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Once Anti had left him, the tape around his mouth slit open, it hadn’t taken much effort at all for the Host to Narrate the belt loosening around his arms, and slinking into his lap. Once his arms were free, he picked up the belt and hurled it into the wall of the small cellar room the demon had dragged him to.
His struggles had pulled the leather holes, and it wasn’t as if the fucking Virus had left him with pants that could be held up with a belt, anyway. He discarded the shreds of pants and underwear, defiantly wrapping the torn trenchcoat back around him, synching it as tight as it could go.
Coated in cum and his own saliva from drooling over the taped gag, the Host wanted nothing more than to clean himself off. But there was still the tape to deal with. He would not leave something on him that so easily could block his power.
In the bathroom were scissors. He Narrated the cuts as well as he could, but still winced at a few nicks, pulls from where the gauze under the duct tape had bunched up, yanking at his napeline, and chunks of his hair getting snipped off with the gauze and tape.
Tearing at the offending gag before he’d managed to completely cut through it, the struggle to stretch the last piece of gauze, enough to yank it over his head, disturbed the bandages over his eyes, and he ended up panting over the bathroom sink, fresh blood oozing along tracks left by spit and drying lines of salt along his chin. Anti had ridden him out spectacularly, so he was still feeling drying cum along his front, his chest, even in the stubble along his jaw.
The coat was a lost cause. He finally shrugged it off, and the ruined shirt, beneath. All of his clothes were ruined, as was his hair, his skin, his pride. Anger flooded him to cleanse the sullied pride, and he finally took the shower to wash clean the rest of him.
The Host was more fastidious about his appearance than people seemed to think. London Fog trenchcoats weren’t exactly cheap, damn it. Like any ego (except, maybe the Googles, he didn’t care to know what they wanted), he wanted to be his own entity, rather than another twisted reflection of Mark. His hair was kept slicked back, controlled, the dyed streak a way to separate himself from the others.
But, above all, he was the Host. He didn’t need to have a fancy outfit to stand out, gleaming bright as Bim or Wilford. He didn’t use it as a lure, like Dark. He was meant to fade into the background, until what was left was the important piece: his Narration.
The idea, though, of someone destroying that carefully worked façade, ruining his work, reaching right into the background and dragging him into center stage, like one of his own Subjects, or just a puppetshow… that shook him.
The cold of the bathroom, balanced against the hot water sluicing along his skull, down his unbandaged face, reminded him too much of static-laced, hot hands gripping his hair in a cool cellar. Worse, the warmth splashing between his legs brought an unbidden tension to hips that still wanted to bury himself back in that wicked mouth.
“Turning off the spray, the Host leaned against the wall, in order to safely step out of the shower…” His voice eased right back into place. His Narration was his power, his sight, and his view of the world. With it, he could navigate without ever needing his missing eyes.
Warm, fresh blood was pooling in his sockets, again. He carefully cleaned them out, as Dr. Iplier had shown him, reinserting the half-sphere-shaped devices that kept the sockets from sagging inwards, and wrapping clean bandages around and around his skull. This had the added bonus of hiding some of the missing chunks of hair, from his self-inflicted haircut.
Cleaning the bathroom could wait until he’d gotten some damn sleep.
“New underwear and an overshirt were hauled from his dresser as the Host padded, barefoot, across his carpeted room, to his bed. Before he got near it, he made certain to pause, describe the room, thoroughly…” He “saw” nothing in his description but the usual placement of his dresser, his standing closet, where he mostly kept his coats, bed and bedside table, and the en-suite bathroom -also empty and clean. Taking a steadying breath, anger still barely cooling in muscles tight with paranoia, he added, “…and made sure to lock his door and window, before settling to bed.”
The click and thunk were satisfactorily loud in the silence between breaths. Finally, he gave into the exhaustion gnawing at him, and climbed under the thick, soft covers -everything was textile and sound, for the Host- laying on his side, a draining pan for excess blood ready under his face. He didn’t move in his sleep, very often. He’d gotten very used to holding still.
