Serious Weakness but with Girls

This is an expansion pack for people who finished Serious Weakness. It is the entire story in girl form, hypercompressed, violently downloaded into your head.
I’m working on a lot of projects right now so I’m not able to get to my yuri stuff as soon as I wanted. So here’s Serious Weakness But With Girls as a little treat for the girlfags out there. <3

A painting with an X carved into it. A nice house with a stranger in it.

The first thought Tria has about Insul is that those fingers have no sensation. Looks like a chemical burn.

Then she wonders if Insul’s a tranny. She has excellent bone structure and her voice is kind of deep, but maybe that’s just because of her height. The world is full of all kinds of girls, Tria thinks in a self-satisfied way.

Insul says, “Want to play?”

There’s nothing lonelier than a golf course at night. The house’s private course can’t be that big, but at night it seems to extend infinitely.

She realizes Insul is staring at her, and has been for some time. After her internal energy meter ran low and she determined that Insul probably wasn’t someone she needed to impress, she stopped making fake eye contact. Usually people glance over occasionally but focus on whatever she’s focusing on, which right now is golf. But she has the strange feeling Insul has been watching her brazenly this whole time, with that zero makeup, zero affect face, naked and dead and hungry the way an animal shows hunger, face unchanging, everything held in the posture, the attention.

Now that she’s making real eye contact for the first time, she sees the complete deadness of Insul’s face, eyes that eat the shadows. Resting bitch face, she thinks reflexively. Not resting bitch face. Resting death face. Resting fuck you and die face. But it’s not resting.

Tria says, “What?”

“You think you’re better than me.”

Insul chokes Tria out, golf club across the throat, then drops her to the ground. Tria’s knee aches from the sharp impact of the club, too painful to do more than crawl.

Insul drags the club next to Tria’s head, setting off hypersensory teeth-grinding thought nullification. She bends over and her brown hair falls like a curtain, cut at irregular heights, squares of stars behind the dark hairy mass. She stares into Tria’s eyes.

“You have pretty high pain tolerance for a girl.”

Tria shivers in the public park restroom, her nice professional dress torn, shoulder exposed. “I need a stall.”

Insul stands at the entrance, listening to the distant laugh of hikers, the rumble of a car somewhere. “Use the urinal.”

“But I’m a girl.”



Insul grabs her by the hair and pushes her against the urinal so she’s forced to straddle it. “Take them off.”


“Your underwear.”

“I d-don’t—”

Insul twists the girl’s dark hair, crushing her cheek into the cold porcelain. “Feel how hard that’ll be when I slam your mouth into it?”


Insul grips tighter, dyed green strands feeding through her knuckles like an industrial accident.

“Okay, okay—” She pulls her panties down, trying to keep her skirt from riding up.

“You wanted to piss. Do it.”

“You’re m-making me nervous, I can’t—”

Insul sighs. “You think if you fuck around enough, someone will come save you.” She trails off, mouth still open like she’s going to say something else, the first time Tria’s ever seen that hesitation in her, so she waits, hoping Insul has finally come back to sanity.

Insul’s teeth sink into the nape of her neck. The contents of her bladder explode messily across the urinal, thighs quivering in a dripping arch.

Tria cries as the scissors chop through her hair, delicate lines of blood raining from her scalp.

“You’re not a girl anymore. You’re just mine.”

“Please s-stop—”

“You should thank me. Your tiny fucking tits weren’t fooling anyone.”

Tria covers her naked chest, tear dripping warm onto her clenched hands.

“You were always going to be a shitty version of the automatic girls.”

“It’s not true, let me have my phone, I have pics—“

I posed so carefully. Why are the rules changing?

Insul holds up the cracked phone. The image gallery is empty. “You have nothing. And I deleted your socials too.”

I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you—

“What’s your cash app password?”


Insul taps around the phone. “Fine. I don’t need your bank account.”


Happy anime sounds come from the phone, and Tria grabs for it. Insul holds it just high enough to keep away, and finally Tria’s arms fall at her sides, pale and skinny, cloudy with contusion.

