Treat Me Like A Doll

by permaMoth

Summary:

The girls being normal in normaltown.

Notes:

Go funger lesbians. I may have done a skin bible retcon bc ITS FUN. ITS FUNNY.

 

You reluctantly allowed her to tag along with you.

 

It took you by surprise, whenever you found her contorting into herself like a kicked mutt. You expected she'd be as tall as you, perhaps even less so, judging by her malnourished state. Her palette's all drained, as if she'd been plucked right out of the pictures, gutted-paper skin over charcoal dress. It came in parts, when you finally ordered her to get off the cabin's floor. Strained puppet-like limbs twisting all over her sides struggling to detangle from invisible strings. A sharp elbow sprouting, matching a bug's wings erratic detachment. One out, then the other. Slowly propping her up, the slight misstep and knees popping while unfurling her grubby form. Then raised... and raised... and raised... before you. You remember taking a wary step back, suddenly feeling at disadvantage as you craned your neck up. Easily a head taller, maybe more- and she's hunching. Revolting. You spare the details on her face (that would make her more real than she needs to, only discerning sharp, aquiline nose and blotch of black for lips) instead glaring at shaking foal legs, patiently expecting further instructions.

It was the doctor, you think, the one who found her. By his own words, crawling through loose cobbles from some crack at the back walls of the church. Had to squirm her way out, shivering, bloodied and snot-ridden. Barely allowed him to touch as he tried to escort her toward the cabin, despite her protests. The mere image on your head forces a grimace. "She even ran off at some point. One second, and she was one with the fog." He'd recall you. However, she seemed to find her way through the train after all, nobody spotted her slithering all the way into the last cabin. Whenever they did though, her refusal to mutter a mere word shooed the doctor's bitten hand soon enough.

 

That is, until you walked in.

 

She's desperately proven how... devoted... she is towards you. It sickens you to your stomach to even think about your time at the Ministry right now. About being "alone" in your own room. Or at all. Ever. Even so, the situation has become dire, and you've decided to keep the only other occultist deep in your sleeve in order to up your chances of survival (the yellow mage far gone, not that he'd stick with you). She had no tricks that at the very least you hadn't heard of, you hoped.

Time spent on that hole fried her brain long enough to see you as some sort of deity- you dull out the incessant babbling details of her unorthodox beliefs, for your own sake. Anywho, if her delusions happened to betray her, say she were to turn on you (which you doubted), you had the upper hand physically. A small trot made this girl act like she would throw up a lung.

Despite the redhead seeming friendly enough, a steady head on broad shoulders, and the quiet boy making himself so small you couldn't even tell if he was real or not, their utter physical strength made you paranoid enough to discard them as options altogether. As much as they'd like to think they wouldn't participate in this barbaric ritual, their blatant lack of occult knowledge would never let them grasp the actual state of things. Hell, you yourself devoted your whole life to this cause and still find yourself scattering, trying to make sense of the impossible scenes before you. And it's been hours. Who could tell they wouldn't crack under Rher's gaze tomorrow morning, go for the weakest link once incapacitated enough?

It's not like you considered yourself utterly helpless. No, no. Far from it. But hands are quite sensitive weak spots for most spellcasters. You're well aware it takes no more than a gunshot or blunt object to put you out of commission. Gods know you wouldn't be fast enough.

So you dulled out alarms going off on your head, and smiled politely whenever you declined joining them on their crusade.

You remember glancing over velveteen seats, how the soldier turned towards you, then offered a stiff nod before parting right at the edge of the door. The somewhat mature gesture clashing over his waddling off on too-big sneakers. A boy with a gun trying out father's shoes.

The doctor, Daan, or Däniel, or whatever name he felt like putting on that day, eventually went off on his own, muttering something about marital matters. The empty look on his eye being enough to dissuade any snark remarks behind sealed lips. Violet checkers become lilac, then blend with grey. The reporter was quick to follow, only in the opposite direction. Not even saying goodbye while trotting talons stab the undergrowth.

It was nice to talk to Olivia. Though you don't envy her position as you step outside the train ladder into gloomy meadows, especially being left alone with that boxer, noble heart and all. She even waved you goodbye through the foggy window, returning the gesture cheerfully only came natural. For your companion though, not so much. Or at all.

Right...

 

...On the other hand, this Samarie person was no stranger of such violent acts. In fact, she only knew violence, if what she said were to be true (which didn't seem too far-fetched, just by looking at her). Not only was she a rather unfortunate first-row witness to torturous rituals, but also endured them herself for years. As skittish and nerve-racked her constant state was around you, you noted she showed no tremble on her hand while casting. Quick. Breakable, if needed. Conscious of what's to come… terribly so. A sharpened knife is safer than a dull one.

Yes.

It may not be the safest, but certainly useful option. You just have to keep her in check.

Besides, who else left on that wretched train would serve as such a committed meat-shield?

She's got a cunning ear, at that. It's a more or less graceful way to describe her seeming hypersensitivity to- any noise, really. A gunshot met with the same reaction as a dropping needle. It deemed her excruciatingly annoying while traversing foggy woods, every sudden crack of leaf making her jump. Yet, quite useful on quieter, cobbled streets. Buildings towering before you, thick fog clouding sight, but her hearing, that's what saved your scruff. You didn't even begin to register the drag of blade through rough gravel, yet Samarie pinned the disfigured maniac effortlessly, like a flea on a bald dog, between endless labyrinthine passages. That along both his arms, gore spurts mixing on pebble cracks, part of brick wall.

You tell the doctor, now sudden barman, about your new canary while dangling your legs on squeaky loose stool. He quietly dismisses you between polished and re-polished shot glasses, seemingly more interested in another, meaner, canary across the bar. The (poorly dyed) blond reporter hoards piles of nonsense papers like a dragon on top of the too-small table. Actually, you'd said she looks more like a broody chicken, guarding newspaper eggs as she shoots viper glares every time you raise singsong voice a little too high. You figure Samarie must be shooting her own from whatever corner she chose to build webs in.

You depart soon enough, after stacking on some goodies, and leave the subterranean henhouse alone.

She seemed to get disoriented easily. At times, whenever it was quiet enough, you'd caught her staring at grey sky, mouthbreathing, straining paper neck so thin it seemed it might rip off with strong enough breeze. Whenever she'd come back down, it'd be all dry-mouth, flaying stick limbs around, looking for you like a lost child, while mumbling something that sounded like your name. Her already narrow eyes remained on a perpetual squint, too-bold crow’s feet struggling to keep up with new foreign, blinding surroundings, long bangs serving as her only respite. You could almost imagine her choosing to shut her eyes entirely instead, preferring to rely on smell and sound as most night vermin do. Perhaps she does so already, taking account her ragged pants a few feet behind you, an uncaring lighthouse bringer of wrecked ships. In any case, doesn't take long to see just how unused she is to being outside, if she ever got out at all. You don't bother asking though, her presence alone brings enough misery as it is.

Pale skies overcast blinding white all around, their shade not too far from her own skin. Dull pained moans can be heard in the distance... strangely, the deformed from the old town seem far more docile, they don't bother you as you traverse murky mud streets (quickly, you're still on a clearing after all). Unlike those degenerate mobbed brutes, ambushing you while on your way to the church. Samarie incapacitating two, yet barely missing the third's metal saw as your conjured rat swarms drowned his mangled form. You play deaf ears to both everlasting praises and never-ending flayings, eventually both turning unmotivated at your lack of acknowledgement. It's not like she didn't hear them coming, but none of you could predict that dead-end alley.

Neither them, nor twisting copper policemen, much less the tomb-raiding executioners were the reason for your sudden retreat, though. Oh no. That would be the clown.

You remember Samarie's footsteps halting a good second earlier before grabbing your wrist and speeding into a quick corner, her disgusting grimy hand over your mouth before you could protest at all. In a panic, you tried to bite her as warning, but the angle wouldn't give just right. And so, thinking the worst, you prepared Hurting on your free hand while breathing in her musk- however, her arm got saved by this... lullaby. The terrible presence began increasing in volume somewhere around the corner, a man's humming. You stood very still, some sort of dull screeching noise against cobble soon followed suit. That's when the sudden shake of her legs against your skirt took place, serving as a horrible forecast. If she's afraid...

You could only discern the back of pale cloak flowing, masquerading between the mist between skewed alleyway walls. Before his hatted profile could finish turning in your direction, sharp pain erupted from both shoulders, while misstepping backwards. Soon enough walls around you swallow you whole, as she drags you through a cracked wall. You quickly caught up to her fleeting scheme, helping her push you whenever her grip slipped. You remember both of your legs synchronizing at some point through the spontaneous tunnel, her knees stabbing the back of your thighs due to the height difference. An elbow that must've knocked the wind out of her, yet remaining inhumanly silent.

Freezing air bites your skin. As your eyes remain locked into your footsteps, undone pigtails swaying wildly side to side, some rubble still clinging onto them. You hear rough breathing struggling through nostrils somewhere behind your left, trying its best to echolocate you. It grows fainter and fainter while quickening up your step, legs sore. You'd prefer the grunt and splat of slush below you being the only noise cutting through the now dead-silence streets instead. You might as well look like a pink dot in her eyes by the time you get stopped suddenly by a low, throbbing rumble... above. As you glance towards the sky, light grey transforms into deep, murky blues. A storm. How magical.

Looks like your trip to the church will be cut once again.

...

The door was a struggle, for both of you. All swollen yet rotting through and through. It gives one final screeching fight-cry as you force it open. Your face immediately scrunched up into a wrinkly grimace while catching little shimmery black dots scurrying away between the floorwards of... this pigsty of an entrance.

Grey cracking through the door as your only light source, between pitch black wooden guts. Two shadows adorning it, then one. Samarie strides between the last few fleeting cockroaches as if they weren't there at all, barely missing one or two as soon as you ordered to check every room on the shack. Just like that, her gangly form disappears into darkness like a bloodhound on tall grass.

You close the door behind you, then pause as you inspect the discreet foyer, and realize you may have exaggerated earlier. The spread is not too far from houses of your own neighborhood now that you think about it, although a plebeian copy. Faint thunder makes presence during your inspection. Little wooden staircase on your left, a small table in desperate need of repolishing right beside it (the doctor would have a field day). A humble birchwood coathanger. Your umbrella holder, fully stuffed... the small one's pattern is actually pretty cute... a marble, on the table. Dusty pinecones. Flowery lily patterns fading in dirty tablecloth. A paper boat.

Door passages both left and right, coated by thick shadow.

You then take a few precarious steps while rubbing nose numb, shooting wary stares at floorcracks in case you've missed any other disgusting little critter below you. You fail to understand how the air inside is somehow even colder... It must be the little details, you guess, that feathery fiend must've oh so thoroughly designed in order to make this hellhole reach every level of both vile and inconvenient. Inside the...

The... hut, you presume... you're not sure... you've never actually stood foot on these parts of town, rather gawk while swiftly passing through dirt road on the backseat of your father's Imperial Landau. The few times he bothered to snatch you from your room and take you outside town, anyways. Sometimes alongside your mother, most don't. 

Some color-faded cheap frames on the left wall go past you, you don't pause to glance at faces. A trinket or two. Alll-mer's cross dangling on top of one of the photos. The chain is pearly, yet you can tell it's fake from where you're standing. It glistens so.

