Marcescence
Chapter 5
by Fleur Fairyfloss
Tags:
#D/s
#dom:female
#f/f
#hypnosis
#pov:bottom
#sub:female
#anxiety
#bingo_dot_mp3
#disassociation
#dom:plant
#drug_play
#drugs
#drugs_question_mark
#Human_Domestication_Guide
#monsterfricker_rights
#scifi
#second_person
#storybook_horny
#transgender_characters
so it's been like....over nine months since my last chapter and i feel like this is probably going to sound a little different just because I'm in a very different place with hdgfic and in a different writing headspace in general than i was in winter of last year, but i hope it's still a fun read!
it took me awhile to figure out where to go with the rest of the fic and find motivation and brainspace to write stuff again, but I am going to tryyyy to actually finish it?
also, just in case it's ambiguous: the only affini in this fic so far has been Eglantine! the characters who show up in this chapter are....something else. (which probably makes it noncanon, but this is fun enough to write that i don't mind that, lol.)
cw spiraling anxiety, an injection, Blood Stuff
in the early days of the conflict, when the hopelessness of the terran position had yet to truly hit, the military's brightest minds spiraled. they said that fools think in terms of what is, while the clever think in terms of what-ifs. invasive species giving infrastructure a cold. seeds in your blood. weeds in your dreams.
(old accord ships like this never come with food or medicine or anything you *actually* need, but it didn’t take long to find a few vials of Letherosine IM.)
a shot in your thigh's all it takes to smother every last dream of her, of this, of them.
but.
but there's a price, isn't there?
there's a debt that must be paid.
the dreams seep into your waking self, instead. everything blurs at the edges, the only sure tell you're awake is terror.
(eglantine’s smile cuts, aches, digs into you. you imagine scarlet marks and fever spreading to your heart.)
how do you imagine this ends? helplessness, hopelessness, hollowness? empty eyes and 'mistress' ever on your lips?
i have so much more in store for you. why, i have a gift! You like gifts, don't you, little bird? Holidays, treat days, bloomdays?
What I have for you is a kind of birth! you'll see.
you're awake…?
"Ow--!"
a lingering prickle-cloud on your skin like swarms of static in second summer and you realize,
oh,
you’re awake.
your eyes blink back open, reality filling in slower than you’d like.
a smile. indulgent.
a uniform. clumps of berries and spiraling brambles and the odd pinch of holly over her heart like a mockery of service ribbons. some on top, some grown through.
(she's so pale. so pale. you catch splotches of red and a pair of eyes like bloodshot begonias and the colors you can catch only make it more pronounced, like scrying in a saucer of milk.)
"Oh."
human. ish. there's something so very human in her hunger, in the way she looks at you, in the way her face rearranges into something that purports to be a smile, so maybe that's good enough.
hunger and a flicker of recognition for you both. she was--you see half a name under the mistletoe and your heart sinks. she was one of the lifers, some career soldier who only ended up here 'cos – in a moment of weakness, she insists! – her self-preservation instinct got the better of her "terran spirit."
she hems and she hmms and every little twitch terrifies you, like you're trying to do the mental math on this encounter but midway through adding everything that looks half like a threat you’re swallowed by a sinkhole labeled "untitled BAD TIME (5)" over and over again and–
a hand on your cheek. a thumb. stroking, stroking, sabotaging every little stab you take at seeing how much of her is her and how much is–
"Suppose I can't fault you, little thing. If I were you, and you were me, and I were under a dozen dueling spells, and you were in the walls, I'd run into me too!"
her accent's different. you think.
"But!"
less benoit blanc,
"There is the minor matter of the...toll?"
more benoit blissed-out-and-blanc, joyously owning what she’s become.
"Now, please don't misunderstand, we're miles past questions of rent-seeking and recompense, but if we're going to be monsters--"
hazy and thick and stinging-sweet.
"We might as well follow the rules of monsters, and ask offerings commensurate with our monstrousness."
biiiiiig bramble-smile, like a lion tempting you to rest your arm in its throat.
“i….i left my wallet in my other uniform?”
you don’t laugh.
“i could.”
she doesn’t laugh.
