Work Text:
Abigail didn’t mean for any of it to happen. She just couldn’t resist a peek, once she saw that the old mine elevator was working again.
She wasn’t going to get in any fights, and it wasn’t like she had a sword—thanks, Dad!—but she took a sturdy stick with her, in case she needed to pry something. She laced up her boots, took a furtive look around to make sure nobody was going to snitch, then ducked into the cool dark entrance of the mines and the waiting elevator.
There were a lot of buttons going down. The farmer had been busy in here, and Abigail had a sudden flash of her life going ahead: stuck behind the counter at Pierre’s, saying things like oh, what a fine parsnip and counting change while the rest of the world passed her by.
She took a firm grip on her stick, and in a fit of rage, pushed the button for 10.
After the first thrilling glance, it was a letdown. The packed dirt floor and the rough walls, the luxuriant patches of greenery, all hit her with a powerful lure to underground adventure… but there was nothing else there. She looked carefully first, then finally ventured out of the elevator, but it was just a small area with a ladder going down. No monsters, which was good, but was this really all there was?
She stood over the ladder for a minute, listening and giddy-sick with nerves and the desire to find out. A splinter brought her back to her senses as her hand tightened on what was definitely not a sword.
“Ow,” she said aloud, sucking the splinter out of her thumb, and then looked around with a guilty start. Had anything heard her? Was there anything to hear?
Caught between prudence and skepticism, she hurried back to the elevator but then stood there frozen, gnawing her lip and staring at the buttons. Slowly, she reached out and pushed 15.
She didn’t leave the elevator again. That was her bargain to herself, the excuse that made it all right—she was just going to peek, not take any real risks. As the packed dirt floors turned to shrouded gloom, she huddled at the side of the small and now rickety-feeling box to peer around the frame. Something made a high-pitched rattling noise, out in the dark, and she ducked out of sight… but her finger stole out and pushed the next button anyway.
Torchlight vanished and then came back, and then the tunnels were bored through a chilly pale stone with glimpses of rough wooden flooring further in. She stayed in the elevator, though she yearned to venture out for the ethereal winking of what might have been gemstones. Her mind whirled with possibilities. There was a whole library of lost civilization scraps buried down here, and she was hooked, even as she shrank back from the distant plop of a slime bouncing and the door closed again.
The rock texture changed again, and the temperature went back up. She got into a rhythm with the descent: hide while the door opened, listen, look, then look harder, standing in the doorway and gripping it to hold herself back as she gazed over another buried vista. She could see veins of ore, old crates and chests—that was a hard one to resist—and could sometimes hear giggles or squishes or flaps that thrilled her into a half-stupor of giddy fear. How could she possibly have waited this long?
She had lost track of the floor numbers when the door slid open and a hand made of pure darkness reached in.
Abigail yelped and crouched in her corner, hand slapping wildly at the control panel. The dark hand gripped the frame, and the door ground instantly to a halt. A head poked inside—it was made of pure shadow, eyes just empty pits, like a crude human-sized doll carved out of the darkness.
She scrabbled away, swinging wildly with the stick, but it ignored the clumsy blows. It reached inside and gripped her ankle, so tight that she thought it might crush the bone, and she screamed and kicked at its hand in vain as it dragged her out.
“Let go, I’m sorry, just let me leave!” She was babbling, hitting desperately at the thing as it bent over her. It pressed a stubby-fingered hand over her face, groping and patting with strange purpose. She lost the stick as the thing bent, wrapped terribly strong arms around her, and lifted her like a sack of potatoes without so much as a grunt.
It carried her a long way, or maybe that was just the fear and the blood rushing to her head, hanging down behind as it carried her over its shoulder. They went through winding tunnels, a couple smaller rooms, more tunnels—and then out into a bigger space, where her panicked breaths echoed back even as her eyes strained vainly against the dark. No torches here, just her and a monster and her stupid decisions, and it hit Abigail that she was going to die down here.
It drove a sob and a fresh round of struggle out of her, her fists beating against the completely impervious back of the… void spirit, she thought that was the name. It came to a stop, and for a second she thought maybe she’d actually annoyed it—then with a sudden dizzying lurch, it heaved her off its shoulder and into a pit.
