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Feb 23, 2020 6:53 PM
magical girl drug addict cato and jean
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"Joy."

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He beams it out.

He's past the first peak of the glory, but it's still singing through his veins, still lending him impossible strength. The joy is sweet and powerful, distilled almost to the point of pain, and he has a long reach with it.

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It’s not real. It’s not real, this is a projection, an illusion, nothing has

Everything is okay.

Everything is finally okay.

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“Stop.”

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He doesn't like stopping -- it's like cramping up, curling in muscles he'd finally had a chance to stretch -- but he does, because he has to be good for Valentine.

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He fails to recognize what’s happening, precisely, still floating in glory.

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“Very good.”

 

 

“Hunger.”

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Hunger's a bit of a stretch for him -- it's even less an emotion than lust is, and he hasn't practiced it as much -- but it's not entirely out of his reach.

He does his best, though, fueled by the bliss of that very good, sending it out to gnaw.

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He curls up slowly in place, swallows, clutches his stomach.

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“Stop.”

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He's eager to stop, this time, waiting breathlessly for his morsel of praise.

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"Well done. Outside your area of expertise, too..."

 

 

 

"Contentment."

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He hasn't quite woken up from this one, either. He chews gently at his lip.

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This one's easy, an old familiar song. It's so useful, lulling crowds into complacency: all is well, all is safe, you can rest, no need to act.

He hums, softly, as he spreads it out, a warm smothering cloak.

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"...why," he says, quietly, mostly to himself.

He's still curled up on the couch.

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Not contented enough, if he still wants answers.

Jean tries harder.

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Now, it's enough.

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"Stop."

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He stops humming.

(The veil of contentment continues on.)

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There's a quiet voice in the background.

 

"Stop projecting."

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He's too distracted to pay attention, lost in dwelling on contentment.

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