There was something strange about the sky.

The realisation was sudden, and in its suddenness came with a sense of dread, like the dawning realisation that one had forgotten to take care of something very important and there would be consequences. You don't just notice that something is wrong with the sky. It hadn't suddenly changed.

If there was something wrong about it, Sébastien Lavigne had somehow been oblivious to it just moments before.

The feeling wrestled with a sense of familiarity that weighed equally strong, stirring confusion into his thoughts. The abrupt, fresh assessment felt like the mark of insanity. He'd heard of people who got up in the morning and would look at the mirror and from one day to the next stop recognising themselves. Maybe that was what was happening? Maybe something had broken in his head? For a moment, he dithered, unsure how to handle the sick feeling of dread that came both from the wrong sky and the uncertainty of his own sanity - then he sat down at his desk, pressing his lips to a thin line, cautiously (almost looking back to the door to make sure no one would catch him in the act) digging through a hierarchy of folders to find some photos.

Three photos into his investigation, he was sure he understood what was wrong with the sky. It should be blue; the ominous purple was too saturated to be a trick of the light.

…and yet, there was still a chance it could just be a visual glitch. If he just ran downstairs and asked what was going on, and it turned out that everyone else was seeing a blue sky, that would be an embarrassment he wasn't going to live down any time soon. Not soon enough, at least - not when he still had two and a half years of school ahead of him that effectively shackled him to this household. Sure, if his eyes were not seeing the right colours unless they glowed out at him from his desktop monitor, then that was worth noting, but it was only worth noting as such.

He opened a desk drawer to fumble out his camera, absorbed in the act for a moment, then glanced back toward the window, wondering if the sky was even still worth investigating or if he was hunting after a completely temporary hallucination-

A second glance reveals that the sky is, indeed, still the same color it was just a moment ago. Something else catches his attention, though - the tree just outside his window. Its presence isn't surprising - it's been there ever since his parents moved here years ago - but something about the way the light's hitting it looks wrong. It's as if someone's turned up the contrast on a monitor, the light spots surreally bright, the shadows feeling viscerally real, dancing across his windowsill in the breeze-

Except there isn't any breeze outside. The branches are completely still, maybe the leaves fluttering a tiny bit, but the shadows are definitely swaying, twisting around in bizarre configurations. After a few more seconds, the odd behavior suddenly twists into something deeply wrong as the shadows begin to creep around the edges of the window, crawling along the walls and ceiling and floor, looking far more like tentacles from some deep-sea creature or something out of Lovecraft than anything caused by a tree could be.

Bastien stands frozen at his desk, camera in his hands, not yet fully tugged out of its protective casing. His eyes are wide, cast toward the phenomenon he's witnessing, trying to wrap his mind around what he's seeing. He has no idea. Perhaps if he were caught less off guard by the situation, he might try to take a picture of that distorted reality, run away, and then see what the camera had to say about it once he felt he'd reached a comfortable distance, but his brain does not engage. Instead, with a deeply unintelligent 'uh' sound wrenched from his body, he drops the camera back into the desk drawer, gives it a smack that doesn't fully close it because why would that possibly be relevant right now and plots escape.

Correction, his instincts plot escape. His mind is still preoccupied with a series of uselessly stock questions that would normally be interesting to ponder, when they weren't about something that was tapping into primal instincts that were sure this was a cephalopod reaching out from an unveiled cavern to ensnare him as prey. Unfortunately, his door is closed - in a split-second decision, he turns around to face it, with the full intention to channel the rest of that subsecond motion into opening the door and disappearing downstairs. At least long enough to calm down and take a scientific approach to why is my window frame bleeding shadows?!

He gets as far as opening the door before something wraps around his right ankle, holding it fast to the floor. He topples forwards, his arms instinctively rising to take the brunt of the fall instead of his face. A matching grip seizes his other ankle before he has much of a chance to try and scramble free, then a third tendril grips his throat, effortlessly squeezing the airway closed. Something is looming over him, he can hear it breathing just behind his back.

