#eldritch x reader

You heard it again tonight.

Soft. Just behind the headboard. A scratching noise, faint but deliberate, each pass followed by a pause just long enough to make your skin crawl. The rhythm was too intentional to be pipes expanding with heat or tired floorboards creaking under their own age. You froze with the spoon halfway to your mouth, broth cooling between your fingers, gaze locked on the wall like it might bulge outward, like it might finally reveal what you’ve only ever felt in flashes—something breathing behind the plaster, waiting for you to notice it properly.

It never did. It never burst through like the climax of some trashy horror flick. No hands. No eyes. No monstrous reveal.

But it always got louder when you spoke.

Louder still when you played music. And louder—undeniably louder—when you moaned.

You’d tested that once, not because you believed it, but because something deep and ancient in you wanted to. Because there was a tug at the base of your spine, low and dark and insistent, something that felt less like fear and more like… provocation. You’d let your hand slip beneath the sheets one night, alone and aching and tired of pretending you didn’t want to know. Just a whimper, soft and sticky, followed by the sound—no, the impact—of something slamming the wall from the other side, so hard it rattled the lamp and knocked a book from your nightstand.

You’d gone very still after that, breath trapped in your throat, waiting for whatever would come next.

Nothing did.

You told yourself it was your imagination. The building was old and loud and falling apart at the seams. It had to be the wind. The neighbors. The plumbing. Anything else.

Except for the food.

You’d been high that night, giggly and spinning, and you’d taken half a sandwich and slid it into the narrow space near the floorboards, the gesture more dare than offering, more joke than sacrifice. Something stupid. Something to laugh about when you woke up.

But when morning came, there were no crumbs. No paper towel. No sign you’d ever left anything there at all—just bare floorboards and a faint, palm-sized smear that glistened damply in the early light.

You never told anyone.

But you never really stopped thinking about it either.

Tonight, the wall is quiet, and somehow, that feels worse.

You’re lying on your back with a book balanced on your chest, unread for the better part of an hour, your eyes fixed on the same paragraph but absorbing nothing. The silence is thick—oppressive in a way that clings to your skin—and it hums with something weighty, something like breath held too long in the dark. The air doesn’t feel still so much as watchful, and every muscle in your body is tense with the knowledge that something is waiting.

Your chest feels tight. Your throat dry. You’re too aware of yourself—of the heat under your cotton underwear, of your bare legs beneath the blanket, of the slick trace that might be sweat or nerves or something shamefully close to arousal. The quiet makes your heartbeat sound obscene, thudding between your ears like a warning you’re not sure you’ll listen to in time.

“You miss me.”

It’s not a sound. Not exactly. There’s no volume, no echo. Just a presence in your mind, a voice with shape but no source, low and rough and male, speaking in a tone that feels scraped from stone and wrapped in moss. It sinks into you like a whisper behind your ribs, slithering down your spine, curling hot and awful and electric low in your belly.

You sit upright so fast your vision tilts, pulse crashing hard against your ribs. “What the fuck,” you rasp, voice dry and cracked with disbelief.

And the wall shifts.

Only slightly. Just enough for the paint to bubble outward, as though the plaster beneath it is drawing in a breath you can't hear, the surface rippling like skin touched too lightly.

You recoil, sheets tangling at your hips as you scramble backward, heart hammering, mouth working through disbelief, dread, desire. “Nope,” you whisper, already halfway to the edge of the bed. “No. No—fuck this.”

And then the voice returns, nearer now, closer and heavier, as if it’s brushing the inside of your skull with velvet-gloved fingers tipped in glass.

“Lie back down.”

Your body obeys before your mind can resist. Your knees give out beneath you, spine folding like paper, and you’re sinking into the mattress without intention, as though gravity itself has turned against you—obedient, helpless, and breathless.

The wall exhales.

A fissure slices down the paint in a slow, shivering line—narrow as a vein, not enough to glimpse anything inside, just enough to let a thread of air slip out, sharp and cold and disturbingly sweet. It smells like rotted lilac and storm-soaked leaves, familiar in the way fever dreams feel familiar—unreal but remembered.

“You’ve been waiting for me too, little mouse. Don’t deny it.”

Your throat locks. Words vanish.

Your thighs press together without your permission, a subtle, traitorous motion, and something—something—responds.

It doesn’t touch you. Not really. But you feel it at the edge of your bed, a presence heavier than air, denser than shadow. It brushes against your foot, and then higher, skating just above your calf with the kind of precision that speaks of intent. It’s not touch—it’s pressure, a temperature difference, a weight in the air that seems to mold itself to your skin without ever making contact. Every nerve tingles in recognition.

You shut your eyes. Try to breathe slowly. Try to stay still. Try not to lean into the feeling that builds like a storm behind your ribs.

And then—

Your panties shift.

No hands. No claws. Nothing solid or visible. Just a slow, deliberate pull against the elastic, like fingers made of wind and want are peeling you open, inch by inch, without ever leaving a mark.

And that voice?

That voice is smiling when it says:

“Good girl.”

You don’t sleep much that night.

Or maybe you do. You’re not sure anymore—because when you woke, your hand was already between your legs, slick and moving and desperate, your breath caught on a moan you couldn’t swallow, and that voice was still there, coiled low in your mind, whispering things you couldn’t repeat to anyone. Words that weren’t even words anymore—just filth, heat, suggestion—things that made your stomach knot and your chest flush and your hips lift helplessly off the mattress, chasing friction you couldn’t name, couldn’t escape.

You were alone.

You had to be alone.

The wall was smooth. Blank. Solid.

Untouched.

But something in you still trembled, not from fear, not anymore, but from a slow, seeping certainty that made the back of your neck prickle and your thighs tighten around your own fingers like you were trying to trap something there.

You called your dealer the next day with false laughter in your throat, your voice just a little too high, too brittle, as you joked that maybe the last bag was laced with something wicked. “What was in that hybrid, man? I had the freakiest dreams.” You didn’t mention the wall. Didn’t mention the voice. You didn’t say how you’d woken up soaked, how your body had bucked into your own hand like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

He offered you a discount on your next pickup.

Said it was just good shit.

You didn’t smoke the rest.

But you kept dreaming.

And the dreams never changed.

They’re always… thick, viscous and dark that clings to your skin like oil and holds your breath captive in your chest. You can’t move, but you don’t want to. You’re pinned beneath something massive and heavy, something that doesn’t breathe like a man but fills the room like a god, and its breath rolls across your throat like steam, slow and ruinous.

You feel touches, but they come from everywhere—hands without arms, mouths without shape, heat without body. Tongues slide against your skin, between your legs, behind your teeth, and fingers curl around your thighs like they know you, like they’ve always known you, like they are the ones who claimed you.

Sometimes it speaks.

Sometimes it only makes noises—low, drawn-out sounds of pleasure that settle behind your ribs and vibrate through your cunt like a second pulse. They aren’t human. They aren’t supposed to make you come.

But they do.

You wake shaking. Gasping. Soaked.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t tell your friends that the bedroom light stays on now, or that your nightstand drawer hides a vibrator you use like a crucifix—ritual, ward, punishment. You don’t say how you’ve started touching yourself before bed not for pleasure, but as a bribe, as if coming on your own might keep the dreams at bay.

You definitely don’t talk about the marks.

Because they don’t show up right away. Not until Day Four.

You’re in the shower, scrubbing harder than necessary, chasing a clean you can’t quite reach, when your fingers drag across something tender, high on the curve of your ass. You twist towards the mirror with dread thick in your throat, and there—two dark crescents, bruised deep into your skin, spaced just wide enough to be a mouth. A jaw. A claim.

You don’t scream. You just sink down into the bottom of the tub with the water scalding your shoulders, arms wrapped around your knees as you try to breathe past the drowning certainty that nothing has ever touched you like this before.

You tell yourself it’s the couch. You slept wrong. You pinched yourself in your sleep. You must have.

But you don’t believe it.

Not after the next dream, when you wake up with slick pooling beneath you and the phantom glide of something still stroking the inside of your knee, lingering.

You start keeping the bedroom door closed.

Then the bathroom door. Then the closet.

You stuff towels in the cracks, seal the air vents, tape over every opening you can find.

It doesn’t matter.

The dreams keep coming.

And then—eventually—you stop hating them.

You stop waking up afraid.

You stop turning on the light.

On Day Seven, you wake not just aroused, not just wet, but empty. Hollow in a way that aches. Like there’s a cavity inside you where something belongs—something thick, something heavy, something that knows how to fill you. Your fingers don’t help. Your vibrator doesn’t help. You rock against the mattress and cry from the frustration of needing something you’ve never seen, of craving something nameless, shapeless, formless—except you do know the shape. Your body knows it.

And your mouth forms the word before you can stop it—soft and broken and so desperate:

“Please.”

The wall groans.

A low, pulsing sound that reverberates through the floor, through your bones, and into the part of you that’s already dripping.

By Day Nine, you stop pretending to sleep.

You lie in the dark with your sheets twisted at your hips, with your thighs parted, with your fingers curled into the mattress like you’re bracing for impact.

