flesh, nature, and thermoplastic 🔞

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Hatchling | 30's | Lurker | Writer | Fandom Old Contains 🔞 content, minors will be blocked on sight Icon by https://bsky.app/profile/plaguedpriest.bsky.social Neocities: https://hatchling524.neocities.org/

So I guess it kinda goes without saying by now: my hiatus from the Ultrakill fandom will be continuing indefinitely. I didn't want it to come to that because there's so much more I wanted to write for it. But I don't know how I'm supposed to continue creating for a fandom wherein a majority of its denizens consider me "unapproachable", and it's been very difficult to motivate myself to write anything for it lately as a result. Maybe the release of the 1.0 version of the game will bring me back in, but as of right now, I'm keeping my distance. Don't expect any further activity from this account for the time being.
The compartment directly next to their designated 'junk' drawer is mostly V1's, home to an assortment of dildos, old vibrators in all shapes and sizes, and their designated charging cords. Gabriel had added a few of his own over the course of the century, but the mesh zip-bag shoved in the very back corner of the repository has yet to be opened since its original discovery. The warmachine runs a lightning-fast simulation, and quickly unzips the top. They find the correct piece of the complete ensemble immediately and pull it out before sealing it again. From there, it's a simple matter of stepping into the leg openings and shimmying the garment up their thighs. Their foot slides the drawer shut as they hook the delicate waistband over their hips, snug against their plating but easily hidden beneath the fabric cascading down their frame. Perfect timing, for Gabriel's approaching footsteps resound through the doorway. V1 forces their posture to relax, tucking their Knuckleblaster hand behind their other arms as subtly as they can manage. The warmachine sucks in a deep, needless breath through their fans— And lets it out in a stuttering rush as their fiance rounds the corner, coming to stop before them in all his two-point-one meters glory.
“Greedy thing.” He huffs with vague disgust, and grins wildly as a subtle shiver rattles their plating. Gabriel grabs a handful of their cotton skirt, rucking it up their thighs and hips. “So desperate to take my cock--” Whatever else he had on the tip of his tongue shrivels and dies into a reedy sound, just as surprised as it is hungry. For stretched across their pelvic plating is saffron-hued silk and fine mesh. Simple blue flowers are stitched into the transparent material, allowing just a peak at their already exposed folds. “... don't tell me you made this, too.” Gabriel blurts for a lack of any other words he could possibly conjure, for his mouth has become quite dry all of a sudden. V1’s shoulders shake in silent laughter, assuaging his shock with a negative motion of their Knuckleblaster. “WAS SAVING IT FOR A SPECIAL OCCASION.” V1 admits, staring up at him in sensual fervor through their half-lidded eye. “TODAY WAS A GOOD TIME AS ANY.” “I certainly agree,” The archangel's free hand shifts to grip their thin hip, marveling for what must be the thousandth time at how his palm engulfs their plating. “Speaking of ‘special occasions’... “ He’s been practicing; all it takes is picturing it, now. Brilliant blue light, an extension of his will alone, shimmers into existence beneath his dress, pushing the hem up. The thick, curving head of his dick grinds against the joint between their cunt and their thigh as it’s spun into being. A manic giggle escapes him as their optic widens with shock.