A pair of limbs set down on his wrists, ending in something like a human hand, though he can feel something sharp threatening against his skin. Gradually, almost lazily, they draw his wrists apart. Another set of fingers traces along the back of his skull, running through his hair before settling into a steady grip; a fourth hand comes around and covers his mouth just as the tendril around his neck loosens enough for him to breathe again.

As Bastien's legs are pulled out from under him, it's as if his heart doesn't quite want to follow the motion, as if momentum had rammed the organ into his skull to drown out all sound in favour of rushing blood. Adrenaline draws the world into sharp contrast, but away from his conscious decisions.

As his arms break the fall, he's about to cry out, half in alarm and half in generic protest, hoping to twist around and swing his arms at his assailant, when something significantly more recognisable as a tendril lashes against his bare throat, crushing against his windpipe - miraculously not leaving lasting damage, either accidentally or purposefully avoiding his larynx - and cutting off his breath absolutely. The peripheral pressure makes his vision swim as the bloodflow to his brain finds itself throttled.

The combination takes the fight out of him almost instantly, starving his body from enough oxygen that it briefly ponders becoming catatonic - his arms slide forward and up in an attempt to cautiously wrestle with the tendril at his throat, but they don't get that far. Talons set down against his weak wrists and tug them outward at a steady pace. A frightened but distant thought occurs to Bastien: 'I'm dead. I'm dead, I just don't know it yet.' An instinct conveys the notion to him, as it would to any animal caught by the throat by a predator. 'It's over.'

A kaleidoscope of shadows rakes at the periphery of his dulled vision, pulsing in time with his labouring heart. Whatever has him has at least one hand too many - claws creep up along the top of his spine and slip in between the strands of his hair. The realisation ripples through him as an aborted motion, an instinct drowned out by a different instinct - flee!, countered by the realisation that there was absolutely nothing he could do, everything was moot now.

Just as a fourth hand makes an appearance to press an inhuman palm against his lips to smother them, the tendril against his throat finally relents. His spine jerks in an attempt to straighten itself out in the same instant as he takes a deep, desperate breath through his nose, his eyes wide. Scattered fireflies swirl through his vision, alarming artifacts. Not dead. He's not dead yet. His eyes wide, he tries to see something of the creature that has him, make sense of the situation, but the only thing that immediately comes to mind as his thoughts - panicked, but at least non-catatonic - stir back into motion is: Alien.

His left leg twitches at the thigh, trying to move enough to kick at the tendril that holds him. His gaze swerves up to the door, as if expecting a fifth hand to reach up to close it. A sound escapes him through his noise, midway between a whimper and a call for help, a high-pitched, muffled whine.

It's hard to get a good look at the creature holding him captive; the dual grip on his skull refuses to let him twist his head at all. Still, with enough concentration he can just make out a black shape at the edge of his vision, almost registering as an aftereffect of his brief suffocation. It certainly doesn't look like anything that could possibly be real - but neither did the shadows spilling out of his window. Maybe this is all a hallucination - purple sky and all - but if it is, something is terribly wrong in his brain if he's imagining being pinned down by an impossible alien.

The twitching in his leg prompts a bit of motion in the creature, a leg coming to rest against his calf, one talon pressing against the back of his knee in some ambiguous threat. That's at least five limbs, not counting the tendrils around his ankles and neck. He can hear it breathing behind him, something between a rumble and a purr, giving the mental image of a large cat of some sort. The grip on his skull shifts, tugging at his hair, pulling it sharply to tilt his head forwards; then the breathing comes closer and a rough sensation drags along the back of his neck, leaving stinging pinpricks in its wake. A tongue?

Before he can adequately panic about the sensation, the breathing comes closer, next to his right ear, and he can catch a glimpse of what looks like the silhouette of a feline snout - light bending in strange ways around the edges, a heavily distorted view of the room around him packed into a few millimeters. Then the lips part to reveal a series of brilliant white teeth, sharp as blades and long as needles, far too many to count. And then a voice whispers in his ear: “Hello, Sébastien.”

Speech. This creature was talking like a human being. The voice was all wrong, but the whispering subdued the worst of its alien edge, granting it an illusion of superficial normality. The teeth spoke a different language, dangerous and nightmarish. A thought: 'Am I sleeping? Is this a bad dream?' A soft, fearful sound struggles out of Bastien, his wide eyes keeping their attention on the monster.

