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sourcreammachine · 1 year ago

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Charlotte

or, The Day Your Mind and Body Gets Claimed By a Minor Goddess

Alex was an old uni friend of yours. You’d spent most of those hazy years nursing hangovers with food he’d got delivered, relying on his class notes, and flooding the house with more booze than is clinically advisable. He’d spent the years borrowing your games consoles all day every day, getting mortal and relying on the taxis you’d be forced to pay for, and desperately trying to get some sleep over the sound of your questionable choice of men. It was good times.

A small handful of orbits round the Sun later, and you were off the train and at the door of his little terrace in his bigger city. It’d be nice to spend another day chilling with the bastard once again, now that train tickets are something you can afford, with your fancy copywriter job and everything.

The six-foot-something towering twink gets the door open. Somehow he’d only gotten more homosexual in those few years, the hair fluffier, the face more perfected, and with a baggy cardigan to boot. As soon as the door will let you, you squish yourself into your favourite fag in the whole universe, your head buried in his chest making some sort of affectionate noise. Cologne, masculine, not his. You’ve missed him.

The corridor-stairway of the dig is an absolute tip. The landlord hadn’t even put a floor in, that was bare concrete on the ground level and bare something on the steps and first floor. Through the second locked door to his let and it’s landlord’s special top to toe, beige and beige and fake-laminate lino. It’s fairly stark - the current group of renters can’t’ve been here long. Knowing Alex, he’d’ve turned the place into a skip already.

“You need a drink? Tea? Coffee? Squash?” he invites as you get yourself seated on the shitty fake-leather sofa in the kitchen-come-living room. Squash - adorable! He’d not bought it in just for you, the bottle was half-emptied, he’s still very much a squash-drinker. Well, with the economy the way it is, he’s not exactly going to be switching to champagne any time soon, is he? You remember the nights spent getting pissed on student budgets using orange squash to cut just about anything. Your twisting stomach kindly asks you to stop remembering.

You take him up on the offer and break proverbial bread with orange squash. No- peach and orange, or orange and something, something nice. Going up in the world. Yours went down fast, you’d let yourself get parched on the journey up, stupid little thing.

A few rounds of nattering later and a door opens down the corridor, and barefoot steps come towards the everything-room.

“Charlotteeee!” mewls the twink.

“Hiiii!” mewls the Charlotte as she saunters into the room. “Who’s thiiis?”

“Oh, this is Charlotte,” Alex tells you, abruptly turning your way to introduce Charlotte to you rather than you to Charlotte, “my flatmate. And this is Cleo, Cleo from uni.”

“Oh my god, hiiii,” she says to you as she leans back against the kitchen counters. She’s got a black lacy top on, long brown hair, and a face with mascara, red winged eyeliner and lipstick too. It’s like she’s dressed up ready for a night out, at 11am on a Thursday that you and Alex just so happened to both have off from work. The lacy top definitely isn’t casualwear for February temperatures, the front being parted generously in the middle, with the lace darting back and forth between the two halves as if it was being forced open by her massive -

You stop staring at them and give a playful “Hello!” She’s heard of you from Alex’s stories, it turns out. A friend of his is a friend of hers.

“Can I get you a refill?” she offers with a playful swish in her voice, while already coming over to oblige. You don’t even say, making a confused little noise in want of the right words, but in presenting your glass to her she accepts with a warm smile. For fuck’s sake she looks even better from the back - no, compose yourself, girl.

“It’s good to finally meet you, though!” she says as more squash goes into the glass. Finally? You’re not exactly a celebrity.

“You too!” you bungle with a bit of a giggle, of course never having heard of this Charlotte. You thought Alex lived alone these days - but you put two and two together and guess Alex, Charlotte and probably a few more have just moved into this place, without it ever coming up in conversation. She’s bringing the glass back your way, gripped with doting hands of red-painted nails. You can’t help but smell her brilliant scent as she hovers just inches from you - joyous, fruity, exotic but homely, like a scent you could wallow in for a thousand years. Close your legs, whore. You have a boyfriend. Just because she’s unbelievably perfect, just because she’s exactly your type for when you swing that way, doesn’t mean you have the right to cheat on him, and do a disservice to little Alex, no less. She’s gone back to lean on the countertops again, hopefully allowing you space to ignore her perfection and stick your bisexuality in a box, in the corner, sealed with black tape and labelled ‘You Have A Boyfriend’. The squash is wonderful, an unplaceable taste swirling around the definite orange. That little riddle should help you focus on something other than her enormous (no, stop).