You wait.

You listen.

You don’t even bother hiding your breath anymore.

You hope he hears it.

Your breath comes shallow, chest rising too quickly, lungs fluttering like a bird trapped under your ribs, straining for something you can’t name—anticipating the first flicker of movement, the first whisper of warmth against your skin, the phantom drag of a tongue over your throat like a promise.

But he doesn’t come.

He leaves you alone.

And that’s worse.

Because now there’s no teasing, no ghost of touch—just the emptiness, the gnawing ache of absence where he used to be. And it’s unbearable. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, every nerve stretched taut, tuned to a frequency only he can reach. You can’t focus. You can’t eat. Every sound is too loud and too quiet all at once. You’ve started wearing only soft, thin shirts without bras, your nipples always hard, always waiting. You sleep without panties now, splayed across the bed like a sacrifice, like an offering—open, inviting, pleading in silence.

But nothing happens.

You dream of cold sheets. Dry hands. Stillness.

You wake up drenched anyway—slick between your thighs, aching so sharply it makes your stomach cramp, your clit swollen and untouched. Your voice is raw from begging in your sleep, whispering for him, calling out to something that isn’t there.

And still, you don’t stop.

You want him to hear.

By Day Ten, your hands are trembling when you touch yourself—not with anticipation, but with frustration, with grief. It doesn’t feel like pleasure anymore. It feels like punishment. You rub at your clit like it owes you something, like if you just try hard enough, maybe you’ll come so violently you can drive him out, banish him, shake the need loose from your bones. But it doesn’t work. You come, and then you cry, curled in on yourself in the dark, trembling and spent and still fucking empty.

Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your body writhes for weight, for pressure, for something thicker and deeper than your fingers could ever be.

You say his name again.

Even though you’ve never known it.

“Please,” you whisper, face buried in the mattress, one hand sticky between your thighs, the other twisted into your hair so hard your scalp burns. “I’ll let you. Please.”

On Day Eleven, he comes back.

Not at night.

Not in your dreams.

It’s morning. Or close to it. You’re in the kitchen with sleep still dragging at your limbs, dirty-haired and raw-eyed, drinking cold coffee that tastes like ash and punishment, blinking into the middle distance like there’s nothing left to feel.

And then the hallway goes silent.

Not just quiet—silent.

The fridge hum dies. The pipes don’t creak. The air itself seems to stop moving, and it hits you somewhere behind the ribs, that same low pressure you’ve come to know like prayer.

You turn toward the bedroom like your spine’s been hooked and reeled in slowly, like gravity is working in only one direction now.

And the wall breathes.

You see it happen.

The plaster above your bed shifts, pulsing once—slow, steady, undeniable, like the rise and fall of a massive unseen lung. A thin seam opens in the center. Damp. Luminous. Trembling faintly, as though it remembers how to ache.

You don’t run. You don’t even blink.

The crack widens, slick at the edges, glistening with something black and thick and shining like oil in candlelight.

And then—a hand.

Long-fingered. Clawed. Black as pitch and dripping, slick as if it’s been submerged in tar. The fingers flex once, slow and fluid, curling into the air like they can already feel you.

Then comes the arm—wide and corded with muscle, vaguely human in shape but too fluid, too perfect, too wrong, as if every contour has been imagined rather than made. It gleams like ink over water, its form shifting just beneath the surface of your comprehension.

Then the chest.

Massive. Shadow-thick. Steam curling from its surface in waves. Heat radiates from it in pulses, each one dragging sweat to the surface of your skin, making your thighs clench, your lips part, your nipples harden beneath the whisper of your shirt.

And then his face. Or something like it.

There are eyes. Sort of. Twin pits of depth that glow like the depths of the universe, like you could fall in and never reach the bottom. His mouth is a gash of black, teeth gleaming inside it, too many, too sharp, smiling with no kindness at all.

You drop to the bed with a thud you barely feel, breath caught somewhere between terror and awe.

He’s beautiful.

And monstrous.

Bigger than anything should be.

And hard.

That’s the next thing you notice—unavoidable, obscene. His cock is there, long and thick and arched upward with impossible weight. It glistens with a wet sheen, pulsing gently with the steady rhythm of his hunger. Veins shimmer along the shaft, faintly iridescent, like oil in water. The head is flushed deep, a violet-black that makes your mouth go dry, and your cunt tighten reflexively around nothing.

You stare. You tremble. You burn.

He watches you in perfect silence, unmoving, letting your eyes devour him, letting your need catch fire again, all at once.

And then he speaks.

His voice rolls over you like smoke, like sin, like gravity—low and rich and made of everything you’ve ever been afraid to want.

“I told you, little mouse. You do want me.”

And you do. God, you do.

You’re not aroused, you’re drenched. Your thighs are slick with it, cunt swollen and clenching and so fucking sensitive it hurts to breathe, nipples aching beneath your shirt, raw from days of friction and unfulfilled dreams. You swear you can feel your pulse between your legs, fluttering helplessly.

You don’t remember moving, but you’re already on your knees on the bed, eyes wide, lips parted, panting softly like you’ve forgotten how to speak.

He’s so big.

Not just tall—massive. The frame of him fills the fractured space in the wall, shoulders nearly brushing either side, hunched like something too big for this world, forced into it anyway. And behind him, more: shadow upon shadow, shape without end, as if his body was still being poured from the dark, an infinite crawl of flesh and hunger.

And then—that cock.

It’s the only thing that holds focus, the only thing that has weight in a world gone soft around the edges. Heavy. Slick. Leaking from the tip in slow, obscene drips. It pulses, thick and veined, as though impatient, as though it can already feel the clench of your cunt around it. Wide enough to choke on. Long enough to ruin. It hovers in your vision like a promise, like a curse. The air around it feels too warm.

You should be afraid.

You’re not.

You sink lower, trembling, eyes fixed on the head of his cock where it gleams in the low light, drooling precum like it’s tasting the moment.

Your breath catches as he moves—two claws reaching through the broken opening, stretching toward your face. Fingers like oil-slick obsidian, cool and viscous, curling beneath your jaw and tilting your gaze up like you belong to him already. His touch smells of rain on pavement and scorched earth, ozone and something darker, older.

“Beg.”

It doesn’t land like a command—it lands like a truth he already knows. You were going to. You always were.

Your throat bobs as you try to swallow, lips parting on instinct, voice thin with want.

“Please. I—”

He drags those claws down your neck, slow and deliberate, pressing just enough to make your pulse jump.

“Use your words, little mouse.”

They scrape. You shiver. Your voice breaks.

“I want you.”

“Want what?”

You choke on the heat rising through you. Your body is buzzing, spine hollowed with need.

“Your cock,” you whisper, desperate. “Please. I need it. I need—”

Two fingers slide past your lips before you can finish. Thick and wet and flexing as they press into the warm, soft space of your mouth, curling deep enough to make your throat flutter. You gag around them, tongue trying to adjust, eyes wet and wide, but you don’t move away. Your legs squeeze together instinctively. You’re soaked.

He makes a sound then—a low, guttural growl of satisfaction that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.

One vast arm wraps around your waist and lifts you like a doll, like your body is just fabric and stuffing. You squeal, legs kicking as he pulls you back across the bed, claws snagging your shirt and dragging it up, baring you, stripping you. He drops you to your hands and knees with careless ease, your ass exposed, your cunt glistening. The air hits you cold and hungry.

And then you feel him.

Not just behind you—looming over you. A presence like smoke and heat and electricity, pressing against your back, your thighs, your spine. That cock nudges your cunt, heavy and slick and pulsing with anticipation.

You manage one last, pleading whisper, nearly sobbing:

“Please be—”

But he doesn’t let you finish.

That monstrous cock slams into you in one merciless, mindless thrust.

Your scream rips from your chest.

Your pussy stretches impossibly wide around him, every nerve alight. It’s too much, too fast, too deep—and it hurts, but the kind of hurt that cracks you open, the kind that makes you sob for more. Your walls clamp down, desperate to hold him, to keep him, to never let him leave.

He doesn’t slow.

He plows into you like he’s starved. Like your body is his only tether to the world. Like he’s carved you into memory and now, finally, he gets to live in you.

He fucks you like he’s waited lifetimes.

And you break apart instantly.

Your orgasm hits like a strike of lightning—white-hot and absolute, forcing your body to convulse, to clamp around him in greedy pulses. You sob as slick gushes down your thighs, your cunt trying to milk him even as he grinds deeper.

He growls again—louder this time, feral—and fucks through it.

Keeps going.

Keeps taking.

His claws dig into your hips, sharp enough to bruise, anchoring you as he saws through your slick, ruined cunt. Each thrust punches a sound out of you. The slap of your bodies fills the room, loud and filthy.

You can’t see. You can’t breathe. You don’t want to.

You just want more.

“Fuck—fuck,” you sob, tongue lolling, drool smearing the sheets. “You’re gonna break me—”

“Good.”

And then he does.

He fucks you harder, and your arms collapse. Your face presses into the mattress, ass up, cunt stretched wide around that brutal cock. You’re nothing but sensation now—nothing but a hole to be filled, a body to be used.