Monster. That was the right way to describe this creature. Some kind of unreal predator. For a few moments, Bastien forgets to breathe, his body tense. Why would a predator talk to him? Why not just sink those teeth into his face and take a chunk out of him and be done with it?

And then it hits him: It knows his name. His throat constricts, his mind scrambling, trying to figure out what might have lead to his name being known. For a second his mind stops functioning, eclipsed by his terror, before lurching back into motion and grasping at straws: Was it psychic? Had it stalked him? His skin crawls, surprising him at how much worse latter scenario seems to him while he has so little cognitive capacity at his disposal.

His shoulders try to draw his arms out of the grip holding them, though they seem undecided whether to turn the motion into a frantic struggle or a gentle physical plea, straddling the line between the extremes in awkward ambiguity.

A rumbling purr spills from the beast pinning him down, carrying what sounds like a tone of predatory glee at Bastien's ever-growing panic. The creature's posture shifts somewhat, then an extra pair of hands comes to rest on his shoulderblades, claws poking at the skin through the fabric of his shirt, not enough to cause any damage, just enough to reinforce the already clear message: He's prey. His life could end at any moment now.

The hands at his wrists gradually guide the protesting arms down to his sides, then behind his back, pressing his wrists together tightly and shifting the grip to a single hand. Before he has much chance to protest that, his attention is dragged back to the creature's mouth, a pink tongue slipping between those jagged teeth, then lapping at his cheek, leaving a light stinging sensation behind. As this happens, the creature's recently-freed hand reaches up to the door and gently swings it shut with a light 'clack'.

“We're going to play a game,” it whispers to him in its alien voice, shifting into a more relaxed posture, partially resting its weight on his legs and back. “And if you do well, I'll let you live.” The way it's said almost makes it sound like a generous offer - and given his current situation, it probably is. “The rules are simple: If you, or any other human, opens this door, you lose. The game ends when I say it does. The more you cooperate, the more likely you are to live.” A few moments' pause, letting those words sink in. Then, “Do you understand?” To accompany that, the hand pressed against Bastien's lips recedes, giving him a chance to speak.

As the door sweeps closed, a deeper panic grips Bastien's heart, born of the dread that this marked a point of no return. The sensation knots into his gut, budding into a tentative nausea.

Then that question. A bargain with his life. Bastien's voice seems lodged in his throat, resisting all of his suggestions to budge. Say something. Too many comments and questions are competing for any one to win out. 'What are you?', 'What do you want?', 'How do you know my name?', 'How did you get in here?', 'What have you done with the sky?'. “Okay,” he whispers so softly that he almost can't hear the syllables himself. “Please don't hurt me.”

Bastien's plea is met with a soft rasp that resolves itself into something approximating a chuckle. “Oh, no, don't worry,” the creature replies. A hand - or a paw, maybe? - sets itself in the center of his back. “I promise I'll be quite gentle.” He can hear the grin in that voice; nothing about this bodes well. A moment later, the paw on his back presses against him, pinning his chest tightly to the floor, the pressure building until-

What happens next doesn't make any sense to his brain, at first. There's a deep nausea lacing its way through his gut, stemming from around where the paw was; it's not for a long moment until it becomes clear: Something is inside him. His skin is intact, nothing is damaged, but something that feels really suspiciously like something with digits is wriggling among his internal organs, feeling their way around. The nausea suddenly spikes as five points of sharp but light pressure encircle his stomach, turning and twisting and gently scratching along the organ's outer wall.

It takes mental effort not to scream - not from pain, but from the deep, primal instincts triggered by something is inside me. Competing interpretations of the unpleasant sensation battle for his attention: A parasite has taken up residence in his gut, shifting to make itself comfortable within the membranous expanse of his stomach like a dragon taking up residence in a flesh cave. A predator has punched through his gut, shorn away the nerves that would tell him about it, and was plucking at his innards and rummaging amongst them as through a buffet.

