unmask, o night
pairing: the reaper emperor x nyx warnings: gore, sexual content (tentacles, voyeurism, nyx being a soft dom, nyx feeding the emperor gore). 18+ summary: successor to devourment / for @bodysnatch3r
“It will be a very long night for you, Extinction.”
--
Another cycle has come to pass.
(The doors in the Dark Tower are closed. The Oceanview Motel has locked the door with the crimson eye and the door with the upright black triangle.)
Nyx watches as the Emperor closes the distance between her and the wretched man. This room deep within the Ziggurat, ankle-high redness, thick and partially liquid, partially coagulated. A veil separates the goddess from the rest of the room as she lounges on a klinai, its frame made from the black metal of the Old Machines. The thrum of the building amplifies in her space, the sound of the Emperor’s hunger, her stomach opening up to readily welcome the thing that was grown just for her.
The room is humid. The mixture of the dark, heavy air and the Emperor’s presence creates an oppressive atmosphere, it makes the room airless. Extinction towers over the wretched thing, her red eyes and red scars searing through the haze, nuclear fusion burning hydrogen, stars rotting, aging, bloating; she vivisects him, she has already begun to eat him from the inside out, the red light slides inside him. Tentacles emerge from the gore, creating curtains of viscera and sheets of dark red; his variations of drowned flesh and parts pulsate in time with the building’s thrum, weeping fluid into the great pool of red. Nyx’s starlight eyes, the gold color of main sequence stars, pierce through the vapor of innards and parts from countless cycles.
Wet and red coated tentacles curl around the man’s middle, dragging him towards her, gravity trapping him in her presence. Eager to break him open, to slide into his chest cavity, deep into the soft, cramped space between his organs. Inevitable and inescapable.
The Emperor opens her mouth, her black teeth wet with annihilation.
“She eats him because he my gift to her.” The Crawling Chaos says, his voicing coming from the darkness behind the goddess. He leans down, his sharp smile hear her ear. He does not wear one of his many forms, he comes to her in the shape given to him by his parent. “That does not mean you simply have to sit here and watch, O Night.”
Bones crack, the man’s ribcage broken open by the Emperor’s tentacles. Steam rises from the wounds she creates, his insides made hot by their internal heat, organs neatly cradled in the primordial warmth of tissue and fat and muscle. The black tar that leaks and drips from her mouth eats away at him like acid before her teeth sink into the tender meat of his neck. The thing laughs, sick with madness and hatred; wretched and red teeth hissing and refracting from the exposure to the Ziggurat. (The building hates him, it keeps him trapped in here, in this dark, wet, suffocating room.)
The Emperor’s fingers form a fist in his hair, holding him still, pulling him to wherever she needs him so she can eat him the way she wants. The red within him bursts when she sinks her teeth into new areas, when her tentacles push deeper into his writhing guts. She pulls him closer as his ruined voice chants UNMASK, UNMASK, UNMASK as his hands grip her arms, as his nails chip and shatter against her biomechanical exterior.
The man turns his half-eaten face towards the veiled section of the room, looking directly at the pinpoints of starlight. His brown and grey hair dipping into the blood as Extinction pulls him apart. (He taunts the Night, goads her, smiles impossibly wide with soaked red teeth and wild eyes.) Tar grows inside her mouth to match the hunger in her stomach, it oozes, it coats everything within her, prepares her for more. Tentacles wrap around him, holding him tightly as she leans over him, her hands and long talons reaching into his solar plexus, deep into his gut, fingers tightening around his liver, his intestines. She forces him to look at her.
“I wear no mask,” the Emperor says, her voice crushingly deep, cold and all-consuming. The thing’s insides hiss when they make contact with the rings of her authority: the black metal of the Old Machines, the black jade from the Oldest House. (Even in its sickly state, it loves her, it love her. The Hiss metastasizes like a cancer in the Oldest House, and still the building calls out to the Emperor, it yearns to see her face again.) His innards writhe against her the ring of her matrimony, the ancient starless sky opening a hole in his brain.
