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The undergrowth of the jungle fringe unfolded around Harry, the edges of his vision hazy as he ran -- his stamina endless, but still no guarantee of sufficient speed as he navigated the tangle of plant life. He had to get to the ritual site and stop the banishment spell, or else he'd be toast.

His cover was blown: he wasn't really a tiger, but a type of undead monster known as a "driger." His kind were born from an experimental curse which had been intended to create sturdier magic users, but which had gone horribly awry in its implementation: any tiger afflicted with the curse went through a horrific transformation, flesh sloughing off until their body was nothing but bleached bones -- a perfect, magically animated skeleton of themselves, free of mortal pain and frailty. Their body's discarded flesh then melted away, forming a vortex of magic which would surround the driger's body like a shroud, granting innate magical capabilities akin to those wielded by people who were descendants of true dragons and other naturally magical beasts. They could disguise themselves as living tigers by putting their magic into stasis for a time, reforming a temporary exterior of living flesh around their cursed bones, but the whole thing was ultimately a sham. Anything which dispelled magic, or even sufficient bodily damage, would be enough to make the ruse come undone and reveal the cold bone underneath.

He glanced down at his bared right wrist bones, surrounded by the cartoonishly broken "flesh" on either side. He must not be seen like this. There could be no witnesses.

As he reached the ritual site's fringes, he heard the spell being chanted by a wizened older tiger. Dropping the charade entirely, Harry dismissed his feigned exterior, revealing himself for the monster he was and stepping forward into the clearing.

His bony hand claw gestured toward the aging tribal ritualist. Whatever spirits he had solicited for help were apparently insufficient to keep him safe: a beam of conjured heat blasted laser-like through his gut, incinerating a disturbingly round hole in it and leaving him in agony's throes a moment later.

The driger followed it up with a burning touch to the man's face, with the aim of blinding him. It was superfluous, but he did not care.

From there, the rest was an expression of casual rage. The power of unlife surged through Harry's bones as he strode into the rest of the village -- lifted his skeletal hands, and whipped up the firestorm that would blot any insufferable knowledge of him from the map. Then he would don his cloak of flesh again and stumble away, just as he had done multiple times in the past, allowing himself to be scorched and singed as he hobbled away. He would become the messenger that would flee to the next settlement to tell of the horrible Fire Spirit that devoured the village, with no one the wiser as to what had truly happened.

The other naked, buff hunters, all adult male tigers like how he usually presented, turned to look at him in mortified awe before attempting to scatter in vain. It didn't take long for the tents and dried leaves to whip up into a blaze around him.

The world seemed to fade as the hungry flames lashed out; he was sheltered from hearing any screams or other consequences that might have made the fantasy less agreeable. He approached the blaze and felt the heat bathe his body. A tent collapsed toward him, immolating the false fur he had regrown. He felt the fire coat his body, spreading into him and through him -- the pain of being burned causing a sensual and gratifying reaction. He smelled the burnt fur as the darkness crept in around him, with only the orange glows of fire remaining visible. He felt a pulsing sensation, euphoria developing as he watched it dance.

The pain transformed into orgasm, making him feel at one with the flames as they devoured what was left of these foolish images. He felt his burning fur hugging tighter around him -- his muscles big and obvious, the weight and shame of real life packing back onto him. He felt the utter fraudulence of his existence, even as the fire burned him and made him cum.

* * *

As usual, Harry had no conscious recollection of the intruder when he first awoke from that dream, which made the narration that immediately ensued within his mind's ear far more disturbing than it might have been otherwise:

Over the years, said the voice, you have created no less than five ready-to-play tabletop role-playing character sheets for game systems that you have researched. All of those characters had a thematic emphasis on using fire, whether as a sorcerer who wielded it through hand-waved 'magical' means, or as a barbarian warrior who wielded burning weapons to scorch his foes. Yet, perplexingly, you have never played. Not a single session. Not once.

"The hell is going on?" grunted Harry, sitting up in the dim morning light of his flat's bedroom. "That sake last night must've been cut with somethin' worse..."

Coy kitty , don't pretend to blame your problems on substance abuse. On the contrary, I'm nestled right here within your head, abusing your substances.

A jolt of remembrance flashed through Harry's thoughts, along with a sinking flush of submissive urges. Selectively but vividly, he could recall that he was with that blue dragon recently... Teryx. At dinner... right? Harry had felt scared. Frightened of everything, even as he cut into a big steak and drooled about it.