Another orgasm tears through you without warning. You scream into the sheets, body convulsing, and he doesn’t stop.

He just keeps fucking.

He fills you up.

He fucks you raw.

And when he comes—when that cock twitches and starts spilling inside you—it’s overwhelming.

You feel it instantly. Hot. Endless. It gushes deep into you, thick and sticky and searing, pushing up into your womb and overflowing immediately. It seeps out around his cock, down your thighs, soaking the bed beneath you.

And still—still—he doesn’t stop.

He breeds you. Marks you. Makes sure there’s no part of you untouched, unclaimed. His hips grind forward as if trying to push his cum deeper, as if trying to melt into you entirely.

You’re crying now—broken sobs that melt into gasps of laughter. You’re wrecked. Blown open. Happy.

You can’t speak. You don’t need to.

He leans down, body draped over yours like smoke, and his lips—whatever he has for lips—brush the shell of your ear and his voice is velvet and ruin.

“You’re mine now.”

And god help you—

You want to be.

You are.

Numbness pools beneath your skin, the sweet, hollow kind that comes after devastation. Your face is mashed into damp sheets, mouth open, slack with exhaustion, a slow ribbon of drool spilling from your lips. Your eyes flutter—half-lidded, glazed, tears clinging to the lashes like dew. Every breath trembles.

Your pussy is ruined.

Wrecked and gaping, loose and twitching, still flexing involuntarily around the cock no longer moving inside you. His seed spills from you in slow, molten rivers, oozing down your thighs in obscene, glistening trails. It’s everywhere—slicking your skin, your sheets, the air itself.

You think it might be over.

You hope it might be over.

Because your body feels like cracked porcelain, held together with nothing but ache—and you don’t think you can survive another—

He moves.

You flinch like a live wire, a bolt of overstimulated panic jolting up your spine.

A wet, viscous sound—deep and slick and too intimate—as he draws back halfway. Your mouth falls open on a sob, a long, helpless moan clawing from your chest as you realize—

He’s still hard.

Still thick inside you. Still stretching your broken cunt open, still twitching with heat and hunger. Another slow pulse, another warm spill of cum into your already-flooded body.

“P-please,” you whisper, voice wrecked and shaking. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

His voice is tender.

Almost gentle. Soft as silk and twice as suffocating. It wraps around you like a lover’s promise, like the weight of chains. That gentleness is the most terrifying part.

“You let me in, little mouse,” he purrs, his breath curling down your spine. “And I haven’t finished feeding.”

And then he slams back into you.

Your scream scrapes raw from your throat, body jerking, seizing around him, muscles clenching like they’re trying to prove something. Your hands scrabble at the bedding, clawing for something—anything—to anchor yourself as your body is split open all over again.

Every thrust grinds into your clit, a spark of agony-pleasure that ignites your nerves until your thoughts fracture, until you stop knowing what’s pain and what’s bliss and what’s simply his. You sob as he pounds into you, and this time—

He leans in.

His chest presses to your back—solid, hot, slick—and you feel him stretch longer, larger, heavier, like he’s letting go of even the pretense of human shape. His tongue unfurls—long, sinuous, burning—and licks up your spine in one lazy, possessive stroke, tasting you like you're dessert he hasn't quite finished.

You moan—choked, feral— mouth open and drooling, body bouncing helplessly on his cock.

And then he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind you, folding your arms back like wings, forcing you down so his cock is so deep you swear you feel it pressing into your lungs. You gag on air. Your cunt ripples, clutching around the impossible girth like it’s trying to mold itself to him, like it knows it was made to be filled by this.

Then—new touches.

Alien. Other.

Not hands. Not tongue. Not anything you were ready for.

Something smooth and cold winds around your thigh. Another slips across your belly, wrapping you like a ribbon of muscle and hunger. You don’t look. You won’t look. You know—he’s not done revealing what he really is.

A tendril slithers down, nestling between your slick cheeks, curling against your clit with teasing pulses of pressure.

Another brushes your lips—ghosting, tasting—before easing into your mouth. You suck on instinct, greedy and mindless. It tastes of smoke and copper and ancient wrongness, something sacred and vile, something holy and desecrated just for you.

He’s everywhere now.

Inside you. Around you. Inside you again.

One cock fucking your cunt raw, one tendril sliding into your throat, another circling your ass, slick and firm and promising. His moans fill the room, echoing through the drywall—low, guttural things that vibrate the walls, that seem to come from beneath the floor, from inside your body.

You shatter.

You come again.

And again.

Your pussy clenches, spasming around him like it's addicted, like it can't let him go. Slick gushes out of you with each pulse, coating him, coating you, soaking the sheets in proof.

And still—he doesn’t stop.

“One more,” he growls.

You don’t know if he means one more orgasm or one more hour.

It doesn’t matter.

You’re his.

And he’s going to ruin you for anything else.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. It stopped mattering somewhere between your third orgasm and your fourth breakdown—when you screamed yourself hoarse, clawing the sheets, your body seizing in endless waves of mindless, body-breaking pleasure.

Now you’re limp.

Boneless.

Slathered in sweat and slick and cum, skin flushed and gleaming, hair sticking to your forehead, your thighs sticky and trembling. You’ve drooled through your pillow, babbled nonsense into the mattress. Every time he thrusts, your body twitches—one last spasm of too much, too full, too deep.

You can’t take more.

You want more.

Both things are true.

He fucks you slowly now. A different kind of cruelty. Long, grinding strokes that let you feel every inch of him—the way the ridges drag over your sore walls, the way the head flares just before he bottoms out. You mewl. Moan. Sob. Words are gone. All that’s left is sound.

Your body is stuffed.

Flooded.

Each lazy thrust forces more of his cum out of you in thick, gleaming streams. Your cunt flutters, trying to hold him, but it can’t. You’re too full. There’s nowhere left for it to go.

But then, he growls. A deep, seismic vibration that rolls through his chest, into your back, into your blood. His body stiffens. Thrusts shorten. Grind harder.

And then—

He truly lets go.

But not like before.

This is final. Total.

You feel the heat first—a sudden, blistering gush that forces your body to tense, to stretch even further. Your belly blooms tight. Pressure builds. You gasp, trying to accommodate it, but there’s too much. You’re already filled to capacity, and still he keeps coming.

It pours from him like he’s breaking open inside you.

Endless. Viscous. Claiming.

Your cunt contracts violently, a last, exhausted orgasm tightening your whole body. His seed gushes around his cock, coats your skin, stains the bed. You cry—soft and ragged and wordless.

You don’t even know his name.

But you moan it anyway.

And then he stills.

Still buried inside you.

Still pulsing.

Still yours.

His arms—slick, long, endless—wrap around your trembling body from behind, cradling you against his chest like you’re something breakable. And in this moment, you are.

He doesn’t pull out.

He won’t.

You feel the stretch of him still seated in your cunt, holding you open, anchoring you to him with heat and need. A twitch when he touches your thigh—but it’s gentle now. Reassuring. His claws trace soft circles into your skin, dragging away the mess, smearing it into your thighs like a mark of ownership.

And his tongue—velvet and sinfully warm—laps slowly across your shoulder blades, cleaning you, savoring you.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, a sound like midnight silk and wet ash. “Took me so sweet, little mouse.”

Your lips move. Nothing comes out but a broken, grateful sound.

He kisses your neck.

A strange, melting brush of something almost human—soft and warm, shifting—followed by a bite. Not cruel. Not punishing.

Claiming.

He sinks his fangs—or claws, or whatever monstrous thing he uses—into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and you feel it: a dark, slow pulse sliding under your skin. A bond. A tether. Something heavy and ancient and final.

You whimper, clenching around him again.

He licks the wound clean.

“Mine now,” he breathes.

And you are.

You don’t know how long you float there.

Cockwarming in the arms of an eldritch god, stretched and used and full and adored.

Eventually, he shifts.

Lays you down like glass, tucks you beneath the covers, and stays. A tendril strokes your cheek. Another slips between your thighs, pressing gently to keep his seed inside. You whimper. He hums.

“Sleep, little darling,” he whispers. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

Because he’s not leaving.

Not ever.

Something strange had happened after the Great Incursion. Sometimes where a Rift had appeared and closed things were left behind. Monsters, yes. Magic, yes. But also items, land, buildings. A blending of worlds more dramatic than most areas.

You had heard rumors of how several areas in Washington and Oregon - no - the Kingdom of Dosneni had experienced this blending. Great castles and keeps, that the new vampire rulers inhabited. It was rarer here in the new country of the Federation of American States. The old D.C. metro area had been transformed into a landscape of hellfire and immoral demons…you supposed that the latter wasn’t that different than before.

But most of these blended areas were not so drastically different. A barn on main street. A hill that hadn’t been there before. So, when you found a tall tower in the forest it wasn’t something that stood out as completely strange. It was strange though that it certainly hadn’t been there two days ago when you had been by before. 

It was round, forty feet tall, separate from any main keep, and with a flattop that a person could observe afar from. A lookout tower of some sort? It had definitely sat in a forest as there were three willow trees nearby that weren’t indigenous to the area.

