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inkblot22 · 7 months ago

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What's Worse?

I finally finished this. This unpostable thing. It's done and even if it's bad, I do not care. In the end, it ended up being 4k words and I'm okay with this. Header by @/cafekitsune

Who is this fic for? I tried to keep this one very neutral despite the many references to body parts, so anyone who can handle it is free to read! Keep in mind that pronouns such as you and they are used to refer to the reader. The reader is human and does have hair.

TW for coercion, noncon, dubcon, allusions to a physically and emotionally abusive dynamic, captivity, everyone is at least a little bit untrustworthy in this, mentions of the smell of blood, beastman-specific oddities and anatomy, violent and morbid similes. Just in case, I'd like to say that this is DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. A lot of the stuff is more so implied than explicitly stated, but it's still there.

The day he moved up a grade and began his “internship” is the same day he took you with him. Sure, Grim came along, but you’re often so busy, or he’s often so busy, either way. So you haven’t seen your familiar in months, and your life is filled with Leona.

You don’t know why he did this, but the first night you were there, he tapped your uvula with his fingers as he orally serviced you so feverishly that you left teeth indent bruises on his knuckles from biting down so hard as you tried not to be loud. He wore them like jewelry, and you know his brother saw them. Everyone at the table knew what happened, because, according to Leona, no matter how often you shower, the way you smell will always give you away.

That was a little over six months ago. As far as captivity goes, it’s rather cushy. You stay within the confines of the Afterglow Savannah’s palace. Sometimes Leona gets a bit aggressive and you take it, but you’re fed, clothed, and possibly pampered. It could be worse. It could be far worse. You could be in the dungeons.

You actually don’t know if this place has a dungeon, come to think of it. The last time you asked Leona, he asked you if there was an issue with the room you shared with him. When you tried to explain why you asked, he called you a “dumb herbivore” in a very fond tone of voice, then fell asleep. You didn’t try asking again.

It didn’t stop you from wandering. As it turns out, the Afterglow is mostly populated by beastmen… beastpeople? Aren’t all people beasts? Whatever, the point is, you’re basically the only person in the palace with muted senses. You often think back to Rook, wondering how he trained himself to use his senses so well. You tried to practice once, but Leona caught you hiding a ball and chucked the thing out the window, telling you to find something better to do with your “skills.” You sure used one of your senses, at least.

Unfortunately, these “muted” senses, despite them being completely sensible for your human state of being, have led to some issues. For instance, when someone approaches you, you don’t notice until they’re within your field of awareness. Beyond that, according to Leona, Farena, Cheka, and Farena’s wife, you also tend to just reek of blood.

You have no idea why, and you’ve never noticed this before. You get out of the shower, having scrubbed hard enough to rid yourself of any dirt but not enough to create micro-abrasions on your skin, and Leona still complains about it. You play fight with Cheka, gentle enough that neither of you gets harmed and he’s giggly, and he pauses his mirth and wrinkles his little nose before asking if you got hurt. Zuri, Farena’s wife, regularly would stop you whenever she saw you, her eyes wide as she asked you if everything was okay. The palace staff didn’t say anything, but they’d constantly be re-filling your first-aid kit, one that was “gifted” to you and one that the staff and Kifaji (despite him being human like you, or maybe just not obviously a beastman) insisted that you carry at all times.

But out of all of them, Farena was the worst. If you were in Cheka’s nursery, even just seconds after the kid fell asleep, Farena would pop out of nowhere. If you lingered a bit too long in the kitchen or hallways, anywhere too far from Leona’s wing, he’d approach with a smile, his arms spread wide. If you came to the dining hall without Leona’ his glowing brown eyes would find you, the intensity akin to a sudden knife wound. His persistence in being around you was all blanketed by his uncomfortable implications when he spoke to you.

Even so, you happened to somehow get lost. The hallways are sort of color-coded, but you’ve passed this same hallway several times, enough for you to be okay with admitting that you’ve been walking in a circle for the past twenty minutes. And, much like the devil, as soon as you thought that if you were there any longer, a certain lion-man would appear, Farena popped up and scooped you into a hearty hug as greeting, your feet coming off the floor.

“Leona’s partner!” He never calls you by name. It’s always just that. You are Leona’s partner, not your own person, you guess, “I knew I’d find you eventually.”

“Yes. Hello, your highness.” You wheezed as he placed you back on the floor.

“Oh, you’re so prickly, just like my baby brother. You two are a perfect match- he does like a bit of bite.”

You rarely knew how to respond to him, so you often didn’t. You just stared at him, like a total moron, but he continued talking like you aren’t giving him the most anserine of looks- a word he has used to describe you before, basically to your face.

“I’ve heard that you forgot your first aid kit. We don’t need you tripping and scratching yourself on Leona’s dresser again, and not with an inability to heal yourself.” He never gave you time to answer, “Of course, I know you aren’t magic, but those of you without it have made some wonderful inventions to make up for that.”

“Oh. Yeah, I just left for, like, two seconds so I could return something to the kitchen.”

He nodded, thoughtful, still smiling, “Well, did you hit your head? You’ve been walking in a circle, and you didn’t even stop to say hi to me.”

“No. I, uh.” You cast your gaze down the hallway closest to you, then looked back at Farena, “I am a bit lost. I guess someone else is usually with me when I’m wandering around.”

Leona is not the only person in his family with a cunning streak. You are marginally aware of this, and when Farena’s eyes narrowed, you sucked in a breath.

“Hmm. You’re right, Leona’s partner. It is rather strange not to see you by my baby brother’s side.”

It struck you multiple times in the past that the amount of times you bumped into Farena couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. He’s a king, so why was he never ruling or whatever kings did all day? It was incredibly strange, and you made the same subtle discomforted motions like clockwork. He usually pretended not to notice whatsoever.

His grin was always too bright. You did prefer Leona’s smirk, “Very well. It looks like I’ll need to escort you back to Leona’s quarters, won’t I?”

“Uh. I mean, if you’re not busy.”

“You’re such a mousy thing. Come,” He offered you his arm.

You took it, and true to his word, he led you back to Leona’s wing, then straight up to the door. He knocked, and you ducked out of his arm to cautiously open the door. Leona strolled out of the bathroom, hair and skin wet, his eyes not even skimming over you before they flashed to his brother, who strolled in as though he owned the place. Maybe he did. Who owns a palace if not the king?

“Ah, Leona! I found your partner, wandering the halls like a lost lamb.”

As soon as the words process in Leona’s mind, his green eyes are sliding to pin you down. Your limbs feel like lead, and you don’t move or emote, lest he strike. He’s like a snake when he’s like this, which is ironic. Perhaps it’s not ironic, and just comedic. Who knows?

Regardless, Farena keeps talking, “And I missed you at lunch! What a shame. They had your favorite, you know. Meat! And lots of it. Don’t you ever get hungry, being in here all the time?”

If not for everyone talking about the way your skin smells, that comment could have been written off entirely. It didn’t feel great, being indirectly told that you smell like fresh meat, and Leona wasn’t helping much.

“Mmm. No. I don’t like my meat that rare.” Leona grumbles, taking a seat on his bed and waving you over. “Hey, c’mere and braid my hair.”

What was worse? Being told you smell delicious or being told you didn’t smell delicious enough? It was one of those things. You cautiously tied off his braids, capping both of them in beads that Cheka had gifted you. His hair was wet, clinging to his skin as desperately as the water did. You caught yourself watching a drop sliding over Leona’s tattoo and hummed softly.

Farena was still talking. You didn’t hear the beginning, and you didn’t care about the end, so you completely tuned him out so you could finger detangle the rest of Leona’s wet hair. While you were ignoring Farena, you were pointedly all too aware of Leona’s sounds of pleasure. It took you a while to get used to it. You were a primate, and he was a lion. More lion than ape. He snorted and rumbled, huffed and chuffed, his face twisted in a scowl.

