Both touching the meteorite
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 7
by
copier
· original author:
an188
They look at each other, their usual venom replaced by something primal—a silent understanding that bypasses words entirely. Their legs move without thought, boots crunching the scorched earth as they descend into the crater, drawn by the meteorite's pulsating glow. Vox's fingers twitch at his sides, his shirt straining against his chest as his nipples stiffen beneath the fabric. Alastor's breath comes in shallow gasps, his cock pressing insistently against his ruined waistcoat, the gold buttons straining.
The meteorite hums louder as they approach, its surface rippling like liquid metal. Without hesitation, they reach out simultaneously—Vox's long fingers brushing Alastor's gloved hand as they make contact. The moment their skin meets the strange surface, a jolt of cosmic energy arcs through them. Vox's back arches violently, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as pleasure—white-hot and unbearable—cracks through his spine. Alastor's glasses slip from his face, his mouth falling open in a soundless scream, tongue lolling as his body convulses.
Their clothes strain audibly, seams splitting as their muscles swell beneath the fabric. Vox's shirt shreds down the middle, revealing a chest that ripples with new power, nipples peaked and hypersensitive under the meteorite's glow. Alastor's waistcoat buttons ping off one by one, his abdomen flexing unnaturally as his cock strains against ruined trousers. The tearing sound of fabric drowns out their ragged breaths—shoulders broadening, thighs thickening, veins bulging with alien vitality.
Vox's laughter is deeper now, richer, as he flexes his now-giant hands—his nails gleam like polished obsidian, sharp enough to draw blood with a careless brush. Alastor licks his lips, tongue dragging over suddenly flawless teeth, his pink halo casting a seductive glow on the sweat-slicked hollow of his throat. Their bodies thrum with unnatural youth, wrinkles smoothing away, scars vanishing—only the hunger in their eyes remains unchanged, amplified by the way their cocks weep thick, pearly fluid onto the scorched earth.
The meteorite's energy twists around them like a lover's fingers, coaxing their muscles to inhuman perfection—every tendon defined, every curve of their new forms balanced between masculine power and feline grace. Vox's once-cropped hair now brushes his shoulders in silken waves, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, while Alastor's curls tumble in artful disarray, framing a face that could launch wars or sermons with equal ease. Their haloes pulse in time with their racing heartbeats, blue and pink light mingling where their skin almost touches.
Alastor's glove disintegrates as his fingers elongate, nails gleaming like polished rose quartz, and when he rakes them down Vox's bare chest, the marks glow briefly before healing—only to make Vox shudder violently, his cock twitching with each phantom sting. Their laughter syncs, low and resonant, as they tower over the crater's edge, their shadows stretching grotesquely across the trees. The air smells of ozone and salt, their sweat evaporating into iridescent mist that clings to their collarbones.
Vox flexes his new height, rolling his shoulders until the joints pop—his voice drops an octave, vibrating through Alastor's ribs like a bassline. "Still think I'm predictable?" he purrs, watching Alastor's pink halo flare when he licks a stripe up his own forearm, tasting the metallic tang of transformation. Alastor's answering grin is all teeth, his waistcoat hanging in tatters as he steps closer, their cocks brushing—both leaking thick, translucent fluid that strings between them when he pulls away. "Darling," he murmurs, catching a bead of it on his fingertip and sucking it clean, "you're a one-trick pony with better special effects."
The orgasm hits like a live wire.
Splurge
Spluurge
Spluuuurge
Vox's spine snaps taut, electric-blue cum arcing across Alastor's chest in ropes thick as cream, sizzling where it lands. Alastor throws his head back, pink splattering Vox's thighs in viscous, glowing strands, their mixed fluids bubbling where they meet. The scent of scorched sugar and sex clogs the air, their sweat pooling in the divots of their abs like molten wax. Vox drags a claw through the mess on Alastor's sternum, painting his tongue with it—his pupils blow wide, a shudder wracking his frame as residual pleasure crackles along his nerves.
Alastor's laugh is guttural, hips jerking involuntarily as another spurt leaks from his cock, pink and iridescent. He flexes his bicep, watching the muscle ripple beneath skin now slick with sweat that clings like syrup. "Disgusting," he purrs, thumbing a bead of it from Vox's collarbone to his nipple, relishing the way it makes him hiss. The meteorite's glow pulses between them, casting their tangled shadows against the crater walls—distorted, monstrous, beautiful. Vox's breath hitches when Alastor's talons trace the new ridges of his abdomen, each touch leaving faintly glowing trails.
