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darkness rises in all you do

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“I have what I want when I want it. Like you.”

Like you, indeed.

Were you meant to resist? Were you meant to play coy, to turn away, to whisper a prayer to the light that has never brightened your path? No. You think not.

You have always had dreams — fantasies, really, shamelessly depraved and horrifically difficult to put into words and even less into action — that linger at the edge of your mind in those humid nighttime hours. You want tentacles to curl into you, to push deep, to find new depths within you and wring bliss out of you in a way nothing else ever has. You want to feel stretched, to satisfy a need nothing else does.

They are unrealistic dreams, impossible. You know this, really, but deep down, when the room is more shadows than tangible space, you let your thoughts drift as your hands do, half-awake and half-asleep, caught on the precipice between the realms. It is not enough, but your fingers push inside you, spread you wide, and with the haze of dreams sticking to your eyes you can just about feel like it is something else moving inside of you.

The greed runs through you like a red vein, all throughout your body. A hunger that is difficult to explain, especially for the monstrous, for that which others call nightmares but that you long to kiss, to feel it excavate the deepest parts in you and bring them to light.

Ah, these half-formed dreams, shrouded in shadows. They descend upon you like prayer beads falling on the string, a heavy drop in an empty hand. You want tentacles, yes, but you want to feel the shadows, too, like they are in your dreams. You want to be full and filled, always, to choke and spit and cry for more. You want to be adored by the monster that skirts the edges of your sweetest nightmares, its crown gleaming metallic in the moonlight and that you cut your hand open on when you reach for it. You want to feel its thick tongue lap up the drops and name you for who and what you are.

All these dreams. So terrible and delightful.

You never knew how loud they were. Not until Emet-Selch tells you.

She laughs from a corner, seemingly stepping out of nothingness, coalescing from shadows that curl around her like smoke. “You were always this perverted, you know. The pleasures you used to chase made others blush. Do you remember when we used to do that together?” she asks, teeth gleaming in the slanted strips of the city’s light coming from the window.

“No,” you say, swallowing thickly, sweaty and sticky in the sheets tangled between your thighs. You are sore from your own hands, but not sore enough. What you inflict upon yourself is never enough to satiate you. “But tell me.”

At the back of your mind, something scratches, screaming to be let out. It makes you fearful. It makes you wet.

She strokes your forehead, pressing a kiss to it. “I could do better than that. I could show you. Will you let me?”

The yes that spills from you is more a moan than a word and she seizes your lips with a kiss that is teeth and soft tongue and you can feel how things are changing inside of you already. Something within you is rising to the surface to greet her, and you cling to her fur collar, digging your fingers in as she drinks deep of your taste.

She takes you with her to her own realm, an Underworld of her making where darkness presses against your skin, soft and warm and safe. It is not home but it could be if she let you.

When Emet-Selch pulls the veil from her body, you feel the pieces of your life fall into place. It was always her. Of course.

You thought you knew hunger before her, but no. What did you truly know? Nothing. But she is prying you open, stoking a fire that chases through your blood and possesses you. She is opening you up and teaching your body who you used to be in her hands.

In the liminal places, late at night, she comes to you and the world tilts, changes, it both is and is not your suite in the Pendants. At any time you can whisper the word, you can ask her to put you down out of her hands but you don’t want to, you want to stay here, cradled and held and adored.

To be with her is to be with a monster, her form that of all the dangers stalking the tales you were nursed on. She is so beautiful. Dark wings that unfurl, red shimmering lilies that curl like decoration along them. Embedded in the wings are purple crystals, warm to the touch. Her body shrouded in shadows that parts like water when you reach for her skin that burns hot under your fingers. Her face is always covered by a veil, a crown keeping it in place upon her head.

You marvel at it all, taking your time tracing something so familiar and so strange, dedicating her to memory as if fearful that it is only a dream and you will lose it.