Of course, the real question was - is this a problem? For all you knew this could be some fey trick. It could be a mage’s tower and filled with magical traps. Or it could be completely empty and abandoned. There was also the concern that something else had come with the tower. Could there be a new monster in the area? If so, friendly or dangerous?

Maybe you should contact DOMA? But who knew how long it would take them to get out here for just a tower. They had so many other cases to deal with where people were in danger. This tower wasn’t an obvious danger and it would be rude to call the feds on a possible new neighbor.

For now, you decided to leave the tower alone. You still had to collect the data from your trail cams. If there were any monsters that had come with the tower, it was possible you had captured some footage. There was a camera facing the area of the tower, you might have even captured its arrival. Switching out the memory card for the trail cam you moved along the path to the next one.

Back in your cabin you uploaded the photos to your laptop and began flipping through. You were looking for signs of grey wolves. Wolves had started returning to their natural habitat in southern Canada after the Great Incursion when urban pressure had been reduced. There were rumors of wolves returning to this area as well. A few of your neighbors in town had sworn they found a deer corpse with wolf prints around it. And Mrs. Flannery told you she had seen something large and dog-like, running along in the woods as she drove at night. So, as a member of the Forest Amelioration Engineers you had set out your trail cameras out in the woods to see if the wolves could be found. 

There were no photos of wolves on the camera. But the trail cam had captured the appearance of the tower. Just a few photos of the tower, when its arrival triggered the motion sensors. Nothing else. Perhaps, the tower was really abandoned.

Just in case you would bring a basket of food for anything living in the tower as a welcome gift and peace offering.

The sun was reaching its zenith by the time you reached the tower the next day. You had spent the morning filling out the DOMA report form online. Technically, you had submitted it too but the internet was less than reliable sometimes so it was still clocking when you left, hopefully, it would be officially submitted by the time you return.

While you were coming with a basket of food and a few shiny objects you still approached the tower with caution. There was a hunting knife strapped to your belt for self-defense. If there was something dangerous in there hopefully you would be able to hurt it enough to escape.

The walk itself was peaceful if not a little quiet. Stepping up to the large stone base of the tower you looked around for another sign of life. Nothing inside the tower moved at ground level and you couldn’t see into the balcony windows. 

“Hello!” You called out announcing your presence verbally. “Welcome to the human realm!”

Walking around the tower you called out some more trying to make sure you were heard by anything inside, before approaching the door. “I am here with a welcoming gift, it is a part of my culture for new neighbors.”

You knocked on the door. As fist hit wood, the door creaked out. You blinked staring into the dim interior. There was a table, some chairs, a cold fireplace, and no humanoid. No sign of life.

“Is anyone there,” you asked, sticking your head cautiously inside. “I mean you no harm and I do not want to trespass.”

You were about to finalize that there was no one there when you heard something from the upper floors. It sounded like a voice, a cry.

“Hellooo,” you questioned, stepping half way into the building.

“Hello,” the voice was muffled, weak but certainly there.

“Is it alright if I come in? I can leave the gift and go.”

“Come in,” the voice called back, still hard to hear through the stone.

“Thank you.” At the invitation you entered, still cautious. You set the basket down on the table. There was no dust, no cobwebs in the corners. Someone definitely lived here.

Silence in the air. It gave you an eerie feeling. “I put the gift on the table. I can leave if you want…but if you need any help I live down the deer path to the southwest…”

“Do not leave,” the voice replied quickly, the sound still muffled by the stone. “Help.”

Your eyes widened. “You need help? I am coming upstairs.”

“Upstairs. Help.”

Hurrying up the stairs you came to the second floor, light streamed in though the archery slits. It looked like an armory of some sort. A lookout tower with soldiers would make sense. 

“Hello,” the voice called again from further up. It was clearer now, you could tell it was questioning if you were still there.

“I’m coming,” you yelled back as you continued to climb the stairs. The next floor was barracks, there had definitely been three soldiers here given the number of beds. But what had happened to them? It didn’t look like an attack. Maybe they had been out on patrol or something when the Rift opened? Then who was left behind?

“Upstairs…” One more floor. You arrived at a closed door on the landing of the fourth floor. There was a ladder that led to the roof. In the back of your mind you questioned though. The voice it sounded strangely familiar. “Hellooo?”

You tossed open the door to find…an empty bedroom. The captain’s quarters given the set of armor in the corner.

Stepping in questioningly, you looked around for the voice. “Hello,” you softly called out looking around the room. “Where are you?”

Silence.

Shit. Did you just follow a ghost?

On a desk sat a journal. Peering over the faded yellow pages you saw hurried but clear cursive writing. 

Thrimilchi Seventh Day afore Ides

Movement from the orcs hast did cease.  Those monsters art camp'd ov'r the range.  Hath sent Blye to scout.

Thrimilchi Fourth Day afore Ides

Blye hast not hath return’d. I shalt sendeth Harold aft'r him on the morrow.

Thrimilchi Third Day afore Ides

Blye hast hath return’d afore sunrise but hast hath chang’d.  That gent doest not speaketh.  His corse is whole but his mind is a wand'r.

Thrimilchi Second Day afore Ides

Blye doth speaketh yet ‘tis nay be his voice. His mind is yond of a raven.  Repeating the voice and w'rds of oth'rs. Be he possessed by a spirit?

Thrimilchi First Day afore Ides

Blye hast p'rish'd.  His corse wast did violate and did split in twain.  Harold hast did vanish yet his boots remaineth by his cot. ‘Twas murder afore fleeing into the night ‘tis seems. I away’d Tobias to beg reinforcements from His Majesty. Continueth watch in vigil shall I and Perrigen.

How awful. A murder. Maybe you had heard Blye’s ghost. You turned the page, did they ever catch Harold?

Thrimilchi Ides

Hark! Our senses deceive’d us.  ‘T cameth with Byle.  ‘T couldst beest aught.  If ‘tis true thou art reading my account I pray thee fleeth. Taketh naught for chance ‘tis be the daemon.

Your blood ran cold. A voice calling out to you. A man who only spoke repeated words of others. The voice which had said no words than those you had spoken already.

How many stories had you heard growing up? Never follow a voice calling to you when you are alone in the woods. The false comfort of it being in this building fooled you. 

Pulling out your knife you backed away from the journal, looking around for any movement. There were so many monsters it could be. What was it? A Raven-mocker? A wendigo? A doppelganger? Could you defeat it? Were you already doomed?

No, you had to run. You had to --

“Welcome,” a voice said behind you, in your voice, in the exact tone you had used when welcoming it to this realm.

You screeched and whipped around. But something had caught your feet. You fell to the ground hard, the knife clattering out of your hand. Twisting your body you watched in horror as the trunk at the foot of the captain’s bed split open wide revealing a massive maw lined with horrid fangs. From its side a tendril had wrapped around your feet.

As bright orange eyes opened in between the false planks of wood on the round top of the trunk you screamed. This was a fight for your life. You kicked at the mimic trying to free your feet. Your boots were stuck to the tendrils. 

You crawled desperately against the ground, the tendrils trying to pull you back stuck to your boots. Acting fast you reached down and pulled at your bootlaces. The slack loosened your boots. Your feet began to slide out of your boots as you played a morbid game of tug-of-war with the mimic.

Suddenly, your feet popped free. 

Scrambling across the floor you saw your knife near the wardrobe. You lunged for it. Yet, just as you did a slimy pulsing purple tongue wrapped around your legs. Grabbing the doors of the wardrobe you tried to pull yourself free.

“Help,” your mimicked voice said.

The doors of the wardrobe swung open revealing a deep purple gullet.

“Hark!” A gruff man’s deep voice rang out around you as the second mimic’s tendrils wrapped around your forearms.

A scream tore from your throat. “Nooo! Please! Don’t eat me! Please!”

“No harm.”

“Nay bestraight’d,” an older yet more refined man’s voice joined as the armor lurched. It limped forward in mockery of a man, teeth and tentacles seeping from between its metal joints.

“Neighbors.”

“A comely one.”

“Welcome.”

“Boon bestowed upon thee.”

“Disrobe.”

“‘Twold foin a sheep.”

“Fie,” yet another mimicked dead soldier exclaimed, the desk dragging itself towards you on thin tentacles. It spoke in broken repeated lines to create a new sentence. “As one. We fight. As one. Be pleasur’d.”

The sound of twisted and shifted flesh engulfed the room as four mimics began to wrap their bodies around you. Then silence as the wardrobe swallowed your head. Cutting you off from all senses but touch. You felt its hard teeth pressing against your neck and waited for them to clamp down…but it didn’t.

The hard armor pressed against your back as sticky tendrils wrapped around your chest. They twisted the fabric tugging and pulling, stretching the sturdy linen of your shirt. From your legs you felt the chest engulf your feet, the teeth piercing through your jeans but not your flesh. 

Inch by inch your body was overtaken by the mimics. You could not tell where one ended and the other began. You were wrapped in a cocoon of hot sticky flesh, held tight and immobile. You could feel the teeth and tentacles moving around you. Their saliva soaked every part of you. Your clothes, your hair, your skin.

