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alex blames the internet. he’d held out for a while before he finally caved, trying old newspapers and the local fucking library and again, again telling himself that he’s just crazy, not getting enough sleep, needs to stop watching so many fucked up movies.
googling things makes him feel exceptionally stupid. the mere act of typing the words is like admitting he believes in it, and he cringes at the thought of somebody at his internet company or whatever seeing this, thinking he’s stupid enough to really think he’s being haunted, or possessed, or whatever the hell is going on. stalked is most likely, was top of the list until he got it on camera and it had no fucking face.
it’s the forums where he actually starts to feel crazy. not like a sane person looking in, not just flabbergasted by the bullshit they’re saying, but actually like he’s losing it, because some of it sounds way too close to home. losing sleep, losing time, the debilitating headaches that have him cutting full days of class. the nightmares.
demonic possession seems to be the consensus for one person, a girl with a laundry list that matches alex’s almost exactly. it didn’t stop until i had an exorcism.
a catholic one? im surprised the church believed you
well i started seizing with no brain injury or any history of it so they knew something was up. i was on an antipsychotic for the other symptoms already bc we assumed i had some kind of schizophrenic break but it never felt like it was coming from inside me. i know im mentally ill and i know what that feels like thats how i knew this was different.
alex shivers. all his platitudes to himself have been ringing hollow for that exact reason - he can’t explain it, but somehow he knows this is coming from somewhere outside his mind, some kind of infection. he’s been anxious before, but never paranoid enough to truly believe there was someone there, let alone see them. he’d always read hallucinations wouldn’t appear on camera. half-convinced himself that maybe he’d accidentally given his mind an immunity to that easy solution, somehow made the mystery illness able to produce a consistent, solid figure every time he watches the tape back.
started seizing? she’d said it started with a cough, but she hadn’t realized until she looked back at the order of events. she’d been trespassing somewhere - urbex, apparently, a community that seems to overlap with these crazy ghost people - and brushed off the lingering problems in her throat as side effects of inhaling asbestos. it’s uncomfortably close.
do you remember any of the actual experience or did the spirit take over
i remember the prayers. he said a lot of hail marys and some long one in latin i dont think i ever heard before. i think he did yell at it like the exorcist, but most of what i heard was the praying. it didnt hurt surprisingly tho. i was in and out pretty much until it was over but i was really sweaty and sore and tired when i came back to myself like i had been running or something. havent had a headache since.
someone asks how she knew it was latin if she’d never heard it before, and the originator of the thread takes the time to mention that she goes to church regularly, knew the priest fairly well, and she’s completely certain the only reason she survived the experience not worse for wear is that she’d accepted jesus christ as her lord and savior many years ago. and you might all be so lucky!
alex closes that tab. starts again, digging from within the forum this time, searching only for exorcisms. real ones, actual instances of people needing to be purged of something evil and finding success. if this is a ghost or something (again, he cringes) maybe it is logical to think he can get rid of it religiously, set the fucking thing to rest so he can get some.
i was haunted last year. i couldnt sleep, barely ate. like depression but without the numbness. i was a walking corpse. literally. the church in town thought i was on drugs so i went to the head shop i normally go to and started talking to the girl there about it bc shes a psychic or a medium or whatever.
alex squints. is this guy just high? it sounds half-right otherwise.
we went back to her place bc she was like really concerned and she lit some candles and did some crazy shit and when i woke up it was gone. i felt totally normal again. AMA
what does ‘some crazy shit’ mean
like incantations man yk. she had this book of spells literally it looked like some shit from hocus pocus. i have no idea what it meant
alex scowls. real helpful. somebody down a bit links to a wikipedia page on the works of alastair crowley, asking if any of it looks familiar. the author of the thread never responded to that one, but alex opens it in another tab and keeps hunting, spurred on by the burst of energy that comes with doing something, anything at all besides sitting here helpless and waiting for it to appear again.
i know how to stop demonic possession- how to prevent it, how to force it out, how to keep your friends and family safe.
alex clicks in. fuck it.
in november of 2008 i was possessed by a vile spirit - he scrolls, looking for bullet points, paragraph breaks, the how-to. hits something halfway down. is this - a do-it-yourself exorcism guide? he leans a little closer.