The memory of cackling threats and a knife pressed to his throat made the tendons in his hands stand out for want of something to crush.
Time passed in a rise of barometric pressure, the temperature changing in the room, subtly, as the hours slithered by. Sleep was elusive, nearly half the night passing before his body finally began to rid its system of the adrenaline it’d been flooded with. It was as he was finally drifting off that his already sleep-drunk mind heard it: a gentle scratching, like a single nail, stroking along a surface. It came from inside the wall, just above his head.
*
The house was filled with scratching, for days. And it followed him. Everywhere he went, the toying noise scraped after. It was in the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, sounding off only when he walked, then stopping when he did. Except, at night, when he slept. Then it would tease from underneath the bed, a slow, dragging scrape, that he could almost feel on his cheek.
Though the Host tried Narrating its capture, the scratching reacted instantly whenever he directed his power towards it, wriggling free and fading away to silence.
The feeling behind it was unmistakably taunting, and very familiar. The bastard was still here, and was fucking around with him, somehow. Yet everything he tried to haul the demon into reach was met with a swift escape, and a feeling of childlike glee at his impotent rage.
The Host wasn’t scared, so much as pissed. Anti had invaded his home, had ruined his place, that was purely his, and all the Host wanted was to hurt the invasive pest. So far, the Virus hadn’t come back out from wherever he was, and the Host was reaching a limit on just how tense he could feel, all day and night.
So, he decided to ignore him.
He treated the scratching with the same, bland ease as Narrating his way around the house. It was there, a basic, background sound. Like the aircon, or the rumble of the fridge.
And, after several days of this, the scratching stopped.
At first, he hardly noticed, until his usual Narration on getting out of bed, dressing, describing walking the hallway to get breakfast… all were missing that little quirk.
There was an instantaneous, paranoid tension to his shoulders, a rolling flex to both hands like a prize fighter jonesing for something to aim at. Ever since Daniel, the Subject he’d thought perfectly cowed under his pen, had shot him, causing the start of the transformation into the Host with Dark’s “help,” he’d been far more cautious in his victories.
But no matter how he searched, Narrating so deeply into the structure of house and reality that he returned to himself with a jerk, lost in wood and stone and mortar and an unfortunate termite infestation in the back porch, for hours, the Host could find no sign of the glitch bitch.
His breakfast of eggs lay, cold and soggy, on his table as several ranges of emotions responded to this knowledge, the one he latched onto being potent victory. That night, and a full week after, he slept without the scratching keeping him company.
He should have known it wasn’t over.
*
Considering asking Google for help was often as pleasant as dentistry with a ballpeen hammer, as they muttered and growled at his archaic tools whenever he needed them repaired, the Host had learned, long ago, to do basic fixes to his equipment, on his own. So, when his microphone began to key improperly, he set to work, Narrating through the usual problems that could arise, from a simple case of the button getting misaligned, to more detailed, inner workings.
All the while he sank into his own words like a comfortable bed, wrapping them around himself until the mic was so detailed in his mind’s eye, that he could almost see it, cold and gleaming, puckered grating and ridges being opened with a delicate screwdriver, in his hands. The rest of the world faded into background noise as he worked.
So deeply entrenched was he, that by the time he found the problem -a fried wire, no doubt overwhelmed by the potency of modern electric breakers- evening had taken over from afternoon, and the creeping realization hit that there was a background noise, had been for hours, hissing and sparking at the edge of conscious thought.
The moment he gave even the subtlest clenching of his jaw, the radio, just next to his elbow, on the desk, went from hissing to static-laced cackling.
That fucking bitch.
It wasn’t bad enough he’d invaded his home, his sleep, even his more private thoughts in the morning shower, now he was ruining his equipment? “You worthless fu-“ No. He wouldn’t leap to the bait. Ignoring him had worked once, before. He’d do it again. The brat was too childish to deal with not being the center of attention.