Insul does gacha pulls until Tria’s bank account is empty. All the shitty anime girls Tria lusted after, smiling and dancing in the bathroom sky, the only light in that dark space, glossy CGI sparkles like stars, cascading into the blur of her decaying vision.

Tria stares at the Holzer plaque on the wall.


She could reach out and destroy all these old artworks so easily. She’s inside of history, in a vulnerable place.

The director’s body is starting to burn as flames gurgle through the spilled paint. The fumes make Tria dizzy.

Crimson fluid spatters Tria’s face, slicking her hair back tight against her skull. Paint cans lay on their sides, raining red. Hot air blasts from the fire consuming the museum, flapping the plastic wrap stretched over the unfinished wall. Her tears cut through the red paint.

My mask is running.

She coughs from smoke, then her expression returns to blankness. Insul isn’t done cutting.

Insul cuts her bangs in the mirror badly, as Tria lays on the bathroom floor. She wears a white button up shirt soaked red with blood and nothing else, the flaps barely covering between her legs. She stares up with a black eye as wisps of brown hair fall down, stiff with coagulated blood. Her own hair was cut short for the museum, green dye sticking from the black hair in ugly flat chops. Whenever she catches her reflection, she feels like an emaciated prepubescent boy, some kind of cringe boysona eidolon she’d have drawn on DeviantArt after overdosing on Y2K nostalgia.

All the safe sweet smells and soft dresses and salon-cut hair she’d managed to assemble to look like a human being after being made fun of for so long, stripped from her by this psychopath. She hasn’t felt this sexless and stunted since middle school, when she crashed through fifty walls of social rules she’d never even considered. Every week she burnt with shame, manually repairing the mistakes she made and following other girls around trying to become perfect copies of them, until one day, someone called her pretty. And she thought, I’m a human being now.

She touches her chest and instantly dissociates. The X cut through her tits. One of the nipples is sliced in half. The two halves won’t join together, screaming raw. Nerve pain radiates through her chest in response to temperature, humidity, elevated heartbeat.

Insul says, “You’re so flat, they really thought you were a guy.”

Tria thinks, I’ll never have normal sex again. My way of relating to my body is ruined forever. I’ll never be able to wear a bikini. Never be naked in front of someone again. It’s okay. She made me break up with my boyfriend.

Will it hurt when I touch myself?

Insul gets down on the floor, scissors clicking on the tiles like a toy marched around. Her bangs are mutilated, her hair much shorter than the barbarian mess it was at the museum, chic mimicry from a distance, as if she’s sucking the femininity from Tria.

Insul says, “Did you ever play the Sims?”


“I’d trap people like you in cement rooms. Set them on fire.” Insul dangles the scissors between Tria’s legs, the cold steel dragging across the bruised thighs. “But you can’t come back to life. So whatever I do to you. Has to be really fucking good.”

Tria infodumps about her own ways of playing the Sims and how she’d help them have the perfect life. She’s very afraid of the scissors and talking seems to distract Insul.

Insul says, “But did you ever torture them?”

Tria had forgotten about that. It was a long time ago. “I had WickedWhims installed and one day I found this mod on LoversLab. I couldn’t figure it out and when I came back to the thread it was deleted. So I forgot about it and then a week later I realized it was working, I just hadn’t found the control thing in the UI. You could do pretty bad stuff to your Sim with it. You could make the whole family watch. I turned it on by accident. It was scary. But I’d made all my Sims so beautiful. So I watched too.”

Insul is silent. The scissors start to rotate, one of the tips poking the soft edge of Tria’s cunt lips. Tria starts to shake. “If I tell you what I did, will you not do it?”

“Not do what?”

Tria doesn’t want to say in case she makes it come true.

Insul stares with those dead brown eyes, nearly black in the dim bathroom. “Not torture you like the Sims or not use these scissors on you?”

“Can it. Can it be both? That don’t get done?”

Insul snips the scissors and Tria twitches, her skinny thighs quivering just a little. The scissors are laid flat on Tria’s leg, chilling metal balanced just above the knee, a tingling glissando that could be a phantom sensation or a healthy rivulet of cold sweat. “Tell me about the Sims.”