By the time they've finished preening his feathers, Gabriel has cleansed them of viscera and fine golden dust. He then draws them deeper into the lake, until they're climbing up onto his torso as his legs swoop upwards from the surface below. V1 scrabbles higher up his chest, and they watch his wings splay in either direction. Balance found, they pump downward, just enough to bring them floating away from the shores. A cloudless sky warms their back, the waters below cools their side. Somewhere in the middle, where their steel presses against Gabriel’s scarred flesh, they feel just right. Lulled into a standby state, they slip into the annals of their short-term memory, letting the everything they had experienced in the past eight hours or so upload into their solid state drives. Compared to the first twenty years of their time at Gabriel's side, it has become a more frequently-needed action. Simply due to the fact that a single, but ultimately harmless, downside had come with their life-saving memory upgrade: Converting digital information into genetic format takes two-point-four seconds longer than it would copying it onto electronic-based banks. For small amounts of data, the time difference is virtually unnoticeable, but for larger chunks, such as a day's worth of video and photos, newly updated battle data, and whatever musical compositions they've hammered out or edited, the extra seconds can add up very quickly. The change in processing time was, at first, a drastic adjustment, one they had to cultivate much more patience for than they think they would have during their period of hard-ingrained survival. It culminated to a day's worth of sleep mode the first time Gabriel
On some long-tempered instinct, their paths part ways no sooner do they reach the exact middle of the arena. V1 counts sixteen paces to match ten of Gabriel's longer strides, and as one, turn to face each other. "STANDARD RULESET?" They inquire. "One small change." Gabriel plants the blunt end of the halberd into the dust, leaning against it with a strangely indifferent air. "The loser of this match has to bottom next time." Even as his words kindle electric-hot anticipation in their wires, V1 leers at him with unguarded skeptism. He's definitely got some kind of ulterior motive; they're not sure what it is, but he's acting far too casual for such a high-stakes wager. Regardless of their suspicions, they readily tuck their Whiplash and Knuckleblaster behind their back, and his bright blue wings remain entirely out of sight. The warmachine mimics his display of skill, twirling one handle of their blades right after the other, before falling into a battle-ready stance. Gabriel follows suit, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he shifts the halberd to a two-handed grip. Modified calculations load out for both his weaponry and the lack of their own, wings flaring outward in challenge, and then Gabriel darts forward in a blur of blue and yellow.
Only once before has Gabriel felt his maker's anger in such magnitude. How it had rolled over him in hot, thick waves, sharp licks of heat lashing at what skin he had bared at the time. The skies of the Primum Mobile had flashed hot red, a dire prelude to the bloodshed that would follow. Gabriel had not been expecting it then, nor to experience it again so soon after the first. Hours after the fact, the air is still uncomfortably hot, dark clouds blot out what would have been a normally beautiful sunset, and a crimson glow still emits from the heart of Eden, igniting all that is good and green with flameless fire. Still does he continue his patrol, for he has not yet been given the order to stop. Six, seven, eight, pivot. The final two steps of his post have crumbled away to rubble, leaving a gaping wound here in the east wall of the enclosure. Here, verdant grass gives way to cracked earth and lifeless dust. The Father's
Someday soon, he'll die alone and forgotten. One last corpse atop countless others in a haunted city. An unwavering destiny to purge an ancient plague at the cost of his life; the only way it should have ended. He doesn't want to think about it; he doesn't want to think about anything. Firm muscles tense slightly when his hand lands on a bare thigh beneath the water, trailing upwards in the next moment. He moves slow, half-convinced his unexpected advance to be rejected. It's late; the others are not far off and sound can carry remarkably well here despite the ambience of splashing water all around-- “Yeah?” Breathes the other, a husky undertone coloring his question already. Beheaded’s palm lands atop Drifter's, coaxing it up to curl around the jut of his hip. There's a telltale flicker of rosy tangerine at the edges of his flames, the wanderer wonders if he'd been waiting for this all along. In the deepest pit of his gut, Drifter knows this isn't healthy; using the other as a distraction whenever the claws of death run down his spine in cruel reminder. But what did it matter? Before this was all over--before they at last saved their homes and finally parted ways--he’d be long gone; dead from circumstances that have never once been in his control. What he did between now and his forgone conclusion would ultimately not change a thing about it. It's this thought that pushes Drifter to close the distance between them, and in turn, Beheaded meets him somewhere in the middle.
The ride back down to Earth's surface no longer phases them in any capacity, but despite the precautionary measures, the birds within the covered crate make their displeasure about it known the moment they touch down. V1 steps out of Gabriel's hold readily, leaving the task of calming the agitated laridae to him. Ten paces away, to the north of this rocky shoreline cast in the immediate aftermath of a post-storm sunset, is one of the tidepools they know Gabriel has been painstakingly restoring. Compared to the gulls, the small crab seems to have handled the disorienting experience with a greater deal of grace. They fish it out first, and hold it in their palm a moment longer for one last photo. It scuttles away the moment it's set down, beelining for where the ocean breaks against the stretch of stone. V1 lets it go, and promptly dumps the rest of the contents of their chosen vessel into the isolated pool. They turn around again to check on their husband, who stands beside the crate with one hand settled atop its solid surface. Between the thin wooden bars, they can see the crowded, feathery mass inside shift about in restless agitation as long-suppressed instincts begin to kick in. V1 thinks they can understand them; how the call of an open sea and endless skies can be just as powerful an inclination as the siren song of bloodfuel. But Gabriel does not yet open it, even as his fingers slide across the roof of the cage to the simple latch.