Casually flipping off his radio, he keyed the repaired mic and began the usual series of tests to get it back to working order.
The radio chuckled. He unplugged it.
Finally met with silence, a smug little smile played across his lips as he went back to work, only to stutter to a halt when the TV, in the next room, turned on, hissing and grainy with static and-
And the very familiar sounds of his own groans.
He was on his feet in an instant, pride and rage clouding his mind, as he caught up his metal bat from the umbrella stand leading into the hall. It was pointless. The glitchy little Virus was hiding in the electronics, somehow, rather than being a solid target, but the Host had half a mind to see if smashing the places he hid caused the little bastard harm.
“Don’t pretend that yeh didn’t like it, Hosty,” his answering machine suddenly hissed, cackling as he swung the bat down with preternatural skill for a blind man. The shattering crunch was satisfying, but futile: the TV now was louder, filling his ears with the wet sounds of Anti sucking him off, and his muffled, answering moans, stuttering as if the recording had been corrupted. Even before he could ponder destroying the old box set up, the livingroom radio joined in with his own Narration, rattling and desperate, “Anti cums on the Host’s dick. Anti cums, and the Host follows.”
Something hungry in him twisted, digging down to settle, painfully tight, behind the buckle of his slacks. His jaw tightened and the bat hit the hardwood hard enough to leave a spidering of cracks. “Enough, you piece of shit! The Glitch had gotten too close. Close enough for the Host to finally rip him from his home like exorcizing a spirit from the walls.”
“Awwww, frustrated Hosty?” The creature parroted. “I could help with that.” But his voice was more solid, glitching but powered by the intake of breath. Before the Host could quite gauge where it was coming from, he shivered as nails grown into hooked claws traced up the back of his neck. He whirled, bat singing through the air, only to meet no resistance.
Falling back on his Narration, he rumbled, falling into a defensive stance, “The Host struck out at the fast-moving glitch, hitting-“ He hissed as the metal bat pinged off the back of the couch, wrists twisting at the force he’d put behind the blow. Anti only cackled, continuing to circle him, voice like staticky sin in his ears.
“Yeh know yeh want to do it, again.” Another swing, another miss. “Want to stop me babbling.” Miss. “Stuff up my mouth until you can’t hear me, anymore.” His breathing was getting faster, but not due to exhaustion. Before he could pull back for another swing, having taken out a houseplant rather than the demon, there was a long, hot form pressed to his front, hand cupping him as Anti hissed into his ear, “And I want to ruin yeh, again, Hosty.”
Just as fast the warmth and hand was gone, and the Host was trembling with rage and something desperate he didn’t want to name. The end of the bat hit the floor with a light thunk of sound, as he forced himself to catch his breath. Anti continued to move, zipping at random, from one side of the room, to another.
He was too quick for the Narrative to get a grip, at this rate. The Host’s jaw clenched as that cackling seemed to press in from all sides, confusing and blurring one staticky form of the demon with another in his mind. As it drew closer, he’d sweep out, pressing the thing back before the demon could snag him, again. Until, finally, he relaxed his shoulders, setting the larger end of the bat on the floor, gripping the pommel, in an almost weary stance.
“Gettin’ tired, already, Hosty? Such a shame. I’d hoped you had more stamina.” He remained silent, mouth a flat line, tongue sliding against the roof of his mouth to keep it from going dry and letting his voice stutter or crack.
There was another moment where claws traced along his spine, then closer, under his jaw, before flitting away, too fast to catch. The sound of industrial strength duct tape being pulled sounded from the TV. The air felt charged with the same, familiar energy that had overwhelmed him the first time the Irish demon had caught him, building like an electric storm and already making his thoughts muggy.
