A tangle of tusks, p.61
A Tangle of Tusks, page 61
My voice drops, my lungs working in sync with my heaving movements. "Now, fairy, you're gonna soak up my cum till the last drop." Her skin on mine feels like steam, and I'm nearing my boiling point.
As my belt creaks under her pull, her orgasm slams into us.
Heat spills out from under.
As promised, I release her throat, but instead of claiming her body as expected, her labored breath ruins it for me. "Don't come inside..."
I withdraw within a second, cum flowing.
"Bug..." Closing my eyes, I sigh softly before bringing her thighs together, concluding this short but fucking insane session. "Why the sudden angst? Nothing would've happened, and you know it."
After freeing her wrists, my gaze flicks from the belt sliding between the handles to her eyes. This was never a problem before. Fay knows it would take a divine intervention for her to fall pregnant. When the Gods mapped the gene pools, they forgot about the orcs, leaving us with no choice but to fuck to our heart's despair.
"The drugstores are closed. Couldn't get hold of the pill."
"Fay, you don't need the pill with me."
"There's a saying: two monsters in love, three in the pudding club. Miracles happen, and I'm taking zero risks," she says, her breathing refusing to slow.
Never heard of that, but I got the gist. My snigger comes out cold, eyes a skip from Fay's ear, unblinkingly, mostly burning the entrance door. I'd fucking love to have pudding all over me...
Ultimately, these swerve on her. And as I follow her gaze, evading me at a thread, she seems as absorbed by the window behind me as I was with the door. "Fay, don't say th—"
I'm cut off as the bright of her eyes climb on me. "The future's not looking great, bear..."
I blow, frustration rising through strands of blonde hair. Fay's stare, it's soft, yet—goddam—brutal. How can one continue this kind of conversation without flinching? A swarm of goosebumps breaks out inside my chest, destroying my face enough to have the urge to hide it. It's so violent my gaze drops in the sink.
"Speaking of the future..." Leaning my hips in for a quick rinse, I realize how reality is fast to poison the moment. "We need to talk."
Fay releases a sigh, and I'm still reordering my thoughts as to how I can explain the fucked-up mess going on without frightening her.
I tear a paper towel from a kitchen roll and run water over it––water that stops flowing after a few seconds. Authorities cut the water...
My cock still tingles as I run this homemade sponge over her face, chest, and inner thighs... and only as lust leaves me do I notice them thinner than when I last saw them. "Your bones are showing." I kept my grunts in check until now, but learning she was angst-ridden while I was away has me agitated.
"They're not. Stop fussing."
I snort as I open the trash cupboard. "Right..." and throwing the tissue, recenter our convo. "Now, I want you to open your ears."
"Listening." Her voice is suddenly so small, and I turn my head to her. There's a cut glazing the side of her right shoulder.
My teeth in greets, I slam the bin shut and grab her arm. "Who did this to you?" Her skin is warmer than usual and yet, she's shivering...
"It's no big deal," she says with a fleeting glance.
"Let me decide that."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Fay, I've had a strange day. Don't make it harder for me."
But she does, as the bluest of eyes come raiding my heart. "Donna unwillingly threw a broken bottle at me."
"Unwillingly..." Is that why the wolf was so indiscreet ten minutes ago? Grudging over. "Her eye?"
"Me..." she mutters as I release her hands and the cabinets from the belt.
I keep listening as I pull up my suit mid-waist and slide my belt into the belt loops. "It was an accident. Well, not really." She's sobbing now.
"Stay here."
Walking to the couch, I kick over a pile of clothing nearby. From the mess, recognizable lace, delicate and pink, catches my eye.
With pink panties in hand, I turn my head to a braided basket near the armrest. It's full of blankets and cushions no one ever seems to use. They're simple wraps, yet I'm now crouching, shuffling them, searching for a specific color. Green. She likes green.
Picking one out from the pile, this straw-like container tips and rolls to one side. Paws awake, immediately scattering on the parquet.
Growls are in the making. Breaking straws and gnawing wimps as well.
