swampofsadness | listen puppet boy, before you disobey

There's a knock at the door.

The sound is startling, makes Ranboo suddenly bolt upright from where they'd been lounging on the couch.

Knock-knock.

They pick themselves up from the couch and, as quietly as possible, they creep out of the room, searching frantically for somewhere to hide; his frame is much too long to tuck away into a cabinet or something, but he does, with some internal amusement at the joke, find a closet to tuck himself away into. Thankfully the swords in there aren't taking up too much space.

Knock knock, Dirk! There's a knock at the door!

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From:

generationlost

Ranboo doesn't know what Dirk is doing. No, that's a lie-- they know exactly what Dirk is doing, but not where he is in the process. Part of him isn't sure why he even wonders about Dirk. Why think about him at all? He's just another in the list of terrible things to happen to Ranboo.

From the control of one exploitative owner and into the control of another.

This isn't freedom. Not really.

Ranboo hears movement, opens his eyes for a moment to see Dirk passing by the door-- calm, focused, soaked in a stranger's blood. It's as if they've glanced up to watch a scene from a horror movie playing out in a familiar hallway.

This is hell, right? Or a bad dream. This can't be real. Then again, Ranboo can't remember the last time anything truly felt real to him at all.

(That isn't true. They were with Dirk. Laying peacefully in bed together, in the quiet, comfortable, resting. That feels like another lifetime now.)

Ranboo rolls over limply, sits up to open a drawer near the bed. He knows it's full of condoms and lube. He also knows what else Dirk keeps there. They dig until they find the pill bottle, lift it carefully to avoid making too much noise and alerting Dirk to what they're doing. There's a partial bottle of water on the night stand-- Ranboo can't remember whose it is, but it doesn't really matter now.

He looks over the label. He feels... a lot less and a lot more at once than he thought he would if this were ever to happen. Relief, some agonizing form of it that makes his gut feel cold and hollow, and grief, grieving the person they used to be and can never be again. They wished they knew what name that person had. They wonder what name they'll be buried beneath.

He can't swallow all of the pills at once, so he takes a few at a time. It gives them time to think, to wonder what they could've been, who they could've been if only they'd never been taken. In another life, what could he've been? Happy? Loved? Maybe even normal?

Well, it doesn't matter now. And the pain won't last much longer, the unbearable point that it's come to making their hands shake as they take the last few pills left in the bottle and set it aside, then fall back onto the bed, curling up tightly again to wait.

They hope that it won't hurt. It would suck if the last thing he ever got to feel was pain.

From:

themostempty

To Ranboo's credit, they do manage to avoid making any sounds that would attract Dirk to the scene. Not that this is difficult. Dirk is purpose-driven by nature, his brain always focused on his goals both immediate and grand. This makes him prone to tunnel vision at the best of times. Even if he had heard Ranboo rattle a pill bottle, he'd assume they were sedating themself through whatever breakdown they're having. The same way he does. That's what those pills are for. To shut it down--to shut it all down--when he's having 'an episode.'

In the kitchen, Dirk searches for tools. He finds his club hammer, which is a little more suited to widely distrubuting a blow, and he grabs a crowbar while he's at it. He has scalpels in the bathroom already. He has to do some searching to unearth his bonesaw and meat saw, but eventually he has an armful of tools (mostly like four different saws) and he's confident he has what he needs to do almost everything he's going to spend tonight doing.... thinking about it, he realises just how much work is ahead of him.

The interest and excitement of the wiring wanes slightly.

This is exhausting. All of it. The woman, her body, her clothes... her her. He hates so much that he's going to spend the next several hours on this, on her. Touching her. Looking at her. Getting her in his mouth and on his hands. He hates it. Some visceral sense of revulsion pushes back on it, not on the labour of it all, but on the intimacy. He doesn't want to know her like that. He doesn't want to see her, or feel her. He wants to put her somewhere that will obliterate her and destroy her completely, without his involvement.

But that's not how this works, and at the very least he has something he's excited to learn from before he has to get really personal about it. He is nothing if not suited to the dirty work, tthe work no one else wants to do or likes, or is capable of. That's what he's developed in himself, more than anything else. It has to happen, so he makes it happen.

You endure it and you get it over with.

So, with his armful of tools, he heads back the way he came--none the wiser as to Ranboo's actions in his absence.

From:

generationlost

(deleted comment)

From:

generationlost

The bedroom is very still, and very, very quiet.

