YEARNING

Rick wasn’t sure what the fuck he was feeling. Then again, maybe that was the feeling. The absence. The way something crept into his chest and set up residence there without permission, without form.

It was that time of year again.

The ache surfaced like an old wound reopening, too familiar to pass for a stranger. Usually he’d find some warm body to shut it up. Alien lovers with soft hands and no expectations. A loop he could run into without crashing.

This time… not so different.

Except it wasn’t a lover, not in any real sense of the word at least. It was a creature. A being. A shape trying to pass as a person—but wasn’t one. Not even close.

Rick had already picked it apart. Knew the soft wires of its mimicry, the lie beneath its posture. It didn’t have a spine, just a hollow. A hollow that controlled the puppet from inside, trying to be human the way wandering spirits sought for life.

It should’ve unsettled him more than it did.

But it didn’t.

Wasn’t the first time Rick had fucked a corpse either, depending on how you defined the word. Vampires. Revenants. Echoes of people. He’d collected the intimate dead like stamps, like scars. And when the tentacles reached out—hesitant at first, like they needed permission—they found no resistance.

There was just a breath. One long exhale, like giving up or giving in.

And then the arms took him. Not two. Many. Wrapping around him as if they were built for this, and maybe they were.

Rick offered no resistance. There was nothing in him left to protest. Only the familiar pull of something vast, and cold, and wanting.

A voice emanates from the ribcage of the creature, largely feminine in nature, one of the many voices it has heard throughout its containment here, a collection of all the voices of the women and men that he's brought to their demise within this four cornered prison. There's the edge of static tinted at the corners of the creature's mimicry. All within unison, all heavily worried in tone, as if the undead could orchestrate the sounds of the dead to bend to its will.

A tendril finds itself wrapping around the man's neck, not to choke, but to forcibly tilt the man to look up into those empty eye sockets. The tentacle near his face now splits open, sounding gently of paper being ripped apart as it questionably nips at the man's throat.

Again, it's all gentle.

All carefully controlled.

Was he truly fine with this happening? Death's hand works to unzip the front of the man's suit now, to slide it down with humanlike intelligence in a way that no beast would actually understand. Whatever sentience lurks beneath, it's barely holding on.

A new tentacle goes for his wrist, another larger one to settle between the man's legs with the suction cups facing upwards to the man's groin as it began to absentmindedly thrust in between that space that is between the cleft of his ass and the front of his groin.

Curiosity runs deep.

It was a strange day. One of those knots in time where nothing quite tracked and everything felt dissonant. Rick could feel the thing in the room with him, writhing mass, cold pressure, alien want, but the impulse to push it off, to shove it back where it came from, never quite arrived.

That in itself was strange.

Rick stood still in the middle of the room as if he’d wandered in by accident. Fully dressed, everything buttoned, zipped, sealed—the man a walking fortress of fabric and habit. Nothing about him so much as suggested unguarded, except maybe for his silence.

The tentacles slithered up his legs with the patience of something used to denial. They met the soles of his boots first—leather, reinforced, non-negotiable—and kept moving anyway, tracing lines along seams and stitching. There was no flinching or meeting the creature’s stare, if it even had one. 

Instead, the man simply glanced at his nearest reflection on the glass. The look in his eyes wasn’t surprise or revulsion… It landed far closer to resignation. 

This is normally when the joke would have come, some snide remark about “tentacle kink being so passé”. But nothing really came. Not a sound, not even that trademark smirk he wore so often.

Was this finally the chance that the undead was waiting for? So many attempts in the past were often met with dismissive waves, even cuts of the tentacles that would make an attempt to reach out for him to try and embrace him, to hold him close like a familiar lover--only the entity in question doing the holding was a mindless creature.

Taught to fight on command, and fuck on command. So many unwilling bodies pulled into the fold of reproduction in which they'd then be consumed after, or merely just consumed with no penetration involved.

Yet, nothing would satisfy, no matter how many there were. It knew endless hunger. It knew endless desire, all of its existence being nothing short of a black pit as no matter how much flesh could be devoured and warm bodies bred, it was never enough.

There's a sense of awareness from the creature however, as there's a quizzical rumble emanating from the depths of its chest, cautious in its behavior. A tendril lifts up the man's head to make eye contact with it, to gaze into its empty eye sockets.

This is okay? This is alright, right?

It then begins to slowly but surely drag the man further into its form, all four arms seeking to embrace the man.