Knuckles white against black robes. And silence. That was your father steering. No matter how much you wailed your eyes out, all red faced- snot running into whatever frilly mess she put you on, flickering yellow fields passing by the window unbothered as the stygian silhouette behind the wheel. A bump. Statue's nape motionless while you held out your little bloodied hand. Shiny, cherry lines trickling down the sides making your eyes bigger and bigger, the tone matching your new Sunday shoes. Another bump, then another. You didn't mean to trip and fall, you told him. You told your mother too, that the buckles were too tight before sending you off (be a good girl, these were expensive). Eyes blackening between hot blinding sunlight into deep blue shadow. Your father refusing to wait for you as you struggled between rising skirt and balancing mammoth steps of neverending church cobblestairs. Puny grunts while picking up the phase, needles prickling numb through your little feet, a wince but press on, black robes several steps before you keep flowing further and further away, so much so you don't feel stepping on frilly fabric, cobble corner tilting forward-

Loud, wet splat. Quickly followed by hollowed-out, dry thunk to your left.

 

...You blink. Turn your head like a dog, then follow the echo while naturally lowering your stance, warm knife freed from your bleeding sock as you leave behind clear skies and bruised knees.

 

A peek of your head goes in after checking every corner around. Before you, what was once a discreet livingroom, now pretending a bomb just went off on it.

Moonshine filtering through the crack of side-window lands right on top, now functioning as a macabre theater reflector, forcing your gaze on it. It's weirdly small, and seemed to have stumbled up on itself judging by how chubby legs got caught on top of a now-fallen chair, as if it was taken by surprise. You inspect the tiny distorted body landing awkwardly, shiny unmade buckle reflecting, one shoe missing. Drenched muddy overalls on top of sleeveless crumpled shirt. The blood puddle under what you can only imagine its head was increased in volume slowly, a single blow. Sharp. Immediate. Repainting the living room carpet deep wine. End of scene.

Drilling of your own wine-holes plague your peripheral, a familiar feeling you might've always carried ever since arriving at the Ministry, now that you think about it. It's only fitting then, finally baptizing the term after so many years. You force acid stew downwards.

Whenever you decide to tear your eyes out of your unfortunate little resident and land them on its perpetrator, you can't help but notice the way she gleans a little, in her own twisted way. Heavy shadow drenches her entire form, hugging her like an old friend, blending so effortlessly you might as well dismiss her as an apparition. Her mangled silhouette cut only by moon's slimy outline. It doesn't stride far from crude woodcuts plastering violent scenes from ancient, darker times. A terrible presence indeed. But one that, despite all, stays put- eerily so. That looks at you, and only you, expecting a pat on the head and a job well done at her terrible deed. It makes you wonder for a second, of a distant world where you'd turn around on that nightmarish tower and instead of dismissing the wretched servant’s wishes, you’d bent the knee in kinned recognition. And you’d transform once again, now willing participant on this hellish treachery, how she wouldn't doubt your orders either way, be a horrid mutant or fellow passenger, an offered scalp would meet your grip soon enough, hot and warm and leaking. Her own sacrifice followed shortly after on a third sunrise, a tool’s proper end.

Instead, you breathe out while choosing to ignore both victim and culprit alike. "Lets keep an eye out..."

"...This was the last room." She slithers. Your eyes get big ever so slightly "I checked. Th… There’s nothing else."

"What? you..." But… "Upstairs too?" You don't remember seeing- even hearing her pass through you.

Inky hair bobs. Then pauses, pondering.

Moonkissed ebony marbles blink in your direction. Mouth draped so deep in shadow you don't even catch it when it moves.

"...T… there's a room there. It… looks comfortable enough…”

 

 

 

 

 

...Despite her gloomy nature, Samarie sure holds a positive mindset if this is what she deems “comfortable”.

She lets you in first. Her awkward, stiff stance on the side of the door attempting to poorly mirror a chivalry of sorts. It's so bleak you don't spare her a glare. The inside's dark, only filtering light by the curtained window letting in faint grey. The pungent, stale stench of concentrated humidity hits you as soon as you cross the door frame, letting you know the room was barely breathed while your heels echo on hollow wood. Hers, not so much. First thing your eyes lay upon is some sort of drawer chest, the profile of it, painted red at some point, now burgundy and chipping wood on all sides. Beyond, a whitish door facing you, (checked, you suppose) of what you assume to be some sort of toilette, judging by the small lavatory peeking slightly over the slit. Next, a wardrobe. Small and dusty, twisting key still on it. Some sort of glass lamp knocked below it, little glass shards glittering between floorcracks. The one narrow bed on the top right corner, you'll think of something. Black bars on each end remind you of one or two trips to the orphanage your father forced you to attend. A sea of neverending bars while passing through shared dormitories. A tiny nightstand- ah, no. Just some chair with a cloth of sorts on top, frail birch legs peeking under. The bedroom's sole curtained window, you can't even tell what color they're supposed to be by how ruined they are. A dark wooden desk, knocked over. And her.

Unmoving, everexpecting. Needle arms glued to her sides, neck hunched nearing a painful-looking horizontal line. Quick, middle finger picking anxiously at peeled skin on the side of her thumb. You'd say she looks like she was holding her breath, but no... far from it. It's the one thing she lets your ears be quite aware of. Here, back then...

Each piece of furniture is either slightly slanted or knocked over. Besides old peeled wallpaper on some corners, the walls remain naked. At some point there seemed to be frames adorning the gloomy dirt-colored walls, but they've either been removed or fallen off with time, only their stubborn contours remaining. Once your eyes adjusted enough, you step over and take a hold of the burgundy drawer, a grunt comes out "Close the door,"  while dragging towards the entrance, the deep shrieking of wood protesting below as you do so. A handle clicking, then switching angles, fixing it right into the frame with a final push. A pant or two later, "...This will do. Good job." Pigtails turn before you get the chance to catch her reaction at the sliver of recognition, then make a swift diagonal towards rusty bars.

The loud creak of springs makes you jump a little, and after a quick evaluation you land on the less stained spot of the bed. Samarie just stands there like she might tell you she doesn't deserve one at all. Just when you think she's about to do so, she seemingly changes her mind, distracted by green slime cracking through the window. Spying. And so, she cuts off Rher's voyeuristic ways, offended unsounding steps reach over to find the middle of dusty curtains- obscuring any shiny slither left with a swift flick. Dark envelops you both. Then pauses, keeping both hands cradling the crumpled fabric, simulating a prayer. She swallows "I... I don't feel any presences near..." hoarse voice whistles, like wind through a hollowed out haunted house "I-it should be safe to rest here."

Why, if the creep says so...

You reach down to undo metal buckles (the strain becoming awfully present ever since you've sat down), then take off your shoes with a nudge or two between them. That's... a little better. A wiggle, while blood rushes down your toes. Whenever you pull your legs up, you get a prick of nostalgia, then strain your whole body ducking, checking for monsters under the bed. Vertical pigtails graze dirty floorboards, as you glance around darkened abyss. A tiny shoe knocked over, some crumpled old papers, sparkly glass, dust bunnies... but no more. Only monster around...

"...Are you just going to stand there?" You quiz at the forever observer, head up and crooked. Her neck jumps backwards, as if she was leaning into a crackling fireplace.

Lips part, then close again. They tend to do so very frequently, as well as that... cradling, the one of her fingers around each other, as if she's playing an unknown, invisible instrument. Ah, she stopped.

"Come."

She shudders, despite your calm tone.

"...N-no I- I r-really s-shouldn’t..." A step back, one that you actually hear this time.

Her body seems confused, whenever she shifts. It comes in parts, as if a possessed mannequin tried to emulate human movement. It doesn't stride far from your first necromancies, you note. Thorax and hips balancing out of time, falling and rising unevenly. The delay of a knee. Head bobs of a lame horse. Like a broken machine, faulty pistons. If it weren't for her dress shoving it all together she'd spiral out like a thin ball of yarn.

"You already look like death. I don't need you to pass out if we have to run away." You counter. "...Besides, it's freezing." Sweat sticking to the back of your shirt, once unbearable, already morphed into piercing hives every time wind slithered through the crack of window.

Naturally, another protest began bubbling up on her throat upon your implication, only for it to get swallowed like a ball of thick snot. Another shudder, then lips quivering. You avert your eyes at the sweat already pilling between uneven bangs, perhaps being spared of your admittedly judgemental gaze will make her speed up whatever excuse she's cooking.

"A-ahn..." Her eyes get stuck between dusty floorcracks, suddenly unable to stare off, lipstick distorts into all sorts of bold shapes before any sound comes out...  "Nn… are you... uhnm..."

"No, I won't be so sure, if you keep making me ask." Of course you're not crazy about having her anywhere near you, but ever since the adrenaline of being chased wore off, it became awfully clear of what the next step ought to be, more or less. By the time your teeth started quivering, her whole body was already shaking like a leaf, trying to chisel a monochrome of heat out of bone marrow and cut flesh. Out of all the things you’ve done in the name of survival, wanting to keep warm falls on a rather unremarkable note in comparison.

She mutters some apology you don't pay mind to, before watching her folding into herself and hastily undoing withered mary janes, half expecting a loud, wooden creak as she does so. Shaky mannequin legs take wary steps towards the bedframe, like a deer on foliage. She might be quieter than ever. White palm meets mattress, then knee. Slowly but surely she crawls onto the very far end of it, unbothered by the stain zone you've avoided like the plague. Her frame barely makes a dent, but some springs do crack politely while she starts what you can only guess is curling herself into a ball.

"...What are you doing." 

She glances back, eyes big and limp wrist suspended mid air. You could almost hear rusty, neglected gears turning. Then halts, as if you just said 'treat' out loud.

"Kahn... you meant- beside you...?"

Gods, this girl… "Yes, yes, I meant here." You scoot struggling to hold a groan. You didn't expect her warming up your feet, exactly.

She's far quicker at that, at least. Hollow eyes and dirty nails crawl right at the little spot you've cleared. Before laying down facing the wall, you managed to put one of the two pillows between your lower halves, just to be safe. The other shared below your heads, it's flat and reeks of murk, making your shoulder ache by the lack of support as soon as you lay down. She throws an unnecessary amount of thank yous through all.

After some shifting, you force eyelids shut. She wriggles for a bit, whenever you peek, you see that spine of hers curling uncomfortably while trying to fit her legs up to her torso. You discard yet another one of her strange conventions, then close your eyes again. Little droplets teeter softly behind the window, and despite the sky being completely clotted, moonshine somehow still manages to drip through thick, dark clouds. You can barely see green slime echoing behind curtains through the covers, the ones you eventually had to pull over you both with great loathsome, due to the relentless nips of cold.