Anti moved. “Anti was to his left.” The Narrative was short, simple and clipped. He had no guiding force or gauge of distance as he swept the bat out, more like a sword parry than a proper hit, but grinned as his arm shuddered with the force of striking the creature’s knees out from under it.
There was a glitched curse, followed by an echoed thud as Anti struck the floor. Not giving him a chance to gather himself, the Host slammed his foot into his side, reaching down to fumble for that hair and haul him, bodily, to the wall.
Leaving him slumped there, he stood over him, Narrative flooding the room like a dragon roar filling its cavern. He lashed out with it, finally pinning the glitching thing with words and will and iron and steel and- he was panting with the effort of holding Anti, as if he were clutching a live wire in his bare hands, but he continued until, at last, the thing subsided, the writhing, twisting, fision of movement settling into the form of a grinning, green-haired man, back against the wall, legs splayed wide across the hardwood floor.
“Well,” Anti purred, playfully. “Yeh got me. Whatcha gonna do with me?”
The Host’s fingers twitched. Another roared Narrative, “The Host finally knocked that fucking, cackling grin from Anti’s face.” And that metal bat slammed across Anti’s jaw, teeth scattering from the force, the left side of the jaw sinking low in the flesh of his cheek as the Host panted, rage lining every inch of his frame.
There was a broken chuckle, and he paused, frowning as he muttered, “Anti merely smiled, popping his jaw back in place, hardening at the sight of the man standing above him, imagining his hands leaving bruises along his throat as Anti’s claws mark his skin…” He swallowed, hearing a dry chuckle in response, and that nearly painful sensation between his hips settled firmly behind his swelling cock.
He shook his head, dry-mouthed and breathing harder. His world was one of sound and words. He “saw” with his Narration, lived in a steady stream of sound and story, in order to even get through his day, let alone to take control over his surroundings. That meant that his view of other people was a mix of the Narration describing them, implanting image and feeling into his brain, and their voices.
Anti was a hypnotic flickering of grinning, willful abandon, deadly and fractious to try to describe, with a voice that scratched inside the brain like his claws dug into skin. And he was sitting, calmly, after Host had hit him with the full force of his arms, waiting for more.
Rage tried to dig through the Host’s confusion of heated thoughts, and he slammed the bat just as hard between those splayed legs, barely avoiding the demon’s crotch, muscles rolling, sweat from the exertion of trying to strike Anti, earlier, now pooling along his abdomen, making his messed hair stick to his forehead. The trenchcoat he always wore had fallen from one shoulder, and even as he stood over him with all the mercy and pity of an angel raining hell upon Gemorrah, that Virus only grinned, almost glassy-eyed with hunger, as the eyeless man described his every reaction, words almost blistering his lips he was pouring so much power into holding Anti still.
And then Anti was wrapping his hand around the larger end of the bat, stroking it crudely, up and down, as the Host leaned on it. Why was he still describing what he was doing? Why was he still Narrating the way those black eyes stared so hungrily up at his show of power, or the way his pants tightened around a cock already leaking precum and…
Anti’s claws dragged up the metal bat, and the Host shuddered, hating the invading creature for being right, seething at his own desire to feel that hot, clenching muscle wrap around his painfully bound shaft, while he worked to drive them both mad with pleasure.
He’d fallen silent, the image of the room fading as his breath hissed through his teeth, still arched over the horrible, beautiful, tempting thing. Quickly, he returned to Narrating to make sure Anti didn’t escape, and that hiss became a snarl as that grin flashed foremost in his mind, triumphant and bratty. He wanted to beat it off his face, again.
He wanted to fuck it off.
Something snapped inside him, patience or sanity, he wasn’t sure, and he growled with the full force of the Narrative behind his voice, twisting reality like tissue paper, “The Host is tired of that mouth being wasted on talking.” The growl continued to rumble in his chest as Anti snarked, “Then come use it for what it’s meant for.” How was he still so cocksure despite being splayed under him?