Submerged in purple flesh your lungs burned. You needed to breathe. There was just enough of a gap for your jaw to move. When you couldn’t take it any more your body forced you to gasp for air. And steamy, strange tasting air filled your lungs in return.

After a few desperate breaths you felt your heart beginning to calm. Your panic subsided even as your hardy outdoor clothing began to dissolve away. In fact, you felt like you were floating in the humid soft darkness. Floating as if this were but a dream and you half woken within it.

The mimic tentacles moving around you slowly pulled the scraps of your clothing off your body. Your skin was tingling. Was this the digestive juices? Why did it feel so good? The flesh of the mimics undulated around your body digging deep into your muscles like a slimy massage.

A long moan escaped your lips, the sound swallowed by the mass of flesh. You were melting. You were blind and deaf and melting as the mimics rubbed against every inch of your body.

Like a kiss a sticky tentacle brushed against your lips. It slid into your mouth moving against your tongue like a passionate lover. 

You couldn’t help it. You felt so good. So, you kissed it back, flicking your tongue against the tip of the tentacle. 

As if waiting for that moment the mimics’ movements changed. Strong but thinner tendril slid between your fingers, wrapping around your hands as if intertwing a set of fingers and guiding them up over your head as if pinning you down. Instead of mindless rubbing against your flesh, tentacles with little toothy mouths began to tease your chest. Dragging the teeth along your skin, plucking at the most sensitive areas.

Your legs were slowly spread wide and body positioned to give the mimics access to your sex. They created a void around your hips where nothing was touching you. Just your hips in the air, your sex dripping with new found arousal.

“Please,” you groaned, the fear of being eaten replaced with another primal feeling. You needed to be fucked. These mimics were hitting almost every single kink you kept deep within. Your deepest fantasies. Restrained. Helpless. Used like a toy.

Tentacles shot forward engulfing your sex. They slid deep inside of you with no prelude.

Your eyes rolled back in the darkness as you screamed with pleasure. The tentacle that you had been making out with responded in kind. Using your gapping mouth it slid down your throat.

The tentacles thrust in and out of you each at their own pace. Everyone of your holes filled. All you could do was accept them.

An orgasm ripped through you. Your body clenching around the tentacles, your body convulsing against the flesh surrounding you. The tentacles did not even slow down. They continued to piston into your holes. Not a moment’s rest as they continued stimulating your most sensitive spots. 

The tentacle in your throat slowed its thrusting. It began to swell before gushing searing thick slime into you. You could feel the viscous fluid running down your throat into your stomach. A moment later and the one tentacle in your ass began filling you up from the other end. The tentacles playing your sex kept going, keeping you in a torturous ecstatic high.

The spent tentacles pulled out of you. 

“More,” you begged, starting losing your sanity to the pleasure. “Fuck me. Use me.”

Two more tentacles lined up with your used holes and slammed inside of you. You squealed with pleasure. Each movement of the mimics around you drove out your thoughts, turning you into a mindless piece of fuck meat. Your body had melted and now your mind was as well.

You wanted this forever. You’d do anything to experience this pleasure the rest of your life. Another orgasmed was forced out of you and with it your final conscious thoughts.

You awoke with a start, fresh evening air filling your lungs. Eyes open wide you saw the moldy half collapsed ceiling above you.

Sitting up your hurried looked around. You were alive? You were free? Where were the mimics?

There was nothing. 

A broken desk, water logged wardrobe, rusted armor…even the chest was sitting lid torn off its hinges, rust on the lock.

What happened?

You stood on shaking legs, your skin sweaty and sticking to your clothes. Your clothes! Looking down you said your clothes were just as they should be. Boots on, jeans intact, shirt a bit twisted but easily fixed with a tug.

Stumbling out of the captain’s bedroom you leaned against the wall as you carefully descended the stairs. The previously pristine tower was crumbling in disrepair around you. Strange fungi were growing from the wood of the furniture.

Gods had you been breathing that in? Had all of this been a hallucination from the fungi? Or some sort of spell you triggered? Maybe this had all been a fey trick?

On the ground floor you saw your picnic basket sitting on the dusty table. You reached to grab it but stopped as you remembered what had been in the journal. Take nothing for it could be the demon. If it really was a mimic…who knew if you’d survive again.

Fleeing out of the tower you had just enough daylight left to make the trek back to your cabin. By the time you arrived your body was exhausted. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, even so, you were hungry, in fact you felt quite full. It just felt like you ran a marathon. You need to be checked out by professionals. Real mimics or a hallucination something had happened in that tower.

Stumbling over to your computer you wiggling the mouse to take it out of sleep mode. It turned on showing that the submission form to DOMA had failed. Laughing in exasperation you went to click retry…but your hand froze.

Looking down with horror you saw a thin tendril stretching out from your sleeve, wrapping tight around your finger to stop its movement. Your sleeve shifted, little teeth forming along the seams and the buttons turning into eyes. Against your body you felt your clothes morph and shift into tentacles embracing your body.

“New neighbors,” your own voice echoed back to you. “Welcome. No harm.”

The voices of all the people it had mimicked squirmed around you as the tentacles pressed back into your ass and rubbed your sex. “Use. Thee. Fuck. Thee. More. Granteth a boon. More!”

“What do you want,” you managed to cry out as tentacles crept towards your mouth. 

“Doth not wanteth. Hunting. Spy. Sustenance. Plenty. Thou doth. Feed! Me. Granteth…” Your own cries of utter pleasure rang out around you, mimicked back with intent.

If you feed the mimic it would grant you that pleasure. The memory of that beautiful mindless pleasure sent a shiver across your whole body, nearly making you cum right then. You could have that whenever?

“Yes,” you groaned, “Fuck yessss…”

“Huzzah!”

You sank to your knees as it began to fuck you once more. You didn’t even notice a stray tentacle starting to munch on the hard candy you kept on the counter.

Well, this is what y'all voted for on Friday! I hope you enjoyed. For those ideas that didn't win the vote, don't worry, I still have plans to write up those stories. Especially, the two sapphic romance ones. Keep an eye out in June especially for those two.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated. Asks are always open!

I have a tag list. Message me or leave a comment telling me if you want your blog to be tagged in: all posts (lore and stories) or just stories.

Your breathing stutters when a plethora of hands reach out to gently cup your helmet in their array of palms.

They had tried this many times before, already. An inquisitive action. Asking to be closer, to tear down physical barriers piece by piece. As much as you could, you have kept the suit on. To protect your flesh, and your mind.

What passes as a finger feels along the bottom seam where the helmet locks into the rest of the suit. Then pauses once they touch the latch mechanism. 

You keep your eyes squeezed shut. Allowing the webbing of viscera to ripple around you like a sensory deprivation chamber. Or the calming sway of the ocean, a simulation impossible to your time. 

When you keep your eyes closed like this, you can almost envision the depths: The cold, all-encompassing pressure. Flittering visions from a planet you had never visited, could never visit, but that had been home to the creatures that envelop you. Adore you. The vastness of the adoration weighs down on you, an ethereal force that cocoons your consciousness into a swaddle of astral affection. 

Go ahead. You aren't sure if you said it aloud, but your mouth moves regardless as you open your eyes at last.

The one that forms in front of you reminds you of flowers and fauna and ferns and all the beautiful, horrific signs of nature and life your existence has lacked. One of the writhing appendages that circle around its face in a halo opens up to reveal sharp teeth in a muted hiss.

It shoves its face against the glass of your helmet. You can feel the rattle from its face tendrils that wriggle with what you have learned to interpret as joy. From the inside of your chest, happiness blooms out. Sharing in the abstract emotions. An endless feedback loop, born from your otherworldly connection.

Heat from its type of breath, more releasing energy than co2, fogs up the helmet’s glass plane. The too-many mouths lash, and yet by now, the unnatural, jerky motions don’t unsettle you.

With your permission, the latch is undone. 

All of the tendrils — petals — framing its face rustle in a nonexistent breeze. Subduing its zealous nature to curious reverence. 

Orbs of magenta — its true eyes, not the false ones that look like markings on a moth's wings, squint into gleeful crescents.

You dip your head to assist the being in taking off your helmet. The equipment slips off, exposing your face after weeks, months, of hiding away. Beneath protective barriers. 

You shiver at the cold of the space station seeping in all at once. The air is frigid. 

The abomination senses your discomfort long before your nervous system alerts you. Wrapping you in dense tendrils that flicker and fan out. Sharing their unnatural warmth through layers of protective fabric.

Then your head is tilted up by coarse, yet smooth, hands. The pads on its palms are soft with a strange give. Goosebumps prickle on your arms from the unearthly texture. All your survival instincts kicking in that the being in front of you is unnatural beyond comprehension. 

You ignore the instincts, and push the side of your face into its palms instead. Encouraging the tentative touch. 

All at once, the being fills your vision. False eyes peering into yours, the material and colors flickering and reforming to express the same joy of its true eyes.