The Emperor’s mouth fills itself with meat in perpetual motion, writhing and screaming horrors grown between the sections of fat and flesh, things that burst with red and bile when her teeth sink into them. She breaks him open again, her mouth eating its way through to his heart as his head and neck hang, held by tendons and ropes of veins and nerves tangled in his spine.
Watching through the veil, Nyx thinks of all the people and things she would like to see the Emperor break open and eat, and eat, and eat. Her own impatience grows within her, impatience and desire. Churning in dark space between her own organs is the thought of having Extinction all to herself, telling her who she should devour. She imagines the Emperor’s hands, wet and tacky with golden ichor, the flesh and atoms of lesser gods being obliterated in her mouth and stomach during Earth’s final hours.
In the dark of her heart, Nyx imagines the Emperor eating Chronos. When she looks at the thing the Crawling Chaos grew, her starlight eyes replace his image with that of the Titan’s. Perhaps that is her own rage, her own desire for revenge that has sat within her for millennia, a taste for violence that she has always pushed down within her. Nyx looks at the Emperor’s hands and imagines them crackling with violet dark energy as they apply newtons of force to the Titan’s face, caving it in; she envisions her wife’s hands breaking open the rest of his form and reaching into his body to pull out everything within him. She imagines Extinction eating Time, the immensity of her gravity crushing him as she eats and eats and eats.
The Night’s elegant face remains impassive, but her chest rises and falls as she breaths deeply.
Nyarlathotep hums. A sound like a smile within a smile, a laugh within a laugh, whispers within whispers.
“Feed her, O Night. He is here for you to break as well.” As he speaks, multiple sets of his many hands reach around the Night Incarnate. They touch the skulls on her necklace, they settle on the concave curves of her pauldrons, they trace the shape of the bat-like wings that hover near her, they smooth underneath ribbon of lilac silk that levitates around her, they cup around the cluster of stars near her crown. “I have grown such delights in his vessel, things only for the Precious Emperor to eat.”
Nyx watches the Emperor gorge herself on the man. Blood gushes from her mouth as her teeth sever veins and capillaries and arteries, it coats her lowers face, her hands, her tentacles. Blood soaks her neck and her chest, red and wet even in the darkness, drenched in that thick liquid that gives life, that she devours, that spurts every time her teeth sink into him, breaking into him, tearing him apart. Vantablack hair slips from her shoulders. The room grows hotter.
A tightness grows within the Night, desire coils deep within her, a heat in her core and in her gut; a tightness that is almost unbearable, she feels it spread. Nyx looks at the Emperor covered in blood, watches her eat this thing grown specifically for her, and thinks how much she wants to fuck her. The sight awakens the Night’s hunger for Extinction, her wife. Insatiable, unending.
One of Nyarlathotep’s hands reaches around the goddess, long fingers unfurling to gently hold her face by the chin as he leans closer to her. “You should unmask, O Night.”
The impassive face Nyx always wears, the role of ancient mother and house overseer that she still plays; she has pushed down eons of cravings because she deemed them a distraction. Nyx watches the Emperor eat, her body and tentacles drenched in red and black, and she desires, she yearns, she lusts. To have the Emperor in her arms, to run her hands through her hair, to possess her completely. The Emperor will do anything for her, she belongs to her, only her.
Nyx rises from the klinai, the Crawling Chaos letting her go, and parts the veil. She is unbothered by the ankle-high blood, uncaring that the hem of her violet dress is now soaked with ancient, fermenting red.
Tentacles emerge from the darkness around her, midnight and full of stars. They wrap around the thing sliding over the Emperor’s oil black ones, taking his ruined body from her, and they tighten. A wave of Nyx’s hand and she summons another klinai, the Ziggurat allowing it to come into existence, metal and royal and violet. In the heavy haze from steam rising from fluid and gore, the Night Incarnate’s eyes of starlight meet the Emperor’s eyes of stellar death. Nyx can see the vibrations in her wife’s eyes, stars on the very brink of being crushed, being eaten; when she observes her pupils more closely, they are black holes and the red brightness around them are accretion disks. Even in the Emperor’s eyes, she devours.