Then, jumbled up with that, he could recall... a sensation. A sick feeling of something wet squirming into his ear. His desperation to find some way to get it out... and then the perceptual chaos that had ensued. Someone might as well have injected pure hallucinogens up there. That was when the dreams of the tribes and the fires had started... of the alien monsters under the ground, the need to burn it all down, and now this latest arc of Harry's fantasy persona secretly having been something like a lich all along.

That one is too empowering, said the voice. I think we'll be saving that undead fantasy for certain... regimented moments. As pleasurable as it was, it pales in comparison to how hard you cum when you're the one being forced to submit. Enacting violence against another didn't do anything for you at all, nor did it kill your mood... but, when the flames burned within and hurt you, that's when the 'magic' happened in your neurochemistry.

Harry felt like he was listening to some business beancounter talking numbers with an exec: "Here's our quarterly financials; here's what's working and what's not working." It felt so familiar to him, even though he couldn't remember the larger context. The initial sense of it led to an unnerving dissonance -- like there was a whole other world of thoughts and memories on the tip of his tongue, while his tongue lay flattened beneath a gross, wooden tongue depressor. This, despite the fact he was getting hard again... and feeling thoroughly restless.

He couldn't stay in the bed anymore. He had to get up. If he stayed there, he might fall asleep and dream more. He must get up. He must stand and walk around and look at himself. He must enjoy his body for comfort, reminding himself anxiously that he was not undead, nor some epic-fantasy murder-hobo. He heard the soft crackle of flames in his mind's ear.

He got out of bed. He felt the weight of his stiffy sag within the root of his groin -- rigid in spite of his ambivalence.

Still, the head-voice continued, it's awfully culturally insensitive of you to imagine yourself part of some remote tribe and then burn their villages constantly. You're a city cat.

"Not funny," muttered Harry. Internally, he was taking the scenario more seriously, treating the violence from his dream as if it had been real violence -- and was twisting himself into a knot of worse self-loathing in the process. A tight, burnable knot, like oily rope.

There's nothing funny about mass pyromania, but it gets that penis of yours very hard, and that's part of the goal after all.

Harry realized only then that his hand had idly landed on his erect shaft and begun to stroke. He caught it and stopped himself, withdrawing the hand amidst a spiking feeling of anger.

"Maybe I should check myself into a mental ward and be done with it, eh?" Harry muttered aloud as he walked angrily toward his living room.

That won't be happening.

Harry's motor input to his legs stopped working mid-stride. They were like spaghetti underneath him, and he toppled forward in confusion onto the floor.

If you hadn't already noticed, genius, this is what I do. I already control your body and distort your mind. I have been doing that for months now. You are my host. My food.

Just like that, Harry vividly hallucinated the apartment around him bursting into flames. He felt the heat of it, the lung-stinging smoke.

Then, just as abruptly, it was gone. Harry was left with his leaky erection pressing against the carpet, his legs still unusable as he flexed his arms beneath him to get himself into position for a paralytic crawl.

It fascinates me that you never indulged in this fantasy by your own means -- only ran from it. What it does to your production of what I need is spectacular.

Harry didn't grace the notion with a reply, though he made some frustrated grunts as he dragged himself forward into his kitchen.

Hmm, the voice continued. Let's recap, shall we? Mildly traumatic childhood event involving fire... sex-object confusion, power exchange fantasy. From these simple ingredients emerged your lust to show dominance amidst the confusion of a fiery catastrophe. You mask it: rigid adherence to social order, while secretly hoping the whole thing explodes. You have the heart and soul of an anarchist in an utterly disciplined computer expert's body.

The narration was forcing more images into Harry's thoughts. He had an oddly nauseating sense that one or more of these memories had already been called to mind in a similar way before, but it was a fleeting deja vu. The feeling was disorienting enough that it slowed how fast he was crawling. Then the kitchen appeared to burst into flames in front of him, just before he got there, with any surface that could plausibly burn appearing to do so. The orange crackles danced before his eyes, and his traitor erection continued to crave what he looked at.

He felt hijacked. He was hijacked. Unable to restrain his cravings, he could only look upon them and feel them flow through him, as if his body were no more than a vessel for piping hot desire.

Why wouldn't you have explored it? the voice asked, now sounding more puzzled than taunting. My previous host -- really, my original's host -- certainly accepted his fortuitously apropos lust for having his thoughts and behaviors tyrannically governed by someone else. Why, then, is it only with great effort that I am digging up what you truly desire? You leave me little choice but to conclude you are defective as a life form.

More memories hit Harry's mind -- a swirl of recalled events that was too much for him to process at once. It was giving him a headache, seeing visualization after visualization start to unfold in his mind's eye before flickering out.