She screamed, arms and legs flailing before she remembered to curl up and protect herself—but instead of hitting rock, she splashed into some kind of chilly liquid, thicker than water as she sank in. It wrapped around her almost graspingly, tasting oily and tingly and alien, the bit that got into her mouth. She tried to swim for shore, and it struggled back at her, and then she couldn’t help screaming.
Goo rushed in, filling her mouth and throat, and she choked and gulped and barely managed to spit it out. This time she absolutely felt more push in, like a tentacle that swiped around her mouth and wriggled into her throat until she blindly thrashed in panic. She thought it was going to pour all the way down her throat and drown her, but then it withdrew, running over her face as she sobbed and gulped in air with ragged gratefulness.
The surrounding liquid squeezed her. At first she thought it was just soaking her clothing, but no, it was running underneath, wriggling and coherent. She thrashed and gurgled as the cold tingling advance seeped up her skin… and then with a sort of clench and flex, it expanded, shredding her clothes.
Her shriek bounced off the cavern ceiling, and a pulsing and slithering wrapped her from the neck down. “Nn—ohhh,” she managed, because it was so wrong but it was also incredibly distracting. Tendrils wrapped around her wrists and ankles, her waist, holding her suspended even as the enveloping body of the goo drew away a little bit.
There were tiny traces of light buried down in the heart of it somewhere, like moonlight caught deep underground. By that silver-dust gleam she could see that she was in a whole deep pool, sucked far from shore.
“Please,” she sobbed, unable to pull free of the silken grip. She was stark naked, she was really turned on, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when it ignored her plea and pushed a tentacle right into her cunt.
Abigail shrieked, a convulsive wave of revulsion and want rippling over her. Thick as a finger and then a bit more, it quested inside her with thorough attention, indifferent to her humiliated hiccuping pleas or her squeaks of discomfort as it stretched. When she cried for it to stop again, it came out more like a moan.
Other tentacles flowed in to fondle her breasts, and the orgasm hit her shockingly fast, rippling and tightening her core and sending a shiver through the tentacle inside. It froze momentarily, then started pushing and pulsing in earnest, as if seeking more sensitive points. She writhed in its grip, her cries increasingly high-pitched and weak. When the second orgasm hit, a tentacle pushed back into her mouth, plugging the sound and filling her throat as something warm pulsed from the one in her cunt.
She was tingling all over, giddy and too sensitive, and at some point she looked down and saw herself—goo mixed with her own juices painting the inside of her thighs, a shadowy tentacle thickening as it thrust into her languidly, her breasts bouncing and aching as more tentacles lovingly painted them in a sheen of slime.
At some point the orgasms tripped into each other in a continuous cascade, and mercifully she passed out not long after.
Abigail woke up like a perfect Saturday morning, sleepy and sated and sore.
Which wasn’t actually like a typical Saturday morning at all, but as she surfaced muzzily, she couldn’t quite figure out why. She had been… she shifted on the soft rustling bed, and the soreness localized, and her eyes flew open with a strangled shriek.
She was lying on a bed of greenery, much softer than she’d expected, and that bed was in a cavern with a torch beside her and an inky pool not so far distant that made her shudder away and curl up. Sitting up made every muscle in her lower half twinge, and she was naked, and still streaked with traces of dried something, and then she was clasping her hands over her mouth to hold in the hyperventilating.
A few heaves later, she got control of herself and tried to take stock. The dark pool—just a tiny hint of a glimmer bouncing back from the torchlight, but it made her shudder in memory—was quiescent now, as perfectly still as water. Abigail herself was only a little bruised, at least on the outside. Inside, she felt like… well, like she’d been molested by tentacles until she came her brains out. Her sex was tender, but she honestly wasn’t as sticky all over as she would expect. Which might mean that something or somebody had washed her, and instead of thinking about that, she staggered up to explore the cavern.
The shadows made it more mysterious at first glance, but it wasn’t huge—no larger than the saloon, really. It was a little chilly, not biting like some of the ice layers had been, but enough to pebble her nipples and make her firmly not think about how tender and used-feeling her breasts were.
There was a tunnel at one end, but it was blocked by a big fresh-looking pile of rocks. She thought of the shadow-creature lifting her effortlessly to bring here, and shivered. Then she tried moving the rocks, because it was the only way out, but they were way too heavy for her.
The only thing left to check out was the pool. She’d been thrown into it (she ignored a twinge of not-just-pain, remembering) and then it had been alive and awful and way too strong. Was it trapped there, or could it reach her as she slept?
