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Deviants

www.kickstarter.com/projects/1…

"Thou Shall Not Suffer" is a Gothic Grindhouse action short about a Vatican huntress vs the Sisters of Yig! Blood, Guns, Snakes, Zombies, and fine goth chicks! It features Kiddo Fox, Mandi Moss Holmes, Jane Burthe, and Suzey Johnson. It's about Testament: Witch Hunter, and her battle with the Cult of Yig. It features gunplay and magic, practical and digital effects.

The script has been written, and they have a lot of our props and wardrobe. The locations have been scouted. The major parts have been cast. Not much left, than to go out and shoot it.
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You can buy in at $10 to help these guys get this badass project filmed and submitted into festivals. Who knows? If it takes off, maybe we'll get a feature film!

www.kickstarter.com/projects/1…
One of the perks of being an Admin is you get to shamelessly self-promote your stuff to the group. Not to worry, I won't do this often. This is just the biggest moment of my life and I HAD to share it with y'all. Admittedly, it's not neceissarly "evil" but my retro brawler card game does allow you to play as a vampire, anthropomorphic Rubik's cube assassin, and Grigori Rasputin. :)

Please check out the link and spread the dark(ish) gospel!

www.kickstarter.com/projects/d…

Thanks!

--Davy Wagnarok
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11 LITTLE PILL (M/F dark-erotica) PUBLICPredator and prey bond. Or, try to. These are their text messages. And, in them, some interesting, mystical facts, emerge. Despite her insolence exacerbating his prey drive. Or, maybe, because of it.Swallow Me, Like Your Little PillA female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic "monster." Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.This is a visceral dark-erotica novel that goes way beyond the vampire bite.Warning/Promise: Sexting; Vore-texting (vexting?); chilling, mature; horror; sadomasochism implications; vorarephilic; mental carousel; lore; predator/prey relationship; sadistic proclamationsThis is the public version (yes; it's the tame version) To see the X-Rated versionBuy lifetime access to the X-Rated Gallery (for all volumes, books, editions)Subscribe to this tier and get it by defaultVenture to Patreon for FREE 7 DAY TRIAL 11Spit, Spirit, SemenFINALE PART 2 OF 3,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,She closed out of Danny’s text screen; she closed out of Priestess’s text screen. She jammed her phone into her pocket, the kinetics of which robbed her of the ability to see the sudden text that bloomed – as she darted out the door. ,And, then, for the first time in 3 days, Danny’s phone – in Heather’s pocket – buzzed, announcing an important notification. Two buzzes, in staccato. Heather froze. Coincidence, Heather thought to herself. Author Note: If, at times, you felt the twinge of something different or ancient from Danny in this conversation, that is not your imagination. As a writer I have carefully cultivated his voice over the years, so, every now and then – if you notice – that something else, something alien flickers through, something that feels dated, this is intentional. You will learn what he is before the close of Little Pill. It's important to the story canon. Story Direction: Heather and Priestess meet in the next chapter.This is the public version (yes; it's the tame version) To see the X-Rated versionBuy lifetime access to the X-Rated Gallery (for all volumes, books, editions)Subscribe to this tier and get it by defaultVenture to Patreon for FREE 7 DAY TRIAL...
09 LITTLE PILL (M/F dark-erotica) PUBLICHis fingertip, instinctively, made connection with the precious crown of her head. The sensation was reported to him as soft as maidenly silk. He could feel the tiny articulation of her neck as she braced herself. She flickered like a baby bird. It made his insides groan. His fingers skimmed down the length of her lusciously naked body and each delicate stroke extracted a brutal backwash of saliva in his mouth. He ran his tongue through the slow-seeping venom, loving the feel, loving the sensation, loving the knowledge that he was getting hot, warm, and sticky for her. His eyes rolled up. This, all of this…,Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill---A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic "monster." Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.This is a visceral dark-erotica novel that goes way beyond the vampire bite.Warning/Promise: Extreme depth of field; extreme macro/micro perspective; psychological torment; vore implication; digestion implication; fatal/non-fatal implicationThis is the public version (yes; it's the tame version) To see the X-Rated versionBuy lifetime access to the X-Rated Gallery (for all volumes, books, editions)Subscribe to this tier and get it by default Buy the PDF 09 - Glass Jars For Broken Boys & Bitter BitchesThe road to a woman’s love is through torment – DeSadeDANNYHe looked down at his cell phone; back up. Something caught his attention. Something flickered at the liminal edge of his vision. Something had, oh – Heather. She was waking. Heather looked like a tiny, dispossessed goddess beautifully scalloping the edges of a crystal tunnel. Under the romantic glow of this, he composed his response. You should see her, his brain churned up in excitement, echoing the words that also flowed from his typing fingers, She’s perfection. A real performance, a real drama was unfolding between his hands and he simply could not pass up the opportunity to make a manuscript of his thoughts.A response dinged back. And his thoughts churned.And they expanded, extending into the moment that was growing more taut, more beautiful, more romantic by the moment, as his little Thumbelina began to pivot around her prison. And this perfection continued as she flicked open her eyes and they lighted upon him. Summoned by her sultry stare, he moved silently into the moment like a shadow suspended on sand. To the glass jar, he went. His cell phone dinged again.The spell broke. He looked down. He pattered another response against the keys. He was now regretting this. He had only meant to kill time as he waited for his tiny princess to awaken, but, somehow, with each iteration things had… begun to dissolve. This dissolution rankled him. He clutched the jar. Hostility curled his fingers. His nails scraped against the glass with a nasty shriek as he turned the anger, like a blunt instrument, onto Heather. Fuck you.HEATHERAnd, something large, something monstrous, something with shape and density was rising up from the ground, flesh-toned, from beyond her crystalline wall. Heather exploded into panic, battering her body against her detention. The large emerging entity, the continent that swam into her visual field was him; he was a miasma of gigantism. Heather made a strangled sound, clawing. Pinging away from the barricade, she fell to her knees. The extrusion, the flesh-toned geometry was a head, and its face was level with her. Only a thin condensing breath fogging the jar separated them. The walls of her universe reflected a sudden bronze dimension of color. It took her a moment to understand, but it was his hand: his hand was cupping the jar. She stared at it in horror. He was so massive he could radically change her dimension. Each line in his palm was like tectonic shift. She shriveled down. Please. And it was a cry --DANNY--that would go unheeded as he reached two fingers deeply into the jar. Just a touch, he told himself. His fingertip, instinctively, made connection with the precious crown of her head. The sensation was reported to him as soft as maidenly silk. He could feel the tiny articulation of her neck as she braced herself. She flickered like a baby bird. It made his insides groan. His fingers skimmed down the length of her lusciously naked body and each delicate stroke extracted a brutal backwash of saliva in his mouth. He ran his tongue through the slow-seeping venom, loving the feel, loving the sensation, loving the knowledge that he was getting hot, warm, and sticky for her. His eyes rolled up. This, all of this…He bent his neck, parted his mouth, and with a calculable push of his tongue, ejaculated long, thick, heavy strands of saliva from him that snapped wetly from his teeth and lips. He canted his head, draining himself. He drooled haughtily into Heather’s small, cramped space. He climaxed saliva into her. More, and more. He rained sheets of it on her, in her, through her.HEATHERHer universe darkened. She looked up. It was a large, dusky-pink tectonic plate. It held tremendous character. It was engraved with fine texture, fine lines, with large, corded phallic ribbons underside. Each cobblestone was raised, reaching for her. She gaped in astonishment as she suddenly assigned meaning to what panned across her vision. His tongue. She could hear it moving, creating a wet shlick as it projected from his mouth, glossing over his bottom lip. Even the sound of this movement held a commanding sense of power. She, so small, felt flattened under the acoustic band. Instinctively she shrank back from the large, tapered tip that hung threateningly low, shrouding her head. The saliva surging from it was like unholy water, but worse; it was heavy, clinging, and it congealed to her skin, her hair, smearing itself until it became a heavy, waxy baptismal secretion. Each dense collision crumpled her. She sank toward her knees in sticky bondage as saliva pumped into the jar.DANNYSeeing her shine in his musk extracted excitement from him. His stomach emitted a tactless groan. Heather was lacquered, shining mutedly like a dying star and it was so fucking beautiful. Seeing her enveloped in his film of secretions… God, it did things to him. Another wave of contractions went through him. She did things to his body, too. With a snapped off sound he withdrew, and shunted his cell phone to the side in silent rebuke. Man, I’m empty. If he could extract his organs and englove her in them, he would.HEATHERHer face twitched away, in shock, as the salivary droplets left comet after-trails of hot moisture. It stung. A faint vaporous cloud of humors; of something bitter and acidic wafted through the thin air of the jar. Fine particulate from his stomach floated like sequins. Her head sank into her hands. He was inverting his insides, thrusting them upon her. He was eating her. Somehow, with inches of glass between them, he was eating her. Heather felt an instinctive pang, understanding this. She had robbed him of the ability to eat her by cunningly ingesting her pills, so he responded with equal cunning: eating her through deconstruction. Without even needing to touch her. She watched him: he moved in a snap-quick movement, picking up his cell phone. Heather blinked surprise from her eyelashes. Before, she had been in a poor visual sightline to witness this, so it was the first time she had seen him looking at his cell phone. He made a face, did a double take, then a third at the appliance.Heather’s skin crawled. This anger isn’t at me. This… this is whatever is going on in Danny land. He’s just.. .he’s taking it out on me… he – His lips were perfectly lined up with the mouth of the jar. She saw straight up his muscled tongue. The telescoping darkness peeled back as light spangled into his mouth, harshly illuminating the architecture of his throat. It peeled open in a kinetic jounce of his uvula, that hung like a red pendant before the liquid-black plunge of his esophagus. And all that viscera, that fine grasping detail, suddenly crowned open in an elastic insectile snap of tendon.Heather’s teeth smashed together in a paroxysm of fear. They had moved from eating to digesting. He jerked forward, stretching his mouth wide, which, necessarily, poured more light into his body, and in stunning detail she saw his esophagus flicker open, red and lurid like a rictus red smile – “PEACE.”Heather flung her arms out. Though they were weighed down by his drying saliva, in crucifixion, seeing his body peel open peeled her from her paralysis. Please, no, God no, I can’t… I just… She suddenly did not trust that the pills would stave him off. He closed his mouth with a snap that thrummed in her bones. “Peace?” he echoed back, hollowly. It