swampofsadness | listen puppet boy, before you disobey

Beneath Dirk's searching fingers, Ranboo's breath is a thin, shaking wheeze, choked out only once in a while now, seemingly his body's own panic fighting against the sedative's attempts to shut it down. When Dirk finds their pulse, it's still fast, faster than it should be, but rather than the panicked throbbing it was before, the rhythm has weakened into more of an irregular pattering. Their eyelids, not quite closed, flutter slightly, the muscular reflexes of a dying body rather than any kind of sign of consciousness.

He isn't conscious. Dirk may take some comfort in knowing that they aren't feeling any of this-- or he may be disappointed, depending on his mood. He'll certainly feel the aftermath when next he wakes, but for now, Ranboo is blissfully unaware of the agony his body is enduring as it shuts down around him. For all intents and purposes, he's already dead-- were he not going to wake up again, he would've already lost his last moments of consciousness several seconds ago.

But his body struggles on, despite its rapidly degrading state, the gasps of breath coming further and further apart, their heart skipping as it begins to fail and slow.

The rapidly-fading flutter of life galvanises something in Dirk--something basic and needy, something hungry and cruel. He rolls his hips against Ranboo's body, seeking pressure--from their cock or from their pelvic bone or simply from flesh bolstered by stiff denim, he doesn't really care which. Heat throbs inside of him and across the hidden secret of his cunt, demanding weight and movement and touch. And for the first time in weeks, he can not only have it as a burden to endure, stoically and silently, but he can chase it. He can pursue it relentlessly and shamelessly and--if he's good, if he's fast--actually take his pleasure and finally, finally relieve himself with release.

In other wwords: Dirk is desperate, and he's in it to cum.

As for whether he'd be relieved or disappointed--well, it's a bit of both. To some extent, it's the not knowing that really drives him. The tension of that passageway not just between death and life, but between sensate and inert. The spaces left along those boundaries, and the fact that no matter what he does, he will never know it so long as he continues to actually live. He can be its arbiter, its custodian, and even its connoisseur--but the actual experience lies just beyond the tips of his fingers, so easy to obtain... and yet he balks every time.

Not so Hal, and not so Ranboo--

This is part of it, really. That incendiary spark. The compulsion. Why does Hal get to have this--why can Ranboo--but not him? What is it about him that denies itself what he craves to know--and un-know? What is it about him that enables others to take it and leave him?

His breath comes in short, heavy, hot bursts, his fingertips chasing every last flicker of pulse, eyes seeking the faintest movement to bear witness--to see the final second as Ranboo, the person, ceases. The moment of true death, when a body ceases to contain and only lies worthless except as meat.

Dirk won't have to wait long now to see those final seconds, Ranboo's breath coming only in sporadic bursts now, marked with a harsh, rasping wheeze. Beneath Dirk's searching fingers, his pulse suddenly drops from the rapid, weak pattering to nearly nonexistent, faint half-beats as their jaw flexes and eyelids flutter.

They make a choked sound, but another proper attempt at breath doesn't come.

Their chest heaves silently, once more, not strong enough to fill their lungs again, before they fall still and quiet; there is still the faintest life left in their brain, but from the outside, one would never know, and that spark is rapidly fading, the rest of their body lacking the strength to continue attempting to keep it alive.

Only the smallest of muscular twitches and flexes remain; gradually, they fade away as well, the body beneath Dirk growing still and empty even as he ruts desperately against it.

For the second time today, Ranboo dies, though this time he wasn't alone, for better or worse. Even he wouldn't know.

Every second, every detail of Ranboo's death filters into Dirk's consciousness through a strange sieve. He's in a kind of desperation fugue state, and every bit of it fuels him, his hips rocking him against Ranboo's body, his cunt getting wetter until the entirety of his crotch is slimy and hot, the material of his boxer briefs no longer sticking to him so much as it's just sticky.