“gobackandlookforit?”
no one’s quite sure what a wallet even is anymore.
“if you–i’ll just–”
a punchline-shaped gap in our understanding. a joke without context. you think people used to carry entire bags just for holding them?
“You.”
“have.”
something in her smile curdles. sags. sinks. twists.
“A wallet.”
your voice goes frantic, your voice goes hoarse. “yes! I have! an ENTIRE. an entire wallet! saved up!! it’s hidden under–”
a finger rough against your lips. pale, so pale, the scent of copper and dirt and roses and glee and want so thick you wonder when you stopped breathing air.
"Now, there are some I'd expect this from, but a sober-eyed starling like you?" a beat. “Shouldn’t you know better?”
tut, tut.
"Will a wallet shush the growl in my stomach? Will a wallet soothe the ache in my heart?"
(the lilt in her voice threatens to send your knees buckling. sweet but not saccharine, soft but not kind, a souffle shot through with rich veins of menace. she sounds like you’ve trespassed, like this isn’t a place for people, like maybe the forest’s always had you.)
“An offering is not a tithe.”
you wobble and pitch and pray that this isn’t one of those stories.
“An offering, little starling, is a piece of your heart.”
you know, those terrible telephone-game tales that start with the Affini gassing everyone and go downhill from there. dead and digested or down in the content mines for eternity ‘cos you caught the wrong monster’s eye. (or worse. better? better and worse? borse? wetter? maybe losing yourself in kludgy portmanteaus is a mercy, or at least easier than trying to wrap your head around the stranger stories you’ve heard, never mind swallowing the terrible truth at their core: that this could be you, that the only thing keeping a sea of sweet smoke from smothering all your hopes is dumb fucking luck.
“Now, my mother always saw fit to remind me that everyone has depths, hidden or not, so I have to wonder.”
(at any moment they could tear the sky in two and take you, for the whole of the universe is their larder.)
you know your monster’s gotten in your head ‘cos your first thought is,
(nobody has to be anything anymore. the stress will ruin our taste.)
you'd rather be what you're pretty sure she's made you than a player in one of those stories.
(once upon a time, you catastrophized over lightning strikes and landslides. you miss the simplicity.)
you'd rather be her victim-heroine, you'd rather be her finest and final meal, you'd rather shamble from fainting-couch to fainting couch like victorian vinelady dommebait because--
"Is a simple slip of paper upon which the phrase ‘million dollar’s’ has been inscribed – in Cosmic Sans, no less – truly the most interesting thing in your heart?"
you tell yourself it's a little more time to fight, and that even if losing isn't winning it still isn't lost, but what you really mean is
(she's so close.)
if you're going to lose so completely that you as you are now will cease to be, you'd rather see it coming.
(stroking, smoothing, soothing.)
you’d rather know that nothing brought you here but your own stupid decisions, made of your own free will. you’d rather know you weren’t doomed, you were just dense.
you’d rather know
that your fate was sealed not by poisoned luck and poor timing
(tracing your veins by the tip of her finger.)
but because you were really, really dumb. the foolish girl who could’ve just thrown the fucking spinning-wheel out.
you’ll take the dashed hopes of losing what you could’ve won over the terror of someday they will take you, and there is nothing you can do about it. there’s no dodging lightning strikes and space junk.
(you tilt your neck just so, make an offering of it. make a ceremony of it, a betrothed blood-bride’s craning curtsy.)
are you sure?
she's a little swept up in the novelty, new senses and new needs and new words blooming in her brain.
i hope you will forgive my intemperance, she says. i have never tasted such a–
such a potent–
an apologetic quirk of her lips. maybe you're infecting her with your youness. nowhere to run and no way to fight, but maybe you don’t need to. maybe you can still make them work for it.
(or maybe–)
a smile so abashed it blots out all light, like she’s made the sun cringe. like some Cool Youth Pastor making a communion of the mortifying ordeal of being known.
such a dense--
she’s so hungry, white-knuckle restraint in No Name Brand Gentleness packaging.