His diaphragm reflexively spasms as if seeking to punch at his gut and the tension mingles with the cutting sensations the motion causes, twisting into a sensation as if his gut had knotted into a single impossible cramp he would never untangle it from. It's a whitehot, sudden pain, self-inflicted but no less real for it, mercifully taking his breath away and silencing any wailing sobs that would otherwise have been wrenched from him.

Then the instant is over, the heat of the pain dimming, dissipating through him, spiralling up his gullet and very nearly making him throw up.

Instead, he shivers as if in fever, a kernel of consciousness cautiously returning to him, enough to express shock and deep concern. Help. He stares forward at nothing in particular, a part of his mind scrambling, trying to find out who he ought to be addressing his plea to - which did nothing to stop his mind from running through those motions, simulating his cries in silence. Please help.

A soft purr of predatory delight spills from the creature on top of him, betraying amusement at Bastien's pained reaction. “Of course,” the creature notes in a conversational tone, “I can't make any guarantees you won't accidentally hurt yourself, you silly human.” It's hard to tell given the synthetic quality of the voice, but it sounds almost like there's a hint of fondness in that last bit - but how could that be possible, given how it's casually toying with his innards?

Bastien doesn't have much time to contemplate that particular mystery before the flavor of pain changes, the digits around his stomach shifting from claws to fingerpads, giving it a single light squeeze - and yet another urge to throw up - before drifting away, tracing upwards and turning, casually drifting through his diaphragm as if it weren't there and settling against the back of his ribcage. There it spreads out like a single massive palm, growing impossibly to fill the space from the center of his back up towards his neck, but flat enough not to interfere with his lungs.

The grip on his shoulderblades from the outside relents, those two hands vanishing from his perception, maybe even vanishing entirely given the way this creature seems to manipulate its body like wet clay. Then pressure mounts on his upper back from the inside, gradually lifting his torso a centimeter or so off the ground.

A broken, fragmented whimper spills from Bastien as the pressure in his ribcage lifts him off the ground like a twisted harness hooked into his flesh. His arms tense on instinct, trying to jerk out of the grip pinning them to his back, hoping to twist his fingers around to scratch at his back, to find that parasitic serpent rested under his skin, displacing his flesh. The urge is almost overwhelming, though he's lucid of the absurdity of it. His fear has hijacked his motions and while the crisp clarity of thought has returned to him, none of his conscious volition has any say in his frantic squirming. Fortunately, the horror he feels at not only being at the whim of this creature but also at the whim of misguided instincts is enough to keep him still with the concentration of keeping tabs on it. However, his breath is a mess, coming in little aborted spurts, sputtering and panting, the imagined parasite's close whisper along the periphery of his lungs making them shy, as if perhaps reduced motion might keep the subdermal creature from discovering them.

The digits of the massive palm under his spine begin to spread outwards, at first just broadening the support, but then curving backwards along the periphery of his ribcage, soon inverting the impression of an upwards palm supporting him into a downwards one closing around his chest cavity. He's quite certain there's more than five digits now, seven or nine or some number he can't count. Most are curving around the front of his chest, but one in the center is tracing up his spine, taking a helical path that shouldn't be possible with anything with bones in it, and that simple geometry would dictate should pass through his skin at some point.

The climbing digit ends just below the base of his skull, perched against the back of the spine, a single claw nestled just above the gap between two vertebrae. The rest of the digits have cleanly encircled his chest cavity by now, interlacing with each other, calmly suggesting the creature could easily just close its grip, crushing his lungs and heart in an instant.

“So many lovely ways this could end right now,” the monster comments casually, an infectious glee spreading into its tone. “All these things you need to live, in a nice convenient place for me.” The digits wrapped around his lungs wriggle a little, flexing slightly, doing nothing to dispel the impression of a parasite lodged inside him. A moment later, the claw against his neck presses inwards a smidgeon, and it feels like his entire body is engulfed in flames, most intense at the site of pressure but spreading all the way through his torso and limbs.

