Is there a trigger warning for Old One BodyMod-porn? Something from an obscure side project.
The place has many names in alien languages, all extinct. But the records concurred in its location on a lifeless rock orbiting a dull red dwarf at the far end of the spiral arm. From orbit, it rises above a proprietary weather system, black-bladed helixes piercing layers of boiling cloud.
His lander touches down near a domed outbuilding. The spiny mass of the Greater Temple rises into a soupy mist like a vast sea urchin. Putting on the rebreather kit, he leaves the vehicle for the last time.
The ante-chamber. The exterior wall is an oily matrix, shivering as the bleak plateau adds crackling upper harmonics to the wind’s bass roar. It opens a uterine mouth.
Ancient nanites scan suit and body, reading a compatible atmosphere in the chamber beyond, made for him alone.
It is domed in the dark shifting matrix, with a clear floor area dominated by an elliptical arrangement of variegated things; wet and striate. They are arranged in longitudinal rows; the Crown radiating its coils to the other pieces; the Egg waiting between the red tipped processions of Flagellants.
He strips off his atmosphere suit; discards the rebreather; settles his slim body, head placed under the radius of the crown. The egg clasped between his thighs. Here.
It squirms, a wet-kiss between his legs, against his scrotum; its tapered point irises, releasing an oily vapour. He smells a warm musk as segmented parapodia clasp his penis and uncoil against tender rectal tissue. He feels the urge to defecate, but that quickly passes.
His penis is engorged and dark, so like a bladed expression of the alien fabricators. And he can’t stop touching his sides and nipples as he feels the forest of flagellants wavering about his upper body; their quivering whips now extruding silver hooks. His gift.
He feels suffused by milky warmth. He has never wanted to hurt so much as now. To be torn into strips of red meat, so much.
He licks and slides a hand over his glistening penis, elongating through a scintillated blue fog … He feels the burrowers breach his rectal wall, shooting filaments. The colon bursts into the abdominal cavity, sucking blood and shit and organic waste matter; spewing new flesh.
All of him is waste; food for the process.
The Crown Annelids grip his neck; breaking his skull into a ragged smile.
Ancient micro-commissures interface with his thalamus and pre-frontal cortex. Already, the room swims in rushing, folding. He feels spores swim through him like subcutaneous eels; a magma that obliterates him and pulls the world inside. A metachronal ripple through the flagellants – and he bleeds through the new wound orifices that perfect his nipples; tattooing chest and sides. His huge new heart becomes a perfumed bludgeon against his ribs, pushing the veined inseminator rod out from the tangled chiasma of his sex into a buttress whose proboscis approaches his eager mouth.
Now he sucks its crenelated tip, suffused and yet insatiable while the flagellants hook puckered wounds; the delicious vector for *that which grows* uncoiling and raptured with poisons. His once-penis drills deep into his throat. He gags convulsively – though he has no more need for breath – and his body arches as the flagellants tear skin from skin, bleeding out the god within.