“Ah, what a shame. I’ll have to speak to you later, Leona. Perhaps you could talk about those plans with Zuri. I’m sure she’d love to listen.” You tuned back in as Farena turned to the door, opening it before remembering himself and waving at you, “Bye bye, Leona’s partner!”

When he was gone, almost as soon as the door was closed, Leona twisted his torso to grab you around the waist and pull you into one of his kisses. You read somewhere that the reason men kiss so… wetly is so they can mark their partner. It makes more sense if they just didn’t want to kiss with dry lips, but you’re no kissing expert. Leona is not an exception to this, you supposed. He always licked his lips before pressing them against yours, slicked with his saliva and often accompanied by a quiet, barely perceptible growl.

His kisses were dizzying. Possibly because it was difficult to breathe while kissing someone, and possibly because you were usually held in a crushing vice whenever he kissed you. Your poor ribcage had been squeezed many times.

And just as soon as it started, he dropped you unceremoniously and stood up, walking past your sprawled body on his floor, “We’ve got some big dinner to get to. Get dressed.”

You scrambled to your feet, “Big dinner?”

“Mhm. It’s some official’s birthday. I can’t be bothered to remember who.”

That made enough sense. In the time you’d been here, you’d learned pretty quickly that it wasn’t exactly worth it to go out of your way to be remembered positively by everyone, especially not since you were… with Leona. In all the time you’d been here, you’d never been sure about what the nature of your relationship with him was, either. Asking would get you some kind of snarky or irritated answer, and not asking but thinking about it made it hard to focus on anything else, so you didn’t think about it.

“Oh. You see Grim today?” You asked while getting dressed in your own green and black dashiki, like a couple’s outfit in the matching pattern of Leona’s.

Like he always did, he stared for a moment before making a few small adjustments. It was funny, he couldn’t be bothered to care about his own appearance, and yet, when it came to you…

“Yeah, He’s good. Still working on the mage stuff.”

“Mmm. Okay. Thanks.” You mumbled, lifting your arms so Leona could look you over again, “What?”

“You stink like my brother. If we had time, I’d fix that, but…”

“What does he smell like?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking what I smell like?” He snapped, and you flinched. Sometimes his irritation came with physical indications, but heavier than the physical indications was the energy around him, “Forget it. Stay close to me tonight.”

You usually did. You hated parties here, but more than the parties themselves, you hated the strangers who came up to you and just said whatever. Last time, someone approached you and asked how big Leona’s wallet was for you to stick around. You’re learning to like nobility less, not that you particularly liked them before..

You’re tucked against Leona’s back for the entirety of the evening. He’s like a ward. People see him and walk the opposite direction unless they’re drunk or stupid, and those types are in short supply at the beginning of the night. Unfortunately, by the middle of the night, amongst sips of his drinks and nibbles of various finger foods, you felt exhausted and Leona was straight up pissed.

You wondered why for a bit too long. You barely even realized when you ended up back in his room, outside on his balcony. He was stewing, pouting like a toddler. You unstuck yourself from his side and sat in one of the chairs.

“Mmm.” He grumbled. He often did this, putting a noise to his emotion, but no words to explain himself. You’d wised up and figured out early on that it was best not to approach him for this type of thing, “Hey, runt.”

Uh oh. He tended to use that nickname before he did something foul to you. You squirmed in your chair and flinched as he turned around and yanked his shirt over his head. His pants went next. Leona didn’t bother with underwear.

“C’mere. What are you hidin’ in the corner for?” He mumbles, “We’ve got time now.”

Your uh oh gets multiplied. It’s not that you aren’t attracted to Leona, or that you’re not in the mood. It’s not that you’re terrified of him, not that you’re confused by his awkward libido. It’s that you honestly don’t know what he sees in you, sprinkled with a bit of relationship insecurity. You’re here because of him, you and Grim have a home because of him, but what’s going to happen when he gets bored with you?

He looks over his shoulder at you sharply, “What the hell are you doin’? I said c’mere.”

You swallowed and took a few steps forward, stripping as you walked. The night air makes your skin tingle with goosebumps, your nipples hardening and a shiver rattling through you. It’s a very strong possibility that these feelings have beset you based only on the fact that someone could look up from Zuri’s garden and see you and Leona, both naked on his balcony.

When you’re standing in front of him, he just stares, one of his hands ever so gently stroking himself. You think it’s funny, the phrase “playing with yourself,” because that is what it is. His fingers softly paw at his heavy balls, gliding up the base of his shaft to tweak the head of his cock under his foreskin. He doesn’t break his gaze on you to look at himself. The hand that is not busy with himself reaches out to grab your waist, just above the start of your hip, and yank you closer.

He’s not gentle. Not really. You know he has the capacity to be gentle, but he doesn’t really seem to care. In the past, when you’ve pleaded with him to be gentle, he’s told you that he would treat you like glass if he thought you were made of it, but since he’s seen you suffer worse (what is worse?) he doesn’t see the point in bothering. That doesn’t change the fact that his touch often hurts. Now is not an exception, and you make your displeasure clear with a soft noise of discomfort.

“Shhh. You wanna tell me what happened earlier?” Leona mumbles, pressing his face against the skin on your stomach, taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh.

You absolutely hate it when he smells you like this, but that’s not important right now, “Wh-what?”

“With Farena. You looked freaked out.” Leona ever so lightly kisses the pit of your bellybutton, “He do anything to you?”

You’re not a fan of Leona acting like this. While it seems like he cares, you know from past experience that he’s typically, if not always, on the brink of a jealous meltdown. His jealous meltdowns almost always end with you sitting alone in the bathroom, tending to your own wounds as he sleeps like a kid who just threw a tantrum. So you decide to give a simple answer before distracting him, at least for a moment.

You scratch the nape of his neck, since he doesn’t like you touching his ears, “He was just his usual off-putting self. Nothing else.”

Leona grunts and looks up at you, so you take your chance. You lean down, sitting on your knees, and press a mock-reverent kiss to Leona’s thigh. He’s surprisingly hairless, for someone who is more lion than ape. You suppose the same could be said for yourself, as someone who is more ape than lion.

Leona’s unimpressed face slants into a smirk, and his hand that was previously fondling his genitals slides to cup your cheek, fingertips rubbing behind your ear.

Now that it’s right in front of your face, you wish that you hadn’t decided that this was the best option for distraction. You think maybe anything would be better than catching those barbs in the back of your throat. The little softly-curved nubs circling the base of the head of Leona’s cock flare out a bit, resembling one of those Elizabethan ruffs, tattered by the passage of time and reduced to the skeleton. They aren’t sharp, not truly, but they’re uncomfortable, especially when you forget that the more worked up Leona gets, the further they poke out and the harsher they feel. It’s similar to someone’s very carefully blunted fingernail and fingertip rubbing against your cheeks.

You try to suck up your carefully hidden disgust and press a soft kiss to the very tip of Leona’s dick, wetting your lips with his salty pre. Surprisingly, he doesn’t taste bad. You would think that his skin, his cum, would taste bitter and harsh, but it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted. Perhaps that’s a silver lining in this wicked situation.

Regardless, a quiet grumble from him makes you snap back into the reality of where you are, and you figure you may as well get to work. You slide your lips down to his base, wincing as the spongy head of his member punches the back of your throat and his hand slides back to grip your nape.

“You trying to bore me to death, runt? You know I hate this teasing shit.”

That’s right. He absolutely loathes it. You bob your head a little more expeditiously, trying to ignore the slick mixture of drool and pre that is escaping from the corners of your lips and the ever-increasing strength of Leona’s thrusts against your face.