“Okay. I made the dad fuck the daughter. And he put her head in the toilet then he put his gun in her mouth. It wasn’t a real item it was a gun that only existed when you were fucking. And the mom and the son were crying and shaking and their mood was dropping and his was dropping and he had a mental break. So he shot them both while he was still inside her. And the Reaper came. Their dog was running toward the bodies but the pathfinding got stuck so it just spinned back and forth and wasn’t able to comfort either of them.”


“I think it’s an idea I had in my head.”


“It was kind of funny. The Reaper was watching like it was waiting for the daughter to get shot too. But I made it so the dad shot himself. And the daughter instantly stood up, and the Reaper didn’t leave so her family was dead in the living room and she was naked talking with the Reaper and the dog was doing excrements in the corner. And the little bubbles went up and they talked about silly little things. Just like this.”

“I like that.”


“I have to keep you alive until I think of the perfect horrible thing to do to you. So let’s order pizza.”

Insul sits on the toilet, drinking another can of Monster as she pisses aggressively. Her feet smell like dried paint and blood. The paint stays bright and colorfast, but the blood has dried to dark brown. She hasn’t showered for a long time. She laughs that dead laugh like a bad recording, a laugh without joy, a laugh to signal some internal switch that Tria still can’t understand.

“Open your mouth.”

Tria opens her mouth.

Insul tips the can and the dregs spatter Tria’s soft little mouth, guttering out the myasthenic dip in the side.

“It should hit you really hard because you haven’t eaten for awhile. So when I chase you, I want you to try this time. Or you’ll be really upset. At what happens to you.”

Tria can still hear the ocean roaring from last time. The sand, hot enough to burn her feet. She ran really hard and it made her muscles misfire, overload, her whole body shut down. At the end she was crawling into the sea, trying to escape, trying to fling herself into something bigger.

Insul dragged her back, leaving a groove in the wet sand. As Insul cut her name into her thighs, Tria watched the waves wipe away even the crude trace of her existence, leaving a shiny smooth blankness.

Insul says, “I think I felt something that time.”


People started throwing up in the cafeteria. I stood there watching them and I was smiling. I don’t know why I don’t smile anymore. The lips move but it’s not connected underneath.

I could smell everyone’s stomach acid. It was in my sinuses.

Not everyone was dead. We saw that girl who kept snitching on us. Blake gave me a cup of the special sauce. I could feel it about to melt through the plastic so I dumped it in the girl’s mouth. She couldn’t even scream. Her lips melted back into her throat.

The cops were outside. Blake told me to hide. Said the cameras couldn’t see what I did. It’s only real if the cameras see you. She told me the invisible way to walk. Through the blind spot. I hid under the table. I thought she had a plan. I thought we’d be together forever.

I heard her drinking something. She fell down and started puking. I heard the cops coming down the hall. I crawled under the tables until I was next to her.

Her puke spread across the floor and the chemical was pure enough to burn my fingers. It hurt a lot but it must have hurt her worse. So I kept touching it. Because I was dedicated to our friendship.”

Insul holds up her fingers and Tria finally understands why the tips are burnt, the nails black.

“And I’m dedicated to our friendship. Tria.”

Insul says, “You’re a sponge. Except instead of stupid factoids, you’re going to remember everything I do to you, and everything you are now. Retards like you are so easy to overwrite.”

“You’re the one who got overwritten. Blake erased your personality.”

Eyes like dirty glass. “I don’t remember what I used to be. I just know. With Blake it was beautiful.”

“So the psycho who groomed you died before you could get past the honeymoon phase. No wonder you’re fucked up.”

Tria flinches, but Insul’s tensed muscles don’t snap. She just stares emotionlessly, then says, “The normie you were dating will never love you like that.”

“I am. I am dating him.”

Insul wraps her arms around Tria from behind, the crossed limbs setting off a red mirror of pain in the scars below. “Your skin doesn’t work for him anymore.”