He's running hot, but he doesn't feel hot. His mouth is open, his breathing coming in short, ragged puffs as his eyes search Ranboo's stilling body until there really is nothing else to catch--and he can feel that, the emptiness in that form. It's not just the lack of breath and pulse, the vacancy in the slack face and dropped eyelids. There's an inert quality to dead bodies, Dirk knows, that isn't in the living. Stunned or unconscious animals are only indistinguishable from dead ones to a certain point--the absence of life leaves them dead in a way the absence of consciousness does not. Ranboo isn't simply sleeping under him--he's dead, that last speck and final flicker of living completely gone. And it burns Dirk up inside--the ravenousness of it eats him, and the pressure builds in a way he's ached for.

In a body sense, he's so in the moment that he can't feel anything but that--that and, of course, the lances of raw, animal pleasure that race up his cunt and smother his clit and rise into his spine and into his bladder and it feels, quite frankly, like he's going to piss himself.

Right up until he doesn't--and instead (with a cry that sounds almost like a sob, and is truly more pathetic and more gutteral than he would ever allow anyone living to hear): he cums.

Beneath him, Ranboo's empty body is a quiet, obedient doll, motionless save for the slight shifting of it beneath Dirk as he rolls his hips, desperately chasing relief. Were Ranboo to occupy that body right now, to be aware of what Dirk has done, they wouldn't be angry-- it's not like they're in there to experience this violation. The dead can't say no. If anything, he might be puzzled and a little bit put off by the idea of it-- why? Why would Dirk even enjoy this? Then again, Dirk enjoys many things that they have much the same reaction to even while they're fully conscious and aware of his activities.

The body and the machine inhabiting it are both still and quiet for a very long moment, a toy with no batteries, the typical intensity of their gaze gone, replaced with a vacant, visionless gray that gazes up at and seemingly beyond the dingy ceiling. The internal counter ticks down, the embedded device waiting for a sign of life that it isn't going to receive before it attempts to revive them once again.

Why?

Dirk might struggle to explain it--at least in terms that the layman without a minor in philosophy could understand--but what he would miss is that it comes down to the same thing Dirk always gets off to: control.

A lot of necrophiliacs want the 'total control' they have over something that's dead. For Dirk, it's his control over death and the corpse that he really craves.

In his ideal fantasy, he would be the one responsible for everything. The life fading from the body beneath him, every final spasm and twitch savoured not just because they'll never return but because of him, his mastery over the body that's dying beneath him.

But this is almost the opposite--seizing control over a death he can neither prevent nor reverse, the body that's dying and the person that was and now no longer is, by way of sexual dominance.

Add the fact that this body, this person-that-was (and he wants, he needs to be a person again) is a body to whom he was already far more attached than he'd allowed himself to know, and the fact that he has, for the sake of his attachment to this very body, been exerting an unspoken burden of self-control regarding not only touch, but sex specifically, and this lapse of control for the sake of satisfying needs like control was all but inevitable.

He'd already been stacking triggers like blocks, a monument to whatever insanity he was born to enact towering taller and taller with every step since Showfall's drone knocked on their door. Every spurt of blood, every act of dismemberment and death. Desite it all, through it all, very deliberately in spite of it all, he'd managed to be just fine. Or he'd thought he was fine. He wasn't.

He's aware of that, vaguely, because his heart hurt as he came--not like an ache, but the kind of overwhelming, piercing, throbbing agony that gave the illusion of imminent rupture. A premonition received too late. A warning. Less 'you've gone too far' and more simply 'you're too far gone.'

Now, with his mind eerily empty and his breathing erratically heavy, his nervous system tingling and his boxer briefs soaked with warmth and what he hopes is just viscous slick and not piss... he lies down. Slowly at first--aiming for a spot halfway on Ranboo's still form but mostly next to it. He gets about halfway there before he decides that's good enough and just drops. Boneless. Still so sensitive between his legs. His mouth is dry, but there's saliva on his chin. He closes his eyes, shifts his hips slightly into the mattress. He... still wants. Wants more. Wants something. Something else, or something more.

Opens his eyes again, purposefully recovering some kind of focus and control over his breathing--all while staring intently and fixedly at the vacant, clear emptiness of Ranboo's eyes. Like his bro's eyes. Perfectly staring.