took her a troubled second, a troubled infinity of seconds to realize that the thrum in her feet, the heat skimming over her head was the product of him speaking.So, she answered him: “PLEASE, PEACE. I’M IN PEACE – I COME IN PEACE. I… PLEASE.” He continued with a bilious rasp, “Peace? You come in peace?” Heather just stared. His voice was the same, yet different. It was deep and drowning: a tangible emanation that she could melt into and turn to vapor. It rolled over her in a tangible blast of heat as he shouted down into the walls of her detention. She could smell something acrid on his breath. His insides, roiling: empty, and wanting callously for her to fill them. “PLEASE - “I don’t. I don’t come in peace. But, you? YOU?” He snarled. “You: you come in pieces, Heather.” He clutched the jar, ripped it from the table, and shook it. Vertigo rocketed through her. Her visual field swung wildly around, the living room becoming a diffusive streak of colors, as she hurtled around the circumference, her eyes lurching worryingly into the corners of their sockets.Stillness snapped over her. She tumbled backward. “PLEASE DON’T – “SHUT UP,” he roared. “Shut up shut up shut up.” Heather froze. It was the same mantra he screamed when he raped her, three-hundred and sixty – He struck it back onto the table, and violently inverted it. Heather’s stomach flipped, her teeth bearing concussive force in her skull, retinas kindling a white-burst as she violently ejected, landing ugly on the table. This was a new rape. This was… Her ribs knit together in pain. She rolled onto her side. A shape cleaved forward; she felt the air part before she saw it: his hand smashing down. Oh no. Heather smashed her eyes shut with equal ferocity. The force rebounded, shuddering through the plates of her skull. But no pain visited her. Wildly, she looked around. His hand was domed over her like a tent; his fingers springy and bent to prevent bodily collision. She peered through the aperture of them, and an eclipsing shadow encroached, coming down from the heavens: his face. Heather spasmed backward. “…you’re scaring me… you’re really…please…” she blabbered. “Boy, Heather, are you lucky you’ve got those pills pumping through your system right now, otherwise you’d be pumping through mine.” “You don’t mean.. you.. “I DO.” He shrieked. Danny’s voice was breaking. And when Danny’s voice broke, things broke.Namely: me, Heather’s brain churned up in a hostile snap. She knew to appease to him; she knew to be quiet; she clenched her jaw shut. And the pill buoyed up. It galvanized her. It made her brave. It made her brave in stillness; in silence. Let him rant and rave. Let him work it out of his system. This is still Danny. Just Bigger Danny. And, true to his character, he continued: “I DO, HEATHER, I MEAN IT.” He thumped his chest. “I’M TIRED OF PRETENDING.” His eyes roved over her. She could hear them click wetly in their sockets. “YES I WANT TO EAT YOU. YES I WANT TO MELT YOU.” He slapped his cell phone; it pinwheeled, landing exactly where it first rested. He looked at it almost in comical rage. Sobering, and with less break, less abrasive scratch to his voice: “I… fuck.” His face wilted down.The inertia pulled her head up. He was looking at his cell phone again. His pupils flickered in habituation, reading. Heather slowly peeled herself away from the table. She lolled her head back. And she looked at him. He emerged before her, his head ducking to peer at her. And all of him, like the monolithic face of a statue, was staggeringly large. And like a devotee standing before the grandness of a cathedral, she could not see all of him; she could not hope to contain him in the steady universe of her singular gaze. She could only meditate on one of his features at a time. His eye, his nose, his mouth. His mouth. That’s a hot mouth, she remembered thinking once upon a time, when first they met. And it had been so innocent, but, even then, Heather had remembered feeling this strange, incipient pull toward his mouth. And for no small reason. His mouth was inherently attractive; sexual. The top lip crowned the bottom with a distinct cupid-bow shape. And his smile had a slow, stalking insistence to it. It was slightly off-center, which broke up what would otherwise be a very white and disarming smile. But, that off-kilter smile, paired as it were with the deep-set cut of his brow, gave him the appearance he looked perpetually, pathologically disinterested, yet slyly amused. And, if it was his pale eyes that commanded attention, it was his mouth that held it – it drew the eye to an even-featured face that was cupped by high, dramatic cheekbones. Normally, such features would have made a man look smooth, fresh, and earnest, ready to be the darling of the media circuit; instead, there was a touch more angularity to him - to his jaw, his chin - that made him look intriguingly feral. And once upon a time, Heather had enjoyed his feral sex appeal; but, now – now it was a token reminder that he could lap her into his mouth with his long red tongue. And she could - and could not - stop staring at his mouth. She could see the shape of it in arresting detail: the tiniest of stitching in the plush density of his lips; the wet glossy gleam of saliva at the corners, and the hollow of his jaw that contoured outward into an angular canyon. Heather swallowed dryly. I’m small. I’m really small. Smaller than I thought. This… this is the size for eating. She comes in peace, she says,” he remarked with a haughty huff. “Yeah, right. You fucking shot me, bit me, and slapped me – oh, and, let’s not forget, peed on me, too.”“Some people pay good money for that.” Danny snorted a wild, uncontrollable laugh. “STOP, Heather. Fuck. I’m trying to stay mad at you.” His cell phone dinged. He looked down at it in autonomic spasm; then back at her. Something wrinkled across his face. The pill pushed through her bloodstream like a bilious toxin. “You raped me; tried to eat me; drooled on me and belched in my fucking face. We’re even-steven…and not to mention what you did to Tammy.” He flicked an eyebrow at her in stoic response. His fingers slid forward and expertly skimmed under her, and the kinetics necessarily transferred her to his palm. He lifted her. Her stomached knocked up into her ribs. This can’t be real.In a clutch of sensory information, everything fell away. The table; the earth; gravity. Vertigo banked her sideways, and necessarily wrenched her eyes to the side, but his fingers gently curled, protecting her from the fall. He held her level with his face. Mesmerized, Heather stepped closer on the expanse of his palm. She forgot to avoid the cracks. She forgot to be afraid. The pill bobbed defiantly inside her. She looked at him in silent rebellion. “Peeing on me? Shooting me? I’ve killed others for less.” he murmured. Heather stiffened. She looked up at him in disbelief. And for a brief second she forgot to be afraid. She forgot to waste away. Her fear was so mounting that she forgot to feel it. But adjacent to her primitive tremble was a secondary thought, and it was quickly forming: she had come full circle. This – all of this – had an eerie book-end symmetry feel. It was as though the very endoscopy videos she had obsessed over, night after night, frame after fame, had prepared her for this. That everything prior to this encounter had been an unironic dress rehearsal for what now transpired; that it had all been building, inexorably, toward this. It was a sort of regressive logic, but it made sense, because, intellectually, she knew those endoscopy videos had been endowed with not just eroticism, but also by an unspoken, critical element that was infinitely more important: Scale. Those video captures, those stilted frames, those wide-angle shots into the crevices of the human body were only possible for its voyeuristic audience if everything was being projected, and seen, from the sightline of a tiny person. And in the clutch of that sensory cacophony, bombarded by video after video, Heather had - if only subconsciously - armored herself against such a monstrosity of scale by deeply entrenching herself in it. She had become practiced at seeing the human body at this dimension because she had observed it by proxy, day by day. Which is why she was mildly okay with this. For if he wasn’t human in function, he most certainly was in appearance. If he was scaled, or feathered, or devil-horned, it was only by great metaphor. And, true to being a man, he was in dire conflict with something on his phone and that angst was bleeding over into their interaction.This though, was surreal. True, no video could have properly interpreted the lush detail of what she was now seeing, but the spirit of it - the calculus of it - remained the same: she was a tiny woman, at a tiny scale, placed before her divided devil that could thread her into the holes of his body like the lens of an endoscope– the very lens that had not-so ironically peered down, in brilliant refraction, into the rabbit hole: introducing her to a world that should have never manifested. But here she was. Naked, raw, standing before him. In a tangible flicker of intimate grace, they met eyes. It was the fantastical stasis of a moment: predator and prey sighting one another. “I’m meeting you for the first time,” she said in a small voice. She suddenly banked forward, riding his palm: his face advancing. But, it was at eye-level he held her. And one of those large pale eyes rolled down, like a marble, to examine her with a wet click. She could see the haze of the hunter, but there was a more sentient flicker about the pupil. His thick eyelashes fluttered, casting small disturbances in the air. She watched, in the black corona of it, her reflection, and in this Escher painting, this impossible perspective, she saw herself as he would have: a lily-white Madonna with a halo of black hair, beautifully reborn from within the corona of his eyes. His eyes. And didn’t pine over them like a lovestruck maiden; this felt religious, eternal. She was mesmerized by how beautiful his eyes actually were, certain in that moment that she had never appreciated colors - of any shade - until now, in her diminished state. Had she always been this deaf, this blind to such an aching, beautiful universe? Was she always this unaware? Was she always this Godless? Was she looking upon the face of an Angel? A Devil? A God? Was he right? Was etymology the only natural barrier between demons and saints? Heather took a deep, shuddery breath. It felt inadequate, even sophomoric, but she couldn’t stop the sudden feels. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please… can we just fucking… I’ve never had anyone do that for me. Jump into a fucking gun. I’m sorry I shot you. It was a mistake.. it… I….but, that should be a conversation,” she breathed. “That’s at least a few words.” A sadness whisked inside her, but it was immediately buoyed by a sense of incredulity. How could a secret of this magnitude be kept from her, for so long? How had she not met him - sharing hearth and home, secrets and flesh - until now? She suddenly felt giddy, on the verge of hysteria. The pill was fully saturating her now. She actually grinned. It was the grin of a madwoman, and that eye looked at her, intrigued. This, all of this was hiding plainly and plainly hiding and she had not known. To think, all this time, her ex-lover could transform into a false God. How could she - him - it - be so closeted from this possibility ? Her eyes skimmed the protrusion that was his chin, and they drifted to the side suddenly preoccupied by a splash of color – And orange and yellow leaves swirled around her feet, as fragrant and vibrant as the flames crackling from over his shoulders – and the image did not create one of a devil basking in an inferno, but rather, it created the vision of a man standing stolidly before an open hearth, a man standing by the romantic glow of the fire; a man that had been searching for something that had been so absent from his fingers – that they had closed over hers in the cool autumn air, and — Who had said it? And, Heather knew. And she knew it so well that it was embarrassing she had not known it sooner. Struck, all fear fell away. As a high-functioning addict, she shouted: “Revenge porn?!” She threw her arms out, laughing into the high peaks of hysteria. “Is that what all of this is?! This is fucking revenge porn? You’re on a goddamn revenge kick because I never said it back? Is that what you needed to hear? Is that what you needed to feel? Is that why you lost your fucking marbles? Is this revenge kick all because I never said it back?” She looked at his large green eye; it was flat. Even the long dense lashes seemed to withdraw in a sweep of parting air. “Y-you thought I didn’t love you back then? Seriously, Danny? Like, seriously? I did, I absolutely did. You’re just.. hard to love. You’re really, really hard to love. You’re… I don’t think you realize how violent you are. And… you hurt me. A lot. But… I hurt you a lot, too. And oh my god I can’t believe we’re having this conversation when I’m, like, three inches tall and you’re standing in front of me like half a moving solar system. Shit.” She interpreted the contractile movement in his eye to be involuntary shock. “Can you control it?” An eyebrow sloped down over that stunning pale eye. She intuited it to mean he was prompting her for clarification. Heather could feel herself almost lost in the radiant paleness of his eye. “I-I think it’s cause I’m still kinda high right now that I’m holding my shit together, because you’re huge and.. and you were gonna literally puke on me. But, can you control it? The… the… behavior; like that lizard brain of yours… you have to on some level, cause I’ve seen you doin’ life pretty normally… I’ve seen you at social gatherings, your company…” Heather gave him a cross look (or at least attempted to project herself toward that green eye). “That’s what makes it ugly, Danny. You can control it. But you didn’t, not with me.” The entire side of his face nearest to her was inert. Even that large pale eye did not evince movement. And a more-quiet realization joined her thoughts then: If can bust through that strong prey-dive, I might actually survive this. And if she did? If she were to survive? What unholy trauma, what fall-out would she experience from this? But she had not the luxury to meditate on this because Heather had to survive. This she knew. And she knew it well because she was – as always - a survivor. Through sheer will alone Heather pushed back. A woman made weapon, she sought to slay Goliath with only her wit, and her moxie. Heather continued, “And you know what makes it even more ugly?” The eye had intent now, it was examining her. He’s listening, she said to herself. “That you decided for me.” And, his black pupil – so fixedly trained on her – violently expanded like a midnight sun.She had made her master stroke. She had driven him back with a verbal bludgeoning. She had found grace because she had lain at his feet the most terrifying thing of all: possibility.His head withdrew (but only by half). Heather interpreted this new fractional distance to mean he was now interested in looking at her more cohesively, and with the increased space between them her eyes could pan, with more ease, over his face. In a blunted, but euphoric ripple of narcotic-sedation she stared up at her captor in peaking awe: he was stunning. His face was deceptively, timelessly handsome. The overhead light bounced off the thin gold chain around his neck. It was inlaid with intricate symbols, casting the lower half of his face in a shallow, yellow luminance. And on that face, a story was playing out. He had the keen look of a bored immortal that had just been roused to sudden wakefulness. His little worshiper – a woman that had been claimed by him, shaped by him, destroyed by him the moment she was worthy of his attention – was standing at the mouth of his temple, tip-toeing closer to get a glimpse of his majesty. He saw her as a plaything to be contained. A curiosity to be tormented. He was a child-god that would pop her in his mouth for no other reason than he could – “Danny,” Heather gasped. “Are you a demon?” Something was scratching at the underside of her brain. Something vital and important; but it fled her because the pill blocked her higher faculties. But she had not the wisdom to meditate on this, because Heather’s be-deviled God was full of caprice, and she had said something that amused him because he was tilting his head in a curiously-feral gesture, and speaking. “Maybe.” He smiled thinly at her. And it wasn’t until this very (strained) moment did she realize that it had been some time since he last spoke. So, she was relieved when he spoke again: “This is different.” Heather eyed him warily. “Different how?” He made a languid movement; stopped. “I can almost forget.” “Forget what?” “I can almost, almost forget that you’re prey.” “No,” she lowed. “I’m not. I’m not prey.” He gave her a patently amused look. It spoke for him. “No,” Heather pronounced. “Prey is a mindset. I’m not, and never will be, prey.” She met him pupil-for-pupil. She held it; commanded it. Bend, you motherfucker, fucking bend His eyes held her, unmoving. Pale and alien. But there was a sudden flicker of interest across his face. “No…” Heather stiffened toward him. Bend. “I think… you might be onto somethin’ here.” They were in agreement, but, something about his manner made her inch back. “I think you’re right. I think… you’re more than that. You’re a whole new… concept. A concept I need to,” he interjected a pleased, aroused sound. “Play with more.” Something had turned, something had changed, and she couldn’t tell if it was to her favor. Now, he looked less like a protrusion of parts and – suddenly – more like “her” Danny: slowly emerging, slowly familiar. And she didn’t like it. And the tone he spoke with, she didn’t like that either. To play with her — she twisted her lip between her teeth. It was a curious choice of words. She was hedging the quantum of her life against his amusement. But what, exactly, did that entail? She reached out a hand toward him, seeking connection; stopped. It was like trying to touch a mountain on the horizon. Heather could sense the panorama developing around them. Him: hovering above her, faintly amused, ready to make mischief with her tiny body with his tongue that peeked from the corner of his mouth. Her: small and trembling, wrapped in his predatory inertia, athletically holding his fingers. And that’s what made it uncomfortable, she realized. It suddenly looked too much like him. The familiarity was overriding and overcoming her mental sequestration Heather’s teeth clattered together as she repeated the taunt in her mind. Play. Would she slip inside him and disappear? Or would he knot himself around her in a slaughter-hug? Suddenly, it didn’t feel like she’d plink harmlessly off his teeth to retreat into the pit of him. That felt too simple. Too expedient. Because she knew, only as a madwoman could, that this wasn’t transactional, because there was an erotic softness etched around the lines of his mouth. To it she looked, then the planes of his face. Under the hollows of his cheekbones was a visible impression of his jaw anatomy: she could see masseter muscles. The dense, powerful chewing muscles. On him, they were over-developed, and they flexed even in the stillness. Once, they had been twin advertisements of his masculinity; now, they were twin reminders of stigmatized evil purpose. They were bands of muscle that commanded a snarl of teeth. Mastication. It was, her brain chirruped, only a few letters off masturbation. And that’s what’s going to happen to me. Heather realized. That’s what this is. This is… this is a form of mental masturbation. Heather tumbled the thought in her brain. It was strangely on-brand for her divided devil. His proclivities, like the rest of him, went staggeringly deep. How involved was this, exactly? He’s dark. But she had always known that, hadn’t she? In her previous life, she had turned a blind eye to his darkness because it had inconvenienced her. But, something like this, it never remained hidden, did it? Or, at least, not for long. It had a funny way of presenting itself. In conversation, in lewd humor, in — Metaphor. What had first been a metaphor, now morphed into blood, bone, and predatory inertia. Because something as ugly as this could not contain itself. Eventually it would have to rouse; to surface; to stretch its tendons and hunt. Heather wished that it was something as simple as that: a dark beast coming to roost; stalking her; hunting her, ingesting her in rote, clinical obligation. Not this. Not this man-beast that fantasized about slowly, calculably torturing her, extracting sadistic pleasure from every dimple in her body. How bad was it? The compulsion? You know, Heather’s brain mocked. You know damn well. Danny took everything to its extreme. He had to take everything to its extreme; to its inner tendon; to shave it close to the bone. He liked pleasure; he liked pain; he liked release. And if his limbic system was a dizzying ouroboros of pleasure — it would be her head in his jaws.And he’d shave that close to the bone, too. “Play with me,” she repeated hollowly. Now what Heather-Feather. You bought some time but at what cost? No, fuck this. I need to live. I need to.. to see what’s on your damn phone. I need to see what rattled you so badly you forgot to fucking eat me. But how would she ever hold his phone at this size? She looked down at her tiny, tiny hands. “Hey,” she breathed, “I need to… you need to… you need to put me back to normal.” “You look normal to me. In fact, you’re the way you should be.” The anger that ticked inside her, surprised even her; there had been something so demeaning about that taunt Heather couldn’t help but feel absurdly offended by it. “The way I should be?” Heather returned, but this time with more color, more conviction. It rankled her, being told the type of woman she should be, three inches or no. She wasn’t daddy’s perfect little virgin, and she certainly wasn’t at her Catholic Best when she was with Danny, but God did she ever come alive when they crossed words, just as they did now. (And so did he). And here she held her breath, her head swimming with a strange suicidal urge to clapback —— and thankfully this had the effect of creating a large, dramatic pause rather than an apprehensive stall-out, because he was fixed on her, watching, when she blurted: “You know what. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. I’m tired. I’m sick and tired and exhausted and, just — fine. I get it. You want to eat me? Do it. I’d rather fucking die than be told what to do, or what I’m supposed to be.” “You would,” he remarked. “You absolutely fucking would. You’d rather die than be controlled.” She slung back with a dismissive: “I get it. I’m hot, I’d eat me, too.” Danny tipped a mildly surprised look at her. She raised an arch eyebrow up at him. “It’s a sex thing, Danny. It’s always a sex thing. I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna pretend to have figured it out, but, yeah, it’s like they say: what you repress, you end up expressing sideways. And I can’t think of anything more sideways than trying to eat your fucking girlfriend. OR PUKE ON HER IN A JAR.” “Now I’m definitely not going to eat you: I don’t do your bidding.” “Well, then you can relate,” she responded churlishly. “I’d rather die than be controlled.” “Oh, but how can I resist,” he responded in a low, intimate voice. And Heather had not the luxury to meditate over this further, when something advanced. The shadow of it stole the words from her. It was a shape that was familiar to her, that she understood, just as it moved closer, in an eye-blink of movement to be — --his finger — as it curled around her waist in a bronze crescent. Her entire existence, her entire being contracted down to this: this wrinkle in time in which nothing else existed except for his finger around her tiny, naked waist. It was a peculiar reflex, but she found her tiny, tiny hands touching his. Her small fingers, like delicate petals, overlaid his. There was something poetic about it. And she could appreciate how romantic it was, if it were not for the fact his barbaric finger could crush her. A single contraction of muscle could buckle her. But, instead of fretting over the possibility of his violence, she studied the shape of his finger from the bed of his nail, down to the rise of his knuckle with medicated intensity. All the engraved lines in his skin stood out like demarcation