Thankfully the Antarctic levels of ice get broken into burgs of banter, and when she comes over to sit on an alleged ‘armchair’ opposite the little sofa you and Alex are sat on, you’ve managed to put the flustering behind you. You feel yourself relaxing, slowly drooping away from your natural rigid and alert position on the sofa’s edge, like you were being forced back into a comfy slouch.

“…no, no - don’t tell anyone, but I’m definitely scared of balloons!” she says after the ball had been rolling for a few minutes. Alex crumples into bouts of laughter. “No seriously, don’t tell anyone!”

“We won’t babe, we won’t -!” Alex tries to say seriously, while struggling to compose himself. It wasn’t that funny, mate.

Charlotte rocks back with giggles too, and looks your way again. “No, like, promise - raise your right hand -” and up goes your right hand, embarrassingly quickly, “and repeat after me: I swear -”

“…I swear,” you swear, with a note of laughter, as though the words were being forced out over a bed of giggles.

“-that I won’t tell another living soul-”

“…that I won’t tell another living soul,”

“-about Charlotte’s phobia of balloons!”

“about Charlotte’s phobia of balloons!” You’re laughing yourself silly at the end of the little ceremony. She had you hook, line and sinker. You fall on Alex in stitches, and he helps you recompose. Your right arm is still up. You lower it hoping they didn’t notice it being up for an embarrassing amount of time.

More banter and laughs, with this girl taking charge of the conversation. It’s a total house-on-fire situation, you can barely remember hitting it off this good with a friend so new.

Alex gets up to piss, leaving you and Charlotte alone for just a few seconds. He’s near the door when he quips “Cleo, promise me you won’t make out with Charlotte when I can’t stop you.” And with a smile on your face, the words slip your mouth faster than a bullet - “I promise!” He laughs and leaves. You felt a stab of awkwardness and worry, you fucking idiot you just gave the game away, but that feeling stabs only once before melting away. It’s like you’ve known her a thousand years. Like she’s your best friend already. Like you’re already on the level to joke about that sort of thing. The bad feelings get swept out of your mind like old ink on a whiteboard.

“You studied the same thing as him, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, history. History and alcohol, mostly.”

“Oh my goddd, I can’t imagine being a student with him! That’s an express ticket to liver failure.” You’ve not seen any alcohol in this house, actually. Odd. “Oh, hand me that glass,” and you hand her that glass, with the unknown orange-fruit all gone.

“I remember that glass - I bought it!” you say as she reaches around to place it on the floor behind her. “Alex made off with it, the bastard!”

“Just like him, you can’t have it back!” she jokes, she, jokes. Oh well, it’s Alex’s glass now.

You’re laughing together. You’ve known her for so long, she really understands your sense of humour.

“Are you comfortable on that sofa?”

“I’ve sat on worse things, I suppose,” you say.

“Give me your hand,” and you give her your hand. You wonder why. “Okay, don’t move,” she lets go of your hand and your arm lies suspended out before you. She gets out of her seat and heads back to the kitchen area. Your neck moves to follow her movements.

“What are you doing?” you say as the humour of the situation starts to run dry against confusion.

“Hmm,” she observes. She opens the fridge - it’s completely empty, except for a solitary bunch of grapes. You fucking hate grapes. You, you always used to joke about it with Alex. She returns to her seat, in front of you, your stiff arm bridging the gap, and places one red grape gently in your hand. “Eat it.”

You hate grapes. You hate them. You bend your arm backwards and, and then you stop - the fruit resting by your lips, the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen asking you to eat a fruit you hate. She was such a joker, but where’s the joke here? Her eyes are warm and friendly, looking at you with kindness. You’re lost in a whirlpool of confusion.

“No?” you finally say, “Nothing against you or anything, but I hate grapes, they’re di-” the grape is between your teeth, you have placed it in your mouth, it is resting on your tongue, it’s supple skin delivering refrigerated, soggy cold.

“Remember to chew,” and you remember to chew. Slowly your tongue delivers the package to your left molars, and they close down upon it. Juice squirts back on to your tongue and everywhere, sour, horrible, unpleasant. You inhale sharply, you squint, you wiggle your neck ever so slightly, and the wiggles slow, and your neck seizes up, and you’re left, eyes open, chewing the grape in front of her. “Swallow,” and you swallow. You’re breathing sharply, it’s, that’s… that’s the only way you show the unpleasantness of eating the worst thing ever, with your neck stiff, with your eyes locked with hers.

It’s… confusion. You just ate your own least favourite food just because she told you to.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Confused?” you reply with, with an odd tone… one that would seem to be attempting an edge-cutting chuckle, but you can’t seem to move your torso in a way that would get a chuckle out. If she was flirting, it was the weirdest flirting you’ve ever seen. But, it worked, didn’t it? You ate the grape for her? No, it didn’t work - you hated having to do that, why did she make you do that?

