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The legends say that she is creator and destroyer alike, and she uses that power wisely. For those who are deserving, there are pleasures beyond comprehension. Yet her standards are high, and all that do not live up to them can never hope to earn her affection.
For a moment you find yourself thankful that you once flipped through a book of Chinese tales when you were bored in class. Nuwa is familiar to you, in a way. But the goddess you’ve read about was only a myth, a story passed down from generation to generation to explain the world—nothing real.
She stands before you now, terrifyingly real.
From the depths of the palace of corpses she emerges, red on her lips and on her nails and on her dress and you have no way of knowing, whether she’s chosen makeup and cloth or blood and gore as the medium with which to decorate her body with her art.
It is angels she’s slain, only angels. And you, of course, are a demon- no, that’s not quite true. You’re nothing but a human wearing someone more powerful as a costume, still clumsy in this new demonic body. Aogami has said that the two of you are now one and the same, body and soul, but he was wrong. You try to move as one and think as one and you might be getting there, but not yet.
She is a demon, fully. There is no battle within her, no conflict between two separate natures. She walks toward you like she expects you to bow, her gaze sharp and snakelike, and the human within you has the urge to throw yourself to the ground even as the demon wants to tear her limb from limb and make her look like the corpses she’s used to decorate her throne. You end up doing neither, just standing firm.
Perhaps that’s what she expected.
Nuwa transforms before your eyes, her hair elongating and her skin growing more scaly and her fingers and toes becoming like talons. The demons you’ve fought before were not half as impressive as this, and your cock stiffens in your pants embarrassingly.
She wants to take you as a prize and add you to her mound of corpses, but not before she toys with you a little, makes you scream. Electricity courses through your body and wind beats down on you and one by one your demon allies fall - all weaklings, compared to you, but precious allies nonetheless. In the end, it’s only you.
Still you are standing in the open; she is not so inelegant as to pin you against a wall or hold a blade at your throat. Why bother, when she can kill you from across the room with the pure strength of her will?
Another spell, another blow, and you feel your eyelids go heavy. You’ve never died before, of course, but this must be the end. Aogami calls to you but you can’t make out his words. You fall, but before you hit the ground you feel something wrap around you, smooth and cold: Nuwa’s hair.
Instead of letting you tumble she’s grabbed you, and she lowers you to the ground, forcing you onto your knees. In your condition the only option is to let her - but you think you’d let her regardless, and when she uncoils her hair from around you, you make no attempt to escape.
She towers above you, breasts full and teeth sharp, and from somewhere far away Aogami screams at you to run while you might still be able to.
“Well, well, not so much of a threat now, are you?”
Your mouth is too dry to speak, so you shake your head. You aren’t strong, never were strong - that was all Aogami’s doing. Now you’ve been reduced to the pitiable strength of a human once more , and a human’s base instinct as well. The instinct to bow, to serve, to please those stronger than you.
She lifts one wide, clawed foot and presses it into your belly, and something tingles from within you. You’re hard, harder than you’ve ever been, and your mind races, clouded with desire - what would it take, you wonder, for her to free your cock? To touch you? To let you fuck her?
Instead of that, she trails her foot lower, coming to rest on the bulge in your pants. Your gasp echoes through the walls of the building, and she, pleased, strokes her foot over you, up and down. Almost jacking you off but not quite, not when she’s only barely touching you.
“What’s that?” she asks, when the ghost of a word leaves your lips.
“More,” you repeat. “Please, please, please, more than that.”
“And why should I? Why do you deserve any pleasure from this at all?”
“Because... because if you’re going to kill me next-”
“Oh, I’m going to kill you. I hope you don’t doubt that.”
Around you her snakelike hair coils, not quite trapping you but certainly adequate as a warning, and just when you think you’d rather die than wait another second she presses her foot down.
It should be humiliating, feeling such pleasure from nothing but the pressure of her against your throbbing member, but you don’t have the awareness now to feel humiliation or even fear. You moan as she grinds her heel into you, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from you anymore; you’re drifting, drifting, listening to yourself just moments before your inevitable death.
And then you return just as Nuwa makes you see stars, makes pleasure shoot through your small, frail body like electricity. Until this very moment you hadn’t noticed how much tension had built up in it, how badly you needed this release. Your pants are warm and damp with your seed, and if you thought you’d make it out of here you might be worried about how to get them clean.
“Pathetic,” Nuwa says, as if she can read your mind. Maybe she can, just like she can read your body. “Utterly pathetic. Men are all the same.”
You nod, spent. You can be pathetic, you think, if she’ll treat you like that when she says it.
A breath in, a breath out. Another, and another. Your eyes flutter closed just like they would if you were sleeping peacefully, and perhaps you are.