The pressure in his torso spreads like a disease gradually establishing its foothold or a blooming fungus taking up residence amongst the dark, dank and warm environment, pulsing as it is. Bastien's right shoulder shivers from the tension born of his arm's attempt to pull itself free, skin paling around the monster's grip, holding him with an impossible strength that allowed no slippage, as if these corporeal shadows were supplied with infinite friction. He squeezes his eyes shut, corners leaking silent tears as a serpent winds its way up his spine and taps threateningly against the top of his spine, and the morbid structure acquires its temporarily final form. As the creature speaks its casual observationthreat, a terrified, subdued sob is wrenched from Bastien's tense form, almost lodging itself in his throat from the physical force it comes with. A hot, salty streak traces down his left cheek, then falls onto the carpet, near-invisibly leaving a small dark stain on it. As the digits within him wiggle, he cries out, voice fortunately weak and pitiful, tapering off into a sequence of whimpers expressing some primal, frantic plea.

The creature looming above him rumbles softly, then the feline snout leans close to Bastien's ear. “Careful, there,” it whispers, a hint of a threat in the voice. “You wouldn't want to attract any attention, would you? It'd be such a shame if someone came through that door to check up on you.” A painful reminder of the terms of the deal. On the bright side, it seems he's managed to stay quiet enough to avoid his parents hearing from downstairs.

The creature pulls its snout back, then Bastien's body lurches as the structure in his chest tilts it upwards another few centimeters. “But as I was saying, it would be so incredibly easy to end this right now. A squeeze, or a twist, or a jab, or a bite… - or I could just keep pulling upwards and see what happens.” Another centimeter; his lower spine, still pinned to the ground beneath his hands, screams that this is not a good posture and that he should really try not to do this, please and thank you.

After several agonizingly long seconds of this, something slips - the structure escapes from his chest, passing through it harmlessly, though not without a deep sense of nauseating discomfort to accompany it. Without the support, his torso thuds against the floor, thankfully muffled by the carpeting. “Thankfully for you, all of those sound dreadfully boring, don't they?”

As his spine is curved upwards, the soft, whimpered sobs of Bastien are punctured by an alarmed 'uh!' and he blinks as if hoping to dispel the tears that've welled up in his eyes, as if a clear sight would help him escape the threatening pressure of vertebrae grinding against vertebrae.

As he's let go, he reflexively exhales even before the impact with the ground ushers that along. The shallow impact rings through his shoulders and skull, his eyes wide, his pulse racing.

I can't control these sounds, he wants to say, and his lips move, but its rendition is so high-pitched that his vocal chords give up trying. His eyes squeeze shut and a quivering breath later, he tries again in a pitifully distorted, soft and pleading voice: “C-can't control s-s-sounds. Instinct. S-sorry, so s-s-sorry, please…” The voice finds itself extinguished either by an abstract form of grief or terror, all strength temporarily crushed out of his voice and lungs.

One of the creature's pawhands finds its way to Bastien's hair, the fingers tracing through it along his scalp in a deceptively gentle motion. It's almost a comforting gesture - and it probably would be, if not for the rest of the situation being absolutely terrifying for context. He could almost imagine the monster making a soothing 'there, there' sort of comment - given just how surreal the rest of the situation is, it doesn't seem totally out of character for it.

That's not what happens, though. Instead the fingers find a firm grip on his skull, and twist his head slowly, gently to the left, rubbing his cheek against the carpet, drying off Bastien's tears in the most awkward possible manner; then the same motion to the right. “Mmmm? Please what, exactly? Forgive you for your instincts?” The voice leans closer, looming over him. If he opened his eyes, he'd probably get his first good look at the monster's face - the same impossible, tangible shadows in the form of a head like a large cat, a lynx perhaps, the edges warping and distorting light like a black hole, grinning down at him with impossibly sharp white teeth, and a pair of brilliant white stars for eyes. “Are you afraid your human instincts will lose you the game? Or are you apologizing for something else?”

A dreadful numbness takes a hold of his thoughts as the monster gently twists his head to the side, the effortlessness of it prompting a chill to creep up his spine more effectively than that of the pinning grips. As his cheek is forcibly dragged along the carpet, streaks of tears wiped off his face, a confusion mingles into his thoughts, combining with his terror into a state of shock. He's not sure how he ended up in this situation. Some sequence of events have brought him here and he feels like important elements are missing from his understanding, as if his entire view of the world were incomplete, a card house waiting to be toppled, currently balanced precariously.