It was gradual, you note, while negotiating with sleep. It's neverending back and forth tempting to lull you into sweet unconsciousness wish, yet pulling back at the last second. Blame it on your throbbing shoulder, aching head clotted with thick air, the threat of getting ambushed at any second…on one of these spurs though, you've noticed how her frame seemed a millimeter closer. Upon that, you put aside your dazed discussions, instead focusing on the way timid, yet visible shuffles her shivering frame took towards yours. A pretend fix of posture here, and there. Little by little, an inch closer. And closer. And so on and so forth. First contact came from the back of her calf, against your cold leg, around the space between the end of your sock and crumpled skirt. It had a textured feel to it, whenever you grazed it, likely due to brushing one of her dozens carved sigils. You can't discern who's from here but you mentally bet on Alll-mer's, lonely vertical line unveiling it so. At least three inches, and quite deep, by how the scarred skin popped. You let it rest there, hoping some warmth would manifest soon enough, while goosebumps prickle her glabrous skin. The tip of your nose flutters, breathing in dust sticking to her dress. Judging by the festival's nature, rain could've morphed into acid as far as you knew. And even in normal circumstances, you reminisce on just how so many of those religious fanatics could take such an infernal event and deem it a miracle instead. No moon delusions needed. You're lucky enough that it didn't catch you, droplets really starting just before racing into the hut, so your clothes remained mostly dry...

Dirty... smelly... utterly ragged... definitely burning as soon as you get the hell away from this shit town, (if you do get away at all) but dry.

Even taking a break became its own double-edge-sword. Yes, finally being able to not meet eyes with deformed monstrosities and actually resting seems peachy and all, but it also leaves you suddenly all too aware of what's become of you these past few hours. Like letting the psycho stalker lay beside you.

Or how you haven't had the chance to be actually still during the whole day. The dreadful state of your body pulsating while minutes trickle away. Burning muscles straining and contracting surely make a presence on a bookworm such as you.

So you begin to shift onto your back, folded shoulder prickling and numb. The bed cracks once, twice, as you unfurl stiff limbs along dull pain. You do your best to fix your skirt, folds detangling from uncomfortable crevices. Chest heaves, trying to gather the fresh slivers of frozen air. At least it seems you're granted some respite, as blood begins trickling down numbness. You relax, as much as you can.

And then you hear it. Another crack on the bed, despite your form remaining dead still. Quiet.

Perhaps it was too sudden, how you resolved onto your new posture. Her wiry, touch-starved frame already tasted the illusion of contact, craving it so like blood in the water. The graze of your leg, your warm breathing on her back, both gone all too soon. But even as heartbroken as she was, she's quick to resolve as well. Boney legs commence tangling around yours, timidly testing ground. You don't recoil then, neither at her arms traversing over your torso, landing somewhere on the mattress. You decide to allow each step of her unassuming approach, sacrificing another quarter of dignity while leeching off each other's bodyheat. You can always kick her off, if she gets a little too gutsy.

The prickle of wrinkling sheets tensing somewhere near your arm. Her ribs stab you lightly, each time she takes a heavy breath, gradually covering your form like a corner spider on bathroom tile. It's as she's been all hollowed out, whenever empty weight descends onto your form. Your arms remain stiff on your sides, while your mind drifts numbly through empty dirt roads leading nowhere in particular. A bump, whenever the heat irradiating from her throat presses on cold clavicle. It may as well be the only warmth left on her, you think, while her freezing beak nose digs into the crevice of your veiny neck, nuzzling it so. You wait for fangs and claws, for beastly consumption, absentmindedly. Of course nothing of such takes place, and once she's settled down, you casually fix up the barrier pillow with a tug, pinning it properly between the two of you. It's kind of pathetic, how this has to be the first time you've ever been so close to another girl...

A haste scratch between your eyes, then forehead... scraping some grime out on your fingers... Gods...

While your hair puffed out an awful, frizzy mess (the humidity in this town always managed to make a number on it), your bangs managed to stay both sticky and uneven as possible, fear-inducing sweat bathing curls grossly to your forehead, or stiffen awkwardly at the sides of your head. Your skin smells horrid as well, not as much as your... companion's... you've noticed, but still.

Your voice gave out quite early on, too. Some shrieking and excessive prayer while spellcasting was all it took to destroy whatever training you've been able to accomplish up until now. A few funny looks from every voice crack that sprouted from your throat was all you were spared while planning on a route. You were lucky that the few staying behind at the cabin were kind enough not to comment on it, you suppose...

"...S'not bad..."

The thing on your chin stutters, suddenly wringing you out of your thoughts. Were you muttering to yourself again? She kept on, mumbling while on your chest. 

"...I... I like how you sound norm-m-ally, too… s-all pretty..." She muses for a second, sleepiness bounding her tone "But... this… is just as nice, too… m-maybe even better..." A distorted giggle tickles your neck. The way she wiggles on top of you reminds you of silkworms, delicately relishing on prized filth. This unforeseen sweetness in her voice seems alien and unrecognizable in her twisted form.

"...It's you after all, just pure you." She cuddled a little closer, exhaling softly. "You're perfect."

"...Thanks..." You croak out, for some reason.

Suddenly you feel your face wet. You glance upwards, trying to locate the crack on the ceiling wood that must've given out to the rain, the burning on your nose becoming ever more present as you do so. Your search only makes you blink a couple times before Samarie notices your breathing, she stands slightly- quickly alert.

"Marina-? what’s wrong? did I do something?"

You swallow while trying to ignore the sudden weight shift on your hips, your throat long dry, it only makes your words come out raspier. Deeper.

"No. Don't worry about it."

There's a mold stain spreading on the top left corner.

"But you're…”

It contorts its shape weirdly.

"I'm fine."

You raise your voice more than needed. There's a bit of silence, and you discern Samarie giving out what you can only describe between a sigh and a whimper, something only an old dog should muster. Her empty weight comes forward to you once again, trying to fit her gangly form around you like a broken puzzle piece. A thought crosses your mind, and you debate briefly.

It’s sad, really. You're not sure for which of you more.

But you decide to humour her, albeit cruel. After a nudge or two, you begin to break out your arms to welcome spindly sides. One hand lands stiffly a little below her neck, trapped between protruding scapulas, while the other supports her lower back. She spasms quickly at the sudden contact but relaxes just as fast. You both lay very still, as if a grenade would go off at any sudden movement.

But then a minute passes, then two. And you confirm that the room, in fact, will not explode.

 

And so.

 

And so, you do the next thing to distract from the pressure on top of you, and concern yourself with where exactly are your hands awkwardly landing at the moment.

On the top half, you feel Samarie's sweaty undershirt sticking to her skin. You can't really hold that against her though, you're horribly aware of just how gross you must be right now. Whatever. The cloth. Cotton, by the texture. From the few spared looks you afforded to give earlier in the day (since this girl knows nothing but stick to your back like a shadow) the fabric looked thoroughly used, and frankly, dirty. Even before getting dragged through filth. This was an aged filth, like a gross, gnarly wine left opened and unattended for decades. The way it sagged at the corners made you figure it must've been one of, if only, piece of clothing that she owned. It fitted her awkwardly too, just as any other piece of her outfit.

...You map it out, actually, while making holes on the ceiling.

Not only was the cloth yellowing around her collar, but her shirt wrinkled all around it dared to show itself. That made sense at least, it's not like she could've had time to iron while getting her brains fucked by Rher. A sad excuse for a ribbon dangled loosely under her slanted chin. Her sleeves puffed on the sides, similar to how a child's dress should, but looked all wrong on her form. The cloth on her ashy dress was sturdy, yet the fabric didn't stick to any curves she might've had under.

Well... not really. Time to time it hugged her frame in an almost flattering way, whenever she wasn't walking like a hunched slob, which didn't seem common from the little time you've spent together.

You're pretty sure her mary janes are different sizes (that would explain her limp) but then again, you were not able to give them a good look. Her socks definitely were though, her right one reached up to her mid calf while the other kept loosening up. Half of the time she slowed down while walking behind you was to fix it back up.

You inhale sharply and quickly regret it. Right. You almost miss how you thought that the people smell at the train cabin was the worst that it could get to. How sweet and naive you were... in fact, the only reason you could actually summon the strength to brace whatever emanated from this creature was getting bombarded by a cocktail of putrid, rotting meat and feces that covered half of whatever's come to be your hometown. Compared to that, this fleabag smelled like roses.

A muscle jerks somewhere. Not yours of course.

You flex your fingers, trying to release some tension while tentatively grabbing a nip of the cloth. You rub it gently between index and thumb, play with it a little... it's cheap too. Not that it surprises you. A muffled sniffle on your neck sidetracks you. Then it quietens down for a moment, both in and out of your head. Only buzz around being uneven breaths hitting your clavicle, wind whistling. Faint thrashing, in the distance.

But then there's your other hand.

Parked somewhere at the end of her narrow back, already starting to fall asleep. Whenever you wake it up you first notice the edge of her dress zipper, some dried dirt... then a nub. Barely bigger than your thumb. It's weirdly sturdy, to the touch. Like a pebble poking through hard cement. Maybe something got caught up while running? After prodding and nudging curiously for a bit, sooner or later you get hit by the realization that this, in fact, must be her spine. The very end of it at least. Sharp and bold, even under cloth. She doesn't protest once under your intrusion, but you keep your hand dead still after noticing so. Then you get creative, using your thumb to rub small circles around it for a second, but the sudden rise of bony hips sets panic ablaze.

"Samarie."

"M... m'sorry... I'm s-sso sorry..."  She scrambles, whacking her brain while hiding on your chest, you can almost hear her inner flayings. You'd roll your eyes, but there'd be no point if she can't see. How lucky you are, for her compulsion to atone, readying itself to absolve sleazy hands without question.

A mumble, then another.

"What?"

Another one, barely higher as she stirs.

"...What did you say? speak up."

A whimper comes out before anything, face now digging on your neck.

"...I... I just can't help myself..."

You twitch.

No. Paralyzed, cold bathes your entire body. Not now, you scatter for a moment, your mind a mess, chest tightens. Was it her tone? It shouldn't... in a daze, you shift your thigh, and quietly curse on your head as the dingy excuse for a bed you're lying on creaks loudly. You're sweating bullets... why her? But then, you're blessed with a speck of comfort: she couldn't possibly have noticed. The pillow pinned between the two of you stayed in place, its presence confirmed by your leg. Repent exorcises itself, and just for a second, you don't feel utter despair. The knot on your stomach gives, ever so slightly. It's okay.

It's okay.

...

Maybe they should stay in your head, the thoughts traversing through you at the moment. Ignore them, sleep on them, fantasize at most, even if you're inches apart. But... there's some sort of comfort that makes you pause. Reconsider. This girl, devoting herself so thoroughly, letting you take as you please, desperately showing you just how far she is willing to go for you. She follows, unquestionably. She fetches and catches and kills whoever stands on your path, kissing it without doubt if you happen to cross over it. She pleads, and pleads, as if it’s the only thing she were taught. Because it is. It may be the only thing that she knows very well, hand in hand with her constant atonement, inherent violence rearing its head not so far away. To worship, and serve.

You tried to push that side of yourself down, the one that relinquishes on her attention. Its mere existence bringing you deep shame, far more than you're willing to hold. They're empty, her words, they must be. Delusions she'd mistake for reality in order to escape from whatever hell she was born into. And yet, from time to time, you’d lean over, fueled by morbid curiosity. Her ramblings low and constant behind your ear, permanent and unrelenting. Sweet little nothings accepting your every part, without doubt. Anyone would be disgusted, discarding her advances right at her deranged confession. But not you. You brought her all over here, after all, over some little mountain of excuses you've made for your ears only. But no one's hearing now. No one…

…No one can see. And she already knows, right?

You don't have to explain anything.

