best shot at freedom is still the bank heist.

Fuego performs some additional reconnaissance in Yula's litterbox room. What does Yula's poop look like? Presumably it looks like regular humanoid poop, but Fuego leaves a retaliatory present of their own in the litterbox. Fuego makes sure to cover it up, though, because they are a civilized rage-pooper.

Spleenifer comes in a few moments later to collect a tithe of opportunity, but she is not alone in the room this time. As Yula's infernal leavings sizzle in the pages of the holy book, a gnome named Bostvick Humplebumple is taking measurements of the quality of the sand. He's been "hired" in the same way the rest of the party is, though his task is finding sources of gypsum and volcanic sand to fill the litterbox. He also mentions that Yula seems to be having problems with his knees when using the litterbox, and if the party ever comes across a suitably ostentatious chair to help Yula conduct his box business, he might be more inclined to be more generous with his rewards. Bostvick knows where a good source of volcanic sand is, but you have to teleport to get there. He'd be happy to assist in getting there, especially if it helps him get released. Before he leaves, Bostvick warns Spleenifer that it's a risky proposition to come straight back to the mansion after the heist, because it could end badly for everyone involved if the bank people come looking here.

After the meeting with Bostvick, the party does some more reconnaissance with the staff to find out as much as they can about the structure of the bank building. They also come up with a secret backup plan, but we'll have to wait until later to find out what the plan is. Lucky informs Yula that they will attempt to ship themselves to the vault in a big box, and that they are nearly ready to go.

Once the box is prepared, the party seals themselves inside and awaits delivery to the vault. During the journey, Lucky does some fancy magic and casts Seeming to disguise Fuego as Yula, Spleenifer as Storm the seneschal, while Lucky and Norm will take on the disguise of two random servants. It's a bumpy journey down, but the party comes to a stop sometime later nestled in the vast vaults in the belly of the Goldleaf Wealth Services bank. There's a pile of 4,000 platinum coins on one side of the vault, and a trunk containing a meticulously cataloged collection of powerful items.

The adventure concludes for the evening as the party gazes upon the wealth of new tools they'll have at their disposal for the heist that's about to unfold. Stay tuned next time for more!

[brimstone-and-helianthus]

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh im excited this is my first exalted secret santa!! Ok first up:

Wind Erodes the Veneer of Dreams, a midnight caste abyssal and resistance supernal.

Her parents were lost eggs vying for prestige in the Blessed Isle, focusing their resources on their single exalted child. [REDACTED] became an Immaculate monk and was determined to make a place for herself. She was sent to Halta along with a group of Dragon-Blooded to investigate a rumored Anathema, and it basically amounted to a massacre. She got separated and wandered the Wyld for weeks, although from her perspective it was much longer. When Veneer finally found her way out, she was alone, mutated, and half mad.

Her newly acquired second set of arms tended to make people avoid her, so she remained on the fringe of society. She met some Shining Path cultists, which destroyed what little faith she had left. She found their obsession with not only death, but nothingness, comforting. The Wyld doesn’t scare her anymore; it’s just another manifestation of pain and terror. She gets murdered by bandits about a decade later, and as she contemplates the senselessness of her life and death, the Bishop offers her a choice. She takes it, of course.

Wind Erodes the Veneer of Dreams believes the only way to end suffering is to end life because they are irrevocably intertwined. She hates how she spent so much of her life tied to a faith based on lies. She wants the best for Creation, but she happens to think that the best thing to do is to send it into Oblivion. She tries to retain a mild, unaffected exterior, but in truth, she still cares a bit too much about the living. Veneer is a high priestess/assassin and knows Ebon Shadow Style. Her charms mainly focus on tracking, stealth, and lore.

Veneer is about six feet tall and built like a string bean. Her second set of arms starts at the bottom of her ribcage, and all four arms are just a touch too long to look natural. She has the hideous merit because she looks like a mummified corpse, all dehydrated skin and skeletal-ness. Veneer doesn’t have eyes, just a black void in her sockets that still see all too well. Her hair is long, straight, and dark, and is normally in a messy bun that is constantly falling apart. I imagine her hair breaks out of its bun and flows around at suitably dramatic moments. It’s hard to tell with her dehydrated corpse look going on, but being from the Blessed Isle, she looks East Asian. She normally dresses in layers of ascetic robes and a thick, fur trimmed cloak. She has two sets of robes, a white one for snowy stealth missions, and a dark grey and navy one for everything else. All her clothes are ragged, and there are multiple tears from fights. She has two sets of tiger claws: one is her nearly broken, original pair, held in her second pair of arms. The other is an artifact weapon, which look like fingerless gloves. When she flexes, the soulsteel blades come out. It’s a very catlike motion. Her anima banner is a cold, numbing void emanating from her head like a blasphemous halo. Everything sounds quieter than it should when it’s flaring.

Optional: She has an artifact called the Infernal Optogram (i put optograph in the ref but thats wrong sorry lol). It is a full mask made of white jade. It is rounded and featureless, except for five soulsteel sockets for eyes. The eyes of the dead or the living can be inserted into these sockets to activate evocations (im still working on these but it involves instilling fear, tracking, and investigation). It’s based on optography, the idea that the retina can be imprinted with the last thing it saw. She can be wearing or holding it, whatever floats your boat.

The Phantom Apiarist, a No-Moon caste lunar. Caste/favored are intelligence, wits, appearance, and dexterity.

I’m still trying to figure out a mortal name, but he was born in a group of villages in the southeast, where the riverland and forest begin to shift to mountains. His community worships a bee goddess, whose domain is fertility, community, and death. She grants plentiful harvests and safety, and in return the surrounding villages worship her. The Phantom Apiarist aspired to be a shaman under her guidance. Her tutelage culminated in the Heart Swarm, wherein he sacrificed his heart to show her devotion to her. She examined it and deemed it worthy. She placed a queen from her colony into his chest to start a new hive. This was his initiation into terrestrial sorcery. He’s really glad it worked, because if his goddess finds your heart lacking, she eats it and you die.