Despite your senses being the most dull in the palace, you can sort of hear the festivities downstairs, and Leona chuckles, standing with your head still cradled in his hand so he can actually start thrusting. It always begins with you trying to set a gentle pace and it always quickly dissolves into chaos. He’s lazy, but if he’s anything more than lazy, it’s a shameless pleasure chaser. You would think that you would have learned by now.

“You can’t hear them. They’re not at all concerned with me, they’re wondering where you went off to. But everyone knows that you belong to me, so they should know that you’re with me.” Leona mumbles.

You gag, his dickhead wetly popping against the back of your throat as the fluids in your mouth froth with the speed of his motions, gooey trails roping down to cling to your cheeks and collarbones, connecting to Leona’s shifting hips. At least he doesn’t stink today.

A bug lands on your shoulder and flits away as you choke on Leona as he shoves his cock down your throat. Maybe you should feel a bit more grateful that this is happening partially outside, and that way you can have constant reminders that you’re still alive and not in some form of purgatory, serving time for your very minor moments of humanity when you were alive.

Leona snarls, “You’re just so cute, with those lips wrapped around me. I wonder if my brother would keep flirting with you if he knew that you were like this in private.”

The implications of that statement are absolutely lost on you. You’re aware that Leona knows how you feel about your current life to a degree, but he doesn’t give a damn about your emotions. Whatever he’s talking about is absolutely just him babbling out some sex-addled nonsense. As the barbs scrape against your uvula, you gag and try to push his hips away so you can catch your breath for a second.

He doesn’t let up. Sweat is sliding over his skin, beading into crystal pearls and sliding down to flavor the skin in your mouth with their salt. If you don’t puke from his roughness, you’re going to puke from ingesting so much sodium. His smirk grows and his fingers massage the base of your head as if he isn’t pounding into your throat.

“Aw… too much? Maybe if you were a bit more active, I’d be done a bit sooner.” He coos.

You don’t fully hate Leona. He has given you somewhere to stay, food to eat, clothes to wear, for both you and Grim, but whenever he gets like this, taunting you even though he’s using you like a cheap sleeve, you feel an indescribable, hopeless anger. Regardless, you bring one of your hands up to the copious amounts of drool and pre and sweat that are covering your skin, collecting the goop on your fingers. You cup his ass with your non-gooey hand and spread that cheek, plunging a finger into his asshole and aimlessly crooking your finger.

His hips spasm, his hand fists into your hair and he lets out a low grumble, “Rrr.”

You slowly ease your other gooey finger into his ass and hope that he will cum soon so you can catch your breath. You need a shower, and he’s probably going to just go to bed after this. You’re more tired than he is, and you’re actually beginning to think that you both might be a bit tipsy. You need this to end, and you need it to end soon.

Your prayers are answered. You feel his cock bob in the back of your throat, the glans tapping that soft spot that makes you feel it in the back of your nose, and he yanks your head back, your lips releasing him with a somewhat loud pop.

His cum is hotter than it has any right being. You suppose since he runs hot, it’s not that shocking, but you’re also aware that the whole reason that the balls are not an internal thing is because the human body is way too hot for sperm to live for long periods of time inside of the body. This information is irrelevant, however, because Leona has just made the mess on your skin that much worse. You sigh as he lets go of you, flopping back into his chair and gesturing to his cock again.

“Can you clean me up before you go running off?”

You’d love to tell him no, to ask him to shove it, but you grunt your acquiescence and tongue-clean his messy skin, as if you aren’t covered in more slime than he is. Once done, you stand up and gather your clothes, placing them in the laundry bin in the bathroom and getting in the shower.

You scrub a little harder than usual, but not hard enough to break skin, not even enough to create micro-abrasions. Once out, you throw on one of Leona’s gaudy yellow tees and take a seat on the bed. He’s already curled up under the covers, but the soft tapping of his tail lets you know that he isn’t sleeping. You slide under the covers yourself and Leona rolls over, pulling your back into his chest.

“Hey.” He mumbles into your hair, “You stink like a fresh kill.”

What’s worse? Smelling like blood in a den of predators or being in the den of predators to begin with?

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kalevalaknights · 28 days ago

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wow. some of you have quite literally no understanding of what that video game was now that I look through the tag long enough.

Some of you are genuinely fucking disgusting

#MOUTHWASHING #I understand dead dove do not eat situations but holy fuck! you cannot be serious

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hoshiina · 4 months ago

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Why exactly did you specify the height on a neutral READER? stop making oc's and calling ot xreader, not everyone is a dwarf

hi anon!! sorry it upset you but i did state in the notes that i would, perhaps i'll re-label it as warnings if that is more fitting. sorry you didn't enjoy it but you're free to scroll past after reading the notes if you think it's not for you-- by no means am i forcing you to read.

#i was debating if i should even post this but well #might as well #anon #asks #added short!gn!reader too i hope that does the trick #i feel like this is a dead dove do not eat situation however

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sodamors · 1 year ago

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to be demon

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

read at your own risk. it is bad.

this fic is in the povs of Karaku and Aizetsu, being reunited after years of separation.

> recollecting them took a while. maybe I’ll write about it in the future.

> I recommend skimming through that post before you read this one, since it provides a little more context. And angst.

his muscles ache with weariness; the day before had been full of struggle. unfamiliar figures grabbing him from everywhere, a sharp pain on his neck and chest, an overwhelming sensation of lethargy. karaku vaguely recalled getting his bounds removed, and scolds himself for having not attempted to escape. and now he is shackled once more, albeit with stronger, more reinforced chains.

the door slides open. even if he wanted to, he couldn’t bolt out and escape. his entire body felt so heavy — what had they put in him? this was maybe the worst sedative he’s been dosed with yet.

a figure steps into the room, but their voice is only muffled to his ears. he couldn’t even try listening. hazily, his eyes threatening to close, he looks up at them. they have gloves on, reeking of the same antiseptic causing him a headache. as they touch him, he flinches, their cold fingers biting his skin. they speak again, but he doesn’t catch anything.

soon enough, they turn away, only to return with a new item in hand. it’s the same colour as his bounds, a circular shape.

they click it around his neck.

oh. his heart sinks. he knows what it is, and he hates it. the collar buzzes quietly against his skin, not having been activated, but threatening to. karaku can’t help but let out a whimper.

soon enough, the figure leaves the room, the door shutting with a click. he lays there, cold and alone, for what seems like an eternally. the air conditioning blows icy air onto his bare skin, biting him, making him shiver. huddling against the lifeless metal wall does nothing to warm him. his chains restrict his movement, and every time he tries to get a better position, his collar hums, reminding him to behave.

but i am behaving. right? i havent disobeyed anyone. karaku drowsily thinks to himself, as he sticks closer to the corner of the room. his stomach grumbles, but he ignores it. he always does.

aizetsu whines as another needle pierces his neck, never getting used to the stinging sensation. he tries to writhe, but the straps bind him tightly to the table, holding his limbs in place. a cold metal disk presses against the skin over his heart, his heartbeat resonating in beeps from a nearby monitor. his breaths are short and panicked, eyes darting everywhere, pleading with all the onlooking scientists.

but as usual, they don’t care. one steps forward to inject an all-too-familiar purple substance into him, the needle pricking the soft flesh of his chest. aizetsu hisses, tears starting to form, as the same burning feeling grows from the needle.

what even was the point of repeatedly injecting him with wisteria? they already know its effects. it burns his insides, makes him scream and squirm, body shivering and trembling from the horrible feeling of getting melted from the inside to out. his back arches off the table as he tries, even if absolutely impossible, to shake the white-hot sensations ripping through his being. aizetsu screams and cries, tears streaming down his face, unintelligible sounds resonating from his throat.

he sounds so weak. from the esteemed rank of upper moon four, he’s been reduced to near nothing, by horrid humans and their blasted plant. aizetsu gasps for air even if he wishes dearly to just suffocated, die, and for this all to just end.