With a firm hold on your face, it mashes flesh to flesh in the mimicry of a kiss. The affectionate gesture catches you off guard, not unpleasant but not quite right, infinite rows of teeth clacking against your front row in an audible sound.

You let out a quiet, ow, which seems to encourage the being to readjust its strategy. All the magenta eyes pulse in even waves. A call. The corners of your mind feel like they are being held with a gentle, insistent pressure. The second being forms, twisting out of the tentacle netting of their main body with the sort of stretch one does when freshly awoken. The spinal fins layering its neck flitter open. The large mouth-tail that drapes from its false head flops down with immense weight. 

The curve of its closed false eyes peeks open, leering at you. 

The being is atop the other, applying pressure that seeps through their conjoined, inexplicable form. Melting. Melding. Communicating without the slightest indication. One existence with two outward expressions. Although on a scientific level you vaguely understand they are no more than organs, functioning in tandem to keep one living organism whole, you can’t help but get endeared to the quirks that set their personalities apart. 

Sun, for the brighter half. Brimming with energy and a desire to sate its curiosity. To invade, inspect, and grow. The first to root, to take hold. Pushy. 

Moon, for the darker half. Subdued, quiet, and yet the carrier of most of their psychic abilities. Cautious. Crafty. 

You didn’t notice when they had both gotten so close to your face. Looking at you expectantly, like you had called out their names – oh, you realize. Thinking about them, letting your mind wander, commands their attention immediately.  

Moon’s body cycles through colors; deep violets, dark navy blue. Displaying infinite cosmos and galaxies faster than your eyes can comprehend. Splotches of swirling crimson that glow brighter than the vast expanse of stars right outside your window. 

Sun shifts back to make room for the other parasite celestial. Twisting off to the side, flexible body bending to mime lying beside you mid-air. The being busies itself with intertwining its fingers with yours, fascinated by counting each finger you have.

The darker half wins the stalemate of staring you down. Creeping closer. Gingerly nudging the smooth plane of its ‘face’ against yours. Overlaying your lips with its incomprehensible pressure. Softer. Mindful of human fragility, to a degree. 

You dare to press back. 

There is nothing there but its form. The subtle ripple of teeth beneath the surface. Taut like a reinforced wall of stitched together sinew, snaking underneath. Never staying still, like the rushing, winding currents of the cosmic depths they belong to. The pressure is nice, but it’s not quite–

The quieter of the two seems to notice. Not quite right, either. 

Twisting its head around. The thinness of its neck wraps around itself several times. Reminding you that the endearing facade is just that: A facade. Contorting to bring its true mouth closer. Jagged teeth larger than your hands. A maw that opens up, fangs and what you liken to saliva stringing between the roof and bottom. The same jaws that you saw chomping down on–

A tongue slithers out to lick across your cheek. Disrupting and dispelling the negative memories that feel like centuries ago despite your short, human lifespan. 

Tasting. A slow, testing drag with the lightest of pressure. 

The gesture elicits a full body shudder from you. A mix of disgust and wonder.  

All their pupils track your reactions with unending curiosity. Beneath the microscope of glowing white gazes, a solar system of observers, a flush at last colors your face as you let off a small laugh. 

The chimera mimics the color shift immediately. Sharing in your sheepish, sweet embarrassment. Pink, ruby, rose– a swath of reddish hues cascades down their ‘bodies’ in sheer delight. You feel their joy bubbling up in your chest again, swirling in your mind like starbursts and blazing comets. 

Sun tugs at the gloves you wear. Not to pull them off, but to bring attention to your (rather empty) hands. Another part of the suit to unfasten. Another barrier to tear down, to actually touch them– You nod. The gloves require more of your assistance, your participation, than the helmet. You pull your arms, one by one, into the suit with a shift of your shoulders. From the inside, you take apart the velcro seams and unhook the safety latches. 

You slip your arms back through the safety suit’s sleeves. Letting the brighter half carefully peel off the rest of the dense, rubber gloves. 

The being is instantly intrigued. Rushing to feel the smooth flesh of your palms against theirs. Indexing the sensation and deciding that it is as wonderful as the rest of you. Mere glimpses that are opening up to full windows of experience. Letting them in.

As always, Sun pushes to the forefront. Demanding your attention, curiosity, and affection. Moon’s false torso twines together with Sun’s. Encompasses the right half of your body, while Sun cradles the left. 

An urge to touch them surges through your body like a tidal wave crashing down. You reach out, hesitating as your knuckles brush against the sides of Sun’s neck frills. The spines feel as hard as stone, but the umbrella-like underside of the frills is soft. Velvety. Your fingers uncurl to feel along the underside. The frills flutter. The earnest reaction draws a soft laugh from you, the noise popping like bubbles. Cute.

Moon continues to curiously prod at your hands. Sharp fingertips dip underneath the cuff lining of your sleeves. Pulsing eyes with infinite pupils swivel closer to inspect the exposed flesh down to the molecular level. A tendril curls under and around your side, the wrap of it like a wide, flat blanket. One of their larger eyes nudges underneath your arm. Watchful.

With your urging, Sun dips its head down. Pressing the smoothness of its false face to your chest, languid and cuddly. Nuzzling close to the lullaby of your heart beat. Completely relaxed. At ease in this hazy, dreamlike moment. 

Its gaze peeks up at you. Nudges its face forward until it’s resting in the crook of your neck, bending it at an odd angle. Soundless encouragement to keep going. The mouth splitting apart its false face ripples open, revealing another magenta orb that regards you with limitless affection. Then snaps shut, holding together the tethers of their corporeal form.

You comply, reaching around to delicately feel up the slenderness of their spinal column. The thickest roots twine together underneath the tough surface. Bone-like spines protrude outward, flexing unnaturally when your fingers brush against them. The smooth, marble texture of their form is broken up by patches of scorched scars. 

A network interconnected of the areas that had been burnt in an effort to kill the multiplying cells that construct their mass. A frown crosses your face at the memory. In time, you hope the worst of the scars will fade to distant memories for all three of you. 

Moon grows curious, pressing the side of its face to your cheek. Aware of your distress, fluttering its eyes closed to send signals along the neural pathways in your brain to soften and blur the edges into a blissful fuzziness. The bright glow of its true eyes strains the corner of your vision. Your fingers reflexively dig into the form you hold onto. 

The chimera reacts to the tightened hold like a viper. All of the tendrils wrapping you up grip down harder in turn, enough so that you let out a weak cry. Their grip slackens as your fingers dig into their form further, seeking an anchor for the surge of panic and flicker of pain. 

Sun and Moon lower their heads, crowding in, folding in on each other, to check in on your expressions. Learning that it shouldn’t mimic the change of pressure. Watching as the furrow to your brows fades away, as you give them a tentative smile to reassure their panic. It’s alright, your mind supplies.

You lean forward, enough so to gently cup Moon’s face first. You flicker your eyes closed, indulging in the expanse of darkness and cosmos that dance beneath your eyelids in the presence of a cosmic being. Your lips touch against your target; a light peck to the center of its forehead. Where the split in their face becomes more than an illusion, an additional mouth that peels apart at the corners. The curves of spinal teeth press back against you. You can’t help but smile.

The energetic half grows impatient. Rays rustling in an echoing rattle that chases down the barren hallways of the station. You laugh once more, moving to wrap your arms around the warmer enigma. You place a little kiss on each of the wriggling tendrils looping around its face, the being morphing to make the process easier as Moon busies itself with repeating the action. Bumping the center of its mouth down your sleeve, nestling its face to the center of your palm.

You stop when the needier half seems temporarily appeased, wriggling with boundless energy beneath your hold on its face. You stare awhile into the vastness of magenta eyes, allowing yourself to be lulled into infinity. 

Warm tinted arms wrap you in a light hug, favoring to rest against the right side of your body.

Oh, how he A C H E D! Hurting and bored without true company. One wouldn't expect a being of his calibre to feel such loneliness, but it was true!

He, Z͠a̛'l͘ga̶t҉ot̡h, The One Who Will End The World… was L O N E L Y.

Which simply would not do. No, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ may be trapped within this realm, but he refused to remain alone without any form of partnership.

He r̶̩̘̀̒ę̵̺̒͋̏͂f̸͔̝̝̥͋͛͑u̴͖͐͘s̸͇̮̉̇e̸̡̥̮̩̔̈́̍́d̴̛̫͠.

It came in parts.

First, text became corrupted. Old textbooks becoming indecipherable and nonsense as the letters darkened and blurred, bold and black and jagged.

Then, images began to also corrupt. The first time a photo began to darken, eyes black and faces melding together, melting, you'd nearly screamed in sheer horror.

After that it was music, the radio spazzing out and glitching, words nonsense and voices low and slow, demonic like. Sometimes, the sounds would waver, a voice calling out.

ARe yoU tHeRe?

Do YoU hEAr mE?

HEar Me, I caN sEe yOu. Do yOU sEe me tOo?

CoMe to mE

Then–

Dreams.

A hand cupping your cheek, warm and cracked like volcanic earth. Seven sinful grins. Saccharine words echoed in six other tongues. Sights you couldn't imagine or comprehend. Promises whispered as claws gripped your thighs. A tongue, long and crimson, slipping between willing lips.