While he’s still recovering, his village is invaded. He still tries to fight even though he is a) half-dead, and b) does not know how to fight. He hasn’t even tried to use his control spell yet (I don’t have a clear picture of who would have invaded, I imagine I would flesh that out with an ST). Luna disguised themself as a marauder, and was very nearly taken out by a trap he set. She proceeded to thoroughly thrash him, and was like “you’ve got spunk, but you could use a helping hand. Try not to get yourself killed.” And exalted him on the spot.

He is grateful for Luna’s assistance, but expects that they want something in return, and is worried it would conflict with his own priorities. Which are keeping his home safe from an increasing number of raids and generally causing havoc to any Realm passersby. His control spell is blood lash, and his magic focuses on body transformations, insects, and necromancy. He has a fun thaumaturgy ritual where he tells bees secrets in exchange for their knowledge of the dead. His Tell is the beehive implanted in his chest. Where his sternum should be, you can see the nest and bees coming and going. They’re his familiars. He’s a trickster at heart, and his charms tend to revolve around loyalty, misdirection, and flirting. His anima banner is sweet-smelling honeycomb dripping blood and the feeling of a hot, oppressive summer’s day.

The closest real world ethnicity to match him would be North African, I’d say. His hair is very curly and goes past his shoulders. It’s normally pulled back with a few loose curls for flair. He’s faceless in my ref because I was really having trouble nailing it, but his nose gives him a very striking profile. His eyes are dark, and he usually has at least a small smile on his face. He’s on the shorter side, and nothing really stands out regarding his physique. His moonsilver tattoos are the major veins and arteries of his body. His main colors are navy blue and forest green, with bits of red-orange accenting. He wears a large sun hat with flowers continuously blooming and dying on it. The flowers themselves are mostly red-orange chrysanthemums with some smaller flowers and leaves. I’m not good at coming up with clothes, but he tends to wear things that are sheer and flowy. Feel free to do whatever with them. He’s trans, and since exalting has given him a body he’s way more comfortable with, he is very excited about all the loose, open shirts he gets to wear now. I imagine a lot of plunging necklines revealing his beehive. His main weapon is a giant war fan with a honeycomb pattern. It is easily the length of his arm.

[fanfiction-writers]

All for One (Transformers)

Summary: The Seekers are put on a humiliating punishment detail, and only one knows why. Word Count: 1,750+ Warnings: None A/N: This is set in the cartoon G1 Universe, with bits (like personalities) pulled from the G1 IDW comic line. I love Starscream, Thundercracker and Skywarp and it’s so fun getting these three in trouble.

My Master List is HERE.

(Image by HobbitPunk, found here.)

"Slaggit! This is ridiculous!" Skywarp ranted. "This is not our responsibility. It's… it's demeaning!" Forty-three, Thundercracker silently counted to himself. Forty-three outbursts. His trine brother had been complaining, loudly, since Megatron had assigned them to this cursed duty. Not that he blamed his wingmate. For unknown reasons, the trine had been assigned construction duty. Of all things, construction duty. They were hauling large metal beams over a mountain range. The slagging things were so heavy that the three of them – Starscream, Skywarp and himself – had to use harnesses on them and slowly fly them over the mountains. At this pace, they couldn't even use their altmodes. "Using our superior skills for this! It's insulting!" Skywarp continued. "Shut. Up. Sky. Warp." Starscream bit out each syllable. That made thirty-nine 'shut ups' from Starscream, by Thundercracker's count. The other four times he himself had tired of his wingmate's grousing first. He began timing how long until Skywarp's next outburst. The intervals between each one were becoming gradually shorter. Soon, he believed he could accurately estimate when the next outburst would occur. If nothing else, the extra computations gave him something to do during this infernal duty. "Surely you can see how absurd this is!" Forty-four. And several nano-kliks sooner than Thundercracker anticipated. He filtered the new time into his internal equation. "The best trine in the Decepticon army, and we're forced to do … Constructicon work?" Skywarp released one hand off the harness, waving at the beam they carried. The other two cried out in protest as it began wobbling. "Why us? If he needed fliers, why not some drones? Or the Coneheads? What idiocy possessed Megatron to do this to us?" "Just let it go. And grab that harness before it falls!" Starscream hissed at Skywarp. Thundercracker contemplated whether or not to add this to Starscream's 'shut up' count. 'Let it go,' was probably the mildest order the Air Commander had ever used for silence, but the intent was the same. It would be interesting if the tamer command effected the duration until Skywarp's next tantrum. Intrigued by the new variable, Thundercracker began cross-referencing the inflection of Starscream's commands compared to the time decrease between Skywarp's outbursts. Perhaps stronger inflections caused a smaller time decrease? The hypothesis was worth investigation. While he compiled numbers, he also considered the irony of Starscream refusing to engage in a discussion of Megatron's faults. Their trine leader usually pounced at the chance to ridicule the other mech. It was almost unheard of for him to miss an opportunity. In fact, it was unheard of… Thundercracker halted, forcing the other two to do the same or risk unbalancing the beam. They squawked at the abrupt stop. Ignoring their protests, he turned to Starscream. "What did you do?"