The Host slid the end of the bat across the tiny amount of space until it knocked into the bulge he knew was growing in Anti’s pants, grin cruel at Anti’s deep moan.
His free hand snapped out, fingers digging into that green hair.
“Now we’re getting to the good part,” Anti laughed, right before the Narrative poured from the Host’s vocal box, twining down his arm and over his fingers, sending a punishing force along every nerve in the demon’s skin. This only seemed to excite the painslut more, but at least he finally went silent.
“If the glitch bitch speaks, it will be on command,” he thundered in the confined room, the air twisting with his breath in much the same way reality creaked around Dark’s Aura. Anti gasped, and the victory of the sound flooded his veins. He tossed the bat aside, hearing it skid and roll along the floor, as he finally pulled the coat aside to yank at the belt holding up his slacks.
He was seething. “The Host is sick of Anti’s games. He doesn’t know why he targeted him, why he decided to drag him into the same bullshit the Virus normally plays with Dark, nor does he care. He wants him out of his head, that manic laugh out of his skull, to stop thinking about his legs clenching around him or the noises he made when the Host was at his mercy.” Damn it, no. He’d gone on, too long. It was too late to rein in his words, though, as the demon, unable to speak, nevertheless chuckled, dryly, at his admittance.
He wanted him gone. He wanted him out and away and to not be a further danger to him, in his own damned home. He wanted to feel those lips, again, as his tongue dove past his teeth and choked the Narrative silent. He wanted to hear the pretty noises the little livewire had made, again.
His throat and lips were dry from Narrating Anti’s bonds, and he panted, still gripping that hair. “The Virus is silent, as bid, saying everything with his calmly lidded eyes. Amusement, hunger, and assurance in the knowledge that he would be getting exactly what he wanted, soon. They were all there, fear nowhere in sight. The more power the Host revealed, the more lust rose to the fore, until the Host found himself wanting to kiss his eyes glassy with the emotion…”
Another lazy smile glitching into a hungry grin, sharp as the knife he normally used.
The Host shivered, feeling his victory switching sides. Violently, he reached out to take it back, by knocking the muted demon’s head into the wall. Another gasp, and this time he shoved his free thumb into the demon’s mouth as deep as it would go, gagging him. “If you are so interested in playing this game, fine.” He forced down the broken noise that threatened to strangle him as Anti bent into the curve of his thumb, wrapping his lips tightly around it and suckling. Instead, he reluctantly pulled free, bending down, hand gripping that hair dragging Anti’s head further back, to allow him to hiss into his ear, “The Host will allow Anti to speak, in order to have him narrate precisely what the Host is doing to him. Anything else, and the Host will start breaking the Virus’ bones.”
Before he’d even stood, Anti had already turned his angular jaw until his lips were just a breath away from the Host’s cheek. “The ‘Virus’ is quite amused that the Host is using the same technique to keep him controlled as Anti did to him, when he had him tied to the chair, in the cellar.” He could feel the smile against his skin as he pulled up and away.
A ragged breath swept over his teeth as he leaned his palm on the wall, dragging himself back up, then staying like that, bent over the seated demon, fingers gripping his hair so tightly they felt numb.
Refusing to lose control to the glorified Bethesda nightmare, the Host snapped, “Finish opening the slacks. Narrate as you go.” As an afterthought, he added, “Rip them and I’ll knock out more teeth, pet.”
Another throaty sound had his jaw clenching, wanting to plunder that sound and swallow it whole. But he waited, as long-fingered hands reached up, touching his hips as if grounding themselves, before gliding inwards. A drawling voice hissed with a pleasure that had his pants feeling even more confining, “Anti is being such an obedient pet for the Host, in return for how good he’d been, for him.”
The Host hissed, in warning, only to shudder when practiced fingers folded over his bulge, cupping it top and bottom. The hiss hitched into his throat as his head bent back. “Narrate,” he remembered to command. “I didn’t tell you to stop, yet.”