She calls it her true form, but even it can bend, can change and mould itself to what she wants to give to you. There is so much she wants to do to you, the shadows curling around her long fingers like pet snakes, palpable and gentle. You pet them and she laughs, a noise so deep you feel the ground underneath you tremble.

It is like coming home, somehow, and you do not understand, for what do you truly know about yourself anymore? But Emet-Selch knows you. And she has so much time to make you remember.

She calls you tiny, a tiny precious thing, and you are — she is more shadows than she is physical, shadows that slither and change, presenting endless opportunities. If you reach out your hand the darkness waits for you to think what it is you want, but she always provides. A hand, or seven; a prehensile tongue that has you writhing and screaming; a tentacle so thick it makes you shudder just to have between your legs, the suggestion of what it could do to you enough to make you weep with joy.

She admonishes you for not crying out her true name, teasing you, “you know it, it is on the edges of your memory, is it not?” and she is right, so right, you beg her for another and another and it keeps taking form, soon you will know the shape of her clearly.

You want more than you dare, at first. And she says it’s good to keep you hungry, to just whet the appetite. “All things in moderation. For now.” The promise makes you shiver with the deliciousness of what is to come.

She returns you to the world you know, the world where light reigns and her body is solid and bound. When you look at her through the corner of your eye in this place, you can just about see the crown on her head, the red lilies wrapped around her arms. A nameless secret shared between you.

She is ever teasing you, golden eyes lingering too long on your lips as the others speak.

Y’shtola says your aura is changing, and you try to laugh it off, but Emet-Selch has taught you to feel it too. She is teaching you many things, some that feel like being split apart and devoured, changed forever by mere words.

You are not who you used to be. “You have grown so beautiful,” she says, placing you in front of a mirror, and you agree. Though you cannot place your finger on what it is — are you taller, perhaps? or your lips fuller from all her kisses? — you feel it. Irrevocably changed in her hands, and you kneel in front of her to thank her, to offer your praise with your mouth.

She pets your hair and sighs your name, accepting your devotion. You scrape your teeth against the inside of her thigh, annoyed — you want more than acceptance. You want praise back. You are so good in her hands, always hungry always wet, have you not earned more?

She tugs at your hair. “Greedy, my love, so greedy.” Her smile is cruel and you know what it means. She will ruin you tonight, and you shudder with excitement.

When she comes to get you, to take you, it feels like when you fall in your dreams: the endless expanse opening up behind you as you tumble backwards into perfect softness. The thrill of fear, always.

She dips you backwards as the Garlean Empress, red lips kissing you out of light and into darkness, where you are caught in the palm of her hands. Her true form is so beautiful that it leaves you breathless every time.

“You were beautiful once, too,” she says, one of her fingers spreading your legs apart, pressing against the apex of your thigh. “Do you remember?”

Your bones do. When she speaks of it, it is like they are moving, shifting into a forgotten place. You are becoming, each and every time she takes you, the scratching at the back of your mind growing more and more feral. Your bones answer her song and in the darkest depths of you, she finds her answer.

It makes her smile beneath the black veil as you cling to the red mask on her chest and kiss it, caress it, as if it were her face. She reacts as if it was, sighing softly.

“You were terrible to me today,” she says, pressing down hard on your clit, making you gasp. “Biting me… What am I to do with you.”

“Whatever you want.” You mean it, always, when it comes to her. What you feel for her goes beyond trust, beyond love, it is primordial.

“I do believe I want to make you sing tonight.”

She does. She lowers you into a writhing mass of tentacles, both shadowy and palpable, and they map your body with such eagerness that you are moaning before your legs are even spread apart. There is no roughness, only pleasure, but she does not relent. She wants you to become a mess, and you are dripping onto the tentacles, tasting yourself when they push so deep into your throat you cannot breathe.

But she is merciful. She knows the precise point when she has to pull out, let you catch your breath, before she fills you back up. She looms over you, watching but not touching with her hands or lips or tongue and it’s cruel. If you weren’t gagging on a tentacle prodding the back of your throat and making you drip saliva over your breasts, you’d be whining. You’d be accusing her of not loving you enough, which would rile her up enough to prove it.

