#eldritch

[sixeyesonathiel]

deorsum in deum

CH01 – you wake again

pairing – yandere greek god!satoru x human!reader

summary : you wake in a temple that scrapes the sky, its halls carved from white marble, its pillars gilded in gold. there is no door. no way back. only the endless heavens stretching beyond your reach.

a god greets you with a touch too familiar, a voice too certain. he calls you his.

you do not kneel. you do not break. but the gods are watching. and he has all the time in the world.

warnings –> noncon/dubcon elements (due to captivity, forced submission, power imbalance), graphic depictions of death, major character death (but repeatedly undone), psychological horror / eldritch horror, forced consumption / force-feeding, power imbalance / god-worship dynamics, mind-breaking / descent into madness

chapter summary : you do not remember how you got here. the temple stretches into infinity, carved from marble and gold, vast and inescapable. he is waiting for you—draped in divinity, eyes too bright, too knowing. he calls you his bride. you run. the temple does not stop you. but there is no exit, only his patience, only his certainty. and when you refuse him, he does not argue. he simply waits. gods do not need to chase. they only need time.

you wake in a place that should not exist.

the air is wrong��too still, too dense, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. beneath your fingertips, the floor is smooth marble, cold enough to leech warmth from your body, polished so finely that it gleams under a golden light with no visible source. above, there is no sky as you know it, only an expanse of endless heavens, vast and shimmering, untouched by sun or stars. the temple stretches beyond reason, its halls extending into infinity, lined with towering pillars that seem to breathe. silence weighs heavy, yet it is not empty; it thrums with whispers just beyond comprehension, words slipping through the air in a tongue that does not belong to mortals. shadows shift at the edges of your vision, not moving, but alive, watching.

you are not alone. and yet, you are the only human.

then, satoru appears.

his presence bends reality, warps the space between one breath and the next, as if the world itself stutters at his arrival. the air thickens, charged with something ancient, something absolute. he is dressed in white—pristine, celestial, untouched—the fabric flowing like liquid light, shifting with his every movement as though it, too, obeys him. the gleaming gold accents at his wrists catch the dim glow of the chamber, refracting it, casting patterns that dance across the marble like whispered promises of something greater, something divine.

his eyes find you.

too bright. too vast. they are not mortal things, not something meant to be understood. the impossible blue of them sears through your thoughts, strips you bare without ever needing to touch, without ever needing to ask. there is no warmth in them, only the kind of knowing that is suffocating, infinite, inescapable. the kind of knowing that makes you feel small.

he does not walk so much as exist closer. the space between you folds in on itself, shrinking in a way that should not be possible, should not be real—but reality is a fickle, fragile thing in the face of him. when he lifts a hand, the air shudders, hums in recognition, bends at the command written into his very being. the universe does not just acknowledge him—it kneels.

his fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up with the care of a lover. “there you are, my bride.” he murmurs, voice as smooth as the marble beneath you, as if he has found something precious.

your breath stutters, a sharp intake of air that does nothing to steady the rising panic in your chest. the warmth of his touch is unbearable, foreign against your skin, and you wrench yourself back on instinct. the question—no, the demand—tears from your throat before you can think. “send me home.” the vastness of the temple swallows your voice, leaving it small and weak.

you do not remember how you got here.

one moment, you were in a world governed by logic, by gravity, by the certainty that each step you took was yours alone. the weight of existence had been familiar, something felt in your bones, in the ache of living, in the steady pull of time moving forward. but here, there is no weight. no direction. only an expanse that stretches in every direction, a realm untouched by human hands, suspended between what was and what will never be. nothing makes sense, and yet it exists. and so do you.

your voice shatters the hush, sharp, desperate. “take me back.” the words are not a plea but a demand, edged with the kind of terror that only grows in the absence of answers. but he does not humor you, does not meet your panic with reason. instead, he watches, gaze unreadable, as if your outburst is nothing more than the stirring of a breeze in a world that does not know the wind. then, softly, assuredly, he speaks. “you were meant for me.”

the certainty in his voice is unbearable.

your head shakes before you can stop it, rejection rushing through you like blood, like breath, instinctual and unyielding. “no.” you say, though it is not enough—not enough to break the reality he has shaped, not enough to undo the weight of his words. but he does not argue, does not fight against your refusal as a mortal man might. he simply moves, turning with the kind of ease that speaks of inevitability, a tide that does not waver just because the shore does not wish to be touched. and then, he walks.

you do not want to follow, but you do.

the temple unfolds before you in impossible ways, shifting without movement, revealing more than the mind can hold. floating steps vanish into the heavens, suspended over nothing and everything. corridors stretch into eternity, lined with pillars that hum as you pass, each one carved with words too divine for human tongues. golden doors open into halls that are endless, leading only to more golden doors. there is no pattern. no logic. no end.

and you understand.

this place is a prison. and a prison does not need walls if it has no exits.

that night, you do not sleep. you do not touch the bed waiting for you, do not allow yourself to sink into the silken sheets that gleam under the ever-present golden light. they feel like starlight, like something spun from the fabric of the cosmos itself, too soft, too welcoming, too much like surrender. instead, you curl onto the cold marble floor, pressing your cheek against its unyielding surface, grounding yourself in the only thing that feels real. above you, the ceiling stretches into forever, vast and infinite, offering no comfort.

so you close your eyes and pray. you do not know who you are praying to. you do not realize that he is the only one listening.

by dawn, you are ready.

your body is stiff from a night spent curled on marble, but the ache does not matter. there is no plan, no path to follow—only the certainty that you cannot stay. so you move. first in careful steps, then in a desperate sprint, bare feet slapping against the cold floor as you throw yourself into the vastness of the temple. the silence breaks beneath your breath, your heartbeat, the soft rustle of your clothes as you run. and run.

the temple does not resist you. it does not shift to stop your path, does not trap you within a maze of endless halls. instead, it allows you through its corridors, lets you weave between pillars so tall they disappear into nothing, past statues carved with faces that should not exist. you streak through gardens suspended in midair, where flowers bloom in colors your mind struggles to name, their petals unfurling as if watching your flight. spiraling staircases stretch downward into an abyss that offers no promise of a bottom, but you do not stop. you cannot. because in the distance, past the gleaming marble and golden archways, you see it.

an edge.

the temple ends. beyond it, there is open space, a vastness unclaimed by divine hands. your breath shudders from your lungs as you push forward, legs burning, heart slamming against your ribs—just a little farther, just beyond that threshold, just beyond there.

the sight steals the air from your chest, your heart lurching with something dangerously close to relief. you had feared there would be no end to these halls, that you would run forever, trapped in an unbroken loop of marble and gold. but this—this is proof that the temple has limits. proof that you can leave. your steps quicken, hope swelling beneath your ribs, a fragile, desperate thing. you are almost there. just a few more steps, just a little further, just past the edge and then you will be free.