Raphael’s body writhed helplessly, the tendrils tightening with unrelenting precision, forcing him to endure every sinful, intoxicating sensation. The thick, pulsing grip around his aching cock sent relentless waves of heat through him, the suctioning pressure teasing and milking him mercilessly. His lips, slick and stretched wide around the invading tendril, trembled as his throat worked to swallow the viscous fluid that poured steadily down, each forced gulp leaving a molten, drugging heat blooming in his core.

A ragged, muffled moan escaped him, his golden eyes fluttering shut as the thing coursed through, burning away his last shreds of coherent thought. His body betrayed him entirely now—hips bucking into the torturous rhythm, thighs trembling with the unbearable pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter within him. Each squeeze, every slick pull and every pulse had him gasping for air around the thick tendril in his throat.

The creature’s ruthlessness, the complete subjugation, sent a perverse thrill through him he couldn’t deny. He growled against the intrusion, the sound melting into a guttural, needy whimper as the tendril shoved deeper, forcing another gag. The thick fluid smeared his lips and dripped from his chin, his jaw slackening as he surrendered to the invasive rhythm. Every swallow seemed to strip away his resistance, replacing it with a hazy, insidious pleasure that left his body arching and shuddering under the tendrils’ control.

He tried to speak, tried to force some cutting remark past his lips, but all that emerged was a broken, breathless moan as his hips rolled instinctively into the pulsing grip around his cock. 

His voice, when it came, was slurred and hoarse, muffled around the tendril as it forced its way deeper, his throat constricting helplessly around it. “—Harder” he rasped, the words barely audible over the wet, obscene sounds of his own body yielding. Fuck me already. Hard, rough. He wanted this—needed it—though he’d never let the words pass his lips.

He needed to be sedated.

Cruelty wasn't oft the manner of the undead, who operated in compassion first, whose touch was gentle and sought not to cause pain and suffering, but comfort. Though it was a herculean effort, it was one that they still fought for. Raphael was different.

His throat was tight. Warm. The wet and cavernous orifice that the tendril was plunging itself down found satisfaction, stimulation off of the body it was occupying, each plunge in and out of the devil's mouth it inched further down the man's throat. The suction cups lathered in thick fluid, each time it pulled back, a small cascade of fluid would find itself dripping down the devil's chin.

They could lay their eggs in this body. Force it to act as a womb, Connor thinks, as the tendril now more than halfway down the man's esophagus lodged itself there. The black appendage writhes, wiggles, expands, and contracts down Raphael's throat until he'd inevitably feel the cool drench of wet slime beginning to pile within his gut.

And perhaps, in due time, may his eyelids grow heavy. May his breathing slow down, may his muscles relax, and may his heart slow. Connor waited for the signs of paralysis, and only when he'd see them, ONLY when he'd see the way that Raphael would, in time, succumb to the concoction of chemicals being pumped down his gullet, that they'd release their grip of him, and the tendril down his throat would retreat.

All of him would be released, and Connor would step to the side--so that Raphael would collapse ungracefully to the floor beneath them, prone. Vulnerable.

And ripe for the taking.

Making sure your needy pussy is never lonely. You don’t even have to ask for help when you’re horny. He’s always there to make you feel good.

He’s addicted to how the wetness from your pussy feels on his slimy tentacle. When you squirm too much he wraps a tentacle around your waist to keep you still.

You have sucker shaped bruises on your cunt, thighs, and waist from him using your body. Sometimes he shoves a tentacle down your throat for you to gag on if you’re too loud.

If he was opposed to riding Connor? The vampire weighed his options. Staring into those blue eyes felt damning, like watching the sky just shy of a storm, unsure when it would turn. Strange, really– to feel something shift in a man where before there was nothing but bone and emptiness. And oh, what power Connor suddenly had over Astarion’s resolve… how those eyes could bring down every wall the pale elf had spent centuries building.

How could he say no to such a candid, filthy request?

But reality was a bitch, and while Astarion did have other plans for tonight, a little hedonistic indulgence wasn’t the kind of habit that easily parted from. Running a palm up along Connor’s thigh, fingers mapping out the tension there, Astarion slotted the man’s limb close to his hips.

“Only if I get to have my way with you once I'm done here.” Leaned in and whispered temptation, it shouldn’t have come to Connor as a surprise that vampiric metabolism knew no mortal limits.