Dirk will find Ranboo there-- slumped in the center of the bed, curled up, but something is horribly, horribly off about the scene. There's no sniffling or groaning anymore, no labored breath-- no breath at all.

Ranboo is very, very still there in the bed.

There is an empty pill bottle beside the bed, a still uncapped bottle of water there sitting beside it, now nearly empty. Ranboo's eyes are lidded, lightly, strangely, like a robot that ran down in the middle of a motion.

There is no response as Dirk bustles into the room with the head.

(deleted comment)

From:

generationlost

There's a long time where Ranboo isn't aware of anything. The time passing, Dirk's presence in the room. His own death. He doesn't know, because he doesn't occupy that body anymore. He's still and quiet beneath Dirk, empty, gone away and, for once, at some kind of peace.

But of course that peace doesn't last. It's never allowed to last.

Dirk removed the external cosmetic portions of the mask, but there's a great deal of metal still buried inside of Ranboo's body, circuitry and chips and unknown devices, and those things are very much still alive even if the body they're fixed into currently isn't. But they can fix that.

The world is quiet for a long moment...

And then it isn't. There's a jolt, a sudden shattering of the silence as Ranboo gasps, whimpers painfully beneath Dirk, and-- and he's so confused, disoriented. Exhausted. His mind feels like there's a thick cotton blanket laid over it, like each thought is swimming through jello, and for a long moment, he doesn't know where he is or what's happening, doesn't even notice that Dirk is there with him.

No-- wait. No... no, this isn't right. He was dying, wasn't he? He was so sure that he was dying. There's no way they should've survived that overdose.

Silently, tears begin to spill down his pale cheeks, chest trembling with weakened sobs.

It was supposed to be over. Why isn't it over?

... and then they have the creeping realization that they aren't alone in the bed. He can't lift his head, can't really move, his body feels like it's filled with lead and his muscles replaced with water, but there's only one person it can be, and...

... why? Why is Dirk... laying there with him? It doesn't make any sense at all. The realization leads to something akin to a traffic accident in Ranboo's brain, thoughts piling up and unable to move.

"D... irk...?" Their voice is so weak, speaking a struggle.

(deleted comment)

From:

generationlost

Ranboo quietly shakes their head, slowly, the slightest touch of exhausted, confused motion.

He doesn't know. Well, that isn't true-- somehow, he does know, though if asked they could never explain exactly how they know this, how he understands this and not anything else that's going on.

It's Showfall's fault. They won't let him die.

They take a shaking breath, a fresh round of hot tears spilling down his face.

"The mask..." The words are slurred and weak, but hopefully convey what Ranboo is attempting to explain.

It hurts. Not dying-- not even awakening from death, not really, but the fact that he did awaken, the fact that he's trapped like this, seemingly forever. The fact that he now has to face the consequences for what he's done. The fact that their very last hope, the last potential escape available to him, is no longer an option-- the pain is a weight sinking into his chest, an ache that radiates out from his ribs and wraps around his body out to his fingertips.

(deleted comment)

From:

generationlost

Ranboo grunts softly as the head is suddenly forced into his sight-- at first he closes his eyes, tries weakly to turn his head away, but he can't move fast enough. It's like everything is in slow motion, their head slowly tilting aside.

But. The head is still there. Dirk wants him to see. Why? Their eyes slowly open.

The sight is... horrible, of course. The messy hole in the woman's skull, the sight of her formerly living brain directly in front of their eyes, filling their field of view-- but the worst of it catches their eye after only a moment. Something metallic-- wires, attached to some kind of pads, affixed to the surface of her brain, webbed out to touch every part of it.

Ranboo's eyes screw tightly shut then, a whimper rising from their throat as a fresh wave of tears begin to fall.

"No..."

The agony is like a fist squeezing their ribs, their head weakly shaking, the motion slow and delayed.

"No, no..."

He's the same as she is. He knows he is, though he doesn't know how.

From:

generationlost

It's a while before anything happens. Ranboo isn't sure how long exactly; he's tuned the world out entirely. There's no real reason to worry about it anymore.

A part of them wants to feel bad about leaving Dirk to clean all this up on his own. Another part is so deeply hurt and angry with Dirk still, so tired and even frightened of his current behavior that they just don't care. He'll figure something out.

Ranboo wonders with an odd kind of morbid curiosity what Dirk will do to his body once he finds them. Will he be taken apart like this woman? Like something from the abattoir? Probably, since Dirk will have to get rid of him somehow.