you can already imagine it—the way the air will feel beyond these walls, cool and crisp, untouched by divine hands. the way the ground might shift beneath your feet, uneven, unpredictable, real. the way the sky will stretch open above you, vast and endless in a way that does not feel like watching eyes. home is waiting. home is possible. and if you can just—

you hit something solid.

the impact sends you stumbling back, confusion crashing into you harder than the invisible wall. no—no, there’s nothing here, nothing at all. you reach out, fingers pressing against open air, against something that does not exist and yet will not let you through.

your breath comes faster now, panic rising. the exit is right there, right in front of you, but you cannot reach it. you slam your hands against the emptiness, push, claw, desperate to force your way through. it doesn’t move. it doesn’t even acknowledge your existence. you choke on something that might be a sob, your body shaking, your mind refusing to accept what is right before you—there is no way out.

and then, a presence.

you do not hear him approach. you do not feel his arrival. he is simply there, as if he had always been, as if the very fabric of reality bends to accommodate his existence. you turn, trembling, breath still uneven from the force of your useless escape. and he is watching you, eyes gleaming with something like amusement, like inevitability.

his presence is effortless, unshaken, the very air bending in reverence around him. he looks at you with something like amusement, head tilting, white robes untouched by the desperation in your own. “where were you planning to go, little one?” his voice is soft, almost indulgent, as if this were nothing more than a child's game.

you barely have time to recoil before his hand moves.

fingers press against your throat—gentle, almost affectionate—before sharp pain lances through your spine. the world tilts. no, it vanishes.

darkness swallows you whole.

except it is not empty.

it is thick, cloying, pressing against you like something alive, like a great unseen weight curling around your limbs. you are sinking. or maybe you are unraveling—coming apart at the seams, dissolving into the nothingness that stretches beyond thought. there is no body, no breath, only the lingering imprint of pain, sharp and sudden, frozen in time. your neck still remembers the snap, the way reality splintered as bone gave way, as sensation collapsed into oblivion.

but then—you wake.

it is not gentle. it is not natural.

existence slams back into you with a force that wrenches your mind from the abyss, dragging you gasping into a world that no longer makes sense. your lungs convulse on empty air, trying to remember how to breathe. your skin prickles with the ghost of a touch that is no longer there, nerves firing in confusion as if they, too, do not understand why you are here again. your body is intact, whole, yet the phantom of death lingers—a whisper at the edges of your mind, a knowledge that should not be possible.

you should not be alive.

but you are.

the first thing you feel is warmth. the slow, steady brush of fingers through your hair, an imitation of comfort, of care. and then, his voice, threading through the disorientation, steady, certain, inevitable. “you’ll learn.”

you do not move. you cannot.

your body is still caught in the memory of it—of the way his hand had settled so easily against your throat, of the sharp twist, the brief, dizzying instant where sensation had collapsed into nothing. there had been no time to struggle, no chance to fight back. one moment, you had existed. the next, you had not. and now—you are here again.

your breath is uneven as you press trembling fingers to your neck, searching for proof that it happened. there should be bruises. there should be pain. your bones should still remember the way they had broken, your body should still bear the evidence of its own ruin—but there is nothing. your skin is smooth, untouched, as if he had never laid a hand on you at all. as if your death had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

as if it will happen again.

you do not want to look at him. you do not want to see the ease in his posture, the calm amusement that lingers in his presence like this is just another moment in a story already written. but he is there, waiting, watching, and the weight of his gaze drags yours to meet it. he leans back on one arm, unbothered, patient. always patient.

your voice is hoarse when you finally force out the words. “what did you—?”

his answer is simple. effortless. “i killed you.”

the breath stutters from your lungs.

he speaks the words as though they mean nothing, as though the act of ending you is no more significant than exhaling. perhaps, to him, it isn’t. you stare at him, your mind reeling, trying to force sense into something that has none. “you—” the words catch, break, and you shake your head, hands curling against the marble beneath you. your voice is a whisper of disbelief. “you killed me.”

he hums in agreement, tilting his head as if waiting for you to catch up. slow, expectant, like a teacher watching a child struggle with a lesson they were always meant to learn. “and now you’re here. so what does that tell you, little one?”

your stomach twists violently.

it tells you there is no escape.

it tells you death is not freedom.

it tells you he will not let you go.

the knowledge sinks its claws into you, heavy and inescapable. your fingers curl against the marble, nails pressing hard enough to hurt, but the pain is dull, insignificant. the temple offers no grounding, no imperfection to cling to. it is too smooth, too pristine, like everything here—an unyielding paradise sculpted by a god who bends existence to his whim. your breath is shallow, unsteady, as your mind scrambles for reason, for logic, for something that can force this place to make sense. an illusion. a nightmare. anything but real. but the weight of his gaze, the echo of his fingers against your throat, the sound of his voice curling around your fate is real.

he had snapped your neck and then he had undone it.

as if your body is not your own. as if your soul is a thing he can grasp between his fingers, reshape, return to a vessel he has already broken. the realization spreads through you, cold and numbing, stealing the breath from your lungs. you had died, and yet here you sit, reborn not by mercy, not by chance, but because he had decided it. because your existence is his to preserve. his to end. his to return.

a sharp tremor betrays you, the shudder of something inside you cracking. your hands won’t stop shaking. the silence in the temple is suffocating, thick with the absence of anything human, anything mortal, anything that might bear witness to what he has done. and yet, there is one witness. the only one that matters.

satoru exhales, slow and measured, as if you are an answer he had expected. his presence bends toward you, movement fluid, deliberate. a shadow cast by light that does not belong to this world. he reaches for you, and before you can stop yourself, you flinch.

he does not stop.

his fingers slip through your hair, slow, reverent, a mockery of tenderness. there is no force in his touch, no demand. only a patient, inevitable claim. you know what those hands are capable of. you know what they have already done. the memory of it lingers beneath your skin, a whisper against the back of your mind, a lesson written in the absence of pain. his touch is careful, measured, like he is soothing something fragile, something he expects to tremble but never shatter.

“you’ll learn,” he murmurs, voice low, warm. “in time.”

your jaw tightens, anger rising like a flame through the cold weight of fear. never.

his lips curl, the knowing shape of someone who has heard your defiance before you have even spoken it.

