'Composure' - tw csa, SA, cognitive distortions. Octavia/Stolas but not really stolas, or not any stolas i know but also not canon. half fanfic half..........not. half vibes. half false memory syndrome. jkjk.
wip(?)
tried to write porn again and accidentally wrote feelings oh no
my dad being so soft and gentle and tender while violating me, kissing me sweetly and stroking my cheeks and my hair and telling me how grown up i look 'like this', how beautiful i am 'like this.' it's the kindest he ever is, the most boldly affectionate. it's really nice, or it was. it's still nice but now i just have more associations so, it's less nice. but it's still nice.
it's almost like he loves me, it's almost like he sees me as a sentient creature. so yea it's still kind of nice. for a bit, until i piss him off. and i always do. i used to fight it so hard, i thought i was letting him down. but at this point i think that might be part of it for him. i think he enjoys watching me break a little bit more, internally. but it's a complex cocktail.
it's not hard to pretend i like it. it's not hard to perform care. not at first. i'm always pretending, i'm always performing in one way or another. what makes this so different? his cock inside me? why?
nothing. it's not. it's just a different flavor of masking. it's just another interpersonal job. i mean, i'm not not compensated. everyone gets fucked by their boss, for some people it's more literal. it's not bad. it's just different. i kind of wish he would just hire a legit prostitute but you know. whatever. we have holes at home.
he looks at me like a highly suggestive yet whimsically childish ramona flowers dakimakura, still warm from the dryer. when he starts. it's different. we both go a lot of places. sometimes i'm not sure if he knows who i am, he seems to think we're star-crossed lovers. i mean we kind of are? not like that though. like at all, just if you were to define each word individually. that's not the point.
he fucks me with the inept frenzied ferocity of a freshman philosophy major watching Donnie Darko on LSD. i try to stay out of his way, don't want to get cut on the time knife. he needs me to be his shining star, in the darkness of his mind, the darkness of my bedroom. i do try, still. otherwise. i just have to try, it's part of it. if i just give in, he has a worse time, and then so does everyone else. so yea i have to try. i have to pretend to like it, i have to receive him with warmth and wetness and grace. and i do. but it's hard to maintain, it's hard to feel like there's even a point. i know i'm going to fuck it up, i always do. when i inevitably slip, when i look sad for a fraction of a second, and his face darkens, the kaleidoscopic curiosity turned to brutalist inquisition. i watch every single star in the sky burn out and die in real time, every single night. the sun burns wild, flickers out, leaving me alone with him. all i see is my own failure reflected in the fury of his eyes.
sometimes i wonder if the fury is real, though. like if he knows i'm pretending, and he definitely does. i don't know. maybe it's just fun to play pretend? but it's hard to feel like it's pretend for me, sometimes. and sometimes it's hard to even know what's happening, let alone evaluate it. but we've reached the rage part of the evening. maybe he heard me sniffle, i tried to blend it in with a sex noise but, who's to say? maybe he just noticed the look in my eyes when i withdraw from my body, he fucking loves that. i mean he hates it. but it's great fodder for anger, it's a great reason to smack someone around, grab them by the hair and scream in their fucking face. you know to make sure they're not dIssOCiAtINg ooooh. whatever he noticed, whatever sign of displeasure i let slip, it wasn't what he wanted. or actually maybe it was exactly what he wanted, fuck, i don't know, you know what i mean.
his demeanor shifts, his thrusts become rougher, callous. i feel much smaller than i did a moment ago. i want to go home, i am home. this has been my bedroom since i was little. it is my home. but i want to go home. at least he always has new material. tonight, he asks why i'm being so difficult? why won't i just do this for him, isn't he a good parent, doesn't he take care of me, don't i know how lucky i am to have him in my life? doesn't he provide for me, doesn't he pay for my existence? doesn't he deserve to fuck his property, i mean his daughter, how and when he likes without my fucking whining, my fucking shitty attitude?
don't i love him? don't i want him to love me? i can feel the world closing in on me, i can feel the world slipping away, i, i have to come back from this precipice, and, i know i can, i know. digging my nails into my palm, i exhale slow, measured, i compose myself, i choke down my tears. i know what comes next. i have to remind myself to commit to this... bit? i fuckign guess. i go from a 7 to a 5 and i let out the most exquisitely fabricated moan i can muster, i force a dreamy smile across my scared, sticky, sweaty face. i wrap my legs around his hips and i cling to him and i say 'i love you daddy' like an atheist reacting to winning the lottery. i make sure to pitch my voice up just a bit, i try to at least. i can still feel wetness around my eyes but i think it's too dark for him to notice amongst our combined sweat. regardless. it works, he likes it. he doesn't believe me, i know my voice was still shaking, but that's ok. you don’t always have to believe someone to enjoy what they say.
his voice softens again, the light pollution clears and the starlight returns. he kisses my forehead, he tells me what a good girl i am. a good girl, a good daughter, and an even better princess.
a novel fuck, a chasm for him to splooge his loneliness into. i'm a good girl, he tells me, slowing down but never giving me an inch to move. i'm a good girl, good girls are happy to obey their parents, they're grateful for the privilege of being loved.
that's what it means, to be a good daughter. and don't i want to be a good daughter? don't i want to make my family proud? do i enjoy hurting people? hurting my family?
my existence is infrastructure. because it's not just that. it's not just being a good girl, good daughter, it's not just about making him feel loved, getting his rocks off. if i don't make him feel good, if i don't pay attention, if i can't keep him happy, if i can't make him cum people will literally die and it will be all my fault. it will be all my fault.
sometimes it feels like i am the only one who has ever felt this way.
but, i'm not.
it's simple. i need to be good. if i can be a good girl, everything will work out ok.
if i can be good, everything will be ok. everything will be ok.
good girls listen, don't ask questions, i don't ask questions. i am a good girl. when did i forget?
good girls make their parents proud no matter how bad it feels. good girls don't resist no matter how afraid they are. good girls don't fight back no matter how fiercely the battle around them rages on.
good girls learn how to scream silently.
i just need to keep practicing. i just need to try harder.
it's the family business, and i need to learn.