So that answers his question about what name he'll be buried under: none of them, probably. He likely won't see a proper burial at all. It makes him feel a little sick-- he didn't exist in life, and he won't exist in death. At least Showfall definitely won't be able to reclaim his body.

What a weird thought.

It makes Ranboo hyperaware of their own body-- the way blood flows through his veins, his own pulse which is now beginning to slow, the tendons and joints that give him motion and will likely soon be severed. He's spent his entire life in this body, fit together as it is, and soon, it'll be taken apart. They know that they won't feel it, but it's still kind of a scary thought-- that his body is in its last few minutes whole, living. He tries to imagine what it would be like without his arms or legs, and it's... strange. But that's silly, anyway, because he's not going to be alive to experience life without them. This is the last thing he'll ever experience-- laying curled up in Dirk's bed, alone.

If he'd thought about this sooner, maybe he would've done something fun first, something he'd never done before and would never get to do again. Maybe they would've had a good snack, or kissed someone-- enjoyed his senses for the last time he'd get the chance. Well, it's too late now.

Dirk will probably enjoy taking his body apart. Weird. They try not to think about that too much.

After a while, they start to feel very, very drowsy. His body feels heavy, his mind slowing down to a crawl. Even breathing becomes a focused labor, something his body forces them to do once it begins to panic, and breath comes in slow, tired pulls, escapes all at once in a rush.

This must be it.

The world around seems distant, everything in slow motion, as if he's under water. Ranboo doesn't know how long they lay there like that, on the edge of consciousness, unable to move even if he wanted to, but eventually, his consciousness finally slips away into blissful darkness.

From:

themostempty

Returning to the bathroom has Dirk a little apprehensive--at least until he gets through the doorway and can put his eyes on the body and head both. Neither one has moved.

Still, he's careful--if efficient and quick--about setting down his tools and approaching the tub. When nothing happens during that process, he places a hand on the body's back--then takes it by the arm, which hangs heavy and cool and inert in his hand.

So far, so good.

He steps over the side of the tub to join the head and all the blood inside what he thinks of now as the containment zone--the biosecurity of this scene is absolutely atrocious, but if he can still keep the worst of it in the tub, that'd be fucking super. The head doesn't blink when he picks it up--again by the hair before transferring it to both his hands. It doesn't move its lips, doesn't look around or move any of the hundreds of facial muscles underneath the skin.

Also good.

And... disappointing. He was so busy anticipating it specifically as a problem that the other reason he was anticipating it slipped his notice until it was obviously not a factor. But he wanted her to be alive again. He wanted her consciousness there, even if just for a second--he wanted to look into her eyes and see the way they looked with neurons firing behind them. He wanted to hold her gaze--to stare at her and have her stare back.

The way he locks eyes with animals that don't stun completely, or regain some of their senses before they bleed out all the way. He doesn't look away from them. Not just because he refuses--but because he wants to see them, and see them see him.

The way he imagined Hal might have, if he had been found faster.

Instead, he'd stared into Bro's eyes later that night, after staring into Hal's eyes with nothing seeing him in return.

But she's dead, and she's still dead. So he pus her back down and reaches out of he tub for the medicine cabinet over the toilet--where he scalpels are.

The reason he keeps them in the bathroom, in reach of the tub, is pretty obvious--as is the reason he makes sure he can open the cabinet and fish them out with one hand. He knows he won't be able to keep any scalpels he uses, so he pulls out a #20 for his work. Shaped for making incisions and big enough to cut large, but not the biggest blade he has. He'd like to avoid making a crude hackjob of this. Not for any mess related reason, really... he just wants to do it right.

And so, sitting down in the tub, he places the head in his lap--facing the wall, not him--and wraps his legs around it to hold it securely.

He starts above her ear, below the hairline, and the blood has drained enough that there's very little mess when he begins to cut.

It's surprisingly easy, once he finds the edge of the skull--with so little blood left, he can simply slice under the skin and slide the blade along the loose areolar tissue, so easy it almost glides. He has to pace himself, and not to get too impatient or eager and accidentally cut back up into the 'scalp' itself (and possibly his other hand), but as a result, there's something almost meditative about the process. So much so that he really loses track of time, and where he's turned the head itself--

All except once, when he unthinkingly turns it towards him so that her mouth and nose press into him and there's a suddenness of sensation. Then, and only then, does he come out of it, pulling back quickly so the head lolls and the scalp falls free--

He gets his shit together quickly, but he's careful after that, and soon the job is done. He lays the clot-matted scalp to the side, touching the bared bone underneath with his fingers--stroking it, feeling it, pressing against its unyielding surface through the thin layers of remaining connective tissue. He lays his palm over it, even.