Edited 2024-11-19 14:28 (UTC)

Dirk is allowed a long, quiet moment to collect himself before they return again; whether it's because it takes more work this time to revive them or not is impossible to tell. From the outside, it's impossible to see if the mask is doing anything at all, the outer portions removed now and the anchor pressed against the pillow and buried in their wild hair.

When Ranboo awakens again, it isn't a slow, gradual awakening as if from sleep-- Showfall would never be so kind as to ease their actors into anything, much less life itself. The awakening is violent, as if they're ripped out of the numb, peaceful black of death and forced back into their body all at once, a ragged breath drawn, the focus suddenly returning to those vacant eyes.

There's a moment of pained disorientation, wordless, marked with a sob as, all at once, they're once again forced to process the agony that their body has endured-- the mask can awaken them, but it can't repair the damage done to the body in the process of death. Their chest hurts, the muscles in and around their ribs aching with each rough breath, and their head feels as if their brain has been swapped out for something soft and too-light, yet still wrapped with pain. They don't know where they are-- what's happened, why everything hurts the way that it does, and with all the understanding of a child frightened by thunder, they begin to cry again; the tears cause yet another wave of ache, a burning over their dry eyes, left open for too long in their absence from behind them, and he chokes softly, closing them tightly despite the way it only seems to spread that burn further into his skull.

The instant life hits Ranboo's body, Dirk feels it. Not through any innate sense or intuition, though. He's lost time again, gazing disconnectedly into Ranboo's lifeless stare. But then it's like time reverses. Ranboo's lungs seize, demanding breath; their chest heaves, their eyes move and see, and Dirk is jolted from his fugue by the lightningbolt of living. He jerks back like a startled cat, narrowly avoiding collision with the mess occupying his bed around them (vomit, blood, a severed head) and watches intently as consciousness seeps into Ranboo... and then the tears begin to flow.

It's a shock, really. Dirk's first thought is I thought he was stronger than this.

Then he thinks He is stronger than that. He is. Dirk knows. He's seen it, Ranboo lives because of it. He's free because he's strong. He just doesn't know how to use it.

Most of this knowledge never really takes conscious form, though. Not before he's moving to close the brief gap between him and Ranboo--his hands move with speed and precision, taking them by the face. His calloused palms pressing against tear-stained cheeks, warm fingers splayed to thread into hair, thumbs firm on their cheekbones, just beneath their swollen, red-ringed eyes.

He holds them there, not-quite-gentle but by no means cruel, inches from his face as he forces eye contact--his shades are off so there's no barrier between Ranboo's greenish eyes and Dirk's own piercing, almost unblinking orange.

"Ranboo. Hey. Ranboo. Stop crying and wake up in there."

Dirk.

The name is a vivid red exclamation point, the sight of Dirk's face, the intense lock of those eyes nearly stealing their breath for a moment. It isn't not a jumpscare, but it does seem to be somewhat effective, startling Ranboo out of their tears for just a moment as they stare back at him with all the wide-eyed fear of a child.

"... hhh." A soft whimper, their aching chest trembling with it as they seem to freeze-- as reality begins to creep back in, their empty yet overstuffed brain beginning to refill with the memories of what happened before this moment.

Dirk... Dirk--

The woman...

A choked sound escapes from Ranboo, their eyes welling up again, shining with fresh tears. Their fingers tighten, almost fists where they grasp the filthy sheet beneath them.

"It hurts," they finally say, and their voice is hoarse unlike anything Dirk has ever heard before, shaken apart with fear and pain, a rasping croak. Their throat burns, their chest aching terribly with each breath, each beat of their heart. "They won't... they won't let me die... please-- hhh, help me..."

Help me die. Help this end.

The new wave of tears is--frustrating. He wants to lash out, to strike Ranboo to the floor and make him get up on his own power. But something else--some painful clutching in his chest, a searing swell of panicked emotion in his stomach--stops him.

"No," Dirk says, with the bluntness and finality of an axe to the face. "You don't need help. You did it. You're alive. You're not going to die. They won't have you, not now and not ever. You died and came back and you're still free."

His grip on Ranboo's face is unyielding, his gaze unwavering. His teeth are gritted slightly with the force of his own determination--the driven madness of a man who believes in the man whose tears he's denying.