Finally, she rewards you, shadow tendrils slipping into your slit and into you so softly you barely notice them at first. They enter you, spread you apart, and she slides her tongue in between them.

She does make you sing. And she makes you come so much you cannot speak for three days afterwards, vocal cords so thoroughly ruined.

The days are yours, for now. They bore you, but you do what you must, waiting for the nightfall, waiting for the shadows to grow long and her husky voice to whisper in your ear. You live for this precise moment, you realize, and for all the moments thereafter she gives you wrapped in her dark embrace.

“Will you come with me tonight?”

The answer is yes, always yes, a yes that echoes through your entire body, every nerve ending alight with how much you want it.

She treats you well, she does, but you are a wretchedly perverse little creature and you want more. She knows you want it, too. Somehow, her map of your desires is always one step ahead, but perhaps that is what she meant — how you used to be. (If you drift enough in the blissful haze afterwards, you feel the layers of history parting: if you squint, you see the outline of the past, shimmering like a distant mirage.)

“What does my little one want?”

“More.”

“More what? More fingers, more hands? Do you want my tentacles to fill you and stretch you, or shadows to enter your every crevice? Do you want to ride my tongue again?” She teases, enjoying watching you squirm as she runs through the seemingly endless possibilities of what she could put inside of you, and it’s not that you don’t want them — you want them all, that’s the worst and best thing about it — but you want a very specific one right now.

“No, I…” You blush, but you know, and she knows too.

“Say it,” she purrs, a giant finger brushing against your cheek.

“I want your cock in me. Please.”

She thrills at you being so well behaved, asking so politely, and her hands bring you to what you desire the most and oh, oh. You had guessed, but did you know? No.

Her cock is so big and you know you should feel a twinge of fear but all you feel is the feral desire to have it fill you up as far as you can take it, to be impaled upon it. But she takes her time. “I have a plan,” she coos, “and you want to be able to do this right, don't you?”

You do, you do. But you are a little needy, a little wanton, and you want at least a taste in this very moment. You whine, and she adores you enough to be charmed by it.

“You act as if you’re starving, dear.” She is not wrong.

It is a beautiful cock, and you want to worship it. The ridges on it, the way it curves gently. You have known its shape all along, which surprises you a little. Being with her is like opening a deep well you thought dried up and finding water deep enough to drown in at the bottom. There is always more, more, more.

She changes the position so gently, placing you on her belly. You wrap your arms around the cock and the skin is so warm. You lick a long, slow stripe up to the tip, savoring a taste that pings a distant memory. She sighs so softly, and the noise emboldens you. Your mind is filled only with want, a need that runs deeper than anything else.

You use all you have of your body, pressing your breasts around the shaft, your arms, wrapping yourself around it. Even though you wish to fill your mouth with it, it is impossible, but you can kiss and lick, and it twitches in your embrace.

The pre-cum gushes out and there is so much of it, you drink and drink and feel the salty sting in your throat and still you cannot fit all of it in you, your body growing slick as it is practically covered in it. You pout, you wanted to drink it all down, it’s not fair. She laughs at you, pets you, one of all these tendrils that feels almost human but not quite. Others would call her eldritch horror, you think, and they would recoil. Those words, however, make you dripping wet.

You grind yourself against the length of it, she needs to feel how aroused you are, you want her to say nice things to you, to treat you well and to fuck you so hard it changes you forever. “I’m ready now,” you whine, blatantly lying, and she strokes your hair before yanking it back, causing you to hiss.

“You are not, little pet. But soon. I promise. I would not leave you unfulfilled, I am not terrible like that.”

