Hi! I’m Jess! I’m currently 30, I like writing, horror and vore. But it’s debatable how good I am at it. This is at least partially a fetish blog.
So I’d prefer if underage people don’t talk to me. I might still accidentally like your stuff cause I’m a serial liker and don’t pay enough attention, but no talking, no reblogging and no asking me stuff.
Continuing on with the subject of people I’d prefer not talk to me or reblog my content: if you happen to be against people because of their sexuality, race or gender I’d prefer you keep your distance. I don’t condone the idea of demonizing people over things they cannot change.
I should also mention that as this is a fetish blog, there might occasionally be content that is uncomfortable to the people viewing it. Just because someone has a vore fetish, it does not mean they will automatically like my content. I write both safe and fatal vore, vore is for the most part a sexual fetish to me. I have both male and female pred OCs but only female or ambiguous prey. This is because I identify more with prey than with predators.
While I don’t write them I do enjoy M/M vore content and occasionally F/M content might catch my eye, but the last combination in particular is not something I actively seek out. So if that is your favorite arrangement, I’m sorry to say you’ll find this blog lacking. I have nothing against those who prefer F/M vore but it’s generally my least favourite.
Also my content might be considered problematic if you dislike fetishisation of the damsel in distress archetype, or seeing female characters in danger. If bodice rippers offend you, then some of my scenarios will also do so. I do post the occasional, warning filled, nsfw drabble or scenario so yeah be wary of that.
Armchair psychiatry about what these themes may suggest about my mental health and self-image will be blocked. Asks with similar themes will be ignored, etc.
I may occasionally reblog non-fetish stuff, or vent and rant anxiously. This may or may not be fixed in the future. I’m kinda winging this blog thing if you hadn’t noticed.
[Warning: The following except contains sensitive content regarding oblique mentions of suicidal ideation. Viewer discretion is advised]
Tell me. What is it like to fly free?
The sky stretched above, unbroken and unending. Clouds doused in ink shivered under the low growl of thunder nearby. They seemed to bulge towards me, crumpling the air from my chest; I welcomed their weight. My toes curled along cool shingles as I outstretched my arms, eyes slipping shut. Light settled on my lids- the sun’s crucifying stare- and for once, I found myself smiling in the face of the endless expanse. It all seemed too vast, somehow, too massive. As if at any moment the sky and the horizon would collide and sweep everything asunder, joining two existences into one- a clean slate. And what a comforting thought that was to have at the edge of the world, feeling the birth of a storm woven in gossamer threads.
I was only one step away from finding the answer. From being able to see the world again in the monochrome ambiguity of innocence lost. Yet I stood there against those first few, frigid drops. This fear, this tremble in my soul, was a paralyzing one. It’d been my constant companion. For so long it drenched my tongue in poison that I’d forgotten how to speak in truths, even to myself. A breeze whipped past. Heralded by the soft hush of rain trailing along shingled roofs. I curled into myself and released a wail so long and harsh that it scorched my throat. Such a wild thing. Not a soul heard it; swallowed whole by a crack of thunder.
And a new beginning was marked by my first and only truth.
***
Night blanketed the streets of Radz-at-han, casting a monochrome dark broken only by the balmy halo of street lamps. Few windows appeared lit from inside. Most of the city slumbered. Their story told in the colors of a bustling market, a treasure remembered in their bones and blood, lay quiet. Empty, even, save for the scuffle of sandals along the terracotta path. A shrouded figure skulked from one pool of shadows to the next, stealing glances over his shoulder at every interval.
Two things weighed on Mishhar’s mind as he slipped from his home in the Kama: his last conversation with Malfud and the gravity of the decision he was about to make. His grip tightened on the satchel at his hip, knuckles turned white. The memory played clear in his mind’s eye as the tapestry of stars above. They spoke over a dinner of spiced wine, zarda, and sheermal prepared that morning by Biyaada. A ritual they’d done each month, long before either found their footing in the world. Back when life was as simple as peddling ceramics for pennies. His younger counterpart smiled, all teeth and no eyes, over the lip of his glass as he retold the dealings of his latest investment. The East Aldenard Trading Company wanted to expand Malfud’s company into Eorzea, a storefront in each city-state. Joy gleamed in Malfud’s eyes as he reached across the table and gather Mishhar’s hands into his own. A promise, spoken with genuine warmth, of a place in this commercial empire was placed in callused palms.
“I will share my prosperity with you,” Malfud had said, “Save you from this destitution as you did me. And together, we shall dine like kings, my friend.”
A smile drew across Mishhar’s lips, sweetening the wickedness that churned in his chest. The Sisters were cruel for first stripping him of his wealth and now his dignity. O’ so very cruel.