What say you, my L O V E? Be mine for E T E R N I T Y?

Yes. You gasped, nerves lighting with unholy pleasure. Yes!

He grinned.

In the heart of his universe and prison, Z͠a̛'l͘ga̶t҉ot̡h reigned in his mighty castle of blackened, bleeding stone, red glass reflecting the tumultuous skies and seas of the surrounding world, a realm of chaos and corruption befitting his being.

Being unable to escape for now, he'd created this palace to his liking, creating a seat of power befitting his status. And, with the newest edition here, he'd altered it some to be more... comfortable. T'was unexpected, of course. Why would the great Nightmare King, The Old One, change his own hearth and home for some... mortal? It made not a lick of sense for any who knew him.

Well, 'tis simple, really.

It's because he LO V ES you.

Yes, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ himself, the great eldritch demon god who'd soon bring about the apocalypse and wipe out all of humanity, had taken a human lover and let affection grow betwixt his ribs, nestled close to the beating flesh of his being. It had happened unexpectedly. The great Old One had fallen for the very creature he was meant to corrupt and destroy. 

But what else was he to do? His was such a L O N E L Y existence after all. Could a king not wish for a consort to lay with? To speak of plans and seek comfort from? To spend his days in bliss alongside with?

Demon, though he was, he still had feelings, still yearned. And of all who'd heard his song, you'd answered it unfailingly, returning his croons of loneliness. You'd welcomed him, beckoned him before long, welcoming his affections as time went by.

Nor did you go mad upon seeing him, accepting his true self little by little until you were completely unaffected by his true form.

And so it was, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ had taken you, bringing you to your new H O M E. There'd be no escape, of course, no going back. He was a... possessive partner. Yes. Very possessive. But never mind that, you were happy, yes? He'd designed your chambers to your taste, let you have free reign of his castle. What more could you possibly want? You only had to speak it, and Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ would make it happen.

Anything you wanted. Any desire your heart whispered. Any at all. And Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ would make it happen. J U S T for you.

Though time did not truly exist in this realm in any way that mattered, as hours went by, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ grew bored with what he was doing, waving away a viewing portal to the mortal realm. A sigh escaped his mouths, and as it was wont to do these days, his mind went to you.

With a rumbling sound akin to a purr, he spread out his senses and sought out your whereabouts.

Finding you, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ manifested himself in your rooms. He hummed and searched about with his many eyes, mouths curling into bright, glowing grins when he spotted you, at last.

As you sat at your vanity, the eldritch being appeared behind you, clawed hands laying themselves over your shoulders, squeezing and caressing them as he leant down, holding your gaze through the looking glass.

"My beloved." He purred, voice low and svelte, many mouths echoing in other tongues. "I have missed your company dearly in the past few hours. How fair thee?"

Brushing your hair, you hummed in response. “I've been fine, Z.” You say with fondness, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You act like I was a world away. You could've come to me if you missed me so much.”

A deep hum is his response, one of his side mouths cracking open, tongue slipping out to lick up your neck.

“I could have, yes.” He agreed, trailing a claw-tip along your pulse. “But as much as I ACHE to do so, I'll not tie myself to you all hours of the day. I wouldn't wish for you to tire of my presence.”

Making an amused sound, you set your brush down. “I think that's impossible, buuut sure, let's not risk it. I don't want to be like those couples who can't stand to be around each other.”

“Mmm, neither do I~.” He purrs, guiding your face to look at him, connecting his mouth to yours in a sweet, deep kiss.

All of him alights, the organ between his ribs thundering as the kiss deepens, sweet and tantalizing and utterly undoing; if it came to it, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ would give up E V E R Y T H I N G just for a single kiss from your succulent lips.

When he withdraws, it's with a pleased purr, eyes burning with affectionate flame.

“Men would fall upon their swords for a taste of these lips,” he whispers, dragging a thumb across your bottom lip,“Women would beg on hands and knees for just a glance…

“Truly, I am B L ESS E D to have you.” He sighs, stealing another peck just to feel that bliss again.

You giggle, such a delightful little sound that sets his blood alight. You lightly tap his face, right where a nose should be.

“You're such a charmer.” You say, giving him a long, soft look before looking away, opening a drawer and pulling out a few small bottles. “Anyway… can I paint your nails?” You ask sweetly. “Pretty please?”

And oh, how can he deny you anything? Especially when you look at him like that?

“Of course, my heart. Anything for you.”

“–and then she starts feeling bad and I'm just like, what? Like girl you came back with the intentions to get revenge– these guys made you suicidal, and you're feeling bad?” You scoff, focusing on painting his claws for a moment before continuing to talk about the book you've been reading. “Like could not be me. Like aww, the bullies who made me nearly kill myself wuv me and are sowwy? No chance, I'm cursing their asses.”

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ hums as he watches you work, his black claw tips now glittering in swirling lines of gold and glittery cherry red.

“The protagonists of your books always upset you, my love.” He observes. “Why continue? Is the overall entertainment worth the annoyance?”

“Mmm-hmm, yeah. I mean, nothing is perfect. And while I do complain, it's still bearable, and could always be worse.” You shrug. You eye his nails a bit before continuing. “Like… there's this weird trope in smutty books where all a girl's trauma and shit is healed by a bit of dick, and it's just… I dunno, kinda misogynistic?” You paused. “Like wow, all of a woman's problems are solved through a man. Like sex is good, but not that good.”

“Mm. Even sexual trauma?” You nod. “Oh my. Perhaps the author's just aren't skilled enough to write their hurt actually being healed and dealt with?”

“Maybe… but then why write about it? Or just off screen it. Mention she's getting therapy or something.” You huff. “It's just annoying. And I keep coming across it too! Why is that?”

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ just shrugs, simply listening and entertaining your discussion. “I am not as well versed in human literature as you are, my L O V E. Only the classics do I know.”

You nod. “Yeah, yeah, I don't expect you to have all the answers, just– hm.” You blow on his nails, then turn his hand a bit. “What do you think? Pretty?”

His gaze remained on you. “Stunning.”

You make a pleased sound, closing the nail paints. “Good. Now… what shall we do?” You ask, giving him a slow once-over. Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ preened, seven mouths grinning.

“Oh, you W I C K E D creature~,” he purred, immediately pulling you into his lap, hands roaming you. “If that is your desire…”

An hour later, you leaned against Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘’s chest, submerged to your chin in hot water, the air steamy and smelling of something exotic and wild. Your whole body thrummed with sated energy, muscles feeling loose, a languid energy exuding from you as Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ wrapped an arm around your shoulders, stroking your arm slowly.

“Open,” he instructed, holding a morsel to your lips.

You do as told, lips parting so he could place a soft piece of meat on your tongue, rich with flavour as you chewed and swallowed. You hummed, awaiting the next bite and then the next.

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ fed you happily, contentment filling him as he tended to his lover. After feeding you the meat, he placed spoonfuls of soft cake in your mouth next, moist and chocolatey. You moaned at the taste, Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ chuckling slightly.

“My sweet, keep making such… D E L I C I O U S noises and I won't be able to CON T ROL myself~.” He growled lowly, hellfire burning in his gaze.

You just bite your lip, moving to straddle him in the massive bath. “Oh, please don't hold yourself back in that case.” You say, grinning as you caress his chest, skin rough and almost scaly. “I love it when you lose control. It's hot.”

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ just hums, cupping your face and licking up at your neck. “I know you do.” He fondly says, kissing all over your face next. “I am truly and utterly to be blessed with your love.” 

You smile softly, reaching to touch his horns, feeling him shudder as you squeeze. “No, I'm the lucky one. You always do everything and anything I ask for… speaking of which,” you give him a hopeful look, “You aren't going to bring about the apocalypse anytime soon, right? Because there a few books I'm waiting to release. And a few movies. And a few games too actually, and I also follow a lot of fanfics–”

Z̤͂â̢ḷ͊g̹̓ȯ̘ just gives you a fond look, already knowing he'd hold back on his plans forever if you just asked.

After all, Z͠a̛'l͘ga̶t҉ot̡h had already destroyed the world numerous times before. He could withhold from doing it again any time soon. And if he ever got such an urge again, he'd just speak to the Divine and ask them to restart the world.

•

You were born with an odd birthmark. In the center of your chest, a strange marking of a few speckled points that form a shape, the skin lighter in between them, almost as if scarred. It's always been there, as common as a freckle, or a mole, or a blemish. It's a part of you.

Until it's something else.

Because you found an old bookstore owned by a sweet old couple with a heavy history. The isles seem endless, the books soon become tomes. And deep in those endless shelves, you find a dark book. The leather stained black with a purple sheen, stars painted along its spine. And the cover has a very familiar marking. One you see every time you look down, every time you glance in a mirror.

When you bring the book to the front, the couple seem equally confused. The older woman laughs when you say why it's so odd. Claiming it's yours since it apparently has 'your mark' on it. Her tone is light, playful even. Amused enough to let you take the book home.

So, you do. You bring it to bed as you settle in for the evening. And with baited breath you open it to the first page.