"What do you mean?" Starscream replied, too quickly. "We 'mysteriously' pull the most humiliating shift imaginable for Seekers, and yet it's Skywarp – not you, not you! – who's complaining about Megatron. When have you ever not carried on about our glorious leader? Yet Skywarp brings it up, and you tell him to, 'let it go.' What did you do?" Skywarp turned shocked eyes to the Air Commander. "Screamer?" "Don't call me that! And I didn't do anything," Starscream glanced away, "… much." "What!" "Much?" Thundercracker replied at the same moment. "What didn't you do 'much' of?" Starscream attempted to shrug, but the metal beam's immense weight made the motion impossible while airborn. Instead, he twitched his wings. "It was just a small clerical error. Keep moving. This is heavy." "Actually, I feel like putting it down. 'Warp, that sound good to you?" "’Down’ sounds real good to me," Skywarp replied. Suiting actions to words, he dropped altitude without warning. The others scrambled to match his decent, trying to keep the beam from toppling from their grip. They dropped it unceremoniously into a shallow stream bed. "Amazing," Starscream said, once they stood on solid ground. He considered his trine. "I didn't realize we'd joined the Autobots, becoming a democracy, taking votes. All that tripe." "No, not Autobots," Thundercracker snorted. "We're Decepticons. With that comes the responsibility to question our leaders, confirm that they deserve our loyalty. Is that not what you always say?" "Cute." Starscream's optics narrowed. "So." Thundercracker crossed his arms. "'Clerical error?'" "Yeah, what does that even mean?" Skywarp asked. Starscream threw his arms up in disgust. "It was nothing. Remember when the Aerialbots attacked our supply depot, three deca-cycles ago? Several munitions crates were destroyed. I assisted in the clean up. A few crates of explosives were mistakenly reported as destroyed. Some Constructicons discovered them recently, undamaged." Skywarp glanced at Thundercracker, then back at the Air Commander. He shrugged. "That's it? Finding extra weapons is usually a good thing. That's glitched." "Precisely my point. It was nothing." Thundercracker had plenty of experience listening to Starscream's narratives and, more important, listening to what was not said. He raised an optic ridge. "Where exactly did they find these explosives?" Starscream awarded him with an annoyed glance. "Is that important?" "Yes. Even more so now, since you don't want to answer." Skywarp's shoulders slumped as he considered his trine leader. "Screamer, you didn't…" "Do not call me that!" Starscream growled. Glancing between the two other Seekers, he shook his head. Surrendering, he listed off the coordinates where the crates had been found. Coordinates that were not only no where near the supply depot, but actually on the far side of their base from it. "You must not have hid them very well, huh?" Skywarp asked, shaking his head. "They were hidden. They were in a cave. I collapsed the slagging entrance. There was no way to see them, or the cave." "But…?" Thundercracker prompted. "I don't know. Maybe someone else saw me over there. For whatever reason, our glorious leader sent the Constructicons to the area. 'For raw materials,' I believe the excuse was. It took them a few deca-cycles, but they found the crates." "Did you ever consider, y'know, moving them once you realized they were digging over there?" Skywarp asked. "I don't credit the Constructicons with an access of mental prowess, but they might have noticed me flying in empty-handed, and flying away loaded down with crates. Especially if Megatron sent them there to investigate me." Thundercracker shook his head. Starscream stockpiling explosives didn't surprise him. When it came to ways to overthrow Megatron, his trine leader was always exploring new and creative options. It took more than a few crates of munitions to surprise him anymore. Although he had to ask, "How many other stashes do you have, that Megatron doesn't know about?" "I'm shocked, Thundercracker," Starscream replied, sounding anything but. He didn't even attempt to hide his smirk. "Concealing weapons and explosives would be deceitful and traitorous. A loyal Decepticon would, of course, turn all munitions he obtained into base, where they would strengthen our cause. Suggesting I would do otherwise insults my," Starscream waved a hand idly, considering, "my… integrity. My honor. I am upset you even consider me capable of such duplicity." The three Seekers glanced between each other. Then Skywarp burst into laughter. Even Thundercracker couldn't hold a straight face. With a wicked grin, Starscream pretended to buff a scuff from his arm. "That's hilarious," Skywarp said. "Seriously, though, if you'd hid that slag better, Megatron wouldn't have found it." "Please," Starscream scoffed, "do you know how long I've been able to hide weapons from him?" "Apparently, three deca-cycles," Thundercracker raised an optic ridge. "After all, to suggest otherwise would insult your integrity and honor." "Yes, of course," Starscream said, innocently, "three deca-cycles." Thundercracker rubbed his temples. He was developing a processor ache: a common side effect when dealing with too much of Starscream's rationalizations. "Fine. Whatever. This still doesn't explain how 'Warp and I got dragged into," he gestured at the neglected beam, "this." "Oh. That." Starscream looked away. "Yes, ‘that’." Thundercracker crossed his arms. "I'm sure interested in ‘that’ too," Skywarp chimed in. Starscream shrugged. "Megatron was unimpressed with me having the explosives– " "Imagine that," Skywarp interrupted, glancing at Thundercracker. "–and informed me that if I enjoyed playing in the dirt, he could find something 'suitable' for me to do. Then he assigned me to move these." Starscream kicked the metal beam. "Assigned you. Not us. You. At what point did we get volunteered for this?" Thundercracker asked. "I pointed out a flaw in Megatron's logic." The Air Commander shrugged again. "Wait," Thundercracker raised a hand, stalling him. "Let me guess. You informed him that these are far too heavy for one Seeker to carry?" "Basically, yes." "Thanks, Screamer. Really, I mean that." Skywarp muttered. "Stop calling me that!" "What, exactly, did you think he'd do once you pointed that out?" Thundercracker asked, rubbing his temples. Yes, he was definitely developing a processor ache. "I thought he'd give me something, anything, else to do. I didn't want to haul these things around. Would you?" "Funny you should ask," Thundercracker replied, "because, no, really I don’t want to." "Why didn't Megs just beat the slag outta you? That's what he usually does." Skywarp didn't pretend to sound concerned about his Air Commander's physical well-being. "Yeah, well, he did that too," Starscream grumbled. Thundercracker considered his trine leader, arms crossed. "I suppose I should thank you. After all, if I weren't here, doing this wonderful chore because of you, I would be probably be doing something even more tedious: like attacking Aerialbots, or fighting Autobots, perhaps blowing something up. You know, boring stuff like that." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "But now, I have the exciting opportunity to explore a new career as a Constructicon. Thank you, Starscream." "Shut up," Starscream said, but without any vehemence. "Are you two done complaining? We still have to get these slagging things moved." The two wingmates exchanged glances. "Why should we help you? This is your punishment." "Because if you don't, I'm won't finish this. And when Megatron comes asking why we're not done, he won't just come after me. You'll share any punishment I get. So, by all means, do nothing. Enjoy Megatron's wrath. I know he will." Starscream leaned against a boulder, crossing his arms. "I hate you," Skywarp muttered. "C'mon, 'Warp. Let's get this slagging thing moved." Thundercracker motioned to his trine brother, shaking his head. Turning back to the Air Commander, he asked, "One more thing, is there anything else you're up to that's going to come back and bite us in our collective afts?" "I don't know what you're talking about," Starscream replied, hand over his spark. "I'm the picture of innocence." "Great," Skywarp growled. "We're dead."

[vaya-writes]

Infernal Assistance (Option Four) - Prologue

You've been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he's in need of help too.