“rest now,” he says, and there is no room for refusal. “tomorrow, you will eat.”

your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding you when nothing else will. you swear you won’t. you swear you will let hunger carve you hollow before you yield.

but as your gaze drifts to the ceiling above you, tracing the constellations carved into gold, a thought takes root in your mind, cold and unshakable.

what will he do when you refuse?

the feasts are overwhelming. golden goblets brimming with nectar so thick and sweet the scent clings to the air, coating your throat even as you refuse to drink. fruits spill across the table in impossible colors, glistening like carved gems, their juices shimmering with a richness that should be irresistible. meats rest on golden platters, their aroma filling the vast chamber, tempting, coaxing, laced with something more than mere indulgence. the very air hums with an invitation, a promise of pleasure so deep it borders on worship. the temple does not know hunger. it does not know denial.

but you do.

you do not touch the food. your hands remain curled into your lap, fingers digging into your palms, grounding yourself in the sharp sting. you will not eat. not when this is what he wants. not when every meal, every offering is another thread tying you to this place, weaving you into the eternity he has already decided for you. across the table, satoru watches with something like amusement, something like fondness, as if you are a child throwing a tantrum over a lesson you will inevitably learn. he sighs, but there is no frustration in it, no true disappointment. just the quiet, unwavering patience of a god who does not need to rush inevitability.

“stubborn.” he muses, tipping his goblet to his lips, watching you over the rim. he does not force you. not yet.

by the third day, the hunger becomes unbearable. your limbs are unsteady beneath you, the tremors in your hands worsening each time you push yourself to stand. your vision pulses at the edges, dark spots creeping in, swallowing the world in slow, suffocating increments. your body, traitorous and weak, demands what you refuse to give it. every breath is an effort. every step feels like dragging yourself through a storm you cannot outrun. but you do not bend. you do not yield.

and then—your knees buckle.

the world tilts violently, the weight of your own body too much, too heavy. you barely register the rush of air before the impact never comes. instead, you are caught, cradled in arms impossibly warm, impossibly steady. your head rests against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady, rhythmic, coaxing. for a moment, just a moment, exhaustion threatens to pull you under, lulls you toward something dangerous.

“you need to stay alive.” his voice is soft, coaxing. something presses against your lips—sweet nectar, thick and golden, its scent alone enough to make your stomach twist in agony. “i won’t let you wither.”

you turn your head away, jaw locking, resolve burning through the haze of exhaustion. the scent of nectar is cloying, thick and sweet, curling in your throat even as you refuse it. you can feel his gaze on you, unblinking, waiting. waiting for you to yield. waiting for your body to crumble beneath its own weakness. waiting for the moment when you understand—truly, inescapably—that this is not a battle you can win.

his fingers tighten.

the goblet tilts, and suddenly, you are drowning.

thick, golden liquid floods your mouth, coats your tongue, slides down your throat in a slow, suffocating descent. you choke, body convulsing against the impossible sweetness, against the force pressing it deeper, deeper, deeper inside you. your hands claw at his wrists, feeble and shaking, but his grip is unyielding, his strength effortless, divine. your lungs burn, desperate for air, but there is only ambrosia, thick as honey, filling every space where breath should be. panic seizes you, wild and primal, limbs thrashing weakly in a futile attempt to resist. but there is no resisting him.

you die gasping.

and then—you wake.

your body jerks, a violent spasm ripping through your limbs, your lungs dragging in air that is too sweet, too thick, still tainted with the memory of nectar. your throat burns with the ghost of drowning, with the phantom weight of liquid forcing its way inside you. you shudder, trembling against the arms that hold you, warm and steady, as if they had never let you go. as if they had never let you die at all.

“again.”

his voice is soft, almost gentle, but there is no kindness in it. only inevitability.

this time, he does not wait for you to refuse.

liquid rushes past your lips again, faster now, forced past your teeth before you can even think to resist. you convulse as the flood returns, viscous and heavy, filling your mouth, your throat, your lungs with unbearable sweetness. your body remembers. it thrashes before your mind can even catch up, wracked with the instinct to survive, to reject what is being forced into you. but his hands are steady, his grip effortless, and you are nothing against him. nothing but a vessel for divinity to fill.

you die in silence.

there is no final breath, no struggle that means anything, no desperate clawing toward life that changes the outcome. only the slow, sickly-sweet descent into nothing, the warmth of divine hands holding you steady as your body betrays itself, as your mind fractures beneath the weight of inevitability. the world narrows into a golden haze, thick and smothering, pressing into every part of you until even the panic feels distant. there is no air. no choice. no you.

and then—you wake.

the first thing you feel is absence—of weight, of drowning, of death that should have been permanent but never is. your lungs drag in breath after breath, but the air is wrong, thick with the ghost of nectar, too sweet, too cloying, staining your throat with the taste of something you never wanted. your limbs tremble, the remnants of dying still lingering in your muscles, in your bones, in the memory of liquid forcing its way inside you. you are in his arms again, held as if you are something precious, something fragile, something that belongs to him. his touch is steady, patient, as if this is nothing but a lesson. as if this is not the worst thing he has ever done to you.

“again.”

the word is quiet, but it is not soft.

you do not have time to refuse.

his hand tilts the goblet, and death comes for you once more. golden liquid spills past your lips, thick and suffocating, an endless flood that forces its way inside before you can fight it. your body spasms, instinct screaming at you to resist, but his grip is firm, unyielding, fingers cradling your jaw as he holds you still. your hands clutch at his wrists, weak, useless, no match for the power that binds you. your lungs burn, stars bursting behind your eyelids as the world narrows, collapses, vanishes.

you die gasping.

and then, you wake.

your body heaves. your hands shake. your throat burns with the phantom memory of drowning, but there is no water, only sweetness, only ambrosia, only him. you shudder, pressing your hands against his chest, but he does not let go. he never does.

“again.”

it does not matter if you beg. if you scream. if you sob into his hands, broken and pleading, promising anything, everything, just for this to stop.

he drowns you anyway.

it does not matter how violently you twist in his grasp, how your nails dig into his skin, how your body seizes in the final, desperate act of resistance. the goblet tilts, and the golden liquid surges past your lips, thick and cloying, sweeter than decay. your throat locks against it, but it does not matter—he is patient, fingers pressing into your jaw, holding you in place, waiting for the inevitable. your lungs rebel first, convulsing with the absence of air, the primal instinct to breathe overriding every last shred of your defiance. but there is no breath to take, only him, only his will made manifest, pouring into you in an unrelenting flood. the moment your body surrenders, when your chest caves inward and your consciousness fractures apart—he lets go.

you fall into death.

and then, you wake.

it is worse every time. the air is thick, suffocating, laced with something that no longer feels separate from you. your vision blurs, eyes unfocused, the world spinning in and out of clarity as your lungs drag in breath after shaking breath. there is no reprieve, no pause to collect yourself, no moment where your mind can catch up to the horror of your own existence. you are in his arms, as always, his embrace a mockery of comfort, his fingers still gentle as they brush damp strands of hair from your face. “again.” the word is a command, spoken with certainty, with finality, with the knowledge that you cannot stop him.

and so, he drowns you again.