Your right hand travels below and cautiously takes a hold of her hip, alongside your left that's somehow on her other one already, locking her in place. Samarie's breath abruptly halts on your neck, long enough for it to start to concern you.

But then, as she breathes out, she lowers herself even more- as much as she can, slightly rotating her hips around your palms, as if feeling them out. Lets out a breathy moan while she's at it. You pretend your legs are made out of steel to keep them from shaking.

Despite your hands not being particularly big, thank the gods, her emaciated state lets you grab quite a bit of her. She frees some other little noises while you squeeze her, feel her around. The bones on her pelvis shifting happily on your grip. "...You're so fucking needy, aren't you?" You breathe into her ear.

She gives out something between a sordid laugh and more mumbles, and while she tries to start moving her hips properly, you quickly put pressure on your hold, her pitter-patter heart throbs a little against you.

 

"Ah-ah. Behave."

 

"...Sorry... Rina..."

 

You shift a little, just enough to catch her eye.

 

"It's okay. You just can't help yourself, can you?" It comes out sweeter than you expected.

 

She muses for a moment to look at you, all droopy eyed. Tilted jaw resting on your chest, above, pursing of lips, while slowly shaking her head. Hooked nose threatening to pluck an eye out. You decide she looks kind of pretty like this, haunted and all. Sylvian's blessing kissing cheeks red, finally granting her some color. A smile almost makes its way into you at the thought, but you catch it with the clench of your teeth. An impatient tightness below brings you back to reality. 

You break eye contact and strap your head back on the pillow while you try to gather your thoughts. The wooden ceiling welcomes you, and you shift your jaw anxiously as your hands stay firmly on the sides of this mumbling thing.

 

"...Marina...?"

 

Speaking of.

 

"What."

 

"Ahm... I-I could... help... if you'd like that." She whispers, a timid proposal.

 

Your brow immediately furrows at her nerve. In fact, all the muscles on your forehead tense up while your gaze suddenly searches for hers. You don't even notice how your neck craned whenever it found it, the way you hate that makes your veins pop up.

"How so."

"O-only if you want to!" She cowers, her knees tensing forcing you to hold back a wince "I'm fine being like this too- you're divine- I... I just don't want you to... to..." her eyes dart around looking for words, as if they've been written on the wall. Nervously, she swallows. "I wouldn't want to make you ache." She settles with that.

That makes you pause for a second. Enough for you to ease whatever menacing mug you threw at her earlier. You can even feel her relax a bit once your features softened. The gesture alone somehow baffles you into thinking just how much has this girl managed to make her whole being so intertwined with you... a shout could break her into a million pieces.

Another twitch. Something must be really wrong with you.

"...Fine." She perks up.

Soon enough her frail arms surround your sides, wiggling around trying to support herself a little better, tightening her novice boa hold onto you. You can't make out if she's using all her strength at the moment, but it wouldn't surprise you if that were the case. Another blood rush downstairs, and then you start to wonder. If you were to get a proper hold of her hands, would she even be able to fight you back? Would her legs give out, before even trying to chant a spell? Would she try to? Or just let you, giving in immediately? What would she even look like, below you? Pinned. Hopeless and bound, at your mercy.

...

...What?

Mold stain stares at you. You're no different than him, are you? Than all those men that did this to her. Were you just waiting for something like this to happen? Is that why you cowered in your dorm room all these years? Maybe it's in your blood, after all. What you were always meant to be. You're so fucking disgusting. You always were. Your arm itches but you refuse to let go of her. You force your head back even further into the pillow– nails dig on flesh, you're not sure how hard, the pounding in your head doesn't even let you hear her whines.

Something warm starts coating your lips.

"Marina!"

You open your eyes, the ceiling. Samarie, on top of you. Her frantic gaze scanning your every feature, still flushed and glossy. She reaches her bony hand up to your face but you catch it by the wrist before any contact.

"Don't..." A little weak, but it makes the point. She retracts her hand and you let go of her just as fast.

First, you get up by your elbows with a groan while lightly shoving her off. Followed by two digits up to your mouth, once you pull them back you see nothing that shocks you.

You thought you've finally got over this ugly habit, but from time to time it ends up winding back around. Usually you only bit your lip as hard while touching yourself in your room, only when absolutely necessary of course. The Ministry's walls could be as tall as a chapel but thinner than paper. Naturally, it was no one's business to know. You almost laugh at that now.

Eventually your view ends up focusing a little further down the line, as Samarie's pale thigh stares back at you. Little red nail marks adorn the side. Was her dress up that high?

You close your mouth as soon as you notice your lips parting.

"...I'm sorry for that." Is what you came up with.

She seems confused for a second, but puts it together fast enough, "...I-it's okay. Um. I... don't mind..."

Of course she doesn't. She might've been dreaming about it for years by now.

Slowly, you sink back into the mattress. Sweat makes your hair stick to your neck while licking lips taste metal, wild curly locks spiraling out in all directions. A mere pet on her textured arm is enough to make her come to you once more, now that you've made yourself comfortable enough. Bodies meshed together, slowly gathering up whenever they've left off, there's all sorts of knots cluttering her poor, run-down nape. You meet a few bald spots, probably her own doing or natural loss, while crusading digits caress her polluted rivers, digging your face and breathing in "...You still want to help?" You murmur, trying to mold your voice into anything else than aggressive for once.

"Yes-!" She bobs her head rapidly against you "Yes, Marina, please." She corrects. Always so polite. You're almost thankful for how quickly she is to come around.

"...Alright. Go on then."

Friction doesn't hit you all at once as expected, but rather the opposite. She detangles from you, did you do something? It's only when she's high enough that you finally hear it.

The pillow.

You've kind of forgotten about it, and naturalized the phantom pressure as her own instead. From this angle, you could barely see a fraction of it before it flopped softly on the ground. She knows, right? Samarie's slender leg lifting in order to give way distracted you long enough, after all. Tremors come onto you unannounced, not even realizing you're brazing for... something...

But nothing of sorts happens.

Samarie crooks her head as she searches for your eyes, weirdly calm. It kind of reminds you of a bird looking into a burrow, waiting for something to come out and snatch it. The thought almost makes you giggle nervously in anticipation, but thankfully the prickling strands of raven hair down your cheeks distract you first. Her pointy knees adjust, stabbing the bed lightly, enhancing the awareness on the lack of pressure on that region. You miss the pillow.

One bony finger puts aside that thought, as well as some of your bangs. You see her a little clearer now, you're not sure if she's smiling... dark, slithery eyes covering most of your view, as if she's trying to study the history behind each pore on your skin. Your ears tingle with heat. She cranes around, swooning as eyes squint, delighted at her catch. "...You're so pretty..." Acrid, hot breath clouds above you.

You get the urge to kiss her at that. Maybe to get whatever this is on with it. Long hands get you first, traveling between your arms reverently so. Barely grasping as if you're made of marble, the type you're not supposed to be caught touching at museums. You try to hold in goosebumps at the featherlight touch, sparing your ego just a little longer. She checks each flinch on your reddening features, every second or so.

And so down they go, all the way over your lower back, not without feeling up your hips, thighs and stomach first. The last one making you titter between gasps, of all terrible things. But she continues her search, needle fingers prickling at the end of your spine, trying to locate something. Whenever they do, it clicks at the same time with you. The skirt-

"W-wait."

Samarie's hands go rigid.

"It..." You hold yourself from chewing off your already bloated lip "I don't want to take it off yet." You hate how wobbly it came out.

She hesitates, clearly disappointed "...S-sure. Of course, of course Marina, I’m. I’m s-so sorry..."

Strangely, her mumbled tone ended up being what finally brought you to your own senses.

You caught sleek eyes, a millisecond stand off is enough for you to take the leap forward and quickly grab onto her nape, greasy hair slipping around it. She flinches and whines some, but forces herself to stay put. You found your mouth nibbling onto something- salty with a powdery tint. Since you forced your eyes shut for this part, you might've struck part of her face before her lips... you do find them eventually, with her help. The corner, followed by a slit opening while trying to make your faces fit, turning slightly. Warm breath invades your senses, and it becomes even clearer how close this girl was from death's door. The vinegary tang forces some recoil but you keep on at it, past the candle wax texture of sooty lipstick... then warm, sticky tongue crawls into your mouth, vile and snotty, already drowning in drool and... so, very long. Rather belonging to a great beast instead of some scrawny, horny girl. A slippery mess conjures down both of your chins as you shift and gasp and take air and dive in once more. At least you try to breathe, she sounds very content choking right between your lips. You catch her face changing color through half lidded eyes. Every time you insist on her getting a sliver of air, she lurches forward, as if your mouthbreath was the only thing keeping her alive.

Her enthusiasm alone (because clearly, neither of you hold much experience) manages to drown out all nervousness that stirred in your gut, as you let in the ebb and flow of wet smacking lips, little moans and playful pecks. You even nuzzle her as best as you can, while she nibbles on one of your piercings, then the other, shining them up. She does wear powder, you note. Splotches of sickly yellow skin revealed between ash-white, where you slobbered by accident. Whenever she finishes her polishing, you steal a peck on her nose. And another, another a little higher, on the side (there's quite a bit of space to fill). Palms cradle cadaverous cheeks. Some noise escapes her, while taking a peek through lazy eyelids you see little tears welding up on heavy eyeliner. She's giggling, between hiccups.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!"

You pray she doesn't get any more boogers on you, while frenzied, clammy hands switch between petting your hair and caressing your face, then grabbing it- clawing until you make a little noise, then caressing came again, as if apologizing. You accept it, between feverish glances and her little breathy murmurs, on the little sliver of musk air between lips. At some point she begins fondling where your breasts should be, little by little, barely grazing. Maybe not wanting to get caught on what her mind would probably deem as shameless desecrating.

...She parts, maybe a millimeter, while ebony caves become your whole world, hands pressing on your chest. And utters a little clearer, just for you. "I-" She swallows, a thick bead of drool closely dropping on you, bony finger around your nipple "I... nnhh... I- need t-to..."

You push into her digits, delighting on her squirms "I-I need you, Marina... please, please, please,..." She lands another kiss, because she can't hold it anymore. You become a little more aware, of the tingling on your face every time she does so, as well as her enlarged pupils. She trembles, crazed. Perhaps all the sudden attention finally catching up to her frenzy, rotten saccharine delusions coating up her thoughts. “I really fucking need you, c-can- can I... nhhhh...nnn…”

Her molasses trance relents in her spur, "I... let me..." smeared lips tug maniacally at the sides, as she finally finds it "Defile you, m-my... my Goddess..."  

Gods... that... 

With time, you crane your neck inwards. Foreheads sweaty, bangs melting into each other, nudging into themselves. A soft, wet smack whenever you part again. And breathe in, trying to gather some dignity on your tone while searching for starved eyes, "...Then do it." you'll bite "Defile your Goddess."