And to think they might've gone their whole existence without ever knowing of this. One-hundred-and-ten hertz worth of vibrations quake against silicone and metal, prompted entirely by the nonstop raking of their metal fingers down impossibly soft organic fibers. It burrows down into their processors and reverberates in their audials with an unending rhythm. There's no line of code nor dedicated subroutine relevant to their intended functions that signifies this rumbling should be satisfying or pleasing, but it does anyway. What do they care about the logistics so long as it doesn't stop? Burrowed into their thin neck is another happy little ball of floof, not purring but napping contentedly. A third has snuggled into the crook of their Whiplash and side, resting its tiny chin on the strip of light beneath their designated moniker. V1 swears it's smiling in its own way, amber eyes shut and long, tipped ears twitching in answer to Gabriel's piano tuning not five meters away. The one they shower with attention is longer and bigger than any of the others cuddled up to their warm plating. Many animals of Paradise had been born in this timeless realm, and many more had once spent a lifetime on the mortal Earth. Funny, how the flow of time could change the appearances of creatures based on habitat and climate, bring about a breed of feline so… majestic compared to their dissimilarly patterned ancestors. Fluffier fur, more shades of gray in her stripes than sandy brown, a sweeter face and longer whiskers. Is it possible to fall in love with something so quickly?
"Life doesn't get any better than this." Somewhere beyond the distant din of thrumming music and the long shadows of half-working bathroom lights, some background subroutine manages to form this particular thought. It floats through the lusty haze that's currently taking up most of V1's processing power, triggering another trickle of reward signals; one more related to overall contentness with the current moment than those related to coitus. It only spurs both their primary arm and Feedbacker to move a modicum faster, prompting an uptick in respiratory intake from the human standing to their left. Audials narrow down to the obscene sounds of slickened shafts being stroked relentlessly, and another thick glob of rapidly-cooling cum dribbles off the rim of their optic. It lands on the black, latex miniskirt bunched-up around their thighs. It pools into a smaller puddle accumulated in one of the wrinkles, unable to escape onto the dirty tiles below their knees. Not for the first time, V1 desperately wishes their plating was capable of absorbing it, despite how much they relish in being positively soaked in it. A notion reinforced ten-fold when the human on their right unexpectedly climaxes first, white seed splattering on their optic lens as the slick shaft in their hand throbs insistently. They continue flexing their wrist for another five seconds, milking the human for all he's worth before letting go.
There's a hall-length mirror that stretches from the dressing room corridor to an approximate six meters from the backstage, presumably as a final checkpoint for performers to check their appearances. A single lightstrip frames its aluminum-backed length, scrolling through preset colors in a never-ending cycle of pink-purple-aqua hues. It is this very spot that V1 stops to examine themselves a final time, eye roving over their striking figure. Their experimental steel shifts color every five-point-seven seconds, but other than the changes in palette, they look virtually the same. Vaguely human-shaped, bright red veins cross-crossing their body, eight wings that splay from their pack. It hasn't changed since the day they took their first steps, aware of the schematics of their own body, and yet unable to self-actualize until they saw their own reflection for the first time. The figure in the mirror shifts their weight from one foot to another, hip jutting out cockily as the warmachine lifts their hand to lay upon it. It brings their attention to the fine, black lace that clings tight to their pelvic plating, spanning the rest of their torso in a deep V. Delicate, monochrome threads are accented by a million tiny stars, brushed expertly upon the blue of their unyielding metal. They glimmer rhythmically in the lights rolling across that acrylic strip. V1 lifts a hand to one of the straps hugging their middle, hooking it beneath their index finger. It's then pulled away from where it was snagged slightly beneath one of their veins. It's just a little too snug, obstructing optimal blood flow throughout their body by about two-point-one less from resting RPM-averages. But for a moment, they hold it there a heartbeat longer than necessary, capturing
V1 pulls him by the hand in a steady jog, out from the treeline and into the hilly fields between where the ruins of the outlying suburbs end and the wilderness begins anew. A sprawling carpet of daisies sit between the gentle slopes, splashed with the bright blues of forget-me-nots and the violets of shamrock. He follows them to the top of the biggest hill, one that will eventually be hidden beneath the stalks of sunflowers taller than him, to behold the sight on the other side. There they stand together, watching as daybreak strikes the shadowy mass beyond, igniting one of its needle-thin high rises in a fiery sunrise. It is one of three that still stand tall above their decaying brethren, brought down by time and weather and battles. He can't quite make out the cascading ribbons of nasturtiums and morning glories that flank their surfaces. All grown from seeds that he plants on the surface of the towers yearly now, their tenaciousness endlessly wearing away at steel frames and solid concrete. As one, they move, two of their arms winding around his waist as his own tugs their shoulders flush to his side in a half-embrace. The final few glimmers of the Fixed Stars fade away into thin gradients of rose and orange, soon to bleed into perfect blue. H-E-Y, V1 scrawls into his side, drawing his attention from the brilliant morning coloring their home. When he glances down, their lower optic shutter has lifted in a show of delight, cheeky but sincere all the same.
