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--- sessions:2016-05-30 [2016/10/09 21:16] – Today's stuff 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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 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**