when i walked home from class in the evenings i knew something else was with me. i’d never been depressed before, but that winter i used to walk home over the bridge and look out at the water and have to stop myself from jumping. it felt like someone else was puppeting my body, like i was stuck in a corner of my mind, forced to watch. i only had the energy to read sometimes, and only on the internet.
alex feels like he’s in control of himself, most of the time. it’s the other times that make him nervous, the blacked-out hours where he has no reason to be unsure of what he was doing.
still, though. this is something. there’s an embedded file, a scanned image of a yellowed book that he right-clicks over to another tab to examine, and a real indented step-by-step that lists self-restraint and latin pronunciation very matter-of-factly. alex swallows hard. is he really going to go through with this?
he scrolls the thread. people are skeptical, some are asking for further explanation of this tome that’s being referenced, but most of the comments are grateful. expressing how happy they are to have stumbled upon this, how thankful they are to have their lives back. at the low, low cost of looking like an idiot. right.
he shuts his computer off and goes out to walk the dog. he’s losing it, obviously, and diving into echo chambers with other crazy people isn’t going to help. he needs to see a psychiatrist, he reasons, tugging his hoodie on. he hasn’t even really tried that route, he reminds himself, as rocky leads him around to the backyard. out in the fresh air, that certainty he’d held so strongly in the glow of his monitor feels flimsier. he just needs to stop being such a shut-in, finally bite the bullet and go talk to someone.
alex sighs. “right, rocky?”
when he looks over at the dog, though, he finds him staring straight ahead, dropped into a low, scared stance, ears pinned back to his head. frozen eerily still, and growling so far back in his throat alex can barely hear him.
he knows what’s in front of them. there’s really nothing else it could be. he tries to scoop rocky up, but he’s too stiff and snappy, so he just grabs the leash tighter and starts for the back door, trying to encourage him.
“help me out here,” he mutters, and rocky looks at him with confused, wet eyes, as if to ask why the fuck he isn’t acknowledging the thing. “we’ll talk about it inside.”
he doesn’t need to look back, not really, but it could’ve been, like, a bear, right? could’ve been nothing at all, or gone when he peeks out the window, or a fucking animal, but he knew when they were out there and he knows before he looks out the blinds.
static splits through his skull, like a migraine with fangs. it’s - really fucking close. he can’t look at it for long without his head aching like it’s getting cleaved in two, but it’s standing far too close to the house. he’s not sure if it could come inside, and he’s not sure he wants to know.
alex locks everything, even if he doubts it’ll do much. either it’s bound to the outdoors or not - his deadbolt probably won’t enter the equation. it makes him feel better, though, and rocky seems to settle when he gets a degree less anxious, quits following him around and clicking nervously on the floor and curls up in his bed and starts chewing on his snoopy toy. alex apologizes to him. he whines softly and lays his chin on snoopy’s head.
alex draws the curtains upstairs, but he can’t resist looking again. stop picking at your skin, ally, you’ll get scars. it hasn’t moved. if anything, it’s a few feet closer, but he calls that paranoia. has to.
he has to do something, he decides. anything, no matter how stupid and desperate.
-
the little director is doing something.
you’re not aware of his every movement, not quite as in tune as with darling timothy, but he is skittering around with an air of suspicion, and you linger in the yard and feel the air bend around his hands. fire - warm, purring in your chest. too small to be satisfying, several tiny flames spreading out from each other, desperate to touch. he lights a few points, and you feed him the urge to keep going, to knock the candlesticks over and run for his life, but he holds strong. continues his odd ritual.
you slip closer. the trees are beautiful here, handsome and sturdy. would hold rope well, if they wanted to start bringing you snacks like that again, let you drink the suffering straight from the gasping mouths of men -
rope. have you influenced him unknowingly? he is drawing a length of soft cord through his fingers, wrapping it loosely around his body. you can taste adrenaline on the air, and a trace of that sour note that clung to dear timothy in his adolescence, nearly drowned in the sweet flavor of fear. anticipation. what is he awaiting, you want to know. what has him afraid and excited like this, when you’ve been training his tiny genitals to grow slick at the taste of blood, the sight of life draining from sparkling eyes, his animal cunt twitching obediently when you set in front of it prey to be killed.