as usual, the pain lasts days. his intestines rip and tear, flaring wisteria rupturing his tired body. scientists come in and out the room to take their notes, nodding away as if he wasn’t wailing for them to spare him. as if he was a document of some sort, and his agony was of no existence.

and when it does stop, he’s left gasping, heaving for air, cheeks damp, throat raw. they’ll put the shock collar back on him, and toss him back to his cell, where he belongs. the cold ground greets his sensitive skin with a bite.

a piece of meat is tossed before him. he must eat it, or risk electrocution. the scientists make him regenerate fully before they use him again — it’s an endless cycle, and he can do nothing about it.

as he slowly chews on the thick, tasteless meat, he catches a scent.

it’s terribly familiar.

that’s strange.

slowly, he looks over to where he smells it from. The medical white corridor, outside the bars of his cell, looks back at him. there’s nothing to look at — only other cells, which he’s been shown are empty. he’s in one of the more reinforced holding areas, because of his demon rank. even if it clearly meant nothing anymore.

the scent still remains. a rusty, familiar tinge to a whiff of matcha leaves. he has smelled this before, because his head says it’s a sign of solidarity. solidarity for what? no idea. but it’s something.

aizetsu continues chewing on his rubbery food, looking down dejectedly. maybe this was another of the more psychological experiments the scientists had planned.

those were always the worst. they’d make him watch some weird animation, and suddenly he was seeing nothing but live eyeballs in the corner of his eyes. they’ll play a strange noise, and soon enough, whenever he heard it again, he’ll instantly vomit. the worst part about them was he never knew what was going to happen. at least the wisteria injections had a routine.

the smell is too vivid. aizetsu stops eating completely, head more raised, body on alert. why is it getting stronger? why does he care, anyway?

out of a rare instance of curiosity, he brings himself closer to the bars as much as his chains allow. straining his arms and raising his neck, he looks over at the cell across his.

someone does lay there, and they stare back at him.

the voice is hoarse. “zetsu?”

“k-karaku?” oh my god. oh my goodness, oh my. oh my god. aizetsu brings himself further, pulling against his restraints. he wants to shout so bad. karaku, are you alright? karaku! But if his voice were to go any higher, his collar would spare him no mercy.

“hey, ‘su,” karaku says groggily, eyes half open, but desperate. his poor blue baby brother, stuck so close yet so far, shivering and cold. it’s been far too long. he had so much to say — so many apologies, wishes, screams and cries. so badly did he want to just rip away from his shackles, run over and embrace the other, apologising as much as he could. promising protection and care.

but his body refuses to move. the sedative is too strong. Karaku curses himself for being so useless.

“karaku, don’t shout or move too much,” aizetsu whispers a warning. he caught the familiar shade of black latched to karaku’s neck, and feared for the worst. “it activates with loudness, and a high heart rate. okay?”

“okay,” karaku replies slurred. “thank you.”

“please don’t thank me,” aizetsu feels tears threatening his eyes again. “don’t. i really don’t deserve it. I’m so sorry.”

“no,” karaku does his best to shift closer, seeing how much aizetsu was straining, despite how heavy his body feels. “don’t… apologise. ‘s not your fault. been too long. miss you.”

“I… i miss you. I miss you too.” and so the tears fall, and he cannot wipe them away. the corridor is soon filled with aizetsu’s strained sniffs, and karaku’s soft coos, doing his best to assure the other everything would be alright. even if it hasn’t been, for 17 years.

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totally-evil-monsterous-beast · 1 year ago

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You have no idea, how bad it gets.

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snudibranchs · 11 months ago

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Bandwagoning mfs on twitter and reddit be like "ewww, that coffin of Andy and leyley game is so gross" and then have kill la kill/ouran host club/Hannibal/homestuck icons, and that's just to name a few.

No hate towards these things but can we please not doxx people and agree that there are things in the public consciousness that we don't apply the same level of scrutiny to despite them containing the same thing, and admit there's a double standard here?

At least the shit in that game is avoidable man, I can't say the same for the shit listed above.

it all seriously reminds me of the immature ass time where twilight hate was the norm because guys were mad that it was slop but not slop targeted at them, and then they would go online and talk about their favourite harem animes.

I'm seriously sick of this shit man.

#nudi babbles #nudi's soapbox #the coffin of andy and leyley #definitely going to get hate for this but it needed to be said imo #that whole game is a dead dove do not eat situation

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razzberrydazz · 7 months ago

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OC Meme - get to know Rana

Got tagged by @mynthara to do this oc info meme, tagging uhhh anyone else who wants to do this if ya want (@larissel I choose you if ya wanna blab about Nashira :3)

I put a readmore for possible game spoilers ahead for BG3, and for potential content warnings (mentions of Dark Urge antics, kink dynamics, and brief mentions of SA), cuz Rana's life pre-tadpole was Not a happy one. Enjoy all the pics of Rana I stuffed into this!

BASICS

Full Name (pre-tadpole): Rana the Gray, ie the Bladedancer, ie The Dark Urge, ie The Red-Eyed Dagger

(Rana loosely translates to Lesser End/Minor Destruction in Drow)

Full Name (post-tadpole): Rana'rox La'Rouge, ie Rana, ie Durge

Gender: Nonbinary/Agender

Sexuality: Pan

Pronouns: They/It (They/Them for Rana, it/its for their Urge)

Age: Mid 40s? Rana doesn't quite remember how old they are.

OTHER

Family: Bhaal (progenitor), Orin the Red (Half-Sister, Bhaalspawn Bloodkin), Mala (Rana's daughter - a product of SA and incest - that they had smuggled away as soon as she was weaned, in order to protect her from the Bhaalist cult and from their Dark Urge; Mala ended up adopted by Jaheira and her family. Mala loosely translates to Secret Breaker in Drow)

Other family: Adopted drow (seldarine) mother called Rox La'Rouge (deceased, killed by the Dark Urge), a pet Displacer Beast called Chewy (deceased), a human man called Rook Haven (deceased, killed by the Dark Urge) who was the ringleader for a traveling circus called the Raucous Rooks (all members killed by the Dark Urge when the Urge first fully manifested in Rana), and several unnamed children both deceased and surviving as Bhaalists (Rana doesn't remember them, the Brain Trauma is Strong).

Birthplace: Spawned in the Cloakwood forest near Baldur's Gate, then found and raised by Rox La'Rouge and the Raucous Rooks circus shortly after.

Job: Originally a bard and acrobat in the Raucous Rooks circus, then became a Bhaalist assassin, then the leader of the Bhaalist cult in Baldur's Gate, then during the events of BG3 acts as an altruistic adventurer. Rana hopes to one day join a new carnival or circus as a clown or daredevil acrobat.

Phobias: Succumbing to the Urge, Pregnancy (Ironically has a breeding kink), The color Red (specifically when it's the Urge), loss of control, succumbing to insanity.

Hobbies: Rana works to teach themself Drow (they never learned to speak it fluently as a kid, and are trying to catch up in adulthood), and other languages in their free time, and write in their journal extensively. They enjoy collecting and sharpening daggers, sword swallowing, juggling, reading, dancing, singing, and playing instruments such as the lyre and lute. They also like trying new clothes and learning new rope-tying techniques.

MORALS

Alignment: Chaotic Good - Rana will go out of their way to do what they believe is good, laws and consequences be damned, if only to counteract their Urges. Sometimes that involves killing someone doing a great wrong, or breaking into buildings to steal food to feed the hungry, or intimidating guards into turning a blind eye to someone just trying to survive, or purposely isolating themselves from others so as to not hurt anyone.