"You're alive. You're going to live."

An agonized sob wrenches its way from Ranboo's chest, his red, swollen eyes screwing tightly shut, sending tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I don't want to... I don't want to live, I don't..." They trail off, breathless and trembling in Dirk's grasp. "It hurts. It hurts. It hurts."

Physically, emotionally-- being alive hurts right now. He wishes he would at least pass out again, if not die, at least not have to feel this for however long it's going to last.

Oh, for--

Dirk really grits his teeth now.

"Too bad," he mutters under his breath--he lets go of Ranboo's face, at least for the moment, and glances over his shoulder--towards the door, as though checking for something. Or someone. But no one is there, and it's a habitual motion, not a reasoned one. The intentional movement is this: he grabs the drone's severed head up in the same hands that were just holding Ranboo, and puts her mottled, muscled face between his and Ranboo's. Forcing him to face her. Caked blood, exposed brain, bare wires, hanging strips of scalp, and all the rest.

"Is this what you want? Who you want to be? Where you want to go?" He yanks the head back and plants it firmly on the bed, like a soccer ball, and grabs Ranboo's shoulder with his free hand. In Dirk's mind, this is meant to shock Ranboo into reality and new resolve--or at least resignation--not terrify them into further hysterics.

"That's your choice, and you are making it right now."

Ranboo doesn't want to be anything. They're tired of being, of being forced to continue to be-- tired, and sad, and hurting, and they just want to rest.

They're too tired to do anything to resist Dirk, in too much pain, and when the head is thrust in front of their face they only open their eyes for a flicker before quickly closing them again. The fraction of a second of crimson was all that they needed to see.

He's too exhausted and in pain to wail and moan and sob the way his body almost wants to, the way his brain is crying out to, so he instead gives a weak, pathetic whine of a sound, before breaking down into quiet sobs.

"Please... stop..." They murmur between sobs, their voice thin and pitched pathetically high.

Dirk watches Ranboo break further, and he doesn't know what to fucking do about it.

"Oh my god," he says, under his breath--like he's pissed off and frustrated, exasperated with their childishness, all of which are true. But it's not just that--the anxious swelling in his chest and the buzzing in his brain is starting to make him aware that he's blowing this. Badly. He doesn't know why, or how he's supposed to fix it--he just knows he's not getting the results he wanted, or the results he needs. His instinct is to double down again--to grab Ranboo and hurt them, to make them fight back against him. To force them to fight and struggle and cry out until they realise they're still writhing to escape pain, that they're trying to escape death, that they're trying to live--

But it doesn't feel... right. Something about his overwhelming impulse isn't right, and he... lets go.

He lets go, and he pulls back, his face creased with confused irritation, looking around the room now for some other idea, some kind of inspiration to what would make Ranboo stop feeling for five seconds and think.

There's nothing in his room that really offers epiphany, though. Blades of varying strengths and dimensions and styles, an empty bottle of diazepam--that would have been fucking useful, actually, too damn bad--silicone lube, a book about law and philosophy in Roman times, an anatomically absurd 'unicorn skeleton' from last Halloween, a stack of Aesop Rock and Eminem vinyls, some SAW picture books that he created himself in a creative spree, empty water glasses and soda bottles, his own collection of puppets and marionettes hanging from the ceiling and in piles along the floor.

Maybe it's the last one that does it; finding seemingly no inspiration amongst the detitus of his life, he turns back to Ranboo, returning his hands to the sobbing man's shoulders, and shakes him, just slightly.

"I'm not going to stop. You're not going to die. I'm--look, okay, I'll help you, if you need me to, but you aren't going to die. You're going to live, I'm going to keep you from that--" he nods his head sideways at the messy severed head still on the bed with them--

"I'll be here and I'll keep you alive and I'll keep you safe. So stop crying."

There's a hint of breathless desperation to his tone at the end.

Edited 2024-11-21 15:02 (UTC)

Dirk's words aren't as reassuring as he's trying to be-- his entire presence isn't, and even if Ranboo could process what he was saying, none of it would truly help. But they're exhausted, their body aching inside and out, and what little energy they have left to cry is fading fast. It's only another moment or so before it fades entirely, and they fall quiet, tears still silently streaming down their cheeks even though they lack the strength to continue sobbing. His head feels light and empty, hollow, even the pain beginning to seem far away as a weighted numbness begins to settle in over his synapses.