And off goes her leash. It's immediate, how your head suddenly got strapped to the pillow once more. Between her lounging, it took you a few seconds before you'd even notice the pressure on the side of your head- grappling on your pigtail. Overwhelming doesn't cut it, trying to keep up with her now, the heatwave really starting to hit you lower and lower as she begins her relentless rut on your thigh. A cry tries to escape your gagged mouth as she gropes your chest, straddles your hip, then cups whatever she thinks she'd gathered, switching between caressing, pinching and clawing to her heart’s content, relishing on all the noises you're unable to curate. A squeak, one which she seems a little bit too proud of, lips curling over your own. Her cunt twitchy between her assaults against your hardening cock “Fuck… fuck Marina, you’re so pretty, so pretty…! please l-look at me? Marina, please…” you oblige, trying to keep your chin from trembling so much. “You’re the prettiest girl in the world, you’re mine, Marina, you’re all mine!” She digs in once more, and for some reason you become a little self-conscious, between the gesture alone and your own taste of all things, you don't sound girlish enough—

"Ow! aahn... fuhg..." You drunkenly shove her off, catching the little red splotch mixing with dribbled, smeared black plastering all over her flushed mug. At first she doesn't even try to wipe out her wretched grin.

"What the fuck- did you bit me!?"

She looks at you like a guilty dog. Ready to bark apologies, saliva sprinkling on your face "Shs s…sorry! I-I-I thought you might like it!" Maybe it was the metal buds puncturing your face that gave her the idea, but still. “Ff--fuck! fuck! I ruined it– I ruined it didn't I?! You- stupid- fucking- IDIOT! just fucking- blew your- fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It was too fast, between her awful shrieking fit while doubling down and hitting herself, you didn't even catch onto her hair pulling-  “...Hey! hey stop that!” You force your body to react, grabbing onto her wrists, some strands still attached to fists. She eyes you through uneven bangs, stunned, snot coating her lips now. Yours, blood.

Both of you pause. Chests heaving, her sickly damp mouthbreath hitting you from here. You lick your lips, tasting it. Putrid and salt. Thinking. “You…”

Words slur weirdly, the throbbing making you numb, almost forcing you to match her own uneven way of speech “...You can make it up.”

“H-how? I- I c-can’t… can’t… ruined...” Her hold trembles, tempting herself into another spiral.

There's some scatter, anything. The cut was deep enough to make the blood pool faster, for a moment you fear it might stain your currently least favorite shirt. Licking deems itself useless, stubborn beads of blood rebuild themselves up, frustratingly so… you pause.

...After a quick fix on posture, "Clean it up."  You demand, pearl bubble already forming a river down your chin. "Come here and... and clean it up." A clear, clean-cut order. The ones needed to turn her spiraling off.

She gawks at you, bewildered. Perhaps part of her started bracing for some sort of imaginary punishment, instead of your little prompt. You stand there, watching little pupils trying to figure out her next step... eventually she starts to cautiously move towards you, as if you're a living snare trap. Bitten-nail hands crinkle frazzled sheets below. Then, inches from your face, you make a hook on your finger and latch onto yellowing collar.

"Don't even think about biting again."

A shiver in response, refocusing on your bleeding fountain mouth. Perhaps you should muzzle her next time, if you were to keep her around. The image of her hands tied on top of her head vanishes ephemerally, interrupted by her lips parting quickly, their subtle movements similar to prayer casts before battle, followed by a timid lap of blackened tongue onto soft, swollen lip. Then another, and another. A leash. Each bolder than the previous as she picks up nectar. Hooked finger tugs slightly while your jaw slackens, gifting her new, better angles. Eyes closed as you feel dainty digits begin cupping your cheeks, grasping you as if you were a visage. Eventually she opts to suck on it, latching on like a leech, while her fingers make skin tingle. Sweaty palms cup you properly while she nurses the young wound, the motion making you weirdly relaxed as your head lulls upwards lazily. Breath in, and out. In nose, out mouth, a drowsy moan escapes. Only tempting her onto clawing further, deeper. To pull you away from known streets into roughened cold, bricked wall ravines. She claws, your own hands twitch, sensing every bit of you flushing with new blood, as you approach her wrists. Fingers curling all the way through effortlessly, enveloping her cuts. Little tendon beneath her left spasms as you begin to caress... Gro-goroth's, most likely. The top ring, barely biting skin, but the main one attached... flesh erupts haggardly and makes you pause. There's a sting on your chest, as you traverse the deformed circumference. Her lips tremble on yours, a second passes until she resumes her duty. You complete the ring, and after a few more rubs you begin to separate her wrists, patiently. They oblige, withering hands decage your features. Not without crying weakly as you part from her, and figure you must've cut up her fun a little bit too early, as she strains her neck and plants a dozen little sorry pecks all around swollen lips.

It wasn't too hard, getting her under you. A few nudges, wrists still on your hands, now pinned at her sides. Movements slow and deliberate, while allowing her to peck away at your face to her rotten heart's content. You detach from gutted arms as well, remaining seemingly docile as you do. You stand slightly on your knees while trembling hands struggle with skirt fasteners, eventually managing to shake it off your legs a little bit too excitedly- burning, and achy. Shirt slackens around your middle, flowing onto your sides as it untucks. She must be enjoying the show, you figure, by her breathing. You do everything but glance down as you crawl towards her form, stiff tent shifting between your legs forcing a wince as you feel cold air biting the already wet tip.

You couldn't afford rumors spreading, Gods forbid somehow reaching your father's ears, so you've kept to yourself mostly. A few from the snake basket that you had for classmates delighted you in wine drunk kisses during post exam parties, and not much more. You wouldn't let them mean anything the morning after, your top priority returning to your dorm, alone. Taking care of whatever needs to be done before falling asleep, muttering dirty things to yourself. Then hovering guilt glutted comfortably on your chest for the next three or four days, a suffocating uninvited yet well-known guest bursting down your throat. Of course he’d leave, momentarily passing by until you’ve got worked up enough to give into your deviant spurs. Soon enough your larynx prepared itself for the tip of his sleek leathered foot, and so on and so forth.

Twitching fingers grab your attention back to her. Wrists still at her sides, pretending to be strained by invisible force, yet clearly struggling to remain as such. You glance towards her flushed face, and it all becomes so much tempting to just... leave her like this. Chest heaving, biting lip. Carrot dangling right on her face.

"...Eyes up here, perv..." You spew, head shifting lazily along with hip, checking which one she actually follows. But of course she obeys. Bewitched pupils dart upwards, painfully so.

"S-sorry..."  

That's right, "You should be. Freak." Queer.

Her jaw tenses.

"What's wrong? that's what you are, right?"

"Y-yes... Marina..."

"Say it then."

"I..."

Maybe you should shoot some of what she put you through all these... these years...

"I- I'm sorry."

You don't understand how you missed her long arm reaching towards your groin. You see a pillar of branded flesh below you- Vinushka's half mocking you before it hits, and immediately mewl as she cups you. You fold in two, in a blink, arms barely holding you up as neck burns up. Her whole hand covers it, considering you're not too big, even as hard as you were. You don't know which is worse: your spine curving or the moan that comes from the back of your throat as she shifts her grip, trying it out. You feel her get a hold of your shaft as she squeezes lightly. It makes your knees buckle between her and erupt into a sob that makes you want to shoot yourself. You lose your balance, elbows become your new main line of support. Sore... too sore... Wet dribble hugs the silky fabric, kissing it transparent, even more as she squeezes. "S- sa-" Her grip slackens and you almost start to breathe again, eyes watery, but it hitches as soon as you feel two fingers rest steadily between the head.

"It's so cute, Marina…! you're ss-so cute..." She slithers wetly, finally catching on the word babble she's been spewing on your ear up until now. "I'm sorry, beautiful, I'm so sorry I- I can’t wait… I... I know it hurts a little now but... you must understand,"

A cry as she pins it.

"You've asked me to defile..." Needle fingers curl slowly around the base of pigtail, "and so shall I do."

Another tug, this time burying you into her neck. You feel the need to thrash around from her yank... but you don't. Instead, your body gives in, suddenly slack and docile "...I've been waiting s-so long for this..." She coats your head with hot breath while pulling the skin back- a twitch beneath sodden cloth "...F… for you… I knew… I a-always…khe heh…"

"...Y-you like this...?" three fingers now, up and down focusing just on the tip of your shaft, their hurried slick assaults make you squeak "I know how you like to tease yourself first..." you can hear the smile tugging on her words as she speeds up, just as you feel disgust towards her bubbling up you get too caught up on her knowing fingers, and how they slow down... then pick up... and slow down again... you can't help but try to uselessly keep your legs still at her uneven tempo, brain fuzzy with the smell of girl and your own pathetic muffled moans "...Is it helping?" She ceases, then gives some attention to your balls while tightening the grip on your hair, a groan escapes you. "...it is, isn't it...?" the tip almost slips out, but you hike your hips just in time.

Perhaps it was the motion that prompted her idea. Beads of pre sprout from every circle her thumb massages tortuously slow, grip steady and unrelenting on your cock, hips trying their best to keep up. You feel silky wet cloth transparenting through all over your shaft now, making your arousal even farther from secret. It pulsates beneath her hold, tendon under tenses up as she presses down, down... then lets go, (no no no no no no-) only to mock you while it pulsates once, twice- distressed. She slackens her grip on your hair, only to shift over to your jaw while shoving you off her neck delicately. She drags sticky fingers up towards her mouth, languid tongue slobbering slowly around, tasting you while locking eyes. Whenever she finishes shining them up, you can just watch her, slack-jawed. Beak nose snuggles lovingly in your ear, "You taste heavenly." planting a kiss, as she returns to duty downstairs, she shares the salty taste with you. Wrist swings rapidly, finally decided on working you up again, as you get assaulted by her tongue suddenly lapping your ear up, then your neck, back to your mouth, It's too much. It's too much, you can't... you feel your hips buck, tense forward on her hand- then audibly cry on her as she lets go. You hear her snicker in your ear and decide that's enough of her.

And so you snatch her wrist and pin it at the side of her head, the motion shocking her enough she doesn't notice the slack grip on your jaw- letting you pin that one as well. She seems rattled at first, flayed arms at your mercy, but excitement creeps around promptly on her manic face as you start positioning between her legs. Honestly you're not even sure on which way you should take off her dress first. You managed to bring both of her straps down, but while you struggled anxiously with her shirt buttons, a spasm from her pelvis brought your attention to her bottom half. Suddenly you're straddling her legs while spiking her dress up, her heaved breath on your ear as she gives you empty pleads, to put her in her place. She lifts her ass to let the black fabric give way. You quickly stand up on knees and dart your eyes at new cuts and sigils filling your frantic radar. Her inner thighs greet you with tiny vertical lines on each one, lace underwear sticking to her matted groin and you catch yourself actually grinning.

"Gods, you're a fucking mess.” Such degrading words roll off your tongue with ease. No need to bite them down between teeth, trapped within paper walls.The sound that escapes Samarie's lips is as close as an agreement that you're going to get.

You crook your head, and can't help but bite the inside of your cheek to keep you from laughing. Maybe you could push this a little further...

So you do.

You close the gap between the two of you, sticky tummy dripping onto concave stomach "I don't think I heard you." You taunt, a few humps while spreading her in halves.

"A-annnh... ah… ah! ah-m-mmhnn... I-I'm a me-eeess…!" She gasps between thrusts. She's pretty quick at picking these up.

"Mm-hmm. Such a cute mess too." She gives you a drunk giggle at that as you watch her slide back and forth, while spindly arms curl around your neck.

"Y-yours!" She barks between sloppy kisses.

