#exciting stuff but I’m getting tested today so I can start HRT🥺🥺

[cqsuanla]

My little fucked up OCs which started as a dark nat au LMAO here’s another. Expect me to disappear again 😘

Tw: violence, hints of stockholm syndrome, cigs

“Hi.”

You rouse, blinking up at the static your punisher calls constellations.

She leans over you like an eclipse and waves a tightly bound bundle of grapes over you. “Hungry?”

You clear your throat with a nod. “Y-Yeah. Thirsty too.”

A happy hum. She conjures up a vase of water from somewhere. “Open up, honey.”

You do so, but not without a quick glance downward to the sword wedged between your rib cage. Yep. Still there.

She feeds you with an almost adorable amount of concentration. Adorable were it not for the fact that she had impaled you on some piece of shit antique and left you to rot for a day.

“Can I-” She shoves a grape between your teeth and you dutifully chew and swallow before beginning again: “Can I go home now?”

Home being anywhere but here. The big ugly house she lives in and, you suppose, also you now. Or—a pipe dream, really—home in the distant, clouded lands of your maker. Tabletops full of power tools, blue-papered designs you can’t even fathom. The smell of life and movement, and a view of spilled light, pinpricks of stars. Oh, stars.

You glare up at the static.

She winces at that, cricking her head back in an unnatural way. “Still not right? Damn. What about now?”

The sky suddenly sharpens up as if she had clicked the Smart Sharpen button in Photoshop. “Forget it. Take the fucking sword out.”

Now, she pouts.

“Sorry,” you say automatically, clenching your eyes shut. You feel like you’re made of wax. Maybe you are. Maybe she did that while you were asleep.

A cold hand cards through your hair, nails scraping pleasantly at your scalp. “Forgiven,” she sings mildly—it is quite literally music to your ears. She thinks she’s funny for things like that. “I’ll take you home in a couple more hours. How about that?”

“Hasn’t he seen enough?” And you will freely admit you’re beginning to sound desperate. You can’t even feel the sword. You’re really just going a little stir crazy. “Isn’t this punishment enough?”

She slants you a look. The whole point of this shit is that it’s never goddamn enough. She’s said this to you countless times and you never seem to get it.

“Could I have a smoke, at least?” you finally grumble out.

A long, thin line of tobacco wrapped in delicate pink paper. Blueish smoke spirals away from the tip.

“Come on,” you groan, “enough of this old timey shit.”

And you’re registering the stinging pain of it before realizing she’s slapped you across the face. Then, the agony. The searing red-white-blacking out pain of a sword jammed into your chest. You scream, sweat beading out your pores, limbs locking up in a shock.

It dies as quickly as it came and you feel a small part of you dislodge and follow that pain to the eternal nothing. You wish the whole of you could go. You wish nothing of yours would ever touch those final gates, peering up at the blank eyes above. The glassy eyes above. Something hot splashes across your cheek.

“It’s all I know,” she whispers angrily. Embarrassed. The smoke has been bent, paper jutting out smoothly and impossibly around the corner to patch it up. “It must be enough for you.”

You sigh through ragged lungs. “Okay. Just. Fuck, imagine it shorter and, like, this- this thick.” You hold apart your thumb and forefinger. “The paper is white except the filter, which is orange. No holder-thing, please.”

The cigarette transforms accordingly as you instruct it. The little piece of metal she typically uses to grip her smokes dissipates in a mist. She hands you the lit cigarette and straightens up, conjuring up her own to match.

There’s the sensation of muted horror echoing in some part of your mind as you watch her lean on the hilt of your sword. It slices further into the left side of your chest and more blood lurches out. You puff at your smoke, glaring daggers at your own predicament.

“Yum,” she says after a while. Eagerly, she produces another cigarette. “Want another?”

You give her a shaky thumbs up, spitting the butt out from the corner of your mouth.

She puts her cigarette out between your collar bones where a small, red pool has formed. You hear the sizzle, though you don’t feel it. She relights and sticks it in your mouth.

“All right, then,” she says, kissing your cheek. “I’ll see you in a bit.” And she leaves, pixels above you blurring at the edges as her mind wanders away.