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--- sessions:2016-05-30 [2016/09/25 00:23] – Punctuation pinkgothic
+++ sessions:2016-05-30 [2017/11/18 15:34] (current) – external edit 127.0.0.1
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 <fc #008888>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.</fc>
-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 lucidly 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.
+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.
 <fc #008888>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.</fc>
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 "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.//
+<fc #008888>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.</fc>
+<fc #008888>"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?</fc>
+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.
+<fc #008888>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.</fc>
+<fc #008888>"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.</fc>
+<fc #008888>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.</fc>
+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.//
+<fc #008888>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?</fc>
+<fc #008888>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-</fc>
+<fc #008888>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.</fc>
+<fc #008888>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.</fc>
+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**