Sins: Wrath (the Urge), Lust, Envy

Virtues: Patience, Courage, Kindness

Introvert / Extrovert / Ambivert

Organized / Disorganized (memory problems)

Close-minded / Open-minded

Calm / Anxious / Restless

Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between

Cautious / Reckless / In between (save yourself I'll hold them back)

Patient / Impatient / In between

Outspoken / Reserved / In between

Leader / Follower / Flexible

Empathetic / Unempathetic / In between

Optimist / Pessimist / Realist

Traditional / Modern / In between

Hard-working / Lazy

OTP: Shadowheart, Minthara, and Lae'Zel (Rana is polyamorous and kinky, and wants to share and be shared with their partners. In an ideal situation, they act as service top and Submissive in a D/S dynamic with Minthara, Shadowheart, and Lae'Zel; Minthara also acts as the Domme of Shadowheart, Lae'Zel, and Karlach. Minthara only agrees to this dynamic if it's a Hierarchical relationship with her at the top.)

Acceptable Ships: Karlach, Halsin, Astarion, Dame Aylin and Isobel, and Abdirak (If Shadowheart and/or Minthara give Rana permission, they'll happily be with other people)

OT3: In a polycule with the entire party (Rana wants to get passed around like a blunt)

Brotp: Karlach, Wyll, Minsc, Astarion, Gale

Notps: Jaheira (sees Jaheira as a mother/grandmother/mentor figure, but is entirely willing to platonically help Jaheira with her kids, considering they find out Jaheira's the one who adopted Mala ie Rana's daughter),

Gortash (Rana's ex-boyfriend from before the tadpole amnesia, whom enabled their Urges and vices. Rana wishes things could have gone differently, they saw potential in Gortash, and mourn what could have been had he not turned to tyranny and extortion. They resent him for what he did to Karlach, but can't bring themself to hate him, because in his own ways he managed to help them by crafting a prosthetic eye specially made for them, and they at one point held some strange distorted love for each other),

Orin (not only did Orin give Rana the brain trauma and tadpole that resulted in their amnesia, but Orin also SA'd Rana during the time before they became head of the Bhaalist cult, which resulted in Rana going into hiding for a year and a half to have their daughter Mala and smuggle her away to a family that would protect her. Rana feared what would've happened if they raised a child within the cult, knowing the traumatic hell of Orin's own incestuous conception and cult upbringing. There was a high likelihood they would have killed the child due to the Urge, if they kept Mala within the cult. Even so, the good still in Rana wanted to find a way to forgive Orin, and drag her out of the cult kicking and screaming. If they could have found a way to renounce Bhaal without being forced to kill Orin, they would. Alas, they couldn't find a way to save their bloodkin from the lash of Bhaal.)

Raphael (Rana already felt like their soul was forfeit by virtue of being a Bhaalspawn, they're loathe to chain themself to a manipulative devil as well, even though they find his honeyed words alluring and the idea of being a devil's plaything is...not entirely unappealing for someone who enjoys being a service submissive like Rana.)

Link to the lil dagger dividers I used for this post

#bg3 #oc meme #tag game #razz rambles #ranarox durge #bg3 oc #bg3 durge #dark urge oc #drow durge #oc #razz's pics #razz talks #rana's backstory is very much a dead dove do not eat situation #but they got better throughout the events of bg3 I promise #they deserve healing #i still need to actually figure out what Mala looks like #and how it'll go when I write out Rana seeing Mala again and reactivating the memory of her coming into existence #Mala in this storyline got raised by Jaheira and the other adopted kids #and has no knowledge of her bio parents aside from the letter Rana left with her that one day if they ever escape they'd find her #sa mention #incest mention #Rana was very careful so that Orin never found out about Mala #it was Very important to Rana that Orin and the other Bhaalists never find Mala #Too bad Mala is a bhaalspawn by virtue of being Rana's kid #Rana loves kids but knows any kid they have would be bhaalspawn #so post-game any kids they have would likely be via adoption #anyways thanks for coming to my ted talk

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 5 months ago

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obsessed with whatever monkey's paw curled so the life is strange people could go from "are you cereal" to writing all their subsequent games as incest melodramas.

#the moment sean picked up condoms and thought of his brother we should have realized what was happening #and it's not even just a dontnod thing considering the chencest situation in listc #was talking with a friend who said that lis1 is really the odd one out for being the least incest-y and they were right #life is strange #life is strange 2 #life is strange true colors #lis verse #diazcest #chencest #dead dove do not eat #monsters talks life is strange

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mikerickson · 1 year ago

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Saw this symbol for the first time recently and apparently it's the "Red Crystal", a non-denominational symbol that can be displayed on medical vehicle and personnel in warzones. The Geneva Convention was amended in 2006 to give this icon the same protections/recognition as the Red Cross or the Red Crescent without the religious connotation. Have I just been living under a rock, or is this kind of an obscure icon that isn't used very often?

#an image search for 'red crystal' is also very much a 'dead dove do not eat' kind of situation

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beaft · 2 years ago

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was reading through some reviews of "deerskin" now that i've finished it and saw that someone had marked it one star for being "too creepy" and having "dark themes". buddy, i hate to tell you this, but the themes you're criticising are lifted basically wholesale from the original fairy tale, which was written in (checks notes) 1695. what are you gonna do, travel back in time and write a callout post for charles perrault?

#also 'deerskin' is plastered with trigger warnings and is very explicitly about trauma and abuse #like this could not be more of a 'dead dove do not eat' situation #be shh now

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smileyobrien · 1 year ago

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ok I don't know what I expected when the title of the episode is literally "twovix" but jadksdvsdjkh💀💀

#real dead dove do not eat type situation for me rn bdfnhdxj

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this-is-a-podcast-fanblog · 2 years ago

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Joyfully It Devours! (the Kevin eats Cecil fic)

I literally could not rest until I got this out of my system, so I present to you the worst and darkest thing I’ve ever written, aka “the Kevin eats Cecil fic”. Please, please, please, I am literally begging you, do not read this without checking the trigger tags. (Also thank you @kerink for beta reading, I will take your hand in marriage.)

“Someone is going to kill you someday, Cecil. And it will involve a mirror.”

Ten years is a long time, and not long enough. Ten years is long enough to meet someone, to build a friendship and a town; long enough to grow a crush and several inches of hair that you ask for help braiding; long enough to almost, daring and heart palpating, kiss the man you know is already taken by your double, the you that isn’t, that exists in another world.

Ten years is not long enough to make him stay.

Kevin spent a long time regretting Carlos. He lay down in front of the open mouth of the Smiling God and begged It to swallow him. He cut open small animals and painted his gaunt cheeks, smiling wider and wider to try and convince himself he was happy. “I am happy,” he told his God. “I am devoted. I am devoured! But I miss Carlos so much. Please, show me your unholy wisdom!” And the Smiling God gave him dreams. He wrote his prophecies in blood and slept at the entrance of a vast cave, murmuring prayers into his microphone. In praise of the Smiling God, Kevin felt truly fulfilled.

Then one day the Smiling God left through a hole in the earth. It left Desert Bluffs and went to Night Vale. It did not come back.

Pain is an act of intimacy. When the Smiling God left the Otherworld, Kevin roamed the streets of Desert Bluffs Too, smiling and crying. The footprints behind him were red. He felt the sun on his face and the squelching sand between his toes, and he was happy. And the opposite. Mostly nothing. He bided his time and reflected on everything he had lost, and then he continued to smile and chant. He recited the delights of hard work and wide smiles to a fearful public, those listeners who tuned in to him. His cult grew and even in death, the Smiling God was worshipped. Slowly, over the course of many years... he became happy again!

And then he started listening to the radio.

“And remember, the desert is only as vast as your mind is capable of imagining it to be. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

Cecil’s voice was beautiful. Electrifying. Kevin began listening to it as an outlet for his anger, a way to purge that unholiness from his body so the light of happiness could consume him again. But, to his surprise, that deep honey voice brought him joy. He liked listening to Cecil. He liked thinking of the times they’d spoken.