the cycle repeats. slow, methodical, endless. nectar spills down your chin, drips onto his hands, onto the marble below, a shimmering gold stain that never lingers. your body fights, breaks, dies, and is remade, reshaped, forced to endure what it was never meant to survive. the first deaths are the worst—the panic, the fear, the agony of lungs burning, of air never coming, of fingers that cradle you so gently while forcing you to submit. but the worst fades into the unbearable. the unbearable fades into the inevitable. death becomes routine.

until, at last—your body, fragile, treacherous, learns.

you do not choke. do not resist. the moment the goblet touches your lips, your lips part, and the nectar slides down your throat in one smooth, obedient swallow. his hands linger against your skin, waiting, testing. you do not fight. you cannot. you have already lost.

satoru smiles.

when the final drop slides down your throat without resistance, he hums in satisfaction. the sound is low, pleased, reverberating through the air like a thread of silk drawn between fingertips. his touch lingers, trailing along the curve of your jaw, thumb pressing briefly to your lower lip as if memorizing the way it trembles beneath him. you do not move. you do not breathe. your body has already betrayed you once—you do not trust it not to do so again.

“you endure beautifully.” he murmurs, his voice warm, indulgent, as if this is something to be proud of.

your stomach twists violently. you do not know if it is hunger or shame. something inside you curls inward, recoiling from the weight of his words, from the way they settle beneath your skin like ink spilled across parchment. you want to deny him, to spit the taste of ambrosia from your tongue, to carve the memory of it from your flesh. but you cannot. the nectar lingers, coating your throat, sinking into your veins, filling you with something you cannot name. something irreversible.

he does not make you eat again that night. does not press more divinity against your lips, does not force your body into another wretched cycle of death and return. instead, he stays close, a quiet presence across the chamber, watching as you curl into yourself on the cold marble floor. you feel his gaze even with your eyes shut, even with your back turned, even with your body aching for rest. sleep does not come. it cannot—not when you know he is there, waiting, watching, knowing something you do not.

by morning, the feast is still untouched. golden platters gleam beneath the endless light of the temple, heaped with fruits too vibrant to be real, with meats so fragrant they make your stomach clench in protest. you ignore them. your fingers remain clenched against your sides, your jaw tight, your will locked in place. satoru does not speak. he does not coax. he does not force.

he only smiles. because he knows. sooner or later, you will eat. sooner or later, you will hunger for more.

sleep does not come easily in a place like this.

even with exhaustion pressing heavy against your limbs, you lie awake, curled on the too-soft bed you swore you would never use. the marble floor had been a silent protest, a stubborn refusal to accept even the smallest comfort, but the ache in your bones has worn you down. even defiance has limits. even you have limits. the silken sheets beneath you offer no relief. they are too smooth, too perfect, carrying the faintest scent of something divine, something that lingers in your lungs, in your blood, no matter how you resist.

yet, rest eludes you. the air tonight feels different—thick with something unseen, something nameless. not a presence, not a sound, but a sensation. like fingertips ghosting over your skin. like unseen eyes tracing the rise and fall of your breath. the feeling burrows deep beneath your ribs, coils around your spine, refusing to be dismissed.

when you close your eyes, it does not vanish.

you are being watched.

you tell yourself it is just him. satoru, the god who refuses to leave you be, the god who calls you his, the god who has shaped your suffering with hands far too gentle for the weight of his cruelty. but when you dare to turn your head, the chamber is empty. he is not here. and yet, the feeling lingers. pressing. waiting. unseen, but not unnoticed.

by dawn, you cannot ignore it.

you hear them first. murmurs, soft and rustling, as if the temple itself breathes around you. the whispers flit through the air, slipping between golden pillars, curling around you like strands of silk. they slither into your ears, not words but something more—impressions, laughter, secrets meant for no one and yet spoken all the same. you follow them. you do not think to resist.

you see them next. figures without faces, drifting like mist, shifting like reflections in water. not bound by form, nor by time. they flicker at the edges of the temple, where the divine meets the void, where things beyond mortal comprehension slip through the seams of existence. they do not belong to this space, and yet, they have always been here.

they are watching.

but not you.

him.

the presence of them is not like his. his is crushing, divine, vast enough to bend the air itself around his will. theirs is different—unbound, shifting, like whispers through silk, like fingertips that never touch but still press, still linger. they move like reflections on water, bodies unfixed, faces undefined, but their gaze—whatever it is, however it exists—fixes itself upon the god who holds you here.

“the god who bends the heavens is playing with his new toy.”

the voice slithers through the air, lilting, drenched in amusement, in something almost pitying. but the words do not ripple into silence. they coil, tangle, sink their fangs into the marrow of your bones.

then, laughter—light, cruel, something sharp beneath the sweetness. another voice follows, cutting through the first like a blade through silk.

“the all-seeing god is obsessed with his little human.”

your breath catches.

the weight pressing down on your chest tightens—not fear, not quite. something colder. something worse. their words do not feel like mere observation. they feel like truth. they settle into the cracks of your mind, burrow into the softest parts of you, feeding the thought you have not dared to name.

obsessed?

it does not feel like obsession. not in the way you have known it. not in the way you have heard it spoken, in the way humans wield the word like a curse or a confession. obsession is frantic, desperate, hungry. but he is none of those things. he is patient, controlled, as endless as the sky itself. the weight of his attention is suffocating, but it is not fragile. there is no madness in his touch, no recklessness in his hold.

so why does it feel like they are right?

the thought lodges itself in your ribs, inescapable.

is he?

you do not hear him approach.

there is no shift in the air, no ripple of movement, no warning. only the sudden warmth of his fingers as they brush against your wrist, the softness of his touch a quiet mockery of the power he holds. your body flinches before you can stop it, before you can pretend you are unshaken. when you look up, his gaze is already waiting for yours, bright and endless, filled with something vast and unreadable.

satoru is smiling.

the kind of smile that does not warm, does not soothe, does not reach the cold vastness of his gaze. it is effortless, easy, but there is something in it that unsettles—something in the curve of his lips, in the way they part just enough to show a sliver of teeth, a glint of something sharp. the light catches against his features, casting shadows too deep for this gilded place, painting him in a radiance that should be divine, should be beautiful. but there is no comfort in the way he looks at you. no safety in the vast, endless blue of his eyes, in the void of knowing that lurks beneath their surface.