Their sweat pools in the hollow of Vox's throat, thick as melted candle wax, dripping sluggishly between his pecs. He catches a drop on his tongue, shuddering at the electric tang—like ozone and overripe peaches. Alastor mirrors him, licking a stripe up his own forearm, eyes rolling back at the taste. The scent is overpowering now: sex, salt, something metallic beneath it all. Vox's cock twitches again, still half-hard, smearing blue across his thigh. "Fuck," he rasps, voice deeper than before, the word vibrating in his chest like a struck chord.
Alastor flexes his biceps, watching the way his sweat glistens under the eerie glow of their halos. His cum drips from Vox's abs in pink ribbons, mingling with the blue to form swirling violet streaks. "You look ridiculous," he murmurs, but his hands betray him—palming his own chest, fingers catching on the ridges of his newly defined muscles. Vox grabs his wrist, pressing Alastor's hand flat against the mess between them. The contact sends another jolt through them both, their breath hitching in unison. The meteorite hums louder, its fissures widening.
Their sweat beads into tiny pearls of light, rolling down their skin like liquid neon. Every flex of Vox's thighs sends more blue splattering onto the dirt, each pulse of his cock accompanied by a low, resonant groan that makes Alastor's knees buckle. The scent of sex and scorched sugar thickens, clinging to their skin like a second layer. Alastor's tongue darts out, catching a drop of Vox's sweat from his collarbone—his pupils dilate further, the pink of his halo flaring bright enough to cast their surroundings in lurid hues.
They were both 7 feet of sculpted perfection now, bodies honed to an impossible apex—broad shoulders tapering into wasp-thin waists, every muscle striated and gleaming under the meteorite's bioluminescent glow. Vox's chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, his pectorals like polished marble, veins tracing rivers of blue light beneath alabaster skin. His once-black hair had lenghered into a silken mane streaked with iridescent silver, framing a face too symmetrical to be human: high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, lips full and perpetually parted as if mid-snarl. Androgyny clung to him like a second skin—the curve of his hips almost feminine, the jut of his cock obscenely masculine, both contradictions united in predatory grace.
Alastor was his mirror and his opposite: where Vox was pale luminosity, he was golden radiance, his olive skin now gilded with an inner fire that made every sweat-slicked plane glisten. His waistcoat hung in tatters, revealing a torso carved with abdominal ridges deep enough to pool shadows, his nipples peaked and flushed the same violent pink as his halo. The sharp angles of his jawline could have been chiseled by a Renaissance master, yet his lashes—unnaturally long now—fluttered with deliberate delicacy when he blinked. His thighs, thick as tree trunks, strained against what remained of his trousers, the fabric shredded to reveal muscular calves that tapered into bare feet with toes curled possessively into the dirt.
They...
The meteorite hums louder as they approach, its surface rippling like liquid metal. Without hesitation, they reach out simultaneously—Vox's long fingers brushing Alastor's gloved hand as they make contact. The moment their skin meets the strange surface, a jolt of cosmic energy arcs through them. Vox's back arches violently, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as pleasure—white-hot and unbearable—cracks through his spine. Alastor's glasses slip from his face, his mouth falling open in a soundless scream, tongue lolling as his body convulses.
Their clothes strain audibly, seams splitting as their muscles swell beneath the fabric. Vox's shirt shreds down the middle, revealing a chest that ripples with new power, nipples peaked and hypersensitive under the meteorite's glow. Alastor's waistcoat buttons ping off one by one, his abdomen flexing unnaturally as his cock strains against ruined trousers. The tearing sound of fabric drowns out their ragged breaths—shoulders broadening, thighs thickening, veins bulging with alien vitality.
Vox's laughter is deeper now, richer, as he flexes his now-giant hands—his nails gleam like polished obsidian, sharp enough to draw blood with a careless brush. Alastor licks his lips, tongue dragging over suddenly flawless teeth, his pink halo casting a seductive glow on the sweat-slicked hollow of his throat. Their bodies thrum with unnatural youth, wrinkles smoothing away, scars vanishing—only the hunger in their eyes remains unchanged, amplified by the way their cocks weep thick, pearly fluid onto the scorched earth.
The meteorite's energy twists around them like a lover's fingers, coaxing their muscles to inhuman perfection—every tendon defined, every curve of their new forms balanced between masculine power and feline grace. Vox's once-cropped hair now brushes his shoulders in silken waves, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, while Alastor's curls tumble in artful disarray, framing a face that could launch wars or sermons with equal ease. Their haloes pulse in time with their racing heartbeats, blue and pink light mingling where their skin almost touches.
Alastor's glove disintegrates as his fingers elongate, nails gleaming like polished rose quartz, and when he rakes them down Vox's bare chest, the marks glow briefly before healing—only to make Vox shudder violently, his cock twitching with each phantom sting. Their laughter syncs, low and resonant, as they tower over the crater's edge, their shadows stretching grotesquely across the trees. The air smells of ozone and salt, their sweat evaporating into iridescent mist that clings to their collarbones.