The Desert Otherworld was Kevin’s to control. There were other places like it, but this was his, his land so detached from time and linked to the ghost of the Smiling God. This place of blood and endless sun, both so warm and vivid in color!

Unholy. Wretched.

Blood as an act of servitude. Once, in Night Vale, Cecil had come through a painting of a lighthouse, holding a cat. Kevin looked into mirrors and saw out into the world he’d left. Old Oak Doors surrounded him. He felt time pass and hold still, and he thought things through carefully. Cecil, who was just like him. Cecil, who was nothing like him. Cecil, beautiful and kind and Carlos’s, who only wore scars on his insides.

He climbed out of a mirror and into Night Vale, and there, he found Cecil.

It took a long time to channel the power, of course, but through the Smiling God all things are possible. Even if that god was only a ghost now. In death, its power was stronger than any Night Vale deity in life. He focused intently, and he clawed his way out of the Desert Otherworld’s portal, into a mirror in Night Vale. He didn’t want to use a painting, like Cecil and Erika had years ago. Where was the symbolism in that?

And it turned out this mirror was one in the radio station bathroom. A cat, one that he’d seen before, when it floated above the sink, stared at him. It blinked its many eyes, hissed, and scampered away behind one of the bathroom stalls. “Hi, Khoshekh,” Kevin said. Khoshekh ignored him. He’d never liked that cat.

Kevin skipped out of the bathroom and yanked open the electric paneling on the wall. He knew exactly where to find it, of course; this station was a perfect mirror of his. Just like Cecil was a perfect mirror of him. Cecil, whose presence he could feel so close by. And sure enough, when he turned his head, there he was, not noticing Kevin. Not aware at all.

Kevin ran towards the man retreating down the hallway, and he clasped him in his arms. It wasn’t not a hug, but it wasn’t not a vice, too. Cecil’s lipstick was sticky on the inside of his palm. “Hi friend!” he said.

“Mmph!” Cecil replied.

“Don’t look. Don’t scream. Just walk to the radio booth and close the door behind us.”

Cecil did as he was told. He turned the handle, and Kevin reached around him to turn the lock as well. He let Cecil go, and the other radio host backed up, into the wall. “Kevin?” It had been so long since they’d stood face to face, and Cecil looked exactly the same. His wide eyes, their whites and irises intact, danced their gaze around Kevin’s face. “Um, what are you doing in my studio?”

“I wanted to see you!” Kevin spread his arms wide and beamed. “We’re friends, friend, and I missed you. I have such good news for you.”

Cecil’s fingers crept towards his microphone. “You’re not here to... hurt me?”

“Oh no, I am very much here to hurt you.” Kevin walked forward and pressed a fingernail to Cecil’s forehead. “That’s part of the good news. I am here to share a beautiful message.”

“If it’s about the Smiling -”

“The SMILING GOD!” Kevin exclaimed, cutting him off. He smiled wider. Cecil began to tremble, and Kevin leaned close to be heard better. As he did, Cecil’s fist seized around the microphone and swung upwards, but Kevin easily deflected it, sending the mic crashing to the ground. Cecil yelped as Kevin grabbed his wrists. “Don’t do that, Cecil,” he purred. “I am here to share in the delights of the Smiling God. In the devouring and the purity. I am unholy, Cecil. I am wretched. You said so yourself.”

“You are,” Cecil whimpered. It hurt, to hear him say that, but what hurt worse was the fact that he clearly believed it. “You... are the devil.”

That was Cecil’s greatest sin. He was not a nice person all the time, despite his kindness; Cecil Palmer could be mean. Kevin hated that about him. All the things he hated about Cecil stood before him, reflected in his own face, with hair like his and a nose like his and eyes as bright as starlight, that were nothing like Kevin’s. In Cecil, Kevin saw everything he was and wasn’t. And those two could not exist in separation. Not anymore.

“I’m just like you,” Kevin said. He took out his phone, and with his other hand, he took out his knife. Cecil gulped.

“Esteban,” he said.

“Who?”

“Esteban. My son.” Cecil began inching towards the door. “My baby. He’s five. He won’t understand. Please, I have to live for him.”

Kevin brightened. “I have a son, too.” He pulled a chair from the desk and set it in front of the door, and he sat in it. “Look,” he said. Cecil didn’t move. Kevin sighed and set the knife down on the floor. “Look,” he said again, pulling up a picture. Cecil crept closer and looked. It was the picture of Charles and Donavan at an ice cream truck, the one he loved so much, Donnie with a cherry snow cone, wearing a shirt he’d crocheted himself in Dark Arts class. He was so proud of that shirt. Despite himself, Cecil smiled.

“He’s so cute,” Cecil said. “And that’s your boyfriend?”

“My Charles. Charles, the theologian. We’re... we’re on a break right now.” He wouldn’t be here otherwise, but he didn’t tell Cecil that. Charles was ninety-five percent of Kevin’s impulse control. “I want to see Esteban,” he demanded instead. “Show me your son.”

“Okay.” Cecil wiped his eyes. “Okay. I’ll show you.” He went to his desk and picked up one of the frames sitting there. It was all three Palmers, Cecil and a little boy and the most beautiful man Kevin had ever, to this day, seen. Carlos, in a pure white labcoat. Its inoffensive pristine whiteness hurt Kevin’s eyes. It would look beautiful spattered red. “That’s him,” said Cecil proudly. “He’s everything to me.”

“I know.” Kevin put an arm around him. “You are such a beautiful person, Cecil. You have such a beautiful voice. I want you to be happy, endlessly.”

“I’m happy with my life right now.”

Kevin tipped his head to the side and smiled softly, a little one that barely creased his dimples. In the Desert Otherworld, between the disappearance of his unrequited love and his centipede god, Kevin had said the exact same thing. “You think you’re happy,” Lauren had told him then, “but there is more happiness you haven’t found yet. And until you get there, you cannot know what real happiness is.” He said this to Cecil, now, and admired the twitch in his cartoid artery. He smelled fear, and liked it, an adrenaline so heady he could not determine which of them it came from. Kevin hugged his double tighter.

“I know you think you’re going to wriggle free and call the Sheriff,” he cooed. “But the truth is, I cut all the phone lines to your station.”

“You don’t have to kill me,” Cecil mewled. “Please. You don’t have to kill me.”

“I do.”

“No. You don’t. You can just go back to the Otherworld and leave me here. You can let me go home.”

“I do have to kill you,” said Kevin, “or else the purifying won’t work.” He put his hand firmly on the back of Cecil’s neck and reached down to pick up the knife. Cecil’s eyes as wide as dinner plates followed his hand.

“I have to kill you,” Kevin explained, “so I can eat you.”

Cecil began to sob. He shoved away from Kevin with a surprising strength and ran to the door, and he barely managed to grapple for the locks before he vomited on the carpet. His breath came in gasps, and Kevin took his time walking over. “Get it all up,” he encouraged. “You’re doing great. So great.” Cecil tried to hit him, but he was not a fighter, and Kevin deflected easily. He weaved his fingers through Cecil’s hair and tossed him pleasantly across the room. His back touched the desk and he ragdolled to the floor. Kevin stood over him.

“Don’t.” A hand, ring-fingered and shaking, extended above Cecil’s head. “Please don’t.”

Kevin put his knife in Cecil’s ribcage. “This will all be over soon,” he encouraged.

It wasn’t. Kevin had killed before, willing sacrifices to the Smiling God. Joyfully they were devoured. But Cecil wasn’t like that. He took a long, long time to die. He cried the entire time it was happening, calling and calling for Carlos, glittering tears gliding down from his deep, soulful eyes. Kevin slipped the knife through his viscera, pulled it out and set it back into place. Blood dripped in a pitter-patter, and flowed like a lazy river. It was a waterfall, a baptism, and Smiling God, it was so beautiful.