My head turns, nerves in a twitch. Cerberios is dragging the basket through the corridor, a gray blanket between one of his jaws, and sinks into its dark end like a scavenger. I'm about to roast this giant muskrat when a thin tinting of laughter like those of temples throws a wrench into my plans.
The smirk.
Hers hits me like a brick every damn time.
And I smirk back like the dumbstruck fool I am. Yet, anger fires another shot at me. I'm corroded with it, my bones walking without my consent on a mission code-named Fay. Everything in me feels mechanic, automated, as though reaching that paper-thin line between self-control and breakdown. Images of blood and Donna etch in my mind, chilling me to the marrow because I'm exhausted, the concept of control a mirage I can no longer see.
As Fay's legs hang, I take a knee to the ground and slip her feet in her underwear, racing my hands and this tiny elastic band right up to her thighs. I stand as I reach her hips, Fay bracing her arms around my neck as she lifts her backside.
"I'm not a baby, you know," she mutters against the shell of my ear.
I cup her chin. "You're a big baby." Fay's head rises instinctively to my touch. I let my smirk run unchecked, stretching every line and crease as I define it for her, "Mine."
"Then..." Our eyes meet, Fay's head swaying slightly as her voice slips into a drawl. "If that's the case..." sadness has left her eyes, and in its place burns a smoldering blue fire that I feel growing within me, "I accept."
My lips dip on hers.
She bites my lower, and I tuck in my chin, forgetting my name. It's like an emotional wrestling match with Fay and me fighting over who can offset the other the most.
"Who's the big baby now." She giggles.
"Bug, I'll be anything you want me to be." I cover her with the blanket despite my mind scalding.
Fay grapples at the sides of her shoulders to snag at the fabric. I help her. Fold it over her like a candy wrapper, crossing the hems over her chest. As I do, my fingers stumble over her arm. She winces, and everything goes back to being pure werewolf hatred.
"Glad you didn't back down without a fight." I'm evaluating the reasons I could skin a wolf... Fay's cut comes in straight-up valid. Donna touches her again, and it's a fur coat for her.
Fay stays silent.
In fact, she's been unusually quiet. I left behind a chatterbox and returned to find a little mouse in its place. The fault lies with me; I abandoned her—at least, that's how it feels, anyway—and that will never happen again.
"Come here." I swaddle her in my arms, feeling her wings vibrate against me as I lift her. "I forgot how much I never walk or flit when you're around," she says.
"You're so hard to track. Allows me to know exactly where you are."
Her lips flicker in response before settling her head against my elbow, the curb of her nape relaxing against the fold. She exhales a freeing rush of air, which my body instantly mimics.
Recently, I've begun carrying Fay in a way I never tire of doing: with two arms. Something orcs never do, the hand holding the axe always left free... But to me, she is my ax, a blade that spears every threat aimed at me. This feeling binds me for good when fingertips smooth up my torso like goddesses' shawls.
Tusks, lips, whatever of mine catches in her touch, waver in the crook of her neck, and for a second, maybe three, I close my eyes to her warm scent. "Dera'mhun.*"
Walking us to this wide window ledge she loves so much, I chase her eyes, and I fucking smile to know she's chasing my own. "Hunting me?"
She curls a finger around the arc of my brow. "Hunting you..." The rasp in her voice rolls up in my ears, and one twitches. "Tykerish." Little bear... I shouldn't teach her this shit. It bruises as much as it heals.
I keep staring at her, taking everything in my wake: stool, rug, a black bag lazing on the floor...
It's her pull; it's too strong. She reminds me of Orcana and its skies of thunder, the endless grass plains, and their tall blue blades, constantly quivering in the cold breeze. Crisp, calm, and unpredictable...
"Bear..." trails off her lips, and there's nothing but her now, echoing in me like I'm a canyon.
My feet, blind, collide with the radiator, but it's a hit that doesn't break our gaze.
Only dawn's gust dares to swath over us. I try to ignore it, but its sharpness is begging for attention, enough to steal my gaze from Fay onto the gray tarmac. Even the window is broken...
I sit us down. My little bug keeps wiping her tears, so I dig a little black flower out of my pocket. "I don't want to hear any of your girly squabbles. Take this. It's a Blackore Datura. Grows on ash." Black or red, not one petal isn't creased and torn...