“Why did you make me do that?”, your tone starting to flatten out, the best voice you can put on while your upper body is paralysed. While your upper body is paralysed. While your whole body is paralysed - you try to move any muscle, you try to stand up, but you can’t move.

You wear the stab of fear on your face - and she notices. “Don’t try,” and you stop trying. You are locked in place. “Remember, don’t be loud,” and you will not be loud.

“What’s happening? What have you done?” you speak, at conversational volume. She’s standing up, and she’s kneeling on the floor in front of you, picking up your hand. She massages your palm with her thumb.

“You won’t worry. You’ll be calm,” and you won’t worry, you’ll be calm. You could feel a little tide of panicked tears approach your eyes, but you know, that’s the end of it. You don’t worry. You are calm. A fear, panicked and flailing, is replaced with simply being here and now. You ate the grape, as she instructed. You don’t move, as she instructed. You became calm, as she instructed. She’s in control now.

“What’s my name?”

“Your name is Charlotte,” you say, with a calmed and honest tone.

“What’s my name?”

“Your name is Charlotte.”

“What’s my name?”

“Your name is Charlotte.” Her name was Charlotte. You’d ask what her name was, in case you were being tricked. You thought to ask. You would ask her what her name was. You did not ask her what her name was. The waves of questions lashed and failed to produce words out of your mouth. Was ‘Charlotte’ a wrong answer? She didn’t say…

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling better.” What? What kind of an answer was that? But you knew, it was honest, and it was, somehow, the information she wanted. Alex has been pissing for a very long time.

“Do you love me?”

“I love you,” you tell the woman you met minutes ago, as she seems to root around in your head and take any information she pleased. You didn’t love her, you had the hots for her but that’s different, you - you love her. This was love. There wasn’t a feeling of horniness, there was a feeling of love.

“Love me more,” and you love her more. You’re… here with her, and that fills you with a feeling you can’t describe. You… Her. She’s everything. She’s everywhere. To think anything is to think of her, to imagine anything is to imagine her. All possible thoughts lead to her, like the winding branches of a tree always leading to the same leaf. You’re a drop in the ocean, you can feel that everything around you is Her, She gives you everything, She is your place, She is your everything. And she’s just kneeling in front of you with your hand in hers.

It’s… and you feel it. Creeping. Inside. It’s physical, a tingling sensation deep inside your skull spreading outwards, and it’s… it’s in your mind too, taking parts of you, your emotions, your thoughts processes, your memories, your dreams, and twisting Her over it like an infestation of vines. You… you are Cleo. You are an entry-level copywriter. You are a history graduate. But you, have memories. You follow the threads of your life backwards but they just keep going, your own life, your own memories… attached, integrated into… Her. She’s, She’s forever. She’s so much bigger than you. She’s the most important thing to ever happen.

“What’s my name?”

“Your name, is Charlotte,” you quiver out, incorrectly. You followed the threads of memory but couldn’t quite reach.

“What’s my name?” and you can feel it closer to your grasp, so you remember Her name.

“You have no name. You are above what I am. You are me as I am part of You. You are powerful as I am nothing. I am nothing, that You can use as something more. You are my strength, my love, my owner, my empress, my goddess. You are Everything and I am Yours.”

And when you say it, She, She thanks you. No words come out of her mouth. But the knowledge of gratitude enters your mind, and you have been thanked by Her, and She is the most important, and Her thanks are the most important thing in the universe.

You’re a thousand metres deep in your thoughts, in, in Her thoughts. But she’s still kneeling in front of you. You’re sitting in a room on a bad sofa and she is Everything.

It’s as though the vines constricting your mind are released one by one. She doesn’t control you anymore. You’re in control of your own thoughts again, and you look at your hands and realise you’re in control of your body again. So you fall forward off the sofa and place your arms around her, you fall in for dear life as a tidal wave of emotion hits. Now come the tears. She holds you close, too. You feel it, deep within yourself, that she loves you too.

You pull back and look at her face. It’s like everything makes sense now. “You’re perfect,” you manage to sputter through the tears, “You made yourself perfect for me.” And your thoughts seem to keep going, they seem to become hers, and you know. You know that this, what She is, is your perfect. A perfect trap set to snare you. And the silliness of it all makes you laugh as you fall back on her shoulder for another ugly sob. She holds you tight. Her embrace is your home.

“Oh, you’ve finished already?” comes Alex as he reenters the room. You look up and feel it, the roots of your thoughts tangling with his. You smile. You know.

“So, Alex was the first one?” you ask Her, knowing it’s true.