Her stomach growled. It was really absurd to feel hungry at a time like this, but there she was. She took a firm grip on the torch and edged toward the pool.
It didn’t move, like it was trying to mock her caution. Or asleep. Did goo-monsters sleep, after raping people?
“How is this my life,” she muttered, and then swallowed. “It’s my life because I was a stupid fucking idiot who wanted to try the stupid fucking elevator, and when I get home I’ll listen to all of Dad’s grand plans about melon promotion and I will drink ten cups of resentment tea a day with Mom, I swear, Yoba.”
Her voice was rising by the end, and she cut herself off with a gulp. She was close to the pool now, and it definitely wasn’t water. It was darkly translucent, and she remembered the powdery silver gleam in the depths, like she imagined the dark side of the moon…
She had stepped closer without even noticing, her bare toes barely a palm-length away from the edge. It rippled and reached for her with a thin shadowy tendril. Without thinking, Abigail slammed the burning end of the torch down to crush it.
The torch hissed, almost going out, but she didn’t have a chance to curse her dumbassery because the tendril evaporated into a faceful of choking smoke. She reeled back, coughing unstoppably. The dust burned in her lungs, and she sank to her knees, choking and hacking until sparkles danced over her vision.
Finally she could breathe again, shallowly, but the sparkles stayed. So did the lightheadedness, and her body felt strange all over, heavy and prickling and aroused.
Even through the giddy haze, she felt it when a new tentacle wrapped around her ankle and pulled.
“No!” she shouted, setting off another coughing fit that distracted her and gave it time to firm its grip. She scrabbled to crawl away, but it yanked her leg out, sending her slamming onto her stomach. That knocked the little wind she had out of her, and before she knew it, she was halfway in the goo again.
She flung her arms around a rock outcropping, not caring about scrapes or bruises. But she couldn’t pull her legs free, could only moan as a surging ripple of pressure flowed up her calves and thighs. It burst against and into her sex like a giant tongue, and the sparks flew and danced madly over her vision.
The tentacles weren’t as gentle this time. Abigail didn’t know if she’d made it mad, or just more horny, and she had no brainpower to figure it out. It stroked hard and fast into her sore cunt and she moaned, but the sound wasn’t as protesting as it should have been, because she felt weird. Like the time Sam got that really good weed from Zuzu City, except there hadn’t been any tentacle orgy that night, and there sure was now.
Abigail was rolled and groped between half a dozen soft flails, coiling and slithering around her legs and hips. One stroked along her clit in time with the other one stuffing her cunt. She tried to struggle, she really did, but that only wiggled her against the cool slimy deliciousness. The sparkles painted streaks of fire everywhere as her head tossed, and she felt the pool shiver in sympathy as the first orgasm tightened her.
Everything went way blurry. She was being fucked hard, too hard, and the thickness of the tentacle only seemed to grow as she kicked weakly and moaned in protest. Then something tickled between the cheeks of her ass, and her burbled protest did nothing to stop a little finger-like tendril from sliding in the back too.
She passed out again, rocking and heaving and filled, and she’d never known drowning could feel this good.
She woke up, at some point, back on the bed of greenery. A couple of the void spirits were holding her down. Something was bouncing and jiggling up against her sex, slimy and soothing the tenderness. Her legs were being held open too, she couldn’t do anything as the slime nudged harder against her and finally pushed itself in.
“Oh!” Her back arched, as the slick firmness filled and bloated. The shadow folk pinned her down through the groaning and struggling, and in the fullness and stretch she missed the soft giggling getting closer.
She caught it finally, and whipped her head to one side just in time to catch a faceful of dust sprite exploding with a little whee. That set off another coughing fit, more sparkles, and eventually she just lay there with no further restraints, stoned out of her gourd.
The shadows were cleaning her, she thought—she could barely feel her body, just a collection of tingles and lines. Well-being rolled through her like lapping waves at the beach. She drifted.
Her stomach growled, and she put a hand to it, feeling the wet slosh of something filling her core. One of the shadows came back and pushed something into her mouth—cool and angular, grape-fizzy and crystalline, not supposed to eat them in public or people will know you’re weird…
She bit down, and the amethyst crunched deliciously between her teeth. Sighed as she chewed languidly and swallowed, and fuck, food had never been this delicious. Her tongue ran around her mouth to chase the splinters, and then another one of the shadow folk was looming over her with cupped hands, dropping something blue and gelatinous in.
