Hands fly to her temples, the sudden, alien sensation of someone being there, something worming it’s way into her mind, chewing, ripping, scraping along the inside of her skull and settling down as if it has any right to be there jerks her heart into motion. All those layers, every single sensation of being protected, assured in her mental playground is stripped down, raw and overly sensitive. Since her birth, nobody has been allowed to peek inside, to see all those thoughts that float up and pop over her conscious. It was hers and only hers. Her cheeks flare up despite all of this, embarrassment clear on her face.
( please stop looking at me. )
Her knees touch the floor and without realization, she has no idea that her body has begun to curl in on itself, to grow smaller, to less like less of a target. She’s crouched on the floor, those four inches she usually has over her dancestor completely wiped from her mind. In fact, she can barely think, she can barely focus on the increasing panic, the increasing sense of being unable to breathe, unable to function properly with her dancestors fingers in everything she held dear. Her mind pushes back, violently, fiercely, numbly. Dimly, her mind knows that if this behavior were to continue, it’s host will shut down.
( get out. )
A whimpers crawls out, weakly flowing into the air and her urge to fall apart, one that’s been chasing her ever since Dasan started falling apart, ever since Dave walked back into her life, that urge is finally fulfilled. A flicker of hatred sparks up in her, that same stubborn-ness that cost her an arm and an eye forcing her to continue trying, to throw up the countless barriers she has against her dancestor. Fingers lower to the ground, palms flat against the stark, freezing ground. Or maybe it wasn’t freezing, maybe it was that bitch making everything seem blurry, out of focus, out of sight. Maybe it’s tears, maybe she’s crying. Maybe everything’s an illusion, maybe this whole entire reality is fake. Her lashes out despite her body breaking down, mouth turning to a snarl and a desperate, screech of hatred following that movement- mentally, of course.
she takes this all in, drinks it greedily. the sight of her, the oh so great vriska serket, curled up, weakly whimpering for someone, perhaps that ridiculous moirail of hers, to save her was simply too good to not warrant a reaction. hands brush out the skirt of her dress, perfectly matched in pacing and perfectly balanced. that was what she always was- perfection. vriska was the strange one, the screwed up ( dare she use the term fucked up ) serket, the one that everyone was too scared or embarrassed to mention. her thoughts, seemingly so sharp, only cause the grin to show more, the very tips of her fangs beginning to poke out from her upper lip and hands clasping behind her back. she puts vriska on the backburner for a simple moment, focusing on twisting the bubble to her use and forming a chair. once seated, the older woman crosses her legs and adjusts her skirt before focusing everything on the other.
a hand raises to her mouth, giggles quickly extinguished before she speaks, glee perfectly clear with each word.
❝ struggling is only going to make my hold on my anger a little looser vriska. ❞
her eyes close and her mind slips into the that fragile space between them, the same space she has pulled vriska into. it’s not exactly in either of their minds and it’s not exactly out of them- it’s the middle ground, The Null. her dancestor is an exploding, constantly shifting amalgamation of pale blues, sharp and jagged edges shooting out of her with every thought, every whisper of an idea. it reflects her perfectly, like a broken perfume bottle. a little push, enough force to turn the page of a book and she’s inside, looking at everything that has smashed vriska serket into this broken shell of a girl. hands trace over names, over memories, tracing, invading, searching. she can feel everything, every blush, every sexual urge, every kiss and hug and gentle touch on the shoulder. every wound, every bite, every violent, unshakable rage that has consumed her. it’s beautiful like the way a car crash is beautiful, with blood reflecting off the glass and shiny metal twisted into the scene of a disaster.
and then she comes upon her anxiety, her fears, her lack of love as it were. failure, inadequacy, intimacy, mothers- it’s all very fascinating, watching her mind shy away from these items, watching her desperately try to block them out. it’s poisoning her, consuming her, making her slide into the belly of some great beast. and the ghost loves it. she adores it, knowing that the other serket was on the point of a breakdown. all she needed was the little extra push into the pit.
the dancestor lifts out of the books in her mind, traces her fingers along the pages until she finds a dream that’s practically pathetic ( sweet ) to her. it’s forced upon the other, the dream that she held so treasured to her, the dream that humiliated her. vriska would have to live through it and feel it ripped away from her, over and over- or, at least until aranea grew bored of it.
she feels the click of her heels against the stone, feels her hands, normally so delicate, so soft, curled into fists- a crude description for crude objects. the idea of resulting to such drastic measures crossed her mind, danced across it like a skater across thin ice & she dismissed it quickly, she would not resort to actions that the young troll, her beloved descendant, would take in a heartbeat———— no, that thought is enough to turn her stomach.
she wants to spread her arms, wishes to welcome the much younger one into a grand embrace- instead of continuing with her malignant intentions. once, that may have been possible, may have been something she reached for willingly but now ? her reach extends, mentally clawing through the pitiful barriers that the other has tried to reinforce. scar tissue, built into walls of steel, her only true defense, was plucked out easily, like snatching a grub away from it’s lusii.
the sensation of slipping into her mind doesn't cause concern for her body in the physical realm. the older serket knew these bubbles far better than she would ever like to admit- & it didn’t seem like vriska was going to be even able to attack her properly once she realized that her own mind was invaded. something about the actions, of being utterly transparent to some individual was terrifying to the young on. her mouth curves into a small smile, somehow like a scolding teacher.
2087
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