There was one point, halfway through, where Kevin thought he’d gotten the message across. “I feel sick,” Cecil choked out. “I feel dizzy.” Kevin helped him into a sitting position and pushed gently on his double’s nape, so that Cecil’s head fell between Cecil’s knees, to steady him. He traced Cecil’s spine with the shiny metal.

“You’re doing great,” he said. “You’re doing so good.” He kissed Cecil’s cheek and began to nibble on it.

Towards the end, he heard a scratching on the door. “Khoshekh,” Cecil rattled out. Kevin went over and turned the lock.

“You want Khoshekh? Okay, sure,” said Kevin. “See how nice I’m being to you?” He moved the chair and unlocked the door. “Here you go.” The cat hissed at him and ran to Cecil, who lay facedown on the carpet. He murmured something and hugged the feline close as it licked his un-ruined cheek. The cat howled and pounced on Kevin, but he swatted it away and it landed in the hallway. It didn’t get up, but he followed it out and checked that it was still alive. “Yikes, well, maybe I’m not going to be that nice. I hate your cat, Cecil. It’s not happy, and that makes me unhappy.”

He turned back to Cecil and took two steps, so he stood over his double, feet on either side of his legs. Hands poised over his shoulder blades. Knees lowered to the floor as he knelt to turn Cecil over.

“Believe in a Smiling God,” he intoned. “Everything bad will be made good again. Everything wrong will be made right.” For the first time, Kevin noticed the blood on Cecil’s fingertips, blood he hadn’t put there. Haloed around his head were the words, “I love you,” written in smeared fingerprints. Kevin smiled and gathered Cecil into his arms. “Your last words are just like all your words,” he soothed, “and just like you. Beautiful. I love you, Cecil. I love everything about you, even the things I hate. I am so, so happy to be your double.”

Cecil didn’t answer.

Elation came to him, then, and he set down his feast. The rhythm pumped in his ears, that of love and of life that he still had, alive to taste the suffering of the world before his ultimate cleansing. He split Cecil sternum to navel, peeled him like an orange and tore forth the offal, the entrails, holding their warmth aloft in the fluorescent light of the broadcast booth. Blood between his fingers like an act of baptism. Blood on his hands like a spear to the side. He sank his teeth into the liver.

The prophet ate, tearing sinews with teeth like an abandoned cemetery. He brushed away the lingering tears and licked his fingers clean of salt. One year, ten years, a hundred - it didn’t matter and he’d never care again. When he reached up into Cecil’s ribcage and plucked the heart, it was still warm. He didn’t dare bite, thought better of mangling something so beautiful. He’d give it to Carlos.

Kevin had killed before, but this felt like taking a part of himself. Regret wept in his soul even as his teeth churned. Washing across his tongue. Dripping down his lips. He ate as an act of devotion. Never had he tasted adrenaline so sweet, blood so warm and husky.

There was only one thing to make the feast better, and that was music. Every fine meal is best enjoyed with a glass of wine and some ritual chanting, or vinyl records, as preferences may go. To the prophet, there was only one sound so lovely.

It filled the air, a scream he’d heard before. Like caramel drizzling over espresso, so rich and yet light, a sticky sweetness he could feel in his gums and his earlobes. When he looked up, Carlos was there.

“What

have

you

done?”

Carlos screamed. “What have you done to Cecil?”

“I’m him now.” Kevin stroked Cecil’s face, what was left of it, and smiled. He smiled so wide that the skin tore, and his own blood dripped into that which dripped down his face. He explained, “We are pure. We are together. Joyfully, we are devoured.”

“We can still save him, we can get him to the hospital -” And then he saw what was in Kevin’s hand. Carlos’s knees folded in on themselves. His mouth hung open, a low howl from his very core. Agony in its purest and most beautiful form. And what was agony if not the prelude to joy?

“He is saved already.” Kevin licked his lips and closed his eyes. Behind his lids was the blinking of a red light at the top of a lighthouse, and in his ears was the thrumming over the mountains. Through him, pulsing with the energy of Cecil Palmer, the Smiling God called out. It was dead at the hand of this scientist before him, but that didn’t matter. It lived on in Kevin, as surely as the double at his feet.

And with the music in his mind, he began to sway. He climbed to a standing position and extended his hand to Carlos.

This is the grace of the Sun. A light so pure, it turns everything wretched, and holy. This is the will of the Smiling God. They come in twos. You come in twos. Kill your double, and become one.

Kevin held out Cecil’s heart to the man that had loved him. “Carlos,” he offered. “Want a bite?”

#tw cannibalism #tw violence #tw gore #this fic is not about intimate partner violence #however some of the situations may be triggering for survivors of ipv #dead dove do not eat #wtnv #kevin wtnv #cecil palmer

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gruesomejack · 2 years ago

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Pushed.

"Wake up."

The voice echoed and pounded through hid head, swirling and banging against the high-pitched ring of tinnitus. Rabbit swayed and tipped, but there was something keeping him upright. We're his... Were his arms above his head?

"Wake up!" The voice was followed by a boom of a clap. It probably wasn't that loud, but his head was aching so bad that he felt like he was going to get sick. He was going to get sick. Rabbit tried to double, but he couldn't. The vomit came up either way. With a wretch and a cough, his dinner and beer from the pub was falling from his mouth, spilling down his shirt and onto the cement floor beneath him.

"Gross, dude!" Another voice chimed in and gagged, followed then by a small chorus of snickers.

The room smelled wet, like mold and must. Was it a basement? There was also the scent of weed hanging in the air-- Recent, not stale. Rabbit heard a lighter click to life and finally managed to drag his eyelids open.

"There he is! Hey big guy." Avoiding the puke, Alan stepped closer to him and pat the side of his cheek. He took a long drag of the blunt between his lips and held it before blowing the thick smoke in Rabbit's face. "I saw you at the bar. I guess you're regretting ordering off the tap, huh?" He mused, "Had my buddy slip something nice in your drink for you."

The words barely registered, but when they sunk in, Rabbit tried to jump back, but was stopped. His hands were tied.

"Ah-ah. Look above your head." Alan said and pointed to the pipe above. Rabbit's arms were suspended and tied tight, keeping him upright and motionless. "Lucky for me, you're some sort of giant freak. I didn't even have to grab a chair." Watching as the young man struggled, Alan smiled and passed his joint off to one of his friends. "...You know, it really pisses me off that you're out walking the street, enjoying burgers and beer when my best friend is rotting six feet underground." He said, "You should've been tried as an adult and thrown in jail until you were old enough to get excuted. You killed four innocent people."

Rabbit tugged against the rope again and grunted. Despite the fear coursing through his body, his limbs were heavy and his brain was moving in slow motion. He'd been fucking drugged. He tugged again and again and whimpered, his rolling eyes struggling to focus on anything in front of him.

"Aren't you gonna ask me what I want?" Alan waited for a beat and frowned when Rabbit didn't respond. Freak. "You and your little faggy friend humiliated me. I'm gonna give you what you're owed. For me, for Des, and the rest of the family."

Shit. Rabbit pulled again and whined out as the rope dug into his wrists. He shook his head and swallowed, stepping away as much as he could. It didn't matter though because he was stuck and Alan was right there. "Please-" He slurred, his panic squeezing hard at his chest and stealing his breath. "You don't have to do this, you-"

CRACK.

A heavy fist made contact with his jaw. Rabbit choked from the pain and then again as his mouth filled up with blood. Groaning, he spit it out on the floor and stared with wide, drugged-out eyes.

"I bet they said the same sorts of things, huh?" Alan shook the ache from his knuckles and stared back at Rabbit, "Don't you worry. I'll take care of you." He promised, "Get comfy, man. It's gonna be one hell of a night."

-------

One night became two. Alan let him hang from his wrists with swollen eyes and bruised ribs, falling in and out of consciousness. He couldn't yell, he was so tired and his throat was bone dry from the crying he'd done during his beating. Rabbit stayed stuck like that for the whole long day until Alan made his return.