“Yes, now you’re the second,” says your new owner, though you already knew that too. You wonder why the three of you would even bother to speak considering she has mixed all your thoughts together, but you feel it quickly enough - words are love.

Alex sits on the floor next to you, cross legged, and you flop over from Charlotte into his lap and gaze up at his perfect face. He places his hand on your head and holds you, seeming to pet you almost. You return your gaze to Charlotte, and, and you try to reach out again, and you feel her there, again.

“I’m always here,” she says, answering your thoughts. So you try thinking some more, you think of your undying love for her, you think of devotion, you think of forever with her. You… you think her. She smiles. You think her come closer. She comes closer, leaning forward towards your place in Alex’s lap. It’s… it’s not as though you’re giving orders, it’s not as though you’re telling her to do something and she’s doing it, but more like you want something to be so, and it becomes so.

“Silly, it’s because we think the same now,” she responds. You feel her presence, in your thoughts, knowing your wants. So you want her kiss you, and as the neurons fire she leans in and kisses you. Paradise on Earth. You reach out to hold her, one hand managing to grasp her shoulder, the other hand clumsily pawing at her, frankly, silly breasts. She had you all figured out, didn’t she. You really are a predictable bitch. Her hand comes down to touch you too, grabbing your middle, comforting the dumb, self-hating thought. It feels so good.

You savour the knowledge. Knowing that you are part of her now gives you warmth. She pulls away. You feel the creeping inside your skull again, and she knows your thoughts and answers them with words.

“It won’t be long, baby,” she says. The words comfort you. She’s finishing up in there, claiming what’s left of your brain for her little empire. It feels so nice to be owned.

“I know how you feel!” Alex laughs, and you laugh. Even though you’re both Her now, he’s still him and you’re still you. Two little toys, playthings for your owner. Her stuff feels like it’s descending your spinal cord, she wants you be still, so you stay still in Alex’s lap. It… spreads. All inside you. Every inch of nervous wiring getting claimed, and it spreading into the tissues, and your blood and fluids and organs becoming her.

“How did you two meet, though?” you ask.

“Oh, happenstance,” Alex jokes, and you smile, but you find your thoughts directed through his memories, through, your collective memories. A break in space. A vision of a universe so big. A form so ancient and neverending, how he feared, how it took him, how it used him, how it took over his mind and body. How he became her in our world, and how she grew within him, creating herself a new form to call her own. How they rented a new place together, with enough space for a few more human servants, and ensnared me first. How that which grew within Alex, and grew to create Charlotte, is seizing my body now. How I’m part of her now.

“Passion fruit. And a hint of pineapple and mango,”she says, returning her hand to your cheek. It makes you smile, and she leans in. “I can be anything. I can be the perfect honey trap for any specific person, I can be a creeping infestation through your nerves, I can be the world’s most delicious poison.”

Her eyes close. Her eyes open. They’re black as space itself now. You gaze, devoted. An infinity, an infinity within her eyes. And an inky black tendril emerges from her torso and winds its way around your middle, holding you gently, another around your head. Her skin morphs to oil. She feels like perfection.

But she lets up. The gunk falls back within her, and she’s this ‘Charlotte’ character again.

“I love her, by the way!” you say, admiring her perfection. “I love the top, I love the body, I love the everything.” She’s flattered. She knows already, but words are love.

“You should’ve seen what he made for me,” says Alex. And although you have Alex’s memories, you know what ‘Matt’ looked like, Matt appears before you. Charlotte’s skin ripples and twists and grows and shrinks, the oily sludge forming and reforming to create the most basic, manicured ‘hot guy’ you’ve ever seen. Alex gets a little hard underneath you.

It sends you immediately. “You basic fucker!” you laugh at Alex, who buries his head on Matt’s shoulder through laughs of shame. You can feel the want subsiding within you, and you can feel yourself being allowed to move again. You lift yourself up out of Alex’s lap and gain purchase on the brick-wall torso. You gaze into Matt’s eyes, and you slobberingly kiss him. But he changes again and you fall forward through oily gunk. You can feel it all around you, embracing you all over. It slurps together and it’s Charlotte again - lying on her back, as you’ve fallen on top.

You feel her thoughts. You are the same. You look at your hands, and hope, and know, and yes - a small drop of black gunk forms, and detaches. You feel love. You feel your place. You look over at Alex, and let the feeling well up inside you, as you deform, as you collapse into sludge. You squirm, you see, you taste. You feel every part of Charlotte’s body all at once, and feel her thoughts, and let her become her godly self, a black mass of tendrils and fluid. You give her control as her form mixes totally with yours, integrating, becoming one thing on the floor of this dingy terraced flat.

#196 #fic #eldritch #how the fuck do i tag this #like seriously how

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