#algolagnia

Jane likes to think of herself as an incredibly tolerant and pragmatic person. She understands utility, beauty standards, body modification. She has piercings herself, two to each earlobe, which is a very reasonable number given her status and the standards a Crocker must to uphold.

It's just that Dirk. Well. He just has so... many.

There's nothing wrong with it, of course. The glint of red metal in his ears and over his brows and on his lips and accentuating his clavicle when he stoops forward to give her a hug in those damn low-necked tanktops. She's almost certain there's more, hidden beneath his clothing. Taunting her. Tempting her.

She just never figured him for the type. There is a type of person, in her humble experience, that adorns themself in jewelry of that nature. Not someone cerebral, innovative, charming as Dirk. Who is he meant to show off for? Who did he have to show off for, wearing— her favorite color — crimson in the middle of the sea for no one at all.

So she asks. Why wouldn’t she? Dirk has the audacity to roll his eyes at her, studded brows lifting over the straight edge of those gaudy shades in amusement. “Pretty bigoted assumption, Crocker.” Out of the goodness of her heart, she doesn’t try to correct him on the matter. Bigotry isn’t in her make, after all. “I just like it.”

Not the answer she expected. Jane’s sideswiped by the statement, which offers no rebuttal or argument. Just because. Just for the sake of it. How strange. In all honesty, the heiress can’t think of a single thing she’s done just because. The blond is clearly delighting in her quiet confusion, even if he tries to appear neutral.

“So, if it isn’t... Well. It’s not for showing off, or garnering attention, or...”

He see-saws his hand, dismissive. “It factors in. I like being looked at, I like being considered strange, I like the color, I like my look.” A beat. “The pain is nice too.” Jane’s breath hitches as she considers how many piercings he has, eyes darting to his septum, to his industrials, to the flash of red metal just behind his teeth in the center of his tongue.

Wrenching, horrible twisting. There is no give in the forged chains, the spidersilk spells, the very air within this stagnant temple. Though there is no need to breathe, an impulse lingers.

A want?

There is no need for want. There is no point in want. To want is to fail, and it is not an option to fail. Only the coiling pain may be, sitting deep in a perfect carapace, threatening to bleed out of void-hollow eyes.

Pain is a comfort, in a way. Surely pain means there is no failure, the light remains secure.

There is no need for comfort.

No need to lean into that wrathful, warm light that banishes chill from near-atrophied limbs. It is a near-temptation, to forget and to embrace and to be held, to be cradled by great wings to the bosom of a goddess.

No. The pain is good. Comfort is failure. Want is failure. Crying is failure. The orange and bright dripping from empty sockets is not crying. It cannot be crying.

Just a moment to rest. A moment, how treasured it would be, of golden light and Her Radiance would be so pleased. She would stop twisting and cutting, wouldn’t she? If it were allowed, she would take hold in a new way, stoke pleasure deep in a burdensome gut, and reward.