in the sand. “This is such a turn-on,” he remarked quietly. “You know what I can do. What I want to do. And ‘cause I know all of that is rattling around inside your head, too, it makes it even more hot.” His finger, around her perfectly small waist, curled down to create a perfect apostrophe on top of her vulva. The physicality of it was stunning. His finger was so large – and she so small – the raised matrix of his skin stimulated her. A small sound escaped her, but she observed an opening. Into it she thrust. “This is why,” Heather gasped, “This is why you can’t kill me. Because, if you do, if-if you do, you don’t just snuff me out, but you snuff out what’s in my head, too.” The slow, indulgent movement over her vulva stopped. The maiden overlaid her tiny, tiny fingers on the beast’s large claw in a gentle perversion of an olive branch. "I… I’m going to be forever changed by this, Danny. I can’t… I can’t go back to normal. I saw what you can do, I saw what’s out there. They say, if you’re gonna sup with the devil, you need a long spoon, but they don’t tell you what to do when the devil comes to sup on you. There’s no off-ramp for that; there’s no exit strategy. How the fuck do I return to normal after this, Danny? And how do you get rid of someone that’s… that’s… seen the darkest side of you and — “Don’t,” he cut across. And the acoustics of his voice developed into something Heather would characterize as an undervoice - a faint, secondary voice that overlapped his primary one with a metallic rasp. It lapped against her like the scrape of gravel. It was inhuman. But it was him. Heather gripped his finger in an autonomic spasm. “Don’t,” he continued in that binaural voice, “pretend that you’re okay with any of this.” A snarl carved into the lips, revealing the contours of his flushed gumline, and below that, the solid overhang of teeth. Each tooth was horrifically visible, a matte gloss reflecting off the enamel, down to the edged tips. Heather’s head ticked down. The sight of all that anatomy moving was briefly - but powerfully - nauseating. An undulation through the jaw muscles, an expansion of the keyhole in his lips to flash a sickle of teeth: these were the gears of war that he brought to this battle. But she brought something more powerful: honesty. And she would bear it like a blade. “I’M NOT,” she shot back heatedly. “I’m not okay with any of this. I’m definitely fucking not. I’m so not okay with this, that I’m the not-okayest okayest of this I could possibly be. I’m not even going to pretend. I don’t know if I ever will be okay with this… but somehow I’m not surprised? Somehow this feels like you. Even now, this is… this is you. This is totally something you’d do. I’m just surprised you haven’t popped a cup over me sooner.” Danny looked down at her. Off his look: “I talk a lot.” He barked a laugh. “I’ll admit, I’ve thought about it.” He remarked coyly. His voice was normal again. “But, seriously.” Heather continued with sudden graveness. “Three hundred and sixty — fuck, however long it is — it took me three hundred and sixty-something days to - to finally talk about-about your needs in a real way. But… but here I am.” And she folded down on herself, frowning. “I get you,” she spat. “I do. I ran from you all this time, all to be back at the start. I went over last year in my head a thousand times. I remember everything. Everything. And I still - I - it wasn’t what you did that made me so… so fucking upset. I’m upset because you did everything you did and then you pretended nothing happened between us; like it was no big deal. But I know that isn’t true. And you know that isn’t true. What happened between us was a Big Fucking Deal. All capital letters. And it was a Big Fucking Deal 'cause you’ve been tripping over your dick to get me a whole year later. And, here I am, in front of you, three fucking inches tall and there’s a part of you that’s still terrified of me.” He turned his head away in an abbreviated movement. "So, eat me,” she challenged. “But, make it good, hot-shot, since you know you can only do it — DANNYOnce.He could only have her once. The word pounded in his neck. His brain. It had power, a shape all its own. He looked at her, suddenly aware of her size. And, oh, how aware of it he was. So tiny. So very, very tiny. His vagus nerve twitched. But… what if he edged himself? Just a taste, he told himself. And he curled his fingers around her, tenderly pulling her closer, lapping his tongue against her taut, supple body. It was performative, because she still carried the taste of the narcotic, but it still felt alarmingly good to feel her pretty body depress into his tongue. “Let me let you in on a little secret,” he murmured. “A man should be terrified of his woman.”He held her eye-level. It was like something out of the childhood canon he was raised on. Lust devoured Pride. “But, you’re not wrong,” he murmured. “It would be a shame to get rid of the only lady-prey that’s been keeping my secrets.'” HEATHERHeather was a woman. Flesh and blood, heart, and soul. Yet, Danny held her easily, as though her entire self could be folded up into a receptacle. As though she could be deposited into the box of his obscene needs. Was she willing to welcome them? All of them? Every single last one? He had given her a glimpse of what lay beyond. His compulsion be damned, his existence meant that he belonged to an intricate system, a constellation of possibilities that should have only been stamped on the inside pages of a dark fairytale. And she wanted to be a part of that tale, not lost in its footnote. And if Beast had tried to devour Beauty? She considered his question. Could she allow him to bring countless women into his body? Likely even his bed just to make the act that much more sensational? What of her? Could she forgive him for his sins? Worse: could she carry them? Did it matter? Did it really? Should she shed any sympathy for those that weren’t clever enough to outwit or outsex her demon? Tammy? He brain whispered plaintively. Was she already returning back to him: his world? “I know, I know,” she said sadly, “You want to play with me. But… that’s the thing of it, isn’t it? That’s what you always do. You take. And you take, and you take, and you take. Why not, for once… let someone give? Why not, for once, let me give to you? Sure: you can have me. You can take from me, you can take me, just like you normally would. But that’s the same energy, that’s the same vibe. Why not let me try to give? I can try to give you space… I can try to give you understanding. I can try, maybe, one day to try and willingly…” She couldn’t even say it; it pained her. The thought of giving herself willingly to his jaws was overwhelming. DANNYAnd he had taken to this new turn of events with a new sensation. He liked holding her in his hand; it felt overwhelmingly precious to him. He canted his head to the side and listened. He felt like he had scented something indeterminable in the wind. But he heard her; he listened. He always listened whenever Heather spoke, because, whenever Heather spoke it was always interesting. She’d give herself to him willingly? Jesus, that’d drain the Holy Ghost out of him. Startled, he deflected with a harsh: “I don’t need your consent.” “No,” he heard her say in a small, simple voice Her diminished body produced a diminished chirp as she spoke. (Holy shit that’s cute). “But that’s the one thing you can’t take. Nobody can. You can’t take consent.” She wasn’t wrong. He licked his lips; stretched his jaw in a quick frenetic pulse of excitement. It would be - as she said - a different energy. It would be a vibe that was impossible to generate unless it was authentic. It was like she had taken a stick to his mind and bashed it open. All the saliva had wicked from his mouth. Suddenly, he was dry. “Why,” was all he croaked. HEATHER“Because, I want to live, and you want to-to… cram me into-into your obscene box. You want to, um, eat me, so-so why don’t we make a role play of it. So, why not… you know, try and-and, I guess, endoscopy me?” And the moment - the precise moment he understood - he ran his hand over his face; his mouth. He whipped his head away; back. (The movement buffeted air against her) “Fuck, Heather. Fuck.” “That means you… you don’t go.. all the way.” She licked her dry lips. “We.. we have to work something out... like… we.. you know, don’t… hurt me.” She trailed off. “I’m tired of contracts,” he groused. “But, fuck it. What’s one more.” He held his free hand out in mock placation. “Continueth, Heather.” Heather did not understand his odd statement so she chalked it up to some sort of media reference she didn’t quite understand. “I guess? I mean… I guess we kinda have to come to some understanding? Like, don’t take things too far. Or go fucking apeshit on me. … but, whatever. I don’t want normal, Danny. I never did. There’s gotta be more to life than nine-to-five, and-and watching the dishes pile in the sink… I… don’t want any of that. I,” her throat tightened. “You know me. You know how I love those Beauty and the Beast stories where the girl gets her beast. Well, maybe, deep down Beauty did want to be eaten. Maybe, maybe not. And, maybe, deep down Beast wanted to eat Beauty. Who knows. All I know is- is that if I have to go back to the flower shop, and p-pay taxes, and scroll social media, and pretend that none of this happened, none of this was real, if I have to walk around like a fucking zombie talking about the fucking Kardashians, pretending that none of this happened — I’d go fucking crazy. I’d go absolutely bonkers. I’d kill you, or myself. I’d rather fucking die and have that knowledge die with me than try and go back to normal…” She took a deep breath. “Bad news, Kitten. I’ve watched the Kardashians.” “Danny, no – “Although, in my defense, it was an eight-hour flight –“ “Still – “Eight hours flying does things to a man.” “EIGHT HOURS OF KARDASHIANS?!” “NOT ALL AT ONCE.” “That’s no defense! God, you always had the worst taste in shows.” He laughed. And, this time, he didn’t turn his head to mask it. “But,” she continued in a sad, strained voice, the hysterics of the situation carrying her through: “I’m tired. I’m really, really tired. I’m tired of pretending I’m strong right now. I’m not. I’m weak. And I’m scared. And I have to pee…” “Again?!” “Yes?!” “What’s it with you chicks always peeing?!” “I don’t know?! But, shut up: listen. I just want us to reset. I don’t know what that looks like. Or how it’s done.” She began to cry silently, “But we have to figure it out. Otherwise, we’re gonna end up toe-tagging one another. I mean, you jumped into a gun for me. I’m… I think… I need to give you another chance. But, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for both of us. I’m sorry for every damn thing. I’m sorry you’re locked into this damn addiction like I’m locked into mine, and I just…” “I never said it was an addiction.” She shrugged. “You didn’t need to. From one addict to another: I know.” Heather re-doubled the hold on his finger. “Eat me, or don’t. I don’t care anymore. I just need to… I just.” she looked at him with sad, wounded eyes. “Maybe I can –we— can handle this better now, knowing we’re both locked into some strange oral fixation. That we’re both operating under addiction.” He gently returned her to the table. The vertigo slammed her eyes shut. But, there was a movement, a sensation of lift. Which compelled her eyes to open so that she could see — and what she saw startled her enough that she tumbled off the table – – normal – but before she could land, his arms went around her waist. There was shock: and she was not sure from which body it was generated. She looked at his arm looped around her – just as it was, a year ago when they dozed on the couch together – to protect her from her plummet, and she did not have time to contemplate if it was affection that had motivated him – or instinct – because she was reaching for the cell phone on the table, and she knew to gingerly grab, pluck with forefinger and thumb, and cunningly slip it into her hand before he could notice. She shielded the theft in the pantomime of their embrace. Gotcha.Story Direction: This chapter will take on new meaning in Glass Ballerina, in Volume II. (We will get there, in time, to show the circular story). Next: Story lines start to merge.