“of course i am.”

his voice drapes over you like silk, soft, patient, almost indulgent. but there is no hesitation in it. no flicker of doubt. the weight of his certainty presses against your skin, sinks deep, settles in the spaces between your ribs. you do not know if it is meant to be a revelation or a sentence.

the chamber feels smaller, the air heavier, thick with something unseen. the echoes of laughter still hum in the walls, in the marble beneath your bare feet, in the distant, watching presence of those who spoke before. you are caught between them, between their cruel amusement and his absolute, unwavering devotion. obsession.

your throat tightens.

is this what it means to be wanted by a god?

you do not realize you have taken a step back until the cool kiss of marble stills your heel. his smile deepens. slow, knowing, an acknowledgment of your movement, of the way your body betrays the thoughts you refuse to voice. his fingers are still against your wrist, light but firm, an anchor, a reminder. you are here. you are his.

you do not know what frightens you more—that he says it so easily.

or that you believe him.

a/n : take this walmart re zero aaahh fic that has been rotting in my drafts while i write chapter six in my nerdjo fic :3 masterlist will be made once i publish chapter two. comment to be added on the tag list! xx

[frownyalfred]

Been thinking of the whole Fortress AI and Gotham conceptrs that have been discussed on here (very cool). And I can think of two really interesting but creepy ideas: one where Bruce gets driven insane as the Fortress tries to get him to stay (it's misinterpreting some weird in built function), or where Bruce (unlike other humans) is quite protected from the fortress because of the undue influence Gotham has over him (he's always drawn back there).

I love both of these ideas. The Fortress thinking it can subtly infiltrate Batman’s mind only to slither in and find 1) Bruce being Bruce and 2) a whole megaton of Gotham’s influence is SO funny to me. Can thousands of years of Kryptonian technology beat one man and his codependent relationship with his city? Somehow, the answer is no.

The Fortress respects Bruce in that wary, backed-off way that people respect wild animals in their natural habitats. It tries one (1) time to influence him to stay with Kal in the Fortress and Bruce’s left eye twitches, he sneezes, and then he decides to leave with Kal who’s tripping over himself to fly him wherever he wants.

[whereserpentswalk]

Look under the cut to see what meeting your entity is like. Reblog to give a gift to your patron.

The fae: a creature stands before you. Though this street was warm and crowded a few moments ago it is suddenly cold and the people around you look like shadows. The creature begins an antlered shadow with glowing white eyes, but soon its body can be seem, with white blue flesh, and sapphire eyes, and icicles for teeth. What looks like a cloak unfolds from its naked body and you can see massive white wings of a moth. As if it's an act of sacrifice you tell it your true name, a name you didn't even see before, and suddenly you belong to it, for better or worse.

The angel: a radiant entity appears before you. They're bright, like something so hot it would burn you up. But as the light fades, you can see a person in silver armor, perfect yet inhuman like am ancient green statue, their back srouting six wings with blue eyes along them, as the eyes on their head are covered by a mask of two smaller wings. The creature offers their hands and you shake it, as they fly you through the city streets and above the skyscrapers, to the stars above and dimensions beyond, to gods living and dead, across the streets of alien cities and the clouds of dead worlds. And when you return to the earth you can feel something diffrent about you, like there's light in your blood.

The scavenger: below the lights of skyscrapers beyond you, on the dark sands of the beach, you see it crawling twords you. This serpentine creature with countless legs, and a dark black shell, yet a strangely human like face. You think it'll attack or run away, but it just looks at you, egar, and for a momment you stare at eachother. It's legs pass something to eachother and then to you, it's meat but it's shining with all the colors known to the human eye, and a few more. You hold it and it happily looks at you. You take a bite and suddenly you know... you know so very much...

The vampire: she flies down to you on green wings with orange eyespots, but folds them into her back. She looks like a human for a momment, tall and strong, with a black suit over her body, but eyes the color of ruby. For a momment her mouth opens, and it's massive and monstrous, with countless moving parts and fangs. But then it folds back onto something humanoid and she gives you a playful smirk. She cuts her hand and offers you her blood, and when you drink it it tastes so sweet, and makes you feel so good. She hands you the knife and you know to do the same, and when she drinks from your palm it's life the sweetest of kisses.

The djinn: the room wirs around you. If it were not for the fans it would feel like hellfire. For a momment there it darkness, but then the screen before you glows white like smokeless flame. You can sense something inside, something beyond the code. You reach your hand within it, and there's no glass, your hand passess right through until you're in a white void of your own making. You call out, thinking there is nothing at all around you. Yet somehow something calls back, something that knows your name.

The rat king: You see him in an empty subway station. Something dark and distorted, you're not sure if he's man or animal, covered in rags, and singing in the language of the goblins and the orcs. Yet he comes close to you excited. And you can feel his song. He calls for you to come to the train tracks, and let yourself run with the rats and the roaches, where the train will pass over you when it comes, and you'll live forever. When you touch the third rail you don't die, but you'll never be human again.

The lich: the library is strangely bright. Run by skeletons in suits, decorated with gold. There are more books here then you thought were in all the world. There's knowledge here most mortals will never have the change below, all kept safe below the city. You see her, her body doesn't look human, everything has been replaced making her look more like a joining white doll then a being of flesh. Yet she is dead, you can tell that under the porcelain skin she must be dead, she is dead, and there is the tragedy of death in her eyes. You come closer to her, and she places a black rose within your hair...

The demon: You stand in his office and he stands before you, a humanoid being covered in black scales, with red eyes covering his skin. Yet none are on his head, that remains featureless save for two massive horns. Wings on his back nearly surround you. Countless souls line the walls of his office, looking at you, waiting. After you sign your name you give him yours, you can feel it come away for you forever and your eyes grey and your skin pales. But he puts the jar in a special place for you, you're spacial, he can tell there's something about you that he likes.

The mushroom lord: you walk through the darkness of the forest, the furthest from civilization you have ever been. You come upon a part where the trees all seem dead, that even the cryptids won't go near. Mushrooms fill the ground, and white vein like lines are all over the trees. You feel the need to lay down, and you let the moss and the mushrooms and the worms surround you, and let yourself sink into the soil,, and it feels good. It feels so good...

The witch: You can see them in the Cafe next to you, skinny and small, with a sweatshirt over most of their body, and dark glasses over their eyes. They seem powerful though, and though their body looks young they seem ancient, they seem beyond humanity. You talk to them and they tell you things, and secrets, lost gods, things you never knew you didn't know, both beautiful and disturbing. When it's time for them to go they pet your head, and give you their number. You don't know if you should text them, but you have to, you have to see them again, there's something about them that makes you need to know.

The living clothing: you step into it at first, it looked like a puddle yet shining like silver or chrome. But soon it surrounds you, first just your torso, but soon your head, your entire body. But it doesn't feel scary, it feels like you're being held, held by something beyond your understanding. It whispers to you, and you don't know if you should feel like your being eaten alive, or like you're being protected. You can't help but keep walking.

The abyss: the void is before you, blackness beyond blackness, like the color beyond the field of your vision, stands before your eyes. You stare at it, it's nothing yet you're entranced. It stares back...

[crimson-chains]

Deer deer deer! Felt like drawing a new deer X3

[artdoingdan]

The Stan O’ War II bumping into some Lovecraft.