-

Crackfic? Zombie apocalypse AU? Reader insert? And honestly, why not make this really super indulgent? Lets make the reader on the asexual spectrum too. With a sex drive that varies on a day to day basis. I wanna see that in a character.

Reader insert is GNC regarding pronouns and backstory, AFAB. Incubus uses male pronouns and is penised.

-

Inspired by this post by @eldritch-spouse. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 330 (it's just a prologue, okay?).

Content Warnings: brief mention and dismissal of suicide, apocalypse setting, some bleak vibes

Masterlist - A03 - Next

It has been three weeks since Veron fed. 

Three weeks since he last saw another living soul. Six weeks since the portals to Infernus were barred shut. Seven since day zero.  

If he ever met the cursed creature who’d started this outbreak – who'd manufactured this necrotic plague – witting or not: he’d throttle them. Probably. If they survived his hunger.  

But honestly, tracking them down isn’t really in his wheelhouse. He can barely find a meal, let alone the harbinger of the apocalypse.  

He’s going to starve.  

The only survivors left in the city would be hunkered down in too small rooms, behind barricades and living off dwindling supplies. It wouldn’t surprise him if the remaining people fell to starvation and thirst, rather than brave the hordes outside. If the desperate took their own lives, rather than letting time take them. 

He’d considered it. Of course he had. You don’t live through the start of an apocalypse without considering all your options.  

But ultimately, he couldn’t. He’d worked too hard. Lived through too much shit. Was too damn stubborn to give up at this point. Even as pickings grow slimmer. 

He stops on an overpass. Takes a moment to survey the nearby buildings. Ignores the undead stragglers outside, searching windows instead for signs of life. Movement, distress messages, anything.  

Nothing from the windows.  

But there is one building in his line of sight that is teeming with unlife. Husks milling outside the ground floor. Inside it too – if he squints he can just make out the shattered windows, and the stumbling silhouettes from within.  

They’re slow. Almost placid. Like whatever had drawn them to the area had long since stopped holding their interest. But you don’t get a horde of that size for no reason. 

Maybe, just maybe, there’s somebody still alive in there. Somebody who’d be very grateful if Veron showed up; ready to swoop in and play the hero.  

He glides down from the overpass, and heads towards the building. 

Next

[vaya-writes]

Infernal Assistance (Option Four) - 2

You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.

-

Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 2300.

Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, discussion and mild depiction of malnourishment, light discussion of sex, off screen implied violence and gore.

Masterlist - A03 - Previous

You might have felt self conscious inviting a strange demon into your cramped little apartment, if you weren’t so hungry. 

Gesturing him in behind you, you don’t even spare him a glance as you make a beeline to your pantry. There’s an open packet of crackers inside, a tupperware container of oats, and four small tins of assorted vegetables left.  

You don’t touch the crackers. Even stale, they can be eaten. You decide on a tin of beans today. If the fridge still worked you could ration out perhaps six meals from the tin (a bite and a half, three times a day, for two days). But you don’t want to get food poisoning on top of everything. So you’d consume the whole tin over the course of twenty four hours. Today’s lunch and dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast. Three full bites per meal. Approximately.  

Your hands shake as you remove the pull-lid from the tin. You’re careful not to spill a drop of bean juice, bringing the rim to your lips and drinking. Your stomach clenches at the flavour and you take your time eating. You don’t know how long somebody has to forgo eating before reintroduction of foods becomes difficult. 

You make sure to chew each bean, even as you grimace at the flavour; they’re not something you enjoy eating by themselves. And when a third of the food is gone, you pull out your makeshift foil lid and fasten it over the tin. You put the food back in the pantry. 

“Food’s scarce for you too, huh?” Your guest speaks. 

You don’t reply for a minute. Your hands are still shaking. You’d like to go and lie down. To sleep off the rest of this awful day. But there’s still an important conversation to be had. So you take a deep breath and turn to face the demon. 

“Are you going to stay?” 

The demon stills for a moment. Perhaps surprised by your bluntness. Before relaxing. Gesturing to the couch.  

You sit, your knees drawn up to create a barrier between you and the demon when he perches on the other end of the couch. He’s massive, and takes up most of the available space. 

“You’ll let me feed on you?” 

You’ve already come to terms with that. If the incubus stays, you’ll have to keep him fed. But there’s no point in keeping him around just to watch you starve. He’ll need to earn his keep. And today, you negotiate how. 

“If you help me in turn.” 

He seems to sense your seriousness, and pivots to properly face you. “What do you need?” 

“For starters? Protection. From zombies. Thieves. Any other external threats.” 

He nods. “Simple enough. What else?” 

“I’ll need supplies. Food. Water. Potentially medicine. I’m willing to scavenge, but not alone.” 

Something in his face twitches. An expression masked. But he nods again. “I can play bodyguard. That all?” 

You consider your plan for the future. What you would have done, ideally, if you were braver. If there were less zombies in your building. If you were desperate. Or reckless.  

“Last request. I want you to head to ground floor and pick up the keys to the other apartments. A master key if you can find one. And then I want help clearing the zombies from them.” 

The demon crosses his arms. There’s that twitch in his face again, before he bites his lip. “This is a big building.” 

“And I’d like to clear it. One floor at a time. It’ll be the safest way to scavenge too.” 

“The husks might come back upstairs when we rest.” 

“We’ll build barricades.” 

He narrows his eyes. “You’ve thought this through.” 

“I’ve had little else to do.” 

There’s silence for a moment. You think he’s considering. But you keep talking. “Originally, I would have had to do this to open apartments only. But if they’re open, it’s probably for a bad reason. I doubt they’d be safe. If you get those keys for me, I can be more thorough, we won’t have to travel as far, I could create safe rooms on multiple floors... There’s a lot of advantages to bringing the whole building under our control.” 

He tilts his head. “You were planning to do this all along?” 

“No. Maybe. There was an even spread before. A zombie or two on each floor. It seemed more doable.” 

“Before you went and caused a horde.” 

You scowl. “I did no such thing. Somebody else entered the stairwell that day. Started screaming their head off.” 

He stares. It makes you a little uncomfortable the way he examines you, seemingly mulling over your request. Before finally, he shrugs. 