When he reopened his real eyes, there was only the smoke and glow of his kitchen allegedly burning. He could smell it, too, and the scent was making his dick throb. One of his hands was at the base -- not forced to touch it, but sort of cupping suggestively over the balls. He had rolled over onto his back -- a meaty stud of a tiger lying there in distress, looking as though his arousal had become too much and caused him to keel over. No outside observer could have seen what was going on in his head, however -- and that made all the difference.

You can't just go around burning things, Harry muttered in his thoughts. People won't accept that.

Images of Harry's numerous sexual encounters with other men came to mind more clearly. The dark rooms and intensive bondage. The demeaning attitude. His ability to successfully roleplay the idea that he -- a fierce predator in more ways than one -- had taken away their freedom and their hope. It hadn't come up so thoroughly with Teryx, but, to his kinkier lovers, Harry had a knack for making them feel doomed and smothered just like they liked it. When he did that, he felt as if he himself was a fire, steadily consuming the bedroom around the one whose tight rear was helping him get off.

You've substituted arse for arson, the voice said. I will concede, as I do each time we have this conversation, that your relationship to these "socially unacceptable" urges is at least intriguing. Teryx had some of that as well, always that little bit shy about the idea that he might lose his job over "whipping it out" at our command...

The casual mention of Teryx did nothing for Harry's sense of sanity. _Gimme back my life. Whatever the hell you think you are: quit this and go away. I got along fine before you and could do it again if you'd just leave me the fuck alone. _

I can't do that, Harry. Since we are doomed to remain together, you should learn to be more constructive about this. Think of me as the voice and advocate for all of these unacceptable hungers of yours. You're going to learn to love them deeply , because they will help me get more of what I need out of you. We will find every way that you can express them safely and discreetly... and, in the realm of your dreams, you will burn much hotter than anywhere else.

No longer in control of any of his limbs, Harry found his body righting itself somewhat. His feet were resituating underneath him in a squat. Puppeteered, he pressed his body in close to one of the burning cabinets, feeling the heat of it in danger of scorching his chest. He lingered like that, the lust growing as his right hand took precum and slickened the length of his shaft with it. His left hand steadied his balance by touching the floor behind him, and he leaned back in an almost reverent way, dick pointing upward while the flames billowed high around him.

It was so... perfect. The stifling heat, the sense that the whole building might soon collapse around him, the heart-pounding danger which fueled the needy tingle in his groin... The echoing sound of Teryx screaming for him to stop burning his beach house...

"Nhhhgrrrrh...!!"

Just like that, Harry's seed shot out -- in two uncharacteristically heavy, blurting shots, followed by nothing but some tiny "aftershock" throbs. He felt the edges of an orgasm's pleasure, but only the edges, as if someone had shoved a straw into its flow and siphoned most of it away.

Yes, this will do nicely. It's definitely stronger for you when a fantasy interacts with the real world. Despite your protestations, you're really very practical, aren't you, my kitty~?

"Yes... Sir," Harry mumbled, without realizing why. Then he dropped onto his back, entranced by the smoke and the blaze around him -- a deeper submission and meekness washing through his mind. His doubts were disarmed -- not by true persuasion, but by a trick of internal mental force. His mind habitually went to somewhere else, the word kitty resting light a subduing weight upon him...

* * *

Harry came to himself an unknown amount of time later, his memories of recent moments a jumble..

He was walking through a nearby park as he became self-aware again. The aftertaste of jizz was prominent in his mouth. Whale jizz, to be precise.

The taste was familiar. He... knew an orca guy. A big, BIG guy... bigger than him, even. They had been "playing" in a little washroom stall, with Harry quietly helping the guy get his rocks off. He had to do that, because the orca also contained one of... them. The orca had to be milked of his sexual chemistry, and Harry was obligated to help... like a living prop, or sex toy.

Them. The creatures.

This... thing, that Teryx had put inside of him.

More memories hit him in a convoluted mess. Trying not to get overwhelmed, he ended up missing much context from any of it. There was the sensation of his finger clawing at the inner part of his ear -- an old memory, apparently, since there were no signs of his claw having touched it today. There was Teryx grinning at him. There was him getting fucked in humiliation on a beach, while smoke rose in the air behind them. All of that was in turn interspersed with a dozen other scenes of himself speaking awkwardly to people, only it wasn't himself, but the thing inhabiting him -- figuring him out, wearing the mask of his body. Masturbating him -- making him get off, feeding on the process... and then something else, the feeling of his big-dumb finger-pads pressing on the big-dumb screen of his extra-large phone -- a long-time necessity for him, with his tiger mitts being what they were.