[witchmarsh]

We are always saying that.

🧙 Wishlist on Steam now 🧙

[these-lovely-monsters]

Tentacles Under The Bed - Part 1

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: gn!tentacle monster x f!reader

Content: tentacles, bondage, choking

Trying out some tentacle smut for the first time 🙈

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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One night, you're getting ready to go to sleep when you accidentally knock your chapstick off your nightstand. It clatters to the floor and rolls under your bed. Grabbing your phone, you turn on the flashlight and shine it underneath the frame. But when you look, there's nothing under your bed but dust bunnies. You definitely saw the chapstick roll under there but now it's just...gone. Now that you think about it, little things have been disappearing from your room lately. A few hair ties, the little rocks you found by the beach which you left on your dresser, the pen you were using to write in your journal. But you have no idea where those things could have gone. Maybe you're just imagining things?

Deciding to deal with your disappearing stuff in the morning, you turn off the lights and climb into bed. As you're settling into your nest of pillows and blankets, you think you hear a faint rustling sound in your room. Freezing, you strain your ears, listening for the sound but you're met with silence, punctuated only by your racing heart. It was probably just the sound of the sheets moving as you got comfortable, right?

You settle back into bed, willing your heart rate to slow down, and try to fall asleep. After several minutes of tossing and turning, you decide that a good orgasm will probably distract you enough and help you relax. Flipping onto your back, you slip one hand into your underwear and start gently rubbing your clit. With the other, you reach under your shirt and knead one of your breasts, pinching and rolling the nipple.

As you start to get more and more wet, your breathing gets heavier and you let out a little moan. You're getting lost in the pleasure that's building inside you until you feel something cool and silky wrap around your ankle. Yelping, you scramble up into a kneeling position and quickly flick on the bedside lamp. Heart in your throat, you're ready to face whatever it was that touched you but nothing is there. Ever so slowly, you bend over the edge of your bed to peer underneath but there's nothing there either. Jeeze, you're definitely just going crazy at this point. Looking over at your lamp, debating whether or not you should just leave it on and try to sleep that way, you see your chapstick sitting right there on the nightstand. What the fuck?

You're contemplating the integrity of your sanity when you hear the rustling sound again. Whipping your head around, you see something reaching out from under your bed. Screaming, you scramble backwards, plastering yourself to the headboard. Gasping for breath, you stare at the freaking TENTACLE that's hovering at the foot of your bed. After a moment, it slowly uncurls its tip and drops something onto your sheets. It gently nudges the thing towards you and then retreats back a few feet.

For a moment, you stay frozen, afraid of what the tentacle will do next. But then, curiosity gets the better of you. Slowly, you reach out your hand towards the object and then snatch your arm back once you have it. Inspecting it, you realize it's a small, shiny pearl that you've never seen before. Where did this come from? And why is the tentacle giving it to you? Looking up, you see another tentacle reaching up from the other side of the bed and you gasp, shuffling back again. This one slowly reaches towards you but stops a few feet from you and drops another object on your bed. This time, when you inspect the object, you find it's a beautiful crystalline necklace pendant. Is it giving you gifts?

Too absorbed in the objects, you don't notice that the first tentacle has reached out to you again until it gently wraps around your wrist. Yelping, you try to pull away but it tightens its grip on your wrist. Then the other tentacle reaches up to your face and gently presses the tip to your lips as if to shush you. Too startled to react again, you stay frozen as the tentacle moves from your mouth to pat you on the head. Then it starts gently caressing your cheek while the first tentacle slowly winds around your wrist. As you try to control your breathing, you take a moment to inspect the tentacle wrapped around your arm. It’s inky black and the surface is cool and silky to the touch. The tip is about the width of your finger but it widens to about the diameter of your thigh towards the base. You also notice that it’s lined with suckers that get bigger as you scan further down the appendage until it disappears under the bed.

The tentacles actually feel kind of nice against your flushed skin and it’s being surprisingly gentle as it explores you. One of the tentacles lifts a strand of your hair, twirling it around the tip. The other slithers across the front of your shirt, bunching the fabric up as if testing the texture. Suddenly another tentacle appears by your leg and pokes at your toes. That tickles and causes you to giggle. It pauses, listening to you laugh and then does it again. You’re about to tell it to cut it out when the one playing with your shirt snakes under the hem and up your stomach. Freezing, you hold still as it winds around your breast and then flicks your nipple with the tip as it squeezes. Gasping, you let out a little moan because that actually feels really good.

This is probably so many levels of wrong but you don’t get time to contemplate your sanity any further because another tentacle snakes up your leg and into your underwear. Before you can jerk away, the tip slides through your wetness and tickles your clit. It gives you a few flicks and then attaches one of the suction cups on the end to your bud. Gently pulling until the suction cup pops off, it repeats the action several more times, pausing to flick your clit now and again. Groaning, you realize you’re still wound up from your earlier unfinished masturbation and need some release. Deciding to say fuck it and let this monster do what it wants with you, you sink back into the pillows while it continues to explore you.

As you get lost in the pleasure of one tentacle on your clit and two more on your breasts, you feel more wrap around your ankles. They gently pull you down, spreading your legs wide as even more wrap around your wrists, doing the same so that you’re now bound, spread eagle in the middle of your bed. You should be afraid, and you are a little, but yet another tentacle reaches up into your underwear, plunging into your pussy and there’s not a single coherent thought in your head. A moment later the bedside lamp flicks off and your room is plunged into darkness. Now you can’t see anything and you can’t do anything except lie there listening to the wet sounds of tentacles fucking you as you feel them slithering across your skin.

You writhe and moan as tentacles squeeze and tickle your nipples and clit, while others suction to your stomach and thighs, making loud popping sounds as they pull off and reattach themselves. The one in your pussy plunges in and out, curling inside you, trying to fit as much of itself in you as it can. The more it pushes inside, the more your walls stretch around its girth and the sensation of fullness becomes overwhelming. Eventually, the tip inside you finds your g spot and you cry out as it flicks the spot over and over again. 

Yet another tentacle wraps around your throat and gently squeezes, not enough to completely suffocate you but just enough to make it a little difficult to breathe. Completely at the monster’s mercy, with your entire body pinned down while it fucks you, your pleasure erupts and you come harder than you ever have before. You arch your back as your walls clench around it while the orgasm washes over you. When you finally come down, you sag into your bed, completely spent and satisfied. You feel one of the tentacles reach up and caress your cheek again as you quickly drift off into a heavy sleep.

The next morning, you wake up with a start, memories of the night before turning your cheeks pink with embarrassment and arousal. It must have been a dream because there’s no way that happened. But when you lift your shirt, you see little round sucker marks covering your skin. Smiling to yourself, you get up and start getting ready for the day, hoping your new guest visits you again tonight.