Then, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he reaches over the edge of the tub for the hammer.

--

Uh.

"Ranboo. Ranboo. Ranboo, you--Ranboo, motherfucker, get in here, you need to see this. You really need to see this."

But there's no response.

He gets to his feet.

"Ranboo--fuck it." He puts the head down on the edge of the tub, then hesitates--he doesn't want to track blood everywhere, but his jeans are grimy and dark with blood and fluids. Brain fluids. Sinus fluids. Bits of gore. A lot of hair, dust and crumbs of bone.

He sighs aggravatedly, stripping his pants off completely before he turns on the water so he can wash his feet and legs of blood. His boxer-briefs are still reasonably clean, so while he may hate to walk around in just that, it's not as bad as it could be. He gets a little... carried away, cleaning himself. He meant to only wash his legs, but he ends up scrubbing his arms and shoulders and chest and even his face with soap and water, until the only parts of him that haven't been are his back and his groin area.

He's in a hurry, anxiey and impatience squeezing his lungs and accelerating his heart until he's almost dizzy with it, but he still does it. He can't stop himself from being as thorough as he is. Moreso in his urgency--something about the need for speed in effort makes it all that much more important that he be this way.

Then, his teeth gritted so tightly it's threatening to start a headache, he grabs the head with its exposed brain in his hands and jogs to the bedroom.

From:

generationlost

From:

themostempty

The next minutes are simple and straightforward and chaotic and nonsensical. There are things Dirk does that he doesn't realise he does. Dropping the head--brain side up--onto the near side of the bed, for example. There are other things he does purposefully. Consciously. Vaulting onto the bed to lean forward and feel Ranboo's pulse. Spreading his hand wide to feel more of the neck, after the two-finger method produces nothing. Turning them onto their back. Touching their mouth with those same fingers and closing his eyes to feel for breathing.

He won't remember later if he said anything during all of this or not. He won't remember if his eyes were wet, but he'll remember that seeing is a weird telephone game between his eyes and the rest of him. He'll remember the cavernous, ravenous, life-sucking blackness that opens up inside of his ribcage and the way his throat is suddenly raw and swollen and burns with something that might well be stomach acid or may just be the consequences of unchecked emotion. He'll remember the rage. He'll remember the violence in him--the impulses that don't go anywhere, because there's no point in them. And he'll remember checking--again and again--the bottle of diazepam, which is always empty no matter how many times he picks it up.

Eventually, he gives up. There's nothing to do, now. Ranboo is already dead, and he was too slow on the uptake--too stupid, and too unaware to notice. Hate, self-loathing so powerful it could open its ravenoous maw and devour him into oblivion if only there was anything left to consume himself with, erupts inside of him. He was so completely checked out of what was going on in this room, too absorbed in his now-pointless-feeling, self-indulgent investigative diversions in the bathroom, or his planning as he was on his way to and back from the kitchen, and now he dead woman, and her intensive, science-fiction style modifications, have been rendered meaningless.

All of it is meaningless.

Once again he's alone, and the world beyond his body and skin simply ceases to exist, because there's no one to know he's in it anyway.

There's nothing he needs to do now any more. Nothing to do at all, now.

His heart is beating so hard that he can feel each pump of that over-taxed muscle in his eyeballs. It hurts. His eyes hurt.

His entire face hurts.

There's nothing else he can do.

He breathes out, tasting blood still. Ranboo is still so warm.

It's silent in the apartment.

He breathes out again. He doesn't remember the inhale, but he breathes out again, and... lies down. Ranboo is on their back now, so he lies down next to them on the bed, curling in close to rest his head on their arm, close to the warmth of their body, his glasses pressing against their arm where it meets their torso. He wishes Ranboo had at least left him one or two diazepam. He doesn't know what to do now, except... nothing. So he lies there with the body of the last person he'd wanted to love him... and does nothing.

From:

generationlost

From:

themostempty

Dirk doesn't really know how much time passes like that. Emotionality is not something he bears gracefully or well; a more informed take might be that he's dissociated enough to completely lose his place in his body or reality itself. Dirk isn't informed, though. He only becomes aware of sound, and movement, and for a moment, it's all just too hazy and disconnected from any meaning or context to make sense.