A sound much like an isolated mewl escapes him, so soft as to almost escape detection. Was the creature trying to emulate some kind of affection? Maybe this was some kind of grand cultural misunderstanding? “Yes,” he whispers, hoarsely and hollowly, his gaze avoiding the surreal creature, instead anchored on the nearest wall as if hoping it might grant him physical support. “What did you-?” he adds, speaking more steadily across the sense of this gradual free fall. “What did you do to the sky?”

Bastien's question elicits a quiet chuckle from the alien creature, followed by the sensation of a set of claws resting against one of his wrists and slowly dragging its way up along his arm, scratching lightly at the skin. “Changing the subject,” it observes in a sing-song voice, before the grip on his hands shifts and pulls his arms slowly upwards, straining at his upper arms and shoulders. “I happen to find the color much more pleasing, don't you? You've certainly had plenty of time to get used to it.” …not actually an answer to his question, but interesting information regardless. Maybe he can keep this up, distract the monster from his 'game'?

“Ah,” Bastien complains softly in alarm as his arms are guided upwards, the angle on his shoulders increasingly punishing. The motion stops just after a pinprick of whitehot fire threatens to stab through those joints, its frayed edges singeing a line of vicious discomfort through his bones. His heavy breath heaves an audible exhale, its edges infected with the same shiver that grips his body a moment later. “You can do that? Change-? Change the composition of the atmosphere?” Bastien asks, steady voice still guided by the rails laid out by his sense of shock, the increasing unreality of it all. I'm having a conversation with a monster that's going to tear my arms off.

That question prompts another, longer alien laugh from the monster above him, the vibrations from it resonating strangely in his bones. “Change the composition of the atmosphere,” it repeats, tone filled with an amused delight. “Such a human thought.” A hand-like shape rests itself directly in Bastien's line of sight, palm against the ground, the light playing around it in impossible ways.

“You're always changing the composition of your atmosphere, it's tempting to say that's all you ever do; you're just abysmally slow at it.” As if to drive that point home, the hand in his vision shifts, then lunges forward, grasping at Bastien's face; a pair of digits slips around his nose, pinching his nostrils shut, while the palm presses against his mouth, grasping at his lips with impossibly high friction and effortlessly sealing off his airways. “But no, if we'd done that, you wouldn't be around to notice it, would you?” Wait, 'we'? Are there more of these things?

The fragment of Bastien's thoughts not subdued by shock briefly touch upon the absurd thought 'is this creature here to punish us for air pollution' as if he were trapped in a comic book's story - but it only lasts a couple of words, before it's wrenched down into the realisation that it's talking about that he's breathing. His eyes widen as he grapples with the implication. And yet - would it be that much stranger if this creature didn't breathe? The vast majority of laws of physics and biology he's been able to think of, it's already in blatant violation of - and he doesn't want to know if it needs to feed and excrete waste. Sound is ripples in the air. No need to breathe to make those, though. Before he has any chance to ask “You don't?”, his own breath's pinched to a stop. His head tries to jerks up and away from the palm in alarmed reflex, his body punishing him even for the attempt of the motion by driving the shallow hot spike of pain in his left shoulder in a little deeper.

The grip on his face shifts slightly, the digits adjusting to keep his eyes unblocked; then the hand near his right shoulder shifts from a light scratching motion into a grab, claws sinking into his shirt and skin and wrenching him suddenly onto his left side, other arms acting in unison to maintain the pin of his wrists and the grip on his face. The pressure on his legs disappears, only for a pair of clawed hands to grasp each of his knees, repositioning them into a somewhat more comfortable state. The monster is looming over him, clearly visible now, a grin of sadistic glee stretched all the way across its face. He can't look away now, there's nowhere else to look unless he wants to shut his eyes.

“Back to the original topic,” it says, the artificial-sounding voice adopting a mildly chiding tone. Something shifts around his mouth, a digit-like protrusion wriggling between his teeth, before tracing along the roof of his mouth, a sharp clawtip leading it along, making its presence clearly known. “I'm quite aware of what your instincts are,” it continues.