One of the tentacles slide up between your legs, testing and trying you, the tip curling around your clit and resting there while you work at her hard length. It pulsates, warm and insistent, rewarding you with small wriggles for what you do to her. It sucks and flicks at your clit until your legs tremble, and only then does it slide inside of you, rocking twice against that spot inside before your inner walls clamp down on it and you scream out your release.

She loves to hear you come undone, and strokes the underside of her cock until she comes too. Her seed covers your body, and you lap at it between shuddering gasps, still shaking from your own orgasm.

You are shameless in your hunger, scooping up a handful of her cum, savoring it as you drink it up from your hands. “You taste so good,” you moan, and you mean it. Yes, there is the salt and bitterness but also a taste wholly other, like how the night smells right as dew hits the grass and the heat goes out of the stones.

You take her cum and rub it over yourself, slicken yourself up, fingering it into yourself. Take me take me take me, you think, and of course she responds because she knows you, she knows what your every move means. She speaks the language of your body and knows how to ruin you better than you yourself do.

She presses the tip of one of her fingers into you, the sudden intrusion so shocking and welcome. You grind against it, but she has paused, holding still. You look at her, whine caught in your throat, and see the outline of a smile behind the veil.

“Oh, dearest, you are so changed. So open.” She wiggles the finger and you gasp, the pressure inside of you so lovely and overwhelming. When she adds a second finger you keen, but it does not come with any twinge of pain and you squirm smugly.

“I told you,” you say, “I am ready.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

She presses them in further and you pant, seeing your belly move in rhythm with her digits thrusting into you. You put your hands over the bulge, pressing against it, feeling the pads of her fingers underneath.

Of course, your greed knows no bounds, and it is one of the many things she loves about you. You cover your ass in her cum, rubbing it into yourself, fingering your rear until two fingers slide in without trouble, and she clicks her tongue at you.

“All these lifetimes and still as greedy as ever. How I have missed you.” She dips her little finger in the seed pooling on her belly, then presses it into your ass slowly, taking her time as you stretch and writhe and whine.

You are so full, and the words catch in your throat. “Thank you, I, more, I love you, I need you, I feel you, I know you…” The spoken languages you know do not suffice, cannot even begin to touch upon what she is doing to you.

She understands. She is magnificent like that.

Her thumb rests on your chest, playing with your nipples covered in her cum, and you cling to the finger as you try to let her push deeper inside you. You lick and bite at the pad of the thumb, nuzzling against it as you feel the tell-tale signs of the cresting pleasure. She scissors the fingers inside your cunt apart and you come with a groan so deep it sounds beastly, and you sob and laugh and luxuriate in the attention she pays to you. It is excruciatingly delicious to be seen by her. To be had by her.

She pulls the fingers out almost all the way and holds them still there, just on the verge of them slipping out if you make a wrong move. The thought of gaping empty and hollow terrifies you. You want to be full, always, full and ripe with her.

“Fuck yourself on me,” she says, head tilting onto her shoulder. “My hands are so tired from all the work I do for you.”

“So cruel,” you whine even as you push down hard. You take her deep, so deep stars explode behind your eyelids.

When you come she jerks her hand just enough to make you roll over face-first into the cum you haven’t lapped up yet, and she chuckles at how filthy you are.

“Did I make a mess out of you? How rude of me.” She scoops you up into her hands and brings you up to her face, her tongue tip meeting your breasts and eagerly licking them clean. “You taste so good like this,” and her words make you shudder, her tongue not leaving a single spot on your body untouched. When she slides it inside of you, you are already riding the tidal wave of another orgasm, and she laps every drop up.

She calls you delicious. She calls you hers.

Oh, she really is good to you.

Next night when she drapes over you in your bed, she asks if you would be willing to stay a bit longer.

Should you have hesitated? Should you have thought before you dragged her down onto your lips for a kiss to seal your fate? Never, never. You wanted this from the moment you first dreamed of her chasing you down in your dreams, the first time when she caught you in the deep woods and sunk her cock into you at the same time as her teeth pierced your skin.