What is he hearing? Where is he? Why is he here? Why is there movement? Why can't reality just leave him alone?

The disjointed, badly-cut pieces of reality begin to converge over that sentiment as if it never happened: overlapping a little here, leaving gaps there, but still they're coming together, and how broken it all is becomes even more obvious, and he pushes away from the source of sound and movement, and then he remembers the source, he recognises that source, and--

"Ra--what--why are you alive?" The first words out of his mouth are not graceful ones, or grateful ones. His mouth is so dry it's like he's been sucking off a jock for an hour. He swallows, and it's also dry--and tastes of blood. Which is grounding. In the same way a grain of sand is ground, so too the taste of blood is grounding. An aftertaste of a reality--but nothing more.

Edited Date: 2024-08-11 01:56 pm (UTC)

From:

generationlost

From:

themostempty

The disconnected confusion of a fugue abruptly disturbed still lies over Dirk's brain like a film, but the picture snaps into place--like a pair of huge hands came in and forced the pieces together, aggressively. The mask, the woman, Ranboo, her brain. The brains--the brains are what revive them. And Ranboo's brain--

Dirk is weirdly disorientated, and yet that part--and that part alone--all makes sense. His comprehension of it exists. But it's like it exists next to him. There's him, and then there's the part of him that understands--somewhere to his right. Or is that his brain, and he's to the left?

It almost doesn't matter, but it makes for a disjointed state, understanding and not understanding, being present but extremely not present all at the same time. Nothing else has really reached him, yet--the fact that he was just caught embarrassing himself the way he was, that he'd so checked out of the actual events that he fell asleep while curled up with the body of a man who wasn't even dead. It's a distant fifth or eighth or sixteenth on the scale of things he's capable of dealing with right now. The fact that he doesn't want to deal with it--or acknowledge it, or think about that decision at all--is definitely playing a role in its low rank. But mostly, it's just--

Well. It just doesn't fucking matter.

"That--no, hang on--I was trying to fucking show you--" he turns, rolling away from Ranboo, thoughts simultaneously racing and standing still--and grabs the woman's decapitated head, lifting it from the bed to shove it directly into Ranboo's face.

It's a gruesome object. The hair, where it remains, is caked with tacky blood, bone dust, and flecks of gore. It's shiny and slicked where cerebrospinal fluid spilled out, and it smells... well it smells bad. It smells really bad. There's a fatty smell to brain, and that's on top of the smell of gore, and meat, and skin oils... and shampoo. Her lips have long gone dry, and are dark with dried blood, her skin pale and cold and strangely artificial feeling from death. Her eyes are not quite fully closed. And then there's the open bottom of her neck.

But none of that is what he's trying to show Ranboo. This isn't about her, it's what he found in her--he tilts her towards Ranboo's face to reveal it all. Wires, nodes, open cranium, an exposed brain.

The inner workings of Showfall's control.

From:

generationlost

From:

themostempty

"Don't look away," Dirk commands him, immediately--the potential 'gross out' factor is something that occurs to him only when Ranboo starts shutting down again, but it doesn't inspire sympathy, only impatience. The existential layer doesn't occur to him at all--after all, Dirk's own response to that exact pain is to stare it directly in the eye. Literally, and repeatedly. As often as possible. For Dirk, it becomes a compulsion--he has to seek it out, he has to re-experience it again and again.

So shutting your eyes to it doesn't make any sense.

Regardless, he barely waits for Ranboo to blink--to open his eyes, or not--before he starts to talk, in the same factual, flat tone that he uses when waxing soliloquil about Plato's dialogues while gaming. Just a little faster.

"You told me it was the brain, and you were right. Once I decapitated her, she stopped being a problem, so that was obvious. But the brain isn't the only essential organ for life. Technically most of them are, but most of them don't kill you in seconds when they stop, or revive you pretty much instantly when they're 'turned on.' So there had to be something else. Something connecting the brain to something else, otherwise she'd just be conscious long enough to experience the dying part again, not up and on her feet to attack us. You have no fucking idea how hard it is to open up a human skull without crushing anything inside--"

From:

generationlost

Ranboo's only response to Dirk's command is a whimper, a weak, pathetic sound punctuated by their features tightening, a fresh set of tears falling.

Why...? Why... why is this happening? Does he deserve this?