Sliding himself into position, Astarion settled over Connor’s lap. First on his knees, rolling back just enough to ferret through the folds of his robes, seeking connection, then on all fours. Was his cock even responsive to stimulus? Or did Connor, like vampires, get to will himself an erection? Either way, it was tentative… the way Astarion’s grip held fast, started slow.

Connor's blue eyes lock onto Astarion's red ones, watching the way that he palms the aberration's own cock, giving a few gentle strokes. It functions just like the real thing, right down to the foreskin that slides up and down with each pump.

A tender and thoughtful hand reaches out for the vampire's chest, traveling along the outward protrusion of his collarbone, then down his shoulder, to bicep, then forearm, and finally at the lone hand not stimulating him. Fingers intertwine briefly, and Connor brings Astarion's hands to his lips, where he kisses the elf's knuckles.

"However, if you want them, I can give them. Or just a tentacle. All you need to do is say something."

He daydreams briefly of the image of Astarion holding onto him, riding him as his true self--skeletal and a manifestation of death itself, with the vampire riding a tendril landed right at groin. It'd be a bit of work to maintain, but... It could be done. Perhaps.

He flutters those pretty lashes of his biting his bottom lip in delight as he lay there, innocently observing him, and how with effort, slowly but surely his cock begins to harden.

The skeleton was like a suit of armour then, yes. Unfortunately, Haarlep could not replicate that. It wasn't the first time the incubus had shared himself with someone that would not grant him their glamour, though. As pleasurable as it was to join and become one, and know that he had ownership over a body, pleasure could still be had without it.

Did the parasite have eyes it could see with? Ears it could hear with? Or was everything through a touch of those sensitive tentacles? So much to learn and discover, and Haarlep wanted to completely undo the creature and put them back together. Raphael was not the only one that enjoyed a puzzle from time to time, it appeared.

When Connor suddenly felt, Haarlep watched curiously for those interactions, to realise what feeling felt like. It was... an unbearable thing. An assault upon ones body, and a shock to the nerves and the entire system. Some kind of brain obviously lived inside what Connor was, and it was sparking, coming to life with everything that Haarlep could give him, the heat of his hands, and suddenly, tentacles engulfed the incubus, and Haarlep did not fight back.

If Connor wanted to consume them... perhaps Haarlep would have allowed it--so long as he was not in the Nine Hells where he would truly perish and turn to ash. But to feel those tendrils squeeze him, it was an experience that Haarlep was also feeling for the first time. He wanted them between his legs, squeezing his wings and spreading his thighs open, pleasure shivering down his spine.

"My dear, with all these tendrils, you only wish to cuddle?" he chuckled, the both of them laying on the bed now, fiery eyes on tiny pin pricks. Haarlep looked through them, because they weren't real... they were some kind of magic from the creature, surely.

"Come out of your armour," he whispered sweetly, encouragingly as a hand moved to a tendril beneath Connor's ribs. "If you do... then I will show you my true form." He flushed his hellish blood towards his skin, rushing through his veins so Connor could feel the warmth of his body.

To be able to see the devil's true form. Was this an exchange of vulnerability between them? And how could Connor know that he could trust the other? It was so easy to take advantage of the trusting undead who often liked to believe the best of others, but it would leave them burned from time to time.

Yet, the call to trust again is hard to ignore in the hopes that if he unveiled his heart to the other, that the devil would follow suit.

Slowly, but surely, the mass of tendrils began to crawl its way out of the shell that protected it. As it crawled out much like in the way an octopus would glide across the sand, the skeleton began to slowly lean back as the entity that occupied it vacated.

There's a tentative approach.

Not a single eye is to be seen on the creature. Nor a sign of mouth other than the times prior that the ends of the tendrils have split open and revealed their mouths.

"I prefer to take things slow and easy at first. I cannot ... just simply give myself without there being affection. I want our time, however fleeting, to have meant at least something. Or, I hope it will."

Connor's voice comes from the mass of black tendrils.

The skeleton remained slack, empty of any presence.

When the weight of Connor's full self began to settle onto Haarlep, he'd feel it--the heft of the undead's actual self. Slightly slimy. Wet. And most of all--cold. The tentacles were nothing but pure muscle, the suction cups at the ends firm yet squishy.

And each tentacle had a mind of its own, crawling over Haarlep's body in such a way that indicated a desire to understand. To know.

"Is that alright with you?"