As much Nyx would love to put her hands on her, to hold her face, to kiss her, to claim her, she withholds for now. There is more pleasure to be had feeding her wife, in having her submit herself to her. Tentacles hold the thing in place as the goddess takes out his right eye. Beautiful lavender nails and cold, pale, slender fingers easily sinking into his eye socket. Within a single motion, the Night pulls out the ocular organ, ripping the optic nerve that connects it to his brain.
With the eye in her hand, Nyx approaches the Emperor. A smile forms on her painted violet lips as she places her free hand on the entity’s chest and wordlessly commands her to sit on the klinai. The Emperor does so, without question, her own tentacles wrapping around the legs of the furniture as her great form sits. The thing’s fate is now in the Night’s hands, his annihilation now controlled by she who was the dark at the beginning of everything, she who will be the dark after the end of everything. Nyx slips her hand underneath the Emperor’s chin, holding her as she places the eye at the entity’s lips. “Eat for me, O Extinction.”
The Emperor obeys. Her mouth opens and wet, black tentacles emerge, seeking that which is in her wife’s hand; they seek his eye, they seek everything it contains. Nyx feeds her the way the way one feeds their lover an oyster. She watches with great interest the way the Emperor tentacles wrapping around the small organ, holding it in place, enveloping it with the total absence of light and sound as it is crushed by black teeth. The Emperor eats his eye the way she would eat a star.
Black leaks from the great entity’s mouth, the material mixes with the red, eating the red. Now that she is close to her, Nyx can see how the violet darkness of the earrings the Emperor wears pulsate in time with the viscera around her, darkness that pulses with the event horizon of the black hole in her chest, violet that pulses with an insatiable desire to have the goddess, to kiss her and worship her and obey her and fill her.
“What do you want to eat?” The goddess asks. One of Nyx’s tentacles traces the line of the Emperor’s jaw. She adores the way her wife leans into its touch, wet mouth slightly agape, breathing deeply. Another one of Nyx’s tentacles does the same to the other side of the Emperor’s jaw, until they hold her in place, snaking into her vantablack hair to cradle the base of her skull. A deep sound leaves the Emperor, more black material dripping past her lips; her eyes swarm with pleasure, vibrating, buzzing with noise from the feeling of being touched by the Night. Through her own growing lust, she responds, her voice filling the room.
“His heart. His brain. His liver.”
Three parts of his soul.
The Night hums. “You’ve done all the hard work for me.” Nyx’s tentacles wrap around the Emperor, they slip around her middle, they follow the biomechanical nature of her body, sliding up the valley of technology and darkness that is her sternum. They weave with her own tentacles and pull her arms back, holding them in place, keeping them captive. They slip between her legs, following down the strangeness of her hips and up her powerful thighs, they bring her to a low, dull ache. The Emperor does not resist, rather she readily accepts being held and touched and restrained by her wife’s tentacles, so long as she can eat; her mouth opens, letting out a deep-toned sound and drooling black tar, thick black liquid oozing with hunger and arousal. A smile graces the painted lips of the Night Incarnate as she took in the sight before her. “I get to enjoy watching you eat.”
Tentacles make short work of removing the thing’s liver and splitting it in two pieces, the right and the left. Nyx holds the smaller of the two halves. As the Night feeds the Emperor the liver-meat, black tentacles seek to curl around her slender fingers, desperately wanting to feel them amongst the wet blackness. A soft sound is extracted from the depths of the Emperor’s chest as Nyx pulls her fingers away just as they make contact.
“You may touch me after you have eaten everything,” Nyx says, playful and loving and devious all at once.
“Yes, my goddess,” the Emperor replies.
The Night pulls apart the organ again, fluid and blood gushing from its tissue, raw and fresh. Her hands are now drenched in red, beautiful and pale hands adorned with rings and jewelry now coated in the liquid that once pumped through his body, the material that gave him life. It, too, hisses and refracts and screams against her fingers, against her rings, against her nails. The man’s liver is a thing of hate, malignant, one third of his soul and ripened by the hand of the Crawling Chaos. She feeds the Emperor the offal and watches as it slips into her mouth, as the black tentacles wrap around it and squeeze it as black teeth and gravity pulverize it.
“Good,” she says in a pleased tone, rewarding the great entity with praise as she feeds her another piece, and another, and another. The Emperor obediently eats it all, with great enthusiasm, eager to ingest whatever her wife gives her.