And then Dirk is talking and Ranboo can barely process his words in the first place, still reeling with agony and fresh physical suffering, and they half-shake their head, eyes drifting open to stare weakly up at Dirk--

-- and then only a moment later those eyes seem to gloss over and darken, their vision losing focus and blackness closing in from the edges.

The pills are still in his system, and still functional. The mask can kickstart his lifeless body, but it can't clear the toxins out of it on its own.

Their breathing slows, pitches high in their chest, the sound of him drawing a breath wrong-- a weak wheeze, his eyelids fluttering strangely.

From:

themostempty

Dirk is only just starting to get into the real specifics of what he found and how he found it when he hears--

He hears a sound he's heard human beings make only in videos. A ragged, high sound--spasmodic and weak. Ranboo's lungs aren't failing, but his diaphragm is.

Snuff is widely associated with films of violent death--shootings, drownings, stangulations, beatings, bloody dismemberments. All of those are true, and easily available. But it's not just that. Some of it is slow. Not just by prolongued torture (and occasionally repeated revivals.) Slow, often painful drug-induced deaths are also in circulation. Dirk has known what valium overdoses look like for more of his life than he's been taking valium--there's a kind of eroticism to the way the body begins to shut down, and consciousness wanes. The steady, gradual weakening of life, until there is no life left. It's not Dirk's cup of tea, usually--the tension of not knowing the division between when the last breath is taken and when the body is only a body has a tendency to feel more like orgasm denial than edging, at least for him.

Still, he knows it. And combined with the information he's just excavated from the head of a human being whose death was completely by his hand, the problem-solving machinery of Dirk Strider's brain puts things together nigh-instantly.

Which is good, because while Ranboo isn't exactly dying yet, the body-brain system of artificial revival that Dirk has just solved for isn't going to keep him from doing that. It only shocks the body back to life, after all. It doesn't fix anything. The woman whose reanimation he de-animated wasn't going to stay alive for long. How long it would have lasted is an experiment he'll never get to perform, but muscles need oxygen, and to transport oxygen, the body needs blood. And a heart to move it. Her brain assembly and the electrical impulses it could produce definitely had the power to force-start her heart, but it couldn't repair the sizeable holes left in it by his sword.

Similarly, all of Dirk's expensive-ass black market valium that Ranboo swallowed hasn't been bound and neutralised by anything, and it definitely hasn't been expelled from Ranboo's system.

Which is why Dirk drops the cold, gory human head back onto his bed and grabs Ranboo by the shoulder and jaw, turning them toward him as he starts to rise to his knees.

"Oh no you fucking don't--"

From:

generationlost

Ranboo doesn't fight Dirk-- they have no strength to, are only semi-conscious at best in this moment. They continue to struggle to breathe as Dirk starts to sit up, grasps their shoulder and jaw, their chest heaving as their body struggles instinctively against the powerful sedatives still processing through their system.

At least he isn't conscious to feel the slowly growing distress his body is in.

His breathing is slow and shallow, thin and high in his chest still, long limbs trembling and jaw flexing in Dirk's grasp.

From:

themostempty

Dirk has already made some quick decisions. Like straight-up dropping the mutilated head of a woman he'd decapitated onto his bed--there were several background processes to this decision, like the fact that he already put it down on the bed once and will now need to clean these bedsheets so thoroughly that he might as well, and the fact that he doesn't need her brain and its wiring in undisturbed condition any more, but it was also a matter of priorities.

'Priorities' are why he doesn't bother with anything like 'wiping his hands' of blood before he grabs Ranboo by the shoulder and jaw, and why he doesn't bother talking to them as he rises onto his knees on the bed, pushing them back upright before they jerk too far forward and collapse--

He braces the heel of his right hand on Ranboo's shoulder, holding them up while he uses his left to tilt their jaw up; this becomes a different pose where his right elbow is braced against that same shoulder, and his hand has captured their jaw. His heart is pounding, his head weirdly empty except for the focus required for the task as his left hand gently prises their mouth open. Ranboo's face, which he knows so well... he keeps them as far from his own face as he can, careful not to get bitten as he takes two fingers and presses them into the hot, wet space of their mouth, using his finger pads to press down on the tactile surface of their tongue. They take it easily as he works his fingers back--past the first knuckle, and theen the second, his strong hands probing for the back of the throat.

It's--well, it's actually deeply erotic, as sights go. Ranboo is weak, limp, their eyes glazed and not-quite-open, their chest rising and falling dramatically while they struggle for feeble breaths.

Edited Date: 2024-08-21 09:09 pm (UTC)

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