Fics like get your thrill just to get at me

“Woah, woah,” Vox says. “Hold your horses. What—” “This isn’t right.” The shadows around him swirl and turn darker and darker, sharpening into points. His eyes are shining red. “What did you do to me?” “I didn’t do shit!” Vox sits up and crawls forward—Alastor presses himself back against the wall, ears flattened over his head. The hard turn from predator to scared-looking prey is making Vox’s head swim. “How is it my fault you’re rock hard?” And he really is, Vox’s hindbrain notes. If anything, he seems to have gotten thicker—Vox can see the outline of him perfectly. Alastor curls in on himself when he notices Vox’s eyes. “I don’t,” he starts, and then stops. That seems to be the end of the sentence. “Well, you clearly are," Vox spits, frustrated. “I really don’t get the hassle here. I mean, we’ve been. Uh.” Together is a loaded word, but so is dating. Fraternizing? No, that sounds even more sordid. “Companionable. Right? This isn’t out of the, uh. Range of options.”

Fics like get your thrill just to get at me

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