'You can't know somebody, I thought, till you follow them home'. Out of all the countless books they've devoured over the decades, V1 keeps coming back to this specific quote each and every time they set foot in the vast Primum Mobile. Even devoid of its original context, the short sentence had put a great deal about their lover into sharp perspective. And the more they saw of God's Paradise, the more things made sense in hindsight. It had only taken a week's worth of tagging along on Gabriel's many jaunts to the corpse-filled necropolises and fallen villas to come to a solid conclusion. Simply stated: compared to the rapidly-greening Earth, and the few glimpses of the Lower Spheres they've been allowed so far, Heaven was really boring. Their grand cities all looked the same from a distance, no matter how far or near to the Tree of Life or the edge of the Universe. The interiors of the buildings, the libraries, the concerto halls and the temples all shared the same deco styles. Gabriel's bedroom is different from any other personal quarters they poked their heads in. All of the useful items they had scavenged for their own personal use were virtually identical to the next five or so they uncovered later on. V1 had once tried picturing themselves living here for as long as Gabriel had, and knew immediately that they would have short-circuited from the maddening monotoneness of it all within a month. It is of little wonder that Gabriel's seemingly insatiable appetite for bloodshed and sex and varied reading material persists, in spite of the sheer amount of time that has passed since their first fateful clash.
From this angle, those irises of his glint in the flaring hues of his burning skull, half-lidded and sex-drunk. Normally this particular look of his would instill feelings akin to being gazed upon by a predator. At the present moment, Beheaded finds himself thoroughly distracted by the sight of his fucked-out cunt, oozing still with slick and saliva, and clenching around nothing. Perfect jerkoff material, in his own humble opinion. It doesn't talk much work to get himself back up to that brutal rhythm he left off on, hunting for release. Just as he does so, Drifter’s hand navigates itself to the veil of luminescence atop his head. He’s anticipating another rough yank, and it leaves him entirely unprepared for the way those clever digits so tenderly card through his flames. Tingling warmth blooms across his miraculously-functioning nerves, lighting each one up like a live wire. It surges down Beheaded’s undead body like a wildfire consuming kindling, and the pulsating sensations center right down his dick, punching a groan out of him in between labored pants. A breathy hum of approval resounds from above, followed by sensation of Drifter’s other hand tangling itself into his flames. The razor tips of his claws scratch lightly at Beheaded’s scalp, and the sound that erupts him would be embarrassing in any other circumstance. Drifter’s calloused paw pads gently pinch at one of the fiery tendrils, trailing his touch from root to tip. The blissful pressure swiftly chases away all semblance of thought, pathetic mewls and whimpering moans escaping him with every caress, every stroke of digits through the fire.