The old springs on the bed fill up the room with a hearty rhythm, her own whines following the symphony with wild devotion. You get a little greedy at that, tasty friction doesn't even let you think about how this might look anymore. How you always thought you couldn't even do this right, let alone should. But... she really doesn't mind, does she? You feel her pronounced pelvis prickling your grip at her sides now, the new angle letting you hit a sweet spot. Pearly white gates open and close. The slur of her self degrading clashing vividly against hasty uh-huhs, making you sound as if you're taking note on a class a bit too fast for you. You follow eyeliner tears, the wet spot on your groin sticks to your underwear with every thrust. It fickles with the head of your cock just so, and you can't help but buck, sore spine curving painfully.

You're on her neck now, heaving and fuzzy all over. A minute, or two. Hips grinding weakly, stuttering.

Sooner or later, the clawing on your shirt alongside needy thrusts below bring you back to life. Part of you hopes you didn't collapse too hard on her, she can only take so much... some attempts to pathetically get off on you are enough to assure you she's okay. To her relief, you push yourself to your elbows, picking up your thrusting "...Such a dirty... whore…” muttered nonsense spews while nosing through ink hair, faint grass perfume blessing her scalp.

For some reason, there's a gradual lack of enthusiasm, followed by a total absence of movement from Samarie. Mannequin legs sag around you. Taken aback, you lift up your gaze, and even though she's still holding onto you, her eyes seem elsewhere- maybe she saw the mold, you wonder. If she had any eyebrows you figure they'd be furrowed. 

You swallow dryly, maybe you went too far. As soon as the thought crosses your mind her small pupils find you, and feel her relax under you. Wherever she was, she came back.

"M-marina..." She wiggles below you, trying to ignite your hips like a faulty lighter.

There we go... "Awn... you poor thing..." You click your tongue. You shouldn't give it up that easy. Especially so after her little act on you. "What should we do with you, hmm?"

"...Ple-eease… please, please, please, Marina--" She begs, through black tears. “Punish me, Marina…” Sultry confessions bloat her throat.

Punish…

Your mind seems a little clearer than before. So you bring up a finger up to Samarie's eyes and start to make a steady line down her chin, slowly along her sweaty neck, through flat valley chest, finally landing near the little island of skin between unmade buttons. No sign of bra lace in the middle. "You really want it, don't you?" Of course she nods, hands politely on her sides.

It's a bit of a guess, but you swiftly turn and flick your finger on her left nipple, immediately recoiling at the contact. You watch it get hard beneath the cloth along her moan, bold and loud, giving up any secrecy, while she still gathers herself through the sudden lighting shock. Not long after, you turn and do the same with the right one. Her torso mewls forward, relinquishing pained pleasure as whines escape her. Eyes closed shut, tiny chest up and impatient while veiny hands turn to fists. So cute.

But you don't really want to end it there. So you go back to her left, index and thumb surrounds it, and give it a tight squeeze. You discard discerning between her cries and moans as you twist it. Her cunt twitching below, while your palm finds itself resting for a bit on soft breast, longingly so (...it's not much, but certainly more than you'll ever get to feel up).

You decide she looks especially pretty while making fast, tight little circles on both hardened nubs while drowsy grinding below. Little chest heaving up and down, beginning of prodding ribs right under it, above, her reddening crimson face and mouth shamelessly slobbering down her chin, eyes shut on ecstasy. At some point you squeeze them both and keep them in place a second or two, then release, then another squeeze, longer- harder. And let go. Sobs clutter and stack themselves. Your own little "help".

Slow, relieving flicks come around, then abruptly cease just as you notice her getting pent up again. You relish on the pained whines that come after, and wait just long enough just to start flicking unevenly again…

Eventually you soften up on your torture, settling on a soft rub on her right nipple to keep it stimulated. Your other hand finds itself playing around the hem of her underwear. A forest of coated hair brushes your digits before making contact with a, thoroughly used, elastic. You don't really bother sparing a look on the actual state of whatever rag she's using. As you frisk with its looseness, you wonder just how many times her own hands traveled right where you prod. "I bet you're so fucking used to this," You breathe out and reach deeper, and once again meet absolute wetness. Samarie immediately hitches her hips at the contact and it only makes you stumble on how you don't really know where to go from there. So you opt to explore around, ring and middle at the deck, just like Sylvian would've wanted. Warm slit coats them as you spread her puffy lips, then press and release at her entrance experimentally- desperately trying to suck you in while she shudders frantic prayers at you. It's way slicker than you've imagined, softer too, like raw chicken. It almost feels like all life that was drained from her concentrated right at her groin. At some point you must've accidentally brushed into something that makes her convulse so hard it spooks you.

Hips found hers once again, fitting right into each other, bulge painfully pinned between, demanding attention. It slips a little.

You retrieve your sodden hand to grab it instead, guiding its head to pin between billowy lips, a kiss for good luck, then let humping ensue. Every time you push back and forth you notice a shift of her own underwear, pinching and rising from the friction, sweat sticking onto her skin as new inches of clotted hairs get revealed. At some point you see her freed hand curling around the elastic and violently yanking up- wedging herself while throwing her neck backwards, whining. "...You're so fucking weird." She nods, admitting so at least. You heave, straining down to her face.

"A dirty little freak,"

"Yes! yes- Ah!" There's... there's a knock onto something around, between her moans. "S-show mmhph-!"

You hastily push a palm onto her mouth, muzzling her. Nostrils breathing heavily while you shift a little closer, "I'll do whatever the fuck I want with y-you..." your voice wavers, gaze unfocuses, she's so cute. Fuck, she's so cute like this, all whiny under you, make her watch. Make her watch if she likes that so fucking much, watch as you fuck the repent out of her. She's perfect, just like this. Glass-teary eyes and the hit-hit-hit-hit of blackened bars knocking against the front wall. You feel her clenching around you, Little more- little more, please... words get choked out, legs tense up. You hear her sobbing something onto your hand as her own unsheathes your cock, the elastic bite forcing a cry as you buck over her once, twice.

...

Skeletal hands play with curls softly, a little tug here and there welcome you back to reality.

Unconsciously, you try to smack your mouth but an uncomfortable blister makes its presence, dry and hard against your already chapped lips. Acidic prickliness coats your entire mouth, raspy tongue sticking to the very roof of it. It burns whenever you swallow. You attempt to blink next, and it's its own ordeal.

Each clump of hair remains stapled either to your forehead or scalp, the ones residing on the latter manage to make cold-sweat caves where frozen air whistles through. You make a sound (groan, far too deep) and warily sprawl out the too-much warmness soup while you realize you're the one embracing her. You discreetly untuck your numb arms from beneath, little ants marching towards wrists and digits.

While you rise wobbly, the lingering smell of half-baked sex permeates the room, its thick veil surrounding the bed, and if you missed a shower before, the mere thought of it might make you cry now. Part of you misses the body heat as you finish untangling yourself while ignoring little babble whines and tugs that beg you to stay, alongside sluggishly tucking yourself with your free hand.

"...Nn... ina..." She mumbles, half asleep.

You feel a need to stretch out while you finish rising into a hunched sit on the dirty mattress. The sudden creak of springs accompany you while looking around for a bit trying to adjust your eyes. Cold looming darkness ensures you it must be night already. However, you know very well how heavy weather in this town tends to turn dusk into nightfall so effortlessly. Speaking of, it seemed like it stopped for now, slightly. It could’ve been an hour or the Third Day already, you couldn’t care less by now. You slouch a little as you continue to look around the room, the dresser not moving an inch bringing you some tranquility.

Above, you can't tell apart mold from ceiling no more, and get some tightness around your neck at that. So you hook your finger and forcefully untangle your already loosened up ribbon, discarding it somewhere. Next comes undoing your high collar, the need for your Adam's apple to remain concealed seems rather useless at the moment. You breathe out as the moles on your sweaty neck meet freezing air.

Unthinking, you bring up your hands to wipe your eyes, only to get assaulted by a sharp, acidic aroma that doesn't stride far from rotting tuna. Your face contorts grotesquely and as you search around the room for the vile source, but nothing seems out of place. Then of course, as you warily repeat the motion you get hit again-

You stare at your palms.

One seemingly clean, the other, smothered on not-so-mistery black stains. As soon as you bring them up your nose for inspection you put them down just as fast, stench erupting violently from the less guilty-looking one. Something about it brings you back to many unwanted trips up to the less ugly shore of the Sacrificial Lake.

You put two and two together, then wonder if Samarie could miss a shower as well, if she ever had one at all.

Fingers graze on your slacky pigtail's hair tie and tug on it until wild hair flops down your shoulder. The same process goes for the remaining one, a lazy combing ensues under your nape all the way down your dead ends. You press the sides and uselessly try to pin it down, then feel wild curls puff back up as soon as you let go. You give up with a sigh and rest your palms behind you, it becomes awfully clear just how badly you ruined the only pair of underwear you had for the next few days.

You know she's awake by the way her breathing picked up. Assuming she's been watching the whole time through half lidded eyes. What makes you fairly alarmed however, it's how she hasn't made an effort to move an inch, at all. Not a shift nor haste fix on the sheets took place. Her unnatural pose reminds you of dolls scattering through your childhood room's floor. Long, gangly limbs contorting uncomfortably, carelessly discarded in the blink of an eye, your mother’s faint calling from below the stairs interrupting nonsense narratives, suddenly supper sounding way more appealing. A limp, veiny foot dangles outside the bed. Perhaps she believes that if she were to remain as still as possible, you'll crawl back into her, play a little longer.

To her disappointment, you only glare back at the bleak scene. A little lower, then lower…, at crumpled fabric exposing naked splotches of bruised-kissed skin, far and near. Some golden and aged, others freshly picked, plump berry red and violet. Her bare chest rising then heaving, hair an utter mess alongside black tear marks and smeared lipstick, head lulling to the side unnaturally, tired and numb, a bite you don’t remember marking her broken toy neck. Her dress, once a stale rectangle, now resembling an old, battered accordion, arching and wrinkling, barely keeping her haggard frame in one piece. The bones on her hips twist in a perpetual diagonal, sticking out so much it stretches the underwear elastic above her sunken stomach, the one barely covering her matted locks, hitched sharply on its side, still glistening and mushy and liquid on her core, readying herself to be properly endowed, even drifting unconsciousness. Crisp, raw nailmarks peek on her sides, eventually making you lock in onto your heinous doing. There. Boldly splattering somewhere between the higher abdomen and hastily hiked-up dress, translucent white on black. Uneven rows of young, crimson scratches engulf her sharpened hips, down her spent anemic legs. The overall sight starting to make you feel nauseous.

...

…It just won't do, leaving her like this. After all, you’ve always turned and cradled each porcelain body off the floor, tucking them in before supper, no matter how battered you’ve left them. You'd never let your mother know about needle cracks, twisting broken limbs and pulled hair. She'd seen enough cruelty from your father, the least you could do for her was delay the signs of poison dripping through a little longer.