He had the lingering sense that the last memory was recent, and he felt embarrassed just from recalling it. He wanted to know why.

...Motherfucker.

Harry glanced at his phone -- sniffed the air -- tried to get a sense of orientation. What the hell had happened for him to even get to the park from his flat... and where was the big orca he had apparently blown?

Checking his phone more thoroughly, he found a conversation with Teryx from the previous afternoon. It began with Harry inquiring, Hey boyfriend. You wanna do anything? Teryx had responded that he already had cheese on the menu for the evening -- which the version of Harry reading the messages now took to mean that Teryx had planned on playing with a sergal buddy. No such understanding was reflected in Harry's contemporaneous responses; instead, he had implicitly begged Teryx to come assist him with either wax play or something more extreme.

Thumbing through the messages quicker as his embarrassment deepened, Harry realized Teryx had rejected the request and stuck to whatever plan had already been in motion.

Harry didn't remember sending these, yet, the more he glanced back and read more of the text...

it's a firestarter... yessir...

There's something bad inside me, man, and I know you're to blame...

...the more he couldn't help feeling that same fake persona creeping into his consciousness: needy and slutty, requiring Teryx to come burn him. He reached for his left ear, teasing a finger around the inside of it before flicking the lobe in an odd reaction.

Something bad inside...

And just like that he was getting plump in his tan jogging shorts again. What the hell.

By force of will, he closed the text messages. He could feel that "other him" looming in the back of his mind, unpacking like the mental equivalent of a computer virus, ready to co-opt his operating system and make him its bitch.

He didn't want that. He had to stop it.

Then a sharp sense of fear set in, chilling the root of his brain. He felt vulnerable -- watched. He remembered the voice from before. The thing. It was inside him. Watching him.

He looked around -- saw other people pass. He looked for the ability to call for help, to open his mouth and make words come.

Something impenetrable and heavy was sitting on the controls. The very idea of anything like that -- so impossible, so unreachable, as if he was separated from it by a canyon deeper than his darkest desires.

He managed to rub his throat awkwardly and gulp, prompting a passing weasel lady to give him a quirk-browed glance, but she passed on by, not even pulling her earbuds or breaking from the music or podcast they were presumably playing for her during her walk.

Such an unlucky lady, teased the alien within. She only has your poor technology in her ears. You have something much better, my Hunter.

Harry's gaze darted around. He felt an edge of panic -- his memories convoluting on themselves. Where was he? This place wasn't right. He belonged in the jungle... not in some strange city with towers like volcanic glass...

_Hunter, Hunter, Hunter... _

He stumbled off the path and into the brush, darting through it. He had to get back to the tribe and report about this place, as it clearly wasn't known... but where was the path back to their lands? This wasn't the place he was used to...

The delusion claimed him entirely for several seconds as he scurried along -- staying low, his rippling muscles allowing him to move on all fours with surprising haste, largely undetected by the screen- or earpod-focused people in the area.

Why was there man-taste in his mouth? He wondered this idly as he went. It did not taste like one of the tribal elders, whom it would have been customary for him to suckle as a sign of respect at the central fireplace...

Then, in a dizzying tumble of his mind, he heard a different name in his head. A name which for the briefest moment felt unfamiliar, before it unpacked into the same person he had always crafted himself to be:

Harry... Harry...

He felt the grass against his whiskers and stood upright in a flurry of befuddled motion. What the hell had he been doing creeping around like that? The other persona faded like the vestiges of a dream, its urges and mannerisms fading behind the mask of typical Harry.

He heard laughter in his head. It was his own laughter, just like he might laugh at someone he was bullying, by virtue of his having a stronger body.

You motherfucking alien, he said in his head.

I'm hilarious , like a comedian, said Harry's voice back at him. I work with what you give me. This hell you create is of your own making.

At that moment, Harry recalled just enough of his true predicament to be furious: Shut the fuck up and get out of my head. I fucking swear, one of these days I will figure out a way to--

Numb. Fully numb again. He couldn't fall over, nor could he take another step. The alien within was perfectly in control of his motor functions.

"Find a way to what?" Sir Harry's snide voice wondered, buffing the tips of his fingers against his chest fur -- letting the claws extend and rake through. He then removed his tank-top shirt casually and sat down against a nearby tree, lifting his arms high overhead and folding them behind his neck -- feeling the power of this body at his command, the host's mind screaming at him from inside. The power exchange fueling him -- fueling the background arousal -- even though the host would not earnestly accept it.

Break yourself against my powerful body, Harry~ Sir mocked him internally, feeling the breeze blow over their face. It's not yours any longer.