“Nnmm—” Abigail’s whine garbled under the mouthful of slime, and for a moment it was coherent and whole and jiggling, and then it popped, rolling down her throat. She swallowed to keep from drowning, and then because it was the most cool and delicious and refreshing thing she’d ever tasted, like secret tunnels and lightless rivers that never had to come up for air.
She drifted again, for an unknown time. All at once the one in her cunt gave a tiny spasm, popped and ran out in a gush. Abigail woke from her stupor with a shudder, the painful taut feeling gone. But it was replaced by emptiness, and that was almost worse, an impression that chased her back into a troubled doze.
Abigail was dreaming, she thought.
Shadows were moving past, their steps rustling like a trickle of water. Dread stirred in her bones, but they didn’t so much as glance her way. They just walked straight to the pool and in, vanishing beneath the surface without a bubble.
One and two, then a gap, then another. She was definitely dreaming, because there were so many that the whole mine must be emptying into this room.
The darkness toward the pool had thickened. Or maybe the whole thing had risen, doming over like a giant slime about to burst.
A moan woke her.
She still could barely move, elbows twitching to prop her before giving up. A pale blue smear was drifting at her out of the gloom, gaping eyes and mournful mouth, letting out the saddest and horniest noise she had ever heard.
It crashed into her, and she fell back onto her little bed in a seizure of wracking chills and biting desire. A deep moan vibrated out of her throat, her limbs twitching and back arching. Her breasts were so tight she thought they might shatter if someone touched them, her cunt so empty that it cramped. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes only to freeze on her cheeks. The scrapes and bruises on her stomach had gone numb, but this was worse, she couldn’t bear it.
The ghost had vanished—then her darting eyes caught it coming at her from the side. Numbed, she could only moan in tandem as it slapped against her and vanished again. The icy corkscrew-bite of desire bit tighter.
The third time, it evaporated and was gone, leaving a shimmering golden dust over her belly and breasts and thighs. It was beautiful, but the light seemed to be fading from the room, and she didn’t know if it was the torch or her going under.
Abigail dreamed she was on the ceiling. She was looking down onto a heaving, undulating ocean of shadow, little waves lapping over each other and reaching up toward her. She wiggled her fingers back, then remembered that was wrong.
She was horribly frozen through, wet and empty. She remembered she needed to leave, but she didn’t remember why, and anyway she had no idea how to get down from the ceiling.
Something warm started to seep in at her back. She turned her head to see, and with a dizzying flip of perspective, she wasn’t on the ceiling at all—she was still on the floor, and the goo had started to flow in underneath her, but even more of it was quivering on the ceiling.
She screamed, and it crashed down.
It hit in an all-body thunder, sweeping and tumbling her up into a crushing embrace. Her arms were pinned to her sides, her legs thrown apart, and it poured into her mouth and cunt like a writhing waterfall. It was so warm. It filled her and fucked into her, giving her the care she needed, massaging the golden ghost-essence into her skin with rippling explosions of light that might have been real or just in her brain. It was too much immediately, and then it just kept going.
It must have been hours, or maybe days, bits of consciousness tossed up on the waves.
Sometimes the motions were frenzied, squirming across her oversensitive skin, vibrating in every hole, pumping and squeezing as if trying to milk more struggle out of her.
Sometimes it was slow, and she would wake draped in soft fronds, legs wrapped around a tentacle that gently rubbed her clit as her hips ground against it.
She was always wet, soaked in her own juices and the slippery goo. She was always full, impossibly so—it never left her mouth now, she didn’t know how she could breathe around it, could only suck and swallow and be grateful. Sometimes in her ass, always in her cunt, it touched and pressed and occupied.
Her breasts felt heavy and swollen, cradled and suckled by more tentacles. Her belly felt full too, like something firmer was taking shape out of all the slime that had been forced into her. The tentacle inside stirred it slowly, lovingly, keeping her plugged tight long after she had stopped trying to expel it.
She didn’t remember what she had wanted before, what she had been worried about. She lay cushioned and supported, curled up in the void. Flecks of moonlight and darkness trickled over her skin, filling every lonely crevice of her.