“I’ll help. But I won’t be of any use if I’m weak. We should discuss payment.” 

You can appreciate his bluntness. Even if the topic makes you uncomfortable.  

“I assume you mean sex.” 

“Or sexual acts, yes.” 

It’s hard to meet his gaze. You stare at his coat instead. “How often do you need to..?” 

His hesitation is slight, but you do notice it. 

“Once every day.” 

You try not to frown. Glance at his face. “I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but is that safe?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’ll be taking my energy, right? I’m already malnourished. Is it medically safe for you to feed on me that often?” 

His hesitation is more prominent this time. He lets out a sigh. “You’re right, it’s not ideal.” 

You don’t know how to reply to that. Just wait for him to continue. 

“I’ll be careful not to take much. We can play it by ear. Skip a day every now and then, if you need one.” 

You nod. Things are making sense, but you still have questions. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“What would you like to do,” his reply is almost instantaneous, a hint of suggestiveness slipping into his tone. 

You try not to wince, but he spots your reaction.  

“What?” 

You shake your head. You don’t want to discuss your sexual preferences with a stranger right now. “Can we get into that later? I just want to know what’s expected. Or needed. I don’t mean to... insult you, I guess, but what is the minimum?” 

He stares for another moment. An indecipherable expression on his face while he, you assume, tries to read you.  

He tilts his head and shrugs, that suggestiveness gone. “I feed on your pleasure. If I were healthy and well fed, the absolute minimum would be sitting in the room next to you while you wank. But to start with, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You’re not the only one who’s malnourished.” 

“Do I need to get off?” 

Another long stare. It’s an effort to not feel judged, but he’s entirely professional when he replies.  

“Is that something you struggle with?” 

You really don’t want to have this conversation with a stranger. But if you’re going to be living with him, relying on him... you should probably be honest. Secrets and dishonesty don’t make for a firm foundation in a relationship.  

Not to mention, he’ll probably notice when you struggle. There’s no point in hiding it. 

But you can’t meet his eyes when you nod. 

He sighs. 

At the noise you can’t help but stiffen. Your jaw locks and you stare intently at a spot on the ground. 

This is usually a point of contention in any sexual relationship you have. That and your inconsistent sex drive. You wouldn’t be surprised if the demon were exasperated. Angry.  If his next words invalidate you, or if he’s going to act like being an incubus will magically fix your sexual woes.  

“What’s your name, pet?” 

You’re taken aback at the gentleness to his tone. It takes a moment before you can find your voice and tell him. 

“Charmed. You can call me Veron.” He offers his hand to shake, brevity lifting the tension for a moment when you take it. 

But his smile soon disappears as he sits back and looks serious. Addresses you by your name, before, “I’ll take what you can give me. An orgasm is like a solid meal, but as you know, it’s possible to survive on scraps. It will just take longer to get me up to full strength.” 

You swallow. Nod again.  

“There anything else you think I should know?” 

You shrug. You’re feeling pretty done with this conversation. Eye contact is getting harder. Conjuring up full sentences feels monumental. “Maybe. Probably. Nothing that’s a deal breaker, I don’t think.” 

He offers another smile, uses a casual tone. “You don’t prefer women?” 

“Uh-” 

“No particular revulsion towards demons or monsters?” 

You shake your head. “No strong preference. To either point.” 

He smiles a little more cheerfully. “Great! We can go over limits and boundaries and wants later if you like. But for now, would you say we have a deal?” 

You take a breath. “Yeah.” 

His smile stretches wider, and he places his hand over his chest. “I’ll keep you safe, scavenge with you, and help you clear this building. In return, you’ll feed me once each day, unless it becomes medically unsafe for you to do so. Yes?” 

You shake his outstretched hand once more. “Yes." 

“Then it’s a deal.” 

- 

You give Veron a brief tour of the apartment. The bathroom. The open plan living area/kitchen/lounge.  You show him the reservoir in the bathtub and teach him your water usage rules. The water stopped running when the power was cut. Since then, you've had to dole out your reservoir using a measuring cup whenever you need to do hand washing, or your occasional sponge bath.  

You don’t know how the zombie virus is transmitted, so you’ve been hesitant to drink any of the tap water. Instead, you rely on your store-bought reserves. You’d been down to a single bottle when you’d set up catchment on the roof.  

Veron surprises and absolutely thrills you with his display of prestidigitation. A snap of his fingers and the blood and viscera coating him disappears. Another snap and your layers of sweat and dust and grime vanish into the ether.  

Knowing that he’s capable of basic magic and needs only energy to fuel it is a weight off your mind. If anything, it’s more motivation to keep the demon fed. 

You offer him the couch as a bed. You don’t actually know if demons need to sleep. Some do – dreamers for instance. But aside from the sex stuff, you’ve no clue about the physiology of concubi.  

Lastly you take down the evacuation poster. Show him the map of the building. There are some amenities on the first floor, along with a maintenance room. The remaining six are dedicated to housing. One stairwell snakes up the side of the building, an elevator shaft sits at the other end, and hanging down the outside is a rickety and broken fire escape. 

You don’t know if the spare keys are kept on site, but if you’re lucky there might be copies somewhere. Checking the pockets of the local dead might be another option to find some. 

Veron process this information, and with a glance towards the window stands.  

“Okay. Today I’ll search the first floor. And make sure none of the husks in the stairwell will get back up.” 

You don’t want to dwell on what he means by that. You hadn’t realised that there were surviving zombies on the stairs. But you walk him to the door and wish him luck regardless. And then you’re left alone. 

- 

The sun has dipped well beyond the horizon when Veron returns. It’s dark and you have to light a candle before you open the door. He’s covered in sweat and blood, looking quite disgruntled; face set in a scowl.  

“You alright?” 

“Fine,” he grumbles, snapping away any blood splatter before stepping into your apartment. 

His posture is tense, and his jaw is set. It's obvious he’s in a bad mood. 

“Did something happen?” 

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a handful of keys, dropping them onto the counter with a sneered irreverence. “These were a pain to collect.” 

“Oh?” 

He shakes his head. “Don’t ask. I’ll just get mad.” 