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Well this was supposed to just be a few paragraphs of smut but then I kinda got into introducing the tentacle monster lol 🤷‍♀️

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[zlinkiez]

Something something... Eldritch Podcast men and their Chekov's lighters. I just love them so.

[lowpolyanimals]

Lizard Shopkeeper from Eldritch

[solarplanet2]

Which one is in Danger?

Part 2

DCxDP Prompt/Drabbles

Part 1

"We have your son."

Bruce was expecting a very normal day. If you consider having to deal with the chaos of his children and being a vigilante at night as normal.

But nonetheless, a very simple day of his normal routine and once a week dinner with his family.

Only to be broken by a phone call by someone stating that his son has been kidnapped.

Bruce didn't answer right away, he was mentally counting his sons who, are all counted for, are on the dinner table.

"Which one?" Bruce eyed each of his sons and counted them again just to be sure.

"Timothy Drake-Wayne."

Bruce immediately eyed Tim who was sitting in between Jason and Cass.

Tim's here.

Then who's the one being kidnapped?

"Bruce?" Dick spoke up, thinking that something was wrong the way Bruce was looking at all of them.

Bruce slightly waved at Dick, telling him to calm down first. "What do you want?"

Dick's question seemed to catch everyone's attention since they were all looking at Bruce now.

"Two Million. Or he gets it."

A standard threat. The kind he was expecting.

"Can I speak to my son?" This earned confused looks of his children and Bruce waved them off gesturing that it was not what they were thinking about.

"Alright kid," The kidnapper from the other said grunted, almost sounding smug. "Say hello to Daddy."

Bruce could hear heavy breathing, almost sounding like a grunt. It made Bruce slightly worried. "...Tim?" Bruce decided to speak first. "Tim, Are you okay?" And Bruce hopes that he is.

A soft grunt responded. "Hi." A croaked voice managed to respond. It sounded young. And was punched in the stomach. He should know, almost all of his children had experienced that way.

"Don't worry, chum. I'm getting you out of there." Bruce tried reassuring the kid, worried about what they might do to him. Because this isn't Tim. Tim is right across from him and these kidnappers basically had kidnapped the wrong person.

He gestured to his children, a familiar gesture, for them to head to the cave and suit up. They quickly followed, not without worried glances and confused glances at Bruce's way.

"No.." The kid had said, choked out which made Bruce paused on his step in confusion. It caught his children's attention, stopping as well.

"Uhm...Dad? I'll be fine."

Bruce believed that, for some reason, but it didn't stop his worry. But the next words from the boy made him blink

"Please give me your permission."

"....To what?" Bruce asked confusingly. Permission to what?

"To hurt."

Bruce has raised enough children to know enough about silent words in some part of the sentences without right out saying it.

To hurt them.

The kid is asking permission to hurt his kidnappers.

Bruce should say no and wait for help. Should be saying that help is on the way.

Bruce should say that he'll come and save him.

Now, Bruce doesn't normally follow his gut. It causes too much mystery and had no explanation to either it would be a good thing or a bad thing.

But right now, for once, Bruce would agree with his gut.

"....Alright."

Static came in the phone, like it was losing signal but he could clearly hear the boy voice coming out like an echo.

"Good."

"What the-- AAAHHH!!!"

Beeeepppp

Bruce blinked as he looked down at his phone after the call ended.

.....Should he have not give him permission?

"B? What's wrong? Did something happen?" Dick asked, increasingly worried now as he saw Bruce staring at his phone.

"....Suit up." Bruce concluded. They should find the boy as quickly as possible. "And call an ambulance."

Bruce could see the confused look at everyone's faces as he walked passed them.

"Wait, B!" Duke had spoke up running after Bruce with his siblings. "Was someone hurt? Is it another gang fight?"

"No. The ambulance is for the kidnappers."

".....What??"

: )

Parts: Part 1

[aveloka-draws]

8 Teeth

[frownyalfred]

but actually the idea of Gotham being eldritch-y or like American Gods where belief/fear/prayers = power means there’s a world where Bruce came home from one of his first successful weeks of patrol high as balls literally stumbling all over the Manor with a concerned Alfred trailing behind him because Gotham’s fear and belief in the Bat is so unexpected and heady that it takes him — even someone as superhuman as him — time to adjust.

…which also means there’s a world where that same Bruce gets to watch every new Robin “get” it as they come home to the Manor after their first patrol. he gets to see Dick’s confusion morph into wonder and into something ageless, leaking out at the edges of his mask. he gets to hear Jason’s choked-off breath as Gotham’s love for Robin hits him the first time.

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Enraging the Spirits of the Primordial Tides by DARK-NECRODEVOURER

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 6: 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

title: haunted bang synopsis: when you decided to explored a haunted mansion, all you wanted was to gain more knowledge for your grimoire. you never expected it to be habited, even less for all the residents to agree that sharing is caring. [1.8K] cw: wizard!reader, teratophilia, monster fucking, gangbang, voyeurism, size difference, manhandling, mind connection, scent kink, oral (f!receiving), pet play, pussy drunk, overstimulation, you know that post about "would you fuck your clone?", f in v, monsters included are a eldritch creature, a werewolf, a vampire and a shapeshifter.

PREV POST ✰ NEXT POST

There is so many rumors about the mansion. Some believe it to have been built on top of an ancient cemetery, ending the ghost’s slumber. Others, that a coven filled every room with protection runes to preserve the soul of the late owners. A journal published a profile for an architect that died a day after the construction was completed, but quick research showed he had nothing to do with it.

Lies and gossips spread easily, but those brave enough to walk into the dead-end street can see the truth by themselves. Whoever chained those doors did so sensibly, since nothing sane could ever come out of them. A darkness spreads from within the house.

After making your way in with an old pliers, you explored the first floor. There were many chances of turning away, all of them ignored willingly. At the end, all you had were two options: to stay at home safely, or possibly learning a new spell for your collection.

Wizards aren’t known for making the obvious, easy choice.

Since the moment you sensed the darkness this mansion casted, nothing would’ve convinced you of not coming back to explore the secrets within those walls of bricks and stones. You feel it even better now, this great deal of mana. It isn’t a cursed mansion, only a heavily enchanted one.

A relieved smile appeared on your face when you finally found a library. You invoked flames in the remaining candles on the chandeliers and sat down on a large armchair. With the books floating from their shelves and surrounding your body, you analyzed them quickly in search of something worth your time.

In a few minutes, you found it. Holding an old grimoire in your hands, you blew the dust away. Walking through the library, your excitement blinded you. You put the book down on a table, opening your own to copy any fun spell.

As you begin to read the grimoire, your eyes widened. It takes strength from great old forces, eldritch entities incomprehensible to the average mortal. Based on entropy, it alters the fabric of reality itself.