Vox flexes his new height, rolling his shoulders until the joints pop—his voice drops an octave, vibrating through Alastor's ribs like a bassline. "Still think I'm predictable?" he purrs, watching Alastor's pink halo flare when he licks a stripe up his own forearm, tasting the metallic tang of transformation. Alastor's answering grin is all teeth, his waistcoat hanging in tatters as he steps closer, their cocks brushing—both leaking thick, translucent fluid that strings between them when he pulls away. "Darling," he murmurs, catching a bead of it on his fingertip and sucking it clean, "you're a one-trick pony with better special effects."
The orgasm hits like a live wire.
Splurge
Spluurge
Spluuuurge
Vox's spine snaps taut, electric-blue cum arcing across Alastor's chest in ropes thick as cream, sizzling where it lands. Alastor throws his head back, pink splattering Vox's thighs in viscous, glowing strands, their mixed fluids bubbling where they meet. The scent of scorched sugar and sex clogs the air, their sweat pooling in the divots of their abs like molten wax. Vox drags a claw through the mess on Alastor's sternum, painting his tongue with it—his pupils blow wide, a shudder wracking his frame as residual pleasure crackles along his nerves.
Alastor's laugh is guttural, hips jerking involuntarily as another spurt leaks from his cock, pink and iridescent. He flexes his bicep, watching the muscle ripple beneath skin now slick with sweat that clings like syrup. "Disgusting," he purrs, thumbing a bead of it from Vox's collarbone to his nipple, relishing the way it makes him hiss. The meteorite's glow pulses between them, casting their tangled shadows against the crater walls—distorted, monstrous, beautiful. Vox's breath hitches when Alastor's talons trace the new ridges of his abdomen, each touch leaving faintly glowing trails.
Their sweat pools in the hollow of Vox's throat, thick as melted candle wax, dripping sluggishly between his pecs. He catches a drop on his tongue, shuddering at the electric tang—like ozone and overripe peaches. Alastor mirrors him, licking a stripe up his own forearm, eyes rolling back at the taste. The scent is overpowering now: sex, salt, something metallic beneath it all. Vox's cock twitches again, still half-hard, smearing blue across his thigh. "Fuck," he rasps, voice deeper than before, the word vibrating in his chest like a struck chord.
Alastor flexes his biceps, watching the way his sweat glistens under the eerie glow of their halos. His cum drips from Vox's abs in pink ribbons, mingling with the blue to form swirling violet streaks. "You look ridiculous," he murmurs, but his hands betray him—palming his own chest, fingers catching on the ridges of his newly defined muscles. Vox grabs his wrist, pressing Alastor's hand flat against the mess between them. The contact sends another jolt through them both, their breath hitching in unison. The meteorite hums louder, its fissures widening.
Their sweat beads into tiny pearls of light, rolling down their skin like liquid neon. Every flex of Vox's thighs sends more blue splattering onto the dirt, each pulse of his cock accompanied by a low, resonant groan that makes Alastor's knees buckle. The scent of sex and scorched sugar thickens, clinging to their skin like a second layer. Alastor's tongue darts out, catching a drop of Vox's sweat from his collarbone—his pupils dilate further, the pink of his halo flaring bright enough to cast their surroundings in lurid hues.
They were both 7 feet of sculpted perfection now, bodies honed to an impossible apex—broad shoulders tapering into wasp-thin waists, every muscle striated and gleaming under the meteorite's bioluminescent glow. Vox's chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, his pectorals like polished marble, veins tracing rivers of blue light beneath alabaster skin. His once-black hair had lenghered into a silken mane streaked with iridescent silver, framing a face too symmetrical to be human: high cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, lips full and perpetually parted as if mid-snarl. Androgyny clung to him like a second skin—the curve of his hips almost feminine, the jut of his cock obscenely masculine, both contradictions united in predatory grace.
Alastor was his mirror and his opposite: where Vox was pale luminosity, he was golden radiance, his olive skin now gilded with an inner fire that made every sweat-slicked plane glisten. His waistcoat hung in tatters, revealing a torso carved with abdominal ridges deep enough to pool shadows, his nipples peaked and flushed the same violent pink as his halo. The sharp angles of his jawline could have been chiseled by a Renaissance master, yet his lashes—unnaturally long now—fluttered with deliberate delicacy when he blinked. His thighs, thick as tree trunks, strained against what remained of his trousers, the fabric shredded to reveal muscular calves that tapered into bare feet with toes curled possessively into the dirt.
They...
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June 13
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