You’re not one hundred percent, but you’re pretty sure he’s not directly mad at you. It’s a relief, and you’re able to crack a smile. “Got it. Thanks for this.” 

He waves the comment off, before rolling his shoulders. Gradually losing some of his stiffness. “What now?” 

You hold up your candle. “I’d like to save these for emergencies. And it’s too dark for me to see. So, I’m going to turn in for the night. I’ve made the couch up for you. I don’t know if you sleep or whatever but...” you trail off.  

He glances at the couch, at the blanket and cushions you’ve set out, and nods. “Sure. I’ll just... be here then. Until tomorrow.” 

You conjure up a polite smile. “Until tomorrow.”  

You put the candle out before heading to your room. Briefly wonder if you should lock your door before doing so. Sure, he could probably break it down if really wanted. But it puts your mind at ease.  

You let out a groan as you sink into your bed. Your back fucking hurts. It’s so good to be on a mattress, using a pillow. Enough so that even with all the trepidation, all the anxiety circling your thoughts, you’re soon out like a light. 

-

Next

[vaya-writes]

omg bestie would Veron go through. like. trouble to get a person medication. not necessarily in a lifesaving medication sense but just. pain killers? antidepressants? epilepsy meds? no i am not projecting what are you talking about (this is assuming we are living in a world where pharmacies have those specific meds in stock ahshsah)

- in a normal world and if you are dating then yes without a doubt. He loves to help the people he cares about and if he can be useful for more than just sex it’s good for his self esteem too

- in a normal world and you are not dating, but are friendly, maybe friends with benefits, then yes, but only once or twice. He’ll offer to help now and then, and will help if asked, but won’t really put himself in a position to be asked often. If you are roommates or besties or something then, yes, because it’s not such a hassle.

- in a normal world, but you barely know him, probably not, no. Might bring you breakfast and meds in bed after a one night stand, but isn’t leaving the house/apartment for your errands.

- in the apocalypse AU? Yes actually. If he’s already going to the chemist for supplies of antibiotics and pain meds and first aid equipment, then it’s no big deal for him to raid the shelves of medications that you low-key need. He’ll even pick up the alternatives and different dosages. Basically grabbing armfuls of all relevant meds so that when your preferred kind run out you have other options.

- with the drawback that he won’t rush to do it or take unnecessary risks. He’ll go to the chemist eventually, but it’s not a priority for him. It depends on how bad your medical condition is. If your seizures are debilitating and last longer than 3-5m he’s honestly scared af. (Mention something like SUDEP to him and he’ll be fucking prioritising those meds). If you are suicidally depressed without your antidepressants and can’t get out of bed he’ll prioritise them too. It basically depends on how debilitating your condition is.

- so yes he will pick them up, but he might take his time and not risk the chemist unless you really scare him

- that said he’s not too familiar with human medical conditions. He’s likely to spook easy if you got something that looks bad.

[vaya-writes]

🎲 25 or 40 for Reader x Veron, accidental or impulsive kiss

Hi, I love you. I wrote this pretty much the day you sent this prompt, but have only now taken the time to rewrite and edit. Thank you for your patience <3

Featuring 600 words of fluff and a timeskip moderately into their story.

---

You’ll find that once immediate needs are taken care of, and you’re granted a sense of safety, apocalyptic societal collapse can be quite boring. 

The building is cleared. You have multiple gardens and water catchments set up. There’s a waste disposal routine. Rations are looking healthy, and you have emergency supplies and go bags on each floor. 

Leaving you increasingly restless, starting to go stir crazy, and more often than not, mind numbingly bored. 

You used to rely on electricity to pass the time. Social media. Television. Video games. The internet of things. Now you’re left with books and a handful of craft materials you have minimal skill at using. 

More and more you enjoy spending time with Veron. Even if you have to sit through his innuendos and ignore his heated stares. Sometimes he’s generous enough to play a board game with you. Other times you have to sweeten the pot.  

All in all, you can’t complain. You’re safe and surviving with a comfortable margin for error. You have companionship. Working on the garden and rereading your old books helps you pass the time. Veron does most of the scavenging, deeming it unsafe for you to leave the building. 

Yeah. You can’t complain.  

You’re not due for a supply run when Veron volunteers to go out next. You figure he’s as restless as you are. So, you stow your anxiety and give him a shopping list. You break your ‘food after work’ rule and let him take his fill of you. And afterward he sets out to go scavenging.  

You don’t get much done that day. Lethargic from Veron’s snacking, and too anxious to fight through the fog and leave your room, you instead take up vigil on the balcony. 

He makes it back before nightfall. 

It’s an effort not to go to him when he steps through your door. Not to touch him and reassure yourself of his presence. 

He unpacks a few food items from his bag. You’re pleased to see he’s picked up a handful of spice mixes for you to cook with, and some more toilet paper. But your mouth dries and the words leave you when he pulls a book from his bag. 

“I saw this series on your shelf. You haven’t got this one, have you?” 

You bite down on your lip to keep it from trembling. You can’t meet his eyes, instead fixing your gaze on that book. 

That book you had really, really wanted. That you hadn’t found time to pick up before the world ended. The next instalment in one of your favourite series.  

You cross the room and wrap your arms around Veron before you can even process what your body is doing. Embarrassed, you hide your face in his jacket, so he doesn’t see your tears.  

Your voice is hoarse with the effort of controlling your emotions. “Thank you.” 

He’s still for a moment before relaxing. Before he lets out a breath and tousles your hair. “No problem.” 

You take a minute to reign your emotions in. To compose your face before stepping back. Eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet Veron’s gaze, you pull away from his chest. But impulse has you hesitating. Has you leaning back in. 

You press a kiss to the demon, an appreciative and shy peck to the closest bit of skin you can reach – the spot just below his collarbone.  

He freezes again. 

And before he can react, you snatch the book and run. 

[vaya-writes]

i feel like Veron and full strength and health is probably really cool ngl

(thank you for making yet another character I can be normal about. he's just going round and round my head like in a microwave. weeeeeee.)