The next few moments pass without much incident, the claw in his mouth slowly pushing its way further in, giving Sébastien plenty of time to panic about the implications of that statement. But then another hand - seriously, how many does this thing even have? - rests itself against his stomach, then slides down a few centimeters, toying with the button on his trousers. “Quite aware,” it repeats.

The pain that shoots through him from his left shoulder as the joint is used as a pivot for his torso feels like a rusted nail's been rammed into it, wedged between his shoulderblade and arm. His vision blacks out for a moment as the pain clutches at his chest, stealing what remains of his breath. By the time he's gotten control of it again to the point he could scream into the creature's palm, the pain's dulled to a manageable level.

It takes him a moment to be lucid that the creature's speaking again. '…quite aware of what your instincts are.' Like the urge to breathe? His head tries to wiggle in the monster's grip, half-hearted, his shoulder and arm still unpleasantly trapped beneath him, radiating an ache up along the strands of his neck, but something's scratching at the roof of his mouth, making the rest of his body buck briefly.

As a gentle fire begins to creep into his ribcage, Bastien's gaze finds the looming face. …not real. Not possibly real. His eyes widen to take in the ghastly sight of the featureless obsidian skin, the disembodied teeth, the pinprick, star-like eyes that seemed to sear into his very soul. Then alien digits slide down to manipulate the button of his trousers and a muffled yelp escapes Bastien, vivid, confused mental images of shredded skin and flesh flashing through his mind's eye, mingling with fire in his lungs to something frantic. I have to wake up. Please let me wake up.

There's a sound akin to a soft, synthetic sigh, almost melodic. “You really aren't very good at this 'staying quiet' game, are you Bastien?” It observes, tone nonchalant. “Shh, don't worry, I can help you with that.” Help? Why would it want to help?

The digit currently exploring the roof of his mouth curls gently downwards, the sharp clawtip vanishing from Bastien's perception. Then, with a sudden jolt, it thrusts downwards into the boy's throat, bypassing his gag reflex and lodging itself a few centimeters below his vocal cords. There it expands, pressing itself against the walls of his throat, the texture shifting subtly until-

Suddenly, he can breathe again. For a few moments, it's uncertain as to how - his mouth is still firmly covered, as are his nostrils - before he realizes that the 'digit' in his throat has apparently hollowed itself out. Breathing isn't as easy as it would be if his airways were completely unobstructed, but it's at least possible, now. Making any kind of vocalizations, on the other hand, not so much.

Apparently, while all that was going on, the monster had managed to undo the button on his trousers, and is now very casually tugging the zipper open. “There, was that so difficult?” The grip on his knees shifts upwards, claws sinking into fabric and tugging his trousers down below his hips. “But since you can't exactly cry for help now, I think it's time to play a different game, don't you?” Something nestles against the inside of his right thigh; the hands on his legs reinforce their grip on his knees, pinning them to the ground, angled apart.

Of course, Bastien's throat doesn't care about the creature's intentions. As a digit tangibly slides across the back of his tongue and into his windpipe, a reflex heightened by his slow suffocation guides his throat into a futile spasm, squeezing against the unrelenting obsidian tendril, trying to dislodge it. The perfect friction lies at surreal odds with how unsuccessful his throat's grip on it is - failing, the reflex simply tries again, and then again, and once more, until it morphs into a punishing cramp. For a moment, Bastien's fear is eclipsed by another: He won't be able to stop the futile gesture, its alien trigger isn't going away. Thankfully, even his instincts realise their own futility and relent, leaving him with a profound sense of dread and non-verbal instructions to hold still if he enjoys not gagging, the fierce, lingering ache of it serving as a symbol of a cautionary tale.

With the fresh breath that's suddenly enabled comes a profound tension gripping his whole body, that desire to hold still. His mind baulks at any attempt to parse what might happen next, preoccupied with keeping him steady, with not letting his eager heartbeat stir him into another gagging fit, preoccupied with how absolutely vulnerable he is to this creature, preoccupied with the impossibility of all of it. Hesitantly, some part of his mind pleads for death, simply to end all this uncertainty, even as he's panting desperately to stay alive, to replenish his oxygen supply. His eyes squeeze shut, hot tears silently running down his face.

✘ IN PROGRESS