Tria tries not to burst into tears. “You’re jealous of my healthy relationship. That’s why you’ve been sabotaging us—”

“Your boyfriend—” Insul traces Tria’s chest and the X flashes with pain, the crust of her badly healing nipple breaking, yellow pus soaking her shirt warm as melting ear wax. “Your ex, boyfriend. Your X. He has this idea of you. It must take a lot of energy to maintain. Oh my godddd. Big smile. Lots of exclamation marks.” She puts her lips up to Tria’s ear. “But I know you want to do the same thing over and over and get dirtier and dirtier and be a dirtbag. I knew it after talking to you about thirty seconds. That you were disgusting like me.” Insul’s lap is warm, rough denim crotch pulled taut and smeared with skid marks or menstrual dark from the bony ass struggling on it. “We can sit around like lizards. Like robots. And know. Just know. We don’t have to smile anymore. You’ll never have to go outside again.”

A cold hard desperation gleams in Tria’s face, teeth like chips of milk. “If I can’t go outside, I’ll kill myself.”

Insul is silent. Then she says, “Don’t kill yourself.”

Halloween night, they stand in the middle of Spirit Halloween, Tria covered in real blood, Insul in a black and white cheerleader outfit with the tags still on. “It’s like I’m your hot girlfriend,” Insul says in a monotone. “A girl who likes short guys.”

Some college boys are making comments about Insul’s ass, too drunk to realize or care about being heard. Then they notice Tria. It’s not like the movies where a clear casus belli is muttered or a body part is referred to directly, it’s the way they say it that makes Tria hurt, like pack animals clicking to each other. It took her a long time to understand those kinds of insults, the trailing sentences and backhanded compliments. Half of them think she’s a lesbian, the other half thinks she’s a beta cuck or Insul’s little brother.

Insul’s tits crush into the back of Tria’s head as she holds her from behind. “The thing you don’t know about him. Is his dick is huge.”

They laugh and she says, “Don’t laugh.”

They walk away but one of them whispers some shit and the other giggles so she follows them into the parking lot and Tria watches through the glass as Insul’s thighs flash, the skirt flipping up as she slams the tallest of the college boys into the hood of his car. Her spine stands out in the crop top like a dinosaur bone trying to escape, bulging like she’s saying something very forcefully.

She comes back inside and there’s a single drop of blood on the white trim of her top. “It’s okay. They won’t call the cops.”

“Wow, I love when people don’t call the cops,” Tria says, matching the monotone.

Insul stands there breathing a little heavy, waiting for her dislocated emotional muscles to calm down somewhere inside the black box. She studies Tria’s face like a puzzle. “You’re thinking about something.”

Tria is surprised. She hadn’t even admitted the thought to herself, the kind that usually resolves like mild indigestion. “I was just thinking. That’s what people see. They’ll never take me seriously. No matter how I look. I’m just a little…fucking…”

“Hey, Tria.”


“You look like a hot fucking guy.”

Blood rushes to Tria’s face.

Insul gets close, smelling like BO and apparel factory chemicals, price tag dangling from the band of her skirt. “You look like the hottest coolest fucking little freak.”

“Are you trying to do a honeymoon phase on me?”

Insul allows her face to go blank, like clear water showing you the bottom. “You know I’m not lying.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“When I saw you, it was like a piece of dead skin I had to keep pulling on.” Her nail traces the back of Tria’s neck, so uncharacteristically light it sets off a shiver. “And now it’s like. I want to give you something.”

“It just makes me nervous when you show off like that. With violence.”

Insul drops her arm around Tria, pulling her against her hip. “Fine. We do it socially. People see me with you. And that’s social proof. So you’re basically me. And I’m basically you.”

Making out in the Spirit Halloween changing stall, dark curtain, the floor is soft with discarded clothes from everyone before them and no one is paid enough to give a shit so the costumes and masks will keep piling up forever and their forms can change perpetually.

“Wow, the kid costumes fit you. You’re a little. Fucking. Mickey Mouse big button shota.”

“This isn’t Mickey Mouse. It’s Spider Man.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Are you serious? Wait. I think the Mickey Mouse shorts are on over the Spiderman, thing.” It’s hard to see, only the light that bounces off the ceiling shows her a jumble of costumes stuck to her body, fabric tearing to expose slivers of pale flesh.

“It’s cutting off my circulation.”