The truth of you is this: you have always wanted her, always screamed yes when she pushes into you and wrecks you.

Her truth is this: she has always wanted to toy with you, skirting the line between tender and cruel, but always with love underlining every act.

Her plan is good. Her plan is gracious. Her plan is all for your pleasure.

She has worked you for days — you think it’s days, at least, but time has taken on an elusive and fuzzy quality — slowly and patiently stretching you. Sometimes you peek a look down between your legs as she works shadowy tendrils that writhe like tentacles into you, and you feel dizzy counting them, absolutely sure that cannot be right. There are so many, all of them pushing against your inner walls.

When you grow exhausted, she gathers you to her bosom, letting you rest. She slides the tentacles into you and holds them there, plugging you up as you curl up next to her to sleep.

Your dreams are filled with soft warmth, with the feeling of pleasure building, and when you wake the tentacles are writhing inside of you, oh so slowly and deliciously. You have barely managed to focus your eyes before you feel the first orgasm of the day cresting, a soft exhaled moan to notify her that you have awakened, that you are eager for more, always eager always hungry.

When she isn’t around, you push your fingers into yourself, feeling how you can fit one more in there than before without trying too hard. Soon, soon you will be able to take her, at least a part of her, and the thought alone makes you drip onto your own hand.

The rhythm of it continues. Tentacles that fill you, hold you, take you. Then you gape empty and you cry because you want her so much that you don’t know how you went without this all your life. She strokes you, kisses you, plugs you up as you nestle against her. Everything about you is changing in her hands, delicately cracked open and exposed to her teeth.

And finally, finally you are ready for her.

She holds you, grip delicate but unwavering, and she lowers you to the tip of her cock. You slick the both of you up with the drops of pre gathered in the slit, then lick your hands clean as she watches, enraptured. She never tires of watching you get filthy for her, and you love to provide for her in this way.

You rest on the head of it, rocking your hips back and forth, feeling the give in your body. The stretch at your entrance is making you pant, and her fingers tighten around your thighs. The self-restraint she shows is so tender, so careful. She wants you and she wants you to feel the bliss she can give you.

Her tongue licks a stripe down your chest, tip barely flicking against your clit, and it undoes something in you. The head of the cock slips inside you all at once and your eyes roll into the back of your head as you forget how to breathe for a moment. It is not pain, far from it, but you are feeling almost too much and it takes time to adjust. Your breath returns to you in short bursts, your body trembling, her fingers carefully soothing along your back.

“You are doing so well,” she murmurs, her voice deep and husky, tinged with raw lust. “You are being so good tonight, so very very good.”

You lean into her touch, pressing your cheek to her palm. She shifts you in her hands, cupping your arse like you are a precious jewel, bending forward to plant a kiss on your forehead through the veil. You glimpse her face briefly underneath it, the four golden eyes, the black lips and the sharp rows of teeth, and it makes your inner walls clench down on her with need.

Reaching down to touch yourself, you marvel at how wet you are, your fingers skimming along the edge where she joins with your body before rubbing at your clit. The tension in your body melts away little by little, and you slide down further, taking her deeper until nothing more in you can give. You are so full, in a way you have never known before, your belly pouting outwards.

And then she moves you upwards, the ridges of her cock catching on the spongy spot inside you. The words that spill from your mouth as you come are snarled and feral, a prayer and plea. “More please thank you I need you I more more more!” Another ridge and you howl, digging your nails into her fingers as you scrabble for purchase.

Your mind is fraying at the seams with how much you love her, how much you love what she is doing to you. You will never be the same again and you love her for that too.

There is no exact rhythm, only her hands guiding you up and down as you moan, tears flowing over your cheeks, and you smile and beg and scream. Pure ecstasy rips through your body like sea lapping at the shore, constant and unyielding and things are as they should be, as they must be.

You two are forces of nature, and you are in absolute harmony.

And you are greedy.

You push yourself down, hellbent on taking more.