I love that he's rotissarie chickening in your head because he's a blorbo i barely put any initial thought into :'D I was basically like "okay put all the sexy monster traits together. now put him in a situation. oh yeah, gotta build a personality"

I use this website. It's called Notebook AI - I will use the disclaimer that it existed before the AI boom, and it's literally just a notebook with a bunch of tabs of different topics with questions that you can answer about your characters (and places, and other things) if you want. And it's how I keep track of character backstories and just the itty bitty details that build my OCs.

-

I'm thinking full strength Veron uses magic party tricks to impress people and be silly for his friends and co/workers.

[vaya-writes]

Really enjoying Infernal Assistance!! I am such a big fan of unusual sexual contracts as a plot point or a necessity and I'm really interested to see how future feedings might go 👀

Thank you so much. <3

I don't have too much planned as far as the smut, but the fun thing about this story is that it's easy to just pick a position or situation and slot it in.

Just go "how would Beron approach reader if they're not enthused to fuck after a long day" and boom my mind instantly replies with 'nice slow sensual relaxing rewarding sex. probably oral.' It's honestly how I started the next, unfinished scene. "How does Beron break the tension the next morning" with that precise type of sex of course.

[vaya-writes]

The latest chapter of Infernal Assistance is so sweet 😭 I'm soooo looking forward to what else you have in store!

Thank you darling :) It's what I'd like to update next with my WIPs.

I'm wondering if people would be okay with shorter and simpler chapters. Drabbles almost.

[vaya-writes]

Send requests for short Infernal Assistance scenes? I’ve got much of the survival aspect planned out, but basically no smut or character development planned.

[vaya-writes]

the next chapter (4) of infernal assistance option four is almost ready to go. here's a fun little snippet (130 words):

“What about you?” 

“Hmm?” 

You gesture towards his lower half. “Is demon anatomy different to human?” 

He grins. “Oh. Yeah. Though it varies from species to species. Personally, most of my stuff is internal.” 

Before you have a chance to respond he steps back from the counter, shoves his coat back, and runs his hands up his belly, moving some of the fur out of the way. 

Your eyes fly upwards, practically scandalised. You know he’s not wearing anything other than the coat, but you hadn’t tried to stare. 

“Just a sheath. And my cock pops right out when I get aroused. See?” 

You keep your eyes averted. “A verbal explanation would have sufficed.” 

He lets the coat drop and leans back against the counter. “Right. Sorry.” He looks more sheepish than apologetic. 

@ajarofpickledtears

[vaya-writes]

Infernal Assistance (Option Four) - 3

You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.

-

Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 2000.

Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, oral sex, reader has chronic pain, discussion of chronic pain affecting sex. Please let me know if you'd like anything else added.

If you noticed the continuity break, no you didn't <3

Masterlist - A03 - Previous

You’re startled awake by the knock at your door. Sleep has been fitful ever since the world ended. Every sound startles you awake; ready to face a horde breaking down your door. 

But this knock is polite, and it’s enough to remind you of the events of yesterday.  

“Just a second-” you call, sitting up and giving yourself time to breathe. To settle your heart.  

You stand with a groan. It seems one night of bedrest isn’t enough to erase the pain of three nights sleeping on cold concrete. But it’s a start.  

You cross the room on shaky legs and unlatch the door. Squint up at Veron, eyes still adjusting to the morning light. 

He smiles down at you. “Good morning. I thought you might want to rise early today. Take advantage of the light.” 

He’s chipper. You’d assumed he’d play a more passive role in clearing the building. Waiting for you to take the lead and make the plans.  

Still. His initiative doesn’t bother you. You just wish he’d waited until you’d recovered from the ordeal on the roof.  

You wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Sure. I’ll get dressed.” 

His hand catches on the door. “Before you do...” He tilts his head, polite smile turning strained. “... might I...?” 

Yesterday had been such a blur. You know what you agreed to, but you haven’t had time to properly process it. To think about the salacious details, or to let your anxiety grow. 

“Have breakfast?” You supply, voice a little faint. 

His smile relaxes. “Yeah. That.” 

“How do you want to-” 

He nods towards your bed. “You could lay down and I could go down on you again. Make it nice and relaxing for you?” 

You let out a long breath and nod. You’re glad he’s content to take things slow. You hadn’t let yourself consider the details yesterday, but sexually gratifying a stranger is intimidating. Especially when you have little choice in the matter. 

You shuck your pants off and climb back onto your bed. Take comfort in the texture of your blankets. The curve of your pillow.  

Veron kneels at the foot of your bed, and you close your eyes to block out his imposing figure.  

You expect weight. Too large hands wrangling your legs into position. Attention to your slit nearly immediately.  

Instead he huffs. His voice is gentle when he speaks; “Let’s clean you up first, yeah?” 

You hear the click of his fingers and feel a tingle against your skin. It only lasts a moment, but afterwards everything feels... lighter? Clearer? It’s hard to describe. 

You open your eyes and look down at yourself. It’s almost indistinguishable but... you’re clean. 

You sit up and stare. 

Veron chuckles. “First prestidigitation?” 

Arms out, you touch your skin. “Yeah.” 

“It won’t fix any itching or reactions you’ve had to being dirty. Nothing like a wash to do that. But it will remove surface dirt and sweat.” 

He nudges your shoulder. Claws circle your ankle. “Now lay down. Make yourself comfortable.” 

You do as he says and close your eyes again. It’s noticeably easier to relax. Even your sheets feel cleaner. You press your cheek against your pillow and exhale. Perhaps he’d cleaned your bed too. 

He doesn’t release your ankle, instead working his digits into the meat of your calf. Probing your muscles and rubbing soothingly over your sore spots. You realise he’s settling in to give you a massage, and can’t help but relax further. You definitely could do with one.  

He takes his time, turning your legs into jelly without even making it sexual, kneading your flesh and banishing the worst of the pain in your lower half. You're so relaxed by the time he makes it to your hips that you don’t even tense as he removes your underwear. Instead your legs loll open when he starts massaging your groin, firm touches lightening as he strokes your labia and your mons.  

He ignores your clit, taking a more sensual approach, thumbing your folds and encouraging blood-flow.  

Your arousal sneaks up on you, leaving you in ignorance until your clit begins to swell, and you become slick.  

“There you go,” Veron murmurs, almost coos at your pussy, before spreading it open.  

You flinch, only just noticing how badly you need to be touched. To feel some kind of pressure, some friction between your legs. 