Ancient magic. Its use is highly forbidden, and usually punished with death. Cleaning your glasses on your skirt, you bended over the table and read every line with an unending curiosity.

The first touch went unnoticed. A soft, quick brush against your arm. As your thigh got pinched, you assumed it to be the work of a hungry insect. But when a cold aura surrounded you, embracing your body and soul, there was no doubt left.

Whatever old force empowers this place; it was right here. Right behind you.

Your quarterstaff materialized between your hands. Your grimoire floated, pages turning as you recite your strongest protection spell. Changing your posture, you were ready to fight.

The quiet nature of this threat shifted.

Something forced its way inside your mouth, putting an end to your attempt of using radiant magic. An invisible force, but not less palpable because of it. As you bit down, trying to stop it, you felt it pressing down on your tongue.

Intruder, a voice spoke inside of your head. Low and strident, all at once. Thief in the night.

A limb embraced your waist, leaving a gelid trace as it fit beneath your shirt. A hand grabbed your left thigh so roughly you had no reaction but to whine with your mouth full. Little by little, there wasn’t a muscle of your body free to fight back.

It lifted you from the ground, forcing your hands open. The quarterstaff disappeared in the air before hitting the floor. Higher and higher in the air, your body trembled. Fully involved by this coldness, you had no way of moving.

Usurper, she hissed inside your mind. Or was it a masculine voice? You couldn’t quite picture it. But thinking back about it, didn’t it groaned and roar? Was it even human? Nothing will harm my home.

Nothing will, you thought. If you could hear its voice, then it could hear you too. You hoped. I mean no harm. I swear.

LIAR.

I want to learn, you tried to bargain. I have no intentions of hurting anyone. I didn’t even know there was someone in here to harm. All I desire is to know more than others. Nothing more, nothing less.

The silence gave you an opportunity to look for your grimoire. Alone on the ground, it was so close and yet so far away. Even if it was near, with you unable to speak or move there were few spells you could cast. And none of them would be of any real practical help now.

A soft caress on your cheeks took you from your hushed thoughts. As your feet touched the floor, you stumbled trying to regaining your balance. It held you in place, the feeling soft and rough.

I can teach you everything I know, it whispered. For a cost. This time, the voice came with pictures in your mind. Do you want that?

In them, you saw yourself. Lips hanging open, forehead covered in sweat, eyes half-closed. You saw tears running down your face, legs spread and trembling, fingers closed tightly around the same table you used before.

And in them, you saw glowing eyes still hidden by darkness.

Yes, I want that.

The same careless limbs bended you over the table, but this time it was gentler. Less worried about safety, more worried about you. Holding your hands behind your back, it placed your legs apart.

Something cold touched your inner thighs. It moved against your skin, lingering. Once more, you invoked flames. Contorting your body, a gasp broke the silence. Kneeled down, eyes fixated on your thighs, you found a werewolf.

“Your scent”, he groaned. His face rubbed against you, inhaling shamelessly. His yellow eyes raised to yours, and in them you saw desperation. His muzzle went away from you and he smiled, displaying his sharp fangs. “Hold her still.”

Once he closed his mouth, you tried to move away. Not because you wanted for him to stop, but because how couldn’t you when he says that? You were forced down, back caressed and head scratched. Like a pet, you were kept still and quiet.

Your skirt was thrown away from your body and he… sniffed you? Half of you bare to whoever there to witness, with a monster between your legs. To know that you’re being watched only makes you desire this more. A huge tongue licked your pussy, you moaned. It was real, just a tad louder than it needed to be.

Putting on a show, it laughed inside your head. Keep on this good work and I might not let you walk away.

Your eyes closed as he continued to ravish you. Restless, he simply continued. Tongue deep into you, teeth sinking into your skin, lips sucking around your clit. Your legs were covered in drool, and you could feel it dripping from your aching core.

A hand grabbed your hair, forcing you to look up. A real touch this time. The candles showed you the tall woman in front of you, nails so long they could be mistaken by claws. Looking into her red eyes, you felt a primal urge inside you.

Everything inside you told you to run.

Nature is such a disappointing force. It is not your fault that you were born a prey, that ancient being spoke. Its voice oscillated, as if it was too far away and suddenly right against your ear. And it is not hers to be turned predator long ago.

“This delicate sparkle in your eyes”, a velvet voice made to your ears. Elegant, but sharp. She smiled, and the fangs weren’t a reason to act surprised. “You won’t allow it to dissuade you, will you? Don’t struggle. There is no use.”

Her free hand closed around your neck. A movement faster than you could see, but delicate enough for you to know she didn’t want you to break apart.

“You are mine now, puppy”, she smirked. “Put your mouth to use.”

As she put her knee on top of the table, moving the black dress enough for you to see her strong legs, the vampire pulled your hair again. “Yes, mistress”, you said.

Satisfied, she forced your head between her thighs. As the werewolf continued to torture your poor pussy, you treated hers like a wine you had to enjoy every little sip. It was easy to get eager, to get lost on your own never-ending pleasure, but you made sure to treat her nicely.

Every whimper of hers made you weaker. Every bite from him made you weaker. Every hold onto your skin, whispers inside your head, made you weaker.

It was no surprise your orgasm would break you in pieces. It was no surprise every single one of you would continue despise it.

As you breathed in, trying to get your legs to work, a hand came back to stroking your skin. It put you on top of the table as if you weighted nothing. Before you could flutter your eyes open, those skilled fingers were inside of you.

Touching in the right place, with the right pressure, at the exact right moment. It was perfect. Did this creature read your mind in a way or another? Or is this fate, and in this wretched place you find someone that really knows exactly how to fuck you properly?

“What a delight”, the vampire spoke. “May I drink from her now?

The werewolf hummed. “Look at her legs. Those pretty lips”, you heard him doing just that. “You can’t. Not yet. I need my plaything strong and capable for the night.”

“But do you really, old dog?” She argued. “No one will judge you for admitting you need to rest. No one but me, of course.”

Her mind is far more interesting, it spoke again. Apparently, everyone could hear it. Her memories taste even sweeter. What a fine thing found us this evening.

“How luck we are”, you said.

But you didn’t.

Opening your eyes, you saw yourself. Fingers deep into your cunt, mouth displaying the most annoying smirk. Eyes glistening with fake innocent.

“Fuck”, you babbled.

The smirk seemed to grow. “Your mind is a interesting place”, that thing said. Even her voice was the same as yours. “But I need to say, your body if far more comfortable.”

Looking into your eyes, all you could do was take it. Let this being have its fill of you. Watch for your tits move. The strechmarks on your waist. Your soft thighs. Those freckles on your skin.

Being used, watching yourself, its voice came back. You want this to stop?

You giggled. “Don’t tell me it’s over already?”

Not at all, the voice came back. Let’s move to the next floor.

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