Strange, how they can look at the same stars over and over again, but every new angle makes them look so different from their original vantage point on the Earth's surface, or even on the Moon. Compared to how they are here in the void between the Fifth and Sixth Sphere's, they might as well be seeing a completely different sky. In a way, it's still the same. Nothing but tiny lights in an endless void, one that cradles the Universe in absence of Divinity. And how little that has ever mattered compared to the way they swirl in a cosmic spiral as they fly across that cold expanse, legs bracing for impact as they touch down upon a silicate and iron-nickel compound surface with a muffled crash. Gabriel's wings are a blaze of glory and love-sick mania against the black, heralding his wild charge. In the moments they have before he makes contact, they swap to their Knuckleblaster, and just as they feel the heat of his bloodied body, fire. What would have been a cacophony of sound in the confines of Earth's Gravity is promptly swallowed by the void of space, but the sheer force of the blast ripples across their plating as Gabriel is repelled high into the sky. As he spirals up and away in an uncontrolled spin, V1 launches themselves after him with all the strength in their legs. Four coins are sent spinning through the emptiness, uninhibited by gravity and air molecules. Their Railcannon's charge finishes with a crystal-clear ping, V1 takes aim, and squeezes the trigger. By the time that electric-blue surge has passed through Gabriel, and promptly extinguishes itself on a nearby planetoid, V1 is upon him. Their claws rip precious fuel from him as they hurtle through space, flush against his bare midriff to soak
“Please… “ He whimpers, voice cracking pathetically. “Drifter, please, I--” The grip Drifter has on his head cinches tighter, pulling his fire taut to the point of pain. A ragged gasp is punched out of him as he’s yanked upwards, away from where he desperately needs to be. For a moment, Beheaded’s field of vision flits with stars and streaks of blinding white, and he swears he might finish just from this. When it clears, his partner has risen from his comfy cushion perch, moving to curl over him like a sliver of the moon. His wrist flexes, wrenching his flame backwards until the cut tendons of his gore-filled neck start to strain. The wanderer leans the rest of the way in, his fangs glinting dangerously in the hazy pink and sunset-orange emitting from his skull. His lips brush the blazing plasmid surface, and then smile warmly against it. “Touch yourself.” Drifter commands in a rasping growl. His broken, illness-ravaged voice is barely audible over the sound of his undead heart pounding in his not-there head. But he may as well have shouted it the way the immortal’s hand flies around from behind his back, scrabbling for his slickened shaft. No sooner does a moan of desperate relief and fathomless gratitude escape him, he is shoved roughly back into place. “Good boy… ” He hears, and has to promptly pinch the base of his dick in order to keep himself from coming immediately.
For someone who was, quite literally, a flaming ball of necrotic ooze piloting whatever corpse it could get ahold of, physical stimuli that he shouldn’t be experiencing registered more often than not. Beheaded doesn’t let himself think much on that, just as he never lets himself think of who he could have been prior to being thrown into a gauntlet of malaise-twisted monstrosities. That mindset persists even now, dropped smack dab in the middle of a race to save a colliding, collapsing multiverse. It’s not worth the headache trying to figure out the logistics of literally any of that crap, but some part of him can’t help but find himself grateful that this aspect of his humanity has been miraculously preserved. It isn’t just things like blinding pain and scorching heat. The taste of food lingers on his phantom palate, scents tickle nonexistent olfactory nerves, a lifeless heart performs backflips when inky black eyes smile at him. All these certainly fall among things that a dead, possessed body shouldn’t be feeling, but somehow Beheaded can. Newest to that particular collection of sensory discoveries is the familiar rhythms of two willing bodies, getting down and dirty with one another. Regardless of the homunculus’ distinct lack of situational knowhow when he had first woken up in the depths of a prison, some things had been simply too innate to be completely forgotten; things he knew he had experienced before on an instinctive level. Granted, the differences between then and now are fairly stark. Lacking an actual mouth, for starters.
The thick door doesn't even have time to click shut before gloved hands are upon him, tugging at his scarf and scrabbling for the buckle to his pauldron. Sheathed claws scrape at his skin, and something about the thought of them raking down his back in fervent ecstasy already has his dick jumping in anticipation. “What, is this a race or something?” He gripes toothlessly, for his own fingers have, miraculously so, located the clasp for Drifter’s cloak. It floats from his shoulders to join his scarf on the plush carpet below, to be forgotten until the next morning. The clattering of metal follows as he's pushed backwards, and Beheaded has just enough time to get his tunic up and over his flaming head before lips find where his own once belonged. The back of his knees swiftly find the edge of the bed, and the two of them go toppling down onto a ridiculously cushy duvet. Drifter remains entirely nonplussed by the sudden shift in vectors, kissing at the semi-solid surface of his flames with a frenzied sort of hunger. As soon as they're free from their binds, the immortal’s hands swiftly find the small of his back and waist, guiding him as he clambers up the foot of the mattress to straddle him. It takes another five seconds for Beheaded to remember what he was going to say, already thoroughly distracted by the hands working to get his sash off, and the soft lips eagerly massaging sensitive plasma.
