A little more of the loli raep. Hm...I wonder who Lucy was based on...
Although the deliciously violent scenes seem to be dwindling as I keep writing more, this story DOES/WILL contain the following:
1) Delicious Violence.
2) Slight Blood Fetishes.
3) Underage Sex. (THIS INCLUDES: Underage Boy On Underage Girl Rape (Gasp! A hetero scene!), Mentions Of Overage Man On Underage Boy Rape, Underage Boy On Underage Boy Consensual Sex.)
4) Mentions Of Child Abuse.
5)Recollections Of A Suicide.
6) Angst. Lots & Lots Of Angst. I don't think it would be my writing without boatloads of angst.
I hereby admittedly state that I know hardly anything about the technicalities of jail time, the foster care system, or most mental/emotional/attachment disabilities/issues, and that I have made up details about these things for drama and easier writing.
Characters belong to Squeeeeeeeenix.
I think that's about it. I certainly hope this all covers my ass. Cos dammit, I don't want any complaints about anything that I've made sure to mention above.
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(Vincent)
The past several weeks have been good. I go to Cid's house everyday after school and he doesn't expect anything from me other than just someone to hang out with. Then I get to come back to my house to spend time with Lucy. She's getting better. She hardly tells me to stop anymore, but she still cries most of the time. But that's alright; it just makes me come harder.
She's putting up a bit of fight this evening though.
"Please, just leave me alone for just tonight," she begs.
"But it's so hard to leave you alone. You make me feel so good," I plead.
"Katy says I should tell on you."
"No, baby doll, you promised you wouldn't tell. Remember?"
"But it hurts! And you've done it almost every day."
I like it when it hurts. But I smile and ask, "If you told on me, who'd be left to give you those special tickle kisses? Who'd make you come and give you love like I do?"
"But..." She's losing. "But it... it hurts..."
"Then why don't you make me come with that sweet little mouth of yours instead?" I kiss her softly. "But first, I'll make you come with mine."
"Well..." she mulls the question over. "Okay, I guess, as long as it won't hurt."
"Good girl..." I lift up her dress and pull her panties off. Just the thought of tasting her sweetness has me hard already. I kiss the inside of her thighs to make her giggle. "And you said you didn't want to do this," I tease.
After she comes, I make her sit on my lap so I can hold her for a bit. "Do you love me?" I ask.
"Yes," she responds accordingly, and my heart beats faster.
"I love you too," I stroke her hair and kiss her red cheeks and her pink lips. "I love you so much, pretty girl. I want you to be my pretty little girl for the rest of our lives."
As if she doesn't know what to say, she just starts to unzip my pants. I stand up to help her. "You're such a good girl," I say as she opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue without me having to tell her.
She's got me coming in no time, tears streaming down her cheeks as I'm fucking her mouth. "Swallow it," I instruct, fastening my pants and getting down on my knees so we're the same height. She does, and she coughs, and I lick up the trail of jizz that's dripping down her chin.
"You said it wouldn't hurt," she says.
"No I didn't," I tell her.
"But I couldn't breathe! It was choking me," she tells me.
"I'm sorry, pretty girl," I'm not sorry; I'm a liar. "Maybe it won't be so bad next time."
"I don't wanna be your pretty girl anymore," she cries.
"But... But I love you!" I can't believe she's saying these things.
"I don't care! I hate you! I won't ever be your pretty girl ever again!"
No, no, no, no, no... I'm not hearing this, and I'm not letting go of her, no matter how much kicking and screaming she's doing. She can't scream very well with my hands around her throat. I just need to calm her down a bit, so she'll stop trying to get away from me, and she'll realize how silly she's acting. But I'm losing her.
Losing her to her mother's arms, while my own are being held back behind me by her father. I step back to watch this scene unfold. I'm trying very hard, my body struggling and writhing to break free. I may be howling and wailing and demanding, but it's all turned into one solid noise.
Why do I act like this? Like some sort of feral child?
Listen to me, Vincent. I'm sitting over here, fully prepared to calmly explain that Lucy was just being silly and I was just trying to show her that I love her. But I can't explain myself, because I'm watching myself throwing a fit and being wrestled to the ground.
And that, in and of itself, doesn't really make any sense at all, now does it?
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I'm having a dream in which my heart is being carved out of my chest. The dimly lit room in which I lay is filthy with mold and rust and dirt. The knife is much like the room. The hands using the knife are cold and grey. Their long, skinny fingers have long, dirty fingernails that look as if they could do the knife's job.
The worst part about this whole situation is my mobility. I'm laid out on some sort of table. Although there's nothing holding me down, save the hands on my chest, I can't move. I'm not sure I can even call out for help, but I'm trying to.
The hands leave the knife stuck in my chest and move to grab hold of my shoulders and a faceless voice tells me, "Wake up. Wake up, Vincent."
I really try, but I'm not sure if I'm able to. Because I don't recognize anything around me. The bed, the room, the person standing over me with his hands on my shoulders... I don't know this place.
I do know that my voice is working now, because I hear myself screaming. I'm scared and I'm frustrated. I can't wake up, but this all feels too real. I don't know where I am, there's a huge blank space of time in my memory, and I know I've lost something very important.
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(Reeve)
Oh God. Please stop screaming, Vincent. I was only trying to help. But now this kind of scares me and I don't know how to calm him down.
"I... I'm gonna get my mum, Vincent," I stammer. "Just don't...er, just stay there."
I open the bedroom door and nearly run into my parents. "What happened?" my mum asks.
"I don't know," I tell her quickly. "He was having a bad dream or something and I tried to wake him up and he just started shouting."
My mum turns the light on. Vincent has moved to the floor, in the corner, his hands on his face. He rocks back and forth quickly so his head hits the wall repeatedly. With every impact, he lets out a pained, harsh groan.
My dad kneels next to Vincent and puts his hand to Vincent's forehead to try and stop the hitting. "What are you doing, Vincent?" he asks calmly.
"Go away," Vincent growls through clenched teeth.
"Doesn't that hurt?" my dad asks.
"Go away!" Vincent shrieks, ducking under the restraining hand to ram forcefully into the wall again.
"Stop that, Vincent," my dad grabs Vincent and pulls him away from the wall, holding his arms to his sides. It ends up taking almost two hours for Vincent to quiet down and stop fighting. I want to help, but my parents say there's nothing I can do right now.
Vincent had been very lucid and very calm, albeit angry, when he came to our house earlier this evening. He'd nodded when asked if he knew why he'd been moved. I'd showed him around the house and showed him our bedroom and he'd brushed his teeth and went to bed without a fuss. But now, he's confused and upset and hysterical, and he can't seem to remember anything that's happened in the past several hours.
I was excited from the moment I heard he was coming to live with us. I've always wanted a little brother. I'd hoped we'd decide to adopt him and let him stay. I could give him advice on girls, and help him with homework, and drive him around when I get my license next year. We would be able to confide anything to each other and have the kind of closeness that only brothers can share.
But now, as I watch him deviate from the friendly little boy I first imagined to a violent little monster - and don't get me wrong, I do feel bad for him - but I'm not sure I'm too comfortable even sharing my room with him anymore.
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TBC, yo!