starsnostars
Characters: Dess (it/they, uses she/her in-story) ; Kris (they/them, aux it/its)
Warnings: Underage drug use, sex; psychotic episode; nothing really that hot sorry all; sort of abrupt ending
Words: 592 brocken hart emoji
Notes: you will never know what AGsAB these two have
Sitting across from you, she wonders about your obedience.
Much of it came from your nature as a dog, she surmises. Dogs as a whole are loyal, sweet little creatures, whose primary goal in life is to obey their masters.
To make them feel good.
But, even still, a dog has to be trained. Struck, fed, starved, loved until they finally obey just right.
Given treats, once they finally act just right.
You lean over to lick the crumbs off her hand, the edibles she fed you half a second ago beginning to settle gently in your stomach.
The edibles she fed you an hour ago slowly lulling you into serenity.
The very second her hand is clean, she grabs you by your collar, forcing you to take in the smoke she exhales.
"You ready?"
Without meeting her eye, you nod.
So begins the ritual of consumption.
--
Both of you fall backwards, panting, into the pile of cushions practically lining the leftmost walls of her closet.
The cushions are tainted with your sweat, your scemt, as she tears off your shirt and presses you deeper within the softness now surrounding you both, muffling the whines brought forward with thanks to the haze clouding your mind.
Even with such obvious, all-encompassing reminders of your existence, however, you still sense her thinking of your brother.
The way he forces her to walk on eggshells with him.
How he insists, every step of the way, that even a hair out of line could send them both to hell.
...How she never once had that feeling with you.
She shoves her snout beneath your pit, taking in deep your scents and the lust that lays beneath them.
A dog knows much better than to refuse what fuels its own survival, after all.
You lie still, allowing her to fold up your essence and put you in her pocket.
Waiting, her form begins to oscillate like the feed of a tv with bad signal.
She mouths your shared code-language into your ear, and you nod in understanding.
So begins the second phase of your ritual.
--
Your legs are lifted above your head, stars holding them open and apart as shattered deep-blue glass sinks into your flesh.
Something is entered into you, and you enter it in turn, and it glitters in the starlight.
Dess is calm. Dess is the rolling ocean, positioning you together in dizzying dance. Dess is the lead, you are leading Dess, you feel beneath Dess's pelt, you feel into her SOUL.
More thoughts of Asriel, of his warmth, the cinnamon-scent of your house, the taste of cinnamon sugar.
He would never say yes to this.
You would never say no.
The stars pull tighter. Your arm is trapped. You can no longer hold Dess, but she whispers thanks and comfort into your ear, pulling it down so you can hear more, pulling it down until you bleed.
Blood is pooling into the cushions mocking your SOUL. Mocking you. Laughing at you, aren't they? Aren't they laughing with you? Aren't you so happy?
Aren't you happy, when she sobs over you, your eyes becoming cups, cups holding tears, holding her? Holding her, feeling her shake as you fill her, as something is filling you? Is you?
Aren't you happy when it's over, and you feel the warmth and her talking about the pills she'll have to take now, in ten minutes, in an hour, tomorrow.
When finally, finally, she stops thinking about Asriel, her thoughts are only on you.
It feels nice.