The elder man dipped his head low and pulled at the edges of his cowl. The road he traveled extended out onto a bridge connecting the Kama with Yuji. Rivulets of moonlight seeped through stone arches, twisting his shadow into something far larger than him. Its presence looming, judging, as it eddied him forward. The darkness sewn to his feet knew what he sought to do. Rumors of a peddler, masked and mysterious, were on the tongues of strangers and spoken into the ears of travelers. No one knew their name nor where they came from. Their presence assumingly birthed from necessity and desperation for they appeared not long after the destruction of the Final Days. Whispers said that they appear on a street corner at a quarter past midnight. A beacon in the dark as they huddle beneath the lamp’s glow, Moogle-mask limned by hair illuminated in crimson. And rarely is the peddler without their devashuni- the black dog whose gaze follows strangers with unrelenting intrigue. Its eyes capable of piercing mortal flesh and seeing through to the deepest pits of the soul. So long as there is a trade to be made, the peddler and their devashuni will listen; a gift to those with worthy offerings of a remedy for any affliction.
Or, so Mishhar was led to believe.
A final stairwell crested onto the Yuji’s promenade, vacant and quiet now. Mishhar eased his steady pace into a hesitant shuffle, feeling the air shift with his own anticipation. Chills danced down his spine as he swallowed hard and tucked himself into the alley’s shadows. He drew in a quiet breath, satchel clutched close to his side, and squeezed his eyes shut. In the distance, the twelfth bell tolled. And he waited in the following quiet. Waited until he forgot he was waiting. Until nothing else existed aside from the dark pressing on his eyelids and the steady stream of his own breath. Then, finally, the soft scuff of nails against stone broke the monotonous silence. The shadows of his mind drew images of the devashuni in colors of malice and fear; eyes that peered into him and saw the wicked thorns encasing his chest. The satchel’s strap dug into his shoulder, reminding him of its weight. A choice, the pain said, only he could make. And as he met the black admissions of his own heart, he felt a tremor in his resolve. His grip on the satchel lightened. His breath released in a quivering stream. His feet remained rooted in place.
The click of nails eventually ceased and the alley drew quiet once again. Though the air grew no lighter and the night no brighter. The peddler, Mishhar knew, had made their claim on the street corner. All of their wares - promises of a new beginning- whispered sweet temptations in tune to the thrum of his chest. He licked the salt from his lips, the taste reminding him of that dinner. Malfud’s grin bobbed to the surface of his churning thoughts and suddenly his blood went cold. Cruel fate would have him kneel - No, grovel at the heel of his inferior copy. All that Malfud had claimed was earned on Mishhar’s back, yet no morsel of glory would be left on the table for him. Nothing but scraps left.
Venom coated his lips as they upturned in a disquiet smile. He hadn’t come this far, spent the last of his gil, to balk at the last second. Resolve coaxed his eyes open, pins and needles crawling ups legs, and forced him to step out from under the cover of night. Around the corner, he peered and saw the first glimpse of the peddler.
She was a spry thing, perched on a planter’s ledge with a knee curled to her chest and chin resting on top. Shorter by full fulm than him and half as broad. Armed with naught but a pair of stiletto daggers and bandolier laden with pouches and vials. The painted smile of her lacquered mask looked dull compared to the crown of fire she wore, and doubly so compared to the small, black bundle of fur she stroked. It was a dog, yes, but certainly not the hound Mishhar had conjured in his mind. The devashuni simply sprawled across the peddler’s lap, snoozing while its master surveyed the promenade with a faux, absent gaze. Mishhar’s brow dipped in a furrow, the sweet venom once coating his lips turned sour as it slowly dripped down into his stomach. He suddenly felt quite foolish.
Mishhar dared a step back and no sooner did he that the woman turned to meet his gaze, plucking him as easily from the shadows as one might a grape from the vine. An airy, smoke-tinged laugh drifted through the air.
“Hello,” she breathed, a smile laced in each note, “Friend.” She outstretched a hand and the dog in her lap stirred. Its eyes fluttered open, endlessly black and glistening like polished marble. The woman beckoned Mishhar closer. “Come into the light. I don’t wish to speak with shades.”
Mishhar released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Slowly, he slithered out from under the shadows and into the lamp’s light. His fingers drummed along his satchel’s strap, unsure if he could speak above a hoarse whisper. He licked chapped lips, casting the dog a wayward glance, before letting his eyes fall to the floor. Even then, he could feel the devashuni’s attention as its gaze caressed every crevice of his soul. “You are,” -his gaze drilled into the cobblestone- “The Alchemist, yes?”
The masked woman breathed a contemplative hum. Then expelled a curt chuff as she waved him off. “Is that what they call me here? Mmmmm’ suppose if it pleases you, then so it shall be. Yes. I am the Alchemist.”
“Then you’ve a remedy for me.” Mishhar sank to his knees as he began unbuckling his satchel. From its folds, he procured three jars. Two were stuffed with dried ochu vines and the third was accrual of pickled imp wings. He lined them before the Alchemist and turned to her with a pressed smile. “I’ve brought these for you. Only the finest purchased from Bazaar to trade with you.”