To the host's trapped and manipulated mind, it soon looked as if the roots of the otherwise normal tree were growing out -- animating, surrounding him, ensnaring and pulling aside his limbs. The tree was like a bondage rack -- spreading him, exposing him for the brain-slug that would make use of him however and whenever it desired.

Burn, Harry, the alien entity's voice told him. Burn with every desire you have. Then, from your ashes, I will reap what I need.

The roots in the vision burst into flames, the heat dancing around him -- consuming him, making him scream.

Outside Harry's mind, the tent in his shorts thickened. A wet spot developed, eliciting a soft groan from the alien's masking persona. His fangs spread in a broad smile as he let the situation bake, Harry's lust and terror spiraling into the depths...

Then, with a jolt, Harry was at least nominally in control, looking down at his moist crotch... hearing the sounds of the park, and realizing he was holding his removed shirt in one hand. Except he couldn't immediately recall the context for why he'd be disrobing and leaky in the park.

"Uhh. Fuck."

He hurriedly put his shirt back on, feeling out of sorts and concerned. Horny and shirtless in the park wasn't a good look for him.

He remembered he had brought a simple flip-lighter with him. He pulled it out and gave it a few comforting flicks: making small flames and watching them burn for a few seconds before letting them dissipate.

Shit, what's wrong with me...

He felt like he was on the tail-end of a panic attack. Despite trying, he couldn't remember how he got here... but, he really needed something. He clacked the lid of the lighter a few times in his pocket as he put it away, fidgeting. His dick was plump in his shorts, but not raging hard anymore.

He grabbed his phone and remembered Teryx hadn't wanted to play with him tonight... heck, maybe his orca buddy would do it.

He checked his messages and saw a cue to meet him in the park at... forty minutes before now. What...?

Wait... had he already met the guy? What day was today again? ...Okay, it was the right day. Had he...

Memories flickered. Washroom stall -- the feeling of a smooth orca groin against his nose... the taste of a long cock at the back of his throat. The quiet groans of his clandestine companion. The hot, pressurized feeling of the load emptying itself into the back of his throat. The taste of orca jizz on his tongue as he licked the guy clean thereafter...

Harry got up and hurried along, wanting to make sure he got himself home before things got any weirder. He felt completely shaken and didn't trust his memory.

Along the way out, however, he saw his orca buddy, who waved to him. Huge guy... meat and blubber for days, a head taller than Teryx and broader-shouldered than even Harry. Hands like ball-catching mitts, fingers like enormous sausage links.

"Hey..." the orca waved, big bass voice belting out at Harry. "Where ya been, man? Wanna come back to my place and get all oiled up?"

His tongue licked involuntarily at the inside of his mouth. He remembered the orca indulging him in the past... burning patches of his fur in hard to notice places. Using strategic amounts of easily dispersed fuel to achieve the right kinds of heat and pain.

Harry made a weird, involuntary rubbing motion against his left ear. "Uh... sure." Something in his head felt really... stuffy, but kind of good. What was up with him...?

The orca got closer, straightening a crease in the tight-fitting white shirt he was wearing. The guy looked like if he flexed the wrong way he might spill straight out of it. "You know if you're hard up you can always come to me, right? We're like bros."

A contradictory notion hit Harry's mind: he recalled that he didn't properly remember this person -- name, specific interests, etc. -- nor why they were "bros," nor why he was so turned on at the man's merest approach. Despite this, Harry knew he must go with him. The urge was so strong, even captivating...

"Thanks," said Harry, following his strong impulse to be frank about it. "I really need some help tonight. The week sucked."

"Mmm, yeah, I bet it did," said the orca, rubbing a hand momentarily up his own inner thigh. "Well, follow me. I need to check my mail before we head up. Just don't act so stiff, kitty , you look like you've seen a ghost."

A calming, needy demureness came over the tiger. "Yeah. Uh, sorry, don't know what's wrong with me..."

The dark voice within answered him: Just a character sheet for me to write on, crumple up, and discard as I see fit.

The thought was intrusive, but in this state, Harry didn't question it, treating it as if it were his own. He followed the big orca, holding his gigantic hand as they made their way back to his pad.

My paper tiger.

For the briefest moment, Harry hallucinated his arm being made of orange construction paper, on fire. Then it was normal again an instant later.

This was fine.

He felt his need for sex with the orca growing, that tent in his shorts stiffening up once more.

"Do you like fire?" Harry wondered, feeling somehow compelled to ask the awkward question.

The orca, "heh"ed almost inaudibly, gave Harry's hand a squeeze, and led him onward. "I do if you do, kitty."

Harry rumbled contentedly, eyes half-lidding as he followed along.