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- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
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- Weekends, I tend to have buckets of time unless I'm working or traveling (I'll let you know), then I'm scarce af. During the week, I work pretty standard 9-5, then go to class or the gym, so....8-11 PM Pacific?
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- Primarily Prefer Female
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- I'm open to more than I'm closed to. If it doesn't fall under gratuitous or inorganic (forced) romance, pitch me an idea, and we'll work it out.
Mal had been frozen in the middle of the room for almost an hour before her legs gave out. It was the longest she'd been upright in two days, except for that part where they tied her wrists over her head and yanked her shoulders out of position. And she was tired and hungry, and...and something. It seemed to her that nothing else existed but physical sensation. No desire, no emotion. Just pain and exhaustion and the feeling of someone else's blood growing cold on her skin.
It was the pain of the brand -- not its boundaries, not its ruthless symbolism, just the pain itself -- that reminded her of what she had to do. She had started trembling more severely after half an hour of just standing in one more place, exertion taking hold where fear and shock had made their place. And then finally, her legs had buckled, and she'd thought she was passing out, and she was glad for it, until she landed on her elbow so hard, she nearly wrenched her arm out of its socket. A surprised sound left her mouth, as if she'd only just become aware of where she was, loosely speaking, at least, and she whimpered in the back of her throat, because her head hurt and her stomach hurt and she was cold.
That part was easy, then. With her brain turned off, her body reacting solely on survival instinct, things were nice. Not good, but nice. She dragged herself back to her feet after a few moments. Not because she was covered in blood and that was awful in some way she'd never be able to say, but because she blood was soaked into her clothes and hair and making her shake.
She was tired, too, and hungry, but she knew she couldn't sleep until she took the white pills in that red bottle, and she couldn't take those pills until she ate, and she couldn't eat until...well. That was too much, too far right now. Eating would come later. First, a shower.
The shower was harder. The hot water was good, but it was only a matter of minutes before the steam and heat made her feel light-headed and she had to sit and let the water run over her back and shoulders and hair. She cried while that happened. Not because she was sad or afraid, but because the water sliding over the burn on her belly hurt so bad she wanted to pass out, and she couldn't. She cleaned the burn the best she could, but she didn't get very far. She'd have to take some of those painkillers first. Maybe a lot. Enough so that she could be quick and dirty with scouring away the dead skin and wrapping it. Enough to put her out for a long time, too deep for any dreams.
But that, too, was for later.
She sat under the water until the water went cold and she was shivering again then stood up and turned it off and grabbed clothes to keep warm. Nothing impressive. Nothing fit, and she still didn't want anything touching her belly. She ended up grabbing a pair of pants made from a loose material she didn't recognize. They were too long by several inches, but she'd fix that later. She nearly fell asleep just picking out the clothes, and she had to keep telling herself she had to eat and take that medicine and wrap her stomach first.
She chose another white, sleeveless shirt, only without the blood, and cut away the bottom so it didn't touch the tender skin on her belly. And then she chose a plaid button up because there were still goosebumps and streaks of red on her shoulders and arms and she wanted those gone now, thank you.
She could have fallen asleep then, if Foka hadn't come back in. She didn't jump, because she didn't feel scared or angry, or anything at all, except hungry and tired. She watched him walk in and stared at him calmly and waited. The orange jumpsuit she'd discarded was left in the bathroom. She thought maybe she should go rescue it, but she couldn't figure out why, and she didn't really want to know.
It was the pain of the brand -- not its boundaries, not its ruthless symbolism, just the pain itself -- that reminded her of what she had to do. She had started trembling more severely after half an hour of just standing in one more place, exertion taking hold where fear and shock had made their place. And then finally, her legs had buckled, and she'd thought she was passing out, and she was glad for it, until she landed on her elbow so hard, she nearly wrenched her arm out of its socket. A surprised sound left her mouth, as if she'd only just become aware of where she was, loosely speaking, at least, and she whimpered in the back of her throat, because her head hurt and her stomach hurt and she was cold.
That part was easy, then. With her brain turned off, her body reacting solely on survival instinct, things were nice. Not good, but nice. She dragged herself back to her feet after a few moments. Not because she was covered in blood and that was awful in some way she'd never be able to say, but because she blood was soaked into her clothes and hair and making her shake.
She was tired, too, and hungry, but she knew she couldn't sleep until she took the white pills in that red bottle, and she couldn't take those pills until she ate, and she couldn't eat until...well. That was too much, too far right now. Eating would come later. First, a shower.
The shower was harder. The hot water was good, but it was only a matter of minutes before the steam and heat made her feel light-headed and she had to sit and let the water run over her back and shoulders and hair. She cried while that happened. Not because she was sad or afraid, but because the water sliding over the burn on her belly hurt so bad she wanted to pass out, and she couldn't. She cleaned the burn the best she could, but she didn't get very far. She'd have to take some of those painkillers first. Maybe a lot. Enough so that she could be quick and dirty with scouring away the dead skin and wrapping it. Enough to put her out for a long time, too deep for any dreams.
But that, too, was for later.
She sat under the water until the water went cold and she was shivering again then stood up and turned it off and grabbed clothes to keep warm. Nothing impressive. Nothing fit, and she still didn't want anything touching her belly. She ended up grabbing a pair of pants made from a loose material she didn't recognize. They were too long by several inches, but she'd fix that later. She nearly fell asleep just picking out the clothes, and she had to keep telling herself she had to eat and take that medicine and wrap her stomach first.
She chose another white, sleeveless shirt, only without the blood, and cut away the bottom so it didn't touch the tender skin on her belly. And then she chose a plaid button up because there were still goosebumps and streaks of red on her shoulders and arms and she wanted those gone now, thank you.
She could have fallen asleep then, if Foka hadn't come back in. She didn't jump, because she didn't feel scared or angry, or anything at all, except hungry and tired. She watched him walk in and stared at him calmly and waited. The orange jumpsuit she'd discarded was left in the bathroom. She thought maybe she should go rescue it, but she couldn't figure out why, and she didn't really want to know.