"Maybe I'll keep you as a pet, you know? I kind of like knowing I have a little buddy down here to come home to." Alan smiled and lit a cigarette, once again taking a drag and blowing it in Rabbit's space. "Oh... What's that there?"

During the struggle, Rabbit's shirt had started to lift, revealing a peek of black ink beneath it. Alan pushed the fabric up to get a better look and immediately sneered. "That's disgusting. You really are a faggot." He spat. Glancing down at the lighter in his hands, the gears behind his eyes started moving. "Can't having you sporting that. How 'bout a free removal?"

Rabbit's eyes opened wide at the sound of clicking. Before he could put together what was going on, the flame was being pressed into his skin. Rabbit cried.

--------

Two nights became three. Rabbit was sweaty. He was sticky and disgusting, covered in blood and puke and now piss. His bladder finally failed him that morning, leaving him hurt, soiled, and humiliated. The hands above him had gone near completely numb, his arms and joints aching from the tension of holding him up. By the time Alan came back, he was very nearly grateful. Maybe tonight he'd finish the job and put him out of his misery.

"Come on, Rabbit! You can't just go limp." One of the other boys pressed a lit cigarette to his collar, yanking a rough yelp from his mouth. "There we go!"

"I'm bored." Alan was in a metal folding chair, sipping a beer and simply watching his friends take turns using his prisoner as a gameboard. "He just takes it. He doesn't even try to get away anymore." He said, "What's the point?" Pushing himself up, he finished his drink with a few deep gulps and moved to use the side of Rabbit's skull to crush the can down. "I wanted him to be scared. Terrified. I want him to feel what Dez did."

The other boys shared a glance between each other. Rabbit was a freak; he had been since high-school. It was a tall task to plan anything around him-- You sort of just had to set things in motion and hope for the best. "...You said he freaked out last time. What'd you do then?" One asked and offered a shrug. Alan blinked, his brows lifting. "...I started wailing on his boyfriend." That's what it was. Rabbit didn't have a sense of self urgency, but it seemed to work overtime for that blonde kid. What was his name? "Alex?"

Rabbit's glazed over eyes seemed to come to life, flicking slowly to Alan.

Bingo. "...You know, I don't remember him from school." He said, pursing his lips in thought. "He's awfully familiar though." Snapping his fingers, Alan pointed at a dusty bookcase nearby. "Grab me the yearbook." He ordered and waited until one of the other boys obliged. Once it was in his hands, he started flipping through the pages. "You were two years behind us, right Jack?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer. Alan stopped on the first page of their class photos and started dragging his fingers through the names.

"No. No. No..." No Alex or Alexander in their year was a match. Drumming his fingers on the book for a moment, he frowned. "What am I missing? I know I know him." Maybe he was a year older? Alan started to flip through more pages when his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the display of extracurriculars and clubs. Pausing, his brow furrowed as his dark eyes were pulled to one group photo in particular. The School Newspaper.

The black and white image of the club members was one he'd seen more than a handful of times. Alan looked through each smiling face until it locked on one. Blinking, he glanced up at Rabbit and tilted his head, flipping back to their class photos. He scanned through through the names again and stopped, using his finger to find the matching portrait. "...Christine Prescott."

Rabbit's breath caught in his throat, his brows lowering.

Alan broke into a crooked grin and laughed, his eyes dancing. "...She really did fuck the psycho." He managed and tossed the book aside. "Guys! Rabbit's boyfriend is the camera dyke."

One of the other boys scrunched his face. "That doesn't make any sense. Are you-"

"She cut her hair, dumbass. Alex is Creepy Chris Prescott." Alan laughed again and reached out to take Rabbit by the face, "Birds of a feather! What is she doing now, huh? Pretending she's a man?"

Rabbit felt his cheeks heat up, his fingers twitching above his head. Staring at Alan, he said nothing still. That wasn't any of his fucking business.

"What a bitch." Alan rolled his eyes and pinched the pink in his cheek, smirking for him. "...Does she actually think she's a man? That's so fucking sick." Pursing his lips and searching Rabbit's gaze, he continued. "...You know what she's always needed? A good dicking. Man, I bet that'd fix her right up."

A rotten shock moved up Rabbit's back. His gaze on Alan was unwavering, his lip twitching while his brows knit together. Don't. The word was caught in his throat, but it was plain as day on his face as a warning. Don't go there.

The dark look on Rabbit's face pushed Alan further. Finally he was getting some sort of reaction! He wanted the freak to hurt and he was going to make it happen. "It was easy enough to get you here, Jonny." He said, posing the idea for him. "I could do the same for Creepy Chris? That way she wouldn't fight back either... She put up a real bitchfit after you were thrown in jail."

Rabbit's hands pulled. The water pipe they were tied to whined quietly under the stress. Alan glanced up and cocked a brow, "...Have I finally got your attention? Good." He said, his voice dipping low. Leaning in close to Rabbit, he continued. "I'll make it a promise, huh? I'm gonna fuck her. Right here, right in front of you."

The pipe whined again, rust from the metal flaking off and falling to the floor.

"I'll bend her over the table and fix her right up. Do you think she'll cry?" He asked, his dark eyes locking on uneven blue. "Or do you think she'd like it? Freaky bitch always was a perv-"

The metal above them snapped like an old twig and burst. Rushing water started to spray and flood the basement and before Alan could jump back, he was being bullrushed to the ground by a a furious, tortured beast. Rabbit's eyes were wide and glassy as his hands came down on the man's face. The rope tying them together had come undone in the breaking of the pipe, but they were still full of pins and needles. His fists were heavy and clumsy, but they smashed down like weights, immediately inflicting lasting damage. Alan yelled and tried to wrestle him off, but Rabbit was tall and built sturdy despite his lanky frame.

The other boys moved in, one trying to pull Rabbit off by the back of his jacket while the other two started grabbing and swinging. Rabbit bucked and thrashed, pushing and flinging them each off with an impossible force, his voice breaking from his throat in a broken yell. His hands were on Alan again, wrapping quickly around his throat just like they had in the library. Squeezing tight, he felt his neck start to pop as the man struggled and it only spurred him forward. Die. Die! Die! Alan writhed and scratched and grabbed, trying anything he could to get the man on him off. His vision was starting to tunnel at the edges as panic filled his chest and lungs. He'd made a mistake.

"DON'T- YOU- TOUCH- HIM!" Each barked word was matched with a lift and smash against the flooding cement floor. Rabbit yelled, but the sound was heartbroken and terrified. He wouldn't let anyone ever lay a hand on Alex. Not as long as he lived. Moving to shove the man again, Rabbit's body froze for a second as searing pain spread rapidly through his shoulder. Glancing back, one of Alan's wide eyed cronies had shoved a pocket knife into his back. The wild look on Rabbit's face caused him to stumble backwards.

"I'm out of here! Fuck this!" He hissed before clambering up the basement steps. The other boys floundered for a second, waiting only until Rabbit ripped the blade from his shoulder and stared at it. One bloodthirsty look from the young man had them both racing to follow their friend. Rabbit squeezed the knife in his hand before his glazed eyes fell to Alan.

There was no hesitation.

Again. Again and again and again and again-- The sound of blood and flesh was only barely muffled by the rushing water above them. Rabbit stabbed until the body straddled beneath him went completely limp. Rabbit's chest heaved as he caught his breath. He was soaked to the bone from the water raining down, causing the spattered blood to smear across his skin and seep into his clothing.

Blinking, he glanced down at the lifeless body under him and whimpered.

#;drabble #;final boy #tw gore #tw transphobia #tw homophobia #tw assault #just a dead dove do not eat sort of situation going on here #ANYWAY....#there will be a second part/starter vjYKFJFJCHV

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