“Darling,” she moans, “please, it is already enough…” There. You hear it in her voice, how painfully close she is to coming. It stokes the feral fire in you. You truly are a horrible, depraved little thing but you are her depraved little one and you will remind her of that.

“It is enough when I say it is enough.”

And another.

Ridge.

Pops inside.

Another set of ilms added to the impossible length already inside of you.

This is how you break and mend yourself in her hands and it’s delicious and too much and it can never be enough because you know only hunger and she is your salvation —

And you come and come and come, there’s no room inside of you for anything else so you come again —

You think you are breathing but you are not sure, you think you are still alive because you can hear her calling your name but it is not the name this mortal body goes by, it is an ancient one, it is yours from long before. She calls you back, back down into the physical form impaled upon her cock, and it is a shock to return to it and feel how full you are.

“Come back,” she moans, cradling you, her fingers digging into your flesh. “Come to me, come…”

“I remember you,” you say.

She looms over you curling over you, her breath hot through the veil on your skin. You lift the edge of it up, you touch her chin, you marvel at her terrifying beauty.

“Who am I to you?” She is quivering with anticipation at your answer, a strange reversal of power. It is a potent rush in your veins.

And you know, because your aether surges into her, has been surging all along but it is only now you are aware of it, of the taste of her soul in yours.

“You are Hades,” you say, grabbing at her long white hair, hoisting yourself up towards her mouth lined with sharpened rows of teeth, “and I am yours and you are mine.”

She bends down and bites you, teeth sinking into your shoulder and breasts as she spills herself. There is nowhere for the seed to go, sealed tight as you are on her cock, and your belly strains under the pressure. She takes mercy on you, pulling you upwards, and it all comes gushing out. Your cunt clenches empty, seed dripping all over, her saliva coating your breasts as she breathes heavily.

You retaliate by sinking your teeth into the finger nearest your mouth, breaking her skin and lapping at her blood. Even the taste of that is different, metallic and earthy. She has been waiting for such a long time for you to come back, for your light.

“You terrible, wretched thing,” she groans, teeth letting go of you. She inspects the deep bite marks, trying to heal them, but you wrench yourself away. You want to keep them. You want to name what they mean to you yourself, in this new language for love taking shape within you.

“I am your terrible, wretched love,” you reply, teeth grazing her skin even as she lowers you down, taking care of you as if you are precious to her. You are precious to her, always and forever, and you revel in that knowledge even as you sprawl out on your back, too exhausted to use your legs.

She presses a finger into you and then brings it to her mouth, tasting your mixed fluids. “Say my name again.” Her crown is askew and you reach up towards it, hoping to cut your hand on it like you always did in your dreams.


It is not gods that change you, but the ones who summon them.

Before Zodiark, there was her. Before the gods that came to split you apart, her hands pressed together and her lips sung a prayer that summoned a god that changed the star. She is older than that. She is truly primordial.

You loved at her feet before the moon graced the sky. In your mind, your past together is unfurling, a rich tapestry of history that fills you with warmth. Thousands upon thousands of years and she finds you again.

You can name her. You can name yourself. The world is reborn anew in your eyes, the weave of history mended as your thread finds its context, interwoven with hers.

You could be anyone you want in her hands, and you chose to be yourself. That is divine grace.

She keeps her distance, smiling from the shadows, golden eyes gleaming in the sunlight. She waits for nightfall, and so do you.

When you walk in the sunlight you can see the outline of someone else in your shadows. You can see yourself, yes, but also the phantom limbs of the past, of your true self, waiting and aching and becoming.

The wingbeats of history are already bearing down on you, deafening.

A thin chain of fate runs from your neck to her hand. Some days you let her tug you backwards until you are flush against her chest and she holds you, ruins you, thrills at how obedient you are. Other days you wrap the chain around your hand and pull her out into the sunlight, if only to show her how strong you are becoming. Look at me and know me, love. Who will rule? The day is yours. The night hers. The balance is as it should be.