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Summary
Taylor Hebert has a sociopathic personality disorder, human mind control powers, and one goal: seem normal.
Series
- Part 1 of Human Master Taylor Fics
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I watch her put a hand on my shoulder, and another on my hip. The inky black goop spreads across my body from those two contact points. I stare into her tumor eyes, I think about how electric the mass enthrallment of the human race is going to be. I think about how this attractive monster is a persona worn by a fundamentally immoral alien being. I stare at it, at her, at the Taylor that controls Taylor. She's a disease, she's a curse, she's a bitch who has the world in a noose made out of intestines she stole. She can take me right to Heaven, if only I'll allow her. She can rule me in ways I didn't even know were possible. I get down on my knees and I look up at her.
In our shared imagination the Societal Cancer summons a glass of champagne and lowers it to my lips. She feeds me, and I drink it. It's somewhere between alcohol and ammonia, but with a grape sweetness and sharpness that hides the fact that she's doing this to me.
I like it, because she likes it.
God fucking dammit.
The champagne isn't the kind of thing that I thought I was into. I've always preferred cocktails: Old Fashioneds and negronis. I don't like fizzy drinks. Her champagne is necter, it's like I'm drinking her blood. What she's doing to me feels like what Taylor does, the way she alters me to suit her needs, but Taylor's neurotic about it. The Societal Cancer carries herself like the empress Theodora. She refills the glass with a snap of her fingers, claw-like nails bending around the spindle-neck of it, and then she feeds me more. I know it's not really her piss, of course. Her claws, odorous, dig into my shoulders. She wears Taylor's face, and I know she's going to damage me.
She's my saint of the black, pulsating mass. She appreciates me with her eyes, as if she knows that we aren't at a place where I'd want to fuck her. She grabs my chin. While kink is something I'm willing to do with relative strangers, actual sex and romance are both things that only kick in when I'm super close to someone like Taylor. I'm not close to the Societal Cancer, but her physical affection is appealing to me in a context I know's platonic. I feel like I'm hovering in the air as I stare into her bulging eyes. She's a sculpture made of biomass, an organic entity that spreads across the floor like a spill or a mold colony. She's malodorous, but her stinking smell only makes me more eager to submit and be hers. It's like a musk, but it invades the mind through the nose.
"'Saint of the black, pulsating mass?' How poetic, Lisa," she says. Black claws, nails, crunch into my neck. My dumb smile grows. "Why don't we check your theory," she says. "Why do you think nobody's targeted Taylor, even though her power is a moral nightmare with the capacity to — as far as most know it — commit Heartbreaker-esque crimes on a massive scale? Even though the truth is that even a super-Heartbreaker is vastly underestimating Taylor's potential?"
I stare at her perfect face, with all of its growths and overgrown flesh.
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