Insul traces Tria’s swollen thighs, seams cutting into the bruised flesh. “I know.”

Tria tries to reach behind for the zipper, but the costume is too tight, her arms can’t bend back. “I’m having trouble. Breathing.”

Insul kisses her again and she starts to asphyxiate, hanging in those long, wiry arms, the oxygen in her lungs breaking apart, Insul sucking up her carbon dioxide, her waste products, her bad breath, teeth unbrushed for a week, Insul’s lips hungry and crushing like they’re going to swallow her entire face.

Tria sits in the passenger seat of the car, wearing tight white capri pants. She can’t believe they’re going back to her boyfriend’s apartment. Maybe it’s all over.

Insul pulls a pink-purple box from the glove compartment. “Got you a present.”

“I don’t use tampons.” Bleeding into her dirty underwear for a week was so unbearably disgusting. Dark red streak on her inner thigh, itch so bad she thought her vagina had an infection.

“You do now.” Insul, one arm over the wheel, staring lazy sideways with dark eyelashes.

“But I’m…” Tria’s legs squeeze together, her toes curling in the sandals. “…too small down there.”

Insul’s hand rests on Tria’s leg, denim blinding white in the morning light. “You don’t want to bleed in front of your boyfriend, do you?”

Tria kneels in front of the toilet, dizzy from the pressure on her cervix. “I think my vagina is poisoned—”

She throws up. It burns between her legs, this cruel bullet.

Insul is coming up on some evil cocktail of designer gamer powders in the bathroom and she has Tria cornered, her hand stretching out the crotch of the girl’s pants. The bloody tampon lays on the floor like a vampire’s sperm.

Tria whispers in a stressed voice, “My boyfriend—”

“Spit it out.”


“Spit out what you just said.”

Tria spits into Insul’s hand and Insul rubs it on Tria’s mouth, smearing her lipstick. She feels the texture of the burnt fingers, rough on her soft slack lips.

Insul says, “He’s not your boyfriend. I’m your boyfriend.”

“I don’t…

Insul wraps her arm around Tria’s chest and the sliced nipple sparks. “You think he’ll want you the next time you take your shirt off? I know his type. He’s so fucking nice but you don’t need nice. You need a blood transfusion.”


“You were dying and you didn’t even know it.”


“He’s shallow. But I’m.” Insul sticks her fingers inside Tria’s cunt. “Deeper.” She freezes, then holds up a reddish finger.

“S-stop, you’ll get blood everywhere.”

“When has that stopped us?”

“You keep applying a retro-narrative to what happened. There’s no us. I was a bystander.”

“Not at the end, you weren’t.”

“Yeah. You know me that well? Because you’re like, the only person in the whole world who gets it, right?”

“When I was on the floor touching Blake’s puke. I think that’s how you felt looking at me.”

“I don’t want to reward that part of myself.”

“She was a shitty boss. She was going to squeeze the normie out of you and discard your retard ass. Don’t tell me that seeing her, forced to respect you—don’t tell me it didn’t feel good. That this. Feels good.”

Something else pushes inside her, bigger than the fingers, but not bony. Feels like a bottle or something. The stretch hurts but feels good at the same time, warm full sensation, contractions of ugly pleasure in her walls.

“For such a small bitch you have a noisy fucking vagina.”

Tria stares at the floor, so mortified her face feels like it’s going to pop, flushed red heavy with blood, eyes blurred and dripping as the travel-size bottle slides in and out with loud wet sticky sounds and gasps of vaginal air, plastic squeezing with her contractions, mango cream spurting from the open cap, belching and splatting to the floor in fat white glops.

“It’s too big, please. Please.”

Insul drops the bottle and the white plastic is now rosy with blood. She gropes on the counter for something and Tria hears buzzing and starts shaking.

“It’s okay,” Insul says. “It’s not big.”

The electric toothbrush hums along Tria’s lips and she gasps. The smooth back of the brush turns until the bristles are eating at her clit and her eyes squeeze shut, fists clenched on the floor but her meds are wearing off so her hands feel doughy and numb and her fingers melt all around her in her hair on her shoulders stretched to the horizon, face on the cold tile, ass up, crotch dripping. The buzzing builds and each time the pain seems like it’s going to overwhelm her the pleasure chases after, agonizing dead heat.