Fay's eyes brighten, and I remember why I fell in love with her. "It's beautiful."
11 INCHES
DONNA
Ilean against the door as it shuts, releasing a long blast of air.
My two mugs should be full of rich, steaming coffee, but they're cold and cloudy.
"All good, Donna?"
Is 'good' eleven inches of orc cock having a morning stretch into my roommate? If yes, then... "All is good, Deon."
My eyes flutter to ten restless red toes fanning the air, up to crossed legs, ripples of broad abs, and pause on two hulking slabs of flesh punctured by sharp black nipples. It is not out of lust that I pass my tongue over my lips, but of discomfort. I'm questioning if what I'm seeing is real. It makes me want to drop my cups of black piss and cross my fingers behind my back, hoping he doesn't notice how much I like him this way. Those in my situation would either jump on him or squabble undecipherable words before melting in a pool of their own gushy, emotional self. I'm still looking for something honorable to say while avoiding, at all costs, the stammering or the meek 'Yes, and you?'
Locking his hands behind his head, Deon husks, "Come here, doll. Tell me what's wrong." The color of his talking smirk matching his scruffy, bristly... plentiful, thick, soft hair, yet somehow naturally preened and lustrous like fresh black polish, as if he's a sort of model posing naked for the camera... Yes, the total Monster's Health magazine cover story, titled "How I got to sleep next to an animal girl allergic to sex."
Stop panicking, Donna!
I try to say something that could make sense, but nothing comes to mind.
Even more, as my eye twitches to that oversized chilly-red cock between his legs, still pushing up to the sky. It's hard to divert my gaze because my favorite food is spicy!
"Tell me why you're frowning, girl?" he asks with a not-so-innocent tone.
"Can't you hear?" My back is still plastered against the door as if it could prevent those female roars from sliding through the cracks of this thin, thin door or Deon's mast from bludgeoning my eye.
"Aww."
"Hear what?"
"Are you deaf?" I cock my head dramatically to another row of Ahhs coming from Fay. "Moans!"
"Ah. I bet those neighbors are having a great time." He chuckles. "Maybe we could, too." His hand taps in short, obscene sequences against the side of his thigh, and my glare shoots to his face.
He winks, biting his lower lip, the visual of it sending a legion of goosebumps over my body. And I'm starting to panic as this is often a forerunner of my shifting.
"Deon." I walk to him, determined to break him of the notion with a good wank. "Do you do it deliberately?"
"Do what, babe?"
Babe?
This demon raises his head to me, two shiny black beads smiling as I tower above him, breathing like a bagpipe.
Deon slips a hand under my shorts, and I jump when he clamps it around my upper thigh, his snare knocking the air out of my lungs, shutting my flustered brain down, turning me into a molten hairball of nothing. "Girl, your thighs are the wardrobe to Narmia..."
Trembling grips my mugs. "Narmia? The movie?" My stomach heaves, my top stains with coffee as I quiver from his warmth, his claws sticking into my skin, making me cough awkwardly.
"Yeah. Let me open them and let my third leg walk in..."
"Idiot!" I pull his pointy ear. The charade may end if I rip it off!
Apparently immune to pain, Deon grabs me by the hips, my feet staggering dangerously as my knees hit the bed frame. "Pull harder," he says as I drop over him.
I don't know what to do. Now sprawled over Deon, he doesn't wait for my top to lift. "Am I your idiot?" he rasps, fighting with my grip as I struggle to keep my T-shirt on, coffee surfing over the sheets and us. As for the cups, I just let them go because I need my hands!
I grab his horn. "You little shit. Never miss an opportunity, do you?" I grate, shaking his head like a coconut.
"Can't help it." He may be whining, but his cock is vibrating against my belly, and I'm already shifting like a weakling because every time he touches me, desire can't help bubbling up.
My pajamas tighten until the elastic band of my shorts snaps and my top tears.
"Those moans don't ring your bell?" I growl as I release his head, which drops like a stone onto the pillow.
"No, but you can ring my bells." Deon removes a piece of my shredded purple T-shirt from his face and cups my wolf face. "See? Nothing wrong with this form. Look how gorgeous you are."
