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ID: fdN6f+HZ/qst/6272280#6275864
7/17/2025, 2:33:35 AM
>>6275862
Your eyes snap back to your prey—or partner?—to be. The Naked Emperor has manifested many more eyes, of myriad makes and models: a slit-pupiled eye akin to a cobra or a cat; a bleary, waxy-cuticle thing which might well suit a fish or frog; an eerily humanoid one rimmed with luscious lashes, blinking and twitching to take you in inch by inch.
“Y-ya do?”
The hundun bobs and lurches forward, then backwards, in a whole-body nod. It’s an absurd affectation, but the comedy disarms you. You find yourself sniggering at the silliness of this thing.
“It reminds me of when we danced,” says the Emperor. “That was truly something special… Something unique! Never before had I encountered someone who could dance like that… Limb by limb, across shapes and forms.”
Your giggling turns to a bashful blush, and your self-consciousness shifts shape into something else.
“It was stupendous. Spectacular! Splendid! Another thing beginning with a similar sound!”
This isn’t like Martyn, complimenting his ‘mermaid’. It cuts to the core of you—the you born of a ritual a few scant years ago, the you who owes its existence to a succubus called Irinnile and her hybrid host. You shift from foot to foot, as misgivings take shape.
“Ya can’t really, like… Mean that?”
“Of course,” huffs the hundun. “Lying would be wrong. Or right? Either way, rather outside my aptitudes. Like me, my words simply… Are. They may change, or contort, or become something else, but they are always mine, and always exactly what they are in that moment. They can be nothing else.”
The Emperor’s unexpected flattery—or, well, its/his truthfully-eccentric assessment—stuns you. You shift a little under its intense gaze, and find yourself wishing you could see yourself like that.
“Oh, is that all? That can be arranged!”
“Huh?!”
You jump as one by one, the eyeballs emerging rom the hundun’s maty mass are sucked back inside, and then pop out anew. Each is reformed into an oversized imitation of your own: reptilian of pupil with a deep black iris, rimmed by a golden-yellow sclera, and framed by a rim of rugose, green scales. Normally, the sight might instinctively repulse you, as your appearance seems to repulse all others…
But a succubus, a demon, is a reflection of others. A shadow, an echo, a negotiation with mortal perception. The Naked Emperor, though is no mortal, and it feels no revulsion or horror—only curiosity, and a sort of unearthly and detached desire which is utterly unlike the kind you inspire in others.
Your eyes snap back to your prey—or partner?—to be. The Naked Emperor has manifested many more eyes, of myriad makes and models: a slit-pupiled eye akin to a cobra or a cat; a bleary, waxy-cuticle thing which might well suit a fish or frog; an eerily humanoid one rimmed with luscious lashes, blinking and twitching to take you in inch by inch.
“Y-ya do?”
The hundun bobs and lurches forward, then backwards, in a whole-body nod. It’s an absurd affectation, but the comedy disarms you. You find yourself sniggering at the silliness of this thing.
“It reminds me of when we danced,” says the Emperor. “That was truly something special… Something unique! Never before had I encountered someone who could dance like that… Limb by limb, across shapes and forms.”
Your giggling turns to a bashful blush, and your self-consciousness shifts shape into something else.
“It was stupendous. Spectacular! Splendid! Another thing beginning with a similar sound!”
This isn’t like Martyn, complimenting his ‘mermaid’. It cuts to the core of you—the you born of a ritual a few scant years ago, the you who owes its existence to a succubus called Irinnile and her hybrid host. You shift from foot to foot, as misgivings take shape.
“Ya can’t really, like… Mean that?”
“Of course,” huffs the hundun. “Lying would be wrong. Or right? Either way, rather outside my aptitudes. Like me, my words simply… Are. They may change, or contort, or become something else, but they are always mine, and always exactly what they are in that moment. They can be nothing else.”
The Emperor’s unexpected flattery—or, well, its/his truthfully-eccentric assessment—stuns you. You shift a little under its intense gaze, and find yourself wishing you could see yourself like that.
“Oh, is that all? That can be arranged!”
“Huh?!”
You jump as one by one, the eyeballs emerging rom the hundun’s maty mass are sucked back inside, and then pop out anew. Each is reformed into an oversized imitation of your own: reptilian of pupil with a deep black iris, rimmed by a golden-yellow sclera, and framed by a rim of rugose, green scales. Normally, the sight might instinctively repulse you, as your appearance seems to repulse all others…
But a succubus, a demon, is a reflection of others. A shadow, an echo, a negotiation with mortal perception. The Naked Emperor, though is no mortal, and it feels no revulsion or horror—only curiosity, and a sort of unearthly and detached desire which is utterly unlike the kind you inspire in others.
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