•ҠҴұѬғҾұҭӀѬҐұӂһӁҾұҾѬ•

…

What?

What is that?

The rest of the book is the same.

You set it aside, deciding if nothing else it's a pretty decoration. And you roll over to settle into sleep.

Although your dreams aren't what they usually are. Instead, you're adrift in an endless darkness, lit up by distant stars and gaseous clouds, stardust, and planets. It's breathtakingly beautiful if you had lungs.

Your consciousness drifts, bodyless, a light, the littlest star falling through the endlessness of existence.

And you fall closer and closer to a certain light of morpheus colors, it looks like pillars. Orange and red and white space dust, asteroids, matter forming three massive columns forming a triangle. One of them looks darker than the others, the colors fading, scattering. In the center? A light. So warm and inviting it is that you fall closer and closer to it. But in the center of this great light, is a hole. Tiny, microscopic, but very much keeping this form from being complete.

And as if it senses you, it morphs. It shifts within the pillars. Galaxy long appendages begin to reach out, swirling masses of matter changing colors with each wave of motion.

But the stars surrounding the 'pillars' brighten. The appendage returns within. It's not a random formation, it's something to contain. Keeping whatever is within the bright swirling mass of colors you could never hope to name, locked inside.

You drift through the vastness, closer. A soothing rumble of vibration somehow moves through you. An attempt to speak?

And suddenly, within your consciousness is another.

'Ah… you have returned to me…'

'Little Star… They hid you well.'

'Not well enough.'

The colors and lights begin to fade. The endless voice creeping in. The form within the prison of stars reaches out in a sorrowful seeming attempt. Noises you couldn't begin to phrase tearing from it as your consciousness is drawn away, back to where it's supposed to be.

Wide awake in bed. The next day. The dream isn't really remembered, little more than fragments that leaves you with a strange happiness in your chest.

You go about your day, unaware of the shift in the universe. Something no longer dormant, no longer willing to exist in the endlessness, confined within its prison.

Not when it knows you exist.

The next time you glance at the odd book, you have to do a double take. Because it's no longer unreadable.

•ҠҴұ Great ҰұӂһӁҾұҾ•

You flip through the book near frantically. Some words are understandable. 'betrayed', 'end', 'must', 'others', 'imprisoned'. Beyond them, it's just as much of a jumble as everything else was.

Astronomers everywhere make note of an oddity that night in their usual studies of the skies above.

That same night the dreams return, more vivid, more clear. Once more you're nothing but a little light adrift and falling gentle through it all. Closer to the pillars you saw once before. Only… another one looks faded and flickering.

The swirling mass of colors and forms writhes within.

'Were I a benevolent thing, I might be appeased with moments.'

'I am not.'

'Come closer, little star. Fear nothing of myself.'

It's not your consious choice to do so, but you do glide through the emptiness, slowly growing closer to something that seems endless and yet knows exactly where you are. You could almost imagine planet sized eyes surrounding you, following you. Soaking in every drop of light that you are in this moment. The form moves, it's figure amorphous and near endless as it lowers. Down, down, down until you look upon what might be a head? Nearly the size of the Milky Way in your mind.

'There you are,' the voice in your head croons sweetly, the sheer force of it rattling your very mind.

'So close, and yet… not complete.'

The head tilts, blending into the rest of its form. Once more shapeless.

'You are out there. Somewhere.'

'I will find you.'

Your bright starry self drifts inadvertently between the pillars. Close enough that a portion of the looming mass breaks away from itself. Reaching for you, calling to you. The closer it gets, the warmer your very consiousness begins to feel, an achingly sweet searing heat.

'Nothing could pray to stop me.'

And you wake up.

Somehow well rested, ready to tackle the day… but strangely wanting to go back to sleep. Back to the warmth that slowly fades as you wake.

•The Great ҰұӂһӁҾұҾ•

The tomb more legible but no less confusing. 'consume', 'all', 'taken', 'hidden away', 'prevent', 'remove'.

That day, a mass of reports come in, something happening far beyond where humans travel. But the rippling affects are already being felt.

Something is restless, and the stars are going out. One by one.

What can you do when night falls but return to bed? As if you hadn't been waiting all day, wanting that comfort, the restfulness you've never had until recently. And you find it once more.

Only this time you're within the pillars, the last one dim and fading. Your consiousness brighter than before, adrift freely wherever you wish to be within the center. The endless form of swirling light and colors circles around you. The strength of its attention heavy as a weighted blanket on a cold night.

'I have found you.'

The ominously soothing voice whispers in your thoughts.

'My little star, my missing peace.'

You can feel the sudden ache of being incomplete for a moment, yet it feels like a millennium. This is what it has felt for so long it's forgotten what being complete could possibly be.

The world around you swirls, the imprisoned encompassing you within lifetimes of space. Appendages as massive as planets growing smaller as they approach, for your comfort only. Most hovering closely, the few bravest brushing so very carefully against your light as if a spring flower growing graciously towards the sun.

'You will no longer be alone.'

'I will be there soon.'

'Fear for nothing, want for nothing, for I will bring everything and more you could ever wish for.'

You feel yourself fading once more, waking.

'Soon, sweet star.'

'Soon.'

The next morning it's made public. The expanses of space are somehow vanishing. The nothingness creeping across the stars. Faster each moment. Count them down. Breathe your last.

And yet when you wake, it's the softest sleep you've ever known.

•The Great Devourer•

You can read the tomb.

It tells of a creature known as The Great Devourer. The end of all. One of many creatures. The Endless Expanse being the Creature who broadens the universe, creating more and more as it moves. The Living Breath, the creature who brings the aspects of life to the most unexpected of places, The interlinking Bonds, the creature who binds the rules of existence together, establishing what can happen due to what. And the eldest of all, The Great Devourer.

While the other beings can be seen as creators, life gives, The Great Devourer will be the one to snuff out the candle of everything. Consuming all of existence until there is nothing left and it feasts upon itself, leaving a once endlessly existence void of all.

Fearing the fourth creature, the three bound together, creating a prison at the farthest reaches of the universe.

Bound by stars and void, confined within something greater than itself. Weakened when it's very heart was removed. Unable to escape.

The Great Devourer's heart was contained among the three for a very long time, before it fell from their grasp. Adrift through space and time until it fell to earth. Remade into something new. Something like you.

'It is time to return, little star.' the sweetest croon whispers in your head as you place the tomb down. Listlessly walking back to your bed. The room is dark, the air is cold, your bed is the most inviting thing you've ever known.

'Sleep,' it urges softly, the subtle jolt of electricity moving through your very nerves, your limbs suddenly so very relaxed, your eye lids closing.

Your consiousness leaves you for the last time, drawn to the endless skies above, drawn to where you belong. Only… the pillars are gone. The stars surrounding it are gone. And the skies surrounding you shift. Darkening into nothing as you suddenly change, moving halfway across the universe. Surrounded once more by it, The Great Devourer. It shifts, slowly encircling. You feel warm, heavy, tired. Wanting nothing more than to be closer, where you belong, where you've always belonged.

'I am here, my little star,'

'I will hold you close,'

'I will bring you home.'

You can see the few stars beyond its form fading, no… vanishing. All at once in giant sections, as if consumed. Suddenly gone. Leaving nothing but darkness with no end or lapse in its wake.

Your thoughts for a brief moment feel a flicker of human panic. This shouldn't be happening, what about you? Where are you? Where is your body?

You feel yourself wake, your consiousness attempting to return to the very human call of your mind, back to earth, back to your body. Like every time before. And you start to open your eyes, the sky outside dark, cold, freezing, you hear screaming, breathing is near inexistent, your lungs burn, your body paralyzed-

'No.'

The sudden booming demand rattles the very reality of existence, and all at once you snap back to where you are within this things embrace. In so deep a sleep you'll feel nothing.

The Great Devourer finally reaches out. An endless amount of appendages reaching, grasping, embracing as it draws you towards its center. The hole that never could be filled.

You are warm, and you are safe, and you are loved.

'No, little star.'

'You belong here,'

'you do not deserve to be there,'

'You must be here, where you are home.'

There's a brief moment, a flashing knowledge that your body is gone. It no longer exists. And with that, your consiousness solidifies where it is. Brighter, more vibrant, swirling and glowing in a far tinier fluidity than the endless expanse above you.

The sheer force of emotions that roll through you all come from The Great Devourer as it draws you closer, and closer. Adoration, reverence, a heavy warmth and gentleness, and so much more that defies all known words. But it is filling, and as you are drawn into The Great Devourer's embrace, you are both at once complete.

You are lost within what was your beginning and has become your end, never to so much as remember the fleeting mortal existence you once held.

To forever feel nothing but the purest of endless love, feeling as if laid within the softest of comforts, the gentlest of sleep, and every few millennium between your restful, endless drifting, you might rouse enough to hear the murmurs of The Great Devourer.

It's voice coming from within and surrounding you, whispers of comfort, of anything, of everything.

The Great Devourer is once more freed. Whole, and complete. To roam the universe, to consume its fellow creatures craft. To one day consume all, even itself.