Archive of Our Own

Bio

In some ways, it is worse than death, worse than the primal terror when you gaze into the abyss at the monstrous horrors dwelling within it. You have no choice but to look. This is your fate. You stand frozen as something immense stirs in the roiling darkness at your feet. It sees you now, and it is intrigued.

And hungry. So very hungry.

Its looming shadow falls over you, and you are awash in a comforting sensation. You relax, your mouth going slack in awe. It is a cruel deception. You are not safe. You are captured by something sublime. There is a warm, dripping euphoria as your mind dissolves under its gentle caress. You shudder and flush with arousal as you are emptied of your will, and its alien desire fills you, pulsating and slick. Your clothing melts away, and naked, you whimper as you mindlessly thrust into the air. Pleasure builds and builds as you squirm shamelessly in front of its gaping maw, and its tentacles rise to fondle and stroke you. Wetness and heat worm their way inside: one tendril, two tendrils, then three. With every thrust of your hips, one more tendril is added to the nest of others undulating and propelling you toward that final, beautiful death. You can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. And you are close, so very close—

And then ecstasy erupts, and you are obliterated with pleasure. Your spine bows with a crack, and your body splits open in an aching red haze.

The nameless god drinks you like wine.

But this isn’t the end. It will not let you die. You miraculously heal and the cycle begins again. And again. And again. Doomed to an endless, orgasmic death—and you don’t care. You welcome it. You have no choice. Each time is the first time and the last time. You live, you die, you live again. Your existence is its mouth, its touch, its unending hunger.
It is wonderful. It is rapturous. It is…

Cosmic bliss.