They sag against the bed, too exhausted to move or to speak, numb and wrung-out and aching. Their conscious mind seems to've checked out entirely, their gaze glassy and unfocused as they simply lay there and breathe, the sound wet and pained.

At least they seem stable now, the pills having been removed from their system seemingly prevented them from dying a third time in the same hour.

Ranboo isn't giving any of the signals Dirk might have interpreted as resistance--they're not fighting, they're not rigid or tense, they're not trying to pull away. They aren't even screwing their eyes shut or saying no. None of which would have signalled a problem to Dirk in terms of his behaviour--to Dirk, those signs mean that Ranboo hasn't come around yet, not that he's doing something wrong. But none of those happen; instead, Ranboo just... weakens. Sags. Slumps down against the nasty bedding and breathes, wet and ragged and wheezing and empty.

Dirk lets go of them slowly. Very slowly. He's expecting another burst of life--or worse, a sudden swerve back into death. But neither one happens; they're just... catatonic. Broken, at least temporarily. He hasn't seen them this bad since--

Since ever, actually. He's never seen them this bad. He's never seen anyone this bad, except in... well, snuff videos.

Which makes him extremely nervous. He's hesitant to fully let go, he's hesitant to leave, he's hesitant to stay here doing nothing--

(Any parallels to his own dissociative fugue states are completely lost on him.)

"Okay. Okay, good. Good job." He says this like he's afraid Ranboo will explode, like a bomb. Not soothing, not warm, but tense and cautious in a breathless way.

"Breathe, now. Keep breathing. Okay? Can you handle that? Just keep breathing."

Those glassy eyes turn to look at Dirk as he speaks, the typical sharp edge of their gaze almost entirely missing; weakly, Ranboo nods their head, the slightest of motions. But it's a response. It's all that they can muster, but it's a response, and acknowledgement that they are fully conscious.

Despite how little they want to be.

"... hurts," he says again, this time much more softly. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts. But at least the hysterical initial shock of that has seemingly worn off.

That little movement of their eyes--the clarity in them, however brief--is like a fucking lungful of oxygen for a man who's been waterboarded for the past twenty minutes. There's life in there, still. Thoughts. Language. Good.

That's good.

And yet, at that single word, Dirk is... quiet, just for a moment.

"Yeah," he says softly. He knows.

He doesn't say that part, though. He shakes the thought off internally, throws it out with all the rest of the unproductive debris of his mind, and claps Ranboo on the shoulder--lighter than he usually would, but reassuringly. Or at least it's intended to be reassuring.

"You stay right there. I'm getting you something to drink. You'll drink it, and you'll thank me later. Got it?" He doesn't really wait for an answer.

They incline their head very, very slightly by way of recognition, let their eyes fall closed as they sag, exhausted, into the filthy bed. Even if he was aware of the state of the bed, he would be far too wrung out to really do anything about it or care.

At least their mind is now blissfully silent, numbed beyond conscious thought. There's still pain, of course, that isn't going away, but the inability to think in proper words or images is a temporary blessing, despite the constant, low hum of agony just beneath that numbing blanket.

At least they aren't actively having a meltdown anymore.

Dirk takes that small acknowledgment as his go-ahead, moving fast and light on his feet.

He grabs the cold, disgusting remainder of the Showfall woman's obliterated personhood on his way out, at least--if nothing else, Ranboo is left with one less horrible thing to look at it.

He doesn't really think too much about where he's taking it, though; disposing of the body has become secondary to sorting out the problem of the man whose safety he secured (however tenuously) by creating that problem. So it goes with him to the kitchen, and lands in the sink while he opens the fridge, considers gatorade and then considers the acid burn of the vomit. He grabs a ginger ale as a chaser instead, but more importantly, he grabs a glass and turns the sink on to run some fucking water and fill it.