Insul’s teeth graze the soft flesh of her trembling thigh. “I’m going to make you feel so fucking good you never need anyone else.”

The bristles are going inside now. Make her stop. Make her do something else. “Don’t you want to cum?”

Insul doesn’t move, the toothbrush still humming abrasively in the tender pink opening. “If I cum, I think I might kill myself. And you.”

It only stops when the toothbrush runs out of power. I’ve run out of power, Tria thinks. Where can I get power? Her cunt stings, glittering with tiny red droplets.

Insul docks the toothbrush and it beeps. “They’re going to pick that up tomorrow and wonder why it smells like the most amazing pussy on the planet.”

Tria rolls over, pelvis aching, and looks up. The bristles are red, a ropy clot of uterine lining clinging to the handle.

In the forest, above the flood. A cabin in the rain. A spilled bucket of piss, urea decaying to ammonia stench.

Tria’s boyfriend managed to beat Insul’s tooth out, her brown hair wrapped around his finger. But she kept going, broken glass, scissors, she got it inside him, through the ankle and a bunch of other dots. When she was motionless on the floor, he went looking for the first aid kit, “Oh shit, I think I’m having blood loss”, and as he sat down to wrap his wounds, she sat up like a fucking zombie, nose busted, sucking air through her mouth, and grabbed the gauze at its loosest length and pulled it around his neck.

Then she looked back at Tria and her dead expression was even harder to read through her battered face. Was it victory? Finally you are mine? Or was it looking for permission?

Tria sat there a long time, then said, “If you’re going to kill him, we need bleach. Or we’ll get caught.”

Tria stares down in a gas mask with a clear visor, eyes cold and purple-rimmed. “Is this what you wanted? Someone who wouldn’t hurt you like those girls hurt you? Or the. The perfect boy?”

Her smile stretches crazily, one eye stark, the other melting sick. “Do you think you succeeded?”

Insul lays on the basement floor, gasping for air, eyes bloodshot. Her voice is even huskier from the chloramine inhalation. The skin around her mouth sags from chemical irritation, exposing the sides of her teeth until it seems like her face could detach from the underlying muscle.

Tria falls to her knees on the hard concrete floor, head hanging, bony spine naked under the skylight. One by one, teardrops fall on the plastic of the gas mask visor, quivering clear, until a reservoir has formed and her face is blurred.

“Why did you have to be so stupid?”


“Just once. I want to be the one who saves someone. So why did it have to be you?”

Insul sucks on an inhaler, out of breath. Tria watches her from the top of the hill with a smile perfect with pyridostigmine. “You can’t catch me?”

Insul looks up, then runs at her with a sudden burst of speed, knocking Tria to the ground. Insul gasps for air on top of her, chest swelling and crushing, face red. She’s unable to talk, only pant hoarsely, her damaged lungs straining against Tria’s mutilated chest, aching heat between them.

Tria says, “Was it worth it?”

Insul stares from an inch away, eyes still laced with burst blood vessels, and nods, still unable to speak. Tria strokes the damp whorls of brown hair on the back of Insul’s neck, a finger curling around to stroke the throat full of mute, burning air. “Good.”

11 grubs honk balefully on “Serious Weakness but with Girls

  1. this is the small vaginaed bad lung carelessly surgerized autistic REPRESENTATION i NEED. YOU CANT GET THIS SHIT ANYWHERE ELSE!!!! Shit that is certified REAL BABY!! The tenderness and generosity of this is beyond my power to express, thank you thank you THANK YOU

  2. Bad anatomy on this one.
    Tampon size isn’t about vaginal diameter, it’s about absorbency. People choose different sizes because they have different flows. There’s no such thing as an extra-small tampon because people with extra-light flows use pantiliners instead.
    (Maybe Tria is too small for any tampon or has vaginisimus, so she asks for pads instead?)
    Also, people don’t really notice vaginal discharge on their periods. (cause the blood is just more prominent.)

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