So it’s almost mechanical, how you reached over and started mindlessly raising her dress straps back in place, followed by careful fingers reaching for the pair of undone buttons, concealing her bare chest under wrinkly fabric. You do your best to ignore her flinching, instead focusing on how her collar needed a fix, too. As you finish centering it, you stretch the cloth with a tug or two along puffy sleeves with your hands, only for neglected cracks to show up back again as soon as you let go. You make sure not to trip while you take a hold of each side of her crumpled dress and start to gently tug it back down, centering her soggy underwear on the way. After a few nudges and some of her help, you finish straightening it up, your palms resting for a second on her sides as you do so. You even reach down to her knees and hook uneven socks back up. You were right, it was Alll-mer’s, on her right calf. Samarie remains absurdly silent through all, letting you have whatever this means to you, perhaps too tired to protest, or relishing any type of contact spared. Pretending to be some sort of ill-fitted mannequin doesn't go too far as she does. You don't dare to even look at her face during any of this.

As you step back, you notice something's missing.

Your eyes dart around messy sheets and porcelain limbs, then you catch its tail. Thin, black thread hangs loosely between thumb and index. It's when you scoot closer and start sliding the ribbon around her neck that you catch yourself reminiscing so many of her quiet vows. She watches you, mute, through half lidded eyes while you adjust with knowing precision, a motion you've repeated hundreds of mornings. This is probably the most proper bow she’ll ever wear, you say to yourself. So you pick at it some more, making it as symmetrical as possible. Once you're finished, you scan it over. Then catch her lips above parting, faint glimmery tears streaming under cadaverous cheeks.

Thick curtains of curls create a veil surrounding you, as you crane your neck and plant a promise kiss on them.

…Well, all done now.

"Where's the bag.” You breathe out.

She swallows, a little baffled while you rise "Nn... um..." You notice how her hands have been gripping the sheets at her sides "S-should… should be on the floor..."

So you get on your knees and reach over the edge of the bed. You pretend you don't hear her asking if she did good. After some squinting through near pitch black wooden boards, you reach for the only other thing laying on it. If you're mad at her. Ragged leather finds your grip and you bring the bag upwards with you. You say goodbye to the once-barrier pillow in your head, and hope it was the dark playing tricks on you instead of the obvious wet stain adorning it. You don't hate her right? She was good, right?

You dull out unheard pleads while rummaging the bag's insides. It shifts around on your lap and an impatient sigh escapes your nostrils, hands graze many textures, none that you're looking for. While searching, you fail to pinpoint the sudden tug of guilt on the back of your mind, realizing just how much stuff you made her carry around...

Eventually, fingers curl around metal and your arm retracts. The little canteen that you fetched from the bop's storage shines slightly as you twist it on your wrist. Back then, you pouted at the doctor as you watched him dump the original contents and switched them for water before giving it back, but you can't say you're entirely mad at the gesture now… the metal cap gives in with a swift twist. And just as your cracked lips purse and the tin tilts towards your face, the hawk stare you've been ignoring up until now becomes especially unbearable. You give in and finally shoot back.

Lying there, just as you left her. Arms on her sides, glassy gaze never leaving you. She might as well stop breathing while you weren't watching.

You notice how her eyes get a little bigger for a second as soon as you turn your head, yet remains dead still.

Eyes flick back to the warm tin in your hand and it takes so, so much from you not to groan. You give in again, mother didn't raise no brute. You watch your arm extend forwards, while the other supports your body reaching in her direction.

...Maybe you should've expected the lack of reaction...

"C'mon, have some." You prompt. "It's just water."

Samarie blinks at you a couple at times, rattled.

"...N-no. It's- it's alright, Marina. You have it."

I'm not asking you.

You watch her make herself smaller. Must've been the glare naturally morphing into your face. She's so skitterish...

You muse for a second as your extended arm starts to drop a little. It’s quite unbecoming of you, the insistence. Of any kind, truly. Perhaps her desperate nature already laid eggs deep inside your ears, fresh wiggly larvae prickling all over your straining wrist, prompting you to shake the little can at her face, hoping the soft watery splashes echoing within end up being tantalizing enough.

...Please?

It takes a bit, but you deem yourself successful nonetheless. She slowly gathers her limbs and scoots herself into... some sort of sitting. Either her hip or spine pops quietly as she does so. Probably her knees. She reaches both her hands forwards in a weird, but characteristic, reverent manner and note how her now warm palms slide a little too slowly as she makes contact with your skin.

"Thank you, Marina..." She utters. Then spouts something about your "infinite kindness" that makes the knot on your stomach kick you again. After her little made-up communion ceremony, you watch her take a swing and unconsciously stare how her throat muscles move while swallowing. They twitch once, twice. Whenever she's done she hands the tin over and can't help herself from smiling at something while wiping her mouth. If you focus enough you can even tell apart a bit of her actual lips, greyish and glimmering faintly, an unhealed scar nesting on the bottom left.

The canteen's black hole entrance stares at you as you raise it to your own. Warm liquid coats down your sore throat while you gulp away. It's not the cleanest water, and some of the previous contents mixed in give you stabby burns, but you don't complain.

When you throw your head back down Samarie shifts her legs a little, while staring at your chest.

"...I-I like how your hair looks down..." The way her voice goes hoarse middle sentence makes you wince. She looks at you like she's been waiting to comment on it since waking up.

"...We need to find a light..."

"There's candles- on the bag." She points out while shifting and hugging her legs. Her chin twists as she presses thin lips against knees.

Your hands reach over again, as you prod at it something catches your finger's attention that gives you pause. It's a leathery feeling you know very well. But it couldn't be... your skin bible got lost. Early in the morning in fact, dropped on wet grass as the bag strap got caught on a treebranch, while you escaped from that perverted maniac. You try to graze at it again but so many unwanted objects get in your way- so you split the bag open and shove your wrist deeper, finally managing to fish out the impossibility.

…Whatever you retreated, it is not your skin bible at all. Feels like one, doesn't even look near one. Its small size resembles something more akin to a booklet. It's way thicker than a normal one, too. Your grip strains just by holding it by the middle as an infinite amount of yellowing, wavy pages stare you back uncaringly. Instead of the classic pig's skin maroon leather, the cover wears a similar texture, only several shades darker. It feels terribly old to the touch, a coat of thickened grime and slime mix deeply between unfurling creeks and folds, sticking slightly on your fingers, the odor emanating within tempting you to step closer.

You curiously twist the little pocketbook on your wrist, studying the leathery skin patterns up close, then check the spine, "Where’d you find this?"

"...I-it's m-mine, actually."

"I've never seen one like this before..."

Strangely, a laugh escapes her "Of course not... you're far too lucky for that..."

Coming from anyone else, you would've taken that as a backhanded jab at you. You don't from Samarie, though. She's blunt with her words (if not inadvertently rude), as you've taken note whenever you'd catch the few others that tried to chat with her, then gave up not long after. Poor Olivia was met with nothing but dead ends about her weather remarks, sadly wheeling away. The mechanic didn’t seem too thrilled about her either, eyeing her across the window as if she were a rabid animal. 

Bouncy springs suddenly cry out, "I-I'll light these up..." her voice strains, both her arms busy cradling a bunch of candles, one or two falling over while getting off the mattress. You dismiss her, all-too eager to continue inspecting the book further. She darts around the room on your peripheral, sudden baby orange blisters come to life every now and then, surrounding the bed.

"Marina?"

"Hmmm?" You don't bother to tear your eyes from the book's spine, a copper wire's tail twists tightly right in the middle of it. Probably functioning as some sort of bandaid method to keep it from spiraling out, but wouldn't that hurt the...

"...I… I was just wondering... I-I feel bad for... nibbing... at you earlier." Ah, she means almost ripping your lip off.

"...S-so I want to make it better. If you'd like to."

"You mean more 'help'." That's when you finally glare up at her.

Raw palms and knees on timber planks. Thumb flicking against one of her remaining sharpened nails, then flame ignites in between with one swift motion, kissing the stubby candle’s snout. The blatant wet stain adorning her dress right then and there between her legs, practically forcing it up your face, the motion not too dissimilar from the type of allure some sort of animal in heat would pull- far from a person. Bold doesn't even begin to describe it. Dignity flies out the window as you catch the curving of spine, along her feeble attempt of thigh-rubbing, although they refuse to touch. The strain of her neck dragging your deadstare, landing on her obscured features, dead fish-eye over her shoulder. The overall sight echoes fleeting images from dirty vaticana's pin-ups, the ones your classmates made fun of you from that one time you ogled a little bit too long, pink biting your cheeks, on your way to the theatre. As if it's your fault you were raised in prude-town. Sitting on velvet cushion, girl's whispery gossip around you ceased as the progressive dim of warm light reflectors settled the scene for... honestly, you don't recall at all. Fisher-nets and flowery garters burned in your eyes all-throught the play. Part of you could only reprimand, scandalized sermons running through your head over and over- the other, well...

"Yes-! Ah- well...! no, no- um. Not… the..." She rubs her fingers, ash flickering down. "Not exactly." She composes a bit. It's not like you couldn't tell what she was referring to. You've seen the girth of these candles, specially made for enduring long, usually questionable rituals. "I-I also saw the gash on your leg earlier." ...You kind of forgot about that one all-together. It just happened to end up blending within the general dull pain enveloping your whole body. She ends up giving up on making more arguments to her case while waiting judge's call. Her static features altering only by candlelight.

"...Yeah well... we'll see about that." It takes you an unreasonable amount of strength not to add a "tiger" to the last part of your sentence. Alll-mer knows you've indulged her enough. "I'd like to take a look at this first..."

Just as you start to question if this girl's libido ever runs out, you plop on the bedside nearest to the wall, scuttling into a position you know very well as an avid nightreader. You're a few pillows too-short to make your back comfortable though, so instead you lay down and bring both your knees up enough to serve as some sort of support. You might as well snuggle under the sheets as you do. For a moment, you pretend you're back in your stupid little dormroom, after taking a warm bath and putting on your favourite scented candle by your oakwood nightstand. Once you're satisfied finishing a three or four chapters (maybe six), you'd turn on your side. Dozing off quietly on clean, lilac sheets, while acting like you don't hear low breathing on the other side of your door.

But then again you're in this pitiful hut, Samarie quickly snuggling up to you as she finally finishes up her candles. Warm, dim-orange penetrates through cold greenish walls, allowing you to unstrain your eyes past utter darkness for a change. It may not be velvet, nor lilac sheets- in no way clean, but it certainly helps shape up a monochrome of a cozy ambience. Frail limbs cling on you soon enough, leeching bodyheat. If you glance down, her charcoal roots crowned by silver splinters meet you. You crack the book open.

Confusion splatters all over your face as soon as you do. Immediately your gaze is snatched by some sort of... is that a picture? a picture? a picture. On a skin bible. Pictures don't belong anywhere near skin bibles. Sigils stay out of the matter, being that they're entirely rudimental.

"Did they make these for kids too or...?" it's the first thought that crosses your mind (that would also explain the size) as your eyes land on some sort of... wretched being. Perhaps an interpretation of Gro-Goroth.

She skips over your admittedly crude comment "...Ahn… the… these were made from times where most people remained illiterate, e-even some disciples that the bibles were passed on to." You can feel her voice vibrating through her body against yours "The drawings were made in order to... facilitate..." She gathers... "Apart from that, they're considered unedited texts from dark ages, even Fiend Pyter's Basilica considers them unorthodox and archaic, their distribution remains prohibited around official Vatican facilities... unlike... umnh..." 

Samarie ceases her explaining, probably because she finally notices the muscles on your forehead tensing as you put the pieces together. You continue to traverse your next sentence very, very slowly.

