Stories

In the World’s Roots

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay   .)

“Oh, little angel … this is such a place to find you in, here down among the world’s roots. Why would you let yourself fall so far, my dear? There is nothing here for one like you.”

She whirls, looking for the voice’s source—but her halo is so dim. She can’t see a thing.

“I’m not your dear!” she yells, glaring at where she thinks the voice came from—a matted tangle of roots and thorns and filthy wood. “And I’m not fallen. I’m on a mission.”

idk just some demon smut

Her hand on your cheek as she guides you down, careful to keep her claws just away from your skin. You’re so close to her, lost in the heat of her body and the smell of her delicious spicy musk.

It’s almost too much as you settle onto your knees and look up at her, at the marbled purple and red of her body and the ample fullness of her breasts and the horns curling from her head far above; she’s so large, so strong. She could break you without even trying, and the thought of that always makes your heart quiver and your cheeks burn.

It Wasn’t Supposed To Be Fair

It regards you from behind the free-standing mirror, its long-beaked skull quizzically tilted; you weren’t supposed to summon it again before your half of the deal came due. But—

You’re careful not to stutter as you speak, as hard as that is.

“You tricked me, and I want out.”

Its shoulders shake, and it takes you a few moments to realize that It is silently laughing at you.

“It’s not funny!” you sputter. “The power and wealth you gave me wasn’t what I thought it would be—you wrote the contract to be unclear, and took advantage of me!”

In A Quiet Café

It’s not HER, of course, not even one of HER acolytes; just some thing with a long-beaked mask wearing one of HER lesser aspects. But It’s still the closest you’ve ever gotten to HER, the closest you can safely get, and Its presence is intoxicating—

Or maybe that’s just what you Know is inside the slim briefcase sitting on the floor next to It.

It’s tapping Its pen on the table, waiting, the last drops of blood draining from the attached no-longer-sterile lancet—

Catalyst

It takes more hits to break the glass than you expected, but you always were weak, and it doesn’t help that you’re so worried about overcommitting and tearing your arm open.

When it finally breaks you knock the fragments out of the frame before reaching in to unlock the door.

It’s weird being here at night, when the store is quiet and dark; the soft glow of an exit sign pulses above you, reflecting off the countless shelves which line the space. The jars and vials which fill them almost to bursting shimmer like prisms in the light.