the rope is rougher against his soft chest. you can feel him realizing. he ties it across his torso anyway, his heartbeat quickening, the temperature of his body rising in minute degrees. crosses it over itself, bisects his slight chest in half. more breast than darling tim has ever had, soft and taunt, each one methodically framed in black. it’s interesting, you have to admit that. he’s kneeling in the center of the ring of fire he’s made, frowning in concentration as he adds another layer of rope, catches his waist and one of his wrists together, binds it half-clumsily to his side. you feel his teeth break through a layer of tissue in his tongue, worrying at it in thought, know he tucks it in the back of his mouth to avoid deepening the wound.
how easy it is to grow affectionate for one’s tools. you almost find it cute.
he’s fumbling, now, only one free hand. his dominant. you like to watch him write, sometimes. like to make him, when you’re in the mood.
he leans forward. nearly unbalances himself, you can feel the wobble in your own stance. reaches for something. clears his throat, quietly, like he’s self-conscious.
he’s speaking, reading something, not his usual nasal drivel but a thorny, twisted tongue that sparks in you not pain but something akin to it. a more pointed take on the mosquito-bite prick of his prayers, something to burrow and gnaw at you. it’s irritating.
you are bristling. something about this is familiar, bitter and nostalgic, from your sensememories, not his. an old, dirty feeling, like when the pigs at that institution had started feeding timothy those disgusting capsules of poison, though it’s more of the flavor than anything. none of the cloying gray fog that had kept his mind opaque to you, no, you are drinking the director’s fear directly still, but something similar.
he has bound both hands behind his back, and you slip closer to the window without any caution to read through his eyes and nearly force his body to vomit with the wave of disgust and illness that surges up. an exorcism.
rage. incalculable rage. you are unable to bear this plane of reality momentarily, screeching and tearing the static of time apart with your claws, letting out an unending scream that echoes around the silent concrete hallways of memory and finds the young alexander somewhere in dreams. the insolent little fucker. it has been a century since anyone has attempted to turn the might of their fool church against you, at least, and you showed them what they get for that -
he’s enraging. disobedient. fucking stupid.
you felt him turning the locks tonight, the idiotic rush of hope he tamped down like the smart, logical boy he is, a skeptic, an enlightened moron who thinks himself the most intelligent creature, something who shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. the ropes make sense now. you know his taste in cinema.
fool. brat. you have been so patient. tried to explain. and this is how he treats you? like something from a monster movie?
you can give him the monster movie.
it hurts your head to be close to him. an unpleasant role reversal, but a narrative parallel you can appreciate. symmetry. the structure of the building has been constructed so recently the foundations do not exist to you, and though you are aware of the walls and doorways, it takes an effort to see them from alex’s perspective and place yourself accordingly.
you make it. his hideous chanting is like iron around your limbs, dragging heavy with exhaustion, but the platitudes mean nothing, call on nothing of value, mere superstition and metacognitive delusion making up enough bullshit in the air to slow you. you are much stronger than his god. much older than these primitive, animal practices.
from his doorway, a buzz makes itself known to you, beautiful electricity in the air - of course he would film, you’ve trained him so well. good boy. it’s a soothing balm to the stinging of his play-pretend.
you can feel his hair standing on end when he notices you. oh, sweet director, so used to being in control. he swallows hard and raises his voice, like he can drive you out if he only shouts. you wonder what your laughter sounds like to his ears, how his eyes distort your body. a man, they’d always say, so you’d gotten that much right, but always something wrong. the faces stopped fitting onto yours when you were very young.
your limbs writhe under your shell, the exo-skeleton that you’ve bent and cracked and warped on the x-axis itself to make a believable mansuit. he wants a monster, he can have a monster.
you reach out with one tendril, behind his back, savoring finally being free to taste the air again, even with a fraction of your tongues. you can see him now, really see him, the shape of his body from outside, and you reach out and stroke his bare, vulnerable neck.
he jolts. nearly topples over, cursing and whipping his head around, trying to see.
“g-get out! m-may God rebuke you! by the power of- ah!”
the shell of his ear is salty and smooth and makes him gasp, a strangled, high-pitched sound. you reach out again, for his throat and neck, unfurling more of your limbs with curiosity and intent.