DWOAH: Be'Lakor vs BeelzebubDeadliest warriors of all historyBe’Lakor vs BeelzebubEmpowered by the fallBe’Lakor info:Height: 25 feetWeight: 2 tonsWeapons: Blade of Shadows, Chaos MagicStrengths: Having once been a human General fighting against the forces of Chaos whose name has long since been lost to time Be’Lakor eventually lost all hope and gave himself to Chaos becoming the first Daemon Prince of Chaos in Warhammer Fantasy, Demi-Godlike Strength (As a Daemon Prince Be’Lakor possesses strength far above any non-Demonic race, Can beat his Wings hard enough to create hurricane force gales, Is stronger than all lesser Demons), Demi-Godlike durability (As a Daemon Prince Be’Lakor possesses durability far above any non-Demonic race, When Be’Lakor began to grow too powerful it took the combined forces of the Four Ruinous Powers to take him down), Massively hypersonic speeds (Is one of the fastest characters in Warhammer Fantasy), Genius intellect (Is a master tactician, Was granted a small portion of Tzeentch’s wisdom), Infinite stamina (Daemons do not tire), Managed to draw the attention of all Four Chaos Gods to the point that they all granted him their power making him a Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided, As the Father-in-Shadow Be’Lakor is now the being that grants new Chaos Champions their titles, Has eons of experience.Weaknesses: After being cast down by the Chaos Gods Be’Lakor no longer can maintain his physical form for long periods of time without extreme strain and concentration, His chest scar is a glaring weak point and any wound inflicted upon it is nigh fatal to him.Beelzebub info:Height: 6 foot 3Weight: 160lbsWeapons: The Staff of Apomyius, Vibration controlStrengths: Was the Gods representative in the eighth round of Ragnarok facing and defeating Nikola Tesla, Godlike strength (Is highly regarded to be one of the most powerful Gods in Record of Ragnarok, Was unphased by threats from Odin, Has only been bested in combat by Hades, Zeus was outright terrified when Beelzebub began to charge his strongest attack against Tesla and near begged him to stop), Godlike durability (Was arguably one of the most durable Gods in Record of Ragnarok, Tanked and survived all of Nikola Tesla’s strongest attacks, His left hand Shield was stated to be able to block at attack from Thor’s Mjolnir which is stated to be able to casually destroy a planet), FTL speeds (Is stated to be faster than Ares who could react to a casually moving Zeus, Could react to Tesla’s FTL punches to the point that Tesla was forces to use instantaneous teleportation just to land a hit), Genius intellect (Is a master surgeon and all knowing in the ways of biology, Was the one who implanted the Hajun Seed in Zerofuku, Was able to figure out how Tesla’s Suit and abilities worked after witnessing them once), Has utter control over vibrations (Can channel vibrations to the point of causing massive earthquakes, Can channel them through his right hand for offensive attacks and his left to create an unbreakable Shield, His vibrations are powerful enough to destroy Tesla’s Constructs, Can channel them through both hands and combine them until his ultimate attack ‘Chaos’ which creates a detonation so powerful that even Zeus fears its destructive capabilities), Has over 14 billion years of experience (In Record of Ragnarok the Big Bang was God creating the Abrahamic Universe).Weaknesses: Suffers from extreme self loathing and suicidal tendencies to the point that he openly wishes for any opponent he faces to kill him in the most gruesome and ugly ways possible, If Beelzebub begins to feel positive emotions i.e. love Satan emerges from his soul forcing him into his Demonic Destrudo form to which Satan takes over forcing him to slaughter those who brought him positive feelings.Battle begin!(The Chaos Wastes)Wrenching the base of his Staff out of the chest cavity of the Beastman that had attacked him Beelzebub let out an disappointed sigh, another Creature that had dared to attack him without any sort of capability of actually killing him, an utter waste of his time in the fallen Angel turned God's eyes.But he could feel that there was potential to find what he truly desired, a gruesome end befitting of someone as fallen as him, he could feel it in the very air itself, the Wastes breathed, oozed and bled Chaos itself, a good place for one such as him to take his final breath.As if hearing his silent plea the winds around him picked up and the many cascading shadows around him began to shift and move unnaturally until they formed the shape of a hulking Demonic figure that towered over him “at least! Someone new walks the Chaos Wastes!” the Daemon spoke as the shadows that formed its body began to solidify to slowly reveal the form of Be’Lakor “and yet Archeon still lives so you are no Champion of Chaos, maybe you come seeking the power of the Ruinous Powers?”.Watching calmly as Be’Lakor materialised before him Beelzebub simply gazed up at the Daemon with utter disinterest on his face, waiting for the Daemon to stop speaking before he himself spoke up “I believe you’ll find that I am not in need of power, what I seek here is far more…final” he stated as his body began to emit a dark aura, his cloak billowing as his aura then resonated with a thunderous buzzing sound of thousands of Fly wings whilst the aura took the shape as a massive Fly behind him “I seek someone who can give me a truly brutal end, a death befitting one as vile as me! Grant me my wish and my power will be yours!”.Taking a moment to take in the sheer aura of darkness Beelzebub gave off it didn’t take a moment longer for Be’Lakor to consider his proposal, his eternal hunger for power moving his hand more than his own mind “I accept your proposal!” the Daemon declared as he readied his Sword of Shadows, aiming for Beelzebub’s neck as he swung hard and fast for a quick clean decapitation.Before his Blade could meet Beelzebub’s skin however the God’s left hand shot up to block the Sword of Shadows with his Staff, the Staff head resonating with vibrations so fierce that it emitted a similar buzzing sound to his Fly Aura, the fallen Angel turned God utilising the vibrations to create an unbreakable Shield as he gave the Daemon Prince a small smirk.“Now would my death be truly gruesome if I just stood there and let you kill me?” he stated before repelling Be’Lakor’s Sword by enlarging the vibrations from his hand, the Daemon’s Sword violently shaking in his grasp which travelled up his arm making him recoil with a growl of discomfort “suicide is beyond my grasp! Come! Best me in combat and give me my deserved death!”.Snarling in annoyance Be’Lakor charged Chaos Magic in his left hand before throwing it forward to strike Beelzebub in the chest with a point blank blast, engulfing him in an explosion that destroyed part of his robes revealing the Mark of Lillith on his chest whilst his expression looked more disappointed than anything.As Be’Lakor reeled his Sword back to swung again Beelzebub flash stepped forward, slamming his Fist and forearm to the Daemon Princes abdomen whilst running powerful vibrations through them sending Be’Lakor flying into the sky roaring with rage, the fallen God watching the Daemon soar before jumping after him channelling his power into the head of his Staff to strike Be’Lakor across the chest with his Weapon.Despite the blunt Skull ornament on the head of the Staff the attack still cleaved a deep gash in Be’Lakor’s body, drawing both his blackened blood and his ire as the Daemon Prince struck out which his Shadow Sword, striking Beelzebub out of the sky and back to the ground to which Be’Lakor rained several beams of Chaos Magic down upon him, utterly obliterating the area where the fallen Angel had landed.Only for the dust and ash cloud to be immediately blow away as Beelzebub emitted his aura again, the image of a massive Demonic Fly reappearing over him filling with air with the sounds of maddening buzzing wings whilst the ground below Beelzebub began to shake and quake with the force of several richter scale 10 Earthquakes, the Chaos Wastes beginning to literally come apart around the God as he casually strolled towards Be’Lakor.“I have asked you, no, beseeched you to take my life and this is all you have to give?! Brutalise me! Murder me! KILL ME!!!” Beelzebub shouted in both anger and anguish which Be’Lakor returned with his own bellow of rage, the Daemon Prince swooping down with his Sword ready to run Beelzebub through to which the God responded by returning his Staff to his left hand to block it before he could reach his chest, wanting nothing more than to simply drop his Weapon and allow the Daemon to claim his life but the burning mark upon his chest prevented that from ever being an option.Gritting his fanged teeth Be’Lakor put his full force against Beelzebub’s unbreakable Shield, the ground beneath them further breaking and crumbling away causing them both to sink into an ever growing crater, the Daemon’s rage filled face met only with Beelzebub’s bored, almost disappointed expression whilst the infernal buzzing of his aura drilled into Be’Lakor’s mind.“Silence! STOP THE NOISE!!!” Be’Lakor roared as his brain buzzed with the infernal sound of Beelzebub’s aura, flaring his Wings as they radiated with Chaos Magic, beginning to beat them to stir up the Winds of Magic themselves with the force of a Hurricane point blank in Beelzebub’s face, using the Winds to start to disperse the image of the Demonic Fly behind him.Eventually the sheer force of the Hurricane winds began to make Beelzebub falter allowing Be’Lakor to push forward enough to outright make the Fallen Angel stumble to which the Daemon Prince grabbed him, wrapping his massive hand around his body before taking to the air “ENOUGH OF THIS! I AM BE’LAKOR! FATHER-IN-SHADOW! THE CHAMPION OF CHAOS UNDIVIDED AND I WILL NOT BE BESTED BY A MERE HUMAN!!!” the Daemon Prince bellowed as he held Beelzebub aloft, channelling Chaos Magic again to blast it through Beelzebub’s body, making him cry out in pain from the point blank attack all around his body.Feeling how the Chaos Magic coursed through his body Beelzebub for a moment considered just letting it happen as he felt that Be’Lakor might very well be the one to finally end his existence, all he needed to do was relax and soon enough he would be with Lillith again.And that momentary slip and feeling of happiness to finally be able to die was all that was necessary for Lillith’s Mark upon his chest to flare up, Beelzebub’s eyes flashing a crimson red as his subconscious was violently suppressed and a new much darker entity took hold “human?!” his body barked, his body much deeper and emanating sheer evil and malice as he then effortlessly broke free from Be’Lakor’s grasp, emitting vibrations from his entire body strong enough to broke force the Daemon to release him and to destroy several of the fingers on his left hand making him exclaim in pain and anger “don’t make me laugh!”.Snarling in fury Be’Lakor turned to glare down at Beelzebub only to find that the image of the Demonic Fly behind him was now completely gone and replaced with something far worse, the image of a being of pure evil now radiating from behind the Fallen Angel, with the body of a man and the legs and head of a Goat.Beelzebub was gone, now there was only Satan.Realising that he was now facing a far greater threat Be’Lakor took to the skies again “Gods of Chaos! Have I not given you everything you have asked?! Souls! Slaves! Blood! I beseech to you now for payment! Grant me more power!” he called to the skies to which the Winds of Magic began to pick up again, engulfing the Daemon Prince in a Tornado of Magic, his physical form fading away as he began a being of pure Shadow and Chaos.