Fucking glad to be covered in grizzly hair because my cheeks are burning like two pans on fire!
Would he still think I'm beautiful if I chopped off his throat?
My fangs go into his neck, incensed.
"Fuck, Donna. Bite me."
What?!
I push back and cuff his thigh in one clamp because, yes! I shifted. I drag him off the bed, wings threshing as this demon cat lands on his fours. "Get up. Tyke is back."
"A hand, please."
I look down, Deon extending his arm for a lift.
There's a trap here.
Look at those round, forlorn eyes, his nakedness calling innocence, a tail curving around... my back paw.
I submit to his imploring gaze.
His hand wraps around mine, and as he does, his fingers close over my wrist, claws snapping out as he does.
He tugs me gently enough to let me decide if I want to go down with him. I'm stuck on his fingers and how his nails protracted into claws as he closed his grip over my wrist.
I sit on my knees while Deon stands on his. "Deon..." I grunt to lips brushing against my fur-coated neck.
"One kiss. Just one," he rasps.
"One," I say as I cup his cheeks.
I bring his head up and lick his lips till these turn to laps, and he squeezes me like a fluff toy.
"I need to be touched by you, Donna. You don't understand."
"Stop talking."
As we entwine our tails and I kiss him, I think about how much I wish every morning was like this...
Even the warring ones.
TO DEATH
FAY
Aflower that grows from ash...
Never purchased. Given. Worth in heartbeats, Tyke's gift are the most precious, be it a polished seashell, a collection of wooden dragonflies he carved himself, rubber bands... I pull back a chuckle, even if it was soft, to know Tyke believes them to be trinkets.
"It wasn't supposed to look like that," he says, scratching behind his neck.
"Tyke." I wipe some remnants of tears away and, leaning into him, whisper, "It's real. It's raw. It's perfect."
How he looks at me. It's like someone scrutinizing a wild animal, sizing me up with his gaze. And I don't mind; his parting lips don't hurt, either... I trap a smile between sucked cheeks, contemplating him in return. And I fight a frown. Blood––wiped, not gone, as if he washed his face in haste—stains the upper arc of his eyebrow. A cluster of small pigments dot the right side of his chin, bloating down his throat. My consciousness burns at this detail, worse, the question 'what happened?' hanging at the edge of my lips. Five times now, I asked about his missions when he returned from service. 'Can't talk about it,' kept coming like an automated answering machine. So I won't ask, won't tire him with it. Cuts and bruises... they never stay far from Tyke, anyway. It's all part of the game, police and all, right?
"Fay?" The number of times I've patched him up, knowing the police don't handle his medical care when wounded during service. In exchange for serving, they let his kind die in a corner. The irony.
"Bug, where are you now?" It bites at my nose bridge, and I tilt my head back to realize Tyke's teeth nicked me. "Don't faze out. Stick with me."
"Present."
"Where is your bag? I'll get it for you while you change." Tyke scans the flat and pauses on Deon's spear, thoughtful.
"Can we talk a bit?"
"Later," he says, eyes still resting on the weapon.
"Please. Things have been happening lately," I say as I look down at my flower. It has hardly any petals left, smashed, so mangled that its black and red color stains my fingers like blood.
"And they'll keep happening, bug."
A violent tear wants to burst forth. I don't want another war. I don't want another war. I don't.
War. Quince. Blood. N—
"Bug. It's okay to cry." Tyke's skin is warm. I know this to be an actual fact, because his hand is suddenly pressed against my chest, an arm under my T-shirt. "Calm down." He seems to know precisely what I'm thinking because he keeps his hand there, reading my pulse, trying to measure my heartbeats: the way orcs are taught how to read their loved ones.
My wings tingle, a curtain of tight-knit pixie dust thickening between us. But even as they come down—not as waves, not as levitating particles, but as round stones of light—I see him. I see him whole. Black gold sifts through my eyes. Soon, streams of gilded metal fall like rain, sheeting down through my very being until there's nothing beyond it for me to grasp. All I can discern is relief, and for a moment, my anxiety leaves.