And it is with a can of ginger ale and a glass of barely-coler-than-lukewarm water that he returns to the bedroom, his jaw set with the kind of determination that went far better with the act of murder than it does with the act of nursing. He sets the can on his bedside and puts a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing himself with his free hand in order to lean over it towards Ranboo's slack form.

"Up. Time to sit."

With both of his hands full, the only way to carry the severed head would be under his arm, and he's still basically nude except for his boxer briefs. So he leaves it behind, facedown in the metal basin along with an empty bowl and two plates.

They don't want to sit up. They aren't entirely sure they even can.

When Dirk speaks to them, the press of his weight bending the mattress in a familiar way at their side, they open their bleary eyes just a crack, head turning to look at him. Their breathing is calmer now-- slow, though still pained and wet. Their head and body ache as if they've been beaten while simultaneously catching the flu.

"I can't..."

His muscles feel wrung out and wound too tight, like they might pop if he puts any amount of exertion on them. Honestly their entire body feels like its on the edge of collapse.

"Yeah, you can." There's no doubt in Dirk's voice. No encouragement, either. Just simple fact delivery.

He's not disparaging of Ranboo's defeatism, despite his certainty that's what it is. The mind is a huge part of what moves the body. Dirk knows this. As a man whose body is his mind's worst enemy, he knows this. More than that, though: he's a man who was raised on being spurred to move despite his mind and body's joint conviction he couldn't. Pain, exhaustion, fear, damage. All of it capable of stopping him, of bringing him down and keeping him down. But it wasn't. The well from which that strength is drawn always looks and feels empty, until you learn to stop looking, and to stop feeling. You learn to jump down the well yourself, sight unseen. You learn to go without drawing from it at all.

You learn that you're not going to die, no matter how much you feel like it. You're not dead until you're actually dead, and sometimes not even then.

So when Ranboo says I can't, and Dirk replies Yes, you can, he's being cruel. He's also being kind. He's teaching. Ranboo is learning. They'll learn. They'll get up.

Dirk isn't listening. Doesn't care what they say. What a shock. Ranboo whines softly, closes their eyes again... but fine. Whatever.

They try. They plant their hands flat against the bed, very slowly push themselves up on trembling arms; the muscles wrapped around their chest still ache, and the pain worsens as they come as upright as they can, their breathing harsh with it and features screwing up tight.

He wavers as he sits there, trembling; he shoots a glance at Dirk, one that is weak and exhausted, but something sharp sits just beneath it. Anger-- faint and unclear in its exact source, whether it's forcing them to continue living like this or seemingly refusing to listen to their protests once again-- lights the otherwise dim distance of their gaze.

He waits out the whining. The weakness. The closed eyes before he gathers his grit and fights with his body and tries. And that look that Dirk gets for his trouble?

To Dirk, that little ember of anger and hate is everything. It's a sign that Ranboo is still in there--still feeling, thinking, and being inside of his own head. Whether or not he thinks he has the strength, he does, and he was able to do it and feel something at the same time.

"You hate me now, but you'll thank me later," he says. And as reward for Ranboo's effort, Dirk compromises. He doesn't make Ranboo crawl to him or anything so degrading as that. He pulls himself up onto the bed, extending the glass of water to them like a civilised human being. An offering--you worked for it, so you earned it, so it's yours. You fight, you gain, you get stronger so you can fight harder and longer.

Ranboo looks at the glass of water, turns that almost deadly stare of theirs back up to Dirk's face.

Do they really look like they could lift an arm to hold that glass of water right now? Really? Their long arms tremble and buckle, bearing the brunt of their weight since the muscles in their abdomen don't presently want to, their frame still swaying slightly as they struggle to hold themselves upright.

They just died twice. Sitting up was an accomplishment in and of itself. Anything else is a little much to expect just yet.

Pointedly, almost spitefully, Ranboo does lift an arm, the limb visibly shaking as he halfheartedly reaches out towards the glass of water in Dirk's hand-- but then they pause, that arm dropping back to the bed beside them. Their gaze drops, avoiding Dirk, and they take a breath, wincing slightly at the sting that spreads across their ribs.

"... why won't you... let me die...?" Their voice is ragged and quiet, strained as they force it out, but the question is painfully genuine. "Why...?"

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