(or maybe this is it. maybe you’re fading. if we could’ve swallowed the sun, wouldn’t we have done it by now? maybe you’re–)
hearing things, now. a lament in the distance.
(it can’t be a ghost, right? ghosts exist to haunt, and with all the horror this place has seen, why would they only surface now?)
a genteel smile, too-sweet nothings in your ear.
(a ghost is a memory with a sense of its own mortality. a ghost is data with anxiety. a ghost needs help and a hearing, but what help could you possibly offer one who says–)
𝒪𝒽, 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒲𝒶𝓇?
a strange voice rings out, a voice like Madame Bovary Abridged, like someone shoulder-deep in their community theatresona.
you look up. a twitch in her eye, a clench. a strained smile.
(you bite back the feminine urge to burrow against the friendliest monster in the room and steal a peek. something in the distance like a wispy lilac shark.)
gently, you’re set back on your feet.
(one last little kiss on your neck, chaste as can be. is it the blood loss leaving you a little wobbly, or are you simply weak in the knees?)
𝒲𝒽𝓎, 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓂𝑜𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓍𝓍𝒾𝓃𝑔! 𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝓂𝒷𝓁𝑜, 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒻𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃! 𝑀𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓈, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝓅𝓈! 𝒮𝒽𝑒–
the light seeps back into the room like erase-tool ink in murky water, slow but inevitable.
the other one skips and swans into view, greeting you with a grand flourish. she looks like countess bathory’s bratty sister, violet staining her skin and her eyes and her lips and her teeth. her outfit’s all homegrown haute couture, a patchwork gown that looks less sewn than grown.
𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹–
she stands still for a long moment, frowning and fretting and hissing and finally flicking the side of her head in frustration before a single milky tear falls from her eye.
...𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝑔𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝓅𝓈-𝐸𝓁𝓎𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓈, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒!! 𝒪𝒽 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈, 𝓌𝒽𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝐼 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝒸𝓇𝓊𝑒𝓁 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝑒, 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒….𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒸𝒽𝒷𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒! 𝒲𝒽𝓎, 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝓂𝑒!
she looks down at herself. a quirk of her eyebrow, a brush at her skirts. and another. and another.
hisses at the tiny tulip growing just above her knee like she’s the surliest surviving denizen of stormveil cat castle, face twisting into a faux scowl. “𝘖𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘎𝘖𝘋 𝘪 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘺-𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘥𝘢–”
A-hem. A cough.
that gets her attention. and yours. biiiiiiig broad placating pleasedon’tbemad smile.
I do not understand why you must harry me so! I was merely–
𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘣?
--trying to entertain this–
𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘣?? 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵...𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘣?
--charming young lady–
𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘣𝘴. 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦-𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵. a laugh.
–must you? What joy do you derive from haranguing me with cries of 'Beatrice, won’t you go sprungling with me?' and 'Beatrice, sprungling is totally legal in space and “very cool!”' and 'Beatrice, here is a list of all the haunted cakes from Froufrou Project who I want as a haunted mom and here is a second copy inscribed upon a cake, which is also–'
𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵–
Was the cake haunted, Miriam?
…𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥? 𝘏, 𝘩𝘢𝘩𝘢....
Was the cake haunted, Miriam?
...𝘯𝘰....
And did you avail me of that before I devoted an entire week to doggedly divining the haunted cake’s final wish?
(the world begins to list and lurch.)
…𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘯𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦–𝘪’𝘮 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘪𝘭! 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥….𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘣𝘰𝘺? 𝘰𝘳–
(the world does not spin but it swallows, dimming and dulling and dizzy.)
….𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦…?
(you sink into something, someone, softly steadied for the moment.)
…Perhaps we should find the poor bird a perch upon which to rest.
𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘱?? 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳! 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺! 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘵’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭!
I didn’t–I am making every effort to–it’s not as though her strange boons come with documentation, you know!
𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺–
(an overacted ‘ugh!’ from nearby, miriam’s voice going all pouting-psx-princess.)
𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘯–
(air quotes. the last thing you see before you fade is air quotes, miriam making a ridiculous show of waving her hands around.)
𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥–
(and the dark swallows you for real, now.)
Thank you for reading!! I hope it's not too too messy?
tysm bug, rose, melody, may, and ryla for input and encouragement!!