“Chaos?” Beelzebub/Satan scoffed as he watched Be’Lakor loom over him “you think you understand Chaos? Allow me to show you the true meaning of it” the Fallen Angel then growled as he planted his Staff in the dirt in front of him and held out both hands around the Skull on its head, channelling vibrations through it “but first let me ask you, what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?!”.In response Be’Lakor’s Shadowy form simply bellowed in rage as it shot down towards Beelzebub aiming to engulf him entirely just as the vibrations around the Staff full went off, igniting in a catastrophic explosion.“CHAOS!!!!!”.And in an instant everything was gone, the Chaos Wastes, Be’Lakor, everything save for Beelzebub himself was destroyed in a flash in an explosion so loud and so bright that it didn’t even register as a noise, Be’Lakor hearing and feeling nothing as he was utterly destroyed, sending his blackened Soul back into the Warp to remain for an untold amount of years before the Ruinous Powers decide that he could walk the mortal planes again.When the Chaos blast finally settled Beelzebub now stood in a vast empty wasteland, everything within the Chaos Wastes within a several hundred mile range no longer existing as the Fallen Angel panted heavily, Satan receding back into his mind allowing Beelzebub to ‘wake up’, the Lord of the Flies looking around with slight confusion before sighing and placing a hand on Lillith’s Mark upon his chest.“I was so close to you this time my love, how…disappointing”.Winner: BeelzebubIt felt good to get back into writing a Record of Ragnarok match up and this time it seemed only right to pick another of the Gods heaviest hitters for a match up.So, why does Beelzebub beat Be’Lakor?Now don’t get me wrong, Be’Lakor as a Daemon Prince would give Beelzebub a good run for his money but the Fallen Angel simply had the advantage in most categories, as well as his power over vibrations allowing him to essentially bypass any of Be’Lakor’s defences to always ensure he could land a hit whilst only being able to block any attack from the Daemon Prince essentially handed the victory to the Lord of the Flies on a silver player.Plus the fact that his ultimate attack scared the likes of Zeus himself meant that the moment he set it off the battle was pretty much over.
08 LITTLE PILL (M/F dark-erotica) PUBLIC,That he would prey on her, sex on her – and feed? on her.All of that was hot, too. The books populating her vanity and headboard had told her so. She went to sleep with it, woke with it; tendered the thought, lovingly, night after night.... Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill--- A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic "monster." Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.This is a visceral dark-erotica novel that goes way beyond the vampire bite. Warning/Promise: graphic sex; fetishized rape; sexual brutality; sexual sadism;fetishized ejaculation; unwilling; extreme depth of field; some fluff and romance(appropriately disclaimed for my work!) This is the public version (yes; it's the tame version) To see the X-Rated versionBuy the PDF; orBuy lifetime access to the X-Rated Gallery (for all volumes, books, editions)Subscribe to this tier and get it by default 08 - Demon Fucked & Tongue Tucked The road to a woman’s love is through torment – DeSade 365 days agoHeather dreamed. The pill softened her; opened her. She was – orange and yellow leaves rained down from the sky like embers of flame – -- there Pine needles crinkled underfoot. Bark prickled her skin. The sun basked on her face. Moving in a tight circle, she took in her surroundings. She was in the woods. The woods that ran lushly up against his house; the one that had been separated from his home by a single pane of glass: one, single, condensing breath. Heather smiled a phantom smile in the dream. They moved through the wilderness together, traveling the verdant footpaths and rolling hills like studied survivalists. She could remember it so sweetly. She: clearly in her element, moving with practiced finesse.He: giving a sidelong glance at the low-hanging branches - the ones she navigated with nimble ease - as though they conspired to attack. “Come on, Apricot, I’ll protect you from the tree, I promise.” And - in the dream - he had rolled his eyes, but it was a good-natured gesture. “Yanno, I’m beginning to regret that I told you I’m Cypriot.” It was – and Heather felt a phantom thought coalesce with her phantom smile – autumn in her memory. The vibrant, blooming universe of autumn. It had been the first time he had led her out into the cool fall air with a sporting look after a respectable docket of dates. Heather, giggling: “Well, ok, then. I guess it’s only fair you give me a stupid nickname, too.”Danny, without hesitation: “Feather.” Back then their affection had been consuming. (And, she thought, with frustration, normal).Back then, the more they had tried to tamp down the flames – the stronger they had fanned the inferno. Eventually the flush of heat swept over them, immolating them. It immolated reason. And decency. Heather could almost remember it. When first the smallest of sins had been singed away, she had dismissed it as nothing more than an inconsequential gnat. But, then, a larger one materialized. And, then, a larger one yet. And, then, it became a habituation. And, after the first few dozen, it had become easy; and then easier. And so, she tolerated his transgressions. The promises - and the apologies - had come quick after all, and Heather had inured herself to them. Had she been an older woman, a wiser woman, she might have extricated herself. But, he had the guile of an inner-city savant, with ten years more between them to charm, so Heather could not resist him. Besotted and entranced, she remained. He lead; she followed. And with him, she knew she had been tottering on an elaborate construction of half-truths, because he had done things, and she had seen things that were unusual. Things that were not manifestly strange, exactly, and maybe of little note, except that, sometimes, for reasons she did not yet understand, his behavior often startled the small, meadowed instinct languishing inside of her. She knew it was not just the thrill of their erotic undercurrent either, because: there were times he moved a little too fast, or he tread a little too light, or he had a naked facial expression too congruent with one of her private thoughts for it to have been naked coincidence. But, still, she remained. Sometimes, even, there was a hum, or a crackle along the lights when he walked by. His presence could make a room tremble. And, the room seemed to respond, because, once, during one of his fits, a skylight shattered. How could she not remain? And he didn’t eat. At least, not in front of her. Which was unusual given the hospitality of the Cypriot culture. But, that knowledge, coupled with the way he looked at her sometimes, seemed - at first - to be two completely unrelated thoughts. But, then, one evening, during one of their domestic disputes, he characterized it, this unsettling sensation, by bringing it to a head with a calculably-timed: I’d eat you alive, little girl, don’t even try. And, that metaphor, if uttered by a lesser man, would have had possessed a strange, awkward delivery, but because he had said it, Heather stopped. She did not volley through with the hand-slap she had been preparing. And to her chagrin, he started using this pronouncement as the great equalizer whenever she began challenging him. Eventually it had become such a great source of frustration that she imploded on him, informing him - quite peevishly - that she was no longer impressed with his chauvinistic threat. And, somehow, off-the-tip of her tongue, rolled the rebuttal that he was “a demon, or goblin, or devil,” (if not in form, then definitely in personality) and it stuck. And, so, his Apricot pet-name evolved, in a moment of unintended consequence, into ‘divided devil.’ And after a long, steady moment (the irony not being lost on him) he had returned a singular, taut nod. But not without first obtusely confessing that she had been close enough in her assessment. If you only knew, Kitten. But he had confessed it just as he did with anything of importance: indirectly. And like the rest of his story, it had only been a pantomime. And, it had the opposite intended effect (or, it had the effect he intended) because Heather suddenly found herself even more attracted to her dark, devilish lover. She had wanted to be with something special, didn’t she? She had wanted to be special. She had wanted to be different than the others. Better: she had wanted to be the one he kept. She had wanted to see what it would be like to be fucked by something demonic that had risen from the long, stoic shadows of biblical lore. She had wanted to see what it would be like to run her fingers around the fangs of mythical possibility; to crawl inside the jaws of hyperbole and see how far back she could ride that devil tongue. In the spectacle of her head, it had all seemed so sexy; so hot. The metaphor appealed. That he would prey on her, sex on her – and feed? on her.All of that was hot, too. The books populating her vanity and headboard had told her so. She went to sleep with it, woke with it; tendered the thought, lovingly, night after night orgasm after orgasm. She imagined how hot it would be, being fucked by the man that had burst the overhead skylight with mood alone. And they both had been so close to it, so close to doingit that it had hurt. Vexingly, he had made her wait. And the restraint was hot, too, so she allowed it. So, Heather pleasured herself in the expanse of the wait, thinking about how sexy it would be. And the demon had a face now, a name. She – he – they – could make it happen. Couldn’t they? Which is why she stayed. Which is why she waited. She wanted more of him; all of him. She wanted to see the real Danny that lurked beneath the surface; the one that had looked at her in a sudden, feral uptick at the yacht club when they first met. Unknown to him, she had created a social media profile, then. It was for The Skeptics. It was a robust, respected Forum amidst parishioners of the occult. It boasted over one-hundred-thousand members, globally. And she was, not as of yet, part of the inner sanctum, but she tried. There was a rigorous application and screening process, and Lord knows she had tried for years to get into the members only restricted section, but to no avail; so, she had contented herself with haunting the edges of their Forum, journaling her exploits. She created a “stickied” thread, hoping to catch the eye of Priestess of Gemini or one of her moderators by remaining right on the peripheral. She had a respectable following, and a most elaborate web of replies began – comments spidering into comments, spidering into yet more comments – until she had a faithful fanbase. (What was the point of dating a demon if you couldn’t at least boast about it a little bit?) But, still, she couldn’t get in.Heather, of course, distilled everything into abstraction. She did not use names. But the calculus of it was the same: Hi, my name is Prey Slut. I’m dating a demon. If you saw him on the street, you would be like ‘yep, this is very obviously a demonic man.’ Trust me. You’d understand. I want to have good sex with him… we haven’t done anything yet, any recommendations? And, the responses were mixed. Some: reviled her, denouncing her for dating something demonic. Others: envied her, desperately wishing to have the attention of their own personal monster. And, yet, others thought she was simply spinning wonderful fiction, and enjoyed reading her lewd posts. But, she remembered chewing her lip when a common theme began surfacing, which, if she was pressed to distill down, would have been something not unlike: Careful. Most demons (especially Greater Demons) have a paraphilia of some sort. Have you figured his out yet? And, through all of this, her watch list grew. She had thousands of subscribers glued to her “stickied” thread. One day, she posted a meme to enhance the vibe. “How do I look to you? Shining in your silk?" Said the fly to the spider. Consume me. I like the pain. It was a cry for resolution, because, as suggested by her post, she couldn’t help but wonder when he was going to do it. (And what form would it take?) Because, despite their shared metaphor, he had not acted upon it; not yet. Heather had been foolishly wise. She knew the slow-drip trail of context clues he left behind suggested he nursed a fetishistic compulsion for women that tip-toed right over the polite boundaries of society into oblivion. But that had been kind of hot, too, hadn’t it? Being the object of a demon’s desire sounded sexy. Was it all women? Select women? Would it – gasp – be her? Could it be her? And somehow the thought of being fucked by him and eaten by him had enmeshed. She had begun slipping curious fingers into herself over that; one, two, three. I bet he has a big dick. Then, four. God, I hope he has a big dick. He seems like he would. She imagined her fingers were his maleness, and he was fucking her. She made her fingers dramatically wet, imagining it was his tongue. I bet he gives good head. Someone with that sorta oral fixation gotta be good at it… and, strangely, she had found herself responding to that dark fantasy, too. She remembered being startled by the contractions of her own orgasm. It was all in abstraction, of course. It was just fantasy. His mouth, his lips, his tongue were hot. So, she extrapolated that being eaten by him would be hot, too. It was only when this part of their story had become inexorable – when she had begun to wonder about the metaphor, and had begun touching herself to it, that he had signaled – in that maddeningly knowing way of his – that she was ready for him. Sex: he had mounted her in a contraction of movement. And she had become a movement of contraction. If she was a betting woman, she would have bet they would have done doggy style first. But, to her surprise (and delight) it had been missionary. Heather remembered reaching for one of the longer pieces of his black hair (so black it swallowed light), and twirling it around her fingers. There’s a lot more to him than I thought. There was more depth to her demonic consort than she had anticipated. But, everything else fell away. All that was – all that existed – was the compressive weight of his body, and his maleness entering her. And it had been - like the rest of him - excessive. As with everything else: it had not been easy. He had to make small movements of negotiation to penetrate her. Mentally, she had mapped out the procession: her focus traveling the contours of his anatomy as she endeavored to ingest his lancing erection. He had been painfully long, and wide. And what had already been pushed into her was penetrating pockets of depth that she had only intellectually understood before to exist. And he was still pushing. He had been too big; too thick; pushing into her in a way that was alarming. And if there had been any reservations left over as to his claim that he was demon, all lingering doubts had been scrubbed away with his sudden, singular plunge to occupy the rest of her. Her spine curled in shock. It had hurt. And she was so tightly sprung, it hurt him, too. They touched their foreheads for a moment, riding out the surge of pain. And when that anatomical wrinkle in her relaxed, he began to move. His movements had been stilted, abbreviated; punctuated by her sharp shrieks whenever he went too deep. Panting, her demon had struggled to fuck her with the patience of a saint. But bending under his will, being forced to accept his maleness – that had been hot, too. So, she allowed it. He didn’t come. But, knotting around him, she did. The physicality had been too stimulatory – even enameled with pain – not to. I thought some of the guys I was with before had been big… shit. Heather could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. None of her past lovers had even come close. Heather had to re-align her belief system. And it wasn’t just his size, it was also his shape and tensile strength. From base to glans, he did not taper. And to say he was as hard as the devil’s brand, and that he bruised her just as terribly, would not have been an overstatement. But he had been so good at first, hadn’t he? So good. He had been on his best behavior (but weren’t they all?). He had given her oral sex often (And, just as she suspected, he was phenomenal at it). He even said the sweet nothings. They had cultivated the pet-names, (Heather bounced around between Apricot and Divided Devil), the memes; he had given her his softer side. And, it took time, but through some devilish alchemy, he had begun to fit – in her thoughts, her life, her body – so that he could push inside the seams of her – and the pain had actually transmuted to pleasure. And, oh God, when she had grown accustomed to him, and he to her, it had become terrifyingly good. And he always, always avoided the tenderness at the back of her. She remembered, vividly, the day she had posted another meme to The Skeptics, to cultivate the proper vibe. “Your Man Crush Monday MCM slips out on the third stroke.” And her “stickied” thread exploded. Everyone wanted to know what it was like, being fucked by something demonic. She had assured them that it was extraordinary. Mind-blowing, even. Hungry Boy – bless him – never slipped out, and she – honed to a weapon – never gave in. He could pound deep, visceral orgasms out of her, but also rock her into a state of drugged euphoria (and she needn’t her pills for that). He could even give her different orgasms; sometimes, even, deliberately. Heather, “But, you? What about you. I don’t think you’ve even come yet. Not once?” She ducked her head abashedly. “Is it me?”Danny: “Nah.. I’m just.. a hard nut.” Her thread soared; it bucked up, up, and, up (seemingly echoing the buck of entwined hips as they started sexing nightly), and it became one of the most popular. It gained the hot and popular moniker; and even more were drawn to it on principle, popularity begetting popularity. But, still, Priestess of Gemini did not respond. “When he give you that relationship-dick. ThatDevilDick.” They had their ups; their downs. But, then, they had moments like these, when they returned to the bridle path, hand in hand, conversing. They had met in the fall, and after one revolution around the calendar, to the fall they had returned, re-creating their original traipse into the woods. It had almost become comical at that point – and Heather looked upon the memory of herself with a sympathetic fondness – the lengths to which they would go to make surreptitious their feelings for one another. Like two children in the school yard, they had stolen shy smiles and shy kisses, and intimated quiet professions time and time again. Until. “I love you.” Had there been a shy acknowledgment in return? She could not remember. It had been the first time it had been said. And Heather could not remember who, exactly, had said it. But what she could remember was the canvas. The canvas of: colors, sights, sounds. She could remember the vibrancy of the woven canopy because it had been peeling like a wound that could finally heal. She could remember this image with such detail, because, it had served as the backdrop for the sudden, jerking retreat of his tall frame; retreating, until it became that of a featureless shadow. His face had become a dark study: she could not remember if he had jerked away from their cupped hands because she had said it, or because she had not responded to what had been said. And, then, what had felt like a cone of silence, gulfed between them. The sex that evening had been strained; devoid of connection. The small movements of negotiation he often made to gently penetrate her - because her smallness required it - had sublimated into animalistic pangs. And Heather had bit her tongue to endure it. As usual, he never finished. He eventually disengaged, and walked away. The days waxed and waned. And that cone of silence grew. Then: he had stopped asking for the sex; entirely. Heather remembered the initial panic, the vain interrogations into his self-exile, the frenzied urgency of asking him what went wrong and, then, being rewarded with nothing more than an insouciant shrug. The Forum was no help. Some of the respondents suggested that, maybe, he desired a different type of sex or connection; yet others mocked her for trying to navigate the dark contours of a relationship with a demonic man. Others yet, accused her of ruining their fantasy. Others simply “shipped” it, and prayed that this was only a rut, and they would find themselves out of it. But, that troubling denominator started appearing again: Have you figured out Hungry Boy’s paraphilia yet? Some demonic men need something really kinky to get them off. Heather ruminated, wondering why he never came. Was it her? Was she the problem? Had they rushed into things too soon? No, she remembered countering, they had waited a respectable amount of time. And, surprisingly, it had been his idea. There’s something special here, let’s not rush into bed, Feather. Heather was vexed. For her, there was nothing quite like getting fucked by his maleness that was capable of a bodily tactile stretch that subsumed into terrific pleasure. The thickness of him rebounded off the top of her pelvic wall and immensely deep pleasure reverberated through her body. And, he was so long and wide, through bone conduction, it felt like he was in her belly. She came regularly, like clockwork. Never not. So, what had gone wrong? Was she being too selfish? Were his needs not being met? In a moment of invention, Heather had offered a blowjob, but – to her shock? dismay? confusion? – he had turned it down with a look of shock. (But maybe that had been a small miracle, because, God, how was she ever going to deep throat him?). Then. Without warning, the sex: it was back. It was rougher. But he had stopped kissing her. And that pained her. But, that sort of restraint was hot, too. So, she allowed it. And fucking her hard? That was hot. So, she allowed that, too. Besides, she had started to get into the much-needed habit of taking her pills before they sexed; it helped the pain. But, it had gotten to a point where Heather could barely tolerate him any longer, and not even the pills could numb his violence. Certain positions had become forbidden because he could work himself in too deep. And it was not to a depth that she liked. And yet, others… well, those were for the times when the sex threatened to cross the boundary into something else. But being rutted by him was a knot of pain now, and it was not the sort she liked; sometimes there was gratings of tactile pleasure, but years of running and athletics had made her unforgivably tight. (And he was just plain unforgivable). And he knew he could overcome her, overtake her, overwhelm her, and all pretense had been fucked away. And there had been times – scary times – the sex had become something ugly, weaponized, and she screamed for him to stop. And one time, he didn’t. Heather: “Get off me!” She shrieked. “I told you to fucking stop.” She pushed against him. “It’s not my fault you’re lame and you can’t fucking come.”Danny, grinning nastily at her, “Oh, no. Oh no no no no, Heather Feather. I can cum. Trust me. I can fucking cum. Let me show you.” He had simply slipped a hand over her mouth (vertically, so she could not bite), which had