The atmosphere of the room grows headier, heavier, more humid as the Emperor eats the last of the thing’s liver. Nyx’s tentacles continue to indulge themselves in the entity’s biomechanical body, as they maintain that low ache ache within her. Nyx can feel her own desire coil tightly in her gut as the Emperor’s mouth part to let out another sound and another gush of black exits her mouth, down her chin; the entity rocks her hips against her wife’s tentacles, desperate for friction.
“Do not spoil your appetite, my beautiful Emperor,” the goddess softly reprimands.
“Yes, my goddess,” the Emperor’s abyssal voice is deeper, heavier as she stills her hips. A low sound leaves her as Nyx’s tentacles touch her in a particular way, a reward.
It is a wondrous sight, the Great Lord of Extinction so pliant and ready to obey the Night Incarnate. The red in her eyes vibrate with desire, with love. It was just a short time ago that the Emperor was full of violence, brutally breaking the thing open, enjoying his pain and his madness because it pleased her, because that was his ultimate purpose: to feed her, to entertain her, the Crawling Chaos continues his unending existence in various forms because it all comes down to this in the end. Nyx’s eyes study the great entity and her state of being; she wonders if her wife planned this, to have his three-part soul fed to her, to bring her into this ritual because she once expressed that she wanted to watch.
Nyx is part of this now. The Emperor wants her to be part of this. Nyx wants to be part of this from now on.
(Nyarlathotep is pleased by this development.)
The brain is removed and spare tendrils of darkness emerge to help the goddess break apart the hemispheres and the other parts at its base. They separate each lobe of each side, while Nyx goddess gently holds the Emperor’s jaw as she feeds her the cerebellum. Underneath her fingertips, she can feel the structure underneath her wife’s skin move, opening to allow black tentacles to emerge and help Nyx bring it into her mouth, all while obeying her command to refrain from touching her. The Night continues to wear her smile as her hand leaves the Emperor’s face.
Lobe by lobe, Nyx feeds the Emperor the thing’s brain. The goddess watches the entity savor the annihilation of the second part of the thing’s soul, brain-flesh ripened by the Dark Tower.
“You’re doing so well, my beautiful Emperor.” Nyx’s ethereal voice, old as the universe, rewards her wife, her praise causes thick, viscous black tar to ooze from the entity’s mouth again. One set of her endless tentacles carefully remove the thing’s heart, the other set continues to touch the Emperor. They both slide into dark spaces, one sinks into an awaiting chest cavity to obtain that fist-sized red price, one sinks into Extinction, opening her up for the Night Incarnate, preparing her for what is to come after the ritual. Nyx controls the Emperor’s arousal, raising the dull ache of desire to a heated lust, intensified by the humidity of the room, sustained by anticipation. Deep within her, Nyx feels the same. There is a exhilaration to it all, of being in control, of feeding the Emperor, of watching her devour, of being the one who makes her ache, of being her obsession, her love.
(I know what you are, Eternal Night. You are just as greedy as she is, the thing laughs. Greedy, greedy, greedy. I know you let your mind wander, I know you think of her more than you think of your children. I know how you want her, how you dominate her, how you claim her. There is a sickness in his laugh, a madness, crimson and echoing across cycles and worlds. Show your Reaper Queen just how possessive you are. I am the ritual to lead you on. Unmask, Night.)
The Night Incarnate holds the thing’s heart in both her hands. It is smaller than her own heart, fitting neatly in her palms. Slowly beating, the last third of his soul. The heart remembers, it is a container. Once it is devoured by the Emperor, the ritual will end and the cycle will begin again. It is one of many ways Extinction maintains the universe, across and beyond space and time. Nyx looks down at the Emperor, her smile unmoving, her face keeping its serene expression even while her desire grows, tight and condensed and hot like the core of a star.
“You serve me, O Reaper Emperor. Tell me how you worship me.”
The Emperor answers without hesitation, her abyssal voice made deeper by her current state. “Everything I devour is for you, O Night. I eat whatever you want me to eat.” Her eyes are full of bliss, the joy of submission to the Night Incarnate, her wife. “I will annihilate whatever you want me to annihilate. I exist for your pleasure, I exist to bring you pleasure. I am yours, completely. You are mine, O Night. My Empress, my goddess.”