“Oh, the Host’s little Virus doesn’t plan to stop until his mouth is too full to speak.”
Fucking little cunt was good with his words, surprisingly.
“Hopefully the Host can forgive his pet for not being used to narrating. If not, he promises to work to make it up to him.” There was a thoughtful pause, as if the creature were trying to find the correct wording. Almost idly, those fingers began opening the fly, until the Host’s hand swept down to pin his fingers there with a warning growl. He felt Anti’s static groan shake through the fingers in his hair.
“Yes. Yes. Narration…” A muttered jumble of syllables spiked into the air as the Host tried not to grind into those supple, spidering fingers. Finally, Anti seemed to come up with something. “Anti had been waiting oh so patiently for the Host to come back and play with him. He’d imagined those fingers digging into his hair, again, and the moment they did, nearly fractured at the touch, held together by the Host’s Narrative as he luxuriated in the power the man wreathed himself in. It was perfect. That anger, that lust, mixed into a living storm that made him shiver in all the right places.”
The Host slowly peeled his hand away, leaning it back against the wall, before rumbling, “Go on.”
“And here he was, feeling that rage and desire first hand, so-to-speak.” Anti cackled, and if he’d had any, the Host would have rolled his eyes. “The Host is unimpressed.”
Shifting until he was leaning into those hands, the Host added, “Anti can feel the warmth of the Host’s skin through the layers of the slacks. His fingers itch to undo them, even as he wants to try to play with the other ego. His throat is dry with the memory of watching the Host throw back his head, throat taut, hips rolling into his every wet, suckling ministration. He remembers feeling those fingers dig into his scalp, that warm, hardening shaft rising under the work of his teeth and tongue, and his eyes roll back in his head, muscles jerking slightly, at the idea of doing it, again, but this time feeling that salty cum pour down his throat, hot and choking and-” The Host stopped, smirking as he heard Anti do just as he’d described, feeling him writhe under his hand, trying to grind his hips into the hardwood floor in a vain attempt to ease his own growing hard on.
“We’re going to try, again,” he intoned as Anti mewled. He felt the demon attempt to nod. Pleased with what was at least agreement, if not true docility, the Host let his grip in that surprisingly soft, green hair relax, slightly. It was to regain feeling in his straining fingers, he told himself, as he idly massaged the other ego’s scalp.
Even blind, he could keep his “gaze” locked on where Anti’s eyes should be with a muttered Narration, tilting his head, slightly, and waiting until the static groan stuttered into speech. “Anti began undoing the buttons of the Host’s fly, wanting so much to tear it open and feel that hard length… but for now, he’d be “good,” and try to wrestle the damned thing open.”
“You really need a knife to open a pair of pants? How do you take a piss? Just carry an extra pair of jeans, around?” Some of his old bravado was coming back as he waited for normally deft fingers to fumble him free, greedily reaching in to stroke him through his briefs.
“Anti would love if yeh would go commando every now and then, Hosty.” His voice was a frustrated growl. Host would have laughed had those long fingers not pulled at the fabric, only to slash long, black claws through it. “You little goblin fuck-” he snarled, only to hear Anti’s satisfied, “Hosty had only told Anti not to cut up the pants.”
Before he could quite fathom a rebuttal, especially since he unfortunately found the little smartass almost clever, just then, the Host had to clamp his mouth shut to stop a shuddering note from falling from his lips as Anti wrapped his fingers under the shredded fabric, sliding his shaft free and rubbing the stiffening vein underneath.
And then he was grunting, as Anti’s lips curved hungrily over the end of his cock, tongue and teeth sliding just so. There wasn’t even a full twenty seconds before his hips jerked forward, colour rushing up his cheeks at how eager he was obviously showing himself to be.