“Shit--shitshitshit… “ He gasps, tone embarrassingly high, and almost misses the breathy whine The Drifter makes when he finally bottoms out. Fingers dig into the gaudy red sheets below as shudder wracks the other’s lean frame, and it takes every ounce of willpower he’s got to keep still, to keep still let the other adjust to the intrusion. Not even fifteen seconds into that decision, the other's hips begin gyrating in small circles, grinding his dick deeper still. Hot, slick walls clench down with a shuddering sigh, like he’s relishing in the sensation of him fully sheathed in his pussy. Fire bolts up his spine and punches another groan out of his ribcage. One of his hands finds The Drifter’s skinny hip entirely on some urgent instinct, gradually guiding the other into a steady but languid rhythm. The Beheaded can still only recall “jack” and “shit” about himself and the world he hailed from, yet there remained multiple more occasions where sensory memories would somehow surface. The phantom taste of food, the smell of a breeze drifting in from the surrounding sea, the bite of a blade at his nonexistent neck. And now, the familiar rituals of two willing bodies getting down and dirty with one another. “God--fuck.” Every upward thrust sends lightning burrowing through all his undead nerves. Has sex always felt this good? “You feel so… “
Gabriel glances intermittently between the sacred fruit they hold in one hand, and the cocky lilt to their optic shutters. “What exactly are you proposing?” He inquires. “A BET.” They spell. “IF I CAN ‘EAT’ THIS, THEN YOU TAKE A BITE, TOO.” Damn his competitive streak, striking him with the impulse to immediately accept as their absurd wager catches him off entirely guard. But these years have tempered his patience against their impossibilities. The archangel weighs the confidence in their stance against the morbid shape of the stilled-heart held aloft on their grip, thinking. V1 had long since confided in him that they entirely relied on the blood ripped directly from flesh, hot and perfect, to be viable fuel they could absorb. This particular bearing of the Tree of Life has remained unused and unpicked since the days of his Father’s reign. Surely Heaven’s eternal stasis did not account for that sort of visceral freshness. “Very well, Machine.” He answers, pivoting on his heel to face them fully, and ruminates briefly on his own counter-proposal. “But if I win… I get to take one of your arms, and do whatever I please with it, for the next month.” A heartbeat passes, two, as their accelerated thoughts clearly contemplate the stakes that have been raised, before they confirm the wager with a firm nod.” “DEAL.”
A list of my intended Kinktober fills for 2025. Day 7: Gabriel/Mirage, Bloodplay Day 8: Gabriel Solo, Webcam Day 9: V1/MDK, Shibari Day 12: Gabriel/Minos, Kneeling Day 18: V1/Sisyphus, Size Queen Day 22: Gabriel/V1, Gunplay Day 31: V1/Others, Writer's Choice: Free Use
“Question.” Gabriel murmurs suddenly into the starlit darkness. Two-point-eight seconds pass before V1 can even fight through their self-inflicted sense of laziness to respond. Y-E-A-H-? "If you were to kill me tomorrow, how would you do it?" The warmachine stills for a moment, contemplating this unexpected query. Bloody digital dreams and sordid waking fantasies come to mind immediately, of splitting open onyx skin and crimson muscle to reveal white bone. Seeing for themselves the wild dance of cardiac muscle, thrumming frantically in its collagen cage-- "I WOULD RIP YOUR HEART OUT." V1 informs him with their raised Whiplash, slipping their primary hand up the valley of his pecs to rest over where it beats steadily in his chest. "AND THEN HOLD IT OVER MY HEAD AND CRUSH IT LIKE A FRUIT." The aforementioned organ notably picks up in rhythm following their candid answer. A shiver of excitement wracks their frame as Gabriel's fingers land on the small of their back, the rugged pads trailing up and over their wingpack towards their shoulders. "How greedy of you." He sneers playfully, a husky edge lurking beneath his sleepy tone. "Not to mention dramatic." "YOU'RE ONE TO TALK." They push their fans into a fond huff. "AND WHAT ABOUT YOU?"