Veron shushes you before leaning in to kiss your clit. A chaste string of pecks that quickly devolve into messy, sloppy kisses. He punctuates them with little sucks and brushes of his tongue.  

You can’t help but tremble and pant. It’s about all you can do in your relaxed state.  

He’s in no rush to get you off. If there’s any desperate hunger, it’s impeccably disguised. Everything about his touch is worshipful; reverent. If yesterday’s oral was entirely for him, then in comparison, today’s is entirely for you. 

You lose track of time, entirely focused on the heat between your thighs and way it makes your thoughts fuzzy. Until your orgasm, like your arousal, sneaks up on you, and you’re suddenly cresting a wave of pleasure you hadn’t noticed looming.  

Your knees clamp shut around Veron’s head and your hands fist in the sheets. You come louder than you think you’ve come in years.  

He doesn’t seem to mind, gripping you by the hips and repeating that little motion with his tongue – the one that has you arching off the bed – prolonging your orgasm for all it’s worth.  

Until finally you fall silent, body turning limp. 

Like yesterday, Veron doesn’t pull away immediately. He takes his time releasing you, going back to rubbing your legs, working his way down to your feet until you’re luxuriating in the high of endorphins.  

When he thinks you’ve basked enough, he drops your feet to the bed and gives your leg a pat. “How was that?” 

It’s a struggle to even speak. The best you can do is give him a weak thumbs up.  

He huffs a laugh and makes himself comfortable at the foot of your bed. You might be bothered by his insertion into your room and private space if it weren’t for how good he just made you feel.  

Minutes trickle by and you suspect Veron is waiting for something. Regardless, you take your time, grounding yourself again and waiting for the rush to dissipate. Until finally you speak into the silence. 

“I don’t remember the last time it felt that good.” 

His brow furrows, but he still pauses to consider his words. “It was a... nice size. A good long orgasm. Not what I’d consider spectacular.” 

You close your eyes. Yeah. You don’t want to look at him if you’re going to have this conversation.  

“It didn’t hurt. And you were... patient.” 

The silence is heavy.  

His words are careful when he breaks it. “Does it usually hurt? When you come?” 

You give a noncommittal shrug. “I just mean. It’s nice not to have a crick in my neck from staring at my phone, or a sore hand and wrist from taking too long. Coming is nice, but not usually worth the pain I experience trying to do so.” 

His hand rests on your ankle again. Soothing motions made with his thumb against your skin. His attempt at comfort.  

It’s... nice. 

“I’m sorry you deal with that. I’ll do what I can to make sure all your orgasms feel worth it.” 

You don’t know if it’s the sentiment or the seriousness of his tone, but suddenly there are tears trying to squeeze out from your eyelids. The world has ended, and somebody still has it in them to be mindful of your chronic pain.  

You smile up at the ceiling. “Thanks.” 

- 

It’s terrifying, leaving the safety of your room. 

Veron goes ahead of you, searching two of your neighbouring apartments. He’s thorough. You’d specifically instructed him to check under beds and tables, inside cupboards and wardrobes; basically anywhere a person could fathomably fit and hide (and turn into a zombie and climb out to surprise you). 

Once the apartments are deemed clear you follow behind, bringing boxes and bags. You do a brief survey of the spaces, jotting down on paper what kind of supplies are present. Your sense of relief grows with each opened door and cupboard. 

The kitchens are your first port of call. And though neither are abundantly stocked, both have clearly been untouched in the weeks since society collapsed.  

Vernon tactfully ignores the way your eyes begin to water as you work. He keeps out of the way, searching other rooms, mostly snooping. You appreciate his discretion. 

Most of the refrigerated foods are spoiled. There are a few sealed drinks that are salvageable, but it turns your stomach just opening the door long enough to fish them out. 

You raid the linen cupboard. You haven’t been able to change your sheets in so long, and the prospect on sleeping on clean (if a little dusty) sheets has you giddy. Sure, Veron might be able to magic them clean, but his energy is another resource that should be carefully rationed. Especially when he needs to feed on you to keep powered. 

But the true bounty of today is in the bathroom. You nearly start weeping again when you enter the room and spot multiple rolls of toilet paper. 

Veron interrupts this time. “You good?” 

You force your expression into something resembling neutrality (or just normal levels of relief and happiness instead of the teary-eyed mess you’re quickly becoming) before nodding at him. “Yeah.” 

“Good. I’m going to take some of this furniture to the hall. We should have enough to build a partial barricade.” 

You nod your agreement. “Can you check in later to escort me back? I don’t want to make trip alone. At least not while my hands are full.” 

His eyes flick to your already growing pile of supplies. “Sure.” 

It doesn’t take you long to assemble what you what to take back home. Food, water, toiletries, sheets. A book, some sturdy looking bags, some medications. Stationary, a screwdriver, some duct tape... Until there’s a pile by the door and you’re categorising everything else in the apartment. Thoughts ablur about your future plans. Because suddenly you have a future. 

And yeah, there are a bunch of survival things to think about. Habits you need to stop and adjust, to be sustainable long term. Waste management, long term food solutions, building on your water catchment system... But they’re good problems to have. Significantly better than starving in your house and dying in your bed.  

Left with nothing to do with your hands, you sit on the couch and wait for Veron to return. You’re just thinking of fetching more paper and starting a to do list when you hit a wall and your legs turn leaden. Standing to fetch a pen suddenly seems like a monumental effort. 

You’ve never been a font of endless energy, and you’ve been so hyper-fixated on the task at hand that you’ve forgotten to pace yourself, to stop and take your usual breaks. Besides, you’ve been cooped up for so long and you’re malnourished. You’re bound to have less stamina than you had before. 

It’s okay though. You’re just tired. A few minutes of sitting will fix you right up. You can get up and write that to do list later. There’s no point burning through all your energy before lunch. 

You loll your head back and let out a long breath. Yeah. You can afford a break.  

Pep talk successful, you sink further into the couch, content to rest a moment. You turn your thoughts towards that to do list, barely noticing when your sluggish processes turn light and cloudy, slipping out of grasp. 

Despite the unfamiliar setting, despite being slumped over a stranger’s couch- 

You drift off. 

-

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