“n-no,” he gasps, “what are you-?”
you reach between his lips and nearly burst with sensation. his eyes go wide and wet, his throat opening up for the intrusion, tight and hot and all around you. you fill his mouth, careful not to make him gag, just to stifle his voice and put an end to the irritation.
you have a much better view of him like this, dragging dozens of your more sensitive nerves over his skin, wrapping around his neck, reaching into his hair, pushing his glasses off of his face as you explore the shape of his cheeks, the sweat beading along his hairline.
he whines, deeply muffled. tries to speak, you think, and you’re reaching out with another set of tentacles to hunt for the weak spots on his body, makes him scream and shout and squirm as you’re approaching. the ropes are holding him firm despite his wiggling, and you encircle one soft breast and then the other, for all intents licking and pinching his pink nipples. his brow furrows, his scent thick and sour. the conflicting emotions coming off of him color the edges of your pseudovision, and though you prefer his hysterical fear to his nervous lust, it cannot be denied that they’re working in unison inside his tiny mind.
you probe that mind briefly; find it fluttering wildly with excitement and rage, and images of pornography -
interesting. jejune, and crudely rendered, but there is a clear theme. you encompass his body further. grab more purposefully, imitating the animated erotica and seeking to grope him, to make him feel small and ruined. you rub the space between his legs in a manner similar to how he does it himself, try to, though it’s difficult with him kneeling and attempting so stubbornly to close them.
he isn’t very large, all in all. it takes very little of your effort to support him, to make sense of the shape of his bondage and lift his back, his ankles, pull him up like a caught fish. it’s one tight harness down his body, so if you pull his legs back a bit, support his spine and arms, his hands are stuck uselessly behind him while you pick apart the place he’s tied his ankles together.
it’s quick work. he shouts anyway, flails and complains when you spread his legs, weaving up and around and sucking at his thighs, curling around his waistband from underneath. the smell of arousal is heaviest here, and his shame becomes overwhelming, delicious and heady. you pull out of his mouth for a moment, pet his cheek with your wet fingertongue instead.
“s- stop it,” he says, and you rub again at the hot epicenter of his tiny shorts, the place that makes his mind spark like flint. “no, n-no, this isn’t real. i’m dreaming.”
your rage, finally starting to cool, flares up again, and you push more forcefully, make him cry out -
you are awake, you want to scream, asinine weapon, stupid, stupid boy. you tear his underwear from his body. it is no surprise to either of you to find him soaked.
his heart is pounding. he is babbling something, protesting, but you are tuned into his thoughts and the hum of desperation there, yes, he thinks, as his mouth forms no. you are violating him, humiliating him, and he can’t stop criticizing his body for responding.
you breathe deeply in the scent of him, the shape of his small cock, erect and dripping. “no,” he tells you, “don’t,” and you see through his eyes the terrifying, phallic approach of your tendril between his legs, the way he squirms and frets and tries not to want it. surely he can’t be afraid you won’t fit.
you stroke at him first, flicking and sucking where he’s swollen and oversensitive, letting him bitch until it becomes too grating and you stuff his mouth again. it feels good around you, his slack tongue, the drool leaking out of the corner of his lips. his mind is whirlwind of guilt, twisted pleasure, and, oh, you had forgotten the camera until it occurs to him he’s going to see this footage later.
good. you turn him to better face the lens. get a good shot of his overwhelmed, screwed-up face, looking almost like he’s scowling with it. dropping open with shock when you encircle his clit, all of his little cock, pumping it and making his eyes roll back in his head. moaning back in his throat, ah- ah- ah- as you please him, squirming against his restraints, your limbs still working at his nipples, sucking on his throat. his nerves are sparking under his skin, overwhelming him already, and you both know this isn’t the main course yet.
please, he thinks, projecting loudly in the hopes of reaching you. he does not clarify if he means stop or more.
still licking his cock, you squeeze his thighs tighter and spread them further, find the level of tension that convinces him his hamstrings could snap without putting his poor mortal body in any real trouble. pitiful little thing. he won’t get cocky again, you think, not when he knows what you can do. and if he does -
no, he begs, i- i can’t- and he will never finish, not unless you come back here later and let him, caught forever on the edge of what he was going to say before you thrust inside him.
his body arches, and he moans and struggles, a hot and drowning wave of shame as he realizes he really isn’t too tight for you, that there is no blinding pain to accompany the warm stretch of something thick inside him, nothing to dry his drooling, hungry cunt.
it doesn’t hurt, does it, for you to push inside, him wet and forgiving, lush and pink despite his efforts to tense up, to squirm away. he’s more afraid now than he was. isn’t that interesting.