injected a mortal fear into her, because he seemed possessed of prohibitive knowledge to do something like this. “So you don’t scream in my fucking ear.” He surged; the impetus slammed her back. She snapped back over the table like erotic calligraphy. He rammed himself into her, rebounding off her. Heather screamed into his hand. Alarmingly, his erection glanced off her backwall. Heather rolled panicked eyes. She began to cry, and blabber. Danny: “Shutupshutupshutup, let me have this.” He grabbed her neck with his free hand; shook her. “Just shut up. Shut the fuck up.” She screamed louder. He ground himself deeper, groaning. He rammed forward. Their foreheads smashed together. Heather’s head snapped back; she bit her tongue. Blood erupted into her mouth. She continued to scream ugly around his fingers. He found that tight wrinkle inside her anatomy, that forbidden bit of her, that untouched part of her, and moved decisively into it with a low, appreciative sound. “Shut up, I’m close.” Heather’s eyes flicked to his. They begged him. But this only extracted a deep pulse from his dick, deep inside her. And in a jolt of clarity, knowing what he intended, knowing what he wanted: he bore into her. He shucked off all decency, all composure, all patience, and pounded savagely. Heather blacked out from the pain; she recovered. Her head swam, her insides churned. He was slack-jaw, lilting, drooling, his face bruisingly pressed into her neck. Her body knotted in agony; it creaked, and she felt a new sensation enter her: the vivid, tactile throb of his dick that sloughed off his venom and vitriol in long, powerful waves; his ejaculate pouring into her. Numbly, she stared at the ceiling. She felt raw, broken, virginal. He continued to bellow in rapture from her rape. He came. And, alarmingly, he didn’t stop. Until, it did. Only after invading her body like sinister ectoplasm, that is. He released. A sticky knot of blood and cum, cauterizing her rape, migrated down her legs. Heather trembled on broken sticky legs into the bathroom to clutch towels and wrap herself in them, bleeding, and in visceral pain, vomiting. The entire half of her was enameled with sticky ejaculate. She shined like a dying star. Heather had stopped hounding him for sex after that. How badly he could hurt her during penetration and fill her with an unending sea of ejaculation until the seams of her croaked under the liquid density and viscosity, was testament – for her – that he was demonic. It took her weeks to heal. But, she had forgiven for him that, too, because she did not know how not to. Then, finally – finally – one evening, as she sat on the couch, he had surged over her, his mouth traveling back down to her knees; down, lower, and then: to her mon pubis. And, Heather, distracted by the sheer physicality of it, had not observed the sudden bestial interest that flickered across his face. But, after a few moments of absorbing the sensations he had been giving her, she struck up in alarm: suddenly, it felt like a stranger between her legs. Their eyes had met in a palpable ripple. And he was as much a stranger then, as he had been on the bridle path, when those three little accursed words had been said. But who had said it? And the sexual anger emanating from him? Was it because she had said it; or because she had not responded to what had been said? In the dream, it was as though the confession had been spoken from a ghost’s lips. She could not place the voice. Heather could hardly remember. But she could hardly afford to forget. She made an intangible frown. The vision of the dream flickered. If she had said it first – If so, that would be her ultimate defeat. The hungry, wild demonic beast knocking at her door would use that power against her forever-more. Because: it was when his mouth had been parasitically fastened to her pussy, vigorously stroking her, producing a singularity of sensation, pulling a series of shrieking sounds, that as she had reached out a hand to push him, only to feel his tongue move viciously against her tenderness, and scrape her modest dove-soft flesh – (because his jaw never tired, and why would it with the scores of women he had consumed) — did he try to send her crashing down his throat. And, Heather remembered it. In a palpable undulation: the size of her collapsed; her vision knocked upward; her body plunged, and the pill - she had heaved down - suddenly injected into her system, spreading its poisonous kiss — just as his demonic lips had gaped, inverting her into his. And tasting the pill, his throat pulling it from her toes, he gagged. Spitting her back up. PresentHeather woke abruptly, rattled by the dream and interludes of memory. And the realization that she could remember the long procession of events that had tumbled free from her mental triage, for them to relentlessly expand, contract, and telescopically climax into the singular, vivid mental image of the void between his lips injecting the memory of how he had tried to eat her, then gag her back up, felt ominous, somehow. But, worse than that: she could not figure out where she was. Animated by a new feeling, one she did not quite understand, but felt compelled to pursue - and, she knew, it was urgent that she do so - looked up to discern a focal point. Strangely, she could not find one. Her eyes were unable to focus; it felt like a thin veil had been pulled across them. But, after several long moments, she realized she was staring at something alien but familiar. It was, she realized, a backdrop of orange and red leaves – no — her eyes narrowed and re-focused. She corrected herself. Those were not leaves. Those were flames. Her eyes widened. That was the fireplace. Their fireplace. The one endowed with so much memory, so much import, so much meaning from the canon of their relationship that she envisioned it as a proper noun capitalized – was - against all reason (because how did she get here? ) – emitting a stoic warmth – or, at least, she imagined that it was. Because she could not feel the heat from it. Feeling curiously insensate, she chalked it up to narcotic numbness. But what she did not have an explanation for was its appearance: it was infinitely wide and infinitely panoramic. She could make out its details, and understand it for what it was in a scientific, mathematical way. But there was something wrong with it. Something she did not understand. And that something was sliding across her skin. It was wrong. All of it was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And she was the thing that was wrong. She knew it; she felt it. All the wrongness flowed from her. She was the common denominator. The oddity. Everything looked normal. But she was strange. And, she was not entirely convinced it was the narcotics. No; there was something else alien happening. A burble of hysteria bubbled up in her. Maybe - maybe - it had all been a dream. Maybe, her dark liaison, her moody lover had never turned on her. Maybe, he had never thrown himself at her in a spasm of insanity, and, maybe he had never pulled her into his jaws. Maybe none of that had happened; maybe he had never tried to eat her; maybe she had never discovered the alien word endoscopy with its great terrible alien resonance; maybe – Heather’s brain clattered back against itself. How, then, did she know the word? And, why, then, was it making her feel deeply agitated? Vexed, she stretched along the hard – what? A hard surface? Of what? Her skin jumped. Was it not in a bed she was resting? How else did she slumber? How else did she dream?And, suddenly, she was back to the first thought, collapsing back down around the initial sequitur that had sent her down this mental corridor. Where am I? She took inventory of her surroundings. The ground beneath her: icy, cold. And the iciness was of a quality that suggested that it had once been wet. And why did the fireplace not penetrate this coldness? Why, instead of the warmth of the coverlet, or the emanation of the flames, was all she felt was this coolness? How could that be? How was she not feeling the heat? And why was her vision so blurry? Heather shivered and propped herself up with one arm. Oh my God. Her eyes widened. She could see the edges of her reality. Why did her reality actually have a delineated boundary? She reached a hand out, and – Jerked her hand back. She could touch it. There was tactility to her visual field. And, from this angle, she could trace the contours of it. In a silent, mounting terror, she visually traced the extrusion. And her flesh prickled with a blooming sense of horror. It felt like to her she was under a big-top tent; or domed cathedral. The extrusion overlapping her visual field - that she could touch, and feel - had a distinct tactility, but also a shape that seemed to distort everything. She craned her head back to follow the edges. The edges suddenly tapered in such a way that the objects of the room presented themselves as though they were bubbled ever-outward: optically distinct like the vanishing point on the horizon viewed through a cylindrical lens. Heather moved to her knees, crawling, inspecting. What had at first been presented to her as sheerness, and middle-space and a cloudy backwall - upon closer inspection – was a wall of… Almost like it was, it – The realization struck her down to her knees. The jolt of clairvoyance came together, full circle, with a terrible, chilling kind of alien logic that was so circular it could not be ignored:Where am I? I’m in a… Heather crawled herself through the sheerness, the elegant void, and crawling forward, and forward, on hands and knees, bent over, broken and ugly, crawling, because she couldn’t bring herself to stand, crawling, because she was unsure how to stand, crawling, until her forehead came to rest on the edge of her universe with a tink. No. She pushed her forehead against the invisible barrier that, with each successive pant, with each successive shriek, with each successive sob, was slowly blooming into existence before her: Her breath plumed, painting the invisible wall. Condensation gathered on the edges of the glass. Like a butterfly in a jar, Heather ticked against the glass. I’m… I’m in a cup. I’m in a fucking jar. She squealed her fingers down the sides. Faceless, poreless, gripless, her prison was infinitely cold, infinitely sheer. She had nothing to hold, nothing to grip, nothing to grab. A spasm of hysteria went through her.N-no no. She banged her fist against the walls. A spinning, dizzying fear shot through her. She tumbled backwards. She was in a vessel for drinking. I’m tiny again. Oh my god, I’m small. Author Note: This is why Danny "rejected" (ejected?) Heather 365 days agoStory Direction: Who said it first? (and, more importantly, does it matter?)We will find out in the next chapter, where we will indulgently plunge into macrophilia andmicrophilia perspectives in an extreme depth of field.
Evil Artisan craft
Skulls Retro Vintage Black Beige Serving Tray by alternative-rox
Skulls Retro Vintage Black Beige Wine Chiller by alternative-rox
Skulls Retro Vintage Black Beige Backpack by alternative-rox
Skulls Retro Vintage Black Beige Tote Bag by alternative-rox
Evil Comics Cartoons and flash
Emma promo by B4arts
page 45 n 46 Deep Gloom by B4arts
Grey Hoodie Girl by B4arts
Spider Gloom Concept by B4arts
Contest Folder
devil by MattiaTegonCreations
Monsters by Steff-Magalhaes
inside the fire by MattiaTegonCreations
Red by Elisanth
Digital Art 2 - Closed
Esclavos De La Muerte by DaniDreamerArt
Digital Art 3 - USE ME
Above and from Beyond by Joel-Bisaillon
Evil Fan Art II

Mature Content

Hero Forge Holidayz In Hell Cupid by Fire-Wolf-The-Wolgan
Evil Traditional 2 - USE ME
Wicked Inks | 11 The Wanderer by CinnamonDevil

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