"...You mean to tell me that I’ve been reading the cut version this whole fucking time?" What the hell do you pay those hacks at the ministry so much for?

She tenses a bit on your shoulder and see the white part of her side eye whenever you turn at her- then at the book. It slowly dawns on you that it was you who got the kid's version instead.

"...Well lets see what these freaks really get on to then," you mutter as your eyes dart around the yellowing pages.

...How do you read this...

You were so appalled by the picture you didn't even notice you don't understand this language at all.

You fucking hate to admit it, too. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you shift your jaw and make holes on what you guess it's the beginning of a paragraph.

Samarie seemed to have been waiting for you to notice as well, but might've slyly omitted it by  judging your reactions. Another of her explanations eventually rumbles in your right ear as you question your whole academic career up until now. Something about some sort of lost dialect. Or codes. Maybe both. It goes in one ear out the other as your rage slowly decontorts into an empty stare.

You've studied multiple tongues. You even knew a handful of languages, excelled in two. The utter failure to pinpoint whatever gibberish stared back at you feels rather personal.

You resign and push through your little ego death. It's not like you're not interested in gnawing at it just because you can't understand it yet. Because oh, you will. Hell, you've got your own potential translator right beside you. You guess you'll have to keep her around a little longer, at least until you get a proper hand on top of this mystery dialect.

Minutes pass as you turn random pages, while you try on and walk around the shoes of those so-called illiterate disciples.

Neither a picture nor unintelligible text end up being what catches your eye now. Before you stands a bold, erratic splotch of... something... splattering near the bottom left of a paragraph. It's as big as your thumb and screams accident all around.

"...Someone must've dropped their inkwell..."

Samarie makes a little sound as if she's been woken up. She must've dozed off while you turned pages. You feel her trying to bury herself a little deeper on the nest she’s made out of your hair. From here you can see her wrists contorted on themselves, supporting part of her tilted jaw.

"Hnnff... mm...."

You continue proding at this section and adjust the grip of your thumb a little tighter to increase precision. Soon enough, you stumble across another weird pattern on a corner. This time it looks like erratic, black scribbles, as if someone insisted on testing a dull pencil. The dragging crumpled the old page, showing how hard it was pressed on. As a book lover you shrink a little at it. An accident you can forgive, this seemed intentional.

You carry on flickering through. No longer pretending you can even begin to understand the contents.

Then, you accidentally pass something. You scatter a bit while retreating, the small size and fine pages making it a specially grating process- there it is.

What greets you next can only be described as... drawings of some sort you guess... they scatter chaotically around the spread, showing no concern for the substance text. Some similar scribbles from before adorn them sporadically. They're awfully crude, and you can't really tell what they even are. If they are trying to resemble anything at all. You found yourself furrowing your brow as you stared.

Memories from town festivals spill over. Masked parades that scared the living shit out of you, the cheer of crowds at dancers frolicking around in traditional wards, children squealing and alluring smells from colorful food vendors adorning cobbled streets. Frilly banderines tied up on lamp posts, darting left and right between opened-window apartments from the once-in-a-year clear blue sky day. Early spring endowing flower scent bouquets. Sausage and hot caramel clashing into each other in the air. Your little feet trotting while trying to convince your mother to buy you another buchty, swaying playfully as you hold her hand. Your eyes squint whenever you glance up at her, and despite the bright sun against her silhouette made her features unreadable, you can tell she's smiling down at your powdery cheeks. One second you're performing at the Youthful Voices of Prehevil's Church choir, white robes enveloping your tiny form as you search for your mother's eyes around the gleaming street audience, but abruptly flinch upon stumbling on your father's instead. Then another, at the little arts & crafts contest you threw a tantrum upon seeing Karolina Vesely pluck first place right under your nose. Your mother rubbing circles on your back, letting you ruin her dress in snot as she carefully removes your nonsense scribbles out of your tight little grip, before you get the chance to destroy it in anger- that's...

...They're child drawings.

…You press on, despite the realization, and keep turning pages. Some were made with chalk, smearing all over and even dropping greyish dust on your shirt. Others were drawn around the original illustrations, styles clashing crudely. Whatever material that was used never seemed to entirely stick to the aged paper. They formed ashy auras around every shape, their own little halos.

Spirals.

Circles.

A tiny charcoal finger print, then two.

Something with legs.

Branches.

Grime, grime.

Crosses.

Black robes.

Spirals, spirals…

A face.

Stacked triangles.

Nothing.

…Nothing.

 

You turn, and turn, and turn, through many pages. But no matter. Only mocking nonsense text and religious imagery, unfamiliar and distant from your own. The bite on the inside of your cheek deepens. For some reason you get increasingly alarmed while flickering, heart tugging as if you just lost someone very dear again, tiny eyes flickering through cheery crowd.

Left, right, up and down, all corners. Eyes follow methodical pattern through every page turn, and turn, and turn.

But you catch it. There,

it's a bunch of loops, forming a loose string- they sit at the top of the spread, the blank space between scripture and edge. They vary in size and quality, your mind seems too scattered to notice it at first.

Writing. One you're unfortunately able to read.

A wobbly cursive, as if it were made with a non-dominant hand. it's big and the pressure alternates randomly, signaling the whole hand was used to drag the utensil (you're guessing charcoal, judging by the texture) around.

A sea of dozens attempts at s's and r's, bundled up in uneven rows steadily guide your eyes up to Samarie's name.

...

"S-Sorry! ...sorry…

You... 

weren't supposed to see that..."

"I-I forgot they were there at all. 

I don't…

I don't really use it that much so I didn..."

"...ome of them are not even mine. 

I think it was some other kid's, they… 

t-they just… gave it to me.

After..."

You keep staring at the now closed book, docile on your lap. Slimey outlined crevices sticking to your skirt, while she waltzes through her unneeded explanations, her slumber interrupted by sobbing and snot running down your nose. It's not like you didn't know. There's no excuse for you to feel guilt now, of all times. Dragging this girl through filth back and forth like it was just any other day, telling yourself she deserved it anyways... you'd have to be the last person she welcomes into her arms, allowing you to rock her. Her stomach growling the only thing louder than your hiccups.

You part, hand quickly over runny nose. "You're hungry?" Snot clots your throat, you swallow it down, it's no excuse. "There's something. I-I think. Here," 

Rummaging through the old bag grants you some time to gather yourself (you should apologize), grip finds a papery texture before you do.

You unravel the paper cloth to reveal... "Ah... The Prehivilian's Delicacy..." you grimace at the well-known stench. "...I've never been too big on sausage... but… it'll do..." 

You instinctively swipe up your knife, then get flashed by a colorful mirage of all the skin-crawling crevices the blade became so acquainted with within these past few hours. After lowering it, you mutter a sorry of your own while you begin to stab the little stuffed appendage with your nails in the middle "My hands aren't the cleanest..." Now that could be a jab or a simple statement of fact. It comes apart on two uneven halves. You eye the bigger one,

"No. No, no Marina..." There she goes... "This one you- you must... I-I can handle it. Honest. I'm used to not eating. F-for days!" She brandishes a nervous grin.

You're less permissive with this one. Definitely so after that last statement.

Unspeaking, you raise the bigger end of sausage up to her mouth.

"Open."

She winces a bit, perhaps at the smell. But so she does, quivering, barely so. You shove the meaty tip between coal lips until it disappears. You even let her close them around your middle finger for a bit, before retracting it. You find it curious, how her sharp jaw moves around awkwardly and distressed, as if unsure on what it's supposed to do with the foreign body clotting it.

"Good girl."

A flicker under sheets, her thighs suddenly meeting each other like magnets while full cheeks turn red.

"...That good huh?" You don't mean to mock her this bad, but she sure makes it hard not to. You prop the remaining half up to your lips "It's okay. I think I like it too." It's a microscopic step, but perhaps this could mend the path towards... any type of diet at least, frankly.

 

"Ahn... Marina... I… could... could I fix your leg now...?"

 

Right... "Uh... sure."

 

“It– it’d be better if you lay down…”

 

And so you do. You feel her putting away a curtain of hair then shiver once her lips press onto your ear. After a bit of methodical adjusting, they begin to move. Sweet little nothings slowly coat your mind in a warm embrace, tingling spreading like honey through your face nerves, down your neck and chest. Jaw unscrews itself, slackening dumbly alongside your entire frame as it starts sinking onto hers. Muscles decontract, morphing into jelly, and you can't tell if it's your own body heat or the flames on the candles increasing what started to make you sweat first. Heat pools your face like a wet, warm gag, making it hard to breathe. You suddenly become all too aware of physical sensations, dirty sheets turn into fine silk as you grasp them and all is right in the world. Her nails caress hypnotical weaving patterns with just enough pressure on your hair and back as she continues to work, the motion heavenly against your newfounded hypersensitivity. Her neck feels divine, you'd thank her clavicle as it stabs you, if you could talk at all. You inhale profoundly as you desperately try to take in her scent. All of a sudden, you get the urge to protect Samarie at all costs. Frolic on fresh, grassy fields hand in hand laughing. Warm sun biting your skin. Her naked form turning back at you as you stare off her eared mask. Have a family...

...But the mermaid song ceases, and you get knocked over the wretched hut once again. You try to detach from her neck but it takes you a bit, as if blood hasn't reached your brain yet. You eventually get there though, ignoring the saliva pool soaking her shirt as you do so. You feel lighter, well rested. You lick soft, unswollen lips. No scab in sight, nor rash on your leg, and become acquainted with the (new) wet spot on your underwear. You've read of sylvianate hallucinations before, (crudely known as rabbit fever) as a common symptom for rather strong castings of Loving Whispers, but no article could've prepared you for the level of conviction you felt at such foreign thoughts. You note it feels kind of like trying to remember a particularly vivid dream: images you saw so clearly a minute ago turn into spindly nonsensical visages. They run from you effortlessly while you try to pin them down, disappearing between never-ending meadows.

"All better?" She coos.

You do your best to wipe out whatever dazed mug plastered on your face as you glance up, blue veins branching out delicately beneath starved, translucent skin surrounding her black hole eyes.

"Hmm."

You suck onto what's left of her lipstick while she finishes up lapping up your mix of blood and chap-stick. The sticky give and take become lazy and dragged, uncoordinated lulls seeking blindly her venom saliva. Accidentally, you push a little too roughly, a cry sprouts after bending her nose. You end up on your side, still attached and covering her on bloody marks while muscles strain. She coos forth and lands her chin on your shoulder while shifting a bit. The motion reminds you of mourning doves you'd catch with your eye, nuzzling against their partner while they rested on dead branches as skinny as the arms surrounding you from behind. Their little feathery silhouettes dark against the cold grey morning while you marched from class to class. It's a sweet enough memory for you to throw your head back and return the gesture as good as you can. You kind of wish you could see her weird smile that was probably tugging at her from here, but you're just as good with more nuzzles.

Spiked water and stale sausage swirl on your palate, rotten fish deep on your fingernails. Both greasy hair above and on your side, making a tangled halo mess of stale dead-end ebony and frizzy light brown. A bloated unmistakable sweetness coats the little air bubble left below murky sheets, protecting you from deranged murderers, cold-blooded priests and man-eating monstrosities. You can't help but reach up to corpse breath and seal one more kiss, a final nail into make-belief tomb.