She says all the words Nyx loves to hear. Devotion, submission. Extinction gives herself to the Night Incarnate; her mouth is open and expecting, drooling, even as she adjusts her hips to allow Nyx’s tentacles to sink deeper into her. The violet smile the goddess wears grows a little wider, displaying her approval, her pride, her own joy in her work.
A soft hum leaves Nyx as she moves closer to the Emperor. “You are exquisite when you are like this, my love.” One of her hands reaches towards the entity, tracing the line of her jaw until her fingers hold her by the chin once again. “Open for me, Extinction. Eat for me.”
The Emperor opens her mouth and wet black tentacles emerge again, gripping and wrapping around the heart, bringing it to her. Her dark material floods the organ, turning it from life’s red to oil black, the gravity of her darkness already crushing it as it passes the event horizon. Her black teeth sink into the flesh, drinking the blood the floods her mouth, even if some of it spills onto her chest. Nyx guides her jaw, helps her devour the organ, commands her when to open her mouth wider and when to apply pressure, pulverize. The Emperor’s tentacles twist themselves around Nyx’s, the one that restrain her; they twist and tighten as the Emperor leans forward, closer to her wife, so she could easily consume the heart, leaning forward in hot, aching want. Starlight eyes watch her, fixating in the black tentacles from her mouth that pull the organ into her mouth, little by little as she eats and eats and eats.
And then the heart is no more.
Cold, beautiful hands made red by lovingly feeding her wife, cup the Emperor’s face. Nyx’s amethyst lips claim the entity’s pitch black ones in a deep and hungry kiss, a yearning to finally have her turn at devouring her after spending all this time watching her, feeding her, preparing her.
“Such a beautiful, perfect wife, and all for me,” Nyx says, enjoying the way the Emperor melts into her touch from the praise. She commands her tentacles to remove her dress and ornamentation, the Ziggurat doing away with the silks and jewelry to the same place she shares her clothes with the Emperor’s. Even her stephane is gone, allowing her midnight black hair to fall to its actual length. The goddess runs her hand through the Emperor’s beautiful, long, vantablack hair and pulls her closer, finally granting her permission to touch her, gently releasing her from her tentacles. “You’ve been very good. And you’ve eaten everything.”
The Emperor’s hands immediately filled themselves with the soft flesh of Nyx’s thighs as she worships her wife’s body. Black lips leave the black and red imprints of lipstick and blood on Nyx’s thighs, on her stomach. Slender fingers sink into the Emperor’s hair, cradling the back of her head, guiding her to where Nyx wants to feel her mouth; pulling her up so she could leave her markings all over her breasts, all over her neck. The Night’s tentacles coax out the entity’s arousal, lovingly continue to sustain its ache, their attention eliciting low sounds, black and scarred lips agape against’s the goddess’s skin as she feels herself throb. “My Nyx…..” Abyssal, teeth-rattling machine baritone. Nyx loves that sound more than anything, especially when its her name in her wife’s mouth, her name being caressed and stretched by the black tentacles in the mouth of Extinction.
Nyx gently pushes the Emperor down on the klinai as she crawls on top of her, straddling her. The entity aches between her legs, desperate, needy, lost in her own lust for the goddess, her own fullness from devouring the Crawling’s Chaos’s gift. Nyx’s tentacles continue to touch her, they go where her hands cannot. The goddess looks down at the Emperor, her hands moving up the biomechanical exterior of her wife’s chest, following every texture and ridge wet with blood and black tar. A soft sound escapes her as her wife’s hands fill themselves with her hips, moving at the same time and rate as her own hands, long and spidery fingers and sharp talons greedily running over her curves, indulging themselves in all her softness.
“It will be a very long night for you, Extinction,” the Eternal Night says, her ethereal voice heavy and sultry and punctuated by the sound she makes as she takes in all of the Emperor’s arousal.
(The ritual is complete. The corpse of the thing laughs as the variations of himself pull him down. The doors are open. A new cycle begins and the daylight does not come.)