He searched the lacquered mask, with its faux eyes and cherry cheeks, for some semblance of interest. Intrigue. He’d even take amusement if it benefited him. But not a flicker of emotion crossed the Alchemist, save for the subtle cant of her head. She nudged the hound from her lap, the devashuni spilling to the ground with a languid yawn. It padded up to the jars, and Mishhar’s heart seized when it gave them a tentative sniff. The seconds between stretched for nearly a what felt like decades. Millennium. Eternity.
Then the hound wagged its tail.
Relief flooded over Mishhar as he expelled a breathless sigh. He shuffled closer, hands upturned to the Alchemist as he continued. “You will trade with me, won’t you?”
The Alchemist shifted on her perch, creating a symphony of chiming vials, and saddled an elbow on either knee. Her painted gaze turned in an exaggerated fashion between each jar before finally settling on him. “What is it,” she began, dropping her chin into an open palm, “That you want?”
His hands fell to his lap and his gaze to the side. “I want…” He spoke barely above a whisper now, stripping pieces of his soul and finding them to the shadows that were tethered to their feet. His stretched, contorted into a shape he no longer recognized. And yet somehow it appeared far smaller than hers- a feeble thing that didn’t know how to navigate the dark. Another quiet breath. Another moment of silence.
Malfud’s smile drifted in a passing breeze, memory of his laughter caught in a strand of wind and scattered like dust.
“I will share my prosperity with you.”
Mishhar rose to his feet and brought his gaze level with the Alchemist. Fear of the dark paled in comparison to the fear of humiliation. “I want,” he continued, ichor seeping into his voice, “A poison.”
His request broke through the night, like a pebble cast into a lake. The ripples stretched in notes of silence as it sank down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Their shadows twisted with an unseen current and flooded his heart; surged through his veins; blanketed his skin. Her quiet regard became suffocating, her painted gaze asphyxiating. Mockery heard clear in the puckish grin of her moogle mask. The gravity of his decision finall laid in full upon his shoulders as the devashuni’s eyes bore into his soul; his desire to kill weighed a ton.
“Oh.” A single syllable breathed on an incredulous scoff. The Alchemist leaned back on her palms, head canted to one side. “You weren’t going to add anything to that, were you?” She hummed. A mixture of amusement and disappointment. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
“What?” Mishhar spat the word, lips pulled in an abhorrent snarl. “But you promised something for every affliction- for every cause! You are held on the same pedestal of legends, yet you deny me aid?”
The Alchemist hitched her chin back. Then shook her head with a half-hearted laugh that seared his cheeks. “I promised you nothing.” She outstretched her hand, beckoning her hound hither. The small, black dog retreated to sit quietly at its master’s side, tail still pendulating. “You’ve drawn your own conclusions; however, I misspoke. It is not that I can’t help, but that I won’t.”
All the air seemed to escape his lungs. His hands fell to his sides as he stared down at the jars lined at his feet. “I don’t understand… These are the finest goods I could purchase. The devashuni accepted them. Is this not a fair trade?”
“First off” - the Alchemist upheld a single finger which she twirled in the air then used to point at her companion- “This is a dog. The level of sentience you’ve assigned her is neither applicable nor relevant.” She flicked up a second digit to join the first. “Secondly, you’ve brought me absolute garbage. Common wares. Pantry items.” She slipped off her perch and came to stand before him. “As a man of Radz-at-han, surely you’re aware of Alchemy’s First Law.” She brought either hand level to her chest, palms upturned and teetering like the plates of a scale. “To obtain anything of worth, you must give something of equal value. Most adequately put by the Nald’thal’s devotees: As Above, So Below. Now, do you honestly believe that what you’re about to give is equal to what you wish to take?”
Mishhar deflated under the woman’s scrutiny, her words slipping under his ribs like little daggers. His eyes fell once more and watched as all his dreams drained away into the gutters. “There is nothing else,” he whispered, “I have left to trade.”
“Then there is nothing,”-her breath warm at his ear- “I have for you.”
He bristled at the touch. But when he whipped around, hand raised, she had retreated from under the lamp’s light and into the shadows. His eyes narrowed in a lethal point. “You are a cruel woman.”
“Think me unkind if you wish, but I am simply maintaining the balance of Equal Exchange.” The Alchemist placed a finger to her mask’s lip. So small, she appeared, without the aid of her high perch. Dull and faded without the filter of a warm glow. A legend turned into a shade before his very eyes. Yet no less ominous as some unseen force stilled the anger from his twitching fingers; bade him to stay his wrathful hands. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, unhurried. Unbothered. Or the daggers that gleamed in the wane light, shine met in equal measure by the vials chiming at her belt. Or perhaps it neither- perhaps it was the way the shadows embraced her form with a certain, intangible familiarity; as if she were the candle that beckoned the dark.
“You see…” The Alchemist stepped further back, turning from a shade to a silhouette, then to a shadow, then to nothing but a disembodied voice. “That is my first and only truth… I’ll humor you again, Mishhar, when you bring me something of worth.”
The Yuji’s promenade became vacant again save for a cloaked figure and his jars of hollow dreams.