But damn if the Virus wasn’t good at this. Messy, rapid, and half wild, he nevertheless laved his tongue along each ridge and vein with damn near efficient skill. And the sound of him willingly choking himself in his rush, the feel of that thinner frame almost vibrating with energy as Host found himself curving one hand over his skull while the other gripped his shoulder, was dragging grunts and hungry demands from the taller ego’s strained throat.
And still he Narrated. He couldn’t help it, if he was truthful. He was so used to seeing the world through his words that any moment without left him utterly disorientated. The entire reason he’d been so enraged after Anti left was in how easily the little goblin had taken his power, his very sight, from him, just as surely as when his eyes had been gauged out, years before.
The reminder of that weakness, that inability to defend himself, made him thrust deeper, growling out, “The Virus shuddered with every jerk of the Host’s hips, craving to release his own shaft, in order to ease some of the pent-up ache pooling behind his swelling cock. But the moment he tried to reach either of his hands downwards, they were ripped back and pinned to the wall by an unseen force. Layers and layers of words bound him as surely as the tape and belt he’d used on the Host, forcing him still as the vengeful ego took out his anger and humiliation on that damnably beautiful face.”
His throat was so dry, now, that his Narrative burned as he spat it, a roiling, molten curse of blistering iron to shackle the Virus still. Anti gave a stuttered moan around the Host’s cock, as his arms crashed into the wall, dragging up it as if hauled by invisible chains. There was a brief moment where the Host felt him pulling against those restraints, back arching from the wall, only to shudder as the fingers dug back into his green hair, holding him in place.
Panting through the Narrative, the Host didn’t stop until he felt the muscles of his thighs tense with that familiar pain, just on the edge of sweet agony. All at once, Anti’s choking moans stuttered to actual gagging, even as he tried to arch into Host’s last, jittering thrusts. Cum-laced saliva dripped freely from Anti’s mouth as the Host finally withdrew, both men shaking. Once more, Host had to lean into the wall, his Narrative stuttering to a halt as he panted, open-mouthed, above the captured-
And then he felt that wicked, salt-stained tongue crushing his, hands somehow reaching out to wrap around his neck, his shoulder, legs clinging to his waist. Knocked off-balance with the shock of how fast Anti had broken free, he tried to speak, only to have his words swallowed by the glitching demon, claws now wrapping around his throat, again.
Stepping back, blindly trying to rip the other man’s mouth from his, the Host felt the entire world fission around him, leaving him stunned just long enough for Anti to disappear.
Only he didn’t run off. The very next second, as his lips still tried to form a coherent statement, it felt as if a live wire had been jammed into his chest. The Host went rigid, soundlessly whimpering, feeling as if currents of electricity were rushing through his entire system. No sound passed his lips. The world faded into nothing but static. There was only that horrendous, almost delicious pain coursing through him.
And then his own hand was pressing to his throat, almost idly cutting off his air, driving any chance to fight back away as easily as a child scattering blocks. Something was wrong with his hand, with his body. It was… it was glitching. Something was bouncing in and out of his veins and flesh, at once part of him enough to guide his body still, his own hand up his throat to clamp shut his teeth, at once crackling around him in a storm of cackling glee.
At once the hand locking his powers away and lightning-laced lips whispering sin into his ear, Anti purred in absolute delight, “Oh, yeh did such a good job, Hosty. Yeh learnin’ so fast! That was such a damn good fuck.” He couldn’t move, couldn’t quite breathe. The world was sharp and painful and yet out of his reach. He managed a faint mewl of sound, somehow, and Anti answered by nuzzling white-hot glitches and beard into his arched back throat.
“Yeh looked so beautiful, that way, Hosty. Did yeh know? All sweaty and wrathful and wanting to break me over your knee. It was just what I imagined.” He gave a breathy, static-filled moan that even now had the Host shuddering hungrily to hear it.
“I think,” the demon continued, “that next time I’m goin’ to fuck you, pet. I want to finish ruining you, right.”
And, with another cackle, the Virus was gone, again. The Host sank to the floor like a puppet with all his strings cut.