his body is hot inside, feverish and soft, and it is overwhelming, the feeling of him, a rush of pleasure you had not expected. you thrust deeper, chasing the sensations, enjoying the way he goes limper when you curl up and investigate the curve of his pelvic bone, the change in texture as you reach up inside him. there’s something there, you think, a nerve center maybe, to make him whine so much.
his mind is getting lax, too, nice and loose. his thoughts, usually a twisted knot of anxiety and criticism, are untangling, coming in slower and shorter bursts. he can’t gather himself, can’t think around the feeling of you. you have no sympathy, not when the sensation of him everywhere is so satisfying, so new and exciting, something to do.
you can taste his slick, his sweat, the places they mingle and become something primal and flavorful, the heavy, sour scent of his arousal mixing with his sweet fear. between his thighs, leaking down where you’re still pushing inside him, free for you to explore further, bringing more of your limbs closer to lick at him, spreading his legs wider; his underarms, hidden from you partially but still an open cavity to wriggle inside, smelling and tasting him, making him squirm and whimper.
you can feel, in his skin, the moment he gives up fully. still being unkind to himself, still wet with shame, he admits it isn’t the worst thing you could’ve done. relaxes, despite the hot wave of humiliation. what a complicated little mind. he’ll be so beautiful when it’s gone.
you pull out of his mouth with a slick sound, his gag reflex stuttering and catching, a thick line of drool clinging to his lip, to your tongue. his glasses are nearly off - you flick the loose arm on your way out and they clatter on the floor below him.
his brow furrows. he bitches, in words you can barely make out, if he is coherent at all. it’s hard to tell when you couldn't care less what he’s saying, not with a direct line to all the guilty thoughts he doesn’t dare voice.
it feels good. he’s afraid he’s going to orgasm like this, terrified that there is nothing he can do to prevent it - you can feel his blood rushing in your ears, the hot rush of power that drives you to fuck him deeper, touch him more -
he can take two, you decide, and he stretches to accommodate you and lets a tear roll down his cheek. the histrionics are a lot more entertaining like this, with him trapped and agreeable. he twitches around you, groans as you sink inside -
“s-stop it,” he pants, trying to glare with glassy, unfocused eyes, and for that you sneak one limb around to grab and lick at his asscheek, to press meaningfully at the last place you haven’t violated him.
“n-no. i’m sorry,” he says, and you know it splits his skull to look at you so directly, but he tries anyway. “i’m sorry about that, i- i didn’t think you would-”
his mouth really does feel nice. his tight throat, another warm orifice, but so different from the sensation of his cunt. that reflex is something special, a fun little button to prod at and watch his face screw up. (gently. you vaguely remember humans have a propensity for vomiting if you do that too much.)
he makes so much noise when you fuck him it’s likely for the best. cries, openly now, lets himself be held open and sobs on your every thrust. you can feel his orgasm building under your skin as if it was yours - only his knowledge gives the feeling context, only his burgeoning fearshame at the dawning realization he is going to cum like this.
good.
please, he’s telling you, more frantic than he’s ever begged for his life. pleasepleaseplease as you’re sucking his cock still, rubbing that spot inside him that’s making his whole body hot. you’re being too forceful, maybe, pressing into him so hard, but he bucks up and chases it, arches his back and whines, please, please.
you’re not thinking of anything. there is no hunger, no pain, no compulsion unsatisfied. there is only your brilliant little director, and his earth-shaking bliss finding an echo in your body. you couldn’t stop if you wanted to, couldn’t take back this punishment if he’d apologized from the start. this is the most fun you’ve had this century.
you’re keeping him, you decide, and it’s in that moment you realize -
even muffled as he is, he shouts when he cums, moans at a pitch you would not believe was the same sensation not wracking through you. it is overwhelming, to put it mildly. you’re fucking him still, his release still driving you rigid and trying to squeeze the last drops of pleasure out of your tense muscles, out of his -
you do not realize until its passed that you’ve shorted out the electricity in his apartment. maybe the entire complex.
you set him down in bed. you do not linger, don’t bother with his restraints, pull out and pay very little mind to all of the wetness still clinging to you, collapsing up inside your suit.
he catches his breath. stares up at you